12807	----	DICK PRESCOTT'S FOURTH YEAR AT WEST POINT or Ready to Drop the Gray for Shoulder Straps By H. Irving Hancock CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. Dick Reports a Brother Cadet II. Jordan Reaches Out for Revenge III. Catching a Man for Breach of "Con." IV. The Class Committee Calls V. The Cadet "Silence" Falls VI. Trying to Explain to the Girls VII. Jordan Meets Disaster VIII. Fate Serves Dick Her Meanest Trick IX. The Class Takes Final Action X. Lieutenant Denton's Straight Talk XI. The News from Franklin Field XII. Ready to Break the Camel's Back XIII. The Figures in the Dark XIV. The Story Carried on the Wind XV. The Class Meeting "Sizzles" XVI. Finding the Baseball Gait XVII. Ready for the Army-Navy Game XVIII. Dan Dalzell's Crabtown Grin XIX. When the Army Fans Winced XX. The Vivid Finish of the Game XXI. A Cloud on Dick's Horizon XXII. Cadet Prescott Commands at Squadron Drill XXIII. A West Pointer's Love Affair XXIV. Conclusion CHAPTER I DICK REPORTS A BROTHER CADET "Detachment halt!" commanded the engineer officer in charge. Out on the North Dock at West Point the column of cadets had marched, and now, at the word, came to an abrupt stop. This detachment, made up of members of the first and third classes in the United States Military Academy, was out on this August forenoon for instruction in actual military engineering. The task, which must be accomplished in a scant two hours, was to lay a pontoon bridge across an indentation of the Hudson River, this indentation being a few hundred feet across, and representing, in theory, an unfordable river. "Mr. Prescott!" Cadet Richard Prescott, now a first classman, and captain of one of the six cadet companies, stepped forward, saluting. "You will build the bridge today, Mr. Prescott, continued the instructor, Lieutenant Armstrong, Corps of Engineers, United States Army. "Very good, sir," replied Dick. With a second salute, which was returned, Prescott turned to divide his command rapidly into smaller detachments. It was work over which not a moment of time could be lost. All must be done with the greatest possible despatch, and a real bridge was called for---not a toy affair or a half-way experiment. "Mr. Holmes," directed Prescott, "you will take charge of the boats. Mr. Jordan, take charge of the balk carriers!" A balk is a heavy timber, used, in this case, in the construction of the pontoon. Cadet Jordan, one of the biggest men, physically, in the first class, scowled as he received this order for what was especially arduous duty. "That's mean of you, Prescott," glowered Jordan. "If you have any complaints to make, sir, make them to the instructor," return Cadet Captain Prescott, after a swift, astonished look at his classmate. "You know I can't do that," muttered Cadet Jordan. "But you-----" "Silence, sir, and attend to your duty!" Then, raising his voice to one of general command, Prescott called: "Construct the bridge!" Jordan fell back, with a surly face and a muttered imprecation, to take command of the squad of yearlings, or third classman who must serve in carrying the heavy balks. In the meantime Dick's roommate, Greg Holmes, had hurried his squad away to the flat-bottomed, square-ended pontoon boats, placing his crews therein. Almost instantly, it seemed, Greg had placed the first boat in position. "Lay the balks!" ordered Dick Prescott. Cadet Jordan moved forward with some of his yearlings, who carried the heavy balks, or flooring timbers, on their shoulders. It was hot, hard work---"thankless," as the young men often termed it in private. These balks were laid across the first pontoon. As quickly as the balks had been laid the detachment of lashers were at work securing the balks in place. "Shove off!" The first was floated to the mooring stakes and a second boat was moved into position. "Chess!" Another column of yearlings moved forward, each with a heavy plank on his shoulder. It was heavy, hot, hard and dirty work. Outsiders who imagine that the Military Academy is engaged in turning out "uniformed dudes" should see this work done by the cadets. Almost with the speed of magic the planks were laid in an orderly manner forming a secure flooring over the balks. The second boat was anchored, and then a third, a fourth. As the bridge grew Cadet Prescott walked out on the flooring that he might be at the best point for directing the efforts. As the fifth boat reached its position, Dick turned to see that all was going well. The yearlings, whose duty it was to carry the balks---"balk-chasers," they were termed unofficially---were standing idle, though alert. They could not move until Mr. Jordan, of the first class, gave the order. And Jordan? With one hand hanging at his side, the other resting against the small of his back, he stood gazing absently out over the Hudson. "Mr. Jordan!" called Dick, hastening back over the planking. "Sir!" answered the surly cadet, facing him. "Hurry up the balks, if you please, sir." With a scowl, Jordan turned slowly toward the waiting yearlings. "Lay hold!" commanded Jordan, and, though it was hard work, the yearlings responded willingly. This was what they were here for, and this hard work was all part of the training that was to fit them for command after they were graduated. "All possible speed, Mr. Jordan!" admonished Prescott, with a tinge of impatience in his voice. "Lay hold! Raise! Shoulder!" drawled Mr. Jordan, with tantalizing slowness. The yearling squad, each man feeling the cut of the sharp corners of the heavy balk on his right shoulder, yet, bearing it patiently, awaited the next command. "Mr. Jordan, this is not a loafing contest," admonished Prescott in a low voice. "For---ward!" ordered Jordan with provoking deliberation. The yearlings under him, made of vastly better material, sprang forward with their balks, laying them in record time across the top of the next pontoon. The lashers then fell upon their work of securing the balks as though they loved labor. "Chess!" called Dick, remaining on shore this time, and the yearlings with the planks hastened forward, each carrying a plank. Here and there, a lighter cadet staggered somewhat under the plank he was carrying, yet hastened forward to finish his duty of the moment with military speed. Another pontoon was ready. "Balks!" called Cadet Prescott. "Balks!" Jordan got his squad started at last. Dick glanced swiftly, but in wonder at Lieutenant Armstrong. That Army officer, however, seemed industriously thinking about something else. "Jordan is truly taking charge of the balks!" muttered Prescott to himself. "He is going to balk me so that I can't get the bridge constructed before recall!" "Running the balk chasers" is always unpopular work among the cadets. Properly done, this work calls for a great deal of alertness, speed and precision. It is work that takes every moment of the cadet's time and attention, and incessant running in the hot sun. Yet Prescott had, before this, chased the balk carriers, and had not objected. He had taken up that task as he did all others, as part of the day's work, something to be done speedily, well and uncomplainingly. "What's the matter with you, Mr. Jordan?" asked Dick in an undertone. "Are you sick?" "Sick of such emigrant's jobs as this!" growled Jordan. "What made you give me-----" "I can't discuss that with you," replied Cadet Dick Prescott coldly. "I shall be compelled to make it an official matter, however, if you hinder me any more." "Lay hold! Raise! Shoulder! Forward!" Jordan ran with the squad. "Halt! Lower!" "I reckon Jordan means to keep really on the job now," murmured Prescott to himself, and returned to the advancing end of the pontoon as it crawled over the little arm of the Hudson. Two more boats, however, and then Dick sprang sternly ashore. "Mr. Anstey!" called Prescott, and Anstey, the sweet-tempered Virginian, one of Dick's staunchest friends in the corps of cadets, came quickly up, saluting. "Mr. Anstey, you will chase the balk carriers," directed Dick. "Please try to make up the time that has been lost. Mr. Jordan, you are relieved from your duty, and will report yourself to the instructor for gross lack of promptness in executing orders!" There could be no mistaking the quality of the justly aroused temper that lay behind Cadet Prescott's flashing blue eyes. As for Cadet Jordan, that young man's face went instantly livid. He clenched his fists, while the blackness of a storm was on his features. "Mr. Prescott," he demanded, "do you realize what you are saying---what you are doing?" "You are relieved. You will report yourself to the instructor, sir!" Dick cut in tersely. Anstey was already chasing the yearling squad out with the balks, and the young men were moving fast. As for Dick Prescott, he did not favor Mr. Jordan with a further glance or word, but walked with swift step back to the task of which he was in charge. With face flushed, Mr. Jordan walked over to the instructor, reporting himself as directed. "Dismissed from to-day's instruction," said the Army officer briefly. "Wait and return with the detachment, however." So Cadet Jordan, first class, saluted, turned on his heel, sought the nearest shady spot and sat down to wait. His body idle, the young man had plenty of time to think---about Cadet Captain Dick Prescott. "There's nothing to Prescott but swagger and cheap airs," decided Mr. Jordan, idly tossing pebbles. "It's a pity he can't be taken down a peg or two! And now I'm in for demerits before the academic year starts. Probably I shall have to walk punishment tours, too!" Somehow, Jordan had come along through his more than three years in the corps without attracting much attention. He had made no strong friends; even Jordan's roommate, Atterbury, felt that he knew the man but slightly. True, Jordan had not so far been strongly suspected of being morose or surly; he had escaped being ostracized, but he certainly was not popular. If he had made no strong friendships, neither had he so deported himself as to win enmity or even dislike. He was regarded simply as a very taciturn fellow who desired to be let alone, and his apparent wish in this respect was gratified. Dick Prescott was of an entirely different character. Open, sunny, frank, manly, he was a born leader among men, as he had always been among boys. Dick was a stickler for duty. He was in training to become an officer of the Regular Army of the United States, and Prescott felt that no man could be a good soldier until the duty habit had become fixed. So, in his earlier years at West Point, Dick had sometimes been unpopular with certain elements among the cadets because he would not greatly depart from what he believed to be his duty as a cadet and a gentleman. Readers of the _High School Boys' Series_ will recall that Prescott, in his home town of Gridley, had been the head of Dick & Co., a sextette of chums and High School athletes. It was in his High School days that young Prescott had developed the qualities of manliness which the Military Academy at West Point was now rounding off for him. Readers of the preceding volumes in this series, _Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point_, _Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point_ and _Dick Prescott's Third Year at West Point_, are already familiar with the young man's career as a cadet at the United States Military Academy. Our readers know how hard the fight had been for Dick Prescott, who, in addition to his early struggles to keep his place in scholarship in the corps, had been submitted to the evil work of enemies in the corps. Some of these enemies had been exposed in the end, and forced to leave the Military Academy, but many had been the bitter hours that Prescott had spent under one cloud or another as the result of the wicked work of these enemies. At last, however, Prescott and his roommate and chum, Greg Holmes, had reached the first class. They had now less than a year to go before they would be graduated and commissioned as officers in the Army. On reaching first-class dignity, both Dick and Greg had been delighted over their appointment as cadet officers. Prescott was captain of A company and Greg Holmes first lieutenant of the same company. With Anstey chasing the balk carriers, and all the other squads attending briskly to business, the pontoon was quickly built, so that a roadway extended from shore to shore. Now came the supreme test as to whether Prescott had done his work well. In the shade of the nearest trees a team of mules had dozed while the bridge construction was going on. Behind the mules was hitched a loaded wagon belonging to the Engineer Corps. "Sir," reported Prescott, approaching Lieutenant Armstrong and saluting, "I have the honor to report that the bridge is constructed." Lieutenant Armstrong returned the salute, next called to an engineer soldier. "Carter!" "Sir," answered the engineer private, saluting. "Drive your team over the bridge and back." Mounting to the seat of his wagon, the soldier obeyed. Dick Prescott and his mates did not watch this test closely. They were sure enough of the quality of the work that they had done. Reaching land at the further side of the bridge, the engineer soldier turned his team in a half circle, once more drove upon the bridge and recrossed to the starting point. "Very well done, Mr. Prescott," nodded the Engineer officer, with a satisfied smile. "Take down the bridge," ordered Dick, after having saluted the Army instructor. Working as hard as before, the young men of the third and first classes began to demolish the bridge that they had constructed. When this had been done, and Dick had officially reported the fact, Lieutenant Armstrong replied: "Mr. Prescott, you will form your detachment and march back to camp." "Very good, sir." Always that same salute with which a man in the Army receives an order. Some thirty seconds later, the detachment was formed and Dick was marching it back up the inclined road on the way to the summer encampment. By that time, a sergeant and a squad of Engineer privates---soldiers of the Regular Army---were busy taking care of the pontoon boats and other bridge material. Marching his men inside the encampment, Dick halted them. "Detachment dismissed!" he called out. There was a quick break for first and third class tents. These young men were in field uniforms---sombreros, gray flannel shirts, flannel trousers and leggings. Most of them were dripping with perspiration under the hot August sun. They were all hot and dusty, and their hands stained with tar. Within a very few minutes every man in the detachment must be washed irreproachably clean, without sign of perspiration. They must be in uniforms of immaculate white duck trousers and gray fatigue blouses, wearing cleanly polished shoes, and ready to march to dinner. A great deal to be accomplished in a few minutes by the average American boy! Yet let one of these cadets be late at dinner formation, without an unquestionably good excuse, and he must pay the penalty in demerits. These demerits, according to their number, bring loss of prized privileges. Cadet Jordan, having done little, was among the first to be clean and presentable. Immaculate, trim and trig he looked as he stepped from his tent, but on his face lay a scowl that boded ill for his appetite at the coming dinner. Dick was a master of swift toilets. He was on the company street almost immediately after Jordan had stepped out under the shadow of a tree. "Prescott," began Jordan stiffly, "I want a word or two with you." "Yes?" asked Dick, looking keenly at his classmate. "Very good." "Why did you report me this morning?" "Because you performed the work in an indolent, laggard manner, even after I had cautioned you." "Do you consider yourself called upon to be a judge of your classmates?" "When I am detailed in command over them in any duty---yes." "Shall I tell you what I think of you for reporting me?" "It would be in bad taste, at least," Dick answered. "It is against the regulations for a cadet to call another to account for reporting him officially." "Oh, bother the regulations!" "If that is actually your view," replied Dick, with a smile, "then I will leave you to the enjoyment of your discovery concerning the regulations." "Prescott, you are a prig!" snapped Mr. Jordan. "If it were necessary to determine that, as a matter of fact," answered Dick coolly, though he flushed somewhat, "I would rather leave it to a decision of the class." "Oh, I know you have plenty of bootlicks," sneered Jordan. "I also know that you are class president. But that is no reason why you should act as though you thought yourself a bigger man than the President of the United States." "Jordan, has the sun been affecting your head this forenoon?" demanded Dick, with another keen look at his classmate. "Well, you do act as though you thought yourself bigger than the President," insisted Jordan sneeringly. "I am a cadet, not yet capable of being a second lieutenant, in the Army," Dick replied, regaining his coolness. "The President is commander-in-chief of the combined Army and Navy." "You are utterly puffed up with your own importance," cried Jordan hotly, though in a discreetly low voice. "Prescott, you are-----" Something in Jordan's eyes warned Dick that a vile insult was coming in an instant. "_Stop_!" commanded Prescott, shooting a look full of warning at his classmate. "Jordan, don't say anything that will compel me to knock you down in plain sight of the camp. It's years since such a thing as that has happened at West Point!" "Oh, you lordly brute!" sneered Jordan, his face alternately white and aflame with unreasoning anger. "Prescott, you had it in for me. That was why you reported me this morning. That was why you put me in line for demerits and punishment tour walking. You are bound to use your little, petty authority to humble and humiliate me. I shall call you out for this!" "If you do," shot back Dick, "I shall decline to fight you. It would be against regulations and against all the traditions of the corps for me to arbitrate, by a fight, the question of whether I did right to report you." "You refuse a fight," warned Jordan, with a malicious grin, "and I'll denounce you all through the class!" "Denounce me, then, if you wish," retorted Dick in cool contempt, "and you'll bring trouble down on your own head instead. No class requires, or permits, a member to fight in defence of his official conduct." "Prescott is turning coward, then, is he?" "You or any other man who presumes to say it knows well enough that he is thereby lying," came quickly from between Prescott's teeth. "Why, hang you, you-----" "You'd better hush for a moment," warned Prescott. "Here comes the corps adjutant, and I think he is looking for you." "Yes! With a message of discipline from the O.C. just because I was reported by a toy martinet like you!" retorted Cadet Jordan. Cadet Filson, corps adjutant, wearing his white gloves, red sash and sword, came up with brisk military stride. He halted before Jordan, while Prescott moved away. "Mr. Jordan, by order of the commandant of cadets, you will confine yourself to the company street, leaving it only under proper orders. This, for being reported this morning during the tour of engineer instruction. Any further punishment that is to be meted out to you will be published in orders at dress parade this afternoon. "Very good, sir," replied Cadet Jordan, choking with rage. Wheeling about, Adjutant Filson strode away again. The moment he was gone, Jordan, his brow black with fury, stepped over to Prescott. "So!" he hissed. "The thunderbolt of punishment has fallen, Mr. Prescott. As for you-----" "Mr. Jordan," broke in Dick coolly, "you are ordered to confine yourself to the company street. At this moment you are outside that limit. You will return immediately to the company street!" Jordan glared, but he had discretion enough left to obey, for Prescott was speaking now as cadet commander of A company, to which company Mr. Jordan belonged. "Oh, I'll pay you back for this!" raged the disciplined cadet, trembling as he stepped forward. By this time, many other cadets were out in the company street. Soon after the loud, snappy tones of the bugle summoned the two battalions to dinner formation. A little while before Cadet Adjutant Filson had approached Jordan, the commandant of cadets, sitting in his tent over by post number one, had sent for the Engineer instructor of the forenoon. "Mr. Armstrong," asked the commandant, "how much is there in this report against Mr. Jordan this morning? Does Mr. Jordan deserve severe discipline?" "In my opinion he does, sir," replied Lieutenant Armstrong. "I had the whole happening under observation, though I pretended not to see it." "Why did you make such pretence, Mr. Armstrong?" "Because I was watching to see how a man like Mr. Prescott would conduct himself when in command." Lieutenant Armstrong then related all of the particulars that he had seen of Jordan's conduct. "Then I am very glad that Mr. Prescott reported Mr. Jordan," replied the commandant of cadets. "Mr. Jordan is a first classman and should be above any such conduct. We will confine Mr. Jordan to his company street for one week; and on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons during the continuance of the encampment, he shall walk punishment tours." Then the commandant of cadets had passed the word for Cadet Adjutant Filson, to whom he had entrusted the order that the reader has already seen delivered. But Jordan, unable to realize that he had proved himself unfit as a soldier found his hatred of Dick Prescott growing with every step of the march that carried the cadet corps to dinner at the cadet mess hall. "Prescott may feel mighty big and proud now!" growled the disgruntled one. "But will he---when I get through with him?" CHAPTER II JORDAN REACHES OUT FOR REVENGE "Hello, there, Stubbs!" called Jordan from the doorway of his tent. "Oh, that you, Jordan?" called Stubbs. "Yes; come in, won't you?" Cadet Stubbs, of the first class, looked slightly surprised, for he had never been an intimate of this particular cadet. "What's the matter?" asked Stubbs, pushing aside the tent flap and stepping into the tent. Then, remembering something he had heard, Stubbs continued quickly: "You're in a little trouble of some kind, aren't you, old man?" "Oh, I'm in con." growled Mr. Jordan. "Con." is the brief designation for "confinement." "Some report this morning, eh?" "Yes; that dog Prescott sprung a roorback on me. Sit down, won't you?" "No, thank you," replied Cadet Stubbs more coolly. "Jordan, `dog' is a pretty extreme word to apply to a brother cadet." "Oh, are you one of that fellow's admirers?" demanded the man in con. "I've always been an admirer of manliness," replied Stubbs boldly. "Then how can you stand for a bootlick?" shot out Jordan angrily. "I don't stand for a bootlick," replied Cadet Stubbs. "I never did." "Now, I don't want to play baby," went on Jordan half eagerly. "I'm not resenting, on my own account, what happened to-day. But it was an outrage on general principles, for the affair made a fool of me before a lot of new yearlings. Stubbs, we're first classmen, and we shouldn't be humiliated before yearlings in this manner." "I wasn't there," replied Stubbs. "I was over at the rifle range, you know." "Then I'll tell you what happened." Cadet Jordan began a narration of the scene that had ended in his being relieved from engineering instruction that forenoon. Jordan didn't exactly lie, which is always a dangerous thing for a West Point cadet to do, but he colored his narrative so cleverly as to make it rather plain that Cadet Prescott had acted beyond his real authority. "Still," argued Stubbs doubtfully, "there must have been some reason. I've known Prescott ever since he entered the Academy, and I never saw anything underhanded in him." "I wouldn't call it underhanded, either," explained Jordan. "Prescott's manner with me might much better be described as overbearing." "It would have been underhanded, had he reported you when you were really doing nothing unmilitary or improper," interposed Stubbs quickly. "Are you trying to defend the fellow?" demanded Jordan swiftly. "No; Prescott, I think, is always quite ready to attend to his own defence. But I'm astonished, Jordan, at the charge you make against him, and I'm trying to understand it." "What I object to, more than anything else," insisted Jordan, "was his making a fool of me before new yearlings. That is where I think the greatest grievance lies. First classmen are men of some dignity. We are not to be treated like plebes, especially by any members of our own class who may be dressed in a little brief authority. Sit down, won't you, Stubbs?" "No, thank you, Jordan. I must be on my way soon." "But I want to get you and a half a dozen other representative first classmen together," wheedled Jordan. "I think we should all talk this over as a strictly class matter. Then, if I'm convinced that I'm in the wrong, I'm going to stop talking." Crafty Jordan didn't mean exactly what he said. He would stop talking, if convinced, but he didn't intend to be convinced. He was after Dick Prescott's scalp. Jordan well knew that, at West Point (and at Annapolis, too, for that matter) class action against a man is severer and more irrevocable than even any action that the authorities of the Military Academy itself can take. He wanted to put Prescott wholly in the wrong in the matter. Class action could, at need, drive Prescott out of the corps and end his connection with the Army. For, if a man be condemned by his class at West Point, the feud is carried over into the Army as long as the offender against class ethics dares try to remain in the service. At the least, Jordan hoped to stir up class feeling to such an extent that, if Prescott were not actually "cut" by class action, at least his popularity would be greatly dimmed. "So won't you take part in the meeting?" coaxed Jordan, as Cadet Stubbs moved toward the door. "I don't believe I will," replied Mr. Stubbs. "I'd feel out of place in such a crowd, for I've always considered myself Prescott's friend." "Do you place your friendship for Prescott above the dignity and honor of the class?" demanded Jordan. Stubbs flushed. "I don't believe I'll stay, Jordan, thank you. But I can offer you some advice, if you feel in need of any." "Yes? Commence firing!" "Go slow in your grudge against Prescott. Personally, I don't want to see either of you hurt." "Oh, Prescott won't really be hurt," sneered Jordan. "He told me flatly that he'd decline any calling out that I might attempt." "You---you didn't try to call him out, did you?" "I hinted that I might do so." "Call him out for reporting you?" "Oh, I didn't specify what the cause of the challenge would be," returned Jordan airily and with a knowing wink. "Jordan, old fellow, you don't mean that you'd call a cadet out for reporting you officially? Why, that's against every tenet we have. And if such a challenge came to the ears of the superintendent, or of the commandant of cadets, you'd be fired out of the corps before you'd have time to turn around twice." "Who'd carry the tale that I did call Prescott out?" retorted Cadet Jordan, with a knowing leer. "Prescott would, if he were a tenth part of the bootlick that you represent him to be," replied Stubbs. "Better stay, old man; and I'll call in a few others." "No, sir," returned Cadet Stubbs, with a shake of his head. "The further I go into this matter the less I like it. I'm on my way, Jordan." Within half an hour, however, Cadet Jordan had found three members of the first class who were willing to listen to him. The matter was threshed out very fully. Jordan, to his listeners, pooh poohed at the idea that he was "sore" on his own account. He posed, and rather well, as the champion of first-class dignity. "I think you're on the right track, Jordan," assented Durville rather heartily. Durville was one of the few who had never liked Dick well. Durville had always been one of the "wild" ones, and Prescott's ideas of soldierly duty had grated a good deal on Durville's own beliefs. "The class won't take severe action, anyway," hinted Tupper. "We might vote to give Prescott a week's 'silence,' but any permanent 'cut' would be out of the question. The man has done too many things to make himself popular." "Besides," chimed in Brown, "look at the place Prescott holds on the Army football eleven. Why he---and Holmes, too, of course---were the pair who saved us from the Navy last November. And we rely upon that pair to a tremendous extent for the successes we expect this coming fall." Jordan's jaw dropped. In the heat of his anger he had lost sight of the football situation. Prescott and Holmes certainly were the prize players of the Army eleven. "Well, it might do if the class decided on the 'silence' for Prescott for a week," assented Jordan dubiously. Then, all of a sudden, he brightened as the thought flashed through his mind: "If Prescott gets the 'silence,' even for a day, he'll be so furious that he'll do half a dozen fool things that I can provoke him into. Then he'll go so far, in his wrath, that the class will cut him for good and all, and he'll buy his ticket home!" The more Jordan thought this over, while he pretended to be listening to what his classmates were saying, the surer the cadet plotter felt that he could work his enemy out of the corps within the next week or so. "Well, I dare say that you fellows are right in advising milder measures," admitted Jordan at last. "Of course, though I try not to let my personal feelings enter into this at all, yet I suppose I can't keep my sense of outraged class dignity wholly untainted by my personal feelings. Besides, the 'silence' for a week will doubtless cover all the needs of the case, and I don't bear the fellow any personal grudge, or I try not to." "That's a sensible, manly view, Jordan," chimed in Brown, "and it does you credit as a gentleman and a man of honor. Now, you know, it's a fearful thing for a man who has reached the first class to have to drop his Army career at the last moment. So we'll try to bring the majority of the class around to the idea of the week's 'silence.'" "Now, lest it appear as though I were actuated by personal motives," continued Jordan, "I'll have to stand back and let you fellows do the talking with the other men of the class." "That's all right," nodded Durville. "We wholly understand the delicacy of your position, and we can attend to it all right. Besides, all we have to do, anyway, is to ascertain how the class feels on the matter." "Don't let it be lost sight of, though," begged Jordan, almost betraying his over anxiety, "that it is a serious matter of class dignity and honor." "We won't, old man," promised Durville, as the visitors rose. As soon as he was alone---for his tentmate was away on a cavalry drill, Jordan rose, his eyes flashing with triumph. "Dick Prescott, I believe I have you where I want you! What a rage you'll be in, if you get the 'silence'! 'Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad,'" Jordan went on, under his breath, wholly unaware that he had parodied the meaning of that famous quotation. "You'll rage with anger, Prescott. You'll do the very things that will warrant the class in giving you the long 'cut.'" The "silence" is a form of rebuke that the cadet corps, once in many years, administers to one of the many Army officers who are stationed over them. When the cadet corps decides to give an officer the "silence," the proceeding is a unique one. Whenever an officer under this ban approaches a group of cadets they cease talking, and remain silent as long as he is near them. They salute the officer; they make any official communications that may be required, and do so in a faultlessly respectful manner; they answer any questions addressed to them by the officer under ban. But they will not talk, while he is within hearing, on anything except matters of duty. An officer under the ban of the "silence" may approach a gathering of a hundred or more cadets, all talking animatedly until they perceive his approach. Then, all in an instant, they become mute. The officer may remain in their neighborhood for an hour, yet, save upon an official matter, no cadet will speak until the officer has moved on. This "silence" may be given an officer for a stated number of days, or it may be made permanent. It has sometimes happened that an officer has been forced to ask a transfer from West Point to some other Army station, simply because he could not endure the "silence." Very rarely, indeed, the silence is given to a cadet; it is more especially applicable if he be a cadet officer who is in the habit of reporting his fellow classmen for what they may consider insufficient breaches of discipline. The "cut" or "Coventry" is reserved for the cadet whom it is intended to drive from the Army altogether. If a man at West Point is "sent to Coventry" by the whole corps, or as a result of class action, he will never be able to form friendships in the Army again, no matter how long he remains in the Army, or how hard he tries to fight the sentence down. Cadet Jordan, as will have been noted, professed to be satisfied if the class voted a week's "silence" to Dick Prescott, for Jordan believed that by this time the tantalized young cadet captain could be provoked into actions that would bring the imposition of the "long silence" of permanent Coventry. At the end of the busy cadet day, when the two cadet battalions stood in formal array at dress parade, Cadet Adjutant Filson published the day's orders. One of these orders mentioned Jordan's confinement to the company street, and added the further infliction of "punishment tours" to be walked every Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. "Oh, well," thought the culprit, savagely, "as I walk I can plan newer and newer things. I'll go into the Army, and you, Prescott, may become a freight clerk on a jerk-water railroad." Unknown to either Jordan or Prescott at that moment, other storm-clouds were gathering swiftly over the head of the popular young cadet captain. CHAPTER III CATCHING A MAN FOR BREACH OF "CON." Lieutenant Denton was the tac. who served as O.C. during this tour of twenty-four hours. A "tac.," as has been explained in earlier volumes, is a Regular Army officer who is on duty in the department of tactics. All of the tacs. are subordinates of the commandant of cadets, the latter officer being in charge of the discipline and tactical training of cadets. Each tac. is, in turn, for a period of twenty-four hours, officer in charge, or "O.C." During the summer encampment of the cadets, the O.C. occupies a tent at headquarters, and is in command, under the commandant, of the camp. It was in the evening, immediately after the return of the corps from supper, when Lieutenant Denton had sent for Cadet Captain Prescott. "Mr. Prescott," began the O.C., "there has been some trouble, lately, as you undoubtedly know, with plebes running the guard after taps. Now, our plebes are men very new to the West Point discipline, and they do not appreciate the seriousness of their conduct. Until the young men have had a little more training, we wish, if possible, to save them from the consequences of their lighter misdeeds. Of course, if a cadet, plebe or otherwise, is actually found outside the guard line after taps, then we cannot excuse his conduct. This is where the ounce of prevention comes in. Mr. Prescott, I wish you would be up and around the camp between taps and midnight to-night. Keep yourself in the background a bit, and see if you can stop any plebes who may be prowling before they have had a chance to get outside the guard lines. If you intercept any plebes while they are still within camp limits, demand of them their reasons for being out of their tents. If the reasons are not entirely satisfactory, turn them over to the cadet officer of the day. Any plebe so stopped and turned over to the cadet officer of the day will be disciplined, of course, but his punishment will be much lighter than if he were actually caught outside the guard lines. You understand your instructions, Mr. Prescott?" "Perfectly, sir." "That is all, Mr. Prescott." Saluting, Dick turned and left the tent. "That's just like Lieutenant Denton," thought Dick, as he marched away to his own company street. "Some of the tacs. would just as soon see the plebe caught cold, poor little beast. But Lieutenant Denton can remember the time when he was a cadet here himself, and he wants to see the plebe have as much of the beginner's chance as can be given." As Dick pushed aside the flap and entered his tent, he beheld his chum and roommate, Greg Holmes, now a cadet lieutenant, carefully transferring himself to his spoony dress uniform. "Going to the hop to-night, old ramrod?" asked Greg carelessly, though affectionately. "Not in my line of hike," yawned Prescott. "You know I'm no hopoid." "Oh, loyal swain!" laughed Greg in mock admiration. "You hop but little oftener than once a year, when Laura comes on from the home town! You throw away nearly all of the pleasures of the waxed floor." "Even though but once a year, I go as often as I want," Dick answered, with a pleasant smile. "But see here, ramrod, an officer is expected to be a gentleman, and a fellow can't be an all-around gentleman unless he is at ease with the ladies. What sort of practice do you give yourself?" "You're dragging a femme to the hop tonight?" queried Dick. "Yes, sir," admitted Greg promptly. "Then you're---pardon me---you're engaged to the young lady, of course?" "Engaged to take her to the hop, of course," parried Holmes. "And engaged to be married to her, as well," insisted Dick. "Ye-es," admitted Cadet Holmes reluctantly. "Let me see; this is the fourteenth girl you've been engaged to marry, isn't it?" "No, sir," blurted Greg indignantly. "Miss---I mean my present betrothed, is only the eighth who has done me the honor." "Even eight fiancees is going it pretty swiftly for a cadet not yet through West Point," chuckled Dick. "Well, confound it, it isn't my fault, is it?" grumbled Greg. "I didn't break any of the engagements. The other seven girls broke off with me. On the whole, though, I'm rather obliged to the seven for handing me the mitten, for I'm satisfied that Miss---I mean, the present young lady---is the one who is really fitted to make me happy for life." "I'm almost sorry I'm not going to-night," mused Prescott aloud. "Then I'd see the fortunate young lady." "Oh, there are no secrets from you, old ramrod," protested Greg good-humoredly. "You know her, anyway, I think---Miss Steele." "Captain Steele's daughter?" "Precisely," nodded Greg. "Daughter of one of the instructors in drawing?" "Yes." "Greg, you're at least practical this time," laughed Dick. "That is, you will be if Miss Steele doesn't follow the example of her predecessors, and break the engagement too soon." "Practical?" repeated Cadet Holmes. "What are you talking about, old ramrod? Has the heat been too much for you to-day? Practical! Now, what on earth is there that's practical about a love affair?" "Why, if this engagement lasts long enough, Greg, old fellow, Captain Steele and his wife will simply have to send you an invitation to a Saturday evening dinner at their quarters. And then, in ordinary good nature, they'll have to invite me, also, as your roommate. Greg, do you stop to realize that we've never yet been invited to an officer's house to dinner?" "And we never would be, if we depended on you," grumbled Greg. "Women are the foundation rock of society, yet you never look at anyone in a petticoat except Laura Bentley, who comes here only once a year, and who may be so tired of coming here that she'll never appear again." A brief cloud flitted across Dick's face. Seeing it, repentant Greg rattled on: "Of course you know me well enough, old ramrod, to know that I'm not really reproaching you for being so loyal to Laura, good, sweet girl that she is. But you've miffed a lot, of the girls on the post by your constancy. Why, you could have the younger daughters of a dozen officers' following you, if you'd only look at them." "The younger daughters of the officers are all in the care of nurse-maids, Greg," Prescott retorted with pretended dignity. "Relieving nurse-maids of their responsibilities is no part of a cadet's training or duty." "Well, 'be good and you'll be happy'---but you won't have a good time," laughed Greg, who, having finished his inspection of himself in the tiny glass, was now ready to depart. "On your way, Holmesy," nodded Dick, glancing at the time. "It's a long walk, even for a cadet, to Captain Steele's quarters." Greg went away, humming under his breath. "There's a chap whom care rarely hits," mused Dick, looking half enviously after his chum. "I wonder really if he ever will marry?" Presently Dick picked up his camp chair and placed it just outside at the door of his tent. It was pleasant to sit there in the semi-gloom. But presently he began to wonder, a little, that none of the fellows dropped around for a chat, for he was aware that a number of the first classmen were not booked for the hop that night. From time to time Dick saw a first classman enter or leave the tent of Cadet Jordan. "He seems unusually popular to-night," thought Prescott, with a smile. "Well, better late than never. Poor Jordan has never been much of a favorite before. I wonder if my reporting him to-day has made the fellows take more notice of him? It is a rare thing, these days, for a first classman to be confined to his company street." For Prescott the evening became, in fact, so lonely that presently he rose, left the encampment and strolled along the road leading to the West Point Hotel. On other than hop nights, this road was likely to be crowded with couples. That night, however, nearly all of the young ladies at West Point had been favored with invitations to Cullum Hall. Tattoo was sounding just as Prescott crossed the line at post number one on reentering camp. In half an hour more, it would be taps. At taps, all lights in tents were expected to be out, and the cadets, save those actually on duty, to be in their beds. An exception was made in favor of cadets who had received permission to escort young ladies to the hop. Each cadet who had to return to the hotel, or to officers' quarters with a young lady had received the needed permission, and the time it would take him to go to the young lady's destination and return to camp was listed at the guard tent. Any cadet who took more than the permitted time to escort his partner of the hop to her abiding place would be subject for report. However, the special duty imposed upon Cadet Prescott for this night related to plebes, and plebes do not go to the hops. Bringing out his camp chair, Dick sat once more before his tent. Down at Jordan's tent he could still hear the low hum of cadet voices. "Something is certainly going on there," mused Prescott. For a moment or two he felt highly curious; then he repressed that feeling. "Good evening, Prescott." "Oh, good evening, Stubbs." Cadet Stubbs came to a brief halt before the cadet captain's tent. "I have been noticing that Jordan has a good many visitors this evening," Dick remarked. "All from our class, too, aren't they?" questioned Stubbs. "Yes. If we were yearlings I should feel sure that they had a plebe or two in there. But first classmen don't haze plebes." "No; we don't haze plebes," replied Cadet Stubbs with a half sigh, for Prescott was the only first classman at present in camp who did not fully know just what was in progress at Jordan's tent. But West Point men pride themselves on bearing no tales, so Stubbs repressed the longing to explain to Dick what Jordan was seeking to bring about. As a matter of fact, though some of the members of the first class were hot-headed enough to accept Jordan's view of the report against him, the class sentiment was considerably against the motion to give Cadet Captain Richard Prescott the silence, even for a week. However, none came near Prescott to talk it over. That again would be tale-bearing. Dick was not likely to hear of the move unless summoned to present his own defense in the face of class charges. Nor would Greg be approached on the subject. The accused man's roommate or tentmate is always left out of the discussion. Taps sounded; almost immediately the lights in the tents went out. Stillness settled over the encampment. The fact that a single candle remained lighted in Prescott's tent showed that he had permission to run a light. The assumption would be that he was engaged on some official duty, though the fact of running a light did not in any way betray the nature of that duty. Dick sat inside at first. Then, one by one, the cadets returning from the hop stepped through the company streets. At last Greg Holmes came in. "Still engaged, Holmesy?" asked Dick, looking up with a quizzical smile. "Surest thing on the post!" returned Greg, with a radiant smile. He had the look of being a young man very much in love and utterly happy over his good fortune. "Going to run a light?" asked Holmes, gaping, as he swiftly disrobed. "Yes; but I'll throw the tin can around so that the blaze won't be in your eyes." "It won't anyway," retorted Greg, turning down the cover of his bed. "I'll turn my back on the glim." The "tin can" is a device time-honored among cadets in the summer encampment. It is merely a reflector, made of an old tin can, that increases and concentrates the brilliancy of the candle light. The "tin can" may also be used in such a way as to throw a large part of a tent in semi-darkness. Two minutes later, Greg's breathing proclaimed the fact that this cadet was sound asleep. Dick, stifling a yawn---for it had been a long, hard and busy day---threw a look of envy toward his chum. Then, in uniform, Prescott stepped out into the company street. It was a dark, starless night; an ideal night to a plebe who wanted to run the guard and put in some time outside of the camp limits. Keeping as much in the shadow as he could, Prescott stepped along until he came near one of the sentry lines. For some time he stood thus, eyes and ears alert, though he lounged in the shadow where he was not likely to be seen. "It's an off night for plebe mischief, I reckon," he murmured at last. "All the plebes are good little boys to-night, and safely tucked in their cribs." At last, when it was near midnight, Prescott came out from his place of semi-concealment and stepped over near the guard line. It was not long ere a yearling sentry, with bayonet fixed and gun resting over his right shoulder, came pacing toward the first classman. Recognizing a cadet officer, the yearling sentry halted, holding his piece at "present arms." "Walk your post," Dick directed, after having returned the salute. Had Prescott been a cadet private the sentry would have questioned him as to his reasons for being out after taps. But with a cadet captain it was different. Though Prescott was not cadet officer of the day, he was privileged to have official reasons for being out without making an accounting to the sentry. Slowly the yearling sentry paced down to the further end of his post. Then he came back again. Having saluted Prescott recently, he did not pause now, but kept on past the cadet officer standing there in the shadow. As the sentry's footsteps again sounded softer in the distance, Prescott suddenly became aware of something not far away from him. It was a little glow of fire, at an elevation of something less than six feet from the ground, over beside a bush. This glow of fire looked exactly as though it came from a lighted cigar. If the cigar were held by a civilian, it was a matter that needed looking into. Cadets, if they wish, may smoke at certain times and within certain limits. But nothing in the regulations permits a cadet to go outside the guard lines after taps to smoke. Dick Prescott drew further back into the shadow, noiselessly, and kept his eye on the distant glow until he heard the yearling returning. "Sentry!" called Prescott sharply. The yearling, his piece at port arms, came on the run. "Investigate that glow yonder," ordered Prescott. "Very good, sir!" Prescott and the sentry started together. For an instant the glow wavered, as though the man that was behind the glow meditated taking to his heels. "Halt!" called the sentry. "Who's there?" Now the glow disappeared, but cadet captain and sentry were close enough to see the outlines of a figure in cadet uniform. The figure still moved uncertainly, as though bent on flight. But the sight of two pursuers seemed to change the unknown's mind. "A cadet," he called, in answer to the sentry's challenge. The sentry halted. "Advance, cadet, to be recognized," he commanded. Prescott came to a halt not far from the sentry. Slowly, with evident reluctance, the figure moved forward. "Mr. Jordan!" called Prescott, in considerable amazement. "Yes, sir," admitted Jordan huskily. Now, Dick had every reason in the world for not wanting to report this cadet again, but duty is and must be duty, in the Army. "Mr. Jordan, you are under orders of confinement to the company street," cried Dick sternly. "Yes, sir." "And yet you are found outside of camp limits? Have you any explanation to offer, sir?" "I was nervous, sir," replied Jordan, "and couldn't sleep. So I slipped out past the guard line to enjoy a quieting smoke." "Smoking causes vastly more nervousness than it ever remedies, Mr. Jordan," replied the young cadet captain. "Have you any additional explanation or excuse for being outside the company street?" "No, sir." "Then return to your tent, sir." "I---I suppose you are going to report this, Mr. Prescott?" asked the other first classman. "I have no alternative," Dick answered. "You are under confinement to the company street; you have made a breach of confinement, and I am your company commander." "Very good, sir." Jordan stiffened up, saluted, then passed on across the guard line, making for the street of A company. Dick turned back, more slowly, a thoughtful frown gathering on his fine face, while the yearling sentry was muttering to himself: "Great Caesar, but Prescott surely has put both feet in it. He reports a fellow classman for a little thing like a late smoke, and the man reported will be doomed to go into close arrest! Glad I'm not Prescott!" It would be untruthful to deny that Dick Prescott was worried; nevertheless, he made his way briskly to the tent of the O.C. "Jove, what luck!" chuckled Jordan tremulously, as he hastened along the street of A company to his tent. "Of course I'll be in for all sorts of penalties, and I'll have to be mighty good, after this, to keep within safe limits on demerits. But I have Prescott just where I want the insolent puppy! The class, this evening, was much in doubt about giving him the silence. But flow! When he has gone out of his way to catch me in such an innocent little breach of con.! Whew! But my lucky star is surely at the top of the sky to-night." Cadet Jordan was soon tucked in under his bed cover. He had not fallen asleep, however, when he heard a step coming down the street. Dick had chanced to find the O.C. still up. In a few words Prescott made his report. "This is a very serious report against a first classman, Mr. Prescott," said kind-hearted Lieutenant Denton gravely. "It is most unfortunate for Mr. Jordan that he has not a better excuse. You will go to Mr. Jordan's tent, Mr. Prescott, and direct him to remain in his tent, in close arrest, until he hears as to the further disposition of his case by the commandant of cadets." "Very good, sir," Prescott answered, saluting. "And then you may go to your own tent and retire, Mr. Prescott. I fancy the plebes have been good to-night." "Thank you, sir." With a rather heavy heart, though outwardly betraying no sign, Prescott walked along until he reached Jordan's tent, where he delivered the order from the O.C. "Did you hear that, old man?" growled Jordan to his tentmate, after the cadet captain had gone. "Pretty rough!" returned the tentmate sleepily. Rough? The first class was seething when it received the word next morning, for it was the common belief that Prescott must have shadowed and followed his classmate in order to entrap him. "It's surely time for class action now," Durville told several of his classmates. CHAPTER IV THE CLASS COMMITTEE CALLS Outwardly A company and the entire corps of cadets was as placid and unruffled as ever when the two battalions marched to breakfast that morning. One conversant with military procedure, however, would have noted that Jordan, being a prisoner, marched in the line of the file closers. And Mr. Jordan's face was wholly sulky, strive as he would to banish the look and appear indifferent. Even to a fellow naturally as unsocial as the cadet now in arrest, it was no joke to be confined to his tent even for the space of a week, except when engaged in official duties; and to be obliged, two afternoons in a week, to march in full equipment and carry his piece, for three hours in the barracks quadrangle under the watchful eyes of a cadet corporal. This penalty would last during the remaining weeks of the encampment and would be pronounced upon Jordan as soon as the commandant of cadets perfunctorily confirmed the temporary order of Lieutenant Denton. Dick, at the head of A company, looked as impassive as ever, though he felt far from comfortable. Through the ranks, wherever first classmen walked, excitement was seething. When Prescott was seated at table in the cadet mess hall, Greg, who sat next his chum, turned and raised his eyebrows briefly, as though to say: "There's something warm in the air." Dick's momentary glance in return as much as said: "I know it." None of the other cadets at the same table turned to address Prescott directly, with the single exception of Greg Holmes. True, when Dick had occasion, twice or thrice, to address other men at his table, they answered him, though briefly. Whatever was in the air it had not broken yet. That was as much as Prescott could guess. The instant that they had returned to camp, and the two chums were in their tent, Greg whispered fiercely: "That sulker, Jordan, is putting up trouble for you, as sure as you're alive." "Then I've given him a bully handle to his weapon," admitted Dick Prescott dryly. They were hustling into khaki field uniform now, and there was little time for comment; none for Greg to go outside and find out what was really in the air. Battery drill was right ahead of them. Barely were the chums changed to khaki field uniform before the call sounded on the bugle. On the recall from battery drill, the chums had but a few moments before they were called out for a drill in security and information. So the time passed until dinner. Again Jordan marched in the line of the file closers, and now this first classman had received his official sentence from the commandant of cadets. So far as the demeanor of the class toward Prescott was concerned, dinner was an exact repetition of breakfast. On the return of the corps to camp, a few minutes followed that were officially assigned to recreation. Dick stood just inside the door of his tent when he heard the tread of several men approaching. Looking out, he saw seven men of his own class coming up. Durville was at their head. "Good afternoon, Prescott," began Durville. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," nodded Dick. "We represent the class in a little matter," continued Durville, "and I have been asked to be the spokesman. Can you spare us a little time?" "All the time that I have before the call sounds for my next drill," replied Prescott. "Mr. Prescott, you reported a member of our class last night," began Durville. "I did so officially," Dick answered. "Of course, Mr. Prescott, we understand that. The offender was a member of A company, and you are the cadet captain of that company. But this affair happened at the guard line, and you were not cadet officer of the day. Mr. Jordan feels that you exerted yourself to catch him in his delinquency." "I did not," replied Prescott promptly. "At the time when I called upon the cadet sentry to apprehend Mr. Jordan, I had not the remotest idea that it was Mr. Jordan." "Then," asked Durville bluntly, "how did you, who were not the cadet officer of the day, happen to be where you could catch Mr. Jordan so neatly?" "In that matter I have no explanation to offer," Prescott replied. One less a stickler for duty than Prescott might have replied that he had been on the spot the night before in obedience to a special order from the officer in charge. Dick Prescott, however, felt that to make such a statement would be a breach of military faith. The order that he had received from Lieutenant Denton he looked upon as a confidential military order that could not be discussed, except on permission or order from competent military sources. "Now, Prescott," continued Cadet Durville almost coaxingly, "we don't want to be hard on you, and we don't want to do anything under a misapprehension. Can't you be more explicit?" "I have already regretted my inability to go further into the matter with you," Dick replied, pleasantly though firmly. "And you can give us no explanation whatever of how you came to report Jordan for being beyond the camp limits?" "All I am able to tell you is that my reporting of Mr. Jordan was a regrettable but military necessity." "Is that all we wish to ask, gentlemen?" inquired Durville, turning to his six companions. "It ought to be," retorted Brown dryly. The seven nodded very coldly. Durville turned on his heel, leading the others away. "Unless I'm a poor kitchen judge, old ramrod, your goose is cooked," muttered Greg Holmes mournfully. "Then it will have to be," spoke Dick resolutely. "But you haven't told even me how you came to be, last night, just where you could fall afoul of Jordan so nicely." "Old chum," cried Dick, turning and resting a hand on Greg's right arm, "I can discuss that matter no further with you than I did with the class committee." "You're a queer old extremist, anyway, with all your notions of duty and other bugaboos. This affair has given me the shivers." "Then cheer up, Holmesy!" laughed Cadet Captain Prescott. "Oh, it's you I'm shivering for," muttered Greg. CHAPTER V THE CADET "SILENCE" FALLS Six companies of sun-browned, muscular young men marched away to cadet mess hall that evening. If any of these cadets were more than properly fatigued, none of them betrayed the fact. Their carriage was erect, their step springy and martial. In ranks their faces were impassive, but when they filed into the mess hall, seated themselves at table and glanced about, an orderly Babel broke loose. At all, that is to say, save one table. That was the table at which Cadet Captain Richard Prescott sat. Greg was the first to make the discovery. He turned to Brown with a remark. Brown glanced at Holmes, nodding slightly. All the other cadets at that board were eating, their eyes on their plates. "What's the matter?" quizzed Holmes. "You're ideas moving slowly?" Again Brown glanced up at his questioner, but that was all. "How's the cold lamb, Durville?" questioned Dick. Durville passed the meat without speaking, nor did he look directly at Prescott. Dick and Greg exchanged swift glances. They understood. The blow had fallen. _The Silence had been given_! Dick felt a hot flush mounting to his temples. The blood there seemed to sting him. Then, as suddenly, he went white, clammy perspiration beading his forehead and temples. This was the verdict of the class---of the corps? He had offended the strict traditions and inner regulations of the cadet corps, and was pronounced unfit for association! That explained the constrained atmosphere at this one table, the one spot in all the big room where silence replaced the merry chatter of mealtime. "The fellows are mighty unjust!" thought Dick bitterly, as he went on eating mechanically. He no longer knew, really, whether he were eating meat, bread or potato. That was the first thought of Prescott. But swiftly his view changed. He realized about him, were hundreds of the flower of the young manhood of the United States. These young men were being trained in the ways of justice and honor, and were trying to live up to their ideals. If such an exceptional, picked body of young men had condemned him---had sentenced him to bitter retribution---was it not wholly likely that there was much justice on their side? "The verdict of so many good and true men must contain much justice," Prescott thought, as he munched mechanically, trying proudly to bide his dismay from watchful eyes. "Then I have offended against manhood, in some way. Yet how? I have obeyed orders and have performed my duties like a soldier. How, then, have I done wrong?" Once more it seemed indisputable to Prescott that his comrades had wronged him. But once more his own sense of justice triumphed. "I am not really at fault," he told himself, "nor is the class. The class has acted on the best view of appearances that it could obtain. I was wholly right in obeying the orders that I received from Lieutenant Denton, and equally right in not communicating those orders to a class committee. Nor could I refrain from reporting Mr. Jordan for breach of con. That was my plain duty, more especially as Mr. Jordan is a member of the company that I command. But the appearances have been all against me, and I have refused to explain. The class is hardly to be blamed for condemning me, and I imagine that Mr. Jordan, in accusing me, has not been at all reticent. Probably, too, he has taken no extreme pains to adhere to the exact truth. I do not see how I can get out of the scrape in which I find myself. I wonder if the silence is to be continued until I am forced to resign and give up a career in the Army?" With such thoughts as these it was hard, indeed, to look and act as though nothing had happened. But Cadet Jordan, taking eager, covert looks at his enemy from another table, got little satisfaction from anything that he detected in Prescott's face. "Why, that b.j.(fresh) puppy is quite equal to cheeking his way on through the last year and into the Army!" thought Jordan maliciously. "However, he's done for! No matter if he sticks, he'll never get any joy out of his shoulder straps." Little could Jordan imagine that Prescott's proud nature would long resist the silence. If this rebuke were to become permanent, then Prescott was not in the least likely to attempt to enter upon his studies at the beginning of they Academic year in September. And Greg! He didn't waste any time in trying to be just to any one. All his hot blood rose and fomented within him at the bare thought of this terrible indignity put upon that prince of good fellows, Dick Prescott. Holmes felt, in truth, as though he would be glad to fight, in turn, every member of the first class who had voted for the silence. That practically all the fellows of the first class had voted for the silence, Greg did not for an instant believe. He was well aware that Dick had many staunch friends in the class who would stand out for him in the face of any appearances. But a vote of the majority in favor of the silence would be enough; the rest of the class would be bound by the action of the majority. And all the lower classes would observe and respect any decision of the first class concerning one of its own members. Not a word did Greg say to Dick. Yet, under the table, Holmes employed one of his knees to give Dick's knee a long, firm pressure that conveyed the hidden message of unfaltering friendship and loyalty. For the other cadets at the table the silence imposed more or less hardship, since they could utter only the most necessary words. They however, were not objects against whom the silence was directed, and they could endure the absence of conversation with far more indifference than was possible for Prescott. It was a relief to all at the table, none the less, when the rising order was given. When the corps had marched back to camp, and had been dismissed, Dick Prescott, head erect, and betraying no sign of annoyance, walked naturally into A company's Street, drew out his camp chair and seated himself on it in the open. Barely had he done so, when Greg arrived. Cadet Holmes, however, did not stop or speak, but hurried on. "Greg has his hands full," thought Dick. "He's going to investigate. And I'm afraid his hot head will get him into some sort of trouble, too." The imposition of the silence did not affect Greg in his relations with his tentmate. When a cadet is sent to Coventry, or has the silence "put" on him, his tentmate or roommate may still talk unreservedly with him without fear of incurring class disfavor. To impose the rule of silence on the tentmate or roommate of the rebuked one would be to punish an innocent man along with the guilty one. Rarely, after all, does the corps err in its judgment when Coventry or the silence is meted out. None the less, in Dick's case a grave mistake had been made. Time slipped by, and darkness came on, but Greg had not returned. There was band concert in camp that night. Many cadets of the first and third classes had already gone to meet girls whom they would escort in strolling near the bandstand. Plebes are not expected to escort young ladies to these concerts. The members of the second class were away on the summer furlough, as Dick and Greg had been the summer before. As the musicians began to tune up at the bandstand, most of the remaining cadets sauntered through the company streets on their way to get close to the music. All cadets who passed through A company's street became suddenly silent when within ten paces of Dick's tent, and remained silent until ten paces beyond. Dick's tent being at the head of the street, he was quite near enough to the music. But he was not long in noting that both cadet escorts and cadets without young ladies took pains not to approach too close to where he sat. It was enough to fill him with savage bitterness, though he still strove to be just to his classmates who had been blinded by Cadet Jordan's villainous scheme. Of a sudden the band struck up its lively opening march. Just at that moment Prescott became aware of the fact that Greg Holmes was lifting out a campstool and was placing it beside him. "Well," announced Greg, "I've found out all there is behind the silence." "I took it for granted that was your purpose," Dick responded. "Aren't you anxious to hear the news, old ramrod?" "Yes; very." "I'm hanged if you look anxious!" muttered Greg, studying his chum's face keenly. "I fancy I've got to display a good deal of skill in masking my feelings," smiled Dick wearily. "Oh, I don't know," returned Cadet Holmes hopefully. "It may not turn out to be so bad." "Then a permanent silence hasn't been imposed?" "Not yet," replied Greg. "By which, I suppose, you mean that the length of the silence has not yet been decided upon." "It hasn't," Greg declared. "It was only after the biggest, swiftest and hardest kind of campaign, in fact, that the class was swung around to the silence. Only a bare majority were wheedled into voting for it. Nearly half of the class stood out for you stubbornly, pointing to your record here as a sufficient answer. And that nearly half are still your warm adherents." "Yet, of course, they are bound by the majority action?" "Of course," sighed Greg. "That's the old rule here, isn't it? Well, to sum it up quickly, old ramrod, the silence has been put on you, and that's as far as the decision runs up to date. The class is yet to decide on whether the silence is to be for a week or a month. Of course, a certain element will do all in its power to make the silence a permanent thing. Even if it is made permanent, Dick, you'll stick, won't you?" "No." "What?" "I shall not even try to stick against any permanent silence," replied Prescott slowly. "I thought you had more fight in you than that," muttered Greg in a tone of astonishment. "I think I have enough fight," Dick replied with some warmth. "And I honestly believe I have enough in me to make at least a moderately capable officer of the Army. But, Greg, I'm not going to make a stubborn, senseless effort, all through life, to stay among comrades who don't want me, and who will make it plain enough that they do not consider me fit to be of their number. Greg, in such an atmosphere I couldn't bring out the best that is in me. I couldn't make the most of my own life, or do the best by those who are dear to me." There was an almost imperceptible catch in Dick Prescott's voice. He was thinking of Laura Bentley as the one for whom he had hoped to do all his best things in life. "I don't know but you're right, old fellow. But it's fearfully hard to decide such a matter off-hand," returned Greg. His own voice broke. For some moments Holmes sat in moody silence. At last he reached out a hand, resting it on Dick's arm. "If you get out, old ramrod, it's the outs for me on the same day." "Greg!" "Oh, that's all right," retorted Cadet Holmes, trying to force a cheery ring into his voice. "If you can't get through and live under the colors, Dick, I don't want to!" "But Greg, old fellow, you mustn't look at it that way. You have had three years of training here at the nation's expense. It will soon be four. You owe your country some return for this magnificent training." "How about you, then?" asked Holmes, regarding his friend quizzically. "Me? I'd stay under the colors, and give up my life for the country and the Army, if my comrades would have it. But if they won't, then it's for the best interests of the service that I get out, Greg." "Well, talk yourself blind, if it will give you any relief. But post this information up on your inside bulletin board: When you quit the service, old ramrod, it will be 'good-bye' for little Holmesy!" CHAPTER VI TRYING TO EXPLAIN TO THE GIRLS Breakfast, the next morning, was a repetition of what had happened the night before. At Dick's table the silence was absolute. Even Captain Reid, cadet commissary, noticed it and understood, in his trip of inspection through mess hall. The thing that Reid, who was an Army officer, did not know was---who was the victim? He never guessed Prescott, who was class president, and believed to be one of the tallest of the class idols. It speaks volumes for the intended justice of the cadets when they will, in time of fancied need, destroy even their idols. Thus it went on for some days. Dick performed all of his duties as usual, and as well as usual. Nothing in his demeanor showed how keenly he felt the humiliation that had been put upon him. Only in his failure to attempt any social address of a classmate did he betray his recognition of the silence. Greg did his best to cheer up his chum. Anstey expressed greatest sorrow and sympathy for his friend Prescott. Holmes promptly reported this conversation to Dick. Other good friends expressed their sorrow to Holmes. In every case he bore the name and the implied message hastily to the young cadet captain. A few whom Dick had considered his good friends did not thus put themselves on record. Dick thereupon understood that they had acted upon their best information and convictions, and he honored them for being able to put friendship aside in the interests of tradition and corps honor. The silence had lasted five days when, one evening, a class meeting was called. Though Cadet Prescott was class president, he did not attend, for he knew very well that he was not wanted. Greg's sense of delicacy told the latter that it was not for him to attend the meeting, either. The vice president of the class was called to the chair. Then Durville and others made heated addresses in which they declared that Prescott could no longer consistently retain the class presidency. A motion was made that Prescott be called upon to resign. It was seconded by several first classmen. Then Anstey, the Virginian, claimed the floor in behalf of the humiliated class president. The blood of Virginian orators flowed in Anstey's veins, nor did he discredit his ancestry. In an impassioned yet deliberate and logical speech Anstey declared that great injustice had been done Cadet Richard Prescott, and by the members of his own class. "Every man within reach of my voice knows Mr. Prescott's record," declared the Virginian warmly. "When we were plebes, who stood up most staunchly as our class champion? Why, suh, why did we choose Mr. Prescott as our class president? Was it not because we believed, with all our hearts, that in Richard Prescott lay all the best elements of noble, upright and manly cadethood? Do you remember, suh, and fellow classmen, the wild enthusiasm that prevailed when we, by our suffrages, had declared Mr. Prescott to be our ideal of the man to lead the class in all the paths of honor?" Anstey paused for an instant. Then, lowering his voice somewhat, he continued, with scathing irony: "_And now you give this best man of our class the silence, and seek to remove him from the presidency of the class_!" "It's a shame!" roared another cadet. There were cheers. "It is a shame," cried Anstey in a ringing voice. "And now you seek to deepen the shame by further degrading Prescott, who has always been the champion of our class. Mr. President, I move that we lay the motion on the table indefinitely. As soon as that has been done I shall make another motion, that we remove the silence from the grand, good fellow who has had it put upon him." There were others, however, with nearly Anstey's gift for oratory. One of them now took the floor, pointing out that the class would not have rebuked Prescott for having reported Jordan in the tour of pontoon bridge construction. "That may have been justified," continued the speaker. "But, afterwards, Mr. Jordan and Mr. Prescott had words. There must have been some bitterness in that. That same night Mr. Jordan was caught and reported by Mr. Prescott, who was not cadet officer of the day, and who therefore must have deliberately shadowed Mr. Jordan in order to catch him." "Prescott did not shadow Mr. Jordan, or do anything of a sneaky nature," shouted Anstey. "He refused to explain to our class committee how he happened to be on band at just the time to catch Jordan," shouted Durville. "Then be assured he had a good military, a good soldierly, a good manly reason for his silence," clamored Anstey. The meeting was an excited one from all points of view. In the end the best that the staunch friends of Dick could secure was that action on the resignation of the class presidency be deferred until a cooler hour, but that the silence be continued for the present. And so the meeting broke up. Jordan had been dismayed, fearing that Anstey's impassioned speech might result in putting his enemy back into greater popularity than ever. But now Jordan was reassured. He was satisfied that things were still moving in his direction, and that Prescott's proud spirit would soon lead him into some action that must make the breach with the class wider than ever. At noon the next day Prescott returned from the second drill of the forenoon. In his absence a mail orderly had been around. An envelope lay on the table addressed to Dick. "From Laura," he exclaimed in delight. "That'll cheer you some," smiled Greg. "Why it's postmarked from New York," continued Dick swiftly. "Whew! She must be headed this way!" Hurriedly Prescott tore the envelope open. "It couldn't have happened at a worse time," he muttered, turning white. "What?" "Laura, Mrs. Bentley and Belle Meade are in New York, and will reach here this afternoon. Laura says they have learned that there is a hop on to-night, and they are bringing their prettiest frocks." "Whew! That is a facer!" breathed Greg in perplexity. "Of course I can't take Laura to the hop." "You can, if you have the nerve," insisted Greg. "And I have the nerve!" retorted Dick defiantly. "But how about Laura? She would discover, within a few minutes, that I am on strained terms with the other fellows. That would do worse than spoil her evening." "Well," demanded Greg thoughtfully, "why do you need to take her to the hop?" "Because she says that's what the girls have come for." "Bother! Do you suppose it's you, or the hop, that Laura comes for?" But Dick, instead of being cheered by this view, turned very white. "I've got to tell her," he muttered hoarsely, "that I'm in eclipse. That the fellows have voted that I am not a fit associate for gentlemen." "And I'll tell her a heap more," retorted Cadet Holmes. "Dick, do you think either of the girls would go back on you, just because a lot of raw, half-baked cadets have got you sized up wrong? Is that all the faith you have in your friends? And, especially, such a friend as Laura Bentley? Was that the way she acted when you were under charges of cribbing? You were in disgrace, then, weren't you? Did Laura look at you with anything but sympathy in her eyes?" "No; heaven bless her!" "Now, see here, Dick. If the girls are up here this evening, we won't take 'em to the hop. Instead, we'll sit out on the north porch at the hotel, with Mrs. Bentley near by. We'll have such a good old talk with the girls as we never could have at a hop." "Everything in life would be easy, Greg, if you could explain it away," laughed Dick Prescott, but his tone was bitter. "Well, as you can't take the girls to the hop, with any regard for their comfort, my plan is best of all, isn't it?" "I---I suppose so." "So make the best of it, old ramrod. There's nothing so bad that it couldn't be a lot worse." There was a long tour of work with the field battery guns that afternoon. For once Prescott found his mind entirely off his work. Nor could he rally his senses to his work. He got a low marking, indeed, in the instructor's record for that afternoon's work. Then, hot, dusty and tired, this detachment of cadets came in from work. In the visitors' seats, near headquarters, Dick and Greg espied Mrs. Bentley and the girls. How lovely the two latter looked! The instant that ranks were broken Laura. and Belle were on their feet, glancing eagerly in the direction of their cadets. Dick and Greg had to go over, doff their campaign hats and shake hands with Mrs. Bentley and the girls. "We've given you a surprise, this time," laughed Laura. "I hope you're pleased." "Can you doubt it?" asked Dick so absently, so reluctantly, that Laura Bentley shot a swift, uneasy look at the handsome young cadet captain. "You don't seem over delighted," broke in Belle Meade. "Gracious! I hope we haven't been indiscreet in coming almost unannounced? See here, you haven't invited any other girls to to-night's hop, have you?" Both girls, flushed and rather uneasy looking, were now eyeing the two ill-at-ease young first classmen. "No; we haven't invited anyone else. But there's something to be explained," replied Dick lamely. "Greg, you explain, won't you? And you'll all excuse me, won't you, while I hurry away to tog for dress parade?" Laura's face was almost as white as Dick's had been at noon, as she gazed after the receding Prescott. Then Greg, in his bluntest way, tried to put it all straight, and quickly, at that. "Oh, is that all?" asked Belle with a sniff of contempt. "Why couldn't Dick remain and tell us himself? You cadets are certainly cowards in some things---sometimes!" But the tears were struggling for a front place in Laura's fine eyes. "Is this 'silence' going to affect Dick very much in his career in the Army?" she asked with emotion. "Not if his staunchest friends can prevent it," replied Greg almost fiercely. "And old ramrod has a host of friends in his class, at that." "It's too bad they're not in the majority, then," murmured Miss Meade. "They will be, in the end," asserted Greg. "We're working things around to that point. You should have heard the fierce row we put up at the class meeting last night." When it was too late Greg could have bitten his tongue. "Class meeting?" asked Laura. "Then has there been further action taken?" Greg nodded, biting his lips. "What was last night's meeting held for?" persisted Laura. "To try to oust Dick from the class presidency," confessed Cadet Holmes. "Did they do it?" quivered Laura Bentley. "No!" "Ah! Then the attempt was defeated. Dick is to retain the presidency of his class?" "Action was deferred," replied Greg in a low voice. He wished with all his heart he could get away, for he saw that, no matter how he tried to hedge the facts about, these keen-witted girls realized that Dick Prescott's plight was about as black as it could be for a young man who wanted, with all his soul, to remain in the military service of his country. CHAPTER VII JORDAN MEETS DISASTER Belle, with her combination of impulsive temperament, good judgment and bluntness, came to the temporary rescue. "Greg is trying to conceal the fact that he'll have a desperate rush to get into his dress uniform in time for parade," Miss Meade interposed. "Anyway, there's far more about this matter than we can understand in a moment. Greg, you and Dick can call on us at the hotel this evening, can't you?" "We most surely can." "Then come, as early as you can. We'll eat the earliest dinner we can get there, and be prepared for a long evening. Now, hurry to your tent, for I don't want to see you reported for being late at formation." Between her visits to West Point, and her trips to Annapolis to see Dave Darrin, as related in the Annapolis Series, Belle had by this time a very considerable knowledge of formations, and of other incidents in the lives of Army and Navy cadets. "This evening, then," replied Greg, shifting his campaign hat to the other hand and feeling like a man who has secured a reprieve. "And give my love to Dick," Belle went on hastily, "and tell him that the President of the United States couldn't, if he wanted to, change our opinion of dear old Dick in the least." "Thank you," bowed Greg, gratitude welling up in his heart. "And you send him your love, don't you, Laura?" insisted Belle swiftly. Laura recoiled quickly, flushing violently. It was all right for Belle Meade to send her "love" to Prescott, for they were old friends, and Belle was known to be Dave Darrin's loyal sweetheart. With Laura the situation was painfully different. She and Dick had been schoolboy and schoolgirl sweethearts, after a fashion, but Dick had never openly declared his love for her. Would he misunderstand, and think her unwomanly? She trembled with the sudden doubt at the thought. Besides, another, a prosperous young merchant back in Gridley, had been ardent in his attentions to Miss Bentley. "Of course Laura sends her love," broke in Greg promptly. "Who wouldn't, when the dear old fellow is in such a scrape? And I'll deliver the message of love from you both---and from Mrs. Bentley, too?" Greg looked inquiringly, but expectantly at Laura's mother, who nodded and smiled in ready sympathy. Then Greg made his best soldier's bow and hastened off to his chum, whose heart he succeeded in gladdening somewhat while the two made all haste to get ready for parade call. When the corps marched on to the field that afternoon, Mrs. Bentley and the girls were there among the eager spectators. Dick saw them almost instantly, and his heart bounded within him. It was Laura's mute message of sympathy and hope to him! He held up his head higher, if that were possible, and went through every movement with even more than his usual precision. As the corps was marching off the field again, however, Dick's heart sank rapidly within him. "If I have to leave the Army, I can never ask Laura for her love," he groaned wretchedly. "If I go from West Point as anything but a graduate and an officer, I shall have to start life all over again. It will take me years to find my place and get solidly on my feet I could never ask a girl to wait as long as that!" In the early evening Laura, Belle and Mrs. Bentley were on the veranda near the hotel entrance. Cadets Jordan and Douglass made their appearance. Jordan had obtained official permission to present Douglass to his sister, who was to go to the hop that evening. "By Jove, there's a spoony femme (pretty girl) over there," breathed Jordan in Douglass' ear. "You don't happen to know her, do you?" "Why, yes, that's Miss Bentley, and the other is Miss Meade. The chaperon is Miss Bentley's mother," replied Cadet Douglass. "You know them?" throbbed Jordan, his eyes resting eagerly on Laura's face. "What luck! Present me, old chap!" So Douglass, who, in some respects, had a bad memory, piloted his classmate over to the ladies and halted. "Good evening, ladies," greeted Douglass, raising his uniform cap in his most polished manner. "Mrs. Bentley, Miss Bentley, Miss Meade, will you permit me to present my friend and classmate Mr. Jordan?" Belle, who was nearest, bowed and held out her hand. But Laura drew herself up haughtily. "Mr. Douglass," she answered coldly, "my apologies to you, but I don't wish to know---Mr. Jordan!" Belle caught the name again, and remembered. "Oh!" she cried, snatching her hand away ere Jordan could touch it. "I'm sorry, ladies," stammered Douglass. But they found themselves confronted by rear views of two shapely pairs of young shoulders, while Mrs. Bentley had the air of looking through the young men without being able to see either. Two very much disconcerted cadets, and very red in the face, stiffly resumed their caps and marched away. "Great Scott, what did that mean?" gasped Jordan, struck all in a heap by his strange reception. Cadet Douglass gasped. "Jordan," he exclaimed contritely, "I'm the greatest ass in the corps!" "You must be!" exploded Dick's enemy. "But what was the cause of it all?" "Why, Jordan, you---you see-----" "Who is Miss Bentley?" "Jordan, she's Prescott's girl!" "What?" gasped the other cadet, staring at his classmate. "Fact!" "Prescott's---girl?" "Yes." "Jove, a puppy like Prescott has no business with a superb girl like that." "All the same, Jordan, the fact will prevent you from knowing her." "Now, I'm not so sure of that!" cried Jordan suddenly, with strange fire in his eyes. "What do you mean?" "Oh, nothing," mumbled Jordan, suddenly recovering himself. Then, under his breath, he chuckled gleefully: "Miss Bentley is just struck on the uniform, of course. A girl like that couldn't care for a misfit like Prescott. Well, he won't be in the uniform much longer. I won't lose sight of Miss Bentley. I'll find her again when Prescott is out of the uniform for good!" Now, aloud, he asked: "Doug, do you happen to remember Miss Bentley's first name?" "Larry," answered Cadet Douglass absently. "Stop that!" cried Jordan almost fiercely. "Oh, a thousand pardons, Jordan. I'm so rattled I don't know what I'm doing or saying. The girl's first name is Laura. Peach, isn't she?" "Laura! That's a sweet name," murmured Jordan to himself. His mind was now running riot, not only with plans to drive Dick Prescott out of the Army, but also to win the heart of Laura Bentley. "Hold on, Jord," begged Douglass, halting and leaning against a post in the veranda structure. "Don't take me to your sister just yet. Let me get my breath, my nerves, my wits back again." "Take an hour," advised Jordan laconically. "You need it. Didn't you know Miss Bentley was Prescott's girl?" "Yes; but it had slipped my memory. It's mighty hard, when you come to think of it, to remember the girls of so many hundreds of fellows," explained Cadet Douglass plaintively. Ten minutes later Dick and Greg appeared, greeting the ladies. Mrs. Bentley assented to their going around to the north side of the porch, whence they could look up the river to the lights of Newburgh. "We very nearly had an adventure, Dick," laughed Belle. "Yes?" "We very nearly shook hands with Mr. Jordan. It was Laura's quick cry that saved me, just in the nick of time, from touching hands with the fellow." Miss Meade then related their experience, and the discomfiture of Cadets Douglass and Jordan. "That's just about like Doug," observed Greg Holmes. "I'll bet he never thought until Laura called off the signal for the kick." "What's that?" demanded Miss Bentley. "Pardon me," apologized Greg. "I think in football terms altogether too often. But I'm glad Jordan saw the goal and then lost it." "I think Dick wants to tell us something about the fellow Jordan, and some of the other cadets," Belle hinted. Between them the chums told the story of how the "silence" had come to be imposed. Prescott did not, however, tell his feminine visitors how he had happened to catch Jordan outside the guard line. "How did that happen?" asked Laura innocently. "Now, I'd tell you before I would any one else on earth," protested Dick with warmth, "but I haven't told Greg or anyone else. I had good military reasons, not personal ones." "Oh!" replied Laura. And, not understanding, she felt more than a little hurt by Dick's failure to answer frankly. Both girls, however, talked very comfortingly, and Mrs. Bentley very sensibly aided their efforts. All three tried to make it quite plain to Dick Prescott that no amount, or consequence, of lack of understanding by his classmates could make any difference with his standing in their eyes. Presently Mrs. Bentley consented to the girls strolling down the road between the hotel and cadet barracks. Dick, of course, walked with Laura, while Greg and Belle remained at a discreet, out-of-earshot distance. At last they stood again by the gateway through the shrubbery at the edge of the hotel grounds. "Dick-----" began Laura hesitatingly. "Yes?" asked the young cadet captain. "Dick, no matter how far your classmates push this matter," begged Laura, her eyes big and earnest, "don't let their acts force you out of the Army. No matter what happens---stick!" Cadet Prescott shook his head wearily. "I can't stick," he replied firmly, "if I am shown that my presence in the Army is not going to be for the good and the harmony of the service!" Laura sighed. Another keen pang of disappointment, was hers. She now believed that her influence over Dick Prescott was not anywhere near as strong as she had hoped it would be. A very wretched girl rested her head on a pillow that night, and slept but poorly. In the forenoon, while the corps was absent on an infantry practice march, Laura, her mother and her friend went dejectedly away from West Point. CHAPTER VIII FATE SERVES DICK HER MEANEST TRICK The furloughed second class returned, the encampment ended and the corps marched back into cadet barracks. The new academic year had begun, with new text-books, new studies, new intellectual torments for the hundreds of ambitious young soldiers at the United States Military Academy. By this time both Dick and Greg had acquired the habits of study so thoroughly that neither any longer feared for his standing or markings. To Prescott there was one big comfort about being back in the old, gray cadet barracks. The silence put upon Dick was not now quite as much in evidence. With long study hours, Prescott had not so much need to meet his classmates. In the section rooms nothing in the deportment of the other cadets could emphasize the silence. It was only in the authorized visiting hours that Prescott noted the change keenly. Of course, according to the traditions of the Military Academy, Anstey and all the other loyal friends who ached to call were barred from so doing. While taps sounds at ten o'clock, and members of the three lower classes must be in bed, with lights out, at the first sound of taps, first classmen are privileged, whenever they wish, to run a light until eleven at night, provided the extra time be spent in study. One evening in early September, Dick and Greg were both busy at study table, when Dick chanced to look over some papers connected with his studies. As he did so, he drew out an officially backed sheet, and started. "Jupiter!" he muttered. "I should have turned this in before supper formation." "Who gets the report?" asked Greg, looking up. "It goes to the officer in charge," Dick answered. "Oh, well, he's up yet. You can slip over to his office with it," replied Greg easily. "And I'll do it at once. It may mean a demerit or two, for lack of punctuality, but I'm glad it's no worse." Jumping up and donning his fatigue cap, Prescott thrust the neglected official report into the breast of his uniform blouse, soldier fashion. Then he walked slowly out, halting just inside the subdivision door. "I don't mind a few demerits, but I don't like to be accused of unsoldierly neglect," mused the young cadet captain. "Let me see if I can think up a way of presenting my statement so that the O.C. won't scorch me." As Dick stood there in the gloom, a quick, soft step sounded outside. Then the door was carefully opened, and a young man in citizen's dress entered. Civilians rarely have a right, to be in cadet barracks at any time of the day. It is wholly out of the question for one to enter barracks after taps. "What are you doing in here, sir?" Dick questioned sternly, putting out his hand to take the other's arm. Then the young cadet captain drew back in near-horror. "Good heavens! Durville?" he gasped. "Yes. Sh!" whispered the other cadet, slinking back, a frightened look in his eyes. No cadet, while at West Point, may, without proper permission, appear in any clothing save the uniform of the day or of the tour. No cadet ever attempts to don "cits." unless he is up to some grave mischief, such as leaving the post. "Don't say a word! Let me reach my room!" whispered Durville hoarsely. Dick Prescott wished, with all his heart, to be able to comply with the other cadet's frenzied request. But duty stepped in with loud voice. As a cadet officer, as captain of Durville's company, Prescott had no alternative within the lines of that duty. He must report Cadet Durville. "Now, don't look at me so strangely," begged Durville. "Let me go by, and tell me you'll keep this quiet. By Jove, Prescott, you know what it means to me if I'm placed on report for---this!" "Yes, I know," nodded Dick, dejectedly, and speaking as hoarsely as did the other man. "Oh, Durville, I wish I could do it, but-----" Dick had to clench his fists and gulp hard. Then the soldier in him triumphed. "Mr. Durville"---he spoke in an impassive official tone, now---"you will accompany me to the office of the officer in charge, and will there make such official explanation as you may choose." "Prescott, for the love of-----" began the other over again, in trembling desperation. "About face, Mr. Durville. Forward!" Now, all the gameness in the other cadet came to the surface. He wheeled about, head up, his clenched fists seeking the seams of his condemning "cit." trousers. Durville marched defiantly out into the quadrangle, across and into the cadet guard house, up the flight of stairs and into the office of the officer in charge. Lieutenant Denton was again O.C. that night. Both cadets saluted when they entered after knocking. Lieutenant Denton glanced in sheer dismay at the "cit." clothes worn by Durville. "Sir," began Dick huskily, "I regret being obliged to report that I just discovered Mr. Durville entering the sub-division in citizen's dress." "Have you any explanation to offer, Mr. Durville?" asked Lieutenant Denton in his official tone. "None, sir." "Very good, Mr. Durville. You will go to your room and remain in close arrest until you receive further official communication in this matter." "Very good, sir." Durville spoke in steady, if icy tones, as he saluted and made this response. "That is all, Mr. Durville." "Very good, sir." Like one frozen, the cadet in unfamiliar attire turned and left the office. "How did you happen to make the discovery, Mr. Prescott?" gasped the O.C. "I discovered, sir, that I had overlooked this report, which I now turn in, sir," Dick replied rather hoarsely. "It was just as I was about to leave the sub-division that Mr. Durville came in. I had no alternative but to report him, sir." "You are right, Mr. Prescott. As a cadet officer you had no alternative." Then, with a memory of his own West Point days, Lieutenant Denton unbent enough to remark feelingly: "You have unassailable courage, too, Mr. Prescott." "Thank you, sir." "Is that all?" "You have finished your official business?" "Yes, sir." "Good night," Mr. Prescott. "Good night, sir." Saluting, Dick turned from the office. As he pushed open the door and reentered the subdivision, he beheld Durville, standing there with arms folded. "Possibly at the risk of being reported for breaking my arrest, Mr. Prescott," began Durville, "I have lingered here to say to you that you have succeeded in wreaking a most complete revenge upon one who led a bit in having the silence conferred upon you." All Dick's reserve melted for an instant. "Durville, man---you---don't believe I did this for---for revenge?" Prescott demanded. Cadet Durville smiled sarcastically. "I shall undoubtedly be broken for this night's affair, Mr. Prescott, and you and the rest will continue to believe that I was absent merely on some vulgar escapade! I go, now, to my arrest, which is doubtless the last military service I shall be called upon to render. Mr. Prescott, I congratulate you, sir, upon your ability to spy upon other men and to serve your highest ideas of suitable vengeance." Gloomily Durville turned to his room. Dick almost stumbled to his own quarters. Greg Holmes's face blanched when he heard the news. "There'll be fine class ructions by to-morrow!" he told himself with unwonted grimness. CHAPTER IX THE CLASS TAKES FINAL ACTION By the time the corps of cadets was seated at breakfast, in the great mess hall, the following morning, the news began to circulate rapidly. It was discussed in low tones at every table save that at which the silence against Prescott prevailed. The silence by this time had ceased to be literal, except so far as it applied to Dick. Other cadets at his table talked among themselves, though never to Prescott. Greg, being Dick's roommate, was the sole cadet exempted from this rule. But the men at Prescott's table restrained their curiosity until the two battalions had marched back to barracks and had been dismissed. After the dismissal of the companies Dick and Greg strolled along slowly. Wherever they passed backs were turned to them, though this would not have happened to Holmes had he been alone. Though the news was discussed, no class action was taken. This must not be done until Durville's fate had overtaken him. Otherwise, the Military Academy authorities might take such action as defiant and visit a more severe penalty upon Cadet Durville. For five days Durville remained in close arrest. This meant, to the initiated, that the Superintendent had taken up the matter with the War Department at Washington. On the sixth day Durville was once more sent for by the commandant of cadets. His sentence was handed out to him. On account of an academic reputation of high grade, and a hitherto good-conduct report, Mr. Durville was not dropped from the corps. Had the offender, before leaving West Point in "cits.," gone to the cadet guard house and made any false report concerning his absence, nothing could have saved him from dismissal for making a false official report. All things being taken into consideration, Cadet Durville was "let off" with loss of privileges up to the time of semi-annual examinations, with, in addition, the walking of punishment tours every Saturday afternoon during the same period. Now the gathering wrath broke loose upon Dick. A class meeting was called, that neither Prescott nor Holmes could attend with propriety. Durville, as a matter of policy, did not attend, but there were not wanting first classmen who looked upon Durville as a sacrifice, and who were fully capable of presenting his side of the case at the meeting. Upon Anstey, as on a former occasion, fell the task of making Prescott's side clear. The class meeting had not been in session many minutes when Dick's accusers had made it rather plain that Mr. Prescott, following his previous course with Jordan, had revenged himself also on Durville, who had taken an active part in securing the imposition of the silence. Anstey took the floor in a fiery defence. He brought forth the statement that Prescott had not made any attempt to pry into the goings or comings of the unlucky Durville. The Virginian declared that Prescott had happened to be abroad in time to "catch" Mr. Durville, simply because Prescott had started for the office of the officer in charge with an official paper that he had been tardy about turning in. Though Anstey dwelt upon this side of the case with consummate oratory, the defence was regarded as "too transparent." Anstey's good faith was not questioned, but Prescott's was. In the turmoil the office of class president was declared vacant. Anstey was nominated for the office just made vacant, but, with cold politeness, he refused what, at any other time, would have been a high honor. Cadet Douglass was presently elected class president. Then further action was taken with regard to Cadet Richard Prescott. Without further debate a motion was carried that Prescott be sent to Coventry for good and all. The class meeting adjourned, and upon Greg Holmes, who was informed by Anstey, fell the task of carrying the decision to Dick. "I expected it, Holmesy," was Dick's quiet reply. "Buck up, anyway, old ramrod," begged Greg. "This terrible mess will all be straightened out before graduation." "Not in time to do me any good," replied Dick gloomily. "Now what do you mean?" But Dick closed his jaws firmly. Greg knew better than to press his questioning further, just then. He contented himself with crossing the room, resting both hands on Dick's shoulders. "Now, old ramrod, just remember this: Into every life a good deal of trouble comes. It is up to each fellow, in his own case, to show how much of a man he is. The fellow who lies down, or runs away, isn't a man. The fellow who fights his trouble out to a grim finish, is a man every inch of his five or six feet! The class is wild, just now, but on misinformation. Fight it out! Enemies of yours have brought you to this pass. Don't run away! All your friends are with you as much as ever they were." Dick was a good deal affected. "Believe me, Greg, whatever I decide on doing won't be in the line of running away. Whatever I decide upon will be what I finally believe to be for the best good of the service." "Humph!" muttered Greg, looking wonderingly at his chum. In the closing period of the next forenoon Dick's section did not recite. Greg's did. So Prescott was left alone in the room with his books. Despite himself, Greg was so worried, during that recitation, that he "fessed cold"---that is, he secured a mark but a very little above zero. As soon as the returning section was dismissed Cadet Holmes, his heart beating fast, hurried to his room. There sat Dick, at the study table, as Greg had left him. But Prescott had pushed his textbooks aside. Before him rested only a sheet of paper. With pen in hand Prescott wrote something at the bottom just as Holmes entered the room. Then Dick looked up with a half cheery face. "I've done it, Greg," he announced simply, in a hard, dry voice. "Done it?" echoed Cadet Holmes. "What?" "I have written my resignation as a member of the corps of cadets, United States Military Academy." "Bosh!" roared Cadet Holmes in a great rage. "The resignation is written, signed, and---it sticks!" returned Dick Prescott with quiet emphasis. CHAPTER X LIEUTENANT DENTON'S STRAIGHT TALK "Let me have that paper!" demanded Greg, darting forward. There was fire in Cadet Holmes's eyes and purpose in his heart as he reached forward to snatch the sheet from the desk. Yet Dick Prescott stepped before him, thrusting him quietly aside with a manner that was not to be overridden. "Don't touch it, Greg!" he ordered in a low voice that was none the less compelling. "But you shan't send that resignation in!" quivered Greg. "My dear boy, you know very well that I shall!" "Have you no thought for me?" Cadet Holmes demanded. "My going may put you in a blue streak for a week, old fellow, but it will put me in a blue streak for a lifetime. Yet there's no other way for me. What's the use of being an ostracized officer in the service? With you, Greg, old chum, it is different. You will, after a little, be very happy in the Army." "Happy in the---nothing!" exploded Greg. "I told you, weeks ago, that if you quit the service, I would do the same thing." "But you won't," urged Dick. "In these weeks you have had time to reflect and turn sensible." "Do you suppose I care to go on, old chum, if you don't?" "Yes," answered Dick quietly. "And if the case were reversed, and you were resigning, I should go on just the same and stick in the service. Why, Greg, if we both went on into the Army, and under the happiest conditions, we wouldn't be together, anyway. You might be in one regiment, down in Florida, and I in another out in the Philippines. When I was serving in Cuba, you'd be in Alaska. Don't be foolish, Greg. I've got to leave, but there's no earthly reason why you should. Your resigning would be mistaken loyalty to me, and would cast no rebuke or regret over the cadet corps or the Army. The fellows who are going to stick would simply feel that one weak-kneed chap had dropped by the wayside. They'd merely march on and forget you." "There goes the first call for dinner formation," cried Holmes, wheeling and beginning his hasty preparations. "That's better," laughed Dick, as he shoved his resignation into the drawer of the table. Then Dick, too, made his hurried preparations. Second call found them ready to watch the forming of A company. At the command Dick gave his own company order: "Fours right! Forward---march!" Away went A company, at the head of the corps, the whole long line giving forth the rhythmic sound of marching feet. No outsider could have guessed that the young senior cadet captain was utterly discredited by the majority of his class, and that he was about to drop hopelessly out of this stirring life. On the return from dinner Dick went at once to his room. "What are you going to do?" demanded Greg impatiently, as Prescott seated himself at the study table. "I am going to address an envelope to hold the sheet of paper of which you so much disapprove." Greg knew it was useless to expostulate. Instead, he hurried out, found Anstey, and called the Virginian so that both could stand in the place where they would be sure to see Prescott if he attempted to come out. Feverishly, in undertones, Greg confided the news to Anstey. "I don't just see what we can do, suh," answered the southerner with a puzzled look. "Prescott is doing, suh, just what I reckon I'd do myself, suh, if I were in his place." "But we can't lose him," urged Greg. "I know we'll hate like thunder to, suh. But what can we do? Can we beg Prescott to stay, and face the cold shoulder, suh, all the time he is here, and in the Army afterwards?" "I'm not getting much comfort out of you, Anstey," muttered Greg grimly. "And that, suh, is because I don't see where the comfort comes in. Holmesy, don't think I'm not suffering, suh. It'll break my heart to see old ramrod drop out of the corps." "Then you don't think we can stop Prescott?" "I reckon I don't Holmesy. This is the kind of matter, suh, that every man must settle for himself. If I were a much older man, Holmesy, with much more experience in the Army, I reckon I might be able to give him some very sound advice. But as it is, suh, I know I can't." When Greg returned to the room he found Dick preparing books and papers to march to the next section recitation. "What have you done with that resignation of yours?" growled Greg. "It's in that drawer," replied Dick, with a weary smile, "and I rely on you, old fellow, not to do anything to it. It would only give me all the pain over again if I had to rewrite it." "Dick, can nothing change your mind?" "I have thought it all over, old friend." The call for section formation sounded, and both hurried away. Later, Dick's section returned a full minute and a half ahead of the one to which Holmes belonged. "Now's the time!" muttered Dick, opening the drawer and slipping the envelope into the breast of his blouse. Then he hurried out, crossing the quadrangle to the cadet guard house. Cadet Holmes, in section ranks, marched into the quadrangle in time just to catch a glimpse of Prescott's disappearing back. Going up the stairs, Dick knocked on the door of the office of the O.C. "Come in!" called the officer in charge, who proved to be none other than Lieutenant Denton again. "What is it, Mr. Prescott?" inquired the Army officer, as Prescott, saluting, advanced to the officer's desk, then halted, standing at attention. "Sir, I have come to ask for some information." "What is it, Mr. Prescott?" "Sir, I have a paper, addressed to the superintendent. I do not know whether I should take it to the adjutant's office, or whether I should forward it through this office." "I thought you understood your company paper work, Mr. Prescott," smiled Lieutenant Denton. "I think I do, sir; but this kind of paper I have never had to put in before." "What kind of paper is it?" "My resignation, sir," replied Dick quietly. Lieutenant Denton looked almost as much astonished as he felt. "What?" he choked. Then a slight smile came into his face. "Oh, I think I begin to understand, Mr. Prescott. You wish more time for your studies, and so you are resigning your post as captain of A company." "This is my resignation, sir, from the corps of cadets." Lieutenant Denton looked utterly nonplussed. "Oh, very good, Mr. Prescott. If you are bent on leaving the Military Academy, I presume I have no right to demand your reasons. But---won't you sit down?" The lieutenant pointed to a chair near his own. "Thank you, sir," nodded Prescott. Taking off his fatigue cap, he dropped into the chair, though he sat very erect. "Now," smiled Mr. Denton, "perhaps we can drop, briefly, some of the relation between officer and cadet. We may be able to talk as friends---real friends. I trust so. May I feel at liberty to ask you, Mr. Prescott, whether there are any urgent family reasons behind this sudden move of yours?" "None, sir." "Then is it---but I don't wish to be intrusive." "I certainly don't consider you intrusive, Mr. Denton, and I appreciate your sympathy and friendship. But I am resigning from the corps for the best of good reasons." "May I question you, Mr. Prescott?" "If you care to, sir." "I do wish it, very much," rejoined Lieutenant Denton, "though I have asked your consent because, in what I am now seeking to do, I am going rather beyond my place as a tactical officer of the Military Academy. If you are sure, however, that you do not find me intrusive, and if you would like to talk this matter over---not as officer and cadet, but as between a young man and a somewhat older one, and as friends above all, then I am going to ask you a few questions." "Although I am certain that you cannot help me, Mr. Denton, I am very grateful for every sign of interest that you may show in me. It is something of balm to me to feel that I shall leave behind some who will regret my going." "Prescott," asked the officer abruptly, "you have been sent to Coventry, haven't you? You needn't answer unless you wish." "I have, sir," Dick assented. "Twice it has happened, when I have been on duty, that you have had to report classmates to me. Now, I'm not going to step over the line by asking you whether those reports were the basis of your being sent to Coventry. But, to please myself, I'm going to assume that such is the case." To this Dick made no reply. It was an instance in which a cadet could not, with propriety, discuss class action with an officer on duty at the Military Academy. "Now, Prescott, I'm not going to ask you whether my surmise is a correct one, but I'm going to ask you another question, as a friend only, and in no official way. Of course, in a friendly matter you may suit yourself about answering it. Have you done anything else that could excuse the class in punishing you?" "Nothing whatever, sir." "Mr. Prescott, aren't you wholly satisfied with your conduct?" "I don't quite know how to answer that, Mr. Denton," "Have you done anything that you wouldn't repeat if the need arose?" "I have not, sir," replied Dick with great earnestness. "Do you feel, in your own soul, that you have done anything to discredit the splendid old gray uniform that you wear?" "I do not, sir." "Answer this, or not, as you please. Don't you feel wholly convinced that your class has done you an injustice which it would reverse instantly if it knew all the circumstances?" "I feel certain that my classmates would restore me at once to their favor, if they knew the full circumstances." "Have you felt obliged to refuse them any information for which a class committee had asked, Prescott?" "Yes, sir." "Let me do some hard thinking, my lad. Ah, now, as I look back to the night when you were obliged to report Mr. Jordan for being outside the guard lines, I had myself that night assigned you to official duty near the guard lines. You were to intercept plebes who might try to run the guard, and to send them back to their tents." "Yes, sir." "That was special duty," resumed Lieutenant Denton. "Now, if you had been asked, by a class committee, to explain how you happened to be out there at the right time to catch Mr. Jordan, you would have felt bound to refuse to reveal your orders from me?" "I certainly would have felt so bound, Mr. Denton." "Ah! Now I think I understand a good deal, Prescott. Then, at another time, very recently, you forgot, until late, to turn in an official report to me. You started to hurry over here, and, in so doing, you must have accidentally encountered a certain cadet returning in "cit." clothes. As his company commander, you surely felt bound to report him for so flagrant a breach of discipline. Yet, if your class did not fully understand or credit the fact that only an oversight of yours had thrown you in that cadet's way, it would make the class feel that you had deliberately trapped the man, after having spied on his actions earlier in the evening." Dick remained silent, but Lieutenant Denton was a clear headed and logical guesser. "In my cadet days," smiled the lieutenant, "such a suspicion against a cadet officer would certainly have resulted in ostracism for him." "Now, Prescott," asked the officer in charge, leaning over and resting a friendly hand on the cadet's arm, "you feel that you have been, throughout, a gentleman and a good soldier, and that you have not done anything sneaky?" "That is my opinion of myself, Mr. Denton." "And yet, feeling that your course has been wholly honorable, you are going to throw up your career in the Army, and waste some twenty thousand dollars of the nation's money that has been expended in giving you your training here?" "It sounds like a fearful thing to do, Mr. Denton, but I can see no way out of it, sir. If I am to go on into the Army, and be an ostracized officer, I should be of no value to myself or to the service. Wherever I should go, my usefulness would be gone and my presence demoralizing." "Now, if that ostracism continued, your usefulness would be gone, Prescott, beyond a doubt, and the Army would be better off without you. But if justice should triumph, later, you would be restored to your full usefulness, and to the full enjoyment of your career. Now, Prescott, my boy"---here the officer's voice became tender, friendly, earnest---"you have been attending chapel every Sunday?" "Yes, sir." "You have listened to the chaplain's discourses, and I take it that you have had earlier religious instruction, also. Prescott, do you or do you not believe that there is a God above who sees all, loves all and rights all injustice in His own good time?" "Assuredly I believe it, sir." "And yet, in your own case, you have so little faith in that justice that, though you feel your course has been honorable, you cannot wait for justice to be done. Prescott, isn't that kind of faith almost blasphemy?" Dick felt staggered. Although his lot had been cast with Army officers for more than three years, he had never heard any of them, save the chaplain, discuss matters of Christian faith. Yet he knew that Denton, who sat beside him, smiling with friendly eyes, was talking from full conviction. "You've made me see my present predicament in a somewhat different light, sir," Dick stammered. "Prescott, I have knocked about in a good deal of rough life since I was graduated from here, but I have full faith that every upright and honorable man is ultimately safe under Heaven's justice. So have you, or I am mistaken in you. Why not buck up, and make up your mind to go through your hard rub here firm in the conviction that this is only a passing cloud that is certain to be dispelled? Why not stick, like a man of faith and honor? Now, as officer in charge, I will inform you that you should take a letter of resignation to the adjutant's office, and hand it to that officer in person." As your friend, I suggest that you give me your letter, with your permission to destroy it." "Here is the letter, Mr. Denton." "Thank you, my boy. You may see what I do with it." Rising, Lieutenant Denton crossed to an open fire that was burning low. He laid the envelope across the embers. Prescott, too, rose, feeling that the interview was at an end. "Just a moment more of friendly conversation, Prescott," continued the lieutenant, coming forward and taking the cadet's hand. "I want you to remember that you are not to write or send in any other letter of resignation until you have first talked it over with me. And I want you to remember that a soldier should be a man of faith as well as of honor. Further, Prescott, you may feel yourself wholly at liberty to explain, at any time, what your orders from me were that led to your catching and reporting Mr. Jordan." "Thank you, sir; but I'm afraid I shan't be asked for any further explanations." "Seek me, at any time, if there is anything you wish to ask me, or anything that puzzles you." "Yes, sir; thank you." Dick had again placed his fatigue cap on his head, and was standing rigidly at attention. They were once more tactical officer and cadet. "That is all, Mr. Prescott, and I am very glad that you came to see me," continued the officer in charge. Prescott saluted, received the officer's acknowledging salute, turned and left the office. A minute later he was allowing good old Greg to pump the details of that interview out of him. "Say," muttered Cadet Holmes, staring soberly at his chum, "an officer like Lieutenant Denton can put a different look on things, can't be?" "He certainly can, Greg." "I'm not going to be fresh, while I'm a cadet," continued Holmes. "But when I'm an officer I'm going to seek Mr. Denton and ask him to be my friend, too!" CHAPTER XI THE NEWS FROM FRANKLIN FIELD Though Dick was firmly resolved on his new course, life none the less was bitter for him. The Army football team was now being organized and drilled in earnest. Douglass captained it this year, and was doing excellent work, though his material was not as good as he could have wished. Anstey was developing speed and strategy in the position of quarterback, and, in football matters, was a close confidant of Douglass. "This Prescott muss has given us a bad setback this year," growled Douglass. "It certainly has, suh," agreed the Virginian. "We're certainly going to feel the loss of Prescott and Holmes when we come to face the Navy eleven with such men as Darrin and Dalzell." "Hang it, yes. I'm shivering already," growled Douglass. "Now, of course, we can't ask Prescott to join." "And he wouldn't come in, suh, while in Coventry, if we asked him." "But Holmes, who is almost as good a man, ought not to hold back where the Army's credit and honor are at stake. Holmes ought to stand for the Army, asleep or awake!" "If I were in Holmesy's place, I wouldn't come in," rejoined the Virginian. "I'd stay out, just as Holmesy is doing." "But you were one of Prescott's thick friends, too." "I'm not his roommate, or his schoolboy chum, suh. Holmesy is. "It's hard to lose either of them," sighed Douglass, "and fierce to lose both of them. We've worked like real heroes, but I can't see any such team coming on as the Army had last year. And the Navy eleven will undoubtedly be better this year than it was last." "The Army must stand to lose by the action of the first class," insisted Anstey doggedly. Though every man in the corps would have thrown up his cap at the announcement that Prescott and Holmes were to play again this year, the leaders of first-class opinion could see no reason to alter their judgment of Dick. So he continued in Coventry. The football season came on with a rush at last. The Army won some of its games, from minor teams, but none from the bigger college elevens. Then came the fateful Saturday when the corps went over to Philadelphia. Dick and Greg were the only two members of the corps, not under severe discipline, who remained behind at the Military Academy. Late that afternoon Greg, with a long face, brought in the football news from Franklin Field. "The Navy has wiped us up, ten to two," grumbled Holmes. "I'm heartily sorry," cried Dick, and he spoke the truth. "Well, it's our class's fault," growled Greg. "The Army can thank our class." "We might not have been able to save the game," argued Prescott. "We could have rattled Dave and Dan a lot," retorted Greg. "My own belief is we could have saved the day." "You might have played, Greg. I wouldn't have resented it." "No; but I'd have felt a fine contempt for myself," retorted Cadet Holmes scornfully. "Besides, Dick, though I have done some fairly good things in football, I don't believe I'd be worth a kick without you. It was playing with you that made me shine, always." Late that evening the cadet corps returned, in the gloomiest frame of mind. "I can just see the blaze of bonfires at Annapolis," groaned Douglass. "Say, the middies just fairly tore our scalps off. I always had an ambition to captain the Army eleven, but I never thought I'd be dragged down so deep under the mire!" The details of that sad game for the Army need not be gone into here. All the particulars of that spiritedly fought disaster will be found in the fourth volume of the Annapolis Series, entitled "_Dave Darrin's Fourth Year At Annapolis_." A lot of the cadets who felt sorry for "Doug" came to his room. "I haven't altogether gotten it through my weak mind yet," confessed the disheartened Army football captain. "I can't understand how those little middies managed to treat us quite so badly." "I can tell you," retorted Anstey. "Then I wish you would," begged "Doug." "Go ahead!" clamored a dozen others. "I don't know whether you fellows believe in hoodoos?" asked Anstey. "Hoodoos?" "Yes; the Army is under one now." "Pshaw, Anstey!" "Explain yourself, Anstey!" "There is a man in this class," replied the Virginian solemnly, "who has been treated unjustly by the others. Lots of you won't see it, and can't be made to reason. But that injustice has put the hoodoo on the Army's athletics, and the hoodoo will strut along beside the present first class all the way through this year. You'll find it out more and more as time goes on. Just wait until next spring, and see the Navy walk away with the baseball game, too." "Stop that, Anstey!" "Put him out!" "Give him soothing syrup." "Wait until June, gentlemen," retorted the Virginian calmly. "Then you'll see." "What rot!" sneered Jordan bitterly. "Well, of course," admitted others in undertones, "we lost through not having Prescott and Holmes on the eleven. But we'd better lose, even, than win through men not fit to associate with." "Prescott must be chuckling," jeered Durville. "He's doing nothing of the sort, suh!" flared Anstey. "And I'm prepared to maintain my position." CHAPTER XII READY TO BREAK THE CAMEL'S BACK From Thanksgiving to Christmas the time seemed to fly all too fast for most of the young men of the corps of cadets. Dick Prescott, however, had never known time to drag so fearfully. Cut off from association with any but Greg, Dick had much, very much time on his hands. Full of a dogged purpose to stick to his word given to Lieutenant Denton, Prescott used nearly all of his waking time in study when he was not at recitation. In his classes he soared. In engineering and law, the studies of this term which called for the most exacting thought, Prescott showed unusual signs of "maxing," or getting among the highest marks. Yet, after all this was done, so much leisure did the lonely Dick have that he found time to coach Greg and pull him along over the hard parts. "Look at that fellow recite! Look where he stands in the sections!" growled Durville in bewilderment to Jordan. "It looks as if the sneak meant to stick," uttered Jordan incredulously. "Yet of course he knows he can't. If it were only for West Point he might stick, but the Army, through his lifetime, would be just as bad for him." It had been a general notion that Prescott, either too proud or too stubborn to allow himself to be forced out, would wait and "fess out cold" at the January semi-annuals. Thus he would be dropped for deficiency, and would not have to admit to anyone that he had allowed himself to be driven from the Military Academy by the "silence" that had been extended to him. Jordan knew better than to go near the fiery young Anstey, so he managed to induce Durville to speak to the Virginian as to Prescott's plans. "I don't know Mr. Prescott's intentions, suh," replied Anstey with perfect truth and a good deal of dignity. "I am bound, suh, to follow the class's action, suh, much as I disapprove of it. So I have had no word with Mr. Prescott later than you have." "But you know the fellow's roommate, Mr. Holmes," suggested Durville. "I am under the impression that you do, too, suh," replied Anstey significantly, yet without infusing offence into his even tones. It was no use. The first class could only guess. No cadet knew, unless it were Holmes, what Prescott's intentions were about quitting the corps in the near future. And Greg, usually both chatty and impulsive, could be as cold and silent as a sphinx where his chum's secrets or interests were concerned. Had he wished, he might have gone home at Christmas, for a day or two, for he was on the good-conduct roll; but Dick felt that Christmas at home would be a heart break just now. As he did not go, Greg did not go either. The reader may be sure that Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell, at Annapolis, knew the state of affairs with their old-time friend and leader. Greg had sent word of what was happening with Dick. "Buck up---that's all, old chap," Dave wrote from the Naval Academy. "You never did a mean thing, and you never will. Even your class will learn that before very long. So buck up! Hit the center of the line and charge through! Don't think Dan and I are not sorry for you, but we're even more interested in seeing you charge right through all disaster in a way that fits the pride, courage and honor that we know you to possess. I asked Dan if he had any message to send you. Old Dan's reply was: 'Dick doesn't need any message. If there's any fellow on earth who can jump in and scalp Fate, it's our old Dick.' There you are, Army chum! We're merely waiting for word that you've won out, for you're bound to." January came, and with it the semi-annual examinations. So high was Dick's class standing that he had to go up for but one "writ." That was Spanish. "I reckon Spanish is where he falls," chuckled Durville, when Jordan spoke to him about it. "It's easy to make mistakes enough on Spanish verbs and declensions to throw a fellow down and out. That'll be Prescott's line." "Of course," nodded Jordan. Yet Dick's enemy was very far from feeling hopeful that such would be the case. "I never imagined the fellow could stick as long as he has," Jordan told himself disconsolately. One night Anstey, just before the semi-ans., took a chance. Usually the Virginian was careful in matters of discipline. But now he invited a dozen members of his class to his room to discuss an "important matter." "Going?" asked Durville of Jordan. "I'm not invited, Durry," replied the other. "I am, and I'm going." "But you don't know the subject of the meeting?" "No; that's what puzzles me," admitted Durville. "I'm wondering if it has anything to do with choosing the class ring, or selecting our uniforms for after graduation." "You simpleton!" cried Jordan in disgust. "You don't see far, do you? Can't you guess what the meeting is to discuss?" "I'm blessed if I can." "Anstey, outside of Holmes, has been the most constant friend of Prescott. Now, Prescott has his chance of passing, if the class 'silence' on him can be lifted. Anstey is going to sound class opinion. If the 'silence' can't be lifted, then Prescott is going to 'fess' down and out, and we shall see the last of him." "Poor old fellow!" muttered Durville. "Say, do you know, I'm growing almost sorry for the poor beggar and his long, bitter dose." "After what he did to you?" demanded Jordan with instant scorn. "Durville, I thought you a man of spirit." "May a man of spirit forgive his enemy, especially when he sometimes doubts whether the other fellow really is an enemy?" demanded Durville. "Oh, he may, I suppose," replied Jordan, his lip curling. "On the whole, however, I am a good deal surprised at seeing you accept the loss of all your liberties and privileges so easily as you are doing." Naturally, the effect of Jordan's words was to kill a good deal of Durville's fleeting sympathy, for the latter had suffered a good deal from the restraint of his liberties, following the escapade for which Dick had reported him. The meeting in Anstey's room resulted in the secret gathering of a dozen men. Eight of these were friends of Dick, who would still like to see the class action reversed or ended. But Anstey had been clever enough also to invite four men who were numbered among Prescott's adversaries. One of these was Douglass, the cadet who had been elected to succeed Dick as class president. "Now, gentlemen," began Anstey, in his soft voice of ordinary conversation, "I don't believe we have any need of a presiding officer in this little meeting. With your permission, I will state why I have asked you to come here. "For months, now, we have had a member of this class in Coventry. Barely more than a majority believed in that Coventry, but once action had been taken by the class, the disapproving minority stood loyally by class action. I have been among those of the minority to abide by majority action, and I can assure you that I have suffered very nearly as much as has Mr. Prescott, whose case I am now discussing. "The majority has had its way for months. Is it not now time, if the class will not grant full justice, at least to grant something to the wishes of the minority?" "What do you mean?" asked one of Dick's opponents. "Mr. Prescott will let himself be found deficient in at least one study, won't he, and thus take his unpopular presence away from the Military Academy?" "I cannot answer that," admitted Anstey slowly. "Doubtless many of you will be surprised when I tell you that I have had no word in the matter from Mr. Prescott. I have not even mentioned the subject to his roommate, Mr. Holmes." "Then whom do you represent?" demanded the other cadet. "Myself and other believers in Mr. Prescott," replied Anstey simply. "The very least we ask is that you stop punishing so many of us through Mr. Prescott. Gentlemen, do you not feel that any man who commands as many friends in his class as does Mr. Prescott must be a man above the petty meannesses of which he was accused, and for which he was sent to Coventry?" "I've been one of the sufferers through Mr. Prescott," commented Durville grimly. "As for me, I'll admit that I'd be glad to see the 'silence' lifted. I feel that Mr. Prescott has been punished enough, and that, if we now lift the 'silence,' he would be more careful after this. I think he has been chastened enough. If I could find any reason whatever for refusing to vote for the end of the Coventry, it would come from the question as to whether any one class has the right to upset the traditions and establish a new precedent for such cases." "There is the most of the case in a nutshell I am afraid," declared Cadet Douglass. "In our interior corps discipline we not only work from tradition, but we strengthen or weaken it for the classes that are to follow us. Have we any right to weaken a tradition that is as old as the Military Academy itself?" These simple remarks, made with an absence of bitter feeling, swung the tide against Dick. The meeting in Anstey's room lasted for more than an hour. When the meeting broke up Anstey and some of his advisers felt convinced that to call a class meeting would be merely to bring about a vote that Prescott was to be kept in Coventry for all time to come. Anstey told Greg the result of the meeting, but Holmes did not tell his chum. "It's all settled as it ought to be," declared Cadet Jordan. "You mean-----" asked Durville. "Why, either Prescott will have to be 'found' in his exams., or else he'll be bound to resign as soon as he has proved that his departure from West Point was not due to poor scholarship. Which ever way he prefers to do it, the fellow will have to get out of the corps within the next few days!" "Yes; I suppose so," almost sighed Durville. "Why, hang you, Durry, you talk like a man whose good opinion can be won by a kicking." "Do you" asked Durville, with a warning flash in his eyes. "Oh, don't take me too seriously," protested Jordan. "But I cannot help marveling at your near liking for the man who landed you in such a scrape." "I don't enjoy hitting a man who is down; that is all," returned Durville. "I've seen Mr. Prescott down for so many weeks and months that I'd like to see how he looks when he's a man instead of an under dog." "Well, I'm glad to say the class is plainly not of your way of thinking," growled Jordan. "The class is for maintaining higher ideals of the honor of military service and true comradeship. So it's only a matter of what date the fellow selects for leaving here." And truly that was the view that seemed to be pressing more and more tightly upon Dick Prescott. The pressure was becoming more than he could bear. He had followed Lieutenant Denton's advice, and had put up a good and a brave fight. But to be "the only dog in a cage of lions" is a fearful ordeal for the bravest---especially when the door is open. Greg never seemed to notice the sighs that occasionally escaped Dick Prescott's lips. Holmes no longer tried to cheer his friend by open speech or advice. Yet not a thing that Dick did escaped the covert watchfulness of his roommate. The semi-ans. over, and the results posted on the bulletin board in the Academic Building, it was discovered that Cadet Richard Prescott now stood number twenty-four in his class---a rank never heretofore won by him. Cadet Jordan was so furious that his face was ghastly white when he made the discovery. "Will nothing ever drive that living disgrace Prescott out of the corps?" Jordan asked three or four of the men. "Why, the fellow is defying class authority! He's making fools of us all. He bluntly asks us what we think we can do about it!" "We'll have to show Prescott, then," grimly replied one of the cadets with whom Jordan talked. "But how?" demanded Cadet Jordan craftily. "Is there any possible way of making as thickheaded or stubborn a fellow as Prescott realize that he simply can't go on with us? That we won't have him with us?" "Oh, I think there's a way," smiled the other cadet. "Then I wonder why some one doesn't find it?" demanded Jordan wrathfully. "We shall, I think." Greg scented new mischief in the air, yet he was hardly the one to do the scouting. Anstey, however, could look about for the news, and he could properly discuss it with Cadet Holmes. With the beginning of the last half of the year the members of the first class found themselves sufficiently busy with their studies. Dick's affair was allowed to slumber for a few days. Even Cadet Jordan, whose sole purpose now in life was to "work" Prescott out of the corps, was clever enough to assent to letting the matter rest for a few days. After another fortnight, however, the first class, in its moments of leisure, especially in the brief rests right after meals, again began to throb over what was considered the brazen and open defiance of Dick Prescott in persisting in remaining a cadet at the Military Academy. So many members of the class, however, insisted on going slowly and with great deliberation that the Jordan faction did not make the mistake of rushing matters. At any rate, Prescott was in Coventry, and there he would stay. Thus February came on and passed slowly. To all outward appearances Prescott was as selfpossessed and contented as ever he had been while at the Military Academy. Now, Army baseball was the topic. The nine and other members of the baseball squad were practising in earnest. Durville had been chosen to captain the nine. Though there was some mighty good material in the nine, neither the coaches nor Durville were wholly satisfied. "Holmesy," broached Durville plaintively one day, "you play a grand game of football." "Thank you," replied Greg, with a pretense of mock modesty; "I know it." "And you must play a great game of ball, too." "I did once---pardon these blushes. Dick Prescott was my old trainer in baseball." "Oh, bother Prescott! We can't have him." "I don't play well without him," remarked Greg blandly. "Come over to practice this afternoon, won't you?" "Yes; but I don't believe I'll try for the nine." "Come over and let us see your style, any way." Greg turned up late that afternoon for practice. What he showed the captain and coaches had them fairly "rattled" with desire to slip Greg into the nine. "I'm much obliged to you all," Greg insisted gently, "but I told you I wasn't going to try for the nine. I never played a game without Prescott, and I know I'd be a hoodoo if I did." Though a great lot of pressure was brought to bear upon him, Holmes still held out. It was his privilege to refuse to play, if he so chose. Above all, the coaches, who were Army officers, could not urge him. "That man Holmes is just the fellow we need to round out the team," complained one of the players to Durville. "Yes," sighed the captain of the Army nine; "and Holmesy tells me that he's a tyro to Mr. Prescott." "Then Mr. Prescott must be a wonder on the diamond," grunted the other cadet. "I hear that he is," assented Durville. "By the way, you remember Darrin and Dalzell, who helped the Navy team to wipe the field up with us last year?" "I reckon I do." "Well, it seems that Prescott, Holmes, Darrin and Dalzell were all members of the athletic squad in the same High School before they entered the service." "Darrin and Dalzell are going to make it possible for the Navy to wipe us up again this year, too," continued the other cadet plaintively. "I don't believe they would, if we could put in Mr. Prescott and Holmesy for this year." "But we can't, Durry." "No; I know it." "So what's the use of talking." Nevertheless, there was a lot of talking, and dozens waylaid Greg and tried to induce him to reconsider. But he wouldn't, and that was all there was to it. No one even thought of lifting the ban from Prescott in order to gain either or both of these cadet athletes. West Point cadets are consistent. They will never lift the ban, once they believe it to have been justly laid, just in order to make a better athletic showing. The Academy authorities demand that a team athlete shall stand well in his studies and general discipline; the cadets themselves demand also that the man who carries their athletic colors must conform to cadet ideals of honor. And Prescott, being in Coventry, surely was not to be regarded as a man of honor. Washington's Birthday had come and passed, and Prescott still lingered in the cadet corps. Indeed, he seemed as determined as ever upon graduating. There were limits, however, to class patience. It was Anstey who got on the track of the news and brought it to Greg. "A class meeting is to be called ten days hence," reported the Virginian. "The meeting will be announced at supper formation to-night. It is set well ahead in order to give the fellows plenty of time to think over the subject for discussion." "That discussion," guessed Holmes, "is to be as to the best means of driving Dick from the corps." "You've guessed it, suh," replied the Virginian sorrowfully. "Whatever the class feels called upon to do, suh, I reckon it will be something that will break our poor camel's back." CHAPTER XIII THE FIGURES IN THE DARK And Dick? The reader will hardly need to be told that this spirited young cadet was suffering his unmerited disgrace as keenly as ever. More keenly, in fact, for every day that the silence continued it seemed to add to the weight of the burden that bound him down. Yet Greg asked no questions, for he felt that it would be safer not to do so. He had just barely told Prescott of the purpose of the coming class meeting, which the latter cadet had already guessed for himself, however. "I suppose I'll have a few loyal friends at that meeting?" asked Dick, with a sad smile. "Just as many friends as ever," asserted Holmes stoutly. "I'm mighty grateful for that," nodded Dick. "But what I seem to need is more friends than ever." "We'll find them for you, if there's any way to do it," promised Holmes, and there the talk dropped. "If the class goes against me again, and harder than before, I'm certain I shall have to see Lieutenant Denton once more and tell him that I can't stand it any longer," Dick told himself. The class meeting was to be held on a Monday evening. On the night of the Saturday before, when scores of cadets were over at Cullum Hall at a merry "hop," Prescott slipped out of barracks by himself in Greg's absence. Almost unconsciously Prescott's steps turned in the direction of Trophy Point. In the darkness he stood before Battle Monument, on which are inscribed the names of the West Point graduates who have fallen in battles. "Will my name ever be there, or have any chance to be there?" wondered Dick, a big lump rising in his throat. A tear stood in either eye, but he brushed them aside as unworthy of a soldier. Was he ever going to be a soldier, he wondered. "I don't know that I'm really ready to be killed in battle," thought Dick grimly. "It would be enough to know that my name is to be on the roll of graduates of the Military Academy, and afterwards on the rolls of the Army as an officer who had served with credit wherever he had been placed. But the fates seem against even that much. Hang it all, what was it that Lieutenant Denton said about faith and right, and faith being as much the soldier's duty as honor? I guess he was never placed in just such a fix as mine!" For, slowly, all of Dick's iron-clad resolution to "stick it out" was wearing away. It was becoming plainer to him, every day, that he could not stay in the Army if he were always to live in Coventry as far as his brother officers were concerned. "I wonder what the fellows will do at the meeting next Monday night?" Dick pondered, as he turned and strolled back by another road. "If the fellows could only realize how unjust they are without meaning to be! But I can't make them see that. I'll have to resign, of course, but I promised Lieutenant Denton to talk it over with him before doing anything of the sort, and I'll keep my word." Very absent minded did the young cadet become in the midst of his perplexed musings. He heard the sound of martial music and unconsciously his feet moved in quicker time. It was as though he were marching, led on by he knew not what. Straight toward the music he moved, with the tread of a soldier responding to the drums. Then, at last, when he was almost upon the building, Prescott came to himself and stopped abruptly. "Cullum Hall!" he muttered, with a harsh laugh. "The night of the cadet hop. My classmates are in there, free-hearted and happy, and taking their lessons in the social graces---while I am on the outside, the social outcast of the class!" Yet, as there were no cadets in sight, out at this north end of the handsome building, Prescott presently moved forward, nearer. "The old, old story of the beggar on the outside! The man on the outside, looking in!" muttered Dick with increasing bitterness. "Yet I may as well look, since there is none to see me or deny me." Around the north end Dick passed, just as the brilliant music of the Military Academy orchestra was drawing to its close. In his misery the young cadet leaned against the face of the building, behind an angle in the wall. As he stood there Dick saw the figure of a man flit, by him. The stranger was dressed in citizen's clothes. There was nothing suspicions in that, since there is no law to prevent citizens from visiting the Military Academy. But there was something stealthy about this stranger's movements. "It is a wonder he didn't see me," mused Dick. "He went by within eight feet of me." Dick was about to make his presence known by stepping out into sight, when the stranger halted. "Perhaps it may be as well not to show myself just yet," flashed through Prescott's mind. "If the fellow is up to any mischief probably I can prevent it." A cold, biting breeze swept up from the Hudson River below. It was chilling in the extreme, here at the top of the bluff, but Dick, in his misery, had been proof against weather. Not so with the stranger. He stamped his feet and struck his hands against his sides. Then, after some moments, as though angry at some one within Cullum Hall, the stranger wheeled and shook one clenched fist at the windows overhead. "Whom has that fellow a grouch against?" Dick wondered in spite of himself. Just an instant later he heard a quick step coming around the north end of the building. A cadet was coming, beyond a doubt, and very likely to meet this impatient or angry stranger. Prescott had too much honor to play the eavesdropper. He was just about to step out when the newcomer turned the corner, coming on straight past where Prescott stood in the deep shadow. The newcomer was a cadet, and that cadet was Mr. Jordan. "Well, my good fellow, have I kept you waiting long?" demanded Jordan, just the second after he had stepped past Dick without seeing the latter. "You could a jumped faster," growled the stranger. "With all I know against you, Jordan, it will pay you to nurse my good feeling a little harder." "Why, what's the matter with you now?" demanded Jordan more seriously. Somehow, Dick could not pull himself away just then. "Have you brought me some of that money you owe me?" demanded the stranger gruffly. "Now, you know I can't, before graduation day," pleaded Jordan whiningly. "And I know that, when graduation day comes, you'll tell me that every dollar you had in the world had to go into uniforms," snapped the stranger. "I'll tell you what I do know about you, Jordan, my boy. I know that if you don't find the money, turn it over and get back my note, you'll never graduate! Cadets can't borrow money on their notes; it's against the regulations. If it was known that you had borrowed five hundred dollars of me already, and that you were defaulting on principal and interest, too-----" "It wasn't five hundred," broke in Jordan nervously. "It was just two hundred and fifty dollars." "The note says five hundred," retorted the stranger tersely, with a shrug of his shoulders. And there's interest on it, too. And you haven't paid a dollar. You told me you could get the money from home." "I---I thought I could, at that," stammered Cadet Jordan. "But I wrote my father, and he said he was near bankruptcy-----" "Near bankruptcy?" almost screamed the stranger. "You young swindler. You told me your father was a wealthy man!" "Sh!" begged Jordan tremulously. "Not so loud! Some one will hear you." "I don't care who hears me," retorted the stranger in an ugly tone. "You've been swindling me right along, it seems. Now, you'll hand me some money to-night, and all of the balance by next Wednesday, or I'll go straight to the superintendent. Then you'll lose your nice little berth here. You putting on airs, and yet you told me how you had rebuked and paid back another cadet for doing the same breezy thing." Dick, his cheeks burning with the shame of having allowed himself to listen to so much, was on the very point of slipping away around the north end of Cullum Hall. But this last remark gripped him, holding him feverishly to the spot. "Prescott, I believe you said the fellow's name was," went on the stranger. "Yes," admitted Jordan. "And I put it all over him in a way that should make anyone else afraid of having me for an enemy!" Dick's heart gave a great, almost strangling bound. Then it was quiet again, and his ears seemed preternaturally keen. So sharp was his hearing, in fact, that he heard a sound that did not reach the ears of the other cadet or the latter's companion. It was someone else coming. With all the stealth in the world Dick now managed to slip around the end of the building and toward the front. A cadet had stepped out as though seeking a breath of cool air between dances. Dick darted forward on tiptoe until he recognized the oncoming one. It was Douglass, president of the first class. "Mr. Douglass!" whispered Dick, stopping squarely before his successor in class honors. Douglass, without looking at his appealing fellow classman, or opening his lips to answer, stepped around Prescott. But Dick caught his unwilling comrade firmly by the arm. "Douglass," he whispered, "in the name of justice, listen to me just an instant---a swift instant, too! I think the chance has come to clear me of the load of dislike and contempt with which I am regarded here. This appeal is between man and man! Jordan is around the corner, telling a stranger how he trapped me and got me into disgrace with the class. As a matter of cadet justice and honor, I beg you to go softly to the corner and hear what is being said. Do not let Jordan suspect that you are near. What he is saying will clear me. Go, and go softly, I beg you, as a matter of justice from one man to another!" All the time that Dick had held his arm Douglass had stood there, not seeking to snatch himself free. Nor did he utter a word. The class president stood there, like a statue, looking straight past Prescott, as though he did not know that such a being existed anywhere in the world. Now, with despair tugging at his heart, Prescott released his hold. Cadet Douglass moved forward again. Dick stood watching his brother cadet with a feeling of despair until he saw that Douglass was moving softly. Dick saw him go quietly around the corner of the building. Now, Dick was at his heels, stealthy as any Indian could have been, until he looked around the corner and saw that Cadet Douglass had slipped into the same shadow that Dick himself had occupied until a moment before. "Now, if that pair yonder will only go on talking about me for sixty seconds!" thought Dick in a frenzy. Again he flew toward the front of the building. There was just one other cadet outside---Durville, the man whom he had been obliged to report for a tremendously grave breach of discipline. But Dick Prescott's courage was up now. He raced forward, fairly gripping Durville and holding him tight. "Durville, listen to me for just a moment," begged Dick. "I know you don't like me, but you're a man of honor. Jordan is on the east side of this building, and I believe he is confessing a plot that he put into successful operation against me. Douglass is already there listening. Will you slip there softly, and listen, too? I don't ask this as a matter of friendship, but of honor! Will you go---and softly?" Slowly Durville turned and looked into Prescott's eyes. Then he did not speak, but he nodded. "Thank you, Durville! Be quick---and stealthy! Let me guide you." Class President Douglass stood in the shadow. He heard Jordan's own tongue telling the stranger the familiar story of how he, Jordan, had been reported for indolence in the bridge construction work. "I had to get square," Jordan was continuing, just as Dick piloted Durville within hearing. "And you think you did it slickly, I suppose?" jeered the stranger. Though Jordan did not seem to suspect it, the stranger was seeking this information as another blackmailing club to hold over Jordan's head. "Slick?" queried Jordan, with a sneer. "Well, it wasn't altogether that. There was a good bit of luck in the whole job, too, but Prescott is in Coventry, and there he'll stick, too. He'll be away from here inside of two or three days more." "How did you manage to do it?" asked the stranger, concealing his anxiety to have Jordan tell the story. CHAPTER XIV THE STORY CARRIED ON THE WIND "Oh, I fixed it all right," insisted Jordan confidently. He was speaking in a rather low tone, but the breeze carried every word to the ears of the listeners. "You're talking just to hear yourself talking," sneered the stranger coarsely. "No; I'm not, Henckley," retorted the cadet. "What was the trick, then?" "Don't you wish you knew?" laughed Jordan. "I don't care much," replied the stranger named Henckley. "But I can't just picture you as doing anything extremely clever. Even if it was luck, as you say, I can't figure how you were smart enough to know how to profit by it. That's why I'm just a bit curious, but no more." "Why, you see, it happened this way," went on Jordan. "I saw Prescott, that night back into camp, going into the tent of the O.C. I thought that perhaps Prescott was going there in order to say more about the matter that he had reported me for that forenoon. So I moved close and listened. It seemed that some of the plebes had been running the guard nights. Lieutenant Denton asked the fellow Prescott, who is a cadet captain, to keep a watch and stop plebes before they had a chance to get on the other side of the guard line. "Well, I knew the point at which plebes were in the habit of getting past the guard line, and so did Prescott, I guess. So, a little after taps, I slipped outside the guard near where I judged Prescott would be watching. Then, after I had heard him speak with the cadet sentry I presently stooped low in the bushes and lit a cigar. Then I stood up straight and the glowing end of the cigar showed from where Prescott stood. He did just what a fellow like him feels bound to do, and what I knew he'd do. He hailed me. I acted as though I wanted to get away, then allowed myself to be overhauled. I was reported, of course, and made to pay the penalty. But I was able to make the other fellows in the class believe that Prescott had trailed me, on purpose to rub it into me. That looked like over zeal, backed by a grudge, and the first class swallowed it in fine shape. They gave him the silence, but had not made it permanent Coventry. Then he caught another man, named Durville, for going off the post in 'cit.' clothes, and that settled the case against that fellow Prescott. But it was my trick that made all the rest possible." "I don't see that that was anything very clever," rejoined Henckley. "I told you, didn't I," argued Jordan, "that it was as much luck as cleverness." "What part of it was clever, anyway?" jeered Henckley. "Why, putting the whole game through, and making the class take it up, yet doing it all so that the trick could never be traced back to me," replied Jordan. In the shadow, Durville turned briskly, gripping Dick's hand with his own. Douglass saw. After a bare instant's hesitation the class president also took Prescott's hand, giving it a mighty squeeze. In the joy of that friendly grasp from his own classmen, Dick Prescott almost felt that all the bitterness of the last few months had been wiped out in a second. Then Douglass stepped out from the shadow, his face stern and set. "Perhaps you will want to stop talking, Mr. Jordan," he called. "Your conversation has not been a private one!" With the strong wind blowing away from Jordan, that cadet heard only a rumble of voices. Both he and Henckley, however, caught sight of the advancing figures. "Hello! What are you fellows doing here?" demanded the money lender, with blustering indignation. "I might ask that question of you, fellow, but I won't, for I already know," replied Cadet Douglass, fixing his eyes on the stranger. "You've been listening to our talk?" demanded Henckley angrily, while Jordan, after his first gasp of dismay, seemed to shrivel back against the wall of Cullum Hall. "Mr. Jordan," continued the class president, facing the dismayed one in gray uniform, "I don't believe the significance of this meeting has escaped you?" "No-o-o," wailed Jordan in misery. "Now, see here, young fellows, don't you go and blab what you've been spying on just now," remonstrated Mr. Henckley, a note of dismay creeping into his tone. "It can hardly concern you, sir," flashed Cadet Douglass, wheeling upon the money shark. "Yet I suppose it does, too. For now I do not see how Mr. Jordan can hope to remain at the Military Academy. That, I suppose, may possibly affect your security for the money which, I take it, Mr. Jordan has borrowed from you." "But you won't blab, and have him kicked out?" coaxed Mr. Henckley, his voice now wholly wheedling. "What the cadets may see fit to do for their own protection is hardly a matter that can be discussed with you, sir," returned Douglass coldly. "Oh, now see here, there are ways and ways," spoke Henckley in a wheedling tone. "Let's all be friendly." Before Douglass could guess what was happening the money shark had pressed a hand against the cadet's. With an impatient gesture Douglass shook his own hand free. But something like paper remained in his palm. Douglass held up that hand, and discovered that it held a banknote that Henckley had slipped into Douglass' hand as a bribe. Cadet Douglass calmly tore that banknote in bits and flung it off on the breeze. The fragments were out of sight in an instant. Then Douglass coolly knocked the money shark down. "Come along, fellows," spoke the class president quietly, and turned on his heel. "Confound you, Mr. Fresh, I'll report this to the superintendent," bellowed Henckley. "Do!" called Douglass in cool contempt over his shoulder. Douglass, Durville and Prescott tramped together around to the front of Cullum Hall. There Douglass again paused to hold out his hand, remarking: "Mr. Prescott, the class meeting is not to be held until Monday evening. All I am privileged to say is that I think what we have overheard tonight will very materially affect the class action. I am very grateful to you, my dear sir, for having called us." Durville, too, held out his hand in sign that the past grudge was forgotten so far as he was concerned. Full of a new happiness, Dick trudged back to cadet barracks. Finding Greg Holmes in, Prescott imparted the wonderful news. Greg leaped up delightedly, pumphandling his chum's arm and patting him on the back. "Come out all right?" sputtered Holmes. "Of course it will, and I always knew it would." Meanwhile Cadet Jordan was surveying Henckley with a look of mingled rage, disgust and consternation. "Now, you've gone and done it, you bull-necked, toad-brained idiot!" cried the elegant Mr. Jordan. "Why didn't you pay up like a man, and this would never have happened," growled Henckley, rubbing the spot where Douglass had struck him. "Pay up like a man?" sneered Jordan. "Well, this affair has one small, good side to it. You've got me run out of the cadet corps, but-----" "Out of the cadet corps?" screamed Henckley. "Then what becomes of what you owe me?" "That's something you'll have to settle to your own satisfaction," jeered the dismayed cadet. "I can offer you no help." Jordan turned on his heel, starting to walk away, when Mr. Henckley leaped after him, seizing him by the arm. "See here-----" began the money shark hoarsely. "Let go of my arm," warned Jordan in a rage, "or I'll hit you harder than Douglass did." As the money lender shrank back out of Jordan's reach, the cadet strode off swiftly. Mr. Jordan was in his bed when the subdivision inspector went through the rooms that night. At morning roll call, however, Jordan did not answer. An investigation showed that he had gone. All his uniforms and other equipment he had left behind, from which it was judged that Jordan had, in some way, managed to get hold of an outfit of civilian attire. Jordan had deserted, with a heart full of hate for Dick Prescott, with whom the deserter swore to be "even" before the academic year was out. CHAPTER XV THE CLASS MEETING "SIZZLES" That Sunday, save Greg, none of the cadets addressed Prescott. Anstey, however, thought up a new way of getting around the "silence." As he passed Dick, the Virginian winked very broadly. Other cadets were quick to catch the idea. Wherever Dick went that Sunday he was greeted with winks. Monday Dick was in a fever of excitement. For once he fared badly in his marks won in the section rooms. When evening came around every member of the first class, save Prescott, hurried off to class meeting. For the first time in many months, Greg attended. As the cadets began to gather, excitement ran high. The room was full of suppressed noise until President Douglass rapped sharply for order. Then, instantly all became as still as a church. "Will Mr. Fullerton please take the chair?" asked the class president. "The present presiding officer wishes the privileges of the floor." Amid more intense silence Fullerton went forward to the chair, while Douglass stepped softly down to the floor. "Mr. Chairman," called Douglass. "Mr. Douglass has the floor." Douglass was already on his feet, of course. He plunged into an accurate narrative of what had happened, and what he had overheard, on Saturday night. He told it all without embellishment or flourish, and wound up by calling attention to Jordan's plain enough desertion from the corps. Durville then obtained the floor. He corroborated all that the class president had just narrated. "May I now make a motion, sir?" demanded Durville, turning finally toward the class president. "Yes," nodded Cadet Douglass. "Mr. Chairman, I move that the first class, United States Military Academy, remove the Coventry and the silence that have been put upon our comrade, Mr. Richard Prescott. I move that, by class resolution, we express to him our regret for the great though unintentional injustice that has been done Mr. Prescott during these many months." "I second the motion!" shouted Douglass. It was carried amid an uproar. If there were any present who did not wish to see Dick thus reinstated, they were wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves. "Mr. Chairman!" shouted another voice over the hubbub. "Mr. Mallory," replied the chair. "I move that Messrs. Holmes and Anstey be appointed a committee of two to go after Mr. Prescott and to bring him here---by force, if necessary." Amid a good deal of laughter this motion, too, was carried. The two more than willing messengers departed on the run. "Mr. Chairman!" "Mr. Douglass." The class president rose, waving his right hand for utter silence. Then, slowly and modestly, he said: "I have greatly enjoyed the honor of being president of this class. But I can no longer take pride in holding this office, for, in common with the rest of you, I realize that I secured the honor through a misapprehension. I therefore tender my resignation as president of the first class." "No, no, no!" shouted several. "Thank you, gentlemen," replied Douglass with feeling. "I appreciate it all, but I feel that I have no longer any right to the presidency of the class, and I therefore resign it---renounce it! Gentlemen, comrades, will you do me the favor of accepting my resignation at once?" "On account of the form in which the request is put," said Durville, as soon as he had secured the chair's recognition, "I move that our president's resignation be accepted in the same good faith in which it is offered." "Thank you, Durry, old man!" called Douglass in a low voice. A seconder was promptly obtained. Then Chairman Fullerton put the motion. There were cries of "too bad," but no dissenting votes. In the meantime Greg and Anstey all but broke down a door in their effort to reach Dick quickly. "Come on, old chap!" called Greg, pouncing upon his chum. "It's all off! Savvy? We have orders to drag you to class meeting, if force be necessary. Come on the jump!" "Won't I, though?" cried Dick, seizing his fatigue cap and hurrying on his uniform overcoat. A smaller mind might have insisted on taking slowly the request from the class that had unintentionally done him such an injustice. But Cadet Prescott was made of broader, nobler stuff. He realized that, without exception, the manly fellows in his class were heartily glad to do him justice, now that they knew how blameless he had been. Dick was as anxious to meet his class as they were to reinstate him. So he hurried along between the jubilant Holmes and Anstey. The meeting had just quieted down again by the time that the three cadets entered the room. But in an instant Halsey was on his feet, regardless of rules of parliamentary procedure. "Give old ramrod the long corps yell!" he shouted. With hardly the pause of a second it came, and never had it sounded sweeter, truer, grander than when some hundred powerful young throats sent forth the refrain: _"Rah, rah, ray! Rah, rah, ray! West Point, West Point, Armee Ray, ray, ray! U.S.M.A.!_" _"Prescott!"_ Dick Prescott's chest began to heave, though he strove to conceal all emotion. It was sweet, indeed, to have all this enthusiasm over him, after he had so long been the innocent outcast of the class. Tears shone in either eye. Ashamed to raise a hand to brush the moisture away, Dick tried to wink them out of sight. But Douglass, Durville and the others gave him no time to think. They came crowding about him faster than they could reach him, each with outstretched hand. Little was said. Soldiers are proverbially silent, preferring deeds to words. So, for nearly ten minutes, the handshaking proceeded. At last Douglass, with a warning nod and several gestures, brought the temporary chairman to his senses. Rap! rap! rap! rang the gavel on the desk. "The class will please come to order," called Chairman Fullerton. "Now, gentlemen, is there any further business to come before the class?" "Mr. Chairman," called Douglass, "I move that we proceed to the election of a class president." "Second the motion," cried Durville. The motion was carried with a rush. "Mr. Chairman!" called the tireless ex-class president. "Mr. Douglass." "Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, I am going to make a mistake that has become time honored among public speakers, that of telling you what you already know as well as I do. This is that Mr. Prescott ought never to have been deposed from the class presidency. I move, therefore, sir, that we rectify our stupidity and blindness by making Mr. Prescott once more our president. I beg, sir, to place in nomination for the class presidency the name of Richard Prescott, first class, U.S.M.A." "I second the nomination, suh!" boomed out the voice of Anstey. "Other nominations for the class presidency are in order," announced Chairman Fullerton. Again silence fell. "Mr. Chairman!" "Mr. Douglass." "Since there are no more nominations, I move you, sir, that Mr. Prescott be elected president of this class by acclamation." "Sir, I second the motion," came from Durville's throat. There was wild glee as a volley of "ayes" was fired. "Those of a contrary mind will say 'no,'" requested the chair. Not a "no" could be heard. "The chair will now withdraw, after appointing Mr. Douglass, Mr. Durville, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Anstey a committee of honor to escort the new-old class president to the chair." While the little procession was in motion the windowpanes rattled more than ever, with the long corps yell for Prescott. The instant his hand touched the gavel, Dick rapped for order. "Gentlemen of the first class," he said quietly, "I thank you all. Little more need be said. I am sure that mere words cannot express my great happiness at being here. I will not deny that I have felt the injustice of the cloud that has hung over me for the last few months. Anyone of you would have felt it under the same circumstances. But it is past---forgotten, and I know how happy you all are that the truth has been discovered." There was a moment's silence. Then Dick asked, as he had so often done before: "Is there any further business to come before the class meeting?" Silence. "A motion to adjourn is in order." The motion was put, offered and carried. Dick Prescott stepped down from the platform, a man restored to his birthright of esteem from his comrades. CHAPTER XVI FINDING THE BASEBALL GAIT "Morning, old ramrod!" Never had greeting a sweeter sound than when Dick strolled about in the quadrangle after breakfast the next morning. Scores who, for months, had looked straight past Prescott when meeting him, now stopped to speak, or else nodded in a friendly manner. Twenty minutes later, the sections were marching off into the academic building, in the never-ceasing grind of recitations. "Prescott," declared Durville, during the after-dinner recreation period, "we want you to come around to show what you can do at baseball. We've some good, armor-proof material for the squad, but we need a lot more. And we want Holmesy, too. Bring him around with you, won't you?" "If he'll come," nodded Dick. "He must come. But you'll hold yourself ready, anyway, won't you?" "I'd hate to go in without Greg," replied Dick. "He and I generally work together in anything we attempt." "That was just the kick Holmesy made when you---when things were different," corrected the captain of the Army nine hastily. "Well, you see, 'Durry,' we were always chums back in the good old High School days. We always played together, then, in any game, and either of us would feel lonesome now without the other." "Oh, of course," nodded Durville. "Well, I'll see Holmesy and try to round him up, if you say so." "I think I can get him to come around," smiled Dick. "But you may be tremendously disappointed in both of us." "Can you play ball as well as Holmesy?" "Perhaps; nearly, I guess." "Then we surely do need you both, for we've seen Holmesy toy with the ball, and we know where he'd rate. Do you think you play baseball at the same gait that you do football, old ramrod?" "I think it's possible that I do," Dick half admitted slowly. "Always modest, aren't you?" laughed "Durry" good humoredly. "Somehow, Prescott, it seems almost impossible to think of you heading a charge, or graduating number one in your class. You'd be too much afraid that someone else wanted either honor." Prescott laughed good humoredly. Then, dropping his voice, he went on very gravely: "Durry, you've behaved very nicely to me in more ways than one, after that time when I necessarily reported you. Are you sure that you wholly overlooked my act." "Glad you asked me, Prescott. I've come to realize that you did your full duty, and the only thing you could do as the captain of my company. But I was terribly upset that night. Nothing but a matter of the first importance would ever have driven me to slip into 'cits.' and sneak off the post in that fashion." "I can quite believe that," nodded Dick. "Well, it---it was a girl, of course," confessed "Durry." "You know, cadets have a habit of being interested in girls, and this girl means everything to me. She's up in Newburgh, and was ill. I thought she was more ill than she really was. But I knew that I could hardly get official permission to go and see her, so---so I chanced it and went without leave. I wouldn't have done such a thing under any other circumstances." "Did the young lady recover?" asked Prescott with deep interest. "Oh, yes; I dragged her to the hop the other night. She was stepping around the hall with another fellow, for one of the dances, and that was how I came to be out in the air alone. But I'll look for both you and Holmesy at practice this afternoon," ended "Durry," hastening away. "Go to a diamond try-out?" asked Greg when Dick broached the subject. "Of course I will, and crazy over the chance. All that has held me back so far, old ramrod, was the fact that you hadn't been invited. But now that has all been changed." When the diamond squad reported, Lieutenant Lawrence, the head baseball coach, ordered the young men outdoors to the field. "Come over here, please, Prescott and Holmes," called the coach, who had been conferring in low tones with "Durry." "What positions do you two feel that you would be at your best in?" "Why, we have conceit enough, sir, to think that we might make at least a half-way battery," smiled Dick. "Battery, eh?" repeated Lieutenant Lawrence. "Good enough! Get out and do it. Durville, you're one of the real batsmen. Run out there to the home plate, and see whether Prescott and Holmes can put anything past you." How good it felt to be in field clothes again! And both Greg and Dick wore on the breasts of their sweaters the Army "A," won by making the football eleven the year before. Dick fingered the ball carefully while Greg was trotting away to place behind the home plate. Lieutenant Lawrence went more deliberately, but took his place where the umpire would have stood in a game. "What kind of a ball do you like best, Durry?" asked Prescott, smilingly. "A medium slow one, close to the end of the stick, about here," replied Durville. "I'll try to give you something else, then," chuckled Dick. And give the batsman something else was just what he did. Crack! Durville swatted the ball. It rose steeply at first, then sailed away gracefully towards the clouds. "Get a fresh ball!" shouted one member of the training squad. "That leather isn't going to come down again!" It did, though a scout had to run far afield to pick it up. Lieutenant Lawrence didn't look exactly disappointed, but he had hoped to see something better than this had been. Five more Dick pitched in, and of these "Durry" put his mark on three. "That will be enough to-day, I guess, Mr. Prescott," remarked Lieutenant Lawrence in an even voice. Poor Dick flushed, but was about to turn away from the pitcher's box when Durville turned to the Army coach. "If you really don't mind, sir, I'd like to see Prescott throw in a few more. He hasn't held a ball in his hands for a long time, and I think he has only been warming up." "If you really think it worth while," nodded the lieutenant. Then, raising his voice: "We'll have you try just a few more, Prescott. Try to astonish everyone!" Greg, whose face had flushed with mortification, now crouched a bit, sending Dick one of the old-time signals. Holmes was not even sure his chum would remember the signal. It is doubtful if anyone noticed the return that Dick sent back to show that he understood. Durville took a good grip on his stick, his alert gaze on the man in the box. With hardly a trace of flourish Dick let the ball go. On it came, not very swift and straight over the plate. "Durry" himself felt a sinking of the heart that. Dick should let such an easy one leave him. Yet Durville had his own work to do honestly. He must pound this easy one and drive it as far as he could. Durville swung and let go. But just as he did so---that ball dropped! It passed on a level two feet below the swinging stick, and Greg, with a quiet grin, neatly mitted it. "Good!" muttered Coach Lawrence under his breath. "Got any more like that, Prescott?" he called. "I think I have a few, sir, when I get my arm warmed up and limbered," Dick admitted. "Take your time, then. Don't knock your arm out of shape." Again Greg was signaling, though the signal was so difficult to catch that many of the onlookers wondered if Holmes really had signaled. Swish---ew---ew---zip! Again Durville had fanned truly, though nothing but air. The outshoot had seemed to spring lazily around, just out of reach of the end of his stick. Now, every member of the squad, and all of the spectators were beginning to take keen notice. "Slowly, Prescott. Take your time between," admonished Lieutenant Lawrence, who knew how easily a pitcher out of training might wrench his muscles and go stale for several days. Greg had signaled for what had once been one of his chum's best---a modification of the "jump ball" that had cost this young pitcher much hard study and arm-strain. As Dick stood ready to let go of the ball he seemed inclined to dawdle over it. It wasn't going to be one of his snappiest---any onlooker could judge that, at least, so it seemed. Even Durville was fooled, though he did not let up much in the way of alertness. Now the ball came on, with not much speed or steam behind it. Durville took a good look, made some calculation for possible deception, then made his swing with the stick. Slightly forward Durville had to bend, in order to get low enough to make the crack. As his bat swished half lazily through the air, Durville "ducked" suddenly, for the upbounding ball had gone so close to his ear as to seem bent on removing some of the skin off that member. Greg, who had been stooping, was up in time to mit the ball. Then Durville, his face flushing, heard Holmes chuckle. "One or two more, if you like, sir," called Dick, facing the coach. "But I think, sir, I'd better be in finer trim before I do too much tossing in one afternoon." "You've done enough, Prescott," cried Lieutenant Lawrence, stepping forward and resting one hand cordially on Dick's shoulder. "Train with us for a fortnight, and you'll take all the hide off of the Navy's mascot goat." There was a laugh from the members of the squad who stood within hearing. But, as Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes walked over to the side of the field they were greeted by a cheer from all who had watched their performance. "I'm very glad you asked for a further trial for Prescott," murmured Lieutenant Lawrence to the captain of the Army nine. "I thought you would be, sir," Durville replied. "We have a line-up, after these two men have been trained into shape, that will make one of the strongest Army nines in a generation." "We'd have tanned the Navy last year, sir," ventured Durville, "if we had known what material we had in Prescott and Holmes, and had been able to get them out." At cadet mess that evening the talk ran high with joy. West Point was sure it had found its baseball gait! CHAPTER XVII READY FOR THE ARMY-NAVY GAME In between times, in the strenuous hours that followed, Dick found the time, somehow, to write two letters of moment. One was to his mother, the other to Laura Bentley. In both he told how the last bar to his happiness in the Army had been removed. Yet Dick did not go very deeply into details. He merely explained that the class had discovered, on indisputable evidence, that he had been dealt with unjustly. He made it plain, however, that he was now again in high favor with his class, and that he had even been honored by reelection to the class presidency. "Greg, you send Dave Darrin a short note for me, will you?" begged Dick, as he toiled away at the missive to Laura. "Old Dave will want only the bare facts; that will be enough for him. He'll cheerfully wait for details until some time when we're all graduated and meet in the service." Dave Darrin's reply was short, but characteristic: "Of course dear old Dick came through all right! He's the kind of fellow that always does and always must come through all right---otherwise there'd be no particular use in being manly." No word came from the missing Jordan. Truth to tell, no one seemed to care, outside of the young man's father. It is rare, indeed, that a cadet deserts, and when he does, unless he has taken government property with him, no effort is made to find him. By the end of the week, Dick Prescott was the hope of the Army nine, as he had once been of the eleven. A cadet is always in condition. His daily training keeps him there. So Dick had only to give his arm a little extra work, increasing it some each day. "Do you think I'm going to be in satisfactory shape, sir?" Dick asked the Army coach Friday afternoon. "If something doesn't happen to you, Prescott, you're going to be the strongest, speediest pitcher I've ever seen on the Army nine," replied Lieutenant Lawrence. "Isn't that saying a good deal, sir?" "Yes; but you're the sort of athlete that one may say a great deal about," replied Lieutenant Lawrence, with a confident smile. "And Mr. Holmes is very nearly as good a man as you are." "I always thought him fully as good, even better," replied Prescott. "There isn't much to choose between you," admitted coach. "I wish we could always look for such men on our Army teams." "You can one of these days, sir." "When will that day come?" "It will come, sir, when public-spirited citizens everywhere go in strongly for athletics in the High Schools, as they did in the town where Holmes and I received our earlier training." The letter from Cadet Prescott's mother came almost by return mail. She had never for a moment lost faith, she wrote, that all would come out right with her boy, and she was heartily glad that her faith had been justified. She was sorry, indeed, for that unfortunate other cadet whose enmity for Dick had been his own undoing in the long run. It was some days later when Laura's letter reached the now eager pitcher of the Army nine. Now that letter was cordial enough in every way, and Laura made no secret of her delight and of her pride in her friend. "Yet there's something lacking here," murmured Prescott uneasily, as he read the letter through once more. "What is it? Laura writes as if she were trying to show more reserve with me than she did once. What is the matter? Has she cooled toward me at just the time when I shall soon be able to offer her my name and my future?" The thought was torment. Nor, of course, did Dick fail to remember all about that prosperous and agreeable Gridley merchant, Leonard Cameron, who, for upwards of two years, had been one of Miss Bentley's most devoted admirers. "I suppose he's the kind of fellow who is calculated to please a woman," mused Dick with a sinking at heart. "And Cameron has had the great advantage of being right on the spot all the time. Moreover, he has had his future mapped out for him, while I wasn't assured about my own, and he hasn't been afraid to speak. Great Scott, I must wait until the night of the graduation ball before I can speak and find out how the land lies for me. But is Laura coming to that hop?" Again Dick ran hastily through the letter. Yet, look as he would, he could find no allusion of Laura's to coming on for the Graduation Hop. "What an idiot I am!" growled Prescott to himself. "I'm certain I forgot to ask her, in my last letter. If I did, it was solely because I've always been so sure that she'd be on here for graduation week as a matter of course." After pacing his room for a few moments, Dick sat down and wrote feverishly back to Laura Bentley, asking her if she were coming on for graduation and the hop. "I've always looked forward to having you here as a matter of course on that great occasion," Dick penned, "so I'm not very certain that I have made the invitation as explicit as I've meant to. But you'll come, won't you, Laura? It would be a poor graduation for me, without your face in the throng, for the others will be strangers to me. Won't you please write promptly and set my mind at ease on this vital point?" In three days Laura's answer came. Unless unavoidably prevented she would be on hand during a part of graduation week. "And I certainly want to attend the graduation hop," Laura added, "for it will probably be the only one that I shall ever have a chance to attend." "Now, what does she mean by that last statement?" pondered Dick, finding new cause for worry. "Does she mean that she expects to cut the Army after this year? Is she really planning to marry that fellow Cameron? Gracious, how time has flown during these hurried years at West Point! For two years past Laura has been fully old enough to wed! What a folly she'd commit in waiting all these years for backward me to get ready to open my lips! Yes; I guess it's going to be Cameron." Cadet Prescott compressed his lips grimly, but he was soldier enough to be game and face the music. "I've got to be patient a few weeks more, and take the chances," Dick told himself, as he scurried away to daily ball practice. "With a rival in the field I wouldn't dare, anyway, to trust my fate to a pleading set down on paper. But I'll send Laura a letter once a week now, anyway. She may guess from that, as graduation approaches, that I am sending my thoughts more and more in her direction." With the bravery of which he was so capable, Dick ceased his worry about his sweetheart as much as he could, and threw his leisure hours heartily into his work in the ball squad. It will not be possible to describe the games of the season in detail. There were twenty scheduled games in all, though three were called off on account of rain. The Army won twelve out of sixteen games played with college teams. Dick and Greg were the battery in the heaviest nine of the winning games, and in one of the games lost. Prescott and Holmes had no difficulty in putting up a game that has sent them down in history as being the best Army battery to that date. But the Navy, that year, had an exceptionally fine team, too, with Dave Darrin and Dalzell for its star battery. "This is the game we've got to win, fellows," called out Durville earnestly, two days before the Annapolis nine was due at West Point in the latter part of May. "We've done finely this year, better than we had hoped. But, after all, what is it to beat every other college, and then have to go down before the Navy in defeat at the end?" "Who says we're going down in defeat?" grumbled Greg. "If you say we're not, you and Prescott, then you can do a lot to hearten us up," continued Durville, with a sharp glance at the star battery pair. "See here, old ramrod, you know all about that Annapolis battery," broke in Hackett, of the nine. "What about them as ball players? I understand you went to school with Darrin and Dalzell. Do that pair play ball the way they do football?" "Yes," nodded Dick. "If anything, they play baseball better." "But you and Holmesy put them out at football. Can't you do it on the diamond, too?" insisted Hackett. "I hope so, but Greg and I will feel a lot more like bragging, possibly, after we've played the game through. There isn't much brag about us now, eh, Greg?" "Not much," confessed Greg. "And you fellows want to remember that old ramrod and I are to play only two out of the nine positions. Don't depend on us to play the whole game for the Army." "Of course not," agreed Hackett, perhaps a bit tartly. "But if the other seven of us were wonders we'd stand no show unless we had a battery that can do up these awful ogres of the Navy nine." "Oh, you're better than the Navy battery, aren't you, old ramrod?" demanded Beckwith. "No, we're not," replied Dick slowly, thoughtfully. "Don't tell us that the salt-water catcher and pitcher are ahead of you two!" protested Durville with new anxiety. "If either crowd is better, they're likely to be It," murmured Dick. Thereupon all in the dressing room wheeled to take a look at Greg. But young Holmes nodded his head in confirmation. "Don't talk that way," pleaded Beckwith. "You'll have us all scared cold before we touch foot to the field day after to-morrow." "Just what I said," grumbled Greg. "Some of the fellows on the Army nine expect two men who are not above the average to win the whole game." From all private and newspaper accounts many of the West Point fans were inclined to the belief that the Navy outpointed the Army in the matter of battery. It had been so the year before when, as readers of "_Dave Darrin's Third Year At Annapolis_" will recall, the Navy had succeeded in carrying the game away with neatness and despatch. "You young men have simply got to hustle and keep cool. That's all you can do," urged Lieutenant Lawrence. "We haven't had so good a nine in years. Whatever you do, don't lie down at the last moment, and give up to the Navy the only game of the year that is really worth winning." Then came two hard afternoons of practice. Every onlooker watched Dick and Greg closely, anxious to make sure that neither young man was going stale. With each added hour it must be confessed that anxiety at West Point rose another notch. Then came the day of the game. Even the tireless and merciless instructors over in the Academic Building eased up a bit on the cadets that day, if ever the instructors did such a thing. The Annapolis nine arrived before one o'clock and was promptly taken to dinner. All that forenoon, the factions had been gathering. Most of the visitors, to be sure, came to "root" for the Army, though there were not wanting several good-sized crowds that came to cheer and urge the Navy young men on to victory. By noon there were three thousand outsiders on the West Point reservation. Afternoon trains, stages and automobiles brought crowds after that. By three o'clock everyone that expected to see the game had arrived. There were now nine thousand people on the grandstands and along the sides. "Nine?" repeated Durville in the dressing room, when the word was brought to him. "Five thousand used to be about the usual crowd, I believe. Old ramrod, you and Holmesy are surely responsible for the other four thousand. Darrin and Dalzell can't have done it all, for the Navy always travels light on baggage when headed this way. Yes, you and Holmesy have dragged the crowd in." "Quit your joshing," muttered Greg, who was bending over his shoe laces. "Yes; cut it. We can stand it better after the game," laughed Dick. "Get your men out in five minutes more, Durville," called Lieutenant Lawrence, looking in. "The Navy fellows have been on the field ten minutes already. You want to limber up your men a bit before game is called." Already the sound had reached dressing quarters of the visiting fans cheering for the Navy. In three minutes more the cheering ascended with four times as much volume, for now Durville marched the picked Army nine on to the field, and the fans on the stands caught sight of these trim young soldiers. "I've got a hunch you'll do it for us to-day," whispered Beckwith in Prescott's ear. "Look out. A little hunch is a dangerous thing," retorted Dick, with a grim smile. CHAPTER XVIII DAN DALZELL'S CRABTOWN GRIN Six minutes later, the umpire called the captains to the home plate for the toss. "There they are---the same old chums!" cried Dick, hitting Greg a nudge. Darrin and Dalzell, of the Navy nine, had been trying to catch the eyes of the Army battery. Now the four old chums raced together to a point midway between pitcher's box and home plate. There they met and clasped each others' hands. "The same old pair, I know!" cried Dave Darrin heartily. "And we think as much of you two as ever, even if you are in the poor old Army," grinned Dan. "We've come all the way up from Crabtown to teach you how to play ball. The knowledge will probably prove useful to you some day." "Why, Dick," protested Holmes in mock astonishment, "these cabin boys seem to think they can really play ball!" "And all I'm afraid of is that they can," laughed Dick. "Can't we, though---just!" mocked Dan, dancing a brief little step. "Wait until you take a stick to our work, and then see where you'll live!" "Cut it, Danny, little lion-fighter, cut it!" warned Dave Darrin, with quiet good nature. "You know what they tell us all the time, down at Crabtown---that 'brag never scuttled a fighting ship yet.' "Dave, you don't expect Danny to believe that, do you?" asked Greg, grinning hard. "Danny never went into anything that he didn't try to win by scaring the other side cold. If our instructors here know what they're talking about, hot air isn't necessarily fatal to the enemy." "I can tell you one thing, anyway," chipped in Dan, while the other three grinned indulgently at him. "Yes; you have it straight that this is to be the Army's game," mocked Greg. "But we knew that before we saw you to-day." "There goes our joy-killer," grunted Prescott, as the umpire's shrill whistle sounded in. "Dave, we'll be in the Navy's dressing room just as soon as-----" "Just as soon as this cruel war is over," hummed Dan. The toss having been won by the Navy, the captain of that nine had chosen to go to bat. Now the players on both sides were scattering swiftly to their posts. Dick took but a bound or two back to the box, just as the umpire broke the package around the new ball and tossed it to the Army pitcher. "Play ball!" It was on, with a rush, and a cheer, led by some eight measures of music from the Military Academy Band, which had been quiet for a few minutes. Then the cheer settled down, for Prescott found himself facing Dan Dalzell at the bat, with Darrin on deck. "Wipe 'em!" signaled Greg's antics. Now, to "wipe" Dalzell, who had known everyone of Dick's old curves and tricks in former days, did not look like a promising task, for Dalzell, in addition to his special knowledge about this pitcher, was an expert with the bat. But there might be a chance to put Dan on the mourner's bench. If Dalzell succeeded in picking up even a single from Dick's starting delivery, then Dave could be all but depended upon to push his Navy chum a bag or two further around the course. "If I can twist Dan all up, it may serve to rattle Dave, too," thought the Army pitcher like a flash. Dalzell poised the bat, and stood swinging it gently, with an expectant grin that, had it been a school audience, would have made the youngsters on the bleachers yell: "Get your face closed tight, Danny! That grin hides the stick!" Dalzell had often had that hurled at him in the old days, but he did not have to dread it now. But Prescott knew that old broad grin. It was Dalzell's favorite "rattler" for the balltosser. "I think I know the scheme for getting the hair off your goat," mused Prescott, as he sent in his first. "Ball one!" called the umpire. Dan's grin broadened. "Ball two!" Dalzell knew he had the Army pitcher going now, and didn't take the trouble to reach for the ball. "Strike one!" That took some of the starch out of the Navy batsman, who suddenly realized that this twirler for the Army was up to old tricks. "Strike two!" Dan was sure he had that one, and he missed it only by an inch. Gone, now, was the grin on Dalzell's face. A frown gathered between his eyes as he took harder hold of the stick and waited. Nor did Prescott keep him long waiting. The ball came in, and Dan gauged it fairly well. Yet he fanned for the third time. "Batsman out!" Dan hesitated an almost imperceptible instant at the plate. Swift as lightning he made a wry little mouth at Prescott. It nearly broke Dick up with laughter as Dalzell stalked moodily to the bench and Dave stepped forward. In fact, the Army pitcher choked and shook so that Durville called to him in a quiet, anxious voice from shortstop's beat: "Anything wrong, ramrod?" None of the spectators heard this, but most of them saw Dick's short, vigorous shake of the head as he palmed the ball. Then he let it go, for Darrin was waiting, and in grand old Dave's eyes flashed the resolve to retrieve what had just been taken from the Navy. "Darry can't lose, anyway. He'll take the conceit out of these Army hikers," predicted some of the knowing ones among the Navy fans. "Ball one!" Though not sure, Dave had expected this, and did not try keenly for Dick's first delivery, which, as he knew of old, was seldom of this pitcher's best. Then came what looked like a high ball. Of old, this had been the poorest sort for Darrin to bit, and Dick seemed to remember it. But Darrin had changed with the years, and he felt a swift little jolt of amusement as he swung for that high one. Just about three feet away from the plate, however, that ball took a most unexpected drop, and passed on fully eighteen inches under the swing of Darrin's stick. "Strike one!" At the next Darrin's judgment forbade him to offer, but the umpire judged it a fair ball, and called: "Strike two!" Dalzell, on the bench, was leaning forward now, his chin plunged in between his hands. "Dick Prescott hasn't lost any of his knack for surprises," muttered Danny. "And if we, who know his old tricks, can't fathom him at all, what are the other seven of us going to do?" As the ball arched slowly back into Dick's hands, Dalzell, in his anxiety, found himself leaping to his feet. And now Prescott pitched, in answer to Greg's signal, what looked like a coming jump ball. Dave Darrin knew that throw, and was ready. In another instant he could have dropped with chagrin, for the ball, after all, was another "drop," and Greg Holmes had mitted it for the Army in tune to the umpire's: "Strike three-out! Two out!" "David, little giant, your hand!" begged Dalzell, in a fiery whisper as his chum reached the bench. "What's up?" asked Darrin half suspiciously. "Agree with me, now---make deep and loud the solemn vow that we'll use Dick and Greg just as they've treated us!" "We will, if we can," nodded Darrin, more serious than his chum. "But I always try to tell you, Danny boy, that it's best not to do your bragging until after you've scuttled your ship." Just as Dave had stepped away from the plate, Hutchins, the little first baseman of the Navy, had bounded forward. Hutchins was wholly cool, and had keen eye for batting. He hoped, despite what he had heard of Prescott's cleverness, to send Navy spirits booming by at least a two-bagger. "Strike one!" Prescott had not wasted any moments, this time, and Hutchins was caught unawares. The little first baseman flushed and a steely look came into his eyes. At the next one he struck, but it came across the plate as an out-shoot that was just too far out for Hutchins's reach. Had he not offered it would have been a "called ball." With two strikes called against him, and nothing moving, Hutchins felt the ooze coming out of his neck and forehead. The Navy had been playing grand ball that spring. It would never do to let the Army get too easy a start. But Dick poised, twirled and let go. It was a straight-away, honest and fair ball that he sent. To be sure there was a trace of in-shoot about it that made Hutchins misjudge it so that, in the next instant, the passionless umpire sounded the monotonous solo: "Strike three---and out. Side out!" From the Navy seats dead calm, but from the band came a blare of brass and a clash of drums and cymbals as the cheering started. In an instant, out of all the hubbub, came the long corps yell from the cadets, ending with: "Prescott! Holmes!" Sweet music, indeed, to the Army battery. But Greg heard it on the wing, so to speak, for at the changing of the sides he had hastened forward, so as to pass Dan Dalzell: "Danny boy, after the game, I want you to do something big for me," whispered Cadet Holmes. "Surely," murmured Dalzell. "What shall it be?" "I think I know how you get that grin of yours, that conquering grin on your face, but I wish you'd show me how you make it stick!" "Call you out for that some day," hissed Dalzell, as, with heightened color, he made his way to catcher's post of duty behind the plate. Dave Darrin received the ball, and handled it, after the ways of his kind, for a few seconds, to detect any irregularities there might be to its surface or any flaws in its roundness. "Play ball!" called the umpire. With Beckwith holding the stick, and Durville on deck, Dick had time to do what he was most anxious to do---to make a study of any new things that Darrin might have learned. Dave appeared to be fully warmed at the start. "Strike one!" called the umpire, though Beckwith had not dared offer. Then: "Strike two!" Dick began to see light. Dave was in fine form, and was sending them in with such terrific speed that it was barely possible to gauge them. That style of pitching carried big hopes for a Navy victory! CHAPTER XIX WHEN THE ARMY FANS WINCED As Darrin sent in the third ball Beckwith made a desperate sweep for it. It was not to be his, however. "Three strikes! Striker out!" That broad grin had come back to Dan Dalzell's face, as he held up the neatly mitted ball for an instant, then hurled it lazily back to Dave Darrin. Now, Durville came to bat, and the captain of the Army nine was an accurate and hard hitter. "Ball one!" "Strike one!" "Strike two!" "Ball two!" Then came a slight swish of willow against leather. Durville had at last succeeded in just touching the ball. But it was a foul hit, and that was all. Dan, however, was not out at the side in time to pick that foul into his own mitten. Durville, his face somewhat pale and teeth clenched, stood ready for his last chance. It came, in one of Darrin's trickiest throws. It was no use, after all. Durville missed, and Dalzell didn't. "Strike three---striker out!" "Prescott, you know that Navy fellow! Go after him---hammer him all the way down the river!" groaned Durville in a low voice as Dick came forward. Dan's quick ears heard, however, and his grin broadened. Well enough Dalzell knew that Darrin had a lot of box tricks secreted that would fool even a Prescott. But Dick was not to be rattled, at any rate. He picked up the bat, "hefted" it briefly, then stepped up beside the plate, ready in a few seconds after Durville had gone disconsolately back to the bench. "I won't try to decipher Dave's deliveries; I'll judge them by what they look like after the ball has started," swiftly decided Prescott. "Ball one!" "Ball two!" "Strike one!" "Strike two!" "Crack!" So fast did Prescott start when that fly popped, that he was nearly half way to first base when he dropped his bat. It was only a fly out to right field, but it was a swift one, and it struck turf before the Navy fielder could hoof it to the spot. He caught it up, whirled, and drove straight to first, but Prescott's toe had struck the bag a fraction of a second before. "Runner safe at first!" called the umpire quietly. Then the ball went back to Dave, who now had a double task of alertness, for Holmes held the bat at the plate, while Prescott was trying to steal second. Well did Dave Darrin know the trickiness of both these Army players! Greg, too, was cool, though a good deal apprehensive. With him the call stood at balls three and strikes two when Greg thought he saw his real chance. Swat! Greg struck with all his strength, and at the sound, a cheer rose from the seats of the Army fans. But the ball was lower than Greg had calculated, and after all his assault on the leather had resulted only in a bunt. Navy's pitcher took a few swift steps, then bent, straightened up and sent the ball driving to first. "Runner out at first!" Then indeed a wail went up. What did it matter that Prescott had reached second? Greg's disaster had put the side out. And now the Navy came back to bat. In this half of the second, three hits were taken out of Prescott's delivery, and at one time there were two sailors on bases. Then the Navy went out to grass and the Army marched in for a trial. This time, however, the Army had neither Durville, Prescott nor Holmes at the plate, and with these three best batters on the bench, Dave had the satisfaction of striking the soldiers out in one, two, three. In the third inning neither side scored. Then, in the fourth, with two sailors out when he came to bat, Dalzell exploded a two-bagger that brought the Navy to its feet on the benches, cheering and hat-waving. By the time that Dan's flying feet had kicked the first bag on the course Dave Darrin was holding the willow and standing calmly by the plate, watching. Two of Dick's offers, Dave let go by without heeding, one ball and one strike being called. But Dave, though he looked sleepy, was wholly alert. At the third offer he drove a straight, neat little bunt that was left for the Army's second baseman. That baseman had it in season to drive to Lanton, at Army first base. But Dave had hit the bag first, and was safe, while Dan Dalzell was making pleased faces over at third. Now, a member of the Navy team slipped over to that side of the diamond to coach Dan on his home-running. In addition to pitching, Dick had to watch first and third bases, in which situation Dave Darrin, with great impudence and coolness, stole second in between two throws. On the faces of the Army fans, by this time, anxiety was written in large letters. They had heard much about the Navy battery, but not of its base-running qualities. It was little Hutchins now again at the bat. His last time there he had been struck out without trouble. "But, it never does to be too positive that a fellow is a duffer," mused Prescott grimly, as he gripped the leather. Just when little Hutchins seemed on the point of going to pieces he misjudged one of Dick's puts so completely that he struck it, by accident, a fearful crack. A cloud of dust marked the limits of the diamond, while the air was filled with yells and howls. When the dust cleared and the howls had subsided it was found that Dalzell had loped in across the home plate, Darrin had come along more swiftly and was in, while Hutchins touched the second base an instant after the ball had nestled in Greg Holmes's Army mitt. It mattered little that Earl, who came next to bat, struck out. The Navy had pulled in two runs---the only runs scored so far! In the other half the Army nine secured nothing. In the fifth neither team scored. In the sixth the Navy scored one more run. In the sixth Lanton, of the Army, got home with a single run. Thus, at the beginning of the seventh, the score stood at three to one with the grin on the Naval face. During the seventh inning nothing was scored. Now, the sailor boys came to bat for the first half of the eighth, with a din of Navy yells on the air. West Point's men came back with a sturdy assortment of good old Military Academy yells, but the life was gone out. The Army was proud of such men as Durville, Prescott, Holmes, but admitted silently that Darrin and Dalzell appeared to belong to a slightly better class of ball. "It's our fault, too," muttered the Army coach, Lieutenant Lawrence, to a couple of brother officers. "Darrin and Dalzell have been training with the Navy nine for two years, while Prescott and Holmes came in late this season. Even if they wouldn't play last year, these two men of ours should have reported for the very first day's work last February." "Prescott couldn't do it," remarked Lieutenant Denton, who had just joined the group. "Why not, Denton?" asked Lieutenant Lawrence. "He was in Coventry." "Pshaw!" "Didn't you know that?" asked Denton. "Not a word of it, though Durville once hinted to me that there was some sort of reason why Prescott couldn't come in." "There was---the Coventry," Denton replied. "But that trouble blew over when the first classmen found themselves wrong in something of which Jordan had accused Prescott." "Humph!" growled Lieutenant Lawrence, in keen displeasure. "Then, if we lose to-day, the first class can blame itself!" "You think our battery pair better than the Navy's, then?" asked Lieutenant Denton. "Our men would have been better, by a shade, anyway, had they been as long in training. But as it is-----" "As it is," supplied another officer in the group, "we are wiped off the slate by the Navy, this year, and no one can know it better than we do ourselves." Just as the fortunes of war would have it, Dan Dalzell again stood by the plate at the beginning of the eighth. "Wipe off that smile, Danny boy," called Darrin softly. But Dan only shook his head with a deepening grin which seemed to declare that he found the Navy situation all to the good. In fact, Dalzell felt such a friendly contempt for poor old Dick's form by this time, that he cheerily offered at Dick's first. Crack! That ball arched up for right field, and Dan, hurling his bat, started to make tracks and time. Beckwith, however, was out in right field, and knew what was expected of him. He ran in under that dropping ball, held out his hands and gathered it in. Dick smiled quietly, almost imperceptibly, while Dan strolled mournfully back to the bench. Then Prescott turned, bent on annihilating his good old friend Darrin, if possible. In great disgust, Dave struck out. The look on the Navy fan's faces could be interpreted only as saying: "Oh, well, we don't need runs, anyway!" But when Hutchins struck out---one, two, three!---after as many offers, Navy faces began to look more grave. "Hold 'em down, Navy---hold 'em down!" rang the appeal from Navy seats when the Army went to bat in the eighth. Dick was first at bat now, with Greg on deck. As Prescott swung the willow and eyed Darrin, there was "blood" in the Army pitcher's eyes. Then Darrin gave a sudden gasp, for, at his first delivery, Dick sized up the ball, located it, and punched it. That ball dropped in center field just as Dick was turning the first bag. It sped on, but Dick turned back from too big a risk. But he looked at Greg, waiting idly at bat, and Holmes caught the full meaning of that appealing look. "It's now or never," growled Greg between his teeth. "It's seldom any good to depend at all on the ninth inning." Darrin, with a full knowledge of what was threatened to the Navy by the present situation, tried his best to rattle Greg. And one strike was called on Holmesy, but the second strike he called himself by some loud talk of bat against leather. Then, while the ball sped into right field, Greg ran after it, stopping, however, at first bag, while Prescott sprinted down to second bag, kicked it slightly, and came back to it. It was up to Lanton, of the Army, now! In this crisis the Army first baseman either lacked true diamond nerve, or else he could not see Darrin's curves well, for Lanton took the call of two strikes before he was awarded called balls enough to permit him to lope contentedly away to first. This advanced both Dick and Greg. Bases full---no outs! Three runs needed! This was the throbbing situation that confronted Cadet Carter as he picked up an Army bat and stood by the plate, facing the "wicked" and well-nigh invincible Darrin of the Navy! CHAPTER XX THE VIVID FINISH OF THE GAME On both sides of the field, every one was standing on seats. Even the cadets had risen to their feet, every man's eye turned on the diamond, while the cadet cheer-master danced up and down, ready to spring the yell of triumph if only Carter and the player on deck could give the chance. Lieutenant Lawrence wiped his perspiring face and neck. The coach probably suffered more than any other man on the field. It was his work that had prepared for this supreme game of the whole diamond season! Over at third base Cadet Prescott danced cautiously away, yet every now and then stole nearly back. Dick was never going to lose a scored run through carelessness. "Now, good old Carter, can't you?" groaned Durville, as the Army batsman went forward to the plate. "Durry, I'll come home with my shield, or on it," muttered Carter, with set teeth and white lips as he went to pick up the bat that he was to swing. Carter was not one of the best stick men of the Army baseball outfit, but there is sometimes such a thing as batting luck. For this, Carter prayed under his breath. Darrin, of course, was determined to baffle this strong-hope man of West Point. He sent in one of his craftiest outshoots. For a wonder, Carter guessed it, and reached out for it---but missed. "Strike two!" followed almost immediately from the placid's umpire's lips. Everyone who hoped for the Army was trembling now. Dan Dalzell did some urgent signaling. In response, Darrin took an extra hard twist around the leather, unwound, unbent and let go. _Crack_! Batter's luck, and nothing else! "Carter, Carter, Carter!" broke loose from the mouths of half a thousand gray-clad cadets, and the late anxious batter was sprinting for all there was in him. Just to right of center field, and past, went the ball---a good old two-bagger for any player that could run. From third Dick came in at a good jog, but he did not exert himself. He had seen how long it must take to get the ball in circulation. As for Holmes, he hit a faster pace. He turned on steam, just barely touching third as he turned with no thought of letting up this side of the home plate. Lanton made third---he had to, for Carter was bent on kicking the second bag in time. Had there been another full second to spare Carter would have made it. But Navy center field judged that it would be far easier to put Carter out than to play that trick on Lanton, since the latter had but ninety feet to run, anyway. So Carter was out, but Lanton was hanging at third, crazy with eagerness to get in. It all hung on Lanton now. If he got across the home plate in time enough it would give the Army the lead by one run. At this moment the score was tied---three to three! "Get out there and coach Lantin, old ramrod," begged "Durry," and Dick was off, outside of the foul line, his eye on Dave Darrin and on every other living figure of the Navy nine. It was Holden up, now, and, though the cadets on the grandstand looked at Carter briefly, with praise in their eyes for his two-bagger that had meant two runs, the eyes of the young men in gray swiftly roved over by the plate, to keep full track of Holden's performance. But Holden struck out, and Army hopes sank. Tyrrell came in to the plate, and on him hung the last hope. If he failed, Army fans would be near despair. Dave Darrin was beginning to feel the hot pace a bit, for in this inning he had exerted himself more than in any preceding one. However, that was all between Darrin and himself. Not another player on the field guessed how glad Dave would be for the end of the game. Yet he steeled himself, and sent in swift, elusive ones for Tyrrell to hit. Swat! Tyrrell landed a blow against the leather, at the last chance that he had at it. It was a bunt, but Navy's shortstop simply couldn't reach it in time to pick it up without the slightest fumble. That delay brought Lanton home and over the plate. How the plain resounded with cheers! For now the Army led by a single run, and Tyrrell was safe at first. Jackson up, with Beckwith on deck. There was hope of further scoring. Yet no keen disappointment was felt when Jackson struck out. In from pasture trooped the Navy men, eager to retrieve all in the ninth. "Fit to stay in the box, old ramrod?" anxiously asked "Durry," as the nines changed. "Surely," nodded Dick. "Don't stick it out, unless you know you can do the trick," insisted the Army captain earnestly. "I'm just in feather!" smiled Dick. Greg, too, had been a bit anxious; but when the first ball over the plate stung his one unmitted hand, Holmes concluded that Prescott did not need to be helped out of the box just at that time. Then followed something which came so fast that the spectators all but rubbed their eyes. One after another Dick Prescott struck out three Navy batsmen. Greg Holmes made this splendid work perfect by not letting anything pass him. That wound up the game, for Navy had not scored in the ninth, and the rules forbade the Army nine to go again to bat to increase a score that already stood at four to three. Instantly the Academy band broke loose. Yet above it all dinned the cheers of the greater part of the nine thousand spectators present. As soon as the band stopped the corps yell rose, with the names of Durville, Prescott and Holmes, and of Carter whose batting luck had played such a part in the eighth. But, by the time that the corps yell rose the Army nine was nearly off the field. "Listen to the good noise, old ramrod," glowed Greg. "It's the last time we'll ever hear the corps yell for any work we do in West Point athletics," went on Greg mournfully. "I know it," sighed Dick. "If we ever hear cheers for us again, we'll have to win the noise by a gallant charge, or something like that." "In the Army," replied Greg, choking somewhat. "Yes; in the good old Army," went on Dick, his eyes kindling. "I don't feel any uneasiness about getting through the final exams. now. We're as good as second lieutenants already, Holmesy!" While thus chatting, however, the two chums were keeping pace with their comrades of the nine. The nine from Annapolis moved in a compact group a little ahead down the road. Just before the Army ball-tossers reached the dressing quarters, Lieutenant Lawrence, their coach, hastened ahead of them, meeting them in the doorway. "The best nine we've had in a long number of years, gentlemen," glowed coach, as he shook the hand of each in passing. "Thank you all for your splendid, hard work!" Thanks like that was sweet music, after all. But Dick raced to dressing quarters full of but one thing. "Quick, Holmesy! We don't know how soon the Navy team may have to run down the road to a train." "Aren't they going to have supper at the mess?" demanded Greg, as he stripped. "I don't know; I'm afraid not." Dick and Greg were the first of the Army nine to be dressed in their fatigue uniforms. Immediately they made a quick break for the Navy quarters. "It looks almost cheeky to throw ourselves in on the other fellows," muttered Greg dubiously. "Some of the middies will think we've come in on purpose to see how they take their beating." "They didn't get a bad enough beating to need to feel ashamed," replied Dick. "And we won't say a word about the game, anyway." "May we come in?" called Prescott, knocking on the door of the middies' quarters. "Who's there?" called a voice. Then the Navy coach, in uniform, opened the door. "Oh, come in, gentlemen," called the coach, holding out his hand. "And let me congratulate you, Prescott and Holmes, on the very fine game that you two had a star part in putting up for the nine from Crabtown." "Thank you, sir," Dick replied. "But we didn't call on that account. There are two old chums of ours here, sir, that we're looking for." "See anything of them anywhere?" smiled Dave Darrin, stepping forward, minus his blouse and holding out both hands. Dick and Greg pounced upon Dave. Then Dan struggled into another article of clothing and ran forward from the rear of the room. "How soon do you go?" asked Dick eagerly. "The 6.14 train to New York," replied Dave. "Oh, then you're not going to have supper at cadet mess?" asked Greg in a tone of deep disappointment. "No," answered Dan Dalzell. "It would get us through too late. We dine in New York on arrival." "Hurry up and get dressed," Dick urged. Then, turning to the coach, he inquired: "May we keep Darrin and Dalzell with us, sir, until your train leaves?" "No reason on earth why you shouldn't," nodded the Navy coach. So Dave and Dan were dressed in a trice, it seemed, though with the care that a cadet or midshipman must always display in the set of his immaculate uniform. Dick seized Dave by the elbow, marching him forth, while Greg piloted Dan. "Great game for you-----" began Dan, as soon as the quartette of old chums were outside. "Send all that kind of talk by the baggage train," ordered Cadet Holmes. "What we want to talk about are the dear old personal affairs." "You youngsters are through here, after not so many more days, aren't you?" began Darrin. "Yes; and so are you, down at Annapolis," replied Prescott. "Not quite," rejoined Dave gravely. "There's this difference. In a few days you'll be through here, and will proceed to your homes. Then, within the next few days, you'll both receive your commissions as second lieutenants in the Army, and will be ordered to your regiments. You're officers for all time to come! We of the first class at Annapolis will receive our diplomas, surely. But what beyond that? While you become officers at once, we have to start on the two years' cruise, and we're still midshipmen. After two years at sea, we have to come back and take another exam. If we pass that one, then we'll be ensigns---officers at last. But if we fail in the exam, two years hence then we're dropped from the service. After we've gone through our whole course at Annapolis we still have to guess, for two years, whether we're going to be reckoned smart enough to be entitled to serve the United States as officers. I can't feel, Dick, that we of Annapolis, get a square deal." "It doesn't sound like it," Prescott, after a moment, admitted. "Still, you can do nothing about it. And you knew the game when you went to Annapolis." "Yes, I knew all this four years ago," Darrin admitted. "Still, the four years haven't made the deal look any more fair than it did four years ago. However, Dick, hang all kickers and sea-lawyers! Isn't it grand, anyway, to feel that you're in your country's uniform, and that all your active life is to be spent under the good old flag---always working for it, fighting for it if need be!" "Then you still love the service?" asked Dick, turning glowing eyes upon his Annapolis chum. "Love it?" cried Dave. "The word isn't strong enough!" "Are you engaged, old fellow?" asked Greg of Dan Dalzell. "Kind of half way," grinned Dan. "That is, I'm willing, but the girl can't seem to make up her mind. And you?" "I've been engaged nine times in all," sighed Greg. Yet each and every one of the girls soon felt impelled to ask me to call it off." "Any show just at present?" persisted Dalzell. "Why, strange to say," laughed Greg, "I'm fancy free at the present moment." "How did the old affair ever come out between Dick and Laura Bentley?" asked Dan curiously. "Why, the strange part of it is, I don't believe there ever has been any formal affair between Dick and Laura," Greg went on. "That is, no real understanding between them. And now-----" "Yes?" urged Dan. "A merchant over in Gridley, a rather decent chap, too, has been making up to Laura pretty briskly, I hear by way of home news," Greg continued. "Does the yardstick general win out?" demanded Dan. "From all the news, I'm half afraid he does." "How does Dick take that?" Dan was eager to know. "I can't tell you," Greg responded solemnly, "for I have never ventured on that topic with old ramrod. But if he loses out with Laura, I feel it in my bones that he'll take it mighty hard." "Poor old Dick!" sighed Dan, loyal to the old days. "Somehow, I can't quite get it through my head that it's at all right for anyone to withhold from Dick Prescott anything he really wants." Greg sighed too. "Any idea what arm of the service you're going to choose?" asked Dan presently. "I believe I'll do better to wait and see what my class standing is at graduation," laughed Greg. "That is the thing that settles how much choice I'm to have in the matter of arm of the service." "Any liking for heavy artillery?" asked Dan. "Not a whit. Cavalry or infantry for mine." "Not the engineers?" "Only the honor men of the class can get into the engineers," grunted Greg. "Neither Dick nor I stand any show to be honor men. We feel lucky enough to get through the course and graduate at all." Dick and Dave, too, were talking earnestly about the future, though now and then a word was dropped about the good old past, as described in the _High School Boys' Series_. Ten minutes before the train time two chums in Army gray and two in Navy blue reached the platform of the railway station. The other middies were there ahead of them. In the time that was left Dick and Greg were hastily introduced to the other middies. A few jolly words there were, but the other members of the Army nine and still other cadets were on hand, and so the talk was general. Amid noisy, heartfelt cheering the middy delegation climbed aboard the incoming train. Amid more cheers their train bore them away and then some sixty West Point cadets climbed the long, steep road, next hastening on to be in time for supper formation. For the members of the first class West Point athletics had now become a matter of history only! CHAPTER XXI A CLOUD ON DICK'S HORIZON Final exams. were passed! Not a member of the first class had "fessed" himself down and out, so all were to be graduated. The Board of Visitors---a committee of United States Senators and Representatives appointed by the President from among the members of the National Congress, arrived. A detachment of cavalry and another of field artillery, both from the Regular Army, rode to the railway station to aid in the reception of the Board. Also the entire Corps of Cadets, two battalions of them, in spick and span full-dress uniform, and with all metal accoutrements glistening, in the sun, stood drawn up as the visitors were escorted to their carriages by waiting Army officers. Now, the imposing procession started up the steep slope, at a little past mid-afternoon. Just as the head of the line reached the flat plain above, most of the members of the Board of Visitors felt tempted to clap their hands to their ears. For a second detachment of artillery, waiting on the plain, now thundered forth the official artillery salute to the visitors. One of these visitors, a member of the national House of Representatives, who had served with distinction in the Civil War, having then risen to the grade of major general of volunteers, looked out over the plain, then at the stalwart cadets behind, with moist eyes. He had been a cadet here in the late fifties. He was now too old to fight, but all the ardor of the soldier still burned in his veins! Yet only a moment did the line of carriages pause at the plain. Then the members of the Board were carried on to the West Point Hotel, where the best quarters had been reserved for such as were not to be personal guests of officers on the post. During the brief wait at the station, Cadet Captain Prescott, standing before the company that he had commanded during this year, caught a brief glimpse of a familiar figure---his mother. By chance Mrs. Prescott had journeyed to West Point on the same train. Yet not a chance did Dick get for a word with his mother until long after. He was almost frenzied with eagerness for word of Laura, and this his mother would have, in some form, but he must wait until all the duties of the day had been performed and leisure had come to him. Mrs. Prescott, on catching sight of her boy, felt a sudden, exultant throb in her mother heart. Then she stepped quickly back, fearful of attracting her lad's attention at a moment when he must give his whole thought to his soldier duties. "My noble, manly boy!" thought the mother, with moistening eyes. "I wonder if I do wrong to think him the noblest of them all?" Dick had caught that one swift glance, but did not again see his mother, for his eyes were straight ahead. When the time came for his particular company to wheel and swing into the now moving line of gray, Mrs. Prescott heard his measured, manly voice: "Fours left---march!" When the last company of cadets had fallen into line, Mrs. Prescott was one of the two dozen or so civilians who fell in at some distance to the rear, climbing the slope behind the moving line of gray. Wholly absorbed in the corps, Dick's mother had forgotten to board the stage that would have carried her to the hotel. After the visitors had been left at the hotel, the corps marched away. Barely half an hour later, however, the two battalions again marched on to the plain. Then the most fascinating, the most inspiring of all military ceremonies was gone through with by the best body of soldiery in the world. The cadets of the United States Military Academy went through all the solemnity of dress parade. It is a sight which, once seen at West Point, can never be forgotten by a lover of his flag. One bespectacled young spectator there was who found his breath coming in quick, sharp gasps as he looked on at this magnificent display. He was tall, yet with a slight stoop in his shoulders. His face was covered with a bushy, sandy beard. He was neither particularly well nor very badly dressed, and would have attracted little attention in any crowd. Yet this stranger was not looking on a new sight. For nearly four years it had been as the breath of life to him. Stoop-shouldered as a matter of disguise, and with beard and spectacles adding to his security from recognition, this slouching young man bent most of his gaze upon the stalwart, erect figure of Cadet Captain Prescott. "You drove me out of here! You cheated me of all the glory of this career, Prescott! Have you been fool enough to think that I'd forget---that I could forget? You are close to your diploma, now---but before that moment arrives I shall find the way to spoil your chances of a career in the Army. And I can get away again without anyone recognizing in me the man who was once known as Cadet Jordan, of the first class!" Yes; it was Jordan, back at West Point, sure of escaping recognition, and bent on a desperate errand of wrecking Dick Prescott's promising career. But Dick performed all his duties through that dress parade conscious only of the glory of the soldier's life. He thought he had caught a fleeting glimpse of his mother once, in the crowd, as his company executed a wheeling, and he was happy in what he knew her happiness to be. Then, when it was all over, and the corps again marched from the field, Mrs. Prescott, who knew the ways of West Point, went and stood at the edge of the grassy plain, nearly opposite the north sally-port. Five minutes after the last of the corps had marched in under the port, Dick, his dress uniform changed for the fatigue, came out with bounding step and crossed the road. Wholly unashamed, he passed his arms around his mother, gave her a big hug, several kisses, and then, hat in hand, turned to stroll with her under the trees. "Dad couldn't come, I'm afraid?" Dick asked in disappointment. "He had to stay and look after the store, you know, Dick, my boy. But the store will be closed two days this week, for your father is coming on here to see you graduate. Nothing could keep him away from that." "And how is everyone at home? How is Laura?" Dick asked eagerly. "She will be here in time for the graduation hop," replied Mrs. Prescott. "She told me she had seen you so far through your West Point life, that she would feel uneasy over not being here to see the last move of all. Dick, do you mind your mother asking you a question? You used to care especially for Laura Bentley, did you not?" "Why, mother?" asked Prescott with a sudden sinking at heart. Lounging against the other side of a tree that Prescott and his mother were passing, the disguised Jordan was close enough to hear. What he heard seemed to deepen the scowl of hatred on his face; but mother and son were soon out of ear shot, and the miserable Jordan slunk away. CHAPTER XXII CADET PRESCOTT COMMANDS AT SQUADRON DRILL The Military Academy found itself in a whirling round of recitations and drills, arranged for the delight of the Board of Visitors. There were other hundreds of spectators at first, and thousands later, to see all that was going on, for there are hosts of citizens who know what inspiring sights are to be found at West Point in Graduation Week. "Mr. Prescott is directed to report at the office of the commandant of cadets." This order was borne by a soldier orderly immediately after breakfast on the day before graduation. "Mr. Prescott," said the commandant, when the tall, soldierly looking cadet knocked, entered and saluted, "you will take command at the cavalry squadron drill, which takes place at three this afternoon." Dick's heart bounded with pleasure. It was an honor that could come to but one man in the first class, and he was greatly delighted that it should have fallen to him. "Mr. Holmes will command the first troop, and Mr. Anstey the second," continued the commandant of cadets, who then rattled off the names of the cadets who would act as subalterns in the squadron. It was a splendid detail, that of commanding the squadron in the cavalry drill---splendid because it is one of the most picturesque events of the week, and also because it calls for judgment and high ability to command. "I must be sure to get word to mother; she mustn't miss a sight that will delight her so greatly," murmured Dick, as he hastened away to notify Greg and Anstey. This done, he hastened off to other duties, though not without yielding much thought to the belief that Laura Bentley would be here this afternoon, since she was pledged to go with him to the graduation ball in the evening. "Mother can be sure to see Laura, and they can see the squadron drill together," ran through Prescott's mind. A splendid, swift bit of pontoon bridge building had been shown the visitors on the day before; one battalion had given a lively glimpse of tent pitching in perfect alignment as to company streets, and in record time. In the forenoon, there was to be a lively battery drill, to be followed by a dizzying demonstration of the speed at which machine guns may be moved, placed in position and fired so fast that there is a hail of projectiles. For this afternoon, the cavalry drill in squadron, and after that, infantry drill that would include a picture of infantry on the firing line. After that, the last dress parade in which the present first classmen would ever take part as cadets. Oh, it was a stirring picture, full of all the dash, the precision and glamour of the soldier's life! The pity of it all was that every red-blooded American boy could not be there to see it all. Just before three o'clock every man of the first class turned out through the north sallyport in the full equipment of a cavalryman. Here they halted before barracks. Dick caught sight of four figures standing hardly more than across the road. A swift glance at the time, and Prescott stepped over the road. "Good afternoon, mother. Good afternoon, Mrs. Bentley. And Laura and Belle---oh, how delighted I am to see you both here!" Genuine joy shone in this manly cadet's eyes; none could mistake that. "You did not know that Greg had invited me to the graduation ball, did you?" asked Belle Meade. "I did not," Dick answered truthfully. "Yet I guessed it as soon as I saw you here. And you have been at the Annapolis graduation, too?" "Why, of course!" exclaimed Belle, almost in astonishment. "And Laura went with me. That's something else you didn't know, Dick." "I've been through the course at West Point," laughed the cadet, "and by this time I am not astonished at the number of things that I don't know." "Dave and Dan said they had seen you only a few days ago, but they sent their love again," rattled on Miss Meade. "But I'm taking up all of the talk, and I know you're dying to talk to Laura." Belle accompanied her words with a little gesture of one hand that displayed the flash of a small solitaire diamond set in a band of gold on the third finger of the left hand. Dick did not need inquire. He knew that Dave Darrin had placed that ring where it now flashed. Just then Greg came through the sally-port. In an instant he bounded across the road. He immediately took it upon himself to talk with Belle, and Dick turned to Laura with flushed face and wistful eyes. In the first instant Miss Bentley flushed; then a sudden pallor succeeded the flush. Dick, taking her dear face as his barometer, felt a sudden indescribable sinking of his heart. They exchanged a few words, then----- Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta-ra-ta! It was the bugle calling the assembly. Swiftly Greg sprang across the road to form his troop, while Anstey formed the other. Both acting troop leaders turned to report to Dick that their respective troops were formed. Then Prescott, for the last time as a cadet, marched the class across the plain at swift, rhythmic tread, to where the veteran cavalry horses stood saddled and tethered. Reaching the cavalry instructor, Prescott halted, saluted, and reported his command. "Stand to horse!" ordered the instructor briskly. There was a dash; in another instant each cadet stood by the head of his selected mount. "Prepare to mount!" Each cadet seized mane and bridle, also thrusting his left foot into stirrup box. "Mount!" Like so many figures operated by machinery, the first classmen rose, throwing right legs over saddles, then settling down in the seat. Then, all in a twinkling, the ranks reformed. "Mr. Prescott, take command of the squadron, sir!" rang the instructor's voice. Dick thrilled with pleasure as he received the command with a salute. He had not looked, but he knew that those dearest to him were in the crowd beyond, looking on. "Draw sabre!" sounded Dick's not loud but clean-cut order. Greg and Anstey repeated the order in turn. Instantly all down the strong line naked steel leaped forth. The sabres sprang to the "carry," and the superb picture breathed of military might. Cadet Captain Dick Prescott, well in advance, sat facing his squadron; he throbbed with a soldier's ardor at the beauty of the scene. "Fours right!" he shouted. "Fours right! Fours right!" sounded in the differing tones of Greg and Anstey. "March!" "March! March!" Into a long column of fours, to the tune of jingling accoutrements, the squadron swung. Prescott wheeled about and rode forward at a walk. In the same instant, the bugler, a musician belonging to the Regular Army, trotted forward, then slowed down to a walk close to the young squadron commander. From that time on, all the commands were to be given by the bugle. "Trot! March!" traveled on clear, musical notes, and the long line of young horsemen moved forward at a faster gait. There was none of the bumping up and down in saddle that disfigures the riding taught in most riding schools. These gray-clad young centaurs rode as though parts of their animals. Straight past the canvas shelter that had been erected for the superintendent, the Board of Visitors and their ladies, swung the four platoons in magnificent order and rhythm. Then, on the return, the young cavalrymen swept, at a gallop, by platoons, in echelon and by column of squads. This done, the cadets rode forward, baiting in line before the reviewers. Here the senior cavalry instructor rode in front and gave the command: "Present---sabres!" The salute to the superintendent and his guests was given with magnificent precision. "Continue the drill, Mr. Prescott!" rang the senior instructor's voice. Once more the line of gray and steel swept over the plain. Now, the evolutions were those of the field in war time. The charge brought cheers from a thousand throats, and a great fluttering of handkerchiefs. Then, while three platoons halted, remaining motionless in saddle, the fourth platoon, after starting at the gallop, sheathed sabres and drew pistols. Crack! crack! Crack! crack! It was merely mimic war, with blank ammunition, but not an onlooker escaped the impression of how much death and destruction such a line of charging, firing men might carry before them. Now the whole squadron was in motion once more. At the sharp, clear order of the bugle the line halted. At the next peal one man in every four stood at the heads of four horses, while the other three of each four ran quickly forward, in fine though open formation. "Halt! Kneel! Ready! Aim! At will---_fire_!" Here was battle, real enough in everything but the fatalities. Each man on the firing line fired rapidly, several shots to the minute, though real aim was taken every time the bolt was shot forward and before the trigger was pulled. Tiny, almost invisible puffs of smoke issued from the carbine muzzles. Next, an orderly spirited, swift retreat in the face of an imaginary enemy, was made to the horses, which were mounted like a flash, and spurred away. Some horses carried double, for some of the cadets lay limp and useless, impersonating men wounded by the pursuing enemy. It was all so stirring, so grand, that the plain rang with cheers. In an hour the drill was over, and the young cavalrymen stood under the showers or disported in the pool. Only for a few minutes, however. The infantry drill followed swiftly, after which these same men must swiftly be immaculate in white ducks and the handsome gray full-dress jackets. Then followed dress parade, after which came supper, and the first classmen at West Point were through with the last day of full duty in gray! CHAPTER XXIII A WEST POINTER'S LOVE AFFAIR With beating heart Dick Prescott presented himself at the hotel that evening, and sent up his card to Mrs. Bentley and the girls. Greg was with his chum, of course, but Greg was not in a flutter. He was to escort Belle Meade---an arrangement of chumship, for Belle wore the engagement ring of Dave Darrin, one of Greg's old High School chums. For Dick, this was the night to which he had looked forward during four years. To-night he felt sure of his career; he was to be graduated into the Army, with a position in life fine enough for Laura to grace with him. It was on this night, that he had determined to find out whether her heart beat for him, or whether it had already been captured by young Mr. Cameron back in the home town. "And very likely she wouldn't think of having either of us," smiled Dick to himself. "It's easy enough for a girl to be a fellow's friend, but when it comes to selecting a husband she is quite likely to be more particular." It was just after dark as the two young couples sauntered away from the hotel on their way to Cullum Hall. "You young men are now sure of your Army careers," remarked Belle, as the four strolled down the road. "As absolutely sure as one can ever be of anything," Dick responded. "Yes, I feel positive that I am now to be an officer in the Army." "While poor Dave has just started on a two-year cruise, and must then come back for another examination before he is sure of his commission," sighed Belle. "The middies don't get a square deal," said Dick regretfully. "When Darrin and Dalzell were graduated, the other day, they should have been commissioned as ensigns before they were ordered to sea. Some day Congress and the people will see the injustice of it all, and the unfairness will be remedied." How could Prescott possibly know that his commission in the Army was not yet sure? That same sandy-bearded, bespectacled and stoop-shouldered ex-cadet Jordan was even now eyeing Dick from a little distance. "Humph! Prescott feels mighty big at this moment!" growled the young scoundrel. "I wonder how he'll be feeling at midnight, down in cadet hospital, when the surgeons tell him he has no chance of ever being a sound man again? Confound him! I could almost find it in my heart to kill the fellow, instead of merely maiming him. But maiming will be the keener revenge. All his life hereafter Prescott will be thinking what might have been if he hadn't met me this night! Shall I leap on him when he's coming back from the hotel, after the graduation ball? No; for he'd have Holmes with him then. I'll send in word and call him out from the ball, with a message that an old schoolmate wants to see him on something most urgent. I'll have Prescott to myself, and all I need is a few seconds. I'm half as powerful again as Prescott is!" Jordan was not at all lacking in a certain type of ferocious brute courage. As he had just boasted to himself, he was powerful enough to be able to overpower Dick in a hand-to-hand conflict, yet the scoundrel meant to attack Prescott unawares, without giving the latter a chance to defend himself. Then, too, the sight of Laura, looking sweeter and more beautiful than she had ever appeared in her life, goaded Jordan on to greater fury. "That is the very girl I had planned to cut Prescott out with, after he had been kicked from the service, and I was still in the uniform. But it fell out the other way about," gritted Jordan. "Prescott wears the uniform, and I've been dishonorably dropped from the rolls! Prescott, I've a double score to settle with you to-night!" But of all this, of course, Prescott was wholly unaware. "How much time have we to spare?" queried Dick, then glancing at his watch. "Ten minutes. Laura, will you stroll around the Hall with me and look down over the cliff at the noble old Hudson! This will be one of my last glimpses as a cadet." Laura assented. Greg was about to follow, when Belle Meade drew him back. "Take me inside," she urged. "I am eager to see the decorations." "But Dick and Laura?" queried Greg. "They're of age and can take care of themselves," smiled Miss Meade. Dick Prescott's heart was beating, now, like a trip-hammer. Even the next day's graduation, and the entrance into the Army looked insignificant to him compared with the question of his fate that was now seething in his brain and which he must now have settled. Two or three times he opened his lips to speak, then closed them, as the two young people stood glancing down at the river through the darkness. "Aren't you unusually silent, Dick?" asked Laura. "Perhaps so," he assented in a low voice. "I'm scared." "Scared!" "Yes; scared cold. I never knew such a fright in my life before." "Why, what-----" "Laura, I reckon the brief, direct way of the soldier will be best. Laura, ever since we were in High School together I have loved you. Through all the years that have followed, that love has never slumbered for an instant. It has grown stronger with every passing \ week. I-----" With a little cry Laura Bentley drew back. "I'm going right through to the end," cried Dick desperately. "Then you can throw cold water over me---if you must. Laura, I love you, and that love is nearly all of my life! I ask you to become a soldier's bride---mine!" "And---and---is that what has scared you?" asked Laura in a very low voice. "Yes!" "What a pitiful coward you are, then, to be a candidate for a commission in the Army," laughed Laura Bentley softly. "But you---you haven't answered me." "Why, Dick, I've never had another thought, in six years, than that I loved you!" "Laura! You love me?" "Why, of course, Dick. What has ailed your eyes and your reasoning powers?" With a glad cry, Prescott gathered his betrothed in his arms, claiming a lover's privilege. Then out of an inner pocket he drew a little box, drew out a circlet of gold in which a solitaire glistened, and slipped the ring over the finger set apart for the purpose of wearing such pledges. "And how soon, Laura---sweetheart?" he demanded eagerly. "Now, as to that, you must act like a creature of reason," Laura laughingly insisted. "You are not yet in the Army. At first, after you do receive your commission, you must be saving and careful. It needs furniture and all those things, you see, Dick, dearest, to form the background of a home. We must wait a little while---but what sweet waiting it will be!" "Won't it, though!" demanded Dick with fervor. "Laura, it seems to me that I must be dreaming. I can scarcely realize my great good fortune." "Nor can I," replied Laura softly. "You have always been my boy knight, Dick." As they stepped inside and approached their nearest friends, Belle murmured in Greg's ear: "Look at the electric glow that comes from the third finger of Laura's left hand. Now, do you comprehend, booby, what a fatal mistake you would have made, had I allowed you to tag them around to the cliff?" "Well, I'm jiggered!" gasped Cadet Holmes. "Which means that I'm petrified with delight." "Get practical, then," chided Belle. "Take me forward to them, and we'll have the happiness of being the first to congratulate the newest arrivals in paradise!" Two minutes later, the leader of the orchestra swung his baton. As the music pealed forth, Dick Prescott knew, for the first time in his life, the full meaning of the dance in Cullum Hall. There were many other newly betrothed couples on the floor that happy night of the graduation ball. The air was fragrant with flowers, but there was more---the atmosphere of new-found happiness on all sides. Outside, in the shadow of the moonless night, a stoop-shouldered figure prowled in the near vicinity of Cullum Hall. This was Jordan, intent on guessing when would be the most favorable moment for sending in the message that should call Prescott out to his doom. One of the watchmen, a soldier, in the quartermaster's department, belted, and with a revolver hanging therefrom in its holster, passed by and noted Jordan. "Are you waiting for anyone, sir?" asked the watchman, halting a moment, though only in mild curiosity. "I'm going to send a message in, after the music stops, for my cousin," replied Jordan, who knew that he must give some account of himself. "Your cousin? A cadet?" asked the watchman. "Oh, yes. Mr. Atterbury, of the first class," responded Jordan, giving the name of his former roommate at a venture. "Very good, sir," replied the watchman, and passed on. Mr. Atterbury, however, at that very moment, chanced to be standing on the further side of a tree not far distant, and with him were two other first classmen. "Who is that fellow?" queried Atterbury in a low whisper. "I've seen him around here before this, and his voice sounds mighty familiar." The passing watchman heard the question, so he answered: "He says he is your cousin, sir!" "He is not my cousin," replied Atterbury with strange sternness. "And, since the fellow is here in disguise, it ought to be our business to ask him some questions. Come on, fellows!" Atterbury strode out of the shadow, followed just a second later by "Durry" and "Doug." The prowler's first instinct was to run, but he dare not; that would proclaim guilt. "See here, sir," demanded Atterbury, striding straight up to the stoop-shouldered, bewhiskered one, "your name is Jordan, isn't it?" "No!" lied the wretch, in a voice that he strove to disguise. "Yes, it is," insisted Atterbury. "Rooming with you nearly four years, I can't be fooled with any suddenly pickled voice. Jordan, what are you doing here in disguise?" "I don't know that my presence here is any of your business," growled the ex-cadet. "Yes; it is," insisted Atterbury. "And you'll give us an account, too, or we'll lay hold of you and turn you over to some one official." At that threat Jordan turned to bolt. As he did so, three cadets sprang after him. At the third or fourth bound they had hold of him and bore him, fighting, to the earth. Even now Jordan used his splendid physique and strength in a determined, bitter struggle. But "Durry" helped turn the fellow over, face down, and then all three sat on their catch. "Doug," however, felt something hard. Leaping up, he made a quick search, then drew from Jordan's hip pocket a length of lead pipe wrapped in red flannel. "Ye gods of war," gasped Douglass, "what sort of weapon is this for a former gentleman to carry?" "Let me up," pleaded Jordan, "and I'll make a quick hike!" "Don't you let him up, fellows," warned Douglass. "Now, whom did Jordan seek with an implement like this? There could be but one of our men---Prescott." "Have you anything to say, Jordan?" demanded Atterbury. "Not a blessed word," growled Jordan, no longer attempting to disguise his voice. "Then we have," returned "Doug." "But you two fellows hold him until I come back." Douglass ran over to the cliff, then, with a mighty throw, hurled the bar of lead out into the Hudson, far below. Then he darted back. "Now, fellows," muttered Douglass in a low voice, "I'd like mighty well to turn this scoundrel over. But we don't want to put such a foul besmirchment on the class name, if we can avoid it, the night before graduation. Jordan, if we let you go, will you hike, and never stop hiking until you're miles and miles away from West Point?" "Yes; on my honor," protested the other eagerly. "On your---bosh!" retorted "Doug" impatiently. "Don't spring such strange oaths on us, fellow. Let him." "Now, Jordan, start moving, and keep it up!" Then the trio, after watching the rascal out of sight, went inside, and Douglass, at the first opportunity, warned Dick of what had happened outside in the summer darkness. CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION The graduating exercises at West Point had finished. The Secretary of War, in the presence of the superintendent, the commandant and the members of the faculty of the United States Military Academy, flanked by the Board of Visitors, had handed his diploma to the last man, the cadet at the foot of the graduating class, Mr. Atterbury. Dick had graduated as number thirty-four; Greg as thirty-seven. Either might have chosen the cavalry, or possibly the artillery arm of the service, but both had already expressed a preference for the infantry arm. "The 'doughboys' (infantry) are always the fellows who see the hardest of the fighting in war time," was the way Dick put it. Now the superintendent made a few closing remarks. These finished, the band blared out with a triumphal march, to the first notes of which the first class rose and marched out, amid cheers and hand-clapping, to be followed by the other classes. Five minutes later the young graduates were laying aside the gray uniform for good and all. Cit. clothes now went on, and each grad. surveyed himself with some wonder in attire which was so unfamiliar. Out in the quadrangle, for the last time, the grads. met. There, too, were the members of the classes remaining, but these latter were still in the cadet gray, and would be until the close of their own grad. days. Hurried good-byes were said. Warm handclasps sounded on all sides. Few words were said, but there were many wet eyes. Then some of the grads. raced for the station to board the next city-bound train. Greg remained behind with Dick. After quitting the quadrangle, they bent swift steps toward the hotel, where awaited Mrs. Prescott, Mrs. Bentley, Laura and Belle. Something else waited, too---a carriage, or rather, a small bus, for Dick and Greg were no longer cadets and might ride over the post in a carriage if they chose. "It was beautifully impressive, dear," whispered Laura, referring to the graduating exercises. "But, thank goodness, it's over, and I have my diploma in this suit case," murmured Dick grimly. "No more fearful grind, such as we've been going through for more than four years. No more tortured doubts as to whether we'll ever grad. and get our commissions in the Army. That is settled, now. And think, Laura, if I hear a bugle in the city to-morrow morning, I can simply turn over and take another nap." "You lazy boy!" laughed Laura half chidingly. "You spend four years and three months here, and see if you don't feel the same way about it," smiled Dick. "But I love every gray stone in these grand old buildings, just the same. West Point shall be ever dear in my memory!" Greg's mother now came out and joined the ladies on the porch. A moment or two later Mr. Prescott and Mr. Holmes stepped out and grasped their sons' hands. "We haven't a heap of time left if we want to catch the down-river steamboat," suggested Dick, with a glance at his watch. So this happy little home party entered the bus, and the drive to the dock began. They passed scores of cadets, who carefully saluted these grads. Everyone in the party knew of the betrothal of Dick and Laura. Greg had had to stand a good deal of good-natured chaffing from his parents because he had not fared as well. "The next girl I get engaged to," sighed Greg, "I'm going to insist on marrying instantly. Then there'll be no danger of losing her." At the dock, Anstey, Durville, Douglass and other grads. waited, though the majority of the members of the late first class were already speeding to New York on a train that had started a few minutes earlier. "I couldn't bear to go down by train, suh," explained Anstey in a very low voice. "I want to stand at the stern of the steamer, and see West Point's landmarks fade and vanish one by one. And I don't reckon, suh, that I shall want anyone to talk to me while I'm looking back from the stern of the boat." "Same here," observed Greg, with what was, for him, a considerable display of feeling. Then the boat swept in, and the West Point party went silently aboard. All made their way to the stern on the saloon deck. That evening the class was to meet, for the last time as a whole, at one of the theaters in New York. And the late cadets would sit together, solidly, as a class. Friends of graduates who wished would attend the theater, though in seats away from the class. Dick and Greg's relatives and friends were all to attend. More, they were to stop at the same hotel. The next forenoon the ladies would attend to some shopping. Then the reunited party would journey back to Gridley. A dozen or so West Point graduates stood at the stern of the swift river steamer. The captain of the craft, a veteran in the river service, knew something of how these young men just out of the gray felt. For the first five miles down the river the swift craft went at half speed. Then, suddenly, full speed ahead was rung on the engine-room bell, and the craft went on under greatly increased headway. "Well, gentlemen," murmured Anstey, moving around and walking slowly forward, "the United States Military Academy is the grandest alma mater that a fellow could possibly have. I'm glad to be through, glad to be away from West Point, but I shall journey reverently back there any time when I have any leisure in this bright part of the good old world." How sweet the joys of the great metropolis! Yet these joys would have palled had our travelers remained there too long. The following afternoon they were again journeying toward what is, after all, the one real spot on earth---home! Gridley well-nigh went wild over its returning West Pointers---though now West Pointers no longer. One of Dick Prescott's first tasks was to go proudly to Dr. Bentley, to state that he had had the wonderful good fortune to win Laura's heart, and to ask whether her father had any objection. "Objection, Dick?" beamed the good old physician. "Why, lad, for years I've been hoping---yes, praying that you and Laura would have this good fortune. Wherever you may be stationed in the world, you'll let our daughter come back to us once in a while, I hope." Dick solemnly promised, whereat Dr. Bentley smiled. "That's all nonsense, Dick," laughed Laura's father. "I know, in my own heart, that you're going to be as good a son to mother and me as you have been to your own parents. God bless you both!" A new lot of High School boys Dick and Greg found in Gridley, but the new crop seemed to be fully as promising as any that Dick and Greg could remember in their own old High School days when Dick & Co. had flourished. A fortnight, altogether, Dick and Greg enjoyed in the good old home town, hallowed to them by so many memories. Then one morning each received a bulky official envelope bearing the imprint of the War Department at Washington. How their eyes glistened, then moistened, as each young West Point grad. drew out of the envelope the parchment on which was written his commission as a second lieutenant of United States infantry. More, their request had been granted. They had been assigned to the same regiment---the forty-fourth. Their instructions called for them to start within forty-eight hours, and to wire acknowledgment of orders to Washington. The Forty-fourth United States Infantry was at that time in the far West, in a country that at times teemed with adventure for Uncle Sam's soldiers. Here we must take leave of Lieutenant Dick Prescott and of Lieutenant Greg Holmes, United States Army, for their cadet days are over and gone. Readers, however, who wish to meet these sterling young Americans again, and who would also like to renew acquaintance with two former members of Dick & Co., Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, will be able to do so in Volume Number Five of the _Young Engineers' Series_, entitled: "_The Young Engineers On The Gulf_." In this very interesting volume the young engineers and the young Army officers will be found to have some very startling adventures together. Readers will also be able to learn more of the careers of Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, as Army officers, in the "_Boys Of The Army Series_." Some of their campaigns will be described very fully, for these splendid young officers served as officers and instructors of the "_Boys of the Army_." THE END 
12806	----	DICK PRESCOTT'S THIRD YEAR AT WEST POINT or Standing Firm for Flag and Honor By H. Irving Hancock CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. On Furlough in the Old Home Town II. Brass Meets Gold III. Dick & Co. Again IV. What About Mr. Cameron? V. Along a "Dangerous" Road VI. The Surprise the Lawyer Had in Store VII. Prescott Lays a Powder Trail VIII. A Father's Just Wrath Strikes IX. Back to the Good, Gray Life X. The Scheme of the Turnback XI. Brayton Makes a Big Appeal XII. In the Battle Against Lehigh XIII. When the Cheers Broke Loose XIV. For Auld Lang Syne XV. Heroes and a Sneak XVI. Roll-Call Gives the Alarm XVII. Mr. Cadet Slowpoke XVIII. The Enemies Have an Understanding XIX. The Traitor of the Riding Hall XX. In Cadet Hospital XXI. The Man Moving in a Dark Room XXII. The Row in the Riding Detachment XXIII. The Degree of "Coventry" XXIV. Conclusion CHAPTER I ON FURLOUGH IN THE OLD HOME TOWN "My son, Richard. He is home on his furlough from the Military Academy at West Point." Words would fail in describing motherly pride with which Mrs. Prescott introduced her son to Mrs. Davidson, wife of the new pastor. "I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Prescott," said Mrs. Davidson, looking up, for up she had to glance in order to see the face of this tall, distinguished-looking cadet. Dick Prescott's return bow was made with the utmost grace, yet without affectation. His natty straw hat he held in his right hand, close to his breast. Mrs. Davidson was a sensible and motherly woman, who wished to give this young man the pleasantest greeting, but she was plainly at a loss to know what to say. Like many excellent and ordinarily well-informed American people, she had not the haziest notions of West Point. "You are learning to be a soldier, of course?" she asked. "Yes, Mrs. Davidson," replied Dick gravely. Neither in his face nor in his tone was there any hint of the weariness with which he had so often, of late, heard this aimless question repeated. "And when you are through with your course there," pursued Mrs. Davidson, "do you enlist in the Army? Or may you, if you prefer, become a sailor in our--er--Navy?" "Oh, I fear, Mrs. Davidson, that you don't understand," smiled Mrs. Prescott proudly. My son is now going through a very rigorous four years' course at the Military Academy. It is a course that is superior, in most respects to a college training, but that it is devoted to turning out commissioned officers for the Army. When Richard graduates, in two years more, he will be commissioned by the President as a second lieutenant in the Army." "Oh, I understood you to say that you were training to become a soldier, Mr. Prescott," cried Mrs. Davidson in some confusion. "I did not understand that you would become an officer." "An officer who is not also a good soldier is a most unfortunate and useless fellow under the colors," laughed Dick lightly. "But it is so much more honorable to be an officer than to be a mere soldier!" cried the pastor's wife. "We do not think so in the army, Mrs. Davidson," Dick answered more responsibility, to be sure, but we feel that the honor falls alike on men of all grades of position who are privileged to wear their country's uniform." "But don't the officers look down on the common soldiers?" asked Mrs. Davidson curiously. "If an officer does, then surely he has chosen the wrong career in life, madam," the cadet replied seriously. "We are not taught at West Point that an officer should 'look down' upon an enlisted man. There is a gulf of discipline, but none of manhood, between the enlisted man and his officer. And it frequently happens that the officer who is a graduate from West Point is called upon to welcome, as a brother officer, a man who has just been promoted from the ranks." Mrs. Davidson looked puzzled, as, indeed, she was. But she suddenly remembered something that made her feel more at ease. "Why, I saw an officer and some soldiers on a train, the other day," she cried. "The officer had at least eight or ten soldiers with him, under his command. I remember what a fine-looking young man he was. He had what looked like two V's on his sleeve, and I remember that they were yellow. What kind of an officer is the man who wears the two yellow V's?" "A non-commissioned officer, Mrs. Davidson; a corporal of cavalry." "Was he higher that you'll be when you graduate from West Point?" "No; a corporal is an enlisted man, a step above the private soldier. The sergeant is also an enlisted man, and above the corporal. Above the sergeant comes the second lieutenant, who is the lowest-ranking commissioned officer." "Oh, I am sure I never could understand it all," sighed Mrs. Davidson. "Why don't they have just plain soldiers and captains, and put the captains in a different color of uniform? Then ordinary people could comprehend something about the Army. But in describing that young soldier's uniform, I forgot something, Mr. Prescott. That young soldier, or officer, or whatever he was, beside the two yellow V's, had a white stripe near the hem of his cuff." "Just one white stripe?" queried Dick. "Just one, I am sure." "Then that one white stripe would show that the corporal, before entering the cavalry, had served one complete enlistment in the infantry." "Oh, this is simply incomprehensible!" cried the new pastor's wife in comical dismay. "I am certain that I could never learn to know all these things." "It is a little confusing at first," smiled Dick's mother with another show of pride. "But I think I am beginning to understand quite a lot of it." Mrs. Davidson went out of the bookstore conducted by Dick's parents in the little city of Gridley. Dick sighed a bit wearily. "Why don't Americans take a little more pains to understand things American?" he asked his mother, with a comical smile. "People who would be ashamed not to know something about St. Peter's, at Rome, or the London Tower, are not quite sure what the purpose of the United States Military Academy is." Yet, though some people annoyed him with their foolish questions, he was heartily glad to be back, for the summer, in the dear old home town. So was his chum, Greg Holmes, also a West Point cadet, and, like Prescott, a member of the new second class at the United States Military Academy. Both young men had now been in Gridley for forty-eight hours. They had met a host old-time friends, including nearly all of the High School students of former days. Readers of "_Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point_" and of "_Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point_," are familiar with the careers of the two chums, Prescott and Holmes, at the United States Military Academy. The same readers are also familiar with the life at West Point of Bert Dodge, a former Gridley boy, but who had been appointed a cadet from another part of the state. Our old readers are aware of the fact that Dodge had been forced out of the Military Academy for dishonorable conduct; that it was the cadets, not the authorities, who had compelled his departure, and that Dodge resigned and left before the close of his second year. Readers of these volumes of the _High School Boys' Series_ know all about Bert Dodge in the course of his career at Gridley High School. Dodge, back in the old days in Gridley, had been a persistent enemy of Dick & Co., as Prescott and his five chums had always been called in the High School. Of those five chums Greg, as is well known, was Dick's comrade at West Point. Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell were now midshipmen at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. Their adventures while learning to be United States Navel officers, are fully set forth in The Annapolis Series. Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had chosen to go West, where they became civil engineers engaged in railway construction through the wild parts of the country, as fully set forth in the _Young Engineers' Series_. Just after Mrs. Davidson left the bookstore there were no customers left, so Dick had a few moments in which to chat with his mother. "What has become of the fellow Dodge?" asked the young West Pointer. "Oh, haven't I told you?" asked his mother. A shade of annoyance crossed her face, for she well knew that it was Dodge who, while at West Point, had nearly succeeded in having her son dismissed from the Service on a charge of which Dodge, not Dick, was guilty. "No, mother; and I haven't thought to ask." "Bert Dodge is here in Gridley at present. The Dodge family are occupying their old home here for a part of the summer." "Do people here understand that Dodge had to resign from West Point in order to escape a court-martial that would have bounced him out of the Military Academy?" Dick inquired. "No; very few know it. I have mentioned Dodge's disgrace to only one person beside your father." "You told Laura Bentley?" "Yes, Dick. She had a right to know. Laura has always been your loyal friend. When she reached West Point, last winter, expecting to go to a cadet hop with you, she remained at West Point until you had been tried by court-martial and acquitted on that unjust charge. Laura had a right to know the whole story." "She surely had," nodded Dick. "As to Gridley people in general," went on Mrs. Prescott, "I have not felt it necessary to say anything, and folks generally believe that Bert Dodge resigned from the corps of cadets simply because he did not find Army life to his liking." "He wouldn't have found it to his liking had he chosen not to resign," smiled Prescott darkly. "Are you going to say anything about Dodge while you are home?" inquired his mother, glancing up quickly. "Not a word, if I can avoid it," replied Dick. "I hate tale-bearers." At this moment the postman came in, blowing his whistle and rapidly sorting out a pile of letters, which he dropped on the counter. "There are probably a lot here for me, mother," smiled Dick. "Shall I separate then from the business mail?" "If you will, my boy." Some dozen of the envelopes proved to be addressed to young Prescott. Of these two were letters frown West Point classmates. Three were from old friends in Gridley, sending him congratulations and expressing the hope of meeting him during his furlough. The remainder of the letters were mainly invitations of a social nature. "Odd!" grinned the young soldier. When I was merely a High School boy I could go a whole month without receiving anything resembling a social invitation. Now I am receiving them at the rate of a score a day." "Well, a West Point cadet is some one socially, is he not?" smiled Mrs. Prescott. "I suppose so," nodded Dick. "The truth is, a cadet has so much social attention paid to him that it is a wonder more of the fellows are not spoiled." "Are you going to accept any social invitations while you are home?" asked his mother. "That depends," Dick answered. "If invitations come from people who were glad to see me when I was a High School boy here, then I shall try to accept. But I don't care much about meeting who didn't care about meeting me two years ago. Here is a note from Miss Clara Deane, mother. She trusts that Greg and I can make it convenient to call at her home next Saturday afternoon, and meet some of her friends. When I attended Gridley Miss Deane used to look down on me because I was a poor man's son. I believe her set referred to me as a 'mucker.' At least, the fellows of her set did. So I shall send Miss Deane a brief note of regret." Dick continued to examine his mail while carrying on a running fire of talk with his proud and happy mother. "Oh, here is a very nice note from Susie Sharp," he murmured, opening another epistle. "She is having quite a few friends at the house this afternoon, and she begs that Greg and I will be present. Miss Sharp was a very nice girl in the old days, although she and I never happened to be very particular friends. Now, I want to have all the time I can for my real friends of the old days." "Miss Sharp would be very proud to entertain two men from West Point," suggested his mother. "That's just the reason," Dick answered. "Miss Sharp invites us not because she was ever much a friend of ours, but simply because she is anxious to entertain two cadets. She probably reasons that it may give distinction to her afternoon tea, or whatever the affair is." "Then you are not going?" asked Mrs. Prescott. "I hardly think so. Not unless Greg wishes it." The next envelope that Dick picked up was addressed in Laura Bentley's handwriting. Dick read for a moment, then announced: "I have changed my mind. I shall go to call on Miss Sharp. Laura urges me to, saying that Miss Sharp has been very kind to her in the last year. If Laura wishes it, I'll go to call on any one." At this moment Greg Holmes, tall, muscular, erect and looking as though he had just come from the tailor's iron, stepped cheerily into the store. "Morning, old ramrod," hailed the other cadet. "I know you don't mind that kind of talk, Mrs. Prescott. It's our term of affection for Dick at West Point. Going through your invitations, are you? Aren't they the bore, though. Especially as we had very few invitations when we were High School boys in this same old town." "You received one from Susie: Sharp, of course?" "Yes," Greg assented. "And I'm going---not!" "You are going---yes!" Dick retorted. "Oh!" nodded Greg. "Am I entitled to any explanation?" "Laura wishes it." "That's a whole platoon of reasons boiled down into one file-closer," grinned Greg. "Yes; I am going to visit Miss Sharp this afternoon." "Have you heard that Bert Dodge is in town at present?" "No!" muttered Greg. Then added tersely: "The b.j.(fresh) rascal! I wonder what folks here think of a sneak who was forced to resign by a cadet committee on honor?" "Folks here don't know that Dodge was forced out of the Academy." "Thank you for telling me," nodded Greg. "Then I shall know how to keep my mouth shut. Laura will be a Miss Sharp's this afternoon, of course?" "Naturally. And Belle Meade, also." "Then," proposed Greg, "suppose we 'phone the girls and ask if we may call this afternoon and escort them to Miss Sharp's. We must do something to show that we appreciate their loyalty in remaining at West Point last winter until your name was cleared of disgrace." "Yes; we'll 'phone them," nodded Dick. On both days, so far, that he had been home, Dick had called at Dr. Bentley's to see Laura. In fact, that was the only calling he had done, though he had met scores of friends on the street. Both young ladies were pleased to accept the proffered escort. "By the way," proposed Greg, "what are you going to do this morning?" "Going out for a walk, for one thing," replied Dick. "I've talked to mother until she must have ear-ache on both sides, and feel tired of having me home." "What do you saw if we trot around and extract handshakes from some of the follows we used to pack schoolbooks with?" hinted Holmes. "For instance, Ennerton is down at the bank, in a new job. Foss is advertising manager in Curlham & Peck's department store. I know he'll be glad to see us if we don't take up too much of his employer's time. Then Ted Sanders-----" And so Greg continued to enumerate a lot of the old Gridley High School boys of whose present doings he had gotten track. Dick and Greg left the bookstore and started on the rounds to hunt up the best remembered of their old schoolmates. And a pleasant morning they had of it. Thought the sun poured down its heat over the little city, these two cadets, who had drilled for two summers on the blistering plain and the dusty roads at West Point, did not notice the warmth of the day. In the afternoon, in good season, Dick called for Laura, waiting there until Belle Meade arrived under the escort of Greg. "These West Pointers make the most correct and attentive escorts imaginable," laughed Belle. "But there's just one disadvantage connected with them." "I hadn't noticed it," smiled Laura. "Why, when Greg walks beside me, and holds my parasol, I feel as though I were in the street with my parasol tied to the Methodist steeple. Where's your rice powder, Laura? I'm sure the sun has made a sight of my nose and neck." Laughing merrily, the young people set off for Miss Sharp's. The home was a comfortable one, with attractive grounds, for the elder Sharp was a well-to-do merchant. Some three score of young people were present, and of these nearly two thirds had belonged to the High School student body in the old High School days of Dick and Greg. Naturally, the young ladies outnumbered the young men by more than four to one. "Oh, I am delighted that you two have come," cried Susie, moving forward to greet her cadet visitors. This was wholly true, for Miss Sharp had planned the affair solely in order to have the distinction of entertaining the young West Pointers. Had Dick and Greg remained away, Susie, without doubt, would have been both disappointed and humiliated. Through the connecting drawing rooms Dick and Greg moved with a grace and lack of consciousness greatly in contrast with their semi-awkwardness in their earlier High School days. Many pleasant acquaintances were renewed here. Suddenly, Susie, catching a glimpse of the front walk, hastened out into the hallway. Then she came in, smiling eagerly, a well-dressed, pompous-looking young man at her side. "Mr. Prescott! Mr. Holmes!" called Susie. "Here is an old comrade whom you both may be surprised to meet!" Dick and Greg turned, and indeed, they were astonished. For the latest arrival was Bert Dodge! "Howdy, fellows!" called Dodge carelessly, though inwardly he was quaking with alarm. How would these two decent cadets treat the fellow who had been kicked out of West Point for dishonorable acts? Prescott bowed, but did not speak. Greg's line of conduct was identical with his chum's. Bert turned white, at first, with mortification. Then a red flush set in at his neck, extending to his face and temples. But Dodge possessed "brass," if not honor, so he decided to face it out. Turning to a young woman standing nearby, Bert spoke to her, and they laughed and chatted. From her, Bert passed through the room nodding here, chatting there. Dick and Greg, after the first look of amazement, followed by their cold bows, had turned to the old friends with whom they had been chatting. In the course of a few minutes Bert Dodge had got along close to the two cadets. "How are you, Prescott?" called Bert. "How is good old West Point? And you, Holmes---how are you?" Dodge held out his hand with all the effrontery of which he was capable. Turning, Dick gave the sneak only a cold, steady look. CHAPTER II BRASS MEETS GOLD Neither Dick nor Greg took the trouble to answer the greeting. Dodge's outstretched hand both cadets affected not to see. As it happened, few of the others present noted this brief little scene. A natural break in the crowd left Dick alone for the moment, with Holmes standing not far away and looking coldly in the direction of the ex-cadet, yet not appearing to see him at all. "Well, what's the matter?" hissed Dodge in an undertone that the other guests did not hear. "Are you going to make a fool of yourself, Prescott?" "You'd better execute a right-about face and make double-time away from here," replied Dick in a freezing undertone. "Otherwise I don't believe the guests will fail to observe how West Pointers regard a convicted sneak." "Are you going to open your mouth and do a lot of talking?" whispered Dodge menacingly. "Or are you going to keep your tongue behind your teeth?" "I can't undertake to lower myself by making any promises to a sneak," retorted Dick, still in an undertone. "But I warn you that any further conversation I have with you will be carried on in ordinary conversational tones. And if you undertake to remain, we shall be obliged to inform our hostess that we regret our inability to stay any longer." Conscious that others were probably looking their way, Bert Dodge tried to make his face as expressionless as possible. "See here, Prescott-----" the fellow began coaxingly. But Dick turned and walked away. Greg, very stiff and straight, moved at his friend's side. Afraid of what others might notice, Dodge passed on. He presently reached a door leading into the hallway. Here he remained briefly. Then, when he believed himself to be unobserved, he slipped out, took his hat and got away. A few minutes later, as Dick and Greg passed the door of a little reception room, Susie Sharp called them in quietly. They found her there alone. "Oh, Mr. Prescott! Mr. Holmes! Have I made any mistake, I thought it would be a pleasant surprise to you both if I had Mr. Dodge here to meet you, as you all three were classmates at West Point. But I should have remembered that in the old High School days you two and Mr. Dodge were not the best of friends." There was an agitated catch in Susie's voice. Their young hostess was worried by the thought that she had invited jarring elements to meet. "Why, to be candid, I don't believe Dodge ever admired either Greg or myself very much, replied Cadet Prescott evenly. "But did I make a fearful mistake?" pleaded Susie. "One cannot make a mistake who aims at the pleasure of others," Dick answered smilingly. Somewhat reassured, Susie asked her cadet guests to return with her to the drawing rooms. There they joined a little group, and were chatting when a girl's voice reached them from a few feet away. The girl who was speaking did not realize that her tones carried as far as the ears of Dick and Greg as she explained to two other young women: "Mr. Dodge said he resigned from the Military Academy because he could not stand the crowd there." "I guess that's true," muttered Dick inwardly. "The crowd couldn't stand Dodge, either." But Sam Foss made the conversation general by calling: "How about that, Dick! I always thought West Point was a very select place. Bessie Frost says Dodge left West Point because he thought the fellows there rather below his grade socially." "Perhaps they are," nodded Dick gravely, but in even tones. "I have heard it stated that about sixty per cent. of the cadets are the sons of wage-earners. Indeed, one of the cadets whom I most respect has not attempted to conceal the fact that, until he graduates and begins to draw officer's pay, his mother will have to continue to support herself at the washtub. That young man is now in the first class, and I can tell you that we are all mighty anxious to see that man graduate and find himself where he can look after a noble mother who has the misfortune to be unusually poor in purse." "Then as an American, I'm proud of West Point, if it has fellows with no more false shame than that," cried Foss heartily. "Why, I always thought West Point a very swell place, extremely so," murmured Bessie Frost. "In fact--pardon me, won't you---I have always heard that the young men at West Point are very much puffed up and very exclusive." Dick laughed good-humoredly. "Of course, Miss Frost, the cadet is expected to learn how to become a gentleman as well as an officer. Yet why should any of us feel unduly conceited? We are privileged to secure one of the best educations to be obtained in the world, but we obtain it at public expense. Not only our education, but all our living expenses are paid for out of the nation's treasury, and that money is contributed by all tax-payers alike. If we of the cadet corps should get any notion that we belong to a superior race of beings, to whom would we owe it all? Are the cadets not indebted for their opportunities to all the citizens of the United States?" "Did Bert Dodge have any especial trouble at West Point?" asked another girl. "Mr. Dodge did not make us his confidants," evaded Dick coolly. "What do you say, Mr. Holmes?" persisted the same girl. "About the same that Dick does," replied Greg. "You see, there are several hundred cadets at West Point, and Dick and I were not in the same section with Dodge." "Was he one of the capable students there?" "Why, he was in a much higher section than either Dick or myself," admitted Greg truthfully; but he did not think it necessary to explain the trickery and cribbing by which Dodge had secured the appearance of higher scholarship. At this point the tact and good sense of Miss Susie Sharp caused her to use her opportunities as hostess to break up the group and to start some new lines of conversation. But Susie was uneasy, and presently she found a chance to whisper to Laura Bentley: "Tell me, dear---what lies back of the fact that Mr. Dodge does not seem to be on good terms with Mr. Prescott and Mr. Holmes?" "Did Bert Dodge know that Dick and Greg were to be here!" asked Miss Bentley. "No; I wanted it to be a surprise on both sides." "It must have been, my dear," smiled Laura "The fact is that Dick and Greg are not on friendly terms with Mr. Dodge." "Oh!" murmured Susie, moving away. "I am glad that it was no worse." A large tent had been erected on one of the lawns. To this tent, later in the afternoon, Miss Sharp invited her guests. Here a collation had been served, with pretty accessories, by a caterer, and several waiters stood about to serve. When the guests returned to the house they discovered that the rugs had been removed, and that an orchestra was now at hand to furnish music for dancing. Given music and a smooth floor, young people do not mind exertion on a hot June afternoon. Dancing was at once in full swing. Nor did the young people leave until after six o'clock. Greg escorted Belle Meade home, Dick walking with Laura. The two cadet chums met on Main Street a little later. They stood near a corner, chatting, when Bert Dodge came unexpectedly around the corner. He saw the two cadets, changed color, then halted. Neither Dick nor Greg checked their conversation, nor let it be known that they were aware of the ex-cadet's presence. But Dodge, after looking at the chums sourly for a moment, stepped squarely in front of them. "See here, you fellows-----" he began, his voice sounding thickly. "Have you the impudence to address us," asked Prescott coolly. "Don't talk to me about impudence!" snarled Dodge. "What did you two say about me, after I left this afternoon?" "Oh, I assure you we didn't discuss you any more than was necessary," replied Dick frigidly. "What did you say?" insisted Dodge. "We couldn't say much about you," Greg broke in icily. "You know, you're hardly a fit subject for conversation." "See here, you two fellows," warned Bert angrily, "you want to be mighty careful what you say about me! Do you understand? A single unfriendly word, that does any injury to my reputation, and I'll take it out of you." Prescott would not go to the length of sneering. He allowed an amused twinkle to show in his eyes. "On your way, Dodge that's the best course for you," advised Greg coldly. "We're not interested in your threats of fight, and you ought to know better, too, after some of the thumpings you've had." "Fight?" jeered Dodge harshly. "You fellows seem to think you're still in cadet barracks, and that all you have to do is to call me out, and that my only recourse is to put up an argument before a class scrap committee. But you fellows aren't at West Point just now, and cadet committees don't run things here. You're back in civilization, where we have laws and regular courts. Now, if I find that you fellows are saying a single word against me I'll have you both arrested for criminal libel. I'll have you put through the courts, too, and sent to jail. Then, when you get out of jail, you can find out what your high and mighty West Point friends think of that!" Dodge finished with a harsh, sneering laugh, then turned on his heel. "The cheap skate!" muttered Greg, looking after the retreating fellow. "Humph! I'd like to see him make any trouble for us!" "He may try it," muttered Prescott, gazing thoughtfully after their ancient enemy. "How?" demanded Greg. "We don't think him worth talking about among decent people, so we'll give him not the slightest chance to make any trouble." "We won't give Dodge any real cause, of course," nodded Dick gravely. "But a scoundrel like Dodge doesn't need real cause. That young man has altogether more spending money than is good for his morals. Why, with his money, Greg, Dodge would know how to find people, apparently respectable, who would be willing to accept a price for perjuring themselves." "Humph!" uttered Greg. "If Dodge could get such testimony, and his perjurers would stick to their yarns," continued Dick, "then the young scoundrel might be actually able to carry out his threats." "He wouldn't dare!" "If it were anything high-minded and dangerous, Dodge wouldn't dare," admitted Dick. "But minds like his will dare a good deal to put through anything scoundrelly against people who try to be decent." CHAPTER III DICK & CO. AGAIN "Hey, there, you galoot! You thin, long-drawn-out seven feet of tin soldier!" After having been home a week, Dick Prescott flushed as he wheeled about to meet this jeering greeting. In another instant every trace of his wrath had vanished. "Tom Reade!" hailed Dick in great delight, turning and rushing at his old High School chum. "And good little Harry Hazelton!" It was, indeed, the young engineer pair, Reade and Hazelton, old-time members of Dick & Co., the great High School crowd of Gridley. Reade and Hazelton, after finishing at the High School, had gone out to Colorado to serve under the engineer in charge of a great piece of railway construction work. The adventures of Tom and Harry, in the wild spots of the West, are fully set forth in the volumes of the _Young Engineers Series_. "The last fellow I expected to meet in Gridley!" cried Dick, overflowing with delight as he stuck out both hands at once and grasped theirs. "Well, we are, aren't we?" demanded Reade. "You are---what?" "The last fellows you've met in Gridley. But where's Greg?" "If he's out of bed," grinned Prescott, "he's in cit. clothes." "Carrying a rifle and marching the lock-step---the route-step, I mean---has dulled your brain," growled Tom Reade. "Is Greg in Gridley?" "What scoundrel is taking my name in vein?" demanded Holmes, coming upon the trio. Then there were hearty greetings, all over again. But in the end Reade looked Greg over from head to foot. "Do they make you sleep on a stretcher at West Point?" Tom wanted to know. "Or what do they do, to pull a pair of galoots out to the length that you two have attained." "It's the physical training and the military drills," explained Prescott, laughing. "But my! You fellows look like the Indian's head on a copper cent!" Tom and Harry were, indeed, highly bronzed by the hot southwestern sun. Harry, in fact, was well on the way to being black, so burned had he become by his last few months of work. "I hope, if you fellows are ever allowed to go forth into the Army, you'll get your first station down in Arizona," teased Tom. "I don't," retorted Greg, "if it will make us look like you two." "Oh, it won't," broke in Harry mockingly. "You see, we have to work down in Arizona. But you fellows wouldn't. We've seen some thing of the soldiery down in that part of the world, and they're the laziest crowd you ever saw. Why, the Army officers in Arizona sleep all day and grumble about the heat all night. They have tame Apaches to do their work for them. Oh, no, you wouldn't suffer down in Arizona!" "But how do you fellows come to be home at this time?" asked Dick. "Homesick!" sighed Tom. "The fellows in our engineer corps are entitled to some leave. So Harry and I waited until we had enough leave piled up, and then we started back for Gridley." "Well, it's hot on this corner," muttered Greg, "and there's an ice cream place down the block, where the electric fans are going. Let's make a raid on the place. Do you fellows remember when we were happy if we could buy a ten-cent plate and then get by ourselves with six spoons to dip into the ice cream? Come on! Let's get good and square for those days." "Yes; it is hot here on this corner," assented Dick. "Hot?" demanded Reade impatiently. "Humph! Harry and I were just regretting that we hadn't worn our top coats today. We came to Gridley to cool off, and this old town seems like a heaven of coolness after the baked-brown alkali deserts of Arizona." "Double orders for each one of us," explained Harry, after the quartette of one time High School chums had seated themselves under a buzzing fan. Now, the chums of old days had time to look each other over more closely. Tom and Harry were taller than in the old High School days, but they had not quite reached the height of Dick and Greg. Both of the young civil engineers, besides being heavily bronzed, were thin and sinewy looking. Thin as they were, both looked the pictures of health. Though Tom and Harry did not "advertise" their tailors as well as did the two West Point cadets, nevertheless the pair of young civil engineers looked prosperous. They had the general air of being the kind of young men who are destined to succeed splendidly in life. Before the ice cream---the first double order, that is---reached the table, all of the young men were plunged into stories of their adventures during the last two years. Readers of these two series are familiar with the adventures that the young men discussed. "You've been getting a heap more excitement out of life, you two," Prescott admitted frankly. "Still, from my point of view, I wouldn't swap with you." "Just as bughouse on West Point and the Army as ever, are you?" quizzed Hazelton. "Just as much, and always will be," Dick nodded, beaming. "I can't share your enthusiasm," laughed Hazelton. "We've seen the Army in the West, and they're a lazy, little-account lot." Instead of getting angry, however, Dick and Greg laughed outright. "I wish we had you at West Point for forty-eight hours, right in barracks and Academic Building," declared Greg, his eyes dancing. "Whew! But you'd be able to view real world from a new angle!" "Oh, maybe at West Point," nodded Hazelton teasingly. "But afterwards, in the Army, it's just one dream of indolence." "Well, what do the Army officers actually do, out your ways" challenged Greg. "Why, they---well, they-----" "You don't know a blessed thing about it, do you?" dared Greg. "I thought not. You see, we do know something about what Army officers do with their time. That's what we're learning at West Point." "Don't let's fight," pleaded Tom pathetically. "Fellows, we may never meet again. Before another year rolls around Hazelton and I may have been scalped and burned by the Apaches, and you fellows may have died at West Point, from nervous prostration brought on by overeating and lack of exercise. So let's be good friends during the little time that we may have together." "When you get time," put in Dick dryly, "you might as well tell us when you reached Gridley." "After ten o'clock last night," supplied Harry. "Of course, we had to go home first. But this morning we set out to find you. We knew, of course, that any place would be likelier than your homes, so we tried Main Street first." "Many folks were glad to see you?" asked Tom. "Too many," sighed Dick. "That remark doesn't apply to any old friends, but there are a good many who always turned up their noses at us in the old days. Now, just because we're cadets, and because half-baked Army officers are supposed to be somebody in the social world, Greg and I are getting so much social mail that we fear we shall have to hire a secretary for the summer." "Nobody will bother _us_, I guess," grimaced Tom. "Most people here probably think that, because we're engineers, we run locomotives. That's what the word 'engineer' suggests to ignoramuses. Now, the man who runs a locomotive should properly be called an engine-tender, or engineman, while it's the fellow who surveys and bosses the building of a railroad that is the engineer. You get a smattering of engineering work at West Point, don't you?" "We've been at math. and drawing, so far," Dick explained. "That all leads up to the engineering instruction that we shall have to take up in September." "Oh, I dare say you'll get a very fair smattering of engineering," assented Tom. "It's nothing like the real practice that we get, though, out in the field with the survey and construction parties. I guess you fellows, after your grind in the High School, found West Point math. pretty easy, didn't you?" Dick laughed merrily before he answered. "Tom, the math. that a fellow gets in High School would take up about three months at West Point. How are you on math., now?" "Oh, not so fearfully rotten," replied Reade complacently. "Harry and I have had to dig up a lot of new math. since we've taken on with an engineering corps in the field. Harry, trot up some of the kind of mathematics that we have to use." "Wait a moment," put in Dick. "Greg, sketch out an easy one from the math. problems we have to dig into at West Point. Give 'em something light from conic sections first." Cadet Holmes sketched out, on the back of an envelope, the demonstration of a short problem. Tom and Harry looked on laughingly, at first. Then their eyes began to open. "Do you really have to dig up that sort of stuff at West Point," demanded Reade. "Yes," nodded Dick. "And now I'll show you another easy one, belonging to descriptive geometry." The two young engineers looked on and listened for a few moments. "Stop!" commanded Hazelton, at last. "My head is beginning to buzz!" "If that's the sort of gibberish you have to learn, I'm more than ever glad that I didn't go to West Point," proclaimed Reade. The old-time chums had eaten their fill of ice cream some time before, but they still sat about the table, chatting gayly. "There's one thing you never really told us about in your letters," muttered Tom. "You wrote us that Bert Dodge had resigned from the Military Academy, but you didn't tell us why. Now, that fellow, Dodge, never gave up anything good that he didn't have to give up. Was he kicked out of the Academy?" "That story isn't known in Gridley," replied Prescott, lowering his voice. "Dodge tells people that he left because he didn't like the crowd or the life there. We haven't changed the story any since our return. We'll tell you fellows, for we never used to have any secrets from you in the old days. But you mustn't pass the yarn around." "No," grimaced Greg. "You mustn't tell the story around. Dodge has threatened to have us imprisoned for life, for criminal libel, if we allow his secret to reach profane ears." "Just why did Dodge leave West Point?" asked Reade. "He was invited to," replied Prescott, "by a class committee on honor." "I thought it was something like that," grunted Reade. Then, in low tones that could not be overheard by other patrons of the ice cream place, Dick Prescott told the story of Dodge's cribbing at West Point, and of the way that Bert nearly succeeded in palming his guilt off on to Prescott. "I'd believe every word of that yarn, even if a plumb stranger told it to me," declared Hazelton. "It has all the earmarks of truth. It's a complete story of just what Bert Dodge would do in one form or another, in any walk of life." "But you fellows won't repeat insisted Dick. "And thereby have us consigned to prison cells for the balance of our unworthy lives?" mocked Greg. "You know us better than to think that we'd blab," retorted Tom half indignantly. "You had a right to know, though," Prescott went on. "Dick & Co. always were a close corporation," laughed Hazelton. "And I hope the time will never come when we can't tell our secrets to each other." "I am sorry you fellows have so short a leave," murmured Dick. "Why, What would you want us to do!" queried Tom. "Greg and I would be tickled to death if you were going to be here all summer," Dick answered. "In the first place, just for the sake of having your company. In the next place, we'd think it great if you could go back to West Point with us when our furlough is over. If you could be there, over a Saturday and a Sunday, we'd have time to show you a lot about the life there. You'd feel acquainted from the start, for lots of the fellows of our class have heard about you. You'd get a great reception." "Gridley must seem dull, after your life in the West," mused Cadet Holmes. "Oh, I don't believe there's any place where you get excitement all the time," declared Tom. "And there's no place so dull that it doesn't have a little excitement once in a while." Bang! bang! bang! sounded several sharp explosions of firearms out in the street. "There's some, right now!" muttered Greg, jumping up. "Come along!" Bang! bang! bang! As they ran forward toward the door of the ice cream place the young men saw people fleeing in frantic haste along Main Street. Five or six of these fugitives darted into the ice cream place. As they did so, Chief of Police Simmons backed into the same doorway. He had his revolver in his right hand, while he called back over his shoulder to the owner of the store: "Granby, telephone the station for my reserves. The Indians and cowboys of the Wild West Show are on a rampage, and shooting up Gridley. Tell Sergeant Cluny, from me, to bring the reserves on the run!" Bang! bang! bang! Up the street came a picturesque, dangerous looking group. Three men in cowboy hats, flannel shirts and "chaps," with revolver holsters dangling from their belts, and each with a pair of automatic revolvers in his hands, came along. Just behind this trio were two indians, painted and wearing gaudy blankets. The Indian were armed like the cowboys. It was evident that all the members of the wild band were partially intoxicated. Bang! bang! bang! "Get back into the store, you young men!" ordered Chief Simmons crisply. "These heathen are pie-eyed and they'll shoot you up quicker than a flash!" "Who, That lot of freaks?" demanded Tom contemptuously. "Dick! Greg! Indians are the specialty of the Army. You go after the redskins, while Harry and I tame these bad men!" Like a flash, ere Chief Simmons could interfere, the four young men were off. Straight up to the "raiders" dashed the former High School boys. One of the Indians wheeled, firing a fusillade just over Prescott's head. "Oh, stop that noise!" ordered Dick dryly. Before the Indian could guess it, Prescott had leaped in, had grabbed the redskin by a famous old Gridley football tackle and had sent the rampaging Indian to the ground Greg, equally reckless, floored the other Indian and sat on his chest. Tom Reade made a bolt for the fiercest-looking cowboy. "Stop spoiling the pure air on a hot day, and give me those guns!" commanded Reade, going straight at the fellow. The big cowboy wheeled, aiming both weapons at Reade. "Get back!" ordered the shooter. "If ye don't I'll pump ye full of hole-makers! I'm bad! I'm a wolf, and this is my day to howl. I'm a wolf---d'ye catch that, partners?" "Then back to the menagerie for yours!" muttered Reade dryly. "And first of all fork those guns over. You're making the air smell of sulphur." "Get back! I'm bad, I tell ye!" "You, bad; you cheap Piute from Rhode Island!" sniffed Tom contemptuously. Reaching forward, quick as a flash, Reade twisted a revolver from the fellow's left hand. "Now, pass me the other," continued Tom. "If you don't I'll wring that wooden head of yours from your neck! I'm coming, now!" Having tossed the captured revolver in the street behind him, Reade made a sudden leap at the "bad wolf." "Hold on!" cried the fellow sheepishly. "Don't get excited. Here it is; take it!" Seeing how readily their companion had surrendered, the other two headed Hazelton's demand for their weapons. From the doorway Chief Simmons had looked on at this brief, bloodless battle like one dazed. From up and down Main street at respectful distances, crowds of Gridleyites gazed in stupefied wonder. "Come on out, Chief, and talk to these naughty boys!" called Tom good-humoredly. "They didn't mean to be troublesome, but Fourth of July had got into their blood." The police reserves came running up now. First of all, the revolvers of the five wild ones were gathered up. Then the officers turned to the prisoners that had been captured by the West Point cadets and the Young Engineers. "These fellows are only medicine-show cowboys," Tom explained, with a grin, to the chief of police. "I know the real kind---and these sorry specimens are not it. Probably these fellows have never been west of Ohio." "You're an Indian, I'm pretty sure," said Cadet Prescott to the painted redskin whom he now held by one arm. "But you're a tame Indian. What part of Maine do you come from?" "Yes, I'm an Indian," grinned Dick's captive "I own a farm on the east end of Long Island." "Humph! You've been through the pubic schools, too?" demanded Dick. "Yes, sir." Greg's Indian was quite as docile. The police now had the weapons of all the party, except one automatic weapon that Greg was examining. "Yah!" grinned Holmes. "This gun is loaded with blank cartridges. I guess all the others were, too." The guess was a wholly correct one. By this time the Main Street crowd, wholly over its fright, was crowding about the police and their captives. "Say, this seems like old times!" called Sam Foss, laughingly. "Dick & Co. right in the thick the excitement." "There hasn't been any," grinned Prescott. At this instant a new actor arrived on the scene. Wild Charlie, the Indian medicine "doctor," immaculate in black frock suit and patent leather shoes, with a handsome sombrero spread over the glistening black hair that hung down over his shoulders, rushed up. "Let these people go, Chief," begged the picturesque quack doctor. "I'll pay for any damage they've done." Chief Simmons looked the long-haired "doctor" over with a broad grin. "You're Wild Charlie, are you?" demanded the chief. "Yes, partner." "What part of Vermont do you come from! Or is Germany your hailing place, Wild Charlie?" "Don't josh me too hard, Chief," pleaded the medicine fakir "Will you let my people go, if I settle?" "These terrors," retorted Chief Simmons, "are about due for thirty days for disturbing the peace." "But that would bust my summer season, Chief," pleaded "Wild Charlie." "Oh, don't run these innocents in, Chief," urged Tom Reade. "They aren't really bad, and they admitted it as soon as we told 'em so. These people are not dangerous---only a bit nervous." "See here, Wild Charlie," grinned the chief of police, "I don't want to do anything to make you wilder. I'll let these human picture books go on condition that you take your show at once and clear on out of town." "I may just as well go," sighed the long-haired one. "This job has ruined my business here. And say, Chief, won't you break the guns and knock the cartridges out, and then let me have the guns, too? They cost a lot of money!" But on this point Chief Simmons was firm. "No, sirree! You can take your infant terrors and load them on the first train away from here. But the revolvers are confiscated, Wild Charlie, and they'll stay here. You can try to recover the revolvers by a civil suit, if you want to risk it in court. Otherwise, make your get-away as fast as you can. I'll admit that your outfit had the josh on me, and had me tickling the wire for the reserves. But just now the town holds two West Point cadets, and two young engineers from the real West, which makes Gridley no place to turn a vaudeville powder-play loose in." "Wild Charlie" and his band fled as fast as they could, for the crowd was jeering loudly and talking of taking all six to the nearest horse-trough for a ducking. "Is that the best the old town can do for excitement in these days?" laughed Reade, as soon as our young friends had separated themselves from the laughing crowd and had started on a stroll. "Why, that little episode was doing well enough for any town," smiled Dick. "A laugh is better than a fight, any day." "Queer text for a soldier to preach from," grinned Hazelton. "Not a bit," Dick retorted. "The soldier, above all men, hates a fight, for the soldier knows he's the only one that's likely to get hurt." "Oho!" "Yes; and moreover," broke in Greg, "armies aren't organized, in the first place, for fighting, but for preserving peace." "Just as railroads are built to keep people from traveling," jeered Reade. "If we don't look out the greatest excitement that we'll find today will be starting a fight among ourselves," warned Harry dryly. "Rot!" scoffed Tom. "The old chums of Dick & Co. couldn't fight each other, any more that they can avoid joshing each other." Though none of the chums guessed it, excitement enough for two of them, possible, was brewing in another part of Gridley at that moment. Bert Dodge was talking almost in whispers with a young fellow named Fessenden, who had discharged from the bank in which Bert's father was vice president. "You do my trick---put it through for me, Fessenden---and I'll do my best with my father to get you back in the bank," Bert promised. "Even if I fail in that, I'll pay you well, in addition to the money I've just given you." "Oh, it won't be a hard job to put through," nodded young Fessenden, understandingly. "I can find two fellows who have nerve enough, and who will go into court and swear to anything I want them to." "That's the talk!" glowed young Dodge. "You will testify that Dick Prescott was talking with you, and that he told innumerable lies to blacken my name that he libeled me!" CHAPTER IV WHAT ABOUT MR. CAMERON? One place that Dick Prescott made it a point to visit early in his furlough was the office of the morning "Blade," for which paper, in his old High School days, the cadet had worked as a local reporter "on space." A "space writer" is one who is paid so much per column for all matter of his that is published in the paper. Had it not been for the "Blade" Dick Prescott would not have been as well supplied with pocket money as he had been during his High School days. Everyone about the "Blade" office, in the old days, had expected that Prescott, at the end of his High School course, would join the "Blade" staff as a "regular." But Dick had had his own plans about West Point, although he had kept his intentions a secret from nearly every one but his chums. Early one bright June afternoon Dick strolled into the "Blade" office. "Why, hullo, my boy!" cried Editor Pollock, jumping up out of his chair and coming forward, hand outstretched. Bradley, the news editor, and Len Spencer, the "star" reporter, now growing comically fat, rushed forward to meet the cadet. "Sit down, Dick, and let's hear all about West Point," urged Mr. Pollock, placing a chair beside his own, while the other members of the staff crowded about. "What sort of a place is West Point, and how do you like it there?" Dick smilingly gave them a lively account of life at the United States Military Academy. "I hope you're keeping track of all this, Len," nodded the editor to Reporter Spencer. "Tell us plenty more, too Dick. We want to give you and Holmes at least a bully two-column write-up." Dick's cheery look suddenly changed to one of mild alarm. "Do you want to do me a big favor, Mr. Pollock?" "Anything up to a page, my boy, and you know it," replied the editor heartily. "We still regard you as one of the 'Blade' family." "The favor I'm going to ask, Mr. Pollock, is that you don't give Greg and myself a write-up." The editor looked so hurt that Prescott made haste to add, earnestly: "Please don't misunderstand me, Mr. Pollock. But you simply cannot imagine the trouble that a fine write-up in a home paper may make for a cadet. If I were a plebe, now, the upper classman would get hold of the write-up, somehow, and they'd make me read it aloud, at least a hundred times, while upper classmen stood about and congratulated me on being such a fine fellow as the paper described. As Greg and I are now second classman, we couldn't be hazed in quite that way. But the other fellows would find some other way of using that home-paper write-up as a club for pounding us every now and then. Mr. Pollock, believe me, cadet is mighty lucky whose home paper doesn't say anything about him." "What is the matter?" asked the editor gravely. "Are the other cadets jealous?" "No; it isn't that," Prescott answered. "That sort of thing is done, at West Point, to keep from getting the 'big head.' Probably your memory goes back easily to the Spanish War days. You will remember that Mr. Hobson, of the Navy, sank the Merrimac in the harbor at Santiago, so that the Spanish ships, when they got out, had to come out in single file. Mr. Hobson has a younger brother then at the Military Academy. Well, the story still runs at West Point that Military Cadet Hobson was forced to read aloud all the best things about his brother in the Navy that the other cadets could find in the newspapers. Besides that, Cadet Hobson, so we are told today, had to 'sail' chips on a tub of water, at the same time bombarding the chips with pebbles and cheering for his brother. At West Point it doesn't pay a cadet to be famous, even in the light of reflected glory. Now, that is why I beg you, not to give Greg and myself the write-up that you propose." "All right, then," sighed the editor. "On the other hand, Mr. Pollock, I'll tell you all manner of lively and printable facts about West Point, if you won't mention Greg or myself or even mention the fact that Gridley has any cadets at the Military Academy." "That will have to answer," nodded Mr. Pollock. "But we wanted to do something big for you, Dick." "And you'll be doing something very big for us, if you don't mention us at all," smiled Prescott. So the "Blade" had a good deal of interesting reading about West Point the next morning. Many Gridleyites were not satisfied because neither Prescott nor Holmes was mentioned in connection with the Military Academy. The second time that Mr. Pollock met his former reporter was on the street. "I've been kicking myself, Dick, because I forgot something the other day," declared the editor. "I have one of the nicest, gentlest little trotting mares in this part of the state, and a very comfortable light buggy with top and side curtains. I hardly ever use the rig in hot weather. Now, won't you often have use for a horse and buggy while you're at home? If so, just ring up Getchel's Livery at any time, day or night, and tell 'em to hitch up against your coming. Will you?" Dick tried hard to find words in which to thank Mr. Pollock for the generous offer. First of all, Prescott took Holmes out driving, one forenoon, to "try out" the mare. The little animal proved speedy but tractable---a wholly safe driving horse. "I'm not a betting man," quoth Greg, "but I'll lay a wager that I can guess who gets the next drive behind this horse. "Post your wager," laughed Dick gayly. "Lau-----" "Wrong! My mother gets the next drive." And so she did, that same afternoon. But the following afternoon Prescott, after a good deal of attention to his personal appearance, walked to Getchel's and drove away from there behind the mare. The next stop was at the house of Dr. Bentley. Yet, when Cadet Prescott caught his first glimpse of the broad, cool veranda of the doctor's house, the young man felt a sudden throb of the heart. Another young man---he looked to be somewhat under thirty---was seated in a big rocker, close to Laura. Both young people were laughing gayly before Miss Bentley caught sight of Dick. "You're occupied, I see," called Prescott lightly, though the tone cost him an effort. "Come right up, Dick," called Laura, so the cadet leaped from the buggy, hitching the horse. The he turned into the broad walk and gained the veranda, where he was presented to Mr. Cameron. Mr. Cameron greeted the cadet pleasantly, yet didn't seem overjoyed at his presence. Nor did Mr. Cameron seem in the least inclined to take himself away. Usually most self-possessed, Dick Prescott fidgeted a trifle, and felt uncomfortable now. He wondered if good taste did not call for him to take himself away after a brief conversation. It was Laura who finally came to the rescue. "Dick," she laughed, "there's something on your mind. I'm afraid I shall have to help you out. Did you come to ask me to go driving?" "Yes," Dick nodded. "But of course I realize that some other time will be better." "Oh, don't let me spoil fun," begged Mr. Cameron, half rising, as though hoping to be asked to seat himself again. "Mr. Cameron," Miss Bentley replied sweetly, rising also as her caller completed the act of getting upon his feet, "I know you will excuse me now, rude as it seems in me to ask it. But Mr. Prescott's time in Gridley is very limited, and we are all anxious to see as much of him as possible." "Say no more, Miss Bentley," begged Mr. Cameron, forcing a genial smile. "Mr. Prescott, I congratulate you on having such a good champion. Good afternoon, Laura. Good afternoon, Mr. Prescott; I am very glad indeed to have had the pleasure of meeting you." "I am most happy to have met you, sir; if it were not for my own great good fortune, and my natural selfishness, I would feel most regretful over being the means of distracting Miss Bentley's attention." Laura, as soon as she had extended her hand to Mr. Cameron, had run inside to get her hat. By the time that Mr. Cameron had reached the front gate Laura came out again, adjusting a wonderfully becoming bit of headgear. "I am almost ashamed of myself for having spoiled another's call," Prescott told her. "Oh, don't mind about Mr. Cameron," laughed Laura lightly. "He has plenty opportunity, if he enjoys it, to call at other seasons of the year." "Oh! Does he?" muttered Dick. He began to feel a most unwarrantable dislike for Mr. Cameron. CHAPTER V ALONG A "DANGEROUS" ROAD "Oh, yes," smiled Laura. "Mr. Cameron is a frequent visitor." This information had the effect of making Prescott almost feel that he would enjoy kicking that other young man. "You are old friends, then?" he asked lightly, as he tucked the thin carriage robe about Laura, then picked up the lines. "No; quite recent acquaintances. We met about four months ago, I think it was." Though she spoke with apparent indifference, Prescott covertly caught sight of a slight flush rising to the girl's face. "After all," muttered Dick inwardly, "why not? Laura isn't a schoolgirl any longer, and it certainly most be difficult for any young man who has the chance to call to keep away from her!" So Cadet Prescott tried to persuade himself that it was all very natural for Mr. Cameron to call and for Laura to be glad to see Mr. Cameron. Dick even tried to feel glad that Laura was receiving attentions---but the effort ended in secret failure. Then Dick, as he drove along, tried to tell himself that he didn't care, and that he hadn't any right to care---but in this also he fell short of success with himself. So he fell silent, without intending to. Laura, on her part, tried to make up for his silence by chatting pleasantly, but after a while she, too, found herself out of words. Then, for a mile, they drove along almost in complete silence. Yet Cadet Prescott found plenty of chance to eye her covertly. What he saw was a beautiful girl, so sweet and wholesome looking that he had hard work, indeed, to keep ardent words from rushing to his lips. "She grows sweeter and finer all the time," he muttered to himself. "Why shouldn't men be eager to call, often and long?" At last the mare stumbled slightly, and Prescott jerked the animal so quickly and almost savagely on the lines that Miss Bentley looked at him with something of a start. "Dick," spoke Laura at last, turning and looking him frankly, sweetly in the eyes, "have I done anything to offend you?" "You, Laura?" "I wondered," she continued. "You have been so very silent." "I am afraid I was thinking," muttered Dick. "And that's a very rude thing to do when it makes one seem to ignore the lady who is with him," he added, forcing a smile. "I beg your pardon, Laura, ten times over." "Oh, I don't mind your being abstracted," she answered simply, "so long as I am not the cause of it." "You-----" Dick checked himself quickly. He had been right on the point of admitting that she had been the cause of his abstraction, and such a statement as that would have called for an abundance of further explanation. So he forced himself into a peal of laughter that sounded nearly natural. "If I were to tell you what a ridiculous thing I was thinking about, Laura!" he chuckled. Then his West Point training against all forms of deceit led him to wondering, at once, whether Mr. Cameron could truthfully be defined as "a ridiculous thing." "Tell me," smiled the girl patiently. "Not I," defied Prescott gayly. "Then you would find me more ridiculous than the thing about which I was thinking." "Oh!" she replied, and the cadet fancied that his companion spoke in a tone of more or less hurt. But, at least, Dick could look straight into her face now, as they talked, and every instant he realized more and more keenly how lovely Miss Bentley was growing to be. They were driving down sweet-scented country lanes now. The whole scene fitted romance. The cadet remembered Flirtation Walk, at West Point, and it struck him that there was danger, at the present moment, of Flirtation Drive. "I wonder what the dear girl is thinking about at this present moment?" pondered Dick. "I wonder what it was that made him so abstracted, and then so suddenly merry?" was the thought in Miss Bentley's mind. "That was a very pretty road we came through before we turned into this one," commented Dick at a hazard. "I didn't notice it," replied Laura. "Where are we now? Oh, yes! I know the locality now." "You have driven out here before---with Mr. Cameron?" The words were out ere Cadet Prescott could recall them. He felt indescribably angry with himself. In the first place, the question he had asked was really none of his business. In the second place, his inquiry, under the circumstances, was a rude one. "Mr. Cameron was in the party," Laura replied readily. "There was quite a number of us; it was a 'bus ride one May afternoon. We came out to gather wild flowers." "If I had the right," flamed up within the cadet, "I'd soon make Mr. Cameron my business, or else I'd be some of his. But it wouldn't be fair. I'm not through West Point yet, and I may never be. Until my future is fairly assured I'm not going to ask the sweetest girl on earth to commit her future to my hands. Even if I felt that I could, a cadet is forbidden to marry and a two years' engagement is a fearfully long one to ask of a girl. And a girl like Laura has a chance to meet hundreds of more satisfactory fellows than I in two years." It required all the young soldier's will power to keep silent on the one subject uppermost in his mind. And even Dick realized that some very trivial circumstance was likely to unseat his firm resolve. What he was trying to act up to was his sense of fairness. Hard as it was under the circumstances, he was more anxious to be fair to this girl than to any other living being. "I mustn't spoil her afternoon, just because my own mind is so dizzy!" he thought reproachfully. So, a moment later, he became merrier than ever---on the surface. It was Laura's turn to take a covert look at his face. She wondered, for she felt that Prescott's assumed gayety had an almost feverish note. "How much further are you going to drive?" she asked presently. "The only pleasure I recognize in the matter, Laura, is yours. So I am wholly at your command." He tried to answer lightly and gallantly, yet felt, an instant later, that his words had had a strained sound. The same thought had struck the girl. Yet, instead of asking him to turn the horse's head about, Laura ventured: "Gridley must be pleasant, as your home town, yet I fancy you are already looking forward to getting back to your ideals at West Point?" "Is she tired of having me around?" wondered Cadet Prescott, wincing within, as though he had been stabbed. "I'm keener for West Point, every day, Laura," he answered quietly. "Yet, even in the case of such a grand old place as the Military Academy, it is worth while to get away once in a while. If it were not for this long furlough, midway in the four years' course, many of us might go mad with the incessant grind." "Oh, you poor Dick!" cried Laura Bentley, in quick, genuine sympathy. "Yes; I think I can quite understand what you say." And then a new light came into her eyes, as she added, very softly: "We in Gridley, who hope for you with your own intensity of longings, must take every pains to make this furlough of yours restful enough and full enough of happiness to send you back to West Point with redoubled strength for the grind." "The same Laura as of yesterday!" cried Dick with sincere enthusiasm. "Always wondering how to make life a little sweeter for others!" "Thank you," she half bowed quietly. "Yes; I want to see your strength proven among strong men." Again she looked frankly into Prescott's eyes, and he, at the same moment, into hers. His pulses were bounding. What was to become, now, of his resolution to hold back the surging words for at least two more years? Yet resolutely he stifled the feelings that surged within him. He was a boy, though the training at West Point was swiftly making him over into a man. "I may lose her," groaned Cadet Prescott. "I may have lost her already---if I ever had any chance. But a soldier has at least his honor to think of, and no honorable man can ask a woman to give herself to him, and to wait for years, when he isn't reasonably certain he is going to be able to meet the responsibility that he seeks." Never had Prescott been more earnest, more serious, nor more attentive than during the remainder of that drive. Yet he studiously refrained from giving the girl any hint of the thoughts that were surging within him. Was he foolish? Dick felt, anyway, that he was not, for he was waging a mighty fight to stand by his best sense of honor. CHAPTER VI THE SURPRISE THE LAWYER HAD IN STORE The days went by swiftly, merrily. Dick continued to see all that was possible of Laura Bentley, without seeming to try to monopolize her time. As for careless, good-humored, nearly heart-free Greg, that young man divided his time almost impartially among several very pretty girls. Cadet Holmes had no thought of arousing baseless hopes in any young woman's mind. He simply had not yet reached the age when he was likely to be tied closely by any girl's bright-hued ribbons. Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton were much with the young West Pointers. Had Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell been able to be home from Annapolis at this time, the cup of joy would have been full for all the old chums of Dick & Co. But that was not to be. Even Reade and Hazelton were home only on limited leave, for they were still very young engineers, who could not sacrifice much time away from their work lest they lose the ground already gained. So just after the Fourth of July, Tom and Harry left, on a morning train, the two young West Pointers going to the station to see them off with many a handshake, many a yearning wish for the two dear old chums of former days. "The blamed old town will seem a bit empty, won't it?" demanded Greg, as the cadet pair strolled back from the railway station. "What'll it be in after years," sighed Dick, "with you up at some fort on the Great Lakes, say, with me in Boston, Tom and Harry somewhere out West, with Dave on the European station and Dan, perhaps, on the China station? Oh, well, chums who want to stick together through life should go in for jobs in the same factory!" "I suppose we'll get more used to being apart, as the years roll on," muttered Greg. "But I know it would be mighty jolly, this summer, if all the fellows of Dick & Co. could be here in Gridley." "There's Bert Dodge," whispered Prescott. "It was hardly worth the trouble to tell me anything about him," retorted Holmes, not taking the trouble to look at their ancient enemy. "But what a scowl the fellow is wearing," smiled Dick, half in amusement. "Scowling is his highest pleasure in life," returned Greg. "He looked at me," continued Dick, as though he had discovered some new reason for hating me." "If he knew how little thought you gave to him he wouldn't really take the trouble to hate you. Dodge has far more reason to dislike himself. Where are you heading now?" "Home and to the store," replied Dick. "I just saw the postman leaving. Come along." As Dick and his chum entered, both his father and mother were behind the counter. "Dr. Davidson and his wife are in the back room," announced Mrs. Prescott. "They would like to see you, Dick." "Oh, your new pastor and his wife? Will you excuse me, and wait for me a few minutes, Greg?" asked Dick. Holmes, nodding, picked up a magazine and seated himself. It was twenty minutes ere Dick came out from that back room. Then the chums started out for another stroll. "Where are you going now?" asked Greg, suddenly, realizing that his chum was walking at an almost spurting gait. "In looking over my mail," replied Dick grimly, "I found a letter from Lawyer Griffin." "What does he want, You don't owe any money, here or anywhere else." "Griffin wrote me that he wanted to see me about a case that has been placed in his hands," replied Prescott quietly. Greg started, then changed color. "Dick," he demanded, "do you know what the lawyer's business is about?" "The lawyer's letter doesn't state any more than I have told you." "Dick, that hound Dodge must be up to some trick!" "I imagine that's the answer," replied Cadet Prescott quietly. "And you're going to see the lawyer?" "Yes." "Humph!" muttered Greg. "I know what I'd do. I'd make the lawyer come to see me." "But I prefer going to his office." "Right away?" "As soon as I can get there." "And you want me with you?" "Most decidedly, Greg. I don't care to go into the lawyer's office without a competent witness." "Then I'm yours, old fellow." "I know that, Greg." Despite himself Holmes began to feel decidedly uneasy. "What on earth can Dodge be up to?" muttered Greg. "He threatened a libel prosecution one day last month. Can it be that he has found people who can be bribed to perjure themselves, and that he is going to make his hint good?" "It half looks that way," assented Dick. "Then may a plague seize the cur!" cried Greg, vehemently. "Why, if the fellow can buy other people into making out a case of libel against you-----" "I might be convicted, and that conviction would cut short my Army career," replied Prescott as quietly as ever. Greg stopped short in his walk, staring aghast at his chum. "Why, can Dodge be scoundrel enough for that?" he gasped. "The best way to judge a man, like a horse, is by the record of his past performances," responded Prescott as quietly as ever. "So that unutterable cur, since he couldn't remain in the Army, is determined that you shan't, either! Dick, old ramrod, I'm shaking all over with indignation and contempt, and you're as cool as an old colonel going under fire again for the thousandth time!" "If there's any real danger I guess I'd better remain cool," spoke Prescott slowly, though there was a flash of fire in his eyes. "There's Bert Dodge again!" quivered Holmes, glancing along the street. "Hurry up! Let's meet him. Just on general principles one of us ought to thrash him, and I most joyously volunteer." "Don't you do anything of the sort," begged Dick quickly. "We don't want to make any matter worse. Here's the building where Griffin has his offices. Come; we'll go up and see him." The two West Pointers were soon in the lawyer's office. Mr. Griffin was disengaged, and saw the young men at once. This attorney was rather a new-comer in Gridley. Dick and Greg met him for the first time. Prescott rather liked the man's appearance. "Do you want the whole affair discussed before your friend, Mr. Prescott?" demanded Griffin. "By all means, sir," Dick responded. "Very good, then," replied the lawyer, who was still engaged in studying the faces of both cadets. Then, while the two West Pointers sat before him, their faces impassive, Mr. Griffin continued. "When I was retained on this case I was asked to put the whole matter before the Grand Jury at its next sitting. It is so very unusual, however, to have criminal cases against West Point men that I insisted with my clients that I would not take a decisive step, Mr. Prescott, until I had first seen you." "Thank you, sir," nodded Cadet Prescott. "In brief then," went on the lawyer, "Mr. Dodge and his son Bert have placed a good deal of sworn evidence in my hands, and they have instructed me, Prescott, to procure your indictment on a charge of uttering criminally libelous statements against Bert Dodge!" CHAPTER VII PRESCOTT LAYS A POWDER TRAIL Greg Holmes turned very white for an instant. Then a flush rose to his face. He leaped to his feet, his hands clenched. "This is an infamous, outrageous, lying-----" "Thank you, Greg," Prescott broke in coolly. "But will you let me question Mr. Griffin?" "Yes," subsided Greg, sinking back into his chair. "I don't know that I could say any more. It would be merely a change in the words." Cadet Prescott turned back to the lawyer. "Mr. Griffin, will you tell me why you sent for me?" "Because," replied the man of law, "I have some knowledge of the average West Point material. Frankly, I couldn't wholly credit this charge against you. I wanted to see you and have a talk with you, and I so informed the elder Dodge. Unless you can satisfy me that this is a ridiculous case, or a wholly malicious prosecution, then I shall feel obliged, as a lawyer, to take up the charges with the district attorney, after which we shall proceed in the usual way. But, first of all, I want to have a talk with you." "That is very fair, sir," replied Dick. "And I want to be fair," replied the lawyer with emphasis. "I want to make sure that I am not taking part in a case needlessly malicious, and one which, pushed to a needless conclusion, might rob the Army of a valuable future officer." "I appreciate your courtesy and fairness, and I, thank you, sir," Dick acknowledged. "Now, Mr. Prescott, do you mind telling me, in a general way, at least, just what you have said to others about young Dodge since you have been home on your furlough?" "I would rather, sir, tell you something else instead," replied Cadet Prescott, with the ghost of a smile. "You have some affidavits, Mr. Griffin---or, at least, you have some witnesses, and they have very likely furnished you with affidavits. The names of your witnesses, or of your most important witnesses, are Fessenden, Bettrick and Deevers. Fessenden was a bank clerk, discharged from the bank by the elder Dodge. Bettrick is a truck-driver, and Deevers is---well, I understand he has no more important occupation than lounging about drinking places." "I am sorry that you know the names of my witnesses," replied Lawyer Griffin gravely. "I am beginning to be impressed with the idea that you know their names so readily because you recall having said something in their presence or hearing against young Dodge." "That is hardly likely," replied Dick, smiling coolly, "because I do not believe that I know either of the three young men by sight." "Then why," demanded the attorney, eyeing the young West Pointer keenly, "do you know so much about their occupations or lack of occupation? And why do you know that they are all young men?" "I will tell you," replied Dick. "In the first place, you know Dr. Carter, do you not?" "Yes." "He is a reputable physician, isn't he?" "I believe Dr. Carter to be a very honorable man." "Do you know Dr. Davidson?" "I understand that he is one of the new pastors in town," admitted the lawyer. "You imagine he would make a creditable witness, don't you?" "Jurors generally accept the testimony of a clergyman at its face value," replied Attorney Griffin. "Down in one of the tenements of Gridley," pursued Prescott, rising and leaning one elbow upon the corner of the top of the lawyer's roll-top desk, "is a young man named Peters. He is a mill hand who has been away from his work for weeks on account of illness. Dr. Carter has been attending him, probably without charging much if any fee. Last night Peters had a small boy rush out and telephone in haste for Dr. Carter. As it happened, the physician was at his office, and answered quickly. After Dr. Carter had been in Peters's room, perhaps a minute, the physician hurried out into the street, stopping the first man whom he met. That man happened to be Dr. Davidson. The two men returned to Peters's room. Now, all three of them listened." Lawyer Griffin was eyeing Prescott curiously. "Yesterday afternoon," continued Dick, changing the subject with seeming abruptness, "Fessenden, Bettrick and Deevers were all here, and signed affidavits before a clerk of yours, who is a notary public." "Proceed," requested Mr. Griffin, without either denying or admitting the truth of Dick's statement. "Since he lost his bank position," Dick went on, "Fessenden has been compelled to live in a wretched room next to that occupied by the sick man Peters. Two nights ago, as you will remember, there was a heavy rain. Now, the roof leaked at that tenement house, and the dripping water washed away some of the plaster covering the none-too-thick partition between the room of Fessenden and the room of Peters. So our sick man heard much of the conversation between Fessenden and the fellow's confederates. Now Peters, the physician and the clergyman are all willing to swear to the statement that Bert Dodge hired Fessenden, Bettrick and Deevers to testify against me. Young Dodge, according to the overheard conversation, met and drilled all three in their parts. That was before the three came here yesterday afternoon, with the Dodges, and supplied you with the affidavits that you now hold. For this service, Dodge is believed to have paid each young loafer the sum of twenty dollars, with a promise of eighty more apiece after they had told their tales in court. That, Mr. Griffin, is the other side of the story. Bert Dodge has deliberately hired three men to swear falsely against me." As he finished Dick dropped carelessly back into the chair. He appeared wholly cool. Not so Greg Holmes, whose face, during this recital, had been a study. Now Greg was upon his feet in a flash. "How long have you known this, old ramrod?" he demanded. "Dr. Davidson told me this, in the back room at the store, just before we came here," Prescott replied. "And you never told me---didn't even give me a hint?" cried Holmes reproachfully. "Why, I thought I'd tell Mr. Griffin first," answered Dick. "I have seldom heard anything that interested me more," admitted the lawyer. "Yet, why didn't you bring Dr. Davidson and Dr. Carter here with you?" "One good reason," replied Dick bluntly, "was that I didn't know anything about you, Mr. Griffin. I am glad to say that I have found you most fair minded. But, not knowing you, I wanted to see you and judge for myself whether there was any chance that you were in league with my enemies. Had I made up my mind that you were anywhere nearly as bad as young Dodge, I would have let this matter get as far as the courts, when I would have overwhelmed you all with charges of perjury, and would have proved my charges at least against Bert Dodge and his three tools." "Mr. Prescott, of course I don't mean to throw any doubt over the truth of what you have just told me. At the same time, as counsel for the Dodges, I shall have to satisfy myself on these particulars. "Do you know Dr. Carter's voice well?" asked Prescott. "Very well." "Then kindly allow me to use your telephone." Pulling the desk instrument toward him, and hailing central, Dick called for "33 Main." "Hello, is Dr. Carter in," called Dick after a moment. "This is Prescott. Do you recognize my voice? Very good, sir; will you now talk with Lawyer Griffin, who is beside me, and tell him what you heard last night in the room of one Peters? Here is Dr. Cater waiting for you Mr. Griffin." Lawyer and physician talked together for some minutes, the attorney's excitement increasing. Greg, in the meantime, was executing a silent jig over near the door of the room. "Now, you can call up Dr. Davidson," suggested Cadet Prescott. "I don't need to," replied the lawyer. "Dr. Carter has substantiated all that you told me, and has informed me that Dr. Davidson is ready to be called upon for the same information. Instead, I shall call upon some one else." An instant later the attorney called up another number. "Hello," he said presently. "Connect me with Mr. Dodge. Hello, is that you, Mr. Dodge? Can you reach your son readily? Oh, he is there at the bank with you, is he? This is Mr. Griffin. I shall expect you both at my office within five minutes. Yes; about the Prescott matter. No; I can't tell you over the 'phone. Both of you come here. Goodbye!" As though to wind up the conversation abruptly, Lawyer Griffin rang off and hung the receiver on its hook. "Now, we'll wait and here the other side," remarked the lawyer grimly. "If the other side dares make its voice heard!" laughed Cadet Dick Prescott. There being now no need of silence, Greg Holmes relieved himself of some noisy enthusiasm. CHAPTER VIII A FATHER'S JUST WRATH STRIKES A very few minutes later a knock sounded at the door. Then Bert Dodge entered very abruptly, his tongue starting with the turning off the knob. "Well, have you seen the mucker Prescott?" called Bert airily. "Was he scared to-----" Here Bert caught sight of the two West Pointers and stopped short, while his father entered behind him. "No," broke in Holmes, dryly, "Prescott wasn't even scared silly." "Oh, you shut up, you two!" growled Bert. "Mr. Griffin, what are these pieces of airy nothing doing here?" "That advice about preserving silence will very well apply to you, also, Mr. Bert Dodge," rejoined the lawyer. "Take a seat in the background, please. I want to talk with your father." "What's the matters" demanded Bert, not taking a seat, but advancing and leaning against the top of the lawyer's desk. "Has this fellow won you over with a lot of his smooth talk?" "Mr. Griffin I warned you that Prescott is a most accomplished liar." Instead of flaring up at this insult, Dick merely turned to exchange amused smiles with Holmes. At this moment the attorney was paying no heed to Bert, but was placing a chair courteously for the elder Dodge. "Now, Mr. Dodge," began the lawyer, speaking rapidly and paying heed only to the father, "I am very glad that I insisted on seeing Mr. Prescott before going further in the case that you placed with me. I expected only a denial. I have, instead, been astounded. Now, listen, sir, while I tell you the all but incredible story." Thereupon Lawyer Griffin launched into a swift narration of the story told by Dick Prescott and Dr. Carter. As soon as Bert Dodge began to get wind of what it was all about, his face became ghastly. "Stop right here, Griffin!" commanded Bert. "This is all a tissue of lies that have been sprung upon you." "Silence, young man!" commanded the lawyer sternly. "This talk is between your father and myself. As for you, young man, remember to what you have sworn, and bear in mind that the upshot of it all for you may yet be a term of years in the penitentiary." As the lawyer went on talking there could not be a moment's suspicion that the elder Dodge had been concerned in the plot of perjury. Mr. Dodge had been guilty only of believing his son and of sharing the latter's feigned indignation. "Now, Dr. Carter has confirmed all of this over the 'phone, and he assured me that Dr. Davidson stood ready to add his testimony," wound up Lawyer Griffin. "Mr. Dodge, what is to be done?" "Why," stammered Bert's father, "we---we shall have to drop the whole case." "What?" raged Bert, his face going purple with anger. "Drop the case on any such stacked-up mess of lies? Father, are you losing all the nerve you ever had?" "Young man," broke in Lawyer Griffin severely, "you do not appear to have the slightest idea of values. I do not for a moment imagine that your father will go any further in this matter. If he does, it will be necessary for him to get another attorney." "Why!" challenged Bert, glaring at the lawyer. "Because the outcome of this case, if it reached court, would be your indictment for conspiracy and the subornation of perjury. The latter is one of the most heinous crimes known to the law." "But I tell you this is all a tissue of lies trumped up against me!" stormed young Dodge. While this conversation was going on Dick and Greg remained silent in their seats. They had no need to talk. They were enjoying it all too much just as it was going. "Do you expect, Dodge, that a court and a jury would take your unsupported word against the testimony of two such men as Dr. Carter and the Rev. Mr. Davidson? Do you imagine, for a moment, that Fessenden and your other tools wouldn't become utterly frightened and confess to everything against you? Do you imagine that anything you could do or say would save you, Dodge, from going to the penitentiary for ten or fifteen years?" The attorney's cool, incisive manner brought Bert Dodge to his senses. A deathly fear assailed him. His knees began to shake. "The case is too well fixed against me," he replied hoarsely. "Ye---es, I guess you had better drop it all." The elder Dodge now sprang to his feet. "Drop it, you young scoundrel?" he yelled at his son. "Why did you ever drag me into any such infamous piece of business? I went into this believing that you told me the truth." "I---I did, sir," stammered Bert. "Bah, you are a perjurer, you young villain!" raged his father. "Griffin, this matter cannot go a step further. You will destroy those miserable affidavits before my eyes!" "I am sorry, Mr. Dodge," replied the lawyer, "but I am not at liberty to do that." "You can't destroy the affidavits?" howled Bert, his voice breaking. "Why not! Aren't you our lawyer?" "I am even more an officer of the court than I am anyone's attorney," replied Mr. Griffin gravely. "A lawyer has no right to conceal a crime when he knows one has been committed not even to save his own clients." "Wh---what do you propose to do, Griffins?" demanded the elder Dodge, shaking. "Why, I hope to save your worthless son from prosecution, Mr. Dodge," returned the lawyer. "But a crime has been committed, in that your son procured others to swear to false affidavits True, the affidavits have not yet been presented in court, and on that I base my hope that the matter will not have to go further. But I feel in honor bound to submit the facts to the district attorney, and to be governed by his instructions." "You are going to try to send me to jail?" gasped Dodge, clutching at the ledge of a bookcase to save himself from falling. "I am going to try to persuade the district attorney to let the matter drop," replied Griffin. "It will be the district attorney's decision that will govern the matter." "Then what are you doing fooling around here, governor?" screamed Bert hoarsely. "Don't you see that it's your job to hurry to the district attorney as fast as you can go? Use your money, your political influence---" In his extreme terror young Dodge seemed to forget that he was providing amusement for his enemies. But Mr. Dodge cut in quickly. Advancing a step or two, he brought his uplifted stick down sharply, once, across his son's shoulders. With a snarl Bert wheeled, crouching as though to spring upon his father. Prescott and Holmes jumped up, prepared to step in. But the banker was not cowed by the evil look in his son's face. "Begone, you young villain!" quivered the old man. "Get out of my sight. Never let me see you again. Don't dare to go to what was once your home, or I'll have you thrown out. I disown you! You are no blood of mine!" "I guess you forget," sneered Bert cunningly that you are responsible for me, and that you will have to pay my bills." "Not a penny of them," retorted the banker sternly. "It is you who forget that you reached the age of twenty-one just three days ago. You are your own master, sir---and your own provider! Now, go---and never again let any of your family hear from the scoundrel who has disgraced us all." Vainly Bert opened his mouth, trying to speak. The words would not come. His father again advancing threateningly, Bert edged towards the door. "This looks like your fun, as it is your work, Dick Prescott!" snarled the wretch. "Wait! If it takes me ten years I'll make you suffer for this!" Crash! Mr. Dodge had again raised his cane to strike the young man. But Bert had pulled open the door, closing it after him as he fled, and only the plate-glass panel stopped the fall of the cane. "I'll pay for the damage done to your door Griffin," promised the banker. "Don't worry about that, sir," nodded the attorney. "I feel that we've been here long enough, gentlemen," broke in Cadet Prescott, as he and Greg rose. "Mr. Dodge, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am that this scene was necessary." "I feel sure of your sympathy. Prescott, and of yours, too, Holmes. Thank you both," replied the banker. "You are both fine, manly young fellows. I wish I had been favored with a son like either of you. Now, I have no son!" Dick and Greg got away as unobtrusively as they could. Bert Dodge did try to go home to see his Mother, but, by his father's orders, he was put out of the house by two men servants. Immediately after that Bert vanished from Gridley. At first he tried the effect of writing whining, penitent, begging letters home. Receiving no replies, Bert finally drifted off into the space of the wide world. Later on in the course of these chronicles he may reappear. Lawyer Griffin consulted with the district attorney, and it was decided not to make perjury cases out of the affair. Fessenden, Bettrick and Deevers, however, were all three warned and the district attorney filed away the lying affidavits, in case a use for them should ever come up. By degrees the story of Bert Dodge's latest infamy leaked out. The news, however, did not come through any word spread by either of our young West Pointers. CHAPTER IX BACK TO THE GOOD, GRAY LIFE A Glorious summer it was for the two second classman on furlough! Yet, like all other things, good and otherwise, it had to come to an end. One morning near the end of August, Dick and Greg, attended by a numerous concourse of friends, went to the railway station. The proud parents were there, of course, and so were the parents of Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell, the latter happy in the knowledge that their boys would soon be home for the brief September leave from the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. "Why, you haven't seen Dave since you youngsters all left home, have you, Dick?" asked Mr. Darrin. "No, sir. Greg and I hoped to, this last summer, when the Army baseball nine went down to Annapolis and defeated the Navy nine," Dick replied. "But both Greg and I found ourselves so hard pressed in our academic work that we didn't dare go, but remained behind and boned hard at our studies." "You don't forget the fact that the Army nine did defeat the Navy nine, do you?" laughed Dan's father. "No, sir; of course not," smiled Dick. "The Army and Navy teams exist mainly for the purpose of beating each other. I am glad to say that the Army manages to win more than its share of games." "That's because the West Point boys average a little older than the Annapolis boys," broke in Mrs. Dalzell pleasantly, though warmly. Even she, as the mother of a midshipman, felt her share in the rivalry between the nation's two great service schools. "You will bring Laura and Belle up to some of the hops this winter, I hope, Mrs. Bentley," Dick begged. "Oh, she's pledged to take us to West Point, and to Annapolis," broke in Belle Meade, smiling. "You don't think we are going to lose the hops at either Academy while we have friends there, do you?" "I should hope not," Dick replied earnestly. Five minutes before train time Leonard Cameron appeared. He greeted the two cadets with great cordiality. "I couldn't help coming to see you off, Prescott," Cameron found chance to say in an undertone. "Laura is so deeply interested in your success that I, too, am longing to hear every possible good word as to your future career. Laura couldn't be more interested in you if she were truly your sister." That was the sting that made Dick's going away bitter. Cameron's manner was so easy and assured that Dick saw the crumbling of one of his more than half built castles in Spain. The train carried the two cadets away. The parents of both young men had seen to it that the cadets went away in a parlor car. Dick and Greg, after leaving Gridley behind, swung their chairs around so that, while they looked out of the window, their heads were close together. "Cameron had a nerve to show up, didn't hey" demanded Greg indignantly. "I don't know," Dick replied very quietly. "He tried to be very kind and cordial." "Shucks!" uttered Greg, disgustedly. "Doesn't he know that Laura Bentley is your girl, and that he's only a b.j. hanger-on there?" "I'm afraid Laura herself doesn't know that she's my girl," sighed Dick. Cadet Holmes swung about so that he could gaze straight into his comrade's face. "Dick, didn't you tell her?" demanded Greg aghast. "You have to do something more than tell a girl," smiled Prescott patiently, though wearily. "You have to ask her." "Well, thunder and bomb-shells, didn't you?" "I didn't, Greg." "Oh, pardon me, old ramrod. I don't mean to pry into your affairs-----" "I know you don't." "-----but I thought you were deeply interested in Laura Bentley." "I think I am, Greg. In fact, I'm sure I am." "Then why-----" "Greg, I'm not yet sure of my place in life. I'm not going to ask any girl to tie her future up in my plans until I feel that I have a fair start in life." "Army officer's pay is enough for any sensible girl." "I'm not an Army officer yet." "Oh, rot! You're going to be! You're half way through West Point now. You're past the harder half, and you stand well enough in your class. You're sure to graduate and get into the Army." "Greg, within ten days of getting back to West Point I may be injured in some cavalry, or other drill, and become useless for life. A cadet hurt even in the line of duty gets no pension, no retired pay. If he is a wreck, he is merely shipped home for his folks to take care of him. When I graduate, and get my commission in the Army, it will be different. Then I'll have a salary guaranteed me for life; if I am injured, and become useless in the Army, I still have retired pay enough to take care of a family. If I am killed my wife could draw nearly pension enough to support her. All these things belong to the Army officer and his wife. But the cadet has nothing coming to him if he fails, for any reason, to get through." "Well, cadets don't marry," observed Greg. "They're forbidden to. But a cadet can have things understood with his girl. Then, if he fails to make the Army, or to get something else suitable in life, he can release the girl if she wants to be released." "But if a girl considers herself as good as engaged to a cadet she lets other good chances go by, and the cadet may never be able to make good," objected Dick. "It's good of you to be so thoughtful for that fellow Cameron," jibed Greg. "I'm not thoughtful for him, but for Laura," retorted Prescott staunchly. "Confound it," growled Greg to himself, "Dick is such a stickler for the girl's rights that he is likely to break her heart. Hanged if I don't try to set Laura straight myself, when I see her! No; I won't either, though. Dick would never forgive me if I butted into his own dearest affairs." "I know, Greg," Prescott pursued presently, "that some of the fellows do become engaged to, girls while still at the Military Academy. But becoming engaged to marry a girl is a mighty serious thing." "Then I'm in for it," muttered Holmes soberly. "I'm engaged to the third girl." "What?" gasped his chum incredulously. "You engaged to three girls?" "Oh, only one at a time," Greg assured his comrade. "The first two girls, each in turn, asked to be released, after we'd been engaged for a while. So, now, I'm engaged to my third girl." Holmes spoke seriously, and with evident truth. Dick leaned back, staring curiously at his chum, though he did not ask the latest girl's name. "At least, I was engaged, at latest accounts," Greg went on, after a few moments. "By the time I reach West Point, just as likely as not, I'll get a letter asking me to consider the matter as past history only." "Greg, Greg!" muttered Prescott, shaking his head gravely. "I'm afraid you're not very constant. "I?" retorted Cadet Holmes indignantly. "Dick, you're harboring the wrong idea. It's the girls who are not constant. Though they were all nice little bits of femininity," Greg added reminiscently in a tone of regret. Late in the afternoon the chums arrived in New York. After putting up at a hotel they had time for dinner and a stroll. "Somehow, I don't feel very sporty tonight," sighed Cadet Holmes, as they waited, at table, for the evening meal to be served. "Yet, in a week, I suppose I'll be kicking myself. For tomorrow we're due to get back into our gray habits and re-enter the military convent life up the river." After a late supper and a short night's rest, the two young men found themselves, the morning following, on a steamboat bound up the Hudson River. "After all these weeks of good times," muttered Greg, "it doesn't seem quite real." "It will, in a couple of hours," predicted Prescott, smiling. "And, now that home is so far behind, I'm really delighted to think that I'll soon be back in gray old barracks, donning the same old gray uniform." "Oh, it will be all right. There are a lot of fellows that I'm eager to see" Greg admitted. "Is the---er---er-----" "Out with it!" "Is Miss Number Three likely to be at the Point when we get there?" "I don't know," Holmes admitted. "I haven't heard from her in four days. I hope she'll be there." All in due time the two cadets worked their way forward on the boat. Now they encountered nearly a dozen other members of their class, all returning. Yet none of the dozen were among their warmest friends in class life. "Look, fellows!" cried Dick at last. "There's just a glimpse of some of the high spots of West Point through the trees!" It was all well enough for the cadets to claim that the life at West Point was a fearfully hard and dull grind, and that they were little better than cadet slaves. As they picked out, one after another, familiar glimpses of West Point, these young men became mostly silent, though their eyes gleamed eagerly. They loved the good old gray academy! They rejoiced to find themselves so near, and going back! Then at last the boat touched at the pier. Some moments before the gangplank was run aboard from the wharf everyone of the more than dozen cadets had already leaped ashore. "Whoop!" yelled Greg, tossing his hat in the air. "Mr. Holmes!" growled Cadet Dennison with mock severity. "Report yourself for unmilitary enthusiasm!" "Yes, sir," responded Greg meekly, saluting: his fellow classman. "Fall in!" yelled Dennison. "Where?" inquired Dick innocently. "In the Hudson? I decline, sir, to obey an illegal order." Amid a good deal of laughter the returning cadets trudged across the road, over the railroad tracks and on up the steep slope that led to the administration building. Across the inner court of the administration building walked the second classman briskly, and on up the stairs. There was no more laughter. Even the talking was in most subdued tones, for these young men were going back to duty---military duty at that! In one of the outer offices on the second floor the cadets left their suit cases. Dick, being one of those in the lead, stepped into the adjutant's room, brought his heels together, and in the position of the soldier, saluted. "Sir, I report my return to duty at the Military Academy." "Very good, Mr. Prescott. Report to the special officer in charge at the cadet guard house, and receive your assignment to your room. The special officer in charge will give you any further immediate orders that may be necessary." Again saluting, Prescott wheeled with military precision and left the adjutant's office. As he was going out Dick was passed by Greg coming in. For a moment Prescott waited outside until Greg had joined him. "It would be a howling mess if we didn't have a room together this year, old ramrod, wouldn't it?" muttered Cadet Holmes as soon as they were clear of the administration building. "Oh, that isn't one of our likely troubles," Dick answered. "We asked for a room together, and second classmen generally have what we want in that line." On reporting to the special officer in charge, the two chums found that they had been given quarters together. Moreover, their room was one of the best assigned to second classman, and looked out over the plain and parade ground. "We ought to be jolly happy in here this year, old ramrod," predicted Greg. "Especially as we haven't any fellow like Dodge in the class." "Nor in the whole Military Academy," rejoined Prescott. "I hope not," murmured Cadet Holmes thoughtfully. Boys at boarding school would have needed at least the rest of the day to get themselves to rights. Trained to soldierly habits, our two cadets had quickly dropped the furlough life. Citizen clothes, in dress-suit cases, were deposited at the cadet store, and the two cadets, back in "spooniest" white duck trousers and gray fatigue blouses, were soon speeding along the roads that led across the plain to where the other three classes were having their last day of summer encampment. "Greetings, old ramrod!" called a low but pleasant voice, as First Classman Brayton hurried up, grasping Dick's hand. Then Greg came in for a hearty shake. Brayton, who had been a cadet corporal when the two boys from Gridley were plebes, now wore the imposing chevrons of a cadet captain. "My, but I'm glad to see you two idlers return to a fair measure of work," laughed another voice, and Spurlock, whom Dick, as a plebe, had thrashed, pushed his right hand into the ceremonies. Spurlock, too, was a cadet captain. Other first classmen crowded in for these returning furlough men were popular throughout the upper classes. "May a wee, small voice make itself heard?" Dick and Greg half wheeled to meet another comer. Little Briggs, a trifle less plump and correspondingly longer, stood before them, grinning almost sheepishly. "Hullo, Briggsy!" cried Prescott, extending his hand, which the third classman took with unusual warmth. "Being no longer a plebe, I enjoy the great pleasure able to address an upper classman before I'm addressed," went on Briggs. "That's so, Briggsy," affirmed Greg. Before going off on their furlough both had been compelled to regard Briggs as an unfortunate plebe, with whom it was desirable to have as little to do as possible. Then it had been "Mr. Briggs"; now it was "Briggsy"; that much had the round little fellow gained by stepping up from the fourth class to the third. "Have you found any b.j. beasts among the new plebes, Briggsy!" Dick wanted to know. "Plenty of 'em," responded Briggs with enthusiasm. "Any that were b.j.-er than Mr. Briggs?" inquired Greg. A shade annoyance crossed the new yearling's face. "I never was b.j., was I?" he murmured. "Think!" returned Dick dryly. "However, you're Briggs, now, with all my heart---no longer 'mister.'" "We've had a busy, busy summer," murmured Briggs, "licking the new beasts into shape." Greg laughed heartily at memory of some of the hazing stunts through which he had once helped to rush Briggs. Furlong, Griffin and Dobbs, of the second class, hurried over to greet Prescott and Holmes. "Where's Anstey?" Dick inquired. "Not back yet, I'm sure," replied Briggs. "Oh, well, he'll be back before the day's over," Dick went on confidently. "That youth from Virginia is much too good a soldier to fail to report on time." Soon after the instruction parties of the first, third and fourth classes came marching back into camp. It seemed, indeed, like old times, to see the fellows all rushing off to their tents to clean up and change uniforms before the dinner call sounded. Then the call for dinner formation came. Dick and Greg fell in, in their old company, and marched away at the old, swinging soldier tread. Most of the afternoon the returned furlough men spent in their new rooms. During that afternoon Anstey pounced in upon them. The Virginian said little, as usual, but the length and fervor of the handclasp that he gave Dick and Greg was enough. With evening came the color-line entertainment. Dick and Anstey walked on the outskirts of the throng of visitors. Cadet Holmes, having discovered that the especial girl to whom he was at present betrothed was not at West Point, played the casual gallant for a fair cousin of Second Classman McDermott. The night went out in a blaze of color, illumination and fireworks just before taps. In the morning the cadet battalion marched back into barracks, and on the morning after that the daily grind began in the grim old academic building. Cadets Prescott and Holmes were thus fairly started on their third year at West Point. There was a tremendous grind ahead of them, the very grind was becoming vastly easier, two years of the hard life at West Point taught them how to study. CHAPTER X THE SCHEME OF THE TURNBACK "I must be getting back to my room," murmured Anstey. "I haven't had a demerit so far this year, and I don't want to begin." "If you must go, all right," replied Dick, though he added, with undoubted heartiness: "Whether in or out of proper hours, Anstey, your visits are always too short." "Thank you, old man," replied the Virginian gratefully. The time had worn along into October. During the first month of academic work, neither Dick nor Greg had stood as high in their class as they had wished. This is often the case with new second classmen, who have just returned from all the allurements and excitements of their furloughs. "Are you studying very hard, Anstey?" asked Greg, turning around, as the Virginian entered the door. "Not very," drawled the Virginian. "I never did like haste and rush. I'm satisfied if I get through. I did hope to stand high enough to get into the cavalry, but now I think I'm going to be pleased if I get the doughboy's white trousers stripe." The "doughboy" is an infantryman. "I think I'm going to find it all easy enough, now, after I once get my gait. Thank goodness, we're past the daily math. grind." "We'll all find plenty of math. in its application to other studies," sighed Prescott. "But what gets me is for an Army officer to have to be roundly coached in philosophy, as regards sound and light." "And chemistry," groaned Greg, "with heat, mineralogy, geology and electricity. And how the instructors can draw out on the points that a fellow hasn't been able to get through his head!" "Don't!" begged the Virginian. "It makes my temples throb. I've written mother, asking her to send me some headache powders. Unless our third-year science instructors let up on us, I see myself eating headache powders like candy." As Anstey turned the knob, and started to go out, another cadet, about to enter, pushed door open and stepped inside. "Howdy fellows," was the greeting of the newcomer. "How do you do, Haynes?" asked Dick, though not over impressed by the newcomer. Haynes was a former second classman, who, on account of illness in the latter half of his third year, had been allowed to "turn back" and join the new second class. It often happens that a "turnback" is not extremely popular with the new class that he joins. Not less often does it happen that the turnback wonders at the comparative lack of esteem shown him. The reason, however, is very likely to be found in the fact that the turnback considers himself a mile or so above the new class members with whom circumstances have compelled him to cast his lot. It was so in this instance. Haynes felt that he was, properly, a first classman. True, the members of the first class, which he had fallen behind, did not take that view of the case. "You fellows busy?" asked Haynes, as he took a seat across the foot of Prescott's cot bed. "Oh, no more busy than cadets usually are," smiled Dick pleasantly. "We are finding the new grind a hard one---that's all." "Now, there's nothing very hard about the first half of the year in this class," replied Haynes knowingly. "I've been through it you know." "You're lucky," rejoined Greg. "We haven't been through it---yet." Hayes, however, chose to regard what was meant as a slight hint. "Don't bone too hard at this first-term stuff, fellows," he went on. "Save your energies for the second half of the academic year." "I wonder whether we shall have any energies left by that time," replied Greg, opening one of his text-books in philosophy with a force that made the cover bang against the desk. "Oh, go ahead and bone 'sound,' then, if you want," permitted Mr. Haynes. "I'll talk to Prescott. Old ramrod, I haven't seen you at any of the hops this year." "Haven't had a femme to drag," replied Dick, as he picked up a sheet of notes and began to scan it. "Why don't you turn pirate, then, as I do," yawned Haynes, "and get the fellows to write you down on the cards they're making up for their femmes?" "I hadn't thought of that," replied Dick. "I don't believe, when I have no femme to drag to the hops, that it would make me any more popular with the fellows, either. A fellow who pirates at all should drag a spoony femme pretty often himself." "Why," asked Hayes, opening his eyes rather wide, "are you boning bootlick with any but officers?" "Boning bootlick" means to curry favor. Occasionally a cadet who wants cadet honors resorts to "boning bootlick" with the tactical officers stationed at the academy. "I'm not boning bootlick with cadets or with officers either," retorted Dick rather crisply. "I've never had the delight of wearing chevrons, you know." Haynes flushed a trifle. The year before he had worn a sergeant's chevrons. This year, for some reason, he did not have the chevrons. "Wearing chevrons isn't the only sign of bootlick," replied Haynes. "Is it one of them?" smiled Prescott good-humoredly. Again Haynes flushed. He had meant to take down this new member of the second class, but found Prescott's tongue too ready. "I don't know," replied Haynes shortly. "I've never been one of the authorities on bootlick." "Nor I, either," laughed Prescott quietly. "So we won't be able to come to the point of any information on the subject, I'm afraid." Greg, with his back turned to the visitor as he bent over the study desk, had been frowning for some time. Holmes wanted to study; he knew how badly he needed the time. But Haynes showed no sign of leaving the room. Suddenly, Holmes closed his book, perhaps with a trifle more noise than was necessary. "What you going to do, Greg?" inquired his chum, as Cadet Holmes rose stiffly, holding himself very erect in his natty gray uniform. "I believe I'll get out for a while," replied Greg. "I---I really want to think a little while." "Oh, I'll go, if you say so," volunteered Cadet Haynes, though without offering to rise. "Not necessary," replied Greg briefly, and stepped over to the door, which he next closed---from the outside. "Your roommate cocky?" asked Haynes, with a short laugh. "Holmes!" inquired Dick. "One of the best fellows in the world." "Guess he didn't want visitors, then," grinned: Haynes. "He's a chump to bone hard all the time. Really, Prescott, you don't get any further with an excess of boning." "I always try to get as high in my class as I can," sighed Dick. "True, that has never been extremely high yet. But a fellow wants to be well up, so he can spare a few numbers, in case anything happens, you know." "I'd just as soon be anywhere above the three fellows at the bottom of the Glass," replied Haynes, stifling another yawn. "Well, I hope you at least attain to your ambitions in the matter," replied Dick, regretfully eyeing two of his text-books that he wanted to dig into in turn. There was not a heap of study time left now, before the call came for supper formation. "My ambitions run along different lines," announced Haynes. "Along different lines than class standing?" inquired Dick. "Yes; if you mean the kind of class standing that comes from the academic board," went on Haynes. "Why, I didn't know there was any other kind, except standing in drill, and believe nearly all of the men here stand well in drill." "Oh, there are some other kinds," pursued Haynes. "Personal standing, for instance?" "Thank heaven personal standing is rather easily reached here," replied Dick. "All a fellow has to do is to be courteous and honorable and his personal standing just about takes care of itself." "Oh, there are some other little matters in personal standing. Take the class presidency, Prescott, for instance." "Yes?" queried Dick. "What about it?" "Well, you've been president of your class for two years." "Yes; thanks to the other fellows of the class." "Now, Prescott, do you intend to go right along keeping the presidency of the class?" "Why, yes; if the fellows don't show me that they want a change." "Maybe they do," murmured Haynes. Dick wheeled and regarded the turnback rather sharply. "You must mean something by that, Haynes. What do you mean?" "Are you willing to resign, if the class wants someone else?" "Of course," replied Prescott, with a snap. "I'm glad to hear you say that," murmured Haynes. "See here, Haynes, have you been sent here by any faction in the second class?" "No," admitted the turnback promptly. "Have you heard any considerable expression of opinion on the subject of a new class president being desired." "No," admitted Haynes, coloring somewhat under the close scrutiny of his comrade in the class and the corps. "You're speaking for yourself only?" "That's it," assented the turnback. "Why don't you want me for class president?" Cadet Haynes looked a trifle disconcerted, but it was always Dick's way to go openly and directly to the point in any matter. "Why, perhaps I don't know just how to put it," replied Haynes. "But see here, Prescott, wouldn't it be better for any class---say the second class, for instance---to have a man as president who has been longer at the Military Academy than the other members of the class?" "Do you mean," pursued Dick relentlessly, "that you want to be elected president of the present second class, Haynes?" "Why, I think it would be a nice little courtesy from the class," admitted the turnback. "You see, Prescott, you've held the honor now for two years." Dick smiled, looking straight into the eyes of his visitor, but he made no other answer. "Now, what do you think about it, Prescott?" insisted the turnback. "I don't like to tell you, Haynes." "But I wish you would." "You'd be offended." "No; I would---See here not trying to be offensive with me, are you?" "Certainly not." "Oh, that's all right then. Go ahead and tell me what you think." "I was a good deal astonished," went on Prescott, "when back in plebe days, the other fellows chose me for their president. I wasn't expecting it, and I didn't know what to make of it. But the fellows of the class gave me that great honor. I stand ready to step down from the honor at any time when the class feels that it would like another president." "I'd like the honor, Prescott. But, of course, I didn't know that you held to it so earnestly. If you don't want to give it up, of course I'll go slow in asking you to do so. But I thought that both you and the class would appreciate having as president a man who has been longer at the Military Academy than any of the others." "If I were to resign the presidency," replied Prescott bluntly, "I don't believe you'd stand a ghost of a show of getting it." Cadet Haynes sprang to his feet, cheeks crimson, his eyes flashing. "Why not?" he insisted. "Steady, now," urged Dick. "Don't take offence where none is meant, Haynes. The class would want its president to be one who has been with the class all along, and who knows all its traditions. Now, in experience, you're a first classman, and you've all the First-class traditions. Now, if the class were dissatisfied with me, and wanted a new president, I'm pretty certain the fellows would choose someone who had been in our class from the start. Now with you a turnback-----" Haynes's flush deepened, and he took a step forward, his fists clenching. "Prescott, do you use that word offensively?" "No," replied Dick quietly. "Do you intend your question or manner to be offensive?" "Not unless you're trying to start it," sniffed the other cadet. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Haynes," proposed Dick pleasantly. "I can see your point of view---from your side. I don't believe it would be the view of the class. But, if you wish, I'll call a class meeting and lay the whole proposition before them." "You mean that you'll try out class feeling by resigning and suggesting me for your successor?" asked Haynes eagerly. "No; I'll state the substance of our conversation this afternoon, and then you can say any thing you may have to say on the subject. Then I will put it to the class whether they want me to resign so that you can be elected in my place." Haynes turned several shades more red. "That would make a fool of me!" flashed the turnback. "It would be a statement of your own proposition, wouldn't it?" asked Dick, with another smile. "Stop your laughing at me, you-----" "Careful!" warned Dick, but he threw a lot of emphasis into the single word. "Prescott," choked the turnback, "you're trying to make my idea and myself ridiculous!" "Haven't I stated your proposition fairly?" challenged Prescott. "You think that, because you are a turnback, you have more right than I to the class presidency. If that isn't your attitude, then I shall be glad to apologize." "Oh, pshaw, there's no use in trying to make you see the matter with my eyes," muttered Haynes in disgust. "I'm afraid not, Haynes. If the fellows don't want me as president I would insist on resigning. But I am sure the class would rather have almost anyone than a turnback. I hope, however, there is no hard feeling?" Prescott held out his right hand frankly. "I hope there will be, as you say, no hard feeling," mumbled Haynes, accepting the proffered hand weakly. Then the turnback left the room. Down the corridor, however, he strode heavily, angrily, muttering to himself: "The conceited puppy!" CHAPTER XI BRAYTON MAKES A BIG APPEAL For a moment or two Dick stood looking out of his window, across the far-stretching plain that included the parade ground and the athletic field. In the near distance the football squad was finishing up its practice in the last moments of daylight. Brayton was captain of the Army eleven, and was a good deal discouraged. "Queer idea Haynes had!" muttered Dick to himself. Then he turned back to his desk and to the neglected chapter on "Sound" in natural philosophy. Dick, however, was not fated to study much. First of all, back came Greg, opening the door and looking in inquiringly. "Haynes has gone, I see," murmured Cadet Holmes. "Yes." "To stay away?" "I rather think so," nodded Cadet Prescott, without looking up from the pages of his textbook. "Then there'll be some show for a poor, hard-working goat," muttered Greg, closing the door behind him and falling into his chair. "The goat," at West Point, is one who is in the lowest section or two of his class. Greg was not yet a "goat," this year, though he lived in dread of becoming one. Hearing a yell from the plain beyond, however, Holmes went over to the window and looked out. "Dick, old ramrod," exclaimed Cadet Holmes wistfully, "I wish we stood well enough to be out on the football grill." "So do I," muttered Dick. "But what's the with the goat section overtaking us at double time?" Greg sighed, then went back to his books. For fifteen or twenty minutes both young men read on, trying to fasten something of natural philosophy in their minds. Now there came a quick knock, immediately after which the door was flung open and Brayton marched in. "See here, you coldfeet," began the captain of the Army eleven sternly, "what do you two mean by staying in here and boning dry facts?" "Just to avoid being drowned in goat's milk," smiled Dick, turning a page and looking up. Brayton, regardless of these heroic efforts to study, threw one leg across the corner of the study table. "You two fellows came out, in the first work of the squad, and did stunts that filled us all with hope," pursued Brayton severely. "Then, suddenly, you failed to show up any more. And all this, despite the fact that we have the poorest eleven the Army has shown in six years." "Only men well up in their academic work are allowed to play on the eleven, replied Dick. "You fellows are well enough up to make the team." "But we're nervous about our studies," rejoined Prescott. "Nervous about your studies!" cried Brayton sharply. "Yet not a whit anxious for the honor of the Army that you hope to serve in all your lives. Now, you fellows know, as well as any of us, that we don't much mind being walked over by a crack college eleven. But we want to beat the Navy, year in and year out. Why, fellows, this year the Navy has one of the best elevens in its history. All the signs are that the middies are going to walk roughshod over us. And yet you two fellows, whom we need, are sulking in quarters, poring over books---nervous about your studies!" Scorn rang in Brayton's heavy tones. "If I really thought you needed me-----" began Dick. "Of course, if you did actually need two duffers like-----" broke in Cadet Holmes. "Need you!" retorted Brayton. "I'm almost ashamed to be sitting here with two such cold-blooded duffers. But do you know why I'm here? Because Lieutenant Carney, our coach, told me to come here and actually beg you to turn out---if I had to beg. Now, am I going to be submitted to that humiliation by two fellows I've always liked and considered my friends?" "Is the football situation as bad as that?", asked Dick seriously. "Bad?" repeated Brayton gloomily. "Man, it's _rotten_! Today is Thursday. Saturday we have to meet Lehigh. That's a team we can usually beat. Lieutenant Carney is so blue that I believe he'd like to compromise by giving Lehigh the game at a score of twelve to nothing! And the Navy! Think of the fun of having Annapolis strutting around with the Army scalp tied to an anchor!" "If you really mean what you've been saying," said Dick slowly, "then we're going tomorrow afternoon. I'm taking the liberty of speaking for Greg." "That's straight and correct," affirmed Holmes hastily. "But I'm not sure, Brayton, that you'll find us such bang-up material as you appear to think." "Oh, bother that!" cried the Football captain jubilantly. "I know what Lieutenant Carney can do with you. So, for the glory the Army, then, you'll come out, after this, and stand by us for the rest of the season?" "For the glory of the Army, if we have anything to do with it," cried Dick heartily, "we'll 'fess' cold in every confounded study on the third-year list. For the glory of the Army we'll consent to being 'found' and kicked out of the service!" "Hear, hear!" came rousingly from Cadet Holmes. "Fellows---thank you!" gasped Brayton, grasping both their hands and shaking them hard. "Lieutenant Carney will be delighted. So will all the fellows. Mr. Carney has had a hard, up-hill time of it as couch this year. But now---!" There could be no question that Brayton's joy was real. He was a keen judge of football material, and he had been deeply chagrined when Dick and Greg had withdrawn from the early training work of the squad. "It has been fearful work trying get the interest up this year," continued Brayton with a reminiscent sigh. "So many good man have been dodging the squad! Even Haynes, who is the best we have at left end, ducked this afternoon. Caesar's ghost may know what Haynes was doing with his time---I don't. But I don't believe he was boning." Prescott smiled quietly to himself as he recalled how Cadet Haynes had been employing his leisure in this very room. "Well, I'm happy, and Lieutenant Carney will be," muttered Brayton, turning to go. "A whole lot of us will feel easier." "Any idea where you'll try to play us?" asked Dick, as the captain of the Army eleven rested his hand on the knob. "Not much; we'll find out during tomorrow afternoon's practice. Be sharp on time, won't you?" "If we're able to walk," promised Dick. Just after Brayton had gone the orderly came through with mail. "You got something, eh?" asked Greg. "Yes; a letter from grand old Dave Darrin," cried Dick, as he broke the seal of the envelope. "Let me know the news," begged Holmes. "Whoop! Dave is on the Navy football team. So is Dan Dalzell! Both have gone in at the eleventh hour." "Great Scott!" breathed Greg, rising to his feet. "I wonder if we're going to be placed on the line where we'll have to bump 'em in the Army-Navy game?" "We may be, if we get on the line," uttered Prescott, as he finished the epistle. "Here, Greg, read it for yourself. That will be quicker than waiting for me to tell you the news from our old chums." The next afternoon both Prescott and Holmes turned out on the gridiron practice work. Both proved to be in fine form. Lieutenant Carney, the Army coach, devoted most of his attention to them. After some preliminary work the Army eleven was lined up against a "scrub" team of cadets. "Mr. Prescott, go to left end on the team," directed Coach Carney. "Mr. Haynes, take the right end on scrub. Mr. Holmes, you will be left tackle on the Army team for this bit of work. The captains of both teams will now line their men up. Scrub will have the ball and make the kick-off. Make all the play brisk and snappy. Work for speed and strategy, not impact." With that, Lieutenant Carney ran over to the edge of the gridiron, leaving another officer, of the coaching force, to officiate as referee. The ball was placed in play. At the kick-off the ball came to Greg, who passed it to Dick. The interference formed, backed by Brayton. "Put it around their right end!" growled Brayton, the word passing swiftly to Prescott. Haynes was darting in, blood in his eye, backed the whole right flank of scrub. Greg and the rest of the available interference got swiftly and squarely in the way of Haynes and the others. There was a scrimmage. Out of it, somehow---none looking on could tell just how it was done---Prescott emerged from the mix-up, darting swiftly to the left and around. He had made twenty-five yards with the ball Before he was nailed and downed. Lieutenant Carney looked, as he felt, delighted. The spectators, all of them crazy for the Army's success, broke into yells of joy. Dick had done the spectacular part of the trick, but he could not have succeeded without the swift, intelligent help that Holmes had given. Playing together, they had sprung one of the clever ruses that both had perfected back in the old Gridley days. Haynes was furious. He was panting. There was an angry flash in his eyes as both teams lined up for the snap-back. "That fellow has come out into the field just to spite me," snarled Haynes to himself. At the signal, the ball was snapped back, and passed swiftly to Dick. Haynes fairly leaped into the scrimmage, as though it were deadly hand-to-hand conflict. But Dick and Greg, with the backing of their comrades on the Army eleven, bore Haynes down to earth in the mad stampede that passed over him. Fifteen yards more were gained, and scrub's half-backs were feeling sore in body. "That man Prescott is a wonder," muttered Lieutenant Carney to a brother officer of the Army. "Or else Holmes is. It's hard to say which of the pair is doing the trick. I think both of them are." "How on earth, Carney, did you come to overlook that pair until now?" "I didn't overlook them," retorted the Army coach. "I had them spotted when the training first began. But both dropped out on the claim that they feared for their standing in academy work." "A pair like that," muttered Captain Courteney, "ought to be excused for any kind of recitations during the football season. Jove! Look at that---Prescott has made a touchdown" "Prescott carried the ball," amended Lieutenant Barney, "but Holmes certainly had as much to do with the touchdown as Prescott did." "They're wonders!" cried Captain Courteney joyously. "And to think that you didn't have that pair out last year." "Both refused even to think of going into training last year," retorted the Army coach. "Both were keen on the bone. But, bone or no bone, we've got to have them on the eleven the rest of this season." By the time that the afternoon's practice was over fully fifty Army officers were on the sides, watching the work, for word had traveled by 'phone and the gathering had been a quick one. "Prescott! Holmes!" called Brayton sharply, after the practice was over. "You'll play on the Army team tomorrow. Lieutenant Carney says so. Prescott, yours is left end; Holmesy, you'll expend your energies as left tackle. Haynes, you'll be in reserve, as a sub." The message to Cadet Haynes was delivered without the suspicion of a snub in it. Almost any other man in the battalion would have accepted this wise decision without a murmur, delighted that the Army had found a better man. Not so with Cadet Haynes. He turned cold all over. Not a word of reply did he offer, but turned on his heal, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. "Now, what do you think of that?" demanded Haynes to himself. "Turned down for that fellow Prescott---that shifty dodger and cheap bootlick! And I shook hands with you yesterday, Prescott! I never will again! Confound you, you turned out in togs at this late hour, just to put me out of the running!" CHAPTER XII IN THE BATTLE AGAINST LEHIGH Before noon the next day Lehigh turned up---team, subs., howlers and all, and as many as could crowded into the conveyances that had been sent down to the railway station to meet the team and coaches. The cadet corps, busy to a man with Saturday morning recitations, did not see the arrival of the visiting team. But the Lehighs and the afternoon's game were the only topics for talk at dinner in the cadet mess hall. "They've sent over a race of giants," growled Brayton down the length of the table at which he sat, while a poor little plebe cadet, acting as "gunner," was serving the roast beef. "Sergeant Brinkman, of the quartermaster's detachment, told me that the weight of the team sprung the axles on two of the stoutest quartermaster wagons. Every man that Lehigh sent over weighs a good part of a ton. What do you think of that, Prescott?" "Glad enough to hear it," smiled Dick, nodding. "I believe it's the light, lithe, spry fellows who stand the best show of getting through the enemy's line." "If all our smaller men were like you, I'd believe it, too, muttered Brayton. "But we haven't any more light men like you and Holmes, Prescott," broke in Spurlock from the adjoining table. "I'm going to duck the team and quit playing," protested Dick, "if Holmesy and I are to be twitted about being wonders." "But, honestly, Prescott" began Brayton, "you two are-----" "Average good Army men, I hope," interposed Dick. "Nothing more, I hope. At least. I speak for myself. If Holmesy wants to star-----" "I'll call you out, ramrod, if you carry the joke too far!" warned Greg. Seeing that both of the chums were in earned and didn't want to hear their merits sung, the others near them desisted. But, at many a table further removed, the whole trend of prediction was that, with Prescott and Holmes now definitely on the eleven, the Army stood its first chance of defeating Navy that year. The Navy! It is the whole hope of West Point to send Annapolis down to defeat. The middies of the Navy on the other hand, can smile at many and many a defeat, provided the Army trails behind the Navy at the annual football game. As the cadets marched out of mess hall and back along the sidewalk to barracks, those who allowed their gaze to stray ever so little across the roadway in the direction of the administration building noted that the holiday crowd had already begun to gather. There were girls down from Vassar for the afternoon, and from half a dozen choice schools along the river. There were many out-of-town visitors from every direction. We're going to three or four thousand people here to see the game," murmured Greg to Dick, in the undertone that cadets know so well how to use in ranks without being detected in conversing. "Think so?" inquired Prescott. "I'm sure of it." In the groups that were strolling up and down the roads leading across the plain were young ladies whom many of the cadets wanted badly to see and exchange greetings with. First of all, however, Saturday afternoon inspection had to be gone through with. From this, not even the members of the Army football squad were privileged to be absent. When inspection was over many of the cadets hastened forth for brief converse with popular fair ones. None of the football men, however, had time for this. As soon as might be, they reported at the gymnasium, there to receive much counsel from coach and captain. "Keep yourself in good shape, Haynes," called Dick, laughingly, when, after getting into togs, he met the turnback similarly attired. "Going to funk?" asked Haynes rather disagreeably. "Not intentionally, anyway," Dick smiled back at the "sore" one. "But I hear that we young Davids are going to be pitted against Goliaths this afternoon. It may be just my luck to go down in one of the scrimmages and get a furlough in hospital." "I hope so!" muttered Haynes, but he said it under his breath. Out over on the side lines officers and their families, and hordes of visitors, were filing toward the seats. Across at the east side of the gridiron, Lehigh's few hundred sympathizers were already bunched, and were making up with noise for their smallness of numbers. Among the Army "boosters" the uniforms of the officers brightened the picture. From time to time squads or detachments of cadets arrived and passed along to the seats reserved for them in the center. Below the cadets, the band was stationed, and was already playing lively airs. Out ahead of the band stood a megaphone on a tripod. This was to be used, later on, by the cheer-master, one of the cadets, who must call for the yells or the songs that were to be given. A rousing cheer ascended from the Lehigh seats when the visiting college team trotted out on the field. Hearty, courteous applause from the Army seats also greeted the visitors. The band played as soon as the first Lehighs were seen coming on to the field. "Team fall in!" shouted Brayton, at last "Substitutes to the rear. Forward!" Out of the gym. stepped these young champions of the Army. Across the roadway they strode, then broke into a trot as they reached the edge of the field. And now a mighty cheer arose. Yesterday, the Army's friends had feared a defeat, but now word had gone the rounds that Prescott and Holmes had made the team strong in its weakest spot, and that a cyclonic game might be looked for. For the next few minutes the Army eleven indulged in practice plays and kicks. During this period, the cheer-master cadets and the corps of cadets were busied with the various Army yells and songs that promised victory for the young soldiers. Nor were the Lehigh "boosters" anything like idle. Every time an Army cheer ceased, the Lehigh sympathizers cheered their own team. Then game was called, with kick-off for the Army. The ball was passed to Lehigh's right end, who, full of steam, dashed on with it. Dick and Greg were foremost in the obstruction that met the Lehigh runner. But the Lehigh man was well supported. Through Dick, Greg and Ellerson dashed the runner, backed splendidly by his interference. It took quarterback and one of the halfbacks of the Army to put the runner down some eight yards further on. "Humph! I don't see that Prescott and Holmes are doing so much for us," muttered Haynes to the sub. at his right, as both watched from the side lines. "Look at what they have to stop," returned the other cadet. "Don't be sore, Haynes; you couldn't do any better. "Humph!" grumbled the turnback. It soon developed, however, that Lehigh felt especially strong on its right end. Hence, much of the work seemed to devolve upon Dick and Greg. For twenty yarns down into Army territory that ball was forced. Then, after a gain of only two more yards, Lehigh was forced to surrender the ball. Army boosters stood up and cheered loudly. "You've got a tough crowd to get by, Prescott," muttered Brayton. "But look out for signals." As Brayton bent over to snap-back, Quarterback Boyle's cool voice sounded: "Fourteen---eight---nine---three!" In another instant Boyle had made a running pass with the ball to Greg, who passed it on to Dick Prescott. Now all the Army boosters were up in their seats, eager to see how the much-lauded Prescott would serve with the pigskin. Ball clasped, head down, Dick settled for a run, his whole gaze on the on-coming Lehigh right line. They met in a clash. Dick had planned how to slip out of the impact, but the stronger Lehigh right end had both arms around Prescott, and down went the Army left end. "Humph!" grunted Haynes, though his tone did not sound displeased "I hope that isn't a sample of Prescott's skill," muttered one Army captain to another. "No matter how good a man he is, Prescott should have been in the squad from the outset of the training," replied the other. Boyle was calling the signal. Breathlessly the larger part of the spectators watched to see Dick redeem himself. But again he failed to make much of an advance with the ball. After the second "down," with barely anything gained, Brayton ordered Boyle to throw the ball over to the right of the Army line. So, in the next dash, Prescott and Holmes had but little to do. The Army lost the ball. Immediately it looked as though Ennis, captain of Lehigh, had heard all about the new Army left end and left tackle, for Lehigh's own sturdy right end came forward with the ball. Dick and Greg both dashed furiously at him, but Greg was hurled aside by Lehigh's interference. Dick, however, held Lehigh's right end dragged the Army man for a yard; then others joined in the melee, and the ball was down. Lehigh advanced some twenty yards before being compelled to give up the ball. It became more and more plain that the visitors intended forcing the fighting around the Army's left end. At last, however, the Army balked the game, and returned to the attack, trying to regain some of the lost Army territory. "They're going to pound us, Greg," whispered Dick in one of the pauses of the game. "We were all right in the High School days, but we're playing with tremendously bigger men now." Even Brayton began to question his judgment having taken these two men so recently on the team. "If I had been able to train them from the first, they'd have been all right," muttered the captain of the Army Eleven. To ease up on Prescott and Holmes, Brayton directed, as often as possible, charges through the center, or right-end rushes. But almost half of the time Lehigh seemed bent on bearing down the Army's left end. The hard work was beginning to tell on both Dick and Greg. Yet it was a long tine, after all, before Lehigh managed to score a touchdown. When the time came, however, the visitors also made their kick for goal, and the score was Lehigh, 6; Army, 0. "Humph!" remarked Cadet Haynes, for the dozenth time. All his fellow subs. had moved away from him. They were disappointed, but they realized that Prescott and Holmes had entered the game under brilliant promise, yet without training. Dutifully the cadet cheer-master kept at his work, but now the responses came with less volume from the corps of cadets, who were truly sitting on anxious seats. In the interval of rest, Lieutenant Carney talked anxiously with Brayton. "Have we made a mistake in Prescott and Holmes?" asked the coach. "What do you think, sir!" asked Brayton. "If we had had that pair in training from the outset," replied the Army officer, "I'm satisfied that they would have made a better showing. Lehigh isn't a particularly strong team, but they have one of the best right-end assaults that I've seen in some time. It's really too bad that Prescott and Holmes, in their first game, are put against such a strong, clever assault." "Well, we can't put Haynes in now, unless Prescott should be injured," replied Brayton. "Haynes?" repeated the Army coach. "I'm glad he's not on your line today. Training and all, Haynes isn't the man to match Prescott, even without training." Haynes heard, and his face was convulsed with rage as he turned swiftly away. "Queer how folks take so much stock in that fellow Prescott!" muttered the turnback. "Why can't a man like Lieutenant Carney see that Prescott is nothing but a dub, while Holmes is only a dub's helper?" All through the Army seats it was beginning to be felt that the late placing of Prescott and Holmes in the Army had probably been an error. There were even many who rated Haynes higher than he deserved to be rated, and who believed that the turnback might have done much to save the day. As it was, the Army had about given up hope. Lehigh was stronger than usual; that was all, except that the Army team appeared to be weaker than in the year before. The band still played at appropriate moments; the corps of cadets answered every signal for a yell, but Army spirits were drooping fast. "Greg," muttered Dick, with a rueful face, "you can wager that we're being roasted by everyone out of earshot!" CHAPTER XIII WHEN THE CHEERS BROKE LOOSE Fifteen minutes left to play. By this time even the most hopeful spectators had settled down to the conviction that the Army was to lose the game. The most sanguine hoped that the score would not exceed 6 to nothing. "We're done for on this trip!" muttered Lewis, the Army's right guard. "No, we're not," retorted Dick, his eyes flashing. "We can't lose; that's all there is to it!" "Who told you that," demanded Lewis. "That used to be our motto, our fighting principle on the old Gridley High School team in the days when it never lost a game," replied Prescott. "Hm!" returned Lewis. "I wish we had some more of your old Gridley players on the team today, then." Then they scurried to their places, leaving Dick in wonder as to whether Lewis' last remark had been intended for sarcasm. "Greg." whispered Dick, his pulses throbbing, "you see those fellows on the Lehigh right flank?" They're the fellows we've got to down. We've got to down them, if we get killed!" "That's the word!" gritted the Army left tackle. "Dick, I'd about as soon be killed as let the Army be walked over!" This had all been whispered rapidly. The Army had just got the ball again, and was only ten yards over into Lehigh territory. Now Boyle's signal was sounding: "Twelve---seven---six---three!" Dick straightened. Greg squirmed. Both knew that their chance had come again. Making an oblique dash, Boyle himself passed the pigskin to Dick Prescott. Then all of the Army line that could do so stiffened in and surged behind Prescott and Holmes. Lehigh's bigger right end was making like a cyclone for Dick. The Lehigh man was backed finely. Just as they were on the point of dashing together, Greg, as by previous arrangement, gave Dick a prodigious shove, at the same instant himself leaping forward. So quickly was the thing done that Lehigh's right end, ere he realized it, had grappled with Greg---and Dick was around the end, racing! With a muttered growl of rage Lehigh's man let Holmes go. For a second or two, the college men were badly rattled. Greg, with the agility of a squirrel, ducked low and got through, racing with all his might after Prescott. Twenty-four yards were covered ere Prescott went down. When he did so, Greg was standing back, saving himself that he might help Dick the next time. Once more the ball was snapped back. This time some brilliant faking was done. The whole of the first movement looked as though the ball were to be pushed somewhere through the Army's right flank, and Lehigh wheeled accordingly. But it was a left-end pass, after all. Dick and Greg got through by a very slight variation on their last ruse eighteen yards more gained! In an instant, now, those in the Army seats were wild with enthusiasm. The band crashed out joyously, a dozen measures, while the cadets sang one of their songs of jubilant brag. Then all was suddenly still for the next bit of play. While the men of both teams were hurrying to the line-up, a signal was noticed by hundreds that caused excited comment. Brayton made some slight signal to Prescott Both Dick and Greg shook their heads sullenly. "Confound Brayton!" shivered Lieutenant Barney. "What does he mean by that? He has signaled Prescott and Holmes asking them if they can put one more by Lehigh, and they have refused. Ennis and all the Lehighs have tumbled. Brayton-----" "Seven---two---nine---eight!" voiced Quarterback Boyle. Instantly Coach Carney's face cleared. It was an emergency signal, not yet used in the game. As if unconsciously, all the men of the Army eleven had turned toward right guard. The ball was snapped back. Boyle took three steps of a plunge toward right guard, then suddenly dodged, passing the ball to Greg, who swiftly passed it to Prescott---and the race was on. Lehigh's right end made a gallant dash to stop Dick. There was a mix-up in an instant. All happened so swiftly that the spectators were not certain how the thing had been done. But Dick Prescott, with Cadet Greg Holmes almost at his side, was charging across the lower field, past one of the halfbacks, and with only fullback really in their way. There was a tackle. But Dick was seen to come out of it, while Greg rolled on the grass with the fullback. "_Touchdown!_" The air trembled with the vibration of that surging yell as Cadet Prescott raced across Lehigh's goal line. "Humph!" ejaculated Haynes. But he, too, was on his feet, watching the lively performance. Then the pigskin was carried back for the kick for goal, and the goal was made. Lehigh was tied! After the early discouragements of the game that seemed luck enough. Lieutenant Carney was the personal embodiment of joy as he recalled the signal of Brayton and the sullen headshakes of Prescott and Holmes. "That was a ratty and clever piece of acting, to throw the visitors off their guard!" chuckled the Army coach. No time was lost in lining up again. Only seven minutes of playing time were left. It seemed too short in which to do anything in the faces of the Army players there glowed the light of determination. Within three minutes the ball was well down in Lehigh territory. The college men fought grimly now. They were becoming rattled; the Army players seemed more confident and more full of spirit than at time in the day. Now there came another play. Again the Army's left wing was used. There was a short, desperate scrimmage. The Army had gained four yards, yet lost---what? For, out of that scrimmage came Dick and Greg, each limping enough to be noticed. One of the Army "rainmakers" (doctors) even started out from the side lines, but Brayton waive the medical officer back. "Is it a trick, this time, or real?" wondered Conch Carney, who did not care to be caught napping again. "Five---nine---seven---two---eighteen!" The last numeral called for a fake kick. So well was the strategy carried out that Lehigh was even trapped into spreading out a trifle. It was a left-end play again, however, and Dick and Greg, backed by all the rest, fought to put it through. Lehigh's halfback caught Prescott this time---caught him fair and full, and Prescott went down. Yet this had been intended. So well was it done that Greg, close in, was away with the ball by the time that Prescott touched the earth. There was a yell of dismay from the visitors. They started to bear down Holmes, but all of the Army team had been prepared for this move from the instant the last signal; had been called. So it was the full force of the charging Army line that pushed Cadet Holmes through and over the goal line. Over all the cheering that followed this manoeuvre came the call for time at the end of the game's playing time. Yet, under the rules, the kick for goal was tried. The kick failed---but who cared? The finishing score was: Army, 11; Lehigh, 6. Gone were all the doubts concerning Prescott and Holmes. Now they were the most sensational players in the Army team. Justly Brayton received his full share of credit both for taking on Prescott and Holmes at the eleventh hour, and also for carrying out so cleverly his own captain's part of the strategy that had won. Lehigh's team went off the field dejected. The visitors had counted on victory as theirs. There was a noticeable silence among the Lehigh "boosters" as they clambered down from their from their seats and strolled moodily away. Only one man had any adverse commend. That man was turnback Haynes, and all he said was: "_Humph!_" CHAPTER XIV FOR AULD LANG SYNE After that Dick and Greg turned out every day for practice with the team. Both Lieutenant Carney and Team Captain Brayton speedily learned that they had made no mistake in getting Prescott and Holmes on to the line. A number of smaller colleges were defeated, and with rattling good scores. Dick and Greg seemed to improve with every game. True, Yale walked off with the honors, though the score, ten to six, had been stubbornly contested throughout. Harvard was played to a tie that year; Princeton was beaten by six to two, the two standing for a safety that Princeton forced the Army to make. Lieutenant Carney was one of the happiest men on the station. From having a team rather below the average, he had produced an Army eleven that was destined to go down as famous in American military life. As Thanksgiving drew near all interest centered in what was, after all, to be the real game of the year---that between the Army and the Navy, which is always played the Saturday after that holiday. Haynes, during the season's good work, had not been able wholly to keep his tongue back of his teeth. He had made several disparaging remarks. For of these remarks Lewis, of the Army eleven, chose to take he turnback to account. Hot words followed, ending in a fight. Haynes, roundly beaten, withdrew altogether from the eleven. "That fellow Prescott has wonderful luck, or he'd have had his neck broken long ago, considering all the hard packs that he has bumped into in the games," growled the turnback disgustedly to himself. In fact, Haynes was forced to do a large share of his talking with himself. He hadn't been "cut" by the other cadets, but he had succeeded in making himself generally unpopular through his too evident dislike of Prescott. "Funny, but that's the man who wanted me to resign the class presidency so that he could run for it," laughed Dick to his chum. Dick had told Greg of that laughable interview, but it had gone no further. Greg could be trusted not to talk too much. "Going over to Philadelphia to see the Navy anchored to a zero score, Haynes?" asked Carter, of the second class. "Yes; I reckon I'm going over," replied Haynes. "But I'm not so sure that we'll see the Navy sunk," replied the turnback. "I know you don't care much for Prescott," smiled Carter. "Yet how can you be blind to the wonderful work that he and Holmes are doing? Is it because Prescott is playing the position for which you were cast?" "No, it isn't," retorted Haynes, his face red with passion "If our team wants Prescott, let it have him. I don't care. But I've a notion Prescott won't be strutting about with such lordly airs-----" "Prescotts? Lordly airs?" broke in Cadet Carter, grinning broadly. "Whew, but that would make a hit with the fellows! Why, Prescott is anything but a lordly chap. He's one of the most modest fellows in the corps. He had to be fairly dragged on to the eleven. He believed it would be better off without him." "So it would, sure!" rasped the turnback. "Now, see here, Haynes, don't get so sore as to warp your own judgment," expostulated Carter. "Well, you just wait and see how much we do to the Navy! Have you heard about the Navy's new, lightning right end?" "Darrin, you mean?" "Yes," nodded Haynes. "A friend of mine, who saw Darrin play the other day, writes me that Darrin is an armor-clad terror on the grid iron. If he is, he'll pulverize Prescott, unless Brayton shifts Prescott to some other position." "Pooh! I'm not afraid," laughed Carter, turning to walk away. "Darrin, no doubt, is good, but he can't do anything to Prescott." Neither of the speakers was aware that Dave Darrin, midshipman, United States Navy, was one of the oldest and dearest friends that Dick Prescott had. Few at West Point knew that Darrin and Prescott had ever met. "Am I going over to Philadelphia to see the game?" muttered Haynes to himself, as he strode away from the game. "I want to see Prescott go up against the real star Darrin, and get his neck broken!" Anstey was one of the few at West Point who knew anything about the friendship between Prescott, Holmes, Darrin and Dalzell. Dan Dalzell had also made the Annapolis eleven, playing right tackle. That was bound to bring him into hard grip with Greg. "Anstey, I hope there's time for you to make the acquaintance of Dave and Dan," Dick said earnestly while the Virginian was visiting Greg and himself. "Dave and Dan are two of the real fellows, if there are any left in the world. "They must be, old ramrod," replied the Virginian quietly, "if they hold such place in your affections, and in old Holmesy's." Great was the rejoicing, on the eventful morning, when the two "Army specials" pulled out from the station down by the river's edge. The first section of the train pulled out ahead, carrying the officers of the post, their families and closest friends. On the second longer section traveled the corps of cadets---with the exception of a few of the young men who, under discipline, were not allowed to take this trip. With the cadets went the tactical officers and the coaching force. At Jersey City the first real stop was made. Then the journey was resumed to Philadelphia. Franklin Field was crowded with somewhere between thirty and thirty-five thousand people when the corps of cadets, headed by the band, marched on to the field and thence to the seats reserved for the band and the corps. The whole progress of the corps across the field was accompanied by lusty cheering, by applause and by the mad waving of the gray, black and gold Army pennants. Most of the spectators who carried the Navy's blue and gold pennants so far forgot their partisanship as to cheer and wave for the Army's young men. Hardly was the corps of cadets seated when another loud strain of joyous music was heard. The brigade of midshipmen, from Annapolis, behind the Naval Academy Band, was now entering the field. All the cheering and all the other frantic signs of approval were repeated, the corps of cadets from West Point lending heavy additional volume to the rousing send-off. In the meantime rival football squads had been hustled off to dressing quarters. As the Army squad made quick time to the dressing rooms, Dick and Greg had their eyes on the alert for even the briefest glimpse of any of the Navy eleven. It was two years and a half since Dick and Greg had had even a glimpse of Dave or Dan. How the two West Pointers yearned for even an instant's look at the chums of old days! But no such exchange of glimpses was possible at this time. The Army players and substitutes got into their togs, then waited. "All ready?" called Brayton at last. "Then fall in and out on to the field in double time!" Another wild outburst of cheering was let loose when the Army eleven trotted in into view. The Military Academy Band began playing. An instant later the Naval Academy Band fell in, playing the same air by ear. The ball was turned loose, and after it went the players. The practice work was brisk and warm. Hardly had the combined bands stopped playing when another great yell broke loose. Young men in the blue and gold striped stockings of the Navy were trotting on to the field. The Navy band turned itself loose, followed in an instant by the Army band. The din was something bewildering. Those in the further seats could not hear the music of the bands at all. Dick and Greg watched covertly as they saw the Navy team come on at the other end of the field. Which was Dave, and which was Dan? Hang it, how disguising these football suits were! Both teams went on with their practice. There came a moment when the Army and Navy teams came closer to each other. Then the eager spectators saw something that was not on the programme. The chums of the old Gridley days had made each other out in the same moment. There was a rush. In mid-field Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin gripped hands as if they could never let go again. Across their outstretched arms Greg and Dan found each other in a right-hand clasp. So delighted were the old chums that they fairly hugged each other. Over it all, while the spectators gazed in silent wonder, came the strains from the Army band, for the leader, more with a sense of the fitting than from any knowledge of facts, waved his men into the strains of "Auld Lang Syne." "Should auld acquaintance be forgot-----" The band was playing softly. As the spectators took up the fine old words the band music died down. There came a rolling rattle from the drum section of the Navy band, and then high over all the voices rose the triumphant measures of "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean." That crowd forgot to cheer. It was a moment for song, as thousands, catching the full spirit of the air, gave voice to--- "The Army and Navy forever!" Not a word, so far, had been spoken by any one of the chums. They had not intended to bring about a scene like this, making themselves the central figures in the great picture. But it was too late to retreat. "It seems as though an age had gone by, Dave," spoke Cadet Prescott. "It surely does, Dick," returned Midshipman Darrin. "And we've got to beat you today, too," said Midshipman Dalzell dolefully. "What? Beat the Army?" gasped Cadet Holmes. "The Navy is the only crowd that can really do it," admitted Dalzell. "Foes in sport today, Dave!" declared Prescott ardently. "But in nothing else, ever!" "Never mind either the Army or the Navy, just for the minute," begged Dave Darrin. "But it's great, isn't it, just to be in the service at all?" Then, becoming suddenly aware that they had demoralized the practice work of both elevens, cadets and midshipmen parted. "But do your best to beat me today, Dave!" begged Dick. "I surely will!" came back the retort. "And don't you falter for the Army, Dick!" "Old friends, Prescott?" demanded Brayton as the two cadets ran back to their own forces. "We four learned football together, on the same team," confessed Dick. "Is that man Darrin as big a wonder as we've heard?" queried Brayton. "Bigger, I'm afraid," returned Prescott. "He opposes you today. Can he get away with you?" "He may be able to batter me down. But I'll give him all the trouble I can, Brayton. Darrin is for the Navy, but I'm equally for the Army!" "It will be all right, as long as friendship doesn't break up your work," warned Brayton. "That very friendship will make all four of us fight harder than ever we did in our lives before," spoke Prescott seriously. At almost the very same moment Dave Darrin was saying about the same thing to the captain of the Navy team. "Humph! Do those fellows think they're posing before a moving-picture machine?" The one who uttered that remark was turnback Haynes. He had come on to the field with a scowling face, and the scowl was likely to deepen steadily. Anstey, from his seat, had been "all eyes" for the pair whom he now knew to be the heard-about Darrin and Dalzell. All Anstey's further speculation was cut short. The Army and Navy elevens were lining up to start play. CHAPTER XV HEROES AND A SNEAK Turnback Haynes watched the game closely, darkly. He wanted to note and to remember every play near the Army's left end today. Should the Navy win the day's battle, then Cadets Haynes felt sure he could make a large number of men in the second class at the Military Academy believe that Prescott had allowed his ancient friendship to stand in the way of an Army victory. "Great Caesar, I might even succeed in getting to be president of the class yet!" muttered the turnback. "There they go again!" A second or two later the wild cheering began again. For the Army was charging with the ball, well down in Navy territory, and Prescott, with the pigskin safely tucked, was using his most wily tactics to get by Dave Darrin. And Dick succeeded, too, though only for eight yards, when Dave had the satisfaction of helping to pull his old-time chum down to the ground in the interests of the Navy. For a little while the ball had been over on Army ground. Now, however, it was going steadily toward the Navy's goal line, and the interest of the spectators was intense. The time of the game was more than half gone. Once the Navy had been forced to carry the pig skin behind its own line, gaining thus a fresh lease of life in the game. But, of course, the safety scored two against the Navy. For a while afterward it had looked as though that, would be the score for the game---two to nothing. "If Brayton uses Prescott just right, and doesn't call on them too often, they'll get the ball over the Navy's goal line yet," confided Lieutenant Carney to a brother officer who stood at his side. "The Navy line-up is a great one this year," replied his comrade. "For myself I'd be satisfied to see the score end as it stands---two to nothing." "Without a touchdown on either side!" questioned Lieutenant Carney, with a trace of scorn in his voice. "That wouldn't be real sport, old fellow!" "I know; but it would be at least a safe finish for the Army," responded the other. Just then Quarterback Boyle's voice was heard giving the signal: "Eight---seventeen---four!" Lieutenant Carney gave his friend's arm a slight nudge. By way of Greg the ball came to Dick, who, already in fleet motion, was none the less ready for the pass. With the ball under his arm, Prescott started. Almost in an instant Dave and Dan piled upon him, ere Greg could get in for effective interference. Two more downs and the Navy had the ball. Now Darrin, with Dalzell's close elbow-touch throughout, started a series of brilliant plays. To be sure, Dave didn't make all the runs, but he made the larger part of them. Turnback Haynes's eyes began to snap. Dave Darrin was playing with fire in his eyes. Prescott was fighting back, doggedly, sullenly it almost seemed, but Darrin was putting on his best streak of the day. Ere the Navy was obliged to give up the ball once more it had crossed the line, and was twelve yards down in Army territory. Nor did the Army succeed in getting the ball back over the center line. Once more the Navy took the ball and began to work wonders with it. Within fifteen yards of the Army goal line the middies carried the ball, by easy stages. Dan Dalzell, for an instant, caught Greg's glance and sent him a look of comical warning. Holmes stiffened, though he returned the look in all personal friendliness. "Don't let Dave do it---whatever he'll be up to next," begged Greg, in an appealing whisper. "Dick, I'll stay beside you---to the death!" It was another right-end pass for the Navy, backed by a solid charge. Worse, in the impact that followed Dave succeeded, somehow, in outwitting even Prescott's stern vigilance. Dick Prescott gave vent to a gasp. He felt his heart thumping as he wheeled, dashing after Dave. But Darrin was in his element now, neither to be stopped, nor overtaken. Dodging with marvellous agility and craft three Army men who sought to bar his way, Dave went pantingly over the Army goal line---scoring a touchdown! What a fearful tumult ascended from the seats of the Navy's sympathizers over on the stands! The Navy had proved itself, by scoring the only touchdown. Lieutenant Carney groaned inwardly. Two to five now---and the Army coach saw no more hope of scoring for this day. Flushed, happy, the midshipmen ran back to form their line for the try for goal. That kick missed fire. No matter! Five to two for the Navy, anyhow! At the signal the Army and Navy lined up to fight out what was left of time to play the game. Naval Academy band and the whole navel crowd were having the jubilation all their own way. The midshipmen, having proved slight superiority over the Army, could doubtless prevent more scoring in this game. In fact, the Navy captain had just passed this wood to the members of his team: "Score, of course, if we can. But, above all, keep the Army from scoring!" It was the Navy's turn to make the kick-off. This gave the Army at least the chance of starting the running with the ball. Prescott and Holmes had shown as yet no signs of cave in. Every player on the Navy team looked to see this swift, tricky army pair make the first effort of the new series. He carried it ten yards, too, ere he was obliged to go to the ground with the pigskin under him. The next play was made at the center of the Army line. What was the matter? wondered many of the Army watchers. Was Brayton becoming dissatisfied with his left wing? "Humph!" rejoined Haynes sourly. But the third time that the ball was put in play it went swiftly to Prescott. Instead of trying to make his way around the end, Dick suddenly sped some what to the right. Darrin had gone in the opposite direction, yet, thoroughly familiar with his old chum's tricky ways of play, Dave had his eyes wide open. So he wheeled, rushing at Prescott. But he bumped, instead, with Greg, a fraction of a second before Dalzell could reach the spot and take a hand. Then the whole Army line charged down on the endangered spot. Dick was through, and the Navy men were having all they do. In a twinkling Prescott had sped, on, now was he caught and downed until he had the ball within twelve yards of the Navy's goal line. Right off the Army cheer-master was on the job. The corps yell was raised with Prescott's name and Holmes's. Brayton looked flushed and happy. He hoped yet to show these over-confident middies something. Again the line-up was made for the snapback. The midshipmen players were now justifiably nervous, though they gave no sign of the fact. Again the signal was given. Holmes received the ball and started. The whole Army line veered to the left. The Navy moved to mass in support of Darrin and Dalzell. Yet, just as the Navy men thought they could stop Greg, it turned out that Prescott carried the pigskin. Nor did Cadet Prescott lose any time at all in trying to buck the line. Ere the attention of the Navy had been drawn away from Holmes, Prescott was off on a slanting line around the Navy's right end. Even Dave Darrin was properly fooled this time. Dick had only to shake off a halfback and the fullback and he was over the goal line, holding down the ball. Never before had Franklin Field heard a greater din than now arose. The Army Band was now playing furiously, yet the musicians barely heard themselves. The black, gold and gray pennants of the Army were waving frantically over half the field. The noise of cheering must have been heard a mile away. From the cadets themselves came some Army yell for which the cheer-master had signaled, but no one heard what it was. The noise continued until the line-up had been effected for the kick for goal. Brayton, flushed with delight, chose to make the kick himself. The pigskin soared, describing a beautiful curve. Between the goal posts it went, dropping back of the line. Gloom had fallen over the middies, who realized that but three minutes time was left. Swiftly as could be, the line-up was made for the kick-off. It was the Army's turn to start the ball, the Navy's to come back with it, if possible, into Army territory. The Navy soon succeeded in getting the pigskin a trifle over the middle line. But the time was too short in which to do anything decisive. The Army was strictly on the defensive, taking no chances. Time was called. The Army had won, eight to five! When it was all over the middies cheered the victors as lustily as anyone, though sore hearts beat under the blue uniforms of Annapolis. West Points cadets, on the other hand, were wild with joy. Again and again they sent up the rousing corps yell for Prescott and Holmes, with Brayton's name added. Turnback Haynes, finding no one to listen to him now, in anything he might have to say against Prescott, turned to stare at the heaving lines of gray. To himself, Haynes muttered curiously: "Humph!" That one word did not, however, do justice to Haynes's frame of mind. He was wild with jealousy and hatred, but dared not show it. That fellow Prescott will have his head fearfully swelled and be more unbearable than ever! growled Haynes to himself. Confound him, he has no business at all in the Army! Why should he be? Then, after a pause, a cunning look crept slowly into the eyes of the turnback, as he throbbed under his breath: If I can have anything to do with it, he wont be much longer in the Army! For just a moment, ere the teams left the field, the old Gridley chums had a chance to rush over to each other. "I was afraid of you, Dick," Dave confessed. "Not more than I was of you, Dave, laughed Prescott." "Did you find the Army such easy stuff to use as a doormat, Dan?" queried Greg dryly. "Oh, it--it--it was the fault of the new rules," retorted Midshipman Dalzell, making a wry face. "You know, Greg, you never could play much football. But the new rules favor the muff style of playing." Only a few more words could the quartette exchange. There was time, however, for a few minutes of talk before the West Pointers were obliged to leave for their train. Greg, sighed Dick, if we only had Dave and Dan playing on the same team with us, such a game would be great! "Oh, well," murmured Greg, "whether Annapolis or West Point lugged off the actual score, the service won, anyway. For the Army and Navy are inseparable units of the service." It was a very orderly and dignified lot of cadets who filed aboard the cadet section of the train to leave for home. Once the train was well on its way out of Philadelphia, however, the pent-up enthusiasm of the happy sons of the Army broke loose, nor did the tactical officers with them make any effort to restrain the merry enthusiasm. Some of the cadets went from car to car, in search of more excitement. Dick Prescott soon became so tired of hero-worship that he slipped along through the rear car a few feet at a time until, at last, unobserved, he managed to make his way out on to the rear platform. Unobserved, that is, by all save one. Turnback Haynes, who had been watching Dick with a sort of wild fascination, noted Dick's latest move. The train, which had been traveling at high speed, now slowed down to some twenty-five miles an hour in order to pass over a river. While the attention of all the rest was turned toward the front end of the car, Haynes, with lowered eyes and half-slinking manner, made his way toward the rear of the car. Peering through the glass in the door, the turnback could make out Cadet Prescott standing outside. Dick's back was toward the door. A diabolical light flashed in Haynes's eyes for a moment. He shook from head to foot, but, by a strong effort of will, he stayed his quivering. One stealthy look over his shoulder Haynes took, then suddenly opened the door, stepping outside. Cadet Prescott half turned. There was no time to do more, when he felt himself seized in a strong clutch. There was hardly any struggle. It all seemed to be over in a second or so. Cadet Prescott plunged headlong through the darkness of the night into the dark river below! CHAPTER XVI ROLL-CALL GIVES THE ALARM For an instant Haynes leaned far out. Now his eyes were filed with a terror that overcame the wild fascination of his wicked deed. His anger had died down in a flash. Turnback Haynes would have given worlds to be able to recall the felonious deed he had just committed. But it was too late. He had seen Prescott's flying figure sink beneath the waters, which came up to within a few feet of the railroad trestle. Haynes turned back with a sobbing groan. Then he cast a terrified look into the car. Some of the fellows must have seen both of us come out here, he quavered. They'll see only one of us come back. I'll have to stand the whole fire of questions. Ugh! C-c-can I stand it without breaking down and giving myself away? The train was over and off of the bridge by now. Warned by a light burning between the rails, the engineer brought the train to a standstill. His heart bounding with a cowards hope, turnback Haynes leaped down to the roadbed. Breathlessly he rushed along the side of the train. He succeeded in gaining the platform of the third car ahead. Though his knees shook under him, the turnback swung up on to the steps. In another moment, after noting that the cadets were not looking particularly towards the door, Haynes turned the knob, stepping inside and dropping, with feigned carelessness, into an empty seat. "Hullo, Haynesy," was Lewis's easy greeting. Been up ahead? "Yes," lied the turnback. Anstey heard, though he did not pay much heed to the statement at the time. There were many, of course, who asked for Dick. Greg had not seen his chum for some time. In his own heart Holmes felt sure that Dick, tired of being congratulated, had sought retirement---in the baggage car, probably. So Greg had little to say, and did not go in search of his chum. It was not, in fact, until the corps reached West Point, and roll-call by companies was held, that the absence of Cadet Richard Prescott, second class, was discovered. Then there was a good deal of curiosity among a few comrades, wild excitement and useless speculation. An hour later, however, Greg's fevered imaginings were cut short by word that was brought over to him from the cadet guard house. Prescott had reported by wire. He had fallen from the rear car of the train into a river. The telegram merely stated that he had made his way to the nearest village, where a clergyman had provided him with the funds needed for his return to West Point. He would report at the earliest hour possible. From room to room in cadet barracks flew the news. "Now, how could a fellow be so careless as to fall off a moving train?" demanded Lewis. "Old ramrod may have been shaken up a heap in the game," hinted Anstey. "Prescott isn't the sort of chap to tell us every time he feels a trifle dizzy or experiences a nervous twitch. He may have felt badly, may have gone out on the platform for a whiff of fresh air, and then may have felt so much worse that he fell." "Depend upon one thing," put in Brayton decisively. "Whatever Prescott does there's some kind of good reason for." "It's enough, for to-night, declared Greg, to know that the royal old fellow is safe, anyway. To-morrow, well have the story, if there is any story worth having." Turnback Haynes received the news with mingled emotions. His first sensation was one of relief at knowing that he was not actually a murderer---one who had wickedly slain a fellow human being. It was not long, though, before Haynes became seized with absolute fright over the thought that Prescott must have recognized him. "In that case, all I can do is to stick out for absolute and repeated denial," shivered the turnback. "There's one great thing about West Point, anyway---a cadets word simply has to be taken, unless there is the most convincing proof to the contrary. I guess Lewis will remember that I came in from the car ahead or seemed to. But I wonder if anyone, officer or cadet, saw me running along at the side of the train?" It was small wonder that Cadet Haynes failed to get any sleep that night. All through the long hours to reveille the cadet tossed and tumbled on his cot. Fortunately for him, his roommate was too sound a sleeper to hear the tossing. Heavy-eyed, shuddering, Haynes rose in the morning. Through the usual routine he went, and at last marched off to section recitation, outwardly as jaunty as any other man in the corps, yet with dark dread lurking in his soul. It was about noon when Prescott reported at the adjutant's office, next going to the office of the commandant of cadets. By both officers Dick was congratulated on his fortunate escape from death. Each officer asked him a few direct questions. Prescott stated that he had remained over night with the village clergyman, giving his wet, icy clothing a chance to dry. It was when asked how he came to fall from the rear platform of the car that the cadet hesitated. "I thought I was thrown from the platform, sir," Dick replied in each case. "Who was on the platform with you?" "No one, sir, an instant before." "Did you see any one come out of the car?" "No, sir." "Did you recognize any assailant?" "No-o, sir." "Have you any good reason to suspect any particular person?" "No _good_ reason, sir." "Could any one have come out of the car, unless it had been a tactical officer, a cadet or a railway employee?" "No, sir." That was as far as the questioning went, for both the adjutant and the commandant of cadets believed that Dick had been pitched from the rear platform by some sudden movement of the car. No other belief seemed sane enough to be considered. It was the commandant of cadets who suggested: "If you feel the slightest need of it, Mr. Prescott, you may go at once to cadet hospital, and be examined by one of the surgeons. We don't want you coming down with illness later, on account of a neglected chill." "I am very certain I don't need a medical officers attention, sir," replied Cadet Prescott, with just the trace of a smile. "The Rev. Dr. Brown and his wife were about the most attentive people I ever met. I was pretty cold, sir, when I reached their house. But inside of five minutes they had me rolled up in warm blankets and were dosing me with ginger tea. Afterwards they gave me a hot supper. I slept like a top, sir, last night." "You feel fit then, Mr. Prescott, to return to full duty? asked the K.C. "Wholly fit, sir." "Very good. Then I will so mark you. Go to your quarters, Mr. Prescott, and wait until the next call, which will be the call for dinner formation." Saluting the commandant, Prescott left the cadet guard house, hastening to his own room. A few minutes later Cadet Holmes burst in upon his chum. To him Dick told the whole story of his striking the water, of his swimming to shore, and of hurried trip through the cold night to the nearest house. "And you're sure you were pushed?" questioned greg thoughtfully. "Either I was pushed, or it was all a horrid dream," replied Dick fervently. "Then why didn't you so tell the K.C.?" "I answered the K.C. truthfully, Greg. I told him all that I really know. I didn't feel called upon, and wasn't asked, to tell him anything that I guessed." "What is your guess?" insisted Holmes, with the privilege of a friend. "Greg, as far as I can be sure of anything without knowing it, I am absolutely certain that a cadet came out of the car, behind me, and that he pushed me off the platform." "A cadet?" demanded Greg, turning pale. To Holmes it seemed atrocious to couple the word cadet with any act of dishonor. "Greg, as I plunged through the air, I succeeded in turning a trifle. I am convinced, in my own mind, that I saw the gray cape overcoat of a cadet I am also certain that I got a glimpse of his face. The only limit to my certainty is that I wouldn't want to name the man under oath." "Who was he?" demanded Holmes. Advancing, placing his lips against one of Greg's ears, Prescott whispered the name: "Haynes! But you mustn't breathe this to a living soul! Remember, I wouldn't dare swear to the truth of what I've hinted to you." Greg Holmes, wholly and utterly loyal to the cadet corps of which he was himself an honored member, went even paler. He leaned back against the wall, clenching his fists tightly. "Haynes?" he whispered. "I don't like the fellow, and I never did. He's no friend of yours, either, Dick. But he wears the staunch old cadet uniform and has had more than three years of the West Point traditions. It seems impossible, Dick. Had anyone else but you told me this, even against Haynes, I would have turned on my heel and walked away." "I hope it isn't true---I hope it is all a hideous nightmare, born of my dismay when I found myself going through space!" breathed Dick fervently. "What are you going to do about this?" asked Greg huskily. "Nothing whatever." "You are not going to mention Haynes to anyone else?" "No, sirree! I shall keep my eyes open a bit when Haynes is around; that is all." "I hope it isn't true---oh, I hope it isn't true," breathed Greg fervently. "But I know you're no liar, Dick, and you're no dreamer of dreams! Confound it, I almost wish you hadn't told me this. But I asked you to." Greg's face was a queer ashen gray in color. At that moment the call for dinner formation sounded. "You're all ready, Dick, so hustle along. I've clean forgotten to get myself ready. You hustle, and I'll try not to be late in the formation." As Cadet Prescott hastened along through the lower corridor, he came face to face with the turnback. Haynes stopped short, his jaw drooping. For just a second he stiffened his arms as though to throw himself in an attitude of defence. Halting, without speaking or raising a hand, Dick Prescott looked squarely into the other man's eyes. Haynes turned ghastly pale, his jaw moving nervously as though he would speak and could not. A smile of scorn flashed into Prescotts face. Haynes fairly writhed beneath that contemptuous look. Then, still without a word or a sound, Prescott passed on. "He did it!" muttered Dick to himself. Yet, with the certainty of the turnbacks guilt, Prescott did not wish Haynes any personal harm. The only greatly perturbed thought that ran through Dick's mind was: "That fellow is not fit for the Army. Must he be allowed to go on and graduate?" Thrice during the dinner period Dick allowed his glance to rove over to the turnback. Not once did he catch Haynes's eye, but that young man was making only a pretence at eating. "If he really pushed me from the train," muttered Prescott to himself, "I hope Haynes worries about it until he fesses cold in some study and so has to leave the Military Academy. For he'll never be fit to be an officer. He couldn't command other men with justice." CHAPTER XVII MR. CADET SLOWPOKE Despite the fact that he had been through the first half of the year before, Haynes actually did go somewhat stale in some of the studies. Some of the cadets who lived near enough were permitted to go home at the Christmas holidays, and the turnback was among this number. Yet Haynes came back. In the January examinations he stood badly, getting place rather near the foot of the second class. Yet he pulled through and retained his place in the corps. Dick and Greg, who did not go home over the holidays, both did fairly well in January. Each secured a number not far above the bottom of the second third of the class. On Washington's Birthday, the cadets had a holiday after dinner. The day, however, was ten-fold joyous for Dick, because Mrs. Bentley, Laura and Belle Meade were expected on the afternoon of that day, the girls to attend the cadet hop at Cullum Hall in the evening. Dick and Greg, in their spooniest uniforms, were at the railway station to meet the visitors. "Quick!" cried Mrs. Bentley, after the greetings were over. "There's the stage, and its about to start. We'll all get seats in it." "If that is the programme, Mrs. Bentley," laughed Dick, "Greg and I will have to overtake you, later on, on foot. Cadets are not allowed to ride in the stage. "Can't you telephone for a carriage, then?" inquired Mrs. Bentley. "Certainly, and with pleasure, but cadets may not ride in a carriage, either." "Oh, you poor cadets!" cried Mrs. Bentley. "To think of your having to climb that steep road ahead. And its ever so long, too!" "You get in the stage, mother, and Belle and I will walk up the road with Dick and Greg," proposed Laura Bentley. So the two cadets busied themselves with assisting Mrs. Bentley into the stage, after which they returned to their fair friends. "Now, I have trouble in store for you two young men," declared Belle Meade, frowning. "Why did you young men conspire to beat the Navy at football?" "For the honor and glory of the Army," replied Dick, smiling. "To put humiliation over your old chums, Dave and Dan," flashed Belle. "Laura and I were down at Annapolis, at a hop last month, as you may have heard. Poor Dave hasn't yet recovered from the blow of seeing the Navy lose that game to the Army!" "But I'll wager he didn't blame us," retorted Prescott, his eyes twinkling. "He said that, if it hadn't been for you and Greg, the Navy would have won the game," retorted Belle. "I hope that's true," declared Dick boldly. "Oh, you do, Mister Prescott? And why?" asked Belle. "Because I belong to the Army, and I want always to see the Army win." "If West Point defeats Annapolis next Thanksgiving, and if its because of you and Greg, then I'll never speak to either of you again," asserted Belle. "Come along, Dick," laughed Laura. "Belle's positively dangerous when she talks about the Navy!" "The Navy is the only real branch of the service," declared Belle, with a toss of her head. "Everybody says so. The Army is merely nothing---positive zero!" "Laughing good-humoredly, Greg piloted Belle up the long, winding walk that leads to the West Point plain. Dick and Laura soon fell in behind, at some distance, walking very slowly. "Did you have a tiresome trip here?" inquired Dick. "No; a very pleasant one," Laura replied. "I should think a long journey would be tedious to women traveling without male escort," Dick went on. "We had escort as far as New York," Laura replied promptly. "Oh, you did?" inquired Prescott, feeling a swift sinking at heart. "Yes; Mr. Cameron had to make a flying trip to New York. He had to come at about this time, so he put it off for three or four days in order to travel through with us. Wasn't that nice of him?" "Extremely nice of him," admitted the cadet rather huskily. "I---I suppose he will return with you from New York." "We expect him to," Laura admitted. "But what a great game that must have been, Dick! How I wish Belle and I had gone over to Philadelphia to see it." "It was an exciting game, and a hard-fought one." Laura chatted on gayly, and at the same time displayed much enthusiasm over the life at West Point. Yet Dick, though he strove to conceal the fact, was low spirited over the attentions of Mr. Cameron. The two cadets had permission to visit at the hotel, so went into the parlor until the girls joined them there. Later, as there was no snow on the ground, a stroll about the post was proposed and enjoyed. Dick made out Laura's card for the dance that night, while Greg attended to Belle's. Many were the cadets who glared at Dick and Greg for not having inscribed their names on the dance cards of these two very "spoony femmes." (pretty girls.) After one of her dances with Dick, Belle asked him to lead her out into the corridor, where the air was cooler. "Shall I go after your wrap?" asked Dick solicitously. "Goodness, no," replied Belle. "I'm not as sensitive as that." Then, abruptly changing the subject, Miss Meade asked: "What do you think of Mr. Cameron?" "I saw very little of him," Dick replied. "But what do you think of him?" Belle insisted. "I think that, if he is Laura's friend, he must be a fine fellow," Dick replied with enthusiasm. A slight shudder of disappointment passed over Belle. "Are you beginning to feel chilly, Belle?" asked Dick anxiously. "If I am, its nervously, not because I am really cold," replied Miss Meade dryly. "Why did you ask me what I think of Mr. Cameron?" "Because I am interested in knowing," Belle answered. "Mr. Cameron is with Laura a great deal these times." "Is he?" asked Dick, with another sinking at the heart. "Oh, yes," Belle replied. "Some folks in Gridley are nodding their heads wisely, and pretending they can guess what is going to happen before long. But I'm very certain that there is nothing quite definite as yet. Indeed, I'm not quite sure that Laura really knows her own mind as yet." Soon after that, Miss Meade requested to be conducted back into the ballroom, to find Greg, who was to be her next partner. "Now, good gracious, I hope I've really given Cadet Slowpoke a broad enough hint," thought Belle. "If he doesn't go ahead and speak to Laura now, it'll be because he doesn't care. And Leonard Cameron isn't a bad fellow, even if he does prefer the yardstick to a sword!" As for Dick, his evening was spoiled. His sense of honor prevented his "speaking" to Laura until he felt that his future in the Army was assured. Yet spoiled as his evening was, Prescott did his best to make it a bright occasion for Laura Bentley. The next morning, while the members of the cadet corps were grinding at recitations, or boning over study desks in barracks, Mrs. Bentley and the girls rode down the slope in the stage and boarded a train for New York. Dick had not "spoken." CHAPTER XVIII THE ENEMIES HAVE AN UNDERSTANDING After that February hop, Cadet Prescott appeared to give himself over to one dominating ambition. That ambition was to secure higher standing in his class. He became a "bone," and tried so hard to delight his instructors that he was suspected of boning bootlick with the Academic Board. For Prescott had dropped Laura out of his mind. That is to say, he had tried to do it, and Prescott was a young man with a strong will. Belle's words, instead of spurring him on to do something that his own peculiar sense of honor forbade, had killed his vague dream. After all, Dick reasoned, it was Laura's own good and greatest happiness that must be considered. Leonard Cameron, a rising and prosperous young merchant in Gridley, would doubtless be able to give Laura a much better place in the world. In the matter of income, Cameron doubtless enjoyed three or four times as much as the annual pay of a second lieutenant ($1,700) amounts to. Besides, Cameron was not much in the way of risking his life, while an Army officer may be killed at any time, even in an ordinary riot. A lieutenants widow received only her pension of a comparatively few dollars a month. "It would have been almost criminal for me to have thought of tying Laura's future up to mine," Dick told himself savagely, as he took a lonely stroll one March afternoon. "I'll have nothing but my pay, if I do graduate. A fellow like Cameron can allow his wife more for pin money than my whole years pay will come to. Really, I've no right to marry any but a rich girl, who has her own income. And, even if I fell in love with a rich girl, I wouldn't have the nerve to propose to her. I'd feel like a cheap fortune hunter." Having made up his mind to put Laura Bentley out of his inner thoughts, Prescott did not write her as often as formerly. He wrote often enough, and pleasantly enough to preserve the courtesies of life. Yet keen-witted Belle Meade was not long in discovering, from what Laura thought were chance remarks, that Dick was "dropping away" as a correspondent. So, too, Laura's letters were fewer and briefer. "Dick didn't really care for her, I guess," Belle decided, almost vengefully. "Then the bigger idiot he is, for there aren't many girls like Laura born in any one century! But Dick sees a good many girls at West Point, and perhaps he has grown indifferent to his old friends. There are a good many very 'swell' girls who visit West Point, too. Horrors! I wonder if Dick and Greg think that we are too countrified?" After the first few weeks, with his resolute nature triumphing over anything that he set his mind to, Prescott found himself thinking less about Cameron. It was practically a settled matter, anyway, between Laura and Cameron, so Dick thought, and Cadet Prescott had his greatly improved standing in his class to console him for any losses in other directions. Yet Dick would not have dared to confess, even to himself, how little class standing did console him. So hard had been study in the last few weeks that Prescott had all but forgotten the existence of turnback Haynes. They were not in the same section in any of the studies, nor did the two mingle at all in barracks life. Neither went to the hops now, either. "Is Prescott afraid of me---or what?" wondered Haynes. "Perhaps he hopes I have forgotten him, but I haven't. One thing is clear he doesn't intend to do anything about that train incident, or he'd have done it long ago. If he thinks I have forgotten my dislike of him, he may be glad enough to have it just that way. Bah, as if I could ever get over my dislike for a bootlick like Prescott! I'd like to get him out of the Army for good! I wonder if I can't, between now and June? I'd like my future in the Army a whole lot better with Prescott out of it." So Haynes began taking to moody, lonely walks when he had any time for such outlet to his evil, feelings. It is one of the strangest freaks of queer human nature that one who has once done another an injury ever after hates the injured one with an added intensity of hatred. Turnback Haynes was quite able to convince himself that Dick Prescott, who avoided him, was really his worst enemy in the world. So, one Saturday afternoon, in early April, it chanced that Dick and Cadet Haynes took to the same stretch of less-traveled road over beyond engineers' quarters. Suddenly, going in opposite directions, they met face to face at a sharp bend in the road. "Oh, you?" remarked Haynes, in a harsh, sneering voice. Prescott barely nodded coldly, and would have passed on, but Haynes stepped fairly in his path. "Prescott," cried the turnback, "I don't like you!" "Then we are about even in our estimate of each other," responded Dick indifferently. "Were you following me up, just now?" "Why, as I have a memory, I might more properly suppose that you had been prowling on my trail," retorted Dick, eyeing his enemy sternly. "Humph! What do you mean by that?" demanded Haynes bristling. "Do you deny, Haynes, that on the night when we were returning from the Army-navy game you pushed me from the rear platform of the train?" Cadet Prescott spoke without visible excitement, but gazed deeply into the shifty, angry eyes of the other. Haynes swallowed hard. Then he replied gruffly: "No; I don't deny it." "Why did you do that, Haynes?" "I haven't admitted that I did do it." "You know that you did, though." "Humph!" "Why did you do it?" "I'll tell you, then," hissed the turnback. "It was because neither West Point nor the Army is going to be big enough for both of us!" "When do you intend to resign?" demanded prescott coolly "Re-----" gasped Haynes "Resign? I?" Then you imagine that I am going to quit, or that you're going to force me to do so? retorted Prescott. "Haynes, even up to this hour I have hesitated to believe the half evidence of my own eyes. I have tried to convince myself that no man who wears the honored gray of West Point could do such a dastardly piece of work. And you have as good as admitted it to me." "Well," sneered the turnback, what do you think you're going to do about it?" "If I knew," glared Dick, "I wouldn't tell you until the time came." "It will never come," laughed Haynes harshly. "That is, your time of triumph over me will never come. What else may happen it is yet a little too early to say." Cadet Prescott felt all the cold rage that was possible to him surging up inside. "Haynes," he went on, "it may seem odd of me to ask a favor from you." "Very odd, indeed!" sneered the turnback. "It is a very slight favor," continued Prescott, "and it is this: Don't at any time venture to address me, except upon official business." With that Prescott stepped resolutely around the cadet in his path, and went forward at a stiff stride. Haynes remained for some moments where he was, gazing after Dick with a curious, leering look. "Prescott is a coward---that's what he is!" muttered the turnback. "If he weren't, I said enough to him just now to cause him to leap at my throat. Humph! Anyone can beat a coward, and without credit. Prescott, your days at the Military Academy are numbered! You, an Army officer? Humph!" Though it would be hard to understand why, Haynes felt much better after that brief interview. Perhaps it was because, all along, he had feared Cadet Prescott. Now the turnback no longer feared his enemy in the corps. How would the feud end? How could it end? CHAPTER XIX THE TRAITOR OF THE RIDING HALL If Dick gave no further outward attention to Haynes, he was nevertheless bothered about the fellow. "Haynes isn't fit to go through and become an officer; to be set up over other men," Prescott told himself often. This slighting opinion was not on account of the personal dislike that Prescott felt for the turnback. There were other cadets at West Point whom Dick did not exactly like, yet he respected the others, for they themselves respected the traditions of honor and justice that are a part of West Point. With Haynes the trouble was that he was certain, sooner or later, to prove a discredit to the best traditions of the Army. Such a fellow was likely to prove a bully over enlisted men. Now, the enlisted men of the Regular Army do not resent having a strict officer set above them, but the officer must be a man whom they can respect. Such an officer, who commands the respect and admiration of the enlisted men under him, can lead them into the most dangerous places. They will follow as a matter of course; but an unworthy officer, one whom the enlisted men know to be unfit to command them, will demoralize a company, a troop, a battery or a regiment if he be given power enough. Every cadet and every officer of the Army is concerned with the honor of that Army. If he knows that an unworthy man is obtaining command, it worries the cadet or officer of honor. Had he been able to offer legal, convincing proof of Haynes's dastardly conduct in pushing him off the train on the return from the Army-Navy game, Prescott would have submitted that proof to the authorities, or else to the members of the second class in class meeting. "But Haynes would only lie out of it, of course," Dick concluded. "As a cadet, his word would have to be accepted as being as good as mine. So nothing would come of the charges." A class meeting, unlike a court-martial, might not stand out for legal evidence, if the moral presumption of guilt were strong enough; but Cadet Prescott would not dream of invoking class action unless he had the most convincing proof to offer. Class action, when it is invoked at West Point, is often more effective than even the work of a court-martial. If the class calls upon a member to resign and return to civil life, he might as well do so without delay. If he does not, he will be "sent to Coventry" by every other cadet in the corps. If he has the nerve to disregard this and graduate, he will go forth into the Army only to meet a like fate at the hands of every officer in the service. He will always be "cut" as long as he attempts to wear the uniform. "Its a shame to let this fellow Haynes stay in the service," Dick muttered. "And yet my hands are tied. With my lack of evidence I can't drag him before either a legal or an informal court. The only thing I can do is to let matters go on, trusting to the fact that, sooner or later, Haynes will overstep the bounds less cautiously, and that he'll find himself driven out of the uniform." On going to his quarters for a study period one afternoon further along in April, Haynes found himself unable to concentrate his mind on the lesson before him. He was alone, his roommate being absent with a section at recitation. As he sat thus idle at the study table, Haynes toyed with a little black pin. How the pin had come into his possession he did not even recall. It was a pin of ordinary size, one of the kind much used by milliners. Having nothing else to do, Haynes idly thrust the head of the pin repeatedly in under the sole at the toe of his right boot. Somewhat to his surprise the head went well in, then stopped at last, fitting snugly and stiffly in place. "If I had a fellow sitting in front of me, what a startling jab I could give him with the toe of my boot," grinned the turnback. Then, suddenly, there came a very queer look into his face. "Why, I reckon I could jab something else with a pin, beside the flesh of another cadet," he muttered. Then, trembling slightly, the turnback bent down and carefully extracted the pin. His next act was to fasten it very securely on the inside of the front of his fatigue blouse, where the black uniform braid prevented its being seen. Of late the second class cavalry drills had been in the open. That day, however, it was raining heavily, and the order had been passed for the squads to report at the riding hall. Soon after Haynes's roommate had returned from recitation the signal sounded for the squad that was to report at the riding hall. Haynes rose, drawing on his uniform raincoat. "What's the matter with you, Haynesy?" inquired his roommate. "Why do you ask, Pierson?" "There was a very queer look on your face," replied Cadet Pierson. I couldn't tell whether it were a diabolical look or merely a sardonic grin." "I was just thinking of a story I heard told years ago," lied Haynes glibly. "I don't believe I'd care to hear that story, then," returned Pierson dryly. "I'm not going to tell it to you. 'Bye, old man. I'm off for riding drill." Dick and Greg were in the same squad. Those who were going for drill at this hour fell in at the command, of their squad marcher, and strode away to the riding hall. Once inside, the cadets disposed of their uniform raincoats. The squad marcher reported to Captain Albutt, who was their instructor for the afternoon. "To horse!" came the crisp order. Each cadet stepped to his mount, untying the animal and standing by. Haynes's heart gave a quick jump when he saw that to Dick's lot had fallen Satan, a fiery black, the worst tempered and most treacherous horse in the lot. "My chance is coming sooner than I had thought for", quivered the turnback. Dropping his handkerchief, Haynes bent over and quickly slipped the black pin in at the toe of his right boot. "When we get into column of fours I have Prescott on my right, muttered the turnback. He had straightened up again, in almost no time, tucking the handkerchief again inside his blouse. His act had attracted no attention. "Prepare to mount!" rang Captain Albutt's voice. Each cadet took hold of mane, bridle and saddle in the way prescribed and stood with left foot in stirrup. "Mount!" Jauntily each man swung up, passing his right leg over his mounts back, then settling easily into saddle. For the first few minutes the squad walked, trotted, cantered and galloped around the tanbark in single file. Then their instructor, riding always near the center of the floor, threw them into platoon front at the west end of the hall. Now he gave them some general instruction as to the nature of the evolutions they were to perform. The next command came by bugle, and the platoon broke into column of fours, moving forward at the trot, Captain Albutt riding at the left flank near the head of the column. As the horses fell into column of fours Haynes saw his chance. Nearly always, in this formation, some of the horses bump their neighbors. Haynes, by a slight twist of the bridle, threw horse over against Prescott's. The thing was so natural as to attract no notice. Just as the horses touched flanks, however, Haynes, with his right foot swiftly withdrawn from its stirrup-box, gave Satan a vicious jab with the pin-point protruding from the toe of his boot. There was a wild snort. Satan seemed instantly bent on proving the appropriateness of his name. Lowering his head, Satan kicked out viciously with his hind feet, throwing the horses just behind into confusion. Almost in the same instant Satan bit the rump of a horse in front of him. Then up reared Prescotts mount. Dick was a good horseman, but this move had caught him unawares. A horse at a trot is not usually hard to manage, and Prescott had not been on his guard against any such trick. By the time that Satan came down from his plunge Dick had a firm seat and a strong hand on the bridle. But Satan was a tough-mouthed animal. His unlooked-for antics had caused the horses just ahead to swerve. Through the scattering four in front plunged Satan, fire in his eyes, his nostrils quivering. Captain Albutt took the situation in at once. "Squad halt!" he roared. Be cool, Mr. Prescott! Bring your mount down with tact, not brute force. Satan, having taken the bit between his teeth, went tearing around the tan-bark, not in the least minding the tight hold that his rider had on the bridle, or the way that the bit cut into his mouth. Satan blamed his own rider for that sharp, stinging jab, and he meant to unseat that rider. Dick kept perfectly cool, though he realized much of his own great peril with this infuriated beast. Captain Albutt, watching closely, became anxious when he saw that the cadet was failing in bringing down the temper of the infuriated beast. Satan was more than furious; he was crafty. Master of many tricks, and with a record for injuring many a rider in the past, the animal dashed about the tan-bark, seeking some way of throwing his rider. His uneasiness increasing, Captain Albutt put spurs to his own mount and went after Satan. "Steady, Mr. Prescott," admonished the cavalry officer, riding close. I'll soon have a hand on your bridle, too. Yet every time that Captain Albutt rode close, Satan waited until just the right instant, then swerved violently, snatching his head away from the risk of capture. So villainous were these swerves that Dick had several narrow escapes from being unhorsed. A man of less skill would have been. At first the other members of the squad looked on only with amused interest. When, however, they caught the grave look on the captain's face, they began to comprehend how serious the situation was. Satan, finding other devices for throwing his rider to be useless, soon resorted to the most wicked trick known to the equine mind. He reared, intent on throwing himself over backward, crushing his rider beneath him. Captain Albutt reached the spot at a gallop, just in the nick of time. Standing in his stirrups, he caught one side of the bridle just in time to pull the horse's head down. But, foiled in this attempt, Satan allowed his front feet to come down. Close to the ground the brute lowered its head, kicking up high with his hind heels. This, accompanied by a "worming" motion, sent Prescott flying from his saddle. He made an unavoidable plunge over the animal's head. "Let go your bridle!" roared Captain Albutt. In the same instant the cavalry officer leaped from his own saddle. Over came Cadet Prescott, turning a somersault in the air. Albutt had jumped in order to catch the cadet. It all happened so quickly, however, that the cavalry officer had chance only to catch the cadets shoulders. Had it not been for that, Prescott would have struck fully on his back. Having thrown its rider, Satan cantered off to the far end of the riding hall, where he stood, snorting defiance. Captain Albutt allowed Prescott's head and shoulders to sink easily to the tan-bark. "Are you badly hurt, Mr. Prescott?" inquired the officer. "The small of my back is paining me just a little sir, from the wrench," replied Prescott coolly. "If it hadn't been for you, sir, my neck would have been broken." "I think it would," replied the cavalry officer, smiling. "But this is one of the things I am here for. Do you feel as if you could rise, Mr. Prescott, with my help?" "I'd like to try, sir." Dick did try, but watchful Captain Albutt soon let him down again. "You may not be much hurt, Mr. Prescott, but I want one of the medical officers to take the responsibility for saying so. Just lie where you are until we get a medical officer here. Mr. Haynes, pass your lines to the man at your left and run to the telephone. Ask for a medical officer and two hospital corps men with a stretcher." The turnback leaped quickly to obey. This gave him the coveted chance to get away by himself, where he could secretly remove from his boot the little black pin that had been responsible for this excitement. Surgeon and hospital men came on the run. The surgeon declined to make an examination there, but directed his men to lift the injured cadet to the stretcher and take him to the hospital. In the meantime some enlisted men had caught and quieted Satan, leading him from the tanbark. "That brute never will be used again, if I have my way," muttered Captain Albutt, loudly enough to be heard by most of the cadets of the squad. Then the drill proceeded as though nothing had happened. "I fixed my man that time, and easily enough," growled Haynes to himself. "He's out of the service, from now on. He can nurse a weak back the rest of his days." When the drill was dismissed a party of three ladies, who had seen the whole scene from one of the iron balconies, came down to meet the cavalry officer. "Your conduct was just splendid, captain, cried one of the women, her face glowing. But I feared you would be killed, or at least badly hurt, when you put yourself in the way of that somersaulting cadet. Why did you take such chances?" "In the first place," replied the cavalry officer quietly, "because it was simple duty. There was another reason. If I am hurt, in the line of duty, I have my retired pay, as an officer, to live on. But a cadet who is hurt so badly that he cannot remain in the service has to go home, perhaps hopelessly crippled for life---and a cadet injured in the line of duty has no retired pay." "Why is that?" asked another of the ladies. "I do not know, replied Captain Albutt simply, unless it is because Congress has always been too busy to think of the simple act of justice of providing proper retired pay for a cadet who is injured for life." "Has Mr. Prescott been injured so that he'll have to leave the Army?" "I don't know. But, if you'll excuse me, ladies, I am going over to the hospital now and find out." CHAPTER XX THE CADET HOSPITAL Cadet Prescott lay on one of the operating tables at cadet hospital. Without a murmur he submitted to the examination. At times the work of the medical officer's hurt a good deal, but this was evidenced only by a firmer pressing together of the young soldiers lips. At last they paused. "Are you through, gentlemen?" Dick asked, looking steadily at the two medical officers. "Yes," answered Captain Goodwin, the senior surgeon. "May I properly ask what you find?" "We are not yet quite sure," replied the senior surgeon. "None of the bones of the spine are broken. There has, of course, been a severe wrenching there. Whether your injury is going to continue into a serious or permanent injury we cannot yet say. A good deal will depend upon the grit with which you face things." "I am a soldier," replied Dick doggedly. "Even if I am not much longer to be one." "We will now have you removed to your cot. We are not going to place you in a cast as yet, anyway. It is possible that, after a few days, you may be able to walk fairly well." "In that case, captain, is it then likely that I shall be able to return to duty?" "Yes; the quicker things mend, and the sooner you are able to walk without help, the greater will be your chance of pulling through this injury and remaining in the service." "Then I'd like to try walking back to barracks right now," smiled Cadet Prescott, wistfully. "You are not to think of it, Mr. Prescott! You must not even attempt to put a foot out of bed until we give you permission. If you take the slightest risk of further injury to your back you are likely to settle your case for good and all, so far as the Army is concerned." "I told you I was a soldier, sir," Dick replied promptly. "For that reason I shall obey orders." "Good! That's the way to talk, Mr. Prescott," replied the senior medical officer heartily. "The better soldier you are, the better your chances are of remaining in the Army." "There won't be any need, will there, captain, to send word to my father and mother of this accident until it is better known how serious it is?" coaxed Dick. "If you wish the news withheld for the present, I will direct the adjutant to respect your wishes." "If you will be so good, sir," begged the hapless cadet. Hospital men were summoned and Dick was skillfully, tenderly transferred to a cot in another room. The steward stood by and took his orders silently from Captain Goodwin. Hardly had this much been accomplished when a hospital service man entered, passing a card to Captain Goodwin. "Admit him," nodded the surgeon. In another minute Captain Albutt stepped into the room, going over to the cot and resting one of his hands over the cadet's right hand. "How are you feeling?" asked Captain Albutt. "Fine, sir, thank you," replied Dick cheerily. "I'm glad your pluck is up. And I hear that you have a good chance." "I hope so, sir, with all my heart. The Army means everything in life to me, sir. And Captain Albutt, I want to thank you for your splendid conduct in risking your own life to save me." "Surely, Prescott," replied the captain quietly, "you know the spirit of the service better than to thank a soldier for doing his duty." Captain Albutt had called him simply "Prescott," dropping the "mister," which officers are usually so careful to prefix to a cadet's name when addressing him. This little circumstance, slight as it was, cheered the cadet's heart. It was a tactful way of dropping all difference in rank, and of admitting Prescott to full-fledged fraternity in the Army. "I shall inquire after you every day, Prescott, and be delighted when you can be admitted to the riding work again;" said the captain in leaving. "And I think you need have no fear of seeing Satan on the tan-bark again. If I have any influence, that beast will never be assigned to a cadet's use after this." When Captain Albutt had gone Greg came in, on tiptoe. "Out the soft pedal, old chap," smiled Dick cheerily, as their hands met. "I'm not a badly hurt man. The worst of this is that it keeps me from recitations for a few days. If it weren't for that, I'd enjoy lying here at my ease, with no need to bother about reveille or taps." Greg's manner was light-hearted and easy. He had come to cheer up his chum, but found there was no need for it. Then the superintendent's adjutant dropped in on his way home from the day in the office at headquarters. Having talked with Captain Goodwin, the adjutant agreed that there was no need, for a few days, to notify Prescott's parents and cause them uneasiness. "We'll hope, Mr. Prescott," smiled the adjutant, "that you'll be well able to sit up and send them the first word of the affair in your own hand, coupled with the information that you're out of all danger." Had it not been for his natural courage, Cadet Prescott would have been a very restless and "blue" young man. He knew, as well as did anyone else, that the chances of his complete recovery to sound enough condition for future Army service were wholly in the balance. But Captain Goodwin had impressed upon him that good spirits would have a lot to do with his chances. So strong was his will that Prescott was actually almost light-hearted when it came around time to eat his evening meal of "thin slops." Over in cadet barracks interest ran at full height. Greg had to receive scores of cadets who dropped in to inquire for the best word. One of the last of these to come was Cadet Haynes. Greg received him rather frigidly, though with no open breach of courtesy. "It's too bad," began Haynes. "Of course it is," nodded Holmes. "Prescott has very little chance of remaining in the corps, I suppose?" "The surgeons don't quite say that," rejoined Greg. "Oh, the rainmakers (doctors) are always cagey about giving real information until a man's dead," declared the turnback sagely. "They seem to believe that Prescott has an excellent chance," insisted Greg. "No bones broken?" "Not a one." "What is the trouble, then?" "The rainmakers can't say exactly. They're waiting and watching." "Humph! That sounds pretty bad for their patient." "They say that if Prescott is able to walk soon, then his return to duty ought to be rather speedy." "I'd like to believe the rainmakers," grunted Haynes. "Would you?" inquired Greg very coolly. "Of course." "What is your particular interest in my roommate?" demanded Cadet Holmes. He looked straight into the other's eyes. "Why, Prescott is one of the best and most popular fellows in the class. I've always liked him immensely, and-----" "Humph!" broke in Cadet Holmes, using the turnback's own favorite word. To just what this scene might have led it is impossible to say, but just at that instant Anstey and two other second classmen came into the room, and the turnback seized the opportunity to get away. Though Cadet Prescott was so cheerful over his injury he was in a good deal of pain as the evening wore on. Every hour or so Goodwin or the other surgeon came in to see him. Though Prescott could hardly be expected to understand it, the surgeons were pleased, on the whole, with the pain. Had there been numbness, instead, the surgeons would have looked for paralysis. Later in the night Dick asked Captain Goodwin if he could not administer some light opiate. "You are willing to be a soldier, I know, Mr. Prescott," replied the surgeon. "Be sure of that, sir," replied the young man, Wincing. "Then try to bear the pain. It is the best indication with which we have to deal. It is one of the most hopeful symptoms for which we could look. Besides, your descriptions of the pain, and of its locality, if you are accurate, will give us our best indication of what to do for you." "Then I don't want any opiate, sir," replied Dick bluntly. "I don't care whether I'm kept here a day or a year, or what I have to suffer, only as long as I don't have to lose an active career in the service!" "Good for you, my young soldier," beamed the surgeon, patting the cadet's hand. "The superintendent telephoned over, a little while ago, to ask how you were. I told him that your grit was the best we had seen here in a long time." "Thank you, sir." "And the superintendent replied, dryly enough, that he expected that from your general record. The superintendent sent you his personal regards." "Thank you, sir, and the superintendent, too." "Oh, and a lot of others have been inquiring about you, too---the K.C. and all of the professors and most of the instructors. And at least a small regiment of cadets have tramped down as far as the office door also. I've been saving the names of inquirers, and will tell you the names in the morning. All except the names of the cadets, that is. There was too big a mob of cadets for us to attempt to keep the names." It was a painful, restless, feverish night for Prescott. He slept a part of the time, though when he did his sleep was filled with nightmares. The surgeons won his gratitude by their devotion to his interests. The first half of the night Captain Goodwin was in at least every hour. The latter half of the night it was Lieutenant Sadtler who made the round. By permission Cadet Holmes came to the hospital office just after breakfast. It was a gloomy face that poor Greg wore back to barracks with him. The surgeons had spoken hopefully, but--- "Brains always work better than brute force," Haynes told himself, struggling hard to preserve his self-esteem. CHAPTER XXI THE MAN MOVING IN A DARK ROOM May came, and, with the gorgeous blossoms of that month, Dick Prescott left the hospital. He was able to walk fairly well, and was returned to study and recitations, though excused from all drills or any form of military duty. Not quite all the old erectness of carriage was there, though Dick hoped and prayed daily that it would return. He had been cautioned to take the best of care of himself. He had been warned that he was still on probation, so far as his physical condition was concerned. "A sudden bad wrench, and you might undo all that has been done for you so far," was the surgeons' hint. So Prescott, though permitted to march with his sections to recitations, and to fall in at the meal formations, was far from feeling reassured as to his ability to remain in the service. He was to have a physical examination after the academic year was finished, and other examinations, if needed, during the summer encampment. And well enough the young man knew this meant that, if he was found to be permanently disqualified in body, he would be dropped from the cadet corps as soon as the decision was reached. "Do you know," muttered Greg vengefully, "Haynes had the cheek to come here and ask after you?" "Did he?" inquired Dick. "Yes; he pretended to be sorry about your accident." "Perhaps he really was," returned Prescott. "What? After his trick in pushing you from the train?" "I hope he has lived to regret that," said Dick quietly. "You're not quite a lunatic, old ramrod, are you?" asked Greg wonderingly. "Oh, I've heard of fellows being bad, and then afterward repenting," murmured Dick. "Perhaps this has been the case with Haynes. You see, Greg, lying there in hospital, day after day, I had time to do a lot of thinking. Perhaps I learned to be just a trifle less severe in judging other fellows." Anstey visited as often as he could. He and Greg did all they could to coach Prescott over the hard work that he had missed. "There isn't going to be anything in the academic work to bother you," promised Anstey. "You'll have lots of chance to pull through in the general review." "It's only the physical side of the case that gives me any uneasiness," replied Dick. "And I'm not worrying about that, either." "I should say not, suh!" replied the Virginian with emphasis. "I had a chance to talk with Captain Goodwin, one day, without being too fresh, and he told me, old ramrod, that your work in athletics did a lot to save your back from faring worse. He said you were built with unusual strength in the back, and that many a hard tug in the football scrimmages had made you strong where you most need to be strong now." "Now let's get back to work with our old ramrod, Anstey," cautioned Greg. "Surely, suh, with all my heart," nodded Anstey. "But by day after to-morrow he'll have caught up with us, and be coaching us along for the general review." The hard work that Dick had done through March and in early April now stood him in excellent stead. He had, really, only to make sure of the work that he had missed while at hospital. As to reviewing the earlier work of the second term, there was not the slightest need. By the time that the general review was half through it was plain enough that Dick Prescott's class standing was going to be better than it had ever been before. In fact, he was slated to make the middle of this class. "I'll be above the middle of the class next year, if the fates allow me to remain on with the corps," Dick promised himself and his friends. "Oh, you'll be in the Army, suh, until you're retired for age, suh," predicted Anstey with great gravity. The latter part of May passed swiftly for the busy cadets. The first class men were dreaming of their commissions in the more real Army beyond West Point; the present third classmen were looking forward with intense longing to the furlough that would begin as soon as they had stepped over the line into the second class. The new plebes were looking forward to summer encampment with a mixture of longing and dread---the latter emotion on account of the hazing that might come to them in the life under the khaki-colored canvas. As the days slipped by, Prescott began to have more and more of his old, firm step. He began to feel sure, too, that the surgeons would have no more fault to find with his condition. "Why, I could ride a horse in fine shape to-day," declared Prescott, on one of the last days in May. "Could you?" demanded Cadet Holmes quizzically. "Perhaps I had better amend that bit of brag," laughed Dick. "What I meant was that I could ride as well, to-day, as I ever did." "Don't be in a hurry to try it, old ramrod," advised Greg with a frown. "Be satisfied that you're doing well enough as it is. Don't be in a hurry to joggle up a spine that has had about as much as it could stand." "I'll bet you I ride in the exhibition riding before the Board of Visitors," proposed Prescott earnestly. "I shall be mightily disappointed in your judgment if you attempt it without first having received a positive order," retorted Greg. "Don't be a chump, old ramrod." The exhibition before the Board of Visitors to which Dick had referred is one of the annual features of West Point life. The Board is appointed by the President of the United States. The Board goes to West Point a few days before graduation and thoroughly "inspects" the Academy and all its workings. The Board of Visitors impressively attends graduation exercises. Afterwards the Board writes its report on the Military Academy, and suggests anything that occurs to the members as being an improvement on the way things are being already conducted by Army officers who know their business. One man in the second class was going badly to pieces in these closing days of the academic year. That man was turnback Haynes. His trouble was that he had allowed a private and senseless grudge to get uppermost in his mind. He lived more for the gratification of that grudge than he did for the realization of his own ambitions. "This confounded Prescott has escaped me, so far, though his last experience was a narrow squeak. I've had two tries---and, by the great blazes! the third time is said never to fail. He's in such bad shape now that it won't take much of a push to put him over the edge of physical condition. But how can I do it?" So much thought did the turnback give to this problem that he fell further and further behind in general review. He was moving rapidly toward the bottom of the class. Worse, he began to dream of his grudge by night. In his dreams Haynes always reviewed his hopes of successful villainy, or else found himself trying to put through some new bit of profound rascality. Always the turnback awoke from such dreams to find himself in a cold sweat. "I'll hit the right scheme---the real chance---yet!" the plotter told himself, as he tossed restlessly at night, while his roommate, Cadet Pierson, slept soundly the sleep of the just and decent. "Haynesy, what's the matter with you?" demanded Pierson one morning, as he watched his roommate going toward the washstand. "What do you mean?" demanded Haynes, with the pallor of guilt on his face for a moment. "Why, you always look so confoundedly ragged when you get up mornings. You used to wake up looking fresh and rosy. Now, you look like the ghost of an evil deed." "Huh!" growled Haynes, plunging his hands into the water. "I'm all right." "I wish I could believe you!" muttered the puzzled Pierson under his breath. "It's near time to get Prescott, if I'm going to," Haynes told himself a dozen times a day. In fact, the matter preyed so constantly on his mind that the turnback walked through each day in a perpetual though subdued state of nervous fever. The next night Pierson awoke with a start. At first the cadet couldn't understand why he should feel so creepy. He was a good sleeper, and there had been no noise. Hadn't there, though? It came again. And now Cadet Pierson rubbed his eyes and half rose on his cot, leaning his head on one hand. Now, with intense interest, he watched the proceedings of his roommate, turnback Haynes, who was up and moving stealthily about the room, every action being clearly revealed in the bright moonlight that was streaming through the windows. CHAPTER XXII THE ROW IN THE RIDING DETACHMENT "Wow, what on earth is the fellow doing?" muttered the puzzled Pierson. Haynes had gone over to his fatigue blouse, the left front of which he was examining very closely. Then the turnback began to mutter indistinctly. "Why, Haynesy is walking and talking in his sleep!" decided Pierson. "Queer! I never knew him to do anything like that before. He must have something on his mind." Pierson had read, somewhere, that it is never wise to disturb a sleepwalker, there being a risk that the sleepwalker, if aroused too suddenly, may suffer collapse from fright. "I wonder what on earth old Haynesy can have on his mind?" pondered Pierson. "Oh, well, whatever it is, it is no business of mine." With that Pierson let his head return to his pillow. "That did the trick for Prescott---ha! ha!" muttered the turnback. "What on earth did the trick, and what trick was it?" muttered watching Pierson, curious despite the admitted fact that it was all none of his business. After a few moments more Haynes went back to his cot, pulled the sheet and a single blanket up over him, and became quiet. "It wouldn't do any good to ask Haynesy anything about this," decided Pierson. "He won't remember anything about it in the morning." So Pierson went to sleep again. When he awoke in the morning he was more than half inclined to believe that he had dreamed it all. The general reviews were drawing toward their close. In two studies Haynes was making a poor showing, though he believed that he would pass. Riding drills were being held daily now. Preparations were being made for the stirring exhibition of cavalry work that was to be shown before the Board of Visitors. On the afternoon of the day before the visitors were due, Greg started up at the call for cavalry drill. So did Dick. "Where are you going?" challenged Cadet Holmes. "To cavalry drill," responded Cadet Prescott. "Who said you could?" "The K.C. for one; Captain Albutt for another." Greg looked, as he felt, aghast at the idea, but he managed to blurt out: "What about the rainmakers?" "Captain Goodwin has examined me again." "Surely, he doesn't approve of your riding yet, Dick?" "He didn't say whether he did or not." "Then-----" "But he certified that I was fit to ride." "Dick, you didn't have to do this-----" "No; but I want to be restored to full duty. Captain Albutt has informed me that the horse assigned to me will be a dependable, tractable animal, and I shall be on my guard and use my head." "I don't like this," muttered Greg, as he fastened on his leggings. "I didn't suppose you would, so I didn't tell you anything about it." By the time that the second call sounded both young men were prepared, and joined the stream of cadets pouring out of barracks. Other cadets than Greg expressed their astonishment when they saw Prescott in the detachment. "Is this wise, old ramrod?" asked Anstey anxiously. "A soldier shouldn't play baby forever," returned Dick. "And I have permission, or I wouldn't be here." "I don't like it," muttered Anstey. Furlong, Griffin and Dobbs all had something to say. Haynes didn't let a word escape him, but his eyes lighted with evil joy. "Now, I can finish the job, I guess," throbbed the evil one. The detachment to which Prescott and some of his friends belonged was formed and marched through one of the sally-ports. Just beyond, a corporal and a squad of men from the Regular Army cavalry sat in saddle. Each enlisted man held the bridle of another horse than the one he rode. As the corporal dismounted his men, the cadets, at the word from their marcher, moved forward and took their mounts. At the command, the detachment rode forward, by twos, at a walk, down the road that led to the cavalry drill ground below the old South Gate. It was Greg who rode beside his chum. In the drill, later, when in platoon front or column of fours, it would be Haynes who would ride on Dick's left. The turnback had already made sure that his useful black pin was securely fastened inside his fatigue blouse. Arrived at the drill ground, the cadets dismounted, standing by their horses in a little group until Captain Albutt should ride out of one of the cavalry stables and take command. Haynes, with a rapid throbbing of his pulses, bent forward and down, pretending to examine his horse's nigh forefoot. As he did so, with an expertness gained of practice, Haynes slipped the head of the black pin in under the front of the sole of his right boot. Then he straightened up again, chatting with Pierson. "I say, Haynes," drawled Anstey, a few moments later, glancing at the turnback's right foot, "that's a dangerous-looking thing you have in your boot." "What's that?" demanded Haynes, losing color somewhat, yet pretending to be surprised. "That long pin, sticking out of the front of your right boot," continued Anstey, pointing. Haynes glanced down, saw the thing, and pretended to be greatly astonished. "How did I get that thing in my shoe?" he cried. Then, with an appearance of indolent indifference that was rather overdone, the turnback stooped low enough to extract the pin. But his fingers trembled in the act, and half a dozen cadets noted the fact. "That's a reckless bit of business, Haynes," continued Anstey in a voice that did not appear to be accusing. "Reckless?" gasped Greg Holmes. "It's criminal!" "What do you mean?" demanded Haynes, straightening himself and glaring coldly into Holmes's eyes. But Greg was one of the last fellows in the world to permit himself to be "frozen." "I mean what I say, Haynes," he retorted plumply. "With that thing in the toe of your boot something would be likely to happen when some other horse's flank bumped you on the right. And, by George, it's Prescott who rides at your right in platoon or column of fours!" Greg shot a look full of keen suspicion at the turnback. "And it was Prescott who rode on your right the day he was thrown from Satan!" flashed Greg, his face going white from the depth of his sudden feeling. "Haynes, did you have that pin in the toe of your boot the day that Prescott was thrown in the riding hall?" "You-----" Haynes began, at white heat, clenching his free fist. "Answer me!" broke in Greg insistently. "I did not!" "I don't believe you!" shot back Cadet Holmes "Confound you, sir, do you mean to call me a liar?" hissed the turnback. "Yes!" replied Greg promptly. Haynes dropped his bridle, stepping toward Greg Holmes, who, however, neither flinched nor looked worried. "Hold my lines, Dobbs," urged Pierson, passing his bridle over to a fellow classman. Then Pierson sprang in front of Greg, facing his roommate. "Softly, Haynes!" cried Pierson warningly. "What is this to you?" demanded the turnback hotly. "I am under the impression," replied Pierson, "that this is not a personal matter so much as it is a class affair." But Haynes, feeling that he was almost cornered, became reckless and desperate. "This is a personal matter, Pierson. Stand aside until I knock that cur down." "From any other man in the detachment," spoke Greg bitterly, "I would regard the use of that word an insult. Haynes, if you hit me, I shall knock you clean into the Hudson River. But I will not accept any challenge to fight until the class has passed on this matter." "The class has nothing to do with it," insisted Haynes. "I think the class has," broke in Pierson. "When the time comes I shall have considerable to say." "Then say it now!" commanded Haynes, glaring at his roommate. "I will," nodded Pierson. "The other night, Haynes, I was awakened to find you walking about the room in your sleep. You also talked in your sleep. At the time I could make nothing of it all. Now, I think I understand." Then Cadet Pierson swiftly recounted what he had seen and what he had heard that night in the room. "You were fingering something on the left front of your blouse, and while doing so, you made the distinct remark that this was what had done the trick for Prescott," charged Pierson. "I did not see what it was that you were fingering, but the next day, the first chance I got, I, too, examined the left front of your blouse. I found a small, black pin fastened there. It has been fastened there every time since when I have had a chance to look at your fatigue blouse hanging on the wall." "I am not responsible for what I say when I'm sleepwalking," cried Haynes in a rage. "And, besides, Pierson, you're lying." "I'll wager that not a man here believes I'm lying," retorted Pierson coolly. "No, no! You're no liar, Pierson!" cried a dozen men at once. "Is there a black pin inside your blouse at this moment?" challenged Greg. "None of your business," cried the turnback hoarsely. "I demand that you show up, or stand accused," insisted Cadet Holmes. "I'll show up nothing, or take any orders from anyone who tries to lie my good name away," retorted Haynes. "But at least two of you will have to fight me mighty soon." "I won't fight you," retorted Greg bluntly, "until the class declares you to be a man fit to fight with." "Nor I, either," rejoined Pierson decisively. "Stand aside, you hound, and let me get at that cur behind you!" cried Haynes hoarsely. "Attention!" called the detachment marcher formally. "The instructor for the day!" Captain Albutt rode out of the nearest cavalry stable, mounted on his own pure white horse. At the order of the marcher each cadet fell back to the lines of his own mount. When Captain Albutt reached the detachment he saw nothing to indicate the disturbance that had just occurred. CHAPTER XXIII THE DECREE OF "COVENTRY" "Prepare to mount! Mount!" Some preliminary commands of drill were executed. Then the serious work of the hour began. Never had Captain Albutt commanded at a better bit of cavalry work than was done this afternoon by members of the first and second classes. The wheelings, the facings and all the manoeuvres at the different gaits were executed with precision and dash. All the movements in troop and squadron were carried out to perfection. To the instructor, it was plain that the most perfect esprit de corps existed. The cadets were acting with a singleness and devotedness of purpose which showed plainly that the perfect trooper was the sole subject of thought in their minds. At least, so the instructor thought, from the results obtained. Even Haynes's face was inexpressive as he rode. Greg was as jaunty as though he had not an unkind thought toward anyone in the world. Cadet Prescott did not betray a sign of any thought save to do his duty perfectly. Yet, every time that his horse was brought close to Haynes's, Prescott had his eyes open for any foul play that might be attempted by the turnback. "If the young men do as splendidly to-morrow before the Board of Visitors," thought Captain Albutt, "I shall feel that my year of work here has been a grand success. Jove, what a born trooper everyone of these young fellows seems to be!" At last the drill was finished. In detachments, the young cadet troopers returned to the road between the administration building and the academic building. Here each detachment dismounted, surrendered its horses to a waiting detail of enlisted cavalrymen, and then marched in to barracks. As soon as the young men had removed their riding leggings, and the dust from their uniforms, most of them descended into the quadrangle. Haynes reached his room just an instant behind Pierson. "See here, Pierson, you cad, what did you-----" "Oh, shut up!" replied Pierson, with a weary sigh. "Don't you speak to me like that, sir!" cried Haynes warningly, as he stepped over to where his roommate was busy with a clothes brush. "I don't want to talk with you at all," retorted Pierson. "You'll talk to me a lot, or you'll answer with your fists!" "Fight with you? Bah!" growled the other man in disgust. "You cad, you deliberately li-----" But Pierson, having put his brush away, turned on his heel and left the room. Haynes paused for an instant, his face white with a new dread. A cadet stands low, indeed, when another cadet will not resent being called a liar by him. "This has kicked up an awful row against me, I guess," muttered the turnback, as he hastily cleaned himself. "I must get down into the quadrangle, mix with the fellows and set myself straight." Full of this purpose, for he was not lacking in a certain quality of nerve and courage, Haynes went down to the quadrangle. "I am afraid a good deal of feeling was aroused this afternoon, Furlong," began the turnback. Then he gulped, clenched his fists and lost color, for Cadet Furlong, without a word, had turned on his heel and walked away. "Griffin, what does Fur-----" Cadet Griffin, too, turned on his heel, passing on. "Dobbs-----" It was Dobbs's turn to show his back and stroll away. "What the deuce has got into them all?" wondered Haynes, though his heart sank, for, much as he wanted to ignore the meaning, it was becoming plain to him. Another cadet was passing along the walk. To him Haynes turned with an appealing face. "Lewis," began the turnback, "I am afraid I shall have to ask you-----" Whatever it was, Lewis did not wait to hear. He looked at Haynes as though he saw nothing there, and joined a little group of cadets beyond. "Confound these puppies!" growled Haynes to himself. "They're all fellows that I hazed when they were plebes, and they haven't forgiven me. I see clearly enough that, if I am to have an explanation, or get a chance to make one, I must do it through the members of my old class." Some distance down the quadrangle stood Brayton and Spurlock, first classmen and captains in the cadet battalion. "They're high-minded, decent fellows," said Haynes to himself. "I will go to them and get this nasty business set straight." Past several groups of cadets stalked Haynes, affecting not to see any of the fellows. But these cadets appeared equally indifferent to being recognized. Brayton and Spurlock were talking in low tones when the turnback approached them. "Brayton," began Haynes, "I want to ask you to do me a bit of a favor." Brayton did not stop his conversation with Spurlock, nor did he show any other sign of having heard the turnback. "Brayton! I beg your pardon!" But the first classman did not turn. "Spurlock," asked Haynes, in a thick voice, "are you in this tommy-rot business, too?" Spurlock, however, seemed equally deaf. "Then see here, both of you-----" insisted Haynes, choking with anger. The two first classmen turned their backs, walking slowly off. There was no chance to doubt the fate that had overtaken him. Haynes had been "sent to Coventry." Henceforth, as long as he remained in the corps of cadets, he was to be "cut." No other cadet could or would speak to him, under the same penalty of also being sent to Coventry. Henceforth the only speech that any cadet would have with him would be a necessary communication on official business. Socially there was no longer any Cadet Haynes at West Point. Once, two years before, Haynes had helped to put this punishment on a plebe, who had soon after quitted the Academy. Then Haynes had thought that sending another to Coventry was, under some circumstances, a fine proceeding. But now the like fate had befallen him! "The fellows don't really mean it. They're excited now, but to-morrow they'll be sorry and call the whole foolishness off," thought the "cut" man, trying hard to swallow the obstinate lump that rose in his throat. In the quadrangle, mostly in groups, were fully two hundred cadets. But not one of these young men would address a word to the exposed turnback. "There's one satisfaction, anyway," thought Haynes savagely, as he walked blindly back toward the door of his own subdivision in barracks, "I can take it all out on the plebes!" Just as he was going up the steps Haynes encountered a plebe coming out. "Here, mister!" growled Haynes. "Swing around with you! At attention, sir! What's your name, mister?" But the plebe did not even pause. He did not avert his head, but he took no pains to look at Haynes, merely passing the turnback and gaining the quadrangle below. Now the utter despair of his position came over Haynes. How suddenly it had come! And even Haynes, with his four years at West Point, could hardly realize how the Coventry had been pronounced and carried out in so very few minutes after release from cavalry drill. Tears of rage and humiliation in his eyes, Haynes stumbled to his room. Once inside he shunned the window, but stumbled to his chair at the study table, and sank down, his face buried in his arms. "Oh, I'll make somebody suffer for this!" he growled. Out in the quadrangle, now that the turnback was gone, the main theme of conversation was the discovery and exposure of the afternoon. Pierson was requested to repeat his statement to a large group of first and second classmen. "I don't believe a man could get a pin stuck into the toe of his boot accidentally, in the way that Haynes had his pin arranged," declared Brayton. "Has one of you fellows a pin to lend me?" A pin being passed, Brayton sat down on a convenient step and tried to adjust the pin between the sole and the upper of the toe of his boot. "I can force it in a little way," admitted Brayton, "but see how the pin wobbles. It would fall out if I moved my foot hard. Some of the rest of you try it." Other cadets repeated the experiment. "I'll tell you, fellows," said Spurlock at last; "a fellow couldn't accidentally get a pin in that position, and hold it firm there. But I know that, after repeated trying, and working to fit the pin, I could finally get matters so that I could quickly fit a pin that would hold in place and be effective." "Of course," nodded Lewis. "It can be done, but only by design." "And that was the very way that Prescott's horse was enraged, so that old ramrod got his awful tumble!" exclaimed Greg bitterly. "You believe, now, that the whole thing was a dirty, deliberate trick, don't you?" asked Spurlock of Prescott. "I am pretty sure it must have been," nodded Dick. "Then," declared Brayton, "the whole thing is something for you second classmen to settle among yourselves. In the first place, it is your own class affair. In the next place, we men of the first class are practically out of the Military Academy already. It will do the first class no good to take any action, because we shall not be here to carry out any decree." "You can advise us, though," suggested Holmes. "And we'll do so gladly," nodded Brayton. "Then do we need to hold a class meeting, and vote to make the Coventry permanent?" "Hardly, I should say," replied Brayton. "You've already started the cut, and it can be continued without any regular action---unless Haynes should have the cheek to try to brazen it out. If he does insist on staying here at the Military Academy, you can easily take up the matter during the summer encampment." "It would seem rather strange for me to call a class meeting, when the whole affair concerns me," suggested Dick. "Oh, you don't need to call the meeting, old ramrod," advised Spurlock. "A self-appointed committee of the class can call the meeting. You can open the meeting, of course, Prescott, and then you can call any other member of the class to take the chair." "I wonder if it will be necessary to drum the fellow out of the class formally?" asked Anstey. "Only time can show you that," replied Brayton. "Better just wait and see what action the fellow Haynes will take for himself. He may have the sense to resign." Resign? That word was not in Haynes's own dictionary of conduct. After his first few moments of despair, on gaining his room, the turnback had risen from his chair, his face showing a courage and resolution worthy of a better cause. "Those idiots may think they have 'got' me," he muttered, shaking his fist toward the quadrangle. "One of these days they'll know me better! I'll make life miserable for some of those pups yet!" Just before it was time for the call to dress parade Pierson came hurrying into the room to hasten into his full-dress uniform. Haynes, already dressed with scrupulous care, looked curiously at his roommate. But Pierson did not appear to see him. Haynes stepped over to the window, drumming listlessly on the sill. At length he turned around. "Pierson," he asked, "have the fellows sent me to Coventry?" "You don't need to ask that," replied the other coldly. "Is it because of Prescott?" "Yes. And now, will you stop bothering me with the sound of your voice?" "Pierson, you know, when a fellow is cut by the corps, his roommate is not required to avoid conversation with the unlucky one." "I know that," replied Pierson coldly. "But I've had all I want of you and from you. Except when it is absolutely necessary I shall not answer or address you hereafter." "How long am I to stay in Coventry?" Pierson acted as though he did not bear. "Has formal action been taken, or is this just a flash of prejudice, Pierson?" No answer. "Humph!" The call to form and march on to the parade ground was sounding. Snatching up his rifle, Haynes stepped out and joined the others. Haynes did not receive even as much as a cold glance. "I'm less than a bit of mud to them!" thought the turnback bitterly. "These fellows would step around a patch of mud, just to avoid dirtying their shoes." It was a relief to hear the command to fall in. Haynes felt still better when the battalion stepped away at its rhythmic step. He did not have to look at any of his contemptuous comrades now, nor did he need a word from them. Somehow, though in a daze, the turnback got through dress parade without reproof from any of the watchful cadet officers. Then, almost immediately after dress parade, came the hardest ordeal of all. Once more, this time in fatigue uniform, the turnback had to fall in at supper formation. With the rest he marched away to cadet mess ball, found his place at table and occupied it. During the meal merry conversation ran riot around the tables. Haynes was the only man among the gray-clad cadets who was left absolutely alone. After supper, while Pierson lounged outside, Haynes went back to his room. Pacing the floor in his deep misery and agitation, he took this vow to himself: "I won't let myself be driven from the Military Academy! No matter what these idiots try to do to me---no matter what indignities they may heap upon me, I'll keep silent and fight my way through the Military Academy! I will receive my commission, and go into the Army. But that fellow Prescott shall never become an officer in the Army, no matter what I have to risk to stop him!" CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION For most of the young men at West Point the academic year now came swiftly and joyously to an end. True, some score and a half of plebes were found deficient, and sent back to their homes. The same thing happened to a few of the third classmen. All of the members of the first class succeeded in passing and in graduating into the Army. The poor plebes who had failed had been mournfully departing, one at a time. These unhappy, doleful young men felt strangely uncouth in the citizens' clothes that they had regained from the cadet stores. Yet everyone of these plebes received many a handshake from the upper classmen and a hearty good wish for success in life. More doleful still felt the dropped third classmen, who had been at the Military Academy for two years, and who had thoroughly expected to "get through" into the Army somehow. It was now a little before the time when cadets must hasten to quarters to attire themselves for dress parade. Several score of cadets still lingered in the quadrangle when Greg Holmes and Pierson suddenly appeared, heading straight for one of the largest groups, in which Dick Prescott stood. "Heard any news lately?" asked Greg, a pleased twinkle in his eyes. "Nothing startling. We've been supplying new, dry handkerchiefs to the poor, late plebes," answered Brayton. "Haven't heard about that fellow Haynes?" asked Greg. "Nothing," admitted Brayton. "Well, you see," exclaimed Pierson, "Haynes made up his mind to disregard the grand cut. He determined to stick it out, anyway, even for a whole year." "He'll have a sweet time of it, then," put in Spurlock dryly. "I never heard of a fellow who got the general cut lasting a whole year here before." "That was Haynes's decision, anyway," went on Pierson. "This is no guess work. The fellow told me so himself." "I reckon, suh, maybe we'll be able to change his mind," drawled Anstey. "No you won't," broke in Greg decisively. "Haynes got in bad on the last two days of general review. Chemistry and Spanish verbs threw him. So he was ordered up for a writ (written examination) in both subjects. He fessed frozen on both of them. He applied for a new examination in a fortnight, but the fact that Haynes was already a turnback went against him." "He's `found,' eh?" questioned Brayton, smiling gleefully. "Dropped," nodded Pierson. "Fired!" added Greg, with a look of satisfaction. "There's no getting around the truth of the old superstition, fellows!" The "old superstition" to which Holmes referred is one intensely believed in the cadet corps. While there is nothing whatever to prevent a sneak from being admitted to the United States Military Academy, the cadets believe firmly that a dishonorable fellow is bound to be caught, before he graduates, and that he will be kicked promptly out of the service by one means or another. "Has the fellow gone yet?" inquired Spurlock. "He'll slip away while the rest of us are away at dress parade, I guess," responded Pierson. "Haynes is in cit. clothes already, and is just fussing around a bit." "He must feel fine!" muttered Brayton musingly. "I could almost say `poor fellow.'" "So could I," agreed Prescott, with a good deal of feeling. "It would break my heart to be compelled to leave the corps, except at graduation, so I can imagine how any other fellow must feel." "Oh, well, he'd never be happy in the Army, anyway," replied Spurlock. "Out in the Army the other officers can take care of a dishonorable comrade even more effectively than we do." "What made Haynes fess out, I wonder?" pondered Brayton aloud. "Being sent to Coventry got on his nerves so that he couldn't pull up enough at review and the writs," replied Pierson. "He wasn't one of the bright men, anyway, in the section rooms." "By Jove, suh! There's the fellow now!" muttered Anstey. The others turned slightly to see Haynes, out of the gray uniform that he had disgraced, wearing old cit. clothes and carrying a suit case, step out and cross the quadrangle to the office of the K.C. A few minutes later, Haynes came out of the cadet guard house. Knowing that he would never have the ordeal to face again, Haynes summoned all his "brass" to the surface and stepped down the length of the quadrangle. He passed many groups of curious cadets, none of whom, however, sent a look or a word to him. Then on out through the east sally-port strode Haynes. On the sidewalk beyond, he passed Captain Albutt. Haynes did not salute the officer; he didn't have to. Even had Haynes saluted, Captain Albutt could not have returned this military courtesy, for Haynes was no longer a member of the American Military establishment. * * * * * * * On the afternoon of the day following the graduating exercises came to a brilliant finish at Cullum Hall. Brayton, Spurlock and their classmates were honorably through with West Point, their new careers about to open before them. Cadet Dick Prescott came forth from the exercises, a look of radiant happiness on his face. He had been ordered before a board of surgeons that morning. Just as a formality he was to go before a medical board again in August. "But that's only a piece of red tape," Captain Goodwin had explained to him. "By wonderful good luck, or rather, no doubt, thanks to Captain Albutt's gallantry, your spine is now as sound as ever. Come before us in August, but I can tell you now that the August verdict will be O.K." "My, but you look like the favorite uncle of the candy kid!" muttered Greg, as the two chums in gray strode along together. "Why shouldn't I?" retorted Dick. "My spine is all right, and I'm to stay in the service. Then besides, Greg, old fellow, think what we are now." "Well, what are we?" asked Greg. "First classmen! Only a year more, Greg, to the glorious old Army! Think of it, boy! In blue, in a year, and wearing shoulder-straps!" "I wish we had just graduated, like Brayton, Spurlock and the rest," muttered Greg. "You want to rush things, don't you, lad?" "But Dick, you see," murmured Holmes, "a cadet can't marry." "Oh, still harping on Miss Number Three?" laughed his chum. "Number---thr-----" stammered Greg. "You don't mean to say that it is all off with Miss Number Three?" "Oh, yes; months ago." "She broke the engagement?" "Yes," admitted Holmes. "But I don't care." "What's the present girl's number?" teased Dick. "Five," confessed Greg with desperate candor. "But this girl, Dick, is worth all the others. And she'll stick. After all, it's only a year, now, that she'll have to wait." At this point, however, we find Dick and Greg to be first classmen. So their further adventures are necessarily reserved for the next and concluding volume in this series, which will be published under the title, "_Dick Prescott's Fourth Year At West Point; Or, Ready to Drop the Gray for Shoulder Straps_." All we need to tell the reader is that this coming volume will contain the most rousing story of all in the _West Point Series_. THE END 
12819	----	DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT or Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life H. Irving Hancock CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. The Class President Lectures on Hazing II. Plebe Briggs Learns a Few Things III. Greg Debates Between Girls and Mischief IV. The O.C. Wants to Know V. "I Respectfully Decline to Answer, Sir" VI. Greg Prepares for Flirtation Walk VII. The Folks from Home VIII. Cadet Dodge Hears Something IX. Spoony Femme--Flirtation Walk X. The Cure for Plebe Animal Spirits XI. Lieutenant Topham Feels Queer XII. Under a Fearful Charge XIII. In Close Arrest XIV. Friends Who Stand By XV. On Trial by Court-Martial XVI. A Verdict and a Hop XVII. "A Liar and a Coward" XVIII. The Fight in the Barracks XIX. Mr. Dennison's Turn is Served XX. A Discovery at the Riding Drill XXI. Pitching for the Army Nine XXII. Greg's Secret and Another's XXIII. The Committee on Class Honors XXIV. Conclusion CHAPTER I THE CLASS PRESIDENT LECTURES ON HAZING Leaving the road that wound by the officers' quarters at the north end, turning on to the road that passed the hotel, a hot, somewhat tired and rather dusty column of cadets swung along towards their tents in the distance. The column was under arms, as though the cadets had been engaged in target practice or out on a reconnaissance. The young men wore russet shoes, gray trousers and leggings, gray flannel shirts and soft campaign hats. Their appearance was not that of soldiers on parade, but of the grim toilers and fighters who serve in the field. Their work that morning had, in fact, been strictly in line with labor, for the young men, under Captain McAneny, had been engaged in the study of field fortifications. To be more exact, the young men had been digging military trenches---yes---digging them, for at West Point hard labor is not beneath the cadet's dignity. Just as they swung off the road past the officers' quarters the young men, marching in route step, fell quickly into step at the command of the cadet officer at the head of the line. Now they marched along at no greater speed, but with better swing and rhythm. They were, in fact, perfect soldiers---the best to be found on earth. Past the hotel they moved, and out along the road that leads by the summer encampment. The brisk command of "halt" rang out. Immediately afterwards the command was dismissed. Carrying their rifles at ease, the young men stepped briskly through different company streets to their tents. Three of these brought up together at one of the tents. "Home, Sweet Home," hummed Greg Holmes, as he stepped into his tent. "Thank goodness for the luxury of a little rest," muttered Dick Prescott. "Rest?" repeated Tom Anstey, with a look of amazement. "What time have you, now, for a rest?" "I can spare the time to stretch and yawn," laughed Dick. "If I am capable of swift work, after that, I may indulge in two yawns." "Look out, or you'll get skinned for being late at dinner formation," warned Greg. There was, in truth, no time for fooling. These cadets, and their comrades, had reached camp just on the dot of time. But now they had precious few minutes in which to cleanse themselves, brush their hair and get into white duck trousers and gray fatigue blouses. The call for dinner formation would sound at the appointed instant and they must be ready. Sound it did, in short time, but it caught no one napping. Nearly everyone of the young men in camp had just returned from a forenoon's work, and hot and dusty at that. But now, as the call sounded, every member of three classes stepped from his tent looking as though he had just stepped from an hour spent in the hands of a valet. Not one showed the least flaw in personal neatness. Moreover, the tents which these cadets had just quitted were in absolute order and wholly clean. At West Point no excuse whatever is accepted for untidiness of person or quarters. With military snap and briskness the battalion was formed. Then at brisk command, the battalion turned to the left in column of fours, marching down the hot, sun-blazed road to cadet mess. Despite the heat and the hard work of the forenoon---these cadets had been up, as they we every day in summer, since five in the morning---spirits ran high at the midday meal, and chaffing talk and laughter ran from table to table. The meal over, the battalion marched back to camp. There were a few minutes yet before the afternoon drills. A few minutes of leisure? Yes, if such an easy act as dressing in uniform appropriate to the coming drill, may be termed leisure. "Drills are going to be called off, I reckon," murmured Greg, poking his head outside the khaki colored tent after he had put himself in readiness. "What's up?" demanded Anstey, lacing a legging. "The sky is about the color of ink over old Crow's Nest," reported Greg. Just then there came a vivid flash of lightning, followed, in a few seconds, by a deep, echoing roll of thunder. The summer storms along this part of the Hudson River sometimes come almost out of the clear sky. "I'm always thankful for even the smallest favors," muttered Anstey, with a yawn. "We'll have to make up this drill some other day, when it's hotter," Dick observed, but he nevertheless dropped on to a campstool with a grunt of relief. Yes; each of these three cadets could now have a campstool of his own in quarters, for Prescott, Holmes and Anstey were all yearlings. And a yearling is "some one" in the cadet corps. For the first few days after his release from the plebe class the yearling is quite likely to feel that he is nearly "the whole thing." By degrees, however, the yearling in summer encampment discovers that there is a first class of much older cadets above him. There are no second classmen in summer encampment, until just before the time to break camp and return to barracks for the following academic year. Members of the new second class---men who have successfully passed through the first two years of life at the United States Military Academy---are allowed two months and a half of summer furlough, during which time they return to their homes. Readers of the foregoing volume in this series, _"Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point"_, are already familiar with the ordeals, the hard work, the sorrows and the few pleasures, indeed, of plebe life at West Point. These readers of the former volume recall just how Dick and Greg reached West Point in March of the year before; how they passed their entrance examinations and settled down to fifteen months of plebedom. Such readers recall the fights in which the new men found themselves involved, the hazing, laughable and otherwise, will be recalled. Our former readers will recollect that about the only pleasure that Dick Prescott found in his plebedom lay in his election to the presidency of his class---position that carries more responsibility than pleasure for the poor plebe leader of his class. But now all was wholly and happily changed. Dick, Greg and Anstey were yearlings, entitled to real and friendly recognition from the upper classmen. It is only seldom that yearlings are accused of b.j.-ety (freshness), for about all of that is taken out of the cadet during his plebedom. But the greatest sign of all to the new yearling is that now, instead of finding himself liable to hazing at any time, he is now the one who administers the hazing. It is rare that a first or second classman takes the trouble to haze a plebe. A first or second classman may notice that a plebe is a little too b.j. If so, the first or second classman usually drops a hint to a yearling, and the latter usually takes the plebe in hand. So far, our young friends had been yearlings just three days. They had not, as yet, exercised their new function of hazing any plebes. The first three days in camp had been too full of new and hard duties to permit of their doing so. As Greg looked out of the tent, the wind suddenly sprang up, driving a gust of big raindrops before it. In another moment there was a steady downpour. Cadet corporals in raincoats darted through the company streets, carrying the cheering word that drills were suspended until change of orders. "I hope it rains all afternoon, then," gaped Anstey, behind his hand. "It's a rest for mine---you bunkies (tentmates) permitting." Anstey stretched himself on his bed and was soon sound asleep. In summer encampment, taps sound at 10.30, and first call to reveille sounds at five in the morning. Six hours and a half of sleep are none too much for a young man engaged at hard drilling and other work. The cadet, when his duties, permit, may, however, snatch a few minutes of sleep at any time through the day. Cadets in camp quickly get the knack of making a few minutes count for a nap. "It's going to be a good one," declared Greg, as the rain settled down into a monotonous drumming against the shelter flap over the tent. "A long one, too," spoke Prescott hopefully. "Greg, I actually believe that the wind is growing cool." "Don't speak about it," begged Greg. "I'm superstitious." "Superstitious?" "Yes; if a rain comes up just after dress parade and guardmount, then it'll keep up the rest of the evening, when we might be enjoying ourselves after a strenuous day of work. But if you get to exulting over the rain that is to get us out of a drill or two, or bragging about a cool breeze getting lost around here in the daytime, then the raindrops cease at once, the wind dies down, and the sun comes out hotter than it has been before in a week!" Dick took another look outside. "Then I won't say that this rain is going to last all afternoon, but it is," Dick smiled. "Now, you've spoiled it all!" cried Greg. "Say, Holmesy, old spectre!" hailed a laughing voice across the street. "Hullo!" Greg answered. "Haven't a cold, have you?" "No." "Don't feel that you're marked for pneumonia?" "What are you driving at Furlong?" Greg called back. "Come along over, if you can brave the storm!" called yearling Furlong. "You and the rest." "Shall we go over, Dick?" asked Greg, turning around. "Yes; why not? If nothing else, we'll leave Anstey in peace for his big sleep. Duck out. I'll be on your heels." The flap across the way was thrown open hospitably as Greg entered, followed by Cadet Prescott. "Where's old Mason and Dixon?" demanded Furlong, alluding to the fact that Anstey was a Virginian. "He has turned in for a big sleep," Greg informed their hosts. "Great!" chuckled Furlong. "Let's peep in and throw a bucket of water over him. He'll wake up and think the tent is leaking." "Don't you dare!" warned Dick, but he said it with a grin that robbed his rebuke of offence. "Old Mace (short for 'Mason and Dixon') has been tired out ever since being on guard the first night in camp. He actually needs the big sleep. I believe this rain is for his benefit." "Say that again, and put it slowly," protested Furlong, looking bewildered. Griffin and Dobbs, the other two yearlings who tented with him, laughed in amusement. "Now, that we've lured the class president in here," continued Cadet Furlong, "we'll call this a class meeting. A quorum isn't necessary. You've got my campstool, Mr. President, so we'll consider you in the chair. May I state the business before the meeting?" "Proceed, Mr. Furlong," requested Prescott gravely. "Then, sir, and gentlemen-----" began Furlong. "The chair calls you to order!" interrupted Dick sternly. "Will the chair kindly explain the point of order?" "It is out of order to make any distinction between the chair and 'gentlemen.'" "I yield to the---the pride of the chair," agreed Furlong, with a comical bow. "Mr. Chairman and other gentlemen, the question that I wish to put is-----" Cadet Furlong now paused, glancing solemnly about him before he continued: "What are we going to do with the plebes?" Dick dropped his tone of presiding officer as he answered: "I take it, Miles---pardon me, _Furlong_, that your question really means, what are we going to do to the plebes?" "Same thing," contended the other yearling. "Why should we do anything to them?" asked Dick gravely. "Why should we---say, did you hear the man?" appealed Furlong, looking around him despairingly at the other yearlings. "Why should we do anything to the plebes? And yet, in a trusting moment, we elected old ramrod to be president of the class! Why should we---o-o-o-o-h!" Cadet Furlong made a gurgling sound in his throat, as though he were perishing for lack of air. "Prescott isn't serious," hinted Griffin. "Yes, I am," contended Dick, half stubbornly. "Griffin, what did you think of yearlings---last year?" "What I thought, last year," retorted Cadet Griffin, "doesn't much matter now. Then I was an ignorant, stupid, unregenerate, unsophisticated, useless, worthless and objectionable member of the community. I hadn't advanced far enough to appreciate the very exalted position that a yearling holds by right." "We now know, quite well," broke in Dobbs, "that it is a yearling's sacred and bounden duty to lick a plebe into shape in the shortest possible order. Though it never has been done, and never can be done inside of a year," he finished with a sigh. "Do you seek words of wisdom from your class president?" Cadet Prescott inquired. "Oh, yes, wise and worthy sir!" begged Furlong. "Then this is almost the best that I can think of," Dick went on. It will never be possible to stamp out wholly the hazing of plebes at West Point. But we fellows can make a new record, if we will, by frowning on all severe and needless forms of hazing. I had the reputation of getting a lot of hazing last year, didn't I?" "You surely did, old ramrod," murmured Furlong sympathetically. "At times, then, my heart ached for you, but now, with my increased intelligence, I perceive how much good it all did you." "I took my hazing pretty well, didn't I?" insisted Dick. "All that came your way you took like a gentleman," agreed Dobbs. "At that time," went on Prescott, "I made up my mind that I'd submit, during my plebedom. But I also made up my mind---and it still my mind---that I'd go very slow, indeed, in passing the torment on to the plebes who followed me." Dick spoke so seriously that there was an awkward pause. "I don't want you to think that I'm going to set up as a yearling saint," Dick added. "I don't mean to say that I may not put a single plebe through any kind of pace. What I do mean is that I shall go very slowly indeed in annoying any plebe. I shan't do it, probably, unless I note a case of such utter b.j.-ety that I feel bound to bring the plebe quickly to his senses." "You cast a gloom over us," muttered Furlong. "So far we haven't done any hazing. We were thinking of ordering a plebe in here, and starting in on him, so as to get our hands in. We need practice in the fine art." "Don't let me interfere with your pursuit of happiness," begged Dick, with mock politeness. "But, seriously, old ramrod, are you as strong for the plebe as we have just been led to believe? Are you prepared to take the plebe to our heart and comfort him---instead of training him?" "Do you believe we ought to take the plebe right into our midst, and condole with him until we get him over his homesickness? Do you feel that we should overlook all the traditional b.j.ety of the plebe, and admit him to full fellowship without any probation or instruction?" "No," spoke Dick promptly. "I don't believe in patting the plebe on the shoulder and increasing his conceit. When a candidate first comes to West Point, and is admitted as a cadet, he is one of the most conceited simpletons on earth. He has to have that all taken out of him, I admit. He must be taught to respect and defer to upper classmen, just as he will have to do with his superior officers after he goes from here out into the service. The plebe must be kept in his place. I don't believe in making him feel that he's a pet. I do believe in frowning down all b.j.-ety. I don't believe in recognizing a plebe, except officially. But I don't believe in subjecting any really good fellow to a lot of senseless and half cruel hazing that has no purpose except the amusement of the yearlings. Now, I think I've made myself clear. At least, I've said all that I have to say on the subject. For the rest, I'll listen to the ideas of the rest of you." There was silence, broken at last by Greg, who said: "I think I agree, in the main, with Prescott." "Oh, of course," grunted Dobbs, in a tone which might mean that Greg Holmes was but the "shadow" of Dick Prescott. Greg looked quickly at Dobbs, but saw nothing in the other's face that justified him in taking open offence. Somehow, though none of the others said anything to that effect, Cadet Prescott began to feel that he was a bit in the way at a conference of this sort. He didn't rise to leave at once, but he swung around on his campstool near the door. Without throwing the flap open, Prescott peeped through a slit-like opening. As he did so he saw something that made his eyes flash. The rain was pouring a little less heavily now. Down the company street came a cadet with a pail of water. It was Mr. Briggs, a round faced, laughter loving, somewhat roly poly lad of the plebe class. Just as Mr. Briggs was passing the tent in which Anstey lay making up some needed sleep, a snore came out. Briggs halted, glancing swiftly up and down the company street. No upper classman being in sight, Mr. Briggs peeped into the tent. He saw Anstey, asleep and alone. Instantly raising the flap just enough, Mr. Briggs took careful aim, then shot half the contents of the pail of water over the chest and face of Yearling Anstey. Dick Prescott watched unseen by the b.j. plebe. Mr. Briggs fled lightly, but swiftly four tents down the line and disappeared into his own quarters. From across the way, came a roar of wrath. Anstey was up, bellowing like a bull. Yet, roused so ruthlessly from a sound sleep, it took him a few seconds to realize that his wetting must be due to human agency. Then Anstey flew to the tent door, looking out, but the chuckling plebe was already in his own tent, out of sight. "After what I've just said," announced Dick grimly, "I think I know of a plebe who requires some correction." "Listen to our preacher!" jeered Furlong. CHAPTER II PLEBE BRIGGS LEARNS A FEW THINGS "Anstey!" called Prescott softly across the company street. "Oh, was it you idiots?" demanded the Virginian, showing his wrathful looking face. "No," replied Dick. "Come over as quickly as you can." It took Anstey a few minutes to dry himself, and to rearray himself, for the Virginian's sense of dignity would not permit him to go visiting in the drenched garments in which he had awakened. "Which one of you was it?" demanded Anstey, as he finally entered the tent of Furlong and his bunkies. "No one here," Dick replied. "The other gentlemen don't even know what happened, for I haven't told them." So Anstey withdrew his look of suspicion from the five cadets. No cadet may ever lie; not even to a comrade in the corps. Any cadet who utters a lie, and is detected in it, is ostracized as being unfit for the company of gentlemen. So, when Dick's prompt denial came, Anstey believed, as he was obliged to do. "It was a plebe, Mace," continued Dick. "I'll have all but his life, then!" cried the southerner fiercely. "I wouldn't even think of it. The offender is only a cub," urged Dick. "If you accept my advice, Mace, you won't even call the poor blubber out. We'll just summon him here, and make the little imp so ashamed of himself that the lesson ought to last him through the rest of his plebedom. I'm cooler than you are at this moment, Mace, but none the less disgusted. Will you let me handle this affair?" "Yes," agreed Anstey quickly. As for Furlong, Griffin and Dobbs, it was "just nuts" for them to see their class president, lately so stately on the subject of hazing, now actually proposing to take a plebe sternly in hand. The three bunkies exchanged grins. "Tell us, Mace," continued Dick, "have you had any occasion to take Mr. Briggs in hand at any time? "So it was Mr. Briggs?" demanded Anstey angrily, turning toward the door. "Wait! Have you taken Mr. Briggs in hand at any time?" "Yes," admitted Anstey. "When you and Holmesy were out, last evening, I had Mr. Briggs in our tent for grinning at me and failing to say 'sir' when he addressed me." "You put him through some performances?" "Nothing so very tiresome," replied Anstey. "I made him brace for five minutes, and then go through the silent manual of arms for five more." "Humph! That wasn't much!" grunted Furlong. "I guess that was why Mr. Briggs felt that he had to get square," mused Dick aloud. "But a plebe is not allowed to get square by doing anything b.j." Again Anstey turned as if to go out, but Dick broke in: "Don't do it, Mace. Try, for the next half hour, to keep as cool as an iceberg. Trust the treatment of the impish plebe to us. Greg, old fellow, will you be the one to go down and tell Mr. Briggs that his presence in this tent is desired immediately?" Plebe Briggs was alone in his tent, his bunkies being absent on a visit in another tent. Mr. Briggs was still grinning broadly as he remembered the roar with which Anstey had acknowledged the big splash. But of a sudden Mr. Briggs's grin faded like the mist, for Greg was at the doorway. "Mr. Briggs, your presence is desired at once at Mr. Furlong's tent." "Yes, sir," replied the plebe meekly. He got up with an alacrity that he did not feel, but which was the result of the new soldierly habit. Mr. Briggs threw on his campaign hat and a raincoat, but, by the time he was outside of the tent, Holmes was just disappearing under canvas up the company street. "I guess I'm in for it," muttered the plebe sheepishly, as he strode up the street. "Confound it, can a yearling see just as well when he's asleep as when he's awake?" He halted before Furlong's tent, rapping on the pole. "Mr. Briggs, sir." "Come in, Mr. Briggs." The plebe stepped into the tent, drawing himself up and standing at attention. For some seconds none of the yearlings spoke. In fact, only Dick looked at the fourth classman. "Mr. Briggs," demanded Prescott at last, "where is your bucket?" "In my tent, sir." "You will fill it, and report back here with it at once." "Very good, sir." "Now, what on earth is coming?" quaked the plebe, as he possessed himself of his bucket and started for the nearest tap. In the shortest time possible the young man reported hack at the tent, his bucket as full of water as it would safely carry. "Set the bucket down, Mr. Briggs, at the rear of the tent." The plebe obeyed, then stood once more at attention. "Mr. Briggs," continued the president of the yearling class, "it was you who threw water over Mr. Anstey?" "I am not obliged to answer that, sir," replied the plebe. "You're quite within your rights there, mister," Dick admitted. "But I looked out of this tent just in time to see you do it. Have you any wish to deny it now?" "No, sir." "Mister, you have given us the impression that you are altogether to b.j.-ish to amount to anything in the cadet corps. Your sense of humor is bubbling over, but your judgment is so small that it would roll around inside the eye of a needle. This is a serious condition, and we judge that your health will be sadly affected if the condition is not promptly cured. One the first symptoms to be subdued is that of a swollen head. The head needs reducing in size. Take off your hat, and kneel in front of the bucket." This Mr. Briggs did, meekly enough, now. There is never any sense in a mere plebe refusing to follow the commands of a yearling. "You will remain in that kneeling posture, mister, unless you are released from it. Now, thrust your head down into the water, as far as you can without interfering with your breathing. Remain in that position. Take your hands off the floor, sir, and do not rest them on the floor again. Continue with your head in soak until you are directed to do otherwise." Even Anstey had to look grimly satisfied with this punishment. The unhappy plebe certainly did present a most laughable yet woeful appearance. It seemed impossible to keep this position, without occasional steadying by the hands, but it had to be done. If the reader does not consider it a hard feat to kneel thus, with one's head immersed in the water, the reader can easily satisfy his curiosity on the point. Having thus put the plebe in soak, the yearlings all turned away from him, conversing among themselves on one subject and another. Yet, had the plebe ventured to raise his head somewhat out of the water, or to seek support from his hands, he would quickly have discovered that he was being effectively if covertly watched. Minute after minute the plebe remained "in soak." To him it seemed, of course, like hours. At last, when human endurance of the Briggs brand could last no longer, the plebe gave an expected lurch sideways, falling flat, upsetting the bucket and causing much of the water flow along his own neck and beneath his underclothing. "Mister, you are not on your knees, as directed," exclaimed Cadet Prescott. "I---I am sorry, sir, but I couldn't help falling over," replied crestfallen Mr. Briggs, standing at attention beside his overturned bucket. He wriggled slightly, in a way eloquently suggestive of the water that was trickling over his skin under his clothing. "Did you get wet, mister?" asked Dick. "Yes, sir." "Skin wet?" "Yes, sir." "Now, that is really too bad, mister," continued Prescott in a tone that hinted at a great deal of sympathy. "You mustn't be permitted to get chilled. Exercise is what you need." Dick paused. "Poor, young Mr. Briggs stood mute, blinking back. "Milesy, may Mr. Briggs have the use of your piece for a few minutes?" "Why, surely," declared Cadet Furlong in a tone of great cordiality. "Mr. Briggs, take Mr. Furlong's piece, and go through the silent manual of arms," ordered the president of the yearling class. Mr. Briggs picked up the rifle that Furlong pointed out to him. Then, trying to look very grave in order to hide the extreme sheepishness that he really felt, Mr. Briggs brought the rifle up to port arms. "Proceed through the manual, mister," Dick counseled. "And keep going until we decide that you have done it long enough to put you past the danger of pneumonia." Standing stiffly, the plebe started through the manual of arms. As soon as he had gone once through, with West Point precision in every movement, the plebe started in all over again. "Now, do this to the stationary marching, mister," added Dick gravely, as though prescribing something for the very immediate benefit of the luckless fourth classman. With that, Mr. Briggs began to "march," though not stirring from the spot on which he was stationed. Left, right! left, right! left, right! his feet moved, in the cadence of marching. At the same time the victim was obliged to raise his feet. "Bring the feet up higher and more smartly, mister," directed Dick. Passing the rifle through every movement of the manual of arms, lifting his feet as high as he could, and yet obliged to bring them down noiselessly to the floor, Plebe Briggs quickly began to drip with perspiration. Yet his inquisitors sat by with the judicial gravity of drill sergeants. For ten minutes Mr. Briggs continued this grotesque work. He knew better than to stop; it would not be wise, even, to send any appealing glances at his inquisitors. "Halt!" called Prescott softly, at last. Briggs stopped, holding himself at attention after he had allowed the butt of the rifle to touch the floor noiselessly. "Mister, return Mr. Furlong's piece." The plebe obeyed, wondering what next was in store for him. Prescott noted that Mr. Briggs's legs were trembling under him. "That is all, for the present, mister," announced the class sergeant. "But you will hold yourself in readiness, in case we call you out for a soiree this evening." "Yes, sir," assented the plebe. "You may go." Mr. Briggs judged that he had better salute the yearling class president very carefully as he passed out with his bucket. This he did, then hastened down the company street. This time, when he had vanished behind his own tent flap, Mr. Briggs didn't indulge in any grimaces or chuckles. Instead, he made haste to get off his dripping garments and to get out others, after he had enjoyed a rub down. "Serves me right!" muttered the plebe. "I had been getting along first rate, with nobody bothering me. Then I had to get that b.j. streak on this afternoon. Now, I suppose I'm a marked plebe!" CHAPTER III GREG DEBATES BETWEEN GIRLS AND MISCHIEF "Considering that you are the noble class president, who had just made us feel so ashamed over our thoughts of hazing," muttered Mr. Furlong, "I must say, Prescott, that I don't look upon you as any tyro at hazing." "This case was very different," Dick answered quietly. "This plebe, Briggs, was caught in a very rank piece of b.j.-ety. We couldn't let his offence go by. We hazed him for a straight cause, not merely for being a plebe. What I object to is annoying plebes simply because they are green men." "But what about that soiree you mentioned to the plebe?" demanded Griffin eagerly. "I told him only to be ready if called," Prescott made reply. "I had no intention of bringing him over for a soiree this evening, unless the plebe does something else raw in the meantime." A "soiree" is an institution of the summer encampment. The plebe who is in for a soiree may be either a man who has committed some direct offence against the upper classmen, or a plebe who has been observed to be simply too b.j. in general. Mr. Plebe is directed to present himself at the tent of some upper classman. Several yearlings are here gathered to receive him. He is taken in hand in no gentle way. He is rebuked, scored "roasted." He is made to feel that he is a disgrace to the United States Military Academy, and that he never will be a particle of value in the Service. Mr. Plebe is hauled over the coals in a fashion that few civilians could invent or carry out. Very likely, on top of all the lecturing, the man will be severely hazed. He is also quite likely, especially if he show impatience, to be called out for a fight. The b.j.-est plebe, after a soiree by capable yearlings, is always afterwards observed to be a very meek plebe. The rain continued so long that not only were afternoon drills escaped, but dress parade as well. It was not, in fact, much before supper time that the rain stopped and the sun came out briefly. But the brief period of relaxation had been appreciated hugely throughout camp. Three quarters of the cadets under canvas had found time for at least a two hours' sleep. When the battalion marched back from supper, and was dismissed, the young men turned to for their evening of leisure and pleasure. Over at Cullum Hall there was to be a hop for the evening. Not all cadets, however, attend hops at any time. Not long after supper many of the cadets began to dress carefully. "Going to the hop, old ramrod?" inquired Mr. Furlong, standing just outside his tent while he fitted a pair of white gloves over his hands. "Not to-night," returned Dick indifferently. "Why, do you know, you haven't shown your face at hop yet?" Furlong demanded. "Yet when we were under instruction in the plebe class, you turned out to be one of our best dancers." "Oh, I'll be in at one of the hops, later on in the summer," responded Prescott. "One?" gasped Furlong. "Oh, you wild, giddy thing! You're going to do better, aren't you, Holmesy?" continued Furlong, as Dick's old chum came out, fitting on a pair of white gloves. "I'm going over and put my head in danger of being punched, I suppose," grinned Greg. "I'm going to have the nerve to 'stag it' tonight." The man who "stags it"---that is, does not escort any young woman friend to the hop, must needs dance, if at all, with the girl some other cadet has "dragged." This sometimes causes bad feeling. "I'm going to drag a 'spoony femme' tonight," declared Furlong, contentedly. "She's no 'L.P.,' at that." "Dragging a femme" is to escort a young woman to the hop. If she be "spoony," that means that she is pretty. But an "L.P." is a poor dancer. "Hotel?" inquired Greg. "Yes," nodded Mr. Furlong, turning to leave. "Miss Wilton. I don't believe you've met her. Unless she dislikes your looks I may present you to her." "Do," begged Greg. "I'd enjoy going through a few dreamy numbers." Mr. Furlong, having permission to go to the hotel for Miss Wilton, started off, moving at his best soldier's step. After registering at the hotel office, in the book kept for that purpose, as every cadet is required to do, Mr. Furlong hoped for several minutes of talk with his pretty partner, either in a corner of the parlor, or on the veranda. Only the parlor and the veranda are open to cadets having permission to call at the hotel. Greg, having no companion to go after, brought out his stool and seated himself beside Dick in front of the tent. "Why don't you go over to the hop tonight, Dick?" Greg asked. "Mainly because I don't wish to," replied Prescott, with a smile. "Granted. But I am rather wondering why you don't wish to." "I think you can keep a secret, Greg," replied his old Gridley chum, looking quizzically at Holmes. "Greg, I'm too awfully lonesome to trust myself at the hop tonight. "Eh? Why, old ramrod, the hop ought to be the very place to lose that lonesome feeling." "Just what I'm afraid of," responded Prescott. "You---eh---huh! You're talking riddles now. "Greg, a cadet can't marry. Or, if he does, his marriage acts as an automatic resignation, and he's dropped from the cadet corps." "I know all that," Holmes assented. "Now, here at West Point, with this nearly male-convent life, a fellow often gets so blamed lonesome that almost any girl looks fine to him, Greg. First thing he knows, a cadet, being a natural gallant, anyway, goes so far in being spoons with some girl that he has to act like a gentleman, then, and declare intentions. A fellow can't show a nice girl a whole lot of spoony attentions, and then back off, letting the girl discover that he has been only fooling all summer. You've heard, Greg, of plenty of cadets who have engaged themselves while here at the Academy." "Yes," nodded Greg. "There's no regulation against a cadet becoming engaged to a girl. The regulation only forbids him to marry while he's a cadet." "Now, a fellow like one of us either goes so far, in his lonesomeness, that he's grateful to a bright girl for cheering him and imagines he's in love with her; or else he finds that the girl thought he was in love with her, and she expects him to propose. Greg, I don't want to make any mistakes that way. It's easy for a cadet to capture the average girl's heart; it's his uniform, I suppose, for women always have been weak when uniforms enveloped fellows who otherwise wouldn't attract their notice. Greg, I wonder how many cadets have been lonesome enough to propose to some girl, and afterwards find out it was all a mistake? And how many girls fall in love with the uniform, thinking all the while that it's the fellow in the uniform? How many cadets and girls recover from the delusion only in after years when it's too late. I tell you, Greg, when a fellow gets into this cadet life, I think the practice of going too often to a hop may be dangerous for cadets and girls alike! "I'll get cold feet if I listen to you long," laughed yearling Holmes grimly. "I wonder if I'd better pull these gloves off and stay where I am?" "I didn't have any idea of seeking to persuade you," Dick replied. "If you feel proof against the danger, run right over to Cullum and enjoy yourself." "I was just thinking," mused Greg, "of a promise you and Dave Darrin made some girls back in Gridley." "I remember that promise," nodded Dick. "You and Darrin promised Laura Bentley and Belle Meade that you'd each invite them to hops, you to West Point and Dave to Annapolis, just as soon as either one of you had a right to attend hops." "I know," nodded Prescott. Greg was silent. After a few moments Dick ventured: "Greg, I kept that promise the day we moved into encampment---the first day that I was a yearling." "Oh! Are Laura and Belle coming on West Point soon?" Holmes asked eagerly. "I don't know. I'll be mighty glad when I do know. But undoubtedly Darrin has invited them to Annapolis, too. Now, it may be that, even if the girls can get away to travel a bit, they can't go to West Point and to Annapolis in the same season. So the girls may be trying to make up their minds---which." "I hope they come here," murmured Holmes fervently. "So do I," Prescott replied promptly. "Dick---do you---mind if I ask a question," demanded Greg slowly. "No," smiled Dick, "for I think I know what it is." "Are you---is Laura---I mean-----" "You wonder whether Laura and I had any understanding before I left Gridley? That's what you want to know?" "That is what I was wondering." "There is no understanding between us--not the least," Prescott replied. "I don't know whether Laura would consent to one, now or later. I don't know myself yet, either, Greg. I want to wait until I have grown some in mind. Laura Bentley is such a magnificent girl that it would be a crime to make any mistake either as to her feelings or mine." "Do you think good old Dave and Belle Meade had any understanding before Dave left Gridley?" "Dave went away after we did," Prescott answered. "So I can't be sure. But I don't believe Dave and Belle are pledged in any way." "Funny game, the whole thing!" sighed Greg, rising. He had drawn off one of his white lisle-thread gloves, but now he was engaged in putting it on again. "Confidence deserves to be paid in the same coin, Greg," warned his chum. "Did you leave any girl---back in Gridley---or elsewhere." "Dick, old ramrod," replied Cadet Holmes, frankly, as he finished drawing on his glove, "I'm unpledged, and, to the best of my belief, I'm wholly heart free." "Look out that you keep so for two or three years more, then," laughed Dick, and Holmes, nodding lightly, strode away. Despite the hop, there were some visitors in camp that evening. Dick was presently invited over to join a group that was entertaining three college boys who had dropped off at West Point for two or three days. Greg spent an hour or so at the hop. He was introduced to Miss Wilton, a pretty, black-eyed little girl, and danced one number with her. He presently secured another partner. But too many of the cadets were "stagging it" that night. There were not feminine partners enough to go around. "My cue is to cut out, I guess," mused Greg, finding himself near the entrance to the ballroom. Once outside, Greg drew off his gloves, thrusting them in under the breast of his gray uniform coat. He wasn't quite decided whether to go back to Cullum later. But at present he wanted to stroll in the dark and to think. "I reckon I'll take Dick's line of philosophy, and cut girls a good deal," decided Greg. "Yet, at West Point in the summer, it's either girls or mischief. Mischief, if carried too far, gets a fellow bounced out of the Academy, while girls---I wonder which is safer?" Still guessing, Cadet Holmes wandered a good way from Cullum Hall, and was not again seen that night on the polished dancing floor. * * * * * * * * Anstey had gone visiting some other yearlings. Dick, after leaving the college boys and their hosts, felt that a slow stroll outside of camp would be one of the pleasantest ways of passing the time until taps at 10.30. Even after the rain, the night was close and sultry. "Don't you sing, Prescott?" called a first classman as Dick passed near the head of the color line. "Some of our glee-club fellows are getting together to try some old home songs." But Dick shook his head. Though he possessed a fair voice, the singing of sentimental or mournful ditties was not in his line that night. He heard the strumming of guitars and mandolins as he left camp behind. Dick did not hurry, even to get away from the music. He kept on up the road, and by the hotel, but was careful not to enter the grounds, though three or four yearlings called gayly to him from the hotel veranda. He had no permission for tonight to visit the hotel. "I'm not going to get into a row with the K.C. for a stupid little violation like that," he muttered. Presently Dick's stroll took him over in the neighborhood of "Execution Hollow," the depression in the ground below where the reveille gun is stationed. Suddenly Dick halted, an amused look creeping into his face. "Now, who'd suspect good old Greg of getting into sheer mischief, all by himself?" the class president asked himself. For Holmes was bending a bit low, a hundred yards or so away, and stealing toward the fieldpiece that does duty as reveille gun. "It would be a shame to bet on what Greg's up to---it would be too easy!" muttered Prescott, standing behind a flowering bush at the road's edge. "Greg is going to load the reveille gun, attach a long line to the firing cord, and rig it across the path here, so that some 'dragger,' coming back from seeing his 'femme' home, will trip over the cord and fire the gun. The dragger can't be blamed for what he didn't do on purpose, and cute little Greg will be safe in his tent. But if Greg should happen to be caught it might mean the bounce from the Academy! And, oh, wow!" Cadet Prescott's heart seemed to stop beating. Glancing down the road he saw a man standing, there, in the olive drab uniform of the Army officer. Captain Bates, of the tactical department, was quietly watching unsuspecting Cadet Holmes. CHAPTER IV THE O.C. WANTS TO KNOW As has been said, Cadet Prescott felt as though his heart had stopped beating. In another instant mischievous Cadet Holmes would actually be slipping a shell into the reveille gun, if it were not already loaded, and then attaching a cord, to lay a trap for some other unsuspicious cadet. Captain Bates, who was quietly looking on, would have Mr. Holmes red handed. Charges would be preferred. Undoubtedly Greg would soon be journeying homeward, his dream of the Army over. Dick could not call out and warn Greg. That would be a breach of discipline that would recoil surely upon Mr. Prescott's head, making him equally guilty with his chum. Yet, to see Greg walk unsuspectingly into the "tac.'s" hands in this fashion! It was not to be thought of. For two or three seconds all manner thoughts played through Dick's mind. But, no matter what happened to him, loyalty would not allow him to stand by a mere mute spectator of Greg's downfall. Prescott felt sure that he himself had not yet been seen by the Army officer. Slipping out from behind the bush, Cadet Prescott stepped briskly along the path, bringing one hand sharply to his cap in salute. "Captain Bates, have I your permission to speak, sir?" Dick Prescott's voice, though not unduly loud, carried like a pistol shot to Greg's alert ears. Young Mr. Holmes did not immediately change his course, start or do anything else that would betray alarm. Yet, ere Captain Bates's voice could be heard in reply, Greg had swung slowly around, and he came toward the path. "Permission is granted, Mr. Prescott," replied Captain Bates---but, oh, how coldly he spoke. The Army officer seemed trying to look Mr. Prescott through and through, for Bates thoroughly suspected Dick of a bold stroke to save his friend from watchful tac. eyes. "There was a question that came up among some of the yearlings in camp today, sir," Dick went on, very respectfully. "I found myself ignorant, as were some of the others, as to the correct answer to the question. As you are the officer in charge of the encampment, I have made bold, sir, to ask you the answer." "Is it a matter relating directly to military tactics or discipline, Mr. Prescott?" asked Captain Bates, speaking as coldly as before. "Indirectly, sir, I think." "Then state the question, Mr. Prescott." Greg, having reached the path, halted at attention several yards away from his bunkie. "The question that came up, sir," continued Dick, and he was speaking the truth, for the question had been discussed, "is whether there is any regulation, or any tacit rule that requires a cadet of the upper classes to attend any stated number of hops in the season, or during the year? "No cadet, Mr. Prescott, is required to attend any hop unless he so elects. The single exception would be that any cadet, having once made an engagement to attend a hop, would be bound by his word to attend, unless he had received proper release from that engagement. Such release, in nearly all instances, would come from the young woman whom the cadet had invited to attend a hop with him." "Thank you, sir." Again Dick saluted very respectfully. "Any other questions, Mr. Prescott?" "No, sir." Dick saluted carefully. Captain Bates returned the salute, and turned to go. Cadet Holmes, waiting until he found himself once more in range of the tactical officer's vision, raised his hand to his cap in very correct salute. This salute, also, Captain Bates returned, and then strode on toward camp. "You came near missing me, Holmesy," Dick remarked carelessly and in a low voice, though he felt very certain that his tone overtook the departing tac. In silence, at first, Greg and Dick turned and walked in the opposite direction together. "Going to load the signal gun, eh, Greg!" chaffed Prescott. "Yes," confessed white-faced Holmes, a quiver in his voice. "It's a childish sport, and a dangerous one. Better leave it to the fellows who are tired of being at West Point," advised Dick quietly. "Oh, what a debt I owe you, old ramrod!" cried Greg fervently. "Not a shadow of a debt, Greg. You'd have done just the same thing for me." "Yes, if I could have been quick enough to think of it. But I probably wouldn't have figured it out as swiftly as you did." "Yes, you would," Dick retorted grimly, "for it was the only way. What's that bulging out the front of your coat, Greg?" "The cord," Greg confessed, with a sheepish grin. "Better get rid of it right where you are. Even a fishline is rope enough to hang a cadet when he gets into trouble too close to the reveille gun." Greg had barely tossed away the coil of cord when----- Bang! bang! bang! Bang! bang! BANG! The fusillade ripped out within a hundred yards of where they now stood. Dick and Greg halted in amazement. They did not start, or jump, for the soldier habit was too firmly fixed with them. But they were astounded. As they stood there, staring, more explosions ripped out on the night air, over by Battle Monument. Cadets Prescott and Holmes could see the flashes, also, close down near the ground, as though an infantry firing squad were lying prostrate and firing at will. Bang! bang! bang! The fusillade continued. Behind the two cadets sounded running footsteps. "Hadn't we better duck?" demanded Greg. "No; it would look bad. We had no hand in this, and we can stick to our word." Over at camp, orders were ringing out. Though the two cadets near Battle Monument heard indistinctly, they knew it was the call for the cadet guard. Now the nearest runner passed them. It was Captain Bates, on a dead run, and, as Bates was not much past thirty, and an athlete, he was getting over the ground fast. As he passed, Bates, without slackening speed, took Dick and Greg in with one swift glance. Back in Gridley Dick and Greg certainly would have dashed onward to the scene of the excitement. As young soldiers, they knew better. Their presence over by Battle Monument had not been officially requested. Yet, as it was not time for taps, the cadets could and did stand where they were. Two different armed forces were now moving swiftly forward to reinforce the O.C., as the officer in charge is termed. Two policemen of the quartermaster's department---enlisted men of the Army, armed on with revolvers in holsters---ran over from the neighborhood of the nearest officers' quarters. Cadet Corporal Haynes and the relief of the guard, moving at double quick, passed Dick and Greg on the path. "Some fellows touched off firecrackers," whispered Greg to his chum. "Number one cannon crackers," guessed Prescott. They could see Captain Bates take a dark lantern from one of the quartermaster's police detail, and scan the ground closely all around where the cannon crackers had been discharged. "Nothing more doing," muttered yearling Prescott. "We may as well be going back to camp, Greg. But we'll lose a heap of that six hours and a half of sleep tonight." "Think so?" demanded Holmes moodily. "Know it. The tac. saw us twice on this path, and he has us marked. The O.C. and the K.C. (commandant of cadets) will hold their own kind of court of inquiry tonight, and you and I are going to be grilled brown." "We didn't set the cannon crackers off; we didn't see anyone around the monument, and we don't know anything about it." "All true," nodded Dick. "But we'll have to say it in all the different styles of good English that we can think of." Dick and Greg reached the encampment, and passed inside the limits, just before they heard the guard marching back. Then all was ominously quiet over at the tent of the O.C., Captain Bates. Tattoo had gone some time ago. Now the alarm clock told the bunkies that they had just three minutes in which to get undressed and be in bed before taps sounded on the drum. "It's a shame, too," muttered Dick in an undertone. "We won't be any more than on the blanket before the summons from the O.C. will arrive." "Here it comes, now," whispered Greg, nudging his bunkie. But it was Anstey, their tentmate, hastening to be undressed in time against taps. "What was the row?" asked the Virginian. "Cannon crackers over at Battle Monument," replied Dick. "We were over there at the time." "You were?" asked Anstey quietly, but shooting at them a look of amused suspicion. So many cadets were now seeking their tents that our three bunkies did not notice that one footstep ceased before their door, for a moment, then passed on. The man outside was Bert Dodge, also of the Dodge was a former Gridley High School boy and a bitter enemy of Dick's. The origin of that enmity was thoroughly told in the _High School Boys Series_. During the plebe year Dodge, who was a fellow of little honor or principle had done his best to involve Prescott in serious trouble with the Military Academy authorities, but had failed. Dodge, however, had succeeded in escaping detection, and had succeeded in passing on from the plebe to the yearling class. Anstey, however, who had been Dodge's roommate in the plebe year, was firmly resolved that he would not be roommate to Dodge when they returned to cadet barracks the next year. Dodge hated all three of the bunkies in this tent, but Dick Prescott he hated more than the other two combined. "Yes; we were near the spot," Dick said, answering Anstey's question. "But we didn't set off the crackers, or have anything to do with the matter. We don't even know, or have a guess, as to who the offenders were." Though Dodge knew, in his soul, that he could believe Prescott, it was with an evil smile that Bert now hastened on, gaining his own tent. Taps sounded, and fifteen minutes more went by. It began to look as though the Battle Monument affair would be allowed to go by until morning. Greg was asleep, and Dick was just dozing off, when there came a sharp step in the company street. The step had an official sound to it. That step halted, suddenly, before the door of the tent of our three bunkies. "By order of the commandant of cadets," sounded the voice of Cadet Corporal Haynes. "Mr. Prescott and Mr. Holmes will turn out with all due speed, and report at the office of the officer in charge." "Yes, sir," acknowledged Prescott, and nudged drowsy, half-awake Greg. "Yes, sir," replied Holmes. Dick leaped up, lighting the candle. Then he gave a slight kick that was enough to bring Holmes apart from his blanket. Hastily, though with soldierly neatness, the two yearlings dressed themselves, then stepped out into the night, prepared to face the rapid-fire gun of official curiosity. CHAPTER V "I RESPECTFULLY DECLINE TO ANSWER, SIR." "Mr. Prescott reports, sir." "Mr. Holmes reports, sir." Saluting, the two yearlings stepped into the tent of the O.C., then halted at attention. Two officers returned their salutes. Captain Bates sat at his desk. Lieutenant Colonel Strong, commandant of cadets, sat back in lower chair at the right of Captain Bates's desk. "Mr. Prescott," began Captain Bates, transfixing the yearling with his burning eyes, "you and Mr. Holmes were close to Battle Monument when the firecrackers were discharged there this evening. "Yes, sir," Dick admitted. "What do you know about the affair?" "Only this, sir: That, after passing you, we walked along the same path until we turned in not far from the monument. We were walking toward it when we heard the discharges, and saw the flashes." "Had you been nearer to the monument at any time through the evening, Mr. Prescott?" "No, sir." Dick answered with great promptness. "Mr. Prescott, have you sufficiently considered my question and your reply?" "Yes, sir." "I will put a question of another kind. Did you see, do you know, or have you any knowledge of any kind, of those who placed the firecrackers by the monument, or who set them off?" "Absolutely no knowledge, sir, on any point you mention," Dick rejoined promptly. "Did you have any knowledge that such a breach of discipline was being planned." "I did not, sir." "Mr. Prescott!" It was Colonel Strong who spoke. Dick wheeled about, saluted, then stood at attention. "A serious offence against military discipline has been committed at Battle Monument tonight. Have you any knowledge about the matter which, if in our possession, would aid in any way in clearing up the mystery surrounding this offence? "I have absolutely no knowledge of any form, sir, except that, as I stated, while Mr. Holmes and I were walking toward the monument, we heard the reports and saw the flashes." "You realize the full import of your statement, Mr. Prescott?" pressed the K.C. "I do, sir." "Then, on your honor as a cadet and a gentleman, you declare that your statement is true?" "I do, sir," Cadet Prescott replied. The pledge he had just given is the most solemn that is exacted of a United States military cadet. Usually, the cadet's plain word is accepted as ample, for the sense of faith and honor is paramount at West Point. A cadet detected in a lie would be forced out of the cadet corps by the ostracism of his own comrades. "That is all, for the present, Mr. Prescott." Dick respectfully saluted the K.C., then the O.C., next wheeled and marched out of the tent, going straight to his own tent. Prescott would gladly have remained, but he had been dismissed. It was twenty minutes later when Greg crept back into the tent and began to undress. "How about it?" whispered Prescott. "I was asked more questions, but all of the same import," Holmes answered in a whisper. "Did the O.C. make you tell on yourself, about being over by the reveille gun?" "No; I thought some of his questions led that way, but my other answers stopped him in that line. As a last resort I would respectfully have declined to say anything to incriminate myself." As was afterwards learned, Dick and Greg were the only witnesses examined that night. Captain Bates had followed the only trail at which he could guess, and had learned nothing. * * * * * * * * "Mr. Prescott and Mr. Holmes both have the usual excellent reputation of cadets for truthfulness, haven't they, Captain?" asked Colonel Strong. "Yes, Colonel." "Then I am afraid we shall get no further in this investigation." "Unless, sir, my questions were so badly put as to give them a chance of shielding themselves without giving untruthful answers. I shall sleep on this matter tonight, Colonel. I don't want these young men to think they can put such an easy one right over my head." "I wish you luck, Bates. But I'm afraid you've shot off your only round of ammunition, and have found it a blank charge. Good night." "Good night, sir." "Mr. Prescott was clever enough to prevent my pouncing on Mr. Holmes at the reveille gun tonight," mused the O.C. "I can hardly suspect Mr. Prescott of untruthfulness, but I wonder whether he has been clever enough to baffle me in this monument affair, without telling an absolute untruth?" For nearly a half an hour the O.C. lay awake, reviewing the method he had followed in questioning Cadet Prescott. In the morning, after breakfast, there were a few minutes of leisure in camp before the squads or platoons marched away for the first drills. "You were on the grill, last night, old ramrod?" asked Furlong, in a chuckling whisper. "Yes," Dick nodded. "You couldn't tell anything?" "I knew less than nothing to tell." "You didn't see us, last night, as we slipped away from the monu-----" "Shut up, you sun-scorched idiot!" cried Prescott sharply, under his breath. "I don't want to know anything about it now." "Oh, that's all right, I suppose," said Mr. Furlong, looking furtively towards Bert Dodge, who was standing some distance off. The very thought that he was now practically certain, morally, at least, who one of the perpetrators of the monument affair was, made Dick uneasy. He knew there was still a danger that he and Greg might be summoned again to the tent of the O.C. Bert Dodge saw, from a distance, the whispered talk between Dick and Mr. Furlong; he also saw the latter's quick, stealthy glance. Now, Dodge, from having tried to visit Furlong the night before, knew that the young man had returned from the hop, for he had seen Furlong go into his tent shortly after ten. Dodge also knew that Furlong had been absent from camp at the time of the monument discharges. "Furlong is one of the offenders," thought Bert, "and Prescott is roasting him about it. I suppose our highly conceited class president thinks it his place to lecture all the jokers in the class. But how would it be possible, without getting myself into trouble, to pass on the hint that Prescott knows more than he is telling?" It didn't take a fellow with all of Cadet Dodge's natural meanness very long to invent a plan that looked feasible. Sauntering along near the guard tent, Dodge encountered a classmate with whom he was on fairly good terms, Mr. Harper, who was waiting to fall in when the next relief of the guard was called. "Prescott was on the grill last night, I hear," began Bert. "So I hear," nodded Harper. "I guess he dodged the O.C. cold," chuckled Dodge. "He denied any knowledge of the monument business, I've heard," replied Harper. Bert chuckled. "That sounds like old Prescott," laughed Bert. "And I'll bet he managed it without telling any lies. I know Prescott of old. Our family once lived in the same town with him, you know. Prescott was one of the biggest jokers in our High School. And he never got caught in those days. Prescott was always the artful dodger." "What do you mean by that!" asked Harper. "You don't mean that Prescott is untruthful." "Oh, no, not at all," laughed Bert. "But, if I could put him on the rack, and get the whole thing, unreservedly, out of Richard Prescott, I'd be willing to bet, in advance, that he knows just who set off the cannon crackers last night." Dodge was careful not to speak so that he could be overheard by Prescott or Furlong, yet he was certain that, on the still morning air around the guard tent, his voice was carrying sufficiently to penetrate to the other side of the khaki walls of the O.C.'s tent. "Prescott is the clever one, and the loyal one to all but tacs.," laughed Bert to Harper, as he strolled away. Dodge hoped that the O.C. was in his tent. It is true---Captain Bates was there. Having drawn the flap, and being in the act of enjoying his morning newspaper, the O.C. heard. "Hang it, I felt last night that, while answering me truthfully, Mr. Prescott was proving the possession of sufficient cleverness to keep me off the monument trail, just as he foiled my catching Mr. Holmes," mused the O.C. "And I said as much last night to Colonel Strong." At that moment the flap of the tent was lifted and the K.C. returned the salute of his subordinate, who had promptly leaped to his feet. In a few swift, low words, Captain Bates repeated the conversation he had just overheard. "That bears out what you thought last night, Bates," rejoined the K.C. "I think there is nothing for it but to have Mr. Prescott in here and put him on the wheel again. Rack him, Bates!" "I've just time, Colonel to catch Mr. Prescott before the drill squads go out. Corporal of the guard!" hailed the O.C., looking out from his tent. In another moment a very erect young member of the guard was striding around the head of the encampment, and then down one of the company streets. Dick, in front of his tent, in field uniform, received the summons and responded at once. "Caught him!" quivered Bert Dodge. "No if that infernal humbug will get hot-headed and answer the O.C. rashly, there may be something good coming in the punishment line! It would be a source of wild joy if I could get Dick Prescott on the wrong flank with the tacs.!" The instant that Dick reported, and found himself in the presence of his two inquisitors of the night before, he knew that some hint of his new knowledge must have reached the tactical department. "Mr. Prescott, last night," began Captain Bates, "you denied absolutely having any knowledge as to the persons who set off firecrackers near Battle Monument." "Yes, sir." "I have since gained good reason to think," went on the O.C., "that you know who at least one of the perpetrators was." Mr. Prescott remained silent. "Why do you not reply, Mr. Prescott?" "I didn't understand, sir, that you had asked me a question." Captain Bates flushed. He hadn't asked a question, in question form, and he saw how neatly this cadet had "caught" him. But that only served to increase the suspicion of both officers present that Mr. Prescott was a very clever witness who was successfully contriving to keep something back. "Mr. Prescott, do you now know who was responsible for the monument affair of last night?" insisted the O.C. "I don't know sir," replied Dick, putting all proper emphasis on the word. "Yet you suspect?" "I suspect one man, sir," Dick responded without attempt at concealment. "Is the one you suspect a cadet?" "Yes, sir." "His name?" broke in Lieutenant Colonel Strong. Dick Prescott whitened a bit. He knew the chances he was taking now, but he replied, in a clear, steady voice: "I very respectfully decline to answer, sir!" CHAPTER VI GREG PREPARES FOR FLIRTATION WALK "For what reason, sir?" demanded the K.C. sharply. Prescott opened his mouth, closed it again, without speaking, then at last asked slowly: "Sir, may I state my reasons in my own way?" "Proceed, Mr. Prescott." "My suspicion concerning a certain man, sir, does not cover a really direct suspicion that he had a hand in the affair. His remark led me only to infer that the man was present." "That does not tell me, Mr. Prescott, why you have refused to answer the question that I put to you," insisted Colonel Strong. "My reason, sir, for respectfully declining to answer is twofold: First, I do not know whether I am legally required to state a suspicion only. My second reason, sir, is that to state the name of the man I suspect would make me, in my own eyes, and in the eyes of my comrades, a tale-bearer." Since the K.C. had started this line of questioning, Captain Bates remained silent. So, too, did the K.C. for some moments after Dick had finished. It was the first problem that faced the tactical officers---much harder one than it would considered in civilian life. In the first place, it is one of the highest West Point ideals never to treat a cadet with even a trace of injustice. The young man who is being trained to be an officer, and who will, in time, be placed over other men, above all must be just. In no other way can the cadet learn as much about justice as by being treated with it. As is the case with an accused man in the civil courts, no cadet may be forced to testify in way that would incriminate himself. When it comes to testifying against another the question has two aspects. The tale-bearer, the informer, is not appreciated in the military world. He is loathed there, as in civil life. Yet the refusal of one cadet to testify against another might be carried, insolently, to the point of insubordination. So, when a cadet, under questioning, refuses to give evidence incriminating another cadet, his reason may be accepted; or, if it appear best to the military authorities, he may be warned that his reason is not sufficient, and then, if he still refuses to answer, he may be proceeded against as for disobedience of orders. It is a fine point. The K.C. found it so at this moment. Dick Prescott stood rigidly at attention, a fine, soldierly looking young fellow. His face, his eyes, had all the stamp of truth and manliness. Yet the suspicion had arisen with these two tacs. that Mr. Prescott was a young man who was extremely clever in giving truthful answers that shielded offending cadets. "You have stated your position unreservedly and exactly, Mr. Prescott?" inquired Colonel Strong at last. "Yes, sir." "You are certain that you have not more than the merest suspicion of the cadet off whom you have been speaking? "I am absolutely certain, sir." "How does it happen, Mr. Prescott, that you have this suspicion, and absolutely nothing more?" A cadet is not permitted to hesitate. He must answer not only truthfully, but instantly. So Dick looked the K.C. full in the eyes as answered: "A cadet, sir, started to say something, and I shut him up." "Because you did not wish to know more?" "Yes, sir," Prescott admitted honestly. Captain Bates fidgeted almost imperceptibly; in other words, as much as a military man may. There were a few questions that he wanted to ask this cadet. But it was Bates's superior officer who was now doing the questioning. The K.C. remained silent for perhaps half a minute. Then he said: "That is all, at present, Mr. Prescott." Saluting the K.C., Dick next made a slight turn which brought him facing Captain Bates, whom he also saluted. Both officers returned his salute. Dick wheeled and marched from the tent. As he passed through the camp the cadet face had in it a soldierly inexpressiveness. Even Bert Dodge, who covertly scanned Prescott from a distance, could not guess the outcome of the "grilling." "May I ask, Colonel, weather you agree with my opinion of Mr. Prescott?" inquired Captain Bates. "Your idea that he is an artful dodger?" "Yes, sir." "If he is," replied Lieutenant Colonel Strong, "then the young man is so very straightforwardly artful that he is likely to give us a mountain of mischief to handle before he is brought to book." "If I can catch him at anything by fair means," ventured Captain Bates, "then I am going to do it." "You are suspicious of Mr. Prescott?" "Why, I like the young man thoroughly, sir; but I believe that, if we do not find a means of curbing him, this summer's encampment will be a season of unusual mischief and sly insubordination." Perhaps there was something of a twinkle in Colonel Strong's eye as he rose to leave the tent. "If you do catch Mr. Prescott, Bates, I shall be interested in knowing the particulars promptly." Dick returned to his tent to find his bunkies gone to drills. The summons before the O.C. had relieved Prescott from the first period of drill. On Dick's wardrobe box lay two letters that the mail orderly had left for him. Both bore the Gridley postmark. The home-hungry cadet pounced upon both of them, seating himself and examining the handwriting of the addresses. One letter was from his mother. Cadet Prescott opened that first. It was a lengthy letter. The young man ran through the pages hurriedly, to make sure that all was well with his parents. Now Dick held up the other letter. This also was addressed in a feminine hand---as most of a cadet's mail is. It was a small, square envelope, without crest or monogram, but the paper and cut were scrupulously good and fine. It was the kind of stationery that would be used by girl brought up in a home of refined surroundings. Dick broke the seal with a consciousness of a little thrill that he had not felt in opening his mother's letter. Dick did not have to look for the signature; he knew the penmanship. "My Dear Mr. Prescott," began the letter. ("Hm!" muttered the reader. "It used to be 'Dick'") "Your note came as a delightfully pleasant surprise," Dick read on ("Now, I wonder why it should have been a surprise? Great Scott! Now, I come to think of it, I hadn't written her before since last February!") "Of course we are going to drop all other plans for a flying visit to West Point," the letter ran on. "Belle is simply delighted with the idea. She has heard from Mr. Darrin, but he suggests September as the best time for us to visit Annapolis. So mother will bring Belle and myself to West Point. We can spend two or three days there. We shall arrive late on the afternoon on-----" As Dick read the date, he gave a start. "Why, they'll be here tomorrow afternoon," throbbed Prescott. Then and there Prescott stood up in the low-ceilinged tent and tossed his campaign hat up to the ridgepole. That piece of headgear didn't have far to travel, but Dick accompanied it with an "hurrah!" uttered almost under his breath. "Won't Greg be the tickled boy!" murmured Prescott; joyously. "Some one from home---and folks that we both like!" Presently some of the drill squads returned to camp. Greg and Anstey came in, warm and curious. "Did you get into any trouble with the O.C., old ramrod?" questioned Anstey in his soft voice. "I don't believe I did," Dick answered. Anstey nodded his congratulations. "Greg, old fellow, guess what's going to happen soon?" demanded Prescott. "I'd rather you'd tell me." "Folks from home! Mrs. Bentley, Laura and Belle Meade will be here late tomorrow afternoon! "Great!" admitted Cadet Holmes, but to Dick's ear his chum's enthusiasm seemed perfunctory. "We'll drag femmes to the hop tomorrow night, eh, Greg?" "Anything on earth that you say, old ramrod," agreed Holmes placidly, then stepped out of his tent to visit across the way. "Spoony femmes?" inquired Anstey. "Spooniest ever!" Dick declared. "L.P.?" "Not on your coming shoulder-straps!" retorted Prescott, an eager look in his eyes. "And say, Anstey, you're going to the hop tomorrow night, aren't you? "Hadn't thought so," replied the other quietly. "Anything else on?" "Nothing particular." "Then be at the hop, Anstey, old bunkie--do! I want you to meet both the young ladies, and dance at least a couple of numbers with each." "I reckon I'd go through fire or water for you, or Holmesy," murmured the Virginian quietly. "Oh, it isn't going to be anything like such an ordeal as that," laughed Dick happily. "Just wait until you've seen the young ladies. That's all!" "As they-----" Anstey paused. Then he went on, after considering: "As they come from home, old ramrod, I should think you and Holmesy would want them all to yourselves." "But don't you understand, you uncivilized being," demanded Dick, chuckling, "that we can't dance all the numbers with the girls? It would be a slight on the girls if only two men wanted to dance with them. Besides, we want to show them all that's best about West Point. We want them to meet as many as possible the very best fellows that are here." "My deepest thanks, suh, for the compliment," replied Anstey, with a deep bow. "Well, that describes you, doesn't it?" demanded Dick. "We want these girls to carry away with them the finest impression possible of good old West Point!" When evening came, and Prescott and Holmes strolled through camp, listening to the band concert, Dick wanted to talk all the time about the coming visit of the girls. Greg answered, though it struck his chum that Holmes was merely politely enthusiastic. "Say, Dick," whispered Greg presently, with far greater enthusiasm than he had been displaying, "look at that black-eyed, perfectly tinted little doll that is walking with Griffin! "Stroll around and meet them face to face presently, then," grinned Dick. "Griff won't mind." "The deuce he won't" growled Greg. "I'd have a scrap on my hands, besides being voted a butter-in." "Try it," advised Prescott, giving his chum a little shove. "I tell you, Griff won't mind. Her name is Griffin, too. She's his sister." A moment later Prescott turned and tried to gulp down a great chuckle. For Greg, without another word, had left him, and now was strolling along with an air of slight absorption, yet his course was so managed as to bring Mr. Holmes face to face with Griffin. At least a dozen other gray and white-clad young men were also to be observed manoeuvring so as to meet Griffin casually. Thus it happened that Greg was but one of a group. Observing this, Holmes increased his stride. "Hullo, Holmesy!" cried Griffin, with great cordiality. "Glad to encounter you. I've just been telling my sister about some of the best fellows. Della, I present Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, my sister!" Greg lifted his cap in the most polished manner that he had been able to acquire at West Point, while a dozen other men scowled at Griffin, who appeared not to see them. Miss Adele Griffin was presently chatting most animatedly about her new impressions of West Point and the United States Military Academy. "Holmesy, you know so much more about things than I do," pleaded Griffin sweetly, "just be good to Dell for an hour, won't you? You're one of the best-informed men here. Now, mind you, Dell! No fun at Mr. Holmes's expense. Look out for her, Holmesy!" With that Griffin "slid away" as gracefully and neatly as though he hadn't been planning to do it all along. "Your brother has always been mighty pleasant to me, but he never was as downright good before," murmured Greg, looking down into the big black eyes that glanced laughingly up into is face. "Oh, if you are ordinarily observant," laughed Miss Griffin, "just keep your eyes on a level, and you'll be able, in five minutes, to understand why he is so good to you in the present instance." Nevertheless, it was fully ten minutes before they met Griff again. That young man was talking, with all animation, to a tall, rather stately blonde young lady. "My brother," remarked Miss Griffin, "is good boy, but he is calculating, even in his goodness. "I don't like to hear a word said against Griff," protested Greg, "for I feel that I'm under the greatest obligation of my life to him." Miss Griffin laughed easily, but she glanced up challengingly into the eyes of her tall escort. Miss Griffin had heard of the gallantries of West Point's men, and didn't propose to be caught. "You must find the cadets a good deal below your expectations?" remarked Mr. Holmes inquiringly. "No; they're a wholly charming lot," replied the girl. "Oh, that word 'lot' simply escaped me. Yet it does seem rather apt. Don't you think, Mr. Holmes, that the wearing of identical uniforms gives the young men rather the look of a 'lot'?" Greg felt just a bit crestfallen, but he wasn't going to show it. "Why, I don't know," he replied slowly. "Some of the young ladies who come here seem able to distinguish units in the lot." "Differences in height, and variations in the color of hair and eyes? Is that it?" asked Miss Griffin, with an air of mild curiosity. "Why, perhaps we're like Chinamen?" laughed Greg good-naturedly. "Pig-tailed and blue-bloused Chinese all look alike at first glance. Gradually, however, one is able to note individual peculiarities of appearance." "Yes, I guess that's it, Mr. Holmes," replied the girl musingly. "Now, I won't ask you to tax yourself unpleasantly in distinguishing one cadet from another," Greg went on bravely. "But I am hoping, with all my heart, that you'll know me the next time you meet me." "I can tell you how to make certain," responded Miss Griffin demurely. "Then I shall be your debtor for life!" "Wear a red carnation in your blouse, and carry a white handkerchief in your left hand." "You're cruel," sighed Greg. "Why?" demanded Miss Griffin. "Both tests that you suggest are against cadet regulations. Let me suggest a better test?" "If you can?" challenged Miss Griffin. The band, at this moment, was playing a Strauss waltz. The young people had strolled just a bit beyond the encampment, and now Greg compelled a halt under the added shadow of a big tree. "The test I long to suggest," replied Greg, "is so exacting that I hesitate to ask it." "My curiosity is aroused," complained Miss Griffin. "I had it in mind to ask you to look up into my face until you are certain that you will recognize it again." "Mercy!" gasped the black-eyed beauty. "I knew I was presumptuous and inconsiderate," admitted Greg meekly. None the less, Miss Griffin laughed and stood looking coyly up into Mr. Holmes's face. But at last, feeling absurd, Miss Griffin shifted her glance. "I knew I was asking too much," remarked Greg in a tone of resignation. "You couldn't stand it, could you?" Laughing merrily, Miss Griffin turned her look upward again, meeting Greg Holmes's gray eyes. Then, after a few moments, she remarked thoughtfully: "My brother was over-solicitous in fearing that I would embarrass you in the least." "Are you going to be at the hop tomorrow night?" Greg asked. "I---would like to." "Can it be possible," queried Mr. Holmes, "that I am so fortunate as to be discreet in asking whether I may escort you there?" "If you care to be so charitable, Mr. Holmes." Greg had a moment's uneasy impulse to seize her hand by way of answer. Fortunately, he restrained himself. "If I call for you at the hotel tomorrow evening, Miss Griffin, may I hope that you will recognize me?" he challenged. "I will take another look and make sure," she laughed softly, glancing up archly into Greg's face. As the concert drew to a close Greg had to make a decent show of trying to find Griffin, and he succeeded. Griffin was still with the tall blonde. Griffin had permission to go to the hotel, and Greg didn't. So Greg strolled with Miss Griffin until near the hotel grounds. Then he bade her a cordial good night, and Griff escorted both "femmes" to the hotel. "What do you think of Holmesy?" asked Griffin of his sister. "He's quite agreeable," replied Adele Griffin. "Very soldierly, if I am any judge. I wonder how he will look in a second lieutenant's uniform?" As our three bunkies prepared for bed that night Prescott remarked: "Tomorrow, Greg, we'll see the folks from home! I hope you'll do nothing, though, to make Dave Darrin dislike you." "I won't," promised Greg solemnly. Then: "Oh, great---Jove! I've-----" "Well?" demanded Dick. "What have you done? "I've asked another femme to accept my drag to-morrow night! "Miss Griffin?" "Yes!" "Anstey," continued Dick, turning quickly to hide a frown, "I shall have to draft you!" "I was bo'n and reared a gentleman, suh!" replied the Virginian, with cordial gravity. CHAPTER VII THE FOLKS FROM HOME Two tall, superbly erect young men, showing the soldier in every line of bearing, stepped jauntily along the road leading to the hotel just before five o'clock. Each wore the fatigue cap of the cadet, the trim gray, black-trimmed blouse of the cadet uniform. Their white duck trousers were the spooniest as to spotlessness and crease. Dick and Greg went straight to the hotel office. "The register, please," asked Prescott, for the clerk's back was turned over some work that he was doing. This was not a request for the hotel register but for the cadet register. Understanding, the clerk turned and passed a small book known as the cadet register. He opened it to the page for the day, while Prescott was reaching for a pen. In this register both young men inscribed their names. Each had secured permission from the O.C. to visit the hotel. At the close of every day, a transcript of the day's signatures by cadets is taken, and this transcript goes to the O.C. The clerk will send no cards for cadets who have not first registered. The transcript of registry, which goes to the O.C., enables the latter to make sure that no cadets have visited the hotel without permission. Prescott laid down his visiting card. Holmes laid another beside it. "Are Mrs. Bentley, Miss Bentley and Miss Meade here?" queried Dick. After consulting the hotel register the clerk nodded. "Our cards to Mrs. Bentley, please." "Front! Fifty-seven!" called the clerk to a bellboy. "Thank you," acknowledged Prescott. "Wheeling, the young men turned from the office, striding down the hotel veranda side by side. They turned in at the ladies' entrance, then, caps in hand, stood waiting in the corridor. It is a rule that a cadet must enter no part of the hotel except the parlor. He must see his friends either there, or on the veranda. There is a story told that a general officer's wife visited West Point, for the first time, to see her son, a new cadet at West Point. The plebe son called---with permission---sent up his card, and was summoned to his mother's room. He went. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. The clerk stood there, apologetic but firm. "I am very sorry, madam, but the regulations provide that your son can visit you only in the parlor." "But I am the wife of Major General Blank!" exclaimed the surprised lady. "But, Mrs. Blank, your son is a cadet, and subject to the regulations on the subject. He must either go to the parlor at once, or leave the hotel instantly. If he refuses to do either I am forced to telephone to the tactical officer in charge." The general's wife was therefore obliged to descend to the parlor with her plebe son. No other room but the parlor! This prohibition extends even to the dining room. The cadet may not, under any circumstances, accept an invitation from a friend or relative to take a sociable meal with either. "Tyrannous" and "needlessly oppressive," are terms frequently applied by outsiders to the rules that hedge in cadets, but there is a good reason behind every regulation. Two or three minutes later a middle-aged woman came slowly down the staircase, gazing about her. At last her glance settled, with some bewilderment on Dick and Greg, who were the only two cadets in the corridor. "Why, I believe you must be Mr. Prescott and Mr. Holmes!" exclaimed Mrs. Bentley, moving forward and holding out both hands. "Yes; I am certain of it," she added, as Dick and Greg, bowing gracefully from the waistline, smiled goodhumoredly. "Mercy! But how you boys have grown! I am not sure that it is even proper to call you boys any longer." "If we were boys any longer, Mrs. Bentley, I am sure you would be in doubt," laughed Dick easily. "Yes; you see, cadets, under their training here, usually do shoot up in the air. We have some short, runty cadets, however." Just then there was a flutter and a swish on the stairs. Laura Bentley and Belle Meade came gliding forward, their eyes shining. "Yes; I know you both and could tell you apart," cried Laura, laughing, as she held out her hand. "But what a tremendous change!" "Do you think it is a change for the better?" asked Dick, smiling. "Oh, I am sure that it is. Isn't it, Belle? A how wonderfully glad I am to see you both again." Dick gazed at Laura with pride. He had no right to feel proud, except that she was from Gridley, and that she had come all the way to West Point to see him in his new life. Laura Bentley, too, had changed somewhat, though not so much as had her cadet friends. She was but a shade taller, somewhat rounder, and much more womanly in an undefinable way. She was sweeter looking in all ways---Dick recognized that much at a glance. Her eyes rested upon him, and then more briefly upon Greg, in utter friendliness free from coquetry. "Can't you get excused and take us over to dress parade?" asked Belle. Dick turned to look more closely at Miss Meade. Yes; she, too, was changed, and wholly for the better as far as charm of appearance and manner went. Both girls had lost the schoolgirl look. They were, indeed, women, even if very young ones. "We can hardly get excused from any duty," Dick smiled. "But to-day---a most unusual thing---there is no dress parade." "No parade?" exclaimed Mrs. Bentley in a tone of disappointment. "No; the officers are entertaining some distinguished outside visitors at Cullum Hall this afternoon, and the band is over at Cullum," Greg explained. "I am so sorry," murmured Mrs. Bentley. "But you will be here until the close of tomorrow afternoon?" asked Dick eagerly. "We had planned to go away about eleven in the forenoon," replied Mrs. Bentley. "Then you girls would miss a stroll along Flirtation Walk," suggested Cadet Prescott. "It is a very strange thing for a young lady to go away from West Point and confess that she has not had cadet escort along Flirtation Walk." "Then we must stay until to-morrow afternoon; may we not, mother?" pleaded Laura. "Yes; for I wish you to see the most of West Point and its famous spots." "Then to-morrow afternoon you will be able, also, to see dress parade," Dick suggested. "Do you forget that tomorrow is Sunday? asked Mrs. Bentley. "No; we have dress parade on Sunday." Mrs. Bentley looked puzzled. To her it seemed almost sacrilegious to parade on Sunday! "Wait until you have seen our dress parade," Greg begged. "Then you will understand. It is really as impressive as a religious ceremony; it is the last honors of each day to our country's flag." "Oh," murmured Mrs. Bentley, looking relieved. By this time the little party had moved out on to the veranda. "As there is no dress parade this afternoon," urged Dick, "may we not take you over, and let you see our camp from the outside. Then, after supper, we may, if you wish, take you to the camp for a look before going to the hop." "As to supper," went on Mrs. Bentley, "you two young gentlemen must come to the hotel a take the meal with us. Wait; I will send word to the office that we shall have guests." "If you do, you will give the clerk cause for a jolly smile," explained Prescott, smiling. "No cadet can possibly eat at the hotel. There are many regulations that will surprise you, Mrs. Bentley. I will explain as many as occur to me." Prescott walked between Mrs. Bentley and Laura, while Greg came along with Belle just behind them. "Are you taking me to the hop tonight, Mr. Holmes?" asked Belle with her usual directness. Poor Greg, seasoned cadet though he was, flushed uncomfortably. "I should be," stammered Greg, "but it happens that I am already engaged to drag---to escort a young lady to tonight's hop." "I like that word 'drag' better than 'escort'," laughed Belle. "But Mr. Anstey, our tentmate, is to escort you tonight," Greg made haste to explain. "That is the first I have heard of it," replied Belle, with an odd smile. "Does Mr. Anstey know about it, either?" "Don't make fun of me," begged Holmes quickly. "Miss Meade, there are many customs here that are strange to outsiders. But they are very old customs." "Some of them, I suppose," laughed Belle, "so old that they should be forgotten." "All cadets are regarded as gentlemen," hurried on Greg. "Therefore, any cadet may be a suitable escort for a young woman. If one cadet has two young lady friends coming to the hop, for instance, he asks one of his comrades to escort one of his friends. Why, a cadet who, for any reason, finds himself unable to attend a hop, after he has invited a young lady, may arrange with anyone of his comrades to call for the young lady in his place." "What if she should decline the unknown substitute who reported to fill the task?" teased Belle. "It would betray her unfamiliarity with West Point," replied Greg, with more spirit than Belle had expected from this once very quiet young man. "Miss Meade, we look upon a our comrades here as gentlemen. We regard the man whom we may send in our place as being more worthy than ourselves. Isn't it natural, therefore, that we should expect the young lady to feel honored by the substitution in the way of escort? "Wholly so," Belle admitted. "If I have said anything that sounded inconsiderate, or too light, you will forgive me, won't you, Mr. Holmes?" "You haven't offended, and you couldn't," Greg replied courteously; "for I never take offence where none is meant, and you would be incapable of intending any." The young people ahead were talking very quietly. Laura, indeed, did not wish to talk much. She was taken up with her study of the changed---and improved---Dick Prescott. "Do you know, Dick," she asked finally, "I am more pleased over your coming to West Point than over anything else that could have happened to you." "Why?" Dick asked. "Because the life here has made such a rapid and fine change in you." "You are sure it has made such a change?" Dick inquired. "Yes; you were a manly boy in Gridley, but you are an actual man, now, and I am certain that the change has been made more quickly here than would have happened in any other life." "One thing I can understand," pursued Laura. "The life here is one that is full of purpose. It must be. It takes purpose and downright hard work to change two young men as you and Greg have been changed." By this time the little party was close to the west, or road side of the encampment. "Isn't that Bert Dodge over there?" asked Laura, after gazing rather intently at a somewhat distant cadet. "That is Mr. Dodge, Laura." "Do you care to call him over to speak with us?" asked Mrs. Bentley. "If you wish it," Dick responded evenly. Laura looked at him quickly. "Are you and Mr. Dodge no better friends here than at Gridley?" she asked in a low tone. "Mr. Dodge and I are classmates, but we are thrown together very little," Dick replied quietly. "I do not think we care about speaking with Mr. Dodge, do we, mother?" inquired Laura. "There is no need to," replied Mrs. Bentley. At that moment Bert Dodge espied the little party. After a short, but curious stare, Bert turned and came toward them. CHAPTER VIII CADET DODGE HEARS SOMETHING It was an embarrassing position. So, at least, thought Laura Bentley. "Let us walk on," she suggested, turning as though she had not seen Dodge. "Humph!" muttered Dodge, turning his own course. "The girls are showing their backs to me. Humph! Not that I care about them particularly, but folks back in Gridley will be asking them if they saw me, and they'll answer that they didn't speak with me. There's no use in running into a snub, out here in the open. But it's easy! I'll stag it at the hop tonight, and I can get within range before they can signal me to keep away." Smiling grimly, Dodge went to his tent. After a while it was necessary for Dick and Greg to take their friends back to the hotel, for the cadets must be on hand punctually for supper formation. "Mr. Anstey and I will call for you at 7:30, if we may," said Dick. "We shall be ready," Laura promised. "And that we may not keep you waiting, we'll be down on the veranda." And waiting they were. Dick and Anstey found Mrs. Bentley and the girls seated near the ladies' entrance. Anstey, the personification of southern grace and courtesy, made his most impressive greetings to the ladies. His languid eyes took in Laura Bentley at a glance, almost, and he found her to be all that Prescott had described. Belle Meade won Anstey's quick approval, though nothing in his face betrayed the fact. At first glance, it appeared that both girls were very simply attired in white, but they had spent days in planning the effects of their gowning. Everything about their gowning was most perfectly attuned. Above all, they looked what they were---two sweet, wholesome, unaffected young women. "We have time now for a short stroll to camp," proposed Prescott. "If you would like it, you can see how we live in summer. The camp is lighted, now." So they strolled past the heads of the streets of the camp. At the guard tent, Dick and Anstey explained the routine of guard duty, in as far as it would be interesting to women. They touched, lightly, upon some of the pranks that are played against the cadet sentries. Wherever Mrs. Bentley and the girls passed, cadet friends lifted their caps to the ladies with Prescott and Anstey, the salutes being punctiliously returned. Bert Dodge was in a rage. He could not get so much as the courtesy of a bow from these girls whom he had known for years. He was being cut dead and he knew it, and the humiliation of the thing was more than he could well bear. A half hour later, he saw the party coming, and discreetly took himself out of sight. "I can play my cards at the hop," he muttered. The over to Cullum Hall, through the dark night, the little party strolled, one of many similar parties. Once inside Cullum Hall, Prescott and Anstey, looking mightily like young copies of Mars in their splendid dress uniforms, conducted the ladies to seats at the side of the ballroom. Dick and Anstey next took the ladies' light wraps and went with them to the cloak room, after which they passed on to the coat room and checked their own caps. Laura and Belle gazed about them with well-bred curiosity---Mrs. Bentley, too---at the other guests of the evening, who were arriving rapidly. The scene was one of animated life. It would have been hard to say whether the handsome gowns of the young ladies, or the cadet dress uniforms, gave more life and spirit to the scene. As Prescott and Anstey returned across the ballroom floor the orchestra started a preliminary march. Both young cadets fell unconsciously in step close to the door, and came marching, side by side, soldierly---perfect! "What splendid, manly young fellows!" breathed Laura admiringly to Belle. Her mother, too, heard. "Be careful, Laura," advised her mother, smilingly. "Don't lose your heart to a scrap of gray cloth and a brass button." "Don't fear," smiled Miss Bentley happily. "When I lose my heart it shall be to a man! And how many of them we see here tonight mother!" Nearly with the precision of a marching platoon the two young men halted before the ladies. Yet there was nothing of stiff formality about either Prescott or Anstey. They stood before their friends, chatting lightly. "Tell us about some of the other hops that you have attended before," begged Belle Meade. "But we haven't attended any," Dick replied. "Do you recall my promise in Gridley, Miss Bentley---that I would invite you to my first hop as soon as I was eligible to attend one?" "Yes," nodded Laura smilingly. "This is my first hop," Dick said, smilingly. "Mine, too," affirmed Anstey. "Gracious!" laughed Belle merrily. "I hope you both know how to dance." "We put in weary lessons as plebes, under the dancing master," laughed Dick. "But you danced well in Gridley," protested Laura. "Thank you. But the style is a bit different at West Point." "You make me uneasy," pouted Belle. "Then that uneasiness will vanish by the time you are half through with the first number." "There comes Mr. Holmes," discovered Laura. "What a remarkably pretty girl with him." "Mr. Griffin's sister," said Dick. "Isn't that Mr. Dodge?" murmured Laura. Dick only half turned, but his sidelong glance covered the doorway. "Yes; he appears to be stagging it." Bert presently disappeared. As a cadet always claims the first number or two with the young lady whom he has "dragged" hither, "staggers" have to wait until later in the programme. Then, presently the music for the opening dance struck up. Dick had already presented Furlong, a "stagger," to Mrs. Bentley, so that she was not left alone. Furlong had asked the pleasure of a dance with Laura's mother, but Mrs. Bentley, with instinctive tact, realized that the older women did not often dance at cadet hops. So she begged Mr. Furlong to remain with her and tell her about the cadet hops. As the music struck up, and Dick bent before her, he thrilled with the grace and unaffected friendliness with which Laura rose and rested one hand on his shoulder. She was a woman, and a magnificent one! Away they whirled, Anstey and Belle following. "I greatly enjoyed the High School hops of former days," sighed Laura, "but this is finer." "Same escort," murmured Dick. "Same name, but in many ways much changed," laughed Miss Bentley. "Dick, I am so glad you came to West Point." "So am I," he answered simply. The first two numbers they danced together, then changed partners for the third dance. Between times, Greg had appeared with Miss Griffin and introductions had followed. Dick's fourth number was danced with Miss Griffin, while Anstey led her out for the fifth. For that fifth dance Dick introduced one of his classmates to Laura, and, during that dance, Prescott stood and chatted with Mrs. Bentley. He saw to it that Laura's mother was very seldom without company through the evening. The sixth dance Dick enjoyed with Laura. "I had a reason for waiting and asking for this dance," he murmured in her ear. "Yes?" challenged Laura. "I discovered that it is the longest number on the programme. I would dearly love the next number, also, but I must not make the evening too dull and prosy for you. Will you trust me to select your partner for the next dance?" "I am wholly in your hands," smiled Miss Bentley. After Dick had conducted Laura to a seat beside her mother he stepped away to find Sennett, of the yearling class. "Sennett," murmured Dick banteringly, "I have seen you casting eyes at Miss Bentley." "I fear I must plead my guilt, old ramrod. Are you going to present me?" "For the next dance. I think, if you are very much on your guard, Sennett, you will pass for enough of a gentleman for a few minutes." "I'll call you out for that on Monday," retorted the other yearling, in mock wrath. "But, for the present, lead me over that I may prostrate myself at the feet of the femme." So Dick stood beside Mrs. Bentley and watched Laura dance with one of the most popular fellows of the class. As Sennett and Laura returned to Mrs. Bentley, Cadet Dodge suddenly slipped up as though from nowhere. "Miss Bentley," he murmured, bowing before Laura, after having greeted her mother, "I am presumptuous enough to trust that you remember me." "Perfectly, Mr. Dodge," replied Laura in her even tones. "How do you do?" She did not offer her hand; within the limits of perfectly good breeding it was her privilege to withhold it without slight or offence. "How have you been since the old High School days?" "Perfectly well, thank you." "And you, Mrs. Bentley?" asked Dodge, again bowing before her mother. "Very well, thank you, Mr. Dodge," replied Mrs. Bentley, who subtly took her cue from her daughter. "Now, Miss Bentley, you are not going to leave a broken heart behind you at West Point?" urged Bert softly. "You are going to let me write my name on your dance card---even if only once." "You should have spoken earlier, Mr. Dodge," laughed Laura. "Every dance, if not already taken, is good as promised." Yearling Dodge could not conceal his chagrin. At that moment Belle Meade returned with one of the tallest cadets on the floor. Bert greeted her effusively. Belle returned the greeting as evenly and as perfectly as Laura had done---but nothing more. "Miss Meade, you are going to be tenderhearted enough to flatter me with one dance?" begged Dodge. "Oh, I am so sorry!" replied Belle, in a tone of well-bred regret that carried with it nothing more than courtesy, "but I'm promised for every dance." Cadets Prescott and Sennett had turned slightly aside. So had Belle's late partner. Dodge knew that they were laughing inwardly at his Waterloo. And Anstey and Greg, who stood by at this moment, appeared to be wearing inscrutable grins. Dodge made his adieus hurriedly, walking up the ballroom just ahead of Furlong, who also had observed. Bert felt sure so many of his comrades had seen and enjoyed his plight that his fury was at white heat as he stepped just outside the ballroom. Furlong came after him, looking at him quizzically. "We staggers have a hard time of it, eh, Dodge?" grinned Mr. Furlong. "Are you referring to the two femmes I was just billing?" shot out Dodge impetuously. "Oh, they're very inconsequential girls!" Mr. Furlong drew himself up very straight, his eyes flashing fire. "You dog!" he exclaimed, in utter disgust. Yearling Dodge turned ghastly white. "You---you didn't understand me. Let me explain," he urged. "You can't explain a remark like yours," muttered Mr. Furlong over his shoulder, as he turned his back on Bert. To be called a "dog" has but one sequence in cadet world. Bert Dodge had to send his seconds to Mr. Furlong before taps. Though they must have loathed their task, had they known the whole story, the seconds made arrangements with Mr. Furlong's representatives. Before reveille the next morning Bert Dodge stood up for nearly two rounds before the sledgehammer fists of Mr. Furlong. When it was over, Dodge sought cadet hospital, remaining there until Monday morning, and returning to camp looking somewhat the worse for wear. Along with truth, honor and courtesy, tenderest chivalry toward woman is one of the fairest flowers of the West Point teaching. Fellows like yearling Dodge cannot be taught. They can only be insulted to the fighting point, and then pummelled. Cadet Furlong went to considerable inconvenience, though uncomplainingly, for two young women whom he had not the pleasure of knowing. CHAPTER IX SPOONY FEMME---FLIRTATION WALK "So this is Flirtation Walk?" asked Belle Meade. The four young people---Anstey was one of them---had just turned into the famous path, which begins not far to the eastward of the hotel. It was between one and two o'clock on Sunday afternoon. "This is Flirtation Walk," replied Mr. Anstey. "But is one compelled to flirt, on this stroll?" asked Belle, with a comical pout. "By no means," Anstey hastened to assure her. "Yet the surroundings often bring out all there may be of slumbering inclination to flirt." "Where did the walk ever get such a name?" pursued Belle. "Really, you have to see the first half of it before you can quite comprehend," the Virginian told her. "I suppose you have been over this way times innumerable?" teased Miss Meade. "Hardly," replied Anstey seriously. "I have been a yearling only a few days." "But is a plebe forbidden to stroll here?" "If a plebe did have the brass to try it," replied Anstey slowly, "I reckon he would have to fight the whole yearling class in turn." Laura caught some of the conversation, and turned to Dick. "Haven't plebes any rights or privileges?" she asked. "Oh, yes, indeed," replied Prescott gravely. "A plebe is fed three meals a day, like anyone else. If he gets hurt he has a right to medical and surgical attendance. He is allowed to attend chapel on Sunday, just like an upper classman, and he may receive and write letters. But he mustn't butt into upper-class privileges." "Poor plebe!" sighed sympathetic Laura. "Lucky plebe!" amended Dick. "Weren't you fearfully glum and homesick last year? "Some of the time, desperately so." "Yet you believe it is right to ignore a plebe, and to make him so wretched?" "The upper classmen don't make the plebe wretched. The plebe is just on probation while he's in the fourth class---that's all. The plebe is required to prove that he's a man before he's accepted as one." "It all seems dreadfully hard," contended Laura. "It is hard, but necessary, if the West Point man is to be graduated as anything but a snob with an enlarged cranium. Laura, you remember what a fuss the 'Blade' made over me when I won my appointment? Now, almost every new man come to West Point with some such splurge made about him at home. He reaches here thinking he's one of the smartest fellows in creation. In a good many cases, too, the fellow has been spoiled ever since he was a baby, by being the son of wealthy parents, or by being from a family distinguished in some petty local social circles. The first move here, on the part of the upper classmen, is to take all of that swelling out of the new man's head. Then, most likely, the new man has never had any home training in being really manly. Here, he must be a man or get out. It takes some training, some probation, some hard knocks and other things to make a man out of the fellow. He has to be a man, if he's going to be fit to command troops." Anstey, who had been walking close behind his comrade, added: "The new man, if he has been spoiled at home, usually comes here with a more or less bad temper. He can't talk ugly here, or double his fists, or give anyone black looks---except with one invariable result." "What?" asked both girls eagerly. "He must fight, as soon as the meeting can be arranged," replied Anstey. "That sounds rather horrible!" shuddered Laura. "Does it?" asked Dick dryly. "We're being trained here for fighting men." "But what do they fight about?" inquired Belle. "Well, one man, who probably will never be thought of highly again," replied Anstey, "spoke slightingly of a girl at the hop last night. The cadet who heard him didn't even know the girl, but he called the cadet a 'dog' for speaking that way of a woman." "What happened?" inquired Laura. "The man who was called a 'dog' was, according to our code, compelled to call his insulter out." "Are they going to fight?" asked Belle eagerly. "The 'dog' was whipped at the first streak of daylight this morning," the Virginian answered. "That particular 'dog' is now in a special little kennel at the hospital. Hasn't he learned anything? He knows more about practical chivalry than he did last night." "This talk is getting a bit savage," laughed Dick. "Let me call your attention to the beauty of the view here." The view was, indeed, a striking one. The two couples had halted at a rock-strewn point on the walk. The beauty of the woods was all about them. Through the trees to the east they could see the Hudson, almost at their feet, yet far below them. Looking northward, they saw a noble sweep of the same grand river, above the bend. "Come forward a bit" urged Anstey of Belle. "I want to show you a beautiful effect across the river." As they passed on, just out of sight, Greg Holmes came along, talking animatedly with Miss Griffin. At sight of Laura, Greg halted, and the four young people chatted. At last Holmes and Miss Griffin passed on to speak to Belle. "I feel as if I could spend an entire day on this beautiful spot," murmured Laura contentedly. "Let me fix a seat for you," begged Dick, spreading his handkerchief on a flat rock. Laura thanked him and sat down. Dick threw himself on the grass beside the rock. Then Laura told him a lot of the home-town news, and they talked over the High School days to their hearts' content. "I don't know that I've ever seen such a beautiful spot as it is right at this part of the walk," spoke Laura presently, after a few couples had strolled above them. "And such beautiful wild flowers! Look at the honeysuckle up there. I really wish I could get some of that to take back to the hotel. I could press it before it withered." "It is easily enough obtained," smiled Dick, rising quickly. "O-o-o-h! Don't, please!" called Miss Bentley uneasily, for Dick, after examining the face of the little cliff for footing, had begun to scale up toward the honeysuckle. "Hold your parasol---open," he directed, looking down with a smile. In another moment he was tossing down the beautiful blossoms into the open parasol that Miss Bentley held upside down. "How would you like some of these ferns?" Dick called down, pulling out a sample by the roots and holding it out to view. "Oh, if you please!" Several ferns fell into the upturned parasol. Then Dick scrambled down, resuming his lounging seat on the grass, while Laura examined her treasures and chatted. "What a splendid, thoroughbred girl she has become!" kept running through Prescott's mind. Every detail, from the tip of her small, dainty boot, peeping out from under the hem of the skirt, up to the beautiful coloring of her face and the purity of her low, white feminine brow Dick noted in turn. He had never seen Laura look so attractive, not even in her dainty ball finery of the night before. He had never felt so strongly drawn toward her as he did now. He longed to tell her so, and not lightly, either, but with direct, manly force and meaning. Though Cadet Prescott's face showed none of his temptation, he found himself repeatedly on the dangerous brink of sentimentality. Since coming to West Point he had seen many charming girls, yet not one who appealed to him as did this dainty one from his own home town and the old, bygone school days. But Dick tried to hold himself back. He had, yet, nothing to offer the woman whom he should tell of his love. He was by no means certain that he would finally graduate from the Military Academy. Without a place in life, what had he to offer? Would it be fair or honorable to seek to capture the love of this girl when his own future was yet so uncertain? Yet caution and prudence seemed more likely to fly away every time he glanced at this dear girl. In desperation Dick rose quickly. "Laura," he said softly, "if we remain here all afternoon there is a lot that we shall fail to see. Are you for going on with our walk?" Laura Bentley looked up at him with something of a little start. Perhaps she, too, had been thinking, but a girl may not speak all that passes in her mind. "Yes," she answered; "let us keep on." Dick, as he walked beside her, was tortured with the feeling that Laura Bentley might not wait long before making her choice of men in the world. Some other fellow, more enterprising than he, might----- "But it wouldn't be fair!" muttered Prescott to himself. "I have no right to ask her to tie herself for years, and then perhaps fail myself." Laura thought her cadet companion appeared a bit absent minded during the rest of the walk. Who shall know what passes in a girl's innermost mind? Perhaps she divined what was moving in his mind. As they passed by the coast battery, then came up by Battle Monument, and so to the hotel, they found Greg and Anstey leaning against the veranda railing, chatting with Belle and Miss Griffin. These latest arrivals joined the others. Mrs. Bentley at last came down and joined them. Thrice, in duty bound, Dick glanced at his watch. The third time a sigh full of bitterness escaped him. "This is the meanest minute in my life," he declared. "It is time to say good-bye, for we must get back to camp and into full-dress uniform for parade." "But shall we not see you after parade? asked Laura, looking up quickly, an odd look flitting over her face. "No; we are soldiers, and move by schedule," signed Dick. "After parade there will be other duties, then supper. And you are going at the end of parade!" Bravely Prescott faced the farewells, though he knew more of the wrench than even Laura could have guessed. "But you will come again in winter?" he murmured in a low voice to Laura. "If mother permits," she answered, looking down at her boot tip, then up again, smiling, into his face. "Mrs Bentley, you'll bring the girls here again, this winter, won't you?" appealed Dick. "If Dr. Bentley and Belle's parents approve, I'll try to," answered the matron. Then came the leave-takings, brief and open. With a final lifting of their caps Dick and the others turned and strode down the path. Laura and Belle gazed after them until the young men had disappeared into the encampment. But you may be sure the girls were over on the parade ground by the time that the good old gray battalion had turned out and marched over, forming in battalion front. It was a beautiful sight. Mrs. Bentley wasn't martial, but as she looked on at that straight, inflexible wall of gray and steel, as the band played the colors up to the right of line, the good matron was thinking to herself: "What a pity that the country hasn't a thousand such battalions of the flower of young American manhood! Then what fear could we know in time of war?" The girls looked on almost breathlessly, starting at the boom of the sunset gun, then thrilling with a new realization of what their country meant when the band crashed out in the exultant strains of the "Star Spangled Banner" and the Stars and Stripes fluttered down at West Point, to rise on another day of the nation's life. It was over, and the visitors took the stage to the railway station. What a fearfully dull evening it seemed in camp! Dick had never known the time to hang so heavily. He would almost have welcomed guard duty. Over in another tent near by a "soiree" was in full but very quiet blast, for that bumptious plebe, Mr. Briggs, had been caught in more mischief, and was being "instructed" by his superiors in length of service. Prescott, however, didn't even look in to see what was happening. * * * * * * * * "Isn't West Point life glorious, Belle?" asked Laura eagerly as the West Shore train carried them toward New York. "Fine!" replied Belle enthusiastically. "But still---wait until we have seen Annapolis." At ten o'clock the next morning the young ladies and Mrs. Bentley were traveling in a Pullman car, on another stage of their journey. "I wonder what our young cadets are doing?" Laura wondered aloud, as she leaned forward. "Enjoying themselves, you may be sure," Mrs. Bentley replied promptly, with a smile. "That summer encampment seems like one long, huge lark," put in Belle Meade. "It must be great for young men to be able to enjoy themselves so thoroughly." "I wonder just what our young men are doing at this moment?" persisted Laura. "Well, if they're not dressing for something," calculated Mrs. Bentley, "you may be sure they're moving about looking as elegant as ever and making themselves highly agreeable in a social way." Ye gods of war! At that very moment Dick, in field uniform, and dripping profusely under the hot sun, was carrying a long succession of planks, each nearly as long and heavy as he could manage, to other cadets who waited to nail them in place on a pontoon bridge out over an arm of the Hudson. Greg Holmes was one of four young men toiling at the rope by which they were endeavoring to drag a mountain howitzer into position up a steep slope near Crow's Nest, while Anstey, studying field fortification, was digging in a trench with all his might and main. CHAPTER X THE CURE FOR PLEBE ANIMAL SPIRITS So the weeks slipped by. Up at five in the morning, busy most of the time until six in the evening, the cadets of the first, third and fourth classes found ample time to enjoy themselves between dark and taps, at 10.30, except when guard duty or something else interfered. Much of the "idle" time through the day was spent in short naps, to make up for that short six hours and a half of regular night sleep. Yet all the young men seemed to thrive in their life of hard work and outdoor air. Hazing was proceeding merrily, so far as some of the yearlings were concerned. Perhaps half of the class in all engaged in two or more real hazings through the summer. A few of the third classmen became almost inveterate hazers. But Dick Prescott, true to the principles had stated at the beginning of the encampment, hazed a plebe only when he believed it to be actually necessary in order to keep properly down some bumptious new man. Dodge returned from hospital after a very short stay there. Word had spread through the camp. Though Dodge, who admitted frankly that his thrashing had been deserved, managed to keep a few friends, but was avoided by most of the yearlings. Since he had taken his medicine so frankly, he was not, however, "cut." One afternoon, when Dick had been dozing on his mattress for about ten minutes, during a period of freedom from drill, the tent flap rustled, and Yearling Furlong looked in. "What is it?" called Dick. "Sorry if I've roused you, old ramrod," murmured the caller. "That's all right, Milesy. Come in and rest yourself. You won't mind if I keep flat, will you? "Not in training for sick report?" asked Furlong, glancing down solicitously. But he saw the glow of robust health glowing through the deep coat of tan on Prescott's face. "My appetite doesn't resemble sick report," laughed Dick. "But, while you don't really look ill, Milesy, it's very plain that you have something serious on your mind. Out with it! "I guess that will make me feel better," assented Furlong, with a sigh. "It's all that little plebe beast, Mr. Briggs." "Surely he hasn't been hazing you?" inquired Prescott, opening his eyes very wide. "No, no; not just that, old ramrod," replied Furlong. "But Mr. Briggs is proving a huge disappointment to me. I've done my best to make a meek and lowly cub of him, but he won't consent to fill his place. Now, that little beast made a good enough get away with his studies during the three months before camp. He mastered all the work of the soldier in ranks. At bottoms Mr. Briggs is really a very good little boy soldier. But he's so abominably and incurably fresh that he should have gone to Annapolis, where there's always some salt in the breeze. "What has Mr. Briggs been doing now?" asked Dick with interest. "What doesn't Mr. Briggs do?" sighed Furlong mournfully. "Instead of sleeping nights, that beast must lie awake, devising more ways of being unutterably fresh. But now he's contaminating his bunkie, Mr. Ellis." "Evil company always did work havoc with good manners," nodded Dick. "So Mr. Ellis has gone bad, has he?" "Do you know," continued Furlong severely, "that three mornings ago, when Jessup, of our class, was dressing at forty horsepower so he wouldn't miss reveille formation, that he stepped into two shoes full of soft soap, and had to go out sloshing into line in that shape, just because he couldn't spare the time to take his shoes off and empty them? "Yes," nodded Prescott. "We suspected Haverford, of the first class, of that, because Jessup, on guard, challenged Haverford when Haverford was trying to run the guard after taps." "Haverford nothing," retorted Furlong. "He's above such jobs. No, sir! This afternoon Jessup ran plumb into Mr. Ellis when that little beast bunkie of the other beast, Mr. Briggs, was just in the act of dropping soft soap into the shoes that Aldrich will wear to dress parade today. "Where on earth did Mr. Ellis get hold of soft soap?" demanded Prescott, raising himself on one elbow. "You're entirely missing the problem, old ramrod!" grunted Furlong wrathfully. "The question is, how can we possibly soak such habits out of Mr. Ellis and Mr. Briggs?" "Perhaps it can't be done," suggested Dick. "It must be done!" uttered Furlong savagely. "Well, I can't think of any yearling better suited to the task that you are, Milesy!" "One man? or one tentful, isn't equal to any such gigantic piece of work!" retorted Furlong. "Ramrod, you've got to appoint a class committee to take these two baboons in hand. It ought to be done this very night, too. Now, sit up, won't you, and get your thinking cap on?" "Have you talked with any of the other men?" "Yes; and they all agree that a soiree must be given to Mr. Ellis, and that you should be present." "What is the call for me, Milesy? "You are the class president." "But this is no affair that involves the honor of the class. Therefore, as president, I cannot see that there is any call for me." "It is the feeling with all the members of the yearling class that you should be present." Prescott looked at his visitor intently for a moment. Dick understood, now. He had taken "too little" interest in the hazing of b.j. plebes, and the class did not want to see its president shirk any duties that might be considered his, either as yearling or as class president. "Very good, Milesy," replied Dick quietly. "You may inform all anxious inquirers that I'll be on hand. Where and at what hour?" "Eight o'clock, in Dunstan's tent." "Very good." Furlong arose with a satisfied look on his face. He had, in fact, been deputed by others to make sure that Prescott would be on hand. There is always a good deal of risk attendant on hazing. It may lead to discovery---and dismissal. "I wonder if some of the fellows think I keep away from hazing simply because I'm afraid of risking my neck?" yawned Dick. "They practically insist on my sitting in to-night, do they? Oh, well!" The hop took more men away from camp than usual that night. Other cadets met friends from the hotel or officers' quarters at post number one. But over in Dunstan's tent a considerable group of yearlings gathered. A few, in fact, were obliged to stand outside. This they did in such a way as not to attract the attention of the O.C. or any chance tac. Dick was there, and with him were Holmes and Anstey, to both of whom had been conveyed a hint as strong as that which had reached the class president. Furlong, Griffin and Dobbs were in the tent. Jessup and Aldrich were there as a matter of fact. On the still night air came the clanging of eight on the big clock down in the group of barracks and Academic Building. Just as the strokes were pealing forth Plebes Briggs and Ellis came up the street and stood at the front pole of Dunstan's tent. "Come in, beasties," summoned Furlong. "We are awaiting you." Neither plebe looked over joyous as the pair entered. "Stand there, misters," ordered Dick, pointing to the space that had been reserved for the victims of the affair. "Now, misters, there is some complaint that you have mistaken West Point for a theatrical training school. The suspicion is gaining ground that you two beasties imagine you have been appointed here as comedians. Is that your delusion?" "No, sir," replied Mr. Briggs and Mr. Ellis in one solemn breath. "Then what ails you, misters?" demanded Dick severely. Both plebes remained silent. "Answer me, sirs. You first, Mr. Briggs." "I think we must have been carried away by excess of animal spirits, sir," replied Mr. Briggs, now speaking meekly enough. "Animal spirits?" repeated Dick thoughtfully. "There may be much truth and reason in that idea. Camp life here is repressive of animal spirits, to be sure. We who are your mentors to some extent should have thought of that. Mr. Briggs, you shall find relief for your animal spirits. Mr. Ellis, what is your defence?" "I thought, sir---thought-----" With the yearling President's eyes fixed on him in stern, searching gaze, the once merry little Mr. Ellis became confused. He broke off stameringly. "That's enough, Mr. Ellis," replied the class president. "You admit that you thought. Now, no plebe is capable of thinking. Your answer, mister, proves you to be guilty of egotism." Then Dick, with the air of a judge, yet with a mocking pretence of gentleness and leniency sounding; in his voice, turned back to Plebe Briggs. "Mr. Briggs, you will now proceed to relieve your animal spirits by some spirited animal conduct. The animal that you will represent will be the crab. Down on your face, mister!" Flat on the floor lay Mr. Briggs. The yearlings outside, at the tent doorway, scenting something coming, peered in eagerly. "Now, spread out your arms and legs, mister, just as any good crab should do. Raise your body from the floor. Not too much; about six inches will do. Now, mister, move about as nearly as possible in the manner of a crab. Stop, mister! Don't you know that a crab moves either backwards or sideways? It will not give enough vent to your animal spirits unless you move exactly as your model, the crab, does. Try it again, mister, and be painstaking in your imitation." Mr. Briggs presented a most grotesque appearance as he crawled about over the floor in the very limited space allowed him by the presence of so many others. The yearlings enjoyed it all in mirthful silence. "As for you, mister," continued Dick, turning upon the uncomfortable Mr. Ellis, "your self-conceit so fills every part of your body that the only thing for you is to stand on your head. Go to the rear tentpole and stand on your head. You may brace your feet against the pole. But remain on your head until we make sure that all the conceit has run out of you!" Mr. Briggs was still "crabbing it" over the floor. Every minute the task became more irksome. "Up with you, mister," Prescott admonished. "No self-respecting crab, with an abundance of animal spirits, ever trails along the ground like that." After some two minutes of standing on his head Mr. Ellis fell over sideways, his feet thudding. "Up with you, sir," admonished Dick. "You are still so full of egotism that it sways you like the walking beam of a steamboat. Up with you, mister, and up you stay until there is no ballast of conceit left in you." Crab-crab-crab! Mr. Briggs continued to move sidewise and backward over the tent flooring. Mr. Ellis was growing frightfully red in the face. But Prescott, from the remembrance of his own plebe days, knew to a dot how long a healthy plebe could keep that inverted position without serious injury. So the class president, sitting as judge in the court of hazing, showed no mercy. Some of the yearlings who stood outside peering in should have kept a weather eye open for the approach of trouble from tac. quarters. But, as the ordeals of both of the once frisky plebes became more severe, the interest of those outside increased. Crab-crab-crab! continued Mr. Briggs. It seemed to him as though his belt-line weighed fully a ton, so hard was it to keep his abdomen off the floor, resting solely on his hands and feet. Mr. Ellis must have felt that conceit and he could never again be friends, judging by the redness of his face and the straining of his muscles. An approaching step outside should have been heard by some of the yearlings looking in through the doorway, but it wasn't. Then, all in an instant, the step quickened, and Lieutenant Topham, O.C. for the day, made for the tent door! CHAPTER XI LIEUTENANT TOPHAM FEELS QUEER Yearling Kelton barely turned his head, but he caught sight of the olive drab of the uniform of the Army officer within a few feet. Pretending not to have seen the officer, Cadet Kelton drew in his breath with a sharp whistle. It was not loud, but it was penetrating, and it carried the warning. Swift as a flash Prescott caught upside-down Mr. Ellis, and fairly rolled him out under the canvas edge at the back of the tent. Greg instantly shoved the prostrate Mr. Briggs through by the same exit. Fortunately both plebes were too much astonished to utter a sound. "Crouch and scowl at me, Greg---hideously whispered alert-witted Dick." As he spoke, Prescott swiftly crouched before Holmes. Dick's hands rested on his knees; he stuck out his tongue and scowled fiercely at Holmes, who tried to repay the compliment with interest. Although all the yearlings in the tent had been "scared stiff" at Kelton's low, warning signal, all, by an effort, laughed heartily, their gaze on Prescott and Holmes. "Yah!" growled Dick. "Perhaps I did steal the widow's chickens, and I'll even admit that I did appropriate the pennies from her baby's bank. But that's nothing. Tell 'em about the time you stole the oats from the blind horse's crib and put breakfast food in its place." Everyone of the yearlings in the tent knew that trouble stood at the door, and that they must keep up the pretence. There was a chorus of laughter, and two or three applauded. "I did---admit it," bellowed Greg. "But you stand there and admit the whole shameful truth about the time that you-----" "Attention!" called Kelton, turning, then recognizing Lieutenant Topham and saluting. "The officer in charge!" On the jump every yearling inside turned and stood rapidly at attention. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry to have spoiled the show," laughed Lieutenant Topham. He had seen the shadows of Briggs and Ellis on the canvas, and had expected to drop in upon a different scene. But now this tac. was wholly disarmed. He honestly believed that he had stumbled upon a party of yearlings having a good time with a bit of nonsensical dialogue. "Mr. Prescott! Mr. Holmes!" "Sir?" answered both yearlings, saluting. "I will suggest that you two might work up the act you were just indulging in. You ought to raise a great laugh the next time a minstrel show is given by the cadets." "Thank you, sir"---from both "performers." Lieutenant Topham turned and passed on down the company street. The two expelled plebes, in the meantime, had a chance to slip off silently. Even had Briggs and Ellis been inclined to "show up" their hazers, they knew too well the fate that would await such a pair of plebes at the hands of the cadet corps. "That shows how easily a suspicious man's eyes may deceive him," mused Lieutenant Topham as he walked along. Kelton now allowed his gaze to follow the retreating O.C., while the yearlings in the tent stood in dazed silence. They were still panting over the narrow escape from a scrape that might have cost them their places on the roll of the battalion. "Safe!" whispered Kelton. "You may thank your deliverers." Then, indeed, the other yearlings pressed about Prescott and Holmes, hugging them and patting them extravagantly. When Lieutenant Topham returned to his tent, he found Captain Bates there, with a visitor. By the time that he had stepped inside, Topham also discovered the presence of the K.C. likewise engaged. "I've just had a good lesson in the pranks that a man's eyes and ears may play upon him," announced Topham, unbelting his sword. Then he related, with relish, the occurrence at Dunstan's tent. "Humph!" grunted Captain Bates. "You say Mr. Prescott was there?" "Yes, Captain." "Then, Topham, you didn't really see very much of what happened, after all," half jeered Captain Bates. "If Prescott was there, the crowd had a plebe on hand, depend on it." "But I would have seen the plebe." "Not when you have to contend with a man like Mr. Prescott! If he had a tenth of a second's warning it would be enough for him to roll the plebe out at the back of the tent." "Now, I think of it," confessed Lieutenant Topham slowly, "I think I did hear a slight sound at the back of the tent." "You didn't investigate that sound, Mr. Topham?" "Why, no, sir. I thought I was looking at the whole show." "Instead of which," chuckled Captain Bates, "you saw only the curtain that had just been rung down, and the author of the piece bowing to the audience." "Well, I'll be---switched!" ejaculated Mr. Topham, dropping into his chair. "Mr. Prescott has the reputation of being the cleverest dodger in the yearling class," declared the K.C., in a dry voice. "It was Bates who first discovered that quality in Mr. Prescott, but I must admit that he has convinced me. Tomorrow a new cadet corporal will be appointed, and the fact published in orders. The new corporal takes the place of Corporal Ryder, who has been busted (reduced). Mr. Prescott would have been appointed corporal, but for his reputation for dodging out of the biggest scrapes of his class. So Mr. Dodge is to be the new cadet corporal." "Oh, you sly old ramrod!" Dunstan was murmuring ecstatically, back in that other tent. "When I think of all the yearlings who've been dropped for hazing in past years! If each class had only had a Prescott all of those yearlings would have been saved to the service!" But Dick, though he did not know it, had a reputation in the tac. department which had just prevented his attaining to the honor that he desired most---appointment as cadet corporal. CHAPTER XII UNDER A FEARFUL CHARGE Cadet Corporal Dodge took his new appointment as a triumph in revenge. Of late he had been growing even less popular. He determined to be a martinet with the men in ranks under him. He made the mistake that all petty, senseless tyrants do. The great disciplinarian is never needlessly a tyrant. * * * * * * * * The summer in camp passed quickly after July had gone. In all, Miss Griffin made four visits to West Point that summer. Greg became her favored and eager escort, to the disappointment of fifty men who would have been glad to take his place. Both Cadet Holmes and Mr. Griffin's very pretty sister kept up their attitudes of laughing challenge to each other throughout the summer. It was impossible to see that either had scored a deep impression on the other. Not even to his chum did Greg confide whether Miss Griffin had caught his heart. Mr. Griffin, her brother, could hardly venture a guess to himself as to whether his sister cared for the tall and manly looking Holmes. But when Miss Griffin had reached the end of her last summer visit to West Point she told Greg that she would not be there again for some time to come. "At least," asked Greg, "you'll be here again when the winter hops start?" "I cannot say," was all the reply Miss Adele Griffin would make. "In three weeks she goes back to the seminary in Virginia," said Griff, when Greg spoke to him about the matter. "Dell won't see West Point before next summer. Our people are not rich enough to keep Dell traveling all the time." Whether Greg was crestfallen at the news no one knew. Greg had never believed, anyway, in wearing his heart on his sleeve---"just for other folks to stick pins in it, you know," was his explanation. There came the day when the furloughed second class marched over to camp. Very quickly after that all classes were back in cadet barracks, and the charming summer of Mars had given place to the hard fall, winter and spring of the academic grind. The return to studies found both Greg and Dick forced to do some extra hard work. Mathematics for this year went "miles ahead" of anything that the former Gridley boys had encountered in High School. Had they been able to pursue this branch of study in the more leisurely and lenient way of the colleges, both young men might have stood well. As it was, after the first fortnight Greg went to the "goats," or the lowest section in mathematics, while Dick, not extremely better off, hung only in the section above the goat line. As the fall hops came on Greg went to about three out of every four. "A fellow can bone until his brain is nothing but a mess of bone dust," he complained. "Dick, old chum, you'd better go to hops, too." Dick went to only one, in October. He stagged it, whereas Greg often dragged. But Prescott saw no girl there who looked enough like Laura Bentley to interest him. His standing in class interested him far more than hops at which a certain Gridley girl could not be present. Laura had written him that she and Belle might be at a hop early in December. "I'll wait and look forward to it," decided Dick. But he said nothing, even to Greg. Holmes was showing an ability to be interested in too many different girls, Prescott decided. But it may be that Holmes, knowing that Griffin corresponded with his pretty, black-eyed little sister, may have been intentionally furnishing subjects for the news that was despatched to a Virginia seminary. "Come on, old ramrod," urged Greg one Saturday night, as he gave great heed to his dressing. "You'll bone yourself dry, staying here all the time with Smith's conic sections. Drop that dry math. rot and stag it with me over at Cullum tonight. You can take math. up again after chapel tomorrow." "Thank you," replied Prescott, turning around from the study table at which he was seated. "I don't care much for the social whirl while there's any doubt about the January exams. It would be no pleasure to go over to Cullum. There'll be real satisfaction if I can look forward to better marking this coming week." Dick spent his time until taps at the study table. But when he closed the book it was with a sigh of satisfaction. "If I can only go through a few more nights as easily as I have tonight, I'll soon astound myself by maxing it" (making one of the highest marks), he told himself. "I think I'm beginning to see real light in conic sections, but I'll have the books out again tomorrow afternoon." * * * * * * * * "Well?" challenged Holmes gayly, as he entered their room after the hop. "I believe I'm going to turn over a new leaf and max it some," grinned Prescott. "Don't!" expostulated Greg, with a look of mock alarm. The daily marks were not posted until the end of the academic week, but Prescott knew, when Monday's recitation in mathematics was over, that he had found new favor in the eyes of Captain Abbott, the instructor. On Tuesday again he was sure that he had landed another high mark. Greg caught some of the fire of his chum's example, and he, too, began to bone so furiously that he decided to drop the hops for the time. Wednesday again Dick marched back in mathematics section with a consciousness that he had not fumbled once in explaining the problem that he had been ordered to set forth the blackboard. "I hear that you're going to graduate ahead of time, and be appointed professor in math.," grinned Greg. "Well, I'm at least beginning to find out that some things are better than hops," laughed Dick happily. "Greg, if I can kill math. to my satisfaction this year, I shan't have another doubt about being able to get through and graduate here!" It was the end of November by this time, and Dick, on Thursday of this successful week, received a letter to the effect that Laura and Belle would arrive at West Point on Saturday afternoon at one o'clock. The news nearly broke up Prescott's three hours of study that Thursday evening. However, he fought off the feeling of excitement and hampering delight. When Dick marched with his section into mathematics Friday morning he felt a calm confidence that he would keep up the average of his fine performance for the week. "Mr. Furlong, Mr. Dunstan, Mr. Prescott and Mr. Gray, go to the blackboards," ordered Captain Abbott. "The other gentlemen will recite from their seats." Stepping nimbly over to the blackboard, in one corner of which his name had been written, Dick picked up the chalk, setting down the preliminaries of the problem assigned to him. Then his chalk ran nimbly along over the first lines of his demonstration. At last he stopped. Captain Abbott, who was generally accredited with possessing several pairs of eyes, noted that Mr. Prescott had halted. For some moments the young man went anxiously over what he had already written. At last he turned around, facing the instructor, and saluted. "Permission to erase, sir?" requested Prescott., Captain Abbott nodded his assent. Picking up the eraser, Dick carefully erased the last two lines that he had set down. Then, as though working under a new inspiration, he went ahead setting down line after line of the demonstration of this difficult problem. Only once did he halt, and then for not more than thirty seconds. Dunstan went through a halting explanation of his problem. Then Captain Abbott called: "Mr. Prescott!" Taking up the short pointer, Dick rattled off the statement of the problem. Then he plunged into his demonstration, becoming more and more confident as he progressed. When he had finished Captain Abbott asked three or four questions. Dick answered these without hesitation. "Excellent," nodded the gratified instructor. "That is all, Mr. Prescott." As Dick turned to step to his seat he pulled his handkerchief from the breast of his blouse and wiped the chalk from his hands. All unseen by himself a narrow slip of white paper fluttered from underneath his handkerchief to the floor. "Mr. Prescott," called Captain Abbott, "will you bring me that piece of paper from the floor?" Dick obeyed without curiosity, then turned again and gained his seat. The instructor, in the meantime, had called upon Mr. Pike. While Pike was reciting, haltingly, Captain Abbott turned over the slip of paper on his desk, glancing at it with "one of his pairs of eyes." Anyone who had been looking at the instructor at that moment would have noted a slight start and a brief change of color in the captain's face. But he said nothing until all of the cadets had recited and had been marked. "Mr. Prescott!" the instructor then called Dick rose, standing by his seat. "Mr. Prescott, did you work out your problem for today unaided?" "I had a little aid, last night, sir, from Mr. Anstey." "But you had no aid in the section room today?" "No, sir," replied Dick, feeling much puzzled. "You understand my question, Mr. Prescott?" "I think so, sir." "In putting down your demonstration on the blackboard today you had no aid whatever?" "None whatever, sir." "At one stage, Air. Prescott, you hesitated, waited, then asked permission to erase? After that erasure you went on with hardly a break to the end of the blackboard work." "Yes, sir." "And, at the time you hesitated, before securing leave to erase, you did not consult any aid in your work?" "No, sir." "This piece of paper," continued Captain Abbott, lifting the slip, "fell from your handkerchief when you drew it out, just as you left the blackboard. That was why I asked you to bring it to me, Mr. Prescott. This paper contains all the salient features of your demonstration. Can you explain this fact, Mr. Prescott?" The astounded yearling felt as though his brain were reeling. He went hot and cold, all in a flash. In the same moment the other men of the section sat as though stunned. All lying, deceit and fraud are so utterly detested at West Point that to a cadet it is incomprehensible how a comrade can be guilty of such an offence. It seemed to Prescott like an age ere he could master his voice. "I never saw that paper, sir, before you asked me to pick it up!" "But it dropped from under your handkerchief, Mr. Prescott. Can you account for that?" "I cannot, sir." Captain Abbott looked thoughtfully, seriously, at Cadet Richard Prescott. The instructor had always liked this young man, and had deemed him worthy of all trust. Yet what did this evidence show? In the meantime the cadets sat staring the tops of their desks, or the covers of their books. The gaze of each man was stony; so were his feelings. Prescott, the soul of honor, caught in such a scrape as this! But there must be some sensible and satisfactory explanation, thought at least half of the cadets present. "Have I permission to ask a question, sir?" asked Dick in an almost hollow voice. "Proceed, Mr. Prescott." "Is the paper in my handwriting, sir?" "It is not," declared the instructor. "Most of it is in typewriting, with two figures drawn crudely in ink. There are three or four typewriting machines on the post to which a cadet may find easy access. You may examine this piece of paper, Mr. Prescott, if you think that will aid you to throw any light on the matter." Dick stepped forward, lurching slightly. Most of the silent men of the section took advantage of this slight distraction to shift their feet to new positions. The noise grated in that awful silence. How Dick's hand shook as he reached for the paper. At first his eyes were too blurred for him to make out clearly what was on the paper. But at last he made it all out. "I am very sorry, sir. This paper tells me nothing." Captain Abbott's gaze was fixed keenly on the young man's face. White-faced Prescott, shaking and ghastly looking, showed all the evidences of detected, overwhelmed guilt. Innocent men often do the same. "You may return the paper and take your seat, Mr. Prescott." As Prescott turned away he made a powerful effort to hold his head erect, and to look fearlessly before him. It was a full minute, yet, before the bugle would sound through the Academic Building to end the recitation period. Dick was not the only one in this section room who found the wait intolerable. But at last the bugle notes were heard. "The section is dismissed," announced Captain Abbott. Dunstan, the section marcher, formed his men and led them thence. No man in the section held his head more erect than did Prescott, who was conscious of his own absolute innocence in the affair. Yet, when he reached his room, and sank down at his study table, a groan escaped Dick Prescott. His head fell forward, cushioned in his folded arms. Thus Holmes found him on entering the room. "Why, old ramrod, what on earth is the matter?" gasped Greg. A groan from his chum was the only answer. At that moment another step, brisk and official, was heard in the corridor. There was a short rap on the door, after which Unwine, cadet officer of the day, wearing his red sash and sword, stepped into the room. "Mr. Prescott, you are ordered in close arrest in your quarters until further orders." "Yes, sir," huskily replied Prescott, who had struggled to his feet and now stood at attention. As Unwine wheeled, marching from the room, Dick sank again over his study table. "Dick, old ramrod," pleaded Greg terrified, "what on earth-----" "Greg," came the anguished moan, "they're going to try to fire me from West Point for a common cheat---and I'm afraid they'll do it, too!" CHAPTER XIII IN CLOSE ARREST Ever since Greg Holmes first came to West Point he had been learning the repose and the reserve of the trained soldier. Yet if ever his face betrayed utter abandonment to amazement it was now. Cadet Holmes gazed at his chum in open-mouthed wonder. "By and by," uttered Greg fretfully, "You'll tell me the meaning of this joke, and why Mr. Unwine should be in it, too." It was several minutes before Prescott turned around again. When he did there was a furious glare in his eyes. "Greg, old chum! This is no joke. You heard Unwine. He was delivering an official order, not carrying an April-fool package." "Well, then, what does it all mean?" demanded Greg stolidly, for he began to feel dazed. "But, first of all, old ramrod, aren't you going to get ready to fall in for dinner formation?" Mechanically, wearily, Dick obeyed the suggestion. As he did so he managed to tell the story of the section room to horrified Greg. "See here," muttered Cadet Holmes energetically, "you didn't do anything in the cheating line. Every fellow in the corps will know that. So you'll have to set your wits at work to find the real explanation of the thing. How could that paper have gotten in with your handkerchief?" "I don't know," replied Dick, shaking his head hopelessly. "Well, you've got to find out, son, and that right quick! There isn't a moment to be lost! You didn't cheat---you wouldn't know how do a deliberately dishonest thing. But that reply won't satisfy the powers that be. You've got to get your answer ready, and do it with a rush." "Perhaps you can also suggest where the rush should start," observed Prescott. "Yes; I've got to suggest everything that is going to be done, I reckon," muttered Greg, resting a chum's loyal hand on Dick's shoulder. "Old ramrod, you're too dazed to think of anything, and I'm nearly as badly off myself. Say, did anyone, to your knowledge, have your handkerchief?" Cadet Richard Prescott wheeled like a flash. His face had gone white again; he stared as though at a terrifying ghost. "By the great horn spoon, Greg-----" "Good! You're getting roused. Now, out with it! "There were a lot of us standing about in the area, a little before time for the math. sections to start off." "Yes? And some other fellow handled your handkerchief?" "Bert Dodge found himself without one, and asked me for mine, to wipe a smear of black from the back of his hand." "Which hand?" "The left." "It doesn't really matter which hand," Greg pursued, "but I asked to make sure that your mind is working." "Oh, my mind is working," uttered Dick vengefully. "But what else happened about that handkerchief? "Dodge used it, then started to tuck it into his own blouse. I grinned and reminded him that the handkerchief would fit better inside my blouse." "And then?" "Just then the call sounded, and we had to jump. Dodge handed me back the handkerchief with a swift apology, and raced away to join his section." "And you?" "I tucked the handkerchief in my blouse." "Now, do some hard thinking," insisted Holmes. "Did you take that handkerchief out again until the unlucky time just after you had turned away from the board after explaining in math.?" Dick remained silent, while the clock in the room ticked off the seconds. "I am sure I did not," he replied firmly. "No; that was the next time that I took my handkerchief out." "Huh!" muttered Greg. "We've got our start. And it won't be far to the end, either. Cheer up, old man!" At that instant the call for formation sounded. The young men were ready and turned to leave the room on the jump. As they did so, Greg muttered in a low tone: "Say nothing, but hold up your head and smile. Don't let anyone face you down. Not ten fellows in the corps will even guess that you could possibly be guilty of anything mean!" Wouldn't they? West Point cadets have such an utter contempt for anything savoring of cheating or lying that the mere suspicion is often enough to make them hold back. As the cadets moved to their places in the formations scores of cadets passed Prescott. Short as the time had been, the news was already flying through the corps. Usually Dick had a score of greetings as made his way to his place in line. Today dozen cadets who had been among his friends seemed not to see him. Dick recoiled, inwardly, as though from a stinging blow in the face. None of his comrades meant to be cruel. But most of them wanted to make sure that the seemingly reliable charge was not true. They must wait. Utterly dejected, Prescott marched to dinner. On his way back to barracks a new and overwhelming thought came to him. Laura Bentley and her mother, and Belle Meade were due at the hotel the next afternoon, and he and Greg had arranged to drag the girls to the Saturday-night hop. "Greg, I can't leave quarters," muttered Dick huskily, as he threw himself down at his desk and began to write rapidly. "You'll have to attend to sending this telegram for me." "On the jump!" assented Greg, The telegram was addressed to Laura Bentley, and read: "Don't come to West Point tomorrow. My letter will explain." "I'll send it before the drawing lesson," Greg uttered, and vanished. Confined to quarters in close arrest, Cadet Prescott put in more than two miserable hours endeavoring to get that letter written. But he couldn't get it penned. Then a knock came the door, and a telegram was handed in. It read: "Wife and girls have left for shopping trip in New York. Don't know where to reach them." It was signed by Dr. Bentley. The yellow paper fluttered from Prescott's hands to the floor. Mechanically he picked it up and carried it to his study table. "I can't stop them," he muttered dismally. "Nor shall I be out of close arrest by that time, either. There's nothing I can do. I can't even see them---and I've been looking forward to this for months!" Again Dick Prescott buried his head in his arms at the study table. To have Laura come here at the time when he was in the deepest disgrace that a cadet may face! Greg came back to find his chum pacing the floor in misery. "Well, it can't be helped," muttered Holmes philosophically. "Of course you and Anstey can drag the girls to Cullum." "Surely," muttered Holmes listlessly, "if the girls would go at all under such circumstances." "I've made their trip a mockery and a bitter disappointment," groaned Dick. "No, you haven't ramrod," retorted Greg. "Fate may be to blame, but you can't be held accountable for what you didn't do. Have no fear. I'll see to the ladies tomorrow afternoon. But I'm a pile more interested in knowing what is to be done in your case. The superintendent and the K.C. may see the absurdity of this whole thing against you, and order your arrest ended." "But that won't clear me, Greg, and you know it. There would still be the suspicion in the corps, and---O Greg!---I can't endure that suspicion." "Pshaw, old ramrod, you won't have to, very long. We'll bust this whole suspicion higher than any kite ever flew. See here, Dodge is responsible for your humiliation, and we'll drag it all out of him, if we have to tie him up by the thumbs!" A knock at the door, and Anstey entered. "I really couldn't get here before, old ramrod. But I'd cut you in a minute if I thought it really necessary to come here and tell you that I don't believe any charge of dishonor against you, Prescott, could possibly be true." "It's mighty pleasant to have every fellow who feels that way come and say so," muttered Dick gratefully, as he thrust out his hand. Another knock at the door. Cadet Prescott must report at once at the office of the K.C. Down the stairs trudged Dick, across the area, and into the office of the commandant of cadets. "I want to know, Mr. Prescott," declared that officer, "whether you can throw any added light in regard to the occurrence in Captain Abbott's section room this morning." Dick had to deliberate, swiftly, as to whether he should say anything about having loaned Mr. Dodge his handkerchief briefly. "I reckon I must speak of it," decided the unhappy cadet. "I mean to have Dodge summoned, if I'm tried, so I may as well speak of it now." That, and other things, Dick stated. The K.C. listened gravely. It was plain from the officer's manner that he believed Prescott was going to have difficulty in establishing his innocence. "That is all, Mr. Prescott," said the K.C. finally. Dick saluted and returned to his room. In the few minutes that had elapsed, Anstey had done much. In the room were a dozen yearlings who were known to be among Dick's best friends. All shock his hand, assuring him that nothing could shake their faith in him. It was comforting, but that was all. "You see, old ramrod," muttered Greg, when the callers had left, "there are enough who believe in you. Now, you've got to justify that faith by hammering this charge into nothingness. Someone has committed a crime---a moral crime anyway. In my own mind Dodge is the criminal but I'm not yet prepared to prove it." In the meantime Cadet Albert Dodge was over in the K.C.'s office, undergoing a rigid questioning. Dodge freely admitted the episode of handkerchief borrowing but denied any further knowledge. When Bert returned to barracks he was most bitter against Dick. To all who would listen to him Dodge freely stated his opinion of a man who would seek to shield his own wrong-doing by throwing suspicion on another. "There were plenty who saw me borrow the handkerchief," contended Dodge stormily. "Whoever saw me take it also saw me return it. I'll defy any man to state, under oath, that I returned more than the handkerchief." "How did the smear happen to be on your hand?" asked Dunstan, who, besides belonging to the same mathematics section with Prescott was also a warm personal friend. Bert hesitated, looked uneasy, then replied: "How about the smear? Why---I don't know It may have come from a match." "Yes, what about that smear? How did it come there?" cried Greg, when Dunstan repeated Dodge's words. Through Greg's mind, for hours after that, the question insistently intruded itself: "How about that smear?" Yet the question seemed to lead to nothing. The next morning, Saturday, it was known, throughout cadet barracks, that a general court-martial order for Prescott would be published that afternoon. On the one o'clock train from New York came Mrs. Bentley, Laura and Belle. They entered the bus at the station, and were driven up, across the plain, to the hotel. After dinner, the girls waited in pleasant expectancy for Dick and Greg to send up their cards. Greg's card came up, alone. Anstey was back in quarters with Dick. CHAPTER XIV FRIENDS WHO STAND BY "Well?" cried Dick, darting up, his eyes shining wildly when Greg finally threw open the door. "Oh, bosh!" cried Greg jubilantly. "Do you think those girls are going to believe anything against you?" "What did they say?" demanded Dick eagerly. "Well, of course they were dazed," continued Greg. "In fact, Mrs. Bentley was the first to speak. What she said was one word, 'Preposterous!'" "There's a woman aftah my own heart, suh," murmured Anstey. "Belle got her voice next," continued Greg. "What she said was: "'You're wrong, Mrs. Bentley. It isn't even preposterous.'" "Miss Meade surely delighted me, the first time I ever saw her," murmured Anstey. "Laura looked down to hide a few tears," continued Greg. "But she brushed them away and looked up smiling. 'I'm sorry, sorry, sorry for Dick's temporary annoyance,' was what Laura said. 'But of course I know such deceit would be impossible in him, so I shall stay here until I know that the Military Academy authorities and the whole world realize how absurd such a suspicion must be.'" "She's going to remain here?" faltered Dick. "All three of 'em are. They couldn't be driven off the reservation by a file of infantry, just now. But both of the girls insisted on sending you a note. Which will you have first?" "Don't trifle with me, Greg," begged Prescott. Anstey rose to go. "Don't take yourself off, Anstey old fellow. Just pardon me while I read my notes." Dick read Laura's note through, thrilling with the absolute faith that it breathed: "Dear Dick: Don't be uneasy about us, and don't worry about yourself, either. I couldn't express what I think about the charges, without having a man's license of speech! But you know all that I would write you. Just keep up the good old Gridley grit and smile for a few days. We are going to be here to attend that court-martial, and to give you courage from the gallery---but I don't believe you need a bit. Faithfully, Laura." Belle's note was much shorter. It ran: "Dear Dick: What stupid ideas they have of comedy here at West Point!" And, as Belle knew that she wasn't and couldn't be Dick's sweetheart, she had not hesitated to sign herself, "Lovingly, Belle." Dick passed each note in turn to Anstey. "Your town suhtinly raises real girls!" was the southerner's quiet comment. Dick felt like a new being. He was pacing the floor now, but in no unpleasant agitation. "Did you impress the girls with the knowledge that I begged them to go to the hop tonight?" asked Prescott, stopping short and eyeing Greg. "Did you think I'd forget half of my errand, old ramrod?" demanded Holmes indignantly "I delivered your full request, backed by all that I could add. At first Mrs. Bentley and Laura were shocked at the very idea. But Belle broke in with: 'If we didn't go, it would look as if we were in mourning for some one. We're not. We're just simply sorry that a poor idea of a farce keeps dear old Dick from being with us tonight. If we don't go, Dick Prescott will be more unhappy about it than anyone else in the wide world.'" "Miss Meade suhtinly doesn't need spectacles," murmured Anstey. "She can see straight!" "So," continued Greg, "I'm going to drag Laura tonight, and Anstey is going to do the same for Belle." "And we'll suhtinly see to it that they have, outside of ourselves, of course, the handsomest men in the corps to dance with!" exclaimed Anstey. "If any fine and handsome fellow even tries to get out of it, I'll call him out and fight him stiff, suh!" "I'm glad you have persuaded the girls to go," nodded Dick cheerily. "That will give me a happier evening than anything else could do just now." "What will you do this evening, Dick?" asked Greg. "I? Oh, I'll be busy---and contented at the same time. Tell that to Laura and Belle, please." Yet it was with a sense of weariness that Dick turned out for supper formation. There were more pleasant greetings as he moved to his place in ranks, and that made him feel better for the moment. At his table at cadet mess he was amiably and cheerily included in all the merry conversation that flew around. Then back to quarters Dick went, and soon saw Greg and Anstey, looking their spooniest in their full-dress uniforms, depart on the mission of dragging. Prescott hardly sighed as he moved over to the study table. He read over a score of times the notes the girls had sent him. Then came an orderly, who handed in a telegram. Dick opened this with nervous fingers. His eyes lit up when he found that it came from Annapolis. The message read: _"Dear old Dick! You're the straightest fellow on earth! We know. Don't let anybody get your goat!_" _"Darrin And Dalzell, Third Class, U.S. Naval Academy."_ "Dear old Gridley chums!" murmured the cadet, the moisture coming to his eyes. "Yes, they should know me, if anyone does. Those who know me best are all flocking to offer comfort. Then---hang it!---I don't need any. When a fellow's friends all believe in him, what more is there to ask? But I wonder how the news reached Annapolis? I know---Belle has telegraphed Dave. She knew he'd stand by me." It was a very cheery Prescott to whom Anstey and Holmes returned. Anstey could remain but an instant, but that instant was enough to cheer the Virginian, the change in Prescott was so great. In the few moments left before taps sounded, Greg told his chum all he could of the hop, and of the resolute conduct of Laura and Belle in refusing absolutely to be downcast. "Have you sent any word home?" asked Greg. "To my father and mother? Not a word! Nor shall I, until this nightmare is all over," breathed Dick fervently. "Laura wanted to know," Holmes explained. "Of course Mrs. Bentley had to send some word to her husband, to account for their longer absence, but she cautioned Dr. Bentley not to let a word escape." To himself, as he reached up to extinguish the light, Greg muttered: "I believe that unhanged scoundrel, Dodge, will see to it that word reaches Gridley!" In this conjecture Holmes must have been correct, for, the next forenoon, there came a telegram, full of agony, from Prescott's mother, imploring further particulars at once. Mrs. Prescott's dispatch mentioned a "rumor." "That's Dodge's dirty work," growled Holmes. "So that fastens the guilt of this whole thing upon him---the dirty dog!" Yet how to fasten any guilt upon Dodge? Or how force from him any admission that would aid to free Cadet Prescott from the awful charge against him that had now been made official? That Sunday, Greg, besides paying a long visit in the hotel parlor, and seeing to the dispatch of Dick's answer to his mother, also called, under permission, at the home of Lieutenant Topham, of the tactical department. Prescott had decided to ask that officer to act as his counsel at the court-martial. Prescott's case looked simple enough. Nor did the judge-advocate of the court-martial need much time for his preparation of the case. The judge-advocate of a court-martial is the prosecuting officer. Theoretically he is also somewhat in the way of counsel for the defence. It is the judge-advocate's duty to prosecute, it is also his duty to inquire into any particulars that may establish the innocence of the accused man. Mr. Topham at once consented to act as Dick's counsel, and entered heartily into the case. "But I don't mind telling you, Mr. Prescott," continued Lieutenant Topham, as he was talking the matter over with Dick in the latter's room, "that both sides of the case look to me, at present, like blank walls. It won't be enough to clear you of the charge as far as the action of the court goes. We must do everything in our power to remove the slightest taint from your name, or your position with your brother cadets will never be quite the same again." "I know that full well, sir," Cadet Prescott replied with feeling. "Though the court-martial acquit me, if there lingers any belief among the members of the cadet corps that I was really guilty, then the taint would not only hang over me here, but all through my subsequent career in the Army. It is an actual, all-around verdict of 'not guilty, and couldn't be,' that I crave sir." "You may depend upon me, Mr. Prescott, to do all in my power for you," promised Lieutenant Topham. CHAPTER XV ON TRIAL BY COURT-MARTIAL Tuesday was the day for the court-martial. In the Army there is little patience with the law's delays. A trial must move ahead as promptly as any other detail of the soldier's life. Nothing can hinder a trial but the inability to get all the evidence ready early. In Cadet Prescott's case the evidence seemed so simple as to require no delay whatever. The weather had been growing warmer within a short time. When Dick and Greg awoke at sound of reveille, they heard the heavy rain no sign of daylight yet. When the battalion turned out and formed to march to breakfast a more dispiriting day could not be imagined. The rain was converting deep snow into a dismal flood. But Dick barely noticed the weather. He was full of grit, burning with the conviction that he must have a full vindication today. It was when he returned to barracks and the ranks were broken, that Dick discovered how many friends he had. Fully twoscore of his classmates rushed to wring his hand and to wish him the best kind of good luck that day. Yet at 7.55 the sections marched away to mathematics, philosophy or engineering, according to the classes to which the young soldiers belonged. Then Prescott faced a lonely hour in his room. "The fellows were mighty good, a lot of them," thought the accused cadet, with his first real sinking feeling that morning. "Yet, if any straw of evidence, this morning, seems really to throw any definite taint upon me, not one of these same fellows would ever again consent to wipe his feet on me!" Such is the spirit of the cadet corps. Any comrade and brother must be wholly above suspicion where his honor is concerned. Had Dick been really guilty he would have been the meanest thing in cadet barracks. At a little before nine o'clock Lieutenant Topham called. To Cadet Prescott it seemed grimly absurd that he must now go forth in holiday attire of cadet full-dress uniform, white lisle gloves and all---to stand before the court of officers who were to decide whether he was morally fit to remain and associate with the other cadets. But it was the regulation that a cadet must go to court, whether as witness or accused, in full-dress uniform. "I'm going to do my best for you today, Mr. Prescott," declared Lieutenant Topham, as they walked through the area together. Into the Academic Building counsel and accused stepped, and on to the great trial room in which so many cadets had met their gloomy fates. At the long table sat, in full-dress uniform, and with their swords on, the thirteen Army officers of varying ranks who composed the court. At one side of the room sat the cadet witnesses. These were three in number. Mr. Dunstan and Mr. Gray were there as the two men who had occupied blackboards on either side of Prescott the Friday forenoon before. Cadet Dodge was there to give testimony concerning the handkerchief episode in the area of barracks before the sections had marched off to math. Captain Abbott, of course, was there, to testify to facts of his knowledge. Never had there been a more reluctant witness than that same Captain Abbott, but he had his plain duty to do as an Army officer detailed at the United States Military Academy. Lieutenant Topham and Dick, on entering, had turned toward the table reserved for counsel. For a moment, Dick Prescott had raised his face to the gallery. There he beheld Mrs. Bentley, Laura and Belle, all gazing down at him with smiling, friendly faces. Dick could not send them a formal greeting. But he looked straight into the eyes of each in turn. His smile was steady, clear and full of courage. His look carried in it his appreciation of their loyal friendship. Among the visitors there were also the wives of a few Army officers stationed on the post. Nearly all of these knew Prescott, and were interested in his fate. Among the spectators up there was one heavily veiled woman whom Dick could not see from the floor as he entered the room. Nor did that woman, who had drawn back, intend that he should see her. The president of this court-martial called it promptly to order. The members of the court were sworn, then the judge-advocate took his military oath. It was then announced that the accused cadet wished to have Lieutenant Topham represent him as counsel. To this there was no objection. In a twinkling the judge-advocate was again on his feet, a copy of the charge and specifications in his hand. Facing the president of the court, standing rigidly at attention, his face expressionless, his bearing every whit that of the soldier, Cadet Richard Prescott listened to the reading of the accusation of dishonor. In an impressive tone the president of the court asked what plea the accused cadet wished to enter. "The accused offers, to the charge and specifications, a blanket plea of 'not guilty,'" replied Lieutenant Topham. Captain Abbott was first called and sworn. In concise, soldierly language the instructor told the events of the preceding Friday forenoon. He described the dropping of the slip of paper, and of his request that it be handed to him. "The paper," continued the witness, "contained a crude, brief outline of the demonstration which Mr. Prescott had just explained so satisfactorily that I had marked him 2.9." "Which is within one tenth of the highest marking?" suggested the judge-advocate. "Yes, sir." "Had you noted anything in Mr. Prescott conduct or performance at the blackboard that indicated any uncertainty, at any time, about the problem he was demonstrating?" "When he had gone a little way with the writing down of the demonstration," replied Captain Abbott, "Mr. Prescott hesitated for some moments, then asked permission to erase, which was given." "Did he then go straight ahead with his work?" "To the best of my observation and remembrance, he did, sir." "Had Mr. Prescott been doing well previously?" asked the judge-advocate. "Only during the last week, sir. During the last week he displayed such a new knowledge and interest in mathematics that I was prepared, on his last week's marks, to recommend that he ascend two sections in his class." "Is it not true, Captain, that Mr. Prescott, in the last week, showed such a sudden, new proficiency as might be accounted for by the possibility that he had then begun to carry written 'cribs' to the class? "His progress last week was such as might be accounted for by that supposition," replied the witness reluctantly. "That is all, Captain." Lieutenant Topham then took the witness in hand, but did not succeed in bringing out anything that would aid the cause of the accused cadet. "Cadet Dunstan!" called the judge-advocate. Dunstan stepped forward and was sworn. He had testified that, during the blackboard work, he had stood beside Mr. Prescott. Dunstan was positive that he had not seen any slip of paper in Prescott's hands. "Did you look his way often, Mr. Dunstan "Not directly, sir; I was busy with my own work." "Yet, had Mr. Prescott had a slip of paper held slyly in either hand, do you think you would have seen it? "I am positive that I would, sir," replied Cadet Dunstan. Under the questioning of Lieutenant Topham, Dunstan stated that he had witnessed Prescott's loan of his handkerchief to Dodge before the sections formed to march to mathematics section room. "In what condition, or shape, did Mr. Dodge return Mr. Prescott's handkerchief?" ask Lieutenant Topham. "The handkerchief was crumpled up, sir." "So that, had there been a paper folded in it, the paper very likely would not have been visible?" "The paper most likely would not have been visible, sir." "In what form was the handkerchief handed to Mr. Dodge by Mr. Prescott?" "I am almost certain, sir, that Mr. Prescott passed it holding it by one corner." "So that, had there been any paper in it at that time, it would have fallen to the ground?" "Yes sir." "What did Mr. Prescott do with the handkerchief when it was returned to him." "My recollection, sir, is that Mr. Prescott took his handkerchief without examining it, and thrust it into his blouse." "Are you sure that he did so?" "I cannot state it with absolute certainty, sir. It is my best recollection, sir." Bert Dodge had sat through this testimony trying to look unconcerned. Yet around the corners of his mouth played a slight, greenish pallor. The testimony of the cadets had not been looked for to be very important. Now, however, the president of the court regretted that he had not excluded from the room all of three cadet witnesses except the one under examination. Cadet Gray was next called. He was able to testify only that, while at the blackboard, Mr. Dunstan had stood on one side of Cadet Prescott and the present witness on the other side. Mr. Gray was strongly of the belief that, had Prescott been slyly using a written crib, he (Gray) would have noted the fact. Mr. Gray had not been a witness to the handkerchief-loaning incident before formation of sections. "Cadet Dodge!" Dodge rose and came forward with a distinct swagger. He was plainly conscious of the cadet corporal's chevrons on his sleeve, and plainly regarded himself as a superior type of cadet. He was sworn and questioned about the handkerchief-borrowing incident. He admitted the borrowing of the handkerchief to wipe a smear of dirt from the back of his hand. As to the condition of the handkerchief at the time of its return, Mr. Dodge stated his present belief that the handkerchief was very loosely rolled up. Then Lieutenant Topham took the witness over. "Would the handkerchief, when you handed it back, have held this slip of paper?" questioned Mr. Topham, holding up the slip that had brought about all of Prescott's present trouble. "It might have, sir, had the paper been crumpled as well." "Did you hand the handkerchief back with a paper inside of it?" "Not according to any knowledge of mine, sir." "Was there a paper in the handkerchief, Mr. Dodge, when Mr. Prescott passed his handkerchief to you?" "To the best of my belief, sir, there was not." "Now, pay particular heed, if you please Mr. Dodge," requested Lieutenant Topham, fixing his gaze keenly on the witness. Dodge tried not to look apprehensive. "Did you have any paper in your hand while you had Mr. Prescott's handkerchief in your own possession?" "No, sir," replied Dodge with emphasis. "Did you, knowingly, pass the handkerchief back to the accused cadet with any paper inside of it, or touching it in any way?" "No, sir!" Lieutenant Topham continued for some seconds to regard Mr. Dodge in silence. The witness began to lose some of his swagger. Then, abruptly, as though firing a pistol, Lieutenant Topham shot out the question: "How about that smear of dirt on your hand, Mr. Dodge? How did it come to be on the back of your hand?" If Mr. Topham had looked to this question to break the witness down he was doomed to disappointment. "I do not know, sir," Dodge replied distinctly. "I am of the opinion, sir, that it must have come from the blacking on one of my shoes as I put it on before leaving my room." There was no more to be gained from Dodge. He was excused. Now, Dick Prescott rose a was sworn, that he might testify in his own behalf. Yet he could do no more, under the military rules of evidence, than to deny any guilty knowledge of the slip of paper, and to repeat the handkerchief-loaning recital substantially as Dunstan had given it. This closed the testimony. The president of the court announced that a recess of ten minutes would be taken, and that the room and gallery would be cleared of all except members of the court and the counsel for the accused. As Dick turned to leave, he again turned his face toward the gallery. He saw his Gridley friends and looked bravely into their eyes, smiling. Then he caught sight of a veiled woman up there, who had risen, and was moving out. Dicks started; he could not help it, there was something so strangely familiar in that figure and carriage. The cadet witnesses had already left, and we returning to barracks. Lieutenant Topham touched Prescott's arm and walked with him to the corridor. "I shall do my best for you, you may be sure, Mr. Prescott," whispered the cavalry officer. "May I ask, sir, what you think of the chances? "Candidly, it looks to me like almost an even toss-up between conviction and acquittal." Dick's face blanched. Then he turned, with starts The veiled woman was moving toward him with uncertain steps. "Lieutenant Topham, I did not know my mother was to be present, but I am almost positive that is she." Now, the veiled woman came a few steps nearer, looking appealingly at Dick. "I am told, sir, that my son is in close arrest," she called, in a voice that thrilled the cadet. "But I am his mother. May I speak with him a moment?" Mother and son were clasped in each other's arms for a moment. What they said matters little. Then Cadet Richard Prescott returned to his bleak room in barracks. CHAPTER XVI A VERDICT AND A HOP Then followed days full of suspense for many besides the accused cadet. Prescott went mechanically at his studies, with a dogged determination to get high markings in everything. Yet over mathematics more than anything, he pored. He fought out his problems in the section room grimly, bent on showing that he could win high marks without the aid of "cribs." He was still in arrest, and must remain so until the finding of the court-martial---whatever it was---had been duly considered at Washington and returned with the President's indorsement. All this time Dick's mother and three faithful Gridley friends remained at the West Point Hotel. Dick could not go to them; they could not come to him, but notes might pass. Prescott received these epistles daily, and briefly but appreciatively answered them. Then he went back furiously to his studies. Grit could do him little good, except in his studies, if he were fated to remain at West Point. Grit could not help him in the settling of his fate. Either the court-martial had found him guilty, or had found him innocent, and all the courage in the world would not alter the verdict. In the section room in mathematics, Captain Abbott did not show this cadet any disfavor or the opposite. The instructor's manner and tone with Prescott were the same as with all the other cadets. When going to formations some of the cadets rather openly avoided Prescott. This cut like a knife. But evidently they believed him probably guilty, and they were entitled to their opinions. He must possess himself with patience for a few days; there was nothing else to do. So the week rolled around again to Saturday. Now here were two afternoons when the young cadet might have gone to his mother and friends at the hotel, had he not been in arrest. There was to be a hop that night, but he could not "drag" the girl who had been so staunch and sweet. On this Saturday, when he need not study much, Dick found himself in a dull rage with his helplessness. The day was bright, clear, cold and sunny, but the young cadet's soul was dark and moody. Would this suspense never end? Dinner was to him merely another phase of duty. He had no real appetite; he would have preferred to sit brooding at his study table. The meal over, the battalion marched back, halting, still in formation, at the north side of barracks near the sally-port. The cadet captain in command of the battalion read some unimportant notices. Dick did not even hear them. He knew his fate was not to come to him through this channel. While the reading was going on the Adjutant of the Military Academy came through the sally-port leisurely, as soon as he saw that the men were still in ranks. Dick did not see the Adjutant, either. If he had, he might hardly have heeded the presence of that Army officer, the personal representative of the superintendent. But, just as the cadet captain let fall the hand in which he had held the notices the adjutant called out crisply: "Don't dismiss, Captain! Hold the companies!" Between two of the companies stepped the adjutant, then walked to the front of center. Drawing, a paper from his overcoat, the adjutant began to read. It was a "special order." Even to this Prescott listened only with unhearing ears---at first. Then, though he betrayed no more audible interest than did any of the other men in gray, Dick Prescott found his head swimming. This special order referred to his own case. It was a report of the findings, these findings having been duly approved. Cadet Richard Prescott's head began to whirl. The bright day seemed darkening before his dimmed vision, until he heard, unmistakably, the one word: "Acquitted!" What followed was a further order releasing him from arrest and restoring him to the usual cadet privileges. "That is all, Captain," added the adjutant, folding the order and returning it to his overcoat. "Dismiss the companies when ready." "Dismiss the companies!" came from the cadet battalion commander. The separate commands of the various company commanders rang out. Ranks were broken---and friends in gray crowded about the yearling. Then the corps yell was called for and given, with his name added. Some of the cadets slipped in through the sally-port, sooner than join in the demonstration. "Thank you all---it's jolly good of you!" cried Prescott huskily. As soon as these comrades in arms would let him, he broke through and made for his room. "Hooray!" yelled Greg, turning loose. And Cadet Anstey thrust his head into the room long enough to add: "Hooray!" But Dick, half stripped above the waist, was at the washstand, making a thorough toilet, though a hurried one. Greg waited, his eyes shining. "It's mighty good of you all," cried Dick, as he was pulling on his cadet overcoat. "I wish I could stop and talk about it---but there a duties that can't be hurried fast enough." "Give my regards," called Holmes jovially after Prescott. Crossing the barracks area, Dick strode into cadet guard-house, nimbly mounting the stairs to the second floor. Here he stood in the office of the O.C. Saluting, he carefully phrased his request for leave to visit friends at the hotel. This being granted, Dick went down the stairs at the greatest speed consistent with military dignity under the circumstances. Out through the north sally-port and along the road running between officers' quarters and parade ground he hurried. By the time he had walked to the hotel he had cooled off his first excitement somewhat. He signed in the cadet register, then laid down his card. "To Mrs. Prescott, please." As ebony-visaged "front" vanished from the office, Dick turned and walked to the ladies' entrance, passing thence into the parlor. Dick's mother was found at the dining table. So were her Gridley friends. All were finishing a light meal without appetite when the card was laid by Mrs. Prescott's plate. "My boy, Dick---here?" she cried brokenly rising as quickly as she could. Mrs. Prescott passed quickly from the dining room, though her friends were close at her heels. So they all rushed in upon the solitary young cadet standing inside the parlor by a window. As he heard them coming, Dick wheeled about. There was a tear in his eye, which deceived them. Halting, a few feet away, these eager ones stared at him. Dick tried to greet them in words, but he couldn't at first. It was Laura who found her voice first. "Dick! Tell us in a word!" But Belle Meade gave Miss Bentley a somewhat vigorous push forward. "Use your eyes, Laura!" rebuked Belle vigorously. "In the first place, Mr. Prescott is here. That means he's here by permission or right. In the second place, you ninny---he still has the uniform on!" "That's right," laughed Dick. "Yes, mother, and friends, the court-martial's finding was wholly favorable to me." "Humph!" demanded Belle scornfully. "Why shouldn't it be? Wouldn't you expect thirteen old West Point graduates to know as much as four women from the country?" Belle's hearty nonsense put an end to all tension. Mrs. Prescott met and embraced her son. The others crowded about, offering congratulations. That night Dick and Greg "dragged" the Gridley girls to the cadet hop at Cullum, and Anstey was a favored one on the hop cards of both girls. Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Bentley looked on from the gallery. "It's the jolliest hop I've been to," declared Dick with enthusiasm. "Humph!" muttered Holmes. "Of course it is. You old boner, you've never been but to three hops! "I understand," teased Belle, "that you're much more of a veteran, Mr. Holmes, than your chum is." Cadet Dodge "missed" that hop. CHAPTER XVII "A LIAR AND A COWARD" Long, indeed, did the memory of that hop linger with Cadet Dick Prescott. It had come as the fitting, cheering ending of his great trouble---the hardest trouble that had assailed him, or could assail him, at the United States Military Academy. "Well, you've been vindicated, anyway," muttered Greg cheerily, one day. "So you needn't look as thoughtful as you do half of the time these present days." "Have I been vindicated, Greg?" asked Dick gravely. "What did the court say? And you're still wearing the uniform that Uncle Sam gave you, aren't you? "Vindication, Greg, means something more that a court-martial verdict of acquittal." "What more do you want?" "Greg, the verdicts of all the courts-martial sitting between here and Manila wouldn't make some of the men of this corps believe that I innocent." "G'wan!" retorted Cadet Holmes impatiently. "I see it, Greg, old chum, if you don't." "You're morbid, old ramrod!" "Greg, you know the cheery greeting, in passing, that one man here often gives another when he likes and trusts that man. Well, some of own classmates that used to give me the glad hail seem to be thinking about something else, now, when they pass me." "Who are they?" demanded Greg, his fists doubling. "You'd provoke a fight, if I told you," retorted Dick. "This isn't a matter to fight about." "Then you don't know much about fighting subjects," grumbled Cadet Holmes, as he leaned back and opened his book of everlasting mathematics. "Let me see, Greg; have you any show to get out of the goats in math.?" "I'm in hopes to get out and step into the next section above," replied Greg. "I've been working hard enough." "Then you'd better waste no thoughts on pugilism. Calculus will bring you more happiness." "Calculus was never designed to bring anyone happiness," retorted Greg sulkily. "It's a torment invented on purpose to harrow the souls of cadets. What good, any way, will calculus ever be to an officer who has a platoon of men to lead in a charge on the enemy?" This could not very well be answered, so Dick dodged the subject. "Remember the January exams., old fellow," warned Dick. "And the general review begins Monday. That will show you up, if you don't keep your nose in math. and out of books on the Queensbury rules." "Funny how Bert Dodge keeps up in mathematics, and yet takes in all the pleasures he can find," rumbled on Greg, as he turned the pages of his book, seeking what he wanted. "Dodge is in the section just under the stars, and I hear he has dreams of being in the star section after the January ordeals." "Dodge always was a rather good student at Gridley High School" rejoined Prescott. "But he never led our class there in the High School mathematics, which is baby's play compared with West Point math." "Well, he gets the marks now," sighed Dick. "I wish we could, too." The academic part of the cadet's year is divided into two halves. The first half winds up in January. During the last few weeks before the period for the winter examination, there is a general review in some of the subjects, notably in mathematics. This general review brings out all of a man's weak points in his subject. Incidentally, it should strengthen him in his weak points. Now, if, in the general review, a cadet shows sufficient proficiency in his subject, he is not required to take the examination. If he fails in the general review in mathematics, he must go up for a "writ," as a written examination is termed. And that writ is cruelly searching. If the young man fails in the "writ," he may be conditioned and required to make up his deficiencies in June. If, in June, he fails to make up all deficiencies, he is dropped from the cadet corps as being below the mental standards required of a West Point graduate. Neither Dick nor Greg stood high enough in mathematics to care to go on past January conditioned. Both felt that, with conditions extending over to the summer, they must fail in June. "I'd sooner have my funeral held tomorrow than drop out of West Point," Greg stated. Prescott, while not making that assertion, knew that it would blast his dearest hopes life if he had to go down in the academic battle. Dodge, who was so high in mathematics that he need have little fear, was circulating a good deal among his classmates these days before Christmas. "That hound, Prescott, made a slick dodge to drag me into his disgrace," Dodge declared, to those whom he thought would be interest in such remarks. "It was a clever trick! couldn't put me in disgrace, for there is no breach of regulations in borrowing a handkerchief for a moment. But Prescott made so much of that handkerchief business that it served his purpose and dragged him out safely before the court." "Do you think Prescott was really guilty of a crib?" asked one of Dodge's hearers. "I can't prove it, but I know what I think," retorted Dodge. "His effort to draw me into the row shows what kind of a fellow he is at bottom." "I'd hate to think that Prescott would really be mean enough for a crib." "Think what you like, then, of course. But a fellow guilty of one meanness might not stop at others." Dodge talked much in this vein. Cadets are not tale-bearers, and so little or none of this talk reached Dick's ears until Furlong came along, one day, in time to hear Dodge holding forth on his favorite subject. Yearling Furlong halted, eyeing Cadet Dodge sternly, keenly. "Well," demanded Dodge, "what's wrong?" "I don't know exactly," replied Furlong, with a quizzical smile. "I think, though, that the basic error lay in your ever having been born at all." Dodge tried to laugh it off as a pleasantry. He had met Furlong once, in a fight, and had no desire to be sent to cadet hospital again with blackened eyes. "I don't want to mind other people's business, Dodge," continued Furlong coolly, "but you're going a bit too far, it seems to me, in what you say about Prescott. Why should you seek to blacken the character of one of our best fellows, and the president of our class?" "Because he tried to blacken mine," retorted Dodge boldly. "He didn't. All he did, at the court-martial, was to explain the adventures of his handkerchief just before that piece of paper fell to the floor of the section room." "Wasn't that an insinuation against me?" demanded Cadet Dodge. "Not unless your character here is on such a very poor foundation that it can't stand any suspicions," replied Furlong coldly. "Now, see here, Dodge, the general review is on, and Prescott can't spare any time on private rows. After the general review is over, if I hear any more about your roasting Prescott, I'm going to call on you to go with me to Prescott's presence, and repeat your statements to his face. I don't want to stir up any needless personal trouble, Dodge, but I declare myself now as one of old ramrod's friends. Any slander against him must be backed up. I trust you will pardon my having been so explicit." Furlong turned on his heel, striding away. The cadets to whom Dodge had been talking bitterly looked at Bert curiously. A good many men in the corps would have promptly resented such remarks as Furlong's, and to the limit, by calling him out. "Queer how many friends, of some kinds, a fellow like Prescott can have," laughed Dodge sneeringly. "Not at all," spoke up one of Dodge's listeners. "Everyone always knows where Prescott stands, and he'll back up anything he says. Furlong is another man of the same stamp." With that the last speaker turned on his heel and walked away. For some days after that, Bert Dodge was more careful of his utterances. The general reviews came and passed. By sheer hard, undistracted work, both Dick and Greg succeeded in pulling through without having to go up for writs. For some reason Dodge did not do quite as well in the general review, and was forced to drop down a couple of sections. He still stood well, however, in math. In the next week after the dangerous examination period Dick Prescott began to forge upwards in mathematics. He was now in the section fourth removed from the goats, and Greg was up in the section next above the goats. On the afternoon of the Friday when the markings had been posted Dodge met Dennison, also of the yearling class. "Say, what do you think, Dodge, of Prescott beginning to shoot up through the sections toward you? He'll soon be marching at your side when math. is called." "He'll bear watching," nodded Dodge sagely. "That's what I feel about it," replied Dennison. "Prescott isn't the kind of man who can climb high in mathematics, and do it honestly," continued Dodge. "Either he has the old crib at work again, or has hit on a safer way of working crib." "Of course he has," nodded Dennison. "We ought to post the class---especially Prescott own section comrades. They can catch him, if they're sharp, and then pass the word through the class without bothering the authorities. If Prescott is doing such things he must be driven from West Point." "He will be---see if he isn't," retorted Bert sullenly. "I'm going to pass the word to the class." "And I'll post the men in the same section with him," promised Dennison. "Why not post Prescott first?" demanded a cold voice. A cadet had halted behind the pair. "Oh, you, Furlong?" snarled Dodge, turning. "Yes," replied Cadet Furlong. "And I told you, on a former occasion, what I thought about back-biters." "Be careful, Furlong!" warned Dennison angrily. "At your service, sir, any time," coolly replied Furlong, though he was a head shorter than Dennison, who was one of the big athletes of the yearling class. "But the class ought to know some truths," retorted Dodge harshly. "Here comes some of the class now," replied Furlong, as seven yearlings, on their way back from the library, turned in at the sally-port. "Tell them for a start, Dodge, and I'll listen. Hold on there, fellows. Oh, you there, Prescott? That's lucky. Dodge has some 'facts' he thinks the class ought to know, and I want you to hear them. Now, Dodge, turn around and repeat what you were just saying." There was no help for it. Dodge had to speak up, or be considered a cur that bit only in the dark. So, with a show of defiance, Dodge spoke hotly giving a very fair repetition of what he had lately said. Prescott stood by, his fists clenched, his face white, but without interrupting or making any move. "Now, state what you said, Mr. Dennison," requested Furlong coldly. Thus cornered, Dennison, too, had to state truthfully what he had just been saying. There was a pause. Some of the yearlings looked straight ahead. Others glanced curiously at the principals in this little drama of cadet life. None of them took Furlong to be anything more than the stage manager. "Have you said all you have to say, Mr. Dodge?" demanded Cadet Prescott. "Yes," flared Bert. "Have you anything that you wish to add, Mr. Dennison?" demanded Dick, wheeling upon his other foe in the corps. "Nothing more, at present," replied Dennison coolly. He realized how much bigger and more powerful he was than Dick Prescott. "Then, as for you, Mr. Dodge," continued Prescott, fixing his old-time enemy with a cold eye, "you're a liar and a coward!" Dodge doubled his fists, springing forward, but two of the yearlings caught him and dragged him back, for old ramrod's back was already turned. Dick was eyeing his other detractor. "You, Mr. Dennison," continued Prescott, "are a dirty scandal-monger, a back-biter and a source of danger to the honor of the cadet corps!" CHAPTER XVIII THE FIGHT IN BARRACKS "Let go of me!" roared Dennison, as two men held him. "Let me at that-----" "Any name that you would see fit to call me, Dennison, wouldn't sting," retorted Dick. "You have forfeited the right to have your opinion considered a gentleman's." "Don't you ever call names?" hissed Dennison. "Only to the faces of the men to whom the names are applied," retorted Dick. "And that's right," agreed Furlong heartily. "We've been classmates nearly two years, and I've heard old ramrod say disagreeable things, once or twice, behind men's backs. But it was never until after he had said the same thing to the man's face." "This isn't fair," fussed Dennison, "to hold me back after I've been insulted." By this time, half a dozen more cadets had stopped. Three of the newest comers were yearlings, one was a second classman and two were first classmen. "Will you let me act as one of your friends, old ramrod?" asked Cadet Furlong. "I think you've proved your right, on this and other occasions," laughed Dick quietly. "Go ahead, please, Milesy." "This is not place for a fight," continued Furlong, "and this crowd had better break up, or we shall be seen and there'll be an inquiry from the tactical department. As Prescott's friend, I will say that he is prepared to give full satisfaction to both men. In fact, if they didn't demand it, he would." Before so many, Bert Dodge had to appear brave. "I demand the first meeting for satisfaction," Bert insisted. "And I think you may count on getting the first meeting," nodded Furlong coolly. "Now, Mr. Dodge, to whom shall I look as your friend?" "Let me act!" begged Dennison hoarsely. "Go ahead, Dennison," replied Dodge, who felt that he would draw some comfort from having this big athlete of the class for a backer. "Now, break up, please, gentlemen," begged Furlong. "We don't want and wind of this to blow to official quarters. Dennison, I invite you to come to my room." Like soldiers dismissed from ranks, the sudden gathering in the sally-port dispersed. Dick went on to his own quarters. "Now, that's what I call huge!" chuckled Greg Holmes, as soon as he heard the news. "But see here, old ramrod, I'm to be your other second?" "Of course," nodded Dick. "Then I'm off for Furlong's room at once. And again---hooray!" There being nothing to prevent a prompt meeting, it was arranged to take place that evening at 8.30. In the subdivision where Furlong lived there was an empty room up on the plebe floor. Sharp to the minute of 8.30 the men were at hand. Packard, of the first class, had agreed to act as referee. Maitland, second class, held the watch. Dodge and Prescott were in their corners, stripped for the fray. Nelson, of the third class, was Dodge's other second. Both men looked in fine condition as they waited for the referee to call the bout. Both had received the same amount of bodily training, some of it under Captain Koehler at the gymnasium, and a good deal more of it in infantry, cavalry, artillery and other drills. Over the chests and between the shoulder blades of both men were pads of supple muscles. Both men were strong of arm, though neither too heavy with muscle to be quick and active. "Gentlemen," announced Referee Packard, "this fight is to be to a finish, with bare hands. Rounds, two minutes each. Time between rounds one minute. There will be no preliminary handshaking. Are you ready, gentlemen?" "Ready!" quivered Dodge. "Ready," softly replied Prescott, a smile hovering over his lips. "Time!" Dodge came forward nimbly, his head well down and his guards well placed. Prescott was straighter, at the outset, and his attitude almost careless, in appearance. Dick had been a clever fighter back in the old High School days. Dodge, since coming to West Point, had vastly improved both in guard and in offence. It was Dodge who led off. He was not by any means a physical coward, and possessed a good deal of the cornered kind of courage of the fighting rat. Dodge's first two or three blows were neatly parried. Then he began to mix it up in a lively way, and three heavy blows landed on Dick's body. But Dodge didn't get back out of it unscathed. One hard thump on his chest, in particular, staggered him. Then at it again went both men, fire in Dodge's eye, mockery in Dick's. The blows fell fast and furious, until the lookers-on wanted to cheer. There was little of foot work, little of getting away. It was heavy, forceful give-and-take until failing wind compelled both men to draw back. They kept at it, but sparring for wind until the call of time came. Both men were then hustled back into their corners, sponged, kneaded, fanned. A minute was mighty short time in which to recover fighting trim from such mauling as had been exchanged. "Time!" Biff, bump, pound! It was the style of fighting that Dodge was forcing, and it had to be met. Yet all the time Dick was alert, watching for a chance to land a stinging blow somewhere except on the torso. Just before the close of the second round Prescott thought he saw his chance. Feinting with his left, he drove in a hook with his right, aimed for Bert's nose. It touched, instead, on the lip, not a hard blow, but a tantalizing one. As the men drew back at the call of time a blotch of red was seen on Bert's lower lip. When he came back for the third round, that lip was puffing fast. "Third round, time!" Again Bert Dodge started in with his heavy body tactics. But this time Dick himself changed the style. With swift, clever foot-work he danced all around his now furious opponent. Dodge could follow the swift style, too, however, and defended himself, finally coming back with the assault. Half way through the round Dick received a sharp tap on his nose that brought the red. Stung, Prescott became only the cooler. For some time he fought for the opening that he wanted, and got it at last, though Dodge's guarding left prevented the blow from landing with quite all the force with which it had been driven. Dick's middle knuckles raked that already swollen lip, but the lower knuckles landed against the tip of Dodge's jaw with a force which, while not complete, nevertheless sent Bert to the floor, where he lay on his side. "One, two, three, four-----" began Maitland, his gaze on the slipping second hand of his watch. "Take the full count, Bert!" warned Dennison. "Nine, ten!" finished Maitland. In that instant Dodge was on his feet again, head down and working with great caution. "Time!" The third round ended ere Prescott could put in any finishing touches. Yet, under the skillful hands of his seconds, Dodge came up rather smilingly at the call for the opening of the fourth. There was almost murder in Dodge's eyes now. He felt that he was the better man, and yet he had been getting slightly the worst of it so far. But he would show them! Yet, after forty seconds of this work, when Dodge had just let fly a blow intended to land over Prescott's heart, his fist touched only air and he lurched forward. In the same instant Dick swung a smashing blow on Bert's left ear. Bert went down, lying there like a log. In the silence that followed the finish of the count, and the referee's awarding words, Dick Prescott's voice broke in, as soft and cool as ever: "In fifteen minutes, Mr. Dennison, I'll be ready for _you_!" CHAPTER XIX MR. DENNISON'S TURN IS SERVED Furlong sprang forward to protest. "See here, old ramrod, don't be foolish." "I can handle it as well tonight as at any time," Dick laughed as coolly as ever. "But you've taken a lot of punishment." "Fifteen minutes is all I need, with seconds like you and Greg." "Will it be fair to yourself, Prescott?" demanded Packard. "Wholly," replied Dick unconcernedly. "Let him alone," urged Greg. "Old ramrod always knows what he's doing." "I'm not sure that we can get Dodge out of here and attended to, and be already for the start in fifteen minutes," replied Packard. "Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five," insisted Dick. "Whatever time is necessary, so that we start in time to be through before taps." "What do you say, Dennison?" asked Packard. "I? Oh, I'll be ready," grinned the athlete. "Will you serve Dennison?" asked Packard, turning to Nelson "Yes; of course." "Then, Nelson, confer with Dennison and see whom he wants to serve with you. The rest of us will work over Dodge. Whew! Look that ear puff up while you watch it!" "Beauty, isn't it?" asked Greg grimly. "It will be a cauliflower decoration, all right." Nelson went scurrying, soon returning with Anderson. Any yearling would gladly have served tonight, in order to see what doughty Dick Prescott would do against his second man in the same evening. With Nelson and Anderson came two other yearlings who had agreed to see Dodge safely to the door of cadet hospital. Bert Dodge had been brought around at last. He was a bit dazed, but he grinned, as he went out, when Dennison murmured in his ear: "Never you mind, old man. I'll take care of Prescott. I'll twist the ramrod into a figure 8." "We must proceed as promptly as possible, gentlemen," rapped out Mr. Packard. "We must be finished before taps." "Dennison will be finished, by that time," muttered Greg in a cheerful undertone. Holmes had never provoked a senseless fight. He was good-natured almost to a fault. Yet, when a fight became inevitable, Greg could act as principal or second with equal cheeriness. Nelson had brought back with him togs for Dennison, and that athlete was quickly ready. Every minute of the time had been utilized well in getting, Dick Prescott in condition for his second scrap of the evening. His nose-bleed had been stopped, but it was wind and lung power that he wanted most. He had taken some heavy body thumping, but rest and rubbing had worked out most of the soreness. "Get up and kick a bit. See what you can do," advised Furlong. Dick went through a few irregular gymnastics. "There's one good thing about old ramrod," declared Greg, in a grinning undertone. "He's always ready, every minute of the time!" Sharply, quickly, now, the combatants were brought face to face. At the call of time, Dennison sailed in; Dick leaped forward. Dennison was amused, more than half contemptuous over the easiness of the work that he thought had come to him. But he felt in honor bound to make the thing short. In the first place, he had to avenge Dodge. In the second place, it would reflect upon himself if Dennison allowed Prescott to string the battle out. Some sharp cracks were given and taken, and many more dodged or struck aside, when, up close to the end of the first round, Prescott landed one between the big fellow's eyes that made him see stars. Right in close Prescott followed, before his opponent could recover. But the time-keeper's call prevented further doings. "He's a mosquito, that's all," growled Denison to Nelson, in the corner. "Go in and swat him, then," grinned Nelson. "Watch me!" "Remember, then, that skeeters are dodgers." "I'll saw him off, this time," grumbled the big fellow. The call of time brought both men forward. But Dick, the same quiet smile on his face, had planned new tactics with Furlong during that minute's rest. Now, Dick struck Dennison, not very heavily, on the right shoulder. The next time it was a tap on the right chest. Dennison strove to resent these indignities, but Prescott had a definite plan of sustained assault, and the big fellow could not read it in advance. Twice Dick got caught by swings, though he was not sadly troubled. He was lanching in, lightly, all over the less vital parts on his man now. It did Dennison no harm, but the impudence of it stung the big fellow. "Time!" "That's the b.j.-est skeeter I ever saw," grinned Nelson, as he sprayed water over Dennison's biceps. "You quit, Nelse!" "All right. Don't get mad at me. Just catch Prescott on your face and mash him!" Again the men were called to the center of the room. They eyed each other, "measured arms" in a few useless passes, then settled down to business. On Dick's part that business was to dodge about as before, touching lightly here and there. Dennison's effort was to swing in one hard, sufficient blow. Just thirty-five seconds from the start of the round Dick found his opportunity, and took it. His right smashed in fearfully on the end of the big fellow's jaw bone, just under the ear. Bump! Dennison's big, muscular body hit the floor like the falling of a tree. Maitland counted, for he knew the big fellow couldn't rise in ten seconds after a blow like that. "Nine, ten," finished the time-keeper, and dropped his watch into his pocket. "I award the fight to Mr. Prescott," announced Packard. "Now, what are we going to do with this big hulk?" That was a problem. It would hardly do to take another cadet to hospital that night. Anyway Dennison would need a stretcher, and four cadets to carry him, for he still lay on the floor in a stupor, from which the usual methods of reviving a man after a knockout failed to bring him. It was just ten minutes before taps when Dennison was finally brought around and helped to his feet. "Where's Prescott?" asked Dennison, after he had gulped down a glass of water. "Here," answered Dick, stepping forward. "Prescott, I don't suppose I'm very clear headed yet," rambled on Dennison. "But I want to apologize for my words this afternoon. And---I'm glad you whacked me right tonight. Perhaps I'll really learn something from it. But my apologies, anyway." "Say no more," begged Dick, tendering his hand. "It is all forgotten." Dick received hasty congratulations from the late officials of the fights. Then they, and Prescott and his friends, disappeared quickly to quarters. Dennison was helped to his room. When the subdivision inspectors went through with their bulls-eye lanterns immediately after taps, they found all present save Cadet Albert Dodge. Dodge passed a painful couple of hours until opiates won out and he passed into drugged sleep. In one respect Dodge got far less out of the fight than had Dennison. Bert had not even learned, convincingly, that Prescott was a man to let alone. CHAPTER XX A DISCOVERY AT THE RIDING DRILL Having once got a hard gait in mathematics, Dick went steadily on and up until he reached one of the middle sections. There he stopped. It was as high as he could go, with all this competition from the brightest young men in the country. Greg, too, managed to get well away from the goats, and so was happy. Through the winter the yearlings, in detachments, had attended the riding hall regularly during the afternoons. Most of the men, as spring came along, had proven themselves very good cadet horsemen, though all would have chance to learn more during the two years yet ahead of them. Dodge, who rode in the same detachment with Dick and Greg, was credited with being the poorest rider in the class. "When you get to be an officer, Mr. Dodge, you'll have to take the yearly walking test for three days. You'll get over the ground quicker and safer than you would on a horse," remarked the cadet corporal. "Oh, well, sir, I'm going into the doughboys, anyway," grinned Dodge. "It will be a good many years before I can get up far enough in the line to be called upon to ride a horse." The "doughboys" are the United States Infantry. No company officer in the infantry mounted; only the field and staff officers of the doughboys are provided with mounts. One cloudy Friday afternoon Cadet Corporal Haskins marched a yearling detachment down to the riding hall. Captain Hall, their instructor, was already in saddle. He turned to receive the report of Haskins after the detachment had been halted at the edge of the tan-bark. "Stand to horse!" ordered Captain Hall. The men of the detachments sprang over, each leading out his mount for the afternoon. "Prepare to mount!" Instantly each young man stood with one foot in stirrup, one hand at the animal's mane, and one at saddle. "Mount!" In perfect unison the yearling cadets swung themselves up into saddle, their right feet searching for and then resting in the stirrup boxes. Then, at the command, Haskins led his men out in single file. Thus they circled the riding hall twice at a walk. "Trot!" came Captain Hall's command. A few rounds of this was followed by the command, "gallop!" Around and around the hall the cadets rode, every man but one feeling the blood tingling with new life through his arteries. It was glorious to stride a horse and to ride at this gait! Glorious, that is, for all except one man. Dodge rode at the tail end of the line, on a fiend of a horse that had proven disastrous to more than one green rider. As the "gallop" was ordered, Dodge's mount showed a longing to bolt and dash up to the head of the line. Dodge, throbbing uneasily, reined in hard. His horse began to chafe as it found itself forced back. In another moment Dodge was lagging behind. "Keep the pace, Mr. Dodge! Keep the pace, sir!" called out Captain Hall. Bert obeyed, but in fear. He did not know at what instant this uneasy animal would rear and unhorse him. At last the detachment was halted and the line faced about. Now the detachment rode in reverse direction around the tan-bark. By this means Dodge became the leader. Through the walk and the trot, he managed to get along all right, though he was nervous. "Stick to your saddle, Mr. Dodge!" called Captain Hall. "Don't bump it, sir. Settle down and ride steadily." Then, an instant later, just as Dodge was beginning to feel secure: "Gallop!" Dodge's wild mount gave a snort, then bolted. "Whoa, you unruly beast!" roared Dodge. Behind him rode the detachment, grimly merry, though with not a flicker of a smile showing. Bert's horse pulled away, and bolted, with Dodge tugging at the bridle. Greg, riding behind him, endeavored to bridge the gap. "Steady, Mr. Holmes!" shouted the cavalry instructor. "You may set the pace until Mr. Dodge regains control of his mount." Straight around the tan-bark went Dodge and his mount, until the animal was in danger of colliding with Haskins' mount. "Hard on your off rein, Mr. Dodge! Swing out into the center and bring your horse down!" ordered Captain Hall sternly. Bert managed to swing out of the line, but that was all. He shot along on the inside, for the horse seemed to have a notion that it was racing the entire detachment, lap by lap. "Have you utterly lost control of your horse, Mr. Dodge?" shouted Captain Hall. Plainly enough the young man had, for, at that moment, the beast, its mouth sore from the continued tugging against the bits, slackened its pace, then plunged on its forefeet, throwing its heels high in the air. With a gasp of terror Dodge struck the tan-bark, one shoulder landing first. But he still retained the bridle, and was dragged. The vicious animal wheeled, rearing, and its fore-feet came down aimed at Dodge's face. Dick Prescott was the nearest cadet horseman at this moment. Suspecting what might happen, Prescott had swung his own mount sharply out of line, riding straight after Dodge. "Drop your bridle!" called Dick sternly. Then, just as Dodge's horse was bringing its fore-feet down, Prescott rode against the angry animal, striking it against the flank and shoving it sideways and back. The brute's forefeet struck the tan-bark, but more than two feet from Dodge's head. Bert had presence of mind enough to roll to one side. In an instant Prescott was down out of saddle, holding his own splendidly disciplined mount by the bridle while he bent over his class-mate. Dodge lay on the tan-bark, his uniform awry and dirty, and his face blanched with fear of the horse. "Are you much hurt, Dodge?" asked Dick. "No, confound you!" muttered Bert under his breath. As if to prove his lack of injury, he sat up, then rose to his feet. "Mount, Mr. Prescott, and join the line," noting all with quick eyes. "Mr. Dodge, recapture your horse, mount and fall in." That was the discipline of the tan-bark. If a cadet falls from a horse and has no bones broken, or no other desperate injury, he must wait until his horse comes around, catch it and mount again. If the horse be excited and fractious, all the more reason why the cadet should capture the beast and mount instantly. A horse must always be taught that a cavalryman is his master. The riderless brute had fallen in at the tail of the line now, behind Cadet Corporal Haslins, and was going along peaceably enough---until Bert Dodge made a lunge for the bridle. Then the beast shied, and got past. "Run after your horse, Mr. Dodge; catch him and mount him," called Captain Hall, fuming that this episode should steal away drill time from the other more capable young horsemen. "Mr. Dodge," rapped out the cavalry instructor sharply, after Bert had made two more efforts to get hold of the bridle, "are you waiting for a groom to bring your horse to you?" At this some of the pent-up merriment broke loose. Half a dozen yearlings chuckled aloud. "Silence in ranks!" ordered the instructor sharply. Then, patiently, though with more that a tinge of rebuke in his tone, the captain added: "Mr. Dodge, you've taken all the time we can spare you, sir. Catch that horse instantly and mount!" By sheer good luck Bert managed to obey. But his nerve was gone for the afternoon. He made a sad bungle of all the work, though he was not again unhorsed. There was bareback riding, and riding by pairs, in which latter feat one man of each pair passed his bridle to the comrade beside him, then rode with folded arms. Then came riding by threes, with the center man holding the bridles from either side, while each of the outer men rode with folded arms. Then, cautiously, the men were taught to stand on the bare backs of their horses and to move at a walk. By and by they would be required to ride, standing, at a gallop. All through this drill, Dick Prescott rode with precision, power, and even grace. Yet never had his mind been further from the present work than it was this afternoon. Had Bert Dodge known more of what Prescott had seen as the former lay for that instant on the tan-bark, Dick's enemy would have fallen from his horse in a delirium of fear. For, as Bert fell in the center of the tan-bark the left sleeve of his coat had been pushed back, exposing the white linen cuff. From the inner hem of that cuff, up to the middle, Dick Prescott had gazed, for an instant only, on row after row of small, evenly lettered words or rows of numerals. Prescott had not had time to bend close enough to see which. Yet no sooner had Dick vaulted back into saddle again than the remembrance of that cuff flashed upon him. "Dodge has been excelling in daily recitations, yet can't do as well at general review!" flashed hotly through Prescott's mind. "And Dodge, the high-souled one who loathes cribs! If that writing on his cuff isn't a crib of today's math., then I'm a plebe!" The thought would not down, even for a moment. Dick became wilder in his thoughts the more he thought about it. "The cribber! And he sought to blast me here on a false charge of cribbing. For now I know in my soul that he put that paper crib in my handkerchief that Friday morning months ago!" Dick's indignation, as he rode, was more than personal. True, he longed to show up the sneak who had nearly wound up another and honest cadet's career here at West Point. But there was an even higher purpose in Prescott's mind at the same time. The corps of cadets loathes a cribber as it does any other kind of cheat or liar. It is justly regarded as a moral crime for any cadet, knowing another to be a sneak, stand by and silently allow that sneak to graduate into the brotherhood of the Army. "Dodge, you cur, every minute, now, is bringing you nearer your own merited disgrace," muttered Dick savagely. "As soon as this detachment is dismissed at barracks I'll denounce you before all the fellows. I'll insist that you expose that cuff---and you'll have to do it!" Once Prescott caught himself wondering whether he might not fail through being too hasty. Was it barely possible that the writing on Bert Dodge's left cuff was wholly innocent? "No! I'm not making any mistake, and I'll prove it to my own satisfaction!" throbbed this cadet who had waited patiently all these months for complete vindication before the corps. Never had Dick known such relief at being dismissed from riding drill. The detachment formed under Haskins' orders, and marched up the road from riding hall, across the street to the Academic Building, and then, with Corporal Haskins still at the head, turned in at the east sally-port. But here, right at the entrance to the port, stood Chaplain Montgomery. "Corporal Haskins," called the chaplain, as he returned the cadet officer's smart salute, "will you excuse Mr. Prescott that I may speak with him? "Mr. Prescott, fall out!" came Haskins' command. With a feeling of horror and anguish Dick fell out, saluting Chaplain Montgomery, for the chaplain, though an ordained minister of the church, was also, by virtue of his post of chaplain, a captain of the United States Army. On moved the detachment, the feet of the cadets moving at a rhythmic beat as these perfect young soldiers moved on across the barracks area. And all Chaplain Montgomery had to say to Cadet Prescott was to tell him in which bound file of a magazine at the Y.M.C.A. could be found an article about which Dick had asked the churchman a fortnight before. Dick returned thanks, though he meant no disrespect to the kindly chaplain. Then, saluting, he hurried on after the detachment. But more than a fatal minute had been lost at the sally-port, and now the detachment was dismissed. The men had been in their rooms for at least forty-five seconds. "No use to go to Dodge now!" thought Dick despondently. "Whether he knows that I saw that cuff or not, he has removed it and has it safely hidden by this time. Oh, if Chaplain Montgomery could have been a hundred yards further away at that moment!" It was no use to lament. Dick concluded to wait and bide his time. The chance might yet come to catch Bert Dodge red handed. "Though, if he suspects that I saw his exposed cuff, he'll take pains that there is not further chance!" decided Cadet Prescott. After that he went to his room, where he told Greg what he had discovered. "It's suspicious---mightily so," declared Holmes. "But it isn't proof---not yet!" Nevertheless, Greg, once he had heard, could not get the matter out of his mind either! CHAPTER XXI PITCHING FOR THE ARMY NINE "Dick, old fellow, this is going to be a Gridley day for us! It will carry us back to the good old High School days!" Cadet Greg Holmes was radiant as he moved about their room in quarters that Saturday morning while preparing for the call to breakfast formation. Until one o'clock these young men of West Point would be busy in the section rooms, as on other week days. But the afternoon of Saturday belonged to pleasure---on this Saturday to sport! Lehigh University was sending over the strongest baseball nine it could put up, in the effort to beat West Point on the Military Academy's diamond. "It'll seem just like good old Gridley High School days," repeated Greg. "Yes," smiled Dick darkly, "with the same rascal, Bert Dodge, to keep my thoughts going." "Dodge won't be in the game, anyway." "He wasn't much in Gridley, either," smiled Dick darkly. "Oh, well, forget him until the game is over." Morning recitations passed off as usual. It was when the cadets came back from dinner, First, there was a brief inspection, after which cadets, with leave to visit the West Point Hotel, or officers' homes, strolled away to meet young women friends. "I'm due to be only a rooter today," sigh Greg, as he saw his roommate start off to the gym to meet the other members of the nine. "Your luck may change," rejoined Dick. "You'd better go along to the gym. You're the sub. shortstop, you know, and Meacham may not be on deck. Better come along, now." "I will, then; I wasn't going over until just before time to get into togs and sit on the bench." Up to this time, neither Prescott nor Holmes had judged their academic standing to be good enough to make it safe for them to enter into sports. This winter and spring, however, had found them "safe" enough for them to go into training with the baseball squad. Dick had tried for the position of pitcher, but Kennedy had been chosen, while Prescott had gone to second base. Tatham was the sub. pitcher. "Say, have you seen the Lehighs?" demanded Furlong, as the chums joined the crowd at the gym. "They're big fellows. They weigh a ton and a half to our ton." "Lightness and speed count for more than beef in this game," smiled Prescott. "Lehigh has sent some huskies, all right, and they look as if they'd give us a tough battle." In baseball and football West Point plays college teams. The college men are generally older and much heavier. Besides, the college men, not having the same intense grind at their institutions, are able to devote four or five times as much actual time to the work of training. Despite these handicaps, the West Point team generally holds its own end up very well indeed. The West Point men have one advantage; they are always in training, for which reason their bodily condition is always good. It is in the finer points of the technique of the game that the United States military cadets suffer from less practice. Maitland, of the second class, was captain of the team this year. He was a much disturbed man when Dick and Greg reached the gym. "What ails Maitland?" Dick asked Furlong. "Haven't you heard? Kennedy is a great tosser, but he has his bad days when his wrist goes stale. And Tatham, the sub., fought his way through a poor dinner, but then he had to give up and go to hospital. He's threatened with some kind of fever, we hear. That leaves us without a sub. today." "Oh, does it?" thought Prescott. With quick step and eager eye he sought Captain Maitland, who was also catcher for the nine. "Mr. Maitland, I understand you're without a satisfactory sub. pitcher for today?" "Confound it, yes; we're praying for the strength of Kennedy's wrist." "You may remember that I tried for pitcher." "I know you did," replied Maitland gloomily. "But the coaches thought Kennedy and Tatham ahead of you." "If Kennedy should go bad today," pressed Dick eagerly, "I trust you will be willing order me in from second to the box. I know that I won't disappoint you. Ebbett and Dunstan are both good men at second." Captain Maitland looked thoughtful. "I'm afraid, Prescott, if Kennedy does happen to go stale, we'll have to call on you." "I won't disappoint you, if you do, Captain!" Then Maitland turned to regard Meacham, who was entering at that moment. "What on earth ails you, Meacham?" demanded the worried captain of the nine. "I was at a loot party last night," confessed Meacham miserably. "Overeating yourself---when you're in training, man?" "Honestly, Maitland, I didn't believe the little that I put down was going to throw me. There wasn't a murmur until eleven this morning, and I felt sure that was going to work off. But it won't, and, oh, my!" West Point's shortstop put his hands over his belt line, looking comically miserable. But to Captain Maitland there was no humor in the situation. "You're a fine one!" growled Maitland. "Oh, Holmesy! Come over here, please. You haven't been teasing your stomach, have you?" "I don't know that I have a stomach," replied Greg promptly. "You'll play shortstop today, then." Half an hour later, the Lehigh fellows were out on the field, going through some practice plays. Below the center of the grandstand, the West Point band was playing its most spirited music. The seats reserved for officers and their families, and for invited guests, were filling up rapidly. At the smaller stand, over at the east side of the field, Lehigh had some two hundred friends and rooters. Now on to the field marched the corps of cadets, filing into the seats reserved for them, just north of the officers' seats. Now, the band began to play the U.S.M.A. songs, the cadets joining in under the leadership of the cheer-master. Then, amid a storm of West Point yells, the Army nine strode on to the field. Things moved quickly now. Lehigh won the toss and went to bat. Kennedy appeared to be in excellent form. He struck out the first two Lehigh men at bat. The third man, however, gained first on called balls. The fourth man at bat drove a two-bagger, and now second and third were occupied. As the fifth of the Lehigh batsmen stepped up to the plate, the Lehigh cheers resounded, and West Point's rooters sat in tense silence. What was the matter with Kennedy? But the Army pitcher struck out his man, and Lehigh went out to grass without having scored. Lehigh's revenge, though, was swift. Three West Point men were struck out almost as rapidly as they could move to the plate. In the second inning both sides got men to bases, but neither side scored. In the third Lehigh took one solitary run, but it looked well on the score-board at the north end of the field. West Point, in the last half of the third, put men on first and second, but that was all. By the fourth inning, Kennedy was pitching a bit wildly. Maitland gazed at his comrade of the battery with anxious eyes. Lehigh began to grin with the ease of the thing now. One after another men walked to bases on called balls, until all of the bags were occupied. Suddenly Kennedy, after taking a twist on the ball, signaled Maitland. The captain turned the umpire and spoke. "Kennedy's old trick! He's gone stale and Tatham is down at hospital," passed from mouth to mouth among the home rooters. "Now, what's left for us?" After a brief conversation with the umpire Maitland signaled. Dick Prescott came bounding in from second, to receive the ball from Kennedy, while Ebbett was seen racing out to second. "Play ball!" called the umpire crisply. "Oh, pshaw!" called one of the cadets. "In training season Prescott tried for pitcher and the coaches turned him down. Now we're done for today!" Spirits were gloomy among the West Point rooters. Yet, within a few moments, they sat up, taking notice. Dick, with his nerves a-tingle, his eye keen, measured up the Lehigh batsman and sent in one of his old-time, famous Gridley spit-balls. It looked slow and easy. The Lehigh man swung a well-aimed crack at the ball. "Strike one," announced the umpire. Again Prescott turned his wrist and twirled. "Strike two!" Then an outcurve. "Strike three! Out!" Lehigh began to look with some interest at this new, confident pitcher. The next Lehigh man to bat met a similar fate. So did the third man. Now, the West Point yells went up with new force and purpose. The corps yell rose, loud and thunderous, followed by three cries of "Prescott!" In their half of the inning, West Point put men on first and second, but that was the best they could do. So it dragged along to the seventh inning. Army rooters were now sure that West Point's star pitcher had been found at last, and that Lehigh would have rare luck to score again today. But West Point didn't seem able to score, either, and Lehigh had the one needed dot. As Army went to bat Greg took up the stick and swung it expectantly. "Do something, Greg," Dick had whispered. "I'm the second man after you, and I'll back you if you can get a start. Remember the old Gridley days of victory. Get some of that same old ginger into you!" Holmes, as he swung the stick over the plate, seemed to feel himself back on the old athletic field of Gridley High School. And these stalwart college boys before him seemed to him to be the old, old Tottenville High School youngsters. One strike Greg essayed and lost. At the second offer, he hit the ball a sharp crack and started. He reached first, but as he turned, the ball fell into the hands of Lehigh's second baseman, and Greg fell back to safety at first. Ebbett, who followed, hit at the third offer, driving the ball almost under the feet of Lehigh's right-fielder. As that man seized it he saw that Greg was within kicking distance of second bag, so he threw to first and Ebbett was out. Dick now stepped confidently forward. He looked at Lehigh's tired pitcher with a challenging smile. At the first offer, Prescott struck the leather sphere---crack! In an instant Greg was in motion, while Dick raced as though bent on catching his chum. The ball had gone out over the head of center, who was now faithfully chasing it across outfield. Greg came in and hit the plate amid a cyclone of Army enthusiasm. The band was playing in sheer joy. Dick kicked second bag, then darted back as he saw the ball drop into the hands of the Lehigh catcher, who promptly sent it spinning straight into the third baseman's hands. Then Maitland gained first on called balls, and Furlong did the same, which advanced Prescott to third. Now Carson came up with the stick, sending out a slow grounder. In like an Apache runner came Prescott, kicking the plate just before the ball dropped. From the seats of the Army came the triumphant yell: "North point, east point, south point, West Point---_two points_!" The next Army man struck out, but West Point was breathing, now, with score two to one. "Don't let Lehigh put another dot on the card, Prescott, and you'll be our pitcher this year," promised Maitland. "Wait and see if the visitors can get any more from us," laughed Dick coolly. He felt that he had his old Gridley winning gait on now. He proved it by striking out three straight in the first half of the eighth. But West Point did not score, either, in that inning. Then came Lehigh, grim and desperate, to bat for the ninth time. The first man Dick struck out. But even his wrist seemed to be treacherous now. The second Lehigh man offered at nothing, and went to first on called balls. So did the second, and a third man, and the bags were filled. Maitland glanced appealingly at Dick. The new batsman, at the second offer, drove a slow grounder. Greg Holmes raced forward for it, like a deer. As he caught it up there was no perceptible pause before he sent it straight into Maitland's hands, and the man headed for the plate was out. But the three bags were again full. Another Lehigh man hit one of Dick's drives, but only faintly with the edge of his bat, and he went out on a foul hit. "Now, I'm going to strike this new man out," resolved Dick desperately, steeling nerves and muscles for the effort. "Strike one!" called the umpire. "Ball one! Ball two! Strike two! Strike three! Out!" It was over, and Lehigh, covered with chagrin, gave up the contest, while a pandemonium of Army cheers went loose. Two to one! "Prescott, I guess you're our pitcher here-after" called Maitland hoarsely. "And you, Holmesy, for shortstop!" Dick Prescott found himself the center of a swift rush of cadets. Then he was hoisted aloft, and rushed off the field in triumph and glory, while the corps yell rang out for him. Over in the gym. Prescott was forced to hold an impromptu reception. Greg got much of the ovation. Captain Verbeck, the head coach, came up to grasp Dick's hand. "Prescott, I don't understand how you ever got by us. But Maitland wants you for our star pitcher after this, and you'll have to be. It was the greatest Army game, from the box, that I've seen in many a year." "Say, you fellows," greeted Anstey, breaking into their room after the chums had returned to barracks, "you two had better go over today, and the men who are to drag the spooniest femmes tonight are all plotting to write you down on the dance cards of their femmes." "That's the best reason in the world for keeping away from Cullum, then," laughed Dick. "But I mean it seriously," protested Anstey. "So do I," replied Dick "I'm really a committee of one, sent here by some of tonight's draggers," protested the Virginian. "Tell them of your non-success, then, do," urged Dick. "For I'm not going to Cullum tonight. Are you, Greg?" "Ye-es," returned Holmes promptly. Then, suddenly, he paused in his moving about the room. He now stood looking at his left hand, on which appeared a small smear of black. "No!" suddenly uttered Greg. "I'm not going. I've changed my mind---and for the best reasons possible." "Now, what on earth has made you so excited?" demanded Anstey wonderingly. CHAPTER XXII GREG'S SECRET AND ANOTHER'S "Are you going to the hop tonight?" asked Holmes, looking up with gleaming eyes from the smear on the back of his hand. "No," admitted Anstey. "Can you keep a secret? "Yes, suh; suhtinly." "Then come here at 8.15 to-night." "What are you talking-----" "I'm not talking, _now_," retorted Greg with a resolute tone in his voice. "Like a wise man, I'm going to do some thinking first. But you call around this evening. It'll be worth your while." Anstey looked and felt highly mystified. It must be something both sudden and important to make Greg change his mind so swiftly. For Cadet Holmes, who, in his home town, had not been exactly noted for gallantries to the other sex, had, in the yearling class, acquired the reputation of being a good deal of a "spoonoid." This is the term applied to a cadet who displays a decided liking for feminine company. "I can see that it isn't any use to ask you anything now," went on Anstey. "It isn't," Greg returned promptly. "I'm never secretive against you, Anstey, old man and the only reason I don't talk at once is that I don't know just what I want to say. But remember---8.15. By that time I think I shall have solved myself into a highly talkative goat yearling." Rap-tap! at the door, and Furlong and Dunstan dropped in. "Want to tell you what I think about your pitching, old ramrod," announced Furlong. "It's rotten!" glowed Dunstan cheerfully "And your shortstop work, Holmesy-----" "What kindergarten nine did you play with last?" insisted Furlong. "I was just making up my mind not to pitch again this season," grinned Cadet Prescott. "Why not?" Furlong demanded. "Milesy," laughed Dick, "you should never go out on a kidding expedition until you're sure you're josh-proof yourself. Do you think anything less than the coaches and the team captain could stop me from pitching? But I sorry for Ken, if I'm to supplant him." "You needn't be. Kennedy is glad. He hopes to make the cavalry, and he says he wants to train that wrist for wielding a sabre." "Can you two near-plebes find time to drop in this evening, at just 8.15?" demanded Greg. "Certain idea! What's up, Holmesy?" "It isn't a feed," declared Greg. "But I think you'd be sorry afterwards if you failed to come." "We'll be here," promised Dunstan. "Then I guess our party will be complete," mumbled the mysterious Greg. "Say, Holmesy," nudged Dunstan, "how did you get that smear on the back of your hand? Do you know, it looks like the famous one that Cadet Dodge rubbed off with a borrowed handkerchief, once on a time." "Does it?" asked Greg innocently. "Be good enough to loan me your handkerchief, then?" "Not much!" growled Dunstan, backing away. "The loaning of personal linen seems on its way to becoming a court-martial offence." When the visitors had left, Dick turned on his chum, demanding curiously: "What's the game for tonight, anyway, Greg?" "You didn't see how I got this smear on my hand, did you, old ramrod?" "No." "Then I'm not going to tell you at present," replied Greg, going to his washbowl and pouring in water. "But the way I got it set me to thinking. "About what?" "Well, about the way Bert Dodge got his hand smeared back in the days of ancient history. And, old ramrod, I believe that following up the clue may lead to some other discoveries that will possess a vital interest for you." "But-----" "No more at present! That's a special order," affirmed Greg. "Be good, like the rest, and wait until 8.15 to-night." At supper, in cadet mess hall, the talk all naturally turned to the diamond game with Lehigh that afternoon. The Army, at the outset, had hardly expected to win against that year's Lehigh nine. When the game was well under way, Army hopes had been still lower. Now, the talk was all on how Prescott and Holmes had saved the game to the Army. Even Maitland, without a trace of jealousy, conceded them most of the credit. "What has cherubic, spoonoid Holmesy got up his sleeve for 8.15?" asked Dunstan in an undertone of Anstey. "I reckon, suh, you'll have to apply for particulars to the Information and Security Service, suh," replied the Virginian. "To the best of my belief, suh, the secret is all Mr. Holmes's." So no more questions were asked. But at 8.15, to the second, Furlong and Dunstan tapped on the Prescott-Holmes door, and, as they did so. Anstey turned at the head of the stairs. Punctuality is one of the cardinal virtues of the soldier; to be a half minute late is a grave breach of etiquette; to be five minutes late amounts almost to a crime. "Now, Holmesy, we want light," insisted Furlong. "At first blush," returned Greg, "some of you may not like the job. It is nothing more nor less than a visit to Dodge's room, while he and Blayton are absent at the hop." "It is an extreme measure, surely," murmured Dunstan. Anstey remained silent, waiting for further particulars. "What I would call to your attention," went on Greg, "is that my roommate, old ramrod, was nearly bounced out of West Point for something he never did. I believe, and probably you all do, that Mr. Dodge played an evil and guilty part in what became nearly a tragedy." "I wouldn't put anything mean beyond Dodge," replied Furlong. "Now, I believe I can take you to Dodge's room. Both he and Brayton are absent at the hop. Brayton has always been a decent fellow, I don't believe he admires Dodge any too much, but he has to put up with his roommate. Now, in that room I hope to find evidence which will prove that Dodge is not fit to be a member the corps of United States Military Academy cadets. Will you come with me and look for the proof?" "I suhtinly will, suh," replied the Virginian promptly. "If Anstey will go on a job like that," muttered Dunstan, "then I guess it's a proper undertaking for gentlemen." "I thank you, suh," nodded the Virginian gravely. "Then come along, all hands," begged Greg. "If we find anything of the sort that I expect to, then there will be witnesses enough to prove the find to the satisfaction of the class and of the corps." Feeling like so many conspirators, this committee of five moved along to Dodge's room. Greg went a little ahead and tapped. Had Dodge been there it would not have interfered seriously with his plans. But there was no answer, so Holmes pushed open the door, turning the gas half on and lighting it. "This afternoon," declared Greg, "I dropped a stub of a pencil in our room. It fell on the bricks of the floor of the fireplace, and rolled into the space between two of the bricks. In getting that pencil out I got on the back of my hand the smear that you all saw. "Fellows, I've been thinking for weeks and months about that smear on the back of Mr. Dodge's hand. When I saw the one on the back of my own hand it occurred to me at once how Mr. Dodge might have got that black spot on his hand. It came over me, all in a flash. I knew that Brayton and Mr. Dodge would be out of the way this evening at the hop. Dodge has a hiding place somewhere in this room. From the past history of the Academy we know that favorite hiding places have always been under the bricks of the fireplaces. For use in the winter time the hiding place must be in the outer edge of the brick flooring, close up to where it joins the boards. In such a hiding place the fire wouldn't harm the hidden objects. Now, some of you might help me to see what we can find." Anstey, with a gravely judicial air, knelt beside Holmes. Together they tapped back and forth over the bricks with rulers taken from the study tables. "This is the brick that hides the place, I reckon, suh," announced the Virginian rather deliberately. "Let's pry it up, then," suggested Greg. But the brick resisted rather strenuous efforts. "That's odd, in itself," muttered Holmes. "Almost of the bricks in these fireplaces come up as easily as a naval apprentice's dinner. Anse, we've got to work at this brick until we have loose. It surely hides something." "We mustn't damage either the wooden or brick flooring," warned Furlong. "If we did find anything, after all, think of the row Dodge could raise over the vandalism in his room." So the time slipped by, faster than any of them knew. But these five cadets, now satisfied that the obdurate brick really did hide a secret toiled on with no thought of surrender. At last they struck the combination. The brick back of the one that so resisted their efforts was finally pried up, after a good deal of effort. This opening laid bare a neat but powerful spring. Had they had, at the outset, the whole secret of this spring, they could have raised the resisting brick in a second's time. "Get it up---must have a look!" cried Prescott hoarsely. It was Greg who raised the brick that had resisted their efforts for so long. Underneath Cadet Holmes found a collection of things that chained the attention of all, as each took eager looks in turn. "Going to put the stuff back, for the present?" asked Anstey, with an odd quiver in his voice The honorable Virginian was upset by what he had seen. "Not never!" retorted Greg with ungrammatical emphasis. "It won't be just the thing for old ramrod and myself to have it, either. Milesy, you and Dunstan take it along with you. Now, old ramrod, just what had we better do?" "I don't see anything for it but to root out again after taps and the subdivision inspector's visit tonight," muttered Dick, who was alternately pale and flushed over the discovery, and all that it meant. "Gentlemen, will you come softly to my room fifteen minutes after the sub-division inspector's official visit at taps?" Greg and Anstey restored the bricked flooring of the fireplace so that nothing indicated the late search. Then, Dunstan and Furlong carrying away the discovered stuff, the five prowlers turned out the gas and separated. CHAPTER XXIII THE "COMMITTEE ON CLASS HONOR" At a few minutes after eleven, that same April night, five cadets fully dressed stole down the corridor, and the leader laid a hand on Dodge's doorknob. In another moment they had stepped inside and their arrival awakened Cadet Brayton. "Plebes' quarters next floor up, brothers," called Brayton in drowsy good nature. "I'm sorry to say, Brayton, we're on the right floor, and in the right room," responded Dunstan. "But this visit won't bother you!" The noise of voices awoke Bert Dodge with start. He awoke with a snort, then sat bolt upright, peering in the dark. "Wh---who's there?" he demanded hoarsely. "A committee on class honor, Mr. Dodge," replied Furlong, while Anstey added, with ironic politeness: "Don't be alahmed, suh. We do not believe you to be possessed, suh, of any of the commodity of which we are in search." "Brayton" asked Greg, "will you be good enough to slip into your bathrobe and hang your blankets over the window? Then we can have some light. That's one thing we're going to need," he added significantly. "Don't you do it, Bray," broke in Dodge stiffly. "As for you fellows, the best thing you can all do is to go back to your cradles. Bray and I want to sleep the night through. And you've no business here, anyway." "I'm afraid you've missed the point, suh?" replied Anstey with bored patience. "That is exactly why we're here, suh---because we have business here." Brayton had slipped into his bathrobe and was now crossing the room with blankets on one arm. "Chase 'em out, Bray; don't hang any blankets for them to run a light behind," begged Dodge. "I'm afraid I'd better," murmured Brayton, as he stood on a chair and reached up to put the blankets in place. Didn't you hear the announcement that this is a committee of honor? The class has a right to send one to any man, and Prescott, the class president, is here. There, those blankets will hold and shut in all light. Turn on the gas, Holmesy, if you will." "You'd better get into robe and slippers, too, Mr. Dodge," hinted Dunstan strongly. "Our business is with you, and I think you'll feel more at ease on your feet." "What is all this nonsense about, anyway growled Dodge, as he slipped out of bed and wrapped himself in his dressing gown. "That's what we'll ask you to explain," retorted Greg. "But let us go about this in a regular manner. In the first place, Brayton, please understand that you are not being investigated. It is Mr. Dodge who is under suspicion." "Yes; under fine suspicion!" snarled Dodge. "You mean I'm to be the victim of a plot hatched by my two old enemies back in the home town." But Greg, ignoring him, turned to his chum. "Dick, old ramrod, as you're the aggrieved one, I don't suppose you can exactly act as class president in this case. But you can designate some other member of the class to act in your place." "Then I'll name Mr. Anstey," replied Dick. "I believe he will be satisfactory to everyone." "Not to me!" snapped Bert Dodge, his uneasy gaze roving from one face to another. "The class president can't name his own substitute." "Silence!" commanded Brayton, turning on his roommate. "Of course the class president can delegate his duties, temporarily, to another." "Take this matter in charge, Mr. Anstey," begged Dick, turning to the Virginian. "Mr. Dodge," continued the Virginian, "be good enough, suh, to pay good heed to what I have to say. That will be necessary, in fairness to yourself, suh. I'll begin at the beginning." Anstey began with the handkerchief-borrowing episode in barracks area. He dwelt upon the accusation against Cadet Prescott, the court-martial, and the further fact that even the verdict of acquittal had not, at first, been fully accepted by all members of the corps of cadets clearing Dick of the fearful suspicion against his honor. "What has all this to do with me?" snarled Dodge. "Is Prescott trying to revive his old and infamous hints against me? "Wait a moment, Mr. Dodge," continued Anstey patiently. "Now will now move along to the drill in the riding hall yesterday afternoon." Anstey then described the bared cuff that Prescott had seen on Dodge's left wrist. "That's a lie," rasped out Dodge. But Anstey heeded him not; Prescott merely smiled. But the sight of that smile maddened Dodge, who sprang up, crying: "Yes! You think you have it all cooked up against me, Dick Prescott! But you'll find that truth and right will win." Dick did not answer, but Anstey, looking impressively at the culprit, declared: "Mr. Dodge, tonight, while you were away, we pried up that brick!" Every vestige of color fled from Bert's face. He seemed about to fall, but he clutched at the chair back and remained standing. "Of course, Mr. Dodge, you know what we found there. Brayton, you don't so you will interested in seeing the things. Milesy, be good enough to spread the collection on that table. Here, you see, first of all, is the cuff of yesterday. Even the writing, in India ink, remains on it. And here are reddish stains, made by the impact of that cuff with the tan-bark of the riding hall. Here are slips of paper on which the main features of the hardest math. problems of each day have been noted down, ready for writing on a cuff. Here is the water-proof ink and the pen with which the writing on the cuff was done. And here are some other slips of paper, evidently older, on which other problems have been written out more fully. These older slips of paper contain problems of last November and early December---the time when Prescott was in his deep trouble. Now, these older slips are of paper just like the piece that fell from the handkerchief that Prescott took out of his blouse on that tragic day. Somewhere in the files the authorities have that slip that figured in the charges at Prescott's trial by general court-martial. I imagine, on comparison, that slip will be found to be on paper identical with these slips containing older problems. And you will note that these older slips are written on with a typewriting machine, with crude figures drawn in, just as in the case of the slip that figured Prescott's trial. Now, Mr. Dodge, isn't it plain to even the dullest mind that you have been systematically cribbing at math., and that it is to that fact you owe your present high standing in the yearling class?" "Now that I think of it," remarked Brayton, turning and fixing his roommate with a frigid, hostile stare, "I have, on at least two occasions, entered this room just in time to see Mr. Dodge spring up hastily from near the fireplace. But I am a dull-witted fellow, I suppose, and I didn't suspect. "Have you anything to say, Mr. Dodge?" demanded Anstey. "Nothing," barely gasped the detected wretch. "Then I will say something instead, suh," continued the Virginian. "I would rather the task fell to someone else, but this work has been delegated to me, and I must see it through, suh. Mr. Dodge, we are all satisfied that you are a miserable, lying, sneaking hound, suh, not worthy to associate with gentlemen. We are satisfied, suh, that you are without honor or principle, and that you will never be fit to become an officer of the Army." "Now, see here, fellows," broke in Dodge in a whining tone, "if you'll be generous and give me another chance, I can live this down." "Then you admit that which we have been stating against you, do you, suh?" questioned the Virginian. "It will be best for you to be wholly honest, suh! "Yes---yes---I---admit---it," cried Dodge brokenly. "But I didn't deliberately plan for Prescott's undoing---on my honor, I didn't! What happened was this: When I took Prescott's handkerchief with one hand, I had that crib in the other hand. After using the handkerchief, I found that I couldn't pass it back without either letting the crib be seen, or else tucking the crib into the handkerchief. So I had to do the latter thing. But that was as far as I was guilty---on my honor, gentlemen!" "Then you expect us to believe in the honor of a cadet who dishonors himself by sneaking cribs into a section room?" demanded Anstey with mild but withering sarcasm. "Give me just one more chance, gentlemen!" faltered Dodge. "I pledge you my word that, henceforth, I'll do everything that is creditable and honorable, and nothing that isn't!" "We have a somewhat different proposition for you, Mr. Dodge," observed the Virginian. "We want no more of your stripe. We would degrade the entire Army, and the whole people of the United States of America if we allow you to remain here. Tomorrow, at an early hour, you will hand in your resignation as a cadet, to take effect upon acceptance. If you fail, we will lay before the superintendent and the commandant of cadets all the evidence that we have against you, including your own confession. You will then have to face a general court-martial and be dismissed from the service in the deepest disgrace that can come to a cadet." Bert Dodge sank to his knees, holding his clasped hands up before him. "Don't insist on that, gentlemen! Don't! Spare me the disgrace! Spare my parents! "Mr. Dodge," replied Anstey sternly, "honor is the watchword in the United States Military Academy, and all through the Army. We couldn't spare a dishonorable wretch like you, suh, without sharing in your disgrace. And I have not told you all that we require. As soon as you have gone to your home you will write a letter to the superintendent, exonerating Mr. Prescott from all suspicion in that fearful affair. You will admit that you alone were guilty. According to custom, that letter will be read before the battalion in special orders and the entire corps will then know how fully Cadet Prescott is worthy of being one of us." "Write that letter?" demanded Dodge, leaping to his feet, but cowering. "Never! You are taking an unfair, unmanly, ungenerous advantage of me! You shall never have any such letter from me!" CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION Still patiently Anstey turned to Greg. "Mr. Holmes, will you be kind enough to go to the room of Mr. Packard of the first class, also Mr. Maitland, of the second class, and present my very respectful compliments? Will you ask both gentlemen if they can make it convenient to come here, forthwith, on a matter of corps honor?" Greg departed. He was back within five minutes, simply nodding. Very soon Mr. Packard and Mr. Maitland appeared. They listened silently while Anstey laid the story before them. Then Packard glanced at the second classman. "Shall I speak for us both, Maitland?" "If you please." "Mr. Anstey, and gentlemen," continued Packard, "this is primarily a matter affecting your own third class, and should be settled by the members of your class. But, in its broader scope, the conduct to which Mr. Dodge has confessed affects the entire corps. Mr. Dodge charges that you are abusing your power. Maitland and I beg to differ with him. Mr. Anstey, you have done the only thing that can be done in such a case of infamy and dishonor. Mr. Dodge will, of course, send in his resignation tomorrow; it will be much easier for him than facing disgrace of a more public kind through a published verdict of a general court-martial. As soon as Mr. Dodge has reached his home he will also write that letter exonerating Mr. Prescott; I am sure he will. If he does not, the corps will then take steps to turn the evidence over to the representative of the Associated Press, and of the largest newspapers in the country. In other words, Mr. Dodge, by refusing to write that letter, will face a vastly larger exposure all through the country. Now, Maitland, as this is, first of all, a class matter, I feel that we have offered enough. Gentlemen, if you have no further need of us, we will withdraw." The self-appointed committee of the yearling class withdrew a moment after, Furlong and Dunstan carrying with them the evidence. Bert Dodge tendered his resignation promptly. Within a week the notice of its acceptance by the Secretary of War was published before the battalion, and Dodge skulked away, alone, unregretted and utterly crushed, to the railway station. During the last few days he had been "cut" by every man in the corps. Three days after his departure the superintendent of the United States Military Academy received a letter that caused him much astonishment. In this letter Dodge briefly confessed that he, and he alone, was the guilty party in that cribbing affair, and Dick Prescott had had no guilty share or knowledge in the incident. "Hm!" mused the superintendent, a grim smile passing over his face. "This Dodge business has all the ear-marks of another affair of Army honor settled unofficially by the corps of cadets." Dodge's letter was published in a special order then read before the corps of cadets, and the affair was closed. Dick and Greg continued to play in the Army nine the rest of that spring. It was one of the most brilliant of Army seasons on the diamond, and much of the credit was due to yearlings Prescott and Greg. Baseball was at last cut short by the arrival of the busy graduation season. Immediately after the proud and happy graduating class had left to take up its new life in the scattered Army of the United States, the yearling class dropped that designation and became the new second class at West Point. As members of the new second class, these happy youngsters laid aside their uniforms for two and a half months, and, in citizens' clothes, made their rush away from the Military Academy to begin the summer furlough that comes but once in the cadet's more than four years of Academy life. That evening found Greg and Dick in New York City. Happy as small boys, they looked at the great city in genuine glee. "I feel like rubbing my eyes, Greg, old chum!" laughed Dick. "Are we dreaming, or can such large cities actually be?" "It seems to me that I have a remembrance of large towns in some previous stage of existence, somewhere in the universe," sighed Holmes ecstatically. "But this town is bigger, noisier, fuller of life and fun than anything I can recall." "We have until midnight before the home train leaves," pursued Dick. "Home! Now, that is something of which I have a much keener recollection!" cried Greg, his eyes moistening. "Dick, I'm afraid that, if there were a train earlier than midnight, even the big town wouldn't detain me." "But there isn't an earlier train, Greg, and there are no taps or sub-division inspectors tonight. What shall we do?" "First of all, then," proposed Greg gleefully, "let us see if there is a place in New York where they know the meaning of the big feed." "And then the theater!" chuckled Dick. "Which we'll reach in one of those wonderful vehicles that the natives call taxicabs!" They found a place without difficulty. "Then to walk along Broadway with its flashing lights; then the railway station!" "The train!" "Home in the morning!" "We'll start with a taxi," proposed Greg. "Here's an empty one coming. Here, chauffeur. Yes! The Waldorf!" What befell our cadets thereafter will be reserved for the next volume in this series, which is published under the title, "_Dick Prescott's Third Year At West Point; Or, Standing Firm for Flag and Honor._" This story will be a rare treat, one that will make the blood bound faster in the arteries of any real American boy. A narrative of surpassing interest and thrilling adventures in the military cadet's life is promised. THE END 
21639	----	[Illustration: Patty] When Patty Went to College By Jean Webster With Illustrations by C. D. Williams [Illustration] New York The Century Co. 1903 Copyright, 1903, by THE CENTURY CO. Copyright, 1901, 1902, by TRUTH CO. * * * * * _Published March, 1903_ * * * * * THE DEVINNE PRESS TO 234 MAIN AND THE GOOD TIMES WE HAVE HAD THERE Contents PAGE I PETERS THE SUSCEPTIBLE 1 II AN EARLY FRIGHT 21 III THE IMPRESSIONABLE MR. TODHUNTER 39 IV A QUESTION OF ETHICS 57 V THE ELUSIVE KATE FERRIS 73 VI A STORY WITH FOUR SEQUELS 89 VII IN PURSUIT OF OLD ENGLISH 103 VIII THE DECEASED ROBERT 121 IX PATTY THE COMFORTER 133 X "PER L'ITALIA" 147 XI "LOCAL COLOR" 177 XII THE EXIGENCIES OF ETIQUETTE 203 XIII A CRASH WITHOUT 215 XIV THE MYSTERY OF THE SHADOWED SOPHOMORE 237 XV PATTY AND THE BISHOP 257 List of Illustrations FACING PAGE Patty _Frontispiece_ Men know such a lot about such things! 18 Mr. Algernon Vivian Todhunter, gingerly sitting on the edge of a chair 54 What's the matter, Patty? 110 Olivia Copeland 172 I have just run away from you, Bishop Copeley 266 I Peters the Susceptible "Paper-weights," observed Patty, sucking an injured thumb, "were evidently not made for driving in tacks. I wish I had a hammer." This remark called forth no response, and Patty peered down from the top of the step-ladder at her room-mate, who was sitting on the floor dragging sofa-pillows and curtains from a dry-goods box. "Priscilla," she begged, "you aren't doing anything useful. Go down and ask Peters for a hammer." Priscilla rose reluctantly. "I dare say fifty girls have already been after a hammer." "Oh, he has a private one in his back pocket. Borrow that. And, Pris,"--Patty called after her over the transom,--"just tell him to send up a man to take that closet door off its hinges." Patty, in the interval, sat down on the top step and surveyed the chaos beneath her. An Oriental rush chair, very much out at the elbows, several miscellaneous chairs, two desks, a divan, a table, and two dry-goods boxes radiated from the center of the room. The floor, as it showed through the interstices, was covered with a grass-green carpet, while the curtains and hangings were of a not very subdued crimson. "One would scarcely," Patty remarked to the furniture in general, "call it a symphony in color." A knock sounded on the door. "Come in," she called. A girl in a blue linen sailor-suit reaching to her ankles, and with a braid of hair hanging down her back, appeared in the doorway. Patty examined her in silence. The girl's eyes traveled around the room in some surprise, and finally reached the top of the ladder. "I--I'm a freshman," she began. "My dear," murmured Patty, in a deprecatory tone, "I should have taken you for a senior; but"--with a wave of her hand toward the nearest dry-goods box--"come in and sit down. I need your advice. Now, there are shades of green," she went on, as if continuing a conversation, "which are not so bad with red; but I ask you frankly if _that_ shade of green would go with anything?" The freshman looked at Patty, and looked at the carpet, and smiled dubiously. "No," she admitted; "I don't believe it would." "I knew you would say that!" exclaimed Patty, in a tone of relief. "Now what would you advise us to do with the carpet?" The freshman looked blank. "I--I don't know, unless you take it up," she stammered. "The very thing!" said Patty. "I wonder we hadn't thought of it before." Priscilla reappeared at this point with the announcement, "Peters is the most suspicious man I ever knew!" But she stopped uncertainly as she caught sight of the freshman. "Priscilla," said Patty, severely, "I _hope_ you didn't divulge the fact that we are hanging the walls with tapestry"--this with a wave of her hand toward the printed cotton cloth dangling from the molding. "I tried not to," said Priscilla, guiltily, "but he read 'tapestry' in my eyes. He had no sooner looked at me than he said, 'See here, miss; you know it's against the rules to hang curtains on the walls, and you mustn't put nails in the plastering, and I don't believe you need a hammer anyway.'" "Disgusting creature!" said Patty. "But," continued Priscilla, hastily, "I stopped and borrowed Georgie Merriles's hammer on my way back. Oh, I forgot," she added; "he says we can't take the closet door off its hinges--that as soon as we get ours off five hundred other young ladies will be wanting theirs off, and that it would take half a dozen men all summer to put them back again." A portentous frown was gathering on Patty's brow, and the freshman, wishing to avert a possible domestic tragedy, inquired timidly, "Who is Peters?" "Peters," said Priscilla, "is a short, bow-legged gentleman with a red Vandyke beard, whose technical title is janitor, but who is really dictator. Every one is afraid of him--even Prexy." "I'm not," said Patty; "and," she added firmly, "that door is coming down whether he says so or not, so I suppose we shall have to do it ourselves." Her eyes wandered back to the carpet and her face brightened. "Oh, Pris, we've got a beautiful new scheme. My friend here says she doesn't like the carpet at all, and suggests that we take it up, get some black paint, and put it on the floor ourselves. I agree," she added, "that a Flemish oak floor covered with rugs would be a great improvement." Priscilla glanced uncertainly from the freshman to the floor. "Do you think they'd let us do it?" "It would never do to ask them," said Patty. The freshman rose uneasily. "I came," she said hesitatingly, "to find out--that is, I understand that the girls rent their old books, and I thought, if you wouldn't mind--" "Mind!" said Patty, reassuringly. "We'd rent our souls for fifty cents a semester." "It--it was a Latin dictionary I wanted," said the freshman, "and the girls next door said perhaps you had one." "A beautiful one," said Patty. "No," interrupted Priscilla; "hers is lost from O to R, and it's all torn; but mine,"--she dived down into one of the boxes and hauled out a chunky volume without any covers,--"while it is not so beautiful as it was once, it is still as useful." "Mine's annotated," said Patty, "and illustrated. I'll show you what a superior book it is," and she began descending the ladder; but Priscilla charged upon her and she retreated to the top again. "Why," she wailed to the terrified freshman, "did you not say you wanted a dictionary before she came back? Let me give you some advice at the beginning of your college career," she added warningly. "Never choose a room-mate bigger than yourself. They're dangerous." The freshman was backing precipitously toward the door, when it opened and revealed an attractive-looking girl with fluffy reddish hair. "Pris, you wretch, you walked off with my hammer!" "Oh, Georgie, we need it worse than you do! Come in and help tack." "Hello, Georgie," called Patty, from the ladder. "Isn't this room going to be beautiful when it's finished?" Georgie looked about. "You are more sanguine than I should be," she laughed. "You can't tell yet," Patty returned. "We're going to cover the wall-paper with this red stuff, and paint the floor black, and have dark furniture, and red hangings, and soft lights. It will look just like the Oriental Room in the Waldorf." "How in the world," Georgie demanded, "do you ever make them let you do all these things? I stuck in three innocent little thumb-tacks to-day, and Peters descended upon me bristling with wrath, and said he'd report me if I didn't pull them out." "We never ask," explained Patty. "It's the only way." "You've got enough to do if you expect to get settled by Monday," Georgie remarked. "_C'est vrai_," agreed Patty, descending the ladder with a sudden access of energy; "and you've got to stay and help us. We have to get all this furniture moved into the bedrooms and the carpet up before we even _begin_ to paint." She regarded the freshman tentatively. "Are you awfully busy?" "Not very. My room-mate hasn't come yet, so I can't settle." "That's nice; then you can help us move furniture." "Patty!" said Priscilla, "I think you are too bad." "I should really love to stay and help, if you'll let me." "Certainly," said Patty, obligingly. "I forgot to ask your name," she continued, "and I don't suppose you like to be called 'Freshman'; it's not specific enough." "My name is Genevieve Ainslee Randolph." "Genevieve Ains--dear me! I can't remember anything like that. Do you mind if I call you Lady Clara Vere de Vere for short?" The freshman looked doubtful, and Patty proceeded: "Lady Clara, allow me to present my room-mate Miss Priscilla Pond--no relation to the extract. She's athletic and wins hundred-yard dashes and hurdle races, and gets her name in the paper to a really gratifying extent. And my dear friend Miss Georgie Merriles, one of the oldest families in Dakota. Miss Merriles is very talented--sings in the glee club, plays on the comb--" "And," interrupted Georgie, "let me present Miss Patty Wyatt, who--" "Has no specialty," said Patty, modestly, "but is merely good and beautiful and bright." A knock sounded on the door, which opened without waiting for a response. "Miss Theodora Bartlet," continued Patty, "commonly known as the Twin, Miss Vere de Vere." The Twin looked dazed, murmured, "Miss Vere de Vere," and dropped down on a dry-goods box. "The term 'Twin,'" explained Patty, "is used in a merely allegorical sense. There is really only one of her. The title was conferred in her freshman year, and the reason has been lost in the dim dawn of antiquity." The freshman looked at the Twin and opened her mouth, but shut it again without saying anything. "My favorite maxim," said Patty, "has always been, 'Silence is golden.' I observe that we are kindred spirits." "Patty," said Priscilla, "do stop bothering that poor child and get to work." "Bothering?" said Patty. "I am not bothering her; we are just getting acquainted. However, I dare say it is not the time for hollow civilities. Do you want to borrow anything?" she added, turning to the Twin, "or did you just drop in to pay a social call?" "Just a social call; but I think I'll come in again when there's no furniture to move." "You don't happen to be going into town this afternoon?" "Yes," said the Twin. "But," she added guardedly, "if it's a curtain-pole, I refuse to bring it out. I offered to bring one out for Lucille Carter last night, because she was in a hurry to give a house-warming, and I speared the conductor with it getting into the car; and while I was apologizing to him I knocked Mrs. Prexy's hat off with the other end." "We have all the curtain-poles we need," said Patty. "It's just some paint--five cans of black paint, and three brushes at the ten-cent store, and thank you very much. Good-by. Now," she continued, "the first thing is to get that door down, and I will wrest a screw-driver from the unwilling Peters while you remove tacks from the carpet." "He won't give you one," said Priscilla. "You'll see," said Patty. Five minutes later she returned waving above her head an unmistakable screw-driver. "_Voilà, mes amies!_ Peters's own private screw-driver, for which I am to be personally responsible." "How did you get it?" inquired Priscilla, suspiciously. "You act," said Patty, "as if you thought I knocked him down in some dark corner and robbed him. I merely asked him for it politely, and he asked me what I wanted to do with it. I told him I wanted to take out screws, and the reason impressed him so that he handed it over without a word. Peters," she added, "is a dear; only he's like every other man--you have to use diplomacy." By ten o'clock that night the study carpet of 399 was neatly folded and deposited at the end of the corridor above, whence its origin would be difficult to trace. The entire region was steeped in an odor of turpentine, and the study floor of 399 was a shining black, except for four or five unpainted spots which Patty designated as "stepping-stones," and which were to be treated later. Every caller that had dropped in during the afternoon or evening had had a brush thrust into her hand and had been made to go down upon her knees and paint. Besides the floor, three bookcases and a chair had been transferred from mahogany to Flemish oak, and there was still half a can of paint left which Patty was anxiously trying to dispose of. The next morning, in spite of the difficulty of getting about, the step-ladder had been reërected, and the business of tapestry-hanging was going forward with enthusiasm, when a knock suddenly interrupted the work. Patty, all unconscious of impending doom, cheerily called, "Come in!" The door opened, and the figure of Peters appeared on the threshold; and Priscilla basely fled, leaving her room-mate stranded on the ladder. "Are you the young lady who borrowed my screw--" Peters stopped and looked at the floor, and his jaw dropped in astonishment. "Where is that there carpet?" he demanded, in a tone which seemed to imply that he thought it was under the paint. "It's out in the hall," said Patty, pleasantly. "Please be careful and don't step on the paint. It's a great improvement, don't you think?" "You oughter got permission--" he began, but his eye fell on the tapestry and he stopped again. "Yes," said Patty; "but we knew you couldn't spare a man just now to paint it for us, so we didn't like to trouble you." "It's against the rules to hang curtains on the walls." "I have heard that it was," said Patty, affably, "and I think ordinarily it's a very good rule. But just look at the color of that wall-paper. It's pea-green. You have had enough experience with wall-paper, Mr. Peters, to know that _that_ is impossible, especially when our window-curtains and portières are red." Peters's eyes had traveled to the closet, bereft of its door. "Are you the young lady," he demanded gruffly, "who asked me to have that door taken off its hinges?" "No," said Patty; "I think that must have been my room-mate. It was _very_ heavy," she continued plaintively, "and we had a great deal of trouble getting it down, but of course we realized that you were awfully busy, and that it really wasn't your fault. That's what I wanted the screw-driver for," she added. "I'm sorry that I didn't get it back last night, but I was very tired, and I forgot." [Illustration: Men know such a lot about such things!] Peters merely grunted. He was examining a corner cabinet hanging on the wall. "Didn't you know," he asked severely, "that it's against the rules to put nails in the plaster?" "Those aren't nails," expostulated Patty. "They're hooks. I remembered that you didn't like holes, so I only put in two, though I am really afraid that three are necessary. What do you think, Mr. Peters? Does it seem solid?" Peters shook it. "It's solid enough," he said sulkily. As he turned, his eye fell on the table in Priscilla's bedroom. "Is that a gas-stove in there?" he demanded. Patty shrugged her shoulders. "An apology for one--be _careful_, Mr. Peters! _Don't_ get against that bookcase. It's just painted." Peters jumped aside, and stood like the Colossus of Rhodes, with one foot on one stepping-stone, and the other on another three feet away. It is hard for even a janitor to be dignified in such a position, and while he was gathering his scattered impressions Patty looked longingly around the room for some one to enjoy the spectacle with her. She felt that the silence was becoming ominous, however, and she hastened to interrupt it. "There's something wrong with that stove; it won't burn a bit. I am afraid we didn't put it together just right. I shouldn't be surprised if _you_ might be able to tell what's the matter with it, Mr. Peters." She smiled sweetly. "Men know such a lot about such things! Would you mind looking at it?" Peters grunted again; but he approached the stove. Five minutes later, when Priscilla stuck her head in to find out if, by chance, anything remained of Patty, she saw Peters on his knees on the floor of her bedroom, with the dismembered stove scattered about him, and heard him saying, "I don't know as I have any call to report you, for I s'pose, since they're up, they might as well stay"; and Patty's voice returning: "You're _very_ kind, Mr. Peters. Of course if we'd _known_--" Priscilla shut the door softly, and retired around the corner to await Peters's departure. "How in the world did you manage him?" she asked, bursting in as soon as the sound of his footsteps had died away down the corridor. "I expected to sing a requiem over your remains, and I found Peters on his knees, engaged in amicable conversation." Patty smiled inscrutably. "You must remember," she said, "that Peters is not only a janitor: he is also a man." II An Early Fright "I'll make the tea to-day," said Patty, graciously. "As you please," said Priscilla, with a skeptical shrug. Patty bustled about amid a rattle of china. "The cups are rather dusty," she observed dubiously. "You'd better wash them," Priscilla returned. "No," said Patty; "it's too much trouble. Just close the blinds, please, and we'll light the candles, and that will do as well. Come in," she called in answer to a knock. Georgie Merriles, Lucille Carter, and the Bartlet Twin appeared in the doorway. "Did I hear the two P's were going to serve tea this afternoon?" inquired the Twin. "Yes; come in. I'm going to make it myself," answered Patty, "and you'll see how much more attentive a hostess I am than Priscilla. Here, Twin," she added, "you take the kettle out and fill it with water; and, Lucille, please go and borrow some alcohol from the freshmen at the end of the corridor; our bottle's empty. I'd do it myself, only I've borrowed such a lot lately, and they don't know you, you see. And--oh, Georgie, you're an obliging dear; just run down-stairs to the store and get some sugar. I think I saw some money in that silver inkstand on Priscilla's desk." "We've got some sugar," objected Priscilla. "I bought a whole pound yesterday." "No, my lamb; we haven't got it any more. I lent it to Bonnie Connaught last night. Just hunt around for the spoons," she added. "I think I saw them on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, behind Kipling." "And what, may I ask, are _you_ going to do?" inquired Priscilla. "I?" said Patty. "Oh, I am going to sit in the arm-chair and preside." Ten minutes later, the company being disposed about the room on cushions, and the party well under way, it was discovered that there were no lemons. "Are you sure?" asked Patty, anxiously. "Not one," said Priscilla, peering into the stein where the lemons were kept. "I," said Georgie, "refuse to go to the store again." "No matter," said Patty, graciously; "we can do very well without them." (She did not take lemon herself.) "The object of tea is not for the sake of the tea, but for the conversation which accompanies it, and one must not let accidents annoy him. You see, young ladies," she went on, in the tone of an instructor giving a lecture, "though I have just spilled the alcohol over the sugar, I appear not to notice it, but keep up an easy flow of conversation to divert my guests. A repose of manner is above all things to be cultivated." Patty leaned languidly back in her chair. "To-morrow is Founder's Day," she resumed in a conversational tone. "I wonder if many--" "That reminds me," interrupted the Twin. "You girls needn't save any dances for my brother. I got a letter from him this morning saying he couldn't come." "He hasn't broken anything, has he?" Patty asked sympathetically. "Broken anything?" "Ah--an arm, or a leg, or a neck. Accidents are so prevalent about Founder's time." "No; he was called out of town on important business." "Important business!" Patty laughed. "Dear man! why couldn't he have thought of something new?" "I think myself it was just an excuse," the Twin acknowledged. "He seemed to have an idea that he would be the only man here, and that, alone and unaided, he would have to dance with all six hundred girls." Patty shook her head sadly. "They're all alike. Founder's wouldn't be Founder's if half the guests didn't develop serious illness or important business or dead relations the last minute. The only safe way is to invite three men and make out one program." "I simply can't realize that to-morrow is Founder's," said Priscilla. "It doesn't seem a week since we unpacked our trunks after vacation, and before we know it we shall be packing them again for Christmas." "Yes; and before we know it we'll be unpacking them again, with examinations three weeks ahead," said Georgie the pessimist. "Oh, for the matter of that," returned Patty the optimist, "before we know it we'll be walking up one side of the platform for our diplomas and coming down the other side blooming alumnæ." "And then," sighed Georgie, "before we even have time to decide on a career, we'll be old ladies, telling our grandchildren to stand up straight and remember their rubbers." "And," said Priscilla, "before any of us get any tea we'll be in our graves, if you don't stop talking and watch that kettle." "It's boiling," said Patty. "Yes," said Priscilla; "it's been boiling for ten minutes." "It's hot," said Patty. "I should think it might be," said Priscilla. "And now the problem is, how to get it off without burning one's self." "You're presiding to-day; you must solve your own problems." "'Tis an easy matter," and Patty hooked it off on the end of a golf-club. "Young ladies," she said, with a wave of the kettle, "there is nothing like a college education to teach you a way out of every difficulty. If, when you are out in the wide, wide world--" "Where, oh, where are the grave old seniors?" chanted the Twin. "Where, oh, where are they?" The rest took it up, and Patty waited patiently. "They've gone out of Cairnsley's ethics, They've gone out of Cairnsley's ethics, They've gone out of Cairnsley's ethics, Into the wide, wide w-o-r-l-d." "If you have finished your ovation, young ladies, I will proceed with my lecture. When, as I say, you are out in the wide, wide world, making five-o'clock tea some afternoon for one of the young men popularly supposed to be there, who have dropped in to make an afternoon call--Do you follow me, young ladies, or do I speak too fast? If, while you are engaged in conversation, the kettle should become too hot, do not put your finger in your mouth and shriek 'Ouch!' and coquettishly say to the young man, '_You_ take it off,' as might a young woman who has not enjoyed your advantages; but, rather, rise to the emergency; say to him calmly, 'This kettle has become over-heated; may I trouble you to go into the hall and bring an umbrella?' and when he returns you can hook it off gracefully and expeditiously as you have seen me do, young ladies, and the young--" "Patty, take care!" This from Priscilla. "O-u-c-h!" in a long-drawn wail. This from Georgie. Patty hastily set the kettle down on the floor. "I'm awfully sorry, Georgie. Does it hurt?" "Not in the least. It's really a pleasant sensation to have boiling water poured over you." The Bartlet Twin sniffed. "I smell burning rug." Patty groaned. "I resign, Pris; I resign. Here, you preside. I'll never ask to make it again." "I should like," observed the Twin, "to see Patty entertaining a young man." "It's not such an unprecedented event," said Patty, with some warmth. "You can watch me to-morrow night if it will give you so much pleasure." "To-morrow night? Are you going to have a man for the Prom?" "That," said Patty, "is my intention." "And you haven't asked me for a dance!" This in an aggrieved chorus from the entire room. "I haven't asked any one," said Patty, with dignity. "Do you mean you're going to have all of the twenty dances with him yourself?" "Oh, no; I don't expect to dance more than ten with him myself--I haven't made out his card yet," she added. "Why not?" "I never do." "Has he been here before, then?" "No; that's the reason." "The reason for what?" "Well," Patty deigned to explain, "I've invited him for every party since freshman year." "And did he decline?" "No; he accepted, but he never came." "Why not?" "He was scared." "Scared? Of the girls?" "Yes," said Patty, "partly--but mostly of the faculty." "The _faculty_ wouldn't hurt him." "Of course not; but he couldn't understand that. You see, he had a fright when he was young." "A fright? What was it?" "Well," said Patty, "it happened this way: It was while I was at boarding-school. He was at Andover then, and his home was in the South; and one time when he went through Washington he stopped off to call on me. As it happened, the butler had left two days before, and had taken with him all the knives and forks, and all the money he could find, and Nancy Lee's gold watch and two hat-pins, and my silver hair-brush, and a bottle of brandy, and a pie," she enumerated with a conscientious regard for details; "and Mrs. Trent--that's the principal--had advertised for a new butler." "I should have thought the old one would have discouraged her from keeping butlers," said Georgie. "You _would_ think so," said Patty; "but she was a very persevering woman. On the day that Raoul--that's his name--came to call, nineteen people had applied for the place, and Mrs. Trent was worn out from interviewing them. So she told Miss Sarah--that's her daughter--to attend to those who came in the evening. Miss Sarah was tall and wore spectacles, and was--was--" "A good disciplinarian," suggested the Twin. "Yes," said Patty, feelingly, "an _awfully_ good disciplinarian. Well, when Raoul got there he gave his card to Ellen and asked for me; but Ellen didn't understand, and she called Miss Sarah, and when Miss Sarah saw him in his evening clothes she--" "Took him for a butler," put in Georgie. "Yes, she took him for a butler; and she looked at the card he'd given Ellen, and said icily, 'What does this mean?' "'It's--it's my name,' he stammered. "'I see,' said Miss Sarah; 'but where is your recommendation?' "'I didn't know it was necessary,' he said, terribly scared. "'Of course it's necessary,' Miss Sarah returned. 'I can't allow you to come into the house unless I have letters from the places where you've been before.' "'I didn't suppose you were so strict,' he said. "'We have to be strict,' Miss Sarah answered firmly. 'Have you had much experience?' "He didn't know what she meant, but he thought it would be safest to say he hadn't. "'Then of course you won't do,' she replied. 'How old are you?' "He was so frightened by this time that he couldn't remember. 'Nineteen,' he gasped--'I mean twenty.' "Miss Sarah saw his confusion, and thought he had designs on some of the heiresses intrusted to her care. 'I don't see how you _dared_ to come here,' she said severely. 'I should not think of having you in the house for a moment. You're altogether too young and too good-looking.' And with that Raoul got up and bolted. "When Ellen told Miss Sarah the next day that he'd asked for me, she was terribly mortified, and she made me write and explain, and invite him to dinner; but wild horses couldn't have dragged him into the house again. He's been afraid to stop off in Washington ever since. He always goes straight through on a sleeper, and says he has nightmares even then." "And is that why he won't come to the college?" "Yes," said Patty; "that's the reason. I told him we didn't have any butlers here; but he said we had lady faculty, and that's as bad." "But I thought you said he _was_ coming to the Prom." "He is this time." "Are you sure?" "Yes," said Patty, with ominous emphasis, "I'm sure. He knows," she added, "what will happen if he doesn't." "What will happen?" asked the Twin. "Nothing." The Twin shook her head, and Georgie inquired, "Then why don't you make out his program?" "I suppose I might as well. I didn't do it before because it sort of seemed like tempting Providence. I didn't want to be the cause of any really _serious_ accident happening to him," she explained a trifle ambiguously as she got out pencil and paper. "What dances can you give me, Lucille? And you, Georgie, have you got the third taken?" While this business was being settled, a knock unheeded had sounded on the door. It came again. "What's that?" asked Priscilla. "Did some one knock? Come in." The door opened, and a maid stood upon the threshold with a yellow envelop in her hand. She peered uncertainly around the darkened room from one face to another. "Miss Patty Wyatt?" she asked. Patty stretched out her hand in silence for the envelop, and, propping it up on her desk, looked at it with a grim smile. "What is it, Patty? Aren't you going to read it?" "There's no need. I know what it says." "Then I'll read it," said Priscilla, ripping it open. "Is it a leg or an arm?" Patty inquired with mild curiosity. "Neither," said Priscilla; "it's a collar-bone." "Oh," murmured Patty. "What is it?" demanded Georgie the curious. "Read it out loud." "NEW HAVEN, November 29. "Broke collar-bone playing foot-ball. Honest Injun. Terribly sorry. Better luck next time." "RAOUL." "There will not," observed Patty, "_be_ a next time." III The Impressionable Mr. Todhunter "Has the mail been around yet?" called Priscilla to a girl at the other end of the corridor. "Don't believe so. It hasn't been in our room." "There she comes now!" and Priscilla swooped down upon the mail-girl. "Got anything for 399?" "Do you want Miss Wyatt's mail too?" "Yes; I'll take everything. What a lot! Is that all for us?" And Priscilla walked down the corridor swinging her note-book by its shoe-string, and opening envelops as she went. She was presently joined by Georgie Merriles, likewise swinging a note-book by a shoe-string. "Hello, Pris; going to English? Want me to help carry your mail?" "Thank you," said Priscilla; "you may keep the most of it. Now, that," she added, holding out a blue envelop, "is an advertisement for cold cream which no lady should be without; and that"--holding out a yellow envelop--"is an advertisement for beef extract which no brain-worker should be without; and that"--holding out a white envelop--"is the worst of all, because it looks like a legitimate letter, and it's nothing but a 'Dear Madam' thing, telling me my tailor has moved from Twenty-second to Forty-third Street, and hopes I'll continue to favor him with my patronage. "And here," she went on, turning to her room-mate's correspondence, "is a cold-cream and a beef-extract letter for Patty, and one from Yale; that's probably Raoul explaining why he couldn't come to the Prom. It won't do any good, though. No mortal man can ever make her believe he didn't have his collar-bone broken on purpose. And I don't know whom that's from," Priscilla continued, examining the last letter. "It's marked 'Hotel A----, New York.' Never heard of it, did you? Never saw the writing before, either." Georgie laughed. "Do you keep tab on all of Patty's correspondents?" "Oh, I know the most of them by this time. She usually reads the interesting ones out loud, and the ones that aren't interesting she never answers, so they stop writing. Hurry up; the bell's going to ring"; and they pushed in among the crowd of girls on the steps of the recitation-hall. The bell did ring just as they reached the class-room, and Priscilla dropped the letters, without comment, into Patty's lap as she went past. Patty was reading poetry and did not look up. She had assimilated some ten pages of Shelley since the first bell rang, and as she was not sure which would be taken up in class, she was now swallowing Wordsworth in the same voracious manner. Patty's method in Romantic Poetry was to be very fresh on the first part of the lesson, catch the instructor's eye early in the hour, make a brilliant recitation, and pass the remainder of the time in gentle meditation. To-day, however, the unwonted bulk of her correspondence diverted her mind from its immediate duty. She failed to catch the instructor's eye, and the recitation proceeded without her assistance. Priscilla watched her from the back seat as she read the Yale letter with a skeptical frown, and made a grimace over the blue and the yellow; but before she had reached the Hotel A----, Priscilla was paying attention to the recitation again. It was coming her way, and she was anxiously forming an opinion on the essential characteristics of Wordsworth's view of immortality. Suddenly the room was startled by an audible titter from Patty, who hastily composed her face and assumed a look of vacuous innocence--but too late. She had caught the instructor's eye at last. "Miss Wyatt, what do you consider the most serious limitations of our author?" Miss Wyatt blinked once or twice. This question out of its context was not illuminating. It was a part of her philosophy, however, never to flunk flat; she always crawled. "Well," she began with an air of profound deliberation, "that question might be considered in two ways, either from an artistic or a philosophic standpoint." This sounded promising, and the instructor smiled encouragingly. "Yes?" she said. "And yet," continued Patty, after still profounder deliberation, "I think the same reason will be found to be the ultimate explanation of both." The instructor might have inquired, "Both what?" but she refrained and merely waited. Patty thought she had done enough, but she plunged on desperately: "In spite of his really deep philosophy we notice a certain--one might almost say _dash_ about his poetry, and a lack of--er--meditation which I should attribute to his immaturity and his a--rather wild life. If he had lived longer I think he might have overcome it in time." The class looked dazed, and the corners of the instructor's mouth twitched. "It is certainly an interesting point of view, Miss Wyatt, and, as far as I know, entirely original." As they were crowding out at the end of the recitation Priscilla pounced upon Patty. "What on earth were you saying about Wordsworth's youth and immaturity?" she demanded. "The man lived to be over eighty, and composed a poem with his last gasp." "Wordsworth? I was talking about Shelley." "Well, the class wasn't." "How should I know?" Patty demanded indignantly. "She said 'our author,' and I avoided specific details as long as I could." "Oh, Patty, Patty! and you said he was wild--the lamblike Wordsworth!" "What were you laughing at, anyway?" demanded Georgie. Patty smiled again. "Why, _this_" she said, unfolding the Hotel A---- letter. "It's from an Englishman, Mr. Todhunter, some one my father discovered last summer and invited out to stay with us for a few days. I'd forgotten all about him, and here he writes to know whether and when he may call, and, if so, will it be convenient for him to come to-night. That's a comprehensive sentence, isn't it? His train gets in at half-past five and he'll be out about six." "He isn't going to take any chances," said Priscilla. "No," said Patty; "but I don't mind. I invited him to come out to dinner some night, though I'd forgotten it. He's really very nice, and, in spite of what the funny papers say about Englishmen, quite entertaining." "Intentionally or unintentionally?" inquired Georgie. "Both," said Patty. "What's he doing in America?" asked Priscilla. "Not writing a book on the American Girl, I hope." "Not quite as bad as that," said Patty. "He's corresponding for a newspaper, though." She smiled dreamily. "He's very curious about college." "Patty, I _hope_ you were not guilty of trying to make an Englishman, a guest in your father's house, believe any of your absurd fabrications!" "Of course not," said Patty; "I was most careful in everything I told him. But," she acknowledged, "he--he gets impressions easily." "It is easy to get impressions when one is talking with you," observed Georgie. "He asked me," Patty continued, ignoring this remark, "what we studied in college! But I remembered that he was an alien in a foreign land, and I curbed my natural instincts, and outlined the courses in the catalogue verbatim, and I explained the different methods of instruction, and described the library and laboratories and lecture-rooms." "Was he impressed?" asked Priscilla. "Yes," said Patty; "I think you might almost say dazed. He asked me apologetically if we ever did anything to relieve the strain,--had any amusements, you know,--and I said, oh, yes; we had a Browning and an Ibsen club, and we sometimes gave Greek tragedies in the original. He was positively afraid to come near me again, for fear I'd forget and talk to him in Greek instead of English." In view of the facts, Patty's friends considered this last remark distinctly humorous, for she had flunked her freshman Greek three times, and had been advised by the faculty to take it over sophomore year. "I hope, since he's a newspaper writer," said Priscilla, "that you'll do something to lighten his impression, or he'll never favor women's colleges in England." "I hadn't thought of that," said Patty; "perhaps I ought." They had reached the steps of the dormitory. "Let's not go in," said Georgie; "let's go down to Mrs. Muldoon's and get some chocolate cake." "Thank you," said Priscilla; "I'm in training." "Soup, then." "Can't eat between meals." "You come, then, Patty." "Sorry, but I've got to take my white dress down to the laundry and have it pressed." "Are you going to dress up for him to the extent of evening clothes?" "Yes," said Patty; "I think I owe it to the American Girl." "Well," sighed Georgie, "I'm hungry, but I suppose I might as well go in and dress that doll for the College Settlement Association. The show's to-night." "Mine's done," said Priscilla; "and Patty wouldn't take one. Did you see Bonnie Connaught sitting on the back seat in biology this morning, hemming her doll's petticoat straight through the lecture?" "Really?" laughed Patty. "It's a good thing Professor Hitchcock's near-sighted." The College Settlement Association, by way of parenthesis, was in the habit of distributing three hundred dolls among the students every year before Christmas, to be dressed and sent to the settlement in New York. The dolls were supposed to be so well dressed that the East Side mothers could use them as models for the clothing of their own children, though it must be confessed that the tendency among the girls was to strive for effect and not for detail. On the evening before the dolls were to be shipped a doll show was regularly held, at which two cents admittance was charged (stamps accepted) to pay the expressage. * * * * * IT was ten minutes past six, and Phillips Hall (such of it as was not late) was dining, when the maid arrived with Mr. Algernon Vivian Todhunter's card. Patty, radiant in a white evening gown, was trying, with much squirming, to fasten it in the middle of the back. "Oh, Sadie," she called to the maid, "would you mind coming in here and buttoning my dress? I can't reach it from above or below." "You look just beautiful, Miss Wyatt," said Sadie, admiringly. Patty laughed. "Do you think I can uphold the honor of the nation?" "To be sure, miss," said Sadie, politely. Patty ran down the corridor to the door of the reception-room, and then swept slowly in with what she called an air of continental repose. The room was empty. She glanced about in some surprise, for she knew that the two reception-rooms on the other side of the hall were being used for the doll show. She tiptoed over and peered in through the half-open door. The room was filled with dolls in rows and tiers; every piece of furniture was covered with them; and in a far corner, at the end of a long vista of dolls, appeared Mr. Algernon Vivian Todhunter, gingerly sitting on the edge of a sofa, surrounded by flaxen-haired baby dolls, and awkwardly holding in his lap the three he had displaced. Patty drew back behind the door, and spent fully three minutes in regaining her continental repose; then she entered the room and greeted Mr. Todhunter effusively. He carefully transferred the dolls to his left arm and stood up and shook hands. "Let me take the little dears," said Patty, kindly; "I'm afraid they're in your way." Mr. Todhunter murmured something about its being a pleasure and a privilege to hold them. Patty plumped up their clothes and rearranged them on the sofa with motherly solicitude, while Mr. Todhunter watched her gravely, his national politeness and his reportorial instinct each struggling for the mastery. Finally he began tentatively: "I say, Miss Wyatt, do--er--the young ladies spend much time playing with dolls?" "No," said Patty, candidly; "I don't think you could say they spend _too_ much. I have never heard of but one girl actually neglecting her work for it. You mustn't think that we have as many dolls as this here _every_ night," she went on. "It is rather an unusual occurrence. Once a year the girls hold what they call a doll show to see who has dressed her doll the best." "Ah, I see," said Mr. Todhunter; "a little friendly rivalry." "Purely friendly," said Patty. As they started for the dining-room Mr. Todhunter adjusted his monocle and took a parting look at the doll show. "I'm afraid you think us childish, Mr. Todhunter," said Patty. "Not at all, Miss Wyatt," he assured her hastily. "I think it quite charming, you know, and so--er--unexpected. I had always been told that they played somewhat peculiar games at these women's colleges, but I never supposed they did anything so feminine as to play with dolls." [Illustration: Mr. Algernon Vivian Todhunter, gingerly sitting on the edge of a chair] * * * * * WHEN Patty returned to her room that night, she found Georgie and Priscilla surrounded by grammars and dictionaries, doing German prose. Her appearance was hailed with a cry of indignant protest. "When _I_ have a man," said Priscilla, "I divide him up among my friends." "_Especially_ when he's a curiosity," added Georgie. "And we dressed up in grand clothes, and stood in your way coming out of chapel," went on Priscilla, "and you never even looked at us." "Englishmen are so bashful," apologized Patty; "I didn't want to frighten him." Priscilla looked at her suspiciously. "Patty, I hope you didn't impose on the poor man's credulity." "Certainly not!" said Patty, with dignity. "I explained everything he asked me, and was most careful not to exaggerate. But," she added with engaging frankness, "I cannot be responsible for any _impressions_ he may have obtained. When an Englishman once gets an idea, you know, it's almost impossible to change it." IV A Question of Ethics Patty's class-room methods were the result of a wide experience in the professorial type of mind. By her senior year she had reduced the matter of recitation to a system, and could foretell with unvarying precision the day she would be called on and the question she would be asked. Her tactics varied with the subject and the instructor, and were the result of a penetration and knowledge of human nature that might have accomplished something in a worthier cause. In chemistry, for example, her instructor was a man who had outlived any early illusions in regard to the superior conscientiousness of girls over boys. He was not by nature a suspicious person, but a long experience in teaching had inculcated an inordinate wariness which was sometimes out of season. He allowed no napping in his classes, and those who did not pay attention suffered. Patty discovered his weakness early in the year, and planned her campaign accordingly. As long as she did not understand the experiment in hand, she would watch him with a face beaming with intelligence; but when she did understand, and wished to recite, she would let her eyes wander to the window with a dreamy, far-away smile, and, being asked a question, would come back to the realities of chemistry with a start, and, after a moment of ostentatious pondering, make a brilliant recitation. It must be confessed that her moments of abstraction were rare; she was far too often radiantly interested. In French her tactics were exactly opposite. The instructor, with all the native politeness of his race, called on those only who caught his eye and appeared willing and anxious to recite. This made the matter comparatively simple, but still required considerable finesse. Patty dropped her pen, spilled the pages from her note-book, tied her shoe-string, and even sneezed opportunely in order not to catch his eye at inconvenient moments. The rest of the class, who were not artists, contented themselves with merely lowering their eyes as he looked along the line--a method which in Patty's scornful estimation said as plainly as words, "Please don't call on me; I don't know." But with Professor Cairnsley, who taught philosophy, it was more difficult to form a working hypothesis. He had grown old in the service of the college, and after thirty years' experience of girl-nature he was still as unsuspiciously trustful as he had been in the beginning. Taking it for granted that his pupils were as interested in the contemplation of philosophic truths as he himself, the professor conducted his recitations without a suspicion of guile, and based his procedure entirely upon the inspiration of the moment. The key to his method had always remained a mystery, and several generations of classes had searched for it in vain. Some averred that he called on every seventh girl; others, that he drew lots. Patty triumphantly announced early in the course that she had discovered the secret at last--that on Monday he called on the red-haired girls; on Tuesday, those with yellow hair; on Wednesday and Thursday, those with brown; and on Friday, those with black. But this solution, like the others, was found to break down in actual practice; and Patty, for one, discovered that it required all her ingenuity, and even a good deal of studying, to maintain her reputation for brilliancy in Professor Cairnsley's classes. And she cared about maintaining it, for she liked the professor and was one of his favorite pupils. She had known his wife before she entered college, and she often called upon them in their home, and, in short, exemplified the ideal relations between faculty and students. Owing to the pressure of many interests, Patty's researches into philosophy were not as deep as the intentions of the course, but she had a very good working knowledge, which, in its details, would have astonished Professor Cairnsley could he have got behind the scenes. Though her knowledge was not based strictly on the text-book, her reputation in the class was good, and, as Patty admitted with a sigh, "It's a great strain on the imagination to keep up a reputation in philosophy." It had been established, indeed, as far back as her sophomore year, when the psychology class was awed into silence by its first introduction to the abstractions of science, and Patty alone had dared to lift her voice. The professor, one morning, had been placidly lecturing along on the subject of sensation, and in the course of the lecture had remarked: "It is probable that the individual experiences all the primary sensations during the first few months of infancy, and that in after life there is no such thing as a new sensation." "Professor Cairnsley," Patty piped up, "did you ever shoot the chutes?" The ice was broken at last, and the class felt at home, even in the somewhat deep waters of philosophy; and Patty, however undeservedly, had gained the credit of having a deeper insight than most into matters psychical. And so into her senior year, when she entered upon the study of ethics, she carried along an unearned and fragile reputation, built upon subterfuges and likely to crumble at the slightest touch. She had maintained it very creditably up to the Christmas vacation, and had argued upon the ultimate ground of moral obligation and the origin of conscience quite as intelligently as though she had previously read what the text-book had to say on the subject. But when they had commenced the study of specific theologies, based upon definite historical facts, Patty found her imagination of little use, and on several occasions it had been purely good luck that had saved her from exposure. Once the bell had rung at an opportune moment, and twice she had been able to avert a direct answer by leading the discussion into side issues. She realized, however, that fortune would not always favor her, and as the professor usually forgot to call the roll, she formed the nefarious practice of cutting class when she did not have her lesson. For a week or so in particular, her pressure of work in other directions (not all of them scholastic) had prevented her from devoting her usual amount of energy to the task of maintaining her philosophy reputation, and she had, without conscience, cut ethics several days in succession, and had failed to comment upon the fact to the professor. "What did he lecture about in ethics--those recitations I missed?" she inquired of Priscilla, one afternoon. "Swedenborg." "Swedenborg," repeated Patty, dreamily. "He got up a new religion, didn't he? Or was it a new system of gymnastics? I've heard about him, but I don't seem to remember any details." "You'd better make him up; he's important." "I dare say; but I've lived twenty-one years without knowing about him, and I can wait a month longer. I'm saving up Confucius and the Jesuits for examination-time, and I'll add Swedenborg to the list." "You'd better not. Professor Cairnsley's fond of him, and is likely to pop a special examination at any moment." "Not Professor Cairnsley," laughed Patty. "He doesn't want to waste the time. He's going to lecture straight on for two weeks--nice man; I see it in his eye. What I admire in a professor is a good, steady, plodding disposition that doesn't go in for sensational surprises." "You'll find yourself mistaken some day," warned Priscilla. "No danger, my dear Cassandra. I know Professor Cairnsley, and Professor Cairnsley thinks he knows me; and we just get along together beautifully. I wish there were more like him," Patty added with a sigh. Professor Cairnsley began a lecture the next morning which was evidently calculated to extend through the hour, and Patty cast a triumphant glance at Priscilla as she unscrewed the top of her fountain-pen and settled down to work. In the course of the lecture, however, he had occasion to refer to Swedenborg, and, pausing a moment, he casually asked a girl on the front seat for a résumé of Swedenborg's philosophy. She, unfortunately confusing him with Schopenhauer, glibly attributed to him doctrines which would have outraged his soul could he have heard them. It is written that the worm will turn, and the professor's bland smile deserted him as he passed the question to a second girl without much better result. The class in general had evidently been laboring under Patty's delusion that the time had not come in which to learn back notes. Amazed and indignant, he pursued the matter with a persistency and a rancor he seldom showed. He began going straight through the class, growing more and more sarcastic with each recitation. As she saw him finish with the row in front and begin on her row, Patty knew that she was doomed. She racked her brain for some memory of Swedenborg. He was a name to her and nothing more. He might have been an ancient Greek or a modern American, for all she knew. As Professor Cairnsley came along the line he was gradually eliciting from the terrified class the superficial points which were more or less common to all philosophers. Patty perceived that her imagination could not help her out, that for once the placid professor was on the war-path, and that Swedenborg, and nothing but Swedenborg, would serve. She cast an agonized glance up at Priscilla, and Priscilla grinned back with "I told you so" written on every feature. Patty looked about desperately. The lecture-room was shaped like an amphitheater, with part of the seats on a level with the main floor, and the rest rising in tiers. Patty sat on the main floor, well toward the rear. She could barely see the professor's head, but he was coming irrevocably. She did not have to see very clearly to know that. The girl before her answered wildly; the professor frowned, and, looking down at his roll-book, slowly and deliberately made a zero. When he raised his eyes again Patty's seat was empty. She was kneeling on the floor, with her head bowed behind the girl in front. The unconscious professor passed over her bent head and called on the girl on the other side, who coughed hysterically once or twice, and flunked flat; and while he was crediting the fact in his roll-book Patty resumed her seat. A ripple of laughter ran around the room; the professor frowned, and remarked that he saw no occasion for amusement. The bell rang, and the class somewhat sheepishly filed out. That afternoon Patty burst into the study where Priscilla and Georgie Merriles were making tea. "Did you ever think I had much of a conscience?" she demanded. "Never thought it was your strong point," said Georgie. "Well, I've got a perfectly tremendous one! What do you think I've been doing?" "Making up your ethics lectures," suggested Priscilla. "Worse than that." "You _haven't_ been to gym, Patty!" said Georgie. "Goodness, no! I'm not so far gone as that. Well, I'll tell you. I met Professor Cairnsley by the gate and walked in with him, and, if you please, he complimented me on my work in ethics!" "That ought to have been embarrassing," said Georgie. "It was," acknowledged Patty. "I told him I didn't really know as much as he thought I did." "What did he say?" "He said I was too modest. He's such a trustful old man, you know, that you sort of hate to deceive him. And what do you think? I told him about the seat!" Priscilla smiled approvingly upon her usually recreant room-mate. "Well, Patty, you certainly are better than I gave you credit for!" "Thank you," murmured Patty. "I begin to believe you _have_ got a conscience," said Georgie. "An excellent one," said Patty, complacently. "It pays in the end," said Priscilla. "It does," agreed Patty. "Professor Cairnsley said he would explain Swedenborg to me himself, and he invited me over to dinner to-night!" V The Elusive Kate Ferris The mysterious Kate Ferris, who kept Priscilla on the verge of nervous prostration for a whole semester, entered upon her college career in an entirely unpremeditated and impromptu manner. It began one day away back in November. Georgie Merriles and Patty had just strolled home from the athletic field, where they had been witnessing the start of a paper-chase cross country, in which Priscilla was impersonating a fox. As they entered the study, Georgie stopped to examine some loose sheets of paper which were impaled upon the door. "What's this, Patty?" "Oh, that's the registration-list for the German Club. Priscilla's secretary, you know, and every one who wants to join comes here. The study has been so full of freshmen all the time that I told her to hang it on the door and let them join outside; it works beautifully." Patty turned the leaves and ran her eyes down the list of sprawling signatures. "It's a popular organization, isn't it? The freshmen are simply scrambling to get in." "They're trying to show Fräulein Scherin how much interest they take in the subject," Georgie laughed. Patty picked up the pencil. "Would you like to join? I know Priscilla would be gratified." "No, thank you; I pay club dues enough already." "I'm afraid I'm not exactly eligible myself, as I don't know any German. It's such a beautifully sharp pencil, though, that I hate not to write with it." Patty poised the pencil a moment, and abstractedly traced the name "Kate Ferris." Georgie laughed. "If there should happen to be a Kate Ferris in college, she would be surprised to find herself a member of the German Club," and the incident was forgotten. A few days later the two came in from class, to find Priscilla and the president of the German Club sitting on the divan with their heads together, frantically turning the leaves of the catalogue. "She isn't a sophomore," the president announced. "She _must_ be a freshman, Priscilla. Look again." "I've gone over this list three times, and there isn't a single Ferris down." Georgie and Patty exchanged glances and inquired the trouble. "A girl named Kate Ferris has registered for the German Club, and we've gone through all the classes, and there simply isn't any such girl in college." "Possibly a special," Patty suggested. "Of course! Why didn't we think of that?" And Priscilla turned to the list of special students. "No; she isn't here." "Let me look"; and Patty ran her eyes down the column. "You've mistaken the name," she remarked, handing the book back with a shrug. Priscilla produced the registration-list, and triumphantly exhibited an unmistakable Kate Ferris. "They forgot to put her in the catalogue." "I never knew them to make such a mistake before," said the president, dubiously. "I don't believe we'd better put her in the roll-book till we find out who she is." "Then you'll hurt her feelings," said Georgie. "Freshmen are terribly sensitive about being slighted." "Oh, very well; it doesn't matter." And Kate Ferris was accordingly enrolled in the club records. Several weeks later Priscilla was engaged in laboriously turning the minutes of the last meeting into grammatical German, and as she closed the dictionary and grammar with a sigh of relief, she remarked to Patty: "Do you know, it's very queer about that Kate Ferris. She hasn't paid her dues, and, as far as I can make out, she hasn't attended a single meeting. Wouldn't you take her name off the roll? I don't believe she's in college any more." "You might as well," said Patty, and she listlessly watched Priscilla as she scratched out the name with a penknife. Patty never made the mistake of over-acting. The next morning, as Priscilla came in from a class, she found a note on her door-block, written in the perpendicular characters of Kate Ferris. It ran: DEAR MISS POND: I came to pay my German Club dues, and as you are not in, I have left the money on the bookcase. Am sorry to have missed so many meetings, but have not been able to attend classes lately. KATE FERRIS. Priscilla exhibited the note to the president as a tangible proof that Kate Ferris still existed, and reinscribed the name in the roll-book. A few weeks later she found a second note on her door-block: DEAR MISS POND: As I am very busy with my class work, I find that I have not time to attend the German Club meetings, and so have decided to resign. I left my letter of resignation on the bookcase. KATE FERRIS. As Priscilla scratched the name out of the roll-book again she remarked to Patty: "I am glad this Kate Ferris has left the club at last. She has caused me more trouble than all the rest of the members put together." The next morning a third note appeared on the block: DEAR MISS POND: I happened to mention the fact of my having resigned from the German Club to Fräulein Scherin last night, and she said that the club would help me in my work, and advised me to stay in it. So I shall be much obliged if you will not present my letter at the meeting after all, as I have decided to follow her advice. KATE FERRIS. Priscilla tossed the note to Patty with a groan, and getting out the roll-book, she turned to the F's and reënrolled Kate Ferris. Patty sympathetically watched the process over her shoulder. "The book is getting so thin in that spot," she laughed, "that Kate Ferris is actually coming through on the other side. If she changes her mind many more times there won't be anything left." "I'm going to ask Fräulein Scherin about her," Priscilla declared. "She's made me so much trouble that I'm curious to see what she looks like." She did ask Fräulein Scherin, but Fräulein denied all knowledge of the girl. "I have so many freshmen," she apologized, "I cannot all of them with their queer names remember." Priscilla inquired about Kate Ferris from the freshmen she knew, but though all of them thought that the name sounded familiar, none of them could exactly place her. She was variously described as tall and dark and small and light, but further inquiry always proved that the girl they had in mind was some one else. Priscilla kept hearing about the girl on all sides, but could never catch a glimpse of her. Miss Ferris called several times on business, but Priscilla always happened to be out. Her name was posted on the bulletin-board for having library books that were overdue. She even wrote a paper for one of the German Club meetings (Georgie was not a facile German scholar, and it had required a whole Saturday); but owing to the fact that she was suddenly called out of town, she did not read it in person. A month or two after Kate Ferris's advent, Priscilla had friends visiting her from New York, for whom she gave a tea in the study. "I am going to invite Kate Ferris," she announced. "I _insist_ upon finding out what she looks like." "Do," said Patty. "I should like to find out myself." The invitation was despatched, and on the next day Priscilla received a formal acceptance. "It's strange that she should send an acceptance for a tea," she remarked as she read it, "but I'm glad to get it, anyway. I like to feel sure that I'm to see her at last." On the evening of the tea, after the guests had gone and the furniture had been moved back, the weary hostesses, in somewhat rumpled evening dresses (a considerable crush results when fifty are entertained in a room whose utmost capacity is fifteen), were reëntertaining one or two friends on the lettuce sandwiches and cakes the obliging guests had failed to consume. The company and the clothes having passed in review, the conversation flagged a little, and Georgie suddenly asked: "Was Kate Ferris here? I was so busy passing cakes that I didn't look, and I wanted to see her especially!" "That's so!" Patty exclaimed. "I didn't see her, either. She's the most abnormally inconspicuous person I ever heard of. What did she look like, Pris?" Priscilla knit her brows. "She couldn't have come. I kept watching for her all the evening. It's strange, isn't it?--when she was so careful to send an acceptance. I'm growing positively morbid over the girl; I begin to think she's invisible." "I begin to think so myself," said Patty. The next morning's mail brought a bunch of violets and an apology from Kate Ferris. "She had been unavoidably detained." "It's positively uncanny!" Priscilla declared. "I shall go to the registrar and tell her that this Kate Ferris is neither down in the catalogue nor the college directory, and find out where she lives." "Don't do anything reckless," Georgie pleaded. "Take what the gods send and be grateful." But Priscilla was as good as her word, and she returned from the registrar's office flushed and defiant. "She insists that there isn't any such person in college, and that I must have made a mistake in the name! Did you ever hear anything so absurd?" "That seems to me the only reasonable explanation," Patty agreed amicably. "Perhaps it is Harris instead of Ferris." Priscilla faced her ominously. "You read the name yourself. It was as plain as printing." "We're all liable to make mistakes," Patty murmured soothingly. "Do you know," said Georgie, "I begin to think it's all a hallucination, and that there really isn't any Kate Ferris. It's strange, of course, but not any stranger than some of those cases you read about in psychology." "Hallucinations don't send flowers," said Priscilla, hotly; and she stalked out of the room, leaving Patty and Georgie to review the campaign. "I'm afraid it's gone far enough," said Georgie. "If she bothers the office very much there'll be an official investigation." "I'm afraid so," sighed Patty. "It's been very entertaining, but she is really getting sensitive on the subject, and I don't dare mention Kate Ferris's name when we're alone." "Shall we tell her?" Patty shook her head. "Not just now--I shouldn't dare. She believes in corporal punishment." A few days later Priscilla received another note directed in the hand she had come to dread. She threw it into the waste-basket unopened; but, curiosity prevailing, she drew it out again and read it: DEAR MISS POND: As I have been obliged to leave college on account of my health, I inclose my resignation to the German Club. I thank you very sincerely for your kindness to me this year, and shall always look back upon our friendship as one of the happiest memories of my college life. Yours sincerely, KATE FERRIS. When Patty came in she found Priscilla silently and grimly scratching a hole into the roll-book where Kate Ferris's name had been. "Changed her mind again?" Patty asked pleasantly. "She's left college," Priscilla snapped, "and don't you ever mention her name to me again." Patty sighed sympathetically and remarked to the room in general: "It's sort of pathetic to have your whole college life summed up in a hole in the German Club archives. I can't help feeling sorry for her!" VI A Story with Four Sequels It was Saturday, and Patty had been working ever since breakfast, with a brief pause for luncheon, on a paper entitled "Shakspere, the Man." At four o'clock she laid down her pen, pushed her manuscript into the waste-basket, and faced her room-mate defiantly. "What do I care about Shakspere, the man? He's been dead three hundred years." Priscilla laughed unfeelingly. "What do I care about a frog's nervous system, for the matter of that? But I am writing an interesting monograph on it, just the same." "Ah, I dare say you are making a valuable addition to the subject." "It's quite as valuable as your addition to Shaksperiana." Patty dropped a voluble sigh and turned to the window to note that it was raining dismally. "Oh, hand it in," said Priscilla, comfortingly. "You've worked on it all day, and it's probably no worse than the most of your things." "No sense to it," said Patty. "They're used to that," laughed Priscilla. "What are you laughing at, anyway?" Patty asked crossly. "I don't see anything to laugh at in this beastly place. Always having to do what you don't want to do when you most don't want to do it. Just the same, day after day: get up by bells, eat by bells, sleep by bells. I feel like some sort of a delinquent living in an asylum." Priscilla treated this outburst with the silence it deserved, and Patty turned back to her perusal of the rain-soaked campus. "I wish something would happen," she said discontentedly. "I think I'll put on a mackintosh and go out in search of adventure." "Pneumonia will happen if you do." "What business has it to be raining, anyway, when it ought to be snowing?" As this was unanswerable, Priscilla returned to her frogs, and Patty drummed gloomily on the window-pane until a maid appeared with a card. "A caller?" cried Patty. "A missionary! A rescuer! A deliverer! Heaven send it's for me!" "Miss Pond," said Sadie, laying the card on the table. Patty pounced upon it. "'Mr. Frederick K. Stanthrope.' Who's he, Pris?" Priscilla wrinkled up her brows. "I don't know; I never heard of him. What do you suppose it can be?" "An adventure--I know it's an adventure. Probably your uncle, that you never heard of, has just died in the South Sea Islands, and left you a fortune because you're his namesake; or else you're a countess by rights, and were stolen from your cradle in infancy, and he's the lawyer come to tell you about it. I think it might have happened to me, when I'm so bored to death! But hurry up and tell me about it, at least; a second-hand adventure's better than no adventure at all. Yes, your hair is all right; never mind looking in the glass." And Patty pushed her room-mate out of the door, and, sitting down at her desk again, quite cheerfully pulled her discarded paper out of the waste-basket and began re-reading it with evident approval. Priscilla returned before she had finished. "He didn't ask for me at all," she announced. "He asked for Miss McKay." "Miss McKay?" "That junior with the hair," she explained a trifle vaguely. "How disgusting!" cried Patty. "I had it all planned how I was going to live with you in your castle up in the Hartz Mountains, and now it turns out that Miss McKay is the countess, and I don't even know her. What did the man look like, and what did he do?" "Well, he looked rather frightened, and didn't do anything but stammer. There were two men in the reception-room, and of course I picked out the wrong one and begged his pardon and asked if he were Mr. Stanthrope. He said no; his name was Wiggins. So then the only thing left for me to do was to beg the other one's pardon. "He was sitting in that high-backed green chair, with his eyes glued to his shoes, and holding his hat and cane in front of him like breastworks, as if he were preparing to repel an attack. He didn't look very approachable, but I boldly accosted him and asked if he were Mr. Stanthrope. He stood up and stammered and blushed and looked as if he wanted to deny it, but finally acknowledged that he was, and then stood politely waiting for me to state my business! I explained, and he stammered some more, and finally got out that he had called to see Miss McKay, and that the maid must have made a mistake. He was quite cross about it, you know, and acted as if I had insulted him; and the other man--the horrible Wiggins one--laughed, and then looked out of the window and pretended he hadn't. I apologized,--though I couldn't for the life of me see what there was to apologize for,--and told him I would send the maid for Miss McKay, and backed out." "Is that all?" Patty asked disappointedly. "If I couldn't have a better adventure than that, I shouldn't have any." "But the funny thing is that when I told Sadie, she _insisted_ that he had asked for me." "Ha! The plot thickens, after all. What does it mean? Did he look like a detective, or merely a pickpocket?" "He looked like a very ordinarily embarrassed young man." Patty shook her head dejectedly. "There's a mystery somewhere, but I don't see that it affords much entertainment. I dare say that when Miss McKay came he told her he hadn't asked for her at all; he had asked for Miss Higginbotham. The only explanation I can think of is that he is insane, and there are so many insane people in the world that it isn't even interesting." Patty recounted the story of Priscilla's caller at the dinner-table that night. "I know the sequel," said Lucille Carter. "The other man, the Mr. Wiggins, is Bonnie Connaught's cousin; and he told her about some young man who came out in the car with him, and asked for Miss Pond at the door, and then all of a sudden seemed to change his mind, and went tearing down the corridor after the maid, yelling, 'Hi, there! Hi, there!' at the top of his voice; but he couldn't catch her, and when Miss Pond came he pretended he had asked for some one else." "Is that all?" asked Patty. "I don't think it is much of a sequel. It just proves that there's a plot against Priscilla's life, and I already knew that. I intend to ask Miss McKay about him. I don't know her, except by sight, but in a case of life and death like this, I don't think it's necessary to wait for an introduction." The next evening Patty announced: "Sequel number two! Mr. Frederick K. Stanthrope lives in New York, and is Miss McKay's brother's best friend. She has only met him once before, and doesn't know any of his past affiliations. But the queer thing is that he never mentioned to her anything about Priscilla. Shouldn't you naturally think he would have told her about such a funny mistake? "In my opinion," Patty continued solemnly, "it was plainly premeditated. He is undoubtedly a villain in disguise, and he used his acquaintance with Miss McKay as a cloak to elude detection. My theory is this: He got Priscilla's name out of the catalogue, and came here intending to murder her for her _jools_; but when he saw how big she was he was scared and so abandoned his dastardly intent. Now if he had chosen me, my body would, at this moment, have been concealed behind the sofa, and my class-pin reposing in the murderer's pocket." Patty shuddered. "Think what I escaped. And all the time I was grumbling because nothing ever happens here!" A few days later she appeared at the table with a further announcement: "I have the pleasure of offering for your perusal, young ladies, the third and last sequel in the great Stanthrope-Pond-McKay mystery. And I hereby take the opportunity of apologizing to Mr. Stanthrope for my unworthy suspicions. He is not a burglar, nor a detective, nor a murderer, nor even a lawyer, but just a poor young man with a buried romance." "How did you find out?"--in a chorus of voices. "I just met Miss McKay in the hall, and she has been in New York, where her brother told her the particulars. It seems that three or four years ago Mr. Frederick K. Stanthrope was engaged to a girl here in college named Alice Pond--she is now Mrs. Hiram Brown, but that has nothing to do with the story. "Being in town last Saturday on business, he decided to run out and call on Miss McKay, as he was such a friend of her brother's--and also for the sake of old times. He amused himself all the way out in the car by resurrecting his buried romance, and he kept getting more and more pensive with every mile. When he finally reached the door and handed his card to the maid, he abstractedly called for Miss Pond just as he used to do four years ago. He didn't realize at first what he had done. Then it came over him in a flash, but he couldn't catch Sadie. He knew, of course, that the other man had heard, and he sat there scared to death, trying to think of some plausible excuse, and momentarily expecting a strange Miss Pond to pop in and demand an explanation. "Sure enough, the curtains parted, and a tall, beautiful, stately creature (I quote Miss McKay's brother) swept into the room, and, approaching the wrong man, asked him in haughty tones if he were Mr. Frederick K. Stanthrope. He very properly denied it, whereupon there was nothing for the right Mr. Stanthrope to do but stand up and acknowledge it like a man, which he did; but there he stuck. His imagination was numbed, paralyzed; so he turned it off on poor Sadie, and all the time he knew that the other man knew that he was lying. And that is all," Patty finished. "It's not much of a story, but such as it is, it's a blessing to have it concluded." "Patty," called Priscilla, from the other end of the table, "have you been telling them that absurd story?" "Why not?" asked Patty. "Having heard so many sequels, they naturally wanted to hear the last." Priscilla laughed. "But yours doesn't happen to be the last. I know a still later one." "Later than Patty's?" the table demanded. "Yes, later than Patty's. It isn't really a sequel; it's just an appendix. I shouldn't tell you, only you'll find it out, so I might as well. Miss McKay has invited two men for the junior party, and both have accepted. As two men are hard to manage, she has (by request) asked me to take care of one of them--namely, Mr. Frederick K. Stanthrope." Patty sighed. "I see a whole series of sequels stretching away into the future. It's worse than the Elsie Books!" VII In Pursuit of Old English "Hello, Patty! Have you read the bulletin-board this morning?" called Cathy Fair, as she caught up with Patty on the way home from a third-hour recitation. "No," said Patty; "I think it's a bad habit. You see too many unpleasant things there." "Well, there's certainly an unpleasant one to-day. Miss Skelling wishes the Old English class to be provided with writing materials this afternoon." Patty stopped with a groan. "I think it's absolutely abominable to give an examination without a word of warning." "Not an examination," quoted Cathy; "just a 'little test to see how much you know.'" "I don't know a thing," wailed Patty--"not a blessed thing." "Nonsense, Patty; you know more than any one else in the class." "Bluff--it's all pure bluff. I come in strong on the literary criticism and the general discussions, and she never realizes that I don't know a word of the grammar." "You've got two hours. You can cut your classes and review it up." "Two hours!" said Patty, sadly. "I need two days. I've never learned it, I tell you. The Anglo-Saxon grammar is a thing no mortal can carry in his head, and I thought I might as well wait and learn it before examinations." "I don't wish to appear unfeeling," laughed Cathy, "but I should say, my dear, that it serves you right." "Oh, I dare say," said Patty. "You are as bad as Priscilla"; and she trailed gloomily homeward. She found her friends reviewing biology and eating olives. "Have one?" asked Lucille Carter, who, provided with a hat-pin by way of fork, was presiding over the bottle for the moment. "No, thanks," returned Patty, in the tone of one who has exhausted life and longs for death. "What's the matter?" inquired Priscilla. "You don't mean to say that woman has given you another special topic?" "Worse than that!" and Patty laid bare the tragedy. A sympathetic silence followed; they realized that while she was, perhaps, not strictly deserving of sympathy, still her impending fate was of the kind that might overtake any one. "You know, Pris," said Patty, miserably, "that I simply _can't_ pass." "No," said Priscilla, soothingly; "I don't believe you can." "I shall flunk _flat_--absolutely _flat_. Miss Skelling will never have any confidence in me again, and will make me recite every bit of grammar for the rest of the semester." "I should think you'd cut," ventured Georgie--that being, in her opinion, the most obvious method of escaping an examination. "I can't. I just met Miss Skelling in the hall five minutes before the blow fell, and she knows I'm alive and able to be about; besides, the class meets again to-morrow morning, and I'd have to cram all night or cut that too." "Why don't you go to Miss Skelling and frankly explain the situation," suggested Lucille the virtuous, "and ask her to let you off for a day or two? She would like you all the better for it." "Will you listen to the guileless babe!" said Patty. "What is there to explain, may I ask? I can't very well tell her that I prefer not to learn the lessons as she gives them out, but think it easier to wait and cram them up at one fell swoop, just before examinations. That _would_ ingratiate myself in her favor!" "It's your own fault," said Priscilla. Patty groaned. "I was just waiting to hear you say that! You always do." "It's always true. Where are you going?" as Patty started for the door. "I am going," said Patty, "to ask Mrs. Richards to give me a new room-mate: one who will understand and appreciate me, and sympathize with my afflictions." Patty walked gloomily down the corridor, lost in meditation. Her way led past the door of the doctor's office, which was standing invitingly open. Three or four girls were sitting around the room, laughing and talking and waiting their turns. Patty glanced in, and a radiant smile suddenly lightened her face, but it was instantly replaced by a look of settled sadness. She walked in and dropped into an arm-chair with a sigh. "What's the matter, Patty? You look as if you had melancholia." Patty smiled apathetically. "Not quite so bad as that," she murmured, and leaned back and closed her eyes. [Illustration: What's the matter, Patty?] "Next," said the doctor from the doorway; but as she caught sight of Patty she walked over and shook her arm. "Is this Patty Wyatt? What is the matter with you, child?" Patty opened her eyes with a start. "Nothing," she said; "I'm just a little tired." "Come in here with me." "It's not my turn," objected Patty. "That makes no difference," returned the doctor. Patty dropped limply into the consulting-chair. "Let me see your tongue. Um-m--isn't coated very much. Your pulse seems regular, though possibly a trifle feverish. Have you been working hard?" "I don't think I've been working any harder than usual," said Patty, truthfully. "Sitting up late nights?" Patty considered. "I was up rather late twice last week," she confessed. "If you girls persist in studying until all hours of the night, I don't know what we doctors can do." Patty did not think it necessary to explain that it was a Welsh-rabbit party on each occasion, so she merely sighed and looked out of the window. "Is your appetite good?" "Yes," said Patty, in a tone which belied the words; "it seems to be very good." "Um-m," said the doctor. "I'm just a little tired," pursued Patty, "but I think I shall be all right as soon as I get a chance to rest. Perhaps I need a tonic," she suggested. "You'd better stay out of classes for a day or two and get thoroughly rested." "Oh, no," said Patty, in evident perturbation. "Our room is so full of girls all the time that it's really more restful to go to classes; and, besides, I can't stay out just now." "Why not?" demanded the doctor, suspiciously. "Well," said Patty, a trifle reluctantly, "I have a good deal to do. I've got to cram for an examination, and--" The word "cram" was to the doctor as a red rag to a bull. "Nonsense!" she ejaculated. "I know what I shall do with you. You are going right over to the infirmary for a few days--" "Oh, doctor!" Patty pleaded, with tears in her eyes, "there's _truly_ nothing the matter with me, and I've _got_ to take that examination." "What examination is it?" "Old English--Miss Skelling." "I will see Miss Skelling myself," said the doctor, "and explain that you cannot take the examination until you come out. And now," she added, making a note of Patty's case, "I will have you put in the convalescent ward, and we will try the rest cure for a few days, and feed you up on chicken-broth and egg-nog, and see if we can get that appetite back." "Thank you," said Patty, with the resigned air of one who has given up struggling against the inevitable. "I like to see you take an interest in your work," added the doctor, kindly; "but you must always remember, my dear, that health is the first consideration." Patty returned to the study and executed an impromptu dance in the middle of the floor. "What's the matter?" exclaimed Priscilla. "Are you crazy?" "No," said Patty; "only ill." And she went into her bedroom and began slinging things into a dress-suit case. Priscilla stood in the doorway and watched her in amazement. "Are you going to New York?" she asked. "No," said Patty; "to the infirmary." "Patty Wyatt, you're a wretched little hypocrite!" "Not at all," said Patty, cheerfully. "I didn't ask to go, but the doctor simply insisted. I told her I had an examination, but she said it didn't make any difference; health must be the first consideration." "What's in that bottle?" demanded Priscilla. "That's for my appetite," said Patty, with a grin; "the doctor hopes to improve it. I didn't like to discourage her, but I don't much believe she can." She dropped an Old English grammar and a copy of "Beowulf" into her suit-case. "They won't let you study," said Priscilla. "I shall not ask them," said Patty. "Good-by. Tell the girls to drop in occasionally and see me in my incarceration. Visiting hour from five to six." She stuck her head in again. "If any one wants to send violets, I think they might cheer me up." * * * * * THE next afternoon Georgie and Priscilla presented themselves at the infirmary, and were met at the door by the austere figure of the head nurse. "I will see if Miss Wyatt is awake," she said dubiously, "but I am afraid you will excite her; she's to be kept very quiet." "Oh, no; we'll do her good," remonstrated Georgie; and the two girls tiptoed in after the nurse. The convalescent ward was a large, airy room, furnished in green and white, with four or five beds, each surrounded with brass poles and curtains. Patty was lying in one of the corner beds near a window, propped up on pillows, with her hair tumbled about her face, and a table beside her covered with flowers and glasses of medicine. This elaborate paraphernalia of sickness created a momentary illusion in the minds of the visitors. Priscilla ran to the bedside and dropped on her knees beside her invalid room-mate. "Patty dear," she said anxiously, "how do you feel?" A seraphic smile spread over Patty's face. "I've been able to take a little nourishment to-day," she said. "Patty, you're a scandalous humbug! Who gave you those violets? 'With love, from Lady Clara Vere de Vere'--that blessed freshman!--and you've borrowed every drop of alcohol the poor child ever thought of owning. And whom are those roses from? Miss Skelling! Patty, you ought to be ashamed." Patty had the grace to blush slightly. "I was a trifle embarrassed," she admitted; "but when I reflected upon how sorry she would have been to find out how little I knew, and how glad she will be to find out how much I know, my conscience was appeased." "Have you been studying?" asked Georgie. "Studying!" Patty lifted up the corner of her pillow and exhibited a blue book. "Two days more of this, and I shall be the chief authority in America on Anglo-Saxon roots." "How do you manage it?" "Oh," said Patty, "when the rest-hour begins I lie down and shut my eyes, and they tiptoe over and look at me, and whisper, 'She's asleep,' and softly draw the curtains around the bed; and I get out the book and put in two solid hours of irregular verbs, and am still sleeping when they come to look at me. They're perfectly astonished at the amount I sleep. I heard the nurse telling the doctor that she didn't believe I'd had any sleep for a month. And the worst of it is," she added, "that I _am_ tired, whether you believe it or not, and I should just love to stay over here and sleep all day if I weren't so beastly conscientious about that old grammar." "Poor Patty!" laughed Georgie. "She will be imposing on herself next, as well as on the whole college." Friday morning Patty returned to the world. "How's Old English?" inquired Priscilla. "Very well, thank you. It was something of a cram, but I think I know that grammar by heart, from the preface to the index." "You're back in all your other work. Do you think it paid?" "That remains to be seen," laughed Patty. She knocked on Miss Skelling's door, and, after the first polite greetings, stated her errand: "I should like, if it is convenient for you, to take the examination I missed." "Do you feel able to take it to-day?" "I feel much better able to take it to-day than I did on Tuesday." Miss Skelling smiled kindly. "You have done very good work in Old English this semester, Miss Wyatt, and I should not ask you to take the examination at all if I thought it would be fair to the rest of the class." "Fair to the rest of the class?" Patty looked a trifle blank; she had not considered this aspect of the question, and a slow red flush crept over her face. She hesitated a moment, and rose uncertainly. "When it comes to that, Miss Skelling," she confessed, "I'm afraid it wouldn't be quite fair to the rest of the class for me to take it." Miss Skelling did not understand. "But, Miss Wyatt," she expostulated in a puzzled tone, "it was not difficult. I am sure you could pass." Patty smiled. "I am sure I could, Miss Skelling. I don't believe you could ask me a question that I couldn't answer. But the point is that it's all learned since Tuesday. The doctor was laboring under a little delusion--very natural under the circumstances--when she sent me to the infirmary, and I spent my time there studying." "But, Miss Wyatt, this is very unusual. I shall not know how to mark you," Miss Skelling murmured in some distress. "Oh, mark me zero," said Patty, cheerfully. "It doesn't matter in the least--I know such a lot that I'll get through on the finals. Good-by; I'm sorry to have troubled you." And she closed the door and turned thoughtfully homeward. "Did it pay?" asked Priscilla. Patty laughed and murmured softly: "'The King of France rode up the hill with full ten thousand men; The King of France did gain the top, and then rode down again.'" "What are you talking about?" demanded Priscilla. "Old English," said Patty, as she sat down at her desk and commenced on the three days' work she had missed. VIII The Deceased Robert It was ten o'clock, and Patty, having just read her ethics over for the third time without comprehending it, had announced sleepily, "I shall have to be good by inspiration; I can't seem to grasp the rule," when a knock sounded on the door and a maid appeared with the announcement, "Mrs. Richards wishes to see Miss Wyatt." "At this hour!" Patty cried in dismay. "It must be something serious. Think, Priscilla. What have I been doing lately that would outrage the warden sufficiently to call me up at ten o'clock? You don't suppose I'm going to be suspended or rusticated or expelled or anything like that, do you? I _honestly_ can't think of a thing I've done." "It's a telegram," the maid said sympathetically. "A telegram?" Patty's face turned pale, and she left the room without a word. Priscilla and Georgie sat on the couch and looked at each other with troubled faces. All ordinary telegrams came directly to the students. They knew that something serious must have happened to have it sent to the warden. Georgie got up and walked around the room uncertainly. "Shall I go away, Pris?" she asked. "I suppose Patty would rather be alone if anything has happened. But if she's going home and has to pack her trunk to-night, come and tell me and I will come down and help." They stood at the door a few moments talking in low tones, and as Georgie started to turn away, Patty's step suddenly sounded in the corridor. She came in with a queer smile on her lips, and sat down on the couch. "The warden has certainly reduced the matter of scaring people to a fine art," she said. "I was never more frightened in my life. I thought that the least that had happened was an earthquake which had engulfed the entire family." "What was the matter?" Georgie and Priscilla asked in a breath. Patty spread out a crumpled telegram on her knee, and the girls read it over her shoulder: Robert died of an overdose of chloroform at ten this morning. Funeral to-morrow. THOMAS M. WYATT. "Thomas M. Wyatt," said Patty, grimly, "is my small brother Tommy, and Robert is short for Bobby Shafto, which was the name of Tommy's bull pup, the homeliest and worst-tempered dog that was ever received into the bosom of a respectable family." "But why in the world did he telegraph?" "It's a joke," said Patty, shaking her head dejectedly. "Joking runs in the family, and we've all inherited the tendency. One time my father--but, as my friend Kipling says, that's another story. This dog, you see--this Robert Shafto--has cast a shadow over my vacations for more than a year. He killed my kitten, and ate my Venetian lace collar--it didn't even give him indigestion. He went out and wallowed in the rain and mud and came in and slept on my bed. He stole the beefsteak for breakfast and the rubbers and door-mats for blocks around. Property on the street appreciably declined, for prospective purchasers refused to purchase so long as Tommy Wyatt kept a dog. Robert was threatened with death time and again, but Tommy always managed to conceal him from impending justice until the trouble had blown over. But this time I suppose he committed some supreme enormity--probably chewed up the baby or one of my father's Persian rugs, or something like that. And Tommy, knowing how I detested the beast, evidently thought it would be a good joke to telegraph, though wherein lies the point I can't make out." "Ah, I see," said Georgie; "and Mrs. Richards thought that Robert was a relation. What did she say?" "She said, 'Come in, Patty dear,' when I knocked on the door. Usually when I have had the honor of being received by her she has somewhat frigidly called me 'Miss Wyatt.' I opened the door with my knees shaking when I heard that 'Patty dear,' and she took my hand and said, 'I am sorry to have to tell you that I have heard bad news from your brother.' "'Tommy?' I gasped. "'No; Robert.' "I was dazed. I racked my brains, but I couldn't remember any brother Robert. "'He is very ill,' she went on. 'Yes, I must tell you the truth, Patty; poor little Robert passed away this morning'; and she laid the telegram before me. Then, when it flashed over me what it meant, I was so relieved that I put my head down on her desk and simply laughed till I cried; and she thought I was crying all the time, and kept patting my head and quoting Psalms. Well, then I didn't dare to tell her, after she had expended all that sympathy; so as soon as I could stop laughing (which wasn't very soon, for I had got considerable momentum) I raised my head and told her--trying to be truthful and at the same time not hurt her feelings--that Robert was not a brother, but just a sort of friend. And, do you know, she immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was a fiancé, and began stroking my hair and murmuring that it was sometimes harder to lose friends than relatives, but that I was still young, and I must not let it blast my life, and that maybe in the future when time had dulled the pain--and then, remembering that it wouldn't do to advise me to adopt a second fiancé before I had buried my first, she stopped suddenly and asked if I wished to go home to the funeral. "I told her no, that I didn't think it would be best; and she said perhaps not if it hadn't been announced, and she kissed me and told me she was glad to see me bearing up so bravely." "Patty!" Priscilla exclaimed in horror, "it's dreadful. How could you let her think it?" "How could I help it?" Patty demanded indignantly. "What with being frightened into hysterics first, and then having a strange fiancé thrust at me without a moment's notice, I think that I carried off the situation with rare delicacy and finesse. Do you think it would have been tactful to tell her it was nothing but a bull pup she was quoting Scripture about?" "I don't see how it was exactly your fault," Georgie acknowledged. "Thank you," said Patty. "If you had a brother like Tommy Wyatt you would know how to sympathize with me. I suppose I ought to be grateful to know that the dog is dead, but I should like to have had the news broken a little less gently." "Patty," exclaimed Priscilla, as a sudden thought struck her, "do you happen to remember that you are on the reception committee of the Dramatic Club cotillion to-morrow night? What will Mrs. Richards think when she sees you in evening dress, receiving at a party, on the very day your fiancé has been buried?" "I wonder?" said Patty, doubtfully. "Do you really think I ought to stay away? After working like a little buzz-saw making tissue-paper favors for the thing, I hate to have to miss it just because my brother's bull pup, that I never even _liked_, is dead. "I'll go," she added, brightening, "and receive the guests with a forced and mechanical smile; and every time I feel the warden's eyes upon me I shall with difficulty choke back the tears, and she will say to herself: "'Brave girl! How nobly she is struggling to present a composed face to the world! None would dream, to look at that seemingly radiant creature, that, while she is outwardly so gay, she is in reality concealing a great sorrow which is gnawing at her very vitals.'" IX Patty the Comforter It was on the eve of the mid-year examinations, and a gloom had fallen over the college. The conscientious ones who had worked all the year were working harder than ever, and the frivolous ones who had played all the year were working with a desperate frenzy calculated to render their minds a blank when the crucial hour should have arrived. But Patty was not working. It was a canon of her college philosophy, gained by three and a half years' of personal experience, that the day before examinations is not the time to begin to study. One has impressed the instructor with one's intelligent interest in the subject, or one has not, and the result is as sure as if the marks were already down in black and white in the college archives. And so Patty, who at least lived up to her lights, was, with the exception of a few points which she intended to learn for this period only, conscientiously neglecting the "judicious review" recommended by the faculty. Her friends, however, who, though perhaps equally philosophic, were less consistent, were subjecting themselves to what was known as a "regular freshman cram"; and as no one had any time to talk to Patty, or to make anything to eat, she found it an unprofitable period. Her own room-mate even drove her from the study because she laughed out loud over the book she was reading; and, an exile, she wandered around to the studies of her friends, and was confronted by an "engaged" on every door. She was sitting on a window-sill in the corridor, pondering on the general barrenness of things, when she suddenly remembered her friends the freshmen in study 321. She had not visited them for some time, and freshmen are usually interesting at this period. She accordingly turned down the corridor that led to 321, and found a "POSITIVELY ENGAGED TO EVERY ONE!!" in letters three inches high, across the door. This promised a richness of entertainment within, and Patty heaved a disappointed sigh loud enough to carry through the transom. The turning of leaves and rustling of paper ceased; evidently they were listening, but they gave no sign. Patty wrote a note on the door-block with reverberating punctuation-points, and then retired noisily, and tiptoed back a moment later, and leaned against the wall. Curiosity prevailed; the door opened, and a face wearing a hunted look peered out. "Oh, Patty Wyatt, was that you?" she asked. "We thought it was Frances Stoddard coming down to have geometry explained, and so we kept still. Come in." "Goodness, no; I wouldn't come in over an 'engaged' like that for anything. I'm afraid you're busy." The freshman grasped her by the arm. "Patty, if you love us come in and cheer us up. We're so scared we don't know what to do." Patty consented to be drawn across the threshold. "I don't want to interrupt you," she remonstrated, "if you have anything to do." The study was occupied by three girls. Patty smiled benignly at the two haggard faces before her. "Where's Lady Clara Vere de Vere?" she asked. "She surely isn't wasting these precious last moments in anything frivolous." "She's in her bedroom, with a geometry in one hand and a Greek grammar in the other, trying to learn them both at once." "Tell her to come out here; I want to give her some good advice"; and Patty sat down on the divan and surveyed the dictionary-bestrewn room with an appreciative smile. "Oh, Patty, I'm so glad to see you!" Lady Clara exclaimed, appearing in the doorway. "The sophomores have been telling us the most _dreadful_ stories about examinations. They aren't true, are they?" "Mercy, no! Don't believe a word those sophomores tell you. They were freshmen themselves last year, and if the examinations were as bad as they say, they wouldn't have passed them, either." A relieved expression stole over the three faces. "You're such a comfort, Patty. Upper-classmen take things easily, don't they?" "One gets inured to almost anything in time," said Patty. "Examinations are even entertaining, if you know the right answers." "But we won't know the right answers!" one of the freshmen wailed, her terror returning. "We simply don't know _anything_, and Latin comes to-morrow, and geometry the next day." "Oh, well, in that case you can't get through anyway, so don't worry. You must take it philosophically, you know." Patty settled herself among the cushions and smiled upon her frightened auditors with easy nonchalance. "As an example of the uselessness of studying at the eleventh hour when you haven't done anything through the term, I will tell you my experience with freshman Greek. I was badly prepared when I came, I didn't study through the term, and, without exaggeration, I didn't know anything. Three days before examinations I suddenly comprehended the situation, and I began swallowing that grammar in chunks. I drank black coffee to keep awake, and worked till two in the morning, and scarcely stopped cramming irregular verbs for meals. I simply thought in Greek and dreamed in Greek. And, if you will believe it, after all that work I flunked in Greek! It shook my faith in studying for examinations. I've never done it since, and I've never flunked since. I believe that it's just a matter of fate whether you get through or not, so I never bother any more." The freshmen looked at one another disconsolately. "If it's all decided beforehand, we're lost." Patty smiled reassuringly. "A little flunking now and then Will happen to the best of men." "But I've heard they send people home, drop them, you know, if they flunk more than a certain amount. Is that so?" Lady Clara inquired in hushed tones. "Oh, yes," said Patty; "they have to. I've known some of the brightest girls in college to be dropped." Lady Clara groaned. "I'm awfully shaky in geometry, Patty. Do they flunk many girls in that?" "Many!" said Patty. "The mere clerical labor of writing out the notes occupies the department two days." "Is the examination terribly hard?" "I don't remember much about it. It's been such a long time since I was a freshman, you see. They picked out the hardest theorems, I know--things you couldn't even draw, let alone demonstrate: the pyramid that's cut in slices, for one,--I don't remember its name,--and that sprawling one that looks like a snail crawling out of its shell: the devil's coffin, I believe it's called technically. And--oh, yes! they give you originals--_frightful_ originals, like nothing you've ever had before; and they put a little note at the top of the page telling you to do them first, and you get so muddled trying to think fast that you can't think at all. I know a girl who spent all the two hours trying to think out an original, and just as she got ready to write it down the bell rang and she had to hand in her paper." "And what happened?" "Oh, she flunked. You couldn't really blame the instructor, you know, for not reading between the lines, for there weren't any lines to read between; but it was sort of a pity, for the girl really knew an awful lot--but she couldn't express it." "That's just like me." "Ah, it's like a good many people." A silence ensued, and the freshmen looked at one another dejectedly. "But you can live, even if you should flunk math," Patty continued reassuringly. "Other people have done it before you." "If it were only geometry--but we're scared over Latin." "Oh, Latin! There's no use studying for that, for you can't possibly read it all over, and if you just pick out a part, it's sure not to be the same part _they_ pick out. The best way is to say incantations over the book, and open it with your eyes blindfolded, and study the page it opens to; then, in case you don't pass,--and you probably won't,--you can throw the blame on fate. My freshman year, if I remember right, they gave us for prose composition one of Emerson's essays to translate into Latin, and we couldn't even tell what it meant in English." The three looked at one another again. "I couldn't do anything like that." "Nor I." "Nor I." "Nor any one else," said Patty. "We can flunk Latin and math; but if we flunk any more we're gone." "I believe so," said Patty. "And I'm awfully shaky in German." "And I in French." "And I in Greek." "I don't know anything about German," said Patty. "Never had it myself. But I remember hearing Priscilla say that the printed examination papers didn't come but in time, and Fräulein Scherin, who writes a frightful hand, wrote the questions on the board in German script, and they couldn't even read them. In French I believe the first question was to write out the 'Marseillaise'; there are seven verses, and no one had learned them, and the 'Marseillaise,' you know, is a thing that you simply _can't_ make up on the spur of the moment. As for Greek, I told you my own experience; I am sure nothing could be worse than that." The freshmen looked at one another hopelessly. "There's only English and hygiene and Bible history left." "English is something you can't tell anything about," said Patty. "They're as likely as not to ask you to write a heroic poem in iambic pentameters, if you know what they are. You have to depend on inspiration; you can't study for it." "I hope," sighed Lady Clara, "to get through hygiene and Bible history, though, as they only count one hour apiece, I suppose it isn't much." "You mustn't be too sanguine," said Patty. "It all depends on chance. The class in hygiene is so big that the professor hasn't time to read the papers; he just goes down the list and flunks every thirteenth girl. I'm not sure about Bible history, but I think he does the same, because I know, freshman year, that I made a mistake and handed in my map of the Holy Lands done in colored chalk to the hygiene professor, and my chart of the digestive system to the Bible professor, and neither of them noticed it. They did look a good deal alike, but not so much but what you could tell them apart. All I have to say is that I hope none of you will be number thirteen." The freshmen stared at one another in speechless horror, and Patty rose. "Well, good-by, my children, and, above all things, don't worry. I'm glad if I've been able to cheer you up a little, for so much depends on not being nervous. Don't believe any of the silly stories the sophomores tell," she called back over her shoulder; "they're just trying to frighten you." X "Per l'Italia" College is a more or less selfish place. Everybody is so busy with her own affairs that she has no time to give to her neighbor, unless her neighbor has something to give in return. Olivia Copeland apparently had nothing to give in return. She was quiet and inconspicuous, and it took a second glance to realize that her face was striking and that there was a look in her eyes that other freshmen did not have. By an unfelicitous chance she was placed in the same study with Lady Clara Vere de Vere and Emily Washburn. They thought her foreign and queer, and she thought them crude and boisterous, and after the first week or two of politely trying to get acquainted the effort was dropped on both sides. The year wore on, and nobody knew, or at least no one paid any attention to the fact, that Olivia Copeland was homesick and unhappy. Her room-mates thought that they had done their duty when they occasionally asked her to play golf or go skating with them (an invitation they were very safe in giving, as she knew how to do neither). Her instructors thought that they had done their duty when they called her up to the desk after class and warned her that her work was not as good as it had been, and that if she wished to pass she must improve in it. The English class was the only one in which she was not warned; but she had no means of knowing that her themes were handed about among the different instructors and that she was referred to in the department as "that remarkable Miss Copeland." The department had a theory that if they let a girl know she was doing good work she would immediately stop and rest upon her reputation; and Olivia, in consequence, did not discover that she was remarkable. She merely discovered that she was miserable and out of place, and she continued to drip tears of homesickness before a sketch of an Italian villa that hung above her desk. It was Patty Wyatt who first discovered her. Patty had dropped into the freshmen's room one afternoon on some errand or other (probably to borrow alcohol), and had idly picked up a pile of English themes that were lying on the study table. "Whose are these? Do you care if I look at them?" she asked. "No; you can read them if you want to," said Lady Clara. "They're Olivia's, but she won't mind." Patty carelessly turned the pages, and then, as a title caught her eye, she suddenly looked up with a show of interest. "'The Coral-fishers of Capri'! What on earth does Olivia Copeland know about the coral-fishers of Capri?" "Oh, she lives somewhere near there--at Sorrento," said Lady Clara, indifferently. "Olivia Copeland lives at Sorrento!" Patty stared. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I supposed you knew it. Her father's an artist or something of the sort. She's lived in Italy all her life; that's what makes her so queer." Patty had once spent a sunshiny week in Sorrento herself, and the very memory of it was intoxicating. "Where is she?" she asked excitedly. "I want to talk to her." "I don't know where she is. Out walking, probably. She goes off walking all by herself, and never speaks to any one, and then when we ask her to do something rational, like golf or basket-ball, she pokes in the house and reads Dante in Italian. Imagine!" "Why, she must be interesting!" said Patty, in surprise, and she turned back to the themes. "I think these are splendid!" she exclaimed. "Sort of queer, I think," said Lady Clara. "But there's one that's rather funny. It was read in class--about a peasant that lost his donkey. I'll find it"; and she rummaged through the pile. Patty read it soberly, and Lady Clara watched her with a shade of disappointment. "Don't you think it's pretty good?" she asked. "Yes; I think it's one of the best things I ever read." "You never even smiled!" "My dear child, it isn't funny." "Isn't funny! Why, the class simply roared over it." Patty shrugged. "Your appreciation must have gratified Olivia. And here it's February, and I've barely spoken to her." The next afternoon Patty was strolling home from a recitation, when she spied Olivia Copeland across the campus, headed for Pine Bluff and evidently out for a solitary walk. "Olivia Copeland, wait a moment," Patty called. "Are you going for a walk? May I come too?" she asked, as she panted up behind. Olivia assented with evident surprise, and Patty fell into step beside her. "I just found out yesterday that you live in Sorrento, and I wanted to talk to you. I was there myself once, and I think it's the most glorious spot on earth." Olivia's eyes shone. "Really?" she gasped. "Oh, I'm so glad!" And before she knew it she was telling Patty the story of how she had come to college to please her father, and how she loved Italy and hated America; and what she did not tell about her loneliness and homesickness Patty divined. She realized that the girl _was_ remarkable, and she determined in the future to take an interest in her and make her like college. But a senior's life is busy and taken up with its own affairs, and for the next week or two Patty saw little of the freshman beyond an occasional chat in the corridors. One evening she and Priscilla had returned late from a dinner in town, to be confronted by a dark room and an empty match-safe. "Wait a moment and I'll get some matches," said Patty; and she knocked on a door across the corridor where a freshman lived with whom they had a borrowing acquaintance. She found within her own freshman friends, Lady Clara Vere de Vere and Emily Washburn. It was evident by the three heads close together, and the hush that fell on the group as she entered, that some momentous piece of gossip had been interrupted. Patty forgot her room-mate waiting in the dark, and dropped into a chair with the evident purpose of staying out the evening. "Tell me all about it, children," she said cordially. The freshmen looked at one another and hesitated. "A new president?" Patty suggested, "or just a class mutiny?" "It's about Olivia Copeland," Lady Clara returned dubiously; "but I don't know that I ought to say anything." "Olivia Copeland?" Patty straightened up with a new interest in her eyes. "What's Olivia Copeland been doing?" "She's been flunking and--" "Flunking!" Patty's face was blank. "But I thought she was so bright!" "Oh, she is bright; only, you know, she hasn't a way of making people find it out; and, besides," Lady Clara added with meaning emphasis, "she was scared over examinations." Patty cast a quick look at her. "What do you mean?" she asked. Lady Clara was fond of Patty, but she was only human, and she had been frightened herself. "Well," she explained, "she had heard a lot of stories from--er--upper-classmen about how hard the examinations are, and the awful things they do to you if you don't pass, and being a stranger, she believed them. Of course Emily and I knew better; but she was just scared to death, and she went all to pieces, and--" "Nonsense!" said Patty, impatiently. "You can't make me believe that." "If it had been a sophomore that had tried to frighten us," pursued Lady Clara, "we shouldn't have minded so much: but a senior!" "Now, Patty, aren't you sorry that you told us all those things?" asked Emily. Patty laughed. "For the matter of that, I never say anything I'm not sorry for half an hour later. I'm going to get out a book some day entitled 'Things I Wish I Hadn't Said: A Collection of _Faux Pas_,' by Patty Wyatt." "I think it's more than a _faux pas_ when you frighten a girl so she--" "I suppose you think you're rubbing it in," said Patty, imperturbably; "but girls don't flunk because they're frightened: they flunk because they don't know." "Olivia knew five times as much geometry as I did, and I got through and she didn't." Patty examined the carpet in silence. "She thinks she's going to be dropped, and she's just crying terribly," pursued Emily, with a certain relish in the details. "Crying!" said Patty, sharply. "What's she crying for?" "Because she feels bad, I suppose. She'd been out walking, and got caught in the rain, and she didn't get back in time for dinner, and then found those notes waiting for her. She's up there lying on the bed, and she's got hysterics or Roman fever or something like that. She told us to go away and let her alone. She's awfully cross all of a sudden." Patty rose. "I think I'll go and cheer her up." "Let her alone, Patty," said Emily. "I know the way you cheer people up. If you hadn't cheered her up before examinations she wouldn't have flunked." "I didn't know anything about her then," said Patty, a trifle sulkily; "and, anyway," she added as she opened the door, "I didn't say anything that affected her passing, one way or the other." She turned toward Olivia's room, however, with a conscience that was not quite comfortable. She could not remember just what she _had_ told those freshmen about examinations, but she had an uneasy feeling that it might not have been of a reassuring nature. "I wish I could ever learn when it is time for joking and when it is not," she said to herself as she knocked on the study door. No one answered, and she turned the knob and entered. A stifled sob came from one of the bedrooms, and Patty hesitated. She was not in the habit of crying herself, and she always felt uncomfortable when other people did it. Something must be done, however, and she advanced to the threshold and silently regarded Olivia, who was stretched face downward on the bed. At the sound of Patty's step she raised her head and cast a startled glance at the intruder, and then buried her face in the pillows again. Patty scribbled an "engaged" sign and pinned it on the study door, and drawing up a chair beside the bed, she sat down with the air of a physician about to make a diagnosis. "Well, Olivia," she began in a business-like tone, "what is the trouble?" Olivia opened her hands and disclosed some crumpled papers. Patty spread them out and hastily ran her eyes over the official printed slips: Miss _Copeland_ is hereby informed that she has been found deficient in _German_ (_three_ hours). Miss _Copeland_ is hereby informed that she has been found deficient in _Latin prose_ (_one_ hour). Miss _Copeland_ is hereby informed that she has been found deficient in _geometry_ (_four_ hours). Patty performed a rapid calculation,--"three and one are four and four are eight,"--and knit her brows. "Will they send me home, Patty?" "Mercy, no, child; I hope not. A person who's done as good work as you in English ought to have the right to flunk every other blessed thing, if she wants to." "But you're dropped if you flunk eight hours; you told me so yourself." "Don't believe anything I told you," said Patty, reassuringly. "I don't know what I'm talking about more than half the time." "I'd hate to be sent back, and have my father know I'd failed, when he spent so much time preparing me; but"--Olivia began to cry again--"I want to go back so much that I don't believe I care." "You don't know what you're talking about," said Patty. She put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Mercy, child, you're sopping wet, and you're shivering! Sit up and take those shoes off." Olivia sat up and pulled at the laces with ineffectual fingers, and Patty jerked them open and dumped the shoes in a squashy heap on the floor. "Do you know what's the matter with you?" she asked. "You're not crying because you've flunked. You're crying because you've caught cold, and you're tired and wet and hungry. You take those wet clothes off this minute and get into a warm bath-robe, and I'll get you some dinner." "I don't want any dinner," wailed Olivia, and she showed signs of turning back to the pillows again. "Don't act like a baby, Olivia," said Patty, sharply; "sit up and be a--a man." Ten minutes later Patty returned from a successful looting expedition, and deposited her spoils on the bedroom table. Olivia sat on the edge of the bed and watched her apathetically, a picture of shivering despondency. "Drink this," commanded Patty, as she extended a steaming glass. Olivia obediently raised it to her lips, and drew back. "What's in it?" she asked faintly. "Everything I could find that's hot--quinine and whisky and Jamaica ginger and cough syrup and a dash of red pepper, and--one or two other things. It's my own idea. You can't take cold after _that_." "I--I don't believe I want any." "Drink it--every drop," said Patty, grimly; and Olivia shut her eyes and gulped it down. "Now," said Patty, cheerfully bustling about, "I'll get dinner. Have you a can-opener? And any alcohol, by chance? That's nice. We'll have three courses,--canned soup, canned baked beans, and preserved ginger,--all of them hot. It's mighty lucky Georgie Merriles was in New York or she'd never have lent them to me." Olivia, to her own astonishment, presently found herself laughing (she had thought that she would never smile again) as she sipped mulligatawny soup from a tooth-mug and balanced a pin-trayful of steaming baked beans on her knee. "And now," said Patty, as, the three courses disposed of, she tucked the freshman into bed, "we'll map out a campaign. While eight hours are pretty serious, they are not of necessity deadly. What made you flunk Latin prose?" "I never had any before I came, and when I told Miss--" "Certainly; she thought it her duty to flunk you. You shouldn't have mentioned the subject. But never mind. It's only one hour, and it won't take you a minute to work it off. How about German?" "German's a little hard because it's so different from Italian and French, you know; and I'm sort of frightened when she calls on me, and--" "Pretty stupid, on the whole?" Patty suggested. "I'm afraid I am," she confessed. "Well, I dare say you deserved to flunk in that. You can tutor it up and pass it off in the spring. How about geometry?" "I thought I knew that, only she didn't ask what I expected and--" "An unfortunate circumstance, but it will happen. Could you review it up a little and take a reëxamination right away?" "Yes; I'm sure I could, only they won't give me another chance. They'll send me home first." "Who's your instructor?" "Miss Prescott." Patty frowned, and then she laughed. "I thought if it were Miss Hawley I could go to her and explain the matter and ask her to give you a reëxamination. Miss Hawley's occasionally human. But Miss Prescott! No wonder you flunked. I'm afraid of her myself. She's the only woman that ever got a degree at some German university, and she simply hasn't a thought in the world beyond mathematics. I don't believe the woman has any soul. If one of those mediums should come here and dematerialize her, all that would be left would be an equilateral triangle." Patty shook her head. "I'm afraid there's not much use in arguing with a person like that. If she once sees a truth, you know, she sees it for all time. But never mind; I'll do the best I can. I'll tell her you're an undiscovered mathematical genius; that it's latent, but if she'll examine you again she'll find it. That ought to appeal to her. Good-night. Go to sleep and don't worry; I'll manage her." "Good night; and thank you, Patty," called a tolerably cheerful voice from under the covers. Patty closed the door, and stood a moment in the hall, pondering the situation. Olivia Copeland was too valuable to throw away. The college must be made to realize her worth. But that was difficult. Patty had tried to make the college realize things before. Miss Prescott was the only means of salvation that she could think of, and Miss Prescott was a doubtful means. She did not at all relish the prospect of calling on her, but there seemed to be nothing else to do. She made a little grimace and laughed. "I'm acting like a freshman myself," she thought. "Walk up, Patty, and face the guns"; and without giving herself time to hesitate she marched up-stairs and knocked on Miss Prescott's door. She reflected after she had knocked that perhaps it would have been more politic to have postponed her business until the morrow. But the door opened before she had time to run away, and she found herself rather confusedly bowing to Miss Prescott, who held in her hand, not a book on calculus, but a common, every-day magazine. "Good evening, Miss Wyatt. Won't you come in and sit down?" said Miss Prescott, in a very cordially human tone. As she sank into a deep rush chair Patty had a blurred vision of low bookcases, pictures, rugs, and polished brass thrown into soft relief by a shaded lamp which stood on the table. Before she had time to mentally shake herself and reconstruct her ideas she was gaily chatting to Miss Prescott about the probable outcome of a serial story in the magazine. Miss Prescott did not seem to wonder in the least at this unusual visit, but talked along easily on various subjects, and laughed and told stories like the humanest of human beings. Patty watched her, fascinated. "She's _pretty_," she thought to herself and she began to wonder how old she was. Never before had she associated any age whatever with Miss Prescott. She had regarded her much in the same light as a scientific truth, which exists, but is quite irrespective of time or place. She tried to recall some story that had been handed about among the girls her freshman year. She remembered vaguely that it had in it the suggestion that Miss Prescott had once been in love. At the time Patty had scoffingly repudiated the idea, but now she was half willing to believe it. Suddenly, in the midst of the conversation, the ten-o'clock bell rang, and Patty recalled her errand with a start. "I suppose," she said, "you are wondering why I came." "I was hoping," said Miss Prescott, with a smile, "that it was just to see me, without any ulterior motive." "It will be the next time--if you will let me come again; but to-night I had another reason, which I'm afraid you'll think impertinent--and," she added frankly, "I don't know just what's the best way to tell it so that you _won't_ think it impertinent." "Tell it to me any way you please, and I will try not to think so," said Miss Prescott, kindly. "Don't you think sometimes the girls can tell more of one another's ability than the instructors?" Patty asked. "I know a girl," she continued, "a freshman, who is, in some ways, the most remarkable person I have ever met. Of course I can't be sure, but I should say that she is going to be very good in English some day--so good, you know, that the college will be proud of her. Well, this girl has flunked such a lot that I am afraid she is in danger of being sent home, and the college simply can't afford to lose her. I don't know anything about your rules, of course, but what seems to me the easiest way is for you to give her another examination in geometry immediately,--she really knows it,--and then tell the faculty about her and urge them to give her another trial." Patty brought out this astounding request in the most matter-of-fact way possible, and the corners of Miss Prescott's mouth twitched as she asked: "Of whom are you speaking?" "Olivia Copeland." Miss Prescott's mouth grew firm, and she looked like the instructor in mathematics again. "Miss Copeland did absolutely nothing on her examination, Miss Wyatt, and what little she has recited during the year does not betoken any unusual ability. I am sorry, but it would be impossible." "But, Miss Prescott," Patty expostulated, "the girl has worked under such peculiar disadvantages. She's an American, but she lives abroad, and all our ways are new to her. She has never been to school a day in her life. Her father prepared her for college, and, of course, not in the same way that the other girls have been prepared. She is shy, and not being used to reciting in a class, she doesn't know how to show off. I am sure, Miss Prescott, that if you would take her and examine her yourself, you would find that she understands the work--that is, if you would let her get over being afraid of you first. I know you're busy, and it's asking a good deal," Patty finished apologetically. "It is not that, Miss Wyatt, for of course I do not wish to mark any student unjustly; but I cannot help feeling that you have overestimated Miss Copeland's ability. She has really had a chance to show what is in her, and if she has failed in as many courses as you say--The college, you know, must keep up the standard of its work, and in questions like this it is not always possible to consider the individual." Patty felt that she was being dismissed, and she groped about wildly for a new plea. Her eye caught a framed picture of the old monastery of Amalfi hanging over the bookcase. "Perhaps you've lived in Italy?" she asked. Miss Prescott started slightly. "No," she said; "but I've spent some time there." "That picture of Amalfi, up there, made me think of it. Olivia Copeland, you know, lives near there, at Sorrento." A gleam of interest flashed into Miss Prescott's eye. "That's how I first came to notice her," continued Patty; "but she didn't interest me so much until I talked to her. It seems that her father is an artist, and she was born in Italy, and has only visited America once when she was a little girl. Her mother is dead, and she and her father live in an old villa on that road along the coast leading to Sorrento. She has never had any girl friends; just her father's friends--artists and diplomats and people like that. She speaks Italian, and she knows all about Italian art and politics and the church and the agrarian laws and how the people are taxed; and all the peasants around Sorrento are her friends. She is so homesick that she nearly dies, and the only person here that she can talk to about the things she is interested in is the peanut man down-town. [Illustration: Olivia Copeland] "The girls she rooms with are just nice exuberant American girls, and are interested in golf and basket-ball and Welsh rabbit and Richard Harding Davis stories and Gibson pictures--and she never even _heard_ of any of them until four months ago. She has a water-color sketch of the villa, that her father did. It's white stucco, you know, with terraces and marble balustrades and broken statues, and a grove of ilex-trees with a fountain in the center. Just think of _belonging_ to a place like that, Miss Prescott, and then being suddenly plunged into a place like this without any friends or any one who even knows about the things you know--think how lonely you would be!" Patty leaned forward with flushed cheeks, carried away by her own eloquence. "You know what Italy's like. It's a sort of disease. If you once get fond of it you'll never forget it, and you just can't be happy till you get back. And with Olivia it's her home, besides. She's never known anything else. And it's hard at first to keep your mind on mathematics when you're dreaming all the time of ilex groves and fountains and nightingales and--and things like that." She finished lamely, for Miss Prescott suddenly leaned back in the shadow, and it seemed to Patty that her face had grown pale and the hand that held the magazine trembled. Patty flushed uncomfortably and tried to think what she had said. She was always saying things that hurt people's feelings without meaning to. Suddenly that old story from her freshman year flashed into her mind. He had been an artist and had lived in Italy and had died of Roman fever; and Miss Prescott had gone to Germany to study mathematics, and had never cared for anything else since. It sounded rather made up, but it might be true. Had she stumbled on a forbidden subject? she wondered miserably. She had, of course; it was just her way. The silence was becoming unbearable; she struggled to think of something to say, but nothing came, and she rose abruptly. "I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time, Miss Prescott. I hope I haven't bored you. Good night." Miss Prescott rose and took Patty's hand. "Good night, my dear, and thank you for coming to me. I am glad to know of Olivia Copeland. I will see what can be done about her geometry, and I shall be glad, besides, to know her as--as a friend; for I, too, once cared for Italy." Patty closed the door softly and tiptoed home through the dim corridors. "Did you bring the matches?" called a sleepy voice from Priscilla's bedroom. Patty started. "Oh, the matches!" she laughed. "No; I forgot them." "I never knew you to accomplish anything yet that you started out to do, Patty Wyatt." "I've accomplished something to-night, just the same," Patty retorted, with a little note of triumph in her voice; "but I haven't an idea how I happened to do it," she added frankly to herself. And she went to bed and fell asleep, quite unaware of how much she _had_ accomplished; for unconsciously she had laid the foundation of a friendship which was to make happy the future of a lonely freshman and an equally lonely instructor. XI "Local Color" The third senior table had discovered a new amusement with which to enlighten the tedium of waiting while Maggie was in the kitchen foraging for food. The game was called "local color," in honor of Patty Wyatt's famous definition in English class, "Local color is that which makes a lie seem truthful." The object of the game was to see who could tell the biggest lie without being found out; and the one rule required that the victims be disillusionized before they left the table. Patty was the instigator, the champion player, and the final victim of the game. Baron Münchhausen himself would have blushed at some of her creations, and her stories were told with such an air of ingenuous honesty that the most outrageous among them obtained credence. The game in its original conception may have been innocent enough, but the rule was not always as carefully observed as it should have been, and the most unaccountable scandals began to float about college. The president of "Christians" had been called up for cutting chapel. The shark of the class had flunked her ethics, and even failed to get through on the "re." Cathy Fair was an own cousin of Professor Hitchcock's, and called him "Tommy" to his face. These, and far worse, were becoming public property; and even personal fabrications in regard to the faculty, intended solely for undergraduate consumption, were reaching the ears of the faculty themselves. One day Patty dropped into an under-classman's room on some committee work, and she found the children, in the manner of their elders, regaling themselves on dainty bits of college gossip. "I heard the funniest thing about Professor Winters yesterday," piped up a sophomore. "Tell it to us. What was it?" cried a chorus of voices. "I'd like to hear something funny about Professor Winters; he's the solemnest-looking man I ever saw," remarked a freshman. "Well," resumed the sophomore, "it seems he was going to get married last week, and the invitations were all out, and the presents all there, when the bride came down with the mumps." "Really? How funny!" came in a chorus from the delighted auditors. "Yes--on both sides; and the clergyman had never had it, so the ceremony had to be postponed." Patty's blood froze. She recognized the tale. It was one of her own offspring, only shorn of its unessential adornments. "Where in the world did you hear any such absurd thing as that?" she demanded severely. "I heard Lucille Carter tell it at a fudge party up in Bonnie Connaught's room last night," answered the sophomore, stoutly, sure that the source was a reputable one. Patty groaned. "And I suppose that every blessed one of that dozen girls has told it to another dozen by this time, and that it's only bounded by the boundaries of the campus. Well, there's not a word of truth in it. Lucille Carter doesn't know what she is talking about. That's a likely story, isn't it?" she added with fine scorn. "Does Professor Winters look like a man who'd ever dare propose to a girl, let alone marry her?" And she stalked out of the room and up to the single where Lucille lived. "Lucille," said Patty, "what do you mean by spreading that story about Professor Winters's bride's mumps?" "You told it to me yourself," answered Lucille, with some warmth. She was a believing creature with an essentially literal mind, and she had always been out of her element in the lofty imaginative realms of local color. "I told it to you!" said Patty, indignantly. "You goose, you don't mean to tell me you believed it? I was just playing local color." "How should I know that? You told it as if it were true." "Of course," said Patty; "that's the game. You wouldn't have believed me if I hadn't." "But you never said it wasn't true. You don't follow the rule." "I didn't think it was necessary. I never supposed any one would believe any such absurd story as that." "I don't see how it was my fault." "Of course it was your fault. You shouldn't be spreading malicious tales about the faculty; it's irreverent. The story's all over college by this time, and Professor Winters has probably heard it himself. He'll flunk you on the finals to pay for it; see if he doesn't." And Patty went home, leaving a conscience-smitten and thoroughly indignant Lucille behind her. * * * * * ABOUT a month before the introduction of local color, Patty had entered upon a new activity, which she referred to impartially as "molding public opinion" and "elevating the press." The way of it was this: The college, which was a modest and retiring institution craving only to be unmolested in its atmosphere of academic calm, had been recently exploited by a sensational newspaper. The fact that none of the stories was true did not mitigate the annoyance. The college was besieged by reporters who had heard rumors and wished to have them corroborated for exclusive publication in the "Censor" or "Advertiser" or "Star." And they would also like a photograph of Miss Bentley as she appeared in the character of Portia; and since she refused to give it to them, they stated their intention of "faking" one, which, they gallantly assured her, would be far homelier than the original. The climax was reached when Bonnie Connaught was unfortunate enough to sprain her ankle in basket-ball. Something more than a life-size portrait of her, clothed in a masculine-looking sweater, with a basket-ball under her arm, appeared in a New York evening paper, and scare-heads three inches high announced in red ink that the champion athlete and most popular society girl in college was at death's door, owing to injuries received in basket-ball. Bonnie's eminently respectable family descended upon the college in an indignant body for the purpose of taking her home, and were with difficulty soothed by an equally indignant faculty. The alumnæ wrote that in their day such brutal games as basket-ball had not been countenanced, and that they feared the college had deteriorated. Parents wrote that they would remove their daughters from college if they were to be subjected to such publicity; and the poor president was, of course, quite helpless before the glorious American privilege of free speech. Finally the college hit upon a partially protective measure--that of furnishing its own news; and a regularly organized newspaper corps was formed among the students, with a member of the faculty at the head. The more respectable of the papers were very glad to have a correspondent from the inside whose facts needed no investigation, and the less respectable in due time betook themselves to more fruitful fields of scandal and happily forgot the existence of the college. Patty, having the reputation of being an "English shark," had been duly empaneled and presented with a local paper. At first she had been filled with a fit sense of the responsibility of the position, and had conscientiously neglected her college work for its sake; but in time the novelty wore off, and her weekly budgets became more and more perfunctory in character. The choice of Patty for this particular paper perhaps had not been very far-sighted, for the editor wished a column a week of what he designated as "chatty news," whereas it would have been wiser to have given her a city paper which required only a brief statement of important facts. Patty's own tendencies, it must be confessed, had a slightly yellow tinge, and, with a delighted editor egging her on, it was hard for her to suppress her latent love for "local color." The paper, however, had a wide circulation among the faculty, which circumstance tended to have a chastening effect. The day following Patty's bride-with-the-mumps contretemps with Lucille happened to be Friday, and she was painfully engaged in her weekly molding of public opinion. It had been a barren week, and there was nothing to write about. She reviewed at length a set of French encyclopedias which had been given to the library, and spoke with enthusiasm of a remarkable collection of jaw-bones of the prehistoric cow which had been presented to the department of paleontology. She gave in full the list of the seventeen girls who had been honored with scholarships, laboriously writing out their full names, with "Miss" attached to each, and the name of the town and the State in its unabbreviated length. And still it only mounted up to ten pages, and it took eighteen of Patty's writing to make a column. She strolled down to examine the bulletin-board again, and discovered a new notice which she had overlooked before: Friday, January 17. Professor James Harkner Wallis of the Lick Observatory will lecture in the auditorium, at eight o'clock, upon "Theories of the Sidereal System." Patty regarded the notice without emotion. It did not look capable of expansion, and she did not feel the remotest interest in the sidereal system. The brief account of the lecturer, however, which was appended to the notice, stated that Professor Wallis was one of the best known of living astronomers, and that he had conducted important original investigations. "If I knew anything about astronomy," she thought desperately, "I might be able to spread him out over two pages." An acquaintance of Patty's strolled up to the bulletin-board. "Did you ever hear of that man?" asked Patty, pointing to the notice. "Never; but I'm not an astronomer." "I'm not, either," said Patty. "I wonder who he is?" she added wistfully. "It seems he's very famous, and I'd really like to know something about him." The girl opened her eyes in some surprise at this thirst for gratuitous information; it did not accord with Patty's reputation: and ever after, when it was affirmed in her presence that Patty Wyatt was brilliant but superficial, she stoutly maintained that Patty was deeper than people thought. She pondered a moment, and then returned, "Lucille Carter takes astronomy; she could tell you about him." "So she does. I'd forgotten it"; and Patty swung off toward Lucille's room. She found a number of girls sitting around on the various pieces of furniture, eating fudge and discussing the tragedies of one Maeterlinck. "What's this?" said Patty. "A party?" "Oh, no," said Lucille; "just an extra session of the Dramatic Theory class. Don't be afraid; there's your room-mate up on the window-seat." "Hello, Pris. What are you doing here?" said Patty, dipping out some fudge with a spoon. (There had been a disagreement as to how long it should boil.) "Just paying a social call. What are you doing? I thought you were going to hurry up and get through so you could go down-town to dinner." "I am," said Patty, vaguely; "but I got lonely." The conversation drifting off to Maeterlinck again, she seized the opportunity to inquire of Lucille: "Who's this astronomy man that's going to lecture to-night? He's quite famous, isn't he?" "Very," said Lucille. "Professor Phelps has been talking about him every day for the last week." "Where's the Lick Observatory, anyway?" pursued Patty. "I can't remember, for the life of me, whether it's in California or on Pike's Peak." Lucille considered a moment. "It's in Dublin, Ireland." "Dublin, Ireland?" asked Patty, in some surprise. "I could have sworn that it was in California. Are you sure you know where it is, Lucille?" "Of course I'm sure. Haven't we been having it for three days steady? California! You must be crazy, Patty. I think you'd better elect astronomy." "I know it," said Patty, meekly. "I was going to, but I heard that it was terribly hard, and I thought senior year you have a right to take something a little easy. But, you know, that's the funniest thing about the Lick Observatory, for I really know a lot about it--read an article on it just a little while ago; and I don't know how I got the impression, but I was almost sure it was in the United States. It just shows that you can never be sure of anything." "No," said Lucille; "it isn't safe." "Is it connected with Dublin University?" asked Patty. "I believe so," said Lucille. "And this astronomy person," continued Patty, warming to her work--"I suppose he's an Irishman, then." "Of course," said Lucille. "He's very noted." "What's he done?" asked Patty. "It said on the bulletin-board he'd made some important discoveries. I suppose, though, they're frightful technicalities that no one ever heard of." "Well," said Lucille, considering, "he discovered the rings of Saturn and the Milky Way." "The rings of Saturn! Why, I thought those had been discovered _ages_ ago. He must be a terribly old man. I remember reading about them when I was an infant in arms." "It was a good while ago," said Lucille. "Eight or nine years, at least." "And the Milky Way!" continued Patty, with a show of incredulity. "I don't see how people could have helped discovering that long ago. I could have done it myself, and I don't pretend to know anything about astronomy." "Oh, of course," Lucille hastened to explain, "the phenomenon had been observed before, but had never been accounted for." "I see," said Patty, surreptitiously taking notes. "He must really be an awfully important man. How did he happen to do all this?" "He went up in a balloon," said Lucille, vaguely. "A balloon! What fun!" exclaimed Patty, her reportorial instinct waking to the scent. "They use balloons a lot more in Europe than they do here." "I believe he has his balloon with him here in America," said Lucille. "He never travels without it." "What's the good of it?" inquired Patty. "I suppose," she continued, furnishing her own explanation, "it gets him such a lot nearer to the stars." "That's without doubt the reason," said Lucille. "I wish he'd send it up here," sighed Patty. "Do you know any more interesting details about him?" "N--no," said Lucille; "I can't think of any more at present." "He's certainly the most interesting professor I ever heard of," said Patty, "and it's strange I never heard of him before." "There seem to be a good many things you have never heard of," observed Lucille. "Yes," acknowledged Patty; "there are." "Well, Patty," said Priscilla, emerging from the discussion on the other side of the room, "if you're going to dinner with me, you'd better stop fooling with Lucille, and go home and get your work done." "Very well," said Patty, rising with obliging promptitude. "Good-by, girls. Come and see me and I'll give you some fudge that's done. Thank you for the information," she called back to Lucille. * * * * * THE Monday afternoon following, Patty and Priscilla, with two or three other girls, came strolling back from the lake, jingling their skates over their arms. "Come in, girls, and have some hot tea," said Priscilla, as they reached the study door. "Here's a note for Patty," said Bonnie Connaught, picking up an envelop from the table. "Terribly official-looking. Must have come in the college mail. Open it, Patty, and let's see what you've flunked." "Dear me!" said Patty, "I thought that was a habit I'd outgrown freshman year." They crowded around and read the note over her shoulder. Patty had no secrets. THE OBSERVATORY, January 20. Miss Patty Wyatt. DEAR MISS WYATT: I am informed that you are the correspondent for the "Saturday Evening Post-Despatch," and I take the liberty of calling your attention to a rather grave error which occurred in last week's issue. You stated that the Lick Observatory is in Dublin, Ireland, while, as is a matter of general information, it is situated near San Francisco, California. Professor James Harkner Wallis is not an Irishman; he is an American. Though he has carried on some very important investigations, he is the discoverer of neither the rings of Saturn nor the Milky Way. Very truly yours, HOWARD D. PHELPS. "It's from Professor Phelps--what can he mean?" said the Twin, in bewilderment. "Oh, Patty," groaned Priscilla, "you don't mean to say that you actually believed all that stuff?" "Of course I believed it. How could I know she was lying?" "She wasn't lying. Don't use such reckless language." "I'd like to know what you call it, then?" said Patty, angrily. "Local color, my dear, just local color. The worm will turn, you know." "Why didn't you tell me?" wailed Patty. "Never supposed for a moment you believed her. Thought you were joking all the time." "What's the matter, Patty? What have you done?" the others demanded, divided between a pardonable feeling of curiosity and a sense that they ought to retire before this domestic tragedy. "Oh, tell them," said Patty, bitterly. "Tell every one you see. Shout it from the dome of the observatory. You might as well; it'll be all over college in a couple of hours." Priscilla explained, and as she explained the funny side began to strike her. By the time she had finished they were all--except Patty--reduced to hysterics. "The poor editor," gurgled Priscilla. "He's always after a scoop, and he's certainly got one this time." "Where is it, Patty--the paper?" gasped Bonnie. "I threw it away," said Patty, sulkily. Priscilla rummaged it out of the waste-basket, and the four bent over it delightedly. Ireland's eminent astronomer spending a few weeks in America lecturing at the principal colleges--His famous discovery of the rings of Saturn made during a balloon ascension three thousand feet in the air--Though this is his first visit to the States, he speaks with only a slight brogue--Loyal son of old Erin "Patty, Patty! And you, of all people, to be so gullible!" "Professor James Harkner Wallis's parents will be writing to Prexy next to say that their son can't lecture here any more if he is to be subjected to this sort of thing." "It's disgusting!" said Bonnie Connaught, feelingly. "When you've got through laughing, I wish you'd tell me what to do." "Tell Professor Phelps it was a slip of the pen." "A slip of the pen to the extent of half a column is good," said the Twin. "I think you girls are beastly to laugh when I am probably being expelled this minute." "Faculty meeting doesn't come till four," said Bonnie. Patty sat down by the desk and buried her head in her arms. "Patty," said Priscilla, "you aren't crying, are you?" "No," said Patty, savagely; "I'm thinking." "You will never think of anything that will explain that." Patty looked up with the air of one who has received an inspiration. "I'm going to tell him the truth." "Don't do anything so rash," pleaded the Twin. "That is, of course, the only thing you can do," said Priscilla. "Sit down and write him a note, and I'll promise not to laugh till you get through." Patty stood up. "I think," she said, "I'll go and see him." "Oh, no. Write him a note. It's loads easier." "No," said Patty, with dignity; "I think I owe him a personal explanation. Is my hair all right? If you girls reveal this to a single person before I come back, I'll not tell you a thing he says," she added as she closed the door. Patty returned half an hour later, just as they were finally settling down to tea. She peered around the darkening room; finding only four expectant faces, she leisurely seated herself on a cushion on the floor and stretched out her hand for a steaming cup. "What did he say? What kept you so long?" "Oh, I stopped in the office to change my electives, and it delayed me." "You don't mean to tell me that man made you elect astronomy?" Priscilla asked indignantly. "Certainly not," said Patty. "I shouldn't have done it if he had." "Oh, Patty, I know you like to tease, but I think it's odious. You know we're in suspense. Tell us what happened." "Well," said Patty, placidly gathering her skirts about her, "I told him exactly how it was. I didn't hide anything--not even the bride with the mumps." "Was he cross, or did he laugh?" "He laughed," said Patty, "till I thought he was going to fall off his chair, and I looked anxiously around for some water and a call-bell. He really has a surprising sense of humor for a member of the faculty." "Was he nice?" "Yes," said Patty; "he was a dear. When he got through discussing Universal Truth, I asked him if I might elect astronomy, and he said I would find it pretty hard the second semester; but I told him I was willing to work, and he said I really showed a remarkable aptitude for explaining phenomena, and that if I were in earnest he would be glad to have me in the class." "I think a man as forgiving as that _ought_ to be elected," said Priscilla. "You certainly have more courage than I gave you credit for," said Bonnie. "I never could have gone over and explained to that man in the wide world." Patty smiled discreetly. "When you have to explain to a woman," she said in the tone of one who is stating a natural law, "it is better to write a note; but when it is a man, always explain in person." XII The Exigencies of Etiquette "If I had been the one to invent etiquette," said Patty, "I should have made party calls payable one year after date, and then should have allowed three days' grace at the end." "In which case," said Priscilla, "I suppose you would get out of calling on Mrs. Millard altogether." "Exactly," said Patty. Mrs. Millard--more familiarly referred to as Mrs. Prexy--annually invited the seniors to dinner in parties of ten. Patty, whose turn had come a short time before, owing to an untoward misfortune, had been in the infirmary at the time; but, though she had missed the fun, she now found it necessary to pay the call. "Of course," she resumed, "I can see why you should be expected to call if you attend the function and partake of the food; but what I _can't_ understand is why a peaceable citizen who desires only to gang his ain gait should, upon the reception of an entirely unsolicited invitation, suddenly find it incumbent upon him to put on his best dress and his best hat and gloves in order to call upon people he barely knows." "Your genders," said Priscilla, "are a trifle mixed." "That," said Patty, "is the fault of the language. The logic, I think, you will find correct. You can see what would happen," she pursued, "if you carry it out to its logical conclusion. Suppose, for instance, that every woman I have ever met in this town should suddenly take it into her head to invite me to a dinner. Here I--perfectly unsuspicious and innocent of any evil, because of a purely arbitrary law which I did not help to make--would not only have to sit down and write a hundred regrets, but would have to pay a hundred calls within the next two weeks. It makes me shudder to think of it!" "I don't believe you need worry about it, Patty; of course we know you're popular, but you're not as popular as that." "No," said Patty; "I didn't mean that I thought I really _should_ get that many invitations. It's only that one is open to the constant danger." During the progress of this conversation Georgie Merriles had been lounging on the couch by the window, reading the "Merchant of Venice" in a critically unimpassioned way that the instructor in Dramatic Theory could not have praised too much. The room finally having become too dark for reading, she threw down the book with something like a yawn. "It would have been a joke on Portia," she remarked, "if Bassanio had chosen the wrong casket"; and she turned her attention to the campus outside. Groups of girls were coming along the path from the lake, and the sound of their voices, mingled with laughter and the jingling of skates, floated up through the gathering dusk. Across the stretches of snow and bare trees lights were beginning to twinkle in the other dormitories, while nearer at hand, and more clearly visible, rose the irregular outline of the president's house. "Patty," said Georgie, with her nose against the pane, "if you really want to get that call out of the way, now's your chance. Mrs. Millard has just gone out." Patty dashed into her bedroom and began jerking out bureau drawers. "Priscilla," she called in an agonized tone, "do you remember where I keep my cards?" "It's ten minutes of six, Patty; you can't go now." "Yes, I can. It doesn't matter what time it is, so long as she's out. I'll go just as I am." "Not in a golf-cape!" Patty hesitated an instant. "Well," she admitted, "I suppose the butler might tell her. I'll put on a hat"--this with the air of one who is making a really great concession. Some more banging of bureau drawers, and she appeared in a black velvet hat trimmed with lace, with the brown jacket of her suit over her red blouse, and a blue golf-skirt and very muddy boots showing below. "Patty, you're a disgrace to the room!" cried Priscilla. "Do you mean to tell me that you are going to Mrs. Millard's in a short skirt and those awful skating-shoes?" "The butler won't look at my feet; I'm so beautiful above"; and Patty banged the door behind her. Georgie and Priscilla flattened themselves against the window to watch the progress of the call. "Look," gasped Priscilla. "There's Mrs. Millard going in at the back door." "And there's Patty. My, but she looks funny!" "Call her back," cried Priscilla, wildly trying to open the window. "Let her alone," laughed Georgie; "it will be such fun to gloat over her." The window came up with a jerk. "Patty! Patty!" shrieked Priscilla. Patty turned and waved her hand airily. "Can't stop now--will be back in a moment"; and she sped on around the corner. The two stood watching the house for several minutes, vaguely expecting an explosion of some sort to occur. But nothing happened. Patty was swallowed as if by the grave, and the house gave no sign. They accordingly shrugged their shoulders and dressed for dinner with the philosophy which a life fraught with alarms and surprises gives. * * * * * DINNER was half over, and the table had finished discussing Patty's demise, when that young lady trailed placidly in, smiled on the expectant faces, and inquired what kind of soup they had had. "Bean soup; it wasn't any good," said Georgie, impatiently. "What happened? Did you have a nice call?" "No, Maggie, I don't care for any soup to-night. Just bring me some steak, please." "Patty!" in a pleading chorus, "what happened?" "Oh, I beg your pardon," said Patty, sweetly. "Yes, thank you, I had a very pleasant call. May I trouble you for the bread, Lucille?" "Patty, I think you're obnoxious," said Georgie. "Tell us what happened." "Well," began Patty, in a leisurely manner, "I said to the butler, 'Is Mrs. Millard in?' and he said to me (without even a smile), 'I am not sure, miss; will you please step into the drawing-room and I'll see.' I was going to tell him that he needn't bother, as I knew she was out; but I thought that perhaps it would look a little better if I waited and let him find out for himself. So I walked in and sat down in a pink-and-white embroidered _Louis-Quatorze_ chair. There was a big mirror in front of me, and I had plenty of time to study the effect, which, I will acknowledge, was a trifle mixed." "A trifle," Georgie assented. "I was beginning," pursued Patty, "to feel nervous for fear some of the family might drop in, when the man came back and said, 'Mrs. Millard will be down in a minute.' "If I had seen you at that moment, Georgie Merriles, there would have been battle, murder, and sudden death. My first thought was of flight; but the man was guarding the door, and Mrs. Prexy had my card. While I was frenziedly trying to think of a valid excuse for my costume the lady came in, and I rose and greeted her graciously, one might almost say gushingly. I talked very fast and tried to hypnotize her, so that she would keep her eyes on my face; but it was no use: I saw them traveling downward, and pretty soon I knew by the amused expression that they had arrived at my shoes. "Concealment was no longer possible," pursued Patty, warming to her subject. "I threw myself upon her mercy and confessed the whole damning truth. What kind of ice-cream is that?" she demanded, leaning forward and gazing anxiously after a passing maid. "_Don't_ tell me they're giving us raspberry again!" "No; it's vanilla. Go on, Patty." "Well, where was I?" "You'd just told her the truth." "Oh, yes. She said she'd always wanted to meet the college girls informally and know them just as they are, and she was very glad of this opportunity. And there I sat, looking like a kaleidoscope and feeling like a fool, and she taking it for granted that I was being perfectly natural. Complimentary, wasn't it? At this point dinner was announced, and she invited me to stay--quite insisted, in fact, to make up, she said, for the one I had missed when I was ill in the infirmary." Patty looked around the table with a reminiscent smile. "What did you say? Did you refuse?" asked Lucille. "No; I accepted, and am over there at present, eating _pâté de foie gras_." "No, really, Patty; what did you say?" "Well," said Patty, "I told her that this was ice-cream night at the college, and that I sort of hated to miss it; but that to-morrow would be mutton night, which I didn't mind missing in the least; so if she would just as leave transfer her invitation, I would accept for to-morrow with pleasure." "Patty," exclaimed Lucille, in a horrified tone, "you didn't say that!" "Just a little local color, Lucille," laughed Priscilla. "But," objected Lucille, "we'd promised not to play local color any more." "Have you not learned," said Priscilla, "that Patty can no more live without local color than she can live without food? It's ingrained in her nature." "Never mind," said Patty, good-naturedly; "you may not believe me now, but to-morrow night, when I'm all dressed up in beautiful clothes, swapping stories with Prexy and eating lobster salad, while you are over here having mutton, _then_ maybe you'll be sorry." XIII A Crash Without "I love the smell of powder," said Patty. "Gunpowder or baking-powder?" As Patty at the moment had her nose buried in a box of face-powder she thought it unnecessary to answer. "It brings back my youth," she pursued. "The best times of my life have been mixed up with powder and rouge--Washington's Birthday nights, and minstrel shows, and masquerades, and plays at boarding-school, and even Mother Goose tableaux when I was a--" Patty's reminiscences were interrupted by Georgie, who was anxiously pacing up and down the wings. "It's queer some of the cast don't come. I told them to be here early, so we could get them all made up and not have a rush at the end." "Oh, there's time enough," said Patty, comfortably. "It isn't seven yet, and if they're going to dress in their rooms it won't take any time over here just to make them up and put on their wigs. It's a comparatively small cast, you see. Now, on the night of the Trig. ceremonies, when we had to make up three whole ballets and only had one box of make-up, we _were_ rushed. I thought I'd never live to see the curtain go down. Do you remember the suit of chain-mail we made for Bonnie Connaught out of wire dish-cloths? It took sixty-three, and the ten-cent store was terribly dubious about renting them to us; and then, after working every spare second for three days over the thing, we found, the last minute, that we hadn't left a big enough hole for her to get into, and--" "Oh, do keep still, Patty," said Georgie, nervously; "I can't remember what I have to do when you talk all the time." A manager on the eve of producing a new play, with his reputation at stake, may be excused for being a trifle irritable. Patty merely shrugged her shoulders and descended through the stage-door to the half-lighted hall, where she found Cathy Fair strolling up and down the center aisle in an apparently aimless manner. "Hello, Cathy," said Patty; "what are you doing over here?" "I'm head usher, and I wanted to see if those foolish sophomores had mixed up the numbers again." "It strikes me they're a trifle close together," said Patty, sitting down and squeezing in her knees. "Yes, I know; but you can't get eight hundred people into this hall any other way. When we once get them packed they'll have to sit still, that's all. What are you doing over here yourself?" she continued. "I didn't know you were on the committee. Or are you just helping Georgie?" "I'm in the cast," said Patty. "Oh, are you? I saw the program to-day, but I'd forgotten it. I've often wondered why you haven't been in any of the class plays." "Fortune and the faculty are against it," sighed Patty. "You see, they didn't discover my histrionic ability before examinations freshman year, and after examinations, when I was asked to be in the play, the faculty thought I could spend the time to better advantage studying Greek. At the time of the sophomore play I was on something else and couldn't serve, and this year I had just been deprived of my privileges for coming back late after Christmas." "But I thought you said you were in it?" "Oh," said Patty, "it's a minor part, and my name doesn't appear." "What sort of a part is it?" "I'm a crash." "A crash?" "Yes, 'a crash without.' Lord Bromley says, 'Cynthia, I will brave all for your sake. I will follow you to the ends of the earth.' At this point a crash is heard without. I," said Patty, proudly, "am the crash. I sit behind a moonlit balcony in a space about two feet square, and drop a lamp-chimney into a box. It may not sound like a very important part, but it is the pivot upon which the whole plot turns." "I hope you won't be taken with stage-fright," laughed Cathy. "I'll try not," said Patty. "There comes the butler and Lord Bromley and Cynthia. I've got to go and make them up." "Why are you making people up, if you are not on the committee?" "Oh, once, during a period of mental weakness, I took china-painting lessons, and I'm supposed to know how. Good-by." "Good-by. If you get any flowers I'll send them in by an usher." "Do," said Patty. "I'm sure to get a lot." Behind the scenes all was joyful confusion. Georgie, in a short skirt, with her shirt-waist sleeves rolled up and a note-book in her hand, was standing in the middle of the stage directing the scene-shifters and distracted committee. Patty, in the "green-room," was presiding over the cast, with a hare's foot in one hand and the other daubed with red and blue grease-paints. "Oh, Patty," remonstrated Cynthia, with a horrified glance in the mirror, "I look more like a soubrette than a heroine." "That's the way you ought to look," returned Patty. "Here, hold still till I put another dab on your chin." Cynthia appealed to the faithful Lord Bromley, who was sitting in the background, politely letting the ladies go first. "Look, Bonnie, don't you think I'm too red? I know it'll all come off when you kiss me." "If it comes off as easily as that, you'll be more fortunate than most of the people I make up"; and Patty smiled knowingly as she remembered how Priscilla had soaked half the night on the occasion of a previous play, and then had appeared at breakfast the next morning with lowering eyebrows and a hectic flush on each cheek. "You must remember that foot-lights take a lot of color," she explained condescendingly. "You'd look ghastly if I let you go the way you wanted to at first. Next! "No," said Patty, as the butler presented himself; "you don't come till the second act. I'll take the Irate Parent first." The Irate Parent was dragged from a corner where he had been anxiously mumbling over his lines. "What's the matter?" asked Patty, as she began daubing in wrinkles with a liberal hand; "are you afraid?" "N-no," said the Parent; "I'm not afraid, only I'm afraid that I will be afraid." "You'd just better change your mind, then," said Patty, sternly. "We aren't going to allow any stage-fright to-night." "Patty, you can manage Georgie Merriles; make her let me go on without any wig," cried Cynthia, returning and holding up to view a mass of yellow curls of a shade that was never produced in the course of nature. Patty looked at the wig critically. "It is, perhaps, a trifle golden for the part." "Golden!" said Cynthia. "It's positively _orange_. Wait till you see how it lights up. He calls me his dark-eyed beauty: and I'm sure no one with dark eyes, or any other kind of eyes, would have hair like that. My own looks a great deal better." "Why don't you wear your own, then? Wrinkle up your forehead, Parent, and let me see which way they run." "Georgie paid two dollars for renting it, and she's bound to get the money's worth of wear out of it, even if she makes me look like a fright and spoils the play." "Nonsense," said Patty, pushing away the Parent and giving her undivided attention to the question. "Your own hair does look better. Just mislay the wig and keep out of Georgie's way till the curtain goes up. The audience are beginning to come," she announced to the room in general, "and you've got to keep still back there. You're making an awful racket, and they can hear you all over the house. Here, what are you making such a noise for?" she demanded of Lord Bromley, who came clumping up with footfalls which reverberated through the flies. "I can't help it," he said crossly. "Look at these boots. They're so big that I can step out of them without unlacing them." "It's not my fault. I haven't anything to do with the costumes." "I know it; but what can I do?" "Never mind," said Patty, soothingly; "they don't look so awfully bad. You'll have to try and walk without raising your feet." She went out on the stage, where Georgie was giving her last directions to the scene-shifters. "The minute the curtain goes down on the first act change this forest to the drawing-room scene, and don't make any noise hammering. If you have to hammer, do it while the orchestra's playing. How does it look?" she asked anxiously, turning to Patty. "Beautiful," said Patty. "I'd scarcely recognize it." The "forest scene" had served in every outdoor capacity for the last four years, and it was usually hailed with a groan on the part of the audience. "I was just coming in to see if the cast were ready," said Georgie. "They're all made up, and are sitting in the green-room getting stage-fright. What shall I do now?" "Let me see," said Georgie, consulting her book. "One of the committee is to prompt, one is to stay with the men and see that they manage the curtain and the lights in the right places, one is to give the cues, and two are to help change costumes. Cynthia has to change from a riding-habit to a ball-gown in four minutes. I think you'd better help her, too." "Anything you please," said Patty, obligingly. "I'll stand on a stool with the ball-gown in the air ready to drop it over her head the moment she appears, like a harness on a fire-horse. Is everything out here done? What time is it?" "Yes; everything's done, and it's five minutes of eight. We can begin as soon as the audience is ready." They peered through the folds of the heavy velvet curtain at the sea of faces in front. Eight hundred girls in light evening-gowns were talking and laughing and singing. Snatches of song would start up in one corner and sweep gaily over the house, and sometimes two would meet and clash in the center, to the horror of those who preferred harmony to volume. "Here come the old girls!" said Patty, as a procession of some fifty filed into reserved seats near the front. "There are loads of last year's class back. What are the juniors doing? Look; I believe they are going to serenade them." The juniors rose in a body, and, turning to their departed sister class, sang a song notable for its sentiment rather than its meter. "I do hope it will be a success," sighed Georgie. "If it doesn't come up to last year's senior play I shall _die_." "Oh, it will," said Patty, reassuringly. "Anything would be better than that." "Now the glee club's going to sing two songs," said Georgie. "Thank heaven, they're new!" she added fervently. "And the orchestra plays an overture, and then the curtain goes up. Run and tell them to come out here, ready for the first act." Lord Bromley was standing in the wings disgustedly viewing the banquet-table. "See here, Patty," he called as she hurried past. "Look at this stuff Georgie Merriles has palmed off on us for wine. You can't expect me to drink any such dope as _that_." Patty paused for an instant. "What's the matter with it?" she inquired, pouring out some in a glass and holding it up to the light. "Matter? It's made of currant jelly and water, with cold tea mixed in." "I made it myself," said Patty, with some dignity. "It's a beautiful color." "But I have to drain my glass at a draught," expostulated the outraged lord. "I'm sure there's nothing in currant jelly or tea to hurt you. You can be thankful it isn't poisonous." And Patty hurried on. The glee club sang the two new songs, punctuated with the appreciative applause of a long-suffering audience, and the orchestra commenced the overture. "Everybody clear the stage," said Georgie, in a low tone, "and you keep your eyes on the book," she added sternly to the prompter; "you lost your place twice at the dress rehearsal." The overture died down; a bell tinkled, and the curtain parted in the middle, discovering Cynthia sitting on a garden-seat in the castle park (originally the Forest of Arden). As the curtain fell at the end of the act, and the applause gave way to an excited buzz in the audience, Patty hugged Georgie gleefully. "It's fifty times better than last year!" "Heaven send Theo Granby is out there!" piously ejaculated Georgie. (Theo Granby had been the chairman of last year's senior play.) * * * * * THE curtain had risen on the fourth act, and Patty squeezed herself into the somewhat close quarters behind the balcony. There was fortunately--or rather unfortunately--a window in the rear of the building at this point, and Patty opened it and perched herself at one end of the sill, with the lamp-chimney ready for use at the other end. The crash was not due for some time, and Patty, having lately elected astronomy, whiled away the interval by examining the stars. On the stage matters were approaching a climax. Lord Bromley was making an excellent lover, as was proved by the fact that the audience was taking him seriously instead of laughing through the love scenes as usual. "Cynthia," he implored, "say that you will be mine, and I will brave all for your sake. I will follow you to the ends of the earth." He gazed tenderly into her eyes, and waited for the crash. A silence as of the tomb prevailed, and he continued to gaze tenderly, while a grin rapidly spread over the audience. "Hang Patty!" he murmured savagely. "Might have known she'd do something like this.--What was that? Did you hear a noise?" he asked aloud. "No," said Cynthia, truthfully; "I did not hear anything." "Pretend you did," he whispered, and they continued to improvise. After some five minutes of hopeless floundering, the prompter got them back on the track again, and the act proceeded, with the audience happily unaware that anything was missing. Ten minutes later Lord Bromley was declaiming: "Cynthia, let us flee this place. Its dark rooms haunt me; its silence oppresses me--" And the crash came. For the first moment the audience was too startled to notice that the actors were also taken by surprise. Then Lord Bromley, who was getting used to emergencies, pulled himself together and ejaculated, "Hark! What was that sound?" "I think it was a crash," said Cynthia. He grasped her hand and ran back toward the balcony. "Give us our lines," he said to the prompter, as he went past. The prompter had dropped the book, and couldn't find the place. "Make them up," came in a piercing whisper from behind the balcony. A silence ensued while the two dashed back and forth, looking excitedly up and down the stage. Then the despairing Lord Bromley stretched out his arms in a gesture of supplication. "Cynthia," he burst out in tones of realistic longing, "I cannot bear this horrible suspense. Let us flee." And they fled, fully three pages too early, forgetting to leave the letter which should have apprised the Irate Parent of the circumstance. Georgie was tramping up and down the wings, wringing her hands and lamenting the day that ever Patty had been born. "Hurry up that Parent before they stop clapping," said Lord Bromley, "and they'll never know the difference." The poor old man, with his wig over one ear, was unceremoniously hustled on to the stage, where he raved up and down and swore never to forgive his ungrateful daughter in so realistic a manner that the audience forgot to wonder how he found it out. In due time the runaways returned from the notary's, overcame the old man's harshness, received the parental blessing, and the curtain fell on a scene of domestic felicity that delighted the freshmen in the gallery. Patty crawled out from under the balcony and fell on her knees at Georgie's feet. Lord Bromley raised her up. "Never mind, Patty. The audience doesn't know the difference; and, anyway, it was all for the best. My mustache wouldn't have stayed on more than two minutes longer." They could hear some one shouting in the front, "What's the matter with Georgie Merriles?" and a hundred voices replied, "She's all right!" "Who's all right?" "G-e-o-r-g-i-e M-e-r-r-i-l-e-s." "What's the matter with the cast?" "They're all right!" The stage-door burst open and a crowd of congratulatory friends burst in and gathered around the disheveled actors and committee. "It's the best senior play since we've been in college." "The freshmen are simply crazy over it." "Lord Bromley, your room will be full of flowers for a month." "Patty," called the head usher, over the heads of the others, "let me congratulate you. I was in the very back of the room, and never heard a thing but your crash. It sounded _fine_!" "Patty," demanded Georgie, "what in the world were you doing?" "I was counting the stars," said the contrite Patty, "and then I remembered too late, and I turned around suddenly, and it fell off. I am terribly sorry." "Never mind," laughed Georgie; "since it turned out well, I'll forgive you. All the cast and committee," she said, raising her voice, "come up to my room for food. I'm sorry I can't invite you all," she added to the girls crowded in the doorway, "but I live in a single." XIV The Mystery of the Shadowed Sophomore "Oh, I say, Bonnie--Bonnie Connaught! Priscilla! Wait a minute," called a girl from across the links, as the two were strolling homeward one afternoon, dragging their caddie-bags behind them. They turned and waited while Bonnie's sophomore cousin, Mildred Connaught, dashed up. She grasped them excitedly, and at the same time glanced over her shoulder with the air of a criminal who is being tracked. "I want to tell you something," she panted. "Come in here where no one will see us"; and she dived into a clump of pine-trees growing by the path. Priscilla and Bonnie followed more leisurely, and dropped down on the soft needles with an air of amused tolerance. "Well, Mildred, what's the matter?" Bonnie inquired mildly. The sophomore lowered her voice to an impressive whisper, although there was not a person within a hundred yards. "I am being _followed_," she said solemnly. "Followed!" exclaimed Bonnie, in amazement. "Are you crazy, child? You act like a boy who's been reading dime novels." "Listen, girls. You mustn't tell a soul, because it's a great secret. We're going to plant the class tree to-night, and I am chairman of the ceremonies. Everything is ready--the costumes are finished and the plans all arranged so that the class can get out to the place without being seen. The freshmen haven't a suspicion that it's going to be to-night. But they have found out that I'm chairman of the committee, and, if you please,"--Mildred's eyes grew wide with excitement,--"they've been _tracking_ me for a week. They have _relays_ of girls appointed to watch me, and I can't stir without a freshman tagging along behind. When I went down to order the ice-cream, there was one right at my elbow, and I had to pretend that I'd come for soda-water. I have simply had to let the rest of the committee do all of the work, because I was so afraid the freshmen would find out the time. It was funny at first, but I am getting nervous. It's horrible to think that you're being watched all the time. I feel as if I'd committed a murder, and keep looking over my shoulder like--like Macbeth." "It's _awful_," Bonnie shuddered. "I'm thrilled to the bone to think of the peril a member of my family is braving for the sake of her class." "You needn't laugh," said Mildred. "It's a serious matter. If those freshmen come to our tree ceremonies, we'll never hear the last of it. But they are not going to come," she added with a meaning smile. "They have another engagement. We chose to-night because there's a lecture before the Archæological Society by some alumna person who's been digging up remains in Rome. The freshmen have been told to go and hear her on account of their Latin. Imagine their feelings when they are cooped up in the auditorium, trying to look intelligent about the Roman Forum, and listening to our yells outside!" Priscilla and Bonnie smiled appreciatively. It was not so long, after all, since they themselves were sophomores, and they recalled their own tree ceremonies, when the freshmen had _not_ been cooped up. "But the trouble is," pursued Mildred, "that it's more important for me to get there than any one else, because I have to dig the hole,--Peters is really going to dig it, you know; I just take out the first shovelful,--but I can't get there on account of that beastly scout. As soon as she saw me acting suspicious, she'd run and warn the class." "I see," said Bonnie; "but what have Priscilla and I to do with it?" "Well," said Mildred, tentatively, "you're both pretty big, you know, and you're our sister class, and you ought to help us." "Certainly," acquiesced Bonnie; "but in just what way?" "Well, my idea was this. If you would just stroll down by the lake after chapel, and loiter sort of inconspicuously among the trees, you know, I would come that way a little later, and then, when the detective person came along after me, you could just nab her and--" "Chuck her in the lake?" asked Bonnie. "No, of course not. Don't use any force. Just politely detain her till you hear us yelling--take her for a walk. She'd feel honored." Bonnie laughed. The program struck her as entertaining. "I don't see anything very immoral in delaying a freshman who is going where she has no business to go. What do you say, Pris?" "It's not exactly a Sunday-school excursion," acknowledged Priscilla, "but I don't see why it isn't as legitimate for us to play detective as for them." "By all means," said Bonnie. "Behold Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson about to solve the Mystery of the Shadowed Sophomore." "You've saved my life," said Mildred, feelingly. "Don't forget. Right after chapel, by the lake." She peered warily out through the branches. "I've got to get the keys to the gymnasium, so the refreshments can be put in during chapel. Do you see anybody lurking about? I guess I can get off without being seen. Good-by"; and she sped away like a hunted animal. Bonnie looked after her and laughed. "'Youth is a great time, but somewhat fussy,'" she quoted; and the two took their homeward way. They found Patty, who was experiencing a periodical fit of studying, immersed in dictionaries and grammars. It was under protest that she allowed herself to be interrupted long enough to hear the story of their proposed adventure. "You babies!" she exclaimed. "Haven't you grown up yet? Don't you think it's a little undignified for seniors--one might almost say alumnæ--to be kidnapping freshmen?" "We're not kidnapping freshmen," Bonnie remonstrated; "we're teaching them manners. It's my duty to protect my little cousin." "You can come with us and help detect," said Priscilla, generously. "Thank you," said Patty, loftily. "I haven't time to play with you children. Cathy Fair and I are going to do Old English to-night." That evening, as Patty, keyed to the point of grappling with and throwing whole pages of "Beowulf," stood outside the chapel door waiting for Cathy to appear, the professor of Latin came out with a stranger. "Oh, Miss Wyatt!" she exclaimed in a relieved tone, pouncing upon Patty. "I wish to present you to Miss Henderson, one of our alumnæ who is to lecture to-night before the Archæological Society. She has not been back for several years, and wishes to see the new buildings. Have you time to show her around the campus a little before the lecture begins?" Patty bowed and murmured that she would be most happy, and cast an agonized glance back at Cathy as she led the lecturer off. As they strolled about, Patty poured out all the statistics she knew about the various buildings, and Miss Henderson received them with exclamations of delighted surprise. She was rather young and gushing for a Ph.D. and an archæologist, Patty decided, and she wondered desperately how she could dispose of her and get back to "Beowulf" and Cathy. They rounded the top of a little hill, and Miss Henderson exclaimed delightedly, "There is the lake, just as it used to be!" Patty stifled a desire to remark that lakes had a habit of staying where they used to be, and asked politely if Miss Henderson would like to take a row. Miss Henderson thought that it would be pleasant; but she had forgotten her watch, and was afraid there would not be time. Patty glanced about vaguely for some further object of interest, and spied Mildred Connaught sauntering toward the lake. She had forgotten all about the Sherlock Holmes adventure, and she suddenly had an inspiration. Be it said to her credit that she hesitated a moment; but the lecturer's next remark led to her own undoing. She was murmuring something about feeling like a stranger, and wishing that she might know the students informally and see a little of the real college life. "It would be a pity not to gratify her when I can do it so easily," Patty told herself; and she added out loud, "I am sure we have time for a little row, Miss Henderson. You walk on, and I will run back and get my watch; it won't take a minute." "I wouldn't have you do that; it is too much trouble," remonstrated Miss Henderson. "It's no trouble whatever," Patty protested kindly. "I can take a cross cut, and meet you at the little summer-house where the boats are moored. It's straight down this path; you can't miss it. Just follow that girl over there"; and she darted away. The lecturer gazed dubiously after her a moment, and then started on after the girl, who cast a look over her shoulder and quickened her pace. It was growing quite dusky under the trees, and the lecturer hurried on, trying to keep the girl in sight; but she unexpectedly turned a corner and disappeared, and at the same moment two strange girls suddenly dropped into the path, apparently from the tree-tops. "Good evening," they said pleasantly. "Are you taking a walk?" The lecturer started back with an exclamation of surprise; but as soon as she could regain her composure, she replied politely that she was strolling about and looking at the campus. "Perhaps you would like to stroll with us?" they inquired. "Thank you, you are very kind; but I have an engagement to row with one of the students." Priscilla and Bonnie exchanged delighted glances. They had evidently caught a resourceful young person. "Oh, no; it's too late for a row. You might get malaria," Priscilla remonstrated. "Come and sit on the fence with us and admire the stars; it's a lovely night." The lecturer cast an alarmed glance toward the fence, which appeared to have an unusually narrow top rail. "You are very kind," she stammered, "but I really can't stop. The girl will be waiting." "Who is the girl?" they inquired. "I don't know that I remember her name." "Mildred Connaught?" Bonnie suggested. "No; I don't think that is it, but I really can't say. I have only just met her." Miss Henderson was growing more and more puzzled. In her day the students had not been in the habit of way-laying strangers with invitations to go walking and sit on fences. "Ah, _do_ stay with us," Bonnie begged, laying a hand on her arm. "We're lonely and want some one to talk to--we'll tell you a secret if you do." "I am sorry," Miss Henderson murmured confusedly, "but--" "We'll tell you the secret anyway," said Bonnie, generously, "and I'm sure you'll be interested. The sophomores are going to have their tree ceremonies to-night!" "And you know," Priscilla broke in, "that the freshmen really ought to attend them too--it doesn't matter if they aren't invited. But where do you suppose the freshmen are to-night? They're attending a foolish little lecture on the Roman Forum." "And though we don't wish to seem insistent," Bonnie added, "we should really like to have your company until the lecture is over." "Until the lecture is over! But I am the lecturer," gasped Miss Henderson. Bonnie grinned delightedly. "I am happy to meet you," she said, with a bow. "And perhaps you do not recognize us. I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend Dr. Watson." Dr. Watson bowed, and remarked that it was an unexpected pleasure. He had often heard of the famous lecturer, but had never hoped to meet her. Miss Henderson, who was not very conversant with recent literature, looked more dazed than ever. It flashed across her mind that there was an insane asylum in the neighborhood, and the thought was not reassuring. "We'll not handcuff you," said Bonnie, magnanimously, "if you'll come with us quietly." The lecturer, in spite of fervid protestations that she was a lecturer, presently found herself sitting on the fence, with a girl on either side grasping an elbow. A light was beginning to break upon her, together with a poignant realization of the fact that she was seeing more of the real college life than she cared for. "What time is it?" she asked anxiously. "Ten minutes past eight by my watch, but I think it's a little slow," said Bonnie. "I am afraid you're going to be late for your lecture," said Priscilla. "It seems a pity to waste it. Suppose you tell it to us instead." "Yes, do," urged Bonnie. "I just dote on the Roman Forum." The lecturer preserved a dignified silence, which was broken only by the croaking of the frogs and the occasional remarks of the two detectives. She had relinquished all hope of ever seeing the Archæological Society, and had philosophically resigned herself to the prospect of sitting on the fence all night, when suddenly there burst out from across the campus a song of victory, mingled with cheers and inarticulate yells. At the first sound, Bonnie and Priscilla tumbled down from the fence, bringing the lecturer with them, and, each grasping her by a hand, they started to run. "Come on and see the fun," they laughed. "You're perfectly welcome; it's no secret any more." And, in spite of breathless protestations that she much preferred to walk, Miss Henderson found herself dashing across the campus in the direction of the sounds. Heads suddenly appeared in the dormitory windows, doors banged, and girls came running from every quarter with excited exclamations: "The sophomores are having their tree ceremonies!" "Where are the freshmen?" "Why didn't they get there?" A crowd quickly gathered in the shadow of the trees and watched the scene with laughing interest. A wide circle of colored lanterns swayed in the breeze, and, within, a line of white-robed figures wound and unwound about a tiny tree to the music of a solemn chant. "Isn't it pretty? Aren't you glad we brought you?" Bonnie demanded as they pushed through the crowd. The lecturer did not answer, for she caught sight of the Latin professor hurrying toward them. "Miss Henderson! I was afraid you were lost. It is nearly half-past eight. The audience has been waiting, and we have been filling in the time with reports." For a moment the lecturer was silent, being occupied with an amused scrutiny of the faces of her captors; and then she rose to the occasion like a lady and a scholar, and delivered a masterly apology, with never a reference to her sojourn on the fence. Bonnie and Priscilla stared at each other without a word, and as Miss Henderson was led away to the remnants of her audience Patty suddenly appeared. "Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Did you solve your mystery?" she asked sweetly. Priscilla turned her to the light and scrutinized her face. Patty smiled back with wide-open, innocent eyes. Priscilla knew the expression, and she shook her. "You little wretch!" she exclaimed. Patty squirmed out from under her grasp. "If you remember," she murmured, "I once said that the Lick Observatory was in Dublin, Ireland. It was a very funny mistake, of course, but I know of others that are funnier." "What do you mean?" Bonnie demanded. "I mean," said Patty, "that I wish you never to mention the Lick Observatory again." XV Patty and the Bishop The dressing-bell rang for Sunday morning service, and Patty laid down her book with a sigh and went and stood by the open window. The outside world was a shimmering green and yellow, the trees showed a feathery fringe against the sky, and the breeze was redolent of violets and fresh earth. "Patty," called Priscilla, from her bedroom, "you'll have to hurry if you want me to fasten your dress. I have to go to choir rehearsal." Patty turned back with another sigh, and began slowly unhooking her collar. Then she sat down on the edge of the couch and stared absently out of the window. A vigorous banging of bureau drawers in Priscilla's room was presently followed by Priscilla herself in the doorway. She surveyed her room-mate suspiciously. "Why aren't you dressing?" she demanded. "I'll fasten my own dress; you needn't wait," said Patty, without removing her eyes from the window. "Bishop Copeley's going to preach to-day, and he's such an old dear; you mustn't be late." Patty elevated her chin a trifle and shrugged her shoulders. "Aren't you going to chapel?" Patty brought her gaze back from the window and looked up at Priscilla beseechingly. "It's such a lovely day," she pleaded, "and I'd so much rather spend the time out of doors; I'm sure it would be a lot better for my spiritual welfare." "It's not a question of spiritual welfare; it's a question of cuts. You've already over-cut twice. What excuse do you intend to give when the Self-Government Committee asks for an explanation?" "'Sufficient unto the day,'" laughed Patty. "When the time comes I'll think of a beautiful new excuse that will charm the committee." "You ought to be ashamed to evade the rules the way you do." "Where is the fun of living if you are going to make yourself a slave to all sorts of petty rules?" asked Patty, wearily. "I don't know why you have a right to live outside of rules any more than the rest of us." Patty shrugged. "I take the right, and every one else can do the same." "Every one else can't," returned Priscilla, hotly, "for there wouldn't be any law left in college if they did. I should a good deal rather play out of doors myself than go to chapel, but I've used up all my cuts and I can't. You couldn't either if you had a shred of proper feeling left. The only way you can get out of it is by lying." "Priscilla dear," Patty murmured, "people in polite society don't put things quite so baldly. If you would be respected in the best circles, you must practise the art of equivocation." Priscilla frowned impatiently. "Are you coming, or are you not?" she demanded. "I am not." Priscilla closed the door--not quite as softly as a door should be closed--and Patty was left alone. She sat thinking a few minutes with slightly flushed cheeks, and then as the chapel bell rang she shook herself and laughed. Even had she wished to go it was too late now, and all feeling of responsibility vanished. As soon as the decorous swish of Sunday silks had ceased in the corridor outside, she caught up a book and a cushion, and, creeping down by the side stairs, set gaily out across the sunlit lawn, with the deliciously guilty thrill of a truant little boy who has run away from school. From the open windows of the chapel she could hear the college chanting: "Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law." She laughed happily to herself; she was not keeping laws to-day. They might stay in there in the gloom, if they wanted to, with their commandments and their litanies. She was worshiping under the blue sky, to the jubilant chanting of the birds. She was the only person alive and out that morning, and the spring was in her blood, and she felt as though she owned the world. The campus had never seemed so radiant. She paused on the little rustic bridge to watch the excited swirling of the brook, and she nearly lost her balance while trying to launch a tiny boat made of a piece of bark. She dropped pebbles into the pool in order to watch the startled frogs splash back into the water, and she threw her cushion at a squirrel, and laughed aloud at its angry chattering. She raced up the side of Pine Bluff, and dropped down panting on the fragrant needles in the shadow of a tall pine. Below her the ivy-covered buildings of the college lay clustered among the trees; and in the Sunday quiet, with the sunlight shining on the towers, it looked like some medieval village sleeping in the valley. Patty gazed down dreamily with half-shut eyes, and imagined that presently a band of troubadours and ladies would come riding out on milk-white mules. But the sight of Peters, strolling to the gateway in his Sunday clothes, spoiled the illusion, and she turned to her book with a smile. Presently she closed it, however. This was not the time for reading. One could read in winter and when it rained, and even in the college library with every one else turning pages; but out here in the open, with the real things of life happening all about, it was a waste of opportunity. Her eyes wandered back to the campus again, and she suddenly grew sober as the thought swept over her that in a few weeks more it would be hers no longer. This happy, irresponsible community life, which had come to be the only natural way of living, was suddenly at an end. She remembered the first day of being a freshman, when everything but herself had looked so big, and she had thought desperately, "Four years of this!" It had seemed like an eternity; and now that it was over it seemed like a minute. She wanted to clutch the present and hold it fast. It was a terrible thing--this growing old. And there were the girls. She would have to say good-by, with no opening day in the fall--and Priscilla lived in California and Georgie in South Dakota and Bonnie in Kentucky and she in New England, and they were the only people in the world she particularly cared to talk to. She would have to get acquainted with her mother's friends--with chronically grown-up people, who talked about husbands and children and servants. And there would be men. She had never had time to know many men; but some day she would probably be marrying one of them, and then all _would_ be over; and before she had time to think, she would be an old lady, telling her grandchildren stories about when she was a girl. [Illustration: I have just run away from you, Bishop Copeley] Patty gazed mournfully down on the campus, almost on the verge of tears over her lost youth, when a step suddenly sounded on the gravel path, and she looked up with a startled glance to see a churchly figure rounding the hill. Involuntarily she prepared for flight; but the bishop had spied her, together with a little rustic seat under a tree, and he smiled upon the one and dropped down upon the other with a sigh of content. "A beautiful view," he gasped; "but a very steep hill." "It is steep," Patty agreed politely; and as there seemed to be no chance of escape, she resumed her seat and added, with a laugh: "I have just run away from you, Bishop Copeley, and here you come following along behind like an accusing conscience." The bishop chuckled. "I've run away myself," he returned; "I knew I should have to be introduced to a hundred or so of you after service, so I just slipped out the back way for a quiet stroll." Patty eyed him appreciatively, with a new sense of fellow-feeling. "I should like to have run away from church as well," he confessed, with a twinkle in his eye. "Out of doors is the best church on a day like this." "That's what I think," said Patty, cordially; "but I had no idea that bishops were so sensible." They chatted along in a friendly manner on various subjects, and exchanged lay opinions on the college and the clergy. "It's a funny thing about this place," said Patty, ruminatingly, "that, though we have a different preacher every Sunday, we always have the same sermon." "The same sermon?" inquired the bishop, somewhat aghast. "Practically the same," said Patty. "I've heard it for four years, and I think I could almost preach it myself. They all seem to think, you know, that because we come to college we must be monsters of reason, and they urge us to remember that reason and science are not the only things that count in the world--that feeling is, after all, the main factor; and they quote a little poem about the flower being beautiful, I know not why. That wasn't what yours was about?" she asked anxiously. "Not this time," said the bishop; "I preached an old one." "It's the best way," said Patty. "We're human beings, if we do come to college. I remember once we had a man from Yale or Harvard or some such place, and he preached an old sermon: he urged us to become more manly. It was very refreshing." The bishop smiled. "Do you run away from church very often?" he inquired mildly. "No; I don't have a chance when I room with Priscilla. But obligatory chapel makes you want to run away," she added. "It's not the chapel I object to; it's the obligatoriness." "But you have a system of--er--cuts," he suggested. "Three a month," said Patty, sadly. "Evening chapel counts as one, but Sunday morning church as two." "So you expended two cuts to escape me?" he asked with a smile. "Oh, it wasn't you," Patty remonstrated hastily. "It was just--the obligatoriness. And besides," she added frankly, "my legitimate cuts were used up days ago, and when I once begin over-cutting, I am reckless." "And may I ask what happens when you over-cut?" the bishop inquired. "Well," said Patty, "there are proctors, you know, that mark you when you are absent; and then, if they find that you've over-cut, the Self-Government Committee calls you up and asks the reason. If you can't produce a good excuse you are deprived of your privileges for a month, and you can't be on committees or in plays or get leave of absence to go out of town." "I see," said the bishop; "and will you have to suffer all of those penalties?" "Oh, no," said Patty, comfortably; "I shall produce a good excuse." "What will you say?" he inquired. "I don't know, exactly; I shall have to depend on the inspiration of the moment." The bishop regarded her quizzically. "Do you mean," he asked, "that, having broken the rule, you intend to evade the penalty by--to put it flatly--a falsehood?" "Oh, no, bishop," said Patty, in a shocked tone. "Of course I shall tell the truth, only"--she looked up in the bishop's face with an irresistible smile--"the committee probably won't understand it." For an instant the bishop's face relaxed, and then he grew grave again. "By a subterfuge?" he asked. "Y-yes," acknowledged Patty; "I suppose you _might_ call it a subterfuge. I dare say I am pretty bad," she added, "but you have to have a reputation for something in a place like this or you get overlooked. I can't compete in goodness or in athletics or in anything like that, so there's nothing left for me but to surpass in badness--I have quite a gift for it." The corners of the bishop's mouth twitched. "You don't look like one with a criminal record." "I'm young yet," said Patty. "It hasn't commenced to show." "My dear little girl," said the bishop, "I have already preached one sermon to-day, which you didn't come to hear, and I can't undertake to preach another for your benefit,"--Patty looked relieved,--"but there is one question I should like to ask you. In after years, when you are through college and the question is asked of some of your class-mates, 'Did you know--' You have not told me your name." "Patty Wyatt." "'Did you know Patty Wyatt, and what sort of a girl was she?' will the answer be what you would wish?" Patty considered. "Ye-yes; I think, on the whole, they'd stand by me." "This morning," the bishop continued placidly, "I asked a professor in an entirely casual way about a young woman--a class-mate of your own--who is the daughter of an old friend of mine. The answer was immediate and unhesitating, and you can imagine how much it gratified me. 'There is not a finer girl in college,' he replied. 'She is honest in work and honest in play, and thoroughly conscientious in everything she does.'" "Um-m," said Patty; "that must have been Priscilla." "No," smiled the bishop, "it was not Priscilla. The young woman of whom I am speaking is the president of your Student Association, Catherine Fair." "Yes, it's true," said Patty, critically. "Cathy Fair hits straight from the shoulder." "And wouldn't you like to go out with that reputation?" "I'm really not _very_ bad," pleaded Patty, "that is, as badness goes. But I couldn't be as good as Cathy; it would be going against nature." "I am afraid," suggested the bishop, "that you do not try very hard. You may not think that it matters what people think now that you are young, but how will it be when you grow older? And it will not be long," he added. "Age slips upon you before you realize it." Patty looked sober. "You will soon be thirty, and then forty, and then fifty." Patty sighed. "And do you think that a woman of that age is attractive if she deals in subterfuges and evasions?" Patty squirmed a trifle, and dug a little hole in the pine-needles with her toe. "You must remember that you cannot form your character in a moment, my dear. Character is a plant of slow growth, and the seeds must be planted early." The bishop rose, and Patty scrambled to her feet with a look of relief. He took the pillow and the book under his arm, and they started down the hill. "I have preached you a sermon, after all," he said apologetically; "but preaching is my trade, and you must forgive an old man for being prosy." Patty held out her hand with a smile as they stopped before the door of Phillips Hall. "Good-by, bishop," she said, "and thank you for the sermon; I guess I needed it--I _am_ getting old." She climbed the stairs slowly, and, hesitating a moment outside her own room, where the sound of laughing voices through the transom betokened that the clan was gathered, she kept on to the door of a single at the end of the corridor. "Come in," a voice called in response to her knock. Patty turned the knob and stuck her head in. "Hello, Cathy! Are you busy?" "Of course not. Come in and talk to me." Patty shut the door and leaned with her back against it. "This isn't a social call," she announced impressively. "I've come to see you officially." "Officially?" "You're president of students, I believe?" "I believe I am," sighed Cathy; "and if the President of the United States has half as much trouble with his subjects as I have with mine, he has my sincerest sympathy." "I suppose we are a great deal of trouble," said Patty, contritely. "Trouble! My dear," said Cathy, solemnly. "I've spent the entire week running around to the different cottages making speeches to those blessed freshmen. They _won't_ hand in chapel excuses, and they _will_ run off with library books, and, altogether, they're an immoral lot." "They can afford to be; they're young," sighed Patty, enviously. "But I," she added, "am getting old, and it's time I was getting good. I've called to tell you that I've over-cut four times, and I haven't any excuse." "What are you talking about?" asked Cathy, in amazement. "Chapel excuses. I've over-cut four times,--I think it's four, though I've rather lost count,--and I haven't any excuse." "But, Patty, don't tell me that. You must have some excuse, some reason for--" "Not the shadow of one. Just stayed away because I didn't feel like going." "But you must give me _some_ reason," remonstrated Cathy, in distress, "or I'll have to report it to the committee and you'll be deprived of your privileges. You can't afford that, you know, for you're chairman of the Senior Prom." "But I didn't have any excuse, and I can't make one up," said Patty. "I will soon be thirty, and then forty, and then fifty. Do you think a woman of that age is attractive if she deals in subterfuges and evasions? Character," she added solemnly, "is a plant of slow growth, and the seeds must be planted early." Cathy looked puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, "but I suppose you do. Anyway," she added, "I'm sorry about the chairmanship; but I'm--well, I'm sort of glad, too." She laid a hand on Patty's shoulder. "Of course I've always liked you, Patty,--everybody does,--but I don't believe I've ever appreciated you, and I'm glad to find it out before we leave college." Patty's face flushed a trifle and she drew away half sheepishly. "You'd best postpone your felicitations until to-morrow," she laughed, "for I may think of some good excuse in the night. Good-by." She was greeted in the study with a cry of welcome. "Well, Patty," said Priscilla, "I hear you've been taking a walk with the bishop. Did you tell him you'd cut chapel?" "I did; and he said he wished he might have cut, too." "She's incorrigible," sighed Georgie; "she's even been corrupting the bishop." "You'd better be careful, Patty Wyatt," warned Bonnie Connaught. "Self-Government will get you if you don't watch out, and _then_ you'll be sorry when they take you off the Senior Prom." Patty sobered for a moment, but she hastily assumed a nonchalant air. "They have got me," she laughed, "and I'm already off--or, at least, I shall be as soon as they have a meeting." "Patty!" cried the room, in a horrified chorus. "What do you mean?" Patty shrugged. "Just what I say: deprived of my privileges for cutting chapel." "It's a shame!" said Georgie, indignantly. "That Self-Government Committee is going a little too far when it takes a senior's privileges away without even hearing her case." She grasped Patty by the arm and started toward the door. "Come on and tell Cathy Fair about it. She will fix it all right." Patty hung back and disengaged her wrist from Georgie's grasp. "Let me alone," she said sulkily. "There's nothing to be done. I told her myself I hadn't any excuse." "You told her?" Georgie stared her incredulity, and Bonnie Connaught laughed. "Patty reminds me of the burglar who crawled out the back window with the silver, and then rang the front door-bell and handed it back." "What's the matter, Patty?" Priscilla asked solicitously. "Don't you feel well?" Patty sighed. "I'm getting old," she said. "You're getting what?" "Old. Soon I'll be thirty, and then forty, and then fifty; and do you think any one will love me then if I deal in subterfuges and evasions? Character, my dear girls, is a plant of slow growth, and the seeds must be planted early." "You went and told the committee voluntarily,--of your own accord,--without even waiting to be called up?" Georgie persisted, determined to get at the facts of the case. "I'm getting old," repeated Patty. "It's time I was getting good. As I said before, character is a plant--" Georgie looked at the others and shook her head in bewilderment, and Bonnie Connaught laughed and murmured to the room in general: "When Patty gets to heaven I'm afraid the Recording Angel will have some trouble in balancing his books." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The original text had each Chapter number and title twice. The first of these was deleted to aid in ease of reading. Page 198, the text that begins "Ireland's eminent astronomer spending" ends without punctuation to indicate that the reader broke off suddenly. This was retained. 
25163	----	None 
20474	----	Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. Author of The Grace Harlowe High School Girls Series, Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College, Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College, Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College. PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY Copyright, 1914 [Illustration: Grace Paused in the Doorway.] CONTENTS I. A Semper Fidelis Luncheon II. The Last Freshman III. An Accident and a Surprise IV. Patience Promises to Stand By V. A Declaration of War VI. A Face to Face Talk VII. When Friends Fall Out VIII. A Leaf from the Past IX. A Thanksgiving Invitation X. Kathleen's Promise XI. Kathleen's Great Story XII. Treachery XIII. The Invitation XIV. A Congenial Sextette XV. A Firelight Council XVI. Elfreda Shows Grace the Way XVII. What the Seniors Thought of the Plan XVIII. The Fairy Godmother's Visit XIX. What Patience Overheard XX. The Mysterious "Peter Rabbit" XXI. Who Will Win the Honor Pin? XXII. Kathleen's Great Moment XXIII. Grace Finds Her Work XXIV. Conclusion LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Grace Paused in the Doorway. Grace Stepped Behind a Tree. They Clustered About the Fireplace. The Four Friends Were Strolling Across the Campus. Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College CHAPTER I A SEMPER FIDELIS LUNCHEON "The skies must smile and the sun must shine When Semper Fidelis goes out to dine," sang Arline Thayer joyously as she rearranged her sofa pillows for the eighth time, patting each one energetically before placing it, then stepping back to view the effect. "Aren't you glad every one's here, and things have begun to happen again, Ruth?" she asked blithely. "I hope no one disappoints us. I wish this room were larger. Still, it held eighteen girls one night last year. Don't you remember my Hallowe'en party, and what a time we had squeezing in here?" "It is so good in Mrs. Kane to let us have the dining room with Mary to serve the oysters," said Ruth. "We never could do things properly up here." "I know it. Oysters are such slippery old things, even on the half shell," returned Arline, who was not specially fond of them. "Let me see. The girls will be here at four o'clock. We are to have oysters, soup, a meat course, salad and dessert. That makes five different courses in five different houses. It will be eight o'clock before we reach the dessert. I am glad that is to be served in Grace's room. We always have a good time at Wayne Hall." To the readers of "Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College" and "Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College," Grace Harlowe and her various intimate associates have become familiar figures. Those who made her acquaintance, together with that of her three friends, Nora O'Malley, Jessica Bright and Anne Pierson, during her high school days will recall with pleasure the many eventful happenings of these four happy years as set forth in "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School" and "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School." The September following the graduation of the four friends from high school had seen their paths diverge widely, for Nora and Jessica had entered an eastern conservatory of music, while Anne and Grace, after due deliberation, had decided upon Overton College. Miriam Nesbit, of Oakdale fame, had entered college with them, and the trio of friends had spent three eventful years at Overton. "It is time we gathered home," grumbled Arline. "I have hardly seen Grace or any of the Semper Fidelis girls this week. They have all been so popular that they haven't given a thought to their neglected little friends." "Let me see," returned Ruth slyly. "How many nights have you stayed quietly at home this week?" "Not one, you rascal," retorted Arline, laughing. "I ought to be the last one to grumble. But in spite of all the rush, I have missed the dear old quartette." "So have I," declared Ruth earnestly. "Twenty minutes to four. They will soon be here." "Yes. I asked Grace to come as early as possible," said Arline. "There, I hear the bell now." Arline whisked out of the room and peered anxiously over the baluster. "Hello, Grace," she called joyously. "Hurry as fast as ever you can. Where are your faithful three?" "I came on ahead," laughed Grace. "I had promised you that I would, and being a person of my word, I didn't wish to disappoint you. When I left Wayne Hall Miriam was playing maid to Elfreda. The new gown she had made for the luncheon didn't arrive until the last minute. So Miriam stayed to help her dress. It is a perfectly darling gown. Just wait until you see Elfreda in it. She hasn't gained an ounce since she went home last spring. She has had a strenuous time all summer to keep her weight down. You must ask her to tell you about it." "I will," promised Arline, with an anticipatory smile. "But where is Anne?" "I left Anne finishing a letter to her mother. She will be here with Miriam and Elfreda. Isn't it splendid to think you and Ruth can be together this year?" Grace ran lightly up the stairs in Arline's wake, and a moment later greeted Ruth with outstretched hands. "Take the seat of honor, Grace," directed Arline, gently propelling her toward her best leather upholstered armchair. "Isn't it obliging of the weather to stay so nice and warm? We don't need hats or coats. You were sensible and didn't wear either. Not having to bother with wraps will save time, too." "I am highly impressed with this house-to-house luncheon," declared Grace. "It was clever in you to suggest it, Arline." "Oh, these progressive luncheons are nothing new," returned Arline quickly. "I have read that they are extremely popular among college and high school girls. I am sure I don't know why I never before proposed that we give one. It is going to be lots of fun, isn't it? There's the bell again. I hope that maid hasn't gone on a vacation. It usually takes her forever." Arline darted out of the room to hang over the baluster once more. This time it was the Emerson twins, and by four o'clock the last member of the club had taken her place beside her sisters in Arline's room. "As we are all here," announced Arline, "we might as well begin. The feast awaits you downstairs in the dining room; that is, a very small part of it. There is one beautiful feature about this luncheon, we are to have plenty of exercise between each course. Are all of you hungry?" There was a lively chorus of affirmatives. "Then choose your partners and come along," ordered the little curly-haired girl. It did not take long to dispose of the oysters, and, headed by Sara and Julia Emerson, the little procession of girls moved on to Ralston House, where the twins were to play hostess and serve the soup. "You can thank your stars and me that you don't have to squeeze into our room and eat your soup from cups instead of Mrs. Bryant's best soup plates," Julia informed her guests as they swarmed up the steps. "Mrs. Bryant couldn't see this luncheon at first. She had no appreciation of what a really important affair it was to be. I had to use all my persuasive powers on her. But I won, and she descended to the kitchen and made the soup herself." "I think we owe Julia a special vote of thanks," declared Miriam Nesbit a little later, as she finished her soup. "This vermicelli soup is the best I ever tasted." "It can't be beaten, can it?" asked Sara Emerson eagerly. "That was why we were so anxious to take the soup course on our shoulders. We knew what was in store for us if we could make Mrs. Bryant see things in our light." "S-h-h, she's coming!" warned Julia. "For goodness' sake, Sara, be careful." Mrs. Bryant, a rather austere person and not in the least like her sister, Mrs. Elwood, who managed Wayne Hall, walked into the dining room at this juncture, apparently in the best of humors. Arline glanced inquiringly at Grace, who nodded slightly, whereupon the dainty president of the Semper Fidelis Club rose and made the matron a pretty little speech of thanks in behalf of the club. Then the luncheon party started on their way again, Mrs. Bryant hospitably seeing them to the door and extending a smiling invitation to come again. "I knew she couldn't resist us," chuckled Sara Emerson, as the girls filed down the walk. "A combination like ours is safe to make its way anywhere. Come on, Marian and Elizabeth, you are the hostesses now. Shall we head for Livingstone Hall?" "No, indeed," smiled Marian. "Bess and I are not so lucky. It is Vinton's for ours. But we can assure you that you won't be disappointed in the layout." One of the features of the luncheon was the fact that no one knew until the moment of serving what the various courses were to be. When it was discovered that Marian and Elizabeth had ordered fried chicken, for which Vinton's was famous, with potatoes au gratin and tiny French peas, there was general rejoicing. It took the better part of an hour to eat these good things, and the guests, feeling that they were on familiar ground, enjoyed themselves hugely. "Oh, dear!" groaned Elfreda, "I know I have gained a pound since I started out this afternoon. I haven't eaten so much at one time for ages. There is still the salad and dessert to come. I can't possibly miss either one of them." "Never mind, Elfreda," soothed Emma Dean; "we won't invite you to the next luncheon, then you can----" "Just try leaving me out and see what happens," retorted Elfreda threateningly. "You may find yourself locked in your room on that self-same day with the key missing." "Be good, both of you," admonished Miriam, "or I'll see that neither of you get any dessert." "Grace and Anne wouldn't be so mean," returned Elfreda with supreme self-assurance. "How could we blast such touching faith?" laughed Anne. "There, what did I tell you?" asked Elfreda, turning triumphant eyes on Emma. "Now, leave me out if you dare." "I don't dare. I don't want to," declared Emma affably. "I was merely trying to be pleasant and helpful. If you were not invited to the spread, naturally you wouldn't eat, and if you didn't eat, then you wouldn't have to worry about that extra pound. It is all very simple." "Very!" agreed Elfreda, with such scathing emphasis that the exchange of words ended in a general giggle at Emma's expense. "Now that you've all finished laughing at me," she declared good-naturedly, "I hereby invite all of you, even Elfreda, to Martell's for the salad, which is my part of the ceremony." "Oh, goody, it's Waldorf!" exclaimed Elfreda delightedly, as, seated about the big corner table at Martell's, perhaps twenty minutes later, they saw the salad brought on. "You knew what we liked, didn't you, Emma?" "I did, in spite of my simple tendencies," murmured Emma. "That was a well merited thrust," laughed Elfreda, laying her hand lightly over her heart. "And now Wayne Hall and our humble apartment await you," proclaimed Grace when the last vestige of salad had disappeared. "Anne and I extend you a pressing invitation to dessert and conversation. Although this is to be a strictly informal session of the club, we may wish to discuss certain club business. The evening is before us. We ought to make good use of it." "And so we shall," returned Emma Dean, as they rose to go. "The affairs of the nation shall be discussed and adjusted to-night." "And the world will be upside down forever after," predicted Elfreda. "Don't croak," reproved Emma. "Who knows what this night may bring forth? It may engender indigestion, or a stern injunction to make less noise on the part of Mrs. Elwood, but whatever the future has in store for us, we shall have had at least one luncheon worth remembering." CHAPTER II THE LAST FRESHMAN It was ten minutes past seven when the club settled down to the frozen custard and delicious cakes that Grace and Anne had provided for them. Then Elfreda, who had taken upon herself the making and serving of the coffee, returned after a brief absence with a percolator of steaming coffee, Miriam following with the sugar and cream. "Isn't it too bad we never thought of doing this before?" said Marian Cummings. "Something had to be left for our senior year," said Anne Pierson. "Do you know, I am anything but joyful at being a senior," announced Elfreda Briggs. "Of course, it is a satisfaction to know that one has weathered the last three years' examinations and is practically on Easy Street as far as studies go, but every now and then comes the awful feeling, 'only a little while and it will all be over'--college, I mean." "'Yet a few days, and thee the all-beholding sun shall see no more.'" quoted Emma Dean lugubriously. "Not quite so bad as that," returned Elfreda with an appreciative grin. "Even we juniors feel more or less that way," said Laura Atkins. "I never had any real fun until I came to Overton. The time has gone so fast I can't believe that it is two years since I locked Grace and Anne out of their room and behaved like a savage. I don't wonder Elfreda named me the Anarchist. I did my best to live up to the name." "Oh, forget about that," murmured Elfreda, looking embarrassed. The members of the club were wholly familiar with the history of Laura Atkins's freshman year and admired her for the matter-of-fact way in which she was wont to discuss her early short-comings. Under the sunny influence of the four girls who had helped her to find herself, she had developed into a gracious and likeable young woman. She and Mildred Taylor were the guests of the club that afternoon. "What is the latest word from erring freshmen? Has any one heard?" asked Grace. Laura's reference to herself had set Grace to thinking of freshmen in general. "We've six at Ralston," groaned Julia Emerson. "The usual variety--neither rich nor poor, brilliant nor dull, amiable nor perverse, goody-goody nor lawless. Just that comfortable, maddeningly commonplace variety of girls who never go to extremes." "Extremes are dangerous," declared Elfreda judicially. "Better be an extremist than nothing at all," grumbled Julia. "For the first time since we came here, there isn't a single freshman at Wayne Hall," announced Miriam. "Are all the rooms taken?" asked Marian Cummings. "All but half of one room," replied Emma Dean. "The illustrious Miss West is alone in her glory. I heard Mrs. Elwood lamenting to-day because that particular half was still vacant." "Some one may take it yet," said Arline Thayer. "This is only the second week of the term. Only yesterday a freshman arrived at Morton House. Girls have been known to drift into Overton a whole month after the beginning of the term." "Did Miss West ask for a single?" questioned Grace of Emma. "No, she doesn't in the least yearn for one. You know she is paying her own way through college. She told Mrs. Elwood that it was all she could do to keep her head above water as it was and couldn't afford to think of a single. Of course, Mrs. Elwood hasn't charged her single rates yet, but if no one else appears she will either have to pay the advanced price or make other arrangements. Mrs. Elwood knows of two girls who have been trying to get into Wayne Hall for a long time, and who will come bag and baggage the moment she says the word." "That is too bad," said Miriam slowly--"for Miss West, I mean." A significant silence fell upon the company of girls. The same thought was in each one's mind. It was Elfreda who finally voiced it. "It looks as though the S. F.'s ought to get busy," she said slangily. "We might lend her the money to make up the difference." "I am afraid that wouldn't do," objected Anne, whose practical experience with poverty had made her wise. "I imagine with her it is a question of being economical. It wouldn't be fair to tempt her to extravagance, for a single would be the height of improvidence, particularly if she had to go in debt for it." "Anne is right," declared Gertrude Wells decidedly. "But to be perfectly frank, I am not in favor of the club taking up Miss West's case. You all know how badly she behaved toward us last year, particularly toward Grace. If we offered her help, no doubt we should be ridiculed for our pains. I think the best thing for us to do is to let her alone." "So do I," echoed Sarah Emerson. Several affirmative murmurs went up from various girls. "Now, see here," began Elfreda Briggs emphatically. "What is the use in our calling ourselves Semper Fidelis and then going back on our principles? When we organized this club, we didn't make any conditions as to who should be helped and who shouldn't, did we? Whoever needed help was to have it. If there is anyway in which we can be of assistance to Miss West, then it is our duty to respond cheerfully." "Hurrah for you, Elfreda!" cried Arline. "You're an honor to the Sempers and your own sweet native land. Of course we aren't going to pick and choose whom we shall help. I think we had better appoint a committee to call on Miss West and find out if we can render her any financial assistance." "I'm in favor of that committee," declared Emma Dean, "only don't ask me to serve on it." "Grace and Arline are the very ones for that stunt," proposed Julia Emerson. "They can do it to perfection." "Please don't ask me," said Grace with sudden earnestness. "I just can't, that's all." Her face flushed, and a distressed look crept into her eyes which her friends were quick to note. "Suppose you and Elfreda call on her, Miriam?" proposed Arline. "You two are very valiant." "Excuse me," said Elfreda so promptly that everyone laughed. "I may look valiant, but to every woman her own fear, you know." "Oh, look, girls!" The sudden exclamation came from Gertrude Wells, who was sitting near the open window. "There's the automobile bus from the station. It's stopping in front of Wayne Hall, too." There was a concerted rush for the two windows. "I wonder who it can be!" cried Emma Dean. "Wouldn't it be funny if it were the greatly desired freshman, Miss West's other half?" The watchers saw the bus door open. Then out of it stepped the tallest girl they had ever seen. "I believe she is seven feet tall," muttered Emma Dean. "I am sure of it." "Nonsense," laughed Miriam. "But she is not far from six. I wish it were daylight, then we could see her face." "I wonder who she can be," mused Arline. "There is only one answer," smiled Miriam Nesbit. "As Emma just stated, she must be Miss West's other half. However, we shall know before long." A moment later they heard the bell ring, then up from the hall came the sound of Mrs. Elwood's voice speaking in surprised but pleased tones. A voice almost masculine in its depth answered. There was a tramp of feet up the stairs and down the hall. In the next instant the door of the end room had opened and closed upon the newcomer. "Girls, you are saved," proclaimed Gertrude Wells dramatically. "We have been wasting our valuable time to-night trying to solve Miss West's problem, while all the time the queen of the giants was hurrying as fast as ever she could to the rescue." There was a faint general laugh at the remark, then Elfreda said severely, "Young women, do you consider making uncomplimentary remarks about new students in the line of true Overton spirit?" "But she did look seven feet tall," persisted Emma Dean. "Think how deceitful appearances sometimes are," reminded Miriam. "Never judge a person by moonlight," added Ruth Denton. "Never judge them at all," smiled Grace. "Let the poor freshman rest in peace. I have a last sweet surprise for you. Name it and you can have it." "Caramels," guessed Julia Emerson. "Marshmallows," said Gertrude Wells. "Oh, I know," cried Arline. "Nut chocolates; the delicious kind that old candy man in Oakdale makes." "Some one must have told you," said Grace, going to the closet and returning with a huge box. "You are all to stay here until the last chocolate is eaten." It was on the ragged edge of half-past ten when the Semper Fidelis Club trooped happily across the campus to their various houses, but, faithful to their duty, the big candy box reposed in Grace's waste basket, quite empty. "I wonder how Kathleen West received her roommate," observed Miriam. She and Elfreda had lingered for a moment in Grace's room after the others had gone. "It is fortunate for her that a belated freshman happened along," was Grace's serious reply. "But most unfortunate for the freshman," added Elfreda. "However, this one looks perfectly capable of fighting her own battles." CHAPTER III AN ACCIDENT AND A SURPRISE "Well, what do you think of her?" inquired Elfreda Briggs the following morning, poking her head in at Grace's door, a quizzical smile on her round face. Grace and Anne had left the breakfast table a few minutes before Elfreda, who had foregone finishing her breakfast and rushed upstairs to hear her friends' opinion of the tall freshman, who had seemed taller than ever as she stalked uncompromisingly into the dining room that morning in Kathleen West's wake. The newspaper girl looked anything but in a happy frame of mind, and after several covert glances in her direction, Grace decided that the new arrival had not been met with open arms on the part of Kathleen. "What do I think of her?" repeated Grace. "A good many things, I should say. What do you think?" "I think she is the most interesting and entertaining person I've seen in years," declared Elfreda exaggeratingly. "Then her entertaining powers do not lie in speech," laughed Anne. "I heard her say three things this morning at the table. They were, 'yes,' 'thank you' and 'I believe so.'" "She didn't talk, that's a fact," admitted Elfreda, "but she looked as though she was keeping up an awful thinking. Does any one know from whence she came, and why?" "I don't know anything about her," said Grace, shaking her head, "but I am sure that you will find out everything worth knowing before night. You will be able to see a great deal, you know." "Don't flatter me," grinned Elfreda. "That's no joke, though," she added hastily. "I'll find out, never fear, and then I'll tell you girls." "What a comfort it is to have the latest news brought to one's door every morning," jeered Anne. "You'll find yourself without that comfort if you are not more respectful," threatened Elfreda. "I'll carry my news to other doors where it will be more highly appreciated." "Your threats fail to impress me," retorted Anne. "You know that you couldn't bear to ignore us." "I know I shall be late to chapel, and that you will be later," replied Elfreda significantly. "Tardiness is unbecoming in a senior. I am sorry to be obliged to remind you of it." "Save your sorrow and come along," called Miriam Nesbit from the doorway. "Aren't you going to chapel this morning, Grace?" "Not this morning," replied Grace, not raising her eyes from the book over which she was poring. "This is psychology morning and I'm very shaky on the lesson. I feel in my bones that I'll be called upon to recite, so please go away, all of you, and don't bother me," she finished with an affectionate smile that did not accord with her blunt words. "Going, going, gone!" flung back Elfreda over her shoulder as she left the room, followed by Miriam and Anne. Grace glanced anxiously at the clock, then concentrated her mind anew upon her reading. The sound of hurried feet on the stairs and through the halls, accompanied by an occasional murmur of voices as the students left Wayne Hall, was borne to her ears as she read and tried to familiarize herself with the main points of the lesson. Gradually the house settled down to quiet, and Grace, becoming thoroughly interested in her work, lost all track of time. The sound of a terrific crash, apparently just outside the half-opened door, brought her to her feet in alarm. "What was that?" she exclaimed. Stepping to the door she looked up and down the hall. From the room at the end, the door of which was ajar, came a jingling sound as of dishes being piled together. For a moment Grace hesitated, then walked toward the sound. At the doorway she paused again; then the sight that met her eyes caused her to spring forward with an impulsive, "What a dreadful smash! Do let me help you." The extremely tall young woman who sat on the edge of her bed surveying the wreck of her washbowl, pitcher and every other piece of china that five minutes before had reposed confidently on the top of her washstand regarded Grace ruefully. There was a twinkle in her eyes, however, that belied her regret. "It did make considerable noise, I imagine," she said crisply. "Strange the rest of the students here haven't appeared on the scene." Grace involuntarily retreated a step or two, her face flushing. She could not endure the idea of being thought an intruder. "Don't go," said the tall young woman, in the same crisp tone. "I didn't mean that you were an intruder. I only wonder that no one else came. The wreck of the Hesperus wasn't serious compared with this," she said dryly, indicating the littered floor. "I tried to move my wash stand. It stuck. Then all of a sudden it gave way and I fell back, dragging it with me. I had hold of one end of it with both hands, and I was stronger than I thought, for I just missed sitting on the floor and receiving all that china in my lap. I was horrified for a second, but all of a sudden the funny side of it struck me, and I sat down on my couch and laughed until I cried. I was just wiping my eyes and preparing to pick up the pieces when you came in. Perhaps you thought I was crying over it. Can you imagine me in tears?" she added humorously. "Hardly," said Grace with a frank smile that was reflected on the tall young woman's face. "No, I am not one of the weeping kind," she declared sturdily. "I come of good, old, undaunted New England stock. My name is Patience Eliot and I live just outside Boston. I might as well tell you all about myself in the first place, because I decided at breakfast that I liked you. I know your Christian name because I heard your friends addressing you as "Grace" this morning, but I don't know your surname." "I am Grace Harlowe, at your service," replied Grace lightly, "and it is always gratifying to be liked. I saw you last night when you arrived. I was entertaining a crowd of girls, and, of course, we couldn't resist running to the window when one of the girls happened to see the bus stopping in front of the house." "Were you at the window?" asked Miss Eliot unconcernedly. "I didn't see you. In fact, I wasn't thinking of anything but getting into my room and to bed. I had been on the train long enough to become thoroughly tired of it. It was two hours late, too. We should have arrived at Overton at half-past seven, but it was half-past nine when the train pulled into the Overton station." "You must have been very tired," sympathized Grace. "I hope you rested well last night. If there is anything I can do for you in the way of showing you to the registrar's office or wherever you may wish to go, I shall be only too glad to do so. My first recitation happens to be at ten o'clock this morning, so I have plenty of time." "My first duty lies before me," returned Miss Eliot grimly, pointing to the floor. "I think you had better direct me to a store where I can replace this. If I ask Mrs. Elwood to set a price on it, she will cheat herself." "Why, how did you know that?" asked Grace in surprise. "You only saw her for a few minutes last night." "That was long enough to discover several things concerning her greatly to her credit," was the calm answer. "However, as you have been so kind as to offer to direct me, I think I will ask you to take me to the registrar's office. She has been expecting me ever since college opened. I imagine she has given me up by this time." Stepping over the wreck of broken china to the closet, she took her hat from its hook on the inner side of the door, and, putting it on without glancing into the mirror, announced herself in readiness to depart. "I'll lock the door on this wreck and have it removed when I return," she said. The registrar was writing busily, her head bent intently over her work, when Grace led the way into her office. "Good morning, Miss Sheldon," she began. "This is Miss Eliot of the----" Grace was about to say freshman class when the registrar rose and came toward them with outstretched hand. "My dear Patience!" she exclaimed cordially, "I am so glad you arrived at last. How is your father?" "Much better, thank you," replied the tall girl. "We still have two nurses, but I think he is out of danger now. I hated to leave him, but he was so worried because I had missed the first two weeks of college, that he insisted I should come on here at once. I arrived last night and went directly to Holland House, but the matron there thought I had given up coming, and the room I engaged by letter had been given to some one else only yesterday morning. She directed me to Wayne Hall, where, by the merest luck, I managed to secure half a room." During this flow of explanations, delivered in Miss Eliot's crisp, business-like tones, Grace had listened in open amazement. This tall freshman's manner of addressing Miss Sheldon, the dignified registrar, betokened long acquaintance, while the registrar looked as delighted as though she had found a long-lost relative. "I see you have fallen into good hands," said the registrar, a pleasant smile lighting her rather austere face as she glanced at Grace. "I am quite sure of that," responded Miss Eliot heartily. "I also brought disaster upon myself." An account of the morning's accident followed. "I believe you were born to disaster, Patience Eliot," laughed Miss Sheldon. "I shouldn't be at all surprised," was the dry response. "Miss Harlowe, I have known Miss Eliot since she was a little girl," explained Miss Sheldon. "I am pleased to know that she is to live at Wayne Hall. I am sure she will be happy there. I understand that the Wayne Hall girls make a very congenial household." "We try to," said Grace with a frank smile. "My three friends and I have never lived in any other house since our freshman days. Perhaps Miss Eliot will find her freshman year there as delightful as we found ours." "My freshman year!" exclaimed Miss Eliot in evident surprise. "Yes," returned Grace rather blankly. "Aren't you a freshman? I don't know why I thought so, but I supposed, of course, that----" She paused irresolutely. Miss Sheldon and the tall girl exchanged openly smiling glances, then the latter turned toward Grace almost apologetically. "I am a freshman in one sense," she said. "I have never before been to college, but as far as work goes I studied with my father and was lucky enough to pass up the freshman year. I ran down here last June to talk things over and find where I stood. I'm a sophomore, if you please." Grace burst into merry laughter. "Won't the girls be surprised!" she exclaimed. "We all thought you were a freshman." "I hadn't stopped to think of what any one else thought of me," said Patience, "or I might have enlightened the girls at the breakfast table as to my superior sophomore estate. They'll find out soon enough. I have a great mind to let them stumble upon the truth gradually." "Oh, do," begged Grace gleefully. "It will be great fun to let matters take their own course." Miss Sheldon smiled indulgently, but made no comment. She was versed in the ways of college girls. She, too, had been a student at Overton. "I should like to stay longer, Miss Sheldon, but I know you are very busy." Patience rose at last to go, Grace following her example. "Now that I have come to headquarters, been identified, had my thumb marks registered and become a unit in this great and glorious organization," went on the tall girl calmly, "I shall feel free to go forth and replace Mrs. Elwood's demolished china. I should like to put the new set on the washstand before I tell her of the accident. Good-bye, Miss Sheldon." She held out her hand. "May I come to see you soon?" "You know you will always be welcome, my dear." "I wish you wouldn't tell even your roommate that I am a sophomore," said Patience Eliot as they left the campus and turned into College Street. "I won't," promised Grace. "I'll be a positive clam. But what about your roommate? She will be sure to find out first, and then----" Remembering Patience Eliot's roommate Grace broke off suddenly. "And then what?" asked the tall girl with disconcerting directness. "Nothing," murmured Grace. "Then we don't need to become alarmed, do we?" was the next question. "No, not in the least," said Grace, smiling faintly. She was trying to decide whether or not she ought even to intimate to the tall, matter-of-fact girl, whom she already liked, that Kathleen West was likely to prove a disappointment in the way of a roommate. But the decision was not left to her, for Patience Eliot said with calm amusement in her tones: "I have a better idea of what you are thinking than you know. All I have to say is, don't waste a minute worrying over me. Patience Eliot will take care of herself regardless of who her roommate may be." CHAPTER IV PATIENCE PROMISES TO STAND BY For the next three days Patience Eliot passed successfully for a freshman. Then came the sudden dismaying rumor that she was registered in the sophomore theme class. A little later it was announced positively that she had passed up freshman French. The truth suddenly burst upon certain members of the sophomore class who had selected Miss Eliot as a splendid subject for sophomore grinds, when, on the occasion of their first class meeting, she walked quietly into the class room where it was to be held, and took her place with a cheerful, matter-of-course air that was very disturbing to various abashed sophomores who had planned mischief. Far from being angry, the astonished sophomores treated the New England girl's mild deception as a joke, and by it she sprang into instant popularity with her class. There were a few disgruntled students who criticized her, but these were so far in the minority that they counted for little. Kathleen West was among this minority. On the evening when the girl from New England had been shown into the room at the end of the hall, Kathleen had conceived a strong dislike for this calm-faced, independent young woman, whose quiet self-assurance nettled her, and mentally decided that she belonged to the preaching, narrow-minded class of girls who made life a burden for those who did not live up to a certain impossible standard. Patience Eliot had been even less favorably impressed with the newspaper girl. "She has a frightful temper," had been her mental observation, "and looks the reverse of agreeable." Aside from a brief exchange of conversation, silence had reigned in the room, and remembering the happy faces of the girls she had seen at the breakfast table that morning, Patience had felt not wholly pleased with her new quarters and not a little lonely. The incident of the broken china had been fortunate in that it had brought about a friendly, informal meeting between Grace and herself. After that everything had glided smoothly along. Patience and Grace received an invitation to take dinner with Miss Sheldon the following Sunday, and this occasion served to strengthen the New England girl's favorable impression of Grace to such an extent that by the end of the week the knot of friendship between them had been firmly tied. From the moment of Kathleen West's discovery that her roommate was fast becoming friendly with the very girls she affected to despise, she adopted an aggressive manner toward the New England girl which the latter was quick to perceive and tactfully ignore. Patience had an unusually keen insight into character, and she had made up her mind not to get beyond the point of exchanging common civilities with the disgruntled young woman who seemed determined to go through college with her eyes tightly closed to her own interests. That the newspaper girl possessed a fondness for study and never neglected her lessons was a point in her favor, in Patience's eyes. As the daughter of a well-known man of letters she had inherited her father's love of study and an appreciation of that same love in others. She frequently smiled at the clever, caustic remarks the strange, moody girl was wont to make about everything and everybody, and occasionally she surprised even Kathleen herself by her ready appreciation of the themes the latter wrote. It was several weeks before the two young women even became accustomed to each other. During that time Kathleen learned that Patience was proof against her aggressiveness, and not half so narrow-minded as she had thought; while Patience discovered, to her dismay, that in spite of Kathleen's undoubted wit and brilliancy, she disliked her rather more, if anything, than on first acquaintance. "I feel quite conscience-stricken over it," she confided to Grace one afternoon as they started down College Street for a short walk before dinner. "I wouldn't tell any one else, Grace, but I simply can't like Miss West. I've tried, and I can't. I am equally sure she doesn't like me. Imagine us sharing the intimacy of one room, and at the same time disliking each other cordially. I suppose there isn't the slightest chance for me to make a change this year. Besides, I don't wish to leave Wayne Hall." "Oh, you mustn't think of leaving Wayne Hall!" exclaimed Grace in dismay. "I am so sorry about Miss West. She is a peculiar girl. None of the girls here pretend to understand her. When first she came here as a freshman she was friendly enough with us. Then something occurred for which we were not to blame, or rather, we did not know that Miss West considered us at fault," corrected Grace conscientiously. "At any rate, she suddenly began to avoid us. For a long time we didn't know the reason." Grace paused for an instant. "By the time we found out, it was too late. Other things had happened. I can't really tell you much about that part of it," she added, reddening, "but in fairness to myself and my friends I will say that we were not to blame for what followed. There, that isn't very definite, is it? But I know you won't ask any questions." "Not one," returned Patience gravely. "I knew, of course, that relations between you two were strained, but hadn't the slightest idea of the cause of it all. I believe I understand something of the situation now." They tramped along in silence for a time. Grace was thinking almost resentfully that even in her senior year she seemed unable to free herself from a sense of responsibility toward Kathleen West. Her great affection for Mabel Ashe had undoubtedly been at the bottom of it, but, deep in her heart, Grace knew that had there been no Mabel to pave the way for Kathleen, she would have done whatever lay in her power to help this strange girl, who had no conception of, and was not likely ever to imbibe, that intangible and yet wholly necessary principle, college spirit. She wondered a little sadly why Mabel Ashe had not written her. Could it be possible that Mabel had heard unkind, untruthful tales of her from the newspaper girl? Grace impatiently accused herself of being suspicious and tried to shake off the impression. While she was pursuing this uncomfortable train of thought, Patience Eliot was covertly watching her companion's face. The expression she saw there evidently did not please her, and with a slightly determined set of her lips and a gleam of sudden purpose in her frank eyes, she promised herself that, beginning that very day, she would try to study Kathleen from an entirely different standpoint than heretofore. Laying her hand on Grace's shoulder she said warmly: "Don't worry, Grace. I will take back what I said about leaving Wayne Hall. I'm going to stay there until the last day of my sophomore year, at least. And as long as I stay I shall no doubt go on rooming with Miss West. There, does that make you feel better?" "It is positively noble in you to say that, Patience," responded Grace gratefully. "I know you are bound to be put to endless personal inconvenience on account of it. I feel peculiarly responsible for Miss West, because I promised Mabel Ashe, who knows her, that I would help her to like college. I have told you all about Mabel before. Next to Anne and Miriam, Mabel was my best friend here at Overton. I can't begin to tell you how I missed her last year. When Miss West first came to Overton I thought it would be perfectly splendid to have a real newspaper reporter with us, and because she was Mabel's friend I felt doubly sure of liking her. "Mabel had sent me a telegram asking me to go to the station to meet her. Anne and I didn't allow any grass to grow under our feet. We rushed off post haste to the station. Confidentially, we were dreadfully disappointed in her. She was not in the least the sort of girl that I had expected to meet. I suppose I entertained an almost exaggerated idea of what a newspaper woman should be. I've always enjoyed reading stories about clever women who covered important assignments and made good on newspapers. You know the kind of stories I mean." Patience nodded understandingly. "Real people are never like people in books," she commented. "Usually the real folks do far more startling things than the book people ever thought of doing." "I know it," agreed Grace, with a rueful smile. "Suppose I say what you just said happens to apply to this case, and leave the rest to your imagination." "Very neatly put," was Patience's grim answer. "My imagination is quite equal to the strain. As her roommate, I can draw upon fact rather than imagination." "Yet I have a curious feeling that you are going to succeed where we have failed. You are so strong and capable and----" Grace's earnest eyes looked their confidence in Patience, as she groped for the word that would describe her friend. "I can't think of the right word now, but you understand me. What I mean is that once you had made up your mind to do something, you'd do it or die." "'Tis the blood of my Revolutionary ancestors that spurs me on to deeds of might," declaimed Patience. "Don't give up the ship--girl, I mean," she finished humorously. "That looks like Miss West just ahead of us!" exclaimed Grace. "She came from that house at the end of the row. A crowd of freshmen live there and one of them seems to be a particular friend of hers." "You mean Miss Rawle?" replied Patience. "I have named her my daily affliction. She haunts Wayne Hall with a persistency worthy of a better cause. She adores Miss West, and tells me all about it while she is waiting for Kathleen, who, I suspect, runs away from her more than once. She refers to little Miss Rawle as 'my crush,' but her tone is unpleasantly sarcastic. Miss Rawle honestly admires Miss West and seems to have a great deal of faith in her ability to write. Sometimes Kathleen is the soul of hospitality. At other times she barely responds to Miss Rawle's timid remarks. When she behaves in that fashion I feel tempted to give her a good shaking. More than once I have seen Miss Rawle say good night when she looked ready to cry." "I wish I knew how to get hold of Kathleen," said Grace, looking troubled. "It is simply a case of good material going to waste, isn't it?" Patience shrugged her square shoulders. "I had a glimmer of hope that, once she and I became accustomed to each other, we might at least dwell together in peace. So far peace has been maintained by great effort on my part. How much longer it will endure is a question." At the door of Wayne Hall Grace paused irresolutely. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I forgot to stop at the stationer's, and I need a lot of little things, too. I must go back and get them. Will you come with me, Patience?" Patience shook her head. "I want to read for a few minutes before dinner. It is almost the only time I have to read for pleasure. You won't care if I go on upstairs, will you, Grace?" "Of course not. I wish I didn't have to go. I'll see you at dinner." Grace hurried down the walk on her errand, while Patience went on into the house and to her room. CHAPTER V A DECLARATION OF WAR The October twilight had fallen before the two girls finished their walk. When Patience opened her door she did not at first glance see the huddled figure crouched close to the window. A sound, half sob, half sigh, caused her to cross the room in an instant. "Who are you, and what is the trouble?" were her blunt questions. The girl burrowed her face in her arm and made no answer. "Get up!" commanded Patience, an imperative note in her voice that caused the girl to half struggle to her feet, then sink sobbing to her old position. "This won't do at all," remonstrated Patience. "You mustn't sit here. Stop crying instantly." She purposely made her voice coldly unsympathetic with a view toward summoning the weeper's pride to her aid. It had the desired effect. The girl rose from the floor and stumbled toward the door, her head still hidden on her arm. With a cry of, "Why, it is Miss Rawle!" Patience sprang forward and caught the girl by the hand. "You poor child! What has happened to you to make you cry so?" "Please don't sympathize with me, Miss Eliot, or I'll break down and cry again. It isn't anything in particular. I'm just a silly goose, that's all. Miss West promised to be here this afternoon, and I've been waiting for her ever since half-past four. I suppose she forgot all about it." Miss Rawle made a valiant attempt to smile. "Please tell her I was here, and--and was very sorry I didn't see her." Her lip quivered like that of a grieved child. Patience turned on the light, then went over to where Miss Rawle stood. "Do you wish me to give you a piece of good advice?" she asked with abrupt frankness, placing her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Yes," responded Miss Rawle in a halfhearted manner. "Then don't leave any word for Miss West, and don't put yourself within speaking distance of her for at least a week." "But--I can't do that. She wouldn't understand----" "All the better for you," cut in Patience's crisp voice. "You are very fond of Miss West, aren't you?" Miss Rawle nodded. "She is so bright and clever and says such smart things, and can write. I adore cleverness. I'm not a bit clever. I work dreadfully hard to keep up in my classes. But Kathleen is actually brilliant, and, besides, she took me to the sophomore reception." The tall girl listened gravely to this enthusiastic tribute to her captious roommate. "Very good reasons," she agreed. "Still, I wish you would try to do what I just suggested. Miss West is like a great many other clever people, she doesn't appreciate what is easily won." A deep flush overspread Miss Rawle's face. An angry light leaped into her blue eyes. Then, meeting Patience's calm glance, she said slowly, "Do you mean that I force myself upon her?" "In a measure, yes," was the cool reply. "You are very fond of her and she knows it, consequently she doesn't value your friendship half as highly as though she weren't sure of it. You must meet her on her own ground, and make her realize that you are of as much importance in the world as she. It may be hard at first, but it will be best for both of you. Miss West stands in need of a friend, and I am sure you would be loyal to her." "How nice in you to say so," returned Miss Rawle, brightening. "I thought I was angry with you for saying what you did about my forcing myself upon Kathleen, but I'm not. I am going straight home, now, and I'll do as you say. Would you mind if I were to come and see you some time, and won't you take luncheon with me some day at Vinton's?" Patience smilingly acquiesced to both eager requests, and little Miss Rawle descended the steps of Wayne Hall and set off for Livingston Hall, where she lived, looking anything but sorrowful. "I'll try her way," she planned as she sped along through the soft fall darkness. "It is worth trying. But I wonder what made her say that Kathleen stood in need of a friend." After Miss Rawle had departed, armed and equipped with her newly-born independence, Patience smiled whimsically to herself as she brushed her long, fair hair, rebraided it and wound it about her head. It was a coiffure she had recently adopted at Elfreda's suggestion, and it went far toward softening the severe outline of her face. "I didn't come to college to play mentor to any one," she said, half aloud, "nor to give advice, for that matter. Perhaps I should not have told Miss Rawle to stay away from Kathleen. It isn't really any of my business. Wouldn't she be angry if she knew? Shall I tell her? No, I don't believe I will. If, during a season of adoration, Miss Rawle is indiscreet enough to tell her, then that is a different matter. But I don't believe she will." Patience had just finished doing her hair when the object of her monologue appeared in the door and after a quick survey of the room stepped inside. "Was Miss Rawle here?" she asked abruptly. "Yes," answered Patience, noncommittally. "I'm glad I wasn't. She is such a frightful bore. What did she say?" "She asked me to tell you she was here and was very sorry she missed you." "I am very glad I missed her," declared Kathleen, with a shrug. "Deliver me from 'crushes' of her sort, at least. There are several girls in the freshman class who look rather interesting, but they are evidently not anxious to know me," she added, her face darkening. "Whose fault is it?" asked Patience pointedly. "Not mine," retorted Kathleen with asperity. Then, turning upon Patience, she said in a voice shaking with sudden anger: "What do you mean by asking me such a question? I did not realize the insult it contained or I wouldn't have answered you." "I did not intend to be insulting," said Patience, "but candidly I think you are to blame for whatever attitude the girls here maintain toward you. Then, again, you do not value your friends. For instance, there is little Miss Rawle who is really fond of you. Yet you are continually running away from her. If I were Miss Rawle I would let you severely alone; you don't deserve her friendship. You don't and can't appreciate it." Kathleen stared at Patience in angry amazement. No one had ever before spoken to her quite so plainly. Then she found her voice. "I think you are not only insulting, but impertinent and meddlesome as well. I suppose Miss Rawle complained to you because I didn't keep my engagement with her and you thought it your duty to take me to task for it. Understand, once and for all, you are not to interfere in my affairs. I shall answer to no one for my actions. I did not choose you for a roommate. You are the last girl I would choose. I won't stand being criticized and lectured at every turn. Save your criticisms for those who are silly enough to take them seriously, but please don't imagine for an instant that what you may think or say carries the slightest weight with me." Before Patience could frame a reply the newspaper girl had rushed from the room, slamming the door with a vehemence that fairly shook the walls. She did not return to the room until after dinner, and then only long enough to slip into her coat and hat. During that brief moment she neither spoke to nor noticed Patience, who went quietly on with her studying as though nothing had happened. Kathleen's outburst had made no impression upon this calm-faced girl, but Patience's all too truthful words had sunk deeper into the newspaper girl's mind than she cared to admit. CHAPTER VI A FACE TO FACE TALK For a week at least Alice Rawle stayed religiously away from Wayne Hall and her idol, during which time Kathleen went serenely about her business, apparently undisturbed by the lull in the attentions of her one "crush." Then a certain sharp-eyed sophomore noted the fact and, happening to run across the newspaper girl in the gymnasium one afternoon, remarked laughingly, "I hear your little friend, Miss Rawle, has transferred her allegiance to Miss Eliot." "What utter nonsense," declared Kathleen. Yet she frowned her displeasure at the intimation, and immediately held Patience responsible for Miss Rawle's deflection. She decided to look into the matter that very afternoon and found time to stop and see Alice on her way home from her class. She rang the bell at Livingston Hall a little before five o'clock, only to find that Miss Rawle had not yet come in. The newspaper girl turned her steps toward Wayne Hall, feeling slightly disappointed and vexed. Arrived at the Hall, she slipped upstairs with the cat-like quiet and ease that always characterized her movements. At the door of her room she paused for a moment, listening to the sound of voices that came from within. Then, with a vehement exclamation, she flung wide the door and darted into the room. "Whatever you have to say of me you can say in my presence," she stormed. "Do you hear? I said, 'In my presence,'" she repeated, her voice rising. The two astonished occupants of the room regarded the angry girl in silent astonishment. Then the tension of the moment relaxed, and Alice Rawle found her voice. "You are right," she said to Kathleen, with a scornful little gesture. "We were talking of you. Evidently you heard what we said. I am glad you did. Until this moment I liked you better than any other girl in Overton. If you had come sooner, you would have heard me say so. But now I think you are unjust and contemptible and I shall never speak to you again." Turning to Patience, who had stood impassive during this outburst, she said with sudden penitence: "I'm sorry I lost my temper. I will come again to see you at some other time. Good-bye." As the door closed on Alice, Kathleen confronted Patience with blazing eyes. "It is all your fault," she accused wildly. "I hate you! You are one of the superior, narrow-minded sort of girls who will excuse nothing. You imagine yourself to be perfect, but you can always discover faults in others. You don't like me. I know it. I have those dear friends of yours to thank for it, too. I know that Miss Harlowe has taken particular pains to strengthen your first impression of me, which wasn't favorable. It is very unfortunate that we are obliged to room together. I suppose it is useless to ask you to mind your own business and let me alone." Kathleen walked moodily to the window and stood looking out, her favorite attitude when greatly disturbed in spirit. Crossing swiftly to where the newspaper girl stood, Patience laid two firm hands on Kathleen's shoulders. She whirled at the touch, her eyes flashing. "That's right," commented Patience. "I want you to look at me. The time has come for you and me to have an understanding. I've been putting off the evil day, and there have been times when I have even dreamed that we might dispense with it altogether. But now we must face it. I am going to tell you exactly what I think of you and why I think it, and you are going to perform the same kind office for me. Will you please begin?" Kathleen's face set in sullen lines. "You know what I think of you," she muttered. "I just finished telling you. I told you last week, too." "So you did," smiled Patience, "but surely you must think other uncomplimentary things of me." "Will you kindly take your hands off my shoulders and attend to your own affairs?" Kathleen's voice choked with renewed anger. Patience's hands dropped to her sides. "Very well. If you haven't anything further to say on the subject of my short-comings, I'll proceed to yours," was her brisk declaration. "I won't listen to you," cried Kathleen passionately. "I won't stay here and allow you to insult me." She sprang toward the door, but Patience, divining her intention, turned the key in the lock and calmly pocketed it. "Don't be a goose," she advised. "You are too clever to be so childish. You are deliberately trying to shut yourself out of all the pleasant part of college by going about with a grievance on your shoulder. If you weren't so clever I shouldn't take the trouble to say what I think. Why, you could be one of the foremost girls in the sophomore class if you wished." "I haven't seen any particular indication of admiration on the part of my class," sneered Kathleen. "You haven't given your class cause to admire you, have you?" asked Patience imperturbably. Sheer inability to reply to this unwelcome assertion held Kathleen silent. "Please don't misunderstand me," went on Patience. "I know I have no right to criticize you, but as your roommate, I feel a certain interest in your welfare." "Very kind in you, I am sure," muttered Kathleen sarcastically. Unmindful of the sarcasm, Patience continued: "I believe your chief trouble lies in the fact that newspaper standards are so different from those of a college. On a newspaper it is a case of get the story and no questions asked. It isn't honor that counts. It is shrewdness, determination, dogged persistence, hardness of head, and deafness to personal appeal that wins the day." A curious light leaped into the other girl's eyes. "How do you happen to know so much about what counts on a newspaper?" she questioned sharply. "Because my father edited one for years. All the newspaper folks know James Merton Eliot. You must have heard of him," replied Patience with grim satisfaction. "You don't mean it! I never dreamed you could be his daughter," gasped Kathleen, regarding her tall roommate with positive awe. Then she said, almost humbly: "Say what you like to me. I'll listen to it, no matter how much it hurts." "But I don't wish to hurt you," remonstrated Patience, "nor to preach. I do wish you to know, however, that I am quite familiar with the inside workings of a newspaper. I have haunted Father's office since I was a little girl. I was bitterly resentful of being packed off to a preparatory school when I yearned to be a reporter. Father didn't resign his editorship of a Boston paper until last year. He overworked and has been very ill since then. That is the reason I was not here when college opened. I waited until I was sure he was really convalescent. Had my affairs shaped themselves differently, you would not now be obliged to endure me as a roommate." Kathleen continued to survey Patience with wondering eyes. It was simply incredible that this brusque, matter-of-fact young woman whom she had held in secret contempt should be the daughter of a man whose name was known and honored throughout the newspaper world. Sheer astonishment tied her tongue. "I would have told you in the beginning," continued Patience, "but I did not wish to travel on my father's passport. When I saw what an unfavorable impression I had made on you I was tempted to tell you. It would at least have given me a certain prestige in your eyes. Then I decided never to tell you. But to-day it seemed the only way. None of the girls know it. Miss Sheldon and Miss Wilder know. They are personal friends of Father's." "If I had only known when first you came to Wayne Hall," was Kathleen's regretful cry. "But I didn't wish you to know," returned Patience. "I wished you to like me for myself, and you wouldn't. You thought me pedantic and narrow-minded, and set me down as a typical New England woman of the grim, uncompromising type, who boasts of her Puritan ancestry, and goes through life ungracious and forbidding. I don't believe I am pedantic or narrow-minded or small-souled, but I have plenty of other faults, as you'll learn before the year is over. I meant what I said about your standing in your own light. You'll have to learn the difference between college and newspaper standards, too." Kathleen's face reddened. She understood all that the sharp criticism implied. "I know I haven't lived up to----" she began. Patience shook her head vigorously. "Don't tell me," she said. "Just decide that hereafter you are going to cultivate Overton as your Alma Mater for all you're worth. You'll find you can adapt Overton standards to your paper more successfully than you can adapt newspaper tactics here. At least it will do no harm to try out my suggestion and see how far it will carry you." "I will try," responded Kathleen with a suddenness that surprised even herself. "Only," her eyes grew resentful, "you mustn't expect me to be an angel all in a twinkling, or even like certain girls you and I know. I can't, and that settles it." "I shall have no expectations in the matter," smiled Patience. "Your likes and dislikes concern no one save yourself. Please forgive me for locking the door and speaking so candidly." Patience stepped to the door and unlocked it. Kathleen took an uncertain step forward, wavered, then, advancing almost timidly, held out her hand. "Will you shake hands?" she asked. "I am glad you did it, and I am going to be different--if I can," she added moodily. "Be fair to yourself and give the clever, capable Kathleen West a chance," was the New England girl's advice. "This little talk of ours has served to clear the atmosphere of this room. Let us be friends and keep it clear." "I will try," Kathleen repeated, but Patience was obliged to confess to herself that she had very little faith in the newspaper girl's promise. She felt that the fact that James Merton Eliot was her father had made far more impression upon Kathleen than had her little lecture on standards. CHAPTER VII WHEN FRIENDS FALL OUT "What has happened to the Semper Fidelis Club? Did such a worthy organization ever exist, or did I merely dream?" inquired Arline Thayer, walking suddenly into the living room at Wayne Hall one evening, where Grace sat idly turning the pages of a magazine, at the same time trying to decide the best possible way of spending her evening. "Oh, Arline!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you came. You are just in time. I was trying to decide what I had better do this evening. For a wonder, I haven't a line of studying to worry me. But there are so many other things I ought and wish to do. My correspondence is fast going to rack and ruin, and I owe at least a dozen calls, the drop-in-in-the-evening kind. Anne wants me to go for a walk, and Elfreda and Miriam are determined I shall go to see 'Les Miserables' at the motion picture theatre on Main Street. They saw 'The Taming of the Shrew' one evening last week, and came home ardent moving picture fans." "I saw it, too," replied Arline. "It was wonderfully well acted, and the photography and arrangement of the scenes were excellent. Suppose we gather the club in, and go to see 'Les Miserables' in a body?" "I could please the populace and myself at the same time by taking your advice, couldn't I?" Grace cast a laughing glance toward Arline. "Of course you could," urged Arline. "Don't stand upon the order of your going, but go at once and tell Elfreda and Miriam what we propose doing. Anne can take her walk some other time, and your letters can languish unanswered a little longer. I'm going to hurry back to Morton House for Ruth and Gertrude. We will pick up the Emerson twins on our way here, and also Elizabeth Wade and Marian. You can ask Emma and the others." "What about Patience?" asked Grace. "By all means ask her. We want her in the club, too. The only objection is that she will be the thirteenth member. That is the reason I haven't proposed her name before this. We shall be obliged to ask some one else to make fourteen." "Arline," Grace's tone caused her friend to eye her sharply, "do you suppose we ought to ask Kathleen West to join our club?" "No." Arline's blue eyes grew resentful. Her "no" was coldly incisive. "If she is asked to join the club, I shall immediately resign." Grace looked her surprise at this uncompromising statement. She had not reckoned on Arline's opposition to an idea which had been steadily forcing itself upon her since the beginning of her senior year. Ever since the last days of her junior year, when Alberta Wicks had made plain what seemed obscure in the case of Kathleen West, Grace had experienced a generous desire to recompense the newspaper girl for the fancied slight she had received at their hands. Toward Grace and her three friends Kathleen still preserved the same antagonistic attitude. So far Grace had been unable to discover any way in which at least a semblance of friendly relations might be established. The idea of asking Kathleen to join the club had suddenly occurred to her, and in her usual impetuous fashion she had given voice to it. Arline's sharp "no" was in the nature of a dash of cold water to impulsive Grace, and she now regarded her friend with troubled eyes. "Why are you so bitter against Kathleen?" she asked. "You have no personal grievance against her, have you?" "You know perfectly well that she tried to prevent the club from giving the bazaar, and you know of other contemptible things she has done. A girl who would work directly against Semper Fidelis on the outside, wouldn't make a particularly desirable member. At least that is my opinion." Arline compressed her lips, looking very dignified. "I didn't dream you felt so opposed to her," said Grace quietly. "Still, it will do no particular hurt to ask her to go with us to-night. I hate to go to her room to invite Patience and leave her out. Besides, I think Patience would wish her to go. Confidentially, Arline, she and Patience had some sort of understanding the other day and now they appear to be almost friends." "I'm sorry, Grace, but I won't go to-night if you invite Miss West. I am willing to do almost anything else to please you, but I simply can't endure her, and I don't intend to have my evening spoiled. I should prefer not to go. After all, I don't know that it matters much whether I go or not." With a gesture of superb indifference Arline rose to depart. Grace was at her side in an instant. "Daffydowndilly Thayer, you know you care," she smiled, putting her finger under Arline's chin. "You are not half as hard-hearted as you would have me think." Arline drew away from her with a pettish little shrug. "You can't make me feel differently about her, Grace. Please don't try. If she goes to-night, I shan't. You may choose between us. If you are afraid of offending her by asking Patience to go and leaving her out, then I will invite Patience to go." "I am not afraid to ask Patience to go with us in Miss West's presence," was Grace's proud response, "although I believe it would be kinder not to ask either of them as long as they appear to be friends. Patience wouldn't feel hurt or slighted, and that would make the party strictly Semper Fidelis." Grace spoke evenly, although there was a note of constraint in her voice. "But, please, don't misinterpret my feeling in the matter as one of fear." Arline made no answer, and the two girls left the living room in silence. "I'll see you in half an hour," was Arline's sole comment. "Shall we meet here?" asked Grace. "It is nearer the theatre and quite central." "Very well." Arline walked to the hall door, her golden head held very high. Grace took a half step toward her, hesitated, then turned and walked quietly up the stairs to carry the invitation to the Semper Fidelis girls. She stopped first at the door of Emma Dean's room. Emma answered her knock with a cheerful "Come in." "As a loyal member of Semper Fidelis it is your duty to turn out with your sisters and attend a motion picture show," declaimed Grace from the threshold. "No urging is necessary," responded Emma, rising from her chair and going to the closet for her wraps. "I am nothing if not loyal, and I adore picture shows." "Meet me in the living room in five minutes, then. I must see Patience," returned Grace, but she could not help hoping as she walked down the hall that she would find Patience alone. CHAPTER VIII A LEAF FROM THE PAST At Patience's door she paused. It stood partly open, and peeping in she saw that her friend was alone. Rapping softly, she announced with a laugh, "The Honorable Grace Harlowe." "Enter without further ceremony," was the quick reply. "To what do I owe my good fortune?" "To the absence of your roommate," answered Grace dryly. "Where is she?" "At the library. She left the house directly after dinner to look up a number of references. She is infinitely more industrious than I." "The Semper Fidelis crowd are going down to that new motion picture theatre to see 'Les Miserables.' We want you to go with us," invited Grace, looking relieved at having been able to deliver the invitation so easily. "Let me think. Is there any reason why I can't go? I have a hazy recollection of having something else on hand to-night, but I can't remember what it is." "Is it anything about lessons?" asked Grace. "No." Patience glanced perplexedly about her. "I can't recall it. It isn't anything of importance or I certainly would have no difficulty in remembering it. Perhaps it will come to me suddenly." "I must make the round of the house and ask the other girls. Be ready and downstairs, within the next fifteen minutes." By the time Grace had collected the Semper Fidelis girls of Wayne Hall, Arline had returned with the other members of the club, and the party set out for the theatre. Grace walked with Anne and Patience, who, unable to remember any other engagement, had dismissed the disturbing thought from her mind and prepared to enjoy her evening. At the entrance of the theatre, the party halted for a moment while Arline bought the tickets. Grace looked interestedly about her. Even in quiet, staid old Overton she derived an active pleasure from scanning the faces of the passersby. She tried to read their thoughts from their expressions, and her habit of observation had on more than one occasion proved of value to her. "All right," called Arline, holding up the tickets. "Come on." Grace turned her eyes toward Arline, then some unaccountable influence caused her to turn her head and glance again in the direction of the street. A roughly-dressed man had stopped on the sidewalk directly in front of the theatre to stare at one of the gayly colored lithographs. Grace stopped short, seized with a peculiar feeling of apprehension. Why was the face of this man so familiar to her? Surely she had seen it somewhere under decidedly unpleasant circumstances. Was it at Overton she had seen him? No, it was further back than that. During the first part of Hugo's famous novel, which had been filmed to perfection, Grace was obsessed with the question: "Where have I seen him?" The stranger's face haunted her. It was a low-browed, sullen face. She could not keep her mind on the story that was being unfolded on the screen. She watched the ill-fated Jean Valjean being led off to prison for stealing a loaf of bread almost without seeing him. It was not until the scene where, bruised in spirit and prison-warped, Jean steals the good priest's candlesticks and makes off with them, that full remembrance came to Grace. Now she knew why that face was strangely familiar. The man she had seen was none other than "Larry, the Locksmith." In her mind's eye Grace saw him sitting in the court room with humped shoulders, his eyes bent fiercely upon her, as she related what she had seen with her face pressed close to the window pane of the haunted house. It had all happened during her senior year at high school. To Grace it seemed but yesterday since she had given the testimony that sent Henry Hammond's accomplice to prison for a term of seven years in the state penitentiary. Seven years! It had been only four years since that memorable occasion. Perhaps the man had been released earlier for good behavior, or perhaps--Grace's heart beat a trifle faster--he had escaped. She paid but scant attention to the rest of the performance, and when Jean had died in the arms of his devoted foster daughter, the lights had appeared, and the crowd began filing out of the theatre, she scanned it eagerly. There was no sign of the disturbing face of "Larry, the Locksmith." The little company of girls made their way to the street, discussing the merits of the various actors who had portrayed so admirably the roles assigned to them. Arline, feeling rather ashamed of her brusque refusal to countenance Kathleen West as a possible member of the club, slipped her arm through Grace's, saying contritely, "I am awfully sorry I was so cross, Grace." Grace, whose mind was still fully occupied with the thought of the man she had good reason to recognize, did not answer. Arline glanced reproachfully at her, then withdrew her arm from Grace's with an offended suddenness that caused Grace to cry apologetically: "Please pardon me, Arline. What did you say?" Arline, however, was now thoroughly incensed. She had apologized, and Grace had not even taken the trouble to listen. Without answering, save by an angry flash of her blue eyes, she walked on rapidly, overtaking the Emerson twins, who were heading the little procession. Grace sprang impulsively forward. Then, as Arline slipped between the twins, laughingly taking hold of an arm of each, Grace fell back, deciding that she would say nothing. She would write Arline a note that very night. True to her resolve, the note was written and sent. At the end of a week she had received no answer. Later she was greeted with a cold "good afternoon" and a stiff little bow when she chanced to encounter Arline on the campus. Remembering Arline's stubborn stand in regard to Ruth during their sophomore year, Grace knew the dainty little girl's resentment to be very real and lasting. She was also reasonably sure that not even Ruth was aware of their estrangement. She wished she had not seen that disturbing face. She wondered if she had been mistaken. No doubt there were men in the world who bore a strong resemblance to "Larry, the Locksmith." She blamed herself entirely for Arline's withdrawal of friendship. If she had only heard and accepted the apology! It was humiliating indeed to make an earnest apology to unhearing ears. "It serves you right, Grace Harlowe," she reflected, coming into the living room late one afternoon. "I'm not sorry for you. I hope Arline won't be too haughty at the club meeting to-morrow. It is such a shame. I wanted to propose the 'Famous Fiction' dance as a Semper Fidelis merry-making this year, and I can never talk enthusiastically of it knowing she disapproves. Of course, I'll pretend I don't care, but it hurts, just the same." With a sigh Grace reached for the evening paper which lay on the library table. She glanced over the headlines without any special interest until a single sentence in large black type caused her to stare, then give voice to a surprised, "I knew it!" The headline read, "Larry, the Locksmith, Still at Large." Grace sat down heavily in the nearest chair, the newspaper still clutched in one hand. She had not been mistaken. The man for whom the authorities were searching was the man she had seen in front of the moving picture theatre. It was evident that he had very little fear of being recognized in Overton, or he would not have risked appearing in the streets of the college town. "He must have friends here, who are sheltering him," sprang into her mind, "or he may be passing through the town. The question is, ought I to make my discovery known to the police?" "Here you are!" called a familiar voice, "I've been looking for you." Patience Eliot entered the living room, and seated herself opposite Grace. "Do you remember my saying when you asked me to go to the theater that I had a faint recollection of having another engagement last night?" Grace nodded. "My faint recollection was perfectly correct. I had promised to go for a walk with Kathleen, and consequently she wouldn't speak to me when I came in last night. She wouldn't accept my humble apologies. Just when I thought I was making a little progress with her, too. I am the most unfortunate mortal," sighed Patience. "I know she imagines I did it purposely." Patience's recital of her woes brought back the subject of Arline's displeasure to Grace's mind, and when, a little later, the two girls went upstairs arm in arm, the important question of whether or not to inform the Overton police of her discovery had slipped, for the time being, from Grace's mind. CHAPTER IX A THANKSGIVING INVITATION "At last!" exclaimed Grace triumphantly, as she extracted a letter from the Wayne Hall bulletin board addressed to her in Mabel Ashe's unmistakable handwriting. "Oh, I am so glad! I thought she had forgotten me." "Or had been persuaded to forget you," put in Elfreda Briggs, who had come downstairs to breakfast directly behind Grace. Grace looked frankly amazed. "How did you know?" "How do I find out everything I know?" demanded Elfreda. "Don't you suppose I noticed that you were worried about not hearing from Mabel? I could see you thought some one had made mischief." "Elfreda Briggs, will you please tell me your exact method of deduction!" exclaimed Grace in a half vexed tone. "Your ability for 'seeing things' is positively uncanny." "There was nothing very uncanny about seeing you look ready to cry every time Mabel's name was mentioned," retorted Elfreda. "We all knew that you hadn't received a letter from her. Put two and two together, what is the result? Ask me something harder. That's easy." "I make my bow to you, most observing of all observers," laughed Grace. "I have been worried over not receiving a letter from Mabel, but I hadn't breathed it to any one. Come into the living room before breakfast. No; let us have breakfast first. It is early yet and we shall have time to read the letter afterward in my room. Then Anne and Miriam can hear it, too. Here they come, the slow pokes." "A dillar, a dollar, a ten-o'clock scholar, Oh, why did you come so soon?" chanted Elfreda as Anne, followed by Miriam, appeared at the head of the stairs. "A ten-minutes-to-eight-o'clock scholar," calmly corrected Miriam. "We are early, but you and Grace are distressingly early. I suppose you found the fabled worm." "Here it is." Grace held up the letter. "If you are pleasant and respectful to us during breakfast, I will invite you to my room to hear it read." "Your half of the room," reminded Anne, with emphasis. "I beg your pardon, my half of the room," corrected Grace. "I might lease your half for the occasion, then I could turn you out if you proved a disturbing factor." "But I could refuse to lease my half," declared Anne. "Then I should be obliged to turn you out, at any rate. I am much stronger than you." "It sounds like a discussion between the March Hare and the Mad Hatter, doesn't it?" commented Elfreda. "It has a true Alice in Wonderland tang," agreed Miriam solemnly. "In the meantime I am growing hungrier. On to breakfast!" After breakfast, the quartette lost no time in going upstairs to Grace's room to listen to Mabel's letter. Grace opened it, glanced hastily over the first page, then read: "MY DEAR GRACE:-- "Your faith in me as a correspondent must be shattered by this time. I've intended to write, but my days and nights, too, have been so crowded with work that I have almost forgotten that I am entitled to a little recreation. I'll try not to let it happen again, Grace, dear. I hoped to be able to run down for Thanksgiving, but I am afraid it won't be possible. "I am doing the clubs now, and there will be so much to write about them during Thanksgiving week that I am afraid I shall have to stay in town all week. Next week the opera begins, and, oh, joy! I am to help write it--along with my club duties. I went to almost every performance last year and loved them all. Why couldn't you girls make up a party and spend Thanksgiving with me? Isn't that a brilliant idea? I might succeed in getting a day off. "You might ask Miss West to come with you. Last summer I asked her all about you but could get no particular information regarding you. I saw very little of her during the summer, as she was given a number of important assignments and covered them splendidly. I am sorry to say she is not well liked among the other reporters. They say she is too hard and merciless and that she is terribly unfeeling. Of course, you would hardly see that side of her. I should imagine she must have quite a reputation at Overton by this time, she writes so well. Remember me to her when you see her and deliver my invitation. "I must stop instantly or lose my train home. Let me hear from you about Thanksgiving. Love to you and Elfreda, Miriam and Anne. "Yours, as ever, "MABEL. "P. S.--I saw Frances last week. She is engaged to be married. More about her when I see you." "Doesn't it sound exactly as she talks?" smiled Anne. "I like the Thanksgiving idea," declared Elfreda. "Of course, we'll go," said Grace, looking questioningly at her friends. "Of course," repeated Miriam. "But what of Miss West?" "We might ask Patience to break the news to her," proposed Anne. "She would be doubly angry with us and say we were afraid of her," said Elfreda. "I'll tell her if you want me to. Nothing she can say will injure my castiron feelings." "Why not put off the evil day? It is still three weeks until Thanksgiving. We can give her two weeks' notice, as they do in theatrical companies," laughed Anne. "Something might happen in the meantime to make us her bosom friends." Elfreda giggled derisively. "I'd like to see it happen, then. We could all pursue our favorite phantoms in peace for the rest of our senior year. She is the only disturber left. Mabel says she imagines Kathleen must have quite a reputation at Overton by this time. She has. There isn't a doubt of it." "Elfreda, be good," admonished Grace, laughing a little. "Be good, bad child, and let who will be naughty," paraphrased Elfreda in a piping, affected voice. "That sounded exactly like Hippy, didn't it?" said Miriam. Grace and Anne nodded. "We ought to call her Hippy the Second," suggested Anne. "Good gracious!" gasped Elfreda, pointing a warning finger at the mission clock on the wall. "Half-past eight, and here I sit gayly loitering as though I had nothing else to do. How about chapel this morning? I know you are going, Miriam. How about you, Grace and Anne?" "I am," said Anne. "Run along and get your wraps. I'll meet you downstairs." After the three girls had gone off to chapel Grace pulled her favorite chair over to the window and sat down to think things over. First of all came the disturbing problem of the newspaper girl and Mabel's invitation. From the tone of the letter it was evident that Mabel knew nothing of the real state of affairs. Kathleen had maintained a discreet silence. Grace felt dimly that the hard, self-centered girl had taken at least one step in the right direction. She had gone from her freshman year to her paper without telling tales. "I wish she'd hurry and take a whole lot more," Grace reflected moodily, as she tried to decide whether to write Mabel, asking her to send Kathleen a separate invitation, or to take matters into her own hands and deliver the invitation in person. "I know she won't go if we ask her. I can't settle that to-day. I shall have to see Patience first. She may be able to suggest something." Grace passed on to the next worry, which was over her misunderstanding with Arline. It was so extremely unfortunate that it should have happened just when they had begun to talk of the Semper Fidelis fancy dress party. She could not carry out her ideas successfully without Arline's co-operation and help. After changing her mind several times, Grace decided to go to Morton House and see Arline. "It really isn't my place," she ruminated, "but I can't bear to have Arline angry with me." Last of all, Grace was troubled over the notice she had read in the paper concerning "Larry, the Locksmith." She was certain that the man she had seen in front of the moving picture theatre on the evening of their little theatre party was none other than the robber in whose capture she had been instrumental during her senior year at high school. Should she notify the Overton authorities of her discovery? Perhaps by this time the thief was many miles from Overton. Grace disliked the idea of figuring even privately in the affair. Yet was it right to withhold her knowledge? She could not determine on any particular course of action, and with an impatient sigh at her own lack of decision in the matter she rose from her chair and prepared to go to her first class in anything but a cheerful frame of mind. CHAPTER X KATHLEEN'S PROMISE "Not in, Miss," was the disappointing information Grace received from the maid who answered the door at Morton House. "Did she leave word when she would return?" questioned Grace. "She did not, Miss. She went out with Miss Denton, and didn't say nothin', Miss," was the discouraging reply. "An' will I tell her you was askin' for her, Miss?" "No; I may come again this evening." Grace walked slowly down the steps and across the campus. She was not at all sure that she would repeat her call. Dear as was Arline to her, the inevitable reaction had set in. Now Grace's pride whispered to her that there was no real reason why she should humble herself to her too-easily-offended friend. It was Arline, not she, who was in the wrong, she mused resentfully. She was rather glad, after all, that Arline had not been at home. Glancing undecidedly toward Wayne Hall, then at her watch, Grace set off in the opposite direction at a rapid walk. It was five o'clock. She would have time to do a little shopping in the Overton stores before they closed. She hurried toward the nearest dry goods store, so intent upon reaching there that she paid little or no attention to the people she passed in the street. Shopping at this late hour proved a comparatively easy matter. Here and there a belated customer might be seen wandering from counter to counter, but the day's business was practically finished and the saleswomen were busily counting their sales or conversing with their nearest neighbors in low tones. It was ten minutes to six when Grace, inwardly congratulating herself on having been able to do so much shopping in so short a space of time, hurried to the ribbon counter. Blue velvet ribbon was the last item on her list. Then she could go home feeling that her hour had been well spent. "We're out of that shade of blue velvet ribbon," said the saleswoman, glancing at the sample Grace held out to her. "Everybody's been buying it. It's on order. Have it in next week." Grace left the store almost on the run and hurried into a shop farther down the street, only to meet with the same disappointing reply. Three blocks farther on was the "French Shop." Grace was sure of finding it there, but was equally sure it would be infinitely more expensive. Still, she only needed a yard and a half. She was about to enter the shop, when the stocky figure of a man just ahead of her sent a sudden thrill of apprehension through her. There was something unpleasantly familiar about the round shoulders and slouching walk. Forgetting her errand, Grace began following him, keeping not more than twenty feet behind him. As he neared the first cross street the man glanced furtively about him, then, turning into the intersecting street, hurried on, almost at a run. Grace, bent only on seeing the stranger's face, unhesitatingly dogged his footsteps. It was now after six o 'clock and growing darker with every moment. Block after block they went, but now Grace kept a distance of a hundred feet or more between herself and the man she was following. She observed rather anxiously that they were nearing the end of Main Street, where the houses were fewer and farther apart. All at once her quarry stopped short and peered sharply about him through the gathering twilight. Grace strolled on at a leisurely pace, though her heart beat violently. Suppose instead of going on he were to turn and walk toward her. Grace trembled a little. She was drawing altogether too near to him to suit her. She was now positive that he was "Larry, the Locksmith." Suddenly the man left the sidewalk and started across a field used in the summer by the small boys of Overton as a playground. This ended the pursuit as far as Grace was concerned. Stepping behind a tree at the edge of the field she strained her eyes to watch the hulking figure as it moved swiftly on. Then she gave a little exclamation of surprise and triumph. The man was hurrying up the steps of a dingy little house that stood at the end of a row of similar houses which bounded the side of the field directly opposite where she stood. Again consulting her watch, she hesitated. It was almost seven o'clock, and she was at least a mile from Wayne Hall. Anne would wonder at her absence, for she had left no word regarding her call upon Arline. She would be more than likely to miss her dinner. Mrs. Elwood's dinner hour was from half-past five until seven o'clock. She rigidly refused to serve meals to those who came later. [Illustration: Grace Stepped Behind a Tree.] "I can't possibly make it," mused Grace. "I'll run into Vinton's for dinner. All this comes of playing sleuth." She laughed softly at her own remark, then her face grew grave. "What shall I do?" she thought. "It is my duty to tell the authorities, but I promised Father after the class money was found that I'd never meddle in any such affair again. Yet here I am, on the outskirts of Overton, trailing an escaped convict as though my bread and butter depended upon it. If I could only turn over this affair to some one else, and let him do the rest, I'd be perfectly satisfied." On the way to Vinton's, Grace reluctantly decided to go in person to the police station and report her discovery to the Chief of Police. "It is only right," she argued. "I will simply tell them the facts and ask them to keep my part in the affair a secret. Then I'll write Father and tell him about it. Perhaps I ought to write him first. But if I wait for his answer it may be too late. I'll go and report my news as soon as I have had my dinner." Grace did not enjoy her solitary meal. To her, the chief charm of a dinner at Vinton's consisted in eating it with her friends. The smart little restaurant seemed unusually quiet. There were not more than half a dozen persons dining there and only two of the half dozen were Overton girls. It was less than a week until Thanksgiving. It looked as though the girls were practicing economy. This accounted for the slim patronage. Grace ate her dinner with one eye on the door, vainly hoping for the entrance of some one she knew. But no one of her friends appeared, and without waiting for dessert she asked the waitress for her check and left the restaurant to go on her disagreeable errand. It was not a long walk to the police station, and Grace resolved to go there with all possible speed. She wished to be able to dismiss the affair from her mind at the earliest moment. She had reached the cross street on which the station house was situated and was about to turn into it when she almost collided with a young woman who gave a smothered exclamation of annoyance and hurried on. As they came together directly under the rays of the arc light, they could scarcely help recognizing each other. "I beg your pardon," called Grace after the hurrying figure. Then with a sudden flash of inspiration she called, "Miss West, please wait a minute." The figure halted, and in the next second Grace confronted the coldly inquiring eyes of the newspaper girl. "Would you like a real news item for your paper?" she asked impulsively. Kathleen regarded her with an expression of mingled incredulity and contempt which changed to one of lively displeasure. "Do you believe that I would accept anything from you?" she asked tensely. "I never thought of that," returned Grace, her color rising. "I was thinking only of the story. Suppose for once we put aside everything personal. I have something to tell you that cannot fail to be of interest to you. Will you forget that I am Grace Harlowe and listen to me?" Grace's earnestness impressed Kathleen against her will. She hesitated briefly, then said in a low voice, "I will listen to you." Grace began with the story of the bazaar given on the Thanksgiving afternoon and evening of her senior year in high school. She related briefly the theft of the strong box containing the bazaar money, the unsuccessful attempts of the police to apprehend the thief, the finding of the money by her and Eleanor Savelli and the capture of the thief by the Oakdale police in the haunted house. Kathleen listened to Grace's rapidly told narrative with growing interest. When she came to the trial of the thief and his recognition by the officers as "Larry, the Locksmith," Kathleen interrupted excitedly: "Why, that's the man who has escaped from prison. The police of all the large cities have been ordered to watch for him. He is an exceptionally clever criminal who has always escaped until that time in Oakdale. And to think it was you who were responsible for his capture! I remember the affair. It was my first year on the paper. One of our reporters was sent on to interview this Larry. He laid his capture to the fact of his having been foolish enough to waste his time in a small town." The newspaper girl had now become eager and animated. Her black eyes gleamed with excitement. "Did you know he had escaped?" she asked. "Yes," replied Grace. "That is the part I am going to tell you. He is here in Overton. I saw him to-night." "You saw him?" questioned Kathleen, her eyes wide with astonishment. Grace nodded. "To-night and one evening last week, too. I wasn't sure then. But to-night I knew him. I followed him to a house on the outskirts of Overton. Then I came back to notify the police. I was on my way to the station when I met you. Don't you imagine it will make a good newspaper story if the police capture him?" "Great!" exclaimed Kathleen. "Then come with me to the station house while I make my report. The officers will surely visit the house where he is hiding at once. If they do, you can telegraph your story to-night in time for the first edition in the morning." Grace had started toward the station house while she was speaking. Kathleen kept close at her side. "Wait a moment," said Grace, as they ascended the stone steps of the station house. "I almost forgot to tell you. You may use the Oakdale part of the story as you heard it at the time it happened, but my name must not be used in your write-up. I shall, of course, tell the chief the whole story in confidence. Nor do I wish my name used in the story of the man's apprehension, provided he is captured. It ought to make a good story in itself without any reference to me. I wish you to give the chief the first information, then you can truthfully say that you did so when you write it." "But it won't sound half so exciting as it would with you in it," protested Kathleen. "I need all the data concerning you to make a big story of it." "I am sorry," declared Grace, "but I promised Father never to become involved in any such affair again. He and Mother would be dreadfully displeased if my name appeared in the newspapers in connection with anything of that sort." "But I shall use my name," argued Kathleen. "It will be a great help to me in my profession." "That is different. If I were interested in newspaper work I shouldn't care, either. I must ask you on your honor not to use my name." "Very well," answered Kathleen slowly, a curious light leaping into her eyes. "Thank you," replied Grace, with a friendly smile. "Remember, you are to be the first to tell the news." CHAPTER XI KATHLEEN'S GREAT STORY The inside of the Overton police station closely resembled that of Oakdale. There was the same style of high desk, the same row of chairs against the wall. Grace hoped the chief would be as easy to approach as was her old friend, Chief Burroughs, at home. There was but one man to be seen, an officer, who sat writing at a small table in one corner of the room. Kathleen pointed to a half-open door leading into an inner room on which appeared the word "Private." Grace nodded: then, confidently approaching the officer, asked if the Chief of Police were in. For answer the officer simply motioned with one hand toward the half-open door and went on with his writing. Chief of Police Ellis glanced up in surprise to see two strange young women standing in the door of his private office. "Are you the Chief of Police, and may we come into your office for a moment?" questioned Grace politely. "Come in, by all means," responded the chief heartily. He was a kindly, middle-age man, whose voice and manner invited confidence. "What can I do for you, young ladies?" Grace turned to Kathleen, who at once poured forth the story of the appearance of "Larry, the Locksmith" in Overton, of his recognition and of how he had been traced to his hiding place. At first Chief Ellis had looked incredulous over Kathleen's strange statement. "How can you be sure he is the man if you have never seen him?" he asked shrewdly. "We can't afford to arrest the wrong man, you know." Kathleen looked appealingly at Grace. "You have a daughter in the freshman class, haven't you, Chief!" asked Grace, coming to the newspaper girl's rescue. "Yes," smiled the chief. "I thought you were Overton girls." "I am Miss Harlowe of the senior class. This is Miss West, a sophomore. You would not wish your daughter's name to be used in police court news, would you?" Chief Ellis made an emphatic gesture of negation. "No!" he answered. "Then I am sure you will keep secret what I am about to tell you." Grace then explained the situation, beginning with the theft of the class money in Oakdale and ending with her trailing of the thief to his hiding place. "Well, I declare!" exclaimed the chief. "This is a most remarkable story. However, I am willing to proceed on the strength of it. I'll have three men on the way to capture 'Larry' within the next fifteen minutes. You young ladies had better go home. You can call me on the telephone every half hour until the men come in. I'll keep you posted. If they get him at once, you can get word to your paper to-night," he assured Kathleen. "You must be a pretty smart girl to be going to college and holding a newspaper job at the same time." Instead of going to Wayne Hall to await word from the chief, the two girls first made arrangements with the telegraph operator at the depot office to wire the story. Kathleen also sent a telegram to her paper. Then they had begun their anxious vigil in the drug store on the corner above the station. An hour later their watch ended. The three officers returned with a snarling, raging prisoner securely handcuffed to one of their number. "They've captured him!" cried Kathleen, "and now my work begins in earnest." While they had been waiting the newspaper girl had employed the time in writing rapidly in a note book she carried. Grace would have liked to see what she wrote, but now that the first excitement had passed she felt the old constraint rising between them like a wall. "Do you care if I don't wait for you in the telegraph office?" asked Grace. "I'll go as far as the door with you. Then I think I had better go on to the Hall. Anne will be worried about me." Kathleen assented to her plan with a look of immeasurable relief which Grace was not slow to observe, but misconstrued entirely. "I suppose she doesn't wish to be bothered while she sends in her story," was Grace's thought as they left the drug store. "Good night. I thank you for helping me," said Kathleen in a perfunctory tone as she turned to go into the office. "It is going to be a great story." "You are very welcome," responded Grace. "Good night, and good luck to you." Three anxious-faced girls were waiting for Grace in her room, and as she opened the door they pounced upon her in a body. "Grace, Grace, you naughty girl, where have you been?" cried Anne. "I am sure my hair has turned gray watching for you." "Yes, give an account of yourself," commanded Elfreda. "Have you no respect for our feelings?" "Did you imagine no one would miss you?" was Miriam's question. "I will answer your questions in order," laughed Grace. "I've been out on important business, I have the deepest respect for your feelings, and I know that my friends always miss me." "Spoken like a soldier and a gentleman," commended Elfreda. "Which is quite remarkable, considering the fact that I am neither," retorted Grace. "Grace, what on earth have you been doing?" Anne's face grew sober. There was a subdued excitement in her friend's manner that had not escaped her notice. "Anne, I cannot tell a lie," returned Grace lightly. "I've been to the police station." The three girls stared at Grace in amazement. "Let me see," mumbled Elfreda. "Have I transgressed the law lately, or had any arguments with Grace? This looks suspicious." "Don't tease me, and promise you will never tell any one what I'm about to say. Hold up your right hands, all of you." Three right hands were promptly raised. "Now, I'll tell you about it," declared Grace, "and please bear in mind, before I begin, that venerable old saw about truth being stranger than fiction." "I knew something startling had happened," declared Anne, when Grace had concluded. "I read it in your face." "Oh, why wasn't I with you?" was Elfreda's regretful cry. "I have always longed to be concerned in a real melodrama." Miriam, alone, made no comment. She regarded Grace with an intent gaze that made the latter ask quickly: "What is the matter, Miriam? Don't you approve of my evening's work? I know Father and Mother won't. I must write them to-morrow. Still, I could hardly have done otherwise." "Of course you couldn't," assured Miriam. "I don't disapprove of what you did. You behaved in true Grace Harlowe fashion." "Then what made you look at me so strangely?" persisted Grace. "If I looked at you strangely, then I beg your pardon," smiled Miriam. "It shall not happen again." Grace smiled faintly, yet her intuition told her that Miriam had purposely turned her question aside. No account of the recapture of "Larry, the Locksmith" appeared in the morning paper. But in the evening paper a full account was published. Grace had waited apprehensively for the evening edition, which was usually out by four o 'clock in the afternoon. She purchased a paper of the boy who stationed himself daily at the southeast corner of the campus, but purposely delayed opening it until she reached her room. Then almost fearfully she unfolded it, with her three friends looking over her shoulder. The article began with the flaring headline, "A Desperate Criminal Recaptured." Grace glanced rapidly down the column, then gave an audible murmur of relief. "We aren't mentioned. I shall always have a superlatively good opinion of Chief Ellis. He kept his word to me absolutely. Now I shan't mind writing Father." "If I had done what you did, I'd insist upon having my name in extra large type, and a portrait and biographical sketch of myself as well," was Elfreda's modest declaration. "No, you wouldn't, and you know it," contradicted Grace. "Well, I might not go as far as the portrait, but I should certainly have the biographical sketch." "I am going to entertain to-night in honor of Grace," announced Miriam. "Shall I invite some of the other girls, or shall we four celebrate in solitary state?" "Don't invite any outsiders this time," said Elfreda. "Then we'll be free to talk over our visit to Mabel and anything else we choose." "There is one person who really ought to be invited," broke in Grace, with conviction. "I mean Kathleen West. Then we can deliver Mabel's invitation to her. I have an idea that she won't refuse to go to New York with us. I hope she will be different from now on. It would be simply splendid to glide peacefully through the rest of one's senior year without a single hitch, wouldn't it?" "Have you seen her since last night?" asked Anne. Grace shook her head. "I knocked on her door at noon, but neither she nor Patience was in. I saw Patience afterward, and she said Kathleen had hurried through her luncheon and gone. I don't think Patience knew anything about last night. If she had known, she would have mentioned it. I will try to see Kathleen before dinner." "You will have to hurry if you do. It is almost time for the dinner bell now," said Elfreda. "You might ask Patience, too." "All right, I'll go at once. Wait for me. I'll be back in a minute. Then we can go down to dinner together." Grace knocked lightly upon the door of the end room. It was opened by Kathleen herself. "Good evening. Won't you come in?" Kathleen's voice was as cold and unfriendly as it had formerly been. "Good evening." Somewhat puzzled at Kathleen's return to her old, cavalier manner, Grace hardly knew how to proceed. "Did you see today's paper?" she asked, by way of beginning. "Which paper?" was the brusque inquiry. "Why, the 'Evening Journal,' of course." "Oh!" Kathleen's tense expression relaxed a trifle. "Yes, I saw it." "I am so glad Chief Ellis kept his word. I hope you were on time with your New York story." "Thank you. It went through nicely!" Kathleen answered in a low tone. "I just stopped for a moment to ask you to come to a little jollification in Miriam's room to-night. We want Patience, too." "Miss Eliot went to Westbrook this afternoon. She will not return until to-morrow morning. As for me, I thank you, but it will be impossible for me to come. I have another engagement." "I am sorry," returned Grace. "Perhaps, under the circumstances, I had better deliver another invitation I have for you at once. I recently received a letter from Miss Ashe inviting us to spend Thanksgiving at her home in New York. She wished me to extend her invitation to you, also. Mabel does not know----" began Grace. Then her face reddened and she ceased abruptly. Kathleen, understanding the flush, said dryly: "Miss Ashe is very kind to think of me. However, it is out of the question for me to accept her invitation. I will write her to-night. It is strange she did not write me, too." "She has been extremely busy," retorted Grace, her face flushing a still deeper red at Kathleen's rudeness. "She invited Miriam, Elfreda and Anne the same way." "That has nothing to do with me," declared Kathleen. "If you will be so kind, you might say in your letter to her that I will write her within a few days." She kept her face half averted, her eyes refusing to meet Grace's. "Very well." Grace felt her anger rising. She turned from the door, which closed almost in her face, and went back to her room hurt and indignant. "Refused and trampled upon as well," declared Elfreda after one glance at Grace's stormy eyes. "Never mind, Grace. I wouldn't let a little thing like that worry me. I wouldn't even think about it." Grace gave a short laugh. "Of course 'you could see,'" she mimicked. "I'd be blind if I couldn't," grinned Elfreda. "The look in your eyes tells the story." "You are right, as usual. She has frozen again. She is icier than ever." "Where's Patience?" asked Anne. "Gone to Westbrook. Won't be back until to-morrow. If she were here she might prevail upon Kathleen to behave reasonably." "We four have been known to enjoy ourselves together without adding to our number," observed Elfreda in a dry tone. "I think I could live without her." Grace brightened. "Oh, wise and superwise Elfreda, in your words lurk the essence of truth. We four will have one of our own special brand of good times to-night. See, I throw all my cares to the winds." Grace waved her arms as though to cast Care from her. "I have tried to solve the mystery of the mysterious Kathleen and it is beyond me. I hoped after last night that she would be different from then on, but to-day she is more provoking than ever. I shall say nothing of her in my letter to Mabel, except that I delivered the invitation, but when we go to Mabel's for Thanksgiving if she asks for an explanation of certain things I shall not hesitate to give it." "That is the way I like to hear you talk," approved Elfreda. "I don't mean the 'wise and superwise Elfreda' part. I'm not so conceited, I hope. But it is high time you let that Kathleen West meander along to suit her own tricky little self. She hasn't an iota of Overton spirit nor a shred of conscience, and instead of appreciating your kind offices she is far more likely to repay you by dragging you into something unpleasant. I could see by Miriam's expression when you told us about the capture of that man that she thought you had trusted Kathleen too far, too." "I confess I was thinking that very thing," laughed Miriam, "but how Elfreda guessed it is more than I can see." "But the man has been captured, the story has appeared in the Overton paper and Kathleen has kept her word about not mentioning me in connection with the affair," protested Grace. "Nothing unpleasant can possibly happen now." But Grace was destined to realize before many hours passed that she had been over-confident. CHAPTER XII TREACHERY The morning after the party in Miriam's room Grace lingered in the living room at Wayne Hall long enough to dash off her letter of acceptance of Mabel Ashe's invitation for Thanksgiving. She was on the point of slipping it into the envelope when the loud ringing of the door bell caused her to start. A moment later she heard the maid say: "Miss Harlowe? I'll see if she's in her room." "Here I am," called Grace, stepping into the hall. "Oh, I see. A special delivery letter for me from Mabel." Grace signed the postman's book, then, closing the hall door, hurried into the living room to read her letter. Opening it, she drew out not only the letter but a folded newspaper clipping as well. The clipping fluttered to the floor. Grace stooped mechanically to pick it up, her eyes on the open letter. A mystified expression crept into her face as she read that gradually changed to one of consternation. With a sharp cry of dismay, she let the letter fall from her hands, while she fumbled with the clipping in a nervous effort to unfold it. One glance at the headline that confronted her and Grace's gray eyes grew black with anger. "How dared she do it! How could she be so contemptible!" Snatching the letter from the table Grace dashed up the stairs to her room. Tears of rage glistened in her eyes. She stood in the middle of the floor with set teeth, closing and unclosing her fingers in an effort to regain her self-control. "I won't cry over it. I won't. I won't," she kept repeating to herself. "She isn't worth my tears. But Father and Mother will be so hurt and displeased. I ought never to have tried to help her. I might have known she wouldn't play fairly." Grace flung herself into a chair and again began a perusal of the disturbing clipping. "Pretty Senior Plays Sleuth," she read. "Larry, the Locksmith, Captured." A tide of crimson swept over her face as she read further. "Overton College Girl Tracks Dangerous Criminal to His Lair. If Miss Grace Harlowe, a senior at Overton College, had not been possessed of a remarkably good memory for faces, Lawrence Baines, known to the underworld as 'Larry, the Locksmith,' would undoubtedly be at large to-day. Miss Harlowe, whose home is in Oakdale----" With a despairing groan, Grace dashed the clipping to the floor, and springing to her feet began walking nervously up and down the room. She had not dreamed that Kathleen could find it in her heart to behave so despicably. She had shamefully abused the confidence that Grace had reposed in her for what seemed in Grace's eyes to be an infinitesimally small gain. Her cheeks burned as she thought of the thousands of people who had seen her name blazoned at the head of a column of police court news. Her father always bought the very paper in which it stood on his way to the office in the morning. He had, of course, seen it. He now knew that she had broken her word. A sob rose to her lips, then she threw back her head with an air of resolution and, hastily drawing her chair in front of the table, seized her fountain pen, and opening it with an energy that left several ink spots on her white silk blouse, began a letter to her father. For an hour she continued to write steadily, covering sheet after sheet of paper. At last she signed her name, and with a mournful sigh folded her letter, slipping it into the envelope without reading it. Putting on her wraps, she left the house and hurried to the post office, where she sent her letter by special delivery. But another task still lay before her. Grace's fine face hardened. It was not a pleasant task, but it would have to be done. She hoped the newspaper girl would be in her room, and she hoped Patience had not yet returned from Westbrook. Grace rang the bell at Wayne Hall with more zeal than was strictly necessary, thereby exciting a scowl from the maid who answered the door. She peeped into the living room, but Kathleen was not among the girls there. At the head of the stairs she halted. The door of Kathleen's room was closed. "Is she at home, or not?" Grace paused before the door and rapped sharply. There was a moment of silence, then a quick, light step sounded inside and the door was opened by Kathleen herself. Her usually pale face became flooded with color as she met the steady light of Grace's scornful eyes. Rallying all her forces, she returned the disconcerting gaze with one of defiant bravado. "Oh, good afternoon," she said, setting her lips in a straight line, a veritable danger signal. Without stopping to choose her words, Grace cried out: "How could you do it? You knew I wished no mention to be made of my name. You promised not to use it." Kathleen eyed her with a contemptuous smile. "My dear Miss Harlowe, you must be very obtuse to imagine even for an instant that I would spoil a good story by writing only what you gave me permission to write. What do you know of the requirements of my paper, or of the style in which a story should be written? The story was too good to let pass. I knew, though, that you would never consent to allowing me to use your name. So I said 'Very well,' and used it. 'Very well' can hardly be construed as a promise." The smiling insolence of the other girl's manner was almost too much for Grace's self-control. Twice she essayed to speak, but the words would not come. When she did find her voice she was dimly surprised at its tense evenness. "Miss West, I made clear to you in the beginning my reason for not wishing you to use my name in connection with what occurred in Oakdale or in any other story you might write. I gave you the news I had stumbled upon willingly. Why could you not have written a clever, interesting story without betraying my confidence?" "Don't attempt to take me to task for not living up to some ridiculous standard of yours," returned Kathleen savagely. "If you did not wish to see yourself in print, you were extremely silly to tell your tale to a representative of the press. To gather news for my paper is my business. Do you understand? I shall use whatever information comes my way, unless some good reason arises for not using it." "As in the case of your Christmas story last year, which you decided at the last moment not to send," supplemented Grace with quiet contempt. Kathleen did not reply. Grace's remark had struck home. She had not forgotten her treacherous attempt to spoil Arline's and Grace's Christmas plans of the year before. "Even in the face of last year I did not believe you capable of such treachery," continued Grace, her youthful voice very stern. "I am in a measure to blame for having trusted you. I should have known better." The newspaper girl winced at this thrust, but said nothing. "And to think," Grace went on bitterly, "that I broke my promise to my father for a girl so devoid of loyalty and honor that she could not understand the first principle of fair play!" Grace's bitter denunciation aroused fully the other girl's deep-seated resentment against her. "Leave this room," she cried out, her voice rising, her eyes snapping with rage. "Don't ever come here again. This room belongs to me----" "And also to me," said a quiet voice from the doorway. "What seems to be the trouble here?" Patience Eliot walked into the room, traveling bag in hand. She surveyed the two girls with considerable curiosity. Without answering, Kathleen turned abruptly and walked to the window, her favorite method of showing her utter contempt of a situation. Patience bent an inquiring gaze on Grace, whose eyes met hers unflinchingly. "Pardon me, Patience, if I don't answer your question," returned Grace. "Perhaps Miss West will answer you after I am gone. This much I may say. She has ordered me not to come again to this room. Therefore, although I am very fond of you, I feel that it won't be right for me to come here to see you. Will you come into our room as often as you can and forgive me for staying away from yours?" Without waiting for an answer, Grace slipped from the room, leaving Patience to stare speculatively after her, then at the tense little figure in the window. Before she had time to address Kathleen, the latter wheeled about, sneering and defiant. "If you are so anxious to know what the trouble is go and ask your dear friend, Miss Harlowe. She will tell you quickly enough behind my back. Oh, I despise a hypocrite!" "I cannot allow you to call Grace Harlowe a hypocrite," said Patience evenly, though her blue eyes flashed. "Whatever has happened I am quite sure is not Grace's fault." "Then it must be mine," was Kathleen's contemptuous retort. "Why don't you speak plainly and say what you mean?" "Very well, I will speak plainly," declared Patience. "I am sure you must have insulted Grace deeply or she would not refuse to come to my room again. I am not going to ask you to tell me what has happened, and I know that I shall not hear it from Grace unless I insist on knowing the truth. The very fact that you are at fault will be sufficient to tie Grace's tongue. However, I shall ask Grace to tell me, as her refusal to come to this room again, is my affair, too." "Your faith in Miss Harlowe is touching," sneered the newspaper girl. "I only wish I had the same faith in you," returned Patience gravely. And Kathleen could think of no answer to Patience's significant words. CHAPTER XIII THE INVITATION Neither Grace nor Kathleen went to their classes that morning. Feeling reasonably certain that the newspaper girl was in the wrong, Patience made no further effort toward discovering the nature of the quarrel. She unpacked her bag, putting away its contents in her usual methodical manner without so much as a glance in Kathleen's direction. Then, taking her note book, she went quietly out to her class in English, leaving her roommate still standing at the window, her very back expressing defiant animosity. Once in her room, Grace reread Mabel Ashe's note. She now understood its import. "MY DEAR GRACE:-- "Words cannot tell you how sorry I am for what has occurred. I did not know until it was too late. The edition had gone to press. I am afraid I couldn't have helped much, for the powers that be were delighted with the story, and that little traitor, Kathleen West, scored a triumph. Knowing you as I do, I am sure you never gave her permission to publish that story. "Of course, you were simply a great heroine in it, but having heard the Oakdale part of the tale from you, and knowing of your promise to your father, it is plain to be seen that she took advantage of you in some way. If you haven't already delivered my invitation to her, then don't do so. I feel deeply resentful toward her. You can tell me the whole thing when you are with me. I shall expect you and the girls on Wednesday evening on the train that leaves Overton between two and three o'clock in the afternoon. You know the one I mean. I'll look it up in the time table before Wednesday. "If you happen to know one extra-delightful girl who has no Thanksgiving plans ask her to come, too. Frances can't arrange to be with us, so we need one more girl to do away with the problem of the 'lonely fifth.' Three pairs are much nicer than two and a half. The half always seems out of things. Of course, I am proceeding in the belief that K. W. won't come now, even if you have invited her. If she has a shred of delicacy in her cheeky little composition, she will stay away. "I must stop now and rush off on the trail of a much-feted debutante of whose engagement I have heard canny rumors. Until Wednesday. "MABEL." "What a darling Mabel is," said Grace half aloud. "I wonder who I had better invite." Arline's pretty, wilful face rose before her. She would have liked to ask Arline, but that was out of the question. There was Ruth, but Ruth and Arline were too closely associated to be separated. Suddenly she remembered Patience. "The very girl!" she exclaimed. "I'll go and ask her now. Oh, no, I can't. I said I wouldn't go into her room again. Never mind, I will see her at luncheon." Grace made it a point to be the first girl in the dining room at luncheon, and when Patience appeared beckoned her to the seat beside her. "Sit here," she invited. "Emma won't be in. She is going to Morton House for luncheon; she told me so." Patience slipped into the vacant seat. "I would like to have a talk with you after luncheon," she said in a guarded voice. "Then come into my room," returned Grace softly. During the progress of the meal Kathleen West appeared, silent and morose. She nodded slightly to several girls, favored Grace and Patience with an unspeakably insolent glance, then turned her undivided attention to her luncheon. "Why won't you tell me what happened?" was Patience's abrupt question when Grace had beckoned her into her room and closed the door. "She is my roommate, you see, and unless you enlighten me as to the nature of her crime I shall not know just how to proceed with her." "I don't like to tell tales," demurred Grace. "Still, I believe I am justified in repeating the story to you, Patience. You have no illusions regarding Kathleen." "None whatever," smiled Patience, but a disapproving frown wrinkled her forehead at the recital of Kathleen's treachery. "It was abominable in her," she said when Grace had finished. "And I had begun to assure myself that she was improving daily, too." "She came out of her shell so beautifully the night we went to the station house," sighed Grace. "I never dreamed she was planning mischief. However, I have something to ask you. Here, read this letter; then I'll talk." She tendered Mabel's letter to her friend. Patience held out her hand for it, then glanced rapidly through it. "This is from the much-worshipped Miss Ashe, isn't it?" "Yes. We four are going to spend Thanksgiving with her, and, Patience, I should like to have you go with us. Won't you please be the 'extra-delightful girl' and say you'll go?" "Why--why!" Patience, usually cool and unemotional, colored with pleasure. "Are you sure you really want me? I should be delighted to go. It is very sweet in you to ask me, Grace." "Not in the least. It's very jolly in you to accept so promptly. There is now only one hitch in the programme. I have already delivered Mabel's invitation to Kathleen." "She won't go," predicted Patience. "She may be lawless, but she is too wise to make any such mistake." * * * * * Patience's prediction, however, seemed destined not to carry far. To the amazement of the five young women who waited on the station platform for the coming of the New York train on Wednesday afternoon, the newspaper girl, suit case in hand, walked serenely into view just as the train was heard whistling around a bend half a mile below the station. "She is actually going to inflict herself upon us," muttered Elfreda in disgust. Grace had briefly explained the situation to her three friends. Just then Kathleen's eyes came to rest on the little group. A flash of surprised anger flitted across her moody face as she espied Patience, then, with an eloquent shrug of her shoulders, she marched off toward the other end of the train. "My doom is sealed," remarked Patience dryly. "Nothing can put our shattered acquaintance together again." "I knew she wouldn't go with us even for spite," declared Grace wearily. "Now, suppose we dismiss her from our minds. I, for one, wish to enjoy our Thanksgiving vacation with Mabel. I may as well tell you that I am still very angry with Miss West, and for the first time in my life I know what it means to be unforgiving." Grace spoke with bitterness. In her letter to her father she had asked him to telegraph her that he forgave her. She had lingered at Wayne Hall until the last moment, but had received no word from him. Now she would not know until she returned from New York. To be sure, she would try to dismiss the whole thing from her mind, but at times it rose before her like a dark shadow, shutting out for the moment the pleasure of her holiday, and causing her to feel gloomy and depressed. During the journey to New York nothing was seen of Kathleen, who had taken good care not to enter the same car in which the five girls had secured seats. Grace saw her again for an instant when, at the end of the journey, the throng of passengers surged toward the iron gates that separated them from the friends who stood anxiously awaiting their arrival. Elfreda's keen eyes were the first to catch sight of Mabel. "There she is, girls! Doesn't she look beautiful?" Mabel Ashe's charming face smiled an eager welcome as she hurried forward with both hands outstretched to greet the travelers. "You dear things!" she cried; "I began to believe I should never see any of you again. Hurry right along. Our car is waiting and we are going to break all the speed laws and be home in time for dinner." "Wait a moment," laughed Grace. "This is the 'extra-delightful girl.'" Grace introduced Patience to Mabel. A long, searching glance passed between the two young women, then their hands met in a strong clasp that betokened mutual liking. "I am sure we shall be friends," declared Mabel. "No surer than I am," smiled Patience. "I have heard so much about you." "Grace wrote me about you, too," returned Mabel warmly. "I am so pleased that you could come. This way to the car, everyone." She led them through the station to where numerous automobiles were drawn up to the sidewalk. "There is our car." She pointed to a roomy dark blue car. "Hop in," she directed. "The sooner we reach home the longer we'll have to talk. I am not going to the office again until the afternoon following Thanksgiving. I begged so hard I was allowed a vacation for once." In what seemed to Grace an incredibly brief space of time, the distance between the station and the Ashes' winter home far out on Riverside Drive was covered. The five guests could not help feeling a trifle impressed at sight of the great stone house which Mabel called home. During her college days it was Mabel's lovable personality that had enshrined her so deeply in the hearts of the students at Overton. The knowledge that her father was a millionaire carried little weight. This thought occurred to Grace as they filed through the massive door of the vestibule and into the beautiful hall furnished in English fashion. A back log glowed ruddily in the big open fireplace, and the flickering flames crackled a welcome. "I wouldn't allow James to turn on the lights. I wished you to see the hall just as it is. I love it when the shadows begin to gather, and only the firelight glows and gleams! Those andirons are very old. They belonged to one of my ancestors. There are a lot of old things in the garret. What garret is not full of antiques?" "Ours," returned Elfreda promptly. "We belong to that despised class, 'nouveau riche,' therefore we are extremely short on noted ancestors and relics and things." "There is nothing like perfect frankness, is there?" laughed Patience. "Never mind, Elfreda, it isn't ancestors that count." "It is dinner that counts, or ought to count, just now. I am going to whisk you upstairs to your rooms, and give you ten minutes for repairs, then, 'down to dinner you must go, you must go,'" chanted Mabel, winding her arm about Grace's waist and drawing her toward the stairway. "Follow us and you won't be sorry. We have a lift if two flights of stairs dismay you." "Lead on," commanded Miriam. "Which will you choose, to room together or alone?" "Together!" was the united response. "Wait a moment," said Anne. "I wish to ask you, Mabel, if you would object to rooming with Grace. I have roomed with her so long that I feel as though I"--with a mischievous glance at Grace's amazed face, Anne finished in a deliberate tone--"were very selfish. So I thought perhaps you would appreciate an opportunity to have her to yourself, too." "Oh!" ejaculated Elfreda. "I thought you were going to say you were tired of Grace." "So did I." A smile gave place to the peculiar expression on Grace's face. "I might have known better, though." "That is generous in you, Anne," declared Mabel "As hostess I wouldn't have been so selfish as to propose it, but----" "Anne, if you really don't care, I would like to room with Mabel," interposed Grace. "I have so much to tell her that the rest of you have already heard. We can have lengthy midnight confabs without disturbing any one but ourselves." "Then, that settles it. Room together you shall," averred Anne. "There is no use in breaking up the Nesbit-Briggs Association. Patience, will you accept me for a roommate?" Patience bowed exaggeratedly and offered her arm to Anne. "Come on, Grace, we'll lead the way," proposed Mabel. "I am so anxious for you to meet Father. I expect him home at any moment." Tucking her arm in Grace's, she led the party up the stairs and, pausing before a half-open door, said hospitably: "Welcome all over again, children. This room is for Elfreda and Miriam. Enter and make yourselves comfy. You and Anne are to have the next one, Patience. My quarters are at the end of the hall. I am going to see Grace safely there, then I'll send my maid to you. She will be delighted to be of service to some one. I have needed her very little since I turned newspaper woman, and she spends the greater part of her time lamenting over the fact. Oh, I forgot to tell you, don't trouble to dress for dinner to-night. We shall be strictly informal. I have ordered an early dinner. We will dress afterward. Father is going to take us to the theatre." The mere mention of Mabel's father brought to Grace's mind that which she had been making a determined effort to forget, her father's displeasure. Her face clouded with pain and resentment as she thought of the girl whose treachery had brought about the first misunderstanding of her life between her and her father. "If Father had only written me a line or sent me a telegram," she thought sadly, winking back the tears that threatened to fall. "I must not let Mabel imagine for a minute that I am anything but happy for to-night, at least. If she knew how dreadfully I felt about Father it would partly spoil her pleasure this evening. I'll try to act as though nothing unpleasant had happened," decided Grace as she followed Mabel into what she had termed her "quarters." Grace could not refrain from giving a soft exclamation of delight as she gazed admiringly about the beautiful room into which she was ushered. "This is my own particular hanging-out place," laughed Mabel "When I am at home, which is seldom, I spend most of my time in here. See my desk! I'll tell you a secret, Grace. I am writing a novel. It's more than half done, too. I haven't told any one else, not even Father. My greatest trouble is not having the time to work on it. My newspaper work keeps me busy, early and late, but I can't complain, because I am gaining all sorts of valuable experience." Mabel talked on about her work, and as Grace watched the sparkling, animated face of her lovely friend she felt very sure that Mabel Ashe, at least, would never sacrifice a friend in the interest of her paper. CHAPTER XIV A CONGENIAL SEXTETTE As the five girls, escorted by Mabel, descended the broad stairs to the hall, a tall, rather stern-faced man, whose dark hair had just a sprinkling of gray at the temples, came forward from one end of the room to meet them. Mabel made a joyful little rush toward him, holding his hand in both her own. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. Girls, this is my father. Father, let me introduce you to the nicest girls in Overton." Robert Ashe's sombre eyes smiled a kindly welcome as he looked into the radiant young faces of his daughter's guests. As each girl was presented to him he shook hands with her in a hearty, whole-souled way that completely dispelled any feeling of constraint on her part. "Father, you may take Elfreda in to dinner to-night. To-morrow it will be some one else's turn. I hope you will be here to enough meals to go the round." "So do I," laughed Mr. Ashe, the stern look on his face disappearing, his brown eyes looking almost boyish. Dinner proved a merry meal. The usually quiet room rang with the gay laughter of the happy girls, who had planned to enjoy every hour of their holiday. When dinner was over, Mr. Ashe ceremoniously invited them to be his guests at a theatre party that night. "We'll have to make one evening dress do duty while we are here, Mabel. We had room in our suit cases for only one, and didn't want to bring trunks," explained Grace, as they lingered in the hall to talk for a moment before going to their rooms to dress. "Never mind, if you run out of gowns you can wear mine," offered Mabel. "That is, you and Miriam can. I'm not so sure of Anne and Elfreda and Patience." * * * * * The play Mr. Ashe had selected for his guests' entertainment was one whose strong element of human interest had early carried it into favor with the New York audience that nightly crowded the theatre in which it was being presented. The star, a young woman of exceptional talent, almost a great artist, had by her remarkable portrayal of the leading role sprung from obscurity to fame in a single night. "I am so glad we are going to see her!" exclaimed Anne, when Mabel had announced her father's choice of play for them. "Miss Southard wrote me about her. She played small parts in Mr. Southard's company two years ago. He prophesied that she would some day be heard from." "Isn't it a pity the Southards aren't here this winter?" sighed Grace. "Mr. Southard was not anxious to go to England, but he could not help himself. It's one of the vicissitudes of an actor's life, isn't it, Anne?" Anne nodded gravely. "It is pleasant to travel about and see what the rest of the world is doing, but it is hard to leave home, too." "Still, you are thinking of doing it when your senior days are over, you bad child," interposed Grace slyly. "I warn you, you will meet with strenuous opposition." "From you?" asked Anne, a little flush creeping into her pale face. "No, not from me," retorted Grace with significant emphasis. "Don't tease Anne," laughed Mabel. "Let Genius do as it chooses." "If you mean me, I choose to go and dress this instant. Come on, Patience. We will hurry our dressing and be downstairs first. Then we can monopolize Mr. Ashe." "Oh, no, you won't," contradicted Elfreda. "I have reserved that privilege for myself." "We are ready," exulted Anne outside Elfreda's door half an hour later. "What did I tell you?" "So am I," replied Elfreda, opening the door. "And so is Miriam." Elfreda was looking particularly handsome in her evening gown of golden brown messaline, trimmed with dull gold embroidery. By constant training and self-denial she had reduced her weight to one hundred and thirty-five pounds and could not be truthfully called stout. Her fair hair was piled high upon her head, and one dull gold butterfly gleamed in its wavy meshes. Miriam's gown was in her favorite apricot shade of crepe de chine and brought out fully the beauty of her black hair and eyes and her exquisite coloring. Mabel had chosen black silk net over delft blue, while Patience wore a gray chiffon frock over gray silk with touches of old rose, a frock exactly suited to her calm, high-bred type of face. Anne's dainty white crepe de chine frock made her look anything but a theatrical star. Grace, however, had for once departed from her favorite blue and wore a white chiffon gown whose exquisitely simple lines made the most of her slender, supple figure. The charm of early sixteen radiated from her youthful person, and she looked no older than when she had led the freshman basketball team on to victory in Oakdale High School. "Grace can't grow up in spite of her long skirts and done-up hair," smiled Miriam. "That is precisely what I was thinking," agreed Anne. "Is she sixteen or twenty-three?" "Aren't you pleased with us, Father, and won't you feel inordinately proud of your theatre party?" called Mabel from the stairway as they descended to the hall, where Mr. Ashe stood looking reflectively into the fire as he waited for his charges. "Mere words fail to express my admiration," he laughed, bowing to the sextette of pretty girls, who smilingly nodded their appreciation of his speech. "Isn't he a perfect angel?" asked Mabel, sidling up to him and slipping within the circle of his arm. "I don't see how I ever had the heart to go to college and leave him." "She has no compunction about rushing off to work on a newspaper, day after day, and leaving me daughterless," complained Mr. Ashe lightly. Yet a shadow so slight as to be hardly noticeable crossed his face, which no one save the lynx-eyed Elfreda saw, who made mental note of it. "He doesn't want her to work," was her shrewd conclusion. "But I am here to-night," protested Mabel, catching his hand in hers almost appealingly, "and I'm going to be at home for a whole day and evening. Will you forswear business and help me entertain the girls to-morrow?" "I promise to devote myself heart and soul to their cause," said Mr. Ashe solemnly, raising his hand. "Only you must allow me to go down to the office for a little while in the morning." "Very well. Remember, all telegrams and telephone messages are to be tabooed after you leave there." "Granted. What about all newspaper assignments?" "Turn about is fair play," returned Mabel, flushing. "They can keep the telephone messages and telegrams company." CHAPTER XV A FIRELIGHT COUNCIL It was well after midnight when the theatre party returned to Mabel's home, rather sleepy, but delighted with their glimpse of pleasure-loving New York by night. After the theatre they were invited to be Mr. Ashe's guests at supper, and were promptly whisked away in their motor car to one of New York's particularly exclusive hotels, where a delicious little supper was served to them in one of the hotel's private dining rooms. Half-past eight o'clock Thanksgiving morning found the six girls downstairs and seated at the breakfast table. Mr. Ashe, who made it an ironclad rule always to be in his office at half-past eight o'clock, even on holidays, had time for only a hasty good morning all around before his man announced that his car was at the door. "Remember, Mab, you are to bring the girls down to my office after Thanksgiving services this morning," he called back as he paused on the threshold of the dining room. "I'll remember, General," called Mabel, with a military salute. "Oh, are we going to church this morning?" asked Elfreda quickly. "Yes. There is to be a short but beautiful service in the church Father and I attend. You will hear some wonderful music, too." "We went to church here in New York City on Thanksgiving Day, three years ago," said Grace. "Anne, Miriam and I were visiting the Southards. We went to a church whose minister had at one time been an actor." "Oh, yes, I know that church, and I have met the minister. I interviewed him last fall and then wrote a story about him for the paper. He is a fine man. I wish I knew Everett Southard and his sister." "You shall know them as soon as they return from England," promised Anne. "I am sure they will be pleased to know you." "I hope so," returned Mabel. "It was a great honor for Mr. Southard to have such a flattering offer from that great English manager, wasn't it?" "Did you know that Anne could have gone with them if she had been willing to put off her graduation for another year?" asked Miriam. "I didn't know it, but I'm not surprised," responded Mabel. "Neither fame nor honor would tempt you to allow your chums to finish the race without you. Isn't that true, Anne?" "True as can be," affirmed Anne. "I owe my greatest happiness to them. I couldn't desert them if I were asked to star in the whole Shakesperian repertoire." Her brown eyes looked tender loyalty at her three friends as she made this assertion. "We couldn't get along without Anne," declared Miriam. "She is our balance wheel. She doesn't say much, but whatever she says counts." "How ridiculous!" scoffed Anne. "These self-reliant persons don't need a balance wheel, Mabel." "Some of us do," observed Grace, an expression of pain in her fine eyes. "You don't," contradicted Elfreda pointedly. Mabel eyed the two girls reflectively. "I'm a mind reader," she announced. "I understand both of you. After church this morning I am going to call a general welfare meeting in the library. Our universe needs regulating." She smiled gayly upon her guests, yet there was a hint of purpose in her tone as she added: "At least we can exchange valuable information and get down to cause and effect." After breakfast, a great scurrying to get ready for church ensued, and an hour later their big, faithful motor carried them off to the Thanksgiving service. "It doesn't seem a bit like Thanksgiving," commented Miriam, as they sped down Riverside Drive. "More like Indian summer," observed Patience. The day was glorious with sunshine. There was hardly a suspicion of frost in the air and the snowy setting considered so essential to a successful Thanksgiving Day was entirely absent. "We never have this kind of Thanksgiving weather in Oakdale, do we, Grace?" asked Miriam. "Neither do we in Fairview," put in Elfreda. "I can recall only one Thanksgiving that wasn't snowy, and I can remember that because I behaved so outrageously. I was a young barbarian of eight, who screamed and kicked my way to whatever I wanted. Two days before Thanksgiving Pa brought me home a sled. It was red with a white deer painted on it and underneath the deer was the word 'Fleet,' printed in big white letters. I knew that with such a name it could hardly help being the best sled in Fairview. The night before Thanksgiving the rain came down in torrents and the next morning there wasn't a square inch of snow for miles around on which to try out my beloved sled. "It was a bitter morning for me, and I proceeded to wreak my displeasure upon my family. I behaved like a savage all day and ended by being locked in Ma's room with my Thanksgiving dinner on a tray, minus dessert. I got even that night, though, for Ma had invited our minister and his wife to dinner. I waited until I had had my dinner and they had finished, too, and were sitting in the parlor. Then I began screaming down a register, which was right over them, my very candid opinion of them and of Thanksgiving Day in general. "It was funny, wasn't it?" she chuckled in answer to the burst of laughter that greeted her recital. "But it was dreadful for poor Ma. The minister's wife never forgave me for it. She always referred to me behind my back as that 'terrible Briggs child.'" "Another reminiscence for 'The Adventures of Elfreda,'" said Miriam. "Elfreda is going to write a book of her early adventures and misadventures," explained Grace to Patience. "Did we ever tell you about it?" "No; but in the event of its publication I speak now for an autographed copy," returned Patience, with twinkling eyes. "I'll have one done up for you in crushed Levant," was Elfreda's prompt offer. "This is our church," proclaimed Mabel. The car found a place for itself in the long line of automobiles drawn up at the curb, and, alighting from it, the party made their way sedately up the broad stone walk to the main entrance of the stately, gray stone edifice. During the beautiful Thanksgiving service Grace's thoughts would drift into the same painful channel that she had inwardly vowed to avoid. The sweetness of the music made her think of home, and the earnest words of the minister sank deep into her heart. She, who had so much to thank her father and mother for, had carelessly allowed the name of Harlowe to be dragged into the limelight of police court news. She was unworthy of her parents' confidence. That she was unjustly severe in her self-arraignment did not occur to Grace. It was her first experience with real remorse and, as is usually the case, she did not allow herself the luxury of extenuating circumstances. When she bowed her head during the concluding prayer her eyes were full of tears and it was only by desperate effort that she managed to wink them back. "Father wants to see us now, you know," Mabel reminded her guests, as they took their places once more in the automobile. "To Father's office," she directed the chauffeur, and the car with its freight of happy girls glided down the avenue toward the section of the city in which Mr. Ashe's office was situated. "Of course, Father's employees don't work to-day," explained Mabel as they rolled along. "His private secretary is with him, but his offices are closed. He wishes us to take luncheon with him, then we are to go for a drive through Central Park. You've taken that drive before, I suppose, but it is such a beautiful day and all New York will be in evidence. I thought you would enjoy seeing the world and his wife out for a holiday." "We have hardly seen enough of Central Park to grow tired of it," smiled Grace. "Anne is a seasoned New Yorker and so is Elfreda, but Miriam and I never stayed here for any length of time. Patience will have to answer for herself." "My knowledge of the metropolis is vague, and my experience here has consisted largely in being rushed from the depot to the hotel, and from the hotel to the depot. So you can readily see that Central Park is in the nature of an innovation, to me," responded Patience. Luncheon was eaten in a restaurant whose extreme exclusiveness made it an especially desirable place for Mr. Ashe to entertain his daughter and her guests. The drive through Central Park came next, and it was after four o'clock before they turned into Riverside Drive for home. "Please come down to the library as soon as you take off your wraps," directed Mabel. "The time for the council has arrived." "Only Campfire girls have councils," retorted Miriam. "What do you know about Campfire girls?" demanded Mabel. "A whole lot," put in Grace. "We met five girls last summer who had just been on a trip through the White Mountains. They called themselves the 'Meadow-Brook Girls,' but they were real Campfire girls. They had spent a summer in camp and had won whole strings of beads for their achievements." "They spent a day or two in Oakdale," explained Miriam. "One of them, a funny little girl who lisped, was a cousin of Hippy Wingate. Her name was Grace Thompson, but her three chums called her Tommy. They had a guardian with them, too, a Miss Elting." "I liked the tall one, Miss Burrell, best," continued Grace, "but they were all interesting. The girl who owned the car was a Miss McCarthy, a true Irish colleen and awfully witty. She and Nora O'Malley swore friendship on sight. Then there was a stout girl whose nickname was 'Buster,' and a quiet, brown-eyed girl named Hazel Holland. They write to me occasionally and they are all going to Overton when they have finished high school." "Why did they call themselves the 'Meadow-Brook Girls'?" "Oh, that was the name of their home town." "What good times they must have had," commented Mabel. "They did, and all sorts of hairbreadth escapes as well. They won ever so many honor beads for bravery and prompt action in time of danger. But to return to the subject of our council. Don't you think we had better put our wraps away and convene? That's what councils do, isn't it?" "Convene is correct," Elfreda assured her gravely. "Allow me to head the procession upstairs. The sooner we go up the sooner we shall come down." A little later they clustered about the cheerful open fireplace in the library. Mabel, who was seated on a stool at one side of the fire, reached forward for the poker and prodded the half-burnt log energetically. The others watched her in silence until she laid down the poker with a suddenness that caused them all to start, and turning about said almost brusquely: "I wish you girls to tell me frankly everything about Kathleen West. Until that 'Larry, the Locksmith' story came out I hadn't the slightest idea that there was anything save the pleasantest relations between her and Grace. That story set me to thinking. I knew something was wrong, for Grace had told me the Oakdale part of it in strict confidence. When I received a cold little note from Miss West declining my invitation, I was sure of it. Whatever it is, I feel responsible, for I asked you to look out for Miss West in the first place. Won't you please tell me all about it?" [Illustration: They Clustered About the Fireplace.] Mabel's frank appeal was irresistible. "I am sure it would be better to tell Mabel everything from the beginning," said Anne in a decided tone. "I agree with Anne," came from Miriam. "Of course she ought to know it," declared Elfreda. "Didn't I say so last year?" "Last year!" exclaimed Mabel. "How long has this unpleasant state of affairs been going on?" "Ever since the early part of our junior year," admitted Grace. "I disliked to write you of it. We thought she would change. We did everything we could to please her, but she is not in the least like any other girl I have ever known. Ask Patience about her. She rooms with Miss West." "Do you?" Mabel turned her amazed glance upon Patience. "And not one of you said a word to me of it." "We thought it better not to mention Miss West," said Grace slowly. "You can readily understand our attitude, Mabel. I feel as though I ought to tell you that she came to New York on the same train with us. She was in the car ahead of ours." "Then I shall surely see her before she goes back to Overton. I suppose she came down purposely to be patted on the back for her big story. Now begin the terrible tale of how it all happened." Grace began with their meeting of Kathleen West at the Overton station and of their ready acceptance of the newspaper girl for Mabel's sake. When she told of Kathleen's sudden avoidance of her and the other members of the Semper Fidelis Club, and of her subsequent intimacy with Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton, Mabel exclaimed impatiently: "Those girls again! They were born trouble-makers, weren't they?" "But they turned out beautifully," defended Grace, "only I haven't reached that part of my story yet. It is really a very nice part, only so many disagreeable things happened before it." "I shall never notice Kathleen West again!" was Mabel's indignant cry when Grace had finished the account of Kathleen's attempt to spoil Arline's unselfish Christmas plan. "You mustn't say that." Grace grew very earnest. "That was just the reason I didn't wish you to know. I can't bear to be a tale-bearer, but still I believe it is your right to know the facts. You are one of us, and we have no secrets from one another, yet I don't like to say any thing that will lower her in your estimation. She may have been a true friend to you." "Don't worry about that part of it, Grace. You aren't a tale-bearer." Mabel reached forward to pat Grace's hand. "If only you had told me long ago." Grace continued her narrative, ending with Kathleen's final attempt to be revenged on the Semper Fidelis Club, and the clever way in which she had been brought to book by none other than Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton. "What a little villain she is, and how splendidly Alberta and Mary turned out," interposed Mabel. "She was far too clever to give me the faintest inkling of the truth. I used to wonder why she was always so noncommittal about things at Overton. I laid it to her peculiar temperament, never suspecting that she had good reason for refusing to discuss her college life. I had an idea her cleverness would pave the way to great things for her at Overton. I supposed her to be very popular." "Wait until I finish my discourse," smiled Grace, "then you shall hear what Patience, the All Wise, thinks of her." She went over rather hurriedly her recognition of "Larry, the Locksmith" in the streets of Overton, of how she had trailed him within sight of his hiding place, and of her tardy remembrance of her promise to her father. "I was uncertain what to do, when I happened to catch sight of Miss West," continued Grace. "An evil genius must have prompted me to take her into my confidence. But it was a good story, and Patience had told me only a day or two before that Miss West had been mourning over her lack of news for her paper. She made what I believed to be a promise to leave out the Oakdale part of the story and not to use my name within it. Not a line of the Oakdale part of the story appeared in the Overton papers. The chief of police kept his word, at any rate. "I never dreamed of her treachery until I received your letter and the clipping. I know Father and Mother have read it. Father always buys that paper. I haven't heard a word from home since then." Grace's voice faltered. "You poor, dear child!" cried Mabel, springing from her stool and going over to Grace. "Don't sympathize with me, Mabel, or I shall cry." Grace raised her head smilingly, but her gray eyes were full of tears. "I've vowed eternal vengeance," proclaimed Elfreda savagely. She could not endure the thought that Grace should be made so unhappy. "It is my own fault." Grace had regained her composure. "Perhaps some day I'll learn not to dive into things head first. I am sure I have displeased and hurt Father, or he would have written me before this." "I think Miss West has behaved abominably, and I hope you will forgive me for having asked you to help her. If she is still in the office on Saturday I shall not hesitate to take her to task for her double-dealing." "I am quite frank in saying that you may tell her whatever you choose." Grace's voice sounded very hard. "Grace Harlowe, what has come over you?" exclaimed Elfreda. "You usually preach moderation, but now you are as vindictive and resentful as an Indian." "Not quite," retorted Grace, half smiling. "I am merely what one might term 'deeply incensed.' It isn't a dangerous state, but it usually lasts a long time. Now, I've said the very last word of my say. It is your time to talk, Patience." "I haven't much to say," began Patience, "except that Miss West is naturally rather hard and self-centered and her work as a reporter has accentuated it. Her ambition blinds her sense of honor. I suppose she has one, although I have occasionally doubted it." "Don't you approve of newspaper work for women?" asked Mabel quickly. "I ought to." The words slipped out unawares. "That is--I----" "I know why!" cried Elfreda, wagging her head in triumph. "Because she is an editor's daughter and knows that a newspaper could not run successfully without women. James Merton Eliot, the well-known newspaper editor, is her father." Exclamations of surprise greeted this announcement. To Miriam, Anne and Mabel this was news indeed, but the astonishment of Patience arose from a far different cause. "How did you know it?" Patience asked Elfreda in open amazement. "Oh, I heard you explaining to Grace at luncheon one day just how the Sunday section of a newspaper was put together. I could see you knew what you were talking about, and made up my mind then that you didn't get your information from Miss West. Then you dropped a letter one day when we were crossing the campus addressed to James Merton Eliot, The Elms, South Framingham, Massachusetts. I picked it up and handed it to you, but I couldn't help seeing the address. I didn't think anything of it until I happened to read an article in a magazine on noted men of affairs, and found the same name staring me in the face. For a long time I couldn't think of why that particular name seemed familiar. Then I remembered. Still, I had never heard you say a word about your father's business. One night I asked you about him and you didn't give me any satisfaction. I could see that you didn't want to answer, so I didn't say another word, but I kept on wondering. What are you all laughing at?" she demanded, darting a suspicious glance about the circle of smiling faces. "Elfreda, you are a wonder! I make my bow to you." Patience rose and, walking over to where Elfreda sat, bowed low before her. Elfreda's plump hand was raised in protest, but there was curiosity written on every feature. "What made you keep it a secret?" "I have designs on an editorial position on the 'College Herald' next year. But I want to win my literary spurs through my own efforts. I don't believe in reflected glory." Patience's earnestness was convincing. "Neither do I," agreed Mabel heartily. "You won't object if the editor of our paper knows, though, will you? He is an old friend of Father's. I am sure he will never forgive me if I don't introduce you to him. I am going to take you girls to the office with me on Saturday. But to go back to the object of our council, what are we to do in the case of Miss West?" "Nothing." Grace spoke decisively. "Oh, yes, we must do something, Grace dear," admonished Patience. "We mustn't give her up in this fashion." "Then, suggest something," retorted Grace with an impatient frown. "I will before long," promised Patience. "I can't think of a single thing now, but the inspiration will come. Will you all agree to help if I think of something startlingly worth while?" "I'll consider the matter," was Mabel's dry comment. The other girls answered in the affirmative, but without enthusiasm. Grace's almost hostile attitude toward Kathleen had had a potent effect upon them. Patience, feeling their acquiescence to be perfunctory, said no more on the subject. There was a perceptible lull in the conversation, then Mabel proposed that Miriam play for them, and the council broke up with alacrity and strolled off to the music room. "It's time to dress for dinner. Father will be here soon," announced Mabel. "To-night we are to have a little dance. I have been keeping it as a surprise for you. We have a perfectly darling ballroom in the house and I have invited a number of my friends to meet you." Mabel's announcement was received with exclamations of delight. What girl does not welcome the very idea of a real dance to the notes of a real orchestra? The Overton girls went upstairs to dress for the coming dance, and for the time being their self-imposed problem of the newspaper girl was forgotten. CHAPTER XVI ELFREDA SHOWS GRACE THE WAY Mabel's dance was an occasion long to be discussed and remembered, and the remaining two days of the girls' Thanksgiving vacation were so crowded with the amusements she had planned for them that the moments flitted by on wings. Their visit to the offices of the great newspaper on whose staff both Mabel Ashe and Kathleen West were enrolled was a red-letter event. They had penetrated even to the fastnesses of the local room and art department, and were duly impressed with all they saw. In the local room they had caught a brief glimpse of Kathleen West. She was seated at a desk at the lower end of the long room, writing industriously. So intent was she upon her work, that, either by accident or design, she failed to see the little group of sight-seers, who stood watching the rows of clicking typewriters, operated by the reporters of the various departments who were preparing copy for the composing room. At the moment Grace had spied the newspaper girl hard at work a wave of admiration had swept over her for this strange young woman who had treated her so badly. In spite of Kathleen's lack of principle, she had the will to work, and she had already achieved much in her chosen field. If only she had been like Ruth. Then the memory of Grace's own grievance drove away the kinder thought. As they were on the point of leaving the local room their eyes had chanced to meet, and Grace's flashed with an unmistakable contempt that caused Kathleen to color and turn her head. On Sunday morning the dreaded good-byes were said and Mr. Ashe and Mabel saw their guests safely aboard the train for Overton. It was late Sunday afternoon when, tired and luggage laden, the five girls climbed into the automobile bus at the Overton station, and were straightway conveyed to Wayne Hall. Kathleen West had not returned on the same train with them, nor did she appear until late the following afternoon. That she might be reprimanded for overstaying her vacation either did not occur to her, or else the possibility held no terror for her. The instant the door of Wayne Hall closed behind her Grace darted to the house bulletin board. In it was a letter for Anne, one for Elfreda and two for herself. She choked back a sob as she saw that one of the envelopes bore her father's handwriting, the other that of Arline Thayer. "Don't wait for me, Grace. Go on upstairs and read your letters. I must see Mrs. Elwood about that package I expected by express." Setting down her suit case, Anne hurried down the hall. Always thoughtful for others, she now determined that Grace should be alone when she opened her father's letter. With a grateful glance after Anne's retreating figure and a "see you later" to Miriam, Elfreda and Patience, who had stopped at the living room door to talk with Laura Atkins and Mildred Taylor, Grace went to her room. With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope, glancing through the first page of the letter. Then, with a little choking cry of relief, she sank into a chair and began to cry softly. It was at least fifteen minutes before Anne appeared in the room, and during that time Grace had wiped away her tears and calmed herself to the point of finishing her father's letter. She looked up smilingly as Anne entered, although her eyes were red. "It is all right, Anne! Father is the most forgiving man! Just listen to what he says:" "MY DEAR GRACE:-- "There is no use in scolding you. I know that your intentions were good, above reproach, no doubt, but how many times have I cautioned you to go slowly? I received your letter, but, deciding you deserved a certain amount of punishment for your rashness, purposely delayed answering you. Your fame has traveled the length and breadth of Oakdale, however, as I am not the only man in town who reads the New York papers. In the light of your early police court career I might say that this last bit of sleuthing merely adds to your reputation in Oakdale as an apostle of justice. I forgive you, of course, and do not blame you very severely. You were rather shabbily dealt with, but still you must consider that if you had kept your promise to me this annoying episode would never have taken place. "Considering your legitimate claim to senior dignity, I am not going to lecture you any further. I am sure you will be more careful another time. We missed our little girl more than I can say on Thanksgiving Day. Your mother and I, who, you will remember, were elected honorary members of the Phi Sigma Tau the summer we went to Europe with that illustrious organization, carried out to the best of our ability your old plan of making some one else happy on Thanksgiving Day. With the help of Miss Thompson, who is a frequent visitor at our house, we managed to find several high school girls who needed cheering up. We invited them to Thanksgiving dinner and had a little dance in the evening. Your mother will write in a day or two and give you full particulars. "I hope you enjoyed your trip to New York. I feel rather guilty, now, because I didn't answer your letter at once. We will have one of our good old talks when you come home for the Christmas holidays. Then you may scold me, if you think I deserve it. "Your mother and I are well, and are looking forward to your home-coming next month. So is half the town, for that matter. Your friends never forget to ask for you, and every day brings its, 'Is Grace coming home for the holidays?' God bless you, my dear child, and bring you safe home to us for Christmas. That is the gift we most desire. With our dearest love, "FATHER." Grace's eyes were misty as she looked up from her letter. "Isn't he just too splendid for words, Anne?" Anne nodded, then, slipping her arm about Grace's neck, she leaned over and kissed her friend's cheek. "I am so glad everything is all right." "You knew better than any one else how dreadful it was for me," returned Grace, looking up affectionately at her friend. "We all know," answered Anne. "I think Elfreda took it even more deeply to heart than we did. She is the soul of loyalty and resents an injury to one of us as much as though it were her own grievance." "In one way it seems a long time since J. Elfreda Briggs established herself in my seat on the train, yet in another it seems but yesterday," mused Grace. "Can you realize, Anne, that we are almost at the end of our college days?" "I never allow myself to think of it," confessed Anne. "I've been so happy at Overton I'd like to stay here forever." "Give up the stage, and apply for a place on the faculty," suggested Grace with apparent earnestness. "You rascal! You know I couldn't do that even for the sake of being at Overton. I am wedded to my art," proclaimed Anne dramatically. "Some day you will obtain a divorce from your art and marry a mere man, though," predicted Grace. The color suffused Anne's white face. Her brown eyes grew troubled. "I don't know whether I shall or not," she murmured. "Anne, would you leave the stage, give up your work, if--if--" Grace paused. "If David asked me to marry him?" Anne finished the question calmly. "I don't know, Grace. I've asked myself that question so many times that I am tired of trying to answer it. In fact, I've lately decided to let matters drift and see what happens. Although there has never been a word of sentiment exchanged between us, I am reasonably sure that David loves me, and I am very fond of him," confessed Anne. "In some respects I feel years older than you girls. I believe it is due to my stage experience; I have played so many different parts, some of them emotional roles which have to do with love and renunciation." Anne's musical voice trembled slightly on the last word. "I am sure David loves you with all his heart," was Grace's honest reply. "Now that he has been graduated from college and has gone into business for himself, I am afraid you will be called upon to decide before long." "I am afraid so," sighed Anne. "I wish life weren't quite so complicated." "I hope the rest of our senior year will be free from complications." Grace spoke with grim emphasis. "Why, I forgot to open this letter!" she exclaimed, snatching the unopened letter from the table and tearing at the end of it. The letter proved to be a penitent little note from Arline asking Grace to forgive her, and prove her forgiveness by taking dinner with her the following evening at Vinton's. Grace felt a thrill of happiness swell within her as she read the note. Her brief estrangement from Arline had been another of her secret griefs. "I'm going to take dinner with Arline to-morrow night," she announced to Anne. "You'd better hurry if you care to take dinner with us," called Elfreda from the doorway, in which she had paused just in time to hear Grace's last remark. "It isn't dinner," corrected Anne. "It is supper on Sunday, and never very good, either." "We never have Sunday dinner in the middle of the day at home," commented Elfreda. "When you are at Wayne Hall do as the Wayne Hallites do," quoted Miriam, who had followed Elfreda into the room. "Where is Patience?" inquired Grace. "Enjoying the solitude of her room before the disturber arrives," volunteered Elfreda. "She'll be along presently." Despite the fact that they had had dinner on the train, the four girls decided that they were hungry, and on going downstairs to the dining room where Mrs. Elwood had prepared an unusually good supper, proved it, to their own and Mrs. Elwood's satisfaction. There were only three girls in the dining room when they took their places, as the majority of the "Wayne Hallites" were spending the afternoon and evening of their last day's vacation with friends. Patience joined them as they were finishing their dessert, and it was laughingly decided to entertain her while she ate, and afterward go for a walk. "What style of entertainment do you prefer?" asked Elfreda, with a deferential air. "Shall I give you an imitation of Kathleen West's return?" "No, thank you. The reality will be sufficient," was Patience's dry retort. "I prefer a more pleasant variety of entertainment." The ringing of the door bell caused those in the dining room to glance expectantly through the doorway into the hall. They heard the maid's voice, then a cry of "At last!" and Emma Dean fairly charged into their midst. "I never was so glad to see any one in all my life," she cried, with a joyful wave of her hand. "How I have missed you while you have been gallivanting about New York without giving the friend of your freshman days a thought. You might have sent me a postcard, you know." "'Gallivanting' is not the word with which to describe our triumphal march around New York," objected Elfreda. "It's a very good word," defended Emma. "It means to roam about for pleasure without any definite plan. It says so in the dictionary." "Every day adds to our store of knowledge," jeered Elfreda. "As I am at present overjoyed to see you, I'll try hard not to squabble with you." Emma turned her back squarely upon Elfreda and addressed Anne. "I heard something while you were gone that will interest you, Anne. The senior class are talking of presenting a play. If we do, you will star in it, of course." "I can't, Emma," returned Anne regretfully. "My professional experience prevents me from taking part in college plays. If Semper Fidelis, or some of the girls, were to put on a play for our own amusement, then I could take part, but in regular college plays professionals are barred here at Overton. It is practically the same rule that applies to college sports." "Oh, that is too bad! But it wouldn't hinder you from writing one, would it?" "I couldn't write a play. I used to hope that I might some day become a writer. But I know now that it isn't in me." "But many actors and actresses have been writers, too," put in Elfreda. "I know it. Still, the most successful plays have been written by men and women outside the profession," argued Anne. "I wish I could write, but I know my limitations and they stop this side of authorship. But why did you ask me if I could write a play, Emma?" "Marian Cummings gave a spread the other night to all the seniors on the campus who weren't lucky enough to get away from Overton for Thanksgiving. We were talking about what the senior class might do in the way of stunts, and some one proposed that we ought to give a play after midyears. You know our class has never done anything of the sort since we entered college. Naturally, we were all in favor of the idea. We all agreed that we wanted something besides Shakespeare for a change, but no one could suggest anything else. We wanted something really representative, and the majority of these plays for amateurs are rather trivial. Finally, Sara Emerson suggested that the play be written by a member of the senior class. There was a general protest, and Elizabeth Wade asked Sara if she would mind writing it. Rather unkind in her, wasn't it?" asked Emma, with a reminiscent chuckle. Her friends laughed with her. The mere idea of frivolous little Sara Emerson as a playwright was distinctly amusing. "Sara didn't mind our laughing. She and Julia giggled over it, too. Then Marian Cummings suddenly thought of a splendid plan." Emma paused in order to impress her hearers. "For goodness' sake, go on, Emma," begged Miriam. "Don't ask us to guess the plan, either." "I'm not going to ask you to guess it. I stopped talking merely to allow my words to sink deeply into your minds. Marian wants to make it an honor competition affair." "What's an 'honor competition affair'?" asked Elfreda. "I'm surprised at your question. I should think you 'could see' the meaning from the words themselves," teased Emma. "You see almost everything." "I'll be revenged on you for that thrust," threatened Elfreda, joining in the laughter that greeted Emma's remark. "Do you mean that any member of the senior class may compete, not for a money prize, but for the honor alone?" asked Grace. "That is precisely my meaning," said Emma. "We thought we would have an honor pin made, something worthy of the girl who wins. The class will give her a supper and drink her down, and there will be various demonstrations and jollifications for her especial benefit." "Why not give the four classes a chance, and make it a competition worth remembering?" proposed Elfreda, a peculiar expression in her shrewd eyes. "I mean that the cast would be chosen from the senior class, but the author might be any girl in college." No one answered for a moment. "I don't believe," began Emma doubtfully, "that we----What do you say, Grace? Of course, we shall be obliged to call a special class meeting, but we can decide now just how to word our proposal. Whatever you decide will suit us." Grace's glance had remained fixed upon Elfreda as though trying to read her thoughts. What did Elfreda have in mind! Then it dawned upon Grace with unpleasant force. "She wants Kathleen West to have a chance to compete." Then, "If I say I think we ought to keep the contest in the senior class, the girls will agree with me. This is my chance. She would dearly love to enter a contest of this kind. Very well. I'll see that she doesn't enter it." For the first time in her life Grace's resentment blinded her sense of fairness. Her lips tightened unpleasantly. "I say that we ought to----" But Grace did not finish her sentence. Swift and overwhelming came the conviction that here perhaps lay the means by which Kathleen might come into a knowledge of the real Overton spirit. In writing the play, for Grace felt certain that the newspaper girl would enter the lists, she might gain what her classmates had been powerless to give her. Grace's face grew hot with shame at her own unworthiness of spirit. "Why don't you finish?" asked Emma Dean with good-natured impatience. "What ought we to do? We shall never know unless you speak and tell us." The steady light in Grace Harlowe's gray eyes deepened. Her moment of temptation had passed. Her love of fair play had conquered. "Include the whole college, by all means. Let us make it an Overton rather than a class affair, and let us call a meeting of the senior class to-morrow afternoon," she said. "Let us settle it as soon as possible." "I'll write a notice the moment I finish my supper," declared Emma. "Come upstairs to my room, all of you, and watch me write it. I can always write better if I have an audience; provided it is a kindly, uncritical audience," she added, casting a significant glance toward Elfreda, who beamed on Emma as one who has received a compliment. As they were leaving the dining room a little later, Grace felt a plump hand catch one of hers. She turned to find Elfreda's gaze bent earnestly upon her. There was a significant question in the other girl's eyes. Grace pressed the hand and said in a whisper: "I understood, Elfreda. Thank you for showing me the way." CHAPTER XVII WHAT THE SENIORS THOUGHT OF THE PLAN "I can't forgive myself for being so disagreeable," was Arline Thayer's regretful cry. Grace had met Arline half an hour earlier than the time appointed for the senior class meeting the following afternoon and the two girls had hurried to the room in Overton Hall, where the meeting was to be held, for the express purpose of having a confidential chat before the others should arrive. "Don't think of it again, Daffydowndilly." Grace regarded Arline with affectionate eyes. She was glad almost to the point of tears that the cloud between her and the dainty little girl had been lifted. "Oh, but I must think of it this once, Grace," persisted Arline. "I haven't told you yet how truly sorry I am for behaving so badly toward you. But I was so angry with you for troubling yourself about that horrid Kathleen West. But first let me ask: Did you see that New York newspaper story? Father sent me a copy of the paper. I showed it to Ruth, but didn't tell any one else. It is known here, though." "Yes, I knew of it the day after it was published," answered Grace soberly. "Mabel sent me a marked copy. I am sorry my name was used. It was a surprise to me." Arline's eyebrows lifted. "A surprise!" she exclaimed with fine sarcasm. "I think I can understand just how pleased you felt over that surprise. I am not going to allow a certain person to come between our friendship again, but I can't help saying that if ever you speak to her again, you will be doing yourself a great injustice." "Would it surprise you to hear me say that I am inclined to endorse what you have just said?" questioned Grace. "What I tried to do for her was done largely to please Mabel Ashe. Mabel has released me from my promise. I seldom take violent dislikes to persons I meet, but, to tell the plain truth, I have never liked Miss West, although I have admired her ability and perseverance. In fact, I have never met any one I disliked so much," confessed Grace. "I don't know what has come over me, but I simply can't endure the thought of her, let alone forgiving her." "I don't blame you. I hope you will continue to take that stand. You won't, though. If you knew, to-morrow, of something that would be to her advantage to know, you wouldn't hesitate to tell her." Grace looked rather confused. Arline's chance shot had gone home. She had not forgiven Kathleen, yet only yesterday she had paved the way for her to possible honor. "What did you do here on Thanksgiving?" she asked abruptly. "Why didn't you go to New York?" Arline laughed. "I am perfectly willing to change the subject and answer both your questions. Father was in Chicago, so we thought we'd stay here and see what we could do for some of the girls whose good times are limited. We did all sorts of little stunts. Thanksgiving night we gave a party at Morton House and invited every one we could think of, and the next night Ruth and I took our checks, we each received an extra one for Thanksgiving, and gave a moving picture party. We made the man who owns the place reserve the seats, and we saw 'The Merchant of Venice.' It was beautifully done, and every one who saw it was delighted. Then we invited several girls to Morton House for Thanksgiving dinner, too." "I wanted to ask you and Ruth to go to New York with us, but----" "Don't say a word," interrupted Arline, with a penitent little gesture. "It was my fault. I claim the privilege of changing the subject, too. What is the object of this class meeting?" Grace was about to explain, when a murmur of voices in the hall announced that the seniors had begun to gather for the meeting. Within ten minutes every seat in the room was occupied, and Arline Thayer, now president of the senior class, called the meeting to order. "As there is no particular business to be transacted," announced Arline, "what is the pleasure of the class? Will the person or persons responsible for the notice on the bulletin board please rise and enlighten the class as to why we are here?" "Madam President," Emma Dean rose from her seat and addressed the chair, "I wrote the notice. It was the outcome of a session in which a number of the seniors had been discussing ways and means of making 19-- famous in the annals of Overton." Emma proceeded in her clever, humorous fashion to lay before the class the project of a play to be written by a member of one of the four classes and produced and enacted by the seniors. "If we allow any girl in college who wishes to compete for the honor pin we shall have a greater variety of plays from which to choose. It will also be a good opportunity to discover any lights that might otherwise be so securely hidden under bushels of modesty that no one would ever see them. "The rules for the contestants will be very simple. The play must be original. It must consist of not less than three acts, and all manuscripts must be in the hands of the committee appointed by the president of the senior class on the Tuesday before the Easter vacation. The play may be comedy, drama, or tragedy, but it must be representative. The duties of the committee will be to receive the plays. As soon as they have been submitted they are to be turned over to three members of the Overton faculty, provided they are willing to act in the capacity of critics. I should now like an opinion from the class." Emma sat down amid an energetic clapping of hands. To a member, the class was in favor of the proposed contest. One after another the members rose to voice their approval, and when the president called for a rising vote every member was instantly on her feet. "You understand that we shall require permission from the president of the college before we can officially announce the contest," Arline reminded the class. "I will appoint Miss Dean, Miss Harlowe and Miss Wade to call upon the president and obtain his permission. Then the play committee will see to the advertising of the contest." Before the meeting closed, Anne Pierson, Miriam Nesbit, Ruth Denton and Elfreda Briggs were appointed to serve on the play committee and the date of the production of the play was set for the Friday of the fifth week after the Easter vacation. It was also decided that Lecture Hall, which boasted of a stage and several sets of scenery, and would hold a goodly audience, should be used for the occasion. Within the next three days Miss Duncan and Dr. Hepburn, instructors, respectively, in English and Latin, and Dr. Darrow, professor of Oratory and Dramatic Expression, had been interviewed and had consented to act as judges. The moment these preliminaries had been attended to, Gertrude Wells had begun an elaborate poster to hang above the bulletin board in Overton Hall announcing the contest. At the bottom of the poster was fastened a card on which the rules had been painstakingly lettered in black and red. By the end of the week there was scarcely a girl in Overton who had not stopped before the gayly colored poster to read the news that was being discussed long and earnestly throughout the college. Those who had acquired a certain amount of reputation in the matter of themes boldly announced their intention of competing for the honor pin, while there were others whose themes had never been praised, whose ambition to show the judges what they really could do urged them on to enter the lists. Neither Grace, Miriam nor Anne intended to try for the prize. Ruth Denton had confided to Arline that she had an idea for a play which she meant to work out, and Emma Dean boldly proclaimed herself to be deep in the throes of a comedy called "Life at Wayne Hall; or, the Expressman's Surprise." Elfreda, too, had apparently been inspired, and for a week went about chuckling to herself and making mysterious notes in a little black note book she now carried constantly. Grace could not help wondering now and then if Kathleen West would enter the contest. Since the newspaper girl's return from New York she had kept strictly to herself. She spoke to Patience only when absolutely necessary and took not the slightest notice of Miriam, Anne or Elfreda. Patience confided to Grace that Kathleen studied harder than ever, and wrote for at least two hours every night, never forgetting to place her papers carefully in her desk and to lock it securely before going out or to bed. "I believe she is writing a play, but I don't know positively and I wouldn't dream of asking her," had been Patience's comment. As the long intervening days that lay between the students of Overton and "going home for Christmas" dragged by, Grace found herself more impatient to see her father and mother than ever before. "It is on account of that old newspaper trouble," she assured herself. "Father and Mother were so dear and forgiving over it that I can't wait to see them." All her thoughts were now centered on going home. "I never wanted to see Father and Mother so much in all my life as I do this Christmas. Next week seems ages off. I am sure it is seven years instead of seven days until vacation begins." She confided to Anne one evening, as she sat on the floor beside her open trunk: "I'm going to begin packing to-night and do a little each day. It will give me a certain amount of satisfaction and make the time pass more quickly. I wonder why Mother doesn't write? She hasn't sent me my check to go home with yet. I can't go home until it comes, for I have spent every cent of my allowance and my extra check, too, for Christmas presents." "Don't worry over it," advised Anne. "Your father and mother are the most infallible persons I know. You won't be left stranded in Overton and have to walk ties to Oakdale." "If I do, I shall take you with me. As a trouper you ought to be proficient in that exercise," laughed Grace. "As a successful exponent of the dramatic art," began Anne pompously, "I----" "Miss Pierson! Miss Pierson!" Mrs. Elwood's voice was heard in the hall at the foot of the stairs. Anne sprang to the door. "Here I am, Mrs. Elwood," she called, stepping down the hall to the head of the stairs. "Here's a telegram for you. Will you please come downstairs and sign for it?" Anne hurried down the stairs, her heart beating violently. She signed the messenger boy's book, shoved the pencil into his hand and ran back to Grace as fast as her feet would carry her. "It's a telegram, Grace. It's for me. I'm afraid to open it," she cried, dashing into the room. "Open it. I dare not. Oh, if anything has happened to Mother or Mary!" Grace took the envelope Anne held out to her. Her own hands were trembling with apprehension, yet she managed to tear open the envelope and draw out the fateful message. There was the crackling sound of unfolding paper, then Grace cried out in joyful tones: "Anne, you never can guess! It is too good to be true!" Anne sprang to her feet, and darting to where Grace stood, the open telegram in her hands, peered over her shoulder. A moment later she and Grace joined hands and performed a joyful dance about the room. "What on earth is the cause of all this jubilation?" queried Miriam's voice from the doorway. "I knocked, but no one paid any attention to me. It sounded from the outside as though you might be engaged in deadly conflict, so I decided to interfere." The dance ceased and Grace thrust the telegram, which she still held, into Miram's hands. "Read it," she commanded. "Will arrive in Overton 5:30. Meet me. With love. Rose Gray." And, reinforced by Miriam, the dance was begun again with renewed vigor. CHAPTER XVIII THE FAIRY GODMOTHER'S VISIT Three excited young women burst in upon Elfreda, who, seated on the floor before her trunk, hastily deposited a large flat package in the tray and slammed down the lid. "Why didn't you knock!" she grumbled, looking mild displeasure at the intruders. "If you had come five minutes sooner you would have seen your Christmas presents, and I couldn't have stopped you. I'm going to have a 'Busy, Keep Out' sign made to hang on the door until Christmas." "Don't be cross, J. Elfreda Briggs," laughed Grace. "We have something nice to show you." She handed the telegram to Elfreda with: "We want you to go to the station with us this afternoon. The train is due at five-thirty." Elfreda's round face flushed at this mark of thoughtfulness on the part of the girls she adored, and agreed almost shyly to make one of the party. She had never become quite used to the knowledge that these three young women had long since accepted her as one of their number. Consequently an invitation to participate in their personal good times or to share their intimate friends was always a matter of wonder to her. The train was reported to be on time, but the quartette of happy-faced young women who waited impatiently for its arrival from the north that afternoon were agreed that it must be late. It was Anne who, when it rushed into the station, first espied the familiar figure of the snowy-haired old lady who had brought so much sunshine into her life, and her quick eyes also discovered the identity of the tall, broad-shouldered young man who was helping her down the car steps. "Oh, Tom Gray is with her!" she exclaimed in delight. "How nice!" cried Grace, with frank, unembarrassed pleasure. "I never thought that he would come with Mrs. Gray." Her three friends exchanged significant glances. It was quite evident that Grace Harlowe's regard for Tom held nothing of the sentimental. "Here they are! Here are my dear Christmas children!" Mrs. Gray looked no older than when she had welcomed them to her house party eight Christmases before. She spoke in the same sprightly manner, and smiled in the same kindly, gentle fashion that had warmed the heart of Anne Pierson when, poor and unknown, she had placed her hand in Mrs. Gray's at that first eventful freshman tea which was the beginning of happiness for her. Anne's brown eyes filled with tears as she embraced her "fairy godmother" and heard her murmur, "My own dear Anne." "Please give Aunt Rose a chance to catch her breath and turn your attention upon me," was Tom's plaintive plea. "We are terribly, horribly, dreadfully glad to see you!" laughed Grace, shaking Tom's hand in her boyish, energetic fashion. "'Terribly, horribly, dreadfully!'" repeated Tom. "Did you say this was your last year in college?" "Don't be sarcastic," reproved Miriam. "Circumstances alter English. Grace was only trying to convey to you our deep appreciation of your arrival." Tom glanced almost wistfully at Grace, who had turned from him and was devoting her whole attention to Mrs. Gray. "I hope you girls are as glad to see me as I am to see you," he said, his eyes still upon Grace. "Of course we are. How did you happen to think of coming to Overton? Are you going to stay until next Wednesday? If you do, then we can all journey to Oakdale together." "Ask Aunt Rose. I am her faithful bodyguard. I know she intends to stay until to-morrow at least. I hope you can persuade her to remain at Overton until you go home. I am a working man now, you know, and Washington is a long way from here." Tom's ambition to make forestry his life work had been in a measure realized, and with his graduation from college had come the offer of a position in the Department of Forestry at Washington. "Yes, children, dear, I will remain in Overton until your vacation begins if the town boasts of a comfortable hotel where I can not only demand, but receive, good service." "The 'Tourraine' is the very hotel for you, Mrs. Gray," said Grace. "We stayed there for a day or two when we first came to Overton. The service is excellent." "Then see to my luggage, Tom, and find me a cab or an automobile. The sooner I am settled the sooner I can hear what my girls have been doing. I have heard very nice things of you, my dear," she said to Elfreda, who, having shaken hands with Mrs. Gray, stood at the outer edge of the little group, looking on with shining eyes. "She looks like a piece of Dresden china," was Elfreda's remarkable statement to Miriam as the little company, headed by Grace and Tom, made its way to the other side of the station in search of an automobile. "You funny girl," Miriam laughed softly, "what an idea!" "But she does," persisted Elfreda in a low tone. "She's white and pink and fine and--and--fragile. She's dainty and exquisite, and there's a kind of rare china look about her that----" "I am going to tell her you said she looked like a piece of Dresden china," interposed Miriam. "Mrs. Gray----" "If you do, Miriam Nesbit, you'll be sorry," warned Elfreda, clutching Miriam's arm. "What is it, my dear?" answered the old lady. They had come to a halt at the end of the platform and were waiting for Tom to secure a car. Elfreda surveyed Miriam with a threatening glare. "Elfreda says that you"--she darted a mischievous glance at her friend--"look just as she imagined you would." Elfreda's expression was a mixture of surprise and relief. "Then you are not disappointed in me," smiled the old lady. "I should say not!" was the quick response. "I only hope you will adopt me some day as one of your children." "That is very sweet in you, my child," declared Mrs. Gray. "I hereby adopt you on the spot. Ah, here is our car. I think we are more than ready for it." "Now that you've been adopted," muttered Miriam in Elfreda's ear, "I won't betray you." "Thank you for nothing," flung back Elfreda. "Tell the chauffeur to drive past Overton College," Grace had requested Tom, and Mrs. Gray had exclaimed in admiration of stately Overton Hall, standing like a sentinel in the midst of the wide campus. The chapel, the library, Greek Hall, Science Hall, in fact, each one of the smaller, but equally ornamental, buildings were duly pointed out and commented upon. Mrs. Gray insisted that they should be her guests at dinner at the "Tourraine," and after dinner they repaired to the cozy sitting room in her suite of rooms for a long, confidential chat, which lasted until after ten o'clock. "Hurry, girls," urged Grace, as they set out for Wayne Hall, after repeated promises to call the next morning and prolonged good nights, "we may be locked out. That has never happened to me since I came to college." "That is better than being locked in," reminded Elfreda grimly. "You mean the night of the ghost party, don't you?" asked Miriam, referring to an incident that had occurred in Elfreda's freshman year. "I do, indeed, mean the ghost party," retorted Elfreda with grim emphasis. "I still have a remarkably clear recollection of it." "What a lot of things have happened since then," said Anne, half musingly. "Only a little while and our college life will be over," sighed Miriam. "And our real life begun," was Grace's hopeful reminder. "After all, college is just a preparation for the time when we must stand upon our own ground and assume the complete responsibility of our own lives." "You girls give me the blues," grumbled Elfreda. "I don't want to think about my 'real life' or any other solemn old subject. There's a time to reflect, but this isn't the time. I'd rather save all my harrowing reflections until just before commencement. Then we might give a misery party and invite our friends to glower and gloom with us." "That's a good idea!" exclaimed Grace. "We could all be miserable together." "If we all met together for the express purpose of being miserable, you can make up your mind that the party itself would defeat its object," laughed Anne. "But just at present we had better be gay and gleeful. We must plan something for Mrs. Gray's entertainment," suggested Miriam. "It is our lawful senior duty to see that she enjoys her visit to Overton." "She wishes to meet Dr. Morton and Miss Wilder and Miss Duncan, too," said Anne. "She mentioned it twice this evening. We must give a dinner in honor of her at Vinton's, and a luncheon at Martell's. Then we ought to drive out to Guest House for supper. Of course, we must give one spread in either our room or Miriam's and do stunts." "Why not give the Wonderland Circus just for her?" proposed Elfreda. "Miss Wilder will let us have the gymnasium for the evening, and by making it strictly a senior class affair there will be no hurt feelings on the part of the other classes. Nearly all the performers are seniors, too. We can serve refreshments, have a dance afterward, and Mrs. Gray will have a splendid opportunity to see 19-- together. How is that for a stunt?" Elfreda's plan was received with acclamation, and by the time they reached Wayne Hall each girl had been assigned her part in the week's programme. "We mustn't forget our Christmas girls," reminded Anne, as they lingered for a brief moment in the upstairs hall. "I am glad you mentioned them," replied Grace. "I must see Arline to-morrow." The first week of December had dragged, but the next two weeks raced by on winged feet, and the two days before college closed for the holidays were crowded to the brim with last duties and pleasures. Mrs. Gray won the united regard of the Semper Fidelis Club, who immediately enlisted themselves in her service. The genial, light-hearted old lady entered into the life of the college with an enthusiasm that caused her at once to be declared an honorary member of Semper Fidelis. She was the guest of honor at luncheons and dinners, at which she was toasted and sung to with a fervor that left no doubt in her mind as to her standing with Grace's classmates. The Wonderland Circus had been saved as the crowning event of her visit, and invitations had been sent to Mr. Thomas Redfield, the benefactor of Semper Fidelis Club, Dr. Morton, Miss Wilder and the various members of the faculty to be present at the Circus. Never had the immortal animals been in better form. Round after round of applause greeted the conclusion of their famous Wonderland song. The demonstration continued until Alice stepped forward and made a funny little speech, in which she introduced the animals, who skipped, waddled or shuffled forward according to each one's conception of what its own peculiar gait should be. Emma Dean, who had not taken part in the Circus, appeared in her ridiculous Sphinx costume, and, after a monologue that elicited constant laughter, added to her ability as a fun maker by the weirdly funny dance that she had intended to give at the bazaar, and which she was obliged to repeat before her audience was satisfied. A reception followed, and delicious buffet refreshments were served by the seniors in one corner of the big gymnasium, which had been roped off with the senior colors and made as attractive as senior hands could make it. Mrs. Gray was in her element and held court like a veritable queen. Before the evening was over the senior class, to a member, had vowed eternal allegiance to her. Dr. Morton, Miss Wilder and Mr. Redfield, too, apparently succumbed to her spell, for toward the close of the evening they formed an interesting group about her, and, at the end of a lengthy confab, shook her hand with an earnestness which seemed almost to indicate a promise of loyalty. To Grace, Anne and Miriam Mrs. Gray's long conversation with the faculty was merely a further proof of her ability to make friends, but the watchful Elfreda regarded the matter from a different viewpoint. "I wonder what Mrs. Gray was talking about to Professor Morton, Miss Wilder and our fairy godfather?" she remarked in a speculative tone to Miriam as they prepared for sleep late that night. "Fairy godfather is a good name for Mr. Redfield, isn't it?" she laughed. "Certainly it is," returned Miriam. "I always bestow appropriate names upon people. Isn't he the fairy godfather of Semper Fidelis and didn't I give him that name after he sent us the first check?" "He is," admitted Elfreda, "and you did." "What is on your mind now?" asked Miriam. "What do you find so mysterious in the fact that Mrs. Gray held discourse with the powers that be?" "You can make fun of me if you like," said Elfreda, smiling a little, "but I know what I saw with my own eyes. There is a conspiracy on foot among those persons. It's a delightful conspiracy, of course, but mark my words, they are planning something, and some day when the whole thing comes to light you'll say, 'You were right, J. Elfreda,' see if you won't." "I will say it now if you wish me to," laughed Miriam, "merely to show you that I have faith in your marvelous powers of observation." "Thank you," returned Elfreda. "There is nothing like being appreciated. But under the circumstances I am afraid I can't pursue my usual methods of investigation. If Mrs. Gray is planning something delightful, you may be sure it is for her Christmas children, and J. Elfreda Briggs will not be the one to pry into the surprise." CHAPTER XIX WHAT PATIENCE OVERHEARD "Oh, Overton, our voices clear Ring out in reverent praise to-day, To thee, our Mother, loved and dear Who guides us on our college way," sang Grace softly as she walked about her room putting away the various articles of wearing apparel she had taken from her trunk. The Christmas vacation had come and gone like a glad, happy dream, and with a hundred pleasant memories of home to sweeten the days that lay between her and Easter, Grace cheerfully unpacked her belongings, humming as she worked the song of Overton that she loved best. A light knock on the door, accompanied by, "May I come in?" hushed the song on Grace's lips. "I should say so," she called, recognizing Patience Eliot's voice. "Enter and give an account of yourself. I've hardly seen you since I came back." "I have had more or less unpacking to do, too," said Patience, with a comprehensive glance about the room. "Also deep in my soul lurks the fear of the fateful midyear with its burden of exams. I am conducting a general review every night for the benefit of Patience Eliot, but it is rather up-hill work. I envy you high and mighty seniors, whose days and nights of anxiety are past." "I don't believe you are half as much worried as you pretend. Patience Eliot is far too valiant to be downed by a mere examination." "It is all very well to talk," grumbled Patience, "but you know just how footless mere talk is. I'm not at all sure that I shall not flunk." "You won't, so don't try to make me believe you will," assured Grace, "and you are going to forget your books and have dinner with me at Vinton's to-morrow night, too." "Am I?" asked Patience. "Let me see. Oh, yes, I am. It is on Wednesday evening that the great event takes place." "What great event?" asked Grace with unthinking curiosity. "I beg your pardon, Patience, I didn't mean to----" Patience dismissed Grace's attempt to apologize with a wave of her hand. "Oh, that is all right. It is what I came here to tell you. You may believe it or not, but Kathleen West has actually invited me to go to that illustrated lecture on 'Mexico' at the Overton theatre on Wednesday evening." "And you are going?" Grace could not keep a slight constraint from her tone. Her resentment against the newspaper girl still lived. Despite the long, intimate talk she had with her father, she could not quite forget that Kathleen had been partly responsible for the unhappy hours she had spent before going home to Oakdale. "Yes," Patience replied. There was a note of finality in her voice. "I believe it is best, Grace. In fact, I am sure it is." Grace stood staring moodily at Patience. A struggle against her own personal feelings was going on within her. Suddenly her face cleared, and with a little, rueful smile she held out her hand to the other girl. "I'm truly glad you are going with her, Patience. I thought I wasn't, but I am. I can't imagine why I don't outgrow my resentment against that girl. I don't understand myself lately." "I knew you would agree with me." Patience still held Grace's hand in hers. "Now that the ice has been broken--you know you asked us not to mention Kathleen to you--I can say something I've wanted to tell you for a week. There has been a slight change for the better in Kathleen since Christmas. I don't know what has brought it about, but she is less hard and bitter than she used to be. She is terribly blue, though, and the other day I came into the room and found her crying. Just imagine Kathleen West in tears if you can. She wiped them away post haste and I pretended I hadn't noticed that she was crying. One can't sympathize with her, you know. She wouldn't like it. She prides herself on her stoicism." "I wonder what happened," mused Grace. "She has been writing every evening on her play," continued Patience, "until last night. I was hard at work on my Horace, when suddenly she said, 'Oh, what's the use?' and began tearing up everything she'd written. 'I could see,' to quote Elfreda, that she was in one of her black moods, so I never said a word. I think her conscience is troubling her. Perhaps one of these days she will find herself and surprise all of us." "I hope so," said Grace without enthusiasm. "By the way, I meant to tell you of Arline's and my plan. We are going to propose that the Semper Fidelis girls give a 'Famous Fiction' masquerade and invite the college. We won't try to make any money this time. Later on we will give a concert. This dance will be just a college frolic, but it will be fun to dress up and mask. There will be plenty of girls who won't attend the affair, but there will be a great many who will come. The gymnasium is large enough to accommodate a crowd. We'll have dancing, of course, and Semper Fidelis is going to pay for the orchestra out of their own pockets. There won't be any real refreshments, just lemonade and fancy crackers. The real fun will lie in the costumes. Every one who attends must be dressed to carry out the title of some work of fiction, either standard or 'best sellers.'" "What a jolly idea," smiled Patience. "I know already what I shall choose." "Good!" exclaimed Grace. "Put on your wraps and go with me to Arline's. I feel as though I must discuss it with her to-night." Within the next five minutes Grace and Patience were crossing the campus to Morton House. "I was just getting ready to go to Wayne Hall," declared Arline, as they marched into her room in obedience to her rather impatient "Come in." "And didn't care to be bothered with visitors," added Patience. "I thought it was a freshman on the next floor who demands admittance at regular hour intervals. She has the 'crush' habit to distraction. She's a nice girl," added Arline, generously, "even though she bores me frightfully at times, and I wouldn't for anything hurt her feelings. I am glad you came. I was just thinking of making you a call. I want to talk over our Famous Fiction dance." "Why, that is what brought us here!" cried Grace. "We decided that there was no time like the present for talking it over." "Then, being of the same mind, we shall no doubt accomplish wonders," laughed Arline. "When shall we give it?" "The sooner, the better," advised Patience. "That is, if you expect the freshmen and sophomores to turn out to it. Midyear examinations are only three weeks off, and by the last of next week every one will be so desperately devoted to reviewing back lessons that the idea of a masquerade won't create an iota of enthusiasm." "Patience is as level-headed as ever," agreed Grace. "Why not have the masquerade next Monday evening? That will give us a week to decide on our costumes and order our masks. Suppose we ask that poor old woman who keeps the little shop just beyond the campus to order our masks? I'll post a notice on the bulletin board as soon as we have secured Miss Wilder's permission to give the masquerade to the effect that masks can be bought at her shop. She is safe in ordering three hundred at least, and it will mean a small profit to her." "Grace is always thinking of helping the needy and the downtrodden," declared Arline. "You are a really truly philanthropist, Grace, and you ought to be a fixture at Overton." "Please don't, Arline," protested Grace, frowning a little. "I'm not a bit more interested in helping others than are you or Patience. I was just thinking to-day that I had really been selfish. It doesn't seem fair that I should have had such good times when so many girls here have nothing but hard work and worry over money matters." "Who organized Semper Fidelis and who was the first person to think of our Christmas girls?" demanded Arline. "You are the president of the Sempers and you collected almost all the presents for our first Santa Claus venture," evaded Grace. "Let each be wise and wear the prize, Let each divide the crown, The deeds of Harlowe and of Thayer, Are equal in renown. Stop arguing and get to work, For that is why we're here, Don't waste your time in idle words, The dinner hour is near," improvised Patience. Both girls looked their surprise at this outburst. "Thank you for your poetic counsel, Patience," said Grace. "Suppose we write down the things to be done in connection with giving the dance." "Here you are." Arline opened her desk and motioned Grace to the chair before it. "We'll suggest, and you can write." By the time the girls had finished their plans for the masquerade it was half-past six. "Stay here for dinner," invited Arline. Grace shook her head. "Thank you, but I have studying to do and letters to write to-night. If I stay here for dinner, I'll reach Wayne Hall at twenty-nine minutes after ten. I know my failings." "Same here," said Patience. "I am not to be trusted, either. Thank you for the invitation; it is a great temptation. Let us go, Grace, before we succumb to the artful blandishments of this blonde young person and stay in spite of ourselves." "Come over to-morrow night, Arline," called Grace as they went down the steps of Morton House. Arline had accompanied them to the door. "Bring Ruth with you. Tell her I am sorry I didn't see her to-night." "I'll see you later, Patience," said Grace as they separated at the head of the stairs. Patience walked slowly down the hall to her room. The door stood slightly ajar and the room was in darkness, but the sound of a familiar voice caused Patience to halt abruptly. "I could see," said the voice of Elfreda Briggs, "that something worried you. I know just how sorry you feel, because I went through the same thing myself. But if you could make up your mind to go to her and tell her that----" "Oh, I couldn't do that." It was Kathleen's voice that interrupted the speaker. "I am sure she must hate me. I never believed that I should care, but I do. If only I could do something to show her that at last I understand what college spirit means." "Do you really mean that?" There was a note of excitement in Elfreda's voice. "Because, if you do, I have the most splendid idea, and the beauty of it is that you are the only one who can carry it out. Will you----" But Patience, realizing with a start that she was eavesdropping, waited to hear no more. Turning about she stepped noiselessly along the hall and down the stairs. Entering the living room she found Emma Dean entertaining three girls who were laughing immoderately. "Hello, Patience!" called Emma. "Come in and listen to my tale of woe. Where was I? Oh, yes, the minute I stepped off the car I realized that I had left my silk umbrella in it. The car started about five seconds before I did. It was a beautiful race. I passed a fat policeman on the corner, and waved my hand reassuringly at him merely to show that I was not fleeing from Justice. Talk about fast running! I actually surprised myself. I caught up with the car just as it was turning that curve on High Street, and floundered into it, puffing like a steam engine. I made one dash past the conductor, reached the seat where my cherished umbrella still reposed and captured it. The conductor must have thought me hopelessly demented, for I dashed out as the car stopped at the next corner without having paid a cent of carfare or offered a sign of an explanation. "When I passed the corner where the fat policeman stood, he looked at me with respectful admiration, and said: 'You got that car, lady, didn't you?' and I proudly acknowledged that I did. I was only sorry that there weren't more persons about to appreciate Emma Dean's Two Block Dash." Patience joined in the laughter that had accompanied Emma's narrative. "How are you getting on with your play, Emma?" she asked. "I still have the title," returned Emma blandly, "but I can't decide upon my characters. There are so many shining lights at Wayne Hall. You know my play is entitled "Life at Wayne Hall; Or, the Expressman's Surprise." The only character I've actually decided upon is the expressman. I am obliged to have him because he is in the sub-title. I decided long ago on my opening speech, however. The expressman opens the play by saying, 'I can't wait all day, lady.' Isn't that realistic? So true to life!" "In the face of such an offering, Emma, I am satisfied that it would be sheer folly for any of us to enter the lists," assured Patience. "Of course, I don't wish to discourage any of you," deprecated Emma with the droll little smile for which she was noted. "But to give Emma Dean and her wonderful ability as a playwright a rest, what is new?" "We are talking of giving a masquerade," volunteered Patience. "Who is included in 'we'?" asked Laura Atkins. "Grace, Arline and I were talking it over to-day. We thought of giving a Famous Fiction masquerade." "What is a Famous Fiction masquerade?" asked Emma curiously. Whereupon Patience entered into an explanation of the proposed gayety while the girls listened with willing ears. While they were discussing it, Elfreda Briggs appeared in the doorway and Patience knew that she could now return to her room without running the risk of interrupting a heart-to-heart talk. But she smiled to herself as she thought that while she had been casting about for some way to help Kathleen, Elfreda had found it. CHAPTER XX THE MYSTERIOUS "PETER RABBIT" The gymnasium had, perhaps, never held a more motley crowd of revelers than on the night of the Famous Fiction masquerade. The faculty, who had been particularly interested in the idea of the masquerade, declared that for originality it was in line with 19--'s usual efforts. They occupied seats in the gallery and amused themselves with trying to guess the identity of the various maskers and the books or famous book characters which they represented. It had been decided that as so many of the famous book titles did not lend themselves to impersonation, famous characters in fiction might also be impersonated. Therefore, when the longed-for night came round, heroes and heroines, with whose adventures and doings the book-lover's world is familiar, walked about, arm in arm, collected in little groups, or danced gayly together to the music of the eight-piece Overton orchestra, whose members appeared to appreciate the humor of the occasion as keenly as did the faculty. It was an inspiring sight to watch "Hamlet" parading calmly about the gymnasium with "Beverly of Graustark," or to watch "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch" waltz merrily off with "Rip Van Winkle." Every one immediately recognized "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" and "Robinson Crusoe." Meek little Oliver Twist, with his big porridge bowl decorated by a wide white band bearing the legend, "I want some more," was also easy to guess. So were "Evangeline," "Carmen," "The Little Lame Prince," "Ivanhoe," "Janice Meredith," and scores of other book ladies and gentlemen. There were a few masqueraders, however, whose fictitious identity was shrouded in mystery. No one could fathom the significance of a certain tall figure, dressed in rags, who stopped short in her tracks at frequent intervals, and, producing a needle and thread, sewed industriously at her tattered garments. A black-robed sister of charity, accompanied by a strange figure who wore a shapeless garment painted in dull gray squares to represent stone, and wearing a narrow leather belt about its waist from which was suspended on either side two small andirons, were also sources of speculative curiosity. So was a young woman in white with a towering headdress composed of a combination of the Stars and Stripes and the flag of France. And no one had the remotest idea concerning the eight white figures who marched four abreast and would not condescend to break ranks even to dance. "Sherlock Holmes" was there with his violin tucked under one arm and a volume of his memoirs under the other. He evinced a strong preference for the society of "Joan of Arc," while "Sarah Crewe," "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and "Rebecca of Sunnybrook" traveled about together, a seemingly contented trio. "The Three Musketeers" were gorgeous to behold in their square-cut costumes, high boots and wide feathered hats, but the sensation of the evening was "Peter Rabbit," who came to the dance attired in his little blue, brass-buttoned jacket, brown khaki pantaloons and what seemed to be the identical shoes he lost in Mr. McGregor's garden. His mask was a cunning rabbit's head that was drawn down and fastened at the neck by a funny soft tie. Who "Peter Rabbit" was and where he had managed to lay hands on his costume was a matter for discussion that night. The suspense of not knowing who was who ended with the unmasking after the eighth dance, and amid exclamations and little shrieks of laughter the masqueraders stood face to face. "Elfreda Briggs! I might have known you would," laughed Arline Thayer, shaking hands with "Sherlock Holmes," while Miriam Nesbit thankfully lifted "Joan of Arc's" helmet and took off her mask. "You're a perfectly darling 'Fauntleroy,'" admired Elfreda. "I suppose Ruth was 'Sara Crewe.'" "Yes," returned Arline Thayer. "Here come those eight white figures!" she exclaimed. "Why, it is Miss Barlowe and her crowd. I don't know yet what they were representing." "The 'White Company,' of course," declared Elfreda. "There would be no satisfaction in being 'Sherlock Holmes' if I couldn't solve all these puzzles." "Then live up to your reputation and tell me what famous work of fiction this approaching rag-bag represents," laughed Miriam. "My powers of deduction were strong enough to pierce the identity of that bundle of rags," grinned Elfreda. "I knew Emma Dean by her walk, but I don't know what she represents. Who and what are you, Emma?" she hailed. "'Never too Late to Mend,'" chanted Emma, flourishing a large darning needle and attacking her rags anew. A shout arose from the little circle of girls who had formed about her. "There is another still harder to guess than mine. Over there," pointed Emma. "Look, girls!" "What is it?" chorused half a dozen voices. "Well, I never! If it isn't Grace and Patience!" There was a concerted rush toward the two girls. "What in the name of common sense is this illustrious combination?" asked Emma. "Why didn't you choose something a little harder." "We are easy enough to guess," returned Patience loftily. "That is, if you are familiar with standard fiction." "I'm not. I never was," declared Emma. "Tell us instanter!" "Allow me to introduce you to the 'Cloister.'" Patience bowed low. "And the 'Hearth.'" Grace saluted the company with a loud jingling of her andirons. "Oh," groaned Elfreda. "No wonder my powers of deduction failed. Who could guess that Grace was representing a hearth? She looks more like a section of a garden wall or the stone foundation for a new house, or----" "If my costume looks as stony as that, then I do look like a hearth, and either your eyesight or your imagination is defective," declared Grace in triumph. "Certainly, you resemble a hearth," agreed Emma Dean. "Now tell me how you like my costume. It took me hours to reduce my wearing apparel to its present picturesque state. All you girls are screaming successes. But who is 'Peter Rabbit'?" "I don't know, but I'm going to find out," declared Elfreda. "He, or rather she, carried a package of little cards with a cunning rabbit's head and the name 'Peter Rabbit' on them. I have one here." "So have I," came from every member of the group. "Let us find the famous Peter, then offer our congratulations," proposed Patience, with a searching glance at the company. But the "famous Peter" was not to be found among the throng of gayly attired girls, and there was no little comment among them at his sudden and complete disappearance. "I wonder what became of 'Peter Rabbit'?" remarked Anne, when, later in the evening, a number of Semper Fidelis girls gathered in one corner of the room to hold an informal session and compare notes. "Who is 'Peter Rabbit'; or, the Mystery of the 'Blue Jacket'?" declaimed Emma Dean. "Even Sherlock is all at sea, aren't you, Brother Holmes?" Emma Dean laid her hand familiarly on the great investigator's shoulder. "Don't be too sure that I'm all at sea. I have a theory." Elfreda put on a preternaturally wise expression. "We'll hear it at once," returned Emma briskly. "Not to-night. I have other weightier problems on my mind. I have been asked to solve the campus mystery." "Campus mystery!" exclaimed several voices. "What is it?" "Walk to the extreme northern end of the campus, then go east one hundred and fifty paces and you will come face to face with the problem," was Elfreda's mystifying answer. "Oh, I know what you mean," cried Sara Emerson. "The ground has been broken there for some kind of building. We noticed it day before yesterday." "Right, my child," commended Elfreda patronizingly, "and therein lies the mystery. I have prowled about the vicinity at odd moments ever since the men began working there, but even my powers of penetration have failed." "Since your curiosity has reached such a height, why don't you ask Miss Wilder to tell you the whys and wherefores of this startling affair?" teased Emma Dean. "I never realized until now what a mysterious process digging a cellar is." "It isn't the process that's mysterious, it is the object of the process," declared Elfreda, with great dignity. "Not everyone 'can see' either," interposed Emma innocently. "The Briggs-Dean rapid-fire conversation team in an entirely new line of specialties," proclaimed Sara Emerson. "Secure front seats for the performance." "There isn't going to be any performance," flung back Emma. "This is merely a friendly chat, but it ends here and now. I don't propose to court publicity. Come on, Sherlock, let us hie us to the lemonade bowl away from this madding crowd." Sherlock offered his free arm--his memoirs were securely tucked under the other--and strolled nonchalantly toward the punch bowl, looking as though he were towing an animated rag-bag. "Doesn't Emma Dean look too ridiculous for words?" laughed Arline Thayer to Grace. "'Never too late to mend,'" quoted Grace. "I wonder how she ever happened to hit upon the idea. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?" "Emma Dean? One of the nicest girls at Overton." Arline spoke with enthusiasm. "When I came to Morton House as a freshman, Emma was there, too. I had the most appalling case of the blues, for I didn't for one moment believe that I should ever like college. Emma had the next room to mine. She was so cheerful and said such funny things that I forgot all about my blues." "I never knew she had lived at Morton House," said Grace in surprise. "She was there just two weeks," continued Arline. "Then a freshman, who was an old friend of the Dean family, wanted Emma to room with her at Wayne Hall, and so she left Morton House and has been at the Hall ever since." "Your loss was our gain," replied Grace. "We couldn't do without Emma at Wayne Hall. She and Elfreda are the life of the house." Arline smiled to herself. Elfreda and Emma might fill their own particular niches in Wayne Hall, but there was only one Grace Harlowe. "How I shall miss you, Grace," she said with sudden irrelevance to the subject of Emma. "I shall miss you more than any other girl in college, except Ruth, when I go to New York for good and all." "I forbid you to mention the subject," cried Grace, her fine face clouding. "We mustn't even think of it. Oh, listen, Arline! The orchestra has begun that Strauss waltz I like so well. I'm going to put these clumsy old andirons over in the corner; then we'll dance and forget that we are seniors and must pay the penalty." It was almost twelve o'clock when the Famous Fiction dance came to a triumphant end, and the illustrious book heroes and heroines wended their midnight way toward their various houses and boarding places. The Wayne Hall girls marched across the campus, Emma Dean parading ahead with outspread arms, her rags flapping about her, giving her the appearance of a scarecrow which had just emerged from a farmer's cornfield. "There it is! There lies the mystery!" cried Elfreda, pointing toward the northern end of the campus, where considerable headway had been made in digging what appeared to be the cellar of a house. "But Sherlock will unravel the tangled skein!" "Don't be so noisy!" cautioned Miriam Nesbit. "The real Sherlock wasn't." "To-morrow will tell the tale," went on Elfreda unabashed, but in a slightly lower key. "First, I shall spy upon the workmen, then I shall collect samples of campus soil and spend the rest of the day deducing." "I hope you won't overwork," was Emma's solicitous comment. "While you are about it you might deduce the identity of 'Peter Rabbit.' I confess I am curious to know who wore Peter's blue jacket and why she disappeared so suddenly." "So am I," declared Grace. "We must try to find out, too." As the merry little party tramped upstairs to their rooms, Grace felt a hand on her shoulder. "Do you really want to know who 'Peter Rabbit' was?" whispered Elfreda. "Yes," breathed Grace. "Then don't tell the girls. It was Kathleen." "Why didn't she unmask with the rest of us?" demanded Grace, as they reached the head of the stairs. "Why didn't she?" repeated Elfreda. "I'll tell you why. She didn't wish any of us to know who she was. Can't you see? She wanted to be one of the crowd and she was afraid the girls wouldn't take kindly to her. She is beginning to feel that she would like to be liked, and," Elfreda raised one hand, her index finger pointing upward, "'There is hope.'" CHAPTER XXI WHO WILL WIN THE HONOR PIN? After the Famous Fiction masquerade a noticeable lull in social activities at Overton ensued. Except for basketball, which always flourished between midyear and Easter, little occurred to break the studious wave that swept over the college. There was one topic, however, that furnished food for endless discussion, and that was the senior play contest. In the beginning a goodly number of girls had entered the lists, imagining that to write a play was an extremely simple matter. After two or three feeble attempts at writing, the majority of them had given up in disgust, and from all that could be learned there were less than twenty contestants who had persevered. The decision of the judges was to be reserved until after the beginning of the spring term, but the contest closed the Tuesday before the Easter holiday began, and it had been stipulated in the rules that all manuscripts must be in the hands of the judges on, or previous to, that time. As far as was known, no one from Wayne Hall, save Kathleen West and Elfreda, had entered the contest, and even Patience Eliot was not sure that Kathleen had finished and submitted her play. Several times Patience endeavored adroitly to lead up to the subject, but Kathleen invariably turned the conversation into other channels. "Patience can't find out whether or not Kathleen West entered the contest," observed Grace. A week had passed since the beginning of the spring term, and Miriam, Elfreda, Grace and Anne were strolling across the campus enjoying the tender beauty of a late April day. [Illustration: The Four Friends Were Strolling Across the Campus.] "I imagine she did," said Miriam. "I have an idea she is likely to win, too. I can appreciate her ability if I can't wax enthusiastic over her disposition." "I am so tired of being asked what my play was about," declared Anne. "Everyone seems to take it for granted that I wrote one. I only wish I were clever enough to write a play or even a sketch." "The announcement is to be made to-morrow isn't it?" asked Miriam. Grace nodded. "Miss Duncan told me yesterday that there had been only fourteen manuscripts handed in. She said at least five of them were really clever. She and the other judges were to meet last night to talk over the matter and make their final decision. It is to be announced at five o'clock to-morrow afternoon in the gymnasium. Didn't you see the notice on the big bulletin board this morning?" "The girl who wins will stand a chance of having her head completely turned," said Miriam. "If she is a senior, her class will bankrupt themselves entertaining her, and if she belongs to one of the other classes, her own class will probably prostrate themselves at her feet in a body, not to mention the general adulation that is bound to come to the winner." "Then I hope I win," was Elfreda's calm statement. "I know I won't, because my play was a comedy, and, besides, I know some one else whose idea for a play was a hundred times better than mine." "Who is it?" The question came simultaneously from Miriam and Grace. Elfreda shook her head. "I won't say. The person made me promise I wouldn't tell." "Then we aren't curious to know," said Grace promptly. "Forget that we asked you." "Oh, that's all right," assured Elfreda. "You'll know soon enough if she wins the honor." "What are the latest developments in the campus mystery, Professor Holmes?" laughed Grace. "There aren't any," responded Elfreda, shrugging her shoulders. "I found what I supposed to be a clue, and, careful investigator that I am, ran it down, but it led to nothing. However, I haven't given up. I'll solve the problem yet. The noble name of Briggs shall never be associated with failure." "Any time before commencement, Elfreda," jeered Miriam. "You might keep it as a parting surprise. We shall need something to help bolster up our courage on that last day when the air is rent with good-byes." "That isn't a bad idea," commented Elfreda. "Perhaps I will. I wish to-morrow were here. I am more anxious to know who won the honor prize than I am to discover who is responsible for our mysterious campus house." "What are you girls going to do this evening?" asked Grace, as they reached Wayne Hall and seated themselves on the veranda for a few minutes' further chat before going upstairs to get ready for dinner. "I am going to see Ruth and Arline to-night," announced Anne. "Will you girls go with me?" "I can't," said Miriam regretfully. "I have letters to write." "I'll go," agreed Grace. Elfreda alone was silent. "And what has J. Elfreda Briggs on her mind?" questioned Anne. "I can't go. I have another little investigation to pursue," said Elfreda pompously. "If it turns out well, I may have something to tell you girls." But that night, when the four chums gathered in Grace's room for a brief social session before retiring, Elfreda shook her head soberly when reminded of her partial promise. "I am sorry, but I didn't say positively that I'd tell you." "Then it didn't turn out well?" from Miriam. "No," replied Elfreda shortly, "it didn't." Three pairs of eyes were fixed inquiringly upon Elfreda. "I didn't promise to tell you anything, you know," she reminded bluntly. "We are well aware of that fact, my dear Miss Briggs," laughed Miriam, "but we would appreciate your confidence, and having aroused our curiosity you ought to do something to satisfy it." "All right, I'll tell you," decided Elfreda. "I purposely waylaid Kathleen West as she was going out of the house to-night and walked as far as the library with her. I could see she wasn't yearning for my company, but I wanted to tell her that I knew she was 'Peter Rabbit' at the dance. Well, I told her," continued Elfreda grimly, "but I had hard work doing it. She talked about everything under the sun and wouldn't give me a chance to say a word. And how she did walk! But I kept up with her. I could see she wanted to get away from me. I told her just as we reached the library steps." Elfreda paused. "Well, what did she say?" asked Grace almost impatiently. "She said 'good night' and ran up the library steps like a flash. I don't know whether she was angry or not. I can't see why she should be." "Here is something at last that Elfreda can't see," murmured Miriam. "I can see that it will be a long time before I tell you girls anything again," retorted Elfreda, but her smiling face belied her brusque words. CHAPTER XXII KATHLEEN'S GREAT MOMENT By five o'clock the following afternoon the greater part of the students of Overton College had assembled in the gymnasium to learn who had won the honor pin. Every pair of eyes was fixed upon Dr. Hepburn as he rose from his seat on the platform and faced the gathering of expectant students who were eagerly awaiting his announcement. "It is with the sincerest pleasure that I rise, this afternoon, to announce that, after due consideration, the judges appointed by the senior class play committee to pass judgment upon the plays submitted have decided in favor of the morality play submitted by Miss Kathleen West, entitled 'Loyalheart; Her Four Years' Pilgrimage.' It is, perhaps, the most notable manuscript of its kind that has come within the notice of any member of the committee during a period covering a number of years," continued Dr. Hepburn, "and Miss West is to be congratulated on the merit of her remarkable literary effort. I have also been requested to say that, in the opinion of the judges, the comedy entitled 'A Quiet Vacation,' by Miss J. Elfreda Briggs, was the second choice of the committee." For an instant after Dr. Hepburn ceased speaking a deep stillness pervaded the gymnasium, then from all sides rose cries of "Kathleen West! Elfreda Briggs! Speech! speech!" Dr. Hepburn raised his hand for silence, and when quiet had been restored he said, "If Miss Briggs and Miss West are present, will they kindly come to the platform?" Already Elfreda's three friends were urging her forward. From far back in the gymnasium a little figure was seen to separate itself from its fellows and come hesitatingly forward. When Kathleen West reached the platform and faced her audience she eyed them composedly, although her face grew very white; then she began speaking in a clear, resonant voice: "I thank you for the honor you have conferred upon me," she said, bowing to the committee, "and to you," she bowed to her audience, "for your tribute of appreciation. I should like to say that in creating the character of 'Loyalheart' I have not drawn upon my fancy, and I know that the many lovable qualities with which I have endowed my heroine are to be found in the girl who served as my inspiration. I refer to Miss Grace Harlowe, of the senior class, whom I consider the ideal Overton girl." Kathleen's voice trembled slightly on the last sentence. Then she walked quickly down the aisle, accompanied by a burst of applause that made the great room ring. Grace had listened to Kathleen's little speech with unbelieving ears. Could this be the antagonistic Kathleen West of a few weeks ago? What had wrought this marvelous and unlooked-for change? That Elfreda had won second honors had been forgotten. The attention of the students were focused on Kathleen. Now repeated calls for "Harlowe! Grace Harlowe!" sounded. Emma Dean and Arline escorted her to the platform. "I thank Miss West for the honor she has done me, and I thank all of you," she said with a sweet seriousness that went straight to her hearers' hearts. "Although I am afraid I can't lay claim to the splendid qualities Miss West has attributed to me, the knowledge that she has thought me worthy is doubly dear." Then Grace hurried to her place very near to tears, while Miriam affectionately pressed her arm on one side and Anne, on the other, slipped her hand into that of her friend, and thus the three listened to Elfreda's speech. "That's about the most satisfactory general meeting I ever attended," remarked Emma Dean in Miriam's ear as they stepped outside to the campus, where groups of girls had halted with a view to hailing their respective friends as they passed. "I was never more astonished in my life," returned Miriam, in guarded tones. "As for Elfreda, she can't believe that she won second honors. She insists there must have been a mistake." "It was a general all-around surprise, I believe," confided Emma. "I never dreamed that Kathleen West entertained any such feeling for Grace, and I don't imagine any one else did, either. When is the honor prize to be presented to her?" "On the night of the play. Now that it is all settled, the play committee had better bestir themselves." "You are on the play committee, aren't you?" asked Emma innocently. "You needn't remind me of it," laughed Miriam. "I hadn't forgotten it, and it is plain to be seen that you hadn't. Elfreda, Anne and Ruth Denton are on it, too. Here comes Elfreda, surrounded by an admiring throng. Genius will out. I knew she would do something extraordinarily clever before she wound up her college career." "We can't find Kathleen West!" exclaimed Elfreda. "She slipped out of the gymnasium so quietly that no one realized she had gone. We are going over to Wayne Hall after her." "Where is Grace?" asked Miriam irrelevantly. Elfreda made a quick, comprehensive survey of the various groups of girls. "Why, I don't see her. She was here----" Something in Miriam's expression caused her to eye her roommate sharply. Miriam shook her head almost imperceptibly. "That's so," returned Elfreda in a low tone. "You never forget anything, do you, Miriam? I will tell the girls to postpone rushing Kathleen until to-night." Turning to the crowd of girls, who had been too busy talking to notice what had passed between her and Miriam, Elfreda said easily: "Suppose we wait until this evening after dinner, girls. Meet me at the corner below Wayne Hall at half-past seven o'clock and we will call on Kathleen and Grace. Miriam will engage to keep them in the house and we'll have ice cream and cake afterward." Elfreda's suggestion was well received, and solemnly winking at Miriam, she pursued her triumphal journey across the campus, quite surrounded by her admiring bodyguard. But while her friends were discussing the outcome of the play, Kathleen West, J. Elfreda and Grace, the last named young woman was speeding across the campus toward Wayne Hall. As she was about to return to her place among her friends, after making her speech, her alert eyes had seen a small, familiar figure edge toward the side door of the gymnasium, then disappear. Grace surmised that Kathleen had gone directly to Wayne Hall, and without hesitating she hurried after her. But another person had also marked Kathleen's flight, for as Grace ran up the steps of the hall she heard a rush of footsteps behind her, and, turning her head to see who was following her, stopped short, exclaiming, "I might have known that you would be the first to go to her, Patience!" "That is just what I was thinking of you," smiled Patience. "But you must go first. Wasn't it the most astounding announcement you ever heard. I am not surprised at her winning the honor pin. It is her change of heart that astonishes me. I realized that she had improved, but I never heard of anything like this. I suspect Elfreda Briggs knows more about this miracle than she will admit. I overheard her talking to Kathleen one night. I didn't mean to listen. I was just about to enter the room when I heard something Elfreda said and hurried off as fast as I could go." "I think Elfreda had a hand in it, too," said Grace, with shining eyes. "What a glorious success she has made of her four years. Now, one of us must go to Kathleen." "You go," insisted Patience. "I'll drop in later." Grace went into the house and upstairs, hardly knowing what to do or say. She knocked gently on Kathleen's door, then at sound of a muffled "Come," turned the knob and stepped inside. Kathleen had thrown herself face downward upon her couch, her face buried in the cushions. Without raising her head, she faltered, "Is it you, Grace?" "Yes," answered Grace softly, as she approached the couch on which Kathleen lay. "I knew you would come--you and Patience." "Patience is downstairs," returned Grace. "She will be here soon." Kathleen raised herself to a sitting posture. Her eyes were very bright. There was no sign of tears in them. "Grace, can you ever forgive me for all the trouble I have caused you?" she asked solemnly. "Of course I can, Kathleen," replied Grace, slipping down on the couch beside Kathleen and placing her arm about the slender shoulders of the newspaper girl. "You are not the only one at fault. I blame myself for a great many things that happened. If we had only known that you wished to be in the circus. We never thought of slighting you, Kathleen." "I know it now," rejoined Kathleen sadly, "but I was furious with you at the time. Then, too, I had made up my mind not to like you. I thought you priggish and narrow-minded. I didn't understand college in the least. I was ready to ride over every Overton tradition for the sake of having my own way. Patience was the first to show me where I stood, and I tried to see matters from her standpoint. Then came the temptation to publish that 'Larry, the Locksmith' story, and you know the rest. "Elfreda Briggs was the one who brought me to my first realization of college spirit. She had been watching me all year and discovered that I was unhappy. She marched into my room one night and found me crying. When she left me I was happier than I had been for months. She had shown me the way to atone for some of the mischief I had made. It was she who gave me the idea for the play. I had begun a play, then had destroyed it, resolving to have nothing more to do with the contest. After Elfreda and I had our talk I began again and I wrote 'Loyalheart.' After the Famous Fiction Dance Elfreda came to me again. She was determined to help me." Grace's face grew radiant when Kathleen told of Elfreda's part in the affair. A great wave of love and tenderness for the one-time stout girl, who had begun her college life at such a disadvantage, swept over her. "Dear old J. Elfreda," she murmured. "What a wonder she is!" "But there is one thing I haven't yet told you," said Kathleen. "You are to create the role of 'Loyalheart' in my play. You mustn't refuse. It was written for you, and no one else could possibly play it. Elfreda is going to arrange that part of it with the play committee. Please don't refuse. If you only knew how much it means to me." Kathleen's eyes were fixed appealingly upon Grace. "I won't refuse," was Grace's gentle answer. "I'll do it just to please you and to cement our life-long friendship." The two girls had risen now, and stood facing each other. Then their hands met in a silent pledge of friendship that was to prove faithful to the end. * * * * * Loyalheart stepped into life on the fifth Friday evening after Easter and for two hours and a half her adoring audience of Overton students hung on her slightest word or gesture. From the moment in which Loyalheart left Haven Home on her Four Years' Pilgrimage she ceased to exist as Grace Harlowe, merging her personality entirely in that of the beautiful allegorical character she was portraying. The play itself was in four acts, each representing one of the four college years. Written in the form of an allegory, it partook of the nature of a morality play and told the story of Loyalheart's eventful pilgrimage through the Land of College, accompanied by her faithful friends, Honor, Forbearance, Silence and Good Humor. Her heroic efforts to keep her four friends with her in spite of the plots of Snobbery, Gossip, Jealousy, Frivolity and Treachery, and her readiness to extend a helping hand to Diffidence, Poverty and Misunderstood, result in the creation of an illusive being known to her only as the Spirit, a white-robed apparition which visits her more frequently as she approaches the end of her pilgrimage. At the termination of Senior Lane, which is separated from the Highway of Life by the Gate of Commencement, the Spirit, clothed in glittering raiment, appears to Loyalheart, and she learns that in helping others and clinging to her ideals she has fostered and nurtured to radiant growth none other than the fabled College Spirit which she has ardently striven to recognize and possess. Greatly to her delight, Emma Dean had been asked to play the part of the Spirit, and exhibited real histrionic ability in the role. As Loyalheart, Grace, who, day after day, had been painstakingly coached by Anne, left nothing to be desired in her portrayal of the role assigned to her. Ruth Denton, Gertrude Wells, and Miriam Nesbit, respectively, enacted the roles of Honor, Forbearance and Silence, while Elfreda insisted on playing Good Humor, and was greeted with appreciative laughter whenever she appeared. The play was written in blank verse, and many of the passages were extremely beautiful. Loyalheart's farewell to Haven Home and the revelation of the Spirit to Loyalheart at the Highway of Life were particularly worthy of note. The speeches of Good Humor scintillated with wit, and the unpleasant characters in the play were peculiarly true to life. Grace took half a dozen curtain calls, and Kathleen West was also summoned before the curtain and publicly presented with the honor pin by President Morton. It was an evening long to be remembered, and the story of Loyalheart and her pilgrimage was destined to remain in the minds of the Overton girls for many a day. It was after eleven o 'clock when a very tired Loyalheart went forth on a pilgrimage to Wayne Hall, accompanied by her equally loyal supporters, who were proudly bearing numerous floral offerings which had been handed to Grace over the footlights. "I am so tired," she sighed, "but so happy. It was a beautiful play, wasn't it?" "And you were the nicest part of it," said Anne fondly. "Your portrayal of Loyalheart was wonderful." "And so was your coaching," retorted Grace, promptly. "It is far from early," remarked Elfreda in a suggestive tone, as they halted for a moment at the head of the stairs, "but we are all here, and I know how to make fruit punch. In fact, I got the stuff ready, thinking that it might be useful!" "We will be in your room within the next ten minutes," said Grace decisively. "Such hospitality is not met with every day." True to her word, ten minutes later she and Anne were seated on the foot of Elfreda's bed, kimono clad and smiling, while Elfreda labored with the fruit punch. Kathleen West and Patience Eliot, who had also been invited to the punch party, were seated on cushions on the floor. Suddenly the soft tinkle of a mandolin sounded under the window, then a chorus of fresh young voices sang softly: "Come, tune your lyre to Kathleen West, Of all the plays hers is the best; Long may she shine, long may she wave, Her shrine we deck with garlands brave; May Fortune bring her world renown-- To Kathleen West, girls, drink her down." "How perfectly sweet in them!" exclaimed Kathleen, her color rising. "Hush!" Miriam held up her finger. "Dear Loyalheart, we sing to you, O girl so brave and sweet and true, May life to you be wondrous kind, And may you all its treasures find; May skies ne'er threaten you, nor frown-- To Loyalheart, girls, drink her down." Owing to the lateness of the play no one at Wayne Hall had had time to retire, and, hearing the music, the girls had with one accord hurried to the windows. "Come on up, Gertrude," called Grace into the soft darkness. "I know your voice. How on earth did you get out of your costume, go home for your mandolin and manage to land under Miriam's and Elfreda's window, all within half an hour?" "That's easy. We brought our instruments of torture with us to the play, and Elfreda agreed to have you girls in her room at the time appointed." "There is fruit punch enough to go round, and dozens of cakes," observed an ingratiating voice over Grace's shoulder. "We had several more verses to sing, and one for you, Elfreda. If you will ask Mrs. Elwood's permission, we will come up, sing them and incidentally sample the punch and the cakes," stipulated Gertrude. There were seven girls in the party of serenaders--Gertrude, Arline, Ruth Denton, the Emerson twins, Elizabeth Wade and Marian Cummings. When the last cake had disappeared and the punch was almost gone, the serenading party sang the rest of their verses and departed gayly, yet in spite of their gayety there lurked in each heart the shadow of the parting that was to come all too soon. CHAPTER XXIII GRACE FINDS HER WORK Commencement day dawned smilingly, as though anxious to contribute to the happiness of the four chums by putting on its most sunshiny face. A cool breeze swept across the campus, and, according to J. Elfreda Briggs, one didn't really mind being graduated on such a day. The hotels of Overton were well filled with friends and relatives of the graduates. The Southards, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Pierson and her daughter Mary, together with Mrs. Allison, Mabel and the remainder of the Eight Originals Plus Two had been staying at the "Tourraine" for the past two days. Elfreda's father and mother had also arrived and were staying at the "Wilton," an old-fashioned hotel near the campus. The four chums found it somewhat of a problem to divide their time equally among their classmates, friends and families. During those last days their opportunities for confidential talks came only at the end of the evening, when, having bade a round of affectionate good-nights, they spent a few moments in either Grace's or Miriam's room before retiring. "I feel at least a hundred years old to-day," announced J. Elfreda Briggs, as she stood arranging her hair before the mirror preparatory to putting on her cap and gown. "Yes, you look quite like some grand old ruin," observed Miriam soberly, as she unearthed her slippers from the depths of her closet and hunted vainly about for a shoe horn. Elfreda laid her comb on the dressing table, grinned her appreciation of this pleasantry, then, giving her smoothly coiffed hair a last pat, reached for her cap. "I am so glad I can wear black without looking like a funeral procession," she observed. "Hurry, girls," sounded Grace's clear tones outside their door. "It is time we were on our way." "Coming," called Miriam, springing from the edge of the bed, where she had sat to put on her slippers, and hastily adjusting her cap. In the next instant the four friends accompanied by Emma Dean were hurrying across the campus to the gymnasium, where the senior class were to meet, then proceed in a body to the chapel, where the commencement exercises were to be held. The little procession of seniors walked two by two to the chapel, and to Grace, who walked with Anne, it seemed the most wonderful moment of her life. She marked the calm, almost exalted expression which Anne wore. Elfreda and Miriam, looking very stately in their black gowns, were just ahead of her and Anne, while Arline and Ruth Denton were directly behind them. As they walked sedately down the aisle of the chapel to the places reserved for them, Grace's eyes searched the rows of seats for her father and mother, whom she spied when almost opposite them. Just as she passed their row she managed to send one tender little glance to them, which caused their faces to glow with pride as their fond eyes followed the straight, supple figure of their daughter who had so amply fulfilled their expectations. The exercises, while impressive to the friends of the graduates, were doubly so to the graduates themselves, who were deeply conscious of the fact that their diplomas were their passports into the real world of work and endeavor that was now about to open before them. At the conclusion of the exercises the usual gifts and endowments to the college were announced. Among them was Thomas Redfield's annual gift to the Semper Fidelis Club, which brought forth a quick tribute of applause from the seniors, which was seconded by the entire assemblage. "And lastly allow me to mention the latest and one of the most acceptable gifts ever bestowed upon the college," stated President Morton. Grace bowed her head. She had reached the very end of Senior Lane. A few moments and her college life would be over. She had finished her course. She had kept faith with herself, and now there remained the wide world and her work, whatever that might be. Her reflections were brought to an abrupt end by what President Morton was saying. She raised her head in sudden amazement. "I refer to the newly completed house at the northern end of the campus," she heard, "presented to Overton and endowed by Mrs. Rose Gray as a mark of appreciation of her young friends, Grace Harlowe, Miriam Nesbit and Anne Pierson. It is Mrs. Gray's wish that her gift to Overton College shall be known henceforth and forever as 'Harlowe House.'" Absolute silence reigned for an instant after this announcement, then the quiet chapel echoed with the applause of the enthusiastic assemblage. President Morton waited until he could make himself heard, then went on to explain more fully that Harlowe House was to be dedicated to the use of those girls who were making a struggle to acquire a college education. Then there was more applause, and Mrs. Gray was asked to address the graduates. "And to think," said Grace, as, a little later, she stood with Miriam, Anne and Elfreda outside the chapel, surrounded by those she loved, "that I know at last what my work is going to be." "But we don't know," reminded her father, almost wistfully. "There is only one thing for me to do," laughed Grace, her eyes shining, "and that is----" "Oh, I know," interposed Elfreda, "you're coming back to the campus to look after Harlowe House." "You could see that, couldn't you, Elfreda?" laughed Miriam. "How did you guess it?" asked Grace. "Yes, I should like to come back if Father and Mother can spare me." "The rest of her friends don't count," commented Hippy Wingate. "You know they do, Hippy," smiled Grace. "I must have the permission and good will of all of them if my work is to be a success." "You have your mother's and my full consent, Grace," said her father loyally. Grace made a little movement toward her parents, slipping in between them and catching a hand of each. "There is only one thing I can say, and I've said it hundreds of times before, You are the dearest father and mother a girl ever had." * * * * * It was rather a silent quartette that gathered for the last time in Grace's room that night. Emma Dean had left Overton on the evening train. So had Patience Eliot, Kathleen West and Laura Atkins. The sophomores of Wayne Hall had departed before commencement, and to-night the house was very quiet. "And to-morrow is another day," observed Elfreda. "So it is, my child," agreed Miriam, "but we shall spend it on the train." "Do you remember one day, ages ago, when Elfreda Briggs deposited her suit case on Grace Harlowe's feet and made herself comfortable. Wasn't I a vandal?" "Think what we all might have missed if we hadn't acquired a proprietary interest in Elfreda that day." "And now you can't lose me. There, that is the first slang I've used for months, and on commencement day, too." "Never mind, Elfreda. It is forcible at least. But we don't wish to lose you. You must keep your promise and come to Oakdale this summer." "I will," promised Elfreda; "and now suppose we have one last sad tea party." It was almost midnight before Miriam and Elfreda went softly down the oppressively quiet hall to their room. "Are you happy, Anne?" asked Grace, slipping her arm about her friend and drawing her to the window where, dark against the moonlit sky, rose the tower of Overton Hall. "Almost too happy for words, and yet I dread leaving Overton." "You must come back next year and visit me. I do hope I shall make a good house mother. Do you know, Anne, in my mind I've already picked out a motto to hang over my door. It is, 'Blessed are they that have found their work.'" CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION The full moon shone down with his broadest smile on the group of young people who occupied Mrs. Gray's roomy, old-fashioned veranda. "We're here because we're here," caroled Hippy Wingate, balancing himself on the edge of the porch rail, both arms outspread to show how successfully he could sit on the narrow railing without support. "You won't be 'here' very long," cautioned Miriam Nesbit. "You are likely to land in that rose bush just below you. It's a very thorny one, too. I know, because I tried to pull a rose from it only a little while ago. Remember, I have warned you." "Don't worry over me, Miriam," declared Hippy airily, pretending to lose his balance and recovering himself with an exaggerated jerk. "Oh, I am not worrying," retorted Miriam. "If _you_ fall backward into that rose bush it won't hurt _me_." "Did I say it would, my child?" asked Hippy serenely. "Don't answer him, Miriam," advised Nora. "He is like Tennyson's 'Brooklet,' he goes on forever." "How peaceful and quiet it was in Oakdale until yesterday," was Hippy's sorrowful comment. "'Gone are the days when my heart was light and gay,' etc." "It will be not merely a case of bygone days, but bygone Hippy as well," threatened David. "Reddy and I intend to defend our friends against your personal attacks." "I wasn't personal," beamed Hippy. "I didn't say anything about any one. I merely observed that since yesterday Oakdale had become a howling wilderness----" Hippy did not stop to finish his speech, but, nimbly dodging David and Reddy Brooks, who rose from the porch, determination written on their faces, bounded down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house. "He is the same Hippy who made life merry for us eight years ago when we were high school freshmen," smiled Grace. "He hasn't changed in the least." "None of my Christmas children have changed," was Mrs. Gray's fond retort. "Neither has our fairy godmother," reminded Anne. "I never feel grown up or responsible when we all gather home," said Jessica. "And yet Tom is on his first vacation from work, David and Reddy are rising young business men, and Hippy is studying law," reminded Grace. "Yes, but I don't like it," remarked a plaintive voice, as a fat face appeared around the corner of the porch. "I want to be a brakeman." It was impossible not to laugh at Hippy, and, encouraged by the merriment, he cautiously climbed the steps of the porch and returned to his precarious perch upon the railing. "I want to be a brakeman, And with the brakemen stay, I'd ride upon the choo-choo cars Through all the livelong day," he warbled, rocking backward and forward in time to his song. "Why don't you go down to the railroad yard and put in your application, then?" was Reddy's stolid advice. "If I intended to be a brakeman I wouldn't study law." "Alas! I am obliged to obey the wishes of my cruel parents," whined Hippy. "I am seriously contemplating wrapping a few little things in a handkerchief and leaving home forever. I remember once when I was very young and unsophisticated I decided upon this step. I was deeply incensed with Father because he had punished me for playing truant from school. I went upstairs to my room and packed three neckties, a boxing glove, two books, a baseball and a picture of myself in baseball clothes in a suit case. I carried the bat, and as a last precaution I took a toy pistol and my bank, which boasted of sixty-four cents. I started at about eight o'clock in the evening and went as far as the summer house at the lower end of our grounds. I sat down to rest, went to sleep and woke up about two o'clock in the morning. Then I discovered that I was afraid of the dark and didn't dare go even as far as the house. I crept into the summer house and stayed there until morning; then I went home, suit case and all. I managed to get into the house before any one else was up, but I decided there were worse places than home. However, if the brakeman aspiration proves too strong I may be obliged to leave home again. After all, it may be my vocation." "Hippy Wingate, when will you be sensible?" asked Nora O'Malley. "Never, I am afraid. You see, my associations tend to make me foolish. Birds of a feather, you know, and when one's intimate friends----" Hippy paused. "You understand I don't like to say that you in particular are responsible, but----" "I'll never forgive you for that," declared Nora. "Then that means that our engagement----" Hippy was not allowed to finish. A shout went up from the others, and he and Nora were surrounded. "Hippy, how could you?" The pink in Nora's cheeks deepened, but she did not deny his statement. "Nora, come here," commanded Mrs. Gray. Nora obeyed with a shyness entirely foreign to her. Putting her finger under Nora's rounded chin, Mrs. Gray looked smilingly into the piquant face. Then she drew the girl within her circling arm and kissed her. Grace, Miriam, Anne and Jessica followed suit. "Now it is your turn, Jessica and Reddy," said Nora pointedly. Jessica's pale face grew scarlet. She looked appealingly toward Reddy, who sat beside her, then they rose and, taking her hand in his, Reddy said with a world of affection in his voice, "Jessica has promised to marry me in the fall." Jessica and Reddy were immediately surrounded. "Will surprises never cease?" exclaimed Grace, regarding her betrothed friends with loving eyes. "Now I begin to believe that we have really grown up." "_You_ haven't," retorted Tom Gray in a low tone which Grace alone heard. "Give me a year or two in which to do my work, and perhaps I will," said Grace softly. "Do you really mean that, Grace?" asked Tom eagerly. "I think I do, Tom," hesitated Grace, "but I can't promise you what you wish, yet." "By the low, significant tones over in Grace's corner I imagine another engagement is about to be announced," remarked Hippy, grinning broadly. All eyes were immediately turned upon Grace and Tom. Grace met their gaze with a shake of her head. "No," she said, "Tom and I are not even engaged. I must be free to go back to Overton next year to do my work there. I must look after my house for one year at least." Tom's face clouded, but he said no more. David, too, was strangely silent. Anne had accepted an engagement to tour America with Everett Southard in Shakespearean roles the next season. Miss Southard was to accompany them on the tour. Still, David had the satisfaction of knowing that Anne loved him and that some day she would be his wife, although, like Grace, she would neither bind herself by a promise nor allow him to place his ring upon her finger. A little silence followed the announcement of the engagement of part of Mrs. Gray's Christmas children. Hippy had resumed his position on the railing, while Nora had slipped to the seat beside Grace, her hand in that of her friend. The little company of young people realized, to a person, that for them life was taking on a strange and earnest meaning, while Mrs. Gray, in spite of this garland of youth with which she delighted to beautify her latter days, felt very, very old. Suddenly the silence was rudely broken. Hippy, who was more embarrassed than he cared to indicate, leaned too far back and lost his balance. There was a horrified gasp, a pair of stout legs waved in the air, and Theophilus Hippopotamus Wingate, as he invariably styled himself, fulfilled Miriam's prediction to the letter, and crashed ignominiously into the prickly arms of the big rose bush. "There is no use in trying to be retrospective while Hippy is with us," declared Mrs. Gray when their mirth had subsided and Hippy had clambered to his feet. A long scratch ornamented one fat cheek and his hands showed the result of his fall among thorns. But his smile was as wide as ever. "Poor Hippy," sympathized Miriam. "I'm so sorry." "Then stop laughing," retorted Hippy. "Yes, I'm sorry--for the rosebush," jeered Reddy. Those who have learned to look upon Grace Harlowe and her companions as friends of old standing will meet her again in the near future. In "Grace Harlowe's Return to Overton Campus" they will find her at Harlowe House and learn just how successfully she carried on her chosen work. THE END. * * * * * HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY'S Best and Least Expensive Books for Boys and Girls The Motor Boat Club Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The keynote of these books is manliness. The stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. No boy will willingly lay down an unfinished book in this series. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC; Or, The Secret of Smugglers' Island. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET; Or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND; Or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS; Or, The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA; Or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT THE GOLDEN GATE; Or, A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB ON THE GREAT LAKES; Or, The Flying Dutchman of the Big Fresh Water. Battleship Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These stories throb with, the life of young Americans on today's huge drab Dreadnaughts. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS AT SEA; Or, Two Apprentices in Uncle Sam's Navy. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS' FIRST STEP UPWARD; Or, Winning Their Grades as Petty Officers. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN FOREIGN SERVICE; Or, Earning New Ratings in European Seas. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE TROPICS; Or, Upholding the American Flag in a Honduras Revolution. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE WARDROOM; Or, Winning their Commissions as Line Officers. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS WITH THE ADRIATIC CHASERS; Or, Blocking the Path of the Undersea Raiders. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS' SKY PATROL; Or, Fighting the Hun from above the Clouds. The Range and Grange Hustlers By FRANK GEE PATCHIN Have you any idea of the excitements, the glories of life or great ranches in the West? Any bright boy will "devour" the books of this series, once he has made a start with the first volume. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE RANCH; Or, The Boy Shepherds of the Great Divide. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS' GREATEST ROUND-UP; Or, Pitting Their Wits Against a Packers' Combine. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE PLAINS; Or, Following the Steam Plows Across the Prairie. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS AT CHICAGO; Or, The Conspiracy of the Wheat Pit. Submarine Boys Series By VICTOR G. DURHAM THE SUBMARINE BOYS ON DUTY; Or, Life on a Diving Torpedo Boat. THE SUBMARINE BOYS' TRIAL TRIP; Or, "Making Good" as Young Experts. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE MIDDIES; Or, The Prize Detail at Annapolis. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SPIES; Or, Dodging the Sharks of the Deep. THE SUBMARINE BOYS' LIGHTNING CRUISE; Or, The Young Kings of the Deep. THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG; Or, Deeding Their Lives to Uncle Sam. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SMUGGLERS; Or, Breaking Up the New Jersey Customs Frauds. Grace Harlowe Overseas Series GRACE HARLOWE OVERSEAS. GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE RED CROSS IN FRANCE. GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE MARINES AT CHATEAU THIERRY. GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE AMERICAN ARMY IN THE ARGONNE. The College Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. GRACE HARLOWE'S FIRST YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S THIRD YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S FOURTH YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S RETURN TO OVERTON CAMPUS. GRACE HARLOWE'S PROBLEM. GRACE HARLOWE'S GOLDEN SUMMER. Pony Rider Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These tales may be aptly described the best books for boys and girls. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ROCKIES; Or, The Secret of the Lost Claim. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN TEXAS; Or, The Veiled Riddle of the Plains. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA; Or, The Mystery of the Old Custer Trail. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS; Or, The Secret of Ruby Mountain. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI; Or, Finding a Key to the Desert Maze. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN NEW MEXICO; Or, The End of the Silver Trail. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, The Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch. The Boys of Steel Series By JAMES R. MEARS Each book presents vivid picture of this great industry. Each story is full of adventure and fascination. THE IRON BOYS IN THE MINES; Or, Starting at the Bottom of the Shaft. THE IRON BOYS AS FOREMEN; Or, Heading the Diamond Drill Shift. THE IRON BOYS ON THE ORE BOATS; Or, Roughing It on the Great Lakes. THE IRON BOYS IN THE STEEL MILLS; Or, Beginning Anew in the Cinder Pits. The Madge Morton Books By AMY D. V. CHALMERS MADGE MORTON-CAPTAIN OF THE MERRY MAID. MADGE MORTON'S SECRET. MADGE MORTON'S TRUST. MADGE MORTON'S VICTORY. West Point Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The principal characters in these narratives are manly, young Americans whose doings will inspire all boy readers. DICK PRESCOTT'S FIRST YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray. DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life. DICK PRESCOTT'S THIRD YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Standing Firm for Flag and Honor. DICK PRESCOTT'S FOURTH YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Ready to Drop the Gray for Shoulder Straps. Annapolis Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The Spirit of the new Navy is delightfully and truthfully depicted in these volumes. DAVE DARRIN'S FIRST YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Plebe Midshipmen at the U. S. Naval Academy. DAVE DARRIN'S SECOND YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Midshipmen as Naval Academy "Youngsters." DAVE DARRIN'S THIRD YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Leaders of the Second Class Midshipmen. DAVE DARRIN'S FOURTH YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Headed for Graduation and the Big Cruise. The Young Engineers Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The heroes of these stories are known to readers of the High School Boys Series. In this new series Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton prove worthy of all the traditions of Dick & Co. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN COLORADO; Or, At Railroad Building in Earnest. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA; Or, Laying Tracks on the "Man-Killer" Quicksand. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN NEVADA; Or, Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN MEXICO; Or, Fighting the Mine Swindlers. Boys of the Army Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK These books breathe the life and spirit of the United States Army of to-day, and the life, just as it is, is described by a master pen. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE RANKS; Or, Two Recruits in the United States Army. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS ON FIELD DUTY; Or, Winning Corporal's Chevrons. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS SERGEANTS; Or, Handling Their First Real Commands. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE PHILIPPINES; Or, Following the Flag Against the Moros. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS LIEUTENANTS; Or, Serving Old Glory as Line Officers. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS WITH PERSHING; Or, Dick Prescott at Grips with the Boche. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS SMASH THE GERMANS; Or, Winding Up the Great War. Dave Darrin Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK DAVE DARRIN AT VERA CRUZ; Or, Fighting With the U. S. Navy in Mexico. DAVE DARRIN ON MEDITERRANEAN SERVICE. DAVE DARRIN'S SOUTH AMERICAN CRUISE. DAVE DARRIN ON THE ASIATIC STATION. DAVE DARRIN AND THE GERMAN SUBMARINES. DAVE DARRIN AFTER THE MINE LAYERS; Or, Hitting the Enemy a Hard Naval Blow. The Meadow-Brook Girls Series By JANET ALDRIDGE THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS AFLOAT. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS IN THE HILLS. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS BY THE SEA. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ON THE TENNIS COURTS. High School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK In this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. Boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports. THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond. THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron. THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard. Grammar School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK This series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar School boys, comes near to the heart of the average American boy. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS OF GRIDLEY; Or, Dick & Co. Start Things Moving. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SNOWBOUND; Or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports. THE, GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN THE WOODS; Or, Dick & Co. Trail Fun and Knowledge. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER ATHLETICS; Or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure. High School Boys' Vacation Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK "Give us more Dick Prescott books!" This has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. Almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, and the other members of Dick & Co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. Boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB; Or, Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE; Or, Dick & Co. Making Themselves "Hard as Nails." The Circus Boys Series By EDGAR B. P. DARLINGTON Mr. Darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life. THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Making the Start in the Sawdust Life. THE CIRCUS BOYS ACROSS THE CONTINENT; Or, Winning New Laurels on the Tanbark. THE CIRCUS BOYS IN DIXIE LAND; Or, Winning the Plaudits of the Sunny South. THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI; Or, Afloat with the Big Show on the Big River. The High School Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. These breezy stories of the American High School Girl take the reader fairly by storm. GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshman Girls. GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics. GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, Fast Friends in the Sororities. GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Parting of the Ways. The Automobile Girls Series By LAURA DENT CRANE No girl's library--no family book-case can be considered at all complete unless it contains these sparkling twentieth-century books. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT NEWPORT; Or, Watching the Summer Parade. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES; Or, The Ghost of Lost Man's Trail. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT CHICAGO; Or, Winning Out Against Heavy Odds. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT PALM BEACH; Or, Proving Their Mettle Under Southern Skies. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT WASHINGTON; Or, Checkmating the Plots of Foreign Spies. 
20342	----	[Illustration: Their Dear, Too-brief Holiday was Drawing to a Close. Frontispiece.] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- GRACE HARLOWE'S PROBLEM By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. Author of The High School Girls Series, The College Girls Series, etc. PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY ----------------------------------------------------------------------- COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOWARD E. ALTEMUS. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THEIR GREATEST, DEAREST DAY 7 II. THE LAST FROLIC 22 III. PLANNING FOR THE FUTURE 29 IV. MILESTONES 39 V. THE LOCKED DOOR 48 VI. A CLUB MEETING AND A MYSTERY 61 VII. HER OWN WAY 74 VIII. ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK 81 IX. WHAT EVELYN HEARD ON THE CAMPUS 93 X. LAYING THE CORNERSTONE OF A HOUSE OF TROUBLE 102 XI. THANKSGIVING WITH THE NESBITS 110 XII. MISSING--A FRIEND 123 XIII. A DISTURBING CONFIDENCE 133 XIV. THE RETURN OF THE CHRISTMAS CHILDREN 141 XV. THE NEW YEAR'S WEDDING 153 XVI. THE LAST WORD 163 XVII. THE SUMMONS 170 XVIII. THE BLOTTED ESCUTCHEON 182 XIX. THE SWORD OF SUSPENSE 194 XX. THE AWAKENING 204 XXI. KATHLEEN WEST MAKES A PROMISE 213 XXII. FIGHTING LOYALHEART'S BATTLE 222 XXIII. GRACE SOLVES HER PROBLEM 230 XXIV. THE BOND ETERNAL 249 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- GRACE HARLOWE'S PROBLEM CHAPTER I THEIR GREATEST, DEAREST DAY "And at this time next week we'll all be back at work," sighed Arline Thayer. "Not that I love work less, but the Sempers more," she paraphrased half apologetically. "It's been so perfectly splendid to gather home, and Elfreda was a darling to plan and carry out such a----" "Noble enterprise," drawled Emma Dean. "Behold in me a living witness to the truth of it. Before this time, when, oh, when, has this particular scion of the house of Dean had a chance to play in the nice clean sand and bathe in the nice green ocean? It is green, isn't it, Grace? Elfreda says it's blue, and those terrible, tiresome, troublesome twins say it's gray, but I say----" A shower of small pebbles, cast with commendable accuracy, rained down on Emma. Raising herself on her elbows from her recumbent position in the sand, she looked reproachful surprise at the Emerson twins who, crouched in the sand and holding a fresh supply of pebbles in readiness, awaited her next remark. "There," she declared calmly, "that simply proves the truth of my remark about terrible, tiresome, troublesome twins." Two slim blue figures dropped their pebbles, descended upon the protesting Emma, and dragged her across the sand toward the water. "Are we tiresome?" demanded Sara sternly, as she and Sue, still clutching Emma, paused for breath. "Are we troublesome?" from Julia. "Not a bit of it," Emma blandly assured them. "I said it only for the sake of alliteration. You are the most interesting persons I've ever met. I am so sorry I said you weren't, and I'm so nice and comfortable now. I hadn't thought of doing any further water stunts to-day." She struggled to a sitting posture and beamed with owlish significance upon her captors. "All right, we'll excuse you this time, but, hereafter, keep away from alliteration," warned Sara. "Until next time," chuckled Emma, scrambling to her feet. Graciously offering an arm to each twin, the trio strolled calmly back to the gay little party of girls on the sands. It was a clear, sunshiny morning in early September and nine young women had taken advantage of the ocean's placid, dimpled mood for an early morning dip. For two weeks the Semper Fidelis Club, or, rather, nine of that most delightful organization of Grace Harlowe's early college days, had been holding a reunion at the Briggs' cottage, which was situated on the New Jersey coast, not far from Wildwood, a well-known summer resort. It had all begun with Elfreda's undeniable yearning to see her friends. Being a young person of energy, she immediately wrote, and sent forth on their mission, funny invitations that were a virtual command to the Sempers to gather at the Briggs' cottage for a two weeks' reunion, and only three of the club had been unable to accept. To those who have known Grace Harlowe from the beginning of her high-school life she has now, without doubt, become a personal friend. "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School" recorded her sayings and doings as well as those of her three friends, Nora O'Malley, Jessica Bright and Anne Pierson during their student days at Oakdale High School. When the girl chums parted in the autumn following their high-school graduation, Nora and Jessica went together to an eastern conservatory of music, while Grace and Anne decided for Overton College and added to their number no less person than Miriam Nesbit, a schoolmate and friend. On their first day at Overton circumstance, or perhaps fate, had brought J. Elfreda Briggs, a somewhat officious freshman, to the trio, and from a hardly agreeable stranger J. Elfreda became their devoted friend. During "Grace Harlowe's First Year At Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College," and "Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College," the four girls passed through many new experiences, not always entirely pleasant, but which served only as a spur to their ambition to gain true college spirit, and were graduated from Overton at the end of their four years' course, more than ever the loyal children of Overton, their Alma Mater. The building of a specially endowed home for self-supporting girls who were trying to gain a college education, presented to Overton College, by Mrs. Gray, in honor of Grace Harlowe, Anne Pierson and Miriam Nesbit, and named Harlowe House, decided Grace as to what her future work would be. In "Grace Harlowe's Return To Overton Campus" appears the story of her first year at Harlowe House. And now the dear, too brief holiday was drawing to a close. To-morrow would see the house party scattered to the four winds. This was the last frolic they would have in the water. "Oh, dear," lamented Arline, her blue eyes mournful with regret, "why is it that perfectly lovely times go by like a flash, while horrid, disagreeable ones last forever?" "'Tis the way of life, my child. 'It is not always May,'" quoted Emma sentimentally. "I might as well add, right here and now, that I'm glad of it. May is a dubious and disappointing month, dears. It always pours barrels on the first. It's a shame, too, when one stops to consider all the poems that have been composed about that weepy, fickle first day of May. "Oh, radiant May day, This is our play day. Youth is in its hey day; Hail we this gay day; Park clouds away day. "And then down comes the rain and spoils it all," finished the versifier, lapsing into prose. Emma's improvisation was greeted with laughter. "It sounds just about as sensible as a whole lot of those old English verses," declared Elfreda, who was not fond of poetry. "It was a deadly insult to English verse," defended Anne Pierson with twinkling eyes. "You can't expect me to let it pass unnoticed." "Having been fed as a babe on Shakespeare," agreed Emma, "I will admit that it gives you some room for criticism, but as a dutiful teacher of English I feel it entirely within my province to break forth occasionally into such English ditties as happen to come to my mind, regardless of Shakespeare." "Oh, do say another," begged the Emerson twins. They especially delighted in Emma's poetical outbursts. "Nothing comes to my mind," averred Emma solemnly. "Wait until the spirit moves me." "I wish something would come to your minds about how we are to spend the rest of the day," put in Elfreda, with her usual briskness. "It isn't ten o'clock yet, and we've had our breakfast and our swim. Let's get together and decide now. Remember this is our greatest, dearest day. We specially reserved it. So we ought to make the most of it." "I'm _so_ glad we packed most of our things last night," commented Arline, with satisfaction. "Girls," Grace was the first to make a suggestion, "it's such a delightful day, wouldn't you like to go picnicking at the edge of those woods we passed the other day when we were driving? Don't you remember how pretty the country was? There was a brook and long green hills sloping down to it." "Grace Harlowe!" exclaimed Elfreda, her eyes very round. "You must be a mind reader, for that's precisely what I've been thinking about all morning. I'm so glad you proposed it. What do you say, girls? How about a picnic?" There was a ringing assent on the part of the others. "I hardly thought you would care much about going down to Wildwood for a dance," continued Elfreda. "Somehow when we go to hops we are sure to separate and not see much of each other until we're going home. What's the use in having a reunion if the reunionists don't reunite. I guess I'm selfish, but I can't help it." "No, you're not, J. Elfreda," laughed Miriam, laying her hand on her friend's shoulder. "That's the way I feel, too. We can go to plenty of hops after we have each gone our separate way, but we can't have one another. Besides, what is _anything_ in the way of amusement compared to a Semper reunion?" "Now you're talking," commended Emma, with an encouraging flourish of her hand. She had been busily scooping up the white sand as she listened to her friends' conversation. Now she took a fresh handful and let it fall gently into the open space between the back of Sara Emerson's neck and her bathing suit. Sara, leaning interestedly forward, was an opportunity not to be disregarded. "O-o-o-o," wailed the wriggling twin. "Why, Sara, whatever _is_ the matter?" inquired Emma with such exaggerated solicitude that the victim laughed in spite of herself. "Some ill-natured persons threw pebbles at _me_ a while ago, but I remained calm. That is, until I was dragged across the sand in a brutal manner, and had to beg for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Even then I was a credit to Overton and the Sempers. I neither writhed nor howled." "Well, we're even now," declared Sara. "I'll foreswear pebbles if you'll abolish the sand habit." "I have always liked to look at Emma from a distance," said Julia Emerson, hastily sliding to the extreme edge of the group. "Listen, ye babblers," called Elfreda, "to the voice of the oracle. Let's leave old Father Ocean to himself and get into our everyday clothes. If we are going on a picnic, we'd better start. We can be on our way in an hour from now, if we hurry. To-night after dinner we'll all take a last melancholy stroll down here to find out what the wild waves are saying." "Wild waves," jeered Emma Dean. "Did you ever see the ocean smile more sweetly, the deceitful old thing. When one stops to think of the ships and people it gobbles up every year one feels like cutting its acquaintance." "It is the greatest of all mysteries," said Arline Thayer, her eyes fixed dreamily on the limitless expanse of water. "And I, in my Sphinx costume, am next," reminded Emma modestly. Emma's placid manner of classing together the ocean and a fancy costume she had worn at a Semper Fidelis bazaar was received with the delight that always attended her astonishing sallies. "Come on, children," Grace rose from the sand, looking slim, almost immature, in her dark blue bathing suit. With her fair skin, which neither tanned nor sunburned, and her radiant gray eyes, she fully carried out that look of extreme youth which her friends were wont frequently to comment on. In obedience to her call the girls scrambled to their feet and strolled toward the Briggs' cottage, which was within a very short distance of the beach. On their way they came face to face with a trio of girls who had approached from the opposite direction. One of them, a particularly pretty girl, with auburn curls and a sweet, laughing face, cried out in surprise, "Why, J. Elfreda Briggs, where did _you_ come from?" "Madge Morton!" exclaimed Elfreda, holding out her hand delightedly. "I didn't know you were in this part of the country. Mr. Curtis told me you had found your father and gone on a trip around the world, but that was ages ago. And if here isn't Phyllis Alden and Lillian Selden. Will wonders never cease? But where is Eleanor?" "She and Mrs. Curtis went out sailing with Tom," answered Phyllis Alden, an attractive girl with honest, dark eyes. "Oh, excuse me, girls." Elfreda turned to her party and a general introducing followed. "Where are you staying, Madge?" asked Elfreda when the two groups of girls had finished exchanging bows and smiles. "Mrs. Curtis has taken a cottage at Wildwood for the rest of the summer. She only arrived there last week, and Phyllis, Lillian, Eleanor and I met in New York and came on here yesterday." "You don't say so. Ma will be delighted to see her. You know they've been friends for ages. We hadn't heard from her for some time, though. Sorry you didn't get here sooner. You could have become better acquainted with my friends," deplored Elfreda. "They are all going away to-morrow." "I'm sorry, too," smiled the pretty girl. "I'm sure we'd love to know them better." She made a gracious little gesture toward the Sempers, whose eyes were fixed upon her in open admiration. "Never mind, you are sure to meet some of us in New York this winter, if you are going to be there," promised Elfreda. "Yes, Father is going to take a house in New York. He is anxious to look up his brother officers in the Navy who are stationed there. We are through traveling for a time." "The Briggs' family are going to stay in the neighborhood of the sad sea waves until the first of October, so I'll see you often. Ma will run over to see Mrs. Curtis the minute she knows about her being here. Tell me where the cottage is and I'll try to remember the address. I wish I had a pencil, but they don't usually hang around with bathing suits and salt water." After a few minutes' pleasant conversation the three girls said good-bye and walked on. "What charming girls," remarked Arline Thayer. "Did you ever see a sweeter face than Madge Morton's?" asked Elfreda. "She is beautiful," agreed Grace; "not only that, but she has such a vivid personality. One loves her on sight." "She is from the South, isn't she?" inquired Miriam. "She has a decided southern accent." "Yes, she was born and brought up in Virginia. Her father was a naval officer and was court-martialed when she was a baby for something he didn't do," related Elfreda. "He left home in disgrace and her mother died soon afterward. He never came back to claim her, so her aunt and uncle brought her up. Every one believed her father was dead, and so did she until she grew up; then a perfectly hateful girl, whose father was a naval officer, told her the story of her father's disgrace while she was visiting Mrs. Curtis at Old Point Comfort. You see, Madge and her friends had a little houseboat that they fixed over from an old canal boat. They used to spend their vacations on it, and one of the teachers from the boarding school which Madge attended used to chaperon them. They called their boat the _Merry Maid_, and Madge, the 'Little Captain.' They had all sorts of adventures, and Madge always said that she knew her father wasn't dead and that some day she'd find him. The reason I know so much about her is because Ma has known Mrs. Curtis for years. Tom and I used to play together when we were youngsters. Tom is her son." "Did Miss Morton ever find her father?" asked Ruth Denton eagerly. "I know just how she must have felt about him." "Yes, she found him and proved his innocence. He lived for years under another name and supported himself by translating foreign books into English. He had a dear friend, an old sea captain, who lived with him in a funny little house at Cape May. This friend had lots of money, so when Madge found her father he bought a yacht and took them for a trip around the world." "It sounds like 'Grimms' Fairy Tales,' doesn't it," smiled Miriam. "It's gospel truth," assured Elfreda. "But standing stock still in the middle of the beach to listen to the adventures of Madge Morton will never help us on our way to the picnic," slyly reminded Emma Dean. "I should say it wouldn't," agreed Elfreda. "I beg your pardon. Lead on, my dear Emma." The little procession moved on again. Elfreda and Miriam brought up the rear. The comradeship between them was most sincere. "How I wish we could all see one another more frequently," sighed Miriam. "Wouldn't you like to live your college life over again, Elfreda?" "Every hour of it, even the unpleasant ones," returned Elfreda fervently. "I'm just as sure as I'm sure of anything, Miriam, that we'll never again spend so many happy, carefree days together as we spent at Overton. Since I've been studying law I've learned a whole lot about human nature that I never knew before. I've learned that it's a rare thing to be perfectly happy after one begins to look life in the face. Sorrow may not touch one directly, but one is constantly coming upon the trials and sorrows of others. There's only one great antidote for all ills, and that's work." Miriam made a little gesture of despair. "And I have no work," was her rueful utterance. "So far, I've done nothing but travel about a lot, and study music a little. Long ago I planned to go to Leipsic to study, after I was graduated from Overton, but you see, Elfreda, Mother likes me to be with her. I thought seriously of going in for interior decorating, but when I saw how much Mother seemed to count on having me at home with her I gave it up. While I was studying music in New York, with Professor Lehmann, she was with me. I shall study again with him this fall. We intend to close our home and spend the winter in New York. David is going into business there. We shall take a house, I think." "You don't mean it! Why didn't you tell me before?" Elfreda's eyes were wide with surprise. "And to think you've been carrying a jolly secret like that around without telling me, your lawfully established roommate." "Don't be cross, J. Elfreda, dear. I didn't know it myself until this morning. The letter that I was so long reading after breakfast this morning was from Mother." "Hurry along, you laggers," screamed Arline Thayer from a distance. In the earnestness of their conversation the two girls had dropped far behind the others. "Coming, Daffydowndilly," called Elfreda promptly. Then to Miriam, "We'll see each other a lot this winter then, won't we?" "I should rather think so," was Miriam's fervent response. But Elfreda smiled to herself and wondered what Anne, and incidentally, Everett Southard would say when they heard the news. CHAPTER II THE LAST FROLIC The Sempers could scarcely have chosen a more perfect day for their last frolic. The sky wore its most vivid blue dress, ornamented by little fluffy white clouds, and a jolly vagrant breeze played lightly about the picnickers, whispering in their ears the lively assurance that wind and sky and sun were all on their good behavior for that day at least. The party were to make the trip to "Picnic Hollow," as Arline had named their destination, in Elfreda's and Arline's automobiles. During the past year the latter had become greatly interested in automobiles, and drove her own high-powered car with the sureness of an expert. "What is the pleasure of this organisation?" called Emma. It was an hour later, and nine young women stood grouped beside one of the automobiles. The other was stationed a short distance ahead. "Four beauteous damsels can ride with Chauffeur Thayer, the other five will have to trust themselves to the tender, but uncertain, mercy of J. Elfreda." "If that's your opinion of me you are welcome to ride in Arline's car," declared Elfreda. "Oh, my, no," retorted Emma blandly. "I couldn't think of it. I feel that my inspiring presence is due to ride on the front seat with you, J. Elfreda. To aid and sustain you, as it were." "Yes, sustain me by making me laugh and running us all into the ditch. I know just how sustaining you can be. Never mind. I'll forgive your slighting remarks about me, and give you the vacant place on the front seat. Now, good people," she put on the business-like expression of an auctioneer, "who bids for the back seat of the Briggs' vehicle?" "Every one is welcome to it except the Emerson twins," put in Emma. "I dislike having them sit behind me. I prefer to sit behind them, but as I can't sit on the front seat and the back seat at the same time, it would really be better to put the twins in the Thayer chariot." "We are going to ride with J. Elfreda," was Sara Emerson's defiant ultimatum. "I'll sit between you and preserve the peace," volunteered Miriam. "And me at the same time," added Emma hopefully. "Twins, do your worst. Sit where you choose. Miriam will protect me." Emma tottered toward Miriam, looking abjectly grateful and supremely ludicrous. "That leaves Grace, Anne and Ruth to me," declared Arline. "Now let's hurry, girls. The sooner we reach Picnic Hollow the longer we'll have to stay." The ride to Picnic Hollow was not a long one, but the picnickers were highly alive to every moment of it. "We'll have to turn in here and take the road to the left," called Elfreda over her shoulder. They had reached a point where a narrower road crossed the highway and wound around the hills, sloping gradually at the lowest point, into the very heart of the little valley, which looked particularly cool and inviting. "All right," caroled Arline. "Lead the way and we'll follow." Slowly the two cars, propelled by two extremely careful chauffeurs, wound their way down the country road which, according to Elfreda, was just wide enough and no wider. "Bumpity bump, even to the bottom of the hollow, and no bones broken," announced Emma Dean, with a cheerful wave of her hand, as she hopped out of the car, and proceeded to assist the Emerson twins to alight with a great show of ceremony. "What a perfectly darling spot!" was Arline's joyous exclamation. "Just see that cunning brook! It's so pretty where it ripples past that old tree. It doesn't look deep, either. I'm going in wading. See if I don't." "What shall we do first, girls?" Grace, who had been walking ahead with Arline, a luncheon hamper swinging between them, suddenly turned and faced the others, as, laden with rugs and cushions, they strolled along behind her. "Let's just play around for awhile," proposed Miriam. "There's a field of daisies and golden rod if any one wants to go blossom gathering. Ruth spoke of taking some pictures, too. Then we can play in the brook, and go in wading if we like, only I don't like." Arline and the Emerson twins elected to go in wading. Miriam and Anne drifted off to explore the brookside, while Ruth posed Grace, Emma and Elfreda for snapshots until they rebelled and begged for mercy. Later half the company stayed near their impromptu camp under the big elm tree that overhung the brook while the other half went on an exploring expedition, and when they returned the first half sallied forth. "We shan't stay away long," warned Arline Thayer. "It's after one o'clock now, and I'm hungry as a hunter." "Still we don't intend to let mere hunger conflict with our desire for exploration," was Emma Dean's firm reminder. "Given a chance, we may find something wonderful. We may dig the prehistoric mastodon from some snug corner where he burrowed several thousand years ago. We may----" "I never knew that mastodons 'burrowed,'" scoffed Sara Emerson. "That's a new truth in natural history brought to light by Professor Dean." "Which shall be proven when we return triumphantly with a few armfuls of bones," flung back Emma as she hurried to catch up with Grace, Arline, Ruth and Anne, who had already started. "What would life be without Emma Dean?" eulogized Sue Emerson after Emma's vanishing back. "Sara and I are always quoting her at home. It seems so strange that until the Sempers organized we never knew her very well. It was through Grace we learned to know Emma." "The longer I know Grace Harlowe the prouder I am to be her friend," said Elfreda slowly. "That is the way we all think about Grace," was Sue Emerson's quick return. "You and Miriam are especially lucky in having her for a chum." The four young women talked on until a long, clear trill announced the return of the other half of the exploring party. "Where, oh, where, are the mastodon's bones?" called out Sara Emerson jeeringly, as soon as Emma Dean came within hailing distance and empty-handed. "Buried out of sight and as hard as stones," came Emma's rhymed rejoinder. "How do you know how hard they are if they're buried out of sight!" scoffed Sara as Emma came up beside her. "Mere supposition, my child, mere supposition." The strollers had now reached the impromptu camp and were smiling over the exchange of words on the part of Emma and Sara. "It was a delightful walk," declared Grace. "I'd like to spend two or three days in these woods." "Stay over another week and do it," tempted Elfreda. "I can't." Grace shook her head regretfully. "I must spend one week at home before I leave for Overton, and I simply must be at Overton, and in Harlowe House, at least a week before it opens. There are so many things to be done. Thank goodness, I'll have Emma to help me this year. Last fall I felt as lonely as a shipwrecked mariner when I landed on the station platform at Overton. Then I heard Emma Dean's voice behind me. I truly believe that was the pleasantest surprise of my life." "There, twins! Now you hear what others think of me," exclaimed Emma in triumph. "Perhaps, hereafter, you'll be more appreciative of my many lovely qualities." "We never said you were the worst person in the world," conceded Julia. "Neither did you ever refer to me as the 'pleasantest surprise' of your life," reminded Emma. "You're a constant surprise, Emma, and always a funny one," was Sara's magnanimous tribute. "Twins, you are forgiven. You may sit beside me, if you're good, while we eat luncheon. I can be magnanimous, too." The big luncheon hampers were brought out by Elfreda and Miriam. A tablecloth was laid on the grass, and the luncheon was spread forth in all its glory. There were several kinds of toothsome sandwiches, salads, olives and pickles, fruit and plenty of sweets for dessert. There was coffee in two large thermos bottles, and there was also imported ginger ale. The hungry girls lost no time in seating themselves about this al fresco luncheon, making the quiet hollow ring with the merry talk and laughter of their last delightful frolic together. CHAPTER III PLANNING FOR THE FUTURE After the picnickers had finished luncheon they still sat about the remains of the feast, talking busily of what they hoped to accomplish during the coming year. Elfreda was full of plans as to what she intended to do when she had finished her course in the law school and passed the bar. "When I'm a full-fledged lawyer----" she began. "You mean a lawyeress," corrected Emma. "Don't contradict me. Let me explain. True the word's not in the dictionary. I just coined it. I'm going to teach it and its uses in my classes this fall. I shall begin by referring to my friend, Miss J. Elfreda Briggs, the distinguished lawyeress. That will excite the curiosity of my classes. Then instead of satisfying that curiosity as to Lawyeress Briggs' personal and private history I shall gently lead them to a serious contemplation of the word itself. Once in use, I'll have it put in a revised edition of the dictionary. It's high time there were a few new words introduced into the English language. I can make up beautiful ones and not half try. It's so easy." "And the faculty trusted her to teach English," murmured Miriam. There was a chorus of giggles at this observation, in which even Emma joined. "Make up some new words now," challenged Julia Emerson. "Not when I'm on a picnic," refused Emma firmly. "'Work while you work and play while you play.' I came out to play." "Our play days end to-night," smiled Grace. "At least mine do." "Mine, too," echoed Arline. "Really, girls, you haven't any idea of how busy settlement work keeps one. I spend several hours each day at the rooms which Father let me have fitted up for a Girls' Club, and I visit the very poor people, and almost every evening I have a class or a meeting. One evening I go to a little chapel on the East Side to tell stories to children, and I teach classes two other nights. There's always something extra coming up, too. Father isn't exactly pleased over it. He thinks I work too hard. Now that Ruth is going to spend the winter with me I'll make her help. She is the laziest person. She hasn't accomplished a single thing since she found her father." "He wouldn't let me," defended Ruth. "It has been hard labor to persuade him to allow me to stay in New York this winter. Besides I believe that my business of life, for the present, at least, is to try to make up for some of the years we spent apart." "Good for you, Ruth," applauded Miriam. "You and I are of the same mind. Only I'm enlisted in the cause of a mother instead of a father. But all this leads up to what I intended to tell you girls before we separated. We are going to New York City for the winter. David is going into business there." "To New York!" came simultaneously from Arline and Grace. There were murmurs of surprise from the other girls. J. Elfreda Briggs alone smiled knowingly. "What are we to do in Oakdale without you, at Christmas time, Miriam?" asked Grace mournfully. "The Eight Originals Plus Two can't celebrate unless you are with them. Somehow every year we've all managed to gather home at Christmas. Now if you go to New York to live next winter perhaps David won't be able to leave his business, and your mother will need you and----" "And do I live to hear Grace Harlowe borrowing trouble?" broke in Emma Dean. "Our intrepid, dauntless, invincible Grace!" "I'm afraid you do," admitted Grace. "I couldn't help mourning a little. It was all so sudden. Anne, aren't you astonished?" "Anne looks as though she'd known it a long while," observed Elfreda shrewdly. "I knew David was going into business in New York," confessed Anne, her face flushing, "but I didn't know the rest." "Neither did I, until this morning," smiled Miriam. "It seems as though we are the only persons in this august body that haven't any plans," declared Julia Emerson wistfully. "Here are Grace, Anne and Emma, regular salaried individuals. Arline is a busy little worker. Miriam and Ruth are at least useful members of society, and Elfreda is an aspiring professional. Sara and I are just the Emerson twins, with no lofty aims in view, or deeds of glory to perform." "You and Sara are not quite useless," comforted Emma. "Just think what a continual source of inspiration you are to me. Some of my finest observations on life have been prompted by my acquaintance with you." "I'm glad we are of some account in the world," grinned Sara. "I'd really quite forgotten about you, Emma. Thank you so much for reminding me." "Oh, not at all," Emma beamed patronizingly upon her. "No matter how much others may malign you, I am still your friend." "Emma Dean, you ridiculous creature, why won't you take us seriously?" laughed Julia, but her voice still held an undercurrent of wistfulness. "Does the fact that we are twins have this hilarious effect upon you?" "I wonder if that's the reason," murmured Emma. Then dropping her usual bantering tone, she fixed earnest eyes on the black-eyed twins. "Seriously, Julia and Sara, I know just the way you feel about having no particular life work picked out. When I went home after I was graduated from Overton I hadn't the least idea of where I'd fit in in life. Then I found that Father needed my help, and I've been head over ears in work ever since. One never knows what may happen, or how quickly one's work may find one. It may not be what one would like it to be, but it will undoubtedly be the best thing in life for one, and one is likely to see it coming around the corner at almost any minute." "That's very, very true." It was Grace who spoke. "Don't you remember how I worried about finding my work, and it walked directly up to me and introduced itself on Commencement day?" "I never dreamed that the stage would put me through college and be my work afterward," broke in Anne. "When first I went to Oakdale I supposed I had left it behind forever. But it must have been my destiny after all." "I guess it's just about as well in the long run not to worry about what your work is going to be until it knocks at your door," observed Elfreda. "Children are always planning and talking about what they're going to do and be when they grow up; then they always do something different. What do you suppose I used to say I was going to be when I grew up?" "Some perfectly absurd thing," anticipated Miriam. Eight pairs of amused eyes fixed themselves expectantly on Elfreda. "Well," Elfreda chuckled reminiscently, "my aim and ambition was to be a cook. Not because I was so deeply in love with cooking, but because I liked to eat. No wonder I was fat. I used to haunt the kitchen on baking days and shriek with an outraged stomach afterward. The shrieking occurred most frequently in the middle of the night. Then Ma would come to my rescue, and I'd be forbidden to sample the baking again. So to console myself in my banishment I'd resolve that when I grew up I'd be a cook and live in a kitchen all the time. I reasoned that if I _was_ a cook I'd know how to make everything in the world to eat and could have what I pleased. Besides no one would dare tell me I couldn't have this or that. This was all very consoling during the times I had to keep out of the kitchen. Generally in about a week's time Ma would relent, and, as our cook was fond of me, I'd be reinstated in my beloved realm of eats. But it was during these periods of exile that my ambition always rose to fever heat. Then our old cook got married, and I didn't like our new one. She didn't appreciate my companionship on baking days. Our old cook had always encouraged me in my ambition. She used to tell me long tales about the places where she had worked and the cooking feats she had performed. The new cook said I was a nuisance, and complained to Ma. So my ambition died for lack of encouragement, but my appetite didn't. I became an outlaw instead and made raids on the baking. So that particular cook and I were always at war. About that time Ma began giving me a regular allowance, so I haunted the baker and candy shops instead of the kitchen, and the cook idea declined. In fact all I know about cooking now, I learned at Wayne Hall, in the interest of my friends," she finished. Elfreda's reminiscence awoke a train of sleeping memories in the minds of the others, and for the next hour the quiet woodland echoed with their mirth over the curious, quaint and ridiculous aims and fancies of their childhood. The talk gradually drifted back to serious things and went on so earnestly that it was well after four o'clock before the party began to make reluctant preparations to return to the cottage. "It has been a perfect day and a perfect picnic," declared Grace as she smiled lovingly at her friends. "We'll never forget Elfreda's house party." "I'm going to have you with me at this time every year if it is possible," planned Elfreda. "So when September comes next year just mark off the last two weeks on the calendar as set aside for the Briggs' reunion and arrange your affairs accordingly. Is it a go?" "Hurrah for the Briggs' reunion," cheered Arline. The cheers were given and the picnickers started up the hill to where their automobiles were stationed. Grace and Elfreda brought up the rear with the luncheon hamper. "That's dear in you to ask us here every year, Elfreda," said Grace. "It's a splendid way for us always to keep in touch with one another. You are forever doing nice things for others." "Others," retorted Elfreda, gruffly. "I'm the most selfish person that ever lived. I'm not planning half so much to make you girls happy as I am to be happy myself. Every time I think that I might have gone to some other college and never have known you and Miriam and Anne, it nearly gives me nervous prostration. By the way, Grace, I have an idea Miriam is going to find her work pretty suddenly. I could see at commencement that Mr. Southard was in love with her. She didn't know it then. She knows it now though, and she likes him." "You certainly _can_ see what is hidden from the eyes of the rest of us. How do you know she knows it?" "Oh, she was talking to me the other day about Anne, and she mentioned Mr. Southard's name in a kind of self-conscious way, not in the least like her usual self. I could almost swear she blushed, but I couldn't quite see that," grinned Elfreda. "I'm surprised," laughed Grace; then she added slowly, "I've known for a long time that Mr. Southard was in love with Miriam. Anne discovered it at commencement, too. I hope Miriam _does_ love him. Somehow they seem so perfectly suited to each other. I never could quite fancy she and Arnold Evans as being in love." "It looks as though you'd soon be the only unengaged member of the Originals," remarked Elfreda innocently. Grace's face clouded. Elfreda had touched upon a sore subject. Just before leaving Oakdale on her visit to Elfreda she had seen Tom. He had not renewed his old plea, but Grace knew that he was still waiting and hoping for the words that would make him happy. "Elfreda," her voice trembled a little, "you know, I think, that Tom wishes me to marry him. I'm sorry, but I can't. I just can't. I suppose I'll be the odd member of the feminine half of the Originals, but I can't help it. My work still means more to me than life with Tom, and I'm never going to give it up. So there." Elfreda nodded. Her nod expressed more than words, but secretly she had a curious presentiment that Grace would one day wake up to the fact that she had make a mistake. Still there was no use in telling her so. It might make her still more stubborn in her resolve. Elfreda greatly admired Tom, and, with her usually quick perception, had estimated him at his true worth. "He's worthy of her, and she's worthy of him," was her mental summing up, "and it strikes me that '_never_' is a pretty long time. Whether she can shut love out of her life forever, just for the sake of her work, is a problem that nobody but Grace Harlowe can solve." CHAPTER IV MILESTONES "Sh-h-h! No giggles. If you don't creep along as still as mice she'll hear you," warned a sibilant whisper. Five young women, headed by Emma Dean, smoothed the laughter from their faces and stole, cat-like, up the green lawn to the wide veranda at the rear of Harlowe House. One by one they noiselessly mounted the steps. Emma, finger on her lips, cast a comical glance at the maid, who tittered faintly; then the stealthy procession crept down the hall in the direction of Grace Harlowe's little office. There was an instant's silent rallying of forces of which the young woman at the desk, who sat writing busily, was totally unconscious, then, of a sudden, she heard a ringing call of "Three cheers for Loyalheart!" and sprang to her feet only to be completely hemmed in by friendly arms. "You wicked girls! I mean, you dear things," she laughed. "How nice of you to descend upon me in a body. I must kiss every one of you. Patience and Kathleen, when did you set foot in Overton? I've been watching and waiting for you. Mary Reynolds, this _is_ a surprise. I didn't expect you until next week, and Evelyn, too, looking lovelier than ever. As for Emma, she's a continual surprise and pleasure." Grace embraced one after another of the five girls. "I'm so glad I thought of this nice surprise," beamed Emma, craning her neck, and pluming herself vaingloriously. "I have another beautiful thought, too, seething in my fertile brain. Let's go down to Vinton's and celebrate." "I knew some one was sure to propose that," laughed Patience. "I intended to be that some one, but Emma forestalled me." "I'm as busy as can be, but I can't resist the call to my old haunts," laughed Grace. "Besides, it's such a perfect day. Leave your bags in the living room, girls. I feel highly honored to know that you and Kathleen came straight to me, Patience." "The old case of the needle and the magnet," explained Patience with a careless wave of her hand. "Oh, Miss Harlowe I'm so glad to see you," was Mary Reynolds' fervent tribute. "So am I," declared Evelyn Ward, with an emphatic nod of her golden head. "I've had a perfectly wonderful summer, Miss Harlowe. I loved my part. It hasn't been very hot in New York City, either, and I spent my Sundays and some of my week days with the Southards at their Long Island summer home. I have thought of you many times. I hope you'll forgive me for not writing you oftener. Kathleen and I came down on the same train." She poured forth all this information almost in a breath. "Of course I'll forgive you," returned Grace. "I'm a very lax correspondent, too. I'm so glad you've been well, and that you liked your part." "You should have seen her in it, Grace," put in Kathleen. "She made an adorable Constance Devon, and her gowns were beautiful. The girl who understudied her, and who will play the part on the road, isn't half so stunning. Patience saw her, too." "She was a credit to herself and Overton," verified Patience. "I thank you, most grave and reverend seniors." Evelyn, her eyes shining with the pleasure of well-earned praise, made a low bow to Patience and Kathleen. "'Most grave and reverend seniors,'" repeated Grace, slipping in between her two friends, her hand on an arm of each. Kathleen's sharp black eyes grew tender with the love she bore Grace. "Yes," came her soft answer, "Patience and I are seniors at last. We've reached Senior Lane, and I hope to leave some milestones as we pass through it. Dear as the others have been, I'd like to rise to greater heights this year. I don't know just what I'd like to do," she flushed and laughed at her own enthusiasm, "but I'd like to do something worth while." "So would I," murmured Evelyn Ward. "I want to be friends with every one, and not be conditioned," was Mary Reynolds' modest petition. "_I_ don't know just what sort of milestones I'd like to leave. Only decorative ones, of course. I wish to keep my lane free from weeds and ugly, jagged rocks." This from Patience. "You might begin at once and leave a milestone at Vinton's, for being a willing, little reveler," suggested Emma with meaning. "Come on, girls," rallied Kathleen. "We must show Emma just how willing we are. Allow me, my dear Miss Dean," she offered her arm to Emma, and they paraded down the hall, out the door and down the steps with great ceremony. Mary, Grace, Patience and Evelyn followed. Patience walked with Evelyn, while Grace and Mary brought up the rear. "Oh, Miss Harlowe," began Mary, with intense earnestness, "you haven't any idea of how much Kathleen--she likes me to call her Kathleen--has done for me this summer. I knew last spring that I must earn my living through the summer, in some way, but I never dreamed that it would be in such a nice way." "I am anxious to hear all about it," returned Grace. "When you wrote me that Kathleen had secured work for you on her paper I was so pleased." "Yes, I was the assistant on the woman's page," related Mary. "Of course my work wasn't so very important. It was mostly clipping things from other papers, but I used to write the paragraph under the fashion drawings, and sometimes I went out to the big department stores to look for interesting new fads and fashions for women. Three times I wrote short articles, so you see I actually appeared in print. Kathleen made me take half of her room, and so my board wasn't very expensive. My salary was fifteen dollars a week. I have enough new clothes to last me all winter, and I've saved eighty-five dollars. That will help pay my tuition this year, and Kathleen is sure she can sell some children's stories I've written. Wouldn't it be glorious, Miss Harlowe, if some day I'd become a writer?" Mary's eyes shone with the distant prospect of future honors. "It looks to me as though you were on the right road," encouraged Grace. "The only thing to do is to keep on writing. The more you write the easier it will become--that is, if you are really gifted. Kathleen has great faith in you. You must show her that it is well founded." "How inspiring you are, Miss Harlowe." Mary looked her gratitude at Grace's hopeful words; then she added in a slightly lower tone: "I'm so glad everything went so beautifully for Evelyn. I saw her twice in 'The Reckoning.' She looked _beautiful_, and her acting was so clever. She--she told me of her own accord about"--Mary hesitated--"things. It would have hurt me dreadfully if Evelyn had not come back to Overton. I love her dearly." Grace nodded sympathetically. She understood the remarkable effect of Evelyn's beauty upon Mary. Still, she reflected, it had not been potent enough to lure Mary from standing by her colors at the crucial moment. Grace realized that this poor orphan girl, whose only home was Harlowe House, possessed a steadfast, upright nature that must in time win her not only scores of loyal friends, but the respect of all who knew her, as well. A sudden trill from Kathleen caused them to quicken their steps. The others were standing in front of Vinton's, waiting for them. Once inside the pretty tea room that had been the scene of so many of their revels, with one accord they made for the alcove table. "Shades of Arline Thayer," laughed Emma. "I am haunted by her. I can see her sitting in that chair, her little hands folded on the table, saying, 'What are we going to eat, girls?' She loved this alcove and every stick and stone of Vinton's. She never cared so much for Martell's." By this time they had seated themselves at the round table and begun to order their luncheon. Vinton's was productive of reminiscences, and they were soon deep in the discussion of past events, grave and gay, that had dotted their college life. Evelyn and Mary were for the most part listeners, but Grace, Patience, Emma and Kathleen fairly bubbled over with by-gone college history. "I love to hear about the things that happened to Miss Harlowe and Miss Dean when they were students," confided Mary to Evelyn under cover of a general laugh over one of Emma Dean's ridiculous reminiscences. "So do I," nodded Mary, then she added in a still lower tone, "Have you noticed the girl at the table near the door, Evelyn. She came in about ten minutes ago, and she's watched this table every second since she came." "Yes, I noticed her. She's pretty, isn't she? That's a stunning suit she is wearing. Her hat is miles above reproach, too." Evelyn could not repress her admiration for beautiful clothes. At that moment Kathleen spoke to her and she turned to answer the latter's question. When next her eyes turned toward the pretty girl it was just as they were leaving the tea shop. Evelyn was the last member of the sextette to pass the table. She glanced at the girl only to note that she was searching a small leather bag frantically, a look of indescribable alarm in her eyes. "It's gone," she said, half aloud. Something prompted Evelyn to halt. "Good afternoon," she said. "I heard--that is--can I help you?" A shade of annoyance darkened the stranger's face. It was replaced by an expression of fright. "I've lost my money," she said in a dazed voice. "It was all I had. I can't pay for my luncheon. I don't know what to do." Her voice rose to an anxious note. "Give me your check," said Evelyn quietly. "I'll pay the cashier. You can pay me later." "Oh, thank you," breathed the girl. "You don't know how I hated the idea of going to the cashier and telling her I had no money. I'm _so_ worried about my purse. I had over a hundred dollars in it. I haven't seen it since I left the train. Just before we reached Overton I went into the lavatory to fix my hair. I laid my bag down. There was another woman there at the mirror. She must have slipped her fingers into my bag and taken my purse, for when I picked up the bag it was open. I snapped it shut and paid no attention to it then. I didn't think of it until I reached for my purse to count out the money for my luncheon." "What a shame!" exclaimed Evelyn, sympathetically. "I know just how worried you must feel. Just wait a second." She picked up the check, which was for a small amount, went over to the desk, and paid the bill. Then she hurried back to her companion. "Everything is all right now," she declared, "but if you have no money you had better come with me. I will introduce you to Miss Harlowe. My name is Evelyn Ward." "Miss Harlowe, of Harlowe House?" interrupted the girl. "Yes, do you know her?" "I don't know her yet, but I'm going to live at Harlowe House. So I expect to know her. My name is Jean Brent. Perhaps you've heard of me. A friend of mine helped me to get the chance to live at Harlowe House." "Have I heard of you?" laughed Evelyn. "I should say I had. Isn't it funny how things happen? Why, you are to be my roommate." CHAPTER V THE LOCKED DOOR When Evelyn and Jean Brent reached the street it was to find the other young women grouped together in conversation, and not at all alarmed at Evelyn's non-appearance. "We weren't worried," Emma Dean assured her. "We've all been known to lag and loiter." "I lagged and loitered to some purpose," defended Evelyn. "Miss Harlowe, this is Miss Brent, my roommate." She introduced the stranger to the others. Grace's hand was extended in surprised welcome. "We have been looking for you since Monday," she said. "You are the girl who sat at the end table at Vinton's. If I had known you were Miss Brent I would have asked you to join us. I am so glad Miss Ward broke the ice. How did it happen?" "I had lost my purse," returned the girl, rather shyly, in spite of her air of self-possession. Then reassured by Grace's charming manner, she told her story. "You must come with us to Harlowe House at once. It is such a pity that you met with misfortune." Grace's gray eyes were full of sympathy. "Have you much luggage?" "Four trunks," was the rueful answer. "You see I have so many clothes that--" She stopped abruptly, a deep flush dying her fair skin, "I had no place--I did not like to leave them, so I had to bring them with me," she finished, rather lamely. Grace did not ask further questions. She noted that the girl was ill at ease. "I received Miss Lipton's letter regarding you a week ago," she hastened to say. "I wrote her, as you know, that we could place you. She answered saying we might expect you at almost any time. After you have had a chance to rest and make yourself comfortable I will tell you of Harlowe House and the girls who live there." One after the other the girls spoke friendly, encouraging words to the unfortunate freshman. Kathleen and Patience possessed themselves of her heavy bag, carrying it between them. Grace walked with the newcomer, pointing out the various interesting features of the little college town, in an attempt to put the stranger entirely at her ease after her disquieting experience. So far she had had slight opportunity to observe this latest freshman arrival. She had a vague idea that Jean Brent was an unusually attractive girl, but the side view she obtained of her, as they walked along, was far from satisfactory. The newcomer said little, and only once during the short walk to Harlowe House did she turn a pair of very blue eyes directly upon Grace. It fell to Evelyn Ward to show her to her room, as she was to be Evelyn's roommate. The girl had exclaimed a little, after the manner of girls, at the attractiveness of Harlowe House, but in spite of her brief flare of enthusiasm over the house and grounds, the tasteful living room and the daintiness of the room she and Evelyn occupied, she encased herself in a curious, impenetrable shell of mystery that Evelyn's natural curiosity could find no excuse to penetrate. She listened gravely and attentively to all that Evelyn told her of Harlowe House and its lucky household, but she volunteered no information concerning herself except a reluctant, "I came from the West," in answer to her roommate's question as to where she lived. The more Evelyn observed her the more attractive she appeared. She was of medium height, and, although plump, could not be called stout. Her face was rather round, with no suggestion of fatness, while her features were small and regular. Her eyes were not large, but their intense blueness made them a significant feature of her face. Her hair was light brown and had a burnished look in the sun. It grew thickly upon her well-shaped head, and she wore it in a graceful knot at the back of her head. When she smiled, which had been but once since Evelyn first encountered her, she displayed unusually white, even teeth. It dawned upon Evelyn as she watched her unpacking her bag that Jean Brent had not only her share of good looks but a curious power of attraction as well that would carry her far toward college popularity if she chose to exert it. She wondered if she and Jean would get along well together. Although the new Evelyn had made great progress in ruling her own spirit she was well aware of her failings. She was quite sure, in her own mind, that never again would the love of beautiful clothes tempt her to dishonesty, but of herself, in other respects, she was not so positive. Still she had resolved to live up to the traditions of Overton College, to emulate the splendid example Grace Harlowe had already set. She glanced speculatively at her roommate, but the latter's calm, impassive expression told her nothing. Suddenly, as though impelled by Evelyn's gaze, the other girl glanced up and met Evelyn's eyes squarely. "Well, what do you think of me?" she inquired. "I think _you_ are the prettiest girl I ever saw." Evelyn flushed at both the question and the compliment. Jean Brent was nothing if not frank. "I know I'm going to like you. I was just wondering if we would fit into each other's lives." "I have a frightful temper," admitted Jean Brent somberly. "Sometimes I'm glad of it. If I hadn't--" She paused. Evelyn waited for her to continue, but she gave a quick sigh, and, springing to her feet, walked to the window. From there she could look out at the campus, still green and velvety. For at least five minutes she stood staring out. Then, with the air of one who casts aside a disagreeable memory, she turned from the window, saying: "I'm going to forget everything except the fact that I'm actually an Overton girl." "Were you anxious to come to Overton?" asked Evelyn. "No. I came here because of the advantages Harlowe House offers. I heard of it through a friend. I wanted to go to Smith, but--oh, well, here I am at Overton. Let's talk about you. I know you are interesting. You look just like the picture of a girl I saw in a magazine I was reading on the train. She is an actress. I didn't stop to read her name, but I loved her picture. I think I brought the magazine along. Oh, yes, there it is." She reached for the magazine, which lay on the table, and turned the leaves energetically. "Here is the picture," she declared. Evelyn found herself gazing at her own likeness. She began to laugh. "What's the matter?" demanded Jean. Her color rose in instant resentment of Evelyn's laughter. Evelyn pointed to the printed name under the picture. "I am Evelyn Ward, you know." "But not the _actress_?" Jean's blue eyes were wide with amazement. Evelyn nodded laughingly. "That's my way of earning my tuition money and my clothes," she explained. "I was never on the stage until last summer." She went on to tell the astonished Jean of her meeting with the Southards and her final stage début. "How interesting!" exclaimed Jean. "I suppose all the Harlowe House girls earn their college fees. I wonder how I can earn mine. I had quite a sum toward them when I left--" again came the abrupt stop. "Oh, dear," she sighed the next moment, "I wish I'd been more careful of my money. I had no business to lay my bag down. What's the use of regretting? I'll have to think of some way to raise that money. If I can't find it any other way I can sell my clothes. I have perfectly _beautiful_ things. Four trunks full. Lots more than I can wear. It is lucky for me that--" She checked herself guiltily. "That what?" asked Evelyn. She was beginning to feel a vague impatience at the strange way in which Jean Brent chopped off her sentences. And how recklessly she talked about selling her clothes. "That I have you for a roommate," smiled the mysterious freshman. "I wonder how much the expressman will charge to bring my trunks from the station. Then, too, I wonder where I can put them. I wouldn't think of spoiling the looks of our room with them." "You can put one of them over in that corner," planned Evelyn, "and we could get one into the closet. It's large and quite light. The other two Miss Harlowe will allow you to leave in the trunk room." "I suppose it will cost a small fortune to have them delivered," demurred Jean. "I can't have the sale, either, until I know some of the girls who would be interested in my wares. I'll have to telegraph my friend to send me some money. Will you go with me to the telegraph office. I don't know the way. I'll ask Miss Harlowe to pay the expressman. Then I'll pay her when my money comes. Frenzied finance, isn't it? But if you knew--" Again that maddening break. "I'll pay the expressman," volunteered Evelyn. "If I were you I'd talk things over with Miss Harlowe. She knows that you lost your purse. Very likely she has already thought of something you can do. I don't think she would like to have you sell your clothes." "I don't see why she should object," declared Jean, with quick impatience. "However, I'll do my hair over again, and wash my face and hands, then I'll go down stairs and have a talk with her. She said she'd be in her office." "Run down and talk with her now, then we'll go to the telegraph office," said Evelyn. Twenty minutes later Jean entered the little office where Grace sat engaged in the work she had been doing when interrupted by her friends earlier in the afternoon. Like Evelyn, she was keenly alive to her latest charge's good looks. "How attractive she is," was her thought as she invited Jean to take the chair opposite hers. "I suppose you would like to know something of our household, Miss Brent," began Grace. "We are not only a household, but we are members of a social club as well. You are the thirty-fourth girl. Last year Miss Thirty-four never materialized, so Miss Ward roomed alone. There isn't so so much to tell you regarding the rules and regulations of Harlowe House. The club takes care of most of them with its constitution and by-laws." Opening a drawer of her desk, Grace took out a paper-covered booklet and handed it to the freshman. "This will give you nearly all the necessary information," she said. "If I were in your place I would go to the registrar's office reasonably early to-morrow morning. You can then learn whether you will be obliged to take the entrance examinations. Having been graduated from a preparatory school you may be exempt. When did Miss Lipton's school close?" "Last June," returned Jean briefly. "But you have seen her since then, have you not? Her letter gave me the impression that you had been with her recently. Do you live in Grafton, or were you visiting Miss Lipton?" The fair face opposite her own was suddenly flooded with red. "I--I--was--on--a visit recently to Miss Lipton," she answered, with reluctance. She did not volunteer the name of her home town. For the first time Grace became aware of the curious reticence that had vaguely annoyed Evelyn. "Where do you live, Miss Brent!" she asked with the sudden directness so characteristic of her. For a moment the girl did not reply, then her color receded, leaving her face very white. "My home is in Chicago," she said slowly. "My father and mother are dead. I have always lived with"--she hesitated--"friends. Miss Lipton was a friend of my mother's. Surely her word will not be questioned by the faculty." She glanced at Grace with a half challenging air. Something in her tone brought the color to Grace's cheeks. Why could not this girl be perfectly frank in her replies? Now that Evelyn Ward had turned out so beautifully, Grace had been looking forward to a year of open comradeship with her girls, yet here she was face to face with what promised to be one of those baffling natures that required especially tactful handling to bring out the best that lay within it. "I have no doubt that Miss Sheldon will place the utmost dependence in Miss Lipton's word," returned Grace gravely. "If she doesn't, I--oh, well, to-morrow will tell the tale. I wish you would tell me more of Harlowe House. It is a wonderful place. I wanted to go to Smith, but I believe this will be nicer after all. Only I--shall--have to earn my college fees. Miss Ward said perhaps you would help me think of a way to earn money. I have nothing in the world except clothes, clothes, clothes. After I've been here for awhile I'd like to have a sale of them. I have loads of lovely things. If I could only sell enough of them to pay my fees." "But you will need your clothing for your own use, will you not?" Jean Brent was momently growing more inexplicable. Jean shook her head energetically. "I don't care for clothes," she said eagerly. "I could live in a coat suit and plenty of blouses all year. I _do_ care for college, though. If I hadn't cared, I would never--" She suddenly checked herself. "Do you think the girls would buy my things?" she asked in the next instant. "They are nearly all new and fresh." "I am sure they would be interested," was Grace's honest reply, "but I cannot allow you to hold a sale of your wardrobe. I think such a proceeding would be unwise. Why----" "Please don't ask me why, Miss Harlowe, for I can't tell you." Jean had risen to her feet, two pleading eyes fixed on Grace. "I can only say that if I had not lost my money everything would be different. There are strong reasons why I can't explain to you about my being without money, yet having so many clothes, but I assure you that I have done nothing wrong or dishonorable. If you are not satisfied with my explanation and wish to send me away, of course I can only go, but if you are willing to trust me and let me stay I'll try to do my best for you and Harlowe House. I'm sorry you disapprove of my having a sale of my things." Grace looked long at the earnest young face. Mystifying as were her statements, Jean Brent had the appearance of honesty. Taking one of the girl's hands in both her own, she said, "I don't in the least understand you, Miss Brent, but I will respect your secret." "Thank you so much for your kindness to me, Miss Harlowe." With an almost distant nod the prospective freshman rose and left the office with almost rude abruptness. "What a strange girl," mused Grace. Her musing was interrupted by the breezy entrance of Emma Dean. "Hello, Gracious," she hailed. "Why so pensive?" "I'm not pensive. I'm puzzled, and a little worried," returned Grace. "Our latest arrival is a most complex study." "I suspected it," was Emma's cheerful rejoinder. "One of the 'There was the Door to which I found no Key' variety, so to speak." "I'm going to tell you all about it," decided Grace, "for I need your advice." She related her interview with Jean Brent. "Miss Lipton, the head of the Lipton Preparatory School, at Grafton, writes beautifully of Miss Brent," went on Grace. "I know the faculty would consider her word sufficient to enroll this girl, but I feel that I ought to be doubly careful to keep my household irreproachable. I don't like mysteries when it comes to admitting a new girl to the fold. Still, Miss Brent impresses me as being honest and sincere. Besides, I've promised to help her." "Don't worry, Gracious," advised Emma, "you may be harboring a princess unawares. The Riddle may turn out to be the Shahess of Persia, or the Grand Vizieress of Bagdad or some other royal person. She may be the moving feature of a real Graustark plot." "Stop being ridiculous, Emma, and tell me what I ought to do." Grace's smooth forehead puckered in a frown which her laughing lips denied. Emma was instantly serious. "We do not know just how much college may mean to her," was her quick response. "If she chooses to shroud herself in mystery, I believe it is because of something which concerns herself alone." There was a brief silence, then Grace said: "You are right. To be an Overton girl may mean more to Jean Brent than we can possibly know. I'm going to take her on faith. Perhaps she'll find college the key that will unlock the door to perfect understanding." CHAPTER VI A CLUB MEETING AND A MYSTERY "There!" exclaimed Louise Sampson as she succeeded in firmly establishing at the top of the bulletin board a large white card, bearing the significant legend, "Regular Meeting of the Harlowe House Club. 8.00 P.M. Living Room. _Full Attendance, Please._" A small, fair-haired girl came down the stairs and joined Louise at the bulletin-board. She read the notice aloud. "Oh, dear, I've an engagement with a girl at Wayne Hall to-night. I don't care to miss the meeting, and I don't like to break my engagement," she mourned. "I wish you would break it just this once, Hilda," said Louise seriously. "I am anxious that every member of the club shall attend the meeting to-night. I have something of importance to say to the girls." Hilda Moore opened her blue eyes very wide. "What are you going to say, Louise? Tell me, please. You see I made this engagement over a week ago. If you'd just tell me now what it's all about, I wouldn't really need to come to the club meeting. I could----" "Keep your engagement," finished Louise, her eyes twinkling. "Really, Hilda Moore, if you knew a tidal wave, or a cyclone or any other calamity was due to demolish Overton I believe you'd go on making engagements in the face of it." Hilda giggled good-naturedly. She was a pretty, sunshiny girl of a pure blonde type, and had been extremely popular during her freshman year at Overton, not only with her fellow companions at Harlowe House, but as a member of the freshman class as well. In spite of her round baby face, and a carefree, little-girl manner that went with it, she was a capable business woman and earned her college fees as stenographer to the dean. The daughter of parents who were not able to send her to college, she had not only prepared for college during her high-school days, but had taken the business course included in the curriculum of the high school which she attended, and had thus fitted herself to earn her way in the Land of College. Hilda's unfailing good nature was appreciated to the extent of making her a welcome guest at the informal gatherings which were forever being held in the various students' rooms after recitations were over for the day. The consequence was that, as her studies and clerical duties left her limited time for amusements, her precious recreation moments were invariably promised to her friends many days in advance. In fact Hilda Moore's "engagements" had grown to be a standing joke among them. "Promise me on your bright new sophomore honor that you'll offer your polite regrets to the other half of that important engagement of yours and attend my meeting," appealed Louise. "Well," Hilda looked concerned, "I _could_ see the girl this afternoon and change the date." She smiled engagingly at Louise. "Of course you _will_," Louise agreed, answering the smile. "You see I know you, Hilda Moore." "But I wouldn't do it for any one else except Miss Harlowe or Miss Dean," was Hilda's positive assertion. "Mercy, look at the time! I'll have to run for it if I expect to reach the office before Miss Wilder. Good-bye." Hilda was gone like a flash, leaving Louise to stare contemplatively at the notice. As the president for the year of the Harlowe House Club she felt deeply her responsibility. She had been unanimously elected at the club's first meeting, greatly to her surprise. Louise Sampson was perhaps better fitted to be president of the Harlowe House Club than any other member of that interesting household. Emma and Grace had agreed upon the point when, before the election, the former's name had been mentioned as a probable candidate. This thought sprang again to Grace's mind as she came from her office and saw Louise still standing before the bulletin board, apparently deep in thought. She turned at the sound of Grace's step. "Oh, Miss Harlowe!" she exclaimed. "I do hope our meeting to-night will be a success. Surely some one will have a real live idea for the club to act upon." "Thirty-four heads are better than one," smiled Grace. "There is inspiration in numbers." "We did wonderfully well with the caramels last year, and this year I believe they will be more popular than ever. We made twice as many as usual last Saturday, and sold them all. We were obliged to disappoint quite a number of girls, too. Our little bank account is growing slowly but surely. Still there are certainly other things we can do to earn money, collectively and individually. Really I mustn't get started on the subject. It is time I went to my chemistry recitation. You'll be at the meeting to-night, won't you, Miss Harlowe? We couldn't get along without you." A faint flush rose to Grace's cheeks at Louise's parting remark. How wonderful it was to feel that one was really useful. Yes; the thirty-four girls under her care really needed her. They needed her far more than did Tom Gray. Grace frowned a trifle impatiently. She had not intended to allow herself to think of Tom, yet there was something in the expression of Louise Sampson's gray eyes that reminded her of him. Resolving to put him completely out of her mind, Grace went into the kitchen to consult with the cook concerning the day's marketing. The postman's ring, however, caused her to hurry back to her office where the maid was just depositing her morning mail on the slide of her desk. Her letters were from Anne, Elfreda and her mother, and they filled her with unalloyed pleasure. Her mother's unselfish words, "I hope my little girl is finding all the happiness life has to offer in her work," thrilled her. How different was her mother's attitude from that of Tom Gray. Surely no one could miss her as her mother missed her, yet she had given her up without a murmur, while Tom had protested bitterly against her beloved work and prophesied that some day she would realize that work didn't mean everything in life. All that day the inspiring effect of her mother's letter remained with Grace. Her already deep interest in her house and her charges received new impetus, and when evening came, she felt, as she entered the big living room where the thirty-four girls were assembled, that she would willingly do anything that lay within her power to forward the prosperity and success of Harlowe House. After the usual preliminaries, Louise Sampson addressed the meeting in her bright direct fashion. "Ever since we came back to Harlowe House this year I've felt that we ought to do something to increase our treasury money. If the club had enough money of its own, then the Harlowe House girls wouldn't need to borrow of Semper Fidelis. That would leave the Semper Fidelis fund free for other girls who don't live here and who need financial help. Of course we couldn't do very much at first, but if we could get up some kind of play or entertainment that the whole college would be anxious to come to see, as they once did a bazaar that the Semper Fidelis Club gave, the money we would realize from it would be a fine start for us. Now I'm going to leave the subject open to informal discussion. Won't some one of you please express an opinion?" "Don't you believe that some of the students might say we were selfish to try to make money for our own house instead of for the college? Semper Fidelis was organized for the benefit of the whole college, but this is different," remarked Cecil Ferris. A blank silence followed Cecil's objection. What she had just said was, in a measure, true. Louise Sampson looked appealingly at Grace. She had been so sure that her plan of conducting some special entertainment on a large scale would meet with approval. Cecil's view of the matter had never occurred to her. "I am afraid that Miss Ferris is right," Grace said slowly. "Much as I should like to see the Harlowe House Club in a position to take care of its members' wants I am afraid we might be criticized as selfish if we undertook to give a bazaar." "Why couldn't we give one entertainment a month?" asked Mary Reynolds eagerly. "I am sure President Morton would let us have Greek Hall. We could give different kinds of entertainments. One month we could give a Shakespearean play and the next a Greek tragedy; then we could act a scenario, or have a musical revue or whatever we liked. We could make posters to advertise each one and state frankly on them that the proceeds were to go to the Harlowe House Club Reserve Fund. We wouldn't ask any one for anything. We wouldn't even ask them to come. We'd just have the tickets on sale as they do at a theatre. If the girls liked the first show, they'd come to the next one. We'd ask some of the popular girls of the college who do stunts to take part, and feature them. I think we'd have a standing-room-only audience every time." Mary paused for breath after this long speech. The club, to a member, had eyed her with growing interest as she talked. "I think that's a splendid plan," agreed Evelyn Ward. "I'm willing to do all I can toward it. I've had only a little stage experience, but I'd love to help coach the actors for their parts." For the next half hour the plan for increasing the club's treasury was eagerly discussed. A play committee, consisting of Mary Reynolds, Evelyn Ward, Nettie Weyburn and Ethel Hilton, a tall, dark-haired girl, noted for making brilliant recitations, was chosen. "Has any one else a suggestion?" asked Louise Sampson, when the first excitement regarding the new project had in a measure subsided. "Why couldn't we have a Service Bureau?" asked Nettie Weyburn. "I mean we could post notices that any one who wishes a certain kind of work done, such as mending, sewing or tutoring, could apply to our bureau. Every one knows that the students of Harlowe House are self-supporting. We wouldn't be here if we weren't. Some of us have a very hard time earning our college fees. Some of us have been obliged to borrow money, and comparatively few of us ever have pocket money. If the girls who don't have to do things for themselves found that we could always be depended upon for services I imagine we would have all the work we could do." "Hurrah for Nettie!" exclaimed Cecil Ferris. "I think that's a fine idea." "So do I," echoed several voices. "But we'd have to put some one in charge of the bureau, and no one of us could afford to spend much time looking after it," reminded Louise. "Oh, we could take turns," was Nettie's prompt reply. "Then, too, we could have certain hours for business, say from four o'clock until six on every week day, except Saturday and from two o'clock until five on Saturday afternoons." "But where would we receive the girls who came to see about having work done?" asked Alice Andrews, a business-like little person who roomed with Louise Sampson. "I will see that the Service Bureau has a desk installed in one corner of the living room," offered Grace, who had, up to this point, listened to the various girls' remarks, a proud light in her eyes. She loved the sturdy self-reliance of the members of her household. "And there will also be times when I can do duty on the Bureau, too," she added. "No, Miss Harlowe, you mustn't think of it," said Louise Sampson. "You do altogether too much for us now." "I am here to take care of my household," smiled Grace. "Besides, it will be a pleasure to help a club of girls who are so willing to help themselves." "Miss Harlowe is really and truly interested in the girls here, isn't she?" Jean Brent commented to Evelyn Ward in an undertone. Having passed her examinations Jean was now a full-fledged freshman. "Yes, indeed," returned Evelyn, with emphasis. "She has done a great deal for me. More than I can ever hope to repay." "What--" began Jean. Then she suddenly stopped and bent forward in a listening attitude. The electric bell on the front door had just shrilled forth the announcement of a visitor. A moment and the maid had entered the room with, "A lady to see you, Miss Harlowe. I didn't catch her name. It sounded like Brant." Jean Brent grew very white. Turning to Evelyn she said unsteadily, "I don't feel well. I think I will go up stairs." Without waiting for Evelyn to reply, she rose and almost ran out of the living room ahead of Grace. As she stepped into the hall she darted one lightning glance toward the visitor, then she stumbled up the stairs, shaking with relief. She had never before seen Grace's caller. "How do you feel?" was Evelyn's first question as she entered their room fully two hours later. "You missed a spread. We had sandwiches and cake and hot chocolate." "I can't help it," muttered Jean uncivilly. Then she said apologetically, "I'm much better, thank you. Please forgive me for being so rude." While in the next room Grace was saying to Emma, who, owing to an engagement, had not attended the meeting, "Really, Emma, the name 'Riddle' certainly applies to Miss Brent. She came to the meeting with the others, and when it was only half over she bolted from the living room and upstairs as though she were pursued by savages. I wouldn't have noticed her, perhaps, but I had been called to the door. Mrs. Brant came to see me about my sewing. Miss Brent hurried out of the living room ahead of me. I saw her give Mrs. Brant the strangest look, then up the stairs she ran as fast as she could go." "Grace," Emma looked at her friend in a startled way. "You don't suppose Miss Brent has run away from home do you? The names Brant and Brent sound alike. She may have thought that some member of her family had followed her here." It was Grace's turn to look startled. "I don't know," she said doubtfully. "I hope not. I should not like to harbor a runaway unless I knew the circumstances warranted it, as was the case with Mary Reynolds. I didn't think of Miss Brent's secret as being of that nature. Surely Miss Lipton would not countenance a runaway. Still I don't wish to try to force this girl's confidence. I prefer to let matters stand as they are, for the present, at least. I've promised to respect her secret, whatever it may be, and I am going to do so." Emma shook her head disapprovingly. "I don't like mysteries, Grace. When we talked Jean Brent over a few days ago I told you that I didn't think it mattered if she choose to wrap herself in mystery. But I've changed my mind. I believe you owe it to yourself to insist on a complete explanation from her. Suppose later on you discovered that you had been deceived in her, that she was unworthy. Then, again, she might put you in a disagreeable position with President Morton or Miss Wilder. You remember the humiliation you endured at Evelyn's hands. I, who know you so well, understand that your motive in trusting Miss Brent unquestioningly is above reproach. But others might not understand. If she proved untrustworthy, _you_ would be censured far more than she." Emma's tones vibrated with earnestness. Grace sat silent. She realized the truth of her friend's words. Emma rarely spoke seriously. When she did so, it counted. Still, she had given her promise to this strange young girl, and she would keep her word. After all Jean Brent's secret might be of no more importance than that of the average school girl. CHAPTER VII HER OWN WAY The Service Bureau lost no time in preparing and posting notices on the college bulletin board, and on those of the various campus houses, to the effect that they were prepared to take care of any requests for general services that might be made, and the immediate response with which their venture met was gratifying in the extreme. Certain of the club members found their spare time fully occupied in tutoring freshmen, while those who were skilled needlewomen were kept busy mending, making silk blouses, kimonos and even simple styles of gowns. Grace had thoughtfully placed a second sewing machine in the sewing room, and it never stood idle. There were requests for all sorts of services such as hair dressing, manicuring and countless small labors which affluent students were glad to turn over to their needy classmates. Grace and Louise Sampson spent many hours of time and thought upon the new venture. It required tact and judgment to select the various girls for the various labors. First there was the customer to please. Second the fact that each member of the club was anxious to be given the opportunity to earn a little extra money. It was wonderful, too, the amount of hitherto undiscovered ability which came to light at the call for service, and it was not long before Nettie Weyburn had acquired considerable reputation as a manicurist, while Ethel Hilton gained lasting laurels as a hair dresser and Mary Reynolds proved herself a competent tutor. Hilda Moore became a fad among certain girls who loathed letter writing and willingly paid her for taking their dictation and typing their home letters, while Cecil Ferris stood alone as an expert mender of silk stockings. Louise Sampson made silk blouses. Several members specialized on kimonos. Two girls were kept constantly busy on hand-painted post cards, posters and cunning little luncheon favors. There were also occasional requests for a maid or companion for some special affair. In fact the high standard of excellence which the Service Bureau aimed for, and obtained, caused its popularity to increase rapidly. There was but one member of this earnest and busy household to whom the Bureau meant nothing. That member was Jean Brent. So far she had discovered absolutely nothing she could do to earn money. She had not the patience to tutor, she loathed the bare idea of performing personal services for others, and she could not sew a stitch. Nevertheless the fact that she needed money perpetually stared her in the face. True she had written to Miss Lipton for a loan, and the money had been promptly sent her. She had repaid Grace and Evelyn the small sums they had advanced her, but the remainder of the money had dwindled away so rapidly she could hardly have given an account of the way in which it had been spent. Now her thoughts turned to her trunks of unused finery. What possible objection could Miss Harlowe have to her selling what was rightfully hers? If she wished to dispose of certain of her own possessions it was surely no one's affair save her own. Althea Parker, who was Evelyn's friend, and the leader of a clique of the richest girls at Overton, had been given an opportunity to see the contents of one of the trunks and had gone into ecstacies over the dainty hats and frocks Jean had displayed for her benefit. "For goodness' sake _where_ did you get such lovely things?" had been Althea's curious question. "They must have cost a lot of money." "Do you think the girls in your set would be interested in them?" Jean had asked, ignoring the other girl's question. "I--I should like to sell them to any one who wants them. I must have some money. I need it at once." "Sell them?" Althea's eye-brows had been elevated in surprise. "How funny." Then her natural selfishness coming strongly to the surface, she had said hastily. "I'd love to have that green chiffon evening gown. It's never been worn, has it?" She decided it was not her business if Miss Brent chose to sell her clothes. Jean had gravely assured her that everything in the trunk was perfectly new and fresh, and Althea had, then and there, bargained for almost a hundred dollars' worth of finery, and promised to interest the girls of her set in Jean's possessions. It was not until after Althea had gone that Jean remembered Grace's objection to her proposed sale. She decided that she could not have the sale after all. She would sell Althea the things she wished and tell her the circumstances. But when she laid the matter before Althea the latter had said lightly, "Oh, don't let a little thing like that worry you. It's none of Miss Harlowe's business. Besides, I've told my friends, and they are dying to see your things. Evelyn told me to-day that Miss Harlowe was going to New York City on Friday night. You can have the girls come up here on Saturday afternoon. I'll invite Evelyn to luncheon and keep her away until after six o'clock. She wouldn't like it if she knew. She's a regular goody-goody this year. What you must do is to get the things out of the other trunks. Then the girls can see them. I'll come to-morrow for these things I've selected; so have them wrapped up for me. If we manage it quietly no one need be the wiser, for the girls won't breathe a word of it to a soul." Actuated by her need of money, Jean swallowed her scruples and obeyed Althea's commands implicitly. Under the pretext of rearranging her wardrobe, she spent her spare time in the trunk room going over her effects and picking out those articles most likely to appeal to her customers, and by Saturday everything was in readiness for the sale. Evelyn, unsuspecting and jubilant over her luncheon engagement with Althea, who had so far this term held herself rather aloof from her, hurried off to keep her appointment, leaving Jean a clear field. Locking the door, this strange girl began laying out her wares. There were exquisite evening gowns, with satin slippers and silk stockings to match, and there were afternoon and morning frocks, walking suits, separate coats, hats, gloves, fans, scarfs, everything in fact to delight the heart of a girl. Jean handled them all mechanically, and without interest. It was only when she heard the murmur of girls' voices outside her door that a deep flush mounted even to her smooth forehead. She drew a deep breath and braced herself as for an ordeal, then answered the peremptory knock on the door. There were little delighted cries from the ten girls who came to the sale as they examined Jean's beautiful wardrobe. Being of medium height, her gowns fitted most of her customers, who exulted over the fact of their absolute freshness. They were indeed bargains, and, as each girl had come prepared to buy to the limit of her ample allowance, the money fairly poured into Jean's hands. For the rest of the afternoon a great trying-on of gowns ensued, and in their eager appreciation of the pretty things before them they chattered like a flock of magpies, arousing not a little curiosity among a number of the Harlowe House girls who in passing through the hall heard the murmur of voices and subdued laughter. It was after six o'clock when the last girl, bearing a huge bundle and a suit case, had departed. Jean sat down amidst the wreck of her possessions and sighed wearily. She sprang up the next moment, however, and began feverishly to bundle the various garments lying about on the bed and chairs into the open trunk. She had sold many of her possessions. Those that were left would all go into the one trunk. She must hurry them in before Evelyn returned. She was likely to come in at almost any moment. Jean had saved a beautiful frock of yellow crêpe for Evelyn. She intended to give it to her for a Christmas present. There were shoes, stockings and scarf to match, along with a wonderful white evening coat, trimmed with wide bands of white fur and lined with palest pink brocade. In the short time she had known Evelyn she had become greatly attached to her, and although unlike in disposition, they had, so far, managed to get along together as roommates. Jean knew, however, that Evelyn, who was devoted heart and soul to Grace Harlowe, could not fail to disapprove of her high-handed disregard of Grace's authority. She, therefore, determined to remove all traces of the sale and trust to luck and the honor of the girls who had taken part in it. If, later, Evelyn should recognize any of the various articles as Jean's, it would do no particular harm. She would, no doubt, be shocked, but still past lapses of good conduct never disturbed one as did those of the present. Feeling that, in her case, at least, the end justified the means, Jean bundled the last tell-tale effect into the trunk and banged down the lid, resolving to meet Evelyn as though nothing had happened, and let the future take care of itself. CHAPTER VIII ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK With the approach of the Thanksgiving holidays a great pleasure and a great sorrow came to Grace. The "pleasure" was the joyful news that Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe had accepted an invitation to spend Thanksgiving in New York City with the Nesbits. This news meant that, for the first time since her entrance into college as a freshman, Grace would have the supreme satisfaction of being with her adored parents on Thanksgiving Day. Anne, Miriam and Elfreda would be with her, too, which made the anticipation of her four days' vacation doubly dear. Then almost identical with this great joy had come the great sorrow. Miss Wilder was going away. For the past year she had not been well, and now she had been ordered West for her health. During Grace's first year at Harlowe House the regard which Miss Wilder had always felt for her as a student had gradually deepened until the two were on terms of intimacy. Grace felt the same freedom in going to the dean with her difficulties as she had with Miss Thompson, her loved principal of high-school days. It seemed to her as though this staunch friend, with her kindly tolerance, and her amazing knowledge of girl nature, could never be replaced. No matter how worthy of respect and admiration her successor might be, she could never quite equal Miss Wilder. The possibility of Overton without her had never occurred to Grace. True she had noted on several occasions that Miss Wilder looked very pale and tired. She was considerably thinner, too, than when Grace had entered college as a freshman, yet she had always given out the impression of tireless energy. Grace had never heard her complain of ill health, yet here she was, threatened with a nervous breakdown. The only remedy, a complete rest. As soon as her successor had been appointed she would start for an extended western trip in search of health, which only time, the open air and rest could restore. At the older woman's request Grace spent as much time as possible in her company. They had long talks over the subject that lay closest to the young house mother's heart, the welfare of her flock, and Grace derived untold benefit from the dean's counsel. It now lacked only a little time until Overton College would lose one of its staunchest friends. Divided between the anticipation of meeting and the pain of parting, Grace hardly knew her own state of mind. It was with a very sober face that she hung the telephone on its receiver one gray November morning, and slipping into her wraps, set out for Overton Hall in obedience to Miss Wilder's telephoned request. The new dean, Miss Wharton, had arrived, and Miss Wilder was anxious that Grace should meet her. Miss Wharton had expressed herself as interested in Miss Wilder's account of Harlowe House and its unique system of management. She had also expressed her desire to meet Grace, and Miss Wilder, hopeful that this interest might prove helpful to Grace, had readily acceded to her wish. Grace set forth for Overton Hall in good spirits, but whether it was the effect of the raw November morning or that the shadow of parting hung heavily over her, she suddenly felt her exhilaration vanish. A strange sense of gloomy foreboding bore down upon her. She found herself strangely reluctant to meet Miss Wharton. She had a strong desire to about-face and return to Harlowe House. "What is the matter with you, Grace Harlowe?" she said half aloud. With an impatient squaring of her shoulders she marched along determined to be cheerful and make the best of what she could not change. As she entered Miss Wilder's office her quick glance took in the short, rather stout figure seated beside Miss Wilder. This, then, was Miss Wharton. What Grace saw in that quick glance was a round, red, satisfied face lit by two cold pale blue eyes, and surmounted by lifeless brown hair, plentifully streaked with gray. There was neither grace nor majesty in her short, dumpy figure, and Grace's first impression of her was decidedly unpleasant. An impression which she never had reason to change. Miss Wilder rose to meet Grace with outstretched hand. "My dear, I am glad to see you this morning." "And I to see you," responded Grace, her gray eyes full of affectionate regard. "How are you feeling to-day, Miss Wilder?" "Very well, indeed, for me," smiled the dean. "Almost well enough to give up my western rest, but not quite. My heart is in my work here. It is hard to leave it even for a little while. But I am leaving it in good hands. I wish you to meet Miss Wharton, Grace." She presented Grace to the other woman, who did not offer to take the hand Grace extended, but bowed rather distantly. The color stung Grace's cheeks at the slight. Still she forced herself to try to say honestly, "I am glad to know you, Miss Wharton." "Thank you," was the cold response, "You are much younger than I was led to believe. It is rather difficult to imagine you as the head of a campus house. You give one the impression of being a student." Grace's eyes were fixed on the new dean with grave regard. Was this salutary speech purely impersonal or did a spice of malicious meaning lurk within it? Not since those far-off days when Miss Leece, a disagreeable teacher of mathematics at Oakdale High School, had made her algebra path a thorny one had she encountered any instructor that reminded her in the least of the one teacher she had thoroughly despised. Yet, as she strove to fight back her growing dislike and reply impersonally, she was seized with the conviction that even as she and Miss Leece had been wholly opposed to each other, so surely would she and Miss Wharton find nothing in common. After what seemed an hour, but was in reality a minute, Grace forced herself to smile and say with quiet courtesy, "This is my second year as house mother at Harlowe House. I am frequently taken for a student. I really feel no older than my girls, and I hope I shall always feel so." "It isn't years that count with Miss Harlowe," smiled Miss Wilder, coming to Grace's defense. "It is the ability to keep things moving successfully, and Miss Harlowe has shown that ability in a marked degree," she added. "Has she, indeed?" returned Miss Wharton, with what Grace felt to be forced politeness. "I shall be interested in visiting Harlowe House and learning Miss Harlowe's successful methods of management." Then she turned to Miss Wilder and began a conversation from which it appeared as though she deliberately sought to exclude Grace. "I must go, Miss Wilder," said Grace, rising almost immediately. She decided that she could not and would not endure Miss Wharton's rudeness. Miss Wilder looked distressed. She could not understand Miss Wharton's attitude, therefore there was nothing to do save ignore it. "Very well, my dear. Run in and see me to-morrow. I shall be here from two o'clock until four in the afternoon." She took one of Grace's soft hands in both of hers. The brown eyes met the gray questioning ones with a look of love and trust. Grace's resentment died out. She said a formal good-bye to Miss Wharton and hurried from the room. She would go to see Miss Wilder the next day as she had requested. Perhaps Miss Wharton's rude reception of her was due merely to a brusque trait of character. Perhaps she belonged to the old school who believed that youth and responsibility could not go hand in hand. At any rate she would try hard not to judge. Although she usually found her first impressions to be correct, still there were always exceptions. Miss Wharton might prove to be the exception. On her way home she stopped at Wayne Hall. To her it was a house of tender memories, and she never entered its hospitable doors without half expecting to see the dear, familiar faces of the girls long gone from there to the busy paths of the outside world. "Why, how do you do, Miss Harlowe?" was Mrs. Elwood's delighted greeting. "It certainly is good to see you. I think you might run over oftener when you're so near, but I s'pose you have your hands full with all those thirty-four girls. Did you come to see Miss West and Miss Eliot? If you did, they're both at home, for a wonder. Miss West doesn't have a recitation at this hour, and Miss Eliot's sick." "Sick!" Grace sprang to her feet. "Oh, I must run up and see her at once. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Elwood, I came to see you. I hadn't the least idea that either of the girls were in, but if you'll forgive me this time I'll run upstairs to see Patience and make you a special visit some other day." "Oh, I'll forgive you, all right," laughed Mrs. Elwood. "I'm glad to see your bright face, if it's only for five minutes, Miss Harlowe." "You're a dear." Grace dropped a soft kiss on Mrs. Elwood's cheek, then hurried up the stairs, two at a time. Pausing at the old familiar door at the end of the hall, she knocked. There was a quick, light step. The door opened and Kathleen West fairly pounced upon her. "Look who's here! Look who's here!" she chanted triumphantly. The tall, fair girl in the lavender silk kimono, who reclined in the Morris chair, turned her head languidly, then gave a cry of delight. "You poor girl!" Grace embraced Patience affectionately. "Whatever is the matter?" "Oh, just a cold," croaked Patience. "In the words of J. Elfreda, 'I'm a little horse.'" Her blue eyes twinkled. "It's worth being sick to have you here, Grace." "I've been intending to come over every night this week, but I'm so busy," sighed Grace. "The Service Bureau keeps me hustling." "What a progressive lot of people you Harlowites are," praised Kathleen. "Did you know that Mary is doing a story about you and your family for our paper. Of course there are no names mentioned. I saw to that." Kathleen flushed. She recalled a time when she had used Grace's name without permission. "Yes, I know about it," smiled Grace, "and I know that no names are mentioned." Kathleen's color heightened. Then she remarked: "By the way, that Miss Brent must have realized a nice sum of money from her sale. When did she have it, Grace? We didn't hear a word of it. It must have been a very select affair. I'm sorry I didn't know of it, for I wanted to buy an evening dress. Rita Harris bought a beauty. Tell us about this latest acquisition to Harlowe House. How does she happen to have such wonderful clothes, and why didn't she go to work for the Service Bureau instead of selling them? I'm fairly buzzing with curiosity." Grace viewed Kathleen in amazement. "I don't understand you, Kathleen," she said, in a perplexed tone. "I have heard nothing of a sale." "But Miss Brent held it at Harlowe House a week ago last Saturday," persisted Kathleen. "It is evident she didn't wish you to know it or you would have been there, too." Grace's amazed expression changed to one of vexed concern. She now understood. "One week ago last Saturday I was in New York City," she said soberly. "Until this moment I knew nothing of any such sale. In fact I had objected to the plan when Miss Brent proposed it to me. If she had wished to dispose of certain of her personal belongings to any one girl I should have said unhesitatingly that it was her own affair, but a general sale is a different matter. The eyes of the college are, to a great extent, directed toward Harlowe House. It's position among the other campus houses is unique. That the girls who live there are given a home free of charge makes them doubly liable to criticism. They must be worthy of their privileges." Kathleen nodded in emphatic agreement. "Of course they must. I understand fully your position in regard to them, Grace." "You mean the girl we met that day at Vinton's, don't you?" inquired Patience. "She had been robbed of her money in the train." "Yes; she is the very girl." "How do you reconcile her lack of means to pay her college expenses with this wonderful wardrobe that Kathleen has just told us of?" "I don't reconcile them. I can't. That is just the trouble." Grace looked worried. "Speaking in strict confidence, I have really taken Miss Brent on trust. I have asked her to explain certain things to me, and she has refused to do so. On the other hand she is warmly championed by the principal of one of the most select preparatory schools in the country. Then, too, she assures me that at some future day she will explain everything. Emma calls her the Riddle. It's an appropriate name, too." Grace made a little despairing gesture. "You are the greatest advocate of the motto, 'Live and let live' that I have ever run across, Grace," smiled Patience, "but," her face grew serious, "I believe you ought to insist on Miss Brent's full explanation of her mysterious ways. If the news of this sale happens to reach faculty ears _you_ are likely to be criticized for allowing it." "But I didn't allow it," protested Grace. "I refused my consent to it." "Yet you are the last one to defend yourself at another's expense," reminded Kathleen. "You'd rather be misjudged than to see this girl, who hasn't even trusted you, placed in an unpleasant position." Grace's color deepened. "I promised to trust her," she said at last. "At first I felt just as you do about this. Then I talked with her. She seemed honest and sincere. I decided that perhaps it would be better not to force her confidence. Young girls are often likely to make mountains of mole-hills. Still, Emma thinks just as you do," she added. "She didn't at first, but she does now. I'm sure _she_ knows nothing of the sale. She would have told me." "I just happened to remember," began Kathleen, her straight brows drawn together in a scowl, "that Evelyn Ward rooms with Miss Brent. Evelyn must have known of the sale. Do you mind, if I ask her about it?" "Ask her if you like." Grace spoke wearily. Everything was surely going wrong to-day. She had intended to tell Patience and Kathleen about her trip to New York. She had visited Anne and the Southards and spent two delightful days. After what she had heard she felt that there was nothing to say. "I must go," she announced abruptly. "I'll come again to-morrow to see you, Patience. A speedy recovery to you. Come and see me, both of you, whenever you can. By the way, I met Miss Wharton, the new dean, this morning." "What is she like?" asked Kathleen. "I can hardly tell you. She is different from Miss Wilder. I saw her only for a moment. She seems distant. Still one can't judge by first appearances. I must go. Good-bye, girls." Grace left her friends rather hurriedly. She was ready to cry. The revelations of the morning had been almost too much for her. It was hard indeed to be snubbed, but it was harder still to be deceived. "It's all in the day's work," she whispered, over and over again, as she crossed the campus. "I must be brave and accept what comes. It's all in the day's work." CHAPTER IX WHAT EVELYN HEARD ON THE CAMPUS "Ha! Whom have we here?" declaimed Emma Dean, pointing dramatically, as Grace opened the door and stepped into their room. One look at Grace's sensitive face was sufficient. Emma had lived close to her friend too long not to know the signs of dejection in the features that usually shone with hope and cheerfulness. "Advance and show your countersign," she commanded. "I haven't any," returned Grace soberly. "Spoken like a brigadier general who doesn't need one," retorted Emma. "You are just in time to hear my terrible tale. "Oh, a terrible tale I have to tell Of the terrible fate that once befell A teacher of English who once resided In the same recitation room that I did," she rendered tunefully. The shadow disappeared like magic from Grace's face. "Now what have you done, you funny girl?" she asked, her sad face breaking into smiles. Emma was irresistible. "It is not what I have _done_, but what I _might_ have done. What was it Whittier said in 'Maud Muller'?" "There's really no one under the sun Can blame you for what you might have done," paraphrased Emma briskly. Grace giggled outright. "Poor Whittier," she sympathized. "Don't pity him," objected Emma. "Pity me for what nearly happened to me. The illustrious name of Dean came within a little of traveling about Overton attached to a funny story, which I will now relate for your sole edification. You remember that pile of themes I brought home on Tuesday?" Grace nodded. "Well, I finished them last night and wrapped them up ready to take back to the classroom to-day. They made a good-sized bundle, because I had collected them from all my classes. This morning I was in a hurry, so I picked up my bundle and ran. I always like to be in my classroom in good season. But fate was against me, for I met Miss Dutton, that new assistant in Greek, and she stopped me to ask me numerous questions, as she is fain to do unless one sees her first, and from afar off enough to suddenly change one's course and miss her. Consequently I marched into my room to find my class assembled. I assumed a dignity which I didn't feel, for I hate being late, and laid my bundle of themes on my desk. Every eye was fixed reprovingly upon me. I had said so much against straggling into class late, yet here I had committed that very crime. I untied my bundle and was just going to open it when that black-eyed Miss Atherton asked me a question. I answered the question, my eyes on her, my fingers folding back the paper. I reached for my themes and my hand closed over cloth instead of paper. A positive chill went up and down my spine. I gave one horrified glance at the supposed theme and poked it out of sight in a hurry. Another second and I would have offered some one my white linen skirt in full view of my class. Instead of themes I had brought my clean laundry to English IV." "Oh, Emma!" gasped Grace mirthfully. "You're not a bit sympathetic," declared Emma with pretended severity. How Elfreda would love that tale. She would revel in the vision of Emma Dean solemnly proffering her linen skirt to an unsuspecting class. "I declare, Emma, you have driven away the blues." "Have I?" inquired Emma with guileful innocence. It was precisely what she had intended to do. "What is troubling you, Gracious?" "I can't endure the thought of losing Miss Wilder. I went to see her this morning and met Miss Wharton. I----" "Don't like her," finished Emma calmly. "No, I don't," returned Grace, with sudden vigor, "but how did you know it?" "Because I don't like her, either. I was introduced to her yesterday afternoon in Miss Wilder's office. I didn't tell you, because I wished you to form your own impression of her, first hand." "She was positively rude to me, Emma. She made me feel like a little girl. She said I looked more like a student than a person in charge of a campus house." "I agree with her," was Emma's bland reply. "You might easily be taken for a freshman." "But she didn't mean it in the nice way that you do," said Grace. "I hope she never comes to inspect Harlowe House. She will be sure to find fault." "She'll have to make a sharp search," predicted Emma. "We won't worry about it until she comes, will we? Now, what else is on your mind?" "The Riddle," admitted Grace. She related what she had heard from Kathleen regarding the sale. "H-m-m!" was Emma's dry response. "They took good care that I shouldn't hear of it." "I'm so sorry Evelyn lent herself to something she knew would displease me," mourned Grace. "Perhaps she didn't. I know for a certainty that she wasn't in the house Saturday afternoon, for I met her on the campus and she told me that she was going to take luncheon and spend the afternoon with Althea Parker." "She must have _known_ about it." "I am afraid the news of this sale will travel rapidly," prophesied Emma. "Not only will Miss Brent be talked over, but you also will be criticized. You know I advised you, not long ago, to insist that Miss Brent make a full explanation of things. Take my advice and see her at once." "I will," decided Grace. "I'll have a talk with her after dinner to-night." Grace was not the only one, however, to whom the news of the sale came as a shock. Strangely enough Evelyn learned of it during the afternoon of the same day in which it had come to Grace's ears. Her attention had been attracted to a smart black and white check coat which Edna Correll, a very plain freshman who tried to make up in extreme dressing what she lacked in beauty, was wearing. In crossing the campus on her way to Harlowe House she had encountered Edna in company with another freshman. For an instant she had wondered why the sight of the black and white coat which Edna wore seemed so strangely familiar. Then it had dawned upon her that it was identical with a coat belonging to Jean. "How do you like my new coat?" had been Edna's salutation, and Evelyn had replied. "It's wonderfully smart. Miss Brent has one very much like it." "She had one, you mean," Edna had corrected. "Why, weren't you at the sale last Saturday! I suppose you selected what you wanted beforehand. That is where you had the advantage." "What sale?" Evelyn had asked, completely mystified. Then explanations had followed. White with suppressed anger, Evelyn had bade Edna a hasty good-bye and sped across the campus toward Harlowe House. Without a word she brushed by the maid who answered the bell, and rushed upstairs as fast as she could run. The temper which she had tried so hard to control was now at a high pitch. How dared Jean deliberately place her in such an unpleasant position when she was trying so hard to be worthy of Miss Harlowe's confidence? She flung open the door of her room. Then her eyes sought and found Jean standing before the wardrobe, her back to the door, a pair of black satin slippers in her hand. "How could you do it?" burst forth Evelyn. "You know Miss Harlowe forbade it. Now she will think that I knew all about it. Just when I am trying to merit her confidence." Jean Brent whirled about. Her blue eyes flashed. One of the slippers she held in her hand swished through the air and landed with a thud against the opposite wall. The wave of anger with which she faced Evelyn was like the sudden sweep of a gale of wind out of a clear sky. The other slipper followed the first one. Then the doors of the wardrobe were slammed shut with a force that caused it to shake. To Evelyn it was as though a strong current of air had blown upon her. Here, indeed was a temper that outranked her own. "What right have you to speak to me in such a tone?" raged Jean. "You have nothing to say as to what I shall or shall not do. I won't pretend I don't know what you mean. I do know. I don't in the least care what you think about it, either. My clothes are mine to do with just whatever I please. If Miss Harlowe imagines I am going to be a servant to half the girls at Overton for the sake of earning my fees she is mistaken. Why should she or any one else object to my selling my things, if I like? I don't see how you found it out. The girls promised to keep the whole affair to themselves. I don't understand why you should be so concerned, or what it has to do with Miss Harlowe's opinion of you. From what you say I might almost assume that there had been a time when _you_ were not to be trusted." Evelyn's beautiful face was crimson with anger and humiliation. She longed to answer Jean's arraignment with a flood of words as bitter as her own, but her determined effort of months to rule her spirit now bore fruit. "I'm sorry I spoke so abruptly," she said coldly. "I just heard about the sale from Miss Correll. You were quite right in what you said. There was a time when I could not be trusted. My trouble was about clothes, too. Miss Harlowe helped me find my self-respect again, and this year I am trying very hard to be an Overton girl in the truest sense of the word. I am telling you this in confidence because I wish you to understand why Miss Harlowe's good opinion is so dear to me." "You can go and tell her that you knew nothing about the sale," muttered Jean sullenly. Something in Evelyn's frank confession had made her feel a trifle ashamed of herself. Evelyn's violet eyes grew scornful. "How can you suggest such a thing?" she asked. It was Jean's turn to blush. "Forgive me," she said penitently. "I know you aren't a tell-tale. If she asks me about the sale, be sure I'll exonerate you." Evelyn shook her head. "I wish you'd go to her, Jean, and tell her what you have done. Sooner or later she is sure to find it out." But Jean Brent was in no mood for this advice. It caused her anger to blaze afresh. "There you go again," she blustered, "with your goody-goody advice to me about running to Miss Harlowe with every little thing I do. I hope I'm not such a baby. If Miss Harlowe sends for me, don't think for a minute that I'll be afraid to face her, but until she _does_ send for me I am not going to concern myself about it, and I would advise you not to trouble yourself, either." With this succinct advice Jean made a fresh onslaught on the unoffending wardrobe. Opening it she seized her hat and coat. With a last reverberating slam of its long-suffering doors she turned her back on it and Evelyn, and switched defiantly out of the room and on out of the house. CHAPTER X LAYING THE CORNERSTONE OF A HOUSE OF TROUBLE Jean did not return to Harlowe House for dinner that night. Instead she turned her steps toward Holland House, where Althea Parker lived, assured that in Althea she would find sympathy. In spite of the fact that Jean lived at Harlowe House, a plain acknowledgment of her lack of means, Althea shrewdly suspected that the mysterious freshman had come from a home of wealth, and was posing as a poor girl for some reason best known to herself. Jean's remarkable wardrobe had impressed her deeply, while Jean herself carried out the impression of having been brought up in luxury. She was self-willed, extravagant, careless of the future, and her flippant opinion, delivered to Althea, of the Service Bureau and work in general, was all that was needed to convince the shrewd junior of Jean's true position in life. Then, too, Jean was extremely likable, although Althea stood a little in awe of her remarkable poise and a certain imperiousness that occasionally crept into the girl's manner. Jean rang the bell at Holland House with mingled feelings of resentment and defiance. Resentment against Evelyn for daring to take her to task; defiance of Grace and her commands. "Is Miss Parker in?" she inquired of the maid who opened the door. "She just came in, miss." "Very well. I'll go on upstairs. She won't mind me." Jean knocked on Althea's door. Althea called an indifferent "Come in," and she entered to find her engaged in reading a letter that had come by the afternoon mail. "Oh, hello, Jean," she drawled at sight of the other girl. "You must have come in right behind me. What are you glowering about?" "Evelyn is angry with me because I had the sale," began Jean. "That's what I came to tell you. I'm sorry I told her that Miss Harlowe had forbidden me to have it. Now she thinks I ought to go to Miss Harlowe and tell her that I disobeyed her before she hears of it from some other source." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Althea. "Don't be so silly. Ten chances to one she'll never hear of it. If ever she does, it will probably be as ancient history. I'll caution the girls again to keep still. Who told Evelyn?" "That Miss Correll. Evelyn saw her wearing my black and white check coat and recognized it," returned Jean gloomily. "She came rushing into my room like a young tornado with the plea that Miss Harlowe would blame her for my misdeeds." Jean was tempted to add that which Evelyn had told her in confidence. Then her better nature stirred, and she was silent. "Evelyn isn't nearly as good company this year as she was last," complained Althea. "Ever since the latter part of her freshman year, she's been so different. I've always had an idea," Althea lowered her voice, "that last spring she broke some rule of the college and ran away. One night, just before college closed--it was long after ten o'clock, too--Miss Harlowe telephoned me and asked if Evelyn were with me. I found out afterward that she had gone to New York all by herself. She'd never been there but once before when she spent a week-end with me, and she didn't know a soul. I never could find out anything else, though. Evelyn went to her classes on Monday, and not one word did she ever say about it. I didn't find out about the New York part of it until this fall, though. A Willston man whom we both know saw her in New York with that clever Miss West, who wrote 'Loyalheart.'" Jean listened with attentive gravity. She guessed that Althea had perhaps hit upon the truth. Evelyn had confessed to her that there had been that in her freshman year of which she was ashamed. She had said it was about clothes, yet what had clothes to do with breaking the rules of Overton and running away to New York? Whatever it was, it should remain Evelyn's secret. She would tell Althea nothing. "Let's go to Vinton's for dinner," she proposed, with an abrupt change of subject. "I've plenty of money now--while it lasts." "All right," agreed Althea, "only I mustn't stay out late. I've a frightful lesson in physics to study for to-morrow." Jean did not particularly enjoy her dinner. In spite of her defiant manner she had begun to feel slightly conscience-stricken. She almost wished she had not gone on with the sale. Still she could have obtained the necessary money in no other way. Now that the mischief was done she could hope only that Miss Harlowe would hear nothing of it--not for a long time, at any rate. As she crossed the campus and ran lightly up the steps of Harlowe House she resolved to shake off her recent fear of the discovery, on Grace's part, of her disobedience and act as though nothing had happened. Her resolution was destined to receive an unexpected jolt. "Miss Harlowe wants to see you, Miss Brent," were the words with which the maid greeted her as she stepped into the hall. Jean's heart sank. So it had come already. She stopped for a moment in the hall to gather her forces. Her feeling of penitence vanished. She threw up her head with a defiant jerk and walked boldly into the little office where Grace sat making up her expense account for November. "You wished to see me, Miss Harlowe?" Her tone was coldly interrogative, her eyes hostile, as she stared steadily at Grace. Grace looked up from her work and calmly studied the pretty, belligerent girl standing before her. In that glance she realized what a difficult task lay before her. "Yes, Miss Brent, I wished to talk with you," she answered. "Sit down, please." Jean slid reluctantly into the chair opposite Grace, surveying her with an expression which said plainly, "Well, why don't you begin?" "Did you have a sale of your clothes in your room one week ago last Saturday?" The directness of Grace's question astonished Jean. She found herself answering, "Yes," with equal promptness. "Why did you disobey me?" asked Grace. "Because I needed the money," declared Jean boldly, "and I couldn't earn it, Miss Harlowe; I just couldn't." Grace gazed reflectively at the flushed face opposite her own. "Miss Brent," she began, "when first you came to Harlowe House I believed that it was not necessary for me to know certain things which you did not wish to divulge. I might still be of that opinion if you had not disobeyed me. It is most peculiar for a girl to come to Overton utterly without funds, yet possessing quantities of the most expensive clothes. I have always felt assured of your right to be an Overton and a Harlowe House girl, yet others might not regard you so leniently. That is why I refused to allow you to have the sale. I feared you would bring down undue criticism upon you, and upon me as well. Once you became a subject for criticism you might be obliged to explain to the dean or the president of the Overton College what you have refused to explain to me. It was to protect you that I refused your request. Since you have seen fit to disregard my authority I can do but one thing. I must insist that you will tell me fully what you have, so far, kept a secret. In order to protect you I must know everything. I can no longer go on in the dark." Jean stood staring at Grace. A look of stubborn resolve crept into her face. Grace, watching her intently, knew what the answer would be. The strange girl opened her lips to speak. Then, obeying her natural impulse to give the other person the greatest possible chance, Grace raised a protesting hand. "Don't say you won't do as I ask, Miss Brent. Take a little time to think over the matter. I am going to give you until after Thanksgiving to decide whether or not you will trust me. Remember my sole desire is to help you." For the first time Grace's sweet earnestness seemed to awaken a responsive chord in the heart of the obstinate freshman. The ready color dyed her cheeks crimson. The hard, defiant light left her eyes. "If only she would tell me now and have it over with," thought Grace, noting the signs of softening on Jean's part. The girl appeared to be considering Grace's proposal in the spirit in which it had been made. Then, all in an instant, she changed. It was as though she had suddenly recalled something disagreeable. "There is really no use in waiting until after Thanksgiving for my answer. I can't tell you. I suppose you will send me away because I won't tell you, but if I did tell you, you would send me away just the same. So you see it doesn't really make much difference. It was silly in me to come here. I might have known better," she ended with a mirthless smile. Grace regarded Jean with growing annoyance. She had been offered a chance to explain herself and she had refused it. True, Grace could also refuse to allow her to remain a member of Harlowe House, but this she did not wish to do. Her pride whispered to her that among the girls who were enrolled as members of the household, made possible by Mrs. Gray's generosity, there had been no failures. Jean Brent should not be the first. She would bear with her a little longer. "I repeat, Miss Brent," she said, "that I do not wish you to answer me until after Thanksgiving. Then, if you decide, as I hope you will, to be frank with me, I promise you that I will do my utmost to protect you." Jean's only response was, "Good night, Miss Harlowe." Then she turned and left the office. Grace sat poking holes in an unoffending sheet of paper with her lead pencil. She wondered what Jean Brent's secret could possibly be, and how she could best reach this stubborn, self-centered freshman. And in her wholehearted effort to be of service to the girl, who apparently needed her help, she did not dream that she was laying the cornerstone of a house of trouble for herself. CHAPTER XI THANKSGIVING WITH THE NESBITS "I am sure I never before had so much to be thankful for!" was Grace Harlowe's fervent declaration as she viewed with loving eyes the little circle of friends of which she was the center. It was Thanksgiving eve, and the Nesbits had gathered under their hospitable roof a most congenial company to help them commemorate America's first holiday. Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe, in company with Mrs. Gray, had come from Oakdale. J. Elfreda Briggs had won a reluctant consent from her family, who invariably spent their Thanksgivings at Fairview, to make one of Miriam's house party. Anne, who was playing an extended engagement in New York City, was transplanted from the Southards' to Miriam's home for a week's stay. There were, of course, many loved faces missing, but this only made those who had assembled for a brief sojourn together more keenly alive to the joy of reunion. "This is the first Thanksgiving since my senior year in high school that I've been given the chance to sit between Father and Mother and count my blessings," Grace continued, looking fondly from one to the other of her parents. She was occupying a low stool between them, her favorite seat at home when the day was done, and the devoted little family gathered in the living room to talk over its events. "We are counting our blessings, too," smiled Mr. Harlowe. "One of them is very lively, and runs away almost as soon as it arrives." He pinched Grace's soft cheek. "But it always runs back again," reminded Grace, "and it's always yours for the asking. I'd leave my work, everything, and come home on wings if you needed me." "I used to hate Thanksgiving when I was a youngster," broke in J. Elfreda. "We always had a lot of company and I always behaved like a savage and spent Thanksgiving evening in solitary confinement. I'd wail like a disappointed coyote and make night generally hideous for the company. I've improved a lot since those days," she grinned boyishly at her friends. "I can see now that it was a pretty good thing the Pilgrim Fathers set aside a day for counting their blessings. If they thought they were lucky, I wonder what we are." Elfreda had unconsciously gone from the comic to the serious. "We are favored beyond understanding," Mrs. Harlowe said solemnly. "When one thinks of the poor and unfortunate, to whom Thanksgiving can bring nothing but sorrow and bitterness, it seems little short of marvelous that we should be so happy." "I don't wish to be selfish and forget life's unfortunates, but I'd rather not think about them now," was Miriam's candid comment. "We mustn't be sad to-night. Grace must sparkle, and Elfreda be funny, and Anne must recite for us, and I'll play and David must sing. I've discovered that he has a really good tenor voice. We've been practising songs together this fall." "Really?" asked Grace, with interest. "And all these years we never knew it. David, you can surely keep a secret." "Oh, I can't sing," protested David, coloring. "Miriam only thinks I can. Our real singers are among the missing to-night." "You mean Hippy and Nora?" "Yes," nodded David. "Isn't it strange we didn't hear from them. I wrote Tom, Hippy and Reddy to come on here for Thanksgiving if they could. Reddy and Jessica couldn't make it. They are coming home for Christmas, though. Tom Gray is away up in the Michigan woods. Still he sent a telegram that he couldn't come. But Hippy didn't answer. This morning I sent him a telegram, and so far there's no answer to that, either." "I hope neither of them is ill." Mrs. Gray's face took on a look of concern. "It is not like Hippy to neglect his friends." "Nora is usually the soul of promptness, too," reminded Anne. "If I don't hear anything to-night, I'll telegraph Hippy again to-morrow," announced David. There was a pleasant silence in the room. Every one's thoughts were on the piquant-faced Irish girl, whose sprightly manner and charming personality made her a favorite, and her plump, loquacious husband, whose ready flow of funny sayings never seemed to diminish. "There aren't any wishing rings nowadays," sighed Grace, "so there's no use in saying, 'I wish Nora and Hippy were here.' Come on, David, and sing for us. Miriam says you can, and you know it wouldn't be nice in you to contradict your sister." "You can sing, 'Ah, Moon of My Delight,'" suggested Miriam to her brother. "It is Omar Khayyam set to music, you know"--she turned to Grace--"from the song cycle, 'In a Persian Garden.'" "I love it," commented Anne, her eyes dreamy. "Do sing it, David." As Miriam went to the piano the whirr of the electric bell came to their ears. Grace glanced interrogatively at David. "Perhaps it's a telegram," she commented. David, who had just risen from his chair to go to the piano, stopped short and listened. "False alarm. Must be the doctor. One of the maids is sick." He crossed to the piano where Miriam already stood, turning over a pile of music. Having found the song for which she was searching, she took her place before the piano and began the quatrain's throbbing accompaniment. David's voice rang out tunefully. He sang with considerable feeling and expression. He had reached the exquisite line, "Through this same Garden--and for One in Vain!" when a clear high voice from the doorway took up the song with him. With a startled cry of "Nora!" Grace ran to the door. The song came to an abrupt end. Miriam whirled on the piano stool. One glance and she had joined the group that now surrounded a slender figure with a rosy, laughing face and a saucy turned-up nose. "Nora O'Malley! You dear thing! No wonder David didn't hear from Hippy. But where is he? Not far away, I hope." "Ah!" called a voice from behind the thin silk curtain of a small alcove at one end of the hall, and Hippy emerged, the picture of offended dignity. "Missed at last," was his sweeping rebuke. "I had begun to think I was doomed to languish behind that green silk curtain for life. It's all Nora's fault. If I had been immured there forever and always, it would be her fault just the same. She proposed that I should hide. 'Make them think I came alone. They will be so disappointed,' was her deceitful counsel. And I believed her and wrapped myself in the curtain to wait for you to be disappointed. I see it all now. It was merely a scheme to attract attention to herself. She is jealous of my popularity." "Oh, hush, you wicked thing," giggled Nora. "You didn't give any one time even to ask for you." "That sounds well," was Hippy's lofty retort, "but remember, all that prattles is not truth." "Squabbling as usual," groaned David, shaking Hippy's hand with an energy that belied the groan. "Just as usual," smirked Hippy. "Neither of us will ever outgrow it. You see we once lived in a town called Oakdale and associated daily with a number of very quarrelsome people. I wouldn't like to mention their names, but if some day you should happen to go to Oakdale just ask any one if David Nesbit and Reddy Brooks ever reformed. They'll understand what you mean." "Your Oakdale friends will have cause to inquire what awful fate has overtaken you if you don't reform speedily," warned David. "I'm obliged to stand your insults because you are company. Just wait until the newness of seeing you again wears off, and then see what happens." "You don't have to show me," flung back Hippy hastily. "I'll take your word for it. I believe in words, not deeds. You know I used to be so fond of quoting that immortal stanza about doing noble deeds instead of dreaming them all day long. Well, I've altered that to fit any little occasion that might arise. I find it much more comforting to say it this way: "Be wise, dear Hippy, from all violence sever, Say noble words, then do folks all day long. Avoid rash deeds, by sweet words e'er endeavor To prove your friends are wrong." A ripple of laughter followed Hippy's sadly altered quotation of the famous lines. "That's a most ignoble sentiment, Hippy," criticized Miriam. "I can't believe that you would practice it." "I didn't say I would practice it," responded Hippy, with a wide grin. "I merely stated that it was comforting to have around. Must I repeat that I believe in words, and lots of them." "We all knew that years ago," jeered David. "I believe in words, too. Sensible words from Nora explaining how you and she happened to drift in here at the eleventh hour. You haven't a sensible word in your vocabulary." "I have," protested Hippy. "Nora, as your husband, I command you, don't give David Nesbit any information." Nora dimpled. "I won't tell David," she capitulated. "I'll tell Miriam and Anne and Grace." The five Originals were still grouped together in the hall. "When David's letter came we were just wondering how we would spend Thanksgiving with not one of the old crowd at home. Hippy handed me the letter. It came while we were at luncheon. 'Let's go,' we both said at once. So we locked little fingers, wished and said 'Thumbs.' I said 'salt, pepper, vinegar,' but Hippy went on indefinitely with such pleasant reminders as 'death, famine, pestilence, murder.' He believes in words, you know." She shot a roguish glance at her broadly-smiling spouse. "Finally I reduced him to reason and we planned to surprise you. This morning found two lonely Originals hurrying to catch up with their pals." Nora surveyed her friends with a loving loyalty that brought her extra embracing from Grace, Anne and Miriam. "We mustn't be selfish," reminded Grace. "The folks in the living room are anxious to welcome you." Hippy and Nora were escorted into the living room by a fond bodyguard, and were soon exchanging affectionate greetings with the older members of the house party. J. Elfreda Briggs had not gone into the hall on the arrival of Hippy and Nora. She could never be induced to intrude upon the more intimate moments of the Originals. Hippy, with understanding tact, at once proceeded to draw her into the charmed circle. "Well, well!" he exclaimed. "Whom do I see? J. Elfreda, and in the clutches of the law, so I am told." J. Elfreda's fear of intruding vanished at this sally. Her own sense of humor caused her to claim kinship with Hippy and his pranks and she answered him in kind. "What I don't see is how _you_ ever escaped those same clutches," put in David. "Don't you have a hard time, usually, to convince the jury that you are not the defendant?" "Not in the least," responded Hippy, with dignity. "The jury knows me for what I am. Just let me tell you that if I were to have _you_ arrested for slander there wouldn't be the slightest chance of my being mistaken for the defendant." Even David was obliged to join in the laugh against himself. "All right, old man. We'll cry quits. I'll bring my law cases to you if ever I have any." "And now that you are a broker I'll bring anything I want broken to _you_," promised Hippy glibly. "So far I've left all those little business details to the maid. She has successfully broken a number of our wedding presents, and we look for still greater results. She knows more about 'brokerage' or, rather 'breakerage,' than would fill a book." "What a blessed thing it is to find you the same ridiculous Hippy we've always known," smiled Mrs. Gray, as Hippy seated himself beside her for a few minutes' sensible conversation. "You and Nora will never be staid and serious. I'm so glad of it." She sighed. She was thinking of Tom Gray, her nephew, and of how grave, almost moody, he had become during the last year. Long ago she had deplored the fact that no engagement existed between Tom and Grace. Tom had grown strangely unlike his old cheery self, and in his changed bearing she read refusal of his love on Grace's part. It saddened her. Her heart ached for Tom. She had always looked forward to the day when Grace would give her life into Tom's keeping. She had never approached Grace on the subject of Tom and his love, but to-night, as she watched Hippy and Nora, serene in their mutual love and comradeship, and marked, too, the quiet devotion of Anne and David, who were to be married in Oakdale on New Year's night, her heart went out to her gray-eyed boy, far away in the great North woods, and she determined to say a word for him to Grace. It was late in the evening before she found her opportunity. With the arrival of Hippy and Nora the interest soon centered about the piano. Grace, while not a performer, was an ardent lover of music, and her delight in Nora's singing was so patent that Mrs. Gray would not disturb her. It was during the serving of a dainty little repast that Mrs. Gray called to Grace, "Come here, Grace, and sit by me." Grace obeyed with alacrity, drawing her chair close to that of her old friend. "I thought I would ask you, my dear--what do you hear from Tom?" began the dainty old lady with apparent innocence. Grace felt the color mount even to her forehead. "I haven't heard from him lately," she confessed. "I--that is--I owe him a letter." "I wish you would write to him. Poor boy. He is very lonely, away up there in the woods." Grace did not answer for a moment. Then she said in a constrained voice, "I _will_ write to him, Mrs. Gray. I know he is lonely." There was an awkward pause in the conversation; then came the abrupt question, "Grace, do you love my boy?" "No, Fairy Godmother," replied Grace in a low tone. "I'm sorry, but I don't. That is, not in the way he wishes me to love him." "I am sorry, too, Grace. I feel almost as though I were responsible for his sorrow. For to him it is a deep sorrow. If I had not given Harlowe House to Overton College, you might have found that your work lay in being Tom's wife. He has never reproached me, but I wonder if he ever thinks that." "I am sure he doesn't," Grace's clear eyes met sorrowfully the kind blue ones. "Please don't think that Harlowe House has anything to do with my not marrying Tom. It is only because I do not love him that I am firm in refusing him. My heart is bound up in my work. Really, dear Fairy Godmother, I am almost sure I shall never marry. For your sake and his, I'd rather marry Tom than any other man in the world, if I felt that marriage was best for me. But I don't. I glory in my work and freedom and I _couldn't_ give them up. I've wanted to say this to you for a long time, but I didn't know just how to begin. Now that I have said it, I hope it hasn't wounded you." "My dear Grace," Mrs. Gray's voice was not quite steady, "I would give much to welcome you as my niece, but not unless you love Tom with the tenderness of a truly great love. If that love ever comes to you, I shall indeed be happy. But my dear boy is worthy of the highest affection. If you cannot give him that affection, then it is far better that you two should spend your lives apart." CHAPTER XII MISSING--A FRIEND Four days, spent in the society of those one loves best, pass almost with the rapidity of lightning. Unlike most of her visits to New York City, Grace gave little of her time to attending the theatres and seeing the metropolis. By common consent the members of the house party spent the greater share of their holiday together in the large, luxurious living room. Only one evening found them away from this temporary home. That was on Thanksgiving night, when Miriam gave a theatre party in honor of her guests to see Everett Southard and Anne in "King Lear," and after the play Mr. and Miss Southard entertained their friends at supper in one of New York's most exclusive restaurants. Thanksgiving morning they spent in the church of which Eric Burroughs the actor-minister was pastor, and in the afternoon they motored through Central Park and far out Riverside Drive. Aside from this, the rest of their stay found the thoroughly congenial household gathered about their borrowed fireside, treasuring the precious moments that flitted by all too fast. There was but one drawback to Grace's pleasure. The thought that she had brought even a breath of sadness to her old friend, Mrs. Gray. There were moments, too, when she experienced a faint resentment against Tom. Must her reunions with her friends be forever haunted by the knowledge that she had made one of the Eight Originals unhappy? The approaching marriage of Anne to David meant, that of the four girls she, only, had chosen to walk alone. She knew that Anne, Nora and Jessica would hail joyfully the news of her engagement to Tom. Living in the tender atmosphere of requited love, their sympathies went out to the lover. It was not until Sunday morning, after she had accompanied her father, mother and Mrs. Gray to the railway station and was driving back to the Nesbits' in David's car, that Anne ventured to broach the subject of Tom to Grace. Elfreda, Hippy, Miriam and Nora were in the automobile just ahead. Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe and Mrs. Gray had driven to the station in David's car, so, on the return, Grace and Anne had the tonneau of the automobile quite to themselves. Both girls were unusually quiet, and David, fully occupied in driving his car through the crowded streets, said little. "Anne," it was Grace who broke the silence, "if David insisted upon your giving up the stage entirely, would you marry him?" "Yes," came Anne's unhesitating answer. "I love him so much that I could do even that. Only he hasn't asked me to make the sacrifice. He understands what my art means to me, and is willing to compromise. I am not going on any more road tours. I may play an occasional engagement in the large cities, but I have promised, so far as is possible, to remain in New York." "But when you were at Overton he was opposed to your stage career," reminded Grace. "What made him change his mind?" "Living in New York and being influenced by Mr. Southard, I think. You see the Southards knew all about me and my affairs. Long ago Mr. Southard began educating David to his point of view in regard to the stage. David is neither narrow-minded nor obstinate, so it has all come right for me," she ended happily. Then she added, as her hand found Grace's. "I wish you loved Tom, Grace." "And you, too, Anne!" Grace's tones quivered with vexation. "Am I never to be free from that shadow?" "Why, Grace!" Anne looked hurt. "I didn't dream you felt so strongly about poor Tom. I'm sorry I said anything to you of him." "Forgive me, dear, for being so cross." Grace was instantly penitent. "But it seems as though the whole world, my world, I mean, was determined to marry me to Tom. You are all on his side--every one of you. It's the old case of all the world loving a lover. I know you think I'm hard-hearted. None of you stop to consider my side of it. Oh, yes; there is one person who does. Mother understands. She doesn't think I ought to marry Tom, just to please him. She realizes that my work means more to me than marriage." Grace's tone had again become unconsciously petulant. Anne regarded her in silence. Hitherto she had not realized how remote were Tom's chances of winning Grace's love. It was quite evident, too, that she had made a mistake in broaching the subject to Grace. It appeared as though too much had already been said on that score. Anne resolved to trespass no further. "Please forget what I said, Grace. I'm sure I understand. I'll never mention the subject to you again." Grace eyed Anne quizzically. "I ought to be grateful to my friends for having my welfare at heart," she admitted, "and I do appreciate their solicitude. Don't think I've turned against Tom because they have tried to plead his cause. So far, it hasn't made any difference. I can't help the way I feel toward him. Still, I'd rather not talk about him. It doesn't help matters, and I am beginning to get cross over it." "You couldn't be cross if you tried," laughed Anne. "Oh, yes I could," contradicted Grace. "I could be quite formidable." At this juncture their talk ended. Their automobile had drawn up before the Nesbits' home and David stood at the open door of the car to help them out. During the few short hours that remained to Grace before time for her train to Overton she and Anne had no further opportunity for confidences. * * * * * It was twenty minutes past eleven o'clock that night when the train reached Overton, and Grace was not sorry to end her long ride. It had been an unusually lonely journey. For the first time in her experience she had made it alone, and without speaking to a person on the train. Then, too, the regret of parting with those she loved still weighed heavily upon her. "I do hope Emma is awake" was her first thought as she crossed the station yard and hailed the solitary taxicab that always met the late New York train, lamenting inwardly that the lateness of the hour and the weight of her luggage prevented her from walking home through the crisp, frosty night, under the stars. The vestibule light of Harlowe House shone out like a beacon across the still white campus. Grace thrilled with an excess of love and pride at sight of her beloved college home. How much it meant to her, and how sweet it was to feel that her business of life consisted in being of help to others. If she married Tom that meant selfish happiness for they two alone, but as house mother she was of use to seventeen times two persons. "The greatest good to the greatest number," she whispered, as she slid her latchkey into the lock. The living room was dark. The girls had long since gone to their rooms. Grace's feet made no sound on the soft velvet carpet as she hurried up the stairs. A gleam of yellow light from under her door showed that Emma was indeed keeping vigil for her. "Hooray, Gracious!" greeted Emma as the door closed behind her roommate. She flung her long arms affectionately about Grace and kissed her. "Is it four days or four weeks since I saw you off to New York and returned to my humble cot to wrestle with the job of managing that worthy aggregation known as the Harlowites?" "I should say it was four hours," corrected Grace. "Not that I didn't miss you, dear old comrade. We all missed you. Every last person wished you had come with me, and sent you their best wishes. It was splendid to spend Thanksgiving with Father and Mother, and to see Mrs. Gray and the others. Did you receive my postcard? I wrote you that Hippy and Nora were with us. They gave us a complete surprise." Grace related further details of her visit, walking about the room and putting away her personal effects as she talked. As usual Emma had made chocolate and arranged on the center table a tempting little midnight luncheon for the traveler. It was not long until Grace had donned a pretty pale blue negligee and the two friends were seated opposite each other enjoying the spread. "Now I've told you all my news, what about yours?" asked Grace at last. "I've only one tale to tell," responded Emma dryly, "and that is not a pleasant one. The news of Miss Brent's sale has traveled about the campus like wildfire. We've had a perfect stream of girls coming here. They have conceived the fond idea that Harlowe House is a headquarters for second-hand clothing. I have labored with them to convince them that such is not the case, but still they yearn for the Brent finery. Judging from what I hear, it must have been 'some' wardrobe. Pardon my lapse into slang, O, Overton. A number of the teachers have commented on the affair. I've been asked several pointed questions." "How dreadful!" broke in Grace, her face clouding. "Still I was almost sure something would come of it. That was the reason I forbade Miss Brent to hold a sale when first she proposed it to me. Do you think that Miss Wilder and--Miss Wharton know it?" Grace hesitated before pronouncing the latter's name. "Miss Wilder doesn't know, because she left for California last Saturday." A cry of surprise and disappointment broke from Grace. "Miss Wilder gone, and I didn't say good-bye to her! Why did she leave so suddenly, Emma? She expected to be at Overton for another week, at least." "Some friends of hers were going to the Pacific Coast in their private car, and knowing that she was ordered west for her health, they wrote and invited her to join them. They had arranged to leave New York City this morning, so she left Overton for New York yesterday morning. I am sure she wrote you. One of the letters that came for you while you were gone is addressed in her handwriting." Emma reached down, opened the drawer of the table at which they were sitting, and drew out a pile of letters. "Here's your mail, Gracious. Go ahead and read it while I clear up the ghastly remains of the spread." "All right, I will." Grace went rapidly over the pile of envelopes which bore various postmarks. The majority of the letters were from friends scattered far and wide over the country. The thick white envelope, Miss Wilder's own particular stationery, lay almost at the bottom of the pile. Grace tore it open with eager fingers and read: "MY DEAR GRACE: "Just a line to let you know how much I regret leaving Overton without seeing you again. There were several matters of which I was anxious to speak with you at greater length. I had not contemplated leaving here for at least another week, but I cannot resist the invitation which a dear friend of mine has extended to me, to travel west in her private car, so I shall join her in New York City on Saturday evening, as she wishes to start on her tour at once. "As soon as I reach my destination I will forward you my permanent address. I wish you to write me, Grace. I shall be anxious to know what is happening at Harlowe House and throughout the college. Remember distance can make no difference in my interest and affection for you. You have been, and always will be, a girl after my own heart. With my best wishes for your continued welfare and success. "Your sincere friend, "KATHERINE WILDER." Grace laid the letter down with a sigh and sat staring moodily at it, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. Emma, who had finished clearing the table, regarded her with affectionate solicitude. Stepping over to her, she slid her arm over Grace's shoulders. Grace raised her head. Her eyes met Emma's. Then she pushed the letter into Emma's hand. "Read it," she commanded. "Do you think she understood?" was Emma's question as she handed back the letter. "About Miss Wharton not liking me?" counter-questioned Grace. Emma nodded. "I am afraid she didn't." Grace's gray eyes were full of sad concern. "And the most unfortunate thing about it is that I must never trouble her with Miss Wharton's shortcomings. It would worry her, and that would retard her recovery. If the year brings me battles to fight, I must fight them alone." CHAPTER XIII A DISTURBING CONFIDENCE Grace awoke the next morning with the weight of a disagreeable duty hanging over her. She had given Jean Brent until after Thanksgiving to decide upon her course of action. Jean's disregard for her wishes had already placed the freshman in an unenviable prominence in college. Conscientious to a fault, Grace believed herself to be partly to blame for what had occurred during her week-end absence from Harlowe House. She should have insisted, in the beginning, on absolute frankness on the part of Jean. She had respected the girl's secret and invested her with an honor which she did not possess. It now looked as though she, as well as Jean, might already be in a position to reap the folly of such a course. With Miss Wilder as dean, Grace knew that Jean's indiscretion would be treated with leniency, but she was by no means sure of what Miss Wharton's attitude might be should the story reach her ears. Grace hoped devoutly that it would not. But whatever happened Jean Brent must impart to her what she had hitherto kept a secret. Grace was resolved upon that much, at least. She could not decide as to the wisest course to pursue until she had heard Jean's story. She decided to wait until the girls were at luncheon, then ask Jean to come to her office that afternoon before dinner. At luncheon, however, greatly to her surprise, Jean walked directly up to her table and said in a low tone, "I have decided to tell you my secret, Miss Harlowe. When may I talk with you?" "I shall be in my office when you come from your classes this afternoon, or I can wait for you in my room, if you prefer." A great wave of relief swept over Grace as she answered the girl. She had feared that Jean would prove stubborn in her determination to keep her secret. "Thank you. I will come to your office." Jean turned away abruptly. Emma Dean had noted Jean's unusually meek manner. She had endeavored not to hear what was not intended for her ears, but low as were Jean's tones, the words reached her. She made no comment, after Jean had taken her place at one of the other tables, until Grace remarked, "Emma, you could hardly help hearing what Miss Brent said to me." "Yes, I heard what she said," responded Emma unemotionally. "I am so glad she has decided to trust me." "It might be better for all concerned if she had trusted you in the beginning," was Emma's dry retort. "I can't help feeling a trifle out of patience with that girl, Grace. She had no business to commit an act, no matter how trivial, that would lay you open to criticism." "Have you heard any one in particular criticizing me?" asked Grace with quick anxiety. Emma did not answer for a moment. Grace watched her, her gray eyes troubled. "I'll tell you precisely what I heard this morning. Before I left Overton Hall to come here for luncheon I stopped for a moment to see Miss Duncan. Miss Arthur, that new teacher of oratory, was with her. I walked into the room just in time to hear Miss Duncan say 'I can scarcely credit it. I am surprised that Miss Harlowe--' then she saw me, turned red and stopped short. Miss Arthur looked rather sheepishly at me. I pretended that I had heard nothing, asked the question I intended to ask, and went on my way, much perturbed in spirit. I can't bear to hear you criticized in the smallest degree, Grace," was Emma's vehement cry. "I am sure it was about this sale they were talking. It's all very well for Miss Brent to take the stand that she has the privilege of doing as she pleases with her own clothing, but there is something about the very idea of a sale of wearing apparel that quite upsets Overton traditions and causes Harlowe House to lose dignity. One can't imagine an enterprising clothes merchant living at Holland or Morton House or even at Wayne Hall. The students should have had the good taste to discourage it, but, from what I hear, Miss Palmer had expatiated on the glories of Miss Brent's wardrobe to the clique of girls she chums with, and they gathered like flies about a honey pot. You'll usually find the girls with the largest allowances are always eager to obtain much for the smallest possible outlay. I think, too, that Miss Palmer's influence is not wholesome. It led to Evelyn Ward's folly last year. Evelyn hasn't been unduly friendly with her so far this year. I've noticed that." "I can't believe Evelyn had anything to do with this sale," asserted Grace. "She may have known of it, but she never sanctioned it." "At least she didn't attend it," commented Emma, "but, come to think of it, neither did Althea Parker. Don't you remember, I mentioned to you that I met Evelyn on the campus that fateful Saturday and she said she was going to spend the afternoon with Miss Parker?" "Then if Miss Parker was ringleader in the affair, why didn't she have the courage to attend the sale?" was Grace's quick question. "For further information inquire of Miss Brent," advised Emma, shrugging her shoulders. "I will," sighed Grace. "I seem fated to puzzle over hard questions, don't I?" It was half-past four o'clock when Jean Brent entered the office where Grace sat idly turning the leaves of a magazine. "Sit down, Miss Brent," invited Grace. Then in her usual direct fashion, "I am ready to listen to anything you wish to say." Jean Brent flushed, then the color receded from her fair skin, leaving her very pale. In a low tone she began a recital that caused Grace Harlowe's eyes to become riveted on her in intense surprise, mingled with consternation. An expression of lively sympathy sprang into her face, however, as the story proceeded, and when Jean had finished with a half sob, Grace stretched out her hands impulsively with, "You poor little girl." Jean clasped the outstretched hands and murmured, "You don't blame me so much, then, do you, Miss Harlowe?" "No, I can't," Grace made honest answer, "but I am so sorry that you did not come to me with this in the beginning. I could have helped you arrange your affairs nicely. You could have borrowed money from the Semper Fidelis Fund and later, if you were desirous of selling your wardrobe you could have disposed of it in New York City for fully as much as you have received for it here. A dear friend of mine in New York who is an actress has often told me that the women of the various theatrical companies who play minor parts are only too glad to purchase attractive wearing apparel which society women sell after one wearing." "I didn't know. I am sorry I didn't tell you long ago." Jean was thoroughly penitent. "Will it make so very much difference now?" "I hope not. It is hard to say. Unfortunately the news of the sale has reached the ears of several members of the faculty. Not only you, but I, as well, have been criticized. We can do nothing except wait for the gossip about it to die a natural death." Grace's quiet acceptance of the unpleasantness which Jean's rash act had forced upon her stung the freshman far more sharply than reproof. "I can go to the dean and tell her what I have told you," faltered Jean. Grace shook her head. "No, I should not advise it. This affair belongs entirely to Harlowe House and should be settled here. I will write to Miss Lipton to-night. If Miss Wilder were here I should not hesitate to place matters before her, but I am not so sure of Miss Wharton, the woman who is filling Miss Wilder's position. For the present, at least, silence will be best. If Miss Wharton hears of it and sends for you, then you had better be frank and conceal nothing." "Do you mean that you intend to keep my secret, Miss Harlowe; that you will let me stay on at Harlowe House and finish my freshman year?" "Yes; not only the freshman year, but your sophomore, junior and senior years as well, provided Miss Lipton approves and advises it. I shall write to her exactly what has occurred. She is nearest to you and therefore to her belongs the decision. But, while I am endeavoring to work for your interest I wish you to work for it, too. I would like to see you more self-reliant. You have been brought up in luxury, but you must forget that. As matters now stand you will one day be obliged to earn your own living. You must build your foundation for a useful life during your freshman year." Grace's voice vibrated with an earnestness that visibly moved her listener. "I will try. I _will_ try," she declared fervently. "It is wonderful in you to care so much about me, when I have been so troublesome." "We won't think of that any longer," smiled Grace. "However, there is one question which I must ask you. Did Miss Ward know of the sale?" "No," admitted Jean, looking ashamed. "I kept it a secret from her. Miss Parker purposely invited her to luncheon that afternoon. She picked out the things she wanted to buy beforehand and took them out afterward. Evelyn was very angry. We quarreled, and have not spoken to each other since. It was my fault." "Then, to please me, will you try to be friends with Miss Ward again?" "Yes." "You must tell no one else what you have told me," stipulated Grace further. "It must be a secret between us." "I will tell no one," promised Jean. The ringing of the door bell and the entrance of the maid with a card, brought the confidential talk to an end. Grace rose and held out her hand. "I must go," she said. "I will talk with you again when I hear from Miss Lipton." "Thank you over and over again, Miss Harlowe." Jean's eyes were lit with a strength of purpose rarely seen in them. As she left the office and thoughtfully climbed the stairs to her room she resolved anew to be worthy of Grace Harlowe's approval and respect. CHAPTER XIV THE RETURN OF THE CHRISTMAS CHILDREN "Holy night, peaceful and blest," rose Nora Wingate's clear voice, high and sweet on the still winter air. A chorus of fresh young voices took up the second line of the beautiful hymn, filling the calm of the snowy night with exquisite harmony. A little old lady, with hair as white as the snow itself, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes very tender, appeared in the library window as the song ended. She had concealed herself in the folds of the curtain while the singing went on, fearing it might come to a sudden stop should she reveal herself. Her appearance, however, inspired the singers to fresh effort, for, immediately they spied her, led by Nora, they burst into the old English carol, "God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen." They sang it with their rosy, eager faces raised to her, a world of fellowship in every note, while she stood motionless and listened, a smile of supreme love and content making her delicate features radiant. As they ended this second carol she raised the window. "Come in, this minute, every one of you blessed children. You can't possibly know how happy you have made me this Christmas Eve." "Coming right in the window," declared Hippy, as he made an ineffectual spring and failed to land on the wide sill. "Just as I expected," jeered Reddy Brooks, dragging him back. "You might know Hippy would spoil everything. We all start out, on our best behavior, to sing carols to our fairy godmother. Then at the most effective moment, when we are feeling almost inspired, he ruins the whole effect by trying to jump in the window." "He might as well try to jump through a ten-inch hoop," seconded David. "He'd be just as successful." "They are slandering me, Nora," whimpered Hippy, "and I am the sweetest carol singer of them all. Protect me, Nora. Tell Reddy Brooks it was his singing that nearly ruined that last carol. Tell him his voice is as loud and obnoxious as his hair. And tell David Nesbit that--" Hippy gave a sudden agile bound out of reach of Reddy's avenging hands, and tore across the lawn and around the corner of the house, shrieking a wild, "Good-bye, Nora. Remember I've always been a good, kind husband to you. Don't forget me, Nora." [Illustration: "Holy Night, Peaceful and Blest."] "I'll pay him yet for that remark about my obnoxious hair," grinned Reddy, as the carol singers trooped across the lawn and into the house. Mrs. Gray met her Christmas children with welcoming arms. "I am going to kiss every one of you," she announced. "We are willing," assured David, and she was passed from one pair of arms to another, emerging from this wholesale embrace, flushed and laughing. "You didn't kiss me," observed a plaintive voice from behind the portieres that divided the library from the hall. Hippy's round face was thrust engagingly into view. He had slipped in the side door, unobserved. "There he is, Reddy. How did he get in so quietly?" David took a vengeful step forward. The face disappeared. "Just wait until I hang up my overcoat," threatened Reddy. "Don't let him hang it up, Nora. If you value the safety of your husband, make him stand and hold it," pleaded the plaintive voice. "Here, Reddy, give me your hat and coat," ordered Nora cruelly. "Ha! I defy you." Hippy suddenly bounced from behind the curtain into the midst of the group in the hall. "I would defy forty David Nesbits and fifty Reddy Brooks for a kiss from my fair lady." He bowed before Mrs. Gray. "Bless you, Hippy," she said, as she kissed his fat cheek, "that was nicely said." "I am always saying nice things," assured Hippy airily. "Better still they are always true things. There are some persons, though, who can't stand the white light of truth. May I rely upon you for protection, Mrs. Gray? Alas, I am now alone in the world. The person who is supposed to have my welfare at heart is hob-nobbing with my traducers. Miriam Nesbit used to be a fairly good protector, but she hasn't done much along that line lately." "Come on, Hippy. I'll take care of you. I'm sorry I've neglected you." Miriam held out her hand. Hippy hung his head and simpered. Then with his Cheshire cat grin he seized Miriam's hand and toddled beside her into the library. The others followed, laughing at the ridiculous spectacle he presented. "Both our fairy godmother and I are disgusted with you," taunted Nora as she directed a glance of withering scorn at Hippy, now calmly seated beside Miriam on the big leather davenport, the picture of triumph. "You asked her to protect you; then you deserted her and deliberately went over to Miriam for help." "Wasn't that awful?" deplored Hippy. "Such inconstancy makes me blush." "You couldn't blush if your life depended upon it," was David Nesbit's scathing comment. "There are others," retorted Hippy. David glared ferociously at the grinning Hippy. "There are others," went on Hippy blandly, "who, I might venture to say, have even greater trouble in producing that much lauded rarity, a blush. But what does blushing mean? It means turning very red. It isn't always confined to one's face, either. I once knew a man, a rare creature, whose very hair blushed. That is, it turned red when he was an infant and blushed more deeply every year. In fact it never quit blushing." "I once knew a person, a senseless creature, who didn't know when he was well off," began Reddy, in an ominous voice. "From the time he learned to talk he made ill-natured remarks about his friends. But at last he came to a terrible end. He----" "I never knew him," interrupted Hippy. "I'm not interested in persons I don't know. I'd rather talk to Grace. I've known her for a long time, and we've always been on friendly terms. Come and sit beside me, Grace." "Jilted," declared Miriam tragically, as Grace accepted the invitation and seated herself on Hippy's other side. "Not a bit of it. I believe in preparedness. The constant-reinforcements-arriving-every-minute idea appeals to me. You are both bulwarks of defense." "I'm surprised that anything except eats appeals to you." This from Reddy. "'Eats' did you say? What are eats? Or, better, _where_ are eats?" demanded Hippy, beaming hopefully at Mrs. Gray. "They will appear very soon, Hippy," assured Mrs. Gray. "I sent a dispatch to the kitchen the moment you finished singing." "For goodness' sake, Grace and Miriam, keep Hippy quiet for a while. No one else has had a chance to say a word," complained David. "I'd like to hear a few remarks on 'Life in Chicago' by our estimable pals, Jessica and Reddy." "Life in Chicago can't compare with life in dear old Oakdale," said Jessica. "In spite of the theatres, concerts and all the pleasures that a big city offers one, Reddy and I are always a little lonely." "That is because you and Reddy miss me," observed Hippy with positive modesty. "You're right, old man. We do miss you," agreed Reddy, with unmistakable sincerity. For once Hippy forgot to be funny. "You aren't the only ones who miss the old guard," he answered seriously; then he added in his usual humorous strain, "I hope some day the Eight Originals Plus Two and all their friends will emigrate to a happy island and colonize it. Then there won't be any missed faces or any letter writing to do, for that matter. David and Reddy can run the business of the colony and see that we aren't cheated when we trade glass beads and other little trinkets with the savages. Of course there will be a few moth-eaten old cannibals. Tom can classify the trees of the forest and make the obstreperous beasts and reptiles behave. I will represent the law. I will settle all disputes and administer justice. I'll be a regular old Father William, like the one in 'Through the Looking Glass,' I always did love that poem, especially this verse: "'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife. And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted me all of my life.'" Nora pretended to pay no attention to Hippy, who waited for her to protest, an expansive smile wreathing his fat face. "She didn't understand," he said sadly, after beaming at Nora in vain. "There's no use in trying to explain. I suppose I'll have to give her an appointment of some kind on my island. Nora, you may have charge of me. Isn't that a noble mission? Still she doesn't answer. Oh, well, never mind, I'll go right on appointing." "Mrs. Gray, you will be the queen, and Grace can be prime minister. Anne can have charge of the amusements, and Miriam can help her. Miriam has a decided leaning toward the drama." The color in Miriam's cheeks suddenly deepened at this apparently innocent remark. "I don't think I like your island idea very well," she said lightly. "I'd much rather have the Originals live right here in Oakdale." She rose and strolled across the room to where Jessica sat. "It's not the island idea. It's the dramatic idea that Miriam objects to discussing," confided Hippy in a low tone to Grace. "How did you find it out?" asked Grace. "First of all by observation, my child. Second, through David. He knows it, too. Southard told him. They have seen a good deal of each other since the Nesbits have lived in New York. David thinks him worthy of Miriam." "I knew he cared. I wonder if Miriam does? She never mentions Mr. Southard. I hope she loves him. It is so hard when one cares and the other doesn't." Grace's gray eyes grew sad. Conversation languished between Hippy and Grace for a little. Then with a half sigh Grace rose, "I am going to ask Nora to sing," she said. Before she had time to carry out her intention John appeared pushing a small table on wheels ahead of him. Its shelves were laden with sandwiches, olives, salted nuts and delicious fancy cakes, while a maid followed him with a chocolate service. Mrs. Gray poured the chocolate, and Anne, always her right-hand man, assisted her in serving it. Grace, with her ever-present youthfulness of spirit, found trundling the table about the room a most pleasing diversion. They were a very merry little company, entering into the joy of being together with all their hearts, and deeply thankful for the opportunity to gather once more in the same spirit of friendly affection that had characterized all their meetings. It was well toward midnight when the party broke up. "Mayn't I take you home in my car, Grace," pleaded Tom. Grace stood for the moment, a little detached from the others, arranging the veil over her hat. "Oh, no, Tom," she made quick answer. "It is late. You mustn't go to that trouble. David is going to take Anne and I in his car. Hippy, Nora, Reddy and Jessica are going home in Hippy's machine." Tom's face fell. "May I come to see you to-morrow afternoon, then?" "Yes, do. Miriam and David are coming over for a while," returned wily Grace. Her one idea was to avoid being alone with Tom. His sole idea was to be alone with her. His pride, however, would allow him to go no further. He had been rebuffed twice in rapid succession. "Thank you. I'll drop in on you then," he said, trying to summon an indifference he did not feel. After his aunt's guests had departed with much merriment and laughter, Tom turned to go upstairs. He was sure Grace did not intend to be unkind. It was not her fault if she did not love him. He had determined, however, to plead with her once more. Then, if she still remained obdurate, as he feared she might, he would give up all hope of her, forever, and go his lonely way in the world. CHAPTER XV THE NEW YEAR'S WEDDING It was New Year's, and Anne Pierson's wedding night. At half-past seven the ceremony linking her life forever to that of her school-day friend, David Nesbit, was to be performed in the beautiful old stone church on Chapel Hill which, in company with her chums, she had faithfully attended during her years spent in Oakdale. Anne had, at first, steadily refused to countenance the idea of a church wedding. She was a quiet, demure little soul, who, aside from her work, detested publicity. It was Mrs. Gray's wish, however, to see the girl she had befriended married in the church which bore the memorial window to the other Anne, her daughter, who had died in her girlhood. So Anne had yielded to that wish. Although Grace was Anne's dearest friend, she had insisted that Miriam should be her maid of honor. Privately she had said, "I'd rather be a bridesmaid with Nora and Jessica. You know there were only four of us in the beginning." It had also been decided that in spite of the fact that Jessica and Nora were really eligible to the position of matrons of honor, that phase of wedding etiquette should, for once, be disregarded, and the three friends who had welcomed Anne as a fourth to their little fold should serve as bridesmaids and be dressed precisely alike. "It was," declared Anne, who heartily despised form, "as though they were still three girls together, with husbands in the dim and distant future." It was to be a yellow and white wedding, therefore the gowns they had chosen were of white silk net over pale yellow satin, and very youthful in effect. Miriam's gown was a wonderful gold tissue, which made her appear like the princess in some old fairy tale, while Anne, contrary to tradition, had not chosen white satin. Her wedding dress was of soft, exquisite white silk, clouded with white chiffon, and was much better suited to her quiet type of loveliness than satin could possibly have been. Mrs. Gray, who was to give the bride away, wore a gown of her favorite lavender satin, and bustled cheerfully about the Piersons' living room, in which the feminine half of the bridal party had gathered until time to drive to the church, where Anne was to play the leading part in a new and infinitely wonderful drama. Anne's mother had insisted that it should be Mrs. Gray, rather than herself, who gave Anne into David Nesbit's keeping. Always a shy, retiring woman, she had shrunk from the idea of appearing prominently before a church full of persons, many of whom were strangers to her. Dearly as she loved her talented daughter, she preferred to sit quietly beside Mary, her older daughter, in the place of honor reserved for the members of the families of the bridal party. She and Mrs. Gray had discussed the matter at length, and she had been so insistent that the former, as Anne's friend and benefactor, should give away the bride that Mrs. Gray, secretly delighted, had consented to her request. "Anne makes a darling bride, doesn't she?" praised Nora, lifting a fold of the veil of exquisite lace, Mrs. Gray's wedding veil, by the way, and peering lovingly into her friend's faintly flushed face. Anne smiled and reached out a slim little hand to Nora. She was occupying the center of the living room while her four friends, Mrs. Gray, her mother, Miss Southard and Mary Pierson hovered solicitously about her. "How dear you all are to me." She held out her arms as though to clasp her friends in one loving embrace. "I am so glad now that I am going to have a real church wedding. I thought at first it would be nicer to be quietly married and slip away without fuss and feathers, but now I know that it is my sacred duty to my friends and to David to play my new part, as I've always played my other parts, in public." "I always knew that Anne and David would be married some day," declared Grace wisely. "I believe David fell in love with Anne the very first time he saw her. Don't you remember Anne, we met him outside the high school, and he asked us to come to his aeroplane exhibition?" "I remember it as well as though it happened yesterday," Anne's musical voice vibrated with a tenderness called forth by the memory of that girlhood meeting with the man of men. "Those days seem very far away to me now," remarked Miriam Nesbit. "I feel as though I'd been grown up for ages." "I don't feel a bit grown up. It seems only yesterday since I ran races and tore about our garden with Captain, our good old collie," laughed Grace. "I'm like Peter Pan. I don't want to, and can't, grow up. And I shall never marry." She glanced about her circle of friends with an almost challenging air. She looked so radiantly young and pretty in her dainty frock that simultaneously the thought occurred to them all, "Poor Tom." Yet in their hearts, even to Mrs. Gray, they could find no fault with Grace's straightforward words. If she were almost cruelly indifferent to Tom as a lover, she had the virtue at least of being absolutely honest. Even Mrs. Gray admired and respected her candor. "Did you ever see anything more beautiful than Anne's and Miriam's bouquets?" broke in Miss Southard, with the intent of leading away from a not wholly happy subject. Miriam held her bouquet at arm's length and eyed it with admiration. It was composed of pale yellow orchids and lilies of the valley, while Anne's was a shower of orange blossoms and the same delicate lilies. "If you are determined never to marry, Grace, you won't try to catch Anne's bouquet," smiled Mrs. Gray. "Oh, yes, I shall," nodded Grace. "I must do it because it's hers. I always try to catch the bouquets at weddings. It's good sport. So far, however, I've never secured one." "I shall throw this one directly at you," promised Anne. "Anne, child, the carriages are here," broke in her mother's gentle voice. Anne laid her bouquet on the centre table. "Come and kiss Anne Pierson for the last time, girls." She opened her arms. One by one they folded her in the embrace of friendship. Her sister and mother came last. As the arms that had held her in babyhood closed about her, Anne drew nearer to her mother in this, her hour of supreme happiness, than ever before, if that were possible. It was not a long drive to the church. On the way there they stopped to pick up the two flower girls, Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell, two pretty and interesting children who lived next door to Grace, and of whom she and Anne had always been very fond. The little flower maidens were dressed in white embroidered chiffon frocks with pale yellow satin sashes and hair ribbons. They wore white silk stockings and white kid slippers and carried overflowing baskets of yellow and white roses. "Oh, Miss Harlowe," cried Anna May, when she and Elizabeth were safely settled in the carriage, one of them on the seat beside Grace, the other on the opposite side with Anne, "this is about the happiest day Elizabeth and I ever had. I do hope I won't be scared. Just think, we have to walk into that great big church, the very first ones, with all those people looking at us." "I'm not the least bit scared," was Elizabeth's bold declaration. "Nobody is going to hurt us. Why, all the people are Miss Anne's _friends!_ I'm going to think that when I walk up the aisle, and I shan't be a bit scared. I know I shan't." "Well, I'm not exactly _scared_," asserted Anna May, greatly impressed with Elizabeth's valiant declaration. "I guess I'll think that, too." "Oh, Miss Anne, you look too sweet for anything." Elizabeth clasped her small hands in rapture. "When I grow up I shall certainly be married, and have a dress like yours, and just the same kind of a bouquet, and be married in the church where every one can see me." "You can't get married unless some one asks you," informed Anna May wisely. "Some one will," predicted Elizabeth. "Won't they, Miss Harlowe?" "I haven't the least doubt of it," was Grace's laughing assurance. "Still I wouldn't worry about it for a good many years yet, if I were you. It's just as nice to be a little girl and play games and dress dolls." Anne smiled faintly. Grace was again unconsciously voicing her views on the marriage question. The two little flower girls kept up a lively conversation during the ride. They were divided between the fear of facing a church full of people and the rapture of being really, truly flower girls at the wedding of such a wonderful person as their Miss Anne. It was precisely half-past seven o'clock when two tiny flower maidens, their childish faces grave with the importance of their office, walked sedately down the broad church aisle toward the flower-wreathed altar. Following them came a dazzling vision in gold tissue that caused at least one's man's heart to beat faster. To Everett Southard Miriam was indeed the fabled fairy-tale princess. Then came the bride, feeling strangely humble and diffident in this new part she had essayed to play, while behind her, single file, in faithful attendance, walked the three girls who had kept perfect step with her through the eventful years of her school life. Mrs. Gray, who had preceded the wedding party to the altar, was waiting there with the bridegroom and his best man, Tom Gray. There was a buzz of admiration went the round of the church at the beautiful spectacle the bridal party presented. Then followed an intense hush as the voice of the minister took up the solemn words of God's most holy ordinance. Perhaps no one person present at that impressive ceremony realized as did Tom Gray what the winning of Anne, for his wife, meant to David. On that June night, almost two years previous, when Hippy and Reddy had, in turn, made announcement of their betrothal to Nora and Jessica in the presence of Mrs. Gray and her Christmas children, David's fate as a lover had been uncertain. Now David had joined the ranks of happy benedicts. Tom alone was left. As the minister's voice rang out deeply, thrillingly, "I pronounce you man and wife," involuntarily Tom's glance rested on Grace, who was watching Anne with the rapt eyes of friendship. The words held no significance for her beyond the fact that two of her dearest friends had joined their lives. Her changeful face bore no sign of sentiment. As usual, her interest in love and marriage was purely impersonal. The reception following the wedding was held at Anne's home, and long before it was over Anne and David had slipped away to take the night train for New York City. Anne's honeymoon was to be limited to one week which they had decided to spend at Old Point Comfort. Anne and Mr. Southard were to open a newly built New York theatre in Shakespearian repetoire the following week. Their real honeymoon was to be deferred until the theatrical season closed in the spring, and was to comprise an extended western trip. True to her promise, Anne had aimed accurately, and Grace had received the bridal bouquet full in the face. It dropped to the floor. She picked it up and commented on her lack of skill in catching it. Tom's face had brightened as he saw the girl he loved holding the fragrant token to her breast. It was a good omen. "I'm going to take you home in my car, Grace," he said masterfully, as the guests were leaving that night. "All right," returned Grace calmly. "We can take Anna May and Elizabeth with us. It's awfully late for them. I promised Mrs. Angerell I'd take good care of them. They absolutely refused to go when Father and Mother went." Tom could not help looking his disappointment. Nevertheless the two little girls were favorites of his, so he forgave them for being the innocent means of frustrating his intention of having Grace to himself. "I'm going back to Washington to-morrow night, Grace," he said, as he took her hand for a moment in parting. "May I come to see you to-morrow afternoon?" "Yes, of course, Tom." Grace could not refuse the plea of his gray eyes. "All right. I'll drop in about four o'clock." "Very well. Good night, Tom." Grace could not repress a little impatient sigh. "He's going to ask me again," was her reflection, "but there is only one answer that I can ever give him." CHAPTER XVI THE LAST WORD While Anne Pierson's wedding day had dawned with a light snow on the ground, the weather underwent a considerable change during the night, and the next morning broke, gray and threatening. Heavy, sullen clouds dropped low in the sky, and by four o'clock that afternoon a raw, dispiriting winter rain had set in, accompanied by a moaning wind that made the day seem doubly dreary. Promptly at four o'clock Grace saw Tom swing up the walk without an umbrella. His black raincoat, buttoned up to his chin, was infinitely becoming to his fair Saxon type of good looks, and Grace could not repress a tiny thrill of satisfaction that this strong, handsome man cared for her. The next second she dismissed the thought as unworthy. She welcomed Tom, however, with a gentle friendliness, partly due to his good looks, that caused his eyes to flash with new hope. Perhaps Grace cared a little after all. He had rarely seen her so kind since their carefree days of boy and girl friendship, when there had been no barrier of unrequited love between them. "Come and sit by the fire, Tom," invited Grace. "I love an open fire on a dark, rainy day like this." She motioned him to a chair opposite her own at the other side of the fireplace. Tom seated himself, and the two began to talk of the wedding, Oakdale, their friends, everything in fact that led away from the thoughts that lay nearest the young man's heart. Grace skilfully kept the conversation on impersonal topics. By doing so she hoped to make Tom understand that she did not wish to discuss what had long been a sore subject between them. So the two young people talked on and on, while outside the rain fell in torrents, and the dark day began to merge into an early twilight. With the coming of the dusk Grace began to feel the strain. Tom's pale face had taken on a set look in the fitful glow of the fire. Suddenly he leaned far forward in his chair. "It's no use, Grace. I know you've tried to keep me from saying what I came here to-day to say, but I'm going to tell you again. I love you, Grace, and I need you in my life. Why can't you love me as I love you?" Grace's clean-cut profile was turned directly toward Tom. She reached forward for the poker and began nervously prodding the fire. Tom caught the hand that held the poker. Unclasping her limp fingers from about it, he set it impatiently in place. "Look at me, Grace, not at the fire," he commanded. Grace raised sorrowful eyes to him. Then she made a little gesture of appeal. "Why must we talk of this again, Tom? Why can't we be friends just as we used to be, back in our high-school days?" "Because it's not in the nature of things," returned Tom, his eyes full of pain. "I am a man now, with a man's devoted love for you. The whole trouble lies in the sad fact that you are just a dreaming child, without the faintest idea of what life really means." "You are mistaken, Tom." There was a hint of offended dignity in Grace's tones. "I _do_ understand the meaning of life, only it doesn't mean _love_ to me. It means _work_. The highest pleasure I have in life is my work." "You think so now, but you won't always think so. There will come a time in your life when you'll realize how great a power for happiness love is. All our dearest friends have looked forward to seeing you my wife. Your parents wish it. Aunt Rose loves you already as a dear niece. Even Anne, your chum, thinks you are making a mistake in choosing work instead of love. Of course I know that what your friends think can make no difference in what _you_ think. Still I believe if you would once put the idea away of being self-supporting you'd see matters in a different light. You aren't obliged to work for your living. Why not give Harlowe House into the care of some one who is, and marry me?" "But you don't understand me in the least, Tom." A petulant note crept into Grace's voice. "It's just because I'm not obliged to support myself that I'm happy in doing so. I feel so free and independent. It's my freedom I love. I don't love you. There are times when I'm sorry that I don't, and then again there are times when I'm glad. I shall always be fond of you, but my feeling toward you is just the same as it is for Hippy or David or Reddy. There! I've hurt you. Forgive me. Must we say anything more about it? Please, please don't look so hurt, Tom." Grace's eyes were fastened on Tom with the sorrowing air of one who has inadvertently hurt a child. Usually so delicate in her respect for the feelings of others, she seemed fated continually to wound this loyal friend, whose only fault lay in the fact that his boyish affection for her had ripened into a man's love. Saddest of all, an unrequited love. [Illustration: "Look at Me, Grace."] "Of course I forgive you, Grace." Tom rose. He looked long and searchingly into the face of the girl who had just hurt him so cruelly. "I--I think I'd better go now. I hope you'll find all the happiness in your work that you expect to find. I'm only sorry it had to come first. I don't know when I'll see you again. Not until next summer, I suppose. I can't come to Oakdale for Easter this year. I wish you'd write to me--that is, if you feel you'd like to. Remember, I am always your old friend Tom." "I _will_ write to you, Tom." Grace's gray eyes were heavy with unshed tears. She winked desperately to keep them back. She would not cry. Luckily the dim light of the room prevented Tom from seeing how near she was to breaking down. It was all so sad. She had never before realized how much it hurt her to hurt Tom. She followed him into the hall and to the door in silence. "Good-bye, Grace," he said again, holding out his hand. "Good-bye, Tom," she faltered. He turned abruptly and hurried down the steps into the winter darkness. He did not look back. Grace stood in the open door until the echo of his footsteps died out. Then she rushed into the living room and, throwing herself down on the big leather sofa, burst into bitter tears. CHAPTER XVII THE SUMMONS "There are Deans and _deans_," observed Emma Dean with savage emphasis, "but the Deans, of whom I am which, are, in my humble opinion, infinitely superior to the dean person stalking about the halls of dear old Overton." "What do you mean, Emma?" asked Grace. The dry bitterness of her friend's outburst regarding deans in general was too significant to be allowed to pass unquestioned. It was the evening of Grace Harlowe's return from the Christmas holiday she had spent with her dear ones at Oakdale. Grace and Emma were in their room. Despite the one sad memory which time alone could efface, Grace was experiencing a peace and comfort which always hovered about her for many days after her visits home. Next to home, however, Overton was, to her, the place of places, and she had returned to her work with fresh energy and enthusiasm. She believed that she had definitely put behind her forever all that unhappy part of her life regarding Tom Gray. It had been hard indeed, and had brought tears to the eyes so unaccustomed to weeping. Still Grace was glad that she had faced the inevitable and seen clearly. Tom would, in time, forget her and perhaps marry some one else. She wished with all her heart that he might be happy, and her one regret was that she had caused him pain. In reality Grace had exhibited toward her old friend a hardness of purpose quite at variance with her usually sweet nature. She wondered a little that she could have been so inexorable in her decision, yet she believed herself to be wholly justified in the course she had taken. Already she was beginning to commend herself inwardly for her loyalty to her work, and Emma's blunt arraignment of the dean of Overton College acted like a dash of cold water upon her half-fledged self-content. "All day I've been tempted to tell you a few things, Gracious," began Emma, "but I hated to disturb you. I know just how you feel when you come back from that blessed little town of yours. So I've been keeping still while you told me all about Anne's wedding and the good times you had. It was one glorious succession of good times, wasn't it?" "Yes." Grace was silent for a brief space of time. Then she said gravely, "There was only one flaw, Emma. I refused again, and for the last time, to marry Tom Gray. I was sorry, but I couldn't help it. I don't love him." "I'm sorry, too, that you couldn't find it in your heart to care for him. I liked him best of those four young men." "Every one likes him. My friends all hoped that we would marry." Grace sighed. "Still one's friends can't decide such matters for one. One must solve that particular problem alone." "Just so," agreed Emma. "Although no one ever asked my hand in holy matrimony except a callow youth whom I tutored in algebra last summer. He had failed in his June examination and had to pass in September or be forever labeled a dunce by his fond family. Now you see why I can understand the psychology of saying 'no' to a proposal. This stripling, who was at least five years my junior, proposed to me out of sheer gratitude. I actually succeeded in drumming quadratic equations into his stupid head, and he offered me his hand by the way of reward." Grace's sad expression had by this time vanished. She was regarding Emma with a smiling face. "Really and truly, Emma, did that happen to you?" "It did, indeed," averred Emma solemnly. "You aren't half so amazed as I was. I felt as though one of my Sunday-school class of little boys had suddenly exhibited signs of the tender passion. I labored long and earnestly to convince him that I was not his fate, and in due season he passed his examination and promptly forgot me. I did not weep and wail at being forgotten, either. Still there was a grain of satisfaction in being sought. If I go down to my grave in single blessedness I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that some one yearned for my life-long society." She beamed owlishly at Grace, and laughter routed the sorrowful face she had turned to Emma only a moment before. But Emma was only trying to prepare Grace for unpleasant news. Now that she had put her in a lighter frame of mind, she said: "I might as well tell you about Miss Wharton, Grace." Grace's eyes were immediately fixed on her in mute question. "The news of the sale traveled to Miss Wharton, as I was afraid it would," began Emma. "Miss Brent wasn't here when first the dean heard of it. She had gone home with Miss Parker for Christmas. Evelyn Ward wasn't here, either. She and Kathleen West and Mary Reynolds went to New York. Mary and Kathleen to work on the paper, and Evelyn to work for two weeks in that stock company of Mr. Forrest's. You knew about that, of course. It was the day after Christmas that Miss Wharton heard about the sale. She sent for Miss Brent and was greatly displeased to find her gone. However, she had had permission from the registrar, a fact that Miss Wharton couldn't overlook. Then Miss Wharton sent for me. She said the sale was a disgrace to Overton, and that she was amazed to think you allowed such a proceeding. I explained to her that you knew nothing of it, that you were away at the time it took place, and she said you had acted most unwisely in placing your responsibilities on the shoulders of others even for a day. Your place was at Harlowe House every day of the college year. You had no business to assume such a responsible position if you did not intend to live up to it. "That's about the extent of all she said. I was so angry I could scarcely control myself, but I managed to say quietly that President Morton and Miss Wilder had never questioned your absences from Harlowe House, and that I was sure you would lose no time in taking up the matter with her when you returned. Now you know what you may expect. I don't know whether she has sent for Miss Brent since she came from New York. If she hasn't, then mark my words, the summons will come to-morrow." Emma proved to be a true prophet. The nine o'clock mail next morning brought two letters written on the stationery used by the Overton faculty. One was addressed to Grace, the other to Jean Brent. If the two young women had compared them they would have discovered that each one contained the same curt summons to the dean's office. Both appointments were for half-past four o'clock that afternoon. Grace stopped at Jean's table at luncheon that day and said softly. "Will you come to my office after you have finished your luncheon, Miss Brent?" Jean turned very pale. She bowed her acquiescence, and Grace went on to her own place. "I have been requested to call on Miss Wharton at half-past four o'clock this afternoon, Miss Brent," informed Grace as, later, Jean stood before her. "I noted that you also received a letter written on the business stationery of Overton. Am I right in guessing that you have received the same summons?" For answer Jean opened the book she held under her arm and took from it an envelope. In silence she drew from it a letter, spread it open and handed it to Grace. "Just as I thought." Grace returned the letter. "Miss Wharton has learned of your sale, Miss Brent. She is very indignant. Are you prepared to tell her what you confided to me?" Grace eyed the girl squarely. "Why should I, Miss Harlowe?" burst forth Jean. "No; I will tell Miss Wharton nothing." "Nor will I," was Grace's quiet rejoinder. "Whatever she learns must come from you. I wrote to Miss Lipton and received a letter from her assuring me that you are not at fault in the matter that made your advent into Overton College a mystery to me. I need no further assurance. Miss Lipton's school is known to the public as being one of the finest preparatory schools in the United States. If it were Miss Wilder instead of Miss Wharton I should advise you to tell her all. I am so sorry you did not tell us in the beginning. You must do whatever your conscience dictates. If necessary I will show Miss Wharton my letter from Miss Lipton, but I shall not betray your confidence unless you sanction my speaking." "Please don't tell her," begged Jean. "It shall be as you ask," returned Grace, but she was secretly disappointed at what might be either Jean's selfishness or her pure inability to see the unpleasantness of the position in which she was placing the young woman who had befriended her. When Grace entered the familiar office and saw Miss Wharton's dumpy figure occupying her dear Miss Wilder's place she felt a distinct sinking of the heart. The dean surveyed her out of cold blue eyes, that seemed to Grace to contain a spark of deliberate malice. "Good afternoon, Miss Harlowe," she said stiffly. As she spoke the door opened and Jean Brent walked calmly in. She bowed to Miss Wharton in a manner as chilly as her own and took a seat at one side of the room. The dean waved Grace to a chair. "Now, young women," she began in a severe tone, "I wish a full explanation of this disgraceful sale that recently took place at Harlowe House. I will first ask you, Miss Brent if you had Miss Harlowe's permission to conduct it?" "No. She refused to permit it. I held it in her absence," answered Jean, defiance blazing in her blue eyes. "I see; a clear case of disobedience. What was your object in holding it?" "I needed money. I lost the greater part of my money on the train when I came to Overton." "Why did you need money?" Miss Wharton exhibited a lawyer-like persistency. "To pay my college fees," Jean made prompt answer. "But how could a girl with a wardrobe as complete and expensive as yours--I have been informed that it was remarkable--be in need of money to pay her expenses, or obliged to live in a charitable institution, as I believe Harlowe House is?" "You are mistaken. Harlowe House is _not_ a charitable institution!" Grace Harlowe's voice vibrated with indignation. "I beg your pardon," she apologized in the next instant. Miss Wharton glared angrily at her for fully a minute. Then, ignoring the interruption and the protest, turned again to Jean. "I cannot answer your question," Jean spoke with quiet composure. "You mean you _will_ not answer it," retorted the dean. "I have nothing to say that you would care to hear." Jean's lips set in the stubborn line that signified no yielding. Miss Wharton turned to Grace. "You have heard what this young woman says. Can you answer the question I asked Miss Brent?" "The answer to the question must come from Miss Brent," replied Grace with gentle evasion. "Miss Harlowe, you have not answered me." Miss Wharton was growing angrier. "I insist upon knowing the details of this affair from beginning to end. Miss Brent's conduct has been contrary to all the traditions of Overton." "That is perfectly true," admitted Grace. "Then if you know it to be true, why do you evade my question? It will be infinitely better for you to be frank with me. I am greatly displeased with you and the reports I hear of Harlowe House. I assured Miss Wilder, when first I met you, that I doubted President Morton's and her judgment in allowing you to hold a position of such great responsibility. You are too young, too frivolous. I am informed that Harlowe House is almost Bohemian in its character." "Then you have been misinformed." Cut to the heart, Grace spoke with a dignity that was not to be denied. "Harlowe House is conducted on the strictest principles of law and order. We try to be a well-regulated household, upholding the high standard of Overton. If it had not been for two of my friends and I, Mrs. Gray would never have given it to the college, and thirty-four girls would have missed obtaining a college education. Miss Wilder believed in me. She trusted me. I regret that you do not. Regarding Miss Brent, I have received ample assurance of her honesty of purpose from Miss Lipton, the head of the Lipton Preparatory School for Girls. Miss Lipton and I are in possession of certain facts concerning Miss Brent which enable us to understand her peculiar position here. I regret, beyond all words, that Miss Brent did not confide in me before having the sale of her clothing. I do not condone her fault, but I am sure that in her anxiety to do what was best for herself she did not intend deliberately to defy me. Here is a letter from Miss Lipton which I wish you to read." In her vexation Miss Wharton almost snatched the letter from Grace's hand. There was a tense stillness in the room while she read it. Jean kept her gaze steadily turned from Grace. At last the dean looked up from the letter. "This letter is, by no means, an explanation, although I am well aware of the excellent reputation Miss Lipton's school bears. What I am determined to have are the _facts_ of this affair. If I can prevail upon neither of you to speak them I shall place the matter before President Morton and the Board of Trustees of Overton College." Her threat met with no response from either young woman. "Before taking the matter up with President Morton, however, I shall give both of you an opportunity to reflect upon the folly of your present course. Within a few days I shall send for you again. If then you still continue to defy me I will take measures to have _you_, Miss Harlowe, removed from your charge of Harlowe House as being unfit for the responsibility, while _you_, Miss Brent, will be expelled from Overton College for disobedience and insubordination. That will do for this morning." Miss Wharton dismissed them with a peremptory gesture. The two young women passed out of the room in silence. Once outside Overton Hall, Jean turned impulsively to Grace: "I am sorry, Miss Harlowe, but I couldn't tell that horrid woman what I told you. She would neither understand me nor sympathize with me. I know you think I should have explained everything." Grace could not trust herself to answer. Humiliated to the last degree by Miss Wharton's bald injustice, she felt as though she wished never to see or hear of Jean Brent again. It was not until they were half way across the campus that she found her voice. She was dimly surprised at the resentment in her tones. "You chose your own course, Miss Brent, regardless of what I thought. That course has not only involved you in serious difficulty, but me as well. If you had obeyed me in the beginning, I would not be leaving Miss Wharton's office this afternoon, under a cloud. I quite agree with you, however, that to tell Miss Wharton your secret now would not help matters. I must leave you here. I am going on to Wayne Hall." With a curt inclination of her head, Grace walked away, leaving Jean standing in the middle of the campus, looking moodily after her. CHAPTER XVIII THE BLOTTED ESCUTCHEON But Grace was destined to receive another shock before the long day was done. The shadows of early twilight were beginning to blot out the short winter day when she let herself into Harlowe House. Stepping into her office she reached eagerly for the pile of mail lying on the sliding shelf of her desk. The handwriting on the first letter of the pile was Tom's. Grace eyed it gloomily. It was not warranted to lighten her present unhappy mood. She opened it slowly, almost hesitatingly. Unlike Tom's long, newsy letters, there was but one sheet of paper. Then she strained her eyes in the rapidly failing daylight and read: "DEAR GRACE: "When you receive this letter I shall be out at sea and on my way to South America. I have resigned my position with the Forestry Department to go on an expedition up the Amazon River with Burton Graham, the naturalist. He is the man who collected so many rare specimens of birds and mammals for the Smithsonian Institute while in Africa, two years ago. It is hard to say when I shall return, and, as it takes almost a month for a letter to reach the United States, you are not likely to hear often from me. "Aunt Rose is deeply grieved at my going. Still she understands that, for me, it is best. When last I saw you in Oakdale I had no idea of leaving civilization for tropical wildernesses. Mr. Graham's invitation to join his expedition was wholly unexpected, and I was not slow to take advantage of it. "I would ask you to write me, but, unfortunately, I can give you no forwarding address. Mr. Graham's plans as to location are a little uncertain. Perhaps, until I can bring myself to think of you in the way you wish me to think, silence between us will be happiest for us both. God bless you, Grace, and give you the greatest possible success in your work. With best wishes, "Your friend, "TOM." Grace stared at the sheet of paper before her, with tear-blurred eyes. She hastily wiped her tears away, but they only fell the faster. Miss Wharton's injustice, Jean Brent's selfishness, together with the sudden shock of Tom's departure out of the country and out of her life, were too much for her high-strung, sensitive nature. Dropping into the chair before her desk, she bowed her head on the slide and wept unrestrainedly. Her overflow of feelings was brief, however. Given little to tears, after her first outburst she exerted all her will power to control herself. The girls were dropping in by ones and twos from their classes, the maid would soon come into the living room to turn on the lights, and at almost any moment some one might ask for her. She would not care to be discovered in tears. Grace picked up the rest of her mail, lying still unopened, and went upstairs to her room with the proud determination to cry no more. She was quite sure she would not have cried over Tom's letter had all else been well. It was her interview with Miss Wharton that had hurt her so cruelly. Yet, with the reading of Tom's farewell message, deep down in her heart lurked a curiously uncomfortable sense of loss. It was as though for the first time in her life she had actually began to miss Tom. She had not expected fate to cut him off so sharply from her. She knew that her refusal to marry him had been the primary cause of his going away. Mrs. Gray would perhaps blame her. These expeditions were dangerous to say the least. More than one naturalist had died of fever or snakebite, or had been killed by savages. Suppose Tom were never to come back. Grace shuddered at the bare idea of such a calamity. And he did not intend to write to her, so she could only wonder as the days, weeks and months went by what had befallen him. She would never know. While she was sadly ruminating over Tom's unexpected exit from her little world, Emma Dean's brisk step sounded outside. The door swung open. Emma gave a soft exclamation as she saw the room in darkness. Pressing the button at the side of the door, she flooded the room with light, only to behold Grace standing in the middle of the floor, still wearing her outdoor wraps, an open letter in her hand. "Good gracious, Gracious, how you startled me! What is going on? Tell your worthless dog of a servant, what means this studied pose in the middle of the room in the dark? Not to mention posing in your hat and coat. And, yes," Emma drew nearer and peered into her friend's face with her kind, near-sighted eyes, "you've been crying. This will never do. Tell me the base varlet that hath caused these tears," she rumbled in a deep voice, "and be he lord of fifty realms I'll have his blood. 'Sdeath! Odds bodkins! Let me smite the villain. I could slay and slay, and be a teacher still. Provided the faculty didn't object, and I wasn't arrested," she ended practically. Grace's woe-be-gone face brightened at Emma's nonsense. "You always succeed in making me smile when I am the bluest of the blue," she said fondly. "I can't see why such strongly dramatic language as I used should make you laugh. It was really quite Shakespearian. You see I have 'the bard' on the brain. We have been taking up Elizabethan English in one of my classes, and once I become thoroughly saturated with Shakespearian verse I am likely to quote it on all occasions. Don't be surprised if I burst forth into blank verse at the table or any other public place. But here I've been running along like a talking machine when you are 'full fathom five' in the blues. Can't you tell your aged and estimable friend, Emma, what is troubling you?" "You were right, Emma. The summons came." Grace's voice was husky. "I've just had a session with Miss Wharton." "About Miss Brent?" "Yes. She sent for both of us. She asked Miss Brent to explain certain things which she could, but would not, explain. I was in Miss Brent's confidence. As you know, she told me about herself after I came back from the Thanksgiving holiday. It entirely changed my opinion of her. I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't. I gave her my word of honor that I would keep her secret. But, to-day, when she saw how unjustly Miss Wharton reprimanded me I thought she might have strained a point and told Miss Wharton her story. Still I don't know that it would have helped much." Grace sighed wearily. "Miss Wharton is not Miss Wilder. She is a hard, narrow-minded, cruel woman," Grace's dispirited tones gathered sudden vehemence, "and she would misjudge Miss Brent just as she misjudged me. She is going to send for us again in a few days, and she declares that, if I do not tell her everything, she will take measures to have me removed from my position here." Grace turned tragic eyes to her friend. "The idea!" rang out Emma's indignant cry. "Just as though she could. Why, Harlowe House was named for you. If Mrs. Gray knew she even hinted such thing she'd be so angry. I believe she'd turn Indian giver and take back her gift to Overton." "Oh, no, she wouldn't do quite that, Emma." Heartsick though she was, Grace smiled faintly. "She would be angry, though. She must never know it. It made her so happy to give Harlowe House to Overton. She would be so hurt, for my sake, that she would never again take a particle of pleasure in it. When Miss Wharton sends for me I shall ask her point-blank if she really intends to try to have me removed from my position by the Board. If she says 'yes,' I'll resign, then and there." "Grace Harlowe, you don't mean it? You've always fought valiantly for other girls' rights, why won't you fight for your own? The whole affair is ridiculous and unjust. If worse comes to worst you can go before the Board and defend yourself. The members will believe you." Grace shook her head sadly, but positively. "I'd never do that, Emma. If it comes to a point where I must fight to be house mother here, then I'd much rather resign. I couldn't bear to have the story creep about the college that I had even been criticized by the Board. I've loved my work so dearly, and I've tried so hard to do it wisely that I'd rather give it up and go quietly away, feeling in my heart that I have done my best, than to fight and win at last nothing but a blotted escutcheon. You understand how it is with me, dear old comrade." "Grace, it breaks my heart to hear you say such things! You mustn't talk of going away." Emma sprang from the chair into which she had dropped and drew Grace into her protecting embrace. Grace's head was bowed for a moment on Emma's shoulder. "Don't cry, dear," soothed Emma. "I'm not crying, Emma. See, I haven't shed a tear. I did all my crying a while ago." Grace raised her head and regarded Emma with two dry eyes that were wells of pain. "I have had another shock, too, since I came home. Tom Gray has resigned his position with the Forestry Department at Washington, and has sailed for South America. I--never--thought--he'd--go--away. He isn't even going to write to me, Emma, and I don't know when he will come back. Perhaps never. You know how dangerous those South American expeditions are?" "Poor Gracious," comforted Emma, "you have had enough sorrows for one day. You need a little cheering up. You and I are not going to eat dinner at Harlowe House to-night. We are going to let Louise Sampson look after things while we go gallivanting down to Vinton's for a high tea. I'm going to telephone Kathleen and Patience. There will be just four of us, and no more of us to the tea party. They will have to come, engagements or no engagements." "I don't care to see any one to-night, Emma," pleaded Grace. "You only think you don't. Seeing the girls will do you good. If you stay here you'll brood and grieve all evening." "All right, I'll go; just to please you. I must see Louise and tell her we are going." "You stay here. I'll do all the seeing. Take off your hat and bathe your face. You'll feel better." Emma hurried out of the room and up the next flight of stairs to Louise Sampson's room, thinking only of Grace and how she might best comfort her. She was more aroused than she cared to let Grace see over Miss Wharton's harsh edict. She made a secret vow that if Grace would not fight for her rights _she_, Emma Dean, would. Then she remembered Grace's words, "I'd rather give it up and go quietly away, feeling in my heart that I have done my best, than to fight and, at last, win nothing but a blotted escutcheon." No, she could not take upon herself Grace's wrongs, unless Grace bade her do so, and that would never happen. Fortunately Kathleen and Patience were both at home. Better still, neither had an engagement for that evening, and at half-past six o'clock the four faithful friends were seated at their favorite mission alcove table at Vinton's, ordering their dinner, while Grace tried earnestly to put away her sorrow and be her usual sunny self. But while Grace had been passing through the Valley of Humiliation, there was another person under the same roof who was equally unhappy. That person was Jean Brent. On leaving Grace she had gone directly to Harlowe House. Ascending the stairs to her room with a dispirited step, she had tossed aside her wraps and seated herself before the window. She sat staring out with unseeing eyes, remorseful and sick at heart. Grace's bitter words, "If you had obeyed me I would not be leaving Miss Wharton's office this afternoon, under a cloud," still rang in her ears. How basely she had repaid Miss Harlowe, was her conscience-stricken thought. Miss Harlowe had advised and helped her in every possible way. She had taken her into Harlowe House on trust. She had sympathized with her when Jean had told her her secret, and she had brought upon herself the dean's disapproval, would perhaps leave Harlowe House, rather than betray the girl who had confided in her. Jean's conscience lashed her sharply for her stubbornness and selfish ingratitude. If only she had been frank in the beginning. Miss Harlowe would have explained all to Miss Wilder, and Miss Wilder would have been satisfied. Then she would have had no sale of her wardrobe, and Miss Harlowe would have been spared all this miserable trouble. What a failure she had made of her freshman year? She had made few friends except Althea and her chums. They were shallow and selfish to a fault. She had held herself aloof from the Harlowe House girls, who, notwithstanding their good nature, showed a slight resentment of her proud attitude toward them and her absolute refusal to join in the work of the club. Since the day when Evelyn had taken her to task for disobeying Grace the two girls had exchanged no words other than those which necessity forced them to exchange. Evelyn had not forgiven Jean for her passionate advice to her to mind her own affairs. Jean, knowing Evelyn's resentment to be just, cloaked herself in defiance and ignored her roommate. Little by little, however, the cloak dropped away and Jean began to long for Evelyn's companionship. The yellow crêpe gown and the beautiful evening coat still lay in the bottom of Jean's trunk. In her own mind she knew that she had begun to hope for the time when she and Evelyn would settle their differences. She would then give Evelyn the belated Christmas gift. She grew daily more unhappy over their estrangement, and heartily wished for a reconciliation. Yet she was still too proud to make the first advances. It was hardly likely that Evelyn would make the first sign. Her pride was equal to, if not greater, than Jean's. She, who abhorred prying and inquisitiveness, had been accused by Jean of meddling in her affairs. Evelyn vowed inwardly never to forgive Jean. So these two young girls, each stiff-necked and implacable, dressed, studied and slept in the same room in stony silence, passing in and out like two offended shadows. Gradually this strained attitude became so intolerable to Jean that she longed for some pretext on which to make peace. As she sat at the window wondering what she could do to atone for her fault the door opened and Evelyn entered the room. A swift impulse seized Jean to lift the veil of resentment that hung between them. She half rose from her chair as though to address Evelyn. The latter turned her head in Jean's direction. Her blue eyes rested upon the other girl with the cold, impersonal gaze of a stranger. Beneath that maddening, ignoring glance Jean's good intentions curled up and withered like leaves that are touched by frost, and her aching desire for reconciliation was once more driven out of her heart by her pride. CHAPTER XIX THE SWORD OF SUSPENSE When Miss Wharton sent Jean Brent and Grace Harlowe from her office with the threat of dismissal hanging over them she fully intended to keep her word. From the moment she had first beheld Grace Harlowe she had conceived for her a rooted dislike such as only persons of strong prejudices can entertain. Her whole life had been lived narrowly, and with repression, therefore she was not in sympathy with youth or its enthusiasm. According to her belief no young woman of Grace's age and appearance was competent to assume the responsibility of managing an establishment like Harlowe House. She had again delivered this opinion most forcefully in Miss Wilder's presence after Grace had left the office on the afternoon of their first meeting, and Miss Wilder's earnest assurances to the contrary served only to deepen Miss Wharton's disapproval of the bright-faced, clear-eyed girl whose quiet self-possession indicated a capability of managing her own affairs that was a distinct affront to the woman who hoped to discover in her such faults as would triumphantly bear out her unkind criticism. Miss Wharton had held the position of dean in an unimportant western college, and it was at the solicitation of a cousin, a member of the Board of Trustees, that she had applied for the office of dean at Overton, and had been appointed to it with the distinct understanding that it was to be for the present college year only. Should Miss Wilder be unable to resume her duties the following October, Miss Wharton would then be reappointed for the entire year. The importance of being the dean of Overton College, coupled with the generous salary attached to the office, were the motives which caused Miss Wharton to resign her more humble position, assured as it was, for an indefinite period of years, for the one of greater glory but uncertain length. Possessed of a hard, unsympathetic nature, she secretly cherished the hope that Miss Wilder would not return to Overton the following year. She also resolved to prove her own worth above that of the kindly, efficient dean whom the Overton girls idolized, and began her campaign by criticizing and finding fault with Miss Wilder's methods whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. At first her unfair tactics bade fair to meet with success. The various members of the Board, and even Dr. Morton, wondered vaguely if, after all, too much confidence had been reposed in Miss Wilder. Wholly intent on establishing herself as a fixture at Overton College, Miss Wharton allowed the matter concerning Jean Brent and Grace to rest while she attended to what she considered vastly more important affairs. The thought that she was keeping both young women in the most cruel suspense did not trouble her in the least. On the contrary she decided that they deserved to be kept in a state of uncertainty as to what she intended to do with them, and deliberately put over their case until such time as suited her convenience. Both Jean and Grace went about, however, with the feeling that a sword was suspended over their heads and likely to descend at any moment. Grace expected, daily, to be summoned to Miss Wharton's office, there to refuse to divulge Jean Brent's secret and then ask the pertinent question, "Do you intend to lay this matter before the Board?" If she received an affirmative answer, then she planned to return to Harlowe House, write her formal resignation as manager of it and mail it to President Morton. But day followed day, and week followed week, and still the dread summons did not come. Grace discussed frequently the possible cause of Miss Wharton's negligence in the matter with Emma, her one confidante. Emma was of the opinion that, in trying to fill Miss Wilder's position, Miss Wharton had her hands full. Although Emma was apt to clothe the most serious happenings in the cloak of humor, she was a shrewd judge of human nature. "Just let me tell you one thing, Gracious," she remarked one blustering March evening as the two young women fought their way across the campus against a howling wind. They were returning from an evening spent with Kathleen West and Patience Eliot. "Miss Wharton is no more fitted for the position of dean at Overton College than I am for the presidency of the United States. She may have been successful in some little, out-of-the-way academy in a jerkwater town, but she's sadly out of place here. She has about as much tact as a rhinoceros, and possesses the æsthetic perceptions of a coal shoveler. I'm just waiting for these simple truths to dawn upon the intellects of our august Board. I understand that cadaverous-looking man with the wall eyes and the spade-shaped, beard, who walks about as though he cherished a grudge against the human race, and rejoices in the euphonious name of Darius Dutton, is responsible for this crime against Overton. He recommended her appointment to the Board. It seems that he is Miss Wharton's cousin. Thank goodness he isn't mine, or Miss Wharton either." Grace laughed at Emma's sweeping denunciation of Miss Wharton and the offending Daniel Dutton. Then her face grew sober. "You mustn't allow my grievances to imbitter you, Emma, toward any member of the Board." "Oh, my only grudge against Darius D. so far is his having such detestable relatives and foisting them upon an innocent, trusting college," retorted Emma with spirit, "but my grudge against Miss Wharton is a very different matter. It's an active, lively grudge. I'd like to write to Miss Wilder and Mrs. Gray, and interview Dr. Morton, and then see what happened. It would not be Grace Harlowe who resigned; but it might be a certain hateful person whose name begins with W. I won't say her name outright. Possibly you'll be able to guess it." Grace's hand found Emma's in the dark as they came to the steps of Harlowe House. The two girls paused for an instant. Their hands clung loyally. "Remember, Emma, you've promised to let me have my own way in this," reminded Grace wistfully. "I'll keep my promise," answered Emma, but her voice sounded husky. "I know," continued Grace, "that Miss Wharton's attitude toward me is one of personal prejudice. From the moment she saw me she disliked me. I know of only one other similar case. When Anne Pierson and I were freshmen in Oakdale High School we recited algebra to a teacher named Miss Leece, who behaved toward Anne in precisely the same way that Miss Wharton has behaved toward me, simply because she disliked her. But come on, old comrade, we mustn't stand out here all night with the wind howling in our ears. Let us try and forget our troubles. What is to be, will be. I am nothing, if not a fatalist." Grace forced herself to smile with her usual brightness, and the two girls entered the house arm in arm, each endeavoring, for the sake of the other to stifle her unhappiness. It was not yet ten o'clock and the lights were still burning in the living room. Gathered about the library table were six girls, deep in conversation. One of them glanced toward the hall at the sound of the opening door. "Oh, Miss Harlowe," she called, "You are the very person we have been wishing for." It was Cecil Ferris who spoke. Nettie Weyburn, Louise Sampson, Mary Reynolds, Evelyn Ward and Hilda Moore made up the rest of the sextette. "We are wondering if it wouldn't be a good plan to give our grand revue directly after the Easter vacation. It will be our last entertainment this year, because after Easter the weather begins to grow warm and the girls like to be outdoors. If you would help us plan it, then those of us who live here, and are going to take part in it, can be studying and rehearsing during the vacation. Of course, Evelyn won't be with us, but she will help us before she goes to New York. When she comes back she can give us the finishing touches. Here is the programme as far as we have planned it. We are awfully short of features." Cecil handed Grace a sheet of paper on which were jotted several items. There was a sketch written by Mary Reynolds, "The Freshman on the Top Floor," a pathetic little story of a lonely freshman. Gertrude Earle, a demure, dreamy-eyed girl, the daughter of a musician, was down for a piano solo. There was to be a sextette, a chorus and a troupe of dancing girls. Kathleen West had written a clever little playlet "In the Days of Shakespeare," and Hilda Moore, who could do all sorts of queer folk dances, was to busy her light feet in a series of quick change costume dances, while Amy Devery was to give an imitation of a funny motion-picture comedian who had made the whole country laugh at his antics. "How would you like some imitations and baby songs?" asked Grace, forgetting for the moment the shadow that hung over her. "I have two friends who would be delighted to help you." "How lovely!" cried Louise Sampson. "Now if only we had some one who could sing serious songs exceptionally well." "Miss Brent has a wonderful voice," said Evelyn rather reluctantly. "Then we must ask her to sing," decided Louise. "You ask her to-night, Evelyn." But Evelyn shook her head. "I'd rather you would ask her, Louise. Won't you, please?" "All right, I will," said Louise good-naturedly, who had no idea of the strained relations existing between the two girls, and consequently thought nothing of Evelyn's request. "Much as I regret tearing myself away from this representative company of beauty and brains, I have themes that cry out to be corrected," declared Emma Dean, who had been listening in interested silence to the plans for the coming revue. "You can't hear them cry out clear down here, can you?" asked Mary Reynolds flippantly. A general giggle went the round of the sextette. "Not with my everyday ordinary ears, my child," answered Emma, quite undisturbed. "It is that inner voice of duty that is making all the commotion. I would much rather bask in the light of your collected countenances than listen to those frenzied shrieks. But what of my trusting classes, who delight in writing themes and passing them on to me to be corrected?" "Oh, yes; we all delight in writing themes," jeered Nettie Weyburn, to whom theme writing was an irksome task. "My inner voice of duty is screaming at me this very minute to go and write one, but I'm so deaf I can't hear it." "If you can't hear it, how do you know it is screaming?" questioned Emma very solemnly. "My intuition tells me," retorted Nettie with triumphant promptness. "Then I wish _all_ my pupils in English had such marvelous intuitions," sighed Emma. "My inner voice of duty is wailing at me to go upstairs and finish my letter to my mother," interposed Grace, rising. Her face had regained its usual brightness. She could not be sad in the presence of these light-hearted, capable girls, whose sturdy efforts to help themselves made them all so inexpressibly dear to her. She would help them all she could with their entertainment. She would write Arline and Elfreda to come to Overton for a few days and take part in the revue. It was not until she had finished her letter to her mother and begun one to Elfreda that the sinister recollection again darkened her thoughts. She was living in the shadow of dismissal. Would it be wise to invite Arline and Elfreda to Harlowe House for a visit while she was so uncertain of what the immediate future held in store for her? If she tendered her resignation she intended it should take effect without delay. Once she had surrendered her precious charge she could not and would not remain at Harlowe House. Still she had promised her girls that she would help them. She had volunteered Arline's and Elfreda's services, knowing they would willingly leave their own affairs to journey back to Overton. Grace laid down her pen. Resting her elbows on the table she cradled her chin in her hands, her vivid, changeful face overcast with moody thought. At last she raised her head with the air of one who has come to a decision, and, picking up her pen, went on with her letter to J. Elfreda Briggs. If worse came to worst and she resigned before the girls' entertainment she would courageously put aside her own feelings and remain, at least, until afterward. It should be her last act of devotion to Harlowe House and her work. CHAPTER XX THE AWAKENING The sword which hung over poor Grace's head still dangled threateningly above her when she left Overton for Oakdale, on her Easter vacation. Miss Wharton had made no sign. Whether she had, for the time being, forgotten her words of that unhappy morning of several weeks past, or was coolly taking her own time in the matter, well aware of the discomfort of her victims, Grace could not know. She determined to lay aside all bitterness of spirit and lend herself to commemorate the anniversary of the first Easter with a reverent and open mind. But there was one ghost which she could not lay, and that was the the memory of Tom Gray's face as he said good-bye to her on that memorable rainy afternoon. Just when it began to haunt her Grace could scarcely tell. She knew only that Tom's farewell letter had awakened in her mind a curious sense of loss that made her wish he had not cut himself off from her so completely. When on their last afternoon together he had pleaded so earnestly for her love Grace had been proudly triumphant in the successful accomplishment of what she believed to be her life work. From the lofty pinnacle of achievement she had looked down on Tom pityingly, but with no adequate realization of what she had caused him to suffer. It was not until she herself had been called upon to prepare to give up that which meant most to her in life that she began to appreciate dimly what it must have cost Tom Gray to put aside his hopes of years and go away to forget. A belated sympathy for her girlhood friend sprang to life in her heart, and in the weeks of suspense that preceded her return to Oakdale for Easter she found herself thinking of him frequently. She wondered if he were well, and tried to imagine him in his new and dangerous environment. She began to cherish a secret hope that, despite his belief that silence between them was best, he would write to her. Her holiday promised to be a little lonely as far as her friends were concerned. Mrs. Gray had gone to New York City to spend Easter with the Nesbits. Nora and Hippy had gone to visit Jessica and Reddy in their Chicago home. Anne and David were in New York. Eleanor Savelli was in Italy. Even Marian Barber, Eva Allen and Julia Crosby had married and gone their separate ways. Of the Eight Originals Plus Two, and of their old sorority, the Phi Sigma Tau, she was the only one left in Oakdale. To be sure she had plenty of invitations to spend Easter with her chums and her many friends, but it was a sacred obligation with her always to be at home during the Easter holidays. She was quite content to do this, and yet even her father's and mother's love could not quite still the longing for the gay voices of those dear ones with whom she had kept pace for so long. There was one source of consolation, however, which during the first days at home she had quite overlooked, and that source was none other than Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell. The two little girls had by no means overlooked the fact that their Miss Harlowe was "the very nicest person in the whole world except papa and mamma," and proceeded to monopolize her whenever the opportunity offered itself. Grace went for long walks with them. She helped them dress their dolls, and ran races and played games with them in their big sunny garden. She initiated them into the mysteries of making fudge and penuchi, while they obligingly taught her the ten different ways they knew of skipping the rope, and how to make raffia baskets. They followed her about like two adoring, persistent little shadows, until imbued with their carefree spirit of childhood, Grace, in a measure, forgot her woes and joined in their innocent fun with hearty good will. "Really, Grace, I hardly know which is older, you or Anna May," smiled her mother one afternoon as Grace came bounding into the living room with, "Mother, do you know where my blue sweater is? Anna May and Elizabeth and I are going for a walk as far as the old Omnibus House." "It is hanging in that closet off the sewing room," returned her mother. "Thank you." Dropping a hasty kiss on her mother's cheek, Grace was off. Mrs. Harlowe watched her go down the walk, holding a hand of each little girl, with wistful eyes. Grace had not been at home three days before her mother divined that all was not well with her beloved daughter. Yet to ask questions was not her way. Whatever Grace's cross might be, she knew that, in time, Grace would confide in her. On the way to the Omnibus House Grace was as gay and buoyant as her two little friends. It was not until they had reached there and Anna May and Elizabeth had run off to the nearest tree to watch a pair of birds which were building a nest and keeping up a great chirping meanwhile, that a frightful feeling of loneliness swept over Grace. She sat down on the worn stone steps sadly thinking of Tom Gray and the good times the Eight Originals had had at this favorite haunt. But why did the memory of Tom Gray continue to haunt her? Grace gave her shoulders an impatient twitch. How foolish she was to allow herself to grow retrospective over Tom. She had deliberately sent him away because she did not, nor never could, love him. Still she wished that the memory of him would not intrude upon her thoughts so constantly. "It's only because he's associated with the good times the Eight Originals have had," she tried to tell herself, but deep in her heart was born a strange fear that she fought against naming or recognizing. After having watched the noisy, but successful, builders to their hearts' content, the children ran over to where Grace sat and challenged her to a game of tag. But she was in no mood for play, and suggested they had better be starting home. She felt that she could not endure for another instant this house of memories. She tried to assume the joyous air with which she had started out, but even the two little girls were not slow to perceive that their dear Miss Harlowe didn't look as happy as when they had begun their walk. "I think we'd better go and see her to-morrow morning and take her a present," decided Anna May, after Grace had left them at their own gate. "She laughed like everything when we started on our walk, but she looked pretty sad when we were coming back and didn't say hardly a thing. I'm going to give her my bottle of grape juice that Mother made specially for me." "I guess I'll give her that pen wiper I made. It's ever so pretty." Elizabeth was not to be outdone in generosity. "We'll take Snowball's new white puppy to show her," planned Anna May. "She hasn't seen it yet. And a real French poodle puppy is too cute for anything." "And we'll sing that new verse we learned in school for her," added Elizabeth. True to their word, the next morning the two little girls marched up to the Harlowes' front door laden with their gifts. Anna May bore with proud carefulness the cherished bottle of grape juice while Elizabeth cuddled a fat white ball in her arms, the pen wiper lying like a little blanket on the puppy's back. "We came to call as soon as we could this morning, because we thought you looked sad yesterday," was Anna May's salutation as Grace opened the door. "Here's a bottle of grape juice. Mother made it specially for me, but I want _you_ to have it," the child said. Grace ushered her guests into the living room. "I hope you'll like this pen wiper, too. I cut it out and sewed it and everything," burst forth Elizabeth, holding out her offering. "I hope you'll always use it when you write letters." "Thank you, girls. You are both very good to me," smiled Grace, "and I'm so glad to see you this morning." "We thought you would be," returned Anna May calmly. "We brought Snowball's puppy to show you. We named him this morning for a perfectly splendid person that we know. You know him, too. The puppy's name is Thomas." "That's Mr. Gray's real name, isn't it?" put in Elizabeth anxiously. "Every one calls him Tom, but Thomas sounds nicer. Don't you think it does?" "We like Mr. Gray better than any grown-up man we know," confided Anna May enthusiastically. "He's the handsomest, nicest person ever was. Do you think he'd be pleased to have us name our puppy for him?" "I'm sure he would." Grace stifled her desire to laugh as she took the fluffy white ball in her arms and stroked the tiny head. Then the amused look left her eyes. Perhaps Tom would never know of his little white namesake. He might never come back from South America. Suppose she were never to hear of him again. In the past she had, during moments of vexation toward him, almost wished it, but of a sudden it dawned upon her that she would give much to look into his honest gray eyes again and feel the clasp of his strong, friendly hand. "Miss Harlowe, shall we sing for you?" Anna May wisely noted that Miss Harlowe had begun to look "sad" again. "We learned such a pretty new song in school," put in Elizabeth. "Anna May can play it on the piano, too. Would you like us to sing it, Miss Harlowe?" "Yes, do sing it," urged Grace, but her thoughts were far from her obliging visitors. The children trotted over to the piano, and after a false start or two, Anna May played the opening bars of the song. Then the two childish voices rang out: "The year's at the spring And day's at the morn: Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world!" Grace listened with a sinking heart. The joy of Browning's exquisite lines from "Pippa Passes" cut into her very soul. All was not right with _her_ world. Everything had gone wrong. She had chosen work instead of love, and what it brought her? She had believed that in rejecting Tom's love for her work she had definitely and forever solved her problem. Now it confronted her afresh. She understood too well the meaning of that strange fear which had obsessed her ever since her return home. Now she knew why the memory of Tom had so persistently haunted her, and why her friendly interest in his welfare had grown to be a heavy anxiety as to whether all was well with him. Wholly against her will she had done that which she had insisted she could never do. She had fallen in love with Tom. But her awakening had come too late. Tom had gone away to forget her. He would never know that she loved him, for she could never, never tell him. On the night of Jessica's wedding, when they had strolled up the walk to the house in the moonlight, he had said with an air of conviction, which then made her smile, that there would come a time when even work could not crowd out love. His prophecy had come true, but it meant nothing to either she or Tom now, for it had come true too late. CHAPTER XXI KATHLEEN WEST MAKES A PROMISE On Grace's return to Overton and Harlowe House from her Easter vacation she plunged into her work with feverish energy. She wished, if possible, to free herself of this strange, unbidden love for Tom which seemed to grow and deepen with every passing day, and which made her utterly miserable. Then, too, she did not know when the dreaded summons might come from Miss Wharton, and she longed to do as much as she could for her girls while the opportunity was yet hers. It was with this spirit that she entered into the plans for their revue, which was to be given in Greek Hall, and from the number of tickets already sold promised to be a sweeping success. Arline and Elfreda had accepted their invitations with alacrity, promising to come to Overton several days beforehand for the purpose of making Grace a visit. The girls who were to take part in the revue were using every spare moment to perfect themselves in their parts and specialties, and every night the living room was the scene of much rehearsing. According to information received from Emma, Miss Wharton was not filling Miss Wilder's place with signal success. She had shown herself to be not only extremely narrow-minded, but quarrelsome as well. She had antagonized more than one member of the faculty by either tactlessly criticising their methods of instruction, or seeking to force them into open dispute. Being only human, those whom she sought to humble retaliated by taking advantage of her recent assumption of the duties of dean to make her college path as thorny as circumstances would admit, and Miss Wharton was obliged to put aside all else, including the judgment she intended to pass upon Grace, in a powerful contention for supremacy over those who had worsted her in sundry college matters. Grace did not flatter herself that this state of affairs could last; she was certain that, sooner or later, the blow would fall, but she wisely resolved to put the whole unhappy business from her mind and make hay while her brief college sun still shone. The arrival of Elfreda Briggs and Arline Thayer three days before the date set for the entertainment made things seem like old times. "It certainly does you a world of good to have Elfreda and Arline here, Gracious," observed Emma Dean as she stopped in the doorway of Grace's little office on her way to her room from her morning recitations. "I can't bear to think of their leaving me," smiled Grace, looking up from the account book on her desk. Her face had partially regained its former light and sparkle. "They are coming here to luncheon to-day. Did you know it?" "Yes, I saw J. Elfreda on my way across the campus this morning. They ought to be here soon now." A ring of the bell, answered by the maid, and the sound of Arline's clear tones, mingled with Elfreda's deeper ones, proclaimed the arrival of the two Sempers. The luncheon bell rang almost directly afterward, so the four friends had time only to exchange salutations before going to the table. "Do you know, girls, I can't get used to Overton without Miss Wilder," declared Arline Thayer as they seated themselves at Grace's table, which had been set for four. "I keep looking about me, expecting to meet her at any minute. You must miss her dreadfully, Grace." "I do miss her more than I can say," replied Grace briefly. The haunting shadow lurked for an instant in her gray eyes, then she began to talk with forced vivacity of the coming revue. But one pair of keen eyes had seen that shadow, and that pair of eyes belonged to J. Elfreda Briggs. "I wonder what ails Grace?" was her thought, "It's something about Miss Wilder's not being here, I'm pretty certain." She resolved to make inquiries concerning the new dean and made an excuse to accompany Emma across the campus after luncheon, leaving Arline and Grace together. "What's the matter with Grace?" was her abrupt question the instant they had left Harlowe House behind them. "I could see that she wasn't quite her old self at luncheon to-day." "I believe you 'could see' in the dark or with your eyes shut or even if you had no eyes," teased Emma. "Then there _is_ something bothering her," said Elfreda triumphantly. "I knew it." "Yes, there is. I wish I might tell you," returned Emma slowly, "but I am in Grace's confidence. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to ask her, though. If she would tell you, you might be able to suggest something helpful. I'll just say this much. It's very serious." "All right, I'll ask her. If she tells me, I'll talk things over with you afterward. If she doesn't, then forget that I asked you about it." It was not until late that afternoon that she found her opportunity to question Grace. Arline had left her to make a call upon Myra Stone, now a senior, and Elfreda and Grace sat side by side on Grace's favorite bench that stood under the giant elm at one end of the campus. "Grace," Elfreda's matter-of-fact tones broke a brief silence that had fallen upon the two young women. "What has happened to hurt you?" Grace started slightly. Her color receded, leaving her very pale. Then she said simply, "I suppose you 'could see,' Elfreda." "Yes; I've been 'seeing' ever since I came. I wish you would tell me about it. Perhaps I can help you." Grace shook her head. "No one can help me. I'll just say this. Don't be surprised at anything you may hear a little later. But please remember one thing, Elfreda. Whatever I have done since I became the manager of Harlowe House I have done always with the highest interests of my girls at heart." "I guess we all know that," retorted Elfreda. "I'll remember what you say, though. I'm sorry I can't help you. You didn't mind my asking, did you?" "You know I didn't. It was affection that prompted the question." Grace reached out to pat her friend's hand. J. Elfreda caught Grace's hand in hers. Again silence reigned. They sat gazing across the campus, their hands still joined. Grace was thinking that she could not endure telling even Elfreda of the cloud that hung over her, while J. Elfreda Briggs was registering a vow to find some means of helping Grace in spite of herself. "I must go, Elfreda," said Grace at last, rising from the seat. "I am anxious to have dinner over a little earlier to-night on account of the dress rehearsal in Greek Hall. Let me see, who is the person to be favored with your company at dinner?" "I'm going to take dinner at Wayne Hall with Kathleen. We'll meet at the dress rehearsal." Elfreda rose, and the two sauntered across the campus to the point where their paths diverged. After stopping for a little chat with Mrs. Elwood, Elfreda climbed the stairs to the room at the end of the hall, where she received a most vociferous welcome from Kathleen and Patience. But the moment they settled down to conversation Elfreda said solemnly, "Girls, something is breaking Grace Harlowe's proud heart. Emma knows, but she is Grace's only confidante. I asked Grace point blank, this afternoon, to tell me, but she wouldn't. It has something to do with that Miss Wharton, the new dean. Whatever it is, you know, as well as I, that Grace isn't likely to be in the wrong. If I were going to stay here at Overton, a little longer, I'd find out all about it." "You could see," murmured Patience. "Yes, I could," declared Elfreda with a good-natured grin. "But so long as I can't be here to see, I'm going to pass the job along to you, Kathleen. I'm sure that if any one can find out the cause of poor Grace's woes it will be you. Go after it and run it down just as you would a big story, and if you can find and kill the wicked monster and make the princess happy again, well, there isn't anything that J. Elfreda Briggs won't do for you." "I'll do it," vowed Kathleen, setting her sharp little chin at a resolute angle. "You can't lose much time, either. College closes the second week in June," reminded Elfreda. "Trust me to find out before that time." Having disposed of this important matter, J. Elfreda's gravity vanished and she became her usual funny self again. The three girls had a merry time together and set off for the dress rehearsal in high spirits. When they reached Greek Hall they found that Grace and Arline had already arrived and were sitting far back in the hall watching a sextette of girls in smart white linen skirts, blue serge coats and straw hats, banded with blue ribbon, who were down on the programme for a song entitled "Our Fraternity Friends," the number ending with a gay little dance taught them by Hilda Moore. "Aren't they clever?" asked Grace eagerly, turning to Kathleen. The three young women had made their way to where she was seated. "They only began practicing that dance last week. Miss Moore taught them. She dances beautifully." The rehearsal proceeded without a hitch. Arline and Elfreda, being sure of themselves, did not take part in it. Kathleen West's clever one-act play, "In the Days of Shakespeare," was worthy of her genius. It presented the scene from the "Taming of the Shrew," where Petruchio ridicules Katherine's gown and berates the tailor. This scene was enacted in accordance with the Elizabethan age, when the nobility were permitted to take seats on the stage with the actors, the latter being obliged to step around and over that part of the audience in order to make their entrances and exits. These favored nobles had also the privilege of expressing freely their opinions of the merits of the long-suffering mummers, which they usually did in a loud voice. Kathleen had made a careful study of the conditions prevailing in the theatre at that period, and the little play was most mirth provoking from beginning to end. Mary Reynolds had also scored in the pathetic playlet, "The Freshman on the Top Floor," depicting a lonely little girl whose poverty and diffidence kept her out of the carefree college life that went on in the house where she lived. Cecil Ferris essayed the role of the freshman. The last number on the programme was Jean Brent's solo. After considerable coaxing Louise had persuaded her to sing, and Gertrude Earle accompanied her on the piano. Grace felt her brief resentment against the girl vanish as she listened to her glorious voice which had a suspicion of tragedy in it. There was a certain amount of lingering on the part of the performers to talk over the success of the dress rehearsal, but at last they all trooped across the campus to Harlowe House. By curious chance Evelyn Ward found herself walking directly behind Jean Brent. She had been greatly affected by her singing. Obeying a sudden impulse, she leaned forward and touched Jean's arm. "Can't we be friends again, Jean," she said wistfully. "I--I love your voice, and I care so much for you. There isn't much of the year left and----" Jean's blue eyes grew strangely soft. "It was all my fault," she said huskily. "Let's begin over again, Evelyn." And under the stars they made a new and truer covenant. CHAPTER XXII FIGHTING LOYALHEART'S BATTLE The revue was an unqualified success. Greek Hall was filled to overflowing, and the money fairly poured into the box office for the Harlowe House fund. There was a general rejoicing the next day among the performers, and the same night a social session was held in the living room at Harlowe House. To Grace it seemed as though she had been wafted back once more to the dear dead days when the Sempers had held forth. The presence of Arline and Elfreda was the last touch needed to complete the illusion, and she went about her work feeling happier than she had for a long time. Even the shadow cast upon her heart by Tom's absence seemed less gloomy. But on the heels of her brief elation trod disaster. Miss Wharton had chosen to become highly incensed because she had not been consulted in regard to the holding of the entertainment, and the long-suspended sword fell. The revue had been given on Wednesday evening, and on Friday morning Jean had received a note summoning her to Miss Wharton's office. This time Miss Wharton intended to interview the two young women separately. She believed that Jean would reveal what she had hitherto kept a secret if Grace were not present. With unreasonable prejudice she chose to place the brunt of Jean's refusal to speak upon Grace's shoulders. Jean obeyed the summons and came away from Overton Hall with a white, set face. Almost the first person she encountered on the campus was Evelyn, who was hurrying to one of her classes, and in her anguish of mind she poured forth the whole bitter story to her roommate. "Oh, Jean, why didn't you tell me this before," cried Evelyn. "I never knew until the night of the dress rehearsal that things were not going smoothly for Miss Harlowe. Kathleen West told me in confidence that something was wrong, and asked me to find out anything I could concerning it and let her know. We must go straight to her and tell her everything. She can help us if any one can. Just for once I'll cut my English recitation. Come on. Oh, I do hope Kathleen is at home." But Kathleen was not at Wayne Hall, and after some parleying the two girls concluded to wait until she returned from her classes to her luncheon. It was ten o'clock when they rang the bell of the college house where Grace had spent four happy years, and for the next hour and a half they waited in an agony of suspense. When Kathleen arrived they hurried her off to her room and proceeded to acquaint her with all the facts in their possession concerning the misfortune so soon to overtake Grace. Kathleen listened to them without comment. When they had finished talking she asked one sharp question, "Do you know Miss Wilder's address?" Neither girl knew it, but Evelyn was seized with a bright idea. "Hilda Moore knows it. I am sure she does." "Then hurry to Overton Hall and get it from her," ordered Kathleen. "I'm going to send a telegram. Are you sure Miss Wharton hasn't sent for Grace yet?" "Yes, yes. She said she intended to send for Miss Harlowe to-morrow morning. Evidently she has a reason of her own for not sending for her to-day," was Jean's eager response. "But she is going to report us to President Morton and the Board within the next day or so." "Good-bye. I'll be back directly." Evelyn dashed out of the room and down the stairs on her errand. Twenty minutes later she returned. "Here it is," she handed it to the newspaper girl. Kathleen had not taken off her hat since her arrival at Wayne Hall. "Come on, girls," she said. "You must go home and have your luncheon. Just leave everything to me. I think I can promise Miss Wharton a surprise." "What did she say to you, Jean?" asked Evelyn as they left Kathleen at the corner, headed for the telegraph office, and went on to Harlowe House. "What didn't she say. She is going to send me away if she can. I told her everything, but it only made matters worse. I said over and over again that Miss Harlowe was not to blame, but she grew harder every minute. How I despise her." Jean shuddered with disgust. "All this is merely an excuse to oust Miss Harlowe. Why she doesn't like her, goodness knows. What is Miss West going to do, I wonder?" "Telegraph Miss Wilder for one thing. Still, she can't write or come here in time to save Miss Harlowe," declared Evelyn. "Hilda knows about it. She said Miss Wharton dictated a perfectly horrid letter to Mrs. Gray, too, about Miss Harlowe this morning." "Oh, dear," half sobbed Jean. "It's dreadful, and it's all my fault." Evelyn did not answer. She could not help feeling that Jean deserved this bitter moment. "Shall you tell Miss Harlowe?" asked Evelyn as they hurriedly ascended the steps. Jean nodded. When they entered the dining room, for luncheon they learned to their utter consternation that Grace had gone for the day to visit a classmate in Westbrook and would not return until after dinner that night. In the meantime Kathleen West had hurried to the telegraph office and despatched the following message to Miss Wilder. "Wire President Morton, delay action, charges made by Miss Wharton against Grace Harlowe, until word from you. Letter will follow. Answer. Kathleen West." "There," she chuckled when she heard the tap of the operator's machine, "that will help a little. Never mind the expense." She was late to luncheon, and therefore missed Patience, but toward the close of the afternoon they met, and Kathleen took her into her confidence. All evening the two girls remained in the living room listening intently for the ring of the bell that might mean an answer to Kathleen's urgent message. At ten minutes to nine Kathleen said wearily. "It's too late to hear to-night. The telegraph office closes at nine o'clock. The answer will come in the morning. Even as she spoke, the door bell rang loudly. Pale and trembling with suspense, she herself answered the door. Hastily signing the messenger boy's book she closed the door on his retreating back and returned to the living room, nervously tearing open the envelope as she walked. Then she cried out in surprise. "What is it?" questioned Patience in alarm. Kathleen held out to her the disquieting bit of yellow paper. "Don't be frightened. It's good news. See." Patience read over her shoulder. "Start east to-day. Recovered. Don't write. Reach Overton Friday week. Keep secret. Telegraphed president. Katherine Wilder." "Hurrah, we've saved the day," rejoiced Kathleen. "And Kathleen West and Evelyn Ward have left milestones worth leaving along College Lane," reminded Patience with a smile that was very near to tears. * * * * * Grace returned to Harlowe House from Westbrook at a little after eight o'clock in the evening. She found Jean Brent anxiously awaiting her arrival, and at Jean's request they went at once to her room, where Jean acquainted her with the bad news. Grace listened with compressed lips, saying nothing. Jean wound up her narration with, "I know it is all my fault, Miss Harlowe, but truly I tried to make things come right for you. I told Miss Wharton all about myself and tried to make her understand that you weren't in the least to blame for my misdeeds. But I only made matters worse. She is contemptible." Jean's voice vibrated with bitter scorn. "I thank you for defending me." Grace spoke unemotionally. "I hope that President Morton will overlook the charge against you. I must go now. I wish to be alone. I must decide what I am to do. Good night." She had remained standing near the door during Jean's recital, now she opened it and walked slowly down the hall to her own door. She entered her pretty room as one might enter a chamber of death. So the end had come. Well, she would meet it with a stout heart and a clear conscience. But she would not wait for Miss Wharton to charge her with being unfit for the trust Mrs. Gray had reposed in her. She stepped to the library table and, opening a drawer, took out a sheet of her own monogrammed stationery and an envelope. Seating herself at the table, she took her pen from its rack. After a little thought she began writing in the clear, strong hand that characterized her. Her letter consisted of not more than a dozen lines. When she had finished she sealed, stamped, and addressed it to President Morton with a firm, unfaltering hand. Wrapping a light scarf about her shoulders, she stole softly downstairs and outdoors without being observed by the knot of girls in the living room. Crossing the campus, she dropped her letter into the post box at the farther side, nearest the street. Then she walked slowly back, stopping at her favorite bench under the giant elm. The moon, almost at the full, flooded the wide green stretch with her pale radiance. The fringed arms of the old elm waved her a gentle welcome. Grace sank upon the rustic seat racked with many emotions. How often she had sat there and dreamed of what her work was to be, and now, just as she had begun to reap the glory of it, it was to be snatched from her. The soft beauty of the spring night coupled with the ordeal through which she had just passed filled her with an unspeakable sadness. She bowed her head upon her hands, but her thoughts lay too deep for tears. Yet even while she sat for the last time in the spot she loved so dearly, Kathleen West and Patience Eliot were standing side by side reading the telegram that was to bring light out of darkness. CHAPTER XXIII GRACE SOLVES HER PROBLEM Grace waited impatiently for an answer to her letter of resignation. She expected hourly a summons to President Morton's office, but it did not come. It was now six days since Jean Brent's interview with Miss Wharton. Surely the dean had long since executed her threat to humiliate and depose Grace from the position of which she had been so proud. Then why did not President Morton take action at once and end this torturing suspense? Grace could not answer this question. She could only wonder and wait. But while she wondered and waited Kathleen West was leaving no stone unturned. In the championing of Grace's rights she did nothing by halves. The very next morning after receiving Miss Wilder's telegram she marched boldly into President Morton's office for a private interview with that dignified gentleman. Her newspaper experience had taught her how to gain an audience with the most difficult persons. She had little trouble in obtaining admittance to the president's private office. It was a long interview, lasting, at least, a half hour, and when Kathleen rose to go President Morton shook her hand and bowed her out in his most amiable manner. From Overton Hall she went directly to the telegraph office and sent another telegram. This time it was addressed to Mrs. Rose Gray, Oakdale, N.Y., and read: "Come to Overton, but fix arrival Friday. Grace needs you. Serious. Wire train. Meet you. Kathleen West." By five o'clock that afternoon she had received this answer: "Arrive Friday, 9.20 P.M. Arrange for me, Tourraine. Rose Gray," and was triumphantly showing it to Patience Eliot and planning her work of vindication in Grace's behalf. But while her friends were busying themselves in her cause Grace was engaged in packing her two trunks and arranging her affairs at Harlowe House. So far as she knew, Emma Dean and Jean Brent, alone, were aware of what was about to happen. Jean, whose fate still hung in the balance, went about looking pale and forlorn. Being in Kathleen's confidence, Evelyn had not informed her roommate of the secret work that was being done in behalf of Grace. She understood that Jean was suffering acutely, and longed to tell her that all promised well for Grace, but not for worlds would she have betrayed Kathleen's confidence. Emma Dean had learned of the mailing of Grace's resignation from Grace herself when she had returned to Harlowe House late that same evening. For once her flow of cheer had failed her, and she had broken down and cried disconsolately. For the next two days she had been unconsolable. Her bitterness against Miss Wharton was so great that it distressed Grace, who sought in vain to comfort her. But on Monday afternoon she returned from her classes in a lighter, more cheerful frame of mind. In fact as the week progressed she appeared to have thrown off her sorrow and was as funny as ever. Grace tried to be honestly glad that Emma's sorrow had been so short-lived, but she could not help feeling a little hurt to think that Emma, of all persons, should forget so quickly. Once or twice Emma caught the half reproachful gaze of her gray eyes, and had hard work to refrain from telling Grace that the hateful shadow was soon to be lifted. For Emma and Kathleen West had had a private confab, during which both girls had laughed and cried and laughed again in a most irrational manner. So the week wore away, and Friday came and went, leaving Grace still waiting and dreading. If she had happened to pass the Hotel Tourraine at twenty-five minutes to ten on Friday evening she would have seen a taxicab drive up to the entrance and a sprightly, little old lady step out of it, assisted by a keen-faced, black-eyed young woman, who took her by the arm and hurried her into the hotel. And if she had been on the station platform when the 11.40 train from the west pulled in she would have eagerly welcomed the stately dark-eyed woman who signaled a taxicab and drove off up College Avenue. Saturday morning dawned, clear and radiant. The glad light of early summer streamed in upon Grace. For a brief space she forgot her sorrows as she knelt at the open window and drank in the pure morning air. Then one by one they came back. She wondered whether the same sun were shining on Tom, far away in the jungle, and if he were well, and sometimes thought of her. How happy she might have made him and herself if only she had not been so blind. Through the bitterness of being found wanting she had come to realize what a wonderful thing it was to be truly loved. Never had the love of her parents and friends for her seemed so sacred. And how beautiful, how steadfast, Tom's affection for her had been! With a sigh she turned her thoughts away from that lost happiness. Now came the old torturing question, "Would the summons come to-day?" She was still brooding over it when she went downstairs to breakfast. Stopping in her office, she hastily went over her mail. It was with a sense of desperate relief that she separated an envelope, bearing the letter head of Overton College from the little pile of letters on the slide of her desk, and opened it. It was from President Morton, and merely stated that he wished her to call at his office at eleven o'clock that morning. With the letter in her hand, Grace entered the dining-room. She intended to show it to Emma, but the latter, who had risen early on account of some special work she wished to do, had eaten a hasty breakfast and departed. Grace slipped the letter into her blouse and made a pretense of eating breakfast. But she had lost all appetite for food. After sipping part of a cup of coffee she rose from the table and, returning to her office, opened the rest of her mail. Under any circumstances but those of the present her letters would have delighted her. There was one from Eleanor Savelli, written from her father's villa in Italy, a long lively one from Nora, containing a breezy account of Oakdale doings, and a still longer letter from Anne. There was one from Julia Crosby, and an extremely funny note from J. Elfreda Briggs, describing a visit she had recently made to the night court. One by one she read them, then laid them aside with an indifference born of suffering. If only there had been one for her in Tom's clear, bold handwriting. But it was useless to linger, even for a moment, over what might have been. Grace gathered up her letters and, locking them in her desk, went upstairs, with slow, dragging steps, to dress for her call upon President Morton. It was three minutes to eleven when a slim, erect figure walked up the steps of Overton Hall. Grace wore a smartly tailored suit of white serge, white buckskin shoes, white kid gloves and a white hemp hat trimmed with curved white quills. The lining of the hat bore the name of a famous maker. She had taken a kind of melancholy pride in her toilet that morning, and the result was all that she could have wished. Unconsciously the immaculate purity of her costume bespoke the pure, high, steadfast soul which looked out from her gray eyes. As she paused at the door for a moment, her hand on the knob, she experienced something of the thrill of a martyr, about to die for a sacred cause. Then she opened the door. For an instant she stood as though transfixed. Was she dreaming, or could she actually believe her own eyes? A sudden faintness seized her. Everything turned dark. She swayed slightly, then with a little sobbing cry of, "Fairy Godmother! Miss Wilder!" she ran straight into Mrs. Gray's outstretched arms. That throbbing, wistful cry brought the tears to Miss Wilder's eyes, while President Morton took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. Great tears were rolling down Mrs. Gray's cheeks which she made no effort to hide. "My little girl," she said brokenly. "How dared that dreadful woman treat you so shabbily?" It was at least ten minutes before the three women could settle down to the exchanging of questions and explanations. President Morton, the soul of old-fashioned courtesy, beamed his approval on them. "Now my dear," said Miss Wilder at last, "I wish you to begin at the very beginning of this affair, and tell us just what has happened." Grace began with the coming of Jean Brent to Overton and of her refusal to be frank concerning her affairs. Then she went on to the sale of her wardrobe which Jean had conducted in her absence and her final revelation of her secret to Grace after the latter had commanded it. Then she told of her promise to Jean not to betray her secret and of the summons sent them by Miss Wharton, to come to her office. "But what was this secret, Grace?" questioned Miss Wilder gravely. "We have the right to know." The color flooded Grace's pale face. She hesitated, then with an impulsive, "Of course you have the right to know," she went on, "Jean Brent's father and mother died when she was a child. She was brought up by an aunt who is very rich. This aunt gave her everything in the world she wanted but one thing. She would not allow Jean to go to college. She did not believe in the higher education for girls. She believed that a young girl should learn French, music and deportment at a boarding school. Then when she was graduated she must marry and settle down. One of the friends of Jean's aunt had a son who was in love with Jean. He had been babied by his mother until he had grown to be a hateful, worthless young man, and Jean despised him. Her aunt told her that she could take her choice between marrying this young man or leaving her house forever. She gave Jean a week to decide. Then she went into the country to spend a week end with this young man's mother at their country place. She thought because Jean was utterly dependent upon her that she would not dare to defy her. "Jean had a little money of her own, so she packed her trunks while her aunt was away and went to Grafton to talk things over with Miss Lipton, who has known her since she was a baby. She was a dear friend of Jean's mother. As Jean was of age she had the right to choose her own way of life. Miss Lipton knew all about Overton College and Harlowe House, so she wrote me and applied for admission for Miss Brent. I had room for one more girl, and I considered Miss Lipton's recommendation sufficient to admit Miss Brent to Harlowe House. Naturally I was displeased when she disobeyed me and held the sale. Still I do not consider that her offense warrants dismissal." "Miss Brent will _not_ be expelled from college," emphasized President Morton. "What I cannot understand is Miss Wharton's unjust attitude toward you. Surely she could readily see that you were not at fault," cried Mrs. Gray in righteous indignation. Miss Wilder, too, shook her head in disapproval of Miss Wharton's course of action. President Morton looked stern for a moment. Then his face relaxed. He turned to Grace with a reassuring smile that told its own story. "Miss Harlowe," he said, looking kindly at Grace, "it has always been my principle to uphold the members of the faculty in their decisions for or against a student, if these decisions are fair and just. I am convinced, however, that you have received most unjust treatment at Miss Wharton's hands. Therefore I am going to tell you in strict confidence that Miss Wharton has not filled the requirements for dean demanded by the Overton College Board. On the day I received your letter of resignation I wrote Miss Wharton, asking for her resignation at the close of the college year. I had received a letter from Miss Wilder stating that she would be able to resume her position as dean of this college next October. I had determined to send for you to inquire into your reason for wishing to resign the position you have so ably filled, when I received Miss Wilder's telegram. At her request I delayed matters until her arrival. Miss West also called at my office in your behalf. I take great pleasure in assuring you that I was prepared to accept any explanation you might make of the charges which Miss Wharton made against you and Miss Brent. In all my experience as president of this institution of learning I have never known a young woman who has carried out so faithfully the traditions of Overton College." Grace listened to the president's words with a feeling of joy so deep as to be akin to pain. The shadow had indeed lifted. In the eyes of those whose good opinion she valued so greatly she was worthy of her trust. She never forgot that wonderful morning in President Morton's office. When at last she left the president and Miss Wilder, to accompany Mrs. Gray back to the Tourraine, she said with shining eyes, "Dear Fairy Godmother, would you mind if we stopped at Wayne Hall. I _must_ see Kathleen West." "Of course you must," agreed Mrs. Gray briskly. "I should like to see her myself. My opinion of that young woman is very high." It seemed to Grace as though she could hardly wait until their taxicab drew up in front of Wayne Hall. Mrs. Elwood herself answered the bell. "Oh, Mrs. Elwood," cried Grace, "is Kathleen in?" "Yes; she came in only a little while ago." "I'll wait for you in the living room, Grace. Bring that blessed little newspaper girl down stairs with you," directed Mrs. Gray. As Grace hurried up the stairs and down the hall to the end room the memory of another day, when she had sought Kathleen West to do her honor, returned to her. Her face shone with a great tenderness as she turned the knob and walked straight into the room without knocking. An instant and she had folded in her arms the alert little figure that sprang to meet her. "Kathleen, dear girl," she cried. "How can I ever thank you?" "Don't try," smiled Kathleen, her black eyes looking unutterable loyalty at Grace. "I had to leave a milestone, you know, and I couldn't have left it in a better cause. I enlisted long ago under the banner of Loyalheart. So you see it was my duty to fight for her." * * * * * It was after three o'clock when Grace left Mrs. Gray at the Tourraine and went back to Harlowe House. At Mrs. Elwood's urgent invitation they had remained at Wayne Hall for luncheon, and with Patience added to their number had held a general rejoicing over the way things had turned out. Mrs. Gray's last words to Grace on saying good-bye to her at the hotel were, "Grace, I am coming over to see you this evening." Grace walked home, her heart singing a song of thanksgiving and happiness. As she entered the house the maid met her with, "There's a lady to see you, Miss Harlowe. She just came." Grace stepped into the living room. A tall, gray-haired woman of perhaps sixty, very smartly gowned, and of commanding appearance, rose to meet her. "Are you Miss Harlowe?" was her abrupt question. Then before Grace had time to do more than bow in the affirmative, she said with a brusqueness intended to hide emotion, "My name is Brent. Jean Brent is my niece. Tell me, is she with you still? I could not bring myself to ask the maid. I was afraid she might say that my niece was not here." In her anxiety, her voice trembled. Grace's hand was stretched forth impulsively. "I am so glad," she said eagerly. "Jean needs you. She will soon be home from her classes. Would you like to go to her room?" The woman returned Grace's hand clasp with a fervor born of emotion. She was trying to hide her agitation, but Grace could see that she was deeply stirred. Once in Jean's room she gave one curious glance about her, then sank heavily into a chair and began to cry. "I have been a stubborn, foolish woman," she sobbed. "I drove my little girl away from me because I was determined to make her marry a man whom I now know to be worthless. Oh, I am afraid she will never forgive me." Grace was touched by the proud woman's tearful remorse, but she doubted if Jean Brent would forgive her aunt. She had spoken most bitterly against her. Grace tried to think of something comforting to say. But before she could put her thoughts into words the door was suddenly opened and Jean walked into the room. At sight of the familiar figure she turned very pale. Her blue eyes gleamed with anger. She took a step forward. "What brought _you_ here?" she asked tensely. "Jean, my child, won't you forgive me?" pleaded the woman holding out her arms. Grace waited to hear no more. But as she turned to leave the room she caught one look at Jean's face. The sudden anger in it had died out. Grace believed that all would be well, but whatever passed between aunt and niece was not for her ears. She went directly to her room to wait there until Emma came from her classes. She had so much to say to her faithful comrade. In due season Emma appeared with a cheery, "Hello, Gracious. How is everything?" "Everything is lovely. Emma Dean, you dear old humbug. No wonder you couldn't look sad when I talked about leaving Harlowe House. Now, confess. You were in the secret, weren't you?" Grace stood with her hands on Emma's shoulders, looking into her face. "The Deans of whom I am which, have always been advocates of the truth," solemnly declared Emma, "therefore I will follow their illustrious example and answer 'I was.' You tied _my_ hands and _my_ tongue so I couldn't fight for you, Gracious, but you couldn't tie Kathleen's." "Oh, Emma, I have so much to tell you. I hardly know where to begin. I'm so happy. It's wonderful to feel once more that I am considered worthy of my work. You and I will have many more seasons of it, together." "I wish we might," returned Emma, but a curious wistfulness crept into her eyes that Grace failed to note. The two friends talked on until dinner time and went downstairs together, arm in arm. After dinner Emma pleaded an engagement with Miss Duncan, Grace's former teacher of English, and left the house at a little after seven o'clock. Grace slipped into her little office and seated herself at her desk. How glad she was that all was well again. Yes, she and Emma would, indeed, spend many more seasons together. Yet, somehow, the thought of her work did not give her the same thrill of satisfaction that it once had. Try as she might she could not keep thoughts of Tom from creeping into her mind. Where was he to-night? Had he forgotten her? Mrs. Gray had not once mentioned his name to her, and she had not dared to ask for news of him. Her somber reflections were interrupted by Jean Brent and her aunt. A complete reconciliation had taken place. Miss Brent was now anxious to thank Grace for all she had done in her niece's behalf. They lingered briefly, then went on to the Hotel Tourraine, where Miss Brent had registered. They had not been gone long when the ringing of the door bell brought Grace to her feet. Mrs. Gray had arrived. She hurried to the door to open it for her Fairy Godmother. Then she drew back with a sharp exclamation. The tall, fair-haired young man who towered above her bore small resemblance to dainty little Mrs. Gray. [Illustration: Tom's Strong Hands Closed Over Hers.] "Grace!" said a voice she knew only too well. "Tom," she faltered. Then both her hands went out to him. His own strong hands closed over them. The two pairs of gray eyes met in a long level gaze. "Come into my office, Tom." She found her voice at last. "I--I thought you were thousands of miles away in a South American jungle." "So I was, but I didn't go very deeply into it. Professor Graham met with a serious accident and we had to turn back to civilization. He fell and hurt his spine and we had to carry him to the nearest village, two hundred miles, in a litter. Naturally that broke up the expedition, and when he became better we decided to sail for home. Reached New York City last week. I telegraphed Aunt Rose, and she wired me to meet her in Overton. I came in on that 5.30 train. Of course I was anxious to see you, so Aunt Rose told me to run along ahead. She'll be here in a little while." Once seated opposite each other in the little office, an awkward silence fell upon the two young people. "I am so glad nothing dreadful happened to you, Tom." Grace at last broke the silence. "Those expeditions are very hazardous. I thought of you often and wondered if you were well." There was a wistful note in her voice of which she was utterly unconscious, but it was not lost on Tom. "Grace," he said tensely, "did you really miss me?" He leaned forward, his face very close to hers. His eager eyes forced the truth. "More than I can say, Tom," she answered in a low tone. Tom caught her hands in his. She did not draw them away. "How much does that mean, Grace? I know I vowed never to open the subject to you again, but I never saw that look in your eyes before, and you never let me hold your hands like this. Which is to be, dear; work or love?" "Love," was the half-whispered answer. And the gate of happiness, so long barred to Tom Gray, was opened wide. CHAPTER XXIV THE BOND ETERNAL The full moon shone down with its broadest smile on the group of young people who occupied Mrs. Gray's roomy, old-fashioned veranda. As on another June night that belonged to the past, Mrs. Gray's Christmas children had gathered home. "We're here because we're here," caroled Hippy Wingate. "But allow me to make one observation." "_One_," jeered Reddy Brooks. "You mean one hundred." "That's very unkind in you, Reddy," returned Hippy in a grieved tone. "Just to show you how entirely off the track you are I will make that _one_ observation and subside." "I didn't know you had such a word as 'subside' in your vocabulary," derided David Nesbit. "Nora, where art thou? Thy husband is calling," wailed Hippy. "I would hardly call that an observation," laughed Grace. "It sounds more like an anguished appeal for help," remarked Anne. "Or a perpetration by a deaf man who hasn't the least idea of how it sounds," added Tom Gray cruelly. "Nora," rebuked Hippy, fixing a disapproving eye on his wife, who was laughing immoderately, "how can you hear your husband thus derided and laugh at his suffering? Oh, if Miriam were only here to protect me. By the way," he went on innocently, "where _is_ Miriam?" "She will be here a little later," said Grace evasively. "Ah, yes, I see," smirked Hippy. "I suppose she is looking up further information on the drama. Miriam is really well-informed on that subject. Did she go to the library or"--he paused and his smile grew wider--"to the train?" Absolute silence followed this pertinent question. Then Jessica giggled. That giggle proved infectious. A ripple of mirth went the round of the porch party. "Here comes Miriam now." Grace pointed down the drive. Two figures were seen strolling toward the house in leisurely fashion. "Yes, here she comes. Better ask her what you just asked us," Reddy satirically advised Hippy. "Why ask questions when my eyes tell me it _was_ the train? Still, if you think it advisable I will----" "Be good," ordered Nora. "Don't you dare say one word." "But I haven't made my observation yet," reminded Hippy. "It will keep." "Ah, here they come! Now for a pretty little speech of welcome." Hippy rose and puffed out his chest, but before he could utter a word he was jerked back by the coat tails to the porch seat on which he and Nora had been sitting. As Miriam and the man at her side neared the porch every one rose to greet them. Then the women of the party exchanged smiling glances. On Miriam's engagement finger shone the white fire of a diamond. The next instant Everett Southard was shaking hands with Mrs. Gray and the Eight Originals, while Miriam looked on, an expression of radiant happiness in her eyes. Then the actor turned to her with the beautiful smile, that Nora O'Malley had often declared was seraphic, and said: "Shall we tell them now, Miriam?" Miriam's black eyes glowed with the soft light that love alone could lend to them. The pink in her cheeks deepened. "Yes," she acquiesced. "Miriam and I are going the rest of our way together, dear friends," he said simply. Anne thought she had never heard his voice take on a more exquisitely tender tone. "I came from New York to tell you so." Immediately a flow of congratulations ensued. In the midst of them Tom Gray's eyes met Grace's. What he read there seemed to satisfy him. When every one was again seated he walked over to the porch swing where Grace and Anne sat idly rocking to and fro. Stopping directly in front of Grace, he held out his hands to her. As she looked up at him her face took on an expression of perfect love and trust. Placing her hands in Tom's, Grace rose to her feet. Their friends watched the pretty tableau with affectionately smiling faces. Then the two young people faced the expectant company. "You know, all of you, what I am going to say, so you must know, too, how happy I am. Grace has promised to marry me." Tom's face was aglow with happiness. "My dear, dear child." Mrs. Gray rose, her arms extended to Grace. "I have hoped for this ever since you were graduated from high school." Grace embraced the old lady tenderly. Then her chums hemmed her in, and congratulations began all over again. "Talk about your surprises," beamed Reddy. "I hadn't any idea that Grace and Tom had fixed up this one. I can't tell you how glad I am, old fellow." He shook Tom's hand vigorously. David and Hippy followed suit. The faces of the three young men fairly shone with joy. They had long understood the depth of Tom's dejection over Grace's steadfast refusal to give up her work for his sake. "We saved it as a special feature of the occasion," laughed Tom, "but I'll tell you three fellows a secret." He lowered his voice and the laughter died out of his fine face, leaving it very serious. "I never expected this happiness was coming my way. Long ago I gave up all idea of ever being anything but a friend to Grace. I can't understand how it all came about, and I suppose I never shall." "Maybe we aren't tickled over your good fortune," said Hippy warmly. "We've waited for this a long while. I always told Nora that it would happen some day. I knew there was just one Tom Gray and that it would only be a question of time until Grace found it out." "No fair having secrets," called out Nora. "What and who are you boys talking about in such low, confidential voices?" "Me," beamed Hippy. "Reddy was just telling me that he never fully appreciated me until cruel distance separated us. Of course I can't help feeling touched. It is so seldom that Reddy appreciates anything or any one. He is----" The confidential group suddenly dissolved in a hurry. Reddy took hold of Hippy's arm and rushed him down the steps and around the corner of the house in an anything but gentle manner. "There," he declared, as he returned to the porch alone. "That will teach him that he can't make pointed remarks about me. I guess he felt 'touched' that time." "N-o-r-a," wailed a pathetic voice. "Come and get me. I want to sit on the veranda, too." "Promise you'll be nice to Reddy, or I won't come after you," stipulated Nora, making no effort to rise. "I won't promise," came the defiant answer. "I don't like Reddy. He is a hard-hearted ruffian." "Thank you," sang out Reddy. "Now come back if you dare." "I don't want to come back. I'd rather walk around by myself in the garden." Nothing further was heard from Hippy for a time. Conversation on the veranda went on merrily. Apparently no one missed the stout young man. Suddenly a bland voice at Reddy's elbow said, "Why, good evening, Reddy." Hippy's fat face appeared between the lace curtains at the open parlor window. He beamed joyfully at the company, then favored Reddy with a smile so wide and ingratiating that the latter's fierce expression changed to a reluctant grin. At this hopeful sign Hippy clambered through the window and crowded himself into the swing between Jessica and Anne, who had resumed their seats there. They protested vigorously, then made room for him. After announcing their engagement and receiving the congratulations of their friends, Tom and Grace had seated themselves on a rustic bench a little apart from the others. Grace's slim fingers lay within Tom's strong hand. "Grace," he said, bending toward her so that he could look into her eyes, "are you perfectly sure that you love me? Are you quite content to give up your work? You don't think there will ever come a time when you will be sorry that you chose me instead? It still seems like a dream to me. I can't believe that you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives together. It's too much happiness. If you knew how black everything seemed that rainy day when you sent me out of your life----" "Hush, you mustn't speak of it," Grace lightly laid the fingers of her free hand against Tom's lips. "I did not know how wonderful your love for me was. It took sorrow and separation to make me see it. But I'm _sure_ now, Tom, perfectly sure. I used to think I could never give up being house mother at Harlowe House, but now I am entirely satisfied to have Emma Dean take my place. She will do the work even better than I. Harlowe House can spare me, but Tom Gray can't, and I can't spare him. What you said to me so long ago came true, dear. When love came to me, not even work could crowd it out. I have found my fairy prince at last." "Then the prince is going to claim the princess and bind her to him forever with a jeweled circle of gold," said Tom softly. His hand reached into an inner pocket of his coat. Over Grace Harlowe's slender finger was slipped the magic circle of gold, a glittering pledge of eternal devotion, and as she touched the jeweled token with her lips the knowledge came to her that though Loyalheart's pilgrimage in the Land of College was ended, an infinitely more wonderful journey on the Highway of Life was soon to begin. How Grace Harlowe spent her last summer in her father's house before starting upon that journey, with Tom Gray as her life-long guide, will be told in "Grace Harlowe's Golden Summer." THE END ----------------------------------------------------------------------- HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY'S Best and Least Expensive Books for Boys and Girls THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK The keynote of these books is manliness. The stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. No boy will willingly lay down an unfinished book in this series. 1 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC; Or, The Secret of Smugglers' Island. 2 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET; Or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir. 3 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND; Or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed. 4 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS; Or, The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise. 5 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA; Or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp. 6 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT THE GOLDEN GATE; Or, A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog. 7 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB ON THE GREAT LAKES; Or, The Flying Dutchman of the Big Fresh Water. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 Sold by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price. Henry Altemus Company 1326-1336 Vine Street Philadelphia ----------------------------------------------------------------------- BATTLESHIP BOYS SERIES By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These stories throb with the life of young Americans on today's huge drab Dreadnaughts. 1 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS AT SEA; Or, Two Apprentices in Uncle Sam's Navy. 2 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS' FIRST STEP UPWARD; Or, Winning Their Grades as Petty Officers. 3 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN FOREIGN SERVICE; Or, Earning New Ratings in European Seas. 4 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE TROPICS; Or, Upholding the American Flag in a Honduras Revolution. 6 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE WARDROOM; Or, Winning their Commissions as Line Officers. 7 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS WITH THE ADRIATIC CHASERS; Or, Blocking the Path of the Undersea Raiders. 8 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS' SKY PATROL; Or, Fighting the Hun from above the Clouds. Price $1.00 each. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS By FRANK GEE PATCHIN Have you any idea of the excitements, the glories of life on great ranches in the West? Any bright boy will "devour" the books of this series, once he has made a start with the first volume. 1 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE RANCH; Or, The Boy Shepherds of the Great Divide. 2 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS' GREATEST ROUND-UP; Or, Pitting Their Wits Against a Packers' Combine. 3 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE PLAINS; Or, Following the Steam Plows Across the Prairie. 4 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS AT CHICAGO; Or, The Conspiracy of the Wheat Pit. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- SUBMARINE BOYS SERIES By VICTOR G. DURHAM 1 THE SUBMARINE BOYS ON DUTY; Or, Life on a Diving Torpedo Boat. 2 THE SUBMARINE BOYS' TRIAL TRIP; Or, "Making Good" as Young Experts. 3 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE MIDDIES; Or, The Prize Detail at Annapolis. 4 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SPIES; Or, Dodging the Sharks of the Deep. 5 THE SUBMARINE BOYS LIGHTNING CRUISE; Or, The Young Kings of the Deep. 6 THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG; Or, Deeding Their Lives to Uncle Sam. 7 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SMUGGLERS; Or, Breaking Up the New Jersey Customs Frauds. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- GRACE HARLOWE OVERSEAS SERIES 1 GRACE HARLOWE OVERSEAS. 2 GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE RED CROSS IN FRANCE. 3 GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE MARINES AT CHATEAU THIERRY. 4 GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE AMERICAN ARMY IN THE ARGONNE. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE COLLEGE GIRLS SERIES By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. 1 GRACE HARLOWE'S FIRST YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 2 GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 3 GRACE HARLOWE'S THIRD YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 4 GRACE HARLOWE'S FOURTH YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 5 GRACE HARLOWE'S RETURN TO OVERTON CAMPUS. 6 GRACE HARLOWE'S PROBLEM. 7 GRACE HARLOWE'S GOLDEN SUMMER. All these books are bound in Cloth and will be sent postpaid on receipt of only $1.00 each. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- PONY RIDER BOYS SERIES By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These tales may be aptly described the best books for boys and girls. 1 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ROCKIES; Or, The Secret of the Lost Claim. 2 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN TEXAS; Or, The Veiled Riddle of the Plains. 3 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA; Or, The Mystery of the Old Custer Trail. 4 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS; Or, The Secret of Ruby Mountain. 5 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI; Or, Finding a Key to the Desert Maze. 6 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN NEW MEXICO; Or, The End of the Silver Trail. 7 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, The Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE BOYS OF STEEL SERIES By JAMES R. MEARS Each book presents vivid picture of this great industry. Bach story is full of adventure and fascination. 1 THE IRON BOYS IN THE MINES; Or, Starting at the Bottom of the Shaft. 2 THE IRON BOYS AS FOREMEN; Or, Heading the Diamond Drill Shift. 3 THE IRON BOYS ON THE ORE BOATS: Or, Roughing It on the Great Lakes. 4 THE IRON BOYS IN THE STEEL MILLS; Or, Beginning Anew in the Cinder Pits. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MADGE MORTON BOOKS By AMY D. V. CHALMERS 1 MADGE MORTON--CAPTAIN OF THE MERRY MAID. 2 MADGE MORTON'S SECRET. 3 MADGE MORTON'S TRUST. 4 MADGE MORTON'S VICTORY. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- WEST POINT SERIES BY H. IRVING HANCOCK The principal characters in these narratives are manly, young Americans whose doings will inspire all boy readers. 1 DICK PRESCOTT'S FIRST YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray. 2 DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life. 3 DICK PRESCOTT'S THIRD YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Standing Firm for Flag and Honor. 4 DICK PRESCOTT'S FOURTH YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Ready to Drop the Gray for Shoulder Straps. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ANNAPOLIS SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK The Spirit of the new Navy is delightfully and truthfully depicted in these volumes. 1 DAVE DARRIN'S FIRST YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Plebe Midshipmen at the U. S. Naval Academy. 2 DAVE DARRIN'S SECOND YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Midshipmen as Naval Academy "Youngsters." 3 DAVE DARRIN'S THIRD YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Leaders of the Second Class Midshipmen. 4 DAVE DARRIN'S FOURTH YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Headed for Graduation and the Big Cruise. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE YOUNG ENGINEERS SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK The heroes of these stories are known to readers of the High School Boys Series. In this new series Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton prove worthy of all the traditions of Dick & Co. 1 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN COLORADO; Or, At Railroad Building in Earnest. 2 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA; Or, Laying Tracks on the "Man-Killer" Quicksand. 3 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN NEVADA; Or, Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick. 4 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN MEXICO; Or, Fighting the Mine Swindlers. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- BOYS OF THE ARMY SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK These books breathe the life and spirit of the United States Army of to-day, and the life, just as it is, is described by a master pen. 1 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE RANKS; Or, Two Recruits in the United States Army. 2 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS ON FIELD DUTY; Or, Winning Corporal's Chevrons. 3 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS SERGEANTS; Or, Handling Their First Real Commands. 4 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE PHILIPPINES; Or, Following the Flag Against the Moros. 6 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS LIEUTENANTS; Or, Serving Old Glory as Line Officers. 7 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS WITH PERSHING; Or, Dick Prescott at Grips with the Boche. 8 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS SMASH THE GERMANS; Or, Winding Up the Great War. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- DAVE DARRIN SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK 1 DAVE DARRIN AT VERA CRUZ; Or, Fighting With the U. S. Navy in Mexico. 2 DAVE DARRIN ON MEDITERRANEAN SERVICE. 3 DAVE DARRIN'S SOUTH AMERICAN CRUISE. 4 DAVE DARRIN ON THE ASIATIC STATION. 5 DAVE DARRIN AND THE GERMAN SUBMARINES. 6 DAVE DARRIN AFTER THE MINE LAYERS; Or, Hitting the Enemy a Hard Naval Blow. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS SERIES By JANET ALDRIDGE 1 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. 2 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY. 3 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS AFLOAT. 4 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS IN THE HILLS. 5 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS BY THE SEA. 6 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ON THE TENNIS COURTS. All these books are bound in Cloth and will be sent postpaid on receipt of only. $1.00 each. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- HIGH SCHOOL BOYS SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK In this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. Boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. 1 THE-HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK This series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar School boys, comes near to the heart of the average American boy. 1 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS OF GRIDLEY; Or, Dick & Co. Start Things Moving. 2 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SNOWBOUND; Or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports. 3 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN THE WOODS; Or, Dick & Co. Trail Fun and Knowledge. 4 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER ATHLETICS; Or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' VACATION SERIES By H. IRVING HANCOCK "Give us more Dick Prescott books!" This has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. Almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, and the other members of Dick & Co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. Boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. 1 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB; Or, Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE; Or, Dick & Co. Making Themselves "Hard as Nails." Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CIRCUS BOYS SERIES By EDGAR B. P. DARLINGTON Mr. Darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life. 1 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Making the Start in the Sawdust Life. 2 THE CIRCUS BOYS ACROSS THE CONTINENT; Or, Winning New Laurels on the Tanbark. 3 THE CIRCUS BOYS IN DIXIE LAND; Or, Winning the Plaudits of the Sunny South. 4 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI; Or, Afloat with the Big Show on the Big River. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS SERIES By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. These breezy stories of the American High School Girl take the reader fairly by storm. 1 GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshman Girls. 2 GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics. 3 GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, Fast Friends in the Sororities. 4 GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Parting of the Ways. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS SERIES By LAURA DENT CRANE No girl's library--no family book-case can be considered at all complete unless it contains these sparkling twentieth-century books. 1 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT NEWPORT; Or, Watching the Summer Parade. 2 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES; Or, The Ghost of Lost Man's Trail. 3 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow. 4 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT CHICAGO; Or, Winning Out Against Heavy Odds. 5 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT PALM BEACH; Or, Proving Their Mettle Under Southern Skies. 6 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT WASHINGTON; Or, Checkmating the Plots of Foreign Spies. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, $1.00 
17988	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 17988-h.htm or 17988-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/9/8/17988/17988-h/17988-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/9/8/17988/17988-h.zip) GRACE HARLOWE'S FIRST YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE by JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. Author of The Grace Harlowe High School Girls Series, Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College, Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College, Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College. [Illustration: J. Elfreda Had Evidently Found Friends. _Frontispiece_.] Philadelphia Henry Altemus Company Copyright, 1914, by Howard E. Altemus CONTENTS Chapter Page I. Off To College 7 II. J. Elfreda Introduces Herself 15 III. First Impressions 29 IV. Miriam's Unwelcome Surprise 44 V. An Interrupted Study Hour 55 VI. A Disturbing Note 62 VII. Grace Takes Matters Into Her Own Hands 72 VIII. The Sophomore Reception 84 IX. Disagreeable News 95 X. The Making of The Team 102 XI. Anne Wins a Victory 109 XII. Ups and Downs 118 XIII. Grace Turns Electioneer 125 XIV. An Invitation and a Misunderstanding 132 XV. Greeting Old Friends 142 XVI. Thanksgiving with the Southards 150 XVII. Christmas Plans 161 XVIII. Basketball Rumors 171 XIX. A Game Worth Seeing 181 XX. Grace Overhears Something Interesting 190 XXI. An Unheeded Warning 206 XXII. Turning the Tables 214 XXIII. Virginia Changes Her Mind 227 XXIV. Good-bye to their Freshman Year 239 Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College CHAPTER I OFF TO COLLEGE "Do you remember what you said one October day last year, Grace, when we stood on this platform and said good-bye to the boys?" asked Anne Pierson. "No, what did I say?" asked Grace Harlowe, turning to her friend Anne. "You said," returned Anne, "that when it came your turn to go to college you were going to slip away quietly without saying good-bye to any one but your mother, and here you are with almost half Oakdale at the train to see you off to college." "Now, Anne, you know perfectly well that people are down here to see you and Miriam, too," laughed Grace. "I'm not half as much of a celebrity as you are." Grace Harlowe, Miriam Nesbit and Anne Pierson stood on the station platform completely surrounded by their many friends, who, regardless of the fact that it was half-past seven o'clock in the morning, had made it a point to be at the station to wish them godspeed. "This is the second public gathering this week," remarked Miriam Nesbit, who, despite the chatter that was going on around her, had heard Grace's laughing remark. "I know it," agreed Grace. "There was just as large a crowd here when Nora and Jessica went away last Monday. Doesn't it seem dreadful that we are obliged to be separated? How I hated to see the girls go. And we won't be together again until Christmas." "Oh, here come the boys!" announced Eva Allen, who, with Marian Barber, had been standing a little to one side of the three girls. At this juncture four smiling young men hurried through the crowd of young people and straight to the circle surrounding the three girls, where they were received with cries of: "We were afraid you'd be too late!" and, "Why didn't you get here earlier?" "We're awfully sorry!" exclaimed David Nesbit. "We had to wait for Hippy. He overslept as usual. We threw as much as a shovelful of gravel against his window, but he never stirred. Finally we had to waken his family and it took all of them to waken him." "Don't you believe what David Nesbit says," retorted Hippy. "Do you suppose I slept a wink last night knowing that the friends of my youth were about to leave me?" Hippy sniffed dolefully and buried his face in his handkerchief. "Now, now, Hippy," protested Miriam. "If you insist on shedding crocodile tears, although I don't believe you could be sad long enough to shed even that kind, we shall feel that you are glad to get rid of us." "Never!" ejaculated Hippy fervently. "Oh, if I only had Irish Nora here to stand up for me! She wouldn't allow any one, except herself, to speak harsh and cruel words to me." "We shan't be able to speak many more words of any kind to you," said Miriam, consulting her watch. "The train is due in ten minutes." When Grace Harlowe and her three dear friends, Nora O'Malley, Jessica Bright and Anne Pierson, began to make history for themselves in their freshman year at Oakdale High School, none of them could possibly imagine just how dear they were to become to the hearts of the hundreds of girls who made their acquaintance in "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School." The story of their freshman year was one of manifold trials and triumphs. It was at the beginning of that year that Grace Harlowe had championed the cause of Anne Pierson, a newcomer in Oakdale. Then and there a friendship sprang up between the two girls that was destined to be life long. The repeated efforts of several malicious girls to discredit Anne in the eyes of her teachers, and her final triumph in winning the freshman prize offered to the class by Mrs. Gray, a wealthy resident of Oakdale, made the narrative one of interest and aroused a desire on the part of the reader to know more of Grace Harlowe and her friends. In "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School" the girl chums appeared as basketball enthusiasts. In this volume was related the efforts of Julia Crosby, a disagreeable junior, and Miriam Nesbit, a disgruntled sophomore, to disgrace Anne and wrest the basketball captaincy from Grace. Through the magnanimity of Grace Harlowe, Miriam and Julia were brought to a realization of their own faults, and in time became the faithful friends of both Anne and Grace. During "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School" the famous sorority, the Phi Sigma Tau, was organized by the four chums for the purpose of looking after high school girls who stood in need of assistance. In that volume Eleanor Savelli, the self-willed daughter of an Italian violin virtuoso, made her appearance. The difficulties Grace and her chums encountered in trying to befriend Eleanor and her final contemptuous repudiation of their friendship made absorbing reading for those interested in following the fortunes of the Oakdale High School girls. Their senior year was perhaps the most eventful of all. At the very beginning of the fall term the high school gymnasium was destroyed by fire. Failing to secure an appropriation from either the town or state, the four classes of the girls' high school pledged themselves to raise the amount of money required to rebuild the gymnasium. In "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School" the story of the senior class bazaar, the daring theft of their hard-earned money before the bazaar had closed, and Grace Harlowe's final recovery of the stolen money under the strangest of circumstances, furnished material for a narrative of particular interest. After graduation the four chums, accompanied by their nearest and dearest friends, had spent a long and delightful summer in Europe. On returning to Oakdale the real parting of the ways had come, for Nora and Jessica had already departed for an eastern city to enter a well known conservatory of music. Marian Barber and Eva Allen were to enter Smith College the following week, Eleanor Savelli had long since sailed for Italy, and now the morning train was to bear Miriam Nesbit, Grace Harlowe and Anne Pierson to Overton, an eastern college finally decided upon by the three girls. "Last year we left you on the station platform gazing mournfully after the train that bore _me_ away from Oakdale," remarked Hippy reminiscently. "How embarrassed I felt at so much attention, and yet how sweet it was to know that you had gathered here, not to see David Nesbit, Reddy Brooks, Tom Gray or any such insignificant persons off to school, but that I, Theophilus Hippopotamus Wingate, was the object of your tender solicitations." "I expected it," groaned David. "I don't see why we ever woke him up and dragged him along." "As I was about to say when rudely interrupted," continued Hippy calmly, "I shall miss you, of course, but not half so much as you will miss me. I hope you will think of me, and you may write to me occasionally if it will be a satisfaction to you. I know you will not forget me. Who, having once met me, could forget?" Hippy folded his arms across his chest and looked languishingly at the three girls. A chorus of giggles from those grouped around the girls and derisive groans from the boys greeted Hippy's sentimental speech. Suddenly a long, shrill whistle was heard. "That's your train, girls," said Mr. Harlowe, who with Mrs. Harlowe, Mrs. Nesbit and Mary Pierson had drawn a little to one side while their dear ones said their last farewells to their four boy friends. The circle about the three girls closed in. The air resounded with good-byes. The last kisses and handshakes were exchanged. Reckless promises to send letters and postcards were made. Then, still surrounded, Grace, Miriam and Anne made their way to the car steps and into the train. Grace clung first to her mother then to her father. "How can I do without you?" she said over and over again. Tears stood in her gray eyes. She winked them back bravely. "I'm going to show both of you just how much I appreciate going to college by doing my very best," she whispered. Her father patted her reassuringly on the shoulder while her mother gave her a last loving kiss. "I know you will, dear child," she said affectionately. "Remember, Grace," added her father, a suspicious mist in his own eyes, "you are not to rush headlong into things. You are to do a great deal of looking before you even make up your mind to leap." "I'll remember, Father. Truly I will," responded Grace, her face sobering. "All aboard! All aboard!" shouted the conductor. Those who had entered the train to say farewell left it hurriedly. "Good-bye! Good-bye!" cried Grace, leaning out the car window. From the platform as the train moved off, clear on the air, rose the Oakdale High School yell. "It's in honor of us," said Grace softly. "Dear old Oakdale. I wonder if we can ever like college as well as we have high school." CHAPTER II J. ELFREDA INTRODUCES HERSELF. For the first half hour the three girls were silent. Each sat wrapped in her own thoughts, and those thoughts centered upon the dear ones left behind. Anne, whose venture into the theatrical world had necessitated her frequent absence from home, felt the wrench less than did Grace or Miriam. Aside from their summer vacations they had never been away from their mothers for any length of time. To Grace, as she watched the landscape flit by, the thought of the ever widening distance between her and her mother was intolerable. She experienced a strong desire to bury her face in her hands and sob disconsolately, but bravely conquering the sense of loneliness that swept over her, she threw back her shoulders and sitting very straight in her seat glanced almost defiantly about her. "Well, Grace, have you made up your mind to be resigned?" asked Miriam Nesbit. "That sudden world-defying glance that you just favored us with looks as though the victory was won." "Miriam, you are almost a mind reader," laughed Grace. "I've been on the verge of a breakdown ever since we left Oakdale, and in this very instant I made up my mind to be brave and not cry a single tear. Look at Anne. She is as calm and unemotional as a statue." "That's because I'm more used to being away from home," replied Anne. "Troupers are not supposed to have feelings. With them, it is here to-day and gone to-morrow." "Yes, but you were transplanted to Oakdale soil for four years," reminded Grace. "I know it," returned Anne reflectively. "I do feel dreadfully sad at leaving my mother and sister, too. Still, when I think that I'm actually on the way to college at last, I can't help feeling happy, too." "Dear little Anne," smiled Grace. "College means everything to you, doesn't it? That's because you've earned every cent of your college money." "And I'll have to earn a great deal more to see me through to graduation," added Anne soberly. "My vacations hereafter must be spent in work instead of play." "What are you going to do to earn money during vacations, Anne?" asked Miriam rather curiously. "I might as well confess to you girls that I'm going to do the work I can do most successfully," said Anne in a low voice. "I'm going to try to get an engagement in a stock theatrical company every summer until I graduate. I can earn far more money at that than doing clerical work. I received a long letter from Mr. Southard last week and also one from his sister. They wish me to come to New York as soon as my freshman year at college is over. Mr. Southard writes that he can get an engagement for me in a stock company. I'll have to work frightfully hard, for there will be a matinee every day as well as a regular performance every night, and I'll have a new part to study each week. But the salary will more than compensate me for my work. You know that Mary did dress-making and worked night and day to send me to high school. Of course, my five dollars a week from Mrs. Gray helped a great deal, but up to the time Mr. Southard sent for me to go to New York City to play Rosalind I didn't really think of college as at all certain. Before I left New York for Oakdale, Mr. and Miss Southard and I had a long talk. They made me see that it was right to use the talent God had given me by appearing in worthy plays. Mr. Southard pointed out the fact that I could earn enough money by playing in stock companies in the summer to put me through college and at the same time contribute liberally to my mother's support. "The home problem was really the greatest to be solved. I felt that it wouldn't be right for me to even work my way through college and leave Mary to struggle on alone, after she had worked so hard to help me get a high school education. So the stage seemed to be my one way out after all. And when once I had definitely decided to do as Mr. Southard recommended me to do I was happier than I had been for ages." "Anne Pierson, you quiet little mouse!" exclaimed Grace. "Why didn't you tell us all this before? You are the most provoking Anne under the sun. Here I've been worrying about you having to wait on table or do tutoring and odds and ends of work to put yourself through college, while all the time you were planning something different. We all know you're too proud to let any of your friends help you, but since you are determined to make your own way I'm glad that you have chosen the stage, after all." "I think you are wise, Anne," agreed Miriam. "With two such people as Mr. Southard and his sister to look after you, there can be no objection to your following your profession." "I am glad to know that you girls look at the matter in that light," replied Anne. "Suppose we had offered any objections?" asked Grace. "I'll answer that question," said Miriam. "Anne would have followed the path she had marked out for herself regardless of our objections. Am I right, Anne?" "I don't know," said Anne, flushing deeply. "You have all been so good to me. I couldn't bear to displease my dearest friends, but it would be hard to give up something I knew could result in nothing save good for me." Anne paused and looked at Grace and Miriam with pleading eyes. "Never mind, dear," comforted Grace. "We approve of you and all your works. We are not shocked because you are a genius. We are sworn advocates of the stage and only too glad to know that it has opened the way to college for you." "Shall you let the fact that you have appeared professionally be known at Overton?" asked Miriam. "I shall make no secret of it," returned Anne quietly, "but I won't volunteer any information concerning it." "I wonder what our freshman year at Overton will bring us," mused Grace. "I have read so many stories about college life, and yet so far Overton seems like an unknown land that we are about to explore. From all I have heard and read, exploring freshmen find their first term at college anything but a bed of roses. They are sometimes hazed unmercifully by the upper classes, and their only salvation lies in silently standing the test. Julia Crosby says that she had all sorts of tricks played on her during her first term at Smith. Now she's a sophomore and can make life miserable for the freshmen. I am going to try to cultivate the true college spirit," concluded Grace earnestly. "College is going to mean even more to me than high school. I don't imagine it's all going to be plain sailing. I suppose, more than once, I'll wish myself back in Oakdale, but I'm going to make up my mind to take the bitter with the sweet and set everything down under the head of experience." "To tell you the truth," Miriam said slowly, "I am not enthusiastic over college. I value it as a means of continuing my education, and I'll try to live up to college ideals, but I'm not going to let anyone walk over me or ridicule me. I'm willing 'to live and let live,' but, as Eleanor Savelli used to say when in a towering rage, 'no one can trample upon me with impunity.'" "I wonder when we shall see Eleanor again," said Anne, smiling a little at the recollection called up by Miriam's quotation. "That reminds me," exclaimed Grace. "I have a letter from Eleanor that I haven't opened. It came this morning just before I left the house." Fumbling in her bag, Grace drew forth a bulky looking letter, bearing a foreign postmark, and tearing open the end, drew out several closely folded sheets of thin paper covered with Eleanor's characteristic handwriting. "Shall I read it aloud?" asked Grace. "By all means," said Miriam with emphasis. Grace began to read. Anne, who sat beside her, looked over her shoulder, while Miriam, who sat opposite Grace, leaned forward in order to catch every word. They were so completely occupied with their own affairs, none of them noticed that the train had stopped. Suddenly a voice shrilled out impatiently, "Is this seat engaged?" With one accord the three girls glanced up. Before them stood a tall, rather stout young woman with a full, red face, whose frowning expression was anything but reassuring. "Yes--no, I mean," replied Grace hastily. "I thought not," remarked the stranger complacently as she stolidly seated herself beside Miriam and deposited a traveling bag partly on the floor and partly on Grace's feet. "These seats are ridiculously small," grumbled the stranger, bending over to jam her traveling bag more firmly into the space from which Grace had hastily withdrawn her feet. Then straightening up suddenly, her heavily plumed hat collided with the hand in which Grace held Eleanor's letter, scattering the sheets in every direction. With a little cry of concern Grace sprang to her feet and, stepping out in the aisle, began to pick them up. Having recovered the last one she turned to her seat only to find it occupied by their unwelcome fellow traveler. "I changed seats," commented the stout girl stolidly. "I never could stand it to ride backwards." Grace looked first at the stranger then from Miriam to Anne. Miriam looked ready for battle, while even mild little Anne glared resentfully at the rude newcomer. Grace hesitated, opened her mouth as though about to speak, then without saying a word sat down in the vacant place and began to rearrange the sheets of her letter. "I'll finish this some other time, girls," she said briefly. "Oh, you needn't mind me," calmly remarked the stranger. "I don't mind listening to letters. That is if they've got anything in them besides 'I write these few lines to tell you that I am well and hope you are the same.' That sort of stuff makes me sick. Goodness knows, I suppose that's the kind I'll have handed to me all year. Neither Ma nor Pa can write a letter that sounds like anything." By this time Miriam's frown had begun to disappear, while Anne's eyes were dancing. Grace looked at the stout girl rather curiously, an expression of new interest dawning in her eyes. "Are you going to college?" she asked. "Well, I rather guess I am," was the quick reply. "I'll bet you girls are in the same boat with me, too. What college do you get off at?" "Overton," answered Grace. "Then you haven't seen the last of me," assured the stranger, "for I'm going there myself and I'd just about as soon go to darkest Africa or any other heathen place." "Why don't you wish to go to Overton?" asked Anne. "Because I don't want to go to college at all," was the blunt answer. "I want to go to Europe with Ma and Pa and have a good time. We have loads of money, but what good does that do me if I can't get a chance to spend it? I'd fail in all my exams if I dared, but Pa knows I'm not a wooden head, and I'd just have to try it again somewhere else. So I'll have to let well enough alone or get in deeper than I am now." The stout girl leaned back in her seat and surveyed the trio of girls through half-closed eyes. "Where did you girls come from and what are your names?" she asked abruptly. "Partners in misery might as well get acquainted, you know." Grace introduced her friends in turn, then said: "My name is Grace Harlowe, and we three girls live in the city of Oakdale." "Never heard of it," yawned the girl. "It must be like Fairview, our town, not down on the map. We live there, because Ma was born there and thinks it the only place on earth, but we manage to go to New York occasionally, thank goodness. Ever been there?" she queried. "Once or twice," smiled Miriam Nesbit. "Great old town, isn't it?" remarked their new acquaintance. "My name is J. Elfreda Briggs. The J. stands for Josephine, but I hate it. Ma and Pa call me Fred, and that sounds pretty good to me. Say, aren't you girls about starved? I'm going to hunt the dining car and buy food. I haven't had anything to eat since eight o'clock this morning." J. Elfreda rose hurriedly, and stumbling over her bag and Grace's feet, landed in the aisle with more speed than elegance. "You'd better come along," she advised. "They serve good meals on this train. Besides, I don't want to eat alone." With that she stalked down the aisle and into the car ahead. "It looks as though we were to have plenty of entertainment for the rest of our journey," remarked Anne. "I prefer not to be entertained," averred Miriam dryly. "Personally, I am far from impressed with J. Elfreda. She strikes me as being entirely too fond of her own comfort. Now that she has vacated your seat, you had better take it, Grace, before she comes back." Grace shook her head. "I don't dislike riding backward," she said, "if you don't mind having her sit beside you. Perhaps some one will leave the train by the time she comes back; then she will leave us." "No such good fortune," retorted Miriam. "She prefers our society to none at all. I think her advice about luncheon isn't so bad, though. Suppose we follow it?" Five minutes later the three girls repaired to the dining car and seated themselves at a table directly across the aisle from their new acquaintance. J. Elfreda sat toying with her knife and fork, an impatient frown on her smug face. "These people are the limit," she grumbled. "It takes forever to get anything to eat. If I'd ordered it yesterday, I'd have some hopes of getting it to-day." Then, apparently forgetting the existence of the three girls, she sat with eyes fixed hungrily on the door through which her waiter was momentarily expected to pass. By the time that the chums had given their order to another waiter, J. Elfreda's luncheon was served and she devoted herself assiduously to it. When Grace and her friends had finished luncheon, however, the stout girl still sat with elbows on the table waiting for a second order of dessert. "Good gracious!" remarked Miriam as they made their way back to their seats. "No wonder J. Elfreda is stout! I suppose I shouldn't refer to her, even behind her back, in such familiar terms, but nothing else suits her. I'm not charitable like you, Grace. I haven't the patience to look for the good in tiresome people like her. I think she's greedy and selfish and ill-bred and I wouldn't care to live in the same house with her." "You're a very disagreeable person, Miriam, in your own estimation," laughed Grace, "but fortunately we don't take you at your own valuation, do we, Anne?" "Miriam's a dear," said Anne promptly. "She always pretends she's a dragon and then behaves like a lamb." "What time is our train due at Overton?" asked Miriam, ignoring Anne's assertion. "We are scheduled to arrive at Overton at five o'clock," answered Grace. "I wish it were five now. I'm anxious to see Overton College in broad daylight." At this juncture J. Elfreda made her appearance and sinking into the seat declared with a yawn that she was too sleepy for any use. "I'm going to sleep," she announced. "You girls can talk if you don't make too much noise. Loud talking always keeps me awake. You may call me when we get to Overton." With these words she bent over her bag, opened it, and drew out a small down cushion. She rose in her seat, removed her hat, and, poking it into the rack above her head, sat down. Arranging her pillow to her complete satisfaction, she rested her head against it, closed her eyes and within five minutes was oblivious to the world. The three travelers obligingly lowered their voices, conversing in low tones, as the train whirled them toward their destination. Their hearts were with those they had left, and as the afternoon began to wane, one by one they fell silent and became wrapped in their own thoughts. Grace was already beginning to experience a dreadful feeling of depression, which she knew to be homesickness. It was just the time in the afternoon when she and her mother usually sat on their wide, shady porch, talking or reading as they waited for her father to come home to dinner, and a lump rose in her throat as she thought sadly of how long it would be before she saw her dear ones again. Far from being homesick, self-reliant Miriam was calmly speculating as to what college would bring her, while Anne, who had quite forgotten her own problems, sat eyeing Grace affectionately and wondering how soon her friend would make her personality felt in the little world which she was about to enter. And J. Elfreda Briggs, of Fairview, slept peacefully on. CHAPTER III FIRST IMPRESSIONS "Overton! Overton!" was the call that echoed through the car. After handing down the hats of her friends, Grace reached to the rack above her head for her broad brimmed panama hat. Obeying a sudden kindly impulse, she carefully deposited J. Elfreda's hat in the sleeping girl's lap, touched her on the shoulder and said, "Wake up, Miss Briggs. We are nearing Overton." J. Elfreda sleepily opened her eyes at the gentle touch, saying drowsily, "Let me know when the train stops." Then closed her eyes again. Miriam shrugged her shoulders with a gesture that signified, "Let her alone. Don't bother with her." At that moment the train stopped with a jolt that caused the sleeper to awake in earnest. She looked stupidly about, yawned repeatedly, then catching a glimpse of a number of girls on the station platform, clad in white and light colored gowns, she became galvanized into action, and pinning on her hat began quickly to gather up her luggage. "Good-bye," she said indifferently. "I'll probably see you later." Then, rapidly elbowing her way down the aisle she disappeared through the open door, leaving the chums to make their way more slowly out of the car. As they stepped from the car to the station platform Grace caught sight of her at the far end of the station in conversation with a tall auburn-haired girl and a short dark one. A moment later she saw the three walk off together. "J. Elfreda found friends quickly," remarked Anne, who had also noticed the stout girl's warm reception by the two girls. "I wonder what we had better do first. What is the name of the hotel where we are to stop?" "The Tourraine," replied Miriam. The newcomers looked eagerly about them at the groups of daintily gowned girls who were joyously greeting their friends as they stepped from the train. "I had no idea there were so many Overton girls on the train," remarked Grace in surprise. "The majority of them seem to have friends here, too. I wonder which way we'd better go." "By the nods and becks and wreathed smiles with which those girls over there are favoring us, I imagine that we have been discovered," announced Miriam, rather sarcastically. Grace and Anne glanced quickly toward the girls indicated by Miriam. A tall, thin, fair-haired girl with cold gray-blue eyes and a generally supercilious air occupied the center of the group. She was talking rapidly and her remarks were eliciting considerable laughter. Amused glances, half friendly, half critical, were being leveled at the Oakdale trio of chums. Grace flushed in half angry embarrassment, Anne merely smiled to herself, while Miriam's most forbidding scowl wrinkled her smooth forehead. "I think we had better inquire the way to our hotel and leave here as soon as possible," Grace said slowly. A sudden feeling of disappointment had suddenly taken possession of her. She had always supposed that in every college new girls were met and welcomed by the upper classes of students. Yet now that they had actually arrived no one had come forward to exchange even a friendly greeting with them. "Well, if this is an exhibition of the true college spirit, deliver me from college," grumbled Miriam. "I must say----" Miriam's denunciation against college was never finished, for at that juncture a soft voice said, "Welcome to Overton." Turning simultaneously the three girls saw standing before them a young woman of medium height. Her hand was extended, and she was smiling in a sweet, friendly fashion that warmed the hearts of the disappointed freshmen. She wore a tailored frock of white linen, white buckskin walking shoes that revealed a glimpse of silken ankles, and carried a white linen parasol that matched her gown. She was bareheaded, and in the late afternoon her wavy brown hair seemed touched with gold. "I am so glad to meet you!" exclaimed the pretty girl. "You are freshmen, of course. If you will tell me your names I'll introduce you to some of the girls. Then we will see about escorting you safely to your boarding place. Have you taken your examinations yet?" "No," replied Miriam. "We have that ordeal before us." Her face relaxed under the friendly courtesy accorded to them by this attractive stranger. She then introduced Grace and Anne. Their new acquaintance shook hands with the two girls, then said gayly, "Now tell me your name." Miriam complied with the request, then stated that through a friend of her mother's they had engaged a suite of rooms at the Tourraine, an apartment hotel in Overton, until their fate should be decided. "The Tourraine is the nicest hotel in Overton," stated Mabel. "I am always in the seventh heaven of delight whenever I am fortunate enough to be invited to dine there." "Then come and dine with us to-night," invited Miriam. Mabel Ashe shook her head. "It's very nice in you," she said gravely, "but not to-night. Really, I am awfully stupid. I haven't told you my name. It is Mabel Ashe. I am a junior and pledged to pilot bewildered freshmen to havens of rest and safety." "Do you consider freshmen impossible creatures?" asked Anne Pierson, her eyes twinkling. The young woman laughed merrily. "Oh, no," she replied. "You must remember that they are the raw material that makes good upper classmen. It takes a whole year to mould them into shape--that is, some of them. Now, come with me and I'll see that you meet some of the upper class girls." As they were about to accompany their new acquaintance down the platform, a tall, fair-haired girl walked toward them followed by the others upon whom Miriam had commented. "Wait a minute, Mabel," she called. "I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon." "You're just in time, Beatrice," returned Mabel Ashe. "I wish you to meet Miss Harlowe, Miss Nesbit, and Miss Pierson, all of Oakdale. Girls, this is Miss Alden, also of the junior class." Beatrice Alden smiled condescendingly, and shook hands in a somewhat bored fashion with the three girls. "Pleased to meet you," she drawled. "Hope you'll be good little freshmen this year and make no trouble for your elders." "We shall try to mind our own affairs, and trust to other people to do the same," flashed Miriam, eyeing the other girl steadily. Grace looked at her friend in surprise. What had caused Miriam to answer in such fashion? There was an almost imperceptible lull in the conversation, then Mabel Ashe introduced the other girls. "Now we will see about your trunks, and then perhaps you would like to walk up to the college," she said briskly. "It isn't far from here. Some of the girls prefer to ride in the bus, but I always walk. I can show you some of the places of interest as we go." "Come over here, Mabel, dear," commanded Beatrice Alden, who had moved a little to one side of the group. Mabel excused herself to her charges, and looking a little annoyed, obeyed the summons. Beatrice talked rapidly for a moment in coaxing tones, but Mabel shook her head. Grace, who stood nearest to them, heard her say, "I'd love to go, Bee, and its awfully nice in you to think of me. I'll go to-morrow, but I can't leave these poor stranded freshmen to their own homesick thoughts to-day. You know just how we felt when we landed high and dry in this town without any one to care whether we survived or perished." "If you won't go to-day, then don't trouble about it at all," snapped Beatrice. "I know plenty of girls who will be only too glad to accept my invitation, but I asked you first, and I think you ought to remember it. You know I like you better than any other girl in college." "You know I appreciate your friendship, Bee," returned Mabel, "but truly I wish you cared more for other girls, too. There are plenty of girls here who need friends like you." "Yes, but I don't like them," snapped Beatrice. "I'm not going to make a martyr of myself to please any one. My mother is very particular about my associates at Overton, and I don't intend to waste my time trying to make things pleasant for the stupid, uninteresting girls of this college. I did not come to Overton to take a course in doing settlement work. I came here to have a good time, and incidentally to study a little." "Now, now, Bee, don't try to make me believe you haven't just as much college spirit as the rest of us," admonished Mabel in a low tone. "Don't be cross because I can't go to-day. Come with me, instead, and help look after these verdant freshmen. There was a positive army of them who got off the train." Without replying Beatrice turned and walked sulkily away toward the other end of the platform. Mabel looked after her with a half frown. "I am afraid we are causing you considerable inconvenience," demurred Grace. "Please do not deprive yourself of any pleasure on our account." "Nonsense," smiled Mabel. "I am not depriving myself of any pleasure. Oh, there goes one of my best friends!" Putting her hands to her mouth she called, "Frances!" A tall slender girl, with serious brown eyes and dark hair, who was leisurely crossing the station platform, stopped short, glanced in the direction of the sound, then espying Mabel hurried toward her. "Good old Frances," beamed Mabel. "You heard me calling and came on the run, didn't you? This is the noblest junior of them all, my dear freshmen. Her name is Frances Veronica Marlton. Doesn't that sound like the heroine's name in one of the six best sellers?" Mabel introduced the three girls in turn. "Now let us be on our way," she commanded, looking up and down the station platform at the fast dissolving groups of girls. "I don't see any more stray lambs. I think the committee appointed to meet the freshmen has fulfilled its mission. And now for your hotel. It is past dinner time and I know you are hungry and anxious to rest." Picking up Grace's bag she led the way through the station followed by Grace and Miriam. Anne walked behind them with Frances Marlton. The little company set off down the main street of the college town at a swinging pace. It was a wide, beautiful street, shaded by tall maples. The houses that lined it were for the most part old-fashioned and the wayfarers caught alluring glimpses of green lawns dotted with flower beds as they walked along. "It makes me think of High School Street in Oakdale!" Grace exclaimed. "If ever I feel that I'm going to be homesick, I'll just walk down this street and make believe that I'm at home! That will be the surest cure for the blues, if I get them." Mabel Ashe, who was now walking between Grace and Miriam, looked at Grace rather speculatively. "You won't get them," she predicted. "You'll have so many other things to think of, you won't think of yourself at all. Here we are at the college campus. Over there is Overton Hall." The eyes of the newcomers were at once focussed on the stately gray stone building that stood in the center of a wide stretch of green campus, shaded by great trees. At various points of the campus were situated smaller buildings which Mabel Ashe pointed out as Science Hall, the gymnasium, laboratory, library and chapel. In Overton Hall, Mabel explained, were situated certain recitation rooms, the offices of the president, the dean and other officials of the college. Around the campus were the various houses in which the more fortunate of the hundreds of students lived. It was very desirable to secure a room in one of these houses, but somewhat expensive and not always easy to do. Rooms were sometimes spoken for a whole year in advance. "Do you room on the campus?" asked Grace. "Yes," replied Mabel. "I live at Holland House. I was fortunate enough to have a friend graduate from here and will me her room. I entered Overton the autumn following her graduation." "One of our Oakdale girls is a junior here," remarked Grace. "Her name is Constance Fuller. She graduated from high school when we were sophomores. We do not know her very well, and had quite forgotten she was here. This afternoon on the train, Anne, who never forgets either faces or names, suddenly announced the fact. I wonder if she has arrived yet. We came early, I believe, but that is because we are obliged to take the entrance examinations." "Now I know why the name, Oakdale, seemed so familiar!" exclaimed Mabel Ashe. "I have heard Constance mention it. She is one of my best friends. Does she know that you are to be here?" "No," replied Grace. "We haven't seen her this summer. We were away from Oakdale." Grace did not wish to mention their trip to Europe, fearing their companion might think her unduly anxious to boast. One of the things against which Julia Crosby, her old time Oakdale friend, and a senior in Smith College, had cautioned her, was boasting. "Avoid all appearance of being your own press agent," Julia had humorously advised. "If you don't you'll be a marked girl for the whole four years of your college career. The meek and modest violet is a glowing example for erring freshmen." "I'll remember, Julia," Grace had promised, and she now resolved that she would think twice before speaking once, whatever the occasion might be. "Constance has not arrived yet," said Mabel. "I heard her roommate say this morning that she expected her to-morrow. She rooms at Holland House, too. I shall tell her about you the moment I see her. This is the Tourraine," she announced, pausing before a handsome sandstone building and leading the way up the steps that led to the broad veranda, gay with porch boxes of flowers and shaded by awnings. "Won't you come up to our rooms?" asked Miriam. "Not to-night, thank you," replied Mabel. "Frances and I will be over bright and early to-morrow morning to pilot you to the college. Then you can find out about the examinations. Good-night and pleasant dreams." Extending their hands in turn to the three girls and nodding a last smiling adieu, the two courteous juniors left them on the hotel veranda. "I must admit that I have been agreeably disappointed," said Miriam Nesbit as the three girls stood for a moment before entering the hotel to watch the retreating backs of their new acquaintances. "I, too," replied Grace. "I can't begin to tell you how dejected I felt while we stood there on the station platform and no one came near us or appeared to be aware of our existence." "It was enough to discourage the most optimistic freshman," averred Anne. "I wonder who J. Elfreda Briggs's friends were," commented Miriam. "She never said a word about knowing any one at Overton. I imagine she is a thoroughly selfish girl, and the less I see of her in college the better pleased I shall be." As their suite of rooms had been engaged in advance it needed but a word to the clerk on Grace's part, then each girl in turn registered and they were conducted to their suite. "This suite seems to be supplied with all the comforts of home," observed Miriam, looking about her with satisfaction. "I am thankful to have reached a haven of rest where I can bathe my grimy face and hands." "So am I," echoed Grace, setting down her suit case and sinking into an easy chair with a tired sigh. "I am starved, too. Let us lose no time in getting ready for dinner. After dinner we can rest." For the next half hour the travelers were busily engaged in removing the dust of their journey and attiring themselves in the dainty summer frocks which they had taken thought to pack in their suit cases. "I'm ready," announced Grace at last, as she poked a rebellious lock of hair into place, and viewed herself in the mirror. "So am I," echoed Anne. "And I," from Miriam. "Why not walk down stairs? We are on the second floor, and I never ride in an elevator when I can avoid doing so." The trio descended the stairs and made their way to the dining room, where they were conducted to a table near an open window which looked out on a shady side porch. "So far I haven't been imbued with what one might call college atmosphere," remarked Miriam, after the dinner had been ordered and the waiter had hurried off to attend to their wants. "I felt a certain amount of enthusiasm while those upper class girls were with us, but it has vanished," said Anne. "I am just a professional staying at a hotel." "I imagine we won't begin to regard ourselves as being a part of Overton College until after we have tried our examinations and found an abiding place in some one of the college houses. I hope we shall be able to get into a campus house. I have always understood that it is ever so much nicer to be on the campus. We really should have made arrangements before-hand, and if we hadn't waited until the last moment to decide to what college we wished to go we might be cosily settled now." "Perhaps we are only fulfilling our destiny," smiled Miriam Nesbit. "Perhaps," agreed Grace in a doubtful tone. "Once we are in our hall or boarding house I dare say we will shake off this feeling of constraint and become genuine Overtonites." "Had we better study to-night?" inquired Grace as they made their way from the hotel dining room. "I think it would be a wise proceeding," agreed Miriam. "I want to go over my French verbs." "So do I," echoed Grace. "Let's study until ten, and then go straight to bed." Ten o'clock stretched well toward eleven before Grace put down her text book with a tired little sigh and declared herself too sleepy for further study. It had been arranged that Miriam should occupy the one room of the suite while Grace and Anne were to share the other, which had two beds. The long journey by rail had tired the travelers far more than they would admit. For a few moments, after retiring, conversation flourished between the two rooms, then died away in indistinct murmurs, and the prospective Overton freshmen slept peacefully as though safe in their Oakdale homes. CHAPTER IV MIRIAM'S UNWELCOME SURPRISE The two days that followed were busy ones for Grace, Anne and Miriam. The morning after their arrival Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton appeared at half-past eight o'clock to conduct them to Overton Hall. There they registered and were then sent to the room where the examination in French was to be held. Examinations in the other required subjects followed in rapid succession and it was Friday before they had settled themselves in Wayne Hall, the house in which they were to live as students of Overton College. Wayne Hall was a substantial four-story brick house, just a block from the campus. It was looked upon as a strictly freshman house, but occasionally sophomores lived there, as the rooms were well-furnished and the matron, Mrs. Elwood, had a reputation for looking out for the welfare of her girls. To their delight Grace and Anne had been allowed to room together, while Miriam had by lucky chance secured a room to herself across the hall. "If that poor little yellow-haired freshman hadn't failed in all her examinations I shouldn't be rooming alone," said Miriam rather soberly as she dived into the depths of the now almost emptied trunk. "Did you meet her?" asked Grace, who, seated on the bed beside Anne, watched Miriam's unpacking with interested eyes. "No," replied Miriam. "One of the freshmen at the table told me about her. She said that the poor girl cried all day yesterday and last night. She didn't dare write her father, who, it seems, is very severe, that she had failed. He won't know she's coming until she reaches home." "What a pity," said Anne sympathetically. "It must be dreadful to fail and know that one must face not only the humility of the failure, but the displeasure of one's family too." "If I had failed in my examinations neither Father nor Mother would have said one reproachful word," said Grace. "Of course I'm sorry for her," said Miriam, "but considering the fact that I am now going to room alone, I shall write to Mother and ask her to send me the money to furnish this room as I please. I'd like to have a davenport bed, and I want a chiffonier and a dressing table to match. There's room here for a piano, too. I'll have it over in this corner and then I'll----" Rap, rap, rap! sounded on the door. "Come in," called Miriam frowning at the interruption. The door opened to admit Mrs. Elwood, and following in her wake, laden with a bag and two suit cases, her hat pushed over her eyes, a half-suspicious, half-belligerent expression on her face, was J. Elfreda Briggs. "Well I never!" she gasped in astonishment, dropping her belongings in a heap on the floor and making a dive for the nearest chair. "You're the last people I ever expected to see. Where have you been, anyway? I supposed you'd all flunked in your exams, given up the job, and gone back to Glendale, Hilldale--what's the name of that dale you hail from?" "Oakdale," supplemented Anne slyly. "Yes, that's it. Oakdale. Foolish name for a town, isn't it?" During this outburst Mrs. Elwood had stood silent, looking at J. Elfreda with doubtful eyes. Now she said apologetically, "I'm very sorry, Miss Nesbit, but could you--that is--would you mind having a roommate after all? My sister, Mrs. Arnold, who manages Ralston House just down the street from here, took Miss Briggs because she thought one of her girls wasn't coming back. Now the girl is here and she has no place for Miss Briggs. Of course, if you insist on not having a roommate, my sister and I will see that Miss Briggs secures a room in one of the other college houses." Mrs. Elwood paused and looked questioningly at Miriam, who stood silent, an inscrutable expression on her face. Grace and Anne, remembering Miriam's dislike for the stout girl, wondered what her answer would be. The settling of the question was not left to Miriam, for during the brief silence that followed Mrs. Elwood's deprecatory speech J. Elfreda had been making a comprehensive survey of her surroundings. "It's all right, Mrs. Elwood," she drawled. "Don't worry about me. I like this room and I guess I can get along with Miss Nesbit. You may telephone the expressman to have my trunk sent here. I'm not going back to Ralston House with you. I'm too tired. I'm going to stay here." Mrs. Elwood looked appealingly at Miriam, as though mutely trying to apologize for J. Elfreda's disregard for the rights of others. Miriam's straight black brows drew together. She stared at their unwelcome guest with a look that caused a slow flush to rise to the stout girl's face. Suddenly her face relaxed into a smile of intense amusement, and extending her hand to J. Elfreda, she said, "You are welcome to half this room, if you care to stay." "Well, I never!" exclaimed the other girl for the second time, as she shook the proffered hand. "Honestly, I thought you were going to give me a regular freeze out. You looked like a thunder cloud for a minute. I expect it won't be all sunshine around here, this year, for I'm used to having things go my way, and I guess you are, too." "Then perhaps learning to defer to each other will be good practice for both of us," suggested Miriam. "Perhaps it will, but I doubt if we ever practise it," was the discouraging retort. "I'll notify my sister that you are to be here, Miss Briggs," broke in Mrs. Elwood. "Then I'll see that this room is made ready for two. Thank you, Miss Nesbit." She turned gratefully to Miriam. "All right," answered J. Elfreda indifferently. "You can fix it up if you want to, but I warn you that I'll probably buy my own furniture and throw out all this." She waved a comprehensive hand at the despised furniture. "You are at liberty to make whatever changes you wish," Mrs. Elwood responded rather stiffly, and without further remark left the room. "She didn't like my remark about her furniture," commented the stout girl, "but I'm not worrying about it. It's funny that I should run into you girls, though. What kind of a time have you been having here, and did you pass all your exams?" The girls replied in the affirmative, then Grace asked the same question of Elfreda. "Of course," was the laconic answer. "I had a tutor all summer, besides I told you on the train that I wasn't a wooden head." "Where did you stay until you went to Ralston House?" asked Anne. "We saw you go away from the station with two girls when you left the train, and we've seen you twice at a distance during examinations, but this is the first chance we've had to talk with you." J. Elfreda stared at Anne, her eyes narrowing. "Do you want to know just what happened to me?" she asked slowly. "Well, I'll tell you three girls about it, because I've got to tell some one and I don't believe you'll spread the story." "We won't tell anyone," promised Grace. "How about you two?" asked the stout girl. "I'll answer for both of us," smiled Anne. "All right then, I'll tell you. Now remember, you've promised." The girls nodded. "Well, it was this way," began Elfreda. "When I left the train I hadn't gone six steps until two girls walked up to me and asked if I were a freshman. They said they were on the committee to meet and look after the girls who were entering college for the first time. I said that was very kind of them and asked them to show me the way to Ralston House. They picked up my suit cases and we started out. They asked me my name and all sorts of questions and I told them a little about myself," continued the stout girl pompously. "They seemed quite impressed, too. Then one of them said she thought I had better see the registrar before going to Ralston House, for the registrar would be anxious to meet me. They both said I was quite different from the rest of the new girls, and made such a lot of fuss over me that I invited them into that little shop across from the station to have ice cream." "And then?" asked Miriam. "Then," said J. Elfreda impressively, "after they had had two sundaes apiece, at my expense, they played a mean trick on me. They took me into a big building a little further down the street, down a long hall, and left me sitting on a seat outside what I supposed was the registrar's office. They said I must wait there and the registrar's clerk would come out and conduct me to the registrar. They said that it was against the rules to walk into the office and that it was the business of the clerk to come out every half hour and conduct any one who was waiting into the registrar's private office. "Well, I sat there and sat there. It made me think of when I was a kiddie and used to watch the cuckoo clock to see the bird come out. But there wasn't even a bird came out of that door," continued Elfreda gloomily. "People passed up and down the hall, and every once in a while a man would walk right into the place without knocking, or seeing the clerk, or anything else. "After I had sat there for at least two hours, I made up my mind to go in even if I were ordered out the next minute. I marched up to the door and opened it and walked into the office. There was no one in sight but a young woman who was putting on her hat. 'Where's the registrar?' I asked. 'He hasn't been here to-day,' she said. 'I thought the registrar was a woman,' I said. She seemed surprised at that and asked what made me think so. I said that two of the students had told me so. Then she looked at me in the queerest way and began to smile. 'Do you want to see the registrar of Overton College?' she asked. 'Of course I do,' I said, for I began to suspect that something was wrong. Then she stopped smiling and said it was too bad, but whoever had sent me there had played a trick on me and brought me to the office of the Register of Deeds. Instead of Overton Hall I was in the county court house. Now can you beat it?" finished Elfreda slangily. "I should say not," cried Grace indignantly. "I think it was contemptible in them to accept your hospitality and then treat you in that fashion. No really nice girl would do any such thing, even in fun." "I should say not," sympathized Miriam, forgetting that she did not yearn for J. Elfreda as a roommate. "What did you do after you discovered your mistake?" "I left the Register's office, his deeds, and all the rest of that building in pretty short order," continued Elfreda. "When I reached the street I went straight back to the station and hired a carriage to take me to Ralston House. Mrs. Arnold gave me my supper even though it was late, and the next day I saw the registrar in earnest. I told her the whole story and described the girls. I didn't know their names, but she said she thought she knew who they were from the description. So I suppose she'll send for me before long to identify them." "But you're not going to?" questioned Grace in astonishment. "Why not?" returned the stout girl calmly. "Do you think I'll let slip a chance to get even with them? I guess not." "But this will be carried to the dean and they will be severely reprimanded and the whole college will know it," expostulated Grace. "Well, the whole college should know it," stoutly contended Elfreda. "I'll show those two smart young women that I'm not as green as I appear to be." Grace was on the verge of saying that J. Elfreda would have shown more wisdom by keeping silent, but suddenly checked herself. She had no right to criticize J. Elfreda's motives. To her the bare idea of telling tales was abhorrent, while this girl gloried in the fact that she had exposed those who annoyed her. "I'm sorry you told the registrar," she said slowly. "Perhaps in the rush of business she'll forget about it." "She'd better not," threatened Elfreda, "or she'll hear it from me. When it comes to getting even, I never relent. I'm just like Pa in that respect. However, let's change the subject. Now that I'm here, show me where I can put my clothes," she added, addressing Miriam. "Do you keep your things in order? I never do. The morning I left home Ma said she felt sorry for my future roommate." Elfreda kept up a brisk monologue as she opened one of her suit cases and began hauling out its contents. Miriam made a gesture of hopeless resignation behind the stout girl's back. "I must go to my room and get ready for dinner," said Grace, her eyes dancing. "Coming, Anne?" Anne nodded and the two girls beat a hasty retreat. Elfreda's calm manner of appropriating things and Miriam's resigned air were too much for them. Once inside their room they gave way to uncontrolled merriment. "I knew I'd laugh if I stayed there another second," confessed Anne. "Poor Miriam. I heartily agree with Ma, don't you?" "Yes," smiled Grace. Then, her face sobering, she added, "I am afraid she is laying up trouble for herself. I wish she hadn't told." CHAPTER V AN INTERRUPTED STUDY HOUR The first two weeks at Overton glided by with amazing swiftness. There was so much to be done in the way of arranging one's recitations, buying or renting one's books and accustoming one's self to the routine of college life that Grace and her friends could scarcely spare the time to write their home letters. There were twenty-four girls at Wayne Hall. With the exception of four sophomores the house was given up to freshmen. Grace thought them all delightful, and in her whole-souled, generous fashion made capital of their virtues and remained blind to their shortcomings. There had been a number of jolly gatherings in Mrs. Elwood's living room, at which quantities of fudge and penuchi were made and eaten and mere acquaintances became fast friends. The week following their arrival a dance had been given in the gymnasium in honor of the freshmen. The whole college had turned out at this strictly informal affair, and the upper class girls had taken particular pains to see that the freshmen were provided with partners and had a good time generally. At this dance the three Oakdale friends had felt more at home than at any other time since entering Overton. In the first place, Mabel Ashe, Frances Marlton and Constance King had come over to Wayne Hall in a body on the evening before the dance and offered themselves as escorts. Furthermore, the scores of happy, laughing girls gliding over the gymnasium floor to the music of a three-piece orchestra reminded Grace of the school dances in her own home town. J. Elfreda had also been escorted to the hop by Virginia Gaines, one of the sophomores at Wayne Hall, who had a great respect for the stout girl's money, and it was a secret relief to Grace that she had not been left out. Now the dance was a thing of the past, and nothing was in sight in the way of entertainment except the reception and dance given by the sophomores to the freshmen. This was a yearly event, and meant more to the freshmen than almost any other class celebration, for the sophomores, having thrown off freshman shackles, took a lively hand in the affairs of the members of the entering class. It was sophomores who under pretense of sympathetic interest wormed out of unsuspecting freshmen their inmost secrets and gleefully spread them abroad among the upper classes. It was also the sophomores who were the most active in enforcing the standard that erring freshmen were supposed to live up to. The junior and senior classes as a rule allowed their sophomore sisters to regulate the conduct of the newcomers at Overton, only stepping in to interfere in extreme cases. Grace and her friends had met nearly all the members of the sophomore class at the freshman dance, but in reality they had very few acquaintances among them that bade fair to become their friends. "I don't suppose we'll have the honor of being escorted to the reception by sophomores," remarked Grace several evenings before the event, as she and Miriam strolled out of the dining room. "We'll have to go in a crowd by ourselves and look as though we enjoyed it." "Why not stay at home?" yawned Miriam. "I'm not as over-awed at the idea of this affair as I might be." "No," replied Grace, shaking her head. "It wouldn't do. We ought to go. The dance is to be given in honor of the freshmen, and it's their duty to turn out and make it a success. Are you going to study your Livy to-night, Miriam?" "If I can," replied Miriam grimly. "It depends on what my talkative roommate does. If she elects to give me another instalment of the story of her life before she came here, Livy won't stand much chance. We have progressed as far as her twelfth year, and I was just on the point of learning how she survived scarlet fever when the doctor didn't expect her to live, last night, when she happened to remember that she hadn't looked at her history lesson and I was mercifully spared further torture." "Poor Miriam," laughed Grace. "But you could have said you didn't want her the day Mrs. Elwood brought her here. What made you decide to let her stay? I saw by your face something interesting was going on in your mind." Miriam looked reflectively at Grace. "I don't know I'm sure just why I let her stay. It wasn't because I wished to please Mrs. Elwood, though she is so nice with all of us. I had a curious feeling that I ought to take J. Elfreda in hand. If it had been you whose room she invaded you wouldn't have hesitated even for a second. Ever since you and I settled our differences back in our high school days I've always held you up to myself as an example. Now, honestly, Grace, you would have taken her in without a murmur, wouldn't you?" "Ye-e-s," said Grace slowly, her face flushing. "I would have said she might stay, I think. But, Miriam, you mustn't hold me up as an example. I couldn't be more generous and loyal and broadminded than you." "In the words of J. Elfreda, 'let's change the subject,'" said Miriam hastily. "Where's Anne?" "Anne is out visiting the humblest freshman of them all," replied Grace. "Her name is Ruth Denton. Anne singled her out in English the other day, scraped acquaintance with her, and found that she has a room in an old house in the suburbs of the town. She takes care of her own room, boards herself and does any kind of mending she can get to do from the girls to help her pay her way through college. Anne only found her last week, but I have promised to go to see her, too, and I want you to go with me." They had paused at the door of Miriam's room. Her hand on the door, she said earnestly, "I'd love to go, Grace. I might know that you and Anne couldn't rest without championing some one's cause." "What about you and J. Elfreda?" questioned Grace slyly. "Oh, that's different," retorted Miriam. Opening the door she glanced about the room. Her own side was in perfect order, but J. Elfreda's half looked as though it had been visited by a cyclone. The cover of her couch bed was pulled askew and the sofa pillows ornamented the floor. Shoes and stockings were scattered about in wild disorder. Her dressing table looked as though the contents had been stirred up and deposited in a heap in the center. From the top drawer of the chiffonier protruded a hand-embroidered collar, and a long black silk tie hung down the middle of the piece of furniture, giving it the effect of being draped in mourning. Catching sight of this Grace pointed to it, laughing. "It looks as though she were in mourning, doesn't it?" "For her sins, yes," replied Miriam grimly. "Isn't this room a mess, though? I've picked up her things ever so many times, but I'm tired of it. Come in here to-night, Grace. I want to see how it seems to have my dearest friend in my room, all to myself." "All right," laughed Grace. "I'll get my books." Five minutes later she reappeared and, cosily establishing herself in the Morris chair that Miriam insisted she should occupy, the girls began their work. For the time being silence reigned, broken only by the sound of turning leaves or an occasional question on the part of one or the other of the two. Finally Miriam closed her book triumphantly. "That's done," she exulted. "Now for my English." "I wish I was through with this," sighed Grace, eyeing her Livy with disfavor. "I never do learn my lessons quickly. I have to study ever so much harder than you and Anne. Now, if it were basketball, then everything would be lovely. Still, you're a champion player, too, Miriam, so you've more than your share of accomplishments. Anne, too, excites my envy and admiration. She can act and stand first in her classes, too, while I have to work like mad to keep up in my classes and am not a star in anything. Perhaps during this year I shall develop some new talent of which no one suspects me. It won't be for study, that's sure." Miriam smiled to herself, but said nothing. She knew that Grace already possessed a talent for making friends and an ability to see not only her own way clearly, but to smooth the pathway of those weaker than herself that was little short of marvelous. She knew, too, that before the end of the school year Grace's remarkable personality was sure to make itself felt among her fellow students. "What are you smiling to yourself about, Miriam?" demanded Grace. But at this juncture the door was burst violently open and J. Elfreda Briggs dashed into the room, threw herself face downward on her disordered bed and gave way to a long, anguished wail. CHAPTER VI A DISTURBING NOTE Miriam and Grace sprang to their feet, regarding the sobbing, moaning girl in blank amazement. "What on earth is the matter, Elfreda," said Miriam. The answer was another long wail that made the girls glance apprehensively toward the door. "She'll have to be more quiet," said Grace, "or else every girl in the house will hear her and come in to inquire what has happened." Going over to the couch, she knelt beside Elfreda and said almost sharply, "Elfreda, stop crying at once. Do you want all the girls in the house to hear you?" "I don't care," was the discouraging answer, but in a lower tone, nevertheless; but she continued to sob heart-brokenly. "Tell me about it, Elfreda," said Grace more gently, taking one of the girl's limp hands in hers. "Something dreadful must have happened. Have you had bad news from home?" "No-o-o," gasped the stout girl. "It's the sophomores. I can't go to the reception. They won't let me." Her sobs burst forth afresh. Grace rose from her knees, casting a puzzled glance toward Miriam. "I wonder what she means." Then placing her hands on Elfreda's shoulders she raised her to a sitting position on the couch and dropping down beside her put one arm over her shoulder. Miriam promptly sat down on the other side, and being thus supported and bolstered by their sympathetic arms, Elfreda gulped, gurgled, sighed and then said with quivering lips, "I wish I had taken your advice, Grace." "About what?" asked Grace. Then, the same idea occurring to them simultaneously, Miriam and Grace exchanged dismayed glances. Elfreda had come to grief through reporting the two mischievous sophomores to the registrar. "About telling the registrar," faltered Elfreda, unrolling her handkerchief from the ball into which she had rolled it and wiping her eyes. "I'm so sorry," Grace said with quick sympathy. "You're not half so sorry as I am," was the tearful retort. "I'll write to Pa and Ma that I want to go home next week. They'll make a fuss, but they'll send for me." "Are your father and mother very anxious that you should stay here?" asked Miriam. "A good deal more anxious than I am," responded Elfreda. "Ma picked out Overton for me long before I left high school. She thinks it the only college going and so does Pa." "Then, of course, they will be disappointed if you go home without even trying to like college." "I can't help that," whined Elfreda. "I can't stay here and have the whole college down on me, and that's what will happen. You girls don't know how serious it is." "I think you had better begin at the beginning and tell us everything," suggested Miriam, a trifle impatiently. "It was the night of the freshman hop that they began to be so mean," burst forth Elfreda. "I went to the dance with Virginia Gaines, that sophomore who sits next to me at the table." "Who do you mean by 'they'?" asked Grace. "Alberta Wicks, the tall red-haired girl, and Mary Hampton, the short dark one. They took me over to the court house," was the prompt answer. "The registrar reported them to the dean. She sent for them the very day of the dance and gave them an awful talking to and they were perfectly furious with me for telling. They found out that Virginia had invited me to the dance, and told her the whole story. She was horrid to me, and hardly spoke to me all the way to the gymnasium or coming home. They must have told every girl I know, for not one of them would come near me. I had to sit around all evening, for I didn't know half a dozen girls, and you three were too busy to look at me. You can imagine I had a slow old time, and I was glad to get home. Maybe you noticed I wasn't very talkative that night after we got back to the house, Miriam?" Miriam nodded. "After that, Virginia and I didn't speak. I didn't care much anyhow, for she made me tired," continued Elfreda. "But when the talk about the sophomore reception began I saw that they were going to hand me a whole block of ice. It was bad enough to have them cut me in classes and on the street, but I had set my heart on the reception and wrote to Ma to send me a new dress. It came yesterday. It's pale blue with pearl trimmings and it's a dream. But what good does it do me now?" She stared gloomily ahead of her for an instant, then went on: "Of course, I knew no one would invite me, but I made up my mind to ask if I could go along with you folks, and I was going to ask you to-night, when just before dinner a boy came here with this note." From the inside of her white silk blouse she drew forth an envelope addressed to "Miss J. Elfreda Briggs." Handing it to Grace she said briefly: "Read it." Grace drew a sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it and read: "Miss Briggs: "In reporting to the registrar two members of the sophomore class you have offended not merely those members, but the class as well. You have shown yourself so entirely incapable of understanding the first principles of honor, that Overton would be much better off without you. Do not attempt to attend the sophomore reception. If you are wise you will leave Overton and enter some other college. "The Sophomore Class." Grace handed the note to Miriam. "What do you think of it?" asked Miriam, looking up from the last line. "I don't know what to think," rejoined Grace. "It doesn't seem as though a whole class would rise up to settle what is really a personal affair. Even though the sophomores are angry, they have no right to threaten Elfreda and advise her to leave Overton. If the dean knew of this affair I am afraid there would be war indeed." "Shall I tell her?" asked Elfreda eagerly. "I think I'd better; then they won't dare to make me leave college." "Listen to me, Elfreda," said Grace firmly. "No one can make you leave college unless you fail in your studies or do something really reprehensible, but there is one thing you must make up your mind to do if you wish to stay here, and have the girls like you." "What is it?" inquired Elfreda suspiciously. "You mustn't tell tales," was Grace's frank answer. "No matter what the girls do or say to you, don't carry it to the officials of the college." "Do you mean that I'm to submit to all kinds of insults and not take my own part?" demanded Elfreda, forgetting her grief and assuming a belligerent air. "You are not fighting your own battles when you carry your grievances to the dean, the registrar, or any other member of the faculty," said Grace gravely. "You are merely giving them unpleasant information to which they dislike to listen." "Humph!" was the contemptuous ejaculation. "The dean made it hot for the girls just the same. I guess she didn't object much to hearing about it." "You are not looking at things in their true light, Elfreda," put in Miriam. "I'll venture to say that when the members of the faculty were students they were just as careful not to tell tales as are the girls here to-day. Of course, if students are reported to them, they are obliged to take action in the matter, but I'm sure that they'd rather not hear about the girls' petty difficulties." "'Petty difficulties!'" almost screamed Elfreda. "Well, I like your impudence." Jerking herself from the girls' embrace she stood up and walked to the other side of the room. Stumbling over one of her shoes she kicked it viciously aside, then, leaning her head against the door, her sobs broke forth afresh. In a twinkling Miriam was beside her. "Poor Elfreda," she soothed. "You are tired and worn out. Take off your hat and coat and bathe your face. You'll feel ever so much better after you've done that. You mustn't be cross with Grace and me. We are only trying to help you. While you are bathing your face, I'll make some chocolate and we'll have a cozy little time. Won't that be nice?" Elfreda nodded, winked back her tears, and slowly drawing the pins from her hat, flung it on the foot of her bed. Her coat followed, and seizing her towel from the rack she stalked out of the room and down the hall to the bath room. "Miriam, you're a darling and a diplomat!" exclaimed Grace, closing the door, which the stout girl had left wide open. "Chocolate is the one thing calculated to reduce J. Elfreda to reason. We will feed her, then renew our lectures on tale-bearing. Never call me a reformer. I am certain that before the year is over J. Elfreda won't know herself." "Nonsense," scoffed Miriam. "She is an interesting specimen, and furnishes variety, of a certain kind," she added with an impish grin, glancing comprehensively at the disordered room. "As long as I have taken her unto myself as a roommate I might as well do what I can for her. What seems so strange to me is that with all her money she is so crude and slangy. She doesn't seem to have any ideals or much principle either. Yet there is something sturdy and frankly independent about her, too, that makes one think she's worth bothering with after all." "How did her father make his money?" asked Grace. "Lumber," replied Miriam. "They own tracts of timber land in Michigan. Elfreda can have anything she asks for." Grace sat down on Miriam's bed, her chin in her hands. She was thinking of the note she had just read and wondering what had better be done. Miriam, despite her avowal that she was tired of picking up her roommate's scattered clothing, busied herself with reducing Elfreda's half of the room to some semblance of order. Going to the closet, she took down an elaborate Japanese silk kimono and laid it across the foot of Elfreda's bed. "What had we better do about this note?" Grace asked, picking it up from the table and re-reading it. "What do you think?" questioned Miriam. "I think we had better ask the advice of some upper class girl," said Grace. "I'm going to see Mabel Ashe to-morrow morning. I'll tell her about it. Elfreda mustn't be cheated out of her right to go to the reception." "But if the whole sophomore class objects to her, what then?" "I don't believe the whole sophomore class does object to her," returned Grace. "I have a curious conviction that not many of them know her even by sight. I think that this note was written for spite." "Do you think Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton wrote it?" queried Miriam. "I don't want to accuse any one of writing it, but they are the only students who would have an object in doing so," declared Grace. "I hear Elfreda coming down the hall. Don't say anything more about it just now," she added in a lower tone. "My goodness, I forgot all about the chocolate!" exclaimed Miriam, scurrying to a little oak cabinet in one corner of the room and taking out the necessary ingredients. "Here, Grace, open this can of evaporated cream with the scissors. You can use that paperweight for a hammer." Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the folds of her kimono, J. Elfreda sat drinking chocolate and devouring cakes as though her very existence depended upon it. "You girls are ever so much nicer than I thought you'd be," she said reflectively, between cakes. "I must say that I'm agreeably disappointed in you, Miriam. I was pretty sure you were a regular snob, but you're nothing like one. I couldn't help thinking about what you said, Grace, while I was bathing my face," she continued. "It made me mad for a minute, but I've come to the conclusion that you were talking sense, and from now on the faculty will have to go some to get any information from me." CHAPTER VII GRACE TAKES MATTERS INTO HER OWN HANDS "We have had, what might be considered by some people, a momentous evening," remarked Grace as Anne Pierson walked into their room shortly before ten o'clock. Having left the now almost cheerful Elfreda to the good-natured ministrations of Miriam, Grace had said good night and returned to her own room for a few more minutes of silent devotion to Livy. "What happened?" asked Anne as she hung up her wraps, took down her kimono, and prepared to be comfortable. "What might be expected," returned Grace, and briefly recounted what had transpired in Miriam's room. "Wasn't it nice of Miriam to make a fuss over her, though?" said Anne warmly. "Yes, of course, but it isn't Miriam's amiability that I'm thinking about at present. It's what we'd better do to straighten out this trouble for Elfreda," said Grace anxiously. "I felt glad when I came to Overton that I did not have to worry about any one but myself, and now I'm confronted with Elfreda's troubles." "I think it would be best to see Miss Ashe first," agreed Anne, after a brief silence. "That settles it, then, I'll go. Tell me about your new freshman friend, Anne." "She's a very nice girl," Anne replied, "and has lots of the right kind of courage. She lives in a big, bare room in the top of an old house, clear down at the other end of the town, and the way she has made that room over to suit her needs is really wonderful. She has one corner of it curtained off for her kitchen and has a cupboard for her dishes, what there are of them. She cooks her meals over a little two-burner gas stove, and does her own washing and ironing. Every spare moment she has she devotes to doing mending. She does it beautifully, too. Ever so many girls have given her their silk stockings and lingerie waists to darn." "Poor little thing," mused Grace. "I suppose she never has a minute to play. I don't see how she manages to do all that work and study, too. I wish we could do something to help her." "I don't know what we could do," returned Anne thoughtfully. "I imagine she wouldn't accept help. She strikes me as being one of the kind who would rather die than allow her friends to pay her way." "There must be some way," Grace said speculatively, "and some day we'll find it out." "Sometimes I feel as though I had earned my college money too easily," confessed Anne. "The work I did on the stage wasn't work at all, it was pure pleasure. Ruth Denton's work is the hardest kind of drudgery." "But think how hard you worked to win the scholarship," reminded Grace. "That was work I loved, too," replied Anne, shaking her head deprecatingly over her own good fortune. "Never mind," laughed Grace. "Just think of how hard you might have had to work if you hadn't been a genius, and that will comfort you a little." "Grace, you are too ridiculous," protested Anne, flushing deeply. "Anne, you are entirely too modest," retorted Grace. "Come on, little Miss Nonentity, let's go to bed or I won't get up early enough to-morrow morning to see Mabel Ashe before my first recitation." "All right," yawned Anne. "To-morrow night I must stay in the house and write letters. I've owed David a letter for a week. I wonder why Nora and Jessica don't write." "They promised to write first, you know," said Grace. "If we don't hear from them by Saturday we'd better send them a postcard to hurry them up. Let's go down to that little stationer's shop to-morrow and see what they have. I must find one that will suit Hippy's peculiar style of beauty." Laughing and chatting of things that had happened at home, a subject of which they never tired, Grace and Anne prepared for bed. The next morning Anne awoke first. Glancing at the little clock on the chiffonier she exclaimed in dismay. They had overslept, and there was barely time to dress and eat breakfast before chapel. "Oh, dear," lamented Grace as she slipped into her one-piece gown of pink linen, "now I can't go to see Mabel until after luncheon. How provoking!" But it was still more provoking to find, when she called at Holland House, late that afternoon, that Mabel Ashe had made a dinner engagement with several seniors and had just left the house. "What had I better do about it?" Grace asked herself. "Shall I put it off until to-morrow or shall I take matters into my own hands? It's only four days now until the reception, and those girls may do a great deal of talking during that time." She paused on the steps of Holland House and looked across the campus toward Stuart Hall. "I'm sure I heard some one say that both Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton live there," Grace reflected. "I don't like to do it, but it's the only thing I can think of to do." Squaring her shoulders Grace crossed the campus, a look of determination on her fine face. Mounting the steps of Stuart Hall she deliberately rang the bell. Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton were both in, the maid stated, ushering Grace into the big, attractively furnished living room. A moment later there was a scurry of footsteps on the stairs and Alberta Wicks, followed by Mary Hampton, entered the room. Grace rose from her chair to greet them. "Good afternoon," she said pleasantly. "I shall have to introduce myself. I am Grace Harlowe of the freshman class. I saw you at the dance the other night but did not meet you." "How do you do?" returned Alberta Wicks in a bored tone, while the other girl nodded indifferently. "I remember your face, I think. I'm not sure. There was an army of freshmen at the dance. The largest entering class for a number of years, I understand." "Freshmen are perhaps not important enough to be remembered," returned Grace, smiling faintly. Then deciding that there was nothing to be gained by beating about the bush she said earnestly, "I hope you will not think me meddlesome or presuming, but I came here this afternoon to talk with you about something that concerns a member of the freshman class. I refer to Miss Briggs, whom I am quite certain you know." "Miss Briggs," repeated Alberta Wicks, meditatively. "Let me see, I think we met her----" "The day she came to college," supplemented Grace. "How did you know that?" was the sharp question. "I saw you and Miss Hampton when you approached her, and also when you walked away from the station with her," Grace said quietly. "Miss Briggs rode part of the way on the train with us to Overton." A deep flush rose to the faces of both young women at Grace's indisputable statement. There was an uncomfortable silence. "I know also," continued Grace, "that you conducted her to the county court house instead of the registrar's office and left her to find out the truth as best she might." "Really," sneered Alberta, "you seem to be extremely well informed as to what took place. It is quite evident that Miss Briggs published the news broadcast." "She did nothing of the sort," retorted Grace coldly. "She did tell my roommate and me, and I regret to say that she also told the registrar, but she now realizes her mistake in doing so." "Her realization comes entirely too late," was the sarcastic reply. "She should have thought things over before going to the registrar with anything so silly." "Ah!" ejaculated Grace. "I am glad to hear you admit that the trick you played was silly. To my mind it was both senseless and unkind. However, I did not come here to-day to discuss the ethics of the affair. Miss Briggs has received a note forbidding her attendance at the sophomore reception and advising her to leave Overton. It is signed 'Sophomore Class.' It states her betrayal of two sophomores to the registrar as the cause of its origin. What I wish to ask you is whether the sophomores have really taken action in this matter, or whether you wrote this note in order to frighten Miss Briggs into leaving college?" "I do not admit your right to interfere, and I shall certainly not answer your question, Miss Harlowe. You are decidedly impertinent, to say the least," replied Alberta in a tone of suppressed anger. "I cannot understand why you should take such an unprecedented interest in Miss Briggs's affairs and I shall tell you nothing." [Illustration: "I Am Sorry That We Have Failed to Come to an Understanding."] "Very well," said Grace composedly. "I see that I shall have to go to each member of the sophomore class in turn in order to find out the truth. I cannot believe that these girls are so lacking in college spirit as to ostracize a newcomer, even though she did act unwisely." "You would not dare to do it!" exclaimed Mary Hampton excitedly. She had hitherto taken no part in the conversation. "Why not?" asked Grace. "I am determined to go to the root of this matter. I don't intend Miss Briggs shall leave college, or be sent to coventry either. She has acted hastily, but she will live it down, that is, unless word of it has traveled too far. Even so, I hardly think she will leave college. I am sorry that we have failed to come to an understanding." Grace walked proudly toward the door. Inwardly she was deeply disappointed at having failed, but she gave no sign of feeling her defeat. "Come back!" commanded Alberta Wicks harshly, as Grace stood with her hand on the door knob. Grace turned and walked toward them. Her face gave no sign of her surprise. "Do you really intend to take up this affair with every member of the sophomore class?" demanded Alberta, eyeing Grace sharply. There was a faint note of dismay in her voice, despite her attempt to appear unconcerned. "Yes," answered Grace firmly. "The only alternative would be to take it to the faculty, and that is not to be thought of. I shall make a personal appeal to each sophomore for Miss Briggs." "Then I suppose rather than bring down a hornet's nest about our ears, we might as well tell you that the majority of the class know nothing of this. A number of sophomores, with a view to the good of the college, decided themselves to be justified in sending the letter to Miss Briggs. We do not wish young women of her type at Overton, and Miss Briggs will do well to go elsewhere. She will never be happy at Overton." "Is that a threat?" asked Grace quickly. Alberta merely shrugged her shoulders in answer to Grace's question. "You may call it what you please," remarked Mary Hampton sullenly. "Thank you," said Grace gravely. "I think I have a fair idea of the situation. I believe I know too, just how many sophomores were concerned in the writing of the letter, and am sure that their adverse opinion will neither make nor mar Miss Briggs. Good afternoon." With this Grace walked serenely out of the house, leaving behind her two discomfited and ignominiously defeated young women. "Do you believe she would have kept her word and put the matter before the class?" asked Mary Hampton after Grace had gone. "Yes," responded Alberta, frowning. "She wouldn't have hesitated. She meant what she said. She is one of those tiresome persons who is forever advocating fair play. She only does it as a pose. She imagines, I suppose that it will attract the attention of the upper class girls. I should like to teach her a lesson in humility, but it is dangerous, for with all her faults she is by no means stupid, and unless we were very careful we would be quite likely to come to grief." CHAPTER VIII THE SOPHOMORE RECEPTION It was the night of the sophomore reception and the gymnasium was ablaze with light and color. All day the valiant sophomore class had labored as decorators. Sofa cushions, portieres, screens and anything else that might add to the beauty of the decorations had been begged and borrowed from good-natured residents of the campus and nearby boarding houses. There were great branches of red and gold leaves festooning and hiding the gymnasium apparatus, and the respective sophomore and freshman colors of blue and gold were in evidence in every nook and corner of the big room. There was a real orchestra of eight pieces from the town of Overton, seated on a palm-screened platform which had been erected for the occasion; while a long line of freshmen in their best bib and tucker crowded up to pay their respects to the receiving line of sophomores, headed by the class president. The freshmen of Wayne Hall had elected to go together, and Ruth Denton had also been invited to take dinner and dress with Anne, then go with her and her friends to the reception. At first Ruth demurred on account of her gown, which was a very plain little affair of white dotted swiss. Then Grace had come to the rescue and insisted that Ruth should wear a very beautiful white satin ribbon belt with long, graceful ends, belonging to her, which quite transformed the simple frock. There was also a white satin hair ornament to match, and Miriam's clever fingers had done her soft brown hair in a new, becoming fashion. Even Elfreda had insisted on lending her a white opera cape and praising her appearance until the little girl was in a maze of delight at so much unexpected attention. Grace, Anne, and Miriam had put on their graduating gowns and Elfreda was arrayed in all the glory of the gown she had ordered for the occasion and afterward entertained so little hope of wearing. Just as they were ready to start the door bell rang. There was a sound of laughing voices and the patter of slippered feet on the stairs, and Mabel Ashe, accompanied by Frances Marlton, Constance Fuller, and two other juniors, appeared on the landing. "Better late than never," announced Mabel cheerily, as Grace appeared in the doorway. "We've come to take you to the reception. We weren't invited until the eleventh hour, but we're making up for lost time." "Why, I didn't know juniors were invited to the reception," exclaimed Grace, taking Mabel's extended hand in both her own. "Judging from all outward signs I suppose you are going to the reception, else why wear your costliest raiment?" "Your deduction is not only marvelous but correct," returned Mabel. "We were invited because the sophomores found themselves lacking not in quality, but quantity. There weren't nearly enough sophomore 'gentlemen' to go round, so we juniors were pressed into service. "I'm so glad," returned Grace warmly. "We know nearly all the freshmen, but we know only a few sophomores. We were lamenting to-night because we expected to be wall flowers." "Not if Frances and I can help it," promised Mabel. "Girls, I want you to meet Miss Graham and Miss Allen, both worthy juniors. You already know Constance." The "worthy juniors" nodded smilingly as Mabel presented Grace and her friends. "Get your capes and scarfs," directed Mabel briskly. "We must be on our way. I'm sure it's going to be a red-letter affair. The sophomores have nearly worked their dear heads off to impress the baby class. Do you girls all dance, and how many of you can lead?" "Miriam and I," answered Grace. "Anne is not tall enough. Elfreda and Ruth will have to answer for themselves." Ruth Denton confessed to being barely able to dance. Elfreda, who looked really handsome in her blue evening gown, answered in the affirmative. Grace noted with secret satisfaction that the stout girl was keeping strictly in the background and making no effort to push herself forward. "If she only behaves like that all evening the girls will be sure to like her, and if anything comes up later about this registrar business there won't be such fuss made over it," Grace reflected. "Come on, Grace!" Frances Marlton's merry tones broke in on Grace's reflections. "I'm going to be your faithful cavalier. I'll offer you my arm as soon as we get downstairs. We never could walk two abreast in state down these stairs." Grace followed Frances's lead, smiling happily. Julia Graham, a rather stout, pleasant-faced young woman in pink messaline, bowed to Miriam. Anne found herself accepting the arm of Edith Allen, while Constance Fuller took charge of Ruth Denton. The crowning honor fell to J. Elfreda, for Mabel Ashe walked up to her, slipped her arm in that of the astonished girl, saying impressively, "May I have the pleasure, Miss Briggs?" The little party fairly bubbled over with high spirits as they set out for the gymnasium in couples, but to Elfreda the world was gayest rose color. To be escorted to the reception by the most popular girl in college was an honor of which she had never dreamed. Only a few days before she had resigned all hope of even going, but through the magic of Grace Harlowe she was among the elect. For almost the first time in her self-centered young life, she was swept by a wholly generous impulse to do the best that lay within her in college if only for Grace's sake. While she listened to Mabel's gay sallies, answering them almost shyly, her mind was on the debt of gratitude she owed Grace, who, without mentioning her visit to Alberta Wicks, had assured her that she had made inquiry and found that the letter was not the work of the sophomore class as a body. Grace had refused to voice even a suspicion regarding the writer's identity, but had so strongly advised Elfreda to pay no attention to the cowardly warning, but attend the reception as though nothing had happened, that the stout girl had taken her advice. Grace was now quietly jubilant over the way things had turned out. She was so glad Mabel had chosen Elfreda. "I wonder how she knew," she said half aloud. "How who knew, and what did she know?" inquired Frances quickly. "Nothing," replied Grace, in sudden confusion. "I was just wondering." "I know what you were wondering and I'll tell you. A certain junior who is a friend of a certain sophomore told Mabel certain things." "Frances, you are a wizard!" exclaimed Grace in a low tone. "How did you know of what I was thinking?" "The question is," replied Frances, "do you understand me?" "I think I know who the sophomore is," hesitated Grace, "but I don't understand about the junior." "And I can't tell you," replied Frances gravely. "I can only say that Mabel likes you very much, Grace, and that a certain junior who is fond of Mabel is jealous of your friendship. Both Mabel and I admire your stand in the other matter. You are measuring up to college standards, my dear, and I am sure you will be an honor to 19----." Frances finished her flattering prediction just as they stepped inside the doorway of the gymnasium. Before Grace had time to reply they found themselves among a bevy of daintily gowned girls that were forming in line to pay their respects to the president of the sophomore class and five of her classmates who formed the receiving party. After this formality was over the girls walked about the gymnasium, admiring the decorations. Mabel Ashe was fairly overwhelmed by her admirers. It seemed to Grace as though she attracted more attention than the receiving party itself. It was: "Mabel, dear, dance the first waltz with me;" "Come and drink lemonade with us, Queen Mab," and "Why, you dear Mabel, I might have known the sophomores couldn't get along without you." "She knows every girl in college, I believe," remarked Anne to Edith Allen, as Mabel stood laughing and talking animatedly, the center of an admiring group. "Every one loves her from the faculty down," replied Edith. "She hadn't been here six weeks as a freshman until the whole class was sending her violets and asking her out to dinners. She was elected president of the freshman class, too, and had the honor of refusing the sophomore nomination. They want her for junior president, but she will refuse that nomination, too. She is as unselfish and unspoiled as the day she came here and the most sympathetic girl I have ever known. We are all madly jealous of Frances." Anne smiled at this statement. "It is nice to be liked," she said simply. "That is the way it is with Grace at home." "I'm not surprised," replied Edith, regarding Grace critically. "She has a fine face. That Miss Nesbit seems nice, too. She is a beauty, isn't she?" Anne replied happily in the affirmative. To her praise of her two dearest friends was as the sweetest music. "Shall we dance?" said Edith, rising and offering her arm in her most manly fashion. A moment later the two girls joined the dancers, who were circling the floor with more or less grace to the strains of a waltz. "What kind of a time are you having?" asked Grace an hour later as she and Miriam met in front of one of the lemonade bowls. "I'm enjoying it ever so much," was the enthusiastic answer. "I've met a lot of sophomores that I've been wanting to know, and they have been so nice to me. Have you seen Elfreda lately?" "No," said Grace with a guilty start. "I've been having such a good time I forgot her. Let's go and find her now." The two began a slow promenade of the room in search of the missing girl. Suddenly Grace clutched her friend's arm. "Look over there, Miriam!" she exclaimed. Seated on a divan beside Mabel Ashe and surrounded by half a dozen sophomores was J. Elfreda. She was talking animatedly and the girls were urging her on with laughter and cries of "Now show us how some one else in Fairview looks." "What do you suppose she is saying?" wondered Miriam. "Let's go over." They neared the group just in time to hear Elfreda say, "The president of the Fairview suffragist league." Then her round face set as though turned to stone. Her eyes took on a determined glare, and drawing down the corners of her mouth she elevated her chin, rose from the divan and shrilled forth "Votes for Women" in a tone that fairly convulsed her hearers. Then suddenly catching sight of Grace and Miriam she sat down abruptly and said with an embarrassed gesture of dismissal, "The show's over. I see my friends are looking for me. I'll have to go." "You funny, funny girl!" exclaimed Mabel Ashe. "What a treasure you'll be when we give college entertainments. You'll make the Dramatic Club some day." "Nothing like it," returned Elfreda, resorting to slang in her embarrassment. "Where did you ever learn to mimic people so cleverly?" asked one sophomore. "Oh, I don't know," replied Elfreda almost rudely. "I've imitated folks ever since I was a kid--little girl," she corrected. "You said you'd waltz with me to-night, Miriam, so come on. That's a Strauss waltz, and I don't want to miss it. Please excuse me," she said, turning to the assembled girls. She was making a desperate effort to be polite when she preferred to be rude. "Mabel Ashe, you're the dearest girl," Grace burst forth as the little crowd dissolved and strolled off in different directions. "You have been lovely to Elfreda, and instead of her evening being spoiled, you know what I mean, she has actually made a sensation." "I am not the only one who has been looking out for J. Elfreda's interests," reminded Mabel. "I am glad that she has this talent. It will help her to make friends with the girls, and if nothing more is said about the registrar affair she will soon have a following of her own." "Do you think anything more will be said?" asked Grace anxiously. "Not if I can help it," was the response. It was almost midnight when, after seeing Ruth Denton home, the four girls climbed the steps of Wayne Hall. "It was lovely, wasn't it, Anne?" declared Grace as she slipped into her kimono and began taking the pins from her hair. "Yes," said Anne with a half sigh. She was deliberating as to whether she had better tell Grace a disturbing bit of conversation she had overheard. After all it wasn't worth repeating. She had simply heard one freshman say to another that she had been prepared to like Miss Harlowe, but something she had heard had caused her to change her mind. Anne suspected that in some way Elfreda's troubles had been shifted to Grace's shoulders. CHAPTER IX DISAGREEABLE NEWS "Hurrah!" cried Miriam Nesbit gleefully, coming into the living room of Wayne Hall where Grace sat at the old-fashioned library table absorbed in writing a theme for next day's composition class. "What's happened?" asked Grace curiously, looking up from her writing. "We're to go over to Exeter Field to-morrow for a try out in basketball. I do hope we'll both make the team." "So do I," agreed Grace promptly. "But there are so many girls that we may not be even chosen as subs. Besides, our playing may not compare with that of some of the others." "Nonsense," returned Miriam stoutly. "Your playing would stand out anywhere, Grace, even on a boys' team. I consider myself a fair player, too," she added, flushing a little. "I should say you are!" exclaimed Grace. "Who told you about the try out?" "It's on the bulletin board. I don't see how you missed it." "I didn't look at the bulletin board this morning. I meant to, then something else took my attention, and I forgot all about it." The "something else" had been the extremely frigid manner in which two freshmen she particularly liked had greeted her as she caught up with them on the way to her Livy class that morning. Grace wondered not a little at this cavalier treatment, but could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion regarding it. She finally tried to dismiss the matter by ascribing it to over-sensitiveness on her part, but every now and then it haunted her like an offending spectre. "I always look at the bulletin board, no matter what happens," declared Miriam emphatically. "I must hurry upstairs and impart the glorious news to Elfreda. We had elected to spend Saturday afternoon in moving our furniture about, hoping to gain a few square inches of room space, but we'll have to postpone doing it. We can do it the first rainy Saturday. Hurry along with your paper and come upstairs. I'm going to make tea, and I've acquired a new kind of cakes. They're chocolate covered and taste like home and mother." After Miriam had gone upstairs Grace sat staring at her theme with unseeing eyes. Disagreeable thoughts would come, and try as she might she could not drive them away. She had been snubbed and she could not forget it. Giving herself a little impatient shake she turned her attention to her theme and went on writing rapidly. Half an hour later she folded it neatly, placed it inside one of her books, and went slowly upstairs. She found Miriam, Anne and Elfreda seated on the floor deep in tea drinking. Before them was a plate piled high with the new kind of cakes, and a five-pound box of candy that Elfreda had received from New York that morning. "Sit down here, Grace," invited Anne, making room for her friend. "Give her some tea this minute, Miriam. She is a working woman and needs nourishment. Did you finish your theme, dear?" Grace nodded. Then taking the cup Miriam offered she dropped two lumps of sugar in it, and began drinking her tea in silence. "What's the matter, Grace?" asked Anne anxiously. "Nothing," replied Grace. "I feel reflective. I suppose that's why I haven't anything to say. Did Miriam tell you about the basketball try out on Exeter Field?" "Yes; but not for mine--I mean--I'm not interested in basketball," amended Elfreda, hastily. "I tell you this trying to cut out slang is no idle dream." There was a shout of laughter from the three girls. "Now, see here," bristled the stout girl. "You needn't laugh at me. What I meant was that--that it is very difficult to refrain from the use of slang," finished Elfreda with such affected primness that the laughter broke forth afresh. "Humph!" she ejaculated disgustedly. "I don't see anything to laugh at. Goodness knows I'm trying hard to break myself of the habit." "Of course you are," sympathized Anne. "We aren't laughing at you. It was the funny way you ended your last sentence." Elfreda's face relaxed into a good-natured grin. "I am funny sometimes," she admitted calmly. "Even Pa, who doesn't smile once a year, says so." "I must go," said Anne, rising. "I haven't looked at my history lesson, and it is frightfully long, too." "I'll go with you," announced Grace. "I must mend my blue serge dress. I stepped on it while going upstairs this morning and tore it just above the hem. I had to change it for this, and was almost late for chapel." "I waited for you in the hall as long as I could," said Anne. "I meant to ask you what happened, but forgot it. Grace, what do you suppose Elfreda said before you came upstairs?" "I can't possibly guess," rejoined Grace. "J. Elfreda's remarks are varied and startling." The two girls were now in their own room. "These are nice ones," averred Anne. "She said that you and Miriam and I were the first girls she'd ever cared much about. She said that she had never tried to do anything to please any one but herself until she came here. Then when you stood up for her, and fixed things so she could go to the reception, she said she held up her right hand and swore to herself that she'd try to be worthy of our friendship. That's why she's trying not to use slang, and to be more generous. She keeps her things in order, too. You noticed how nice everything looked to-day." "Miriam, not I, is responsible for the change," said Grace. "She is a born diplomat. She knows exactly how to proceed with J. Elfreda. I hope there won't be anything more said about the registrar affair, though. I want Elfreda to like college better every day." "Grace," said Anne hesitatingly, "if I tell you something, will you promise not to worry over it?" "What do you mean?" asked Grace quickly, a puzzled look in her eyes. "I can't promise not to worry until I know that there's nothing to worry over. If you have heard something disagreeable about me, I'm not afraid to listen." "I know it," said Anne. Then she went on almost abruptly. "I heard two freshmen talking about you the other night at the reception. One of them said that she had been prepared to like you, but had heard something that had caused her to change her mind." Anne looked distressed. For a moment Grace sat very still. "Oh, dear!" lamented Anne. "I'm sorry I told you. Now I've hurt your feelings." "Nonsense!" retorted Grace stoutly. "It will take more than that to hurt my feelings. I am beginning to see a light, however. At the reception the other night Frances told me that Mabel had heard about my call at Stuart Hall from a senior who is a friend of a certain sophomore. Now, that sophomore is either Miss Wicks or Miss Hampton. It looks as though these two girls were not willing to let bygones be bygones. I haven't the slightest idea what they may have said about me, but I am sure they must have circulated some untruthful report among the freshmen. I don't like to accuse any one of being untruthful, but I am quite sure that I have done nothing reprehensible. Now that you have told me I'm going to watch closely. If a number of the girls snub me, I shall know that it is serious." "Then you will fight for your rights, won't you?" pleaded Anne. "It isn't fair that you should be misjudged for trying to help Elfreda." "I don't know," replied Grace doubtfully. "It might not be worth while. I have a theory that if one is right with one's conscience nothing else matters." Anne shook her head dubiously. "That won't protect you from unpleasantness unless the girls think so, too. Our freshman year is our foundation year, and if we allow any one even to think that we are not putting our best material into it, the shadow is likely to follow us to the very threshold of graduation. It is easy enough to start a rumor but once let it gain headway, it is almost impossible to check it. Nearly all of your sophomore year in high school was spoiled through standing up for me. That's why I'm so determined to make you look out for your own interests." While Anne was earnestly urging Grace to action, Grace was frantically rummaging in her closet for her blue dress. It was several minutes before she found it. If the blue dress could have spoken it would have borne witness to the fact that its owner dashed her hand suspiciously across her eyes before emerging from the closet with it over her arm. CHAPTER X THE MAKING OF THE TEAM Saturday dawned clear and sunshiny. It was an ideal autumn day, and luncheon at Wayne Hall was eaten rapidly. Everyone was eager to give an opinion regarding the basketball try out, and with one or two exceptions each girl cherished the secret hope of making the team. Anne was one of the exceptions. She had no basketball yearnings. She was ready and willing to be an enthusiastic and loyal fan, but aside from walking and dancing she had no desire to take an active part in college sports. She was extremely proud of Miriam's and Grace's fine playing, however, and never doubted for an instant that both girls would make the team. "I'm sure you and Miriam will be chosen," she asserted to Grace, as the latter stood before her mirror, viewing herself in her new felt walking hat, that had arrived that morning. The two friends had run up to their room after luncheon to hurry into their coats and hats, preparatory to going to Exeter Field. Anne eyed Grace admiringly. "Your new hat is so becoming," she said. "I think yours is ever so pretty, too," returned Grace. "It looks like new. No one would know that you bought it last season. You take such good care of your clothes, Anne. I wish I could take as good care of mine. I hang them up and keep them in repair, but somehow they just wear out all at once." "Don't stop to mourn over wearing out your clothes on this gala day," laughed Miriam Nesbit, who had appeared in the open door in time to hear Grace's plaintive assertion. She was wearing a becoming suit of blue and a blue hat to match. "Where's Elfreda?" asked Grace. "She's going, too, isn't she?" Miriam nodded, then said slyly, "If she ever gets ready." Just then an anguished voice called out, "Miriam, please come back. That pin you fastened in the back of my waist is sticking me and I can't reach it." Miriam flew to the rescue, smothering an involuntary laugh as she ran. Five minutes later she and Elfreda, in a new brown suit and hat, wearing the expression of a martyr, joined Grace and Anne on the veranda, and the four set out for Exeter Field. "I'm not going to talk about certain things to-day, Grace, but did you notice that all the girls at our table were as nice with you as ever?" said Anne in a low tone. "Yes; I noticed it," returned Grace. "If they continue to be the same, I shall think that we have been making a mountain of a molehill." "Look at that crowd ahead of us," called Miriam. A veritable procession of girls wound its way up the hilly street to Exeter Field. There were big girls and little girls, all talking and laughing happily, until the still October air rang with the sound of their gay, young voices. The majority of them were well-dressed, although here and there might be seen a last year's hat or coat that no one seemed to notice or to mind. Overton had a reputation for democracy in spite of the fact that most of its students came from homes where there was no lack of money. Arriving at the field the four girls followed the crowd, which for the most part made for a long, low building at one end of the field. "Where are they going?" asked Grace. "For ice cream, of course," replied a young woman who stood near enough to overhear Grace's question. "Oh, I want some ice cream," piped up Elfreda. "Very well, my child, you shall have it," said Miriam in a grave, motherly tone. The young woman who had answered Grace's question glanced at Miriam with twinkling eyes. Then she smiled broadly. That smile warmed Grace's heart. "Won't you come with us?" she asked. "Thank you, I believe I will," she replied. "I think I have the advantage. I know you are Miss Harlowe, but you don't know me. My name is Gertrude Wells, and I am a freshman, too. Now, suppose you introduce your little friends, and we'll go over to the club restaurant. I was waiting for my chum, but she has evidently deserted me." Grace decided that she liked Miss Wells better than any other freshman she had met. She had a dry, humorous way of saying things that kept them all in a gale of laughter. Elfreda, too, seemed especially interested in her, and exerted herself to please. After their second ice all around they strolled over to where the manager of the college athletics association was marshaling the candidates for the try out. Grace and Miriam hurried off to the training quarters at one end of the field to put on their gymnasium suits. The girls who wished to play were formed into teams and tried out against one another and the most promising of the players ordered to step off to one side after having lined up for play three times. It was after four o'clock when Grace and Miriam were called to the field. The long wait had made Grace rather nervous. Miriam, however, was cool and self-possessed, and played with snap and vigor. "I don't know what ails me," said Grace despairingly, as she and Miriam stood waiting for the next line up. "I didn't play my best. I tried to, but I couldn't." "You're nervous," rejoined Miriam. "Just make yourself believe you are back in the gym at home and you can show them some star playing." "I will," promised Grace. "See if I don't." It was after five o'clock before the last ambitious freshman had been given a chance to display her basketball prowess or lack of it. Grace had made good her word and forgetting her nervousness had played with the old-time dash and skill that had won fame for her in her high-school days. Her playing had elicited cries of approval from those watching and she had the satisfaction of hearing, "You play an excellent game, Miss Harlowe," from the manager. Miriam, after her third trial, also received her full measure of applause, and flushed and happy the two girls clasped hands delightedly when they received word that they were to report for practice at four o'clock Monday afternoon. As they were leaving the field to go to the training shed Gertrude Wells hurried toward them. "Miss Harlowe," she called, "please wait a minute." Grace paused obediently while Miriam and Anne walked on ahead. "Will you and your friends, Miss Nesbit, Miss Briggs and Miss Pierson, come over to Morton Hall to-night at half-past seven o'clock. I have invited a number of my freshmen friends, and I'd love to have you come, too. It's Saturday night you know, so you won't have to worry about recitations to-morrow." "Thank you," replied Grace. "I will come with pleasure. Girls," she called to the three ahead, "come back here." Gertrude repeated her invitation, which was instantly accepted. "Be sure to come early," was her parting admonition. "This is our first freshman invitation," remarked Grace after Gertrude had left them. "I'm so glad. I had begun to think we would never get acquainted with the rest of our class." "I understand that 19---- is the largest class Overton has ever had," said Anne. "All the more reason why we should be proud of it," declared Miriam quickly. "I wonder what they'll have to eat," said Elfreda reflectively. A derisive giggle greeted this remark. "Well, you needn't laugh," retorted Elfreda good-naturedly. "I didn't say that because I'm so fond of eating. I was just wondering whether it would be worth while to eat supper or not." "Take my advice and eat your supper, Elfreda," laughed Anne. "I have an idea that we shall be fed on plowed field, fudge or something equally nourishing." "Humph!" commented Elfreda. "That's just about what I thought. I hope we have something sour for supper to-night. I'm getting tired of sweet stuff. It's frightfully fattening, too." "What on earth has come over you, Elfreda," laughed Grace. "I thought you were devoted to chocolate and bonbons." "I was," confessed Elfreda, "until I saw you and Miriam play basketball this afternoon. I was crazy to play, too. But imagine how I'd look on the field. I couldn't run six yards without puffing. I'm going to try to get thinner, and perhaps some day I can make the team, too." CHAPTER XI ANNE WINS A VICTORY The pleasurable excitement of making the team and receiving the invitation to the spread had driven all thought of the conversation overheard by Anne from Grace's mind. Above all things Grace wished if possible to establish friendly relations with every member of her class. Now that she and her friends were invited to Morton House they would meet a number of new girls. The Morton House girls had the reputation of being both jolly and hospitable. Grace had the feeling that so far they had made little or no social headway among their classmates. Aside from Ruth Denton and the students at Wayne Hall they knew practically no other freshmen. "This spread will help us to get in touch with some of the girls we don't know," she confided to Anne while dressing that night for the party. "I hope so," replied Anne. "We seem to be rather slow about making friends here at Overton; that is, among the freshmen. We really know more upper class girls, don't we?" "Yes," assented Grace. "But after to-night things will be different." It was only a few minutes' walk to Morton House and the four girls enjoyed the brief stroll. "I wonder if we're too early," said Grace, consulting her watch. "It lacks three minutes of being half-past seven. That's Morton House, isn't it?" pointing at the substantial brick house just ahead of them. The little party climbed the stone steps. Miriam rang the bell. Almost instantly the door opened and Gertrude Wells smilingly ushered them into the hall. "So glad you have come," she said. "All the other girls are here." "We need not have been afraid of being too early, then," laughed Grace. "Hardly," smiled Gertrude, "the majority of us live here. There are twenty freshmen in this house, and we invited ten more from outside. Thirty girls in all, but the living room is large enough to hold us, and Mrs. Kane doesn't mind if we make a good deal of noise. Come upstairs to my room and take off your wraps. Then we'll join the crowd." A little later they followed their hostess downstairs to the big living room, that seemed fairly overflowing with girls. The buzz of conversation ceased as they entered. Gertrude introduced them one after another to the assembled crowd of young women, who received them with varying degrees of cordiality. Anne's observant eyes noted that one group of girls in the corner barely acknowledged the introduction. She also noted that the two freshmen whose conversation she had overheard at the reception formed the center of that group. The four girls found seats at one end of the room and the conversation began again louder than ever. Grace and Miriam found themselves surrounded by half a dozen girls who were eager to know where they had learned to play basketball. Elfreda espied two freshmen who recited history in the same class with her and was soon deep in conversation with them. Anne, being left to her own devices, sat quietly watching the throng of animated faces around her. With her, the study of faces was a favorite pastime, and she furtively watched the little knot of girls, whose lack of cordiality had been so noticeable to her. They were carrying on a low-toned conversation among themselves, and by the frequent glances that were being cast first in the direction of Grace, then Elfreda, Anne knew that the story of Elfreda's report to the registrar was being talked over. Anne felt her anger rising. Why should Grace be made to suffer for Elfreda's mistake, and why should Elfreda have her freshman year spoiled on account of that mistake. Of course, no one liked a tale bearer, but Elfreda would never again tell tales. Besides, why should the freshmen undertake to champion the cause of two sophomores, unless the latter had entirely misrepresented things? Anne could never tell what prompted her to rise and stroll over to the group. The young women were so busily engaged in their conversation that they did not notice her approach. Anne heard one of them say in a disgusted tone, "I can't understand why Gertrude invited them. She knows we dislike them." "She seems very friendly with them," grumbled another girl. "If I had known they were to be here I should have stayed upstairs or gone out rather than meet them. They showed extremely bad taste accepting Gertrude's invitation." "Perhaps they don't know that we are down on them," suggested a pale-faced girl rather timidly. "Of course they know it," sputtered one of the two disgruntled freshmen. "Nell and I almost cut that Miss Harlowe the other morning. Don't try to stand up for her, Lillian. She and that Miss Briggs are beneath the notice of the really nice girls here. Overton doesn't want bullies and tale-bearers. They're not in accordance with college spirit." The contempt with which these words were uttered stung Anne to action. Stepping forward she said quietly, although her eyes flashed, "Pardon me, but I could not help hearing what you said. Will you permit me to speak a few words in defense of my friend, Grace Harlowe?" An astonished silence fell over the group of girls. Before one of them had time to recover from her surprise at Anne's intrusion, she began to speak in low tones that attracted no attention outside themselves, but whose earnestness carried conviction to those listening: "You are evidently not in possession of the true account of what happened to Miss Briggs the day she came to Overton. You know, perhaps, that two sophomores took advantage of her verdancy and hazed her. Perhaps they neglected to state, however, that they accepted her invitation to eat ice cream before they returned her hospitality by conducting her to the hall of a public building where they left her to wait for the registrar. Considering the fact that she was tired from her long ride, and had had no supper, I think it was an extremely poor exhibition of the much vaunted Overton spirit. It was late that night before she reached her boarding house. She was naturally indignant and next day reported the matter to the registrar. This, I must admit, was unwise on her part. She is very sorry, now, that she did so." "All this is not news to us," snapped Marian Cummings, one of the two freshmen Anne had overheard at the reception. She stared insolently at Anne. "But what I am about to tell you will perhaps surprise you," Anne answered evenly. "Miss Briggs received a note purporting to come from the whole sophomore class. The writer of the note threatened her with vague penalties if she attended the sophomore reception, and practically ordered her to leave college." The girls looked at one another without answering. This silence showed only too plainly that this was indeed news. "Miss Briggs showed the letter to Miss Nesbit, her roommate, and to Miss Harlowe," Anne continued composedly. "She was heartbroken over it and would have left Overton if Miss Harlowe had not persuaded her to stay. Miss Harlowe did a little investigating on her own account. She suspected two sophomores of being responsible for the letter, believing the rest of the class knew nothing about it. She called on the two young women and forced them to admit their knowledge of the note. Both denied writing it. It is evident that they have misrepresented matters among their friends. As far as Grace Harlowe is concerned she is utterly incapable of doing a mean or dishonorable act. We were classmates in high school and she was beloved by all who knew her." Anne paused and glanced almost appealingly around the circle of tense faces. Then Elizabeth Wade, the other hostile freshman, said slowly: "Girls, I am inclined to think we have been imposed upon. Miss Pierson, I will be perfectly frank with you. We knew nothing about the note. Personally, I consider it an outrageous thing to do, and in direct violation of what we are taught regarding college spirit. Briefly, what we did hear was that Miss Briggs had reported two sophomores for playing an innocent trick on her, and that Miss Harlowe had urged her to do so. Also that Miss Harlowe had visited the two upper classmen and, after rating them in a very ill-bred manner, had ordered them to apologize to Miss Briggs." Anne smiled. "I can't help smiling," she apologized. "If you knew Grace as I know her, you'd smile, too." Marian Cummings's face softened. "I do wish to know her, now," she smiled. "After what you've told us I think the rest of us feel the same. I'm glad you made us listen to you, Miss Pierson." "So am I," "and I," agreed the other girls. Anne's face flushed with joy at her victory. "I hope 19---- will be the best class Overton has ever turned out," she said simply, "and I hope that any misunderstandings that may arise will be cleared away as easily as this one has been." "Suppose we go over and congratulate Miss Harlowe on her playing this afternoon," proposed a tall freshman, "and we might incidentally pay our respects to Miss Briggs. We must help her to live up to her good resolutions, you know," she added slyly. Anne was in a maze of delight at her success. The other guests had been so busily engaged with their own little groups, no one of them had overheard Anne's defense of her friend. Grace, who was giving an eager account of the famous game that won her team the championship during her sophomore year at high school, looked up in surprise at the crowd of merry girls which suddenly surrounded her. For an instant she looked amazed, then smiled at them in the frank, straightforward fashion that always made friends for her. Gertrude Wells, who, with three other freshmen, had been in the kitchen preparing the refreshments, appeared in the door just in time to see the girls surround Grace. She smiled contentedly, and nodding to the fluffy-haired little girl standing beside her said gleefully: "What did I tell you? Look in there." The fluffy-haired little girl obeyed. "How did you do it?" was the quick answer. "They did it themselves. I just did the inviting and they did the rest. Of course there was a certain amount of chance that they wouldn't get together, but it was worth taking. After meeting her this afternoon I felt sure that the girls were wrong, but I wished them to find out for themselves. How it happened, I don't know, but we are sure to hear the story after the party is over." While Gertrude Wells was congratulating herself on the success of her experiment, Grace Harlowe was remarking to Miriam Nesbit that she thought Gertrude Wells would be an ideal president from 19---- and that she intended pointing out this fact to the freshmen of Wayne Hall. CHAPTER XII UPS AND DOWNS At breakfast the next morning Grace began her campaign, and she continued to sing Gertrude Wells's praises when she encountered a group of her freshmen friends after the services. Then Anne, Miriam, Elfreda and she went for a stroll down College Street and into Vinton's for ices. Here they encountered quite a delegation of girls from Morton House, among whom was Gertrude herself, and a great deal of mysterious intriguing went on behind that young woman's back, who, quite unconscious of the honor about to be thrust upon her, was telling her chum that she thought Grace Harlowe would make a good president for 19----. On her way home Grace exclaimed delightedly: "Look across the street, girls! There is Mabel Ashe. Let's go over and speak to her." Suiting the action to the word the four girls hurried across the street to greet their favorite. Mabel smiled pleasantly, stretching forth a welcoming hand, but the young woman with her regarded their presence as an intrusion and glared her displeasure at the newcomers. "How do you do, Miss Alden?" ventured Grace politely, but Miss Alden stared over her head and with a frigid, "Really, Mabel, under the circumstances, you'll have to excuse my leaving you," she turned and marched off in the other direction. "I suppose we are the circumstances," said Grace, with a faint smile. She was furiously angry at the unlooked-for snub, but refused to show it. Anne looked distressed, Miriam was frowning, while Elfreda glowered savagely. "Don't mind what she says," soothed Mabel. "She feels awfully cross this afternoon because she has met with a disappointment. She has an invitation to a Pi Kappa Gamma dance and she has been refused permission to go. Result, she is in a raging, tearing humor." "But I thought one could always go to a fraternity dance if properly chaperoned," remarked Grace innocently. "One can," mimicked Mabel, "if one doesn't ask permission to go too often, and if one has no conditions to work off. Now, you see why Mistress Beatrice is obliged to languish at home while the man who invited her will no doubt have to invite some other girl, who is lucky enough to have no conditions." "Isn't it rather early in the year to be conditioned?" asked Miriam. "Yes, but Beatrice has been cutting classes ever since she came back this year," confided Mabel. "I am not betraying a confidence in telling you this. She admits that she neglects her work. She says she is going to settle down after mid-year's exams and work." "I think she's about the most snobbish proposition I ever came across," announced Elfreda. "It would serve her right if she did flunk in her examinations. I hope with all my heart she falls down with an awful bump." Elfreda had forgotten her former aspirations toward cultivating the true college spirit. "You mustn't wish even your bitterest enemy bad luck," smiled Mabel Ashe. "Superstitious people say that the bad luck will be visited on the head of the one who wishes it." "I'm not superstitious," retorted Elfreda. "Of course, I believe that pins cut friendship, and that it's bad luck to see the new moon through the window, or to walk under a ladder. It's a sure sign of death to break a looking glass or dream of white flowers, too, and to drop a spoon means certain disappointment, but aside from a few little things like that, I certainly don't believe in signs." "Oh, no, you don't believe in signs," chorused the girls, in gleeful sarcasm. "Well, I don't," reiterated Elfreda. "That is, not a whole lot of them." "Good-bye, children, I must leave you at this corner," announced Mabel. "Come and see me soon. I'll look you up the first evening I have free." "I should think that Miss Alden would hate herself," remarked Elfreda scornfully, as she marched along beside Grace. "She hates you, that's sure enough." "Nonsense, why should Miss Alden hate me? You are letting your imagination run away with you, Elfreda," laughed Grace. "Don't you believe it," declared Elfreda doggedly. "She doesn't like you, because Mabel likes you, and she likes Mabel. Some one told me the other day that she can't bear to have Mabel look cross-eyed at any other girl here. She claims that it's because she loves her so much, but I think it's because she wants to have the most popular girl at Overton for her friend," finished the stout girl shrewdly. "What shall we do this afternoon?" called Miriam Nesbit over her shoulder. "Go on boosting our candidate," laughed Anne. "Let us go for a walk after dinner. We will call on Ruth Denton. Then we'll take her with us to Morton House. That will be a nice way for her to meet the Morton House girls. While we are there we can find out how the land lies. Then we will take Ruth home with us for supper and the rest of the evening, if she doesn't have to study." At the dinner table that day Grace again introduced the subject of the class election and was pleased to note that her suggestion regarding Gertrude Wells as the best possible choice for class president had borne fruit. The two sophomores at the table who had been through two class elections, having just elected their president, smiled tolerantly at the excitement exhibited by the "babies," and advised them not to elect in haste and repent at leisure. "Why don't you children find out something about what the rest of the class think before you rush into electing Miss Wells, just to please two or three girls?" asked Virginia Gaines, the sophomore who had assiduously cultivated the acquaintance of Elfreda--then dropped her at the first sign of trouble. "We sophomores wouldn't allow ourselves to be influenced by cliques. We consider the good of the class of more importance than the good of any individual member." She smiled disagreeably at Grace, who looked at her steadily, then said, "Was your remark intended for me and my friends, Miss Gaines?" "Not necessarily," flung back the sophomore, "unless you feel that it applies to you and to them." "No, I don't believe it does," declared Grace with a quiet smile. "In fact, I quite agree with you in saying that the good of the class should always come first. That is why we are all anxious to nominate Miss Wells for president of 19----." A dull flush rose to Virginia Gaines's sallow face. She was not quick-witted and could think of no reply. The other freshmen at the table were taking no pains to disguise their glee at Grace's retort. Virginia's sarcastic comment had proved a boomerang and she had gained nothing by launching it. She hurried through with her dessert and left the table without another word, casting a half malignant look at Grace as she went. "Virginia's mad, And I am glad," sang a freshman softly as the door banged. "Please, don't," said Grace soberly. "I'm sorry she's angry, but I couldn't help it. I seem always fated to arouse sophomore ire." "I wouldn't mind a little thing like that," comforted Elfreda. "I'd rather be the enemy than the friend of some girls." "But I don't want to be the enemy of any girl," declared Grace, looking almost appealingly about the table. "Of course you don't," soothed Emma Dean, a tall, near-sighted girl at the end of the table, who had the reputation of making brilliant recitations. "You couldn't antagonize the rest of us if you tried. That is, unless you deliberately broke my glasses." A shout of laughter went up from the table. Virginia Gaines, who had lingered in the hall, heard it, and her face darkened. In spite of Grace's declaration for peace she had made an enemy. CHAPTER XIII GRACE TURNS ELECTIONEER Directly after dinner that afternoon, the four girls, looking very smart in their new fall suits and hats, set out for Ruth's. They found her seated at her little table eating a very humble dinner of her own cooking. "I'm sorry I can't offer you anything to eat. I have 'licked the platter clean,' you see. But won't you have some tea? I think I have cups enough to go round, only I'm afraid I haven't enough saucers." "Thank you," began Elfreda, "but--" then a warning pinch from Miriam caused her to eye the latter reproachfully and subside. "We'd love to have tea with you," smiled Miriam. "Wouldn't we, girls?" Elfreda, who had divined the reason for the pinch, said "yes" with the others, and Ruth bustled about with pink cheeks and a delicious air of importance. She took down from the cupboard shelf a box of Nabiscos that she had been treasuring for some such occasion as the present, placing them on a little hand-painted plate, the only piece of china she possessed. When the tea was made the guests emptied the little tea-pot and ate all of the Nabiscos, to the intense satisfaction of their hostess, to whom entertaining was a new and delightful pastime. "Now, you must put on your wraps and go with us," commanded Grace, setting her cup on the table. "We are going to Morton House to make our party call. The future president of 19---- lives there. That is, we think she is the future president and we hope to make others think so, too." Ruth obediently went to the closet where her plain little hat and shabby, old-style coat hung. She looked hesitatingly from the smartly tailored suits of her guests to her own well-worn coat, then with a proud little lifting of her head, she took it down and began putting it on. During their walk to Morton House the girls met several freshmen they knew, and these were faithfully interviewed as to their preference in the matter of 19----'s president. To Grace's delight none of them had made any choice in regard to candidates, so her glowing remarks as to Gertrude Wells's ability to make a good president fell on fertile soil. Fortune favored them, for when they reached Morton House they found Miss Wells out and two-thirds of the girls downstairs in the living room listening to the new songs that the curly-haired little girl at the piano had received from New York the day before. She was in the middle of one when the girls entered the room. Grace held up a warning finger and pointed to the piano. The song ended several notes short and the little girl turned her head toward her audience, saying, "I knew some one came in." "Won't you sing for us?" asked Anne, who loved music. The little girl's voice reminded her of Nora O'Malley's, and Nora's singing had always been a source of delight to Anne. "Not now," smiled the singer. "I wish to talk, but I'll sing for you later." "We came over this afternoon," said Grace to the girl sitting next to her, "to find out who Morton House wants for president. We would like to have Miss Wells----" Grace was interrupted by a little cry of delight. The girl sprang to her feet and cried, "Hear! hear!" Then she took Grace by the shoulders and laughingly commanded, "Arise, occupy the center of the room and tell the girls what you have just told me." Before she knew it Grace was standing in the middle of the room, earnestly advocating Gertrude Wells's cause, while the Morton House girls were making as much demonstration as was considered decorous on Sunday. Grace concluded with, "I'm quite sure that every girl at Morton House will vote for Miss Wells and every freshman at Wayne Hall, too. Before class meeting next Friday I hope to be able to convince the majority of 19---- that they will make no mistake in voting for Miss Wells." Grace sat down amid subdued applause, and every one began talking to her neighbor about the coming election. Ruth Denton listened to the gay chatter with shining eyes. She had forgotten all about her shabby suit. Presently the curly-haired little girl came over and sat down beside her, asking her if she liked college. Ruth looked admiringly at the little girl, whose dainty gown, silk stockings and smart pumps bespoke luxury, and answered earnestly that she liked it better every day. "You must come and see me," said the curly-haired little girl, whose name was Arline Thayer. "We recite Livy in the same section, so we have something in common to grumble about. Isn't the lesson for to-morrow terrific, though?" "I haven't looked at it to-day," confessed Ruth happily. "I study hard on Sunday as a rule, but to-day is the first time, you see----" Ruth hesitated. "I see," said Arline kindly. "Hereafter you mustn't study all day on Sunday. You must come and take dinner with me next Sunday and stay all afternoon. Promise, now, that you'll come." "Oh, thank you. I'd love to come," stammered Ruth. She could scarcely believe that this dainty little girl who wore such pretty clothes had actually invited her to dinner at Morton House. "Did you have a good time, Ruth?" asked Miriam, as they started for home late that afternoon. "Don't ask her," interposed Anne mischievously. "She forsook me and hob-nobbed openly all afternoon with that curly-haired girl, Miss Thayer. I am terribly jealous, and there is a deadly gleam in my eye." "Please, don't think, Anne----" began Ruth nervously, looking distressed. "I am past thinking," retorted Anne melodramatically. "The time for action has come. I shall challenge my rival to a duel the first time I see her. We will fight with----" "Brooms," grinned Elfreda. "I once fought a duel down in our orchard with my cousin Dick. Brooms were the chosen weapons. We certainly did great execution with them. They were new ones and the brushy part kept getting in our way until we happened to think of cutting it off and fighting with the handles. After that things went more scientifically, until Dick hit me on the nose by mistake. I wailed and shrieked and had the nose bleed, and Ma whipped Dick and sent him home. That was about the only duel I ever fought," concluded the stout girl reflectively, "but if there's the slightest possibility of either of you choosing brooms for weapons, I'll give you the benefit of my experience by training you for the fray." "Shall I take her at her word, Ruth?" laughed Anne. "No, I'm not worth all that trouble," returned Ruth half shyly. "We won't have time to escort you home, Ruth," remarked Grace, looking at her watch. "We must leave you at this corner. Be a good child and don't sit up all night to study. Come over Tuesday evening to dinner, and we'll all study together." "Thank you, I will if I don't have too much mending on hand," replied Ruth. "Good-bye. I can't begin to tell you how much I've enjoyed being with you." "Don't try," advised Elfreda laconically. "We've had just as much fun as you have." Miriam and Grace exchanged glances. Elfreda was making rapid strides along the road to fellowship. "I like that girl," she announced as Ruth disappeared around the corner. "She has lots of pluck. When we asked her to go out with us to-day she looked at her old coat and hat, then at us. I could see that she was ashamed of them. But she wasn't ashamed for more than five seconds. She straightened up and looked as proud as a princess. I could see----" "A great deal more than we did," finished Miriam. "I believe you have eyes in the back of your head, Elfreda." "I don't miss much," agreed Elfreda modestly. "I saw you and Grace look at each other when I said we'd had just as much fun as Ruth," she added slyly. "I know what you were both thinking, too. You were thinking that I wasn't so selfish as when I came here. You needn't color so because I caught you. I am selfish, but I'm beginning to find out, just the same, that there are other people in the world besides myself." CHAPTER XIV AN INVITATION AND A MISUNDERSTANDING The class elections went off with a snap. Grace nominated Gertrude Wells for president. There were two other nominations, and after the three young women had gone through the ordeal of inspection before the class, the votes were cast. Gertrude Wells was elected president by an overwhelming majority, and the nomination and election of the other class officers quickly followed. The next night Grace and Miriam gave a dinner in honor of her election at Vinton's, to which twelve girls were invited, and for a week the new president was feted and lionized until she laughingly declared that a return to the simple life was her only means of re-establishing her lost reputation for study and avoiding impending warnings. The class of 19---- soon became used to being a regularly organized body and held its class meetings with as much pride as though it were the most important organization in college. Thanksgiving plans now occupied the foreground, and as the vacation was too short even to think about going home, the girls began to make plans to spend their brief holiday as advantageously as possible at or at least very near Overton. "There's a football game over at Willston, on Thanksgiving Day," remarked Grace, looking up from the paper on which she was jotting down possible amusements for vacation. Miriam had run into Grace's room for a brief chat before dinner. "We don't know any Willston men, though. I think football is ever so much more interesting when one knows the players. If we were nearer the boys we might attend a fraternity dance once in a while." "David says in his last letter that he is waiting impatiently for the holidays. Just think, Grace, won't that be splendid to be back in dear old Oakdale again?" "It seems years since I kissed Mother and Father good-bye," said Grace, rather wistfully. "How I'd like to be at home for Thanksgiving." "Don't think about it," advised Miriam. "I was as blue as indigo last night. Let's keep our minds strictly on what we're going to do with our holiday. What have you put down?" "The football game first. Then I have tickets for a play that the Morton House girls intend to give. We might go to Vinton's for supper on Thanksgiving night. If we have a Thanksgiving dinner here that day it's safe to say supper won't amount to much. I think----" Grace did not finish with what she was saying. A quick step sounded down the hall and an instant later Anne ran into the room waving an open letter in her hand. "Girls, girls!" she cried, "you never can guess!" "What is it? Tell us at once," commanded Grace, springing from her chair. "You've received good news from some one we know." "Yes," replied Anne happily. "My letter is from Miss Southard. She wishes us to spend Thanksgiving with her and her brother in New York City. Isn't that glorious, and do you think we'll be allowed to go?" "Hurrah!" cried Grace. "Since we can't go home, it's the very nicest sort of plan. I think we'll be allowed to go. We haven't any conditions to work off, and I haven't planned to do any extra studying either. Thank goodness, my allowance had an extra ten dollars attached to it this month. Mother wrote that she thought I might need the money, and I do. I couldn't possibly have stretched my regular allowance over this trip." "I have money enough, I think," said Miriam. "I am a thrifty soul. I saved ten dollars out of my last month's allowance. It was really extra money that I had asked Mother for. I intended to buy a sweater and then changed my mind." "The expenses of my trip will have to come out of my college money," confessed Anne, a trifle soberly, "but I'd be willing to spend twice that much to see the Southards. Mr. Southard is playing 'Hamlet' and so we shall have the opportunity of seeing him in what the critics consider his greatest part." "Remember, we haven't asked permission to go, yet," remarked Grace. "The registrar couldn't be so cruel as to refuse us," said Miriam cheerfully. "Let's besiege her fortress in a body." "When shall we make our plea?" "To-morrow morning after chapel," suggested Anne. "Then we'll have more time to plan our trip." The registrar's office was duly besieged the next morning, as agreed, and the three girls hurried off to their classes with beaming faces. When they returned to Wayne Hall after recitations that afternoon it was to find Elfreda hanging over the railing in the upstairs hall, an unusually solemn expression on her face. "Are you going?" she called down anxiously. "Yes," nodded Grace. "At three o'clock Wednesday afternoon." Elfreda gave a smothered exclamation that sounded like, "What a shame," and disappeared into her room, slamming the door. "I'm coming into your room for a while," said Miriam. "Elfreda will open the door before long." "Yes, do," returned Grace hospitably. "Is she angry because you are going away over Thanksgiving?" "No, not angry, but awfully disappointed. She almost cried last night when I told her about it. I suspect she is crying now. She's like an overgrown child at times." "I'm sorry we can't take her with us," deplored Grace. "Does she know where we are going?" "Yes," returned Miriam. "She was practically thunderstruck when she learned we were to visit the Southards. The queer part of it is this. She saw Mr. Southard and Anne in 'As You Like It' last year. She thinks Mr. Southard the greatest actor she ever saw, and she even spoke of Anne's cleverness as Rosalind; she doesn't know it was Anne who played the part." "Anne doesn't wish her or any one else here to know it," cautioned Grace. "Do you suppose any other girl here saw Anne as Rosalind?" "Goodness knows," replied Miriam, with a shrug. "There's an old saying that 'murder will out.' If any one here did see her, sooner or later she'll be identified and lionized." "That's just why I don't wish the girls here to know," protested Anne, who had been listening to the conversation of her friends, a slight frown puckering her smooth forehead. "I don't care to be patronized and petted, but secretly held at arms' length because I am a professional player. If the girls find out that I played Rosalind in Mr. Southard's company I'll never hear the last of it." In her anxiety Anne's voice rose above its customary low key. In fact, all three had been talking rather loudly, and the entire conversation had been carried straight to the ears of the girl who stood outside the almost closed door. Elfreda had come across the hall to hear the details of the proposed visit, but had remained outside the door transfixed at what she heard. Then she found her voice. "So that's your idea of true friendship, is it?" demanded an angry, choking voice that caused the surprised young women to start and look toward the door. Elfreda stepped into the room, her face flushed with anger, her blue eyes fairly snapping. "You make a great fuss over me when there's nothing going on, but none of you would invite me to go with you to New York, when you know I'm crazy to go. And that's not enough, you can't get along without talking about me. I heard every word Anne said. I know now that it was she who played Rosalind in 'As You Like It' last winter, because I saw her with my own eyes. If you girls had been as honorable as you pretend to be you'd have told me about it and I never would have said a word. But, no, Anne was afraid to tell, for fear she'd 'never hear the last of it,'" sneered Elfreda, mimicking Anne. "She's right, too. She never will. I'll not stop until I tell every girl at Overton the whole story. When you come back," she went on, turning to Miriam, "you'll find that I've moved. I thought you were nice and I tried to be like you, but now I don't care to live in the same house with you, and I don't intend ever to notice any of you again. With that she rushed across the hall, slammed the door, and turned the key. "Locked out," said Miriam grimly. "I hope she'll let me in before the dinner bell rings. I'd like to change this grimy blouse for a clean one. I'll try to reason with her, once she opens the door." "Shall we go in, too, and try to explain matters?" asked Anne. "I didn't say that she would tell the girls about my stage work. Surely, she understands, too, that we are not at liberty to invite her to go with us. I'll tell you what I will do. I'll telegraph the Southards and ask permission to invite her. They will be perfectly willing for us to bring her." "That might be a good plan," reflected Grace. "Don't waste another minute, Anne, but telegraph Miss Southard at once." "Yes, go ahead," counseled Miriam, "and while you're gone I'll try to pacify Elfreda." But all Miriam's efforts to restore peace failed. When a little later she knocked gently on the door, Elfreda unlocked it, but received her roommate's friendly overtures in sulky silence. After dinner, for the first time since the sophomore reception, she spent the evening in Virginia Gaines's room and that night the two girls prepared for sleep without exchanging a word. Meanwhile Anne telegraphed, "May we bring friend? Will explain later. Anne," and was anxiously awaiting a reply. It came the next morning while they were at breakfast and read: "Your friends always welcome. Telegraph train you will arrive. Mary Southard." Anne passed the telegram to Grace, who sat next to her. After one quick glance at it Grace passed it to Miriam. Elfreda, who sat directly opposite her, watched the passing of the telegram with compressed lips. Miriam, raising her eyes from the yellow slip, found those of her angry roommate fixed on her in mingled curiosity and disdain. Ignoring the look she said quietly, "I should like to see you for a moment after breakfast, Elfreda. I have something to tell you." The stout girl's eyes narrowed. She glanced about the table and saw Virginia Gaines watching her with a disagreeable smile. The sophomore raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders as though to say, "So, you are going to allow her to order you about." Elfreda's face grew dark with angry purpose. She leaned well forward across the table and said in a tone of suppressed fury: "Kindly keep your remarks to yourself. I don't care to hear them." "Very well," replied Miriam coldly, although her eyes flashed and the temper that had been all but uncontrollable in days gone by threatened to burst forth in all its old fury. Several girls smiled, and Virginia Gaines laughed aloud. "A new declaration of independence has evidently been signed," she jeered. "Too bad, isn't it, Miss Harlowe? You'll have to begin all over again on some one else." "I am not likely to trouble you, at any rate, Miss Gaines," returned Grace pointedly. This time the laugh was at Virginia's expense. A dull flush overspread her plain face. Her angry eyes met Grace's steady gray ones, then fell before the honest contempt she read there. During that brief instant she saw herself through Grace's eyes and the sharp retort that rose to her lips remained unuttered. In the next instant Grace was sorry for her rude retort. It would have been far better to remain silent, she reflected. By answering she had shown Virginia that the latter's taunt had annoyed her. "I wish I hadn't answered Miss Gaines," she confided to Miriam as they were leaving the dining room. "It doesn't add to one's freshman dignity to quarrel." "I am glad you did," returned Miriam. "It was a well-merited snub, and she deserved it." CHAPTER XV GREETING OLD FRIENDS To spend their brief holiday with the Southards was the next best thing to going home, in the opinion of the Oakdale girls. Mr. Southard met them at the station with his automobile, and a twenty minutes' drive brought them to the Southard home. Miss Southard met them at the door with welcoming arms. She was particularly delighted to see Anne, for the few weeks Anne had spent in their house had endeared her to the Southards and made them wish her their "little sister" in reality rather than by fond adoption. "What shall we do after dinner to-night?" asked Miss Southard, as she showed her guests to their rooms after the first affectionate greetings had been exchanged. "Everett, as you know, is appearing as Hamlet, and wishes you to see him in the part. However, he has engaged a box for us for to-morrow night. To-night we will go to some other theatre if you wish." "To tell you the truth," replied Anne, slipping her hand into that of the older woman, "we'd rather spend the evening quietly with you. That is, unless you care particularly about our going out." Miss Southard's face revealed her pleasure at this announcement. "Would you really?" she asked. "I should like to have you girls to myself rather than go to the theatre, but I supposed you would prefer seeing a successful play to staying at home with me." "Nothing could drag us from the house after that confession," laughed Grace. "For my part I think it would be much nicer to stay at home. We have so much to tell you." Dinner was a merry meal. Mr. Southard, who in the meantime had come in from the theatre, became so absorbed in the conversation of his young guests that both he and his sister forgot the time. The entrance into the dining room of James, his valet, with his hat and coat, and the warning words, "Ten minutes past seven, sir," caused him to spring from his chair, glance at his watch with a rueful smile, and hurry out to where his car stood waiting for him. "It's nice to be an idol of the public, but it's hard on the idol just the same," sighed Grace, as the door closed after him. "Shall we see him again to-night?" "You may stay up and wait for him if you wish," returned Miss Southard, "but it will be after midnight. 'Hamlet' is a long play." "I saw Mr. Southard in 'Hamlet' long before I knew him," remarked Anne. "My father and I were in New York rehearsing the play in which I afterwards refused to work. The manager of our company was a friend of Mr. Southard. One night he asked me if I would like to see the greatest actor in America play 'Hamlet.' I said that Everett Southard was the only man I ever wished to see in the role. I shall never forget how I felt when he handed me a slip of paper. It was in Mr. Southard 's handwriting and called for two seats at the theatre where he was playing. He said he had asked Mr. Southard for the passes purposely for me, because," Anne flushed slightly, "he insisted that in me lay the making of a great artist, and that I ought to see nothing but the great plays, enacted by great players." "How interesting!" exclaimed Grace. "You never told us anything about your stage days before. What did you think after you saw 'Hamlet'?" "I went about in a dream for days afterward," confessed Anne. "Then, I began to hate the play we were rehearsing, and finally ended by refusing to stay in the company. Mother was with my sister in Oakdale, so I went to them. I felt that there was no chance for me to ever become great. I had no faith in my own ability, and I was determined not to waste my life as a second or third rate actor. So I gave up the stage and decided to try to get an education, then teach. You know the rest of my story. Now comes the hardest part. After giving up all idea of the stage, the door that I thought was barred has been opened to me. The unbelievable has come to pass, and I have in a measure achieved what once seemed unattainable. Do you think that I ought to bury my one talent when my college days are over and become a teacher, or do you believe that I should put it to good use by becoming an exponent of the highest dramatic art?" Anne paused, looking almost melancholy in her earnestness. "My dear child," said Miss Southard gravely. "You are straining your mental eyes with trying to look into the future. Wait until graduation day comes. By that time you will know what is best for you to do. As far as your work in the theatre is concerned, I consider that it is far more to your credit to use the talent God has given you to help yourself through college, than to wear yourself out doing tutoring or servants' work. There is no stigma attached to my brother's art, why should there be to yours?" "Good for you, Miss Southard," cheered Grace. "I'll tell you a secret. Anne thinks just as you do, only she won't say so." "While you are here, Anne, Everett wishes you to meet Mr. Forest, the manager of the stock company he wrote you about," continued Miss Southard. "He is a playwright, producer and manager all in one, isn't he?" asked Miriam. "I have seen ever so many pictures of him, and read a great deal about him. They say he is always on the lookout for material for stars." "Yes," returned Miss Southard. "He was in Europe during Anne's engagement here last winter. Nevertheless, he heard of her and asked Everett a great many questions about her. I think he will offer her an engagement for next summer with a certain stock company which he controls." "How can I ever repay you and Mr. Southard for all you have done for me?" said Anne earnestly. "By accepting the engagement," laughed Grace. "Grace is right," agreed Miss Southard. "Everett and I are trying to help Anne in the way we think best." "Then I will be pleasing myself, too," confessed Anne. "For I love my dramatic work as well as I do that of the college. Now, let us talk about Oakdale and all our friends. We have so many things to tell you." It was after eleven o'clock when the girls retired. They had decided not to stay up until Mr. Southard's return. Once in their rooms they found themselves too sleepy for conversation and five minutes after their lights were out they were fast asleep. They were up in good season the next morning, as it had been agreed that they should be present at the morning service in the church the Southards attended. Thanksgiving dinner was to be served at exactly half past twelve o'clock, instead of at night, for Mr. Southard had a matinee as well as an evening performance to give and never left the theatre for dinner during this short intermission. In church that morning as she sat listening to the beautiful service, Grace felt that she had everything for which to be thankful. In her heart she said an earnest little prayer for all those unfortunates to whom life had grudged even bread. She resolved to be more kind and helpful during the coming year, and prayed that she might see the right clearly and have the courage always to choose it. "I felt as though I wanted to be superlatively good all the rest of my life," confessed Miriam on the way home. "That minister preached as though he loved the whole world and wished it to be happy." "He does. He is a very fine man," said Miss Southard, "and does splendid work among the very poor people. It will perhaps surprise you to know that he was at one time an actor of great promise in Mr. Southard's company. Then he received the conviction that his duty lay in entering the ministry and he left the stage, entered a theological institute and after receiving his degree came back to New York as the pastor of a small church on the East Side. Everett and I were among his most faithful parishioners. Then later on he received an appointment to the church we just left, and has been there ever since." "That will be an interesting story to tell the girls when we go back to college," said Grace thoughtfully. "He is a wonderful man, he made me feel as though it paid to do one's best." "That is the reason he has been so successful in his work, I suppose," remarked Anne. "He makes other people feel that it pays to be good, too." From the subject of the actor-minister the conversation drifted to Overton. Miss Southard listened interestedly to Grace's vivid description of the college, the various halls and even the faculty. "Then you are satisfied with your choice? You never wish that you had entered Vassar or Smith or any other college?" "Yes, I am satisfied," declared Grace, while Miriam and Anne echoed her reply, but Grace might have truthfully added that there were times when even the glorious privilege of being an Overton freshman had its drawbacks. CHAPTER XVI THANKSGIVING WITH THE SOUTHARDS Thanksgiving dinner was served at exactly half-past twelve o'clock, and eaten with much merriment and good cheer. At half-past one Mr. Southard was obliged to leave his sister and guests, and at two o'clock they were getting into their wraps, preparatory to accompanying Miss Southard to another theatre to see one of the most successful plays of the season. That night they saw the actor in "Hamlet," and his remarkable portrayal of the ill-fated Prince of Denmark was something long to be remembered by the three girls as well as by the rest of the enthusiastic assemblage that witnessed it. "I shall never forget the awful look in his poor eyes," said Grace solemnly. Then she joined in the insistent applause that Everett Southard's art had evoked. Presently the actor appeared and bowed his appreciation of the tribute. Then he made his exit nor could he be induced to appear again. Anne sat as though turned to stone. She could not find words to express the emotions that had thrilled her during Mr. Southard's marvelous portrayal of the role. His own personality was completely submerged in that of the melancholy ghost-ridden youth, who, dedicating his life to the purpose of avenging his father's murder, welcomed death with open arms when his purpose had been accomplished. She had seen a great play and a great actor. The first time she saw "Hamlet" she left the theatre heartsick and discouraged. To-night she was leaving it alert and triumphant. "Anne has been touched by the finger of Genius," smiled Miss Southard, as she marshaled her charges to their automobile. "How did you know?" asked Anne, but in spite of her smiling lips her brown eyes were full of tears. "My dear, living with Everett has taught me the signs," said his sister simply. "I should like to play Ophelia to Mr. Southard's Hamlet," said Anne dreamily. "Perhaps you will have the chance to do so some day. Everett thinks you would be a more convincing Ophelia than the young woman you saw in the part to-night," encouraged Miss Southard. Anne looked so delighted at those words that Miriam and Grace exchanged swift glances. It was evident that the genuine love of her profession lay deep within the soul of their friend. "We will go for a short drive, then come back for Everett," planned Miss Southard. "He has promised to hurry to-night--then we will have a nice little supper at home." Their hostess and her brother had agreed that there should be no after-the-theatre suppers at any of the so-called fashionable restaurants for their young guests. "I am sure their mothers would not approve of it," Miss Southard had said, "and I feel that I am responsible for them every moment they are here." The party at home was an informal affair in which there were many cooks, but no broth spoiled. To see Mr. Southard earnestly engaged in making a Welsh rarebit, an accomplishment in which he claimed to be highly proficient, one would never have suspected him of being able to thrill vast audiences by his slightest word or gesture. "I can't believe that only two hours ago you were 'Hamlet,'" laughed Grace. "You look anything but tragic now." "He looked every bit as tragic just a moment ago. I saw a distinct Hamlet-like expression creep into his face," stated Miriam boldly. "You have sharp eyes," smiled Mr. Southard. "I happened to remember that I had forgotten what goes into this rarebit next. I could feel myself growing cold with despair. Then the inspiration came and now it will be ready in two minutes." The rarebit was voted a success. After decorating the actor with a bit of blue ribbon on which Miriam painstakingly printed "first premium" with a lead pencil, he was escorted to the head of the table and congratulated roundly upon being able not only to act but to cook. The next morning every one confessed to being a trifle sleepy, but appeared at breakfast at the usual time. After breakfast Mr. Southard carried Anne off to met Mr. Forest, while Miss Southard, Miriam and Grace decided to go for a drive through Central Park. It was a clear, cold, sparkling day with just enough snow to make it seem like real Thanksgiving weather. "Too bad Anne can't be with us," said Grace regretfully. "Everett will take her for a drive before bringing her home," replied Miss Southard. Shortly after their return to the house Mr. Southard and Anne returned from their drive. Anne's eyes were sparkling and her cheeks rosy as she ran up the steps. "Anne must have heard good news!" exclaimed Grace, running from her post at one of the drawing room windows into the hall, Miriam at her heels. "The deed is done, girls," laughed Anne. "Behold in me the future star of the Forest Stock Company. It doesn't sound much like Rosalind, does it? and it means awfully hard work, but I'll earn enough money next summer to almost finish paying my way through college." "Hurrah!" cried Grace. "We won't allow you to become lonesome. We will come and visit you during vacation." "That ought to reconcile me to having to work all summer," smiled Anne. "I shall be selfish and manage to have some of you girls with me all the time." "How do you like Mr. Forest?" asked Miriam. "Ever so much," returned Anne. "Like most successful men, he is quiet and unassuming. Mr. Southard and he did almost all the talking. I spoke when I was spoken to and did as I was bid." "Good little Anne," jeered Miriam. "As a reward of merit we will take you shopping this afternoon." "How would you like to go to the opera to-night?" asked Mr. Southard. "'Madame Butterfly' is to be sung." "Better than anything else, now that I've seen 'Hamlet'!" exclaimed Grace, with shining eyes. Miriam and Anne both expressed an eager desire to hear Puccini's exquisite opera, and Miss Southard called two of her friends on the telephone, inviting them to join the box party. The same evening gowns had to do duty for the opera as well as for "Hamlet," but this did not detract one whit from their pleasant anticipations. "The people who saw us at the theatre the other night won't see us at the opera," argued Grace. The three girls were in Grace's room holding a consultation on the subject of what to wear. "That is if they saw us at all," laughed Miriam. "Elfreda says Oakdale isn't down on the map, you know." "That reminds me, what excuse did you make to Miss Southard about Elfreda not coming with us, Anne?" asked Grace. "I merely said she had changed her mind about coming." "Did you mention that she changed it violently?" slyly put in Miriam. "I did not," was the smiling assertion. "I don't like to think about it, let alone mention it." "Do you suppose she'll improve the opportunity and tell Anne's private affairs all over college?" questioned Miriam. "I don't know," said Grace briefly. "Let us put her out of our minds for now. It won't do any good to worry about what she may or may not do. When we go back to Overton we shall know." That night the girls listened to the wonderful voice of the prima donna whose name has become synonymous with that of "Chu Chu San," the little Japanese maid. Anne wondered as she drank in the music whether this beautiful young prima donna had ever had any scruples about appearing before the public. Miriam was thinking that David would be bitterly disappointed when he knew that Anne was going back to the stage during vacation. While, though she would not have confessed it for worlds, the throbbing undercurrent of heart break that ran through the music was filling Grace with unmistakable homesickness. She wanted her mother and she wanted her badly. What would she not give to feel her mother's dear arms around her. When the curtain shut out the still form of the Japanese girl and the prima donna received her usual ovation, the tears that stood in Grace's eyes were not alone a tribute to the singer and the tragic death of Chu Chu San. * * * * * On Saturday morning the girls went on another shopping expedition, and in the afternoon attended a recital given by a celebrated pianist. After the recital, instead of going home, Miss Southard surprised her guests by taking them over to the theatre where her brother was playing. Mr. Southard had arranged that they should be admitted to his dressing room. It was the same theatre in which Anne had played the previous winter and several of the stage hands recognized her and bowed respectfully to her as she passed through to the actor's dressing room. They found him still in costume. He never changed to street clothing on matinee days. "You are respectfully and cordially invited to eat dinner in my dressing room," announced Mr. Southard the moment they were fairly inside the door. "I have ordered dinner for six o'clock." Eating dinner in a dressing room was an innovation as far as Grace and Miriam were concerned, but to Anne it was nothing new. It had been in the usual order of things during her brief engagement in "As You Like It." As it was after five o'clock when they arrived it seemed only a little while until a waiter appeared with table linen and silver, which Mr. Southard ordered arranged on the table that had been brought in for the occasion. Then the dinner was served and eaten with much gayety and laughter. After dinner, a pleasant hour of conversation followed, and later on the visitors were introduced to the various members of the company. Unlike many professionals who have achieved greatness, Mr. Southard was thoroughly democratic, and displayed none of the snobbish tactics with his company which so often humiliate and embitter the lesser lights of a theatrical company. At eight o'clock they said good-bye to the actor. Through the courtesy of Mr. Forest they were to witness a play in which a wonderful little girl of fifteen who had taken New York by storm was to appear. After the play they were to pick up Mr. Southard at his theatre and go home together. That night another jolly little supper was held in the Southards' dining room, then three sleepy young women fairly tumbled into their beds, completely tired out by their eventful day. As the return to Overton was to be made on the noon train, the Southard household rose in good season on Sunday morning. Breakfast was rather a quiet meal, for the shadow of saying good-bye hung over the little house party. "When shall we see you again, I wonder?" sighed Miss Southard regretfully. "You are going home for Christmas, I suppose." "Oh, yes," replied Grace quickly. "I wish you might spend it with us, but I suppose it would be out of the question. You must come to Oakdale next summer. We can't entertain you with plays and recitals, but we can get up boating and gypsy parties. The boys will be home, then, and we can arrange to have plenty of good times. Will you come?" "With pleasure if all is well with us at that time," promised Mr. Southard, and his sister. When the last good-byes had been said and the girls were comfortably settled for the afternoon's ride that lay before them they were forced to admit that they were just a little tired. "We have had a perfectly wonderful holiday," asserted Grace, "and the Southards are the most hospitable people in the world, but it seems as though I'd never make up my lost sleep. I shall become a rabid advocate of the half-past ten o'clock rule for the next week at least. I wonder how the boys spent Thanksgiving. Of course they went to the football game. I'll warrant Hippy ate too much." "I wish Jessica and Nora could have been with us," remarked Anne. "Miss Southard wrote them, too, but they couldn't come. Did you see Nora's telegram?" "Yes," replied Grace. "It said a letter would follow. I suppose she'll explain in that. Well, it's back to college again for us. I wonder if Elfreda has moved." "We shall know in due season," returned Miriam grimly. "I have visions of the appearance of my hapless room, if she has vacated it. I expect to see my best beloved belongings scattered to the four corners or else piled in a heap in the middle of the floor." "Perhaps she has thought it over and come to the conclusion that there are worse roommates than you," suggested Anne hopefully. The early winter darkness was falling when the three girls hurried up the stairs at Wayne Hall as fast as the weight of their suit cases would permit. Miriam's door was closed. She knocked on it, at first softly, then with more force. Hearing no sound from within she turned the knob, flung open the door and stepped inside. Striking a match, she lighted the gas and looked about her. The room was in perfect order, but no vestige of Elfreda's belongings met her eye. The stout girl had kept her word. CHAPTER XVII CHRISTMAS PLANS The month of December seemed interminably long to Grace Harlowe. Since her visit to the Southards the longing to be at home remained with her. She hung a little calendar at the head of her bed and every night marked off one day with an air of triumph. During the three weeks that followed their trip to New York, Overton had not been the most congenial spot in the world for Grace or Anne. 19---- was a very large class, and considered itself extremely democratic; nevertheless, the story of Anne's theatrical career was bandied about among the freshmen and passed on to the sophomores, until the truth of it was lost in the haze of fiction that surrounded it. A certain percentage of the class who knew Everett Southard's standing in the theatrical world and understood that Anne must have the highest ability to be able to play in his company treated the young girl with the deference due an artist. Then there were a number of young women who, though fond of attending the theatre, looked askance at the clever men and women whose business it was to amuse them. They approved of the theatre, but for them the foot-lights divided the two worlds, and they wished no trespassing of the stage folks on their territory. Quite their opposite were the girls who were desperately stage struck and cherished secret designs on the stage. They were extremely friendly for the sake of plying Anne with questions about her art. At first Anne's position among her classmates was rather difficult to define. After the ball which Elfreda had set in motion had rolled itself to a standstill for want of more gossip to keep it going, Grace saw with secret trepidation that despite the loyalty of a few, Anne had lost caste at Overton. "History is repeating itself," she remarked gloomily to Miriam, as together the two left the library one afternoon and set out for a short walk before dinner. "Anne told me last night that the girls in her elocution class are very distant since she came back from New York. It's Elfreda's fault, too. How could she deliberately try to make it hard for a girl like Anne?" A slow flush mounted to Miriam's forehead. She gave Grace a peculiar look. Grace, interpreting the look, exclaimed contritely: "Forgive me, Miriam. I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke." "I know it," replied Miriam. "It seems as though I can never do enough for Anne to make up for behaving so contemptibly toward her in high school." "Anne had forgotten all that, ages ago," comforted Grace. "Don't think about it again." "I'd like to find an opportunity for a serious talk with Elfreda," returned Miriam. "I think I could bring her to her senses. She keeps strictly away from me. She knows that I wish to talk with her, too. I wonder how she likes rooming with Virginia, or rather how Virginia likes rooming with her." "She is furious with both Anne and me," declared Grace. "She won't look at either of us. It seems a pity, too. She can be awfully nice when she chooses, and I had begun to feel as though she belonged with us. Here we are on the threshold of 'Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men,' and are at odds with at least five different girls. Miss Alden doesn't like us because Mabel Ashe does. Miss Gaines disapproves of us on general principles. Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton dislike me for defending Elfreda's rights. Elfreda thinks us disloyal and deceitful. And it isn't mid-year yet. We are not what you might call social successes, are we?" she concluded most bitterly. "Still we have made some staunch friends like Ruth and Mabel and Frances. Then there are the girls at Morton House, and Constance Fuller, and I think the freshmen at Wayne Hall are friendly." "Perhaps they are," sighed Grace. "I hope I'm not growing pessimistic, but I can't help feeling that the girls in our own class are not as friendly as the upper class girls have been. I supposed it would be just the opposite." Miriam was on the point of saying that she wished she had been wise enough to refuse to room with Elfreda. Then she bit her lip and remained silent. "I'm glad I've kept up in all my work," Grace said after they had walked some distance in silence. "Mother will be glad and so will Father. I've done my level best not to disappoint them, at least." She sighed, then said abruptly, "Have you bought all your presents yet?" "I bought some of them in New York. I shopped as long as my money held out. Almost all the things were for the girls here. I'll have to buy my home presents in Oakdale." "That is just about my case," remarked Grace. "I sent Eleanor's almost two weeks ago, and Mabel Allison's last week. And I gave Miss Southard hers and her brother's with strict injunctions not to open them until Christmas." "So did I," laughed Miriam. "I forgot to mention it to you at the time. I hope I haven't left out any one. I shall have to ask Mother for more money, too." The few intervening days before Christmas seemed all too short to the students who were going home for their Christmas vacations. Interest in study declined rapidly. Those girls who usually made brilliant recitations distinguished themselves by just scraping through, while those who were inclined to totter on the ragged edge unhesitatingly confessed themselves to be unprepared. One had, of course, to decide just what to pack, whether to take the morning or evening train and whether it would be worth while to take one's books home on the chance of studying a little during vacation. These were weighty problems to solve satisfactorily, and coupled with the constant, "Have I forgotten any one's present?" were sufficient to drive all idea of study to the winds. In spite of the mischief Elfreda had endeavored to make, Grace found that she had calls enough to pay to fill in every unoccupied moment before going home. Late in the afternoon of the day before leaving Overton, she started out alone to pay two calls, going first to Morton House to say good-bye to Gertrude Wells and Arline Thayer. Gertrude was in and welcomed her with enthusiasm, but, to her disappointment, Arline was out. She spent a pleasant half hour with 19----'s president, then, looking out at the rapidly gathering twilight, said with a start: "I didn't know it was so late. I must go down to Ruth Denton's before dinner." "Perhaps you'll meet Arline there," suggested Gertrude. "She was going there, too. She and Ruth are great friends. She was greatly disappointed to learn that Ruth has been invited somewhere else for Christmas. She had set her heart on taking her home with her. Considering the fact that Arline's father has so much money, she is an awfully nice little girl. She isn't in the least snobbish or overbearing." "I like her immensely," agreed Grace. "Do you know whether Ruth accepted the invitation, Gertrude?" she asked suddenly. "Arline said she thought Ruth wanted to go with her, but was too loyal to the other girl to even intimate any such thing," replied Gertrude. Five minutes later the two students had exchanged good-byes and Grace was on her way to Ruth's with Gertrude's words ringing in her ears. Several weeks ago she had invited Ruth to go with her to Oakdale for the holidays. At first Ruth had demurred, then accepted with shy gratitude. The three Oakdale girls had become greatly attached to Ruth, and Anne, in particular, had looked forward to taking her home with them. Grace had purposely forestalled Anne in inviting Ruth, because she had decided in her mind that her facilities for entertaining were greater than Anne's. She had managed so adroitly, however, that Anne had never even dreamed of her real motive in inviting the lonely little girl. Now, there was Arline Thayer's invitation to be considered. Grace suspected that Ruth secretly worshipped dainty little Arline. She would have died rather than admit to the girls who had been so good to her that she could find it in her heart to care more for another Overton girl than for them. "I'm sorry, of course," Grace murmured to herself as she hurried along through the shadows, "but I'm going to make her accept Arline's invitation. She can go home with us at some other time." She rang the bell at the dingy old house where Ruth lived, was admitted by the tired-faced landlady and ran upstairs two at a time. Ruth's door stood partly open. Grace heard Arline Thayer say regretfully, "You are sure you can't go, Ruth?" Then she heard Ruth say, very quietly: "I am quite sure I can't. I promised Grace first." Without waiting to hear more, Grace walked briskly into the room, saying decisively, "Of course she can go, Arline." "Why, Grace Harlowe, where did you come from?" exclaimed Arline, her blue eyes opening wide with surprise. "From downstairs," laughed Grace. "Just in time, too, to make Ruth change her mind. Now, Ruth, tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Wouldn't you rather go to New York City with Arline than to Oakdale with us?" Ruth flushed. "That isn't a fair question," she protested. "It isn't because I care more about going to New York than Oakdale. It is----" she hesitated. "Because you care more for Arline than for us," finished Grace calmly. "I understand the situation, I think. Your friendship for Arline is growing to be the same as mine for Anne. Naturally, you'd rather be with her than with any one else. Now, Arline, I'll leave her in your hands. We wouldn't have her go to Oakdale with us if she begged on her knees to do so," concluded Grace. "Grace Harlowe, you're a dear!" exclaimed Arline, catching Grace's hand in both of her warm little palms. "I just love you. Next to Ruth, I think you are the nicest girl at Overton. Thank you a thousand times for being so nice over Ruth. Now, you simply must go," she announced, turning to Ruth. "I will," answered Ruth happily. "You don't blame me for saying so?" she asked, looking pleadingly at Grace. "Not after having just given my official consent," retorted Grace. "Your penalty for deserting us is that you must come to see us at Wayne Hall to-morrow. We have rich gifts for you. Now I must go. Are you going my way home?" "No," answered Arline. "I'm sorry, but Ruth and I are going to cook our own supper. I've been asked to help. We are going to have a regular feast. Won't you stay and help eat it? Ruth doesn't care who I invite," she added saucily. "Please stay, Grace," begged Ruth. Grace shook her head. "Not to-night. Invite me some evening after the holidays. Good-bye, Arline." She extended her hand, but Arline put both arms around Grace's neck, kissing her warmly. "I hope I can do something for you some day," she whispered. After the usual good wishes for a Merry Christmas had been exchanged, Grace emerged from the house, filled with that sense of warmth and elation that comes from having made others happy. She smiled to herself as her mother's face rose before her. It was only a matter of hours now until she would see her. She could almost hear her father's voice and feel his hand on her shoulder in the old caressing way. Smiling to herself Grace walked rapidly on toward Wayne Hall, so rapidly, in fact, that she ran squarely against a tall girl, who, coming from the opposite direction, had apparently been traveling at the same rate of speed. The collision occurred directly under the arc light. The tall girl gave a smothered exclamation and would have rushed on, but Grace put forth a detaining hand, saying: "Stop a moment, Elfreda. I wish to say something to you." "I don't wish to hear anything you have to say," sneered Elfreda. "Take your hand off my arm. You can't fool me twice. I know What a hypocrite you are." Grace's hand dropped to her side. "I beg pardon," she said formally. "I am sorry you have such a bad opinion of me. I was about to say that Anne, Miriam and I join in wishing you a Merry Christmas." "You can keep your good wishes," snapped Elfreda. "I don't want them." With that she turned on her heel and walked angrily away from Grace and reconciliation. CHAPTER XVIII BASKETBALL RUMORS After the holidays a great interchanging of visits began at Overton that drove away, for the time being, the terrifying shadows of the all too rapidly approaching mid-year examinations. Almost every girl had brought back with her some treasure that she insisted her friends must see, or some delicious goody they must taste. It was all very delightful, but extremely demoralizing as far as study was concerned. Santa Claus had been particularly kind to Anne, Grace and Miriam, as Miriam's muff and scarf of Russian sable, Grace's camera, and Anne's diamond ring (a present from the Southards) testified. Then there were the less expensive but equally valued remembrances in the way of embroidered sofa pillows, center pieces, and collar and cuff sets, every stitch of which had been taken by the patient fingers of their girl friends. Miriam and Grace, while at home, had been given permission to raid the preserve closet and had brought back an assortment of jellies, preserved fruits and pickles, tucking them in every available space their trunks and suit cases contained, regardless of the risk of breaking glass. The evening after their arrival they had picked out a number of the choicest goodies in their stock and accompanied by Anne had called on Ruth Denton. They found her wrapped in the folds of a blue eiderdown bathrobe, Arline's Christmas present to her. There were slippers to go with it, she declared, proudly thrusting forth a felt-incased foot for their inspection. A most mysterious thing had happened, however. The night before she had gone on her vacation two large boxes had been delivered to her by a messenger. One of them contained a beautiful navy blue cloth suit, the other a dark blue velvet hat. On a plain card were written the words, "'Take the goods the gods provide.' I Wish you a Merry Christmas." "Have you the card?" Grace asked, after the first exclamations regarding the mysterious boxes had subsided. Ruth opened the top drawer of her bureau and took out a card. Then going to her wardrobe she displayed the blue suit on its hanger, then took the new hat from the shelf. "Here they are," she said. The three girls praised the suit and hat so warmly that a flush of pure pleasure in her clothes rose to Ruth's face. Grace, however, examined the inside of the coat and the lining of the hat with the utmost care. Every telltale mark had been removed. Even the boxes themselves were plain. The giver had evidently wished his or her identity to remain a mystery. The writing on the card was not particularly distinctive. There was only one thing of which Grace made mental note. The s's were unfinished and the a's were not closed at the top. This in itself amounted to little, and Grace decided that as far as she was concerned the mystery would have to remain unsolved. So she said nothing about this unimportant discovery, and handed Ruth's treasures back to her without comment. "I thought Arline might have sent it," declared Ruth, "but she swears solemnly she knows nothing of it, and has given me her word that she had nothing whatever to do with it." "You'll find out some day if you have patience," declared Miriam. "Sooner or later good deeds like that are sure to come to light." "I wish I knew," sighed Ruth, "but if I had known, then I couldn't have accepted them, you see." "Evidently the person who sent them was aware of that," reflected Anne. "Therefore, it is some one who knows all about Ruth Denton's pride." The flush on Ruth's face deepened. "I can't help it," she said. "I don't like to feel dependent on any one." On the way to Wayne Hall, the mysterious presents formed the main subject for discussion. "We ought to have Elfreda's opinion," laughed Miriam. "She would find a clue. Don't you remember what she said about Ruth's pride the first time we took her to call on Ruth?" "Yes," replied Grace absently. Then the full force of Miriam's words dawning on her she looked at her friend in a startled way. "I know who sent Ruth those presents. It was Elfreda herself. I'm sure of it. She knew Ruth to be too proud to accept clothes, so she sent them anonymously. Now I know why those 'a's' and 's's' looked so familiar. That's Elfreda's writing. I know she did it. She just had to be nice in spite of herself," concluded Grace. "But why do you think it was Elfreda?" persisted Miriam. "It was what you said that put me on the right track," replied Grace. "I believe she made up her mind that day to send Ruth the suit and hat." "If she did send them, there is still hope that she will come back to us," said Anne. It was agreed among the three girls that not even Ruth should be told of their suspicions, and that if any possible opportunity arose to conciliate Elfreda it should be promptly seized. During the short space of time that elapsed before the dreaded examination week swooped down upon them, the three friends were too busy preparing for the coming ordeal to give much thought to the discovery they had made. Elfreda avoided them so persistently that there seemed small chance of getting within speaking distance. It was a week of painful suspense, broken only by brief outbursts of jubilation when some particularly formidable examination, that everyone had worried over, seemingly to the point of gray hairs, turned out better than had been expected. In the campus houses wholesale permission to burn midnight oil had been granted. Lights shone until late hours and flushed faces bent earnestly over text books as though trying to absorb their contents verbatim. On Friday, the strain, that had been lessening imperceptibly with each succeeding examination, snapped, and Overton began to think about many things that had no bearing on examinations. "I'm almost dead!" exclaimed Grace, coming into her room on Friday afternoon and dropping into the Morris chair near the window. "I'm tired, too," returned Anne, who had come in just ahead of her, and was engaged in putting her freshly laundered clothing in the two drawers of the chiffonier that belonged to her. "Thank goodness, we have four whole days of rest between terms at any rate," sighed Grace. "I'm going to skate and be out of doors as much as I can. I must make a few calls, too. I'm going to give a dinner at Vinton's, too. I'll invite Mabel, Frances, Gertrude Wells, Arline Thayer, Ruth, of course. That makes five," counted Grace on her fingers. "Oh, yes, Constance Fuller, six, you two girls, and myself. That makes nine. I told Mother about it when I was at home and she gave me the money for it. I'll have it Tuesday night. The new term begins Wednesday. To-morrow I'll go calling and deliver my invitations in the morning. There's a trial basketball game to-morrow afternoon." "When will there be a real game?" asked Anne. "I haven't heard you mention basketball for ages." "Christmas and examinations put a damper on it, but now all the girls are anxious to play and we have challenged the sophomores to play against us the second Saturday afternoon in February. I am going to play right guard, and Miriam is to play left forward. A Miss Martin is our center, and two freshmen I don't know very well are to play the left guard and right forward. We have a good team. Miss Martin is a wonder. You can see us practice if you wish, Anne." "Perhaps I will," returned Anne. "Who is on the sophomore team?" "I don't know," answered Grace. "I don't have much to say to the sophomores. Most of them appear to dislike me, consequently I shall greatly enjoy vanquishing them at basketball." At the dinner table that night a discussion concerning Saturday's practice game arose, to which Grace and Miriam listened quietly without taking part. "I suppose I ought to go to this practice game, to see what the freshmen team can do. I think we can make them look sick and sorry before we are through with them," drawled Virginia Gaines. Grace and Miriam exchanged lightning glances. This was the first intimation they had received that Virginia intended to play on the sophomore team. Miriam frowned. She was thinking of the time when she had been Grace's enemy on the basketball field and off. The recollection was not pleasant. It was very unfortunate that they had to oppose Virginia. Miriam determined to look out for herself and Grace, too, on the day of the game. Involuntarily her face hardened with resolve. She set her lips firmly, then glancing in the direction of Virginia she saw Elfreda, who sat next to the sophomore at the table, eyeing her intently. There was a disagreeable smile on the stout girl's face as she leaned toward Virginia and made a low-toned remark. Miss Gaines looked toward Miriam, smiled maliciously, and shrugged her shoulders. "That's a danger signal," decided Miriam. "She does mean mischief. I'll speak to Grace about it as soon as we go upstairs." But before they left the dining room the door bell rang. The maid admitted Gertrude Wells and Arline Thayer, and in the pleasure of seeing them, Miriam's resolve to warn Grace was quite forgotten. The practice game ended in an overwhelming advantage for Grace's team. The other team behaved good-naturedly over their defeat and challenged the winners to play again the following Saturday. They promptly accepted the challenge, and, when the second practice game was played, again came off victorious. Grace's old basketball ardor had returned threefold and every available moment found her in the gymnasium hard at work. The other members of the teams had imbibed considerable of her enthusiasm. Miss Martin, the center, laughingly said Grace was a human whirlwind and simply made the rest of the team play to keep up with her. Miriam's playing also evoked considerable praise. The first Saturday in February marked the last game with the Number Two team. It turned out to be quite an event and the gallery of the gymnasium was crowded with a mixed representation of classes. Virginia Gaines and Elfreda sat in the first row, and as the play proceeded Virginia watched the skilful tactics of Miriam and Grace with anything but enthusiasm. Elfreda, narrowly watching her companion, read apprehension in Virginia's face, although she made light of the playing of the freshmen team and predicted an easy victory for the sophomores. Scarcely knowing why she did so, Elfreda had doggedly insisted that if the sophomores hoped to beat that freshman team, they would have to play exceptionally well. Whereupon an argument arose regarding the respective merits of the two teams that lasted all the way to Wayne Hall, and ended in the two girls not speaking to each other again that night. "Did you see Elfreda in the gallery this afternoon?" asked Anne, as she and Grace left the gymnasium and set out for Wayne Hall. Anne had waited in the dressing room until Grace finished dressing. "I did not see any one," laughed Grace. "I was far too busy. I am surprised to learn that she came to the game." "She was there, in the third row balcony," replied Anne. "She sat with Virginia Gaines, who looked ferocious enough to bite." "I wish something would happen to make Elfreda see that we are her friends," sighed Grace. "She will see, some day," predicted Anne. "Sooner or later she will realize her mistake and come back to us." CHAPTER XIX A GAME WORTH SEEING The second Saturday in February dawned anything but encouragingly. The night before a blizzard had set in, and at one o'clock Saturday afternoon the temperature had dropped almost to zero. The wind howled and shrieked dismally, and to venture out meant to nurse frozen ears as a result of facing the blast. But neither wind nor weather frightened the enthusiastic basketball fans. With knitted and fur caps pulled down over their ears they gallantly braved the storm. Even the majority of the faculty were in the front seats that had been reserved for them and by two o'clock every available inch of space in the gallery was filled. The sophomore colors of blue and gold mingled with the red and white of the freshmen colors in the decorations that were displayed lavishly about the gymnasium. The faculty, too, wore the colors of their respective favorites, while the president of the college held two immense bouquets, one of red, the other of yellow roses, showing that he at least was impartial. On each side of the gallery a group of girls stood ready to lead their respective classes in the basketball choruses that are sung solely With the object of urging the teams on to deeds of glory. These choruses had been written hurriedly by loyal fans who had more enthusiasm than ability as verse writers, and fitted to popular airs. The fact that they possessed neither rhythm nor style troubled no one. The main idea was to make a great deal of noise in singing them, and nothing else counted. The freshmen and sophomore substitutes were the first to emerge from their dressing rooms on either side of the gymnasium, dressed in their respective gymnasium suits of black and blue, the sleeves and sailor collars of which were ornamented with their colors. They were greeted with a gratifying burst of song from both sides which lasted until they took their places, eager and alert, ready to make good if the opportunity presented itself. After a brief interval the dressing room doors opened again and the real teams appeared. This time the burst of song became so jubilantly noisy that the president of the college half rose in his seat as though to signal for order, then, apparently changing his mind, settled himself in his chair, smiling broadly. Immediately the song ended the referee's whistle blew and the great game began. From the moment the ball was put in play it was plain to the spectators that this was to be a game worth seeing. The sophomores, with Virginia Gaines as center, adopted whirlwind tactics from the start and the freshmen did little more than defend themselves during the first half, which came to an end without either side scoring. That the freshmen could hold their own was evident, and when the whistle blew for the second half the freshmen in the gallery applauded their team with renewed vigor. During the brief intermission Grace and Miriam had clasped hands and vowed to outplay the sophomores in the second half or perish in the attempt. The three other members had thereupon insisted on being included in the vow, and when the five girls trotted to their respective positions at the sound of the referee's whistle, it was with a determination to stoutly contest every inch of the ground. Luck seemed against them, however, for the sophomores scored through the clever playing of Virginia Gaines. The freshmen then set their teeth and resolved to die rather than allow the enemy to score again. Then Miriam secured the ball and dodging and ducking this way and that she passed the ball to another player who made the basket and the score was tied. This put the sophomores not only on the anxious seat, but also on their mettle, and try as they might the freshmen found themselves unable to pile up their score. The end of the second half crept nearer and the score still remained tied. Grace, who was becoming more and more apprehensive as the minutes passed, stood anxiously watching the ball, which was being played perilously near their opponents' goal. Catching the eyes of Miriam, who stood nearest it, Grace made a desperate little upward motion. Miriam understood and redoubled her efforts to secure the ball, which she finally did by springing straight up into the air and intercepting it on its way to the basket. A shout went up from the freshmen which grew to a roar. Miriam had thrown the ball unerringly to Grace, who caught it, and facing quickly toward the freshman goal, balanced herself on her toes preparatory to tossing her prize into the basket. "She'll never make it," groaned a freshman. But her remark was lost in the clamor. With one quick, comprehensive glance, Grace measured the distance, then with a long, swift overhand toss she sent the ball curving through the air. It dropped squarely into the basket, bounded up in the air, then dropped gently into place. [Illustration: Grace Measured the Distance.] For the next few minutes pandemonium reigned in the gymnasium. The happy freshmen burst into song and drummed on the floor in expression of their glee. The freshmen team had outplayed that of the sophomores. Only once before in the history of the college had such a thing occurred. To Grace Harlowe and Miriam Nesbit was given the principal credit for this latest victory. Grace's goal toss had been a record-breaker. Never had a freshman been known to make such a toss. Now that the excitement was over, Grace felt suddenly weak in the knees. She started for a seat at the side of the gymnasium, but before she reached it there was a rush from the freshman class. Her classmates lifted her to their shoulders and began parading about the gymnasium floor, singing: "Nineteen---- is looking sad, Tra la la, Tra la la, I wonder what has made her mad, Tra la la, Tra la la, Her coaching was in vain, The freshman team has won again, Little sophomores, run away, Come again some other day." Then there followed a song that brought a shout of laughter from hundreds of throats, and one in which the sophomores did not join: Backward, turn backward, O ball in your flight, Why did you drop in the basket so tight? Sadly the sophomores are rueing the day They asked the freshmen in their yard to play, Sophomore banners are hung at half mast, Sophomore tears they are falling so fast, Sophomore faces are turned toward the wall, Sophomore pride has had a hard fall. Grace had been seized and carried around and around the gymnasium on the shoulders of her exulting classmates, who sang lustily as they marched, then gently deposited her in the dressing room. Miriam also had received that honor. When the two girls left the dressing room twenty minutes later, they were taken charge of by a delegation of admiring freshmen and informed that there would be a dinner given that night at Vinton's in honor of them. An air of deep gloom pervaded the sophomore dressing room, however. Virginia Gaines dressed in gloomy silence. One or two of her team ventured to speak to her. She answered so shortly that they did not trouble her further, but went out talking among themselves as soon as they had changed their gymnasium suits for street clothing. Outside Elfreda waited impatiently. "I thought you were never coming," grumbled the stout girl. Then the unpleasant side of her disposition, which she had tried to eliminate during her brief friendship with the Oakdale girls, came to the surface and she said maliciously: "I thought you said they couldn't play, Virginia. Funny, wasn't it, that you had such a poor idea of their playing? It was the best game I ever saw, but all the star playing was on the freshman side." Virginia's face grew dark. "Stop trying to be sarcastic," she stormed. "I won't stand it. Do you hear me?" "Yes, I hear you. I'm not deaf," returned Elfreda dryly. "As for standing it, you don't have to. Good-bye." Turning sharply about she set off in the opposite direction, her hands in her pockets, a look of intense disgust on her round face. "That's the end of that," she muttered. "I'll move to-morrow. This time it will have to be out of Wayne Hall, unless----." Then she shook her head almost sadly: "Not there," she added. "She wouldn't have me for a roommate." CHAPTER XX GRACE OVERHEARS SOMETHING INTERESTING After the famous basketball game a marked change was noticeable in the attitude of the freshman class toward the Oakdale girls. Grace and Miriam received numerous invitations to dinners and spreads, in which Anne was frequently included. Then the girls at Wayne Hall gave a play in which Anne enacted the role of heroine, stage manager, prompter, and producer, besides doing all the coaching. After that her star was also in the ascendant and the little slights and coolnesses that had been noticeable after Elfreda's ill-timed gossip had done its work, died a natural death. The stout girl had lost no time in leaving Virginia. The evening after her quarrel with the sophomore she had moved her belongings into the hall the moment she reached her room, then gone downstairs and demanded another room. As it happened, a freshman whose cousin lived at Morton House had invited her to share her room. She had departed that very afternoon and Mrs. Elwood offered Elfreda the now vacant half of her room. Emma Dean, the tall, near-sighted freshman, occupied the other half. There was a single room in the house of Mrs. Elwood's sister, but Elfreda had refused to consider it. Despite the fact that there were now four young women at Wayne Hall with whom she was not on speaking terms, she could not bring herself to leave the house. In her inmost heart she knew that it was because she did not wish to leave the three girls she had repudiated, but not for worlds would she have acknowledged this to be the case. Several times she had been on the point of throwing her pride to the winds and apologizing to Grace, Miriam and Anne for her childish behavior. Then she would scoff at her own weakness and go doggedly on. Her new roommate, Emma Dean, was a cheery sort of girl who lived every day as it came and refused to borrow trouble. She never criticized other girls, nor did she gossip, and she was extremely thoughtful of the comfort of her roommate. After several days of dubious speculation the stout girl decided she liked Emma, and Emma decided that Elfreda was rather an agreeable disappointment. There were two young women, however, who had suddenly appeared to take a great interest in Elfreda. Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton had met Elfreda in Vinton's late one afternoon, and had made distinctly friendly overtures to her. At any other time she would have passed them by in disdain, but on that particular occasion, feeling gloomy and downcast, she decided to forget her grievance against them. Then, too, she did not know them to be the girls who had sent her the anonymous letter. Grace had never told her the truth of the affair, so she played unsuspectingly into their hands. They had invited her to have ice cream with them, and she had insisted that they be her guests at dinner. After that they had invited her to Stuart Hall to dinner and she had entertained them at Wayne Hall one evening, greatly to the surprise of Grace, who suddenly remembered that, after all, Elfreda was not so much to blame as she did not know the truth. But why should these two girls accept the hospitality of the very girl they had tried to drive away from Overton? It was a puzzle that Grace could not solve. She discussed it with Anne and Miriam but they could throw no light on the mystery. The coming of the Easter vacation gave the three girls more pleasant matters of which to think. This time Ruth Denton accompanied them to Oakdale as Grace's guest, while Miriam invited Arline Thayer also, as a surprise to Ruth. When Arline serenely joined them at the station the morning of their departure, Ruth could hardly believe the evidence of her own eyes. The two weeks in Oakdale flew by on wings. With the boys and the other members of the Phi Sigma Tau at home, too, there were more things to do and places to go than could possibly be squeezed into that brief space of time. Arline Thayer, who was a joyous, irrepressible spirit, announced with conviction that Oakdale was even nicer than New York. She and Nora became sworn friends and the joint guardians of Hippy, who declared that he never would have believed there were two such relentless tyrants in the world, if he had not seen them face to face. Mrs. Gray, who had been in Florida during the Christmas holidays, had returned in time to welcome her adopted children home. She was especially delighted to see Anne and would scarcely allow the quiet little girl out of her sight. She had been greatly disappointed because Anne had refused to accept from her the money for her college education, but secretly exulted in Anne's independence and smiled to herself when she thought of a certain clause in her will that had amply provided for her adopted daughter's future welfare. Altogether it was a vacation long to be remembered, and the four originals separated with the glad thought that the next time they met it would be months instead of weeks before their little company would again set their faces in opposite directions. The night after their return to Overton, Grace, after having made a conscientious effort to study, threw down her history in despair. "I know a great deal more about the history of Oakdale than I do about the history of Rome," she sighed. "I wish I had never heard of trigonometry," returned Anne, shutting her book with a snap. "I can't think of anything except the good time we've had. Home has completely upset my student mind." She rose, laid down her book and walked listlessly toward the window. It had been an unusually warm day for early spring and the night air had that suspicion of dampness in it that betokens rain. "It will rain before morning," she declared. "There isn't a star in sight and the moon has gone behind a cloud." Grace joined Anne at the window. The two girls stood peering out into the darkness of the spring night. "I feel as though I'd like to go out and walk miles and miles to-night," declared Grace. "So do I," agreed Anne. Then glancing back at the clock, she remarked, "It's twenty minutes past ten. Too late for us to go now. We can go to-morrow night, can't we?" Grace nodded. "We'll get our work done early, or, better still, we can go walking early in the evening and study when we come back. I wish you'd remind me that I must call on Mabel Ashe this week. In fact, all three of us ought to go over to Holland House." The next day, however, Anne remembered regretfully that she had promised to help a troubled freshman through the mazes of an especially trying trigonometry lesson, while Miriam had a theme to write which she had neglected until the last minute, and had to rush through on record time. "You're a set of irresponsible young things who don't know your own mind from one minute to the next," laughed Grace. "As I can't very well go walking alone, I'll make my call on Mabel." Directly after dinner she set out for Holland House and Mabel's delighted: "I'm so glad you came, Grace. Where have you been keeping yourself?" sounded very sweet to Grace, who adored Mabel and outside of her own particular chums liked her better than any other girl she knew at home or in college. The two young women were deep in conversation when a rap sounded at the door. Mabel opened it, looked inquiringly at the girl who stood outside and exclaimed contritely: "Oh, Helen, I'm so sorry I forgot all about you. I'll get ready this minute. Come in. Miss Harlowe, this is Miss Burton. Grace, I wonder if you will mind making a call to-night. I promised Helen I'd take her down to Wellington House and introduce her to a junior friend of mine who plays golf. Helen is a golf fiend." "So am I," laughed Grace. "I brought my golf bag to Overton, but didn't play much in the fall. I'm going to try it, though, as soon as the ground is in shape." "How nice!" exclaimed Helen Burton, with a friendly smile that lighted up her rather plain face and brought the dimples to her cheeks. "We can have some nice times together. You had better come with us now." "Thank you, I shall be pleased to go," replied Grace politely. "I have never been in Wellington House. It is an upper class house, isn't it?" "Yes," replied Mabel. "It is given up entirely to juniors and seniors. It is the oldest house on the campus, and very difficult to get into. Personally, I like Holland House better. I had an opportunity to get into Wellington House last fall, but refused it." Grace noted that Mabel frowned slightly and set her lips as though determined to shut out an unpleasant memory. To reach Wellington House was merely a matter of crossing one end of the campus. Grace looked about her curiously as they were ushered into the long, old-fashioned hall that extended almost to the back of the house. They entered the parlor at one side of the hall and sat down while Mabel excused herself and ran upstairs after Leona Rowe, the junior she had come to see. She had hardly disappeared before a flaxen head was poked in the door and a surprised voice said: "For goodness sake, Helen Burton, when did you rain down? You are just the one I want to see. What do you think of to-morrow's German? I can't translate it. It's frightfully hard. Come up and help me, dearest." The ingratiating emphasis she placed on the word "dearest" caused both Grace and Helen to laugh. "All right, I will for just two minutes. Want to come upstairs, Miss Harlowe?" Grace smilingly shook her head. "I'll stay here in case Mabel comes back." "Thank you," returned Helen. "Miss Harlowe, this is Miss Redmond." The two girls exchanged friendly nods. Then the flaxen-haired girl led the way, followed by Helen Burton, and Grace settled herself in the depths of a big chair to await their return. As she sat idly wondering what the subject of her next theme should be, the sound of voices reached her ears, proceeding from the back parlor that adjoined the room in which Grace sat. Two girls had entered the other room, but the heavy portieres which hung in the dividing arch, hid them from view. The voices, however, Grace recognized with a start as belonging to Beatrice Alden, the disagreeable junior, and Alberta Wicks of the sophomore class. "I'll be glad when my sophomore year is over," grumbled Alberta Wicks. "Mary and I have asked for a room here. I hope we get it. If we do we will be able, at least, to eat our meals without the eternal accompaniment of Miss Harlowe's and Miss Nesbit's doings. Ever since that basketball game, Stuart Hall has talked of nothing else." "Are there many freshmen at Stuart Hall?" asked Beatrice Alden. "Too many to suit me," was the emphatic answer. "If you are so down on freshmen in general, how in the world do you manage to endure that dreadful Miss Briggs?" "J. Elfreda is a joke," replied Alberta. "Nevertheless, she is a very useful joke. In the first place, she has plenty of money to spend, and we see to it that she spends a good share of it on us. Then, too, we can borrow money of her. She is a great convenience. The funny part of it is she doesn't know about that letter we wrote. For once that priggish Miss Harlowe did manage to hold her tongue to some purpose." "Suppose she does find out?" "She can't prove that we wrote the note," was the quick retort. "When Miss Harlowe tried to pin us to it that day at Stuart Hall I merely said that a number of sophomores felt justified in sending the note. Of course, she drew her own conclusions, but conclusions are far from proof, you know. She would hardly dare circulate any reports concerning it. We aren't going to bother with J. Elfreda much longer at any rate. It's getting too near warm weather to risk being bored to death. Mary expects a check from home soon, and I've written Mother for some extra money, so we won't need hers. Besides, I don't wish to let our acquaintance lap over into my junior year. She's frightfully ill bred, and I'm going to begin to be more careful about my associates next year." "What a frightful snob you are, Bert," said Beatrice rather disgustedly. "Well, you are my first cousin, you know," retorted Alberta significantly. "I never considered you particularly democratic." "I'm not deceitful, at any rate," reminded Beatrice. "If I dislike a girl I take no pains to conceal it, and I am certainly not a grafter." "Neither am I, Beatrice Alden, and the fact of your being my cousin doesn't give you the right to insult me. I intended to tell you about a stunt we had planned for Friday night, but since you seem to be so conscientious about Miss Briggs, I shan't tell you anything." Then a silence fell that was broken the next instant by the violent slam of the front door. Grace rose to her feet, took a step forward, paused irresolutely, then pushing apart the heavy curtains walked into the other room. Beatrice Alden stood unconcernedly running through the leaves of a magazine she had picked up from the table. "Miss Alden!" The senior turned quickly, looking inquiringly, then sternly, at Grace. "How long have you been here?" she said abruptly. "I heard part of the conversation," replied Grace coldly. "When you began talking I recognized your voices, then I heard my name mentioned, and true to the old adage about listeners I heard no good of myself. When I heard Miss Briggs's name spoken I decided that under the circumstances I was justified in listening further, as I intended at any rate to announce my presence and just what I heard as soon as you two had finished speaking. Miss Wicks's sudden departure prevented me from carrying out my intention as far as she was concerned. I shall, however, notify her at the earliest opportunity." Grace paused, looking squarely at the older girl. Beatrice Alden's expression of intense displeasure gave way to one of reluctant admiration with dislike struggling in the background. "You are extremely frank in your statements, Miss Harlowe," she said sarcastically. "There is no reason why I should not be," returned Grace composedly. "Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton, for reasons best known to themselves, chose to make Miss Briggs the victim of an unwomanly practical joke on the very day of her arrival at Overton. I think you are in possession of the story. Miss Briggs's method of retaliation was unwise, I will admit, but Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton had no right to try to drive her from Overton on account of it. In her distress over a certain anonymous letter she received, Miss Briggs came to me, and I, suspecting the source from which the letter came, tried as best I could to straighten out the tangle, without allowing Miss Briggs to know who was at fault. "Since then, unfortunately, a misunderstanding has arisen between us. I have now no influence whatever with Miss Briggs, and she has played directly into the hands of the only two enemies she has in college. All along I have been certain that Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton meant mischief. What I have heard to-day confirms it. Miss Alden, you are Miss Wicks's cousin. I heard her say so. As a true Overton girl, will you not use your influence with her in persuading her to abandon whatever plan she and Miss Hampton have made to annoy Miss Briggs?" Beatrice Alden eyed Grace reflectively but said nothing. Grace looked pleadingly at the irresponsive junior. For a moment tense silence reigned. Then Beatrice Alden shook her head. "I'm sorry, Miss Harlowe," she said soberly. All trace of hauteur had disappeared. "But you know how angry Alberta was when she left here. She wouldn't listen to me. I doubt if she speaks to me again this year. She has a frightful temper and holds the slightest grudge for ages. She will carry out her plan now, merely to show me how utterly she disregards my disapproval." "I'm sorry, too," smiled Grace ruefully. "I shall try to see Miss Briggs, but she is utterly unapproachable." The two girls looked into each other's eyes. Then they both laughed. Beatrice Alden stretched out her hand impulsively. "We're both in an evil case, aren't we?" she laughed. Grace met the hand half way. "But we are of the same mind, aren't we?" she asked. "Yes," replied Beatrice simply. She hesitated, looked rather confused, then added: "I used to think I disliked you, Miss Harlowe, but I find my feelings toward you are quite the opposite. I hope we shall some day be friends." "I hope so, too," agreed Grace earnestly. "We have a mutual friend, you know, in Mabel Ashe, although yours and Mabel's friendship began long before I came to Overton." A shadow crossed Beatrice's face. Grace noted it and interpreted it correctly. "You are very fond of Mabel, are you not, Miss Alden?" she asked. "Very," was the short answer. "Anne Pierson is the dearest girl friend I have in the world," declared wily Grace. "Then two Oakdale girls who are studying in an eastern conservatory of music come next, and after that Miriam Nesbit. There are also three other girls, members of a high school sorority to which I belong, and a girl in Denver, who have very strong claims on my affection. I have a number of dearest friends, you see. Some time I should like to tell you more of them." Beatrice had brightened visibly as Grace talked. She now felt assured that this attractive freshman with her clear grey eyes and straightforward manner would never attempt to monopolize Mabel's entire attention. At this moment Mabel's voice was heard at the head of the stairs. She descended, followed by Leona Rowe and Helen Burton. "Why, hello, Bee!" cried Mabel. "I asked for you upstairs, but was told you were out." "So I was," smiled Beatrice, "but I'm here now. What is your pleasure?" "Come over to Holland House and have tea and cakes and candy, if there's any left in the box of Huyler's that came last night. Every girl in the house sampled it. You know what that means." "I'll go for my hat and coat," returned Beatrice brightly. "See you in a minute." She ran lightly up the stairs, smiling to herself. Helen and Leona rushed out in the hall to interview a girl who had just come in. Finding themselves alone for the moment Mabel turned to Grace with a solemnly inquiring air, "How did you do it?" she asked in a low tone. "I'll tell you some other time," replied Grace. "It was a surprise to me, but the chance just happened to come and I took advantage of it." The return of the three young women cut off further opportunity for explanation, but as Grace walked back to Holland House, one arm linked in that of Mabel Ashe, while Beatrice Alden, heretofore frigid and unapproachable, walked at the other side of the popular junior, she could not help wishing a certain other tangle might be as easily straightened. CHAPTER XXI AN UNHEEDED WARNING The next day found Grace rather at a loss how to proceed in the case of Elfreda. From what she had overheard it was evident that Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton had decided to make Elfreda the victim of some well-laid plot of their own. What the nature of it was Grace had not the remotest idea. To approach Elfreda was embarrassing to say the least. To warn her against the two mischievous sophomores without being able to state anything more definite than what she had overheard at Wellington House was infinitely more embarrassing. "What time had I best try to see her?" Grace asked herself. She had come from Overton Hall with Anne and Miriam late that afternoon and the three girls had lingered on the steps of Wayne Hall, reluctant to go indoors. Spring was getting ready to fulfill all sorts of tender promises she had made to her children. The buds on the trees were bursting into tiny new green leaves. The crocuses were in bloom in the yards along College Street, and the grass on the campus was growing greener every hour. The roads, too, were obligingly drying, so that adventurous walkers might visit their favorite haunts in the country surrounding Overton without running the risk of wading in the mud. There was Guest House, the famous colonial tea shop that had been built and used as an inn during the Revolution. In this quaint historic place ample refreshment was to be found. There one could satisfy one's appetite with dainty little sandwiches, muffins and jam, tea cakes and tea, fresh milk or buttermilk. There was also Hunter's Rock that overhung the river, and whose smooth, flat surface made an ideal spot for picnickers. It was five miles from Overton, but extremely popular with all four classes, and from early spring until late fall, it was occupied on Saturday by various gay gipsy parties from the college. Then there were canoes for the venturesome, and staid old rowboats for the cautious, to be hired at a nominal sum, while girlish figures dotted the golf course and the tennis courts. Girls strolled about the campus in the early evenings, or gathered in groups on the steps of the campus houses. It was the time of year when spring creeps into one's blood, making one forget everything except the blueness of the sky, the softness of the air and the lure of green things growing. "I must go into the house," sighed Miriam Nesbit. "I have that appalling trigonometry lesson for to-morrow to prepare from beginning to end. I haven't looked at it yet." "I peeped at it yesterday," said Anne. "It's the worst one we've had, so far." "The end is not yet," reminded Grace. "Well it will be in sight before long. Our freshman year is almost over, didn't you know it, children!" queried Miriam laughingly. "It has seemed long in some respects and short in others," reflected Grace. "I think--" Grace paused. A tall, rather stout girl came hurriedly up the walk. She stalked up the steps and into the house without looking to the right or left. Even in that fleeting moment Grace noted that she seemed rather excited and that she carried in her hand an open letter. "I wonder if now would be a good time to tackle her," speculated Grace. Then deciding that, after all, there was nothing to be gained without making a venture, Grace walked resolutely to the door. "I'll see you later, girls," was her only remark as she passed inside. Once outside Elfreda's door, Grace did not feel quite so confident. Summoning all her courage, however, she knocked. An impatient voice called, "Come in," and Grace accepted the rather ungracious invitation to enter. J. Elfreda sat facing the window intent upon the letter Grace had seen in her hand. She turned sharply as the door closed, then catching sight of Grace, sprang to her feet, her face clouded with anger. "How dare you come in here?" she stormed. "You said 'Come in,' Elfreda," returned Grace quietly. "Yes, but not to you," raged Elfreda. "Never to you. Leave my room instantly and don't come back again." "I won't trouble you long," returned Grace. "I came to put you on your guard against two young women who are about to make mischief for you. I am very sorry I did not tell you long ago that Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton were the originators of the anonymous letter which caused you so much unhappiness. I suspected as much at the time, and accused them of writing it. They neither affirmed nor denied their part in the affair, although they admitted that certain members of the sophomore class wrote the letter. I threatened to take up the matter with the sophomore class if the two young women persisted in making you unhappy, and this threat evidently influenced them to drop their crusade against you. "To a certain extent I feel responsible for what has followed, for if I had told you this before you would hardly have afterward become friendly with them. However, I can do this much. From a conversation I overheard the other day I am convinced that Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton intend to play a practical joke on you on Friday night. I am afraid that it will not be of the tame variety either, and may cause you trouble. These two girls do not like you, Elfreda, and they have not forgiven you nor never will." "You are awfully anxious to make me think that no one but you and your friends ever liked me, aren't you?" sneered Elfreda. "Well, just let me tell you something. Those girls may have their faults, but they aren't stingy and selfish, at all events. This letter here is an invitation to----, well, I shan't tell you what it is, but it's far from being a practical joke, I can assure you." Grace looked doubtfully at Elfreda, who stood very erect, her head held high with offended dignity. Perhaps, after all, she had been too hasty. Perhaps the two sophomores really intended playing some harmless trick. Then the words, "We are not going to bother with J. Elfreda much longer," returned with a force that left Grace no longer in uncertainty. "Elfreda," she said earnestly, "I wish you would listen to me for once. Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton are not your friends. If you accept their invitation for Friday night you will be sorry. Take my advice, and steer clear of them." "Please mind your own business and get out of my room," commanded Elfreda fiercely. Casting one steady, reproachful look at the angry girl, Grace left the room in silence. Once outside her own door she clenched her hands and fought back her rising emotion. Tears of humiliation stood in her gray eyes, then winking them back bravely, she drew a long breath and opened her door. Anne, who in the meantime had come upstairs, turned expectantly. "What luck?" she questioned. "None," returned Grace shortly. "She ordered me out of her room." At this juncture Miriam Nesbit joined them. "What's the latest on the bulletin board?" she inquired, smiling mischievously. "Don't laugh, Miriam," rebuked Grace. "Things are serious. Elfreda has some sort of engagement for Friday night with those two girls. She almost told me what it was, then changed her mind and invited me to mind my own business and leave her room. I'm going to try to find out something about Friday night and see that she gets fair play. After that I shall never trouble myself about her," concluded Grace, her voice trembling slightly. "Don't feel so hurt at Elfreda's rudeness, Grace," soothed Miriam. "She doesn't mean half she says. She'll be sorry some day." "I wish 'some day' was before Friday," replied Grace mournfully. "I wonder who else is to take part in this affair?" "Watch Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton," advised Anne quietly. "That's sound advice," agreed Grace. "I appoint you and Miriam as secret service agents. You must unearth the enemy's plans for Friday night." "What will you do if we should happen to stumble upon them?" asked Miriam curiously. "I don't know, yet," said Grace slowly. "It will depend entirely on what they are. Since we can't prevent Elfreda from going to her fate, we may be obliged to go along with her. If I were to ask you girls to drop everything and follow me on Friday night, would you do it?" Anne and Miriam nodded. "Then that's settled," was her relieved comment. "I am going to take two other girls into our confidence. I shall tell Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton. They will come to the rescue if I need them. Besides they are juniors, and if I am not mistaken, upper class support may be very desirable before we are through with this affair." "And all this anxiety over J. Elfreda," smiled Miriam. "But to tell you the truth, girls, I shall be only too glad to fare forth in the cause of Elfreda. I thought her a terrible cross when she first came, but now I am positively lonesome without her, and I don't care how soon she comes back." CHAPTER XXII TURNING THE TABLES For the next two days the three girls bent their efforts toward discovering the plot on foot against Elfreda, but to little purpose. So far, Grace had refrained from imparting her vague knowledge of what impended to Mabel and Frances. Her naturally self-reliant nature would not allow her to depend on others. She preferred to solve her own problems and fight her own battles if necessary. Whatever the two sophomores had planned was a secret indeed. By neither word nor sign did they betray themselves, and by Thursday evening Grace was beginning to show signs of anxiety. "I haven't been able to find out a thing," she declared dispiritedly to Anne. "I suspect one other girl, but I'm not sure about her. Anne, do you think Virginia Gaines is in this affair, too?" "Hardly," replied Anne. "She and Elfreda are not friendly, and Elfreda could not be coaxed to go where she is likely to see Miss Gaines." "But suppose Virginia Gaines kept strictly in the background, yet helped to play the trick," persisted Grace. "Of course she could easily do that," admitted Anne. "But what makes you think she would?" "Just this," replied Grace. "I saw her in conversation to-day with Mary Hampton. They were standing outside Science Hall. They didn't see me until I was within a few feet of them. Then they said good-bye in a hurry, and rushed off in opposite directions. Now, what would you naturally infer from that?" "It does look suspicious," agreed Anne. "That is what causes me to believe Virginia Gaines to be one of the prime movers in this affair," was the quiet answer. "They are all very clever. Too clever, by far, for me." A knock at the door caused Grace to start slightly. "Come in!" she called, then exclaimed in surprise as the door opened: "Why, Miriam, where did you go? You disappeared the moment dinner was over." "I had to go to the library," replied Miriam quickly. "Do you know whether the girls on both sides of us are out?" Grace nodded. "What's the matter, Miriam?" she asked curiously. "What has happened? You look as mysterious as the Three Fates themselves." "I've made a discovery," announced Miriam, taking a book from under her arm and opening it. "I found something in this book that you ought to see. I was in one of the alcoves to-night looking for a book that I have been trying to lay hands on for a week. It has been out every time. To-night I found it and inside the leaves I found this." She handed Grace a folded paper. Grace unfolded it wonderingly and began to read aloud: "Dear Virginia: "We decided that the haunted house plan would be quite likely to subdue a certain obstreperous individual. We have already invited her to a moonlight party at Hunter's Rock, as you know. Once she is there we will see to the rest. Sorry you can't be with us, but that would give the whole plan away. A little meditation in spookland will do our friend good, and this time if she is wise she will keep her troubles to herself. Of course, if any one should see her going home in the wee small hours of the morning it might be unpleasant for her, but then, we can't trouble ourselves over that. "Yours, hastily, "Bert." Grace stared first at Anne, then Miriam, in incredulous, shocked surprise. "What a cruel girl!" she exclaimed. "Poor Elfreda!" "Of course, the writer meant Elfreda," agreed Miriam. "'Bert,' I suppose, stands for Alberta. In the first place, what haunted house does she mean?" "I don't know," answered Grace, knitting her brows. "Wait a minute! I'll go down and ask Mrs. Elwood." Within five minutes she had returned, bristling with information. "I found out the whole story," she declared. "It is an old white house not far from Hunter's Rock. Two brothers once lived there, and one disappeared. It was rumored that he had been killed by his older brother, and that the spirit of the murdered man haunted the place so persistently that the other brother left there and never came back. They say a white figure, carrying a lighted candle, walks moaning through the rooms." "How dreadful!" shivered Anne. "It is bad enough to think of those girls coaxing Elfreda to go there. I believe they intend to persuade her to go there, then leave her, too." "We might show Elfreda this note," reflected Miriam. "No; on second thought I should say we'd better make up a crowd and follow the others to Hunter's Rock. Of course, we won't stay there. Those girls are breaking rules by going there at night. We shall be breaking rules, too, but in a good cause." A long conversation ensued that would have aroused consternation in the breast of a number of sophomores, had they been privileged to hear it. When the last detail had been arranged, Grace leaned back in her chair and smiled. "I think everything will go beautifully," she said, "and several people are going to be surprised. Miriam, will you see Mabel Ashe, Constance Fuller and Frances Marlton in the morning? Anne, will you look out for Arline Thayer and Ruth? That will leave Leona Rowe and Helen Burton for me, and, oh, yes, I'll have a talk with Emma Dean." To all appearances, Friday dawned as prosaically as had all the other days of that week, but in the breasts of a number of the students of Overton stirred an excitement that deepened as the day wore on. As is frequently the case, the object of it all went calmly on her way, taking a smug satisfaction in the thought that she was the only freshman invited to the select gathering of sophomores who were to brave the censure of the dean, and picnic by moonlight at Hunter's Rock. For almost the first time since her arrival at college Elfreda felt her own popularity. Despite her native shrewdness, she was particularly susceptible to flattery. To be the idol of the college had been one of her most secret and hitherto hopeless desires. Now, in the sophomore class she had found girls who really appreciated her, and who were ready to say pleasant things to her rather than lecture her. She was glad, now, that she had dropped Grace and her friends in time, and resolved next year that she would put the width of the campus between herself and Wayne Hall. As she slipped on her long blue serge coat that night--the air was chilly, though the day had been warm--a flush of triumph mounted to her cheeks. Then glancing at the clock she hurriedly adjusted her hat. Her appointment was for half-past seven. Alberta said the party was to be in honor of her and she must not keep her friends waiting. She looked sharply about her to see who was in sight. She had been pledged to secrecy. Alberta had said they would return before half-past ten, so there would be no need of asking Mrs. Elwood to leave the door unlocked for her. Then she walked briskly down the steps and up the street. Fifteen minutes before she left the house, three dark figures had marched out single file down the street. Two blocks from the house they had been met by a delegation of dark figures, and without a word being spoken, the little party had taken a side street that led to Overton Drive, a public highway that wound straight through the town out into the country. The company had proceeded in absolute silence, and finally leaving the road had turned into the fields and plodded steadily on. It was the new of the moon and the landscape was shrouded in heavy shadows. On and still on the silent procession had traveled, and when their eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, had espied the outlines of a tumble-down, one-story house that stood out against the blackness of the night a halt had been made and each dark figure had taken from under her arm a bundle. Then the faint rustle of paper accompanied by an occasional giggle or a smothered exclamation had been heard, and last but most remarkable, the dark figures had given place to a company of sheeted ghosts who had glided over the fields with true ghost-like mien and disappeared in a little grove just off the highway. In the meantime, Elfreda had been received with acclamation by the treacherous sophomores, who vied with each other as to who should be her escort. There were nine girls, and each of them also bore a bundle, which contained not sheets, but the eatables for the picnic. This procession also set out in silence, which was broken as soon as the town was left behind. Alberta, who walked with her arm linked in Elfreda's, began to relate the story of the haunted house. "Do you suppose for one minute that that house is really haunted?" said Elfreda sceptically. "No one knows," was the disquieting reply. "People have seen strange sights there." "What sights?" demanded Elfreda. "They say the murdered brother walks through the house and moans," replied Alberta, shuddering slightly. "That's nonsense," said Elfreda bravely. Nevertheless, the idea was not pleasant to contemplate. "I don't believe in ghosts," she added. "I dare you to go into the room where the man was murdered," laughed Mary Hampton. "I'm not afraid," persisted Elfreda. "Prove it, then," taunted Mary. "All right, I will," retorted Elfreda defiantly. "Show me the room when we get there and I'll go into it." "I don't think we ought to go near that old house at night," protested a sophomore. "We'd get into all sorts of trouble as it is, if the faculty knew we were out." "Now, don't begin preaching," snapped Alberta Wicks. "If you are dissatisfied, go home." "I wish I'd stayed at home," growled the other sophomore wrathfully. While this conversation was being carried on, the party was rapidly nearing the haunted house. They halted directly in front of it, and Mary Hampton said, "Now, Miss Briggs, make good your promise." Elfreda walked boldly up to the house, although she felt her courage oozing rapidly. "I'll go inside with you, and show you the room. It's that little room off the hall," volunteered Alberta. The outside door stood wide open. Elfreda peered fearfully down the little hall, then stepped resolutely into the little room at one side of it. A door slammed. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, a rush of scurrying feet; then silence. Across the field fled the dark figures, nor did they stop until they had crossed the highway and entered the little grove that led to Hunter's Rock. Suddenly a piercing scream rang out. It was followed by a succession of wild cries, and with one accord the terror-stricken conspirators made for the highway. But at every step a white figure rose in the path filling the air with weird, mournful wails. Fright lent speed to sophomore feet, and without daring to look behind, eight badly scared girls ran steadily along the road to Overton, intent only on putting distance between themselves and the terrifying apparitions that had sprung up before them. If they had stopped to deliberate for even five seconds they would, in all probability, have stood their ground, but the silent, ghostly figures that had bobbed up as by magic, coupled with the tale of the haunted house which Alberta had related, was a little too much for even vaunted sophomore courage. A death-like stillness followed the ignominious flight of the plotters. Then from behind a tree stepped a white figure and a cautious voice called softly: "Come on, girls. They have gone. We must hurry and let Elfreda out of that awful house." At this command a ripple of subdued laughter rose from all sides and the ghosts began to appear from their nearby hiding places. "Wasn't it funny?" laughed a tall ghost with the voice of Frances Marlton. "I know several sophomores who will walk softly for the rest of this year at least," predicted another ghost, ending with the giggle that endeared Mabel Ashe to all her friends. "These masks are frightfully warm," complained a diminutive spectre. A quick movement of her hand and the mask was removed, showing the rosy face of Arline Thayer. "Keep your mask on, Arline," warned Gertrude. "Even in this secluded spot some one may be watching you." The party proceeded with as little noise as possible to the haunted house. Pausing at the front door a brief council was held. Then removing their masks and the sheets that enveloped them, Grace and Miriam resolutely entered the hall and went straight to the locked door, behind which Elfreda was a prisoner. The key had been left in the lock. It turned with a grating sound. Slipping her hand in the pocket of her sweater, Grace produced a tiny electric flashlight which she turned on the room. In one corner, seated on the floor, her back against the wall and her feet straight in front of her, sat Elfreda. She eyed the flashing light defiantly, then saw who was behind it and said grimly: "I might have known it. If I had taken your advice I wouldn't be here now." "Oh, Elfreda!" exclaimed Grace. "I'm so glad you are not frightened. It was a cruel trick, but, thank goodness, we found out about it in time." Elfreda rose and walked deliberately up to Grace and Miriam. "I'm sorry for everything," she said huskily. "I've been a ridiculous simpleton, and I don't deserve to have friends. Will you forgive me, girls? I'd like to start all over again." "Of course we will. That was a direct, manly speech, Elfreda," laughed Miriam, but there were tears in her own eyes which no one saw in the darkness. She realized that in spite of her childish behavior she was fond of the stout girl and was glad that peace had been declared. "Let us forget all about it, shake hands and go home," proposed Grace, "or we may find ourselves locked out." The two girls shook hands with Elfreda, and all around again for good luck, then linking an arm in each of hers they conducted the rescued prisoner to where the rest of the party awaited them. During their absence the ghosts had doffed their spectral garments and the instant the three joined them the order to march was given. Once fairly in Overton, conversation was permitted, and on the same corner where they had met, the rescuers parted, after much talk and laughter. "Come into my room and have tea to-night, Elfreda," invited Miriam, as they entered the house. "I have a pound of your favorite cakes." "I'd like to come to stay," said Elfreda wistfully. "But I've been too hateful for you ever to want me for a roommate again." "It's rather late for you to move now," replied Miriam slowly. "But I'd love to have you with me next year." "Would you, honestly?" asked Elfreda, opening her eyes in astonishment. "Honestly," repeated Miriam, smiling. "I'll think about it," returned Elfreda, flushing deeply. "But there is nothing to think about," protested Miriam. "I wouldn't ask you if I did not care for you." "That isn't it," said Elfreda in a low tone. "It isn't you. It's I. Don't you understand? You are letting me off too easily. I don't deserve to have you be so nice to me." "We wish you to forget about what has happened, Elfreda," said Grace earnestly. "Everyone is likely to make mistakes. We are not here to judge, we are here to help one another. That is one of the ways of cultivating true college spirit." "I'll tell you one thing," returned Elfreda, her eyes shining, "whether I cultivate college spirit or not, I'm going to try to cultivate common sense. Then, at least, I'll know enough to treat my best friends civilly." CHAPTER XXIII VIRGINIA CHANGES HER MIND What the vanquished sophomores thought of the trick that had been played on them was a matter for speculation. Once back in Overton, the truth of the situation had dawned upon them. Their common sense told them that real ghosts, if there were any, never congregated in companies the size of the one that had risen to haunt them the previous night. Obviously some one had overheard their plan to picnic at Hunter's Rock and treated them to an unwelcome surprise. It did not occur to any one of them until they had returned to their respective houses that they had left J. Elfreda locked in the haunted abode of the two brothers. Then consternation reigned in each sophomore breast. Directly after chapel the next morning, eight young women were to be seen in an anxious group just outside the chapel. Several freshmen and two or three juniors glanced appraisingly at them, then passed on. "Did you notice the way that Miss Wells looked at me this morning?" muttered Mary Hampton to her satellites. "Never mind a little thing like that," snapped Alberta Wicks. "The question is, where is J. Elfreda? If she is still shut up in that house we might as well go home now instead of waiting to be sent there." "Nonsense, Bert," scoffed one of the sophomores. "You are nervous. We may not be found out." "Found out! J. Elfreda will be raging. She'll go straight to the dean, the minute she is free. Oh, why didn't we think to run back and let her out in spite of those ridiculous white figures?" "What made you lock her in there, then, if you were afraid she'd tell?" asked one of the others rather sarcastically. "Yes, that's what I say!" exclaimed a second. "This affair has been very silly from start to finish. I'm ashamed of myself for having been drawn into it, and in future you may count me out of any more such stunts." "You girls don't understand," declared Alberta Wicks angrily. "We only meant to even an old score with the Briggs person. We were going to call for her on the way home, and tell her that we had evened our score. She wouldn't have breathed it to a soul. She knew that we'd make life miserable for her next year if she did. She wouldn't tell a little thing like that, but to leave her there all night. That really was dreadful. Mary and I are in for it. That's certain." "If I'm not mistaken, there goes Miss Briggs now!" exclaimed a girl who had been idly watching the students as they passed out of the chapel. "Where? Where?" questioned Mary and Alberta together. The sophomore pointed. "Yes; it is J. Elfreda," almost wailed Alberta Wicks. "I'm going straight back to Stuart Hall and pack my trunk. Come on, Mary." "Better wait a little," dryly advised the sophomore who had announced her disapproval of the night's escapade. "You may be sorry if you don't." "Good-bye, girls," said Alberta abruptly. "If I hear anything, I'll report to you at once. Now that J. Elfreda is among us, we'd better steer clear of one another for a while at least." She hurried away, followed by Mary Hampton. "That was my first, and if I get safely out of this, will be my last offense," said another sophomore firmly. "All those who agree with me say 'aye.'" Five "ayes" were spoken simultaneously. In the meantime, Grace was trying vainly to make up her mind what to do. Should she go directly to the two mischievous sophomores, revealing the identity of the ghosts, or should she leave them in a quandary as to the outcome of their unwomanly trick? One thing had been decided upon definitely by Grace and her friends. They would tell no tales. Grace could not help thinking that a little anxiety would be the just due of the plotters, and with this idea in mind determined to do nothing for a time, at least, toward putting them at their ease. But there was one person who had not been asked to remain silent concerning the ghost party, and that person was Elfreda. Grace had forgotten to tell her that the night's happenings were to be kept a secret and when late that afternoon she espied Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton walking in the direction of Stuart Hall she pursued them with the air of an avenger. Before they realized her presence she had begun a furious arraignment of their treachery. "You ought to be sent home for it," she concluded savagely, "and if Grace Harlowe wasn't----" "Grace Harlowe!" exclaimed Alberta, turning pale. "Do you mean to tell me that it was she who planned that ghost party?" "I shall tell you nothing," retorted Elfreda. "I'm sorry I said even that much. I want you to understand, though, that if you ever try to play a trick on me again, I'll see that you are punished for it if I have to go down on my knees to the whole faculty to get them to give you what you deserve. Just remember that, and mind your own business, strictly, from now on." Turning on her heel, the stout girl marched off, leaving the two girls in a state of complete perturbation. "Had we better go and see Miss Harlowe?" asked Mary Hampton, rather unsteadily. "The question is, do we care to come back here next year?" returned Alberta grimly. "I'd like to come back," said Mary in a low voice. "Wouldn't you?" "I don't know," was the perverse answer. "I don't wish to humble myself to any one. I'm going to take a chance on her keeping quiet about last night. I have an idea she is not a telltale. If worse comes to worst, there are other colleges, you know, Mary." "I thought, perhaps, if we were to go to Miss Harlowe, we might straighten out matters and be friends," said Mary rather hesitatingly. "Those girls have nice times together, and they are the cleverest crowd in the freshman class. I'm tired of being at sword's points with people." "Then go over to them, by all means," sneered Alberta. "Don't trouble yourself about your old friends. They don't count." "You know I didn't mean that, Bert," said Mary reproachfully. "I won't go near them if you feel so bitter about last night." It was several minutes before Mary succeeded in conciliating her sulky friend. By that time the tiny sprouts of good fellowship that had vainly tried to poke their heads up into the light had been hopelessly blighted by the chilling reception they met with, and Mary had again been won over to Alberta's side. Saturday evening Arline Thayer entertained the ghost party at Martell's, and Elfreda, to her utter astonishment, was made the guest of honor. During the progress of the dinner, Alberta Wicks, Mary Hampton and two other sophomores dropped in for ice cream. By their furtive glances and earnest conversation it was apparent that they strongly suspected the identity of the avenging specters. Elfreda's presence, too, confirmed their suspicions. In a spirit of pure mischief Mabel Ashe pulled a leaf from her note book. Borrowing a pencil, she made an interesting little sketch of two frightened young women fleeing before a band of sheeted specters. Underneath she wrote: "It is sometimes difficult to lay ghosts. Walk warily if you wish to remain unhaunted." This she sent to Alberta Wicks by the waitress. It was passed from hand to hand, and resulted in four young women leaving Martell's without finishing their ice cream. "You spoiled their taste for ice cream, Mabel," laughed Frances Marlton, glancing at the now vacant table. "I imagine they are shaking in their shoes." "They did not think that the juniors had taken a hand in things," remarked Constance Fuller. "Hardly," laughed Helen Burton. "Did you see their faces when they read that note?" "It's really too bad to frighten them so," said Leona Rowe. "I don't agree with you, Leona," said Mabel Ashe firmly. Her charming face had grown grave. "I think that Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton both ought to be sent home. If you will look back a little you will recollect that these two girls were far from being a credit to their class during their freshman year. I don't like to say unkind things about an Overton girl, but those two young women were distinctly trying freshmen, and as far as I can see haven't imbibed an iota of college spirit. Last night's trick, however, was completely overstepping the bounds. If Miss Briggs had been a timid, nervous girl, matters might have resulted quite differently. Then it would have been our duty to report the mischief makers. I am not sure that we are doing right in withholding what we now know from the faculty, but I am willing to give these girls the benefit of the doubt and remain silent." "That is my opinion of the matter, too," agreed Grace. "It is only a matter of a few days until we shall all have to say good-bye until fall. During vacation certain girls will have plenty of time to think things over, and then they may see matters in an entirely different light. I shouldn't like to think that almost my last act before going home to my mother was to give some girl a dismissal from Overton to take home to hers." A brief silence followed Grace's remark. The little speech about her mother had turned the thoughts of the girls homeward. Suddenly Mabel Ashe rose from her chair. "Here's to our mothers, girls. Let's dedicate our best efforts to them, and resolve never to lessen their pride in us with failures." [Illustration: Over the Tea and Cakes the Clouds Dispersed.] When Elfreda, Miriam, Anne and Grace ran up the steps of Wayne Hall at a little before ten o'clock they were laughing and talking so happily they failed to notice Virginia Gaines, who had been walking directly ahead of them. She had come from Stuart Hall, where, impatient to learn just what had happened the night before, she had gone to see Mary and Alberta. Finding them out she managed to learn the news from the very girl who had declared herself sorry for her part in the escapade. This particular sophomore, now that the reaction had set in, was loud in her denunciation of the trick and congratulated Virginia on not being one of those intimately concerned in it. But Virginia, now conscience-stricken, had little to say. She still lingered in the hall as the quartette entered, but they passed her on their way upstairs without speaking and she finally went to her room wishing, regretfully, that she had been less ready to quarrel with the girls who bade fair to lead their class both in scholarship and popularity. It was fully a week afterward when a thoroughly humbled and repentant Virginia, after making sure that Anne was out, knocked one afternoon at Grace's door. "How do you do, Miss Gaines," said Grace civilly, but without warmth. "Won't you come in?" Virginia entered, but refused the chair Grace offered her. "No, thank you, I'll stand," she replied. Then in a halting fashion she said: "Miss Harlowe, I--am--awfully sorry for--for being so hateful all this year." She stopped, biting her lip, which quivered suspiciously. Grace stared at her caller in amazement. Could it be possible that insolent Virginia Gaines was meekly apologizing to her. Then, thoughtful of the other girl's feelings, she smiled and stretched out her hand: "Don't say anything further about it, Miss Gaines. I hope we shall be friends. One can't have too many, you know, and college is the best place in the world for us to find ourselves. Come in to-night and have tea and cakes with us after lessons. That is the highest proof of hospitality I can offer at present." "I will," promised Virginia. Then impulsively she caught one of Grace's hands in hers. "You're the dearest girl," she said, "and I'll try to be worthy of your friendship. Please tell the girls I'm sorry. I'll tell them myself to-night." With that she fairly ran from the room, and going to her own shed tears of real contrition. Later, it took all Grace's reasoning powers to put Elfreda in a state of mind that verged even slightly on charitable, but after much coaxing she promised to behave with becoming graciousness toward Virginia. Over the tea and cakes the clouds gradually dispersed, and when Virginia went to her room that night, after declaring that she had had a perfectly lovely time, Grace took from her writing case the note that Miriam had found, and tore it into small pieces. She needed no evidence against Virginia. CHAPTER XXIV SAYING GOOD-BYE TO THEIR FRESHMAN YEAR The few intervening days that lay between commencement and home were filled with plenty of pleasant excitement. There were calls to make, farewell spreads and merry-makings to attend, and momentous questions concerning what to leave behind and what to take home to be decided. The majority of the girls at Wayne Hall had asked for their old rooms for the next year. Two sophomores had succeeded in getting into Wellington House. One poor little freshman, having studied too hard, had brought on a nervous affection and was obliged to give up her course at Overton for a year at least. There was also one other sophomore whose mother was coming to the town of Overton to live and keep house for her daughter in a bungalow not far from the college. It now lacked only two days until the end of the spring term, and what to pack and when to pack it were the burning questions of the hour. "There will be room for four more freshmen here next year," remarked Grace, as she appeared from her closet, her arms piled high with skirts and gowns. Depositing them on the floor, she dropped wearily into a chair. "I don't believe I can ever make all those things go into that trunk. I have all my clothes that I brought here last fall, and another lot that I brought back at Christmas, and still some others that I acquired at Easter. If I had had a particle of forethought I would have taken home a few things each trip. Don't dare to leave the house until this trunk is packed, Anne, for I shall need you to help me sit on it. If our combined weight isn't enough, we'll invite Elfreda and Miriam in to the sitting. I am perfectly willing to perform the same kind offices for them. Oh, dear, I hate to begin. I'm wild to go home, but I can't help feeling sad to think my freshman joys are over. It seems to me that the two most important years in college are one's freshman and senior years. "Being a freshman is like beginning a garden. One plants what one considers the best seeds, and when the little green shoots come up, it's terribly hard to make them live at all. It is only by constant care that they are made to thrive and all sorts of storms are likely to rise out of a clear sky and blight them. Some of the seeds one thought would surely grow the fastest are total disappointments, while others that one just planted to fill in, fairly astonish one by their growth, but if at the end of the freshman year the garden looks green and well cared for, it's safe to say it will keep on growing through the sophomore and junior years and bloom at the end of four years. That's the peculiarity about college gardens. One has to begin to plant the very first day of the freshman year to be sure of flowers when the four years are over. "In the sophomore year the hardest task is keeping the weeds out, and during the junior and senior years the difficulty will be to keep the ground in the highest state of cultivation. It will be easier to neglect one's garden, then, because one will have grown so used to the things one has planted that one will forget to tend them and put off stirring up the soil around them and watering them. I'm going to think a little each day while I'm home this summer about my garden and keep it fresh and green." Grace laid the gown she had been folding in the trunk and looked earnestly at Anne as she finished her long speech. "What a nice idea!" exclaimed Anne warmly. "I think I shall have to begin gardening, too." "Your garden has always been in a flourishing condition from the first," laughed Grace. "The chief trouble with mine seems to be the number of strange weeds that spring up--nettles that I never planted, but that sting just as sharply, nevertheless. It hurts me to go home with the knowledge that there are two girls here who don't like me. I know I ought not to care, for I have nothing to regret as far as my own conduct is concerned, but still I'd like to leave Overton for the summer without one shadow in my path." "Perhaps, when certain girls come back in the fall they will be on their good behavior." "Perhaps," repeated Grace sceptically. The entrance into the room of Elfreda and Miriam, who had been out shopping, brought the little heart talk to an abrupt close. "We've a new kind of cakes," exulted Miriam. "They are three stories high and each story is a different color. They have icing half an inch thick and an English walnut on top. All for the small sum of five cents, too." "We bought a dozen," declared Elfreda, "and now I'm going out to buy ice cream. This packing business calls for plenty of refreshment to keep one's energy up to the mark. I've thought of a lovely plan to lighten my labors." "What is it?" asked Grace. "Your plans are always startlingly original if not very practical." "This is practical," announced the stout girl. "I'm going to give away my clothes; that is, the most of them. I found a poor woman the other day who does scrubbing for the college who needs them. I found out where she lives and I'm going to bundle them all together and send them to her. I don't wish her to know where they came from. I'll just write a card, and--" The three broadly smiling faces of her friends caused her to stop short and regard them suspiciously. "What's the matter?" she said in an offended tone. Grace ran over and slipped her arm about the stout girl's shoulders. "You are the one who sent Ruth her lovely clothes last Christmas. Don't try to deny it. I was sure of it then." "Oh, see here," expostulated Elfreda, jerking herself away, her face crimson. "I--you--" "Confess," threatened Miriam, seizing the little brass tea kettle and brandishing it over Elfreda's head. "I won't," defied Elfreda, laughing a little in spite of her efforts to appear offended. "One, two," counted Miriam, grasping the kettle firmly. "All right, I did," confessed Elfreda nonchalantly. "What are you going to do about it?" "Present you with your Christmas gifts now," smiled Miriam. "You wouldn't look at us last Christmas, so we've been saving our gifts ever since. Wait a minute, girls, until I go for mine." As she darted from the room, Grace said softly: "We hoped that you would understand about Thanksgiving and that everything would be all right by Christmas, so we planned our little remembrances for you just the same. Then, when--when we didn't see you before going home for the holidays, Anne suggested that we put them away, because we all hoped that you'd be friends with us again some day." Rummaging in the tray of her trunk she produced a long, flat package which she offered to Elfreda. Anne, who, at Grace's first words, had stepped to the chiffonier, took out a beribboned bundle, and stood holding it toward the stout girl. Another moment and Miriam had returned bearing her offering. "I wish you a merry June," declared Miriam with an infectious giggle that was echoed by the others. Then Elfreda opened the package from Miriam, which contained a Japanese silk kimono similar to one of her own that her roommate had greatly admired. Grace's package contained a pair of long white gloves, and Anne had remembered her with a book she had once heard the stout girl express a desire to own. "You had no business to do it," muttered Elfreda. Then gathering up her presents she made a dash for the door and with a muffled, "I'll be back soon," was gone. It was several minutes before she reappeared with red eyes, but smiling lips. Then a long talk ensued, during which time the art of trunk-packing languished. It was renewed with vigor that evening and continued spasmodically for the next two days. In the campus houses the real packing dragged along in most instances until within two hours of the time when the trunks were to be called for. Then a wholesale scramble began, to make up for lost minutes. One of the most frequent and painful sights during those last two days was that of a wrathful expressman, glaring in impotent rage while an enterprising damsel opened her trunk on the front porch to take out or put in one or several of her various possessions which, until that moment, had been completely forgotten. The night before leaving Overton the four girls paid a visit to Ruth Denton. The plucky little freshman had refused an invitation to spend the summer with Arline Thayer, but had accepted a position in Overton with a dress-maker. The last two weeks of her vacation she had promised to spend with Arline at the sea-shore. Their last morning at Overton dawned fair and sunshiny. Grace, who had risen early, stood at the window, looking out at the glory of the sparkling June day. The campus was a vast green velvet carpet and the pale green of the trees had not yet changed to that darker, dustier shade that belongs only to summer. Back among the trees Overton Hall rose gray and majestic. Grace's heart swelled with pride as she gazed at the stately old building surrounded by its silent, leafy guard. "Overton, my Alma Mater," she said softly. "May I be always worthy to be your child." "What are you mooning over?" asked Anne, who had slipped into her kimono and joined Grace at the window. "I'm rhapsodizing," smiled Grace, her eyes very bright. "I love Overton, don't you, Anne?" Anne nodded. "I'm glad we didn't go to Wellesley or Vassar, or even Smith. I'd rather be here." "So would I," sighed Grace. "Next to home there is no place like Overton. I almost wish I were coming back here next fall as a freshman." "But it's against the law of progress to wish one's self back," smiled Anne, "and being a sophomore surely has its rainbow side." "And it rests with us to find it," replied Grace softly, placing her hand on her friend's shoulder. A little later, laden with bags and suit cases, the three Oakdale girls, accompanied by Elfreda, walked out of Wayne Hall as freshmen for the last time. "When next we see this house it will be as sophomores," observed Elfreda. "I'm glad we are all going home on the same train. Do you remember the day I met you? I thought I owned the earth then. But I have found out that there are other people to consider besides myself. That is what being a freshman at Overton has taught me." "That's a very good thing for all of us to remember," remarked Grace. "I'm going to try to practise it next year." "You won't have to try very hard," returned Elfreda dryly. "How much time have we?" "Almost an hour," replied Miriam, looking at her watch. "Then we've time to stop at Vinton's for a farewell sundae. It's our last freshman treat. Come on, everybody," invited the stout girl. "No more sundaes here until next fall," lamented Miriam, as they sat waiting for their order. "I shall miss Vinton's. There is nothing in Oakdale quite like it." "And I shall miss you girls," declared Elfreda bluntly. "Why don't you pay us a visit, then?" suggested Miriam. "We expect to be at home part of the time this summer." "Perhaps I will," reflected Elfreda. "But you must write to me at any rate." At the station groups of happy-faced girls stood waiting for the train. "We are going to have plenty of company," observed Anne. "Do you remember how forlorn we felt when we were cast away on this station platform last fall? We won't feel so strange next September." "We shall feel very important instead," laughed Miriam. "It will be our turn to escort bewildered freshmen to their boarding places." "Yes, and we'll see that they don't stray, too," retorted Elfreda grimly. "Or mistake the Register for the registrar," smiled Grace. What befell Grace and her friends during their sophomore year is set forth fully in "Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College." How they lived up to their girlish ideals, finding the "rainbow side" of their sophomore year, is a story that no admirer of Grace Harlowe can afford to miss. The End * * * * * HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY'S CATALOGUE OF The Best and Least Expensive Books for Real Boys and Girls * * * * * Really good and new stories for boys and girls are not plentiful. Many stories, too, are so highly improbable as to bring a grin of derision to the young reader's face before he has gone far. The name of ALTEMUS is a distinctive brand on the cover of a book, always ensuring the buyer of having a book that is up-to-date and fine throughout. No buyer of an ALTEMUS book is ever disappointed. Many are the claims made as to the inexpensiveness of books. Go into any bookstore and ask for an Altemus book. Compare the price charged you for Altemus books with the price demanded for other juvenile books. You will at once discover that a given outlay of money will buy more of the ALTEMUS books than of those published by other houses. Every dealer in books carries the ALTEMUS books. * * * * * Sold by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price Henry Altemus Company 507-513 Cherry Street, Philadelphia * * * * * The Motor Boat Club Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The keynote of these books is manliness. The stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. No boy will willingly lay down an unfinished book in this series. 1 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC; Or, The Secret of Smugglers' Island. 2 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET; Or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir. 3 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND; Or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed. 4 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS; Or, The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise. 5 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA; Or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp. 6 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT THE GOLDEN GATE; Or, A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog. 7 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB ON THE GREAT LAKES; Or, The Flying Dutchman of the Big Fresh Water. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Range and Grange Hustlers By FRANK GEE PATCHIN Have you any idea of the excitements, the glories of life on great ranches in the West? Any bright boy will "devour" the books of this series, once he has made a start with the first volume. 1 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE RANCH; Or, The Boy Shepherds of the Great Divide. 2 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS' GREATEST ROUND-UP; Or, Pitting Their Wits Against a Packers' Combine. 3 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE PLAINS; Or, Following the Steam Plows Across the Prairie. 4 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS AT CHICAGO; Or, The Conspiracy of the Wheat Pit. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Submarine Boys Series By VICTOR G. DURHAM These splendid books for boys and girls deal with life aboard submarine torpedo boats, and with the adventures of the young crew, and possess, in addition to the author's surpassing knack of story-telling, a great educational value for all young readers. 1 THE SUBMARINE BOYS ON DUTY; Or, Life on a Diving Torpedo Boat. 2 THE SUBMARINE BOYS' TRIAL TRIP; Or, "Making Good" as Young Experts. 3 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE MIDDIES; Or, The Prize Detail at Annapolis. 4 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SPIES; Or, Dodging the Sharks of the Deep. 5 THE SUBMARINE BOYS' LIGHTNING CRUISE; Or, The Young Kings of the Deep. 6 THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG; Or, Deeding Their Lives to Uncle Sam. 7 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SMUGGLERS; Or, Breaking Up the New Jersey Customs Frauds. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Square Dollar Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The reading boy will be a voter within a few years; these books are bound to make him think, and when he casts his vote he will do it more intelligently for having read these volumes. 1 THE SQUARE DOLLAR BOYS WAKE UP; Or, Fighting the Trolley Franchise Steal. 2 THE SQUARE DOLLAR BOYS SMASH THE RING; Or, In the Lists Against the Crooked Land Deal. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Ben Lightbody Series By WALTER BENHAM 1 BEN LIGHTBODY, SPECIAL; Or, Seizing His First Chance to Make Good. 2 BEN LIGHTBODY'S BIGGEST PUZZLE; Or, Running the Double Ghost to Earth. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Pony Rider Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These tales may be aptly described as those of a new Cooper. In every sense they belong to the best class of books for boys and girls. 1 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ROCKIES; Or, The Secret of the Lost Claim. 2 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN TEXAS; Or, The Veiled Riddle of the Plains. 3 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA; Or, The Mystery of the Old Custer Trail. 4 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS; Or, The Secret of Ruby Mountain. 5 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI; Or, Finding a Key to the Desert Maze. 6 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN NEW MEXICO; Or, The End of the Silver Trail. 7 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, The Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Boys of Steel Series By JAMES R. MEARS The author has made of these volumes a series of romances with scenes laid in the iron and steel world. Each book presents a vivid picture of some phase of this great industry. The information given is exact and truthful; above all, each story is full of adventure and fascination. 1 THE IRON BOYS IN THE MINES; Or, Starting at the Bottom of the Shaft. 2 THE IRON BOYS AS FOREMEN; Or, Heading the Diamond Drill Shift. 3 THE IRON BOYS ON THE ORE BOATS; Or, Roughing It on the Great Lakes. 4 THE IRON BOYS IN THE STEEL MILLS; Or, Beginning Anew in the Cinder Pits. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * West Point Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The principal characters in these narratives are manly, young Americans whose doings will inspire all boy readers. 1 DICK PRESCOTT'S FIRST YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray. 2 DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life. 3 DICK PRESCOTT'S THIRD YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Standing Firm for Flag and Honor. 4 DICK PRESCOTT'S FOURTH YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Ready to Drop the Gray for Shoulder Straps. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Annapolis Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The Spirit of the new Navy is delightfully and truthfully depicted in these volumes. 1 DAVE DARRIN'S FIRST YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Plebe Midshipmen at the U. S. Naval Academy. 2 DAVE DARRIN'S SECOND YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Midshipmen as Naval Academy "Youngsters." 3 DAVE DARRIN'S THIRD YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Leaders of the Second Class Midshipmen. 4 DAVE DARRIN'S FOURTH YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Headed for Graduation and the Big Cruise. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Young Engineers Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The heroes of these stories are known to readers of the High School Boys Series. In this new series Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton prove worthy of all the traditions of Dick & Co. 1 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN COLORADO; Or, At Railroad Building in Earnest. 2 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA; Or, Laying Tracks on the "Man-Killer" Quicksand. 3 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN NEVADA; Or, Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick. 4 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN MEXICO; Or, Fighting the Mine Swindlers. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Boys of the Army Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK These books breathe the life and spirit of the United States Army of to-day, and the life, just as it is, is described by a master pen. 1 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE RANKS; Or, Two Recruits in the United States Army. 2 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS ON FIELD DUTY; Or, Winning Corporal's Chevrons. 3 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS SERGEANTS; Or, Handling Their First Real Commands. 4 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE PHILIPPINES; Or, Following the Flag Against the Moros. (Other volumes to follow rapidly.) Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Battleship Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These stories throb with the life of young Americans on to-day's huge drab Dreadnaughts. 1 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS AT SEA; Or, Two Apprentices in Uncle Sam's Navy. 2 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS FIRST STEP UPWARD; Or, Winning Their Grades as Petty Officers. 3 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN FOREIGN SERVICE; Or, Earning New Ratings in European Seas. 4 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE TROPICS; Or, Upholding the American Flag in a Honduras Revolution. (Other volumes to follow rapidly.) Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Meadow-Brook Girls Series By JANET ALDRIDGE Real life stories pulsing with the vibrant atmosphere of outdoor life. 1 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS UNDER CANVAS; Or, Fun and Frolic in the Summer Camp. 2 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY; Or, The Young Pathfinders on a Summer Hike. 3 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS AFLOAT; Or, The Stormy Cruise of the Red Rover. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * High School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK In this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. Boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. 1 THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Grammar School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK This series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar school boys, comes near to the heart of the average American boy. 1 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS OF GRIDLEY; Or, Dick & Co. Start Things Moving. 2 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SNOWBOUND; Or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports. 3 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN THE WOODS; Or, Dick & Co. Trail Fun and Knowledge. 4 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER ATHLETICS; Or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * High School Boys' Vacation Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK "Give us more Dick Prescott books!" This has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. Almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, and the other members of Dick & Co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. Boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. 1 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB; Or, Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE; Or, Dick & Co. Making Themselves "Hard as Nails." Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Circus Boys Series By EDGAR B. P. DARLINGTON Mr. Darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life. 1 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Making the Start in the Sawdust Life. 2 THE CIRCUS BOYS ACROSS THE CONTINENT; Or, Winning New Laurels on the Tanbark. 3 THE CIRCUS BOYS IN DIXIE LAND; Or, Winning the Plaudits of the Sunny South. 4 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI; Or, Afloat with the Big Show on the Big River. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The High School Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. These breezy stories of the American High School Girl take the reader fairly by storm. 1 GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshman Girls. 2 GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics. 3 GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, Fast Friends in the Sororities. 4 GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Parting of the Ways. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Automobile Girls Series By LAURA DENT CRANE No girl's library--no family book-case can be considered at all complete unless it contains these sparkling twentieth-century books. 1 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT NEWPORT; Or, Watching the Summer Parade. 2 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES; Or, The Ghost of Lost Man's Trail. 3 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow. 4 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT CHICAGO; Or, Winning Out Against Heavy Odds. 5 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT PALM BEACH; Or, Proving Their Mettle Under Southern Skies. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. 
20473	----	Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. Author of The Grace Harlowe High School Girls Series, Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College, Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College, Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College. PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY Copyright, 1914 [Illustration: The Eight Originals Were Spending a Last Evening Together.] CONTENTS I. The Last Evening at Home II. The Arrival of Kathleen III. First Impressions IV. Getting Acquainted with the Newspaper Girl V. Two Is a Company VI. An Unsuspected Listener VII. An Unpleasant Summons VIII. Elfreda Prophecies Trouble IX. Opening the Bazaar X. The Alice in Wonderland Circus XI. Grace Meets With a Rebuff XII. Thanksgiving at Overton XIII. Arline Makes the Best of a Bad Matter XIV. Planning the Christmas Dinner XV. A Tissue Paper Tea XVI. A Doubtful Victory XVII. Hippy Looks Mysterious XVIII. Old Jean's Story XIX. Telling Ruth the News XX. Elfreda Realizes Her Ambition XXI. Alberta Keeps Her Promise XXII. Grace's Plan XXIII. What Emma Dean Forgot XXIV. Conclusion LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Eight Originals Were Spending a Last Evening Together. The Emerson Twins Looked Realistically Japanese. "Here is the Letter You Wrote the Dean." "She was Standing Close to the Door." Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College CHAPTER I THE LAST EVENING AT HOME "Now, then, everyone join in the chorus," commanded Hippy Wingate. There was an answering tinkle from Reddy's mandolin, the deeper notes of a guitar sounded, then eight care-free young voices were raised in the plaintive chorus of "My Old Kentucky Home." It was a warm night in September. Miriam Nesbit and seven of the Eight Originals were spending a last evening together on the Harlowes' hospitable veranda. They were on the eve of separation. The following day would witness Nora's and Jessica's departure for the conservatory. Grace and Miriam would return to Overton at the beginning of the next week, and the latter part of the same week would find the four young men entered upon their senior year in college. "Very fine, indeed," commented Hippy, "but in order to sing properly one ought to drink a great deal of lemonade. It is very conducive to a grand opera voice," he added, confiscating several cakes from the plate Grace passed to him and holding out his empty lemonade glass. "But you haven't a grand opera voice," protested David. "That is only a flimsy excuse." "We won't discuss the matter in detail," returned Hippy with dignity. "I am prepared to prove the truth of what I say. I will now render a selection from 'Il Trovatore.' I will sing the imprisoned lover's song--" "Not if I have anything to say about it," growled Reddy. "Suit yourself, suit yourself," declared Hippy, shrugging his shoulders. "You boys will be sorry if you don't let me sing, though." "Is that a threat?" inquired Tom Gray with pretended belligerence. "A threat?" repeated Hippy. "No, it is a fact. I am contemplating a terrible revenge. That is, I haven't really begun to contemplate it yet. I am just getting ready. But when I do start--well, you'll see." "I think it would be delightful to hear you sing, 'Ah, I Have Sighed to Rest Me,' Hippy," broke in Nora sweetly, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Can I believe my ears? The stony, unsympathetic Nora O'Malley agrees with me at last. She likes my voice; she wishes to hear me sing, 'Ah, I Have Sighed to Rest Me.' 'Tis true, I _have_ sighed to rest me a great many times, particularly in the morning when the alarm clock put an end to my dreams. It is a beautiful selection." "Then, why not sing it?" asked Nora demurely. "Because I don't know it," replied Hippy promptly. "Just as I suspected," commented Nora in disgust. "That is precisely why I asked you to sing." "What made you suspect me?" inquired Hippy, apparently impressed. "I suspected you on general principles," was the retort. "If you had had any general principles you wouldn't have suspected me," parried Hippy. "I won't even think about you the next time," was the withering reply. Nora rose and made her way to the other end of the veranda, perching on the porch railing beside Tom Gray. "Come back, Nora," wailed Hippy. "You may suspect me." "Isn't he too ridiculous for anything?" whispered Nora, smothering a giggle and trying to look severe. Her attempt failed ignominiously when Hippy, with an exaggeratedly contrite expression on his fat face, sidled up to her, salaamed profoundly, lost his balance and sprawled on all fours at her feet. A shout of merriment arose from his friends. Hippy, unabashed, scrambled to his feet and began bowing again before Nora, this time taking care not to bend too far forward. "You are forgiven, Hippy," declared Miriam. "Nora, don't allow your old friend and playmate to dislocate his spine in his efforts to show his sorrow." "You may stop bowing," said Nora grudgingly. "I suppose I'll have to forgive you." Hippy promptly straightened up and perched himself on the railing beside Nora. "I didn't say you might sit here," teased Nora. "I know it," replied Hippy coolly. "Still, you would be deeply, bitterly disappointed if I didn't." "Perhaps I should," admitted Nora. "I suppose you might as well stay," she added with affected carelessness. "Thank you," retorted Hippy. "But I had made up my mind not to move." "Had you?" said Nora indifferently, turning her back on Hippy and addressing Tom Gray. Whereupon Hippy raised his voice in a loud monologue that entirely drowned Tom's and Nora's voices. "For goodness' sake, say something that will please him, Nora," begged Tom. "This is awful." Hippy babbled on, apparently oblivious of everyone. "I have something very important to tell you, Hippy," interposed Nora slyly. Hippy stopped talking. "What is it?" he asked suspiciously. "Come over to the other end of the veranda and find out," said Nora enigmatically. Hippy accepted the invitation promptly, and followed Nora to the end of the veranda, unmindful of Tom Gray's jeers about idle curiosity. Those who read "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School" and "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School" will have no trouble in recognizing every member of the merry party of young folks who had taken possession of the Harlowes' veranda. The doings of Tom, Hippy, David, Reddy, Nora, Jessica, Anne and Grace have been fully narrated in the "High School Girls Series." There, too, appeared Miriam Nesbit, Eva Allen, Eleanor Savelli and Marian Barber, together with the four chums, as members of the famous sorority, the Phi Sigma Tau. With the close of their high school days the little clan had been separated, although David, Reddy and Hippy were on the eve of beginning their senior year in the same college. Nora and Jessica were attending the same conservatory, while Grace, Anne and Miriam Nesbit were students at Overton College. During their freshman year at Overton, set forth in "Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College," the three girls had not met with altogether plain sailing. There had been numerous hitches, the most serious one having been caused by their championship of J. Elfreda Briggs, a freshman, who had unfortunately incurred the dislike of several mischievous sophomores. Through the prompt, sensible action of Grace, assisted by her friends, Elfreda was restored to favor by her class and became one of Grace's staunchest friends. "Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College" found the three friends sophomores, and wholly devoted to Overton and its traditions. Their sophomore days brought them a variety of experiences, pleasant and unpleasant, and, as in their freshman year, Grace and Miriam distinguished themselves on the basketball field. It was during this year that the Semper Fidelis Club was organized for the purpose of helping needy students through college, and that Eleanor Savelli, the daughter of a world-renowned virtuoso, and one of the Phi Sigma Tau, visited Grace and helped to plan a concert which netted the club two hundred dollars and a substantial yearly subscription from an interested outsider. The difficulties that arose over a lost theme and the final outcome of the affair proved Grace Harlowe to be the same honorable, straightforward young woman who had endeared herself to the reader during her high school days. "Why doesn't some one sing?" asked Grace plaintively. A brief silence had fallen upon the little group at one end of the veranda, broken only by Nora's and Hippy's argumentative voices. "Because both the someones are too busy to sing," laughed Jessica, casting a significant glance toward the end of the veranda. "Hippy, Nora," called David, "come over here and sing." "'Sing, sing, what shall I sing?'" chanted Hippy. "Shall it be a sweetly sentimental ditty, or shall I sing of brooks and meadows, fields and flowers?" "Sing that funny one you sang for the fellows the night of the Pi Ipsilon dinner," urged David. "Very well," beamed Hippy. "Remember, to the singer belongs the food. I always negotiate for refreshments before lifting up my voice in song." "I will see that you are taken care of, Hippy," smiled Mrs. Harlowe, who had come out on the veranda in time to hear Hippy's declaration. "Hello, Mother dear," called Grace, "I didn't know you were there." The young people were on their feet in an instant. Grace led her mother to a chair. "Stay with us awhile, Mother," she said. "Hippy is going to sing, and Nora, too." "Then I shall surely stay," replied Mrs. Harlowe. "And after the songs you must come into the house and be my guests. The table is set for seven." "How nice in you, Mother!" exclaimed Grace, kissing her mother's cheek. "You are always doing the things that make people happy. Nora and Hippy, please sing your very best for Mother. You first, Hippy, because I want Nora to sing Tosti's 'Serenata,' and a comic song afterward will completely spoil the effect." Hippy sang two songs in his own inimitable fashion. Then Nora's sweet, high soprano voice began the "Serenata" to the subdued tinkling accompaniment of Reddy's mandolin. Two years in the conservatory had done much for Nora's voice, though its plaintive sweetness had been her natural heritage. As they listened to the clear, rounded tones, with just a suspicion of sadness in them, the little company realized to a person that Nora's hopes of becoming known in the concert or grand opera world were quite likely to be fulfilled. "How I wish Anne were here to-night," lamented Grace, after having vigorously applauded Nora's song. "She loves to hear you sing, Nora." "I know it," sighed Nora. "Dear little Anne! I'm so sorry we can't see her before we go back to the conservatory. While we have been sitting here singing and enjoying ourselves, Anne has been appearing in her farewell performance. I am glad we had a chance to visit her this summer, even though we had to cross the state to do it." "She will be here to-morrow night, but we shall be at the end of our journey by that time," lamented Jessica. "I wish we might stay and see her, but we can't." "Never mind, you will meet her at Christmas time, when the Eight Originals gather home," comforted Miriam. "But we'd like to see her now," interposed David mournfully. "What is Oakdale without Anne?" At that moment Mrs. Harlowe, who, after Nora's song, had excused herself and gone into the house, appeared in the door. "Come, children," she smiled, "the feast is spread." "May I escort you to the table?" asked David gravely, offering her his arm. Heading the little procession, they led the way to the dining room, followed by Reddy and Jessica, Hippy and Nora, Grace, Tom and Miriam. There for the next hour goodfellowship reigned supreme, and when at last the various members of the little clan departed for home, each one carried in his or her heart the conviction that Life could never offer anything more desirable than these happy evenings which they had spent together. "I can't tell you how much I missed Anne to-night," said Grace to her mother as, arm in arm, they stood on the veranda watching their guests until they had turned the corner of the next street. "We all missed her," replied her mother, "but I believe David felt her absence even more keenly than we did. He is very fond of Anne. I wonder if she realizes that he really loves her, and that he will some day tell her so? She is such a quiet, self-contained little girl. Her emotions are all kept for her work." "I believe she does," said Grace. "She has never spoken of it to me. David has been her faithful knight ever since her freshman year at high school, so she ought to have a faint inkling of what the rest of us know. I am sorry for David. Anne's art is a powerful rival, and she is growing fonder of it with every season. If, after she finishes college, she were to marry David, she would be obliged to give it up. Since the Southards came into her life she has grown to love her profession so dearly that I don't imagine she would sacrifice it even for David's sake." "It sounds rather strange to hear my little girl talking so wisely of other people's love affairs," smiled Mrs. Harlowe almost wistfully. "I know what you are thinking, Motherkin," responded Grace, slipping both arms about her mother and drawing her gently into the big porch swing. "You needn't be afraid, though. I don't feel in the least sentimental over any one, not even Tom Gray, and I like him better than any other young man I know. I am far more concerned over what to do once I have finished college. I simply must work, but I haven't yet found my vocation. Neither has Miriam. Jessica thinks she has found hers, but she found Reddy first, and he does not intend that she shall lose sight of him. Hippy and Nora are a great deal fonder of each other than appears on the surface, too. Their disagreements are never private. Nora said the other day that she and Hippy had had only one quarrel, and--this is the funniest bit of news you ever heard, Mother--it was because Hippy became jealous of a violinist Nora knows at the conservatory. Imagine Hippy as being jealous!" Grace talked on to her mother of her friends and of herself while Mrs. Harlowe listened, thinking happily that she was doubly blessed in not only her daughter, but in having that daughter's confidence as well. CHAPTER II THE ARRIVAL OF KATHLEEN "There is a whole lot in getting accustomed to things," remarked J. Elfreda Briggs sagely, as she stood with a hammer and nail in one hand, a Japanese print in the other, her round eyes scanning the wall for an appropriate place to hang her treasure. "It's a beauty, isn't it?" declared Miriam, passing over her roommate's remark and looking admiringly at the print, which her roommate had just taken from her trunk. "What, this?" asked Elfreda. "You'd better believe it is. Goodness knows I paid enough for it. But I wasn't talking about this print. I was talking about our present junior estate. What I wonder is, whether being a junior will go to my head and make me vainglorious or whether I shall wear the honor as a graceful crown," ended the stout girl with an affected smile, which changed immediately to a derisive grin. "I should say, neither," responded Miriam slyly. "I don't believe anything would ever go to your head. You're too matter-of-fact, and as for your graceful crown, it would be over one ear within half an hour." Both girls laughed, then Elfreda, having found a spot on the wall that met with her approval, set the nail and began hammering. "There!" she exclaimed with satisfaction. "That is exactly where I want it. Now I can begin to think about something else." "I wonder why Grace and Anne haven't paid us a call this morning?" mused Miriam, who sat listlessly before her trunk, apparently undecided whether to begin the tedious labor of unpacking or to put it off until some more convenient day. "I'll go and find them," volunteered Elfreda, dropping her hammer and turning toward the door. "They must be at home." Five minutes later she raced back with the news that their door was locked and the "out indefinitely" sign was displayed. "That is very strange," pondered Miriam, aloud. "I wonder where they have gone?" "Why on earth didn't they tell us they were going? That's what I'd like to know," declared Elfreda. "Perhaps Mrs. Elwood knows something about it," suggested Miriam. The mere mention of Mrs. Elwood's name caused Elfreda to dart through the hall and downstairs to the living-room in search of the good-natured matron. Failing to find her, she walked through the kitchen to the shady back porch, where Mrs. Elwood sat rocking and reading the newspaper which the newsboy had just brought. "Oh, Mrs. Elwood," she cried, "have you seen Grace and Anne? We can't find them." "Didn't Miss Dean tell you?" asked Mrs. Elwood in a surprised tone. "Miss Dean," repeated Elfreda disgustedly. "No wonder we didn't know what had become of them. With all Emma's estimable qualities, she is the one person I know whom I would not trust to deliver a message. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elwood, I didn't mean that you were in any sense to blame. We ought to have warned you, only Emma is such a splendid girl that one hates to mention a silly little thing like that. Just forget that I said it, will you?" Mrs. Elwood smiled. "I quite understand, Miss Briggs," she said gravely. "The message Miss Harlowe left with me was this: 'If the girls ask where we have gone, tell them that we received a telegram and had to go to the station. All explanations when we come back.'" "That settles it," groaned Elfreda. "We know only enough to whet our curiosity. And we can't find out more unless we follow them to the station. We can't do that, either. It would not look well. Besides, we are not invited." Elfreda had been rapidly reflecting aloud, much to Mrs. Elwood's amusement. "I'll have to go back and tell Miriam," she finished. "But why did they lock their door?" asked Miriam, when Elfreda had repeated her information. "I don't know," returned Elfreda thoughtfully. "Yes, I do know!" she exclaimed with sudden inspiration. "I think Grace was afraid she might have a repetition of last year's performance." "'Last year's performance,'" repeated Miriam in a puzzled tone. "Yes, don't you remember the Anarchist?" retorted Elfreda, with a reminiscent grin. "Of course!" exclaimed Miriam, laughing a little at the recollection. "Wasn't she formidable, though, when she slammed the door in our faces?" Elfreda nodded. "She is all right now. At least she was when she visited me. I never saw a girl blossom and expand as she did. Pa liked her. He thought she was smart. She is, too. She has lived so entirely with that scientific father of hers that she has absorbed all sorts of odds and ends of knowledge from him. That is why college and girls and the whole thing terrified her." "Terrified her," said Miriam incredulously. "I thought matters quite the reverse." "That was precisely what I thought until she told me that, no matter how vengeful she looked, she was always afraid of the girls. She never seemed to be able to say the right thing at the right moment. That was why she used to scowl so fiercely when any one spoke or looked at her." "I don't think it was altogether fear of the girls that caused her to lock us out that day," observed Miriam, a gleam of laughter appearing in her black eyes. "I don't suppose it was," retorted Elfreda good-humoredly. "She says she knows her disposition to be anything but angelic. But she is trying, Miriam. You wait and see for yourself how the new Laura Atkins behaves." "But to go back to the subject of the door, what makes you think Grace locked it on account of last year?" persisted Miriam. "Oh, I don't know," answered Elfreda vaguely. "I just thought so, that's all." "We'll ask her when she comes, just for fun," declared Miriam. "Why not go downstairs and sit on the back veranda with Mrs. Elwood? We can hear the girls as soon as they come into the yard." "All right," agreed Elfreda. "Do you care if I take my magazine along? I am not quite through with an article I began this morning." "I object seriously," smiled Miriam. "I shall expect you to entertain me. You can finish reading your article later." Elfreda glanced up quickly from the magazine she held in her hand. Then, catching sight of her friend's smiling face, she tucked her magazine under one arm, linked her free arm through Miriam's and marched her toward the stairs. They had reached the foot of the stairs and were half way down the hall when the sound of voices caused both girls to stand still, listening intently. "That sounds like Grace's voice!" exclaimed Elfreda. With one accord they turned about, hurrying to the veranda at the front of the house in time to see Grace and Anne approaching. Both girls were laden with luggage, while between them walked an alert little figure, tugging a bag of golf sticks, a fat, black leather hand bag and a camera. "What manner of woman have we here?" muttered Elfreda, regarding the newcomer with quizzical eyes. But before Miriam found time to reply the newcomer set her luggage in the middle of the walk, and running up to Miriam and Elfreda, said with a frank laugh: "This is Miriam and this is Elfreda. You see I know both of you from Mabel's description." "Who--what--" began Elfreda. "Girls," said Grace, who had by this time come up with the animated stranger, "this is Miss West, a friend of Mabel Ashe's. My telegram was from Mabel asking me to meet Miss West, and as Anne and I were on the porch when it came, and the train we were to meet was due, we didn't stop for explanations or hats, but raced down the street as fast as we could go." While Grace was talking, Kathleen West was shaking hands vigorously with Miriam and Elfreda. "I'm so glad to know you," she said, "and I think I'm going to like you. I'm not so sure about liking college, even though I've worked so hard to get here. I hope to goodness I don't flunk in the exams." "I am sure that any friend of Mabel's is bound to be ours also," said Miriam courteously. She had not made up her mind regarding the newcomer. "Thank you. From what she said I should imagine that you and she were on very good terms," returned the stranger lightly. "Of course you know who I am and all about me." Grace smiled. "Not yet, but we are willing to hear anything you wish to tell us." "Oh, that's so!" exclaimed the stranger. "Mabel wrote about me, but her letter hasn't reached you yet, and, of course, telegrams can't be very lengthy unless you wish to spend a fortune or the office has a franchise. There I go again about the office. I might as well tell the truth and have done with it: I'm a newspaper woman." CHAPTER III FIRST IMPRESSIONS Miriam smiled involuntarily, Grace looked surprised, Elfreda indifferent, and Anne amused. The word "woman" seemed absurdly out of place from the lips of this girl who looked as though she had just been promoted to long dresses. "Oh, yes, I know I look not more than eighteen," quickly remarked Kathleen West, noticing Miriam's smile. "But I'm not. I'm twenty-two years old, and I've been on a newspaper for four years. Why, that's the way I earned my money to come here. I'll tell you about it some other time. It's too long a story for now. Besides, I'm hungry. At what time are we to be fed and are the meals good? I have no illusions regarding boarding houses." "The meals are excellent," replied Anne. "You must have dinner with us. Then we will see about securing a room for you. I think you will be able to get in here. This used to be considered a freshman house, but all those who were freshmen with us have stayed on, and if last year's freshmen stay, too, then Wayne Hall will be full and--" "I won't get in," finished the young woman calmly. "Come into the house now and meet Mrs. Elwood," invited Grace. "Then you can learn your fate." "Yes, I can just make room for you," Mrs. Elwood was saying a few minutes later. "Miss Evans is not coming back, and Miss Acker is going to Livingstone Hall. Her two particular friends are there. Miss Dean wishes to room alone this year, so that disposes of the vacancy left by Miss Acker. But the half of the room Miss Evans had is not occupied. It is on the second floor at the east end of the hall." "Then I'll take it," returned Kathleen promptly, "and move in at once. I may not stay here long, but at least I'll be happy while I stay. But if I should survive all these exams, there will be cause for rejoicing and I'll give a frolic that you will all remember, or my name's not Kathleen West. Is there any one who would love to help me upstairs with my things?" "Well, what do you think of her?" asked Elfreda abruptly. Having helped Kathleen to her room with her luggage they had left her to herself and were now in their own room. Miriam stood looking out the window, her hands behind her back. At Elfreda's question she turned, looked thoughtfully at her roommate, then said slowly: "I don't know. I haven't decided. She's friendly and enthusiastic and hard and indifferent all in the same moment. I think her work has made her so. I believe she has hidden her inner self away so deep that she has forgotten what the real Kathleen is like." "I believe so, too, Miriam," agreed Elfreda. "I could see that you weren't favorably impressed with her. I could see--" "You see entirely too much," laughed Miriam. "I haven't even formed an opinion of Miss West yet. I wonder how long she has known Mabel Ashe? Not very long, I'll wager." An hour later Grace appeared in the door, waving a letter. "Here's Mabel's letter!" she cried. "Come into my room, and we will read it." "The letter was not far behind the telegram," remarked Anne, as she closed the door of their room and seated herself on the couch beside Miriam. "Do hurry, Grace, and read us what Mabel has to offer on the subject of Kathleen Mavourneen--West, I mean," corrected Elfreda with a giggle. Grace unfolded the letter and began to read: "MY DEAR GRACE:-- "Please forgive me for neglecting you so shamefully, but I am now wrestling with a real job on a real newspaper and am so occupied with trying to keep it that I haven't had time to think of anything else. Father is deeply disgusted with my journalistic efforts. He wished me to go to Europe this summer, but the light of ambition burns too vividly to be quenched even by my beloved Europe. When next I go abroad it will be with my own hard-earned wages. "I haven't done anything startling yet; I have been chronicling faithfully the doings of society. As most of the elect are out of town, my news gathering has not been in the nature of a harvest. However, I am still striving, still hoping for the day when I shall leave society far behind and sally forth on the trail of a big story. "But, I am diverging from one of the chief purposes of this letter. It is to introduce to you Kathleen West, an ambitious and particularly clever young woman, who is a 'star' reporter on this paper. It seems that she and I have changed ambitions. I sigh for journalistic fame, and she sighs for college. She has done more than sigh. She has been saving her money for ever so long, determined to take unto herself a college education. I admire her spirit and have praised Overton so warmly--how could I help it?--that she has decided to cast her lot there. Hence my telegram, also this letter. Please be as nice with her as you know how to be, for I am sure she will prove herself a credit to Overton. "I shall hope to see you some time during the fall. I am going to try to get a day or two off and run down to see you. Tell Anne the Press is greater than the Stage, and tell Elfreda and Miriam that I am collecting the autographs of famous people and that theirs would be greatly appreciated, particularly if attached to letters. I must bring this epistle to an abrupt close, and go out on the trail of an engagement, the rumor of which was whispered to me last night. With love to you and the girls. "MABEL. "P. S. Frances sails for home next week." "What a nice letter," commented Elfreda. "It is just like her, isn't it!" "Yes," replied Grace slowly. "Girls, do you suppose Mabel and Miss West are really friends?" "Not as we are," replied Miriam, with a positive shake of her head. "Elfreda and I were talking of that very thing while you were in your room. Elfreda said she didn't believe that Mabel had known Miss West long." "What is the matter with us?" asked Grace, a trifle impatiently. "Here we are prowling about the bush, trying to conceal under polite inquiry the fact that we don't quite approve of Miss West. We would actually like to dig up something to criticize." "There is nothing like absolute freedom of speech, is there?" said Elfreda, with a short laugh. "It is true, though," said Grace stoutly. "It isn't fair, either. She has done nothing to deserve it. Besides, Mabel likes her." "Mabel doesn't say in her letter that she likes her," reminded Anne. "She says Miss West is clever and that she admires her spirit." "You, too, Anne?" said Grace reproachfully. "I don't like her," declared Elfreda belligerently. "If it weren't for Mabel's letter I'd leave her strictly to her own devices." "We ought to be ashamed of ourselves!" exclaimed Grace. "We have met Miss West with smiles, and here we are discussing her behind her back." "I didn't meet her with smiles," contradicted Elfreda. "I was as sober as a judge all the time we stood talking to her. She is too flippant to suit me. She doesn't take college very seriously. I could see that." "There goes the dinner bell!" exclaimed Grace, with sudden irrelevance to the subject of the newspaper girl. "Let us stop gossiping and go to dinner." At dinner Grace was not sorry to note that Kathleen West had been placed at the end of the table farthest from her. Through the meal she found her eyes straying often toward the erect little figure of the newcomer, who, exhibiting not a particle of reserve, chatted with the girls nearest to her with the utmost unconcern. "I suppose her newspaper training has made her self-possessed and not afraid of strangers," reflected Grace. But she could not refrain from secretly wondering a little just how strong a friendship existed between Kathleen West and Mabel. CHAPTER IV GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE NEWSPAPER GIRL "It was just this way," began Kathleen West, setting down her tea cup and looking impressively from one girl to the other, "Long before I graduated from high school I had made up my mind to go to college. Now that I have passed my exams and have become a really truly freshman, I'll tell you all about it." Elfreda and Miriam were giving a tea party with Grace, Anne and Kathleen West as their guests. It was a strictly informal tea and both hostesses and guests sat on the floor in true Chinese fashion, kimono-clad and comfortable. A week had passed since Kathleen's advent among them. She had spent the greater part of that time either in study or in valiant wrestling with the dreaded entrance examinations, but she had managed, nevertheless, to drop into the girls' rooms at least once a day. In spite of the almost unfavorable impression she had at first created, it was impossible not to acknowledge that the newspaper girl possessed a vividly interesting personality. As she sat wrapped in the folds of her gray kimono, arms folded over her chest, she looked not unlike a feminine Napoleon. Elfreda's quick eyes traced the resemblance. "You look for all the world like Napoleon," she observed bluntly. "Thank you," returned Kathleen with mock gratitude. "I can't imagine Napoleon in a gray kimono at a tea party, but I feel imbued with a certain amount of his ambition. By the way, would any of you like to hear the rest of my story?" she asked impudently. "I'm rather fond of telling it." "Excuse me for interrupting," apologized Elfreda. "Go on, please." "Where was I?" asked Kathleen. "Oh, yes, I remember. Well, as soon as I had fully determined to go to college, I began to save every penny on which I could honestly lay hands. I went without most of the school-girl luxuries that count for so much just at that time. You girls know what I mean. Mother and Father didn't wish me to go to college. They planned a course in stenography and typewriting for me after I should finish high school, and when I pleaded for college they were angry and disappointed. They argued, too, that they couldn't possibly afford to send me there. As soon as I saw that I was going to have trouble with them, I kept my own counsel, but I was more determined than ever to do as I pleased. At the beginning of the vacation before my senior year in high school I went to the only daily paper in our town and asked for work. The editor, who had known me since I was a baby, gave me a chance. Father and Mother made no objection to that. They thought it was merely a whim on my part. But it wasn't a whim, as they found out later, for I wrote stuff for the paper during my senior year, too, and when I did graduate I turned the house upside down by getting a position on a newspaper in a big city. Father and Mother forgave me after awhile, but not until I had been at work on the other paper for a year. "At first I did society, then clubs, went back to society again, and at last my opportunity came to do general reporting. I was the only woman on the staff who had a chance to go after the big stories. I have been doing that only the last two years, though. "Naturally, I made more money on the paper than I would as a stenographer. I saved it, too. It was ever so much harder to hang on to it in the city. There were so many more ways to spend it. But I kept on putting it away, and, now, by going back on the paper every summer, I will have enough to see me through college." "But why do you wish so much for a college education when you are already successful as a newspaper woman?" asked Elfreda. "Because I want to be an author, or an editor, or somebody of importance in the literary world, and I need these four years at college. Besides, it's a good thing to bear the college stamp if one expects always to be before the public," was the prompt retort. "Suppose you were to find afterward that you weren't going to be before the public," said Elfreda almost mischievously. "But I shall be," persisted Kathleen, setting her jaws with a little snap. "I always accomplish whatever I set out to do. On the paper they used to say, 'Kathleen would sacrifice her best friend if by doing it she could scoop the other papers.'" "What do you mean by 'scoop the other papers'?" queried Elfreda interestedly. "Why, to get ahead of them with a story," explained Kathleen. "Suppose I found out an important piece of news that no one else knew. If I gave it to my paper and it appeared in it before any other newspaper got hold of it then that would be a scoop." "Oh, yes, I see," returned Elfreda. "Then a scoop might be news about anything." "Exactly," nodded Kathleen. "The harder the news is to get, the better story it makes. People won't tell one anything, and when one does find out something startling, then there are always a few persons who make a fuss and try to keep the story out of the paper. They generally have such splendid excuses for not wanting a story published. I never paid any attention to them, though. I turned in every story I ever ran down," she concluded, her small face setting in harsh lines. "But didn't that make some of the people about whom the stories were written very unhappy?" asked Miriam pointedly. "I suppose so," answered Kathleen. "But I never stopped to bother about them. I had to think of myself and of my paper." "How long have you known Mabel Ashe?" asked Grace, abruptly changing the subject. Something in the cold indifference of Kathleen's voice jarred on her. "Just since she appeared on the paper," returned Kathleen unconcernedly. "She is very pretty, isn't she? But prettiness alone doesn't count for much on a newspaper. Can she make good? That is the question. She imagines that journalism is her vocation, but I am afraid she is going to be sadly disillusioned. She seems to be a clever girl, though." "Clever," repeated Grace with peculiar emphasis. "She is the cleverest girl we know. While she was at Overton, she was the life of the college. Everyone loved her. I can't begin to tell you how much we miss her." "It's very nice to be missed, I am sure," said Kathleen hastily, retreating from what appeared to be dangerous ground. "I hope I shall be eulogized when I have graduated from Overton." "That will depend largely on your behavior as a freshman," drawled Elfreda. "What do you mean?" asked Kathleen sharply. "I thought freshmen were of the least importance in college." "So they are to the other classes," returned Elfreda. "They are of the greatest importance to themselves, however, and if they make false starts during their freshman year it is likely to handicap them through the other three." "Much obliged for the information," declared Kathleen flippantly. "I'll try not to make any false starts. Good gracious! It is half-past ten. I had no idea it was so late. I've had a lovely time at your tea party. I'm going to send out invitations for a social gathering before long." She rose lazily to her feet, and carefully set her cup on the table. "I suppose Miss Ainslee will be sound asleep," she remarked, yawning. "Lighting the gas will awaken her and she will be cross. She goes to bed with the chickens." "Don't light it, then," suggested Grace. "You can see to undress with the blind up. There is full moon to-night." "Why shouldn't I light it?" asked Kathleen. "Half of the room is mine. I wouldn't grumble if the case were reversed. She will soon grow used to the light. I intend occasionally to read or study after hours. Don't tell me it is against the rules. I know it. But circumstances, etc. I'll see you to-morrow. I wish I were a junior. The freshmen I have met so far are regular babies. I'm going to study hard next summer and see if I can't pass up the sophomore year. There is nothing like having a modest ambition, you know." With this satirical comment the newspaper girl nodded a pert good night and left the room. No one spoke after she had gone. "I must go to bed," said Grace, breaking the significant silence that had fallen on the quartette. "Come, Anne, it's twenty minutes to eleven. Good night, girls." "What do you think of Miss West, Anne?" asked Grace a little later as they were preparing to retire. "I don't like to say," returned Anne slowly. "She's remarkably bright--" Anne paused. Her eyes met Grace's. "I know," nodded Grace understandingly. "We will try to keep a starboard eye on her. She is going to find college very different from being a newspaper woman." Grace smiled faintly. The word "woman," as applied to Kathleen West, seemed wholly amusing. "I don't think she showed particularly good taste in speaking as she did of Mabel Ashe," criticized Anne, a moment later. "I didn't intend to say that, but I might as well be perfectly frank with you, Grace." "I was sorry she spoke as she did, too," agreed Grace. She did not add that the newspaper girl's half slighting remarks about Mabel Ashe still rankled in her loyal soul. It was chiefly to please Mabel that she and her friends had hospitably received this stranger into their midst, prepared to do whatever lay within their power to make her feel at home with them. And she had dared to speak almost disparagingly of the girl who was beloved by every student in Overton who knew her. In spite of her resolution to keep a "starboard eye" on the freshman, Grace felt infinitely more like leaving the ungrateful freshman to shift for herself. "Well, what about her?" Elfreda asked bluntly of Miriam, as she piled the tea cups one inside the other. "What about who?" returned Miriam tantalizingly. "You know very well" declared Elfreda; "but, if I must be explicit, what do you think of Miss West now?" "What do you think?" counter-questioned Miriam. "I think she has more to learn than I had when I came here," said Elfreda speculatively, "and unless I am very much mistaken it will take her longer to learn it." CHAPTER V TWO IS A COMPANY "Grace! Grace Harlowe!" called a clear, high voice. On hearing her name, Grace, who was on the point of entering the library, turned to greet Arline Thayer, who came running up the walk, flushed and laughing. "Did you say you had won prizes as a champion fast walker?" she inquired laughingly. "I saw you clear across the campus, and I've been running at top speed ever since. I had just breath enough left to call to you. Where have you been hiding? I haven't seen you for ages. Ruth thinks you have deserted her. Don't bother going to the library now. Suppose we go down to Vinton's and have luncheon. Have you eaten yours? I never eat luncheon at Morton Hall on Saturday afternoon." "I'll answer your questions in the order they were asked," laughed Grace. "No, I am not a champion fast walker. I haven't been hiding, and I still live at Wayne Hall, though a certain young person I know has evidently forgotten it. Ruth owes me a visit, and I haven't had my luncheon. You mustn't tempt me from my duty, for I am on the trail of knowledge. I must spend at least two hours this afternoon looking up a multitude of references." "Come and have luncheon first and look up your references afterward," coaxed Arline. "Then, perhaps, I can help you," she added artfully. "Perhaps you can," returned Grace dubiously. Their eyes meeting, both girls laughed. "Come with me, at any rate, then," declared Arline. "All right. Remember, I must not stay away from work over an hour. I really have a great deal to do. Isn't it a glorious day, though? Elfreda and Miriam went for a five-mile tramp. Elfreda is determined to play basketball in spite of her junior responsibilities, therefore she is obliged to train religiously." "Who is going to play on the junior team this year?" asked Arline. "Elizabeth Wade, and that little Tenbrook girl, Marian Cummings, Elfreda and Violet Darby make the team. Neither Miriam nor I intend to play. Elfreda begged hard, but we thought it better to stay out of the team this year. We have played basketball so long, and having been in two big games, it is time we resigned gracefully; besides, I want to see Elfreda reap the benefit of her faithful practice and distinguish herself. She has tried so hard to make the team." "I am glad Elfreda is to have her chance," smiled Arline. "We are sure to see her make the most of it. I'm sorry now that I never went in for basketball." "It is a wonderful old game!" exclaimed Grace with enthusiasm. "Last year was my sixth year on a team. I was captain of our freshman basketball team at home. That reminds me, Arline, aren't you and Ruth coming home with me for the Easter vacation? I am asking you early so no one else will have a chance. I know it is useless to ask you to come for Christmas." "I think I can come for Easter," replied Arline, "and I don't know of any reason why Ruth can't. I shall write to Father at once and ask him if we can go. I want to tell you something, Grace--confidentially, of course. Father is very fond of Ruth. He and I had a talk this summer, and he wishes to adopt her. Just think of having Ruth for my very own sister!" Arline paused, her eyes shining. Grace nodded understandingly. "What does Ruth say?" she asked. Arline's face clouded. "She doesn't say anything except that she thinks it better for her to go on in her own way. She is the queerest girl. She seems to think that it wouldn't be right to allow Father to adopt her and take care of her. She says she has everything she needs now, and that I have been far too good to her. Father and I simply made her spend the summer with us." "Wouldn't it be wonderful if Ruth should find her father?" said Grace musingly. "I don't believe she ever will," returned Arline. "It's too bad." Her flower-like face looked very solemn for a moment, then brightened as she exclaimed: "Oh, I almost forgot my principal reason for wishing to see you. The Semper Fidelis Club hasn't held a meeting this year, and we must begin to busy ourselves. I have heard of five different girls who need help, but are too proud to ask for it. I am sure there are dozens of others, too. We must find some way to reach and help them. We have plenty of money in our treasury now, and we can afford to be generous. Here we are at Vinton's. Shall we sit in the mission alcove for luncheon? I love it. It is so convenient when one wishes to indulge in strictly confidential conversation." Once seated opposite each other in the cunning little alcove furnished in mission oak, Arline continued animatedly: "Last spring, when we talked about giving an entertainment, you proposed giving a carnival in the fall. Well, it is fall now, so why not begin making plans for our carnival! What shall we have, and what do we do to draw a crowd?" "We held a bazaar in Oakdale that was very successful," commented Grace. "We held it on Thanksgiving night and half the town attended it. We made over five hundred dollars. I think a bazaar would be better than a carnival." Grace did not add that the money had been stolen while the bazaar was at its height and not recovered until the following spring, by no other person than herself. Those who have read "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School" will remember the mysterious disappearance of the bazaar money and the untiring zeal with which Grace worked until she found a clew to the robbery, which led to the astonishing discovery that she made in an isolated house on the outskirts of Oakdale. During the progress of the luncheon Grace gave Arline a detailed account of the various attractions of which their bazaar had boasted. "We can ask some girl who sings to preside at the Shamrock booth and sing Irish songs as Nora O'Malley did," planned Grace. "We can't have the Mystery Auction, because we don't care to ask the girls for packages, and we can't have the Italian booth, either, it would be too hard to arrange, but we can have a gypsy camp and a Japanese booth and an English tea shop and two or three funny little shows. The best thing to do is to call a meeting of the club and put the matter before them. Almost every girl will know of some feature we can have." "I suppose the dean will allow us to use the gymnasium," mused Arline. "We had better get permission first of all. Then we can call our meeting." Grace looked at her watch. "I've stayed ten minutes over my hour, Arline," she reminded the little curly-haired girl. "Never mind," was the calm reply, "you can stay ten minutes longer in the library. Oh, Grace, don't look at her now, but who is that girl just sitting down at that end table? I am sure she lives at Wayne Hall. Some one told me she was a freshman." "If you had been calling faithfully on the Wayne Hall girls, you wouldn't need to be told the names of the new ones," flung back Grace. Then, allowing her gaze to slowly travel about the room, her eyes rested as though by chance on the girl designated by Arline. An instant later she had bowed to the newcomer in friendly fashion. "Who is she?" murmured Arline, her eyes fixed upon Grace. "Her name is Kathleen West," returned Grace in a low tone. "Don't say anything more. Here she comes." Kathleen was approaching their table, a bored look on her small, sharp face. "How are you?" she said nonchalantly. "I thought I'd come over here. Having tea alone is dull. Don't you think so?" Arline's blue eyes rested on the intruder for the fraction of a second. She resented the intrusion. "Miss West, this is Miss Thayer, of the junior class," introduced Grace good-naturedly. Both girls bowed. There was an awkward silence, broken by Kathleen's abrupt, "I knew I had seen you before, Miss Thayer," to Arline. "That is quite possible," said Arline, rather stiffly. "I believe I remember passing you on the campus." "Oh, I don't mean here at Overton," drawled Kathleen. "I saw you in New York with your father last summer." "With my father?" was Arline's surprised interrogation. "Yes. Isn't Leonard B. Thayer your father?" "Why, how did you know? Have you met my father?" Arline's blue eyes opened wider. "I've seen him," said Kathleen laconically. "I tried to interview him once, but couldn't get past his secretary." "Miss West is a newspaper woman, Arline," explained Grace. "That is, she was one. She has deserted her paper for Overton, however." "How interesting," responded Arline courteously. "Do you like college, Miss West?" "Fairly well," answered Kathleen. "It doesn't really matter whether I like it or not. I am here for business, not pleasure. Perhaps Miss Harlowe has told you how I happened to be here." "Miss Thayer and I had some weighty class matters to discuss," said Grace, smiling a little. "We weren't talking of any one in particular. Miss Thayer did inquire your name when she saw me bow to you. I answered just as you came toward us," added Grace honestly. "I knew you were talking about me," declared Kathleen flippantly. "One can always feel when one is being discussed." A quick flush rose to Grace's cheeks. Usually tolerant toward everyone, she felt a decided resentment stir within her at this cold-blooded assertion that she and Arline had been gossiping. Arline's blue eyes sent forth a distinctly hostile glance. "You were mistaken, Miss West," she said coldly. "What was said of you was entirely impersonal." "Oh, I don't doubt that in the least," Kathleen hastened to say. She had decided that the daughter of Leonard B. Thayer was worth cultivating. "I am sorry you misunderstood me; but do you know, when you made that last remark you looked as your father did the day he wouldn't tell me a thing I wanted to know." Kathleen's sharp features were alive with the interest of discovery. Despite their brief annoyance Grace and Arline both laughed. Kathleen took instant advantage of the situation. "Suppose we order another pot of tea," she said hospitably. It was fully half an hour later when the three girls left Vinton's. "Oh, my neglected references," sighed Grace. "I must not lose another minute of the afternoon. Which way are you girls going?" "I think I'll go as far as the library with you, Grace," decided Arline. The interruption by Kathleen had greatly interfered with her plans. "I might as well go with you," remarked Kathleen innocently. "I have nothing to do this afternoon." A little frown wrinkled Arline's smooth forehead. Grace, equally disappointed, managed to conceal her annoyance. Then, accepting the situation in the best possible spirit, she slipped her hand through Arline's arm, at the same time giving it a warning pressure. During the walk to the library Kathleen endeavored to make herself particularly agreeable to Arline, a method of procedure that was not lost upon Grace. Later as she delved industriously among half a dozen dignified volumes for the material of which she stood in need, Kathleen's pale, sharp face, with its thin lips and alert eyes, rose before her, and, for the first time, she admitted reluctantly to herself that her dislike for the ambitious little newspaper girl was very real indeed. CHAPTER VI AN UNSUSPECTED LISTENER "Those in favor of giving a bazaar on the Saturday afternoon and evening of November fifteenth say 'aye,'" directed Arline Thayer. A chorus of ayes immediately resounded. "Contrary, 'no,'" continued Arline. There was a dead silence. "Carried," declared the energetic little president. "Please, everyone think hard and try to advance an idea for a feature inside of the next ten minutes." The twelve young women known as the Semper Fidelis Club were holding a business meeting in Grace Harlowe's and Anne Pierson's, room. The two couch beds had been placed in a kind of semicircle and eight members of the club were seated on them. The other three young women sat on cushions on the floor, while Arline presided at the center table, which had been placed several feet in front of the members. "The meeting is open for suggestions," repeated Arline after two minutes had elapsed and not a word had been said. "If any one has a suggestion, she may tell us without addressing the chair. We will dispense with formality," she added encouragingly. "Of course, we know we are going to have the gypsy encampment and the Irish booth and the Japanese tea room, but we want some really startling features." "We might have an 'Alice in Wonderland' booth," suggested Elfreda. "'Alice' stunts always go in colleges. The girls are never tired of them." "What on earth is an 'Alice in Wonderland booth'?" asked Gertrude Wells curiously. "I don't know what it is yet," grinned Elfreda. "The idea just came to me. I suppose," she continued reflectively, "we could have all the animals, like the March Hare, for instance, and the Dormouse. Then there's the Mock Turtle and the Jabberwock. No, that's been done to death. Besides, it's in 'Through the Looking Glass.' We could have the Griffon, though, and then, there's the Duchess, the King, the Queen, and the Mad Hatter. I'd love to do the Mad Hatter." Elfreda paused, eyeing the little group quizzically. "I think that's a brilliant idea, Elfreda!" exclaimed Grace warmly. "Great!" exulted three or four girls, in lively chorus. "I'll tell you what we could have," cried one of the Emerson twins. "Why not make it an 'Alice in Wonderland Circus,' and have all the animals perform?" "We are growing more brilliant with every minute," laughed Arline. "That is a positive inspiration, Sara." "A circus will exactly fill the bill. It is sure to be the biggest feature the Overton girls have ever spent their money to see," predicted Elfreda gleefully. "Ruth Denton, you will have to be the Dormouse." "Oh, I can't," blushed Ruth. "Oh, you can," mimicked Elfreda. "I'll help you plan your costume." "Will the club please come to order," called Arline, for a general buzz of conversation had begun. "We shall have to choose part of our animals from outside the club. We can't all be in the circus. Grace and Miriam are going to dress as gypsies. Julia and Sara," smiling at the black-eyed twins, who looked precisely alike and were continually being mistaken for each other, "are going to be Japanese ladies, aren't you, girls?" The twins nodded emphatically. "Those in favor of an Alice in Wonderland Circus please say 'aye,'" dutifully stated Arline. The motion was quickly carried. "That is only one feature," she reminded. "This meeting is open for further suggestions. Let us have the suggestions first, then we can discuss them in detail afterward." After considerable hard thinking, a "bauble shop," a postcard booth, and a doll shop were added. The latter idea was Ruth Denton's. "Now that it is fall, Christmas isn't so very far off. Almost every girl has a little sister or a niece or a friend to whom she intends to give a doll," she said almost wistfully. "We could pledge ourselves to contribute one doll at least, and as many more as we please. Then we could draw on the treasury for a certain sum and invest it in dolls. We could dress a few of them as college girls, too. I'm willing to use part of my spare time to help the good work along. Perhaps it wouldn't be a success," she faltered. "Success!" exclaimed Arline, stumbling over Gertrude Wells's feet and treating Ruth to an affectionate hug. "I think it's perfectly lovely. We can have a live doll, too. Do any of you know that exquisite little freshman with the big blue eyes who rooms at Mortimer Hall?" "I do. Her name is Myra Stone," responded Julia Emerson. "She looks like a big doll, doesn't she!" "She does," commented Arline. "That is precisely what I was thinking. Dressed as a live doll and placed on exhibition in the middle of the booth, she would prove a drawing card. Will you ask her to meet us at the gymnasium on Monday at five o'clock? We will try to see the others we want for the bazaar before Monday. We had better decide now just who is going to be left over for the circus." "There is only one objection to little Miss Stone," said Gertrude Wells thoughtfully. "She is a freshman. I am afraid this mark of upper class favor may cause jealousy." "The freshmen ought to be glad one of their class is to have the honor of being chosen," retorted Grace, opening her gray eyes in surprise. "They ought to, but they won't be," predicted Gertrude dryly. "There are a number of revolutionary spirits among the freshmen this year. That queer little West girl, who styles herself a 'newspaper woman' and looks like a wicked little elf, is the ringleader." "She is very bright, Gertrude, and she deserves a great deal of credit for the way she has worked and studied to fit herself for college," defended Grace, her old love of fair play coming to the surface. "That may all be so. I believe it is, if you say so, Grace, but why doesn't she display common sense enough to settle down and obey the rules of the college? She doesn't transgress the study rules, but she is lawless when it comes to the others. Besides, she runs roughshod over traditions, and all that they imply. She--well--" Gertrude hesitated, then, flushing slightly, stopped. "You mean she is tricky, don't you?" asked Elfreda promptly. "I could see that before I talked with her five minutes." Grace shook her head disapprovingly at Elfreda. Something in her glance caused Elfreda to subside suddenly. "If there is no further business of which to dispose, will some one make a motion that we adjourn!" asked Arline quietly. The motion was made and seconded, but before any one had time to step into the hall, a slight figure flitted from her position before the almost closed door, and disappeared into the room at the end of the hall. "We must be sure and see the dean as soon as we can, Arline," called Grace after Arline, who was hurrying down the hall to overtake Ruth. "I'll see her to-morrow afternoon," assured Arline, with a parting wave of her hand as she disappeared down the stairs. "And I'll make it my business to see her to-morrow morning," muttered Kathleen West vindictively, who, standing well within the shadow of her own door at the end of the hall, had heard the remark and the reply. "Who knows but that the Semper Fidelis Club may not be able to give their great bazaar after all. They certainly won't if I can prevent them. I'll never forgive them for discussing me as they have this afternoon." There was an unpleasant light in the newspaper girl's eyes, as, closing the door of her room, she went to her desk and opening it, sat down before it, picking up her pen. After a little thought she began to write, and when she had finished what seemed to be an extremely short letter, she slipped it into the envelope with a smile of malicious satisfaction. She had found a way to retaliate. CHAPTER VII AN UNPLEASANT SUMMONS "Here's a letter for you, Grace," called Elfreda, who had run downstairs ahead of Grace to survey the contents of the house bulletin board before going in to breakfast. Grace surveyed the envelope critically, tore it open and unfolded the sheet of paper inside. In another moment a little cry of consternation escaped her. "What's the matter?" asked Elfreda curiously, trying to peer over her shoulder. "It--it's a summons from the dean," said Grace a trifle unsteadily. "What do you suppose it means?" "Nothing very serious," declared Elfreda confidently. "How can it? Think over your past misdeeds and see if you can discover any reason for a summons." Grace shook her head. "No," she said slowly. "I can't think of a single, solitary thing." "Then don't worry about it," was Elfreda's comforting advice. "Whatever it is, you are ready for it." As Grace entered the dean's office that morning a vague feeling of apprehension rose within her. The dean, a stately, dark-haired woman with a rather forbidding expression, which disappeared the moment she smiled, glanced up with a flash of approval at the fine, resolute face of the gray-eyed girl who walked straight to her and said firmly, "Good morning, Miss Wilder." "Good morning, Miss Harlowe," returned the dean quietly. Then picking up a letter that lay on the middle of her desk, she said gravely: "I received a very peculiar letter this morning, Miss Harlowe, and as it concerns not only you, but a number of your friends as well, I thought it better to send for you. You may throw light upon what at present seems obscure." Grace mechanically stretched forth her hand for the open letter and read:-- "When giving an entertainment in any of the halls or in the gymnasium, is it not usually customary, not to say courteous, to ask permission of the president of the college or the dean beforehand? The young women whose names appear on the enclosed list evidently do not consider any such permission necessary. For the past week preparations for a bazaar have been going briskly forward, to be held in the gymnasium on the evening of November ----. For inside information inquire of Miss Harlowe. "A WELL WISHER." Grace read the note through twice, then, looking squarely at the dean, she said: "May I see the enclosed list?" The dean handed her a smaller slip of paper on which appeared the names of the girls who had been present at the meeting in her room. Grace scanned the slip earnestly. Her color rose slightly as she returned it to Miss Wilder. "The names on this list are the names of the young women who belong to the Semper Fidelis Club. After the concert last spring it was partly decided to give a bazaar the following autumn. The other day the club met in my room to talk over the matter. As we were all in favor of giving one, the meeting was open for the discussion of ideas for attractive features. Finally something was proposed that was so very clever we couldn't help adopting it. I assure you, Miss Wilder, we had no thought of doing anything definite about the bazaar without first obtaining proper permission to give it and to use the gymnasium as our field of operation. In fact, Miss Thayer promised me on the afternoon of the meeting that she would see you the following afternoon. She is the president of the club. I haven't seen her since then." Grace paused, looking worried. "Miss Thayer has not been here," returned Miss Wilder kindly. "However, your explanation is sufficient, Miss Harlowe. I am reasonably sure that the writer of this letter has either misunderstood the situation, or has been misinformed. To be candid, very little credence can be placed on the information contained in an anonymous letter. In fact, my reason for sending for you had to do with that, rather than the implied charge the letter makes. I wish you to examine this handwriting," she touched the letter which Grace still held in hand. "Do you recognize it?" There was a slight interval of silence. Grace devoted herself to the examination of the letter and the slip of paper. Then, handing it to the dean, she said frankly: "I have no recollection of having seen this handwriting before to-day." The dean folded the letter, placed the list of names inside its folds and returned it to the envelope. "This is the first anonymous letter that has ever been brought to my notice," she said gravely. "I trust it will be the last. It is hard to believe that a student of Overton would resort to such petty spite, for that seems to be its keynote. It is practically impossible, however, to find the writer among so many girls." Grace would have liked to say that this was not the first anonymous letter that had been brought to her notice. The ghost of a disturbing, unsigned note that had almost wrecked Elfreda's freshman happiness rose and walked before her. Could it be possible that the same hand had written the second note? Grace was startled at her own thought. "May I see the note again, Miss Wilder?" she asked soberly. This time she scrutinized the writing even more closely. There was something familiar, yet unfamiliar, about the formation of the letters. Finally she handed it back. "It is a mystery to me," she said, with a little sigh. "I am so glad you understood about the bazaar." Before the dean could reply the click of approaching heels was heard. A moment later a light knock sounded on the door. At a nod from the dean, Grace opened it, and stood face to face with Arline Thayer. "Why, Grace Harlowe!" she exclaimed in her sweet, high voice. "I didn't know you were here. Did you get my message? Good afternoon, Miss Wilder," she added, following Grace inside the office. "Good afternoon, Miss Thayer," smiled Miss Wilder, indicating a chair, which Arline accepted. "I owe you and the Semper Fidelis Club an apology for not having delivered their message. I spent yesterday nursing a headache and was not able to attend any of my classes. Miss Harlowe has already asked your permission to hold a bazaar in the gymnasium, I believe." "Yes," returned Miss Wilder pleasantly. "I am willing to allow the Semper Fidelis Club carte blanche for one night. I approve warmly of both the club and its object. I shall, of course, ask formal permission of the president, but that need not necessarily delay your plans. The concert given by your club last year was a most enjoyable affair and proved very profitable to the club, did it not?" Grace answered in the affirmative. "We were fortunate in being able to secure Savelli, the virtuoso," she replied. "It was by the merest chance that he happened to have that one evening free. His daughter, Eleanor, who is one of my dear friends, and I telephoned to New York City to ask him to play for us. We saved him until last as a surprise number." "The audience fully appreciated his playing," returned Miss Wilder. "To hear the great Savelli was an unexpected privilege. I shall look forward to your bazaar with pleasurable anticipation and I wish you success." Grace looked searchingly into the smiling, dark eyes of the dean. "Thank you so much, Miss Wilder," she said earnestly. "I felt sure you would understand." "We should like Professor Morton to open the bazaar, and would appreciate a speech from you also," added Arline. "I shall be pleased to help the club in any way I can," assured Miss Wilder graciously as the two girls were about to leave the office. "I am certain that Professor Morton will echo my sentiments." Something in the older woman's quiet tones made Grace feel that the anonymous letter had entirely failed in its object. CHAPTER VIII ELFREDA PROPHESIES TROUBLE Not until the two girls were well outside did either venture to speak. Then their eyes met. "Did you receive my message?" asked Arline abruptly. "Your message," repeated Grace. "No, I didn't receive any message. By whom did you send it?" "Emma Dean," declared Arline. "She was at Morton House yesterday for luncheon, and I ran across her in the hall. I asked her to ask you if you would see Miss Wilder after classes yesterday afternoon." "Emma Dean again," laughed Grace. "Didn't you know, Arline, that the Dean messenger service is absolutely unreliable? Emma is always perfectly willing to deliver a message, but never remembers to deliver it. Only last week Elfreda made an engagement with a dressmaker who sews for Emma. In the meantime Emma went to the dressmaker's house for a fitting, and the woman asked her to tell Elfreda to come for her fitting on Thursday instead of Friday night. Emma forgot it before she was a block from the dressmaker's, and poor Elfreda dutifully trudged off to her fitting instead of accepting an invitation to a theatre party that the girls got up on Friday afternoon. The dressmaker wasn't in and Elfreda went home angry. Emma delivered the message the next day." "No wonder you didn't receive mine then," laughed Arline. "How did you happen to find me?" asked Grace. "Oh, I wasn't looking for you," replied Arline. "I thought as long as I felt better, I had better call on Miss Wilder, too. But," said Arline, a puzzled look creeping into her eyes, "if you didn't receive my message, how did you happen to be in the dean's office?" "I received a summons," answered Grace quietly. "The dean wished to see me about--well--" Grace hesitated. "I should like to tell you about it," she went on. "Miss Wilder did not ask me to keep the matter a secret. That was understood, I suppose. But, Arline, I think it would be better to ask her permission before telling even you." "Is it anything about me or about the club?" asked Arline curiously. "It is something about the club," replied Grace enigmatically. "Then suppose we go back and ask her now," proposed Arline. "No," negatived Grace wisely, "it wouldn't do. Wait a little. I shall see her again in a day or two. Then I may have a chance to ask her." "All right," sighed Arline disappointedly. "Now that we have permission we must go to work with a will. The 'Circus' must meet and plan the costumes. Each girl will have to furnish her own. Ruth said she thought she could design them all, and cut them out if the girls could do their own sewing." "Ruth is doing too much," demurred Grace. "Remember she is going to help dress dolls for the doll shop." "I know it," responded Arline, "but, thanks to the Semper Fidelis Club, she doesn't have to burden herself with mending. Besides, I keep her so busy with my clothes she doesn't have time to do anything for outsiders. Some of the girls were so provoking. They used to give her their work at the eleventh hour, and then send for it before she had half a chance to finish it. They didn't exert themselves to pay her, however. It was weeks, sometimes, before they gave her the money. They usually forgot about it and spent their allowance money for something else. I think I have already told you that Father would adopt Ruth if she would consent to it. But she is a most stiff-necked young person. She says she must work out her own salvation, and that too much comfort might spoil her for doing good work in the world." "Do you suppose her father is really dead?" asked Grace thoughtfully. "Oh, I think he must be," returned Arline quickly. "Even if he isn't dead, there is only one chance in a thousand of her finding him. When I went home last June I had one of my famous talks with Father. We decided that I needed a competent person to look after me in college, and Father asked Ruth to accept the position of companion. Then she could room with me and be free from this hateful sewing. But she wouldn't do it, the proud little thing! I like her all the better for her pride, though," concluded Arline in a burst of confidence. "I think she is right about making her own way," declared Grace. "If I were placed in her circumstances I imagine I should look at the matter in the same light. Really, Arline, I often think that girls as happily situated as you and I do not half appreciate our benefits." "I know it," agreed Arline. "Still, I am wide awake to the fact that a single room, pretty clothes and a generous allowance are not to be despised. I have grown so used to my way of living that to adopt Ruth's wouldn't be easy. I'd be worse off than she, for I don't know how to mend or sew or do anything else that is useful. I wonder if the girls would like me as well poor as rich," she said almost wistfully. "Goose!" scoffed Grace. "Of course they would. How could any one help liking you? To change the subject, when shall we call a meeting of the bazaar specialists? We might as well post a notice on the big bulletin board. It will do more to advertise the bazaar than anything else." "Grace, you are a born advertiser," cried Arline. "There will be a crowd around that bulletin board all day. Will you write the notice to-night? Oh, did I tell you? I'm going to have my horse here this year. Father wants me to ride." "How lovely!" exclaimed Grace with a little sigh. "How I wish I had a horse. I'd willingly use all my allowance to feed one, if Father could afford to buy him for me." "Mabel Ashe has the handsomest horse I ever saw," said Arline. "He is black as jet. You know I often see her in New York during vacations. We have ridden together several times." "You mean Elixir," returned Grace. "I have never seen him, but I have heard of him. That reminds me, Mabel is coming down here for Thanksgiving. I received a letter from her yesterday." "I wish she could come down for the bazaar," sighed Arline regretfully. "So do I," responded Grace heartily. At the corner above Wayne Hall Arline left Grace with a warning, "Don't forget to post that notice." As Grace reached the steps of the Hall the front door opened and two girls stepped out on the porch, followed by an alert little figure whose small face wore an expression of malicious amusement. "Do come again," she was saying in clear, high tones. "I've heard some very interesting things this afternoon." Looking down, simultaneously, three pairs of eyes were leveled on Grace and conversation instantly ceased. Grace walked quietly up the steps and, with a courteous "good afternoon," passed into the house and up the stairs to her room. Her face was unusually sober as she slowly pulled the hatpins from her hat. "How did Miss West happen to meet them?" she said half aloud. "Meet whom?" asked Elfreda, who had come into the room in time to hear Grace's half musing question. "Oh, Elfreda. How you startled me!" exclaimed Grace. "How did Miss West meet whom? That's what I am curious to know," returned Elfreda, regarding Grace with lively interest. "Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton, Inquisitive," answered Grace. "Where did you see them?" asked Elfreda, exhibiting considerable excitement. "On the front porch. They had evidently been making a call on Kathleen." "Then look out," predicted Elfreda. "They began back in the freshman year with me. Last year it was Laura Atkins and Mildred Taylor. This year it will be Kathleen West, and you mark my word, she won't reform at the end of the year as the rest of us did." "'Quoth the raven, "nevermore",'" laughed Grace. "Well, you'll see," declared Elfreda gloomily. "I'm sorry Kathleen West lives here. I thought we were going to have a peaceful year. But every fall apparently brings its problem. Really, Grace, I can't help feeling terribly remorseful to think that it is I who have caused all this trouble. If I hadn't been such an idiot when I first came here, you and Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton might at least be on speaking terms." "You mustn't think about such ancient history, Elfreda," admonished Grace. "We all do things for which we are afterward sorry. I daresay I should have offended those two girls in some other way before my freshman year was over. Both sides were to blame. I suppose we were naturally antagonistic." "That is one way of putting it," muttered Elfreda, scowling over her past misdeeds. "Come, come, Elfreda, don't glower over what has been forgotten," smiled Grace, patting Elfreda's plump shoulder. "You may forget," declared the stout girl solemnly, "but I never shall." CHAPTER IX OPENING THE BAZAAR It was Saturday afternoon, and the Semper Fidelis bazaar had just been opened. Grace Harlowe, attired in her gypsy costume, for which she had sent home, stood watching the gay scene, her eyes glowing with interest and pleasure. Professor Morton, the president of the college, had set his seal of approval on the bazaar by making a short speech. Then the dean had added a word or two, and the applause had died away in a pleasant hum of conversation that arose from the throng of students and visitors that more than comfortably filled the gymnasium. "I don't see how those girls managed to accomplish so much in so short a time," remarked the dean to Miss Duncan. "I understand Miss Harlowe was a prime mover in the work." "Yes," replied Miss Duncan. "Miss Harlowe seems to have plenty of initiative. She is one of the most active members of this new club, who have taken upon themselves the responsibility of helping needy students through college. I understand their treasury is already in a flourishing condition, thanks to their own efforts and a timely contribution they received after their concert last spring. I consider Miss Harlowe the finest type of young woman I have encountered during all my years of teaching," replied Miss Duncan warmly, which was a remarkable statement from this rather austere teacher. "The junior class is particularly rich in good material," replied the dean. "I could name at least a dozen young women whom I consider splendid types of the ideal Overton girl." Utterly unaware of the approval of the faculty, Grace had paused for a moment outside the gypsy encampment to cast a speculative eye over the crowd, which seemed to be steadily increasing. "It is a brilliant success," she said to Arline gleefully, who had come up and now stood beside her. "I am so glad, but so tired. I do hope everyone will like the bazaar, and have a good time this afternoon and to-night. Everything has gone so beautifully. There hasn't been a sign of a hitch. Oh, yes, there was one." Her face clouded for a second. Then she looked at Arline brightly. "I'm not going to think of it. There are so many nice things to remember that one little unpleasantness doesn't count, does it?" "I think it counts," declared Arline stubbornly. "I shall never forget it as long as I live. Why, it nearly spoiled our bazaar. It was dreadful to have some one spread the story of our circus, and just what we intended to have, when we wanted the whole thing to be a surprise." "Really, I think the person who told the tales did us a good turn after all," laughed Grace. "The girls were ever so much more anxious to attend the bazaar after they heard of the circus. Every girl loves 'Alice in Wonderland,' I think. And then the Sphinx is a first-class surprise." "Isn't it funny?" chuckled Arline, who, in her short, white, embroidered dress, pale blue sash, blue silk stockings and heelless blue kid slippers, her golden hair hanging in curls, tied up on one side with a blue ribbon, looked exactly as Lewis Carroll's immortal Alice might have looked if she had been inspired with life. "Alice" was allowed to show herself to the public before the performance, and on catching sight of Grace had run across the gymnasium to her in true little girl fashion. Never before had Overton's big gymnasium been so peculiarly and gayly arrayed. At one end a numerous band of gypsies had pitched their tents and here Grace and Miriam, garbed in the many-colored raiment of the Zingari, jingled their tambourines in their familiar but ever-popular Spanish dance, and read curious pink palms itching to know the future. Adjoining the gypsy encampment was a doll shop, over which the cunning freshman, Myra Stone, dressed as a sailor doll, presided. Then came the Japanese tea shop, with the Emerson twins as proprietors, looking so realistically Japanese that Arline declared she didn't believe they were the Emerson twins, but two geisha girls straight from Japan. At intervals, when their patrons had all been served, they sidled up to the center of the shop and performed a quaint Oriental dance for the entertainment of their guests. [Illustration: The Emerson Twins Looked Realistically Japanese.] Violet Darby had been asked to preside at the Shamrock booth instead of Arline, as had first been suggested, Arline having been elected to portray the world-renowned Alice. As an Irish colleen, Violet, however, proved a distinct success, and thrilled her hearers with "Kathleen Mavourneen" and "The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls." Her voice held that peculiarly sweet, plaintive quality so necessary to bring out the beauty of the old Irish melodies, and Grace and Anne both agreed that there was only one who could surpass her. There was only one Nora O'Malley. Farther on four pretty sophomores, dressed as Norman peasant girls, were dispensing cakes and ices to a steadily increasing patronage. There was a postcard and souvenir booth, around which a crowd seemed perpetually stationed. The souvenirs consisted mainly of small black and white or water color sketches contributed by the artistic element of Overton. Occupying one entire end of the room was the circus ring, and on this public attention was centered. A gayly decorated poster at the door bore the pleasing information that there would be four performances, at two-thirty, four-thirty, eight-thirty, and nine-thirty, respectively, in which would appear the "Celebrated Alice in Wonderland Animals." The club had originally planned to keep the matter of the circus as a surprise until the patrons of the bazaar should enter the gymnasium, but in some mysterious manner the secret had leaked out. Even the identity of certain animals was known, and when this unpleasant news had reached the ears of the "animals" themselves a meeting was called, which almost put an end to the circus then and there. After due consideration the performers agreed to go on with the spectacle, but many and indignant were the theories advanced as to the manner in which the news had traveled abroad. That the information had gone forth through a member of the club or any one taking part in the circus no one of them believed. Complete ostracism threatened the offender or offenders provided she or they, as the case might be, were discovered. Later the members of the club were forced to admit that, although the principle of the act was reprehensible, the act itself had served only as a means of advertising, and had aroused the curiosity and interest of the public. After several earnest discussions on the part of the club, the admission fee had been fixed at twenty-five cents, and the public had been invited. As a college town Overton's "public" was largely made up of the classes rather than the masses, and many of the visitors claimed Overton as their Alma Mater. The students, however, were the hope on which the club based its dreams of profit. "No girl could walk around the gymnasium without spending money. She couldn't resist those darling shops. They are all too fascinating for words," Arline had declared rapturously as she and Grace were taking a last walk around the great, gayly decorated room before going to luncheon that day. Now, as they stood side by side anxiously watching the steadily increasing tide of visitors, they agreed that their efforts were about to be rewarded. "Isn't it splendid!" exulted Arline. "And, oh, have you seen the Sphinx, and isn't she great! How did Emma happen to think of her, let alone getting her up?" "S-h-h!" cautioned Grace in a warning tone. "Some one might hear you." "Oh, I forgot. Sphinxes are supposed to be shrouded in mystery, aren't they?" "This one is," smiled Grace. Then her face sobered instantly. "I hope no one else besides ourselves finds out. We ought to keep her identity a secret. I think the idea is simply great, don't you?" Arline nodded. "Come on over and see her," she coaxed. A moment later they stood before the entrance to a small tent, hung with a heavy curtain. Pushing the curtain aside, Arline stepped into the tent. A burnoosed, turbaned Arab standing inside salaamed profoundly. The two girls giggled, and there was a stifled, most un-Arab-like echo from the bronzed son of the desert. Then they paused before a platform about four feet in height on which reposed what appeared to be a gigantic Sphinx, her paws stiffly folded in front of her. "Ask me a question." This sudden, mysterious croak that issued from inside the great head caused Arline to start and step back. "Ask me a question. I am as old as the world. I am the world's great riddle, the one which has never been solved. Ask me a question, only one, one only." The eerie voice died away into yards of drapery that extended in huge folds from the back of the head and far out on the platform. "How on earth did you ever get into that affair, and who made it?" asked Arline curiously. "Mystery, all is mystery," croaked the Sphinx. "But you said you would answer my question!" persisted Arline. "Which one?" plaintively inquired the voice. "Both," declared Arline boldly. "Only one, only one," was the provoking reply. "Then, who made it?" asked Arline. "It was made ages ago." Emma Dean's familiar drawl startled both Grace and Arline. "My brother had it made for a college play called 'Sphinx.' When we began to plan for the bazaar I sent home for it. I was so afraid it wouldn't arrive on time. My brother hired an old man who does this wonderful papier mache work to make it. I made the paws. Rather realistic, aren't they? All this drapery came with the head. I am inside the head, sitting on a stool. It's rather dark and stuffy, but it's lots of fun, too. I can appear before the audience at any moment. The head is built over a light frame. There is an arrangement inside the head that makes promenading possible. In fact, I had practiced an attractive little dance--" "Hurrah!" cried Arline. "Another feature. When shall we have it! Won't that be splendid?" "Not this afternoon. Late in the evening," counseled Emma. "I don't wish to dance more than once, and you know what a college girl audience means. Now, is there anything else you want to know?" There was a sudden murmur of voices outside which silenced Emma immediately. Then Alberta Wicks, Mary Hampton and Kathleen West were ushered into the tent. "I am the Sphinx," began the far-away voice again in the mammoth head. "Ask me a question." Bowing to the newcomers rather coldly, Grace and Arline turned to leave the tent. But Grace reflected grimly as she lifted the tent flap that if any one of the trio had been the all-wise Sphinx, instead of her friend Emma Dean, there were several questions she might have asked that would have been disconcerting to say the least. A little later she strolled back to the Sphinx's tent, only to find that amiable riddle besieged by an impatient throng of girls who were eager to spend their money for the mere sake of hearing the Sphinx's ridiculous answers to their questions, and incidentally to try if possible to discover her identity. Emma had succeeded in changing her voice so completely that the far-away, almost wailing tones of the Egyptian wonder had little in common with her usual drawl. She and her faithful Arab had thoroughly enjoyed the attempts of the various girls to discover who was inside the great head and voluminous drapery. "I would never have known who was in there if Emma herself had not told me. I don't believe any one outside the club knows either," was Grace's conclusion as she returned to her own booth. But in this she was mistaken. CHAPTER X THE ALICE IN WONDERLAND CIRCUS The Alice in Wonderland Circus went down in the annals of Overton as the most original "stunt" ever attempted by any particular class. 19-- bore its honors modestly, but was inordinately proud of the achievement of the Semper Fidelis Club. The animals' costumes had been designed by Ruth and Elfreda. After much poring over half a dozen editions of "Alice," the original illustrations by "John Tenniel" had appealed most strongly to them, and these had been copied as faithfully as possible in style and color. The only important dry goods store in Overton had been ransacked for colored cambrics, denim and khaki, and under the clever fingers of Ruth, who seemed to know the exact shape and proportion of every one of the Wonderland "animals," the Dormouse, the Griffon and the Rabbit had been fitted with "skins." Elfreda had skilfully designed and made the Mock Turtle's huge shell and flappers, the Griffon's wings, not to mention ears for at least half the circus, and Gertrude Wells, whose clever posters were always in demand, obligingly painted bars, dots, stripes or whatever touch was needed to make the particular animal a triumph of realism. The King and Queen looked as though they might have stepped from the pages of the book, and the Duchess, as played by Anne, was a masterpiece of acting. The circus opened with a grand march of the animals. Then followed the "Mad Hatter Quadrille," called by the Mad Hatter and danced by the March Hare, the Dormouse, the Rabbit, the Griffon, the Mock Turtle, the Dodo, the Duchess and Alice. Then the Mad Hatter stepped to the center of the ring, flourished his high hat, bowed profoundly, and made a funny little speech about the accomplishments of the animals, each one walking solemnly into the middle of the ring as his name was called and clumsily saluting the audience. Then the real circus began. The Dormouse skipped the rope, the Rabbit balanced a plate on his nose, the Griffon, with a great flapping of wings, laboriously climbed a ladder and jumped from the top rung to the ground, a matter of about six feet, where he bowed pompously and waved his long claws to the audience. Then the Mock Turtle sang "Beautiful Soup," and wept so profusely he toppled over at the end of the song and lay flopping on his back. The Mad Hatter and the Griffon hastily raised him only to find he had made a dreadful dent in his shell. This did not hinder him from joining his friend, the Griffon, in "Won't You Join the Dance?" which stately caper they performed around Alice, while the other animals stood in a circle and marked time with their feet, solemnly waving their paws and wagging their heads in unison. The Cheshire Cat, who had a real Chessy Cat head which Gertrude Wells had manufactured and painted, and who wore Arline's long squirrel coat with a squirrel scarf trailing behind for a tail, executed a dance of quaint steps and low bows. The Dodo jumped or rather walked through three paper hoops, which had to be lowered to admit his chubby person. The King and Queen gave a dialogue, every other line of which was "Off with her head," and the Mad Hatter performed an eccentric dance consisting of marvelous leaps and bounds that took him from one side of the ring to the other with amazing rapidity. When he made his bow the audience shouted with laughter and encored wildly, but with a last nimble skip the panting Hatter made for the Griffon's ladder and, seating himself upon it, refused to respond beyond a nod and a careless wave of his hand. Later he left his perch and proceeded to convulse his audience by sitting on his tall hat and taking a bite from his teacup, the three-cornered bite having been carefully removed beforehand and held temporarily in place with library paste until the proper moment. As the Mad Hatter, Elfreda was entirely in her element. Her unusually keen sense of humor prompted her to make her impersonation of the immortal Hatter one long to be remembered by those who witnessed the performance given by the famous animals. She was without doubt the feature of the circus and the spectators were quick to note and applaud her slightest movement. The circus ended with an all-around acrobatic exhibition. The Dodo performed on the trapeze. The Mock Turtle and the Cheshire Cat took turns on a diminutive springboard. The March Hare and the Dormouse energetically jumped over a small barrel. The Queen and the Duchess had a fencing match, the Queen using her sceptre, the Duchess the rag baby she carried, and to which she had sung the "Pepper Song" at intervals during the performance. The King tossed four colored balls into the air, keeping them in motion at once. The Rabbit went on balancing his plate until it slid off his nose, but being tin it struck the ring without breaking. The Griffon lumbered up and down his ladder, while the King and Alice, stepping down to the front of the ring, sang their great duet, "Come, Learn the Way to Wonderland," while, one by one, the animals left off performing their stunts and, surrounding Alice and the King, came out strongly on the chorus: "Come, learn the way to Wonderland. None of the grown folks understand Just where it lies, Hid from their eyes. 'Tis an enchanted strand Where the Hare and the Hatter dance in glee, Where curious beasts sit down to tea, Where the Mock Turtle sings And the Griffon has wings, In curious Wonderland." After the animals had romped out of the ring, and romped in again to take an encore, the audience, who had occupied every reserved seat in the gallery opposite the ring, and packed every available inch of standing room there, came downstairs, while those who had stayed downstairs and peered over one another's shoulders, made a rush for the reserved seat ticket window. Mr. Redfield, the old gentleman who had contributed so liberally to the Semper Fidelis Club, chuckled gleefully over the circus and put in a request that it be given again at the next public entertainment under the auspices of the club. The second performance was given toward the close of the afternoon, and was even more enthusiastically received. None of the performers left the gymnasium for dinner that night. They preferred to satisfy their hunger at the various booths. "Oh, there goes Emma," laughed Grace, as late that evening she caught a glimpse of the Egyptian mystery parading majestically down the room ahead of her, then stopping at the Japanese booth to exchange a word with the giggling Emerson twins, who thought the Sphinx the greatest joke imaginable. A little later as Grace was about to return to the gypsy camp she heard a sudden swish of draperies behind her. Glancing hastily about, she laughed as she saw the Sphinx's unwieldy head towering above her. "Oh, Great and Wonderful Mystery--" began Grace. But Emma answered almost crossly: "Don't 'Great and Wonderful Mystery' me. This head is becoming a dead weight, and I'm thirsty and tired, and, besides, something disagreeable just happened." "What was it?" asked Grace unthinkingly. Then, "I beg your pardon, Emma, I didn't realize the rudeness of my question. Pretend you didn't hear what I said." "Oh, that is all right," responded Emma laconically. "I don't mind telling you if you will promise on your honor as a junior not to tell a soul." "I promise," agreed Grace. "It's about that West person," began Emma disgustedly. "I overheard a conversation between her and her two friends to-night. How did she become so friendly with Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton? They addressed one another by their first names as though on terms of greatest familiarity." "I don't know, I am sure," answered Grace slowly. "I seldom see either Miss Wicks or Miss Hampton. When they lived at Stuart Hall I used frequently to pass them on the campus, but since they have been living at Wellington House I rarely, if ever, see either of them. It is just as well, I suppose." "Thank goodness, this is their last year here," muttered Emma. "We shall have peace during our senior year at least, unless some other disturber appears on the scene." "Why, Emma Dean!" exclaimed Grace, "what is the matter with you to-night? You aren't a bit like your usual self." "Then, I'm a successful Sphinx," retorted Emma satirically. "Of course you are," smiled Grace. "But you can be a successful Sphinx and be yourself, too. But you haven't yet told me anything." "I'm coming to the information part now," went on Emma. "About an hour ago, while the circus was in full swing, I slipped out of my Sphinx rig and, asking Helen to watch it,--she is made up as the Arab, you know,--I went for a walk around the bazaar. I was sure no one knew that I was the Sphinx, and the Sphinx was I, for I hadn't told a soul except the club girls and Helen. You know I've been purposely taking occasional walks about the gymnasium as Emma Dean. I went over to the Japanese booth for some tea, and while I was drinking it the circus ended and the girls began to pile into the garden for tea. All of a sudden I heard some one say, 'Why didn't you bring your Sphinx costume along, Miss Dean?' It was that horrid little West girl who spoke. Her voice carried, too, for every one in the garden heard her, and they all pounced upon me at once. It made me so angry I rushed out without waiting for my tea, and inside of five minutes the news had circled the gym, and the Sphinx had ceased to be the world's great mystery. I got into the costume again, but the fun was gone. I didn't answer any more questions and I didn't do my dance. I was looking for you to tell you that the Sphinx was about to give up the ghost." "How could Miss West be so spiteful?" asked Grace vexedly. "Where do you suppose she heard the news, and who told her? You don't suppose--" Grace stopped abruptly. A sudden suspicion had seized her. "Don't suppose what?" interrogated Emma sharply. "Nothing," finished Grace shortly. "Yes, you do suppose something," declared Emma. "I know just what you are thinking. You believe as I do, that Miss West listened--" "Don't say it, Emma!" exclaimed Grace. "We may both be wrong." "Then you do believe----" "I don't know," said Grace bravely. "I admit that suspicion points toward Miss West, but until we know definitely, we must try to be fair-minded. I have seen too much unhappiness result from misplaced suspicion. I know of an instance where a girl was sent to Coventry by her class for almost a year on the merest suspicion." "Not here?" questioned Emma, her eyes expressing the surprise she felt at this announcement. "No," returned Grace soberly. There was finality in her "no." "And the moral is, don't jump at conclusions," smiled Emma. "Come on down to my lair while I remove my Sphinx-like garments and step forth as plain Emma Dean. Don't look so sober, Grace. I've put my suspicions to sleep. I'll give even Miss West the benefit of my doubt. I will even go so far as to forgive her for spoiling my fun to-night. Now smile and say, 'Emma, I always knew you to be the soul of magnanimity.'" Grace laughed outright at this modest assertion, and obligingly repeated the required words. "Now that my reputation has been once more established, and because I don't feel half so wrathful as I did ten minutes ago," declared Emma, "let us lay the Sphinx peacefully to rest and do the bazaar arm in arm." CHAPTER XI GRACE MEETS WITH A REBUFF It was several days before the pleasant buzz of excitement created by the bazaar had subsided. With a few exceptions the Overton girls who had turned out, almost in a body, to patronize it, were loud in their praises of the booths, and spent their money with commendable recklessness. Outside the circus it was difficult to say which booth had proved the greatest attraction. But late that evening, after the crowd had gone home and the proceeds of the entertainment were counted, the club discovered to their joy that they were nearly six hundred dollars richer. Arline had laughingly proclaimed the Semper Fidelis Club as a regular get-rich-quick organization with honest motives. By the time the last bit of frivolous decoration had been removed from the gymnasium, and the big room had recovered its usual business-like air, the bazaar had become a bit of 19--'s history, and Thanksgiving plans were in full swing. There had been two meetings of the club, but to Grace's surprise no mention had been made of Kathleen West's intentional betrayal of Emma Dean's identity. Grace felt certain that the majority of the club had heard the story, and with a thrill of pride she paid tribute to her friends, who, in ignoring the thrust evidently intended for the club itself, had shown themselves as possessors of the true Overton spirit. After Emma's one outburst to Grace against Kathleen she said no more on the subject. Even Elfreda, who usually had something to say about everything when alone with her three friends, was discreetly silent on the subject of the newspaper girl. Long ago she had delivered her ultimatum. To be sure, she went about looking owlishly wise, but she offered no comment concerning Kathleen's unpleasant attitude. For the time being Grace had put aside all disturbing thoughts and suspicions, and was preparing to make the most of the four days' vacation. Mabel Ashe was to be her guest on Thanksgiving Day, and this in itself was sufficient to banish everything save pleasurable anticipations from her mind. Then, too, there was so much to be done. The Monday evening preceding Thanksgiving Grace hurried through her lessons and, closing her books before she was at all sure that she could make a creditable recitation in any of her subjects, settled herself to the important task of letter-writing. "There," she announced with satisfaction, after half an hour's steady work, "Father and Mother can't say I forgot them. Let me see, there are Nora and Jessica, Mrs. Gray and Mabel Allison. Eleanor owes me a letter, and, oh, I nearly forgot the Southards, and there is Mrs. Gibson. I shall have to devote two nights to letter-writing," she added ruefully. "I do love to receive letters, but it is so hard to answer them." "Isn't it, though?" sighed Anne, who was seated at the table opposite Grace, engaged in a similar task. "Now I wish we were going home, don't you, Grace?" "Yes," returned Grace simply. "But we can't, so there is no use in wishing. However," she continued, her face brightening, "we are going to have Mabel with us, and that means a whole lot. All Overton will be glad to see her--that is, all the juniors and seniors and the faculty and a few others." "There is only one Mabel Ashe," said Anne softly. "Won't it be splendid to have her with us?" Grace nodded. Then, after writing busily for a moment, she looked up and said abruptly: "There is just one thing that bothers me, Anne, and that is the way Miss West is behaving. What shall I tell Mabel when she asks me about her? In my letters I haven't made the slightest allusion to anything." "Tell Mabel the truth," advised Anne calmly. "By that I don't mean that you need mention the Sphinx affair, but if you say to her frankly that we have tried to be friendly with Miss West and that she appears especially to dislike us, she will understand, and nine chances to one she will be able to point out the reason, which so far no one seems to know." "I suppose I had better tell her," sighed Grace. "I hate to begin a holiday by gossiping, but something will have to be done, or Mabel will find herself in an embarrassing position, for I have a curious presentiment that Miss Kathleen West will pounce upon her the moment she sees her, just to annoy us." Since the evening of the bazaar, when Kathleen had nodded curtly to Grace at the entrance to the Sphinx's tent, she had neither spoken to nor noticed the four girls who had in the beginning received her so hospitably. No one of them quite understood the newspaper girl's attitude, but as she was often seen in company with Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton, they were forced to draw their own conclusions. Grace fought against harboring the slightest resemblance to suspicion against the two seniors and their new friend. "Does Miss West know that Mabel is coming to Overton for Thanksgiving?" asked Anne. "No," returned Grace, looking rather worried. "I suppose some one ought to tell her." "I'll tell her, if you like," proposed Anne quietly. "I think she is in her room this evening. I heard her say to one of the girls at dinner that she intended to study hard until late to-night." "No," decided Grace, "it wouldn't be fair for me to shirk my responsibility. Mabel wrote me about Kathleen West in the first place, and I promised to look out for her. If she doesn't yearn for my society, it isn't my fault. I'm not going to be a coward, at any rate. I'll go at once, while my resolution is at its height. She can't do more than order me from her room, and having been through a similar experience several times in my life I shan't mind it so very much," concluded Grace grimly, closing her fountain pen and laying it beside her half-finished letter. "I'm going now, Anne. I hope she won't be too difficult." Grace walked resolutely down the hall to the door at the end. It was slightly ajar. Rapping gently, she stood waiting, bravely stifling the strong inclination to turn and walk away without delivering her message. She heard a quick step; then she and Kathleen West confronted each other. Without hesitating, Grace said frankly: "Miss West, Miss Ashe is to be my guest on Thanksgiving Day. Of late you have avoided me, and my friends as well. But Mabel is our mutual friend. So I think, at least while she is here, we ought to put all personal differences aside and unite in making the day pleasant for her." "Nothing like being disinterested, is there?" broke in the other girl sneeringly, her sharp face looking sharper than ever. "I can quite understand your anxiety regarding not letting Miss Ashe know how shabbily you have treated me. Your promises to her didn't hold water, did they? And now you are afraid she will find you out, aren't you? Don't worry, I shan't tell her. She'll learn the truth about you and your three friends soon enough." "You know very well I had no such motive," cried Grace, surprised to indignation. "Besides, I know of no instance in which either my friends or I have failed in courtesy to you." "How innocent you are!" mimicked Kathleen insolently. "You must think me very blind. Remember, I haven't worked for four years on a newspaper without having learned a few things." Grace felt her color rising. The retort that rose to her lips found its way into speech. "No doubt your newspaper work has taught you a great deal, Miss West," she said evenly, "but I have not been in college for over two years without having learned a few things, also, of which, if I am not mistaken, you have never acquired even the first rudiments. I am sorry to have troubled you. Good night." With a proud little inclination of the head, Grace turned and walked down the hall to her own room, leaving the self-centered Kathleen with an angry color in her thin face and the unpleasant knowledge that though she might be in college, she was not of it. CHAPTER XII THANKSGIVING AT OVERTON In spite of the awkwardness of the situation precipitated by the belligerent newspaper girl, Thanksgiving Day passed off with remarkable smoothness. Greatly to Grace's surprise, in the morning after Mabel's arrival at Wayne Hall Kathleen West had appeared in the living-room where Mabel was holding triumphant court, greeted her with apparent cordiality, and after remaining in the room for a short time had pleaded an engagement for the day, and said good-bye. "Too bad she couldn't stay with us and go to the game, isn't it?" Mabel had declared regretfully. "I suppose she is obliged to divide her time. Miss West is so clever. She must be very popular?" she added inquiringly. At that moment Elfreda purposely began an account of the latest practice game in which her team had played, and Mabel, who was an ardent basketball fan, failed to notice that her questioning comment had been neither answered nor echoed. To the relief of the four friends the subject of Kathleen West was not renewed during Mabel's stay, and when, that night, she went to the station surrounded by a large and faithful bodyguard, all adverse criticism against the girl for whom she had spoken was locked within the breasts of the four who knew. On the Friday after Thanksgiving the first real game between the freshmen and the sophomore teams took place in the gymnasium. The freshmen won the game, much to Elfreda's disgust, as she had pinned her faith on the sophomores. The triumphant team marched around the gymnasium, lustily singing a ridiculously funny basketball song which it afterward developed had been composed by none other than Kathleen West. "Too bad she isn't up to her song," had been Elfreda's dry comment, with which the other three girls privately agreed. The Morton House girls issued tickets for a play, which had to be postponed because the leading man (Gertrude Wells) spent Thanksgiving in the country and missed the afternoon train to Overton. Nothing daunted, Arline descended upon Grace, Miriam and Anne, pressed them into service and sent them scurrying about to the houses and boarding places of the girls they knew to be at home, with eleventh-hour invitations to a fancy dress party to be held at Morton Hall in lieu of the play, which had to be postponed until the following week. Arline had stipulated that the costumes must be strictly original. Wonderland costumes were to be tabooed. "If we present the circus again later on we don't want to run the risk of giving any one the slightest chance to grow tired of seeing the animals," had been her wise edict. That night a mixed company of gay and gallant folks danced to the music of the living-room piano at Morton House. Those receiving invitations had immediately planned their costumes and by eight o'clock that evening, resplendent in their own and borrowed finery, were on their way to the ball. At ten o'clock there had been a brief intermission, when cakes and ices were served. This had been an unlooked-for courtesy on the part of Arline, who had plunged recklessly into her month's allowance for the purchase of the little spread. The ball had lasted until half-past eleven o'clock, and the participants, after singing to Arline and rendering her a noisy vote of thanks, had gone home tired and happy. Saturday had been devoted to the "odds and ends" of vacation. The majority of the girls, having stayed in Overton, paid long-deferred calls, gave luncheons or dinners at Vinton's or Martell's, or, the day being unusually clear, went for long walks. Guest House was the destination of a party of girls of whom Grace made one, and which also included Miriam, Elfreda, Laura Atkins, Violet Darby and half a dozen other young women who had elected the five-mile walk, supper, and a return by moonlight. Arline, Anne and Ruth had at the last moment decided to attend an illustrated lecture on Paris, to be held in the Overton Theatre that afternoon, with the gleeful prospect of cooking their supper at Ruth's that evening, an occasion invariably attended with at least one laughable mishap, as neither Arline's nor Anne's knowledge of cooking extended beyond the art of boiling water. On the way back from Guest House the pedestrians had stopped at Vinton's for a rest and ices. As they trooped in the door, they passed Kathleen West, accompanied by Alberta Wicks, Mary Hampton, and a freshman whom Grace had frequently noticed in company with the newspaper girl. Several of the girls with her bowed to the passing trio, but Grace fancied there was a lack of cordiality in their salutations. She also imagined she noticed a fleeting gleam of malice in Alberta Wicks's face as the senior passed their table. Inwardly censuring herself for allowing any such impression to creep into her mind, Grace dismissed it with an impatient little shake of the head. The walking party indulged in a second round of ices before leaving Vinton's. Everyone seemed to be in a particularly happy mood, and long afterward Grace looked back on this night as one of the particular occasions of her junior year, when everyone and everything seemed to be in absolute harmony. All the way home this exalted, elated mood remained with her. She smiled to herself as she leisurely prepared for bed at the recollection of her happy evening. Elfreda's sharp, familiar knock on the door caused her to start slightly, then she called, "Come in!" "Hasn't Anne come home yet?" asked Elfreda, glancing about her, then, shuffling across the room in her satin mules, she curled herself comfortably on the end of Grace's couch, and, surveying Grace with friendly, half-quizzical eyes, said shrewdly, "Well, what's the latest on the bulletin board?" "I don't know," smiled Grace. "I didn't look at the one in the hall and as for the one over at the college, I haven't paid any attention to it for the last two days. My letters usually come to Wayne Hall." Elfreda sniffed disdainfully. "I don't mean either of those bulletin boards, and you know it, too, Grace Harlowe. I could see danger signals flying to-night, even if you couldn't. I don't see how you could have missed them." She eyed Grace searchingly, then said, with conviction, "I don't believe you did miss them. They were too plain to be missed." Grace hesitated, then said frankly: "To tell you the truth, Elfreda, I did fancy for a moment that Miss Wicks favored me with a very peculiar look. Then I decided it to be a case of imagination on my part. Those girls haven't troubled us this year. I don't know----" she began slowly. Elfreda interrupted her with an emphatic: "That is just what I've been telling you. That's what I mean by danger signals. Those two girls will never forgive you for making them ridiculous the night they locked me in the haunted house. Last year they had to content themselves with simply being disagreeable, because they could find no particularly weak spot in our sophomore armor. They accomplished very little with Laura Atkins and Mildred Taylor. This year it's different." Elfreda paused to give full effect to her words. Then she ended slowly and impressively: "Don't think I'm trying to court calamity, but I am certain that perky little newspaper woman, as she styles herself, is going to prove a thorn in your side. You had better write to Mabel and explain matters, then leave Miss Kathleen West alone. She hasn't spoken to you since the day of the bazaar, so I can't see that your junior counsel is of any particular use to her." "Still, it seems a shame to give up; besides, it is the first thing Mabel ever asked me to do," demurred Grace. "I know, I've thought of that," continued Elfreda a little impatiently. "But I don't think you are justified in wasting your whole year's fun worrying about some one who isn't worth it. If Mabel knew, she would be the first one to indorse what I have just said." "I'm not wasting my year, Elfreda mine," contradicted Grace good-naturedly. "Just think what a nice time we had to-night! And I'm getting along splendidly with all my subjects. I belong to the Semper Fidelis Club, and am having the jolliest kind of times with you girls. That doesn't sound much like wasting my year, does it?" "I didn't say you had wasted it," retorted Elfreda gruffly. "I said, or rather intended to say, that you would be likely to waste it. You are the sort of girl who ought to have the best Overton can offer, because--well--because you deserve it. You think too much about other people, and not enough about yourself," she concluded shortly. "What a selfish Elfreda," laughed Grace, walking across the room and sitting down beside the stout girl, whose round face looked unusually severe. "One might think Elfreda Briggs never did an unselfish act in all her twenty-two years. Now I am going to give you a piece of your own advice. Stop worrying--about me. Whatever my just desserts are, they'll overtake me fast enough. Hurrah! Here is our little Anne. Did you have a nice time, dear, and what did you cook for supper?" "I always have a nice time at Ruth's," smiled Anne, "but, if you had seen the three cooks all trying to spoil the broth and succeeding beyond their wildest expectations, you would have been greatly edified." "I can imagine Arline Thayer gravely bending over that little gas stove of Ruth's," said Grace. "She had all sorts of splendid ideas about what we might make, but no one had the slightest idea as to how to make anything she proposed." "I am afraid none of us would ever set the world on fire as cooks," observed Elfreda with sarcasm. "Where's Miriam?" asked Anne, slipping out of her coat and unpinning her hat. "Writing to her mother," returned Elfreda. "Now tell us what you cooked." Frequent bursts of laughter arose as Anne described Arline's valiant attempt at making a Spanish omelet from a recipe in a cook-book she had purchased that very day for twenty-five cents at the little book store just below the campus. "It was called the 'Model Housewife,' but the omelet was really a dreadful affair," continued Anne. "Then I let the potatoes boil dry and they scorched on the bottom, and no one knew how to make a cream dressing for the peas. "Ruth made a Waldorf salad. We had a bottle of dressing, thank goodness. And Arline made coffee, which she really does know how to make. We had olives and pickles and cakes, and two dozen of those cunning little rolls from that German bakery down the street. So we really managed to get enough to eat after all. There wasn't much left except the omelet, and no one wanted that." "I don't suppose it would be of the least use to propose tea," said Grace innocently. "Well, of course, if you insist," declared Elfreda politely. At this juncture Miriam appeared in the door. "I thought I'd drop in for a minute. You were making so much noise I suspected that a tea party was in progress," she said significantly. "We were just talking about making tea," declared Anne. "In fact, I was on the point of remarking that tea was really the one thing needed to complete our happiness." A little gust of laughter greeted this pointed remark. It echoed down the hall, and was carried through the half-opened door of the room at the end, where a girl sat busily engaged in writing a theme. She lay down her pen, listened for a moment, then went on writing, a sarcastic little smile playing about her lips. But in her eyes flashed two danger signals. CHAPTER XIII ARLINE MAKES THE BEST OF A BAD MATTER "What shall we do for our eight girls this year?" asked Grace reflectively of Arline Thayer. It was barely two weeks until Christmas and the two girls had decided to spend their half holiday in doing the Overton stores. "I know the stock better than the saleswomen themselves do," chuckled Arline, "but it is great fun to go on exploring expeditions and watch other people buy the things. Of course, I always buy something, too, unless I am deep in that state of temporary poverty that lies in wait for me at the end of every month." "Of course you do," agreed Grace, with an answering chuckle. "Even though it is a hat and you feel obliged to dispose of it before going home, so that the Morton House girls won't laugh at you." "Who told you about it?" asked Arline in a half-vexed tone. "You told me, don't you remember?" asked Grace. "Oh, yes, of course. Wasn't I a goose?" "Thank you," bowed Grace mockingly. "Oh, I don't mean because I told you," apologized Arline hastily. "I mean, wasn't I a goose to buy it? It was in this very store. It looked so pretty. I was determined to have it. Outside the store it looked quite different. It was a perfectly honest dollar-and-a-half hat. But in the store under the electric lights it was really a pretentious affair. Ruth was with me at the time, and, wise little pilot that she is, tried to steer me past it. But I was determined to have it. After I left Ruth, I opened the box and looked at it in broad daylight, and then I happened to meet my washerwoman's daughter, and I gave it to her. It was so fortunate I met her, wasn't it?" finished Arline plaintively. "For the washerwoman's daughter, yes," returned Grace. "It served me right for buying it. I spend too much money foolishly," said Arline self-accusingly. "I'm going to stop being so reckless. Suppose my father were to lose all his money and I couldn't even come back to college next year? I would, though. I'd go and live with Ruth and borrow enough money of the Semper Fidelis Club to see me through my senior year. Then, I suppose, I'd have to teach or something afterward. I think it would be 'or something.' I don't believe teaching is my vocation." Grace listened in smiling silence to Arline's remarks. A vision of the little blue-eyed golden-haired girl who always did exactly as she pleased in the prim guise of a teacher was infinitely diverting. "You haven't answered my question about our girls yet," reminded Grace, as they walked down the center aisle of the larger of the two Overton stores, stopping frequently at the various counters to examine the display of holiday wares. "Haven't you any suggestions?" counter-questioned Arline. "I have been depending on you for inspiration." "Nothing new or original," answered Grace doubtfully. "Last year's stunt was beautifully carried out, but we can't repeat it this year without running the risk of some one finding out just who our eight girls are and all about them. Then, too, what we did last year was on the spur of the moment. If we tried to do the same thing this year it might fall flat, on account of being too carefully planned. Besides, these girls have the privilege of borrowing from the Semper Fidelis fund now, and I imagine most of them have done so. Of course, only the treasurer knows that." "It looks to me as though there were more real need of a little Christmas cheer," declared Arline thoughtfully. "Couldn't we arrange some kind of entertainment to take place before we all go?" "But that wouldn't seem much like Christmas unless it happened on Christmas Day," objected Grace. "We'll all be at home then." "Why not have a talk with Miss Barlow?" proposed Arline eagerly. "You are the one to do it. You know her better than I do. Suppose we call upon her within the next few days. Then you can find out what she and her friends intend to do. If she says they are all going to stay here, then ask her if she wouldn't like to--" Arline paused and looked rather helplessly at Grace. "That's as far as I can go," she confessed. "I haven't the least idea of what I should ask her." "I am equally destitute of ideas," agreed Grace. "Perhaps the inspiration is yet to come." "It will have to come soon then, or we won't have the time to carry it out," commented Arline dryly. "Keep it in mind, and if you think of anything let me know instantly, won't you?" Grace gave the desired promise and thought no more of it until she and Arline almost came into violent collision just outside the library the following Monday evening. "Grace Harlowe!" exclaimed the little girl. "I was coming to Wayne Hall to see you the instant I finished here. It has come, Grace! The great inspiration! But it is a dreadful disappointment to me." Several big tears chased each other down Arline's rosy cheeks. Her lip quivered, and with a little, choking sob she sat down on the lowest step of the library and began to cry softly. "Arline, dear child, whatever is the matter?" cried Grace in quick alarm. A moment later she had slipped to the step beside Arline, passing one arm about her friend's shoulder. She could scarcely believe this weeping, disconsolate little creature to be the smiling, self-assured Arline Thayer, who was forever receiving flowers from admiring freshmen crushes. "Father's going to--Europe--on--important business," quavered Arline brokenly. "He--he sails to-morrow morning and he can't possibly return before the middle of January." She raised her sad little face to Grace's sympathetic one, then, straightening up, she went on bravely, "We had so many lovely Christmas plans." "Come home with me, Arline," begged Grace. "I'd love to have you." Arline shook her blonde head, at the same time slipping her hand into Grace's. "I thought of that, too," she returned softly. "I was going to ask you if I might go home with you for Christmas. Then Ruth and I had a talk. I had asked her to go home with me, and she had refused because she is so afraid of outwearing her welcome. Then came Father's letter. Ruth was a dear about that. She said at once that if I wished to go home and felt that I needed her she would go, but I couldn't bear to think of spending Christmas in that big, lonely house. It is Father that makes it seem so wonderful to go home." Arline's lip quivered piteously. "He and I could be happy if we were the poorest of the poor. You must visit me some time, Grace. Perhaps we could have an Easter house party. Wouldn't that be splendid?" Arline's woe-be-gone face brightened. Grace patted her hand. "Get up, Arline, before some one sees you," she advised. "Whoever heard of proud little Daffydowndilly Thayer crying like an ordinary mortal?" Grace went on soothing Arline in this half-serious fashion, which presently had its effect. "You are so comforting, Grace," sighed Arline, as she rose from the steps, an expression of gratitude in her pretty blue eyes. "Can't you walk over to the house with me? I want you to hear my plan and tell me what you think of it." "I could put off my library business until to-morrow," reflected Grace, smiling a little. "It will be a case of doing as I please instead of doing as I ought. Still, as a loyal member of Semper Fidelis it is my duty to comfort my sorrowing comrades. Don't you think so?" Arline laughed an almost happy response to Grace's question. "But I mustn't stay long," warned Grace a little later, as, seated opposite Arline in the latter's room, she awaited the unfolding of Arline's "inspiration." "I'm going to stay here for Christmas," announced Arline with the finality of one who knows her own mind. "Ruth is coming up to live with me for the whole vacation, too. That isn't the inspiration, though. That is only the first part of it. The second part is that Ruth and I are going to see to the eight girls, and all the others who aren't going away from Overton. What do you think of that?" "I think it is dear in you, Arline," responded Grace very earnestly. "I only wish I might stay to help you. However, Father and Mother have first claim on my vacation. But let me help you plan and get things ready before I go. I'll be here until a week from next Thursday, you know." "Oh, I shall need you," Arline assured Grace. "I thought we might have Christmas dinner at Vinton's and Martell's, too. I've thought it all out. Both restaurants depend largely on the Overton girls' patronage. Naturally, they are very dull at Christmas time. My idea was to interview both proprietors and see if for once they wouldn't combine and furnish the same menu at the same price per plate, the price to be not more than fifty cents. It must be just an old-fashioned turkey dinner with plenty of dressing and vegetables. We must have plum pudding, too, and all the things that go with a real Christmas dinner." "But neither Vinton's nor Martell's would serve that sort of Christmas dinner for fifty cents," said Grace slowly. "I don't wish to discourage you, but--" "I know that, too," broke in Arline eagerly, "but no one else need know. I'm going to take my check that Father always gives me for theatres and things when I'm at home, and spend it to make up the difference. It will more than cover the extra expense of the dinner. I'd like to give the dinner to the girls, but of course that is out of the question. They wouldn't like it. However, if they are allowed to pay fifty cents for it they will feel independent, and, nine chances out of ten, won't trouble themselves about the actual cost of the dinner, as have some persons I might mention," ended Arline meaningly. Both girls laughed. Then Grace said admiringly: "It is a splendidly unselfish idea, and you and Ruth are the very ones to carry it out. Shall you have a play or anything afterward?" "Yes, if we can find a good one. I thought we might have a New Year's masquerade party here. It will be an innovation for these girls. I am not very sure of anything yet, except that I am not going to New York and that I must do something to amuse myself while the rest of my friends are reposing in the bosoms of their families. After all, mine is really a selfish motive," said the little girl whimsically. "Hush!" exclaimed Grace, laying her hand lightly against Arline's lips. "I shall not allow you to say slighting things of yourself. I have just one remark to make. Be very diplomatic, Arline. If any of these girls who can't afford to go home for the holidays were even to imagine themselves objects of charity, your dinner plan would be a failure. Don't tell a soul about it except Ruth." "I know," nodded Arline wisely. "I had thought of that, too. Never fear, I won't breathe it to another soul." "My half hour is more than up," exclaimed Grace ruefully, glancing toward the little French clock on Arline's chiffonier. "I must hurry away this instant. I'll see you again in a day or two. I am so sorry for your disappointment. You're the bravest little Daffydowndilly. If my prospects of going home were suddenly swept away, I'm afraid I'd be too busy with my own woes to think about making other people happy." "You would do just what I am planning to do, Grace Harlowe," declared Arline emphatically. "After all, perhaps it is just as well I can't always have my own way. I might become a monument of selfishness." "There doesn't seem to be much danger of it," laughed Grace, as she put on her hat and slipped into her long coat. "There is a strong possibility, however, that 'not prepared' will be my watchword to-morrow. I think I shall write a theme on the decline of the art of study and use personal illustrations. It seems such a shame that mid-years had to come skulking along on the very heels of Christmas, doesn't it?" Arline nodded. "I haven't looked at my French for to-morrow, either," she confessed, "and I've been saying 'not prepared' for the last two recitations. Ruth and I have planned a systematic study campaign during vacation, so you see the ill wind will blow some little good," she concluded wistfully. Grace smiled very tenderly at the little, golden-haired girl who was bearing her cross bravely, almost gayly. "Good-night, little Daffydowndilly," she said impulsively, bending to kiss Arline's rosy cheek. "I think you can teach all of us a lesson in real unselfishness." CHAPTER XIV PLANNING THE CHRISTMAS DINNER The ensuing days before Christmas were filled to the brim with business for Grace and Arline, who had been making secret tours of investigation about Overton with regard to the girls who were not going to their homes or to friends for the vacation. The managers at Martell's and Vinton's had been interviewed, and both proprietors had agreed to furnish practically the same dinner at the same price, which was considerably more than fifty cents, and was to be paid privately from Arline's own pocket money. "I feel like a conspirator," confided Arline to Grace as the two girls sat at the library table in the living room at Wayne Hall late one afternoon going over a long list of names and addresses which they had obtained by dint of much walking and inquiring. "But it is such a delightful conspiracy," reminded Grace. "One doesn't often conspire to make other people happy. I hope the girls will fall in readily with your plan." "I shall have to be as wise as a serpent," smiled Arline, "and as diplomatic as--as--Miriam Nesbit. She is the most diplomatic person I ever knew." "Isn't she, though?" agreed Grace smilingly. "Yes, my dear Daffydowndilly, you have a delicate task before you. Playing Lady Bountiful to the girls who are left behind without them suspecting you won't be easy. There are certain girls who would languish in their rooms all day, rather than accept a mouthful of food that savored of charity. I don't believe our eight girls ever suspected us of playing Santa Claus to them last year." "Oh, I am certain they never knew," returned Arline quickly. "Of course, there was a remote chance that they and the various girls, who contributed might compare notes. But those who gave presents and money were in honor bound not to ask questions or even discuss the matter among themselves. I know the Morton House girls never said a word, too." "Neither did the Wayne Hallites," rejoined Grace. "Even Miriam, Anne and Elfreda asked no questions." "Doesn't it seem wonderful to think that girls can be so splendidly impersonal and honorable?" commented Arline admiringly. "College is the very place to cultivate that attitude. Living up to college traditions means being honorable in the highest sense of the word. There are plenty of girls who come here without realizing what being an Overton girl means, until they find themselves face to face with the fact that their standards are not high enough. That is why one hears so much about finding one's self. College is like a great mirror. When one first enters it, one takes a quick glance at one's self and is pleased with the effect. Later, when one stops for a more comprehensive survey, one discovers all sorts of imperfections, and it takes four years of constant striving with one's self as well as one's studies to make a satisfactory reflection." "What a quaint idea!" exclaimed Grace. "We might evolve a play from that and call it 'The Magic Mirror.' That would be a stunt for a show. Miriam Nesbit could do a college girl. She looks the part. But here, I am miles off my subject. Suppose we go back to our girls. How are you going to propose the dinner plan, Arline?" "I'm going to wait until every last girl that is going home has departed, bag and baggage; then I shall post a bulletin on the big board, asking all the stay-heres to meet me in the gymnasium," planned Arline. "I shall say that as I am going to stay over and didn't fancy eating my Christmas dinner alone I thought perhaps the girls who had no particular plans for the day would like to join me at either Martell's or Vinton's. Then I'll explain about the price of the dinner, etc., all in a perfectly offhand manner, and let them do the rest. There are anywhere from one to two hundred girls who live at the various rooming and boarding houses who will be glad to come. Many of them have never been inside either Vinton's or Martell's. You would hardly believe it, but it's true." "I do believe it," said Grace soberly. "It seems a shame, too, when I think of the amount of time and money we spend there." "Well, I haven't grown philanthropic enough to give up going to either one," declared Arline. "They are my havens of refuge when Morton House cooking deteriorates, as it frequently does. Ask me for my cloak or even my best new pumps, but don't tear me away from my favorite haunts." "I won't," promised Grace. "I am afraid I feel the same. No chance for reformation along that line. Shall we send the eight girls gifts or a present of money this year, or both?" "I suspect they have all borrowed from the Semper Fidelis fund this year," was Arline's quick answer. "Suppose we send presents, and ask our club girls alone to contribute toward them. If every one we asked gave two dollars apiece, that would mean twenty-four dollars. We could invest it in gloves, neckwear and pretty things that most poor girls are obliged to do without. We gave money last year because those girls had no one to help them. This year Semper Fidelis stands behind them. Besides, some one might find it out this time. I said I was certain they never knew, but I always had a curious idea that Miss Barlow suspected you, Grace. Whenever I meet her she always speaks of you with positive reverence." A flush rose to Grace's face. "How ridiculous," she murmured. "You are the real heroine of that adventure. Have you decided on your programme for the week yet?" "Only the costume party and a basketball game, if we can scare up two teams, and a winter picnic at Hunter's Rock, if it isn't too cold. A play, if we can gather up enough actors, and a dance in the gymnasium. I'm going to give an afternoon tea, and that's all, I think. They will have to amuse themselves the rest of the time," finished Arline with a sigh. "There are so many ifs attached to my plans." "I predict a busy two weeks for you," said Grace, "but then--" From the room adjoining, which opened into the living room and was used as a parlor, came the sound of a slight cough. Grace was on her feet in an instant. With a bound she sprang toward the curtained archway and, pushing it aside, peered sharply into the room. It was empty. "Did you hear some one cough, Arline?" she asked anxiously. "Yes," replied Arline, who had joined her. "The sound came from in here, didn't it?" "So I imagined," declared Grace in a puzzled tone. "Perhaps it came from the hall. No one could have escaped from here before I reached the door without my hearing them. It startled me, because we had been talking so confidentially. I glanced in as we passed the door when we went into the living room and there wasn't a soul in sight. Whoever coughed a few moments ago must have slipped into the room and slipped out again." "Then, whoever it is has heard the very things we didn't wish known!" exclaimed Arline in consternation. "Now I can't carry out any of my plans. How perfectly dreadful!" "Perhaps it was Mrs. Elwood," said Grace hopefully. "Mrs. Elwood is far too stout to walk so lightly and vanish so rapidly," discouraged Arline. "I--it--must have been some one who was trying to hear." "If that is the case, the person is in this house and must be found and sworn to secrecy," said Grace sternly. "I am afraid we were talking too loudly. However, the person may have only come as far as the door, then passed on upstairs. Suppose we go up and ask all the girls. We shall feel better satisfied, and they won't object to being interviewed." But all efforts to locate the accidental or intentional listener failed. Many of the girls had not yet come in from their classes, and those whom Grace found in their rooms had evidently been there for some time. Kathleen West was among those still out. Miss Ainslee informed her visitors of this fact with an unmistakable sigh of relief that Grace interpreted with a slight smile. As she went slowly down the stairs to the living room, followed by Arline, whose baby face wore an expression of deepest gloom, the door bell rang and the maid admitted the newspaper girl. She swept past the two juniors who stood at the foot of the stairs without the slightest sign of recognition, and neither girl saw the look of triumph that animated her face the instant she had turned her back upon them and hurried up the stairs. "What shall we do?" asked Arline as once more they seated themselves at the library table opposite each other. "We can't do anything until we find the girl who listened, and the question is how are we to find her?" Grace made a little gesture of despair. Arline shrugged her dainty shoulders. "I don't know. Perhaps she will never repeat what she has heard. Curiosity alone may have prompted her to listen. We may be agreeably disappointed." Grace shook her head. "I wish I could believe that," she said. "I don't wish to croak, but I have a curious conviction that the person who listened had a motive deeper than mere curiosity." CHAPTER XV A TISSUE PAPER TEA "What in the name of all mysterious is going on between you and Alice-In-Wonderland Daffydowndilly Thayer?" demanded Elfreda Briggs as she lovingly wrapped a large pasteboard box in white tissue paper and tied it with a huge bow of scarlet satin ribbon. "This is Miriam's present," she drawled calmly. "You will observe that she has obligingly turned her back while I am engaged in wrestling with wrapping it. I never could tie a bow. I have had this box in the closet for a week, and it has fallen out every time we opened the door, but Miriam, beloved angel, hasn't shown the slightest curiosity. You may look, my dear, the big box is all put away," she declared, as though addressing a very small child. "What a ridiculous person you are, J. Elfreda Briggs," laughed Miriam. "One might think me at the kindergarten age, instead of your guardian and keeper." "Tell me what it is, Elfreda," teased Grace. "On one condition," answered Elfreda, reaching for a small square box and beginning to wrap it in holly paper. "Tell me what you and Arline are planning!" "It's a secret," returned Grace. "I'd love to tell you, but I am pledged until the day we go home. When we are all in the train and it has started on the home stretch then you shall know." "There is no time like the present," invited Elfreda. "No," laughed Grace, shaking her head. "Not now. I have given my promise to Arline." "She won't tell even me," smiled Anne Pierson, who, with Grace, had carried her Christmas gifts to Miriam's and Elfreda's room, in answer to Elfreda's invitation to a tissue paper tea. "Bring all your stuff," Elfreda directed. "There will be plenty of paper and ribbon and twine and tea and cakes if I have time to go for them." Cheered with the prospect of tea and cakes, which were a certainty in spite of Elfreda's provisional promise, the two guests had come, their arms full of bundles. "Well, if she won't tell _you_, the rest of us might as well save our breath," declared Elfreda. "Never mind, we have only two more days to wait. Oh, aren't you glad you're going home? I have been homesick for the last three days. I'm glad we are going to stay in Fairview and have an old-fashioned Christmas. I am going to drive to the woods and cut down my own Christmas tree, too." "That reminds me, Miriam, we must make up a party and go to Upton Wood to see old Jean. We didn't see him last summer on account of his being away up in northwestern Canada. He went as a guide. Don't you remember? In Mother's last letter she wrote that he had been seen in Oakdale. That means that he has come back to his cabin in Upton Wood." "Hurrah!" exclaimed Miriam, waving a long, narrow package over her head. "That means a winter picnic, and supper at old Jean's cabin." "Who is old Jean?" asked Elfreda curiously. "Come down to Oakdale between Christmas and New Year and go with us on the picnic," teased Miriam. "You can see old Jean for yourself." "Can't do it," responded Elfreda. "I am strictly Pa's and Ma's girl this time. I've promised." "Then I suppose I shall have to enlighten you," smiled Grace. "Jean is an old Frenchman, a hunter who drifted down to Oakdale from somewhere in Canada. He has a log cabin in Upton Wood, a forest just east of Oakdale. To him I owe the beautiful set of fox furs, you have so often admired. He had the skins dressed for me, and Mother sent them to a furrier's in New York and had them made into a muff and scarf for me. I have known him since I was a little girl." "Lucky you," commented Elfreda. "There, I've finished my packages. I'm going out to buy cakes. You have worked nobly. This Saturday afternoon, at least, has been well spent, thanks to my tissue paper tea. Now we'll have real tea." Piling her smaller packages into a neat heap, she made a dive for her long brown coat and fur cap. "Don't dare to touch one of those packages. You might guess what is in them. Good-bye. I'll be back before you know it." As the door closed after her with a resounding bang, Miriam remarked affectionately: "Elfreda is in her element. She loves to play hostess and give tea parties." "She is becoming one of the important girls in college, isn't she?" observed Anne. "I was so glad to see her rushed by the Phi Beta Gammas." "She was more moved than she would admit over being asked to join them," returned Miriam. "She used to make ridiculous remarks about them and call them the P. B. Gammas, but in her heart she looked upon them with positive awe. Wasn't it nice to think we were all asked?" "I should say so," agreed Grace. "It would have been dreadful if one of us had been left out." She patted her sorority pin with intense satisfaction. "In spite of belonging to the most important sorority in college, there never will be another sorority like the Phi Sigma Tau, will there, girls?" "No," said Miriam, smiling with a reminiscent tenderness at sound of the familiar name. "Dear old P. S. T.," murmured Anne. "How I wish we might call a meeting now and have every member present." "There is bound to be one vacant place when we gather home next week," said Grace a trifle sadly. "The Lady Eleanor," sighed Miriam. "I hope we'll see her some time next year." The arrival of Elfreda, her arms filled with bundles, cut short Miriam's reflections. One by one Elfreda calmly laid down her packages and began preparations for her tissue paper tea. The stout girl's mood seemed to have changed, however. She answered her companions' gay sallies rather abstractedly, with the air of one whose thoughts were anywhere but on her guests. Several times Grace glanced up to find Elfreda's eyes fixed reflectively upon her. When, at five o'clock, she announced her intention of going for a walk before dinner, Elfreda gave her another peculiar look and announced her intention of accompanying her. Anne and Miriam, who had elected to occupy the time before dinner in writing to the Southards, declined Grace's invitation, and as the two girls walked briskly down the street, Elfreda breathed a deep sigh of relief. "With all due respect to Miriam and Anne, I am glad they didn't join us," she said coolly. "What is on your mind now?" asked Grace shrewdly. "So you realize at last that there is something on my mind, do you!" retorted Elfreda grimly. "I began to think you never could. I made all kinds of signals to you with my eyes." "I thought they were signals, but wasn't sure," said Grace quickly. "Well, you can be sure now. I don't want you to think me a Paul Pry, but I know all about that Christmas business last year." "What 'Christmas business'?" asked Grace sharply. "You know very well what I mean, the eight girls and all that." "Why--who----" began Grace in displeased astonishment. "No, I didn't try to find out," interrupted Elfreda. "You know me better than that. No one told me, either. I just put two and two together. I could see last year that----" "Is there anything you can't see?" exclaimed Grace. "Not much," responded Elfreda modestly. "I knew, of course, you would do something for those girls this year." "You could see that, I suppose," said Grace satirically. "Exactly," nodded Elfreda with an irresistible grin. Their eyes meeting, both girls laughed. Elfreda's face sobered first. "My news isn't pleasant, Grace. Read this." Slipping her hand into her coat pocket she drew forth a half sheet of paper partly covered with writing. Grace received it wonderingly: "Two Overton College Girls Play Lady Bountiful to Their Needy Classmates," she read. The words were arranged to form headlines, and below was written: "The latest whim of two wealthy students of Overton College has taken the form of Sweet Charity, and impecunious students of Overton whose finances will not permit of their making long railway journeys home for Christmas are to be the object of these young women's solicitude. Their less fortunate classmates will be their guests at a dinner on Christmas which by special arrangement will be served at----" The writing ended with the bottom of the sheet. "What do you think of that?" demanded Elfreda laconically. A tide of crimson rose to Grace's face. "I think it is contemptible," she cried. "When and where did you find it, Elfreda?" "Just outside the door of the room at the end of the hall," replied Elfreda. "I picked it up as I was coming back from the delicatessen shop." Grace's eyes flashed. "I suspected as much," she said shortly. "What does this look like to you, Elfreda?" "Newspaper copy," replied Elfreda promptly. "It isn't the first, either. I happen to know she writes college stuff and sends it to her paper every week. I knew that long ago. I subscribed to the Sunday edition of her paper on purpose. I know her articles, too. She signs them 'Elizabeth Vassar.' I have been quietly censoring them all along, ready to object if she once overstepped the line. So far she hasn't. I didn't know this was her copy until I had read it. Then it dawned upon me what the whole thing meant. This is the beginning of an article designed purely for spite. It is a direct stab at you and Arline. I suppose certain other people have influenced her against you, Grace. These very people will see to the circulation of the paper here at Overton, too, when the article appears, or I'm no prophet." "I suppose so," assented Grace almost wearily. "I am sure I can't think of any reason other than spite for this." She took a few steps in silence, her eyes bent on the sheet of paper. "You had better hurry and do something about this," advised Elfreda, lightly touching the paper with her forefinger, "or it will be too late." Grace glanced up with a slight start. "Once she finds the first of her copy missing it won't take her long to rewrite it," reminded Elfreda. "She may have mailed it by this time, although I hardly think so. I am afraid you will have trouble with her. She looks like one of the do-as-I-please-in-spite-of-you kind. What's the matter, Grace? What makes you look so funny?" "I know where I saw it!" exclaimed Grace enigmatically, apparently deaf to Elfreda's questions. "It was in the note. She wrote it. Strange I never thought of that." "Grace Harlowe," demanded Elfreda with asperity, "have you suddenly taken leave of your senses?" "No," returned Grace, her gray eyes gleaming wrathfully, her lips set in a determined line as she faced about. "I've just found them. Yes, Elfreda, I shall certainly call on Miss West, and at once." CHAPTER XVI A DOUBTFUL VICTORY During the walk to Wayne Hall, Elfreda could scarcely keep pace with Grace's flying feet. She made no complaint, however, but kept sturdily at her companion's side, holding her breath and closing her lips tightly to keep from panting. Grace ran into her own room for a moment, then back to Elfreda, who stood waiting in the upstairs hall. "Shall I leave you here?" she asked in a low tone as Grace returned, a second folded paper in her hand. "No," replied Grace. "I think it would be well for you to go with me. I don't know any one else I'd rather have," she added honestly. "Thank you," bowed Elfreda, flushing and looking embarrassed at the compliment. "I'll never desert Micawber--Harlowe, I mean." "Look serious. I am ready," said Grace softly. Then she knocked imperatively upon the door. There was a tense moment of waiting, then the door was opened by Kathleen West herself. Her sharp face looked still sharper as she eyed her visitors with ill-concealed disapproval. "Good evening, Miss West," said Grace with distant politeness. "If you are not too busy, can you spare Miss Briggs and me a few moments? We have something of grave importance to say to you." "Please make your business as brief as possible," snapped Kathleen, holding the door as though ready to close it in their faces the instant they stated their errand. "Thank you," said Grace with unruffled calm. "We had better step inside your room, for a moment, at least. The hall is hardly the place for what I have to say." The newspaper girl darted a swift, appraising glance at Grace. Her shrewd eyes fell before the steady light of Grace's gray ones. "Come in," she said shortly, then in a sarcastic tone, "Shall I close the door?" "It would be better, I think," returned Grace in quietly significant tones. The color flooded Kathleen West's sallow face. Her eyes began to flash ominously. "Your tone is insulting, Miss Harlowe!" she exclaimed. "I answered your question, Miss West," returned Grace evenly. "However, I did not come here to quarrel with you. My errand has to do with the articles you write for the Sunday edition of your paper which you sign 'Elizabeth Vassar.' Miss Briggs has been following them for some time with a great deal of interest. This afternoon she found a part of what is evidently copy for an article." Before Grace could go on Kathleen West had turned imperatively toward Elfreda. "Give it to me at once," she commanded. "I have hunted high and low for it. Your finding it is very strange, I must say. I am sure it was never off my desk." Elfreda half closed her eyes and regarded the newspaper girl with the air of one viewing a rare curiosity for the first time. "Then your desk must be on the hall floor just outside the door," was her dry retort. "At least that is where I found this paper." A certain significant ring in the girl's voice admitted of no contradiction. For a brief interval no one spoke. Then Elfreda said smoothly, "As we appear to understand that point, go on, Grace." "Give me my copy," reiterated Kathleen sullenly, before Grace had a chance to continue. "Miss West," returned Grace very quietly, "Miss Briggs and I have read the copy which Miss Briggs found, and I have come here to say that you will be doing not only yourself but a great many other girls an injustice if you make public Miss Thayer's plans for the girls who remain at Overton for the holidays. Miss Thayer wishes the girls to feel perfectly independent in this matter, and whatever she contributes privately toward it is strictly her own affair. If this article appears on the school and college page, some of these girls are sure to hear of it and feel humiliated and resentful, particularly if the rest of the article is as callously cruel as its beginning." Kathleen West laughed disagreeably. "That is not my affair. I have agreed to furnish my paper with snappy college news. This makes a good story. To supply my paper with good stories is my first business." "Pardon me," retorted Grace scornfully, "I should imagine that loyalty to one's self and one's college constituted an Overton girl's first business." "I can't see that this particular story has anything to do with being loyal to Overton," sneered Kathleen. "As for being loyal to myself, that is for me to judge. Who dares say I am disloyal?" "Nothing very daring about that," drawled Elfreda. "I say so." "You," stormed Kathleen. "Who are you?" "J. Elfreda Briggs," murmured the stout girl sweetly. "Yes," continued Kathleen sneeringly, "I have heard of the jumble you made of your freshman year. It took a number of influential friends to pull you into favor again, I believe." "Not half such a jumble as you are making of yours," smiled Elfreda. Then she went on gravely: "I am glad you mentioned that freshman year. I did behave like an imbecile. Thanks to a number of girls who believed I was worth bothering with, I have learned to know what Overton requires of me. If you are wise, you'll face about, too. You will find it pays, and there are all sorts of pleasant compensations for what one expends in effort. That's all. I've said my say." A curious, half-admiring expression flitted across Kathleen's thin little face. Then, turning to Grace, she said defiantly: "Give me my copy. I don't wish to rewrite it and I am going to send it to-night." "I'm sorry you won't be fair about this, Miss West," said Grace regretfully, "but perhaps I can induce you to change your mind." "I don't understand you," said Kathleen West stiffly. Grace held a folded paper before the newspaper girl's eyes. "Here is the letter you wrote the dean regarding our bazaar. The dean gave it to me. She does not nor never will know who wrote it, unless you, yourself, tell her. That is something, however, that you and your conscience must decide. Here also is your page of copy. Under the circumstances, don't you think you might destroy this page and the others?" [Illustration: "Here is the Letter You Wrote the Dean."] Kathleen took the proffered papers with a set, enigmatic expression on her pointed features. Slowly she walked to her desk, picked up several sheets of copy and placing them with the sheet in her hand offered them to Grace. Grace shook her head. "I will take your word," she said. With a shrug of her shoulders the newspaper girl tore the papers across, then into bits, tossing them into her waste basket. "You win," she said with slangy effectiveness, then she added--"this time." "Thank you," responded Grace gravely. "Good night, Miss West." Kathleen did not respond. Grace's hand was on the doorknob when the newspaper girl said harshly: "Wait. Don't think your lofty sentiments about college honor and all that nonsense impressed me to the point of destroying that copy. Once and for all I want you to understand that college ideals and traditions are not worrying me. I did not come to Overton to moon. I am only using college as a means to the end. What you offered me was a fair exchange. As you know a great deal too much about certain things, it is just as well to be on the safe side. I dare say I shall stumble on something else in the news line just as good as the charity dinner stunt." With a shrug of her shoulders that conveyed far more than words, she walked over to the window, turning her back directly upon her callers, nor did she change her position until an instant later the sound of the closing door announced to her that her unwelcome visitors had departed. CHAPTER XVII HIPPY LOOKS MYSTERIOUS "Merry, Merry Christmas everywhere, Cheerily it ringeth through the air," sang Grace Harlowe joyously as she twined a long spray of ground pine about the chandelier in the hall, then stepping down from the stool on which she had been standing, backed off, viewing it critically. "Oh, but it's good to be home!" she trilled, making a rush for her mother, who had just appeared in the door, and winding both arms tightly about her. "My own little girl," returned her mother fondly. "How Father and I have missed you!" "That's my greatest drawback to perfect happiness," sighed Grace, rubbing her soft cheek against her mother's: "Not to be able to be in two places at once. Now, if you were with me at Overton I wouldn't have a thing left to sigh for. You don't know how much I miss you, Mother, and Father, too. Sometimes I grow so homesick that I can't read or study or do anything but just think of you. Anne says she can always tell when I am extra blue." "Your college life is only the beginning of our parting of ways, dear child. Mother would like to keep you safe and sheltered at home, but you are too active, too progressive, to be content as a home girl," said Mrs. Harlowe rather sadly. "You are likely to discover that your work lies far from Oakdale, but you know that whatever or wherever it may be your father and I will wish you Godspeed. You are to be perfectly free in the matter of choosing your future business of life." "Don't I know that, you dearest, best mother a girl ever had!" exclaimed Grace, a quick mist clouding her gray eyes. "But never fear, I shan't ever stay away from you long at a time. I couldn't." Unwinding her arms from about her mother's neck, Grace linked one arm through Mrs. Harlowe's and marched her into the adjoining living room. "Doesn't it look exactly like Christmas?" she asked proudly. "See the tree. Isn't it a beauty? We have loads of presents, too. Isn't Miriam a goose and a dear all rolled into one? She won't come to my Christmas tree because she isn't one of the Eight Originals. I asked her to be a Ninth Original, but she said 'No.' She is coming, though, only she doesn't know it. David received a telegram from Arnold Evans yesterday. He is expected to-night on the six o'clock train. Miriam doesn't know that, either. She thinks he was unable to come, and won't she be surprised when he appears to escort her to our house?" Grace laughed gleefully in anticipation of Miriam's astonishment at sight of Arnold Evans, who was always a welcome addition to their little company. Two immeasurably happy days had passed since the train from the east had steamed away from Oakdale, leaving three eager girls on the platform of the station. The evening train had brought Eva Allen, Marian Barber, Jessica Bright and Nora O'Malley. Grace, Miriam and Anne, accompanied by a slender, brown-eyed young woman, whom they addressed as Mabel, had met the train. Jessica Bright's radiant delight at beholding the face of her foster sister, Mabel Allison, can be better imagined than described. Mabel and her mother had arrived three days before, and were to divide their month's stay in Oakdale between the Gibsons of Hawk's Nest, an estate several miles from Oakdale, and the Brights. Jessica's aunt, Mr. Bright's only sister, who had never married, now presided over the Bright household, with a grace and hospitality that gained for her not only the reputation of a delightful hostess, but the adoration of Jessica's friends as well. It was now the day before Christmas, and that evening Grace had invited her dearest friends to help her keep Christmas Eve. "Just as though we could get along without Miriam!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "You haven't any idea, Mother, what a power for good she is at Overton. It isn't half so much what she says as the way she says it. She has so much tact. Elfreda worships her." "I am sorry Elfreda could not come home with you," commented Mrs. Harlowe. "We were all sorry," returned Grace regretfully. "She may run down for a day before we go back to college. We have promised her a winter picnic in Upton Wood and a supper at old Jean's if she comes. That ought to tempt her. Oh, there's the bell. I know that is Anne! She promised to be here early. The Eight Originals are going to trim the tree, you know." Grace rushed to the front door to open it for Anne, who staggered into the hall, her arms full of packages. "Oh, catch them," she gasped. "I'm going to drop them all and two of them are breakable." Grace sprang forward to relieve Anne of her load. One fat package fell to the floor and rolled under the living-room sofa. Grace made a laughing dive after it. Then, dropping to her knees, peered under the sofa, dragged it forth in triumph and presented it to Anne. Anne thanked her. "It is for Hippy," she smiled. "You might know that it would behave in an extraordinary manner. I've been so busy this morning. I was up before seven, helped Mother with the breakfast, went on a shopping expedition, and now I'm here. It isn't eleven o'clock yet, either." "Imagine Everett Southard's leading woman washing dishes," smiled Grace. "She did, though," rejoined Anne cheerfully, "and swept the dining room and kitchen, too. I have an invitation to deliver. I am going to entertain the Eight Originals and Mrs. Gray at my house next Tuesday evening. You'll receive a real summons to my party by mail." "How formal," said Grace gayly. "However, Miss Harlowe accepts with pleasure Miss Pierson's kind invitation, etc." "Miss Pierson is duly honored by Miss Harlowe's prompt acceptance," laughed Anne. "Do the boys know about bringing their presents here?" "Oh, yes," returned Grace. "There goes the door bell!" She hurried to the door, flinging it wide open to admit three stalwart young men whose clean-cut, boyish faces shone with good humor. "Hurrah for old Kris Kringle!" cried Hippy, who was in the lead, as he skipped nimbly into the living-room, and set down the heavy suit case he carried with a flourish. Then backing into David Nesbit, who stood directly behind him, he said apologetically: "I beg your pardon, David, but if you will insist in taking up so much space you must expect to have your toes trampled upon." "I don't take up one half as much space as you do," flung back David. "True; I hadn't looked at the matter in that light," Hippy agreed hastily. "Let us change the subject. I am so pleased, Grace, to know that you are giving this little affair in my honor. I really didn't expect to----" "Be put out of the house," finished Reddy with a menacing step toward Hippy. "Exactly," agreed Hippy. "No, I don't mean that at all. I was about to say that I really didn't expect to be obliged to put Reddy Brooks out of the house for threatened assault. It seems too bad to mar the gentle peace of Christmas by such deeds of violence." Hippy sighed loudly, then with a gesture of finality warily sidled toward Reddy, an expression of deadly determination on his round face. The sound of a ringing laugh from the doorway caused him to forget his grievance and make for the door as fast as his legs would carry him. "Reddy, you are saved," he announced, leading Nora O'Malley into the room. "Thank your gentle preserver, Miss O'Malley." "You mean you are saved," corrected Reddy with a derisive grin. "All the same, all the same," retorted Hippy airily. "I am saved because you are saved, and you are saved because I am saved. We are both saved this time, aren't we, Grace?" "Yes, I forbid either one of you to usher the other out," laughed Grace. "There, Reddy, you heard!" exclaimed Hippy. "Now heed." "Have you seen Jessica this morning, Nora?" asked Reddy, answering Hippy's admonition with a withering look. "She will be here later," replied Nora. "She has gone shopping with Mabel, who is going to Hawk's Nest for Christmas Eve." "We are all booked for Christmas Day with our families," smiled David. "Thank goodness we have them," said Hippy with a seriousness that surprised even himself. "Same here, Hippy," agreed David gravely. "And here," was the united response from the others. Jessica, who had seen Mabel Allison into the car Mrs. Gibson had sent to convey her to Hawk's Nest, was the next arrival. Later Tom Gray appeared with a grip and a suit case. When the real work of trimming the tree began, Hippy retired to the library table with the plea that he had not yet tagged his gifts. To that end he wrote what seemed to Nora O'Malley, who eyed him suspiciously, a surprising amount of cards, chuckling softly to himself as he wrote. Happening to catch her eye he looked rather guilty, then, cocking his head to one side, simpered languishingly, "What shall I say to thee, heart of my heart?" Nora's tip-tilted little nose was promptly elevated still higher, and she walked away without observing the triumphant gleam in Hippy's blue eyes. At one o'clock the Eight Originals halted for luncheon, which proved to be a merry meal. By half-past two o'clock the tall balsam tree, heavy with its weight of decorations and strange Christmas fruit, was pronounced finished, and the party of jubilant young people reluctantly separated to assemble after dinner for one of their old-time frolics. The evening train brought Arnold Evans, and Miriam found herself whisked down Chapel Hill toward Grace's home by David and Arnold despite her protests that neither she nor Arnold really belonged. "You and Arnold are the honorary members," David reminded her, "and are, therefore, eligible to all our revels." When, at eight o'clock, the little group of guests, which included Mrs. Gray, had gathered in the Harlowe's cozy living room and to Mr. Harlowe had fallen the honor of playing Santa Claus, something peculiar happened. Nearly all the gifts fell to Hippy, who rose with every repetition of his name, bowed profoundly, grinned significantly in his best Chessy-cat manner and, swooping down upon the gifts, gathered them unto himself. As he was about to take smiling possession of a large, flat package an indignant, "Let me see that package, Mr. Harlowe," from Nora O'Malley caused all eyes to be focused upon it. "Just as I suspected," sputtered Nora, glaring at the offending Hippy, whose grin appeared to grow wider with every second. Taking the package from Mr. Harlowe, she triumphantly held up a holly-wreathed card that had been deftly concealed beneath a fold of tissue paper, and read, "To Grace, with love from Nora." "Discovered!" exclaimed Hippy in hollow tones, making a dive for the package and failing to secure it. Nora held it above her head. "Here, Grace, it's yours," she explained. "Don't pay any attention to that other card." Grace had turned her attention to a large tag that was fastened to the holly ribbon with which the package was tied. She read aloud, "To my esteemed friend, Hippy, from his humble little admirer, Nora O'Malley." The instant of silence was followed by a shout of laughter, in which Nora joined. "You rascal!" she exclaimed, shaking her finger at Hippy. "I knew you were planning mischief when you sat over there writing those cards. Take all those presents, girls. I am sure they don't belong to this deceitful reprobate." Hippy at once set up a dismal wail, and clutched his packages to his breast, dropping all but two in the process. These were snapped up by Reddy and Nora almost before they touched the floor. "Here's the umbrella I thought I bought for Tom," growled Reddy, as he ripped off the simple inscription, "To Hippy, with love, Reddy." "Yes, and here is the monogrammed stationery I ordered made for Jessica," added Nora, glaring at the stout young man, who smiled blithely in return as one who had received an especial favor. "You are holding on to two of my presents, though," he reminded. Nora made a hasty inspection of the packages, then shoved the two presents toward him. "There they are," she said severely. "If I had known how badly you were going to behave, I wouldn't have given you a thing." "Take your scarf pin, Indian giver," jeered Hippy, holding out a small package, then jerking it back again. "How do you know it's a scarf pin?" inquired Nora. "My intuition tells me, my child," returned Hippy gently. "Then your intuition is all wrong," declared Nora O'Malley disdainfully. "Always ready to argue," sighed Hippy. "Mrs. Gray, I appeal to you, don't allow Hippy and Nora to start an argument. There won't be either time or chance for anything else." "Hippy and Nora, be good children," laughingly admonished the sprightly old lady. "Look out for Hippy's cards," David cautioned Mr. Harlowe. The rest of the gifts were distributed without accident, and then by common consent a great unwrapping began, accompanied by rapturous "ohs," and plenty of "thank yous." It was almost one o'clock on Christmas morning before any of the guests even thought of home. After the tree had been despoiled of its bloom, an impromptu show followed in which the young folks performed the stunts for which they were famous. Then came supper, dancing, and the usual Virginia Reel, led by Mr. Harlowe and Mrs. Gray, in which Hippy distinguished himself by a series of quaint and marvelous steps. "One more good time to add to our dozens of others," said Miriam Nesbit softly as she kissed Grace good night. "I feel to-night as though I could say with particular emphasis: 'Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.'" "And I feel," said Hippy, who had overheard Miriam's low-toned remark, "as though I had been unjustly and unkindly treated. I was cheated of over half my Christmas gifts by those unblushing miscreants known as David Nesbit, Reddy Brooks and Tom Gray. Nora O'Malley helped them, too." "Jessica and Reddy, will you take me home to-night?" asked Nora sweetly, edging away from the complaining Hippy. "We shall be only too pleased to be your escort," Reddy answered with alacrity, casting a sidelong glance of triumph at Hippy. "And I shall be only too pleased to annihilate Reddy Brooks for daring to suggest any such thing," retorted Hippy, striding toward the offending Reddy. "Come, come, Hippy," laughed Mrs. Harlowe, who enjoyed Hippy's pranks as much as did his companions, "this is Christmas, you know. Why not let Reddy live?" "Very well, I will," agreed Hippy, "but only to please you, Mrs. Harlowe. Once we leave here, the annihilation process is likely to begin at the first disrespectful word on the part of a certain crimson-haired individual whose name I won't mention. It will be a painful process." "There isn't the slightest doubt about it being painful to you," was Reddy's grim retort. "I wonder if I had better wait until after Christmas to do the deed," mused Hippy. "There's Reddy's family to consider. Perhaps I had better--" "--behave yourself in future and not refer to your friends as 'miscreants' after appropriating their Christmas presents," lectured David Nesbit. "All right, I agree to your proposition on one condition," stipulated Hippy. "Something to eat, I suppose," said David wearily. "No; you are a wild guesser as well as a slanderer. If Nora O'Malley will withdraw the cruel request she just made I will forgive even Reddy." And when the little party of young folks started on their homeward way the forgiving Hippy with Nora O'Malley on his arm marched gayly along behind the forgiven, but wholly unappreciative Reddy. CHAPTER XVIII OLD JEAN'S STORY "It's 'Ho for the forest!'" sang Tom Gray jubilantly, as he waved his stout walking stick over the low stone wall that separated the party of picnickers from Upton Wood. "Isn't it magnificent?" asked Grace of Anne, her gray eyes glowing as she looked ahead at the snowy road that stretched like a great white ribbon between the deep green rows of pine and fir trees. "Perfect," agreed Anne dreamily, who was drinking in the solemn beauty of the snow-wrapped forest, an expression of reverence on her small face. "I wonder if the snow in the road is very deep?" soliloquized Jessica unsentimentally. "How can you break in upon our rapt musings with such commonplaces?" laughed Grace. "To return to earth; I don't imagine the snow is deep. This road is much traveled, and the snow looks fairly well packed. What do you say, Huntsman Gray?" She turned to Tom with a smile. "It isn't deep. All aboard for Upton Wood!" called Tom cheerily. "Come on, Grace." He extended a helping hand to her. But Grace needed no assistance. With a laughing shake of her head she vaulted the low wall as easily as Tom himself could have cleared it. Nora followed her, then Miriam, while Anne and Jessica were content to allow themselves to be assisted by David and Reddy. Then the picnickers swung into the wide snow-packed road that wound its way to the other end of Upton Wood, a matter of perhaps ten miles. Being a part of the road to the state capital and a famous automobile route it was sedulously looked after and kept in good condition, and was therefore not difficult to travel. The cabin of old Jean, the hunter, was situated some distance from the main road in the thickest part of the forest. The day before, the five young men, with a bobsled filled with grocers' supplies, had driven to the point of the road nearest the cabin and a brisk unloading had followed. After their first trip to the cottage old Jean had returned to the sleigh with them, his fur cap awry, gesticulating delightedly and chattering volubly as he walked. Of a surety Mamselle Grace and her friends were welcome. He deplored the fact that they had insisted upon bringing their own provisions, but David, who suspected the old hunter's larder to be none too well stocked with eatables, had quieted Jean's remonstrances with the diplomatic assertion that the affair having been planned by the "Eight Originals Plus Two," as they had now agreed to call themselves, and given in honor of the old hunter himself, it was their privilege to pay the piper. Jean had shaken his head rather dubiously over the miscellaneous heap of groceries that spread over at least a quarter of his floor, but his first protest had been laughingly silenced by the five sturdy foresters, who threatened to turn him out of house and home if he did not allow his friends to celebrate in peace. On this particular morning Jean had been up and doing since five o'clock. He had decorated his cabin walls with ground pine and evergreen, and as a last touch had, with many chuckles, suspended from the ceiling an unusually perfect piece of mistletoe, which he had tramped into Oakdale early that morning to secure. He had cleaned his rifle first, then swept and scrubbed his cabin floor, and the pine table off which he ate, until the most critical housekeeper could have found no fault with the shining cleanliness of the place. The rousing fire that he built in the big fireplace soon dried the floor, and after arranging his few household effects to the best advantage, Jean busied himself with getting in a good supply of wood before his young guests, who had set the hour of three o'clock for their arrival, should appear upon the scene. It was precisely ten minutes to three when the little company reached the top of the hill at the foot of which nestled old Jean's cottage, and halted for a moment before descending. "Sound the call of the Elf's Horn, Tom," demanded Grace. "I only wish I could sound it. I've tried over and over again, but I can't do it." "It is a gift which the fairies reserve for only a few favored mortals," teased Tom. "Then I am not one of them," declared Grace. "I have watched for fairies since I was a little girl and never met with one yet. I know every individual fairy in Grimms', Andersen's and Lang's by reputation, too." "What about your fairy prince?" was Tom's quick question. The two pairs of gray eyes met. Grace smiled with frank amusement. "I have never looked for a fairy prince," she said lightly. "I never cared half so much about the fairy princes and the clothes and weddings as I did about giants, witches and spells, mysterious happenings and magic mirrors. I loved 'The Brave Little Tailor' and 'The Youth Who Could Not Shiver and Shake.'" "I always liked the 'False Bride' and 'Rapunzel,'" remarked Jessica sentimentally, who had come up beside Grace and Tom. "Of what are you talking?" asked Nora, who had caught Jessica's last word. "We were naming the fairy tales we always liked best." "I always liked the 'Magic Fiddle,'" said Nora, with a reminiscent chuckle. "I used to keep a copy of Grimms' Fairy Tales in my desk at school, just for that story. It always made me giggle. I could fairly see all those poor people dancing whether they wished to dance or not. Ask Hippy what his favorite fairy tale is," she dimpled, lowering her voice. "Say, Hippopotamus," called Tom, "what's your favorite fairy tale?" Hippy, who stood a little to one side, appeared to think deeply, then said with a sentimental smile: "The 'Table Prepare Thyself' story. Oh, if I might have had such a table!" Hippy sighed dolefully. "Then I would never have been obliged when out on these excursions to humbly beg for crumbs to sustain my failing strength till such time as you slow-pokes saw fit to eat." "Don't I always give you things to eat when everyone else laughs at you?" demanded Nora belligerently. "Yes, my noble benefactor," whined Hippy, "but you didn't to-day." "I don't intend to, either," was Nora's unfeeling response. "I purposely told Tom to ask you that. I knew you'd name one that had a good deal about eating in it." "Stop squabbling," commanded Reddy, his fingers fastened in the back of Hippy's collar, "or down the hill you go. Keep quiet, now, Tom is going to perform." Tom placed his hands to his mouth. His friends listened intently. Then came the peculiar whistle that sounded like the note of a trumpet. Tom whistled repeatedly, and two minutes later they saw old Jean come racing up the steep path toward them. He had heard the mysterious Elf's Horn. "Never forgot it, did you, Jean?" laughed Tom, seizing the old man's hand and shaking it warmly. "No, Monsieur Tom; once I hear, it is impossible that I should forget," replied Jean in his quaint English. "An' now that you have honor me this afternoon, it is well that you come to my cabin where the fire burn for you an' the coffee wait, an' all is ready for my frien's who mak' so long walk for the sake of ol' Jean." "Of course we did, Jean," smiled Grace as they started for the cabin. "Don't we always come to see you when we are home from college?" "It is true, Mamselle Grace," returned Jean solemnly. "I am lucky man to have such fren's." "Don't look so sad over it, Jean!" exclaimed Hippy. "Be merry, and gayly dance as I do." He essayed several fantastic steps over the frozen ground, stubbed his toe on a projecting root and lunged forward, falling heavily into a huge snowdrift, his hands and face plowing into the snow. "Ha, ha!" jeered Reddy. "'Be merry, and gayly dance as I do.' No, thank you. I prefer to walk along like an ordinary human being." "That is exactly what you are," was Hippy's calm retort from the snowdrift, "'an ordinary human being.'" Floundering out of the drift he shook himself free of snow and, undaunted by his fall, went on skipping and pirouetting toward the cabin, while his companions shrieked mirthful comments into his apparently unhearing ears. How fast the afternoon and evening slipped away! The girls insisted on helping Jean with the dinner, and at half-past five the whole party sat down at the rude table that had been improvised by the boys the day before. Eating in the heart of the forest made things taste infinitely better than at home. Never before had there been such coffee, or steak, or baked potatoes! There was dessert, too--Mrs. Nesbit's famous fruit cake and Mrs. Harlowe's equally prized mince pie, besides fruit and nuts, Jean adding the latter to the feast. Then everyone's health was drunk in grape juice, and it was almost seven o'clock before Jean and his guests rose from the table. "Ten minutes to seven," declared David, consulting his watch. "We must leave here at eight o'clock. We ought to be home by nine. I feel very responsible for these youngsters, Jean. It was I who agreed to play chaperon." "Youngsters, indeed," growled Reddy scornfully. "Listen to Methuselah." "Tell us a story before we go, Jean," begged Grace. She loved to hear the old hunter tell in his quaint way of his many perilous adventures in the great northwestern woods of Canada, where he had spent so many years of his life. "If Mamselle Grace like I will tell of w'en I track the fierce panther who have kill my lambs, an' what happen to me." "Oh, splendid!" cried Grace. "We should love to hear it." The glow from the big back log reflected the interested faces of the others. Jean's stories were always well received. Settling himself cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall, he related how, after tracking a panther all day, he had slipped while going down a steep bank and losing his footing had plunged to the bottom. How he had lain there bruised and helpless with a broken leg, expecting at any time to see the beast he had been tracking bear down upon him. How at last, after hours of unspeakable agony, help had come in the shape of a tall, strongly built young man, whose cabin was not far off and who had carried Jean to it, then, after roughly setting the injured leg, and making his patient as comfortable as might be expected under the circumstances, he had ridden thirty miles for a doctor, then tended the old hunter until his leg healed. "Ten week I stay in bed an' this good frien' take care of me. He inten' to go to Alaska for gold. He say he have wife once an' baby but they die in railroad wreck. He never see their bodies. He very sad. The fire in the train burn everybody, all t'ings." Jean waved his arms comprehensively. "He stay by me until I am well. Then he say, 'Jean, come along to Alaska.' But I say, 'No. I am too ol'. I wish live all my days in Canada woods.' So he go on. After many years he write. Only last summer I have receive his letter. He have found plenty gold, an' is rich. He say when he come back, then he will buy for me a new rifle an' give me much money. But what does Jean care for money? Rather I would see my frien' whose letter I have always keep." The old man ceased speaking and looked retrospectively into the fire. Then, without speaking, he rose, shuffled to a small table in one corner of the room, and opening the drawer took from it a well-thumbed envelope. Returning to the group he handed it to Grace, saying proudly: "This is the letter my frien' write. Will Mamselle Grace read?" Grace obediently took the letter from the envelope. "My dear Jean:" she read. "How can I ever forgive myself for neglecting you so long? I can only say that though I have failed to make good my promise to write, you have never been forgotten by me. Jean, I am sorry you didn't come here with me. I found gold, more than I can spend in a lifetime, and I have made you a stockholder in my mine. I am coming back to the States next spring and will look you up first of all. I am sending this to the old address, trusting that if you are not there it will be forwarded to you. I used to think it would be glorious to be rich, but now that I am alone in the world, money seems a poor substitute for my lost happiness. "Let me hear from you soon, Jean, and address your letter, Post Office Box 462, Nome, Alaska. I hope you are well and happy. You always were a sunshiny old chap. Here's hoping. "Your old friend, "DENTON." "Is it not a very gran' letter?" asked old Jean with anxious pride. "My frien' Denton have study in college, too." "Indeed it is, Jean," agreed Anne warmly. "Your friend seems to be the right sort of comrade, even if he is a bad correspondent," remarked David Nesbit. "Something like me," murmured Hippy gently. No one appeared to notice this modest assertion. "Sounds like a page from a best seller, doesn't it, Grace?" asked Tom laughingly. Grace did not answer. She was gazing at the signature of the letter with perplexed eyes. She was wondering why the name Denton seemed so familiar. Remembrance came suddenly--Ruth, of course. With that recollection came a sudden startling train of thought. Ruth's father had gone west, had been heard from in Nevada, then disappeared. Jean's friend had lost his wife and child on a westbound train. Here, however, Grace's supposition proved weak. Both wife and child had been burned to death in the railroad wreck. Still, mistakes in identification were frequently made on such painful occasions. Grace went back to her first supposition. "It is the only shred of a clew that I have run across yet," she reflected. "I am going to hang to it and see where it leads. And to think that perhaps old Jean once knew Ruth's father. It's unbelievable." "We must start in ten minutes." David's crisp, business-like tones brought her to a realization of her immediate surroundings. "Ten minutes is long enough for me to say what is on my mind," Grace said eagerly. Then she began to tell of Ruth, her poverty, and her great wish to know whether her father were dead or alive. Knowing Grace as they did, her friends guessed that she had something of real importance to impart. When she came to the part about Ruth's father going west after promising to send for his little family, a light began to dawn upon them, and Jessica exclaimed: "Why, they must have been killed while on their way to join him!" "It is so. Mamselle speak the truth!" almost shouted Jean. "It was then they die. He have tol' me so many times." "Then the man who saved Jean must have been Ruth's father!" exclaimed Miriam, "and a dreadful mistake was made in telling him his child was dead, too. The packet fastened by a cord about Ruth's neck ought easily to have proved her identity. Perhaps the packet was stolen." "Then how did Ruth come by the watch and letter?" asked Grace. "I give it up," replied Miriam. "It certainly is a tangled web." "But we shall straighten it," said Grace resolutely. "The next thing to do is to find Mr. Denton. Tell me, Jean, how many years since you first met Mr. Denton?" Jean counted laboriously on his fingers. "Twelve years," he finally announced, "an' say his family have died six years then." "Eighteen years," mused Grace, "and Ruth is twenty-two. The years seem to tally with the rest of the story, too. Will you give me Mr. Denton's address and allow me to write to him, Jean?" "Whatever Mamselle Grace wishes shall be hers," averred Jean. "Then I'll write the letter to-morrow. The sooner it is written and sent, the sooner we shall receive an answer to it," declared Grace. "That is unless he is dead. But I have a strange presentiment that he is alive. What do you think, Jean?" she turned to the old hunter, who nodded sagely. "I think my frien', he alive, too," agreed Jean, "an' I hope, mebbe I shall see again." "You shall see him and so shall Ruth, if letters can accomplish your wish, Jean," promised Grace. "Eight o'clock," announced David judicially. No one paid the slightest attention to him, however, Ruth Denton's affairs being altogether too engrossing a matter for discussion. It was half-past eight when, after a hearty vote of thanks and three cheers for old Jean, the picnickers climbed the little hill and took the moonlit homeward trail. CHAPTER XIX TELLING RUTH THE NEWS "Yes, it was a busy two weeks," declared Arline Thayer, "and yet, oh, Grace, you can't possibly know how slowly the time has gone. I am sure I could live all the rest of my life on a desert island if I had the Semper Fidelis crowd with me. Of course, Ruth helped a whole lot, but you know Ruth isn't a butterfly like I am. She has had so many cares and disappointments that she isn't as gay in her wildest moments as I am in my ordinary ones. Besides, it was so hard to be sure that I was doing and saying the right thing. I was so afraid of hurting some one's feelings, or of being accused of trying to patronize those girls. "The dinner passed off beautifully. Every girl who stayed over was there. It cost me most of my check." Here Arline smiled rather ruefully. "But you never saw so many happy girls. Many of them had never been to either Martell's or Vinton's for dinner. I was at Vinton's and Ruth was at Martell's. No one had the slightest idea that there was anything cut and dried. We did all the other stunts; the play and the masquerade, and I am so tired." Arline curled herself up on Grace's couch, looking like an exhausted kitten. "I wonder if Elfreda has any tea," she said plaintively. "Of course she has," smiled Grace. "So have I. I'll make you some at once. Then I have something perfectly amazing to tell you. You won't remember whether you are tired or not after you hear my news." Taking the little copper tea-kettle, Grace went for water, leaving Arline considerably mystified and mildly excited. When at last the tea was ready, and Grace had placed crackers, nabisco wafers and a plate of home-made nut cookies on the table between them, Arline said impatiently, "Do begin." "Daffydowndilly, this is the strangest news you ever heard. Ready?" "Ready," echoed Arline. "We believe Ruth's father is still living and in Alaska." There was a little cry of rapture from Arline as she hastily set down her cup and caught Grace's hand in hers. "Congratulations," she trilled. "I knew you'd find him. I've seen it in your eye for months." "Nonsense," laughed Grace, "I don't deserve a particle of credit. It was quite by accident that I learned what I know of him." There-upon an account of their visit to old Jean followed, and Arline was soon in full possession of the details. "Shall you tell Ruth?" was her first question after Grace had finished. "What would you do?" Grace asked. "I don't think it would be best to tell her yet," returned Arline slowly. "Suppose we were to find that he had died or disappeared again since your old hunter received his letter. Think how dreadful that would be after telling her that he was alive and well. We must not arouse her hopes until we know." Grace nodded gravely. "That is what I thought. I am glad you are of the same mind. No one here except yourself and Elfreda have been told. Of course, Anne and Miriam heard it at the same time I did. I wrote to Mr. Denton at once, but I suppose my letter isn't more than half way to Nome yet." "Oh, it is the greatest thing that ever happened," exulted Arline. "Ruth's father found at last, away up in old, cold Alaska. Hurrah!" "Stop making so much noise," cautioned Grace, "while I tell you what I propose doing. It is two weeks since I wrote to Mr. Denton. I am going to write another letter to him before long. If he doesn't answer that, I shall stop for a while, then write again. If he is not in Nome I shall request the post-master to forward the letters, if possible." At this juncture a knock sounded on the almost closed door, then Elfreda came hurrying in, her cheeks glowing from her walk in the January wind. "Were you talking secrets?" she demanded, without stopping to greet Arline. "No,--that is--yes," replied Arline. "Grace was telling me about Ruth's father and--" Elfreda dropped on the couch beside Arline with a groan of dismay. "Why didn't you close the door?" she asked gloomily. "Why? What has happened?" questioned Grace anxiously. "Nothing much," retorted Elfreda, "only that West person was standing as close to your door as she could possibly stand without attracting marked attention. She was listening, too. I saw her when I reached the first landing. At first I thought I would walk up to her and call her to account for eavesdropping. But before I could make up my mind just what to do she went on down the hall to her room. I suppose you will hear about this affair of Ruth finding her father from a dozen different sources to-morrow. She will go directly to the Wicks-Hampton faction with the news. She may have gone already." [Illustration: "She was Standing Close to the Door."] "This is dreadful," gasped Grace in consternation, "but our own fault. Will I ever learn to keep my door closed and either whisper my secrets or else lock them behind my lips?" "It was my fault," declared Arline contritely. "I was shouting, 'Ruth's father found at last!' at the top of my voice. Grace told me to subside." "Perhaps she only heard that much," comforted Elfreda, trying to be a little more hopeful. "Suppose she tells Ruth," suggested Arline nervously. Grace's eyes met those of her friend's in genuine alarm. Without a word she went to the closet and reaching for her coat and furs slipped them on. Jamming her fur cap down on her head, she pinned it securely, thrust her hands into her muff and walked to the door. "Elfreda, you will take care of Arline, won't you? She is going to stay with me for dinner. I am going to Ruth's and I think perhaps I had better go alone. I'll be back as soon as possible, and bring Ruth with me, if I can. Tell Mrs. Elwood that Ruth will be here. I must be off. I will see you at dinner." Grace was out of the room and down the stairs in a twinkling. As she set off toward Ruth's at a rapid pace she wondered if there was not some way in which she might capitulate with this strange girl who seemed so determined to blot the pages of her freshman year with unworthy deeds. "I am so disappointed," Grace reflected. "I did wish to like her because she was Mabel's friend, but she is so--so--different." It cost Grace an effort to end her sentence mildly. "But I'm not going to gossip about her, even to myself." After ringing three times Ruth's tired-eyed landlady opened the door to Grace with a mumbled apology about being in the attic when the bell rang. Grace hurried up the two flights of stairs and down the long, bare hall to Ruth's room. She paused an instant before knocking, half expecting to hear the sound of voices inside. All was still. Grace knocked twice, pausing between knocks. It was a signal Ruth and her intimate friends had adopted. Ruth answered the signal, a book in her hand. She gave a little cry of delight at seeing Grace. "How funny! I was just thinking of you. Come in and take off your wraps. Did you come to help me cook supper? You promised me you would some day." "No; I came to take you back to Wayne Hall with me. But, first of all, has Kathleen West been here to see you within the past half hour?" said Grace, stepping into the room and closing the door after her. "No," replied Ruth wonderingly. "Why do you ask? But do sit down, Grace." "I'm so glad," sighed Grace, sitting on the edge of the chair, "because she overheard something that I wish to tell you first." "I don't understand," was Ruth's perplexed answer. "I don't blame you for not understanding," smiled Grace. Then she rose, and, crossing the room, put her hands on her friend's shoulder. "Ruth," she said gently, "if you might have one wish granted to you, what would you wish?" "To find my father," was the instant reply. "That is what I thought you would say," returned Grace quietly. "Can you bear good news?" "Yes." Ruth's face had turned very white. She pulled one of Grace's hands from her shoulder, holding it in hers. "Tell me," she whispered tensely. Grace's gray eyes filled with tears. The hungry look in Ruth's eyes told its own story. "He is alive, Ruth," she said, steadying her voice. "At least he was alive less than six months ago. I'll begin at the very first and tell you everything." It was half an hour later when the two friends set out for Wayne Hall. "I am so happy; it seems as though I must be with you girls to-night," declared Ruth. "I am so anxious to see Arline. My Daffydowndilly will be happy, too, for my sake. And Grace, I have a strange presentiment that I shall see him before long. I can't think of him as anything but alive. I'm so glad that you told me. It would have been a dreadful shock to have had the news come through Miss West or her friends." "She hasn't the slightest idea that we know she was in the hall," said Grace. "I imagine you will hear of your father through half a dozen different sources in the morning. I don't believe she intended to tell you to-day. I think it was part of her plan to take you by surprise and completely unnerve you. Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton are efficient town criers," Grace added bitterly. "She depended on them to spread the news in the cruelest way." "Why, Grace, I never heard you speak so bitterly of any one before!" exclaimed Ruth. "Ruth, to tell the honest truth, I am thoroughly disgusted with those two girls," confessed Grace wearily. "They have been at the bottom of every annoyance I have had since I came to Overton. It may not be charitable to say so, but I shall certainly not regret seeing them graduated and gone from Overton. I know it sounds selfish, but I can't help it. I mean it. And now we are going to talk only of delightful things. I think we ought to give a spread to-night in honor of you. It isn't every day one finds a long-lost father. Arline is going to stay to dinner, and, of course, she'll stay afterward." Grace's proposal of a spread met with gleeful approval, and in spite of a hearty six-o'clock dinner, there was no lack of appetite when at ten o'clock Elfreda, who insisted on taking the labor of the spread upon her own shoulders, appeared in the door announcing that it was ready. By borrowing Grace's table and using it in conjunction with her own, employing the bureau scarf for a centerpiece, and filling up the bare spaces with paper napkins, the table assumed the dignity of a banqueting board. There were even glasses and plates and spoons enough to go round and one could have either grape juice or tea, Elfreda informed them. "You'd better take tea first, though, because there are only two bottles of grape juice, and we need that for the toast to Ruth's father. Of course if you insist upon having grape juice----" "Tea," was the judiciously lowered chorus from the obliging guests. "Thank you," bowed Elfreda. "I wouldn't have given you the grape juice, at any rate." By half-past ten nothing remained of the feast but the grape juice, and the guests began clamoring insistently for that. "We are breaking the ten-thirty rule into microscopic pieces," declared Elfreda as she dropped slices of orange and pineapple on the ice in the bottom of the glasses, added orange juice, sugar and grape juice. "If it isn't sweet enough, help yourself to sugar. The bowl is on the table. And you can only have one straw apiece. The commissary department is short on straws. A word of warning, don't drink the toast to Ruth's father through a straw," she ended with a giggle. The giggle proved infectious and went the round of the table. Grace was the first to remember the toast to be drunk. Elfreda had just poured the sixth, her own glass of grape juice, and slipped into her place at the table. Rising to her feet Grace said simply, "To Ruth's father. May she see him soon." The toast was drunk standing. Ruth still looked rather dazed. She could not yet think of her father as a reality. "I thank you all," she said tremulously, her eyes misty. "Of course you know I am not quite certain of my great happiness, but I am going to write to Father to-morrow, and perhaps before long I'll have a letter to show you." "If Ruth is to be surprised now, some one will have to get up early in the morning," declared Elfreda with satisfaction, as she collected the dishes for washing after the guests had departed. "And that some one will be doomed to feel foolish," added Miriam. CHAPTER XX ELFREDA REALIZES HER AMBITION Midyears, a season of terror to freshmen, a still alarming period to sophomores, but no very great bugbear to the two upper classes, came and went. During that strenuous week the usual amount of midnight oil was burnt, the usual amount of feverish reviewing done, and the usual amount of celebrating indulged in when the ordeal was passed. "Don't forget the game to-morrow," said J. Elfreda Briggs to the girls at her end of the breakfast table one morning in early March. "The only one this year in which the celebrated center, Miss Josephine Elfreda Briggs, will take part. Sounds like a grand opera announcement, doesn't it? Maybe it hasn't taken endless energy to keep that team together and up to the mark. But our captain is a hustler and we are marvels," she added modestly. "I need no bard to sing my praises," began Miriam mischievously. "I didn't say 'I,'" retorted Elfreda. "I said 'we.'" "Meaning 'I'," interposed Emma Dean wickedly. "As you like," flung back Elfreda sweetly. "You needn't come to the game, you know, if you think it is to be a one-player affair." "Oh, I'll be there, never fear," Emma assured her. "I have a special banner of junior blue to wear." Only one color had been chosen by 19-- for their junior year, one of the new shades of blue which Gertrude Wells had at once renamed "junior" blue. It was greatly affected by the juniors for ties, belts, hat trimmings and girdles. "Doesn't it seem strange not to be on the team this year, Miriam?" asked Grace. "That is, when one stops to think about it. It never occurred to me until this moment how much I have missed basketball. Mabel Ashe said that we'd just simply drift away from it this year, and so we have. Now we are going to cheer Elfreda on to victory." "Elfreda is an artist in making baskets," commended Miriam. "Much obliged," rejoined Elfreda, "but your praise doesn't turn my head in the least. You can judge better of my artistic qualities after the game." "We hope to secure seats in the gallery," said Anne. "The front ones, of course, are reserved for the faculty, but if we go to the gym very early we may get good seats." "I am not going to wait for you, if you don't mind, Miriam," remarked Elfreda, rising. "I must see our captain before going to chapel this morning." "Run along," said Miriam. "I am not going to chapel this morning. I must have that extra time for my biology. I can use it to good advantage, too. There won't be any noise or disturbance in the room," she added slyly. Elfreda gave Miriam a reproachful glance over her shoulder as she left the dining room. "You'll be sorry for 'them cruel words' some day," she declared. "For instance, the next time my services as a chef are desired," and was gone. Miriam left the dining room a little later, going directly upstairs. Grace and Anne lingered to talk with the girls still at breakfast, half expecting to hear the news of Ruth's father brought up. Nothing was said on the subject, however, and Grace wondered if Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton could possibly have come to their senses and refused to take part in whatever mischief Kathleen had planned. How glad she would be, she reflected, if the two seniors, who had caused her so many unpleasant thoughts and moments turned out well after all. After the service that morning she waited for Ruth, who was one of the last of the long procession of girls who filed out of the chapel. Arline was with her and made a rush for Grace the moment she caught sight of her. "I have been watching for you," she said eagerly. "I haven't heard a word, and neither has Ruth. Perhaps they were more honorable than we believed them to be." "I thought that, too," rejoined Grace. "It has been almost a week since I told Ruth. We may never hear a word concerning it." "It wouldn't make much difference now," said Arline. "Ruth knows, and there isn't really anything to be said except that after many years' separation she may find her father. She need not care who knows that." "It was the cruel shock to her that I thought of, and so did Kathleen West," explained Grace. "She seems determined to hurt some one's feelings by 'notoriety' methods. Her newspaper work has made her hard and unfeeling. She is always trying to dig up some one's private affairs and make them public property. I imagine our two seniors have placed a restraining hand on this last affair. I hope Mabel Ashe will never grow cruel and unfeeling--and dishonorable." "She won't," predicted Arline. "Father knows many delightful newspaper women who are above reproach. Besides, Mabel will never remain on a newspaper long enough to change. There is a certain young lawyer in New York City who adores her, and I think she cares for him. There is no engagement yet, but there will be inside of a year or my name is not Arline Thayer." "Really?" asked Grace, her eyes widening with interest. "She has never so much as intimated it to me." "I know a little about it, for we have mutual friends in New York. Besides, Father knows the man. I've met him. He's a dear, and awfully handsome." Having lingered to talk until the last moment the two girls were obliged to part abruptly and scurry off to their recitation rooms, which lay in different directions. They met late in the afternoon in the gymnasium to watch Elfreda's last practice playing before the game, but in their momentary basketball enthusiasm the topic of the morning's conversation was not touched upon. The game between the sophomore and junior teams was looked upon as an event of extreme importance. Elfreda's love for the game and the story of her persistent effort to reduce her weight in order to glitter as a prominent basketball star had become familiar to not only her upper class friends, but throughout the college as well. She had several freshmen adorers, who sent her violets and vied with one another in entertaining her whenever she had an hour or two to spare them. In fact, J. Elfreda Briggs was becoming an important factor in the social life of Overton, with the satisfaction of knowing that she had won a place in the hearts of her admirers through her own merit. Considerable preparation in the way of decorations had been made. About the balcony railing green and yellow bunting mingled with that of junior blue. The two front rows were well filled with members of the faculty, who wore ribbon rosettes with long ends and carried banners of blue, or green and yellow, as the case might be. The Semper Fidelis Club, resplendent in cocked hats of junior blue and wide blue crepe paper sashes fastened in the back with immense butterfly bows, occupied places directly behind the faculty. They had gone to the gymnasium an hour and a half before the game in order to secure these seats, and were now ranged in an eager, exultant row, impatiently awaiting the entrance of the two teams. With the shrill notes of the whistle began one of the most stubborn conflicts ever waged between two Overton teams. From the instant the ball was put in play and the players leaped into action the interest of the spectators never wavered. During the first half of the game the sophomores valiantly contested every foot of the ground, and it was only at the very end of the half that the juniors succeeded in making the score six to four in their favor. In the last half the doughty sophomores rose to the occasion and tied the score with their first play. Then Elfreda, with unerring aim, made a long overhand throw to basket that brought forth deafening applause from the spectators. The sophomores managed to gain two more points, but the juniors again managed not only to gain two points, but to pile up their score until a particularly brilliant play to basket on the part of Elfreda closed the last half with the glorious reckoning of seventeen to twelve in favor of the juniors. Immediately a hubbub arose from the gallery. The Semper Fidelis Club burst forth into a victorious song they had been practising for the occasion, while another delegation of juniors also rent the air with their chant of triumph over their sophomore sisters. After Elfreda had experienced the satisfaction of being escorted round the room by her classmates, who continued to sing spiritedly at least three different songs at the top of their lungs, she was hurried into the dressing room by the Semper Fidelis Club. The moment she was dressed she was seized by friendly hands and marched off to Vinton's to a dinner given by the club in honor of her. For the present, at least, she was the most important girl in college, and feeling the weight of her new-born fame, she was unusually silent, almost shy. "Elfreda can't accustom herself to being a celebrity," laughed Miriam. "She is terribly embarrassed." "That is really the truth," confessed Elfreda. "I've always wanted to be a basketball star, but it seems funny to have the girls make such a fuss over me." "You deserve it!" exclaimed Gertrude Wells. "You were the pride of the team. I never want to see a better game. That last play of yours was a record breaker." The other members of the club joined in Gertrude's praise of Elfreda's playing. The stout girl's face shone with happiness. To her it was one of the great moments of her college life. It was after seven o'clock when the diners left Vinton's. The club gallantly escorted Elfreda to the very door of Wayne Hall and left her after singing to her and giving three cheers. Grace, Anne, Miriam, Arline, Ruth, Mildred Taylor and Laura Atkins were her body guard up the stairs. At the landing Laura Atkins called a halt and invited every one present to a jollification in her room that night in honor of Elfreda. While Elfreda was explaining that she didn't wish the girls to go to any trouble for her, although her eyes shone with delight at being thus honored, the door bell rang repeatedly, and the maid, grumbling under her breath, admitted Emma Dean, who skipped up the stairs two at a time. "I'm always late," she announced cheerfully, "but hardly ever too late. I stopped at the big bulletin board. I noticed a letter there addressed to you, Grace. It was marked 'Important' in one corner. I had half a mind to bring it with me, then--well--you know how one feels about meddling with some one else's mail." "I'm sorry you didn't bring it with you. Don't hesitate to do so next time," returned Grace regretfully. "However, it won't take long to run across the campus for it. I'll go now before I take off my hat and coat. Thank you for telling me about it, Emma." "You are welcome," called Emma after her as Grace ran to her room for her wraps. Always on the alert for home letters, under no circumstances could she have been content to wait quietly until the next day for the coveted mail. If it were from her mother or father she could read it over and over before bedtime and go to sleep happy in the possession of it, and if it were from one of her numerous friends it would be joyfully received. The handwriting on the envelope Grace took from the bulletin board looked strangely familiar. Tearing it open, she glanced hastily over the few lines of the letter, an expression of incredulity in her eyes, for the note said:-- "MY DEAR MISS HARLOWE:-- "May I come to Wayne Hall to see you to-morrow evening at half-past seven o'clock? Please leave note in the bulletin board stating whether this will be convenient for you. "Yours sincerely, "ALBERTA WICKS." Grace read the note again, then mechanically folding it, returned it to its envelope, and walked slowly back to Wayne Hall divided between her disappointment in the letter, and speculation as to the purport of Alberta Wicks's proposed call. CHAPTER XXI ALBERTA KEEPS HER PROMISE During the following day Grace pondered not a little over the possible meaning of Alberta Wicks's note. She wrote an equally brief reply, stating that she would be at Wayne Hall the following night at the appointed time, and tried, unsuccessfully, to dismiss the matter from her mind. It persisted in recurring to her at intervals, and when, at exactly half-past seven o'clock, Alberta Wicks was ushered into the living room, Grace's heart beat a trifle faster as she went forward to greet her guest, who looked less haughty than usual, and who actually smiled faintly as she returned Grace's greeting. "I know I am the last person you ever expected to see," began Alberta, looking embarrassed, "but I simply felt as though I must come here to-night. Are we likely to be interrupted?" she asked suddenly. "Perhaps we had better go upstairs to my room," suggested Grace. "My roommate is away this evening." "Thank you," replied the other girl. She followed Grace upstairs with an unaccustomed meekness that made Grace marvel as to what had suddenly wrought so marked a change in this hitherto disagreeable senior. Once the two girls were seated opposite each other, Alberta leaned forward and said earnestly: "I know that you must dislike me very, very much, Miss Harlowe, and I always supposed that I disliked you even more, but I have lately come to the conclusion that I admire you more than any girl I know." Grace looked at her guest in uncomprehending wonder. Could this be the sneering, insolent Miss Wicks who was speaking? There was no sign of a sneer on her face now. She spoke with a simple directness that could not fail to impress the most sceptical. "I have been hearing about you from a source entirely outside Overton," she continued, "from a Smith College senior who lives in Oakdale. She visited a friend of mine during the holidays. I live in Boston, you know." "I didn't know," began Grace, then with a little exclamation: "It can't be possible! You don't mean Julia Crosby?" "Yes," nodded Alberta. "I do mean Julia Crosby. Thanks to her, I have had my eyes opened to a good many things. I--am--sorry--for everything, Miss Harlowe." Her voice faltered. "I--never--saw--myself as I was--until Miss Crosby made me see. Directly after meeting her she asked me if I knew you, and I spoke slightingly of you. She said very decidedly that you were one of her dearest friends, and defended you to the skies. She told me about your saving her from drowning, and of how badly she had once behaved toward you, and how brave and loyal you were. Then we had a long talk and she made me promise to square things with you the minute I came back, but I haven't had the courage until to-day." She paused and looked appealingly at Grace. Without hesitation Grace held out her hand. "I am not a very formidable person," she smiled. "I am so glad you know Julia Crosby, too. She must have told you of the good times we used to have together in Oakdale." Alberta nodded. She could not yet trust her voice. "Julia wanted me to go to Smith with her," Grace went on rapidly in order to give her guest a chance to recover herself. "At first I thought seriously of it, but later Anne and Miriam and I decided on Overton. And we haven't been disappointed, not for an hour! I wouldn't exchange Overton for any other college in the United States," she ended with loyal pride. "Don't you love Overton, Miss Wicks?" "No," returned the other girl shortly. "It is too late for that sort of thing for me. I forfeited my right long ago. No one will miss me when I leave. Other than Mary, I have no real friends, even in my own class, and you know what most of the juniors think of us." Alberta's tone was very bitter. "Of course, we have no one but ourselves to blame, but just lately I've begun to wish that I had been different." There was an awkward silence. Grace made a vain effort to think of something to say to this hitherto unapproachable senior who had suddenly become so humble. Before she could frame a reply Alberta continued almost sullenly: "I don't know why I should care so much. But after Julia Crosby told me how you saved her life when she broke through the ice into the river and what a splendid girl you were, I felt awfully ashamed of myself. She talked to me and made me promise I would come to see you as soon as I returned to Overton. I am afraid I would have stayed away, though, if it hadn't been for something else." Grace's eyes were frankly questioning, but she still said nothing. "It is about that Miss West," said the senior, as though in answer to Grace's mute inquiry. "I am sorry to say that I encouraged her to do all sorts of revolutionary things when she first came here. I discovered she disliked you and your friends, and I was glad of it. I never lost an opportunity to fan the flame." "But why did she dislike us?" asked Grace. "That is the thing none of us understand. We were prepared to like her because Mabel Ashe had written me, asking me to look out for her. You know they worked on the same newspaper. We did everything we could to make her feel at home, until suddenly she began to cut our acquaintance. Later on something happened that made her angry with me, but to this day none of us knows why she cut us in the first place." "She never said a word to Mary or me about Mabel Ashe," declared Alberta in frowning surprise. "We supposed she had come to Wayne Hall as a stranger and had been snubbed by your crowd of girls. She was furiously angry with you because she wasn't asked to help with the bazaar. She wanted to be in the circus, and said you asked other freshmen and slighted her." "And I never dreamed she would care," returned Grace wonderingly. "If we had only asked her to take part, all these unpleasantnesses might have been avoided. You see, we didn't intend to ask any freshmen, but we finally asked Myra Stone because she made such a darling doll. Oh, I'm so sorry." "I wouldn't be if I were you," declared Alberta dryly. "Judging from what I know of her, I don't think she deserves much sympathy. I just prevented her from publishing Miss Denton's private affairs broadcast through the medium of her paper." "You don't mean she--" began Grace. Alberta nodded. "Yes, she wrote a story in a highly sensational style and brought it to me to read. She was going to send it to her paper, then mail copies of the edition in which the story appeared to a number of girls here. She had a long list, which she showed me, and wanted me to promise to help her address the papers and send them to the various girls. But after I had that talk with Julia Crosby I vowed within myself that the little time I had left at Overton should be devoted to some better cause than planning petty, silly ways of 'getting even.' I can't tell you how thankful I am that I have had this chance to live up to a little of what I promised myself I would do. There is just one thing I'd like to know, and that is the truth of the story concerning Miss Denton's father." "I shall be glad to tell you all I know, which is really very little," answered Grace, and once more repeated the story of what their holiday visit to the old hunter had brought forth. "I wrote to Mr. Denton to the address in Nome the very next day after we were out at Jean's and have written once since then, and so has Ruth, but we have never received an answer. Still, I believe that we shall yet hear from him. I feel certain that he is still living. I really hated to tell Ruth, and raise her hopes only to destroy them again by having to say that he had never answered our letters, but we decided that it was best for her to know. She has been so brave and dear. We told Miss Thayer, and my three friends know it, too, but we don't want any one else to know unless Ruth really finds her father. It is her own personal affair, you see." "But how did Miss West find it out?" was Alberta's question. Grace shook her head. "Don't ask me," she said, a hint of scorn in her eyes. "I am so glad you prevailed upon her to give up the plan, for Ruth's sake and for her own as well." "She was very determined at first, but she finally weakened and promised to drop the whole idea after she found that we were opposed to her plan," rejoined Alberta. "You did a good day's work for Ruth," smiled Grace, holding out her hand to the other girl. Alberta leaned forward in her chair and took Grace's hand in both of hers. "I wish I hadn't been so blind, Miss Harlowe. If I had only tried to know you long ago. There is so little of my college life left I can't hope to win your respect and liking." "Don't try," laughed Grace. "You have my respect already, as for my liking, I'd be very glad to say 'Alberta Wicks is my friend.'" "Can you say that and really mean it?" asked Alberta almost incredulously. "I would not say it unless I were quite certain that I meant it," Grace assured her. "Your coming here to-night proved clearly that you were ready to forget all past differences. Then, why should I hold spite or nurse a grievance? Now, we are not going to say another word about it. I should like to have you spend the evening with me. I am going to invite Miriam and Elfreda to a conversation and tea party in honor of you." "Oh, no!" protested Alberta, half rising. "They wouldn't come. Elfreda will never forgive me for causing her so much trouble." "Elfreda has forgotten all about what happened to her as a freshman. At least she has forgiven you," added Grace. "She and Miriam will be glad to know that we are friends." Grace spoke confidently, though she did have a brief instant of doubt as to just how Elfreda would regard Alberta's belated repentance. To her intense relief, however, when leaving Alberta for a moment she ran down the hall to invite Miriam and Elfreda, the one-time stout girl offered no other comment than a grumbled, "Just like you, Grace Harlowe." "But will you come to my tea party?" persisted Grace. "Of course we will," accepted Miriam. "She knows about it all, she knows, she knows," droned Elfreda. "What's the use in asking me anything when Miriam is here?" "All right." Grace turned to go. "I'll expect to see both of you within the next ten minutes. Don't change your mind after I have gone." "See here, Grace Harlowe!" Elfreda rose from her chair and walked toward Grace. "I should like to know--" "Don't say it, Elfreda," interrupted Grace. "Just say you'll come. If you don't come Alberta will go back to Stuart Hall, disappointed and resentful at having her friendly overtures rejected. She is at the critical stage now, Elfreda, dear, and needs encouragement and cheering up. She is a trifle bitter, and has the blues, too, although she is too stiff-necked to admit it." "You needn't be afraid. I wasn't going to throw cold water on the tea party. Of course we'll attend, and bring the whole two pounds of fruit cake we bought to-day with us. You can take our new cups and saucers, too, can't she, Miriam? What I should like to know is how it all happened." "I can't stop to tell you now. Wait until Anne comes home to-night and we'll congregate. I want to see Arline, too. I have a plan that just came to me a little while ago, and I should like to hear what you think of it. I must hurry back to my guest. Come to my room as soon as you can." "Now I wonder what she has on her mind?" smiled Miriam. "I imagine it has something to do with Alberta Wicks." "Do you know," remarked Elfreda, looking up with a sudden tender light in her usually matter-of-fact face, "there's a line in 'Hamlet' that always makes me think of Grace. It's the one in which Hamlet speaks of his father. He says, 'I shall never look upon his like again.' Substituting 'her' for 'his,' that is exactly what I think about Grace." * * * * * The next morning Grace awoke with the feeling of one who has had something disagreeable suddenly disappear from her life. "What happened last night?" she asked herself, then smiled as the memory of what had passed the evening before returned. "I'm so glad," she said half under her breath. "Glad of what?" asked Anne, who, wrapped in her kimono, sat sleepily on the edge of her bed, trying to make up her mind to stay awake. "That Alberta Wicks came to see me," replied Grace. "I hate quarrels and misunderstandings, Anne, yet I seem destined to become involved in them. Do you suppose it is because I have a quarrelsome disposition?" Grace had slipped out of bed, and, wrapping herself in her bath robe, trotted across the room and seated herself beside Anne, one arm thrown across her friend's shoulder. "Quarrelsome? You are a positive snapping turtle," Anne assured her gravely. "I am so glad I have only one more year of your detestable society before me. Now you know the truth. Kill me if you must," she added in melodramatic tones. "I'll be merciful and let you live until after Easter," laughed Grace. "That reminds me, Anne. I am going to ask Ruth to go home with us. I know she is anxious to talk with Jean, although she wouldn't say so for the world. She is always in mortal fear of intruding. Arline knows that I am going to invite Ruth. I'm going there this very morning if I can manage to hustle down to her room before my biology hour," concluded Grace, rising from the couch with an energy that nearly precipitated Anne to the floor. "We forgot to congregate last night after Alberta went home, it was so late. I'll tell you my plan to-night. But we won't try to carry it out until after Easter." Ruth cried a little on Grace's comforting shoulder when, an hour later, she delivered her Easter invitation. To Grace's satisfaction, she accepted without a protesting word. She remembered only that Jean, the hunter, had known her father and she had a wistful desire to take old Jean by the hand for her father's sake. Arline had promised to spend Easter with Grace, but her father had planned a trip to the Bermudas for her and Ruth. Realizing that it would be best for Ruth to go to Oakdale, she cheerfully put aside her own personal desire for Ruth's companionship and urged Ruth to go home with Grace. Elfreda had accepted Laura Atkins's invitation to spend Easter with her, and was already convulsing the three Oakdale girls with excerpts from conversations to take place, supposedly, between herself and Laura's learned father. "I have been reading up a lot on the pterodactyl and ichthyosaurus and other small, playful animals of the beginning of the world variety," she confided to Miriam. "I expect to astonish him." "I am reasonably sure that you will," was Miriam's mirthful reply. "I wish you were coming home with me, instead." "So do I." Elfreda's shrewd eyes grew wistful. "I know I'd have the best time ever if I went home with you, but I feel as though I ought to go with Laura. She would have been so disappointed if I had refused her invitation. That sounds conceited, doesn't it? But you can see how things are, can't you?" "I can, indeed," returned Miriam, and the significance of her tone left no doubt in Elfreda's mind regarding her roommate's understanding of things. CHAPTER XXII GRACE'S PLAN The Easter vacation slipped away at the same appalling rate of speed that had marked the passing of all Grace's holidays at home. There were so many pleasant things to do and so many old friends to welcome her return to Oakdale that she sighed regretfully to think she could not possibly accept one half of the invitations that poured in upon her from all sides. Nora and Jessica had come from the conservatory to spend Easter at home, so had the masculine half of the "Eight Originals Plus Two." Then, too, the Phi Sigma Tau, with the exception of Eleanor Savelli, had renewed their vows of unswerving loyalty, and their numerous sessions ate up the time. There was one day set aside, however, on which the little clan had paid a visit to Jean, the old hunter, and Ruth had experienced the satisfaction of seeing and talking with a man who had been her father's friend. The old woodsman had been equally delighted to take Arthur Denton's child by the hand, and the tears had run down his brown, weather-beaten cheeks as he looked into Ruth's face and exclaimed at the resemblance to her father that he saw there. "You shall yet hear. You shall yet see, Mamselle," he had prophesied with a fullness of belief that made Grace resolve to keep on writing to the address Jean had given her for a year at least, whether or not she received a line in return. She, too, felt confident that Arthur Denton still lived. She was, therefore, more disappointed than she cared to admit when, on returning to Overton, she failed to find an answer to the letters which she had sent to Nome at stated intervals. Ruth, apprehensive and sick at heart, by reason of hope deferred, was striving to be brave in spite of the bitterness of her disappointment. From the beginning she had sternly determined not to be buoyed by false hopes, then if she never heard from the letters that she and Grace had sent speeding northward, she would have nothing to disturb her peace of mind other than the regret that her dream had never come true. Yet it was hard not to think of her father and not to hope. A late Easter made a short April, and May was well upon them before the students of Overton College awoke to the realization that it was only a matter of days until the senior class would be graduated and gone; that the juniors would be seniors, the sophomores juniors, and even the humblest freshman would taste the sweetness of sophomoreship. To Grace the rapid passing of the last days of her junior year brought a certain indefinable sadness. There were times when she wished herself a freshman, that she were ending her first year of college life rather than the third. Only one more year and it would all be over. Then what lay beyond? Grace never went further than that. She had no idea as to what life would mean to her when her college days were past. She had not yet found her work. Anne would, no doubt, return to her profession. Miriam intended to study music in Leipsig at the same conservatory where Eleanor Savelli's father and mother had met. Elfreda had long since announced her intention of becoming a lawyer. Ruth fully expected to teach, and even dainty Arline had hinted that she might take up settlement work. Grace was thinking rather soberly of all this, late on Saturday afternoon as she walked slowly across the campus toward Wayne Hall. "I really ought to begin to think seriously of my future work," she thought. "Father and Mother would only be too glad to have me stay at home with them, but I feel as though I ought to 'be up and doing with a heart for any fate' instead of just being a home girl. Miss Duncan said the last time I talked with her that I would some day hit upon my work when I least expected it. I hope it will happen soon. Oh, there goes Alberta Wicks!" she cried aloud. "I must see her at once. Alberta!" Alberta Wicks, who was within hailing distance, turned abruptly and walked toward Grace. "Where have you been of late? I haven't seen you. Did you receive my note?" asked Grace, holding out her hand to the other girl. "Yes," returned Alberta, a slow red creeping into her cheeks. "I meant to come to Wayne Hall, but----" She paused, then said with a touch of her old defiance, "I might as well tell you the truth, I am rather afraid of the girls there." "'Afraid of the girls!'" repeated Grace. "Why are you afraid of them, Alberta?" "Because I've been so disagreeable," was the low reply. "They were very sweet with me the night of your tea party, but I felt as though they bore with me for your sake." "On the contrary, they were pleased to entertain you," replied Grace with a sincerity that even Alberta could not doubt. "I hope you will come again soon, and I wish you would bring Miss Hampton with you." "Thank you," returned Alberta, but her hesitating reply was equivalent to refusal. "She wants to come, but she still believes we don't like her," reflected Grace, as Alberta said good-bye and walked away with an almost dejected expression on her face. "Now is the time to put my plan into execution. I had forgotten it until seeing Alberta brought it back to me. I must propose it to the girls to-night." From the evening on which Alberta had kept her promise to Julia Crosby and come to Wayne Hall to make peace, Grace had experienced a strong desire to help her sweeten and brighten the last days of her college life. With this thought in mind she had evolved the idea of giving Alberta and Mary a surprise party at Wellington House and inviting the Semper Fidelis girls as well as certain popular seniors and juniors who would be sure to add to the gayety of the affair. But when after dinner she broached the subject to her three friends, who had seated themselves in an expectant row on her couch to hear her plan, she was wholly unprepared for the amount of opposition with which it was received. "I can't see why we should exert ourselves to make things pleasant for those two girls," grumbled Elfreda. "For almost three years they have taken particular pains to make matters unpleasant for us. The other night I treated Miss Wicks civilly for your sake, Grace, not because I am fond of her." "I am afraid you will have considerable trouble in making the other girls promise to help you," demurred Miriam. "Neither Miss Wicks nor Miss Hampton have ever done anything to endear themselves to the girls here at Overton. Personally, I believe in letting well-enough alone in this case. If you wish to entertain them at Wayne Hall, of course we will stand by you. But I don't believe it would be wise to attempt to give a semi-public demonstration. It would be very humiliating for you if the girls refused to help you." "But if they promise to help they are not likely to break their word," argued Grace, "and I shall make a personal call upon every girl on my list." "Aren't you afraid that a 'list' may cause jealousy and ill-feeling on the part of certain girls who are not included in it?" was Anne's apprehensive question. "And you, too, Anne!" exclaimed Grace in a hurt voice, looking her reproach. "No, I don't see why it should cause any ill-feeling whatever. We are not making it a class affair. There will be perhaps thirty girls invited. Aside from the surety that we'll have a good time, I believe we will be going far toward displaying the true Overton spirit. Of course, if you girls feel that you don't wish to enter into this with me, then I shall have to go on alone, for I am determined to do it. At least you can't gracefully refuse to come to the surprise party," she ended, with a little catch in her voice. "Grace Harlowe, you big goose!" exclaimed Elfreda, springing to Grace's side and winding both arms about her. "Did you believe for one instant that we wouldn't stand by you no matter what you planned to do? I am ashamed of myself. If it hadn't been for me, you would never have had any trouble with either Alberta Wicks or Mary Hampton. Plan whatever you like, and I set my hand and seal upon it that I'll aid you and abet you to the fullest extent of my powers." "And so will I," cried Miriam. "I am sorry I croaked." "And to think I was a wet blanket, too," murmured Anne, patting one of Grace's hands. "You are perfect angels, all of you," declared Grace, her gray eyes shining. "I know I am always dragging you into things, and making you help me for friendship's sake." "But they are always the right sort of things," retorted Elfreda, with an affectionate loyalty. "Let us atone for our defection by making ourselves useful," proposed Anne, picking up paper and pencil from the writing table. "I'll write the names of those eligible to the surprise party if you'll supply them." After considerable discussion, erasing, crossing out and re-establishing the list of names was finally declared to be satisfactory. "Is there any particular friend of either of these girls that we have forgotten to include?" asked Anne, as she carefully scanned the list. "What of Kathleen West?" asked Elfreda. Grace shook her head. "I believe it would be better not to ask her," she said. "She wouldn't come; besides, she might--" Grace stopped. She had been tempted to say that Kathleen would be likely to tell tales and spoil the surprise. "I know what you were going to say. You believe she would tell Alberta our plans and spoil the party," was Elfreda's blunt comment. "Well, so do I believe it. Any one can see that." Grace smiled at Elfreda's emphatic statement. "It is wiser not to ask her," she said again. "There are four of us, and we can count on Arline and Ruth; that leaves twenty-four girls to be invited. Divided, that is six girls to each one of us. You must each choose the six girls you will agree to see and make it your business to invite them to the party. Try to make them promise to come, for we don't want to change the list." "What are we going to have to eat?" asked Elfreda. "That is an extremely important feature of any jollification. I always think of things to eat, even though I don't eat them. Just thinking of them can't make one stout, and it is a world of satisfaction." "We had better have different kinds of sandwiches, olives and pickles, and what else?" asked Grace. "Ice cream and cake. We might have salted nuts and lemonade, too," added Miriam. "It sounds good to me," averred Elfreda, relapsing into slang. "But don't rely on the girls to bring this stuff. Assess them fifty cents apiece with the understanding that another tax will be levied if necessary." "That is sound advice," laughed Miriam, "but it means that the duty of making of the sandwiches must fall upon us." "I guess I can stand it," nodded Elfreda with a sudden generosity. "I'll take the sandwich making upon myself, if you say so. You all know perfectly well that I can neither be equalled nor surpassed when it comes to the 'eats' problem. Candidly, I'm ashamed of myself because I didn't respond when Grace first asked me to help, and this sandwich task is going to be my act of atonement. So, Anne, you and Miriam had better get busy, too, and decide what yours will be, for we've all been found guilty of lacking college spirit, and we've got to make good." "I will pledge myself to collect the money for the refreshments as a further act of atonement," volunteered Anne. "And I will do the shopping for you when the money is collected," promised Miriam. "Thanks to the careful training of J. Elfreda Briggs, I know what to buy and where to buy it." "But you are leaving nothing for me to do," protested Grace. "There will be plenty of things for you to do," declared Elfreda. "You will have to keep an eye on us and see that we perform our tasks with diplomacy and skill." "It requires a great deal of diplomacy to make sandwiches, doesn't it, Elfreda?" was Anne's innocent observation. "You know very well I wasn't referring to the making of the sandwiches," retorted Elfreda, with a good-natured grin. "It is the delivering of the invitations that is going to require a wily, sugar-coated tongue. The majority of the girls are not fond of either Alberta Wicks or Mary Hampton. The very ones you believe will help you may prove to be the most prejudiced." "I am well aware of that fact," flung back Grace laughingly. "I received an unexpected demonstration of it a few moments ago." "So you did," responded Elfreda unabashed. "I hadn't forgotten it, either. Therefore I repeat that you will have your hands full managing the ethical side of this surprise party. You will have to interview the girls we can't persuade to come, for there are sure to be some of them who will raise the same objections that we did, and if they do accept, it will be only to please Grace Harlowe." CHAPTER XXIII WHAT EMMA DEAN FORGOT The surprise party did much toward placing Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton on a friendly footing with the members of their own class and the juniors. Strange to relate, there had been little or no reluctance exhibited by those invited in accepting their invitations, and as a final satisfaction to Grace the night of the party was warm and moonlit. The astonishment of the two seniors can be better imagined than described. Grace had purposely made an engagement to spend the evening with them, and under pretense of having Alberta Wicks try over a new song, had inveigled them to the living room, where the company of girls had trooped in upon them, and a merry evening had ensued. Wholly unused to friendly attentions from their classmates, Alberta and Mary, formerly self-assured even to arrogance, did the honors of the occasion with a touch of diffidence that went far toward establishing them on an entirely new basis at Overton, and they said good-night to their guests with a delightful feeling of comradeship that had never before been theirs. It had been agreed upon by the Semper Fidelis girls that they should extend the right hand of fellowship as often as possible to the two seniors during the short time left them at Overton. It was Grace who had proposed this. "We must do all we can to help them fill the last of their college days with good times. Then they can never forget what a great honor it is to call Overton 'Alma Mater,'" she had argued with an earnestness that could not be gainsaid. Now that this particular shadow had lifted, Grace was still concerned over her utter failure to keep her word to Mabel Ashe regarding the newspaper girl. When Kathleen had discovered that Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton now numbered themselves among Grace's friends, she religiously avoided the two seniors as well as the Semper Fidelis girls. She became sullen and moody, apparently lost all interest in breaking rules and studied with an earnestness that evoked the commendation of the faculty, and caused her to be classed with the "digs" by the more frivolous-minded freshmen. Her reputation for dashing off clever bits of verse also became established, and her themes were frequently read in the freshman English classes and occasionally in sophomore English, too. In spite of her literary achievements, however, she remained as unpopular as ever. To the girls who knew her she was too changeable to be relied upon, and her sarcastic manner discouraged those who ventured to be friendly. "If I haven't been able to keep my word to Mabel it isn't because I have not tried," Grace Harlowe murmured half aloud, as she walked toward her favorite seat under a giant elm at the lower end of the campus, an unopened letter in her hand. Grace tore open the envelope and immediately became absorbed in the contents of the letter. "I wish she could come up here for commencement," she sighed, "and I wish she knew the truth about Kathleen West. I can't write it. It would seem so unfair and contemptible to present my side of the story to Mabel without giving Kathleen a chance to present hers. That is, if she really considers that she has one." "I knew I'd find you here," called a disconsolate voice, and Emma Dean appeared from behind a huge flowering bush. "I've a terrible confession to make, and there's no time like the present for admitting my sins of omission and commission. Please put a decided accent on omission." "Now what have you forgotten to do?" laughed Grace. "It can't be anything very serious." "You won't laugh when I tell you," returned Emma, looking sober. "I shall never be agreeable and promise to deliver a message or anything else for any one again. I am not to be trusted. Here is the cause of all my sorrow." She handed Grace a large, square envelope with the contrite explanation: "Words can't tell you how sorry I am. It has been in the pocket of my heavy coat since the week before I went home for the Easter holidays. I went over to the big bulletin board the day before you went home and saw this letter addressed to you. I wish I had left it there, as I did last time. There was one for me, too, so I put them both in my coat pocket, intending to give you yours the moment I reached Wayne Hall. But before I was half way across the campus I met the Emerson twins, and they literally dragged me into Vinton's for a sundae. By the time I reached the hall, all remembrance of the letters had passed from my mind. "I didn't take my heavy coat home with me, and when I came back to Overton the weather had grown warm, so I did not wear it again. This afternoon it fell on the floor of my closet, and when I picked it up I noticed something white at the top of one of the pockets. There! Now I've confessed and I shall not blame you if you are cross with me. My letter didn't amount to much. It was from a cousin of mine, whose letters always bore me to desperation. Now, say all the mean things to me that you like. I'm resigned," invited Emma, closing her eyes and folding her hands across her breast. "I'm not going to scold you, Emma," declared Grace, laughing a little. "I wonder who this can be from? The postmark is almost obliterated. However, I'll soon see." "Do you want me to go on about my business?" was Emma's pointed question. "Certainly not. Pardon me while I read this. Then I'll walk to the Hall with you. It is almost dinner time." As Grace unfolded the letter the inside sheet fell from it to the ground. As she bent to pick it up her eyes lingered upon the signature with an expression of unbelieving amazement stamped upon her face. Then she glanced down the first page of the letter. "Oh, it can't be true! It's too wonderful!" she gasped. "Oh, Emma, Emma, if I had only received this the day it came!" "I knew it was something important," groaned Emma. "And I was trying to be so helpful." Unmindful of Emma's remorseful utterance, Grace went on excitedly: "Only think, Emma, it is from Ruth's father. He is alive and well and frantic with joy over the news that Ruth did not die in that terrible wreck." Grace sprang from her seat and seized Emma by the arm. "Come on," she urged, "I must tell the girls at once." Grace ran all the way to Wayne Hall, and bursting into her room pounced upon Anne and hustled her unceremoniously into Miriam's room, where Elfreda and Miriam viewed their noisy entrance with tolerant eyes. A moment afterward Emma Dean appeared, out of breath. In a series of excited sentences, Grace told the glorious news. "But I must read you what he says," she said, her eyes very bright. "MY DEAR MISS HARLOWE:-- "What can I say to you who have sent me the most welcome message I ever received? It is as though the dead had come to life. To think that my baby daughter, my little Ruth, still lives, and has fought her way to friends and education. It is almost beyond belief. I cannot fittingly express by letter the feeling of gratitude which overwhelms me when I think of your generous and whole-souled interest in me and my child. I have certain matters here in Nome to which I must attend, then I shall start for the States, and once there proceed east with all speed. It will not be advisable for you to answer this letter, as I shall have started on my journey before your answer could possibly reach me. I shall telegraph Ruth as soon as I arrive in San Francisco. I have not written her as yet, because you said in your letter to me that you did not wish her to know until you had heard from me. I thank you for trying to shield her from needless pain, and I am longing for the day when I can look into Ruth's eyes and call her daughter. Believe me, my appreciation of your kindness to me and to Ruth lies too deep for words. With the hope that I shall be in Overton before many weeks to claim my own, and thank you and your friends personally, "Yours in deep sincerity, "ARTHUR NORTHRUP DENTON." "Well, if that isn't in the line of a sensation, then my name isn't Josephine Elfreda Briggs! And to think Ruth's father has actually materialized and is coming to Overton? When did you receive the letter, Grace?" "It came just before the Easter vacation," interposed Emma Dean bravely, without giving Grace a chance to answer. "I might as well tell you. I took it from the big bulletin board, put it in my coat pocket to bring to Grace and forgot it. Don't all speak at once." Emma bowed her head, her hands over her ears. Then an immediate buzz of conversation arose, and Emma came in for a deserved amount of good-natured teasing. "What is the date of the letter!" asked Elfreda. "The twenty-sixth of February," replied Grace. "It must have been on the way for weeks." "And in Emma's pocket longer," was Miriam's sly comment. "But he should have arrived long before this," persisted Elfreda. "I wonder if he received Ruth's letter." "Perhaps he didn't start as soon as he intended," said Anne. "That may be so. Nevertheless, he has had plenty of time to attend to his affairs and come here, too," declared Elfreda. "I wouldn't be surprised to see him almost any day." "Wouldn't it be splendid if he were to come here in time to see Ruth usher at commencement?" smiled Grace. "He'd better hurry, then," broke in Emma Dean, "for commencement is only two weeks off. Shall you tell Ruth? Who is going with you to tell her, and when are you going?" "After dinner, all of us," announced Elfreda. "Aren't we, Grace?" Grace nodded. "Then I shall join the band," announced Emma. "Although I proved a delinquent and untrustworthy messenger, still you must admit that at last I delivered my message." CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION The last of June, in addition to its reputed wealth of roses, brought with it exceedingly hot weather, but to the members of the senior and junior classes, whose eyes were fixed upon commencement, the warm weather was a matter of minor importance. It was the first Overton commencement in which the three Oakdale girls had taken part, and greatly to their satisfaction they had been detailed to usher at the commencement exercises. Arline, Ruth, Gertrude Wells, the Emersons and Emma Dean had also acted as ushers, and on the evening of commencement day the Emerson twins had given a porch party to the other "slaves of the realm," as they had laughingly styled themselves. It had been a momentous week, and the morning after commencement day Grace awoke with the disturbing thought that her trunk remained still unpacked, that she had two errands to do, and that she had promised to meet Arline Thayer at Vinton's at half-past nine o'clock that morning. "I am glad it isn't eight o'clock yet," she commented to Anne, as she stood before the mirror looking very trim and dainty in her tailored suit of dark blue. "I'm going to put on my hat now, then I won't have to come upstairs again. I'll do my errands first, then it will be time to meet Arline, and I'll be here in time for luncheon. After that I must pack my trunk, and if I hurry I shall still have some time to spare. Our train doesn't leave until four o'clock. Will you telephone for the expressman, Anne?" Anne, who was busily engaged in trying to make room in the tray of her trunk for a burned wood handkerchief box which she had overlooked, looked up long enough to acquiesce. "There!" she exclaimed as the box finally slipped into place, "that is something accomplished. Hereafter, I shall leave this box at home. Every time I pack my trunk I am sure to find it staring me in the face from some corner of the room when I haven't a square inch of space left. I'll keep my handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the chiffonier next year." "I wish I had no packing to do," sighed Grace. "You never seem to mind it." "That is because I am a trouper, and troupers live in their trunks," smiled Anne. "Packing and unpacking never dismay me." "Isn't it fortunate, Anne, that our commencement happened a week before that of the boys? We can be at home for a day or two before we go to M---- to attend their commencement." "I can't realize that our boys are men, and about to go out into the world, each one to his own work," said Anne. "They will always seem just boys to us, won't they?" "Yes, the spirit of youth will remain with them as long as they live," prophesied Grace wisely, "because they will always be interested in things. And if one lives every day for all it is worth and goes on to the next day prepared to make the best of whatever it may bring forth, one can never grow old in spirit. Look at Mrs. Gray. She never will be 'years old,' she will always be 'years young.' I am so anxious to see Father and Mother and Mrs. Gray and the girls, but I hate saying good-bye to Overton. Every year it seems to grow dearer." "That is because it has been our second home," was Anne's soft rejoinder. A knock at the door, followed by a peremptory summons in Elfreda's voice, "Come on down to breakfast," ended the little talk. By half-past eight o'clock Grace was on her way toward Main Street, bent on disposing of her errands with all possible speed. The vision of her yawning trunk, flanked by piles of clothing waiting patiently to be put in it, loomed large before her. Later on, keeping her appointment with Arline, she heroically tore herself from that fascinating young woman's society and hurried toward Wayne Hall, filled with laudable intentions. Anne had finished her packing and departed to pay a farewell visit to Ruth Denton. "Oh, dear," sighed Grace, "I hate to begin. I suppose I had better put these heavy things in first." She reached for her heavy blue coat and sweater, slowly depositing them in the bottom of the trunk. Her raincoat followed the sweater, and she was in the act of folding her blue serge dress, when a knock sounded on the door, and the maid proclaimed in a monotonous voice, "Telegram, Miss Harlowe." The blue serge dress was thrown into the trunk, and Grace dashed from the room and down the stairs at the maid's heels. Her father and mother were Grace's first thought. What if something dreadful had happened to either of them! The bare idea of a telegram thrilled Grace with apprehension. Her fingers trembled as she signed the messenger's book and tore open the envelope. One glance at the telegram and with an inarticulate cry Grace darted up the stairs and down the hall to her room. Stopping only long enough to seize her hat, she made for the stairs, the telegram clutched tightly in her hand. "Oh, if Anne or Miriam were only here," she breathed, as she paused for an instant at Mrs. Elwood's gate to look up and down the street, then set off in the direction of the campus. At the edge of the campus she paused again, glancing anxiously about her in the vain hope of spying Ruth or Miriam, then she started across the campus toward Morton House. As she neared her destination, the front door of the hall opened and a familiar figure appeared. It was followed by another figure, and with a little exclamation of satisfaction Grace redoubled her pace. "Ruth! Arline!" she cried, her face alight: "Can't you guess? It has come at last. Here it is. Read it, Ruth." Ruth had turned very pale, and was staring at Grace in mute, questioning fashion. "You don't mean----" her voice died away in a startled gasp. "I do, I do," caroled Grace, tears of sheer happiness rising in her gray eyes. "Read it, Ruth. Oh, I am so glad for your sake. Three more hours and you will see him. It seems like a fairytale." Ruth stood still, reading the telegram over and over: "Arrive Overton 2:40. Will you and Ruth meet me? Arthur N. Denton." "And to think," said Arline, in awe-stricken tones, "that Ruth is actually going to see her father!" "My very own father." The tenderness in Ruth's voice brought the tears to Arline's blue eyes. Grace was making no effort to conceal the fact that her own were running over. "You mustn't cry, girls," faltered Ruth. "It's the happiest day of--my--life." Then she buried her face in her hands and ran into the house. Grace and Arline followed, to find her huddled on the lowest step of the stairs, her slender shoulders shaking. "I--I can't help it," she sobbed. "You would cry, too, if after being driven from pillar to post ever since you were little, you'd suddenly find that there was some one in the world who loved you and wanted to take care of you." "Of course you can't help crying," soothed Grace, stroking the bowed head. "Arline and I cried, too. This is one of the great moments of your life." "Dear little chum," said Arline softly, sitting down beside Ruth and putting her arms around the weeping girl, "your wish has been granted." An eloquent silence fell upon the trio for a moment, which was broken by the sound of voices in the upstairs hall. Ruth and Arline rose simultaneously from the stairs. "Come up to my room," urged Arline, "and we will finish our cry in private." "I have no more tears to shed," smiled Grace, "and I dare not go to your room." "Dare not?" inquired Arline. "I haven't finished my packing, and our train leaves at four-thirty. Oh!" Grace sprang to her feet in sudden alarm. "I asked Anne to telephone for the expressman. Perhaps he has called for my trunk, and gone by this time. If he has, I shall have to reopen negotiations with the express company at once in order that it shall reach the station in time. Will you meet me at the station at a quarter-past two o'clock, or can you stop for me at the Hall?" "I'll be at the Hall at two o'clock," promised Ruth. Filled with commendable determination to finish her packing as speedily as possible, Grace hurried home and up the stairs, unpinning her hat as she ran. Dashing into her room, she dropped her hat on her couch, then stared about her in amazement. The piles of clothing she had left had disappeared, and, yes, her trunk had also vanished. "Where--" she began, when the door opened and three figures precipitated themselves upon her. "Don't say we never did anything for you," cried Elfreda. "We didn't overlook a single thing," assured Anne. "It isn't every one who can secure the services of professional trunk packers." "'Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, Come and join the dance?'" caroled Elfreda off the key, as she did a true mock turtle shuffle around Grace. Joining hands, the three girls hemmed Grace in and pranced about her. "What is going on in here?" demanded Emma Dean, appearing in the doorway. "Is the mere idea of being seniors going to your heads?" "I ought to be the one to dance, Emma," laughed Grace. "I went out of here with my room in chaos and my trunk unpacked, and came back to find it not only packed but gone. Thank you, girls," she nodded affectionately to her chums. "No one exhibited any such tender thoughtfulness for me," commented Emma. "I had to wrestle with my packing unaided and alone. And how things do pile up! I could hardly find a place for all my stuff." "Oh, I almost forgot my great news," cried Grace. Then she produced the telegram, and a buzz of excited conversation began which lasted until the luncheon bell rang. Ruth was punctual to the moment, and after receiving the affectionate congratulations of the girls, she and Grace started for the station on the, to Ruth, most eventful errand of her young life. "How shall I know him, Grace, and how will he know me?" she said tremulously. "I don't know," returned Grace rather blankly. "That part of it hadn't occurred to me. Still, Overton is only a small city, and there won't be many incoming passengers. It's a case of outgoing passengers this week. I have an idea that we shall know him," she concluded. When, at exactly 2:40, the train pulled into the station, two pairs of eyes were fixed anxiously on the few travelers that left the train. Suddenly Grace's hand caught Ruth's arm, "There he is! Oh, Ruth, isn't he splendid? Come on. Don't be afraid. I feel certain he is Arthur Northrup Denton." Seizing Ruth's hand, she led her, unresisting, to meet a tail, broad-shouldered, smooth-faced man, whose piercing gray eyes constantly scanned the various persons scattered along the platform. His brown hair was touched with gray at the temples, and his keen, resolute face bespoke unfaltering purpose and power. With Grace to think was to act. She took an impulsive step toward the tall stranger, confronting him with, "I am Grace Harlowe. I am sure you are Mr. Denton." "Yes, I am Arthur Denton, and----" "This is your daughter, Ruth," declared Grace hurriedly, pushing Ruth gently forward. An instant later the few persons lingering on the station platform saw the tall stranger fold the slender figure of Ruth in a long embrace. "I was sure you were Ruth's father," declared Grace as, a little later, they were speeding through the streets of Overton in the taxicab Mr. Denton had engaged at the station. "The moment I saw you I felt that you could be no one else." Ruth sat with her hand in her father's, an expression of ineffable tenderness on her small face. She was content to listen to him and Grace without joining in the conversation. Her greatest wish had been fulfilled and she was experiencing a joy too deep for words. Mr. Denton explained to them that his long silence had been due to a series of misadventures that had befallen him on his way from Alaska to San Francisco. He had received only one letter from Grace and none from Ruth, as he had left Nome directly after receiving Grace's letter. The others had evidently reached Nome after his departure and had not been forwarded to him. The boat on which he had taken passage had been wrecked and he had barely escaped drowning. He had been rescued by an Indian fisherman from the icy waters of Bering Sea, and taken to his hut, where for days he had lain ill from exposure to the elements. At the earliest possible moment he had embarked for San Francisco, then journeyed east. He had purposely refrained from telegraphing until within a day's journey from Overton, fearing that something might occur to delay his meeting with his daughter. Ruth, who had already planned to remain in Overton during the summer and work at dressmaking, smiled in rapture as she heard her father plan a long sight-seeing trip through the west which would last until time for her return to college in the fall. They drove with Grace to Wayne Hall, promising to return to the station in time to meet her friends and say good-bye to her, Mr. Denton assuring her that he hoped some day to repay the debt of gratitude which he owed her. Three familiar figures ran downstairs to meet Grace as she stepped into the hall. "We've been waiting patiently for you," announced Elfreda. "Did he materialize?" from Anne. "What do you think of him?" was Miriam's quick question. "Come into the living-room and I'll tell you," said Grace. "We won't have much time to talk, though. It is after three o'clock now." "No; come upstairs to our room," invited Elfreda. "We have a special reason for asking you." Grace obediently accompanied the three girls upstairs. The first thing that attracted her eye was a tray containing a tall pitcher of fruit lemonade and four glasses. Elfreda stepped to the table and began pouring the lemonade. When she had filled the glasses she handed them, in turn, to each girl. "To our senior year," she said solemnly, raising her glass. "May it be the best of all. Drink her down." "What a nice idea," smiled Grace as she set down her glass. "It was Elfreda's proposal," said Miriam. "She made the lemonade, too." "Then let us drink to her." Grace reached for her glass and Miriam for the pitcher. "I'll do the honors this time," declared Miriam. "Here's to the Honorable Josephine Elfreda Briggs, expert brewer of lemonade, model roommate and loyal friend." "Oh, now," protested Elfreda, "what made you spoil everything? I was just beginning to enjoy myself." "The pleasure is all ours," retorted Anne. "Besides, you are getting nothing but your just deserts. We are only glad to have a chance to demonstrate our deep appreciation of your many lovely qualities, Miss Briggs," she ended mischievously. "Yes, Miss Briggs," laughed Grace, "you are indispensable to this happy band, Miss Briggs. You must be blind if you can't see that." "Very blind indeed, Miss Briggs," agreed Miriam Nesbit. "But because you are so blind, Miss Briggs, I shall endeavor, in a few well chosen words, Miss Briggs, to make you see what is so plain to the rest of us." Whereupon Miriam launched forth into a funny little eulogy of Elfreda and her good works which caused the stout girl to exclaim in embarrassment, "Oh, see here, Miriam, I'm not half so wonderful as I might be. If you said all those nice things about yourself or Grace or Anne it would be more to the point." "But it might not be true," interposed Grace. "And we quite agree with Miriam," added Anne. Elfreda surveyed them in silence, an unusually tender expression in her shrewd blue eyes. "I can see that I have a whole lot to be thankful for," she said after a moment. "Next year I am going to try harder than ever to live up to your flattering opinion of me. Then I know that I can't fail to be a good senior." Just how completely Elfreda carried out her resolution and what happened to Grace Harlowe and her friends during their senior year in college will be found in "Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College." THE END. * * * * * HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY'S Best and Least Expensive Books for Boys and Girls The Motor Boat Club Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The keynote of these books is manliness. The stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. No boy will willingly lay down an unfinished book in this series. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC; Or, The Secret of Smugglers' Island. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET; Or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND; Or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS; Or, The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA; Or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT THE GOLDEN GATE; Or, A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB ON THE GREAT LAKES; Or, The Flying Dutchman of the Big Fresh Water. Battleship Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These stories throb with the life of young Americans on today's huge drab Dreadnaughts. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS AT SEA; Or, Two Apprentices in Uncle Sam's Navy. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS' FIRST STEP UPWARD; Or, Winning Their Grades as Petty Officers. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN FOREIGN SERVICE; Or, Earning New Ratings in European Seas. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE TROPICS; Or, Upholding the American Flag in a Honduras Revolution. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE WARDROOM; Or, Winning their Commissions as Line Officers. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS WITH THE ADRIATIC CHASERS; Or, Blocking the Path of the Undersea Raiders. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS' SKY PATROL; Or, Fighting the Hun from above the Clouds. The Range and Grange Hustlers By FRANK GEE PATCHIN Have you any idea of the excitements, the glories of life on great ranches in the West? Any bright boy will "devour" the books of this series, once he has made a start with the first volume. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE RANCH; Or, The Boy Shepherds of the Great Divide. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS' GREATEST ROUND-UP; Or, Pitting Their Wits Against a Packers' Combine. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE PLAINS; Or, Following the Steam Plows Across the Prairie. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS AT CHICAGO; Or, The Conspiracy of the Wheat Pit. Submarine Boys Series By VICTOR G. DURHAM THE SUBMARINE BOYS ON DUTY; Or, Life on a Diving Torpedo Boat. THE SUBMARINE BOYS' TRIAL TRIP; Or, "Making Good" as Young Experts. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE MIDDIES; Or, The Prize Detail at Annapolis. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SPIES; Or, Dodging the Sharks of the Deep. THE SUBMARINE BOYS' LIGHTNING CRUISE; Or, The Young Kings of the Deep. THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG; Or, Deeding Their Lives to Uncle Sam. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SMUGGLERS; Or, Breaking Up the New Jersey Customs Frauds. Grace Harlowe Overseas Series GRACE HARLOWE OVERSEAS. GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE RED CROSS IN FRANCE. GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE MARINES AT CHATEAU THIERRY. GRACE HARLOWE WITH THE AMERICAN ARMY IN THE ARGONNE. The College Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. GRACE HARLOWE'S FIRST YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S THIRD YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S FOURTH YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S RETURN TO OVERTON CAMPUS. GRACE HARLOWE'S PROBLEM. GRACE HARLOWE'S GOLDEN SUMMER. Pony Rider Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These tales may be aptly described the best books for boys and girls. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ROCKIES; Or, The Secret of the Lost Claim. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN TEXAS; Or, The Veiled Riddle of the Plains. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA; Or, The Mystery of the Old Custer Trail. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS; Or, The Secret of Ruby Mountain. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI; Or, Finding a Key to the Desert Maze. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN NEW MEXICO; Or, The End of the Silver Trail. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, The Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch. The Boys of Steel Series By JAMES R. MEARS Each book presents vivid picture of this great industry. Each story is full of adventure and fascination. THE IRON BOYS IN THE MINES; Or, Starting at the Bottom of the Shaft. THE IRON BOYS AS FOREMEN; Or, Heading the Diamond Drill Shift. THE IRON BOYS ON THE ORE BOATS; Or, Roughing It on the Great Lakes. THE IRON BOYS IN THE STEEL MILLS; Or, Beginning Anew in the Cinder Pits. The Madge Morton Books By AMY D. V. CHALMERS MADGE MORTON--CAPTAIN OF THE MERRY MAID. MADGE MORTON'S SECRET. MADGE MORTON'S TRUST. MADGE MORTON'S VICTORY. West Point Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The principal characters in these narratives are manly, young Americans whose doings will inspire all boy readers. DICK PRESCOTT'S FIRST YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray. DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life. DICK PRESCOTT'S THIRD YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Standing Firm for Flag and Honor. DICK PRESCOTT'S FOURTH YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Ready to Drop the Gray for Shoulder Straps. Annapolis Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The Spirit of the new Navy is delightfully and truthfully depicted in these volumes. DAVE DARRIN'S FIRST YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Plebe Midshipmen at the U.S. Naval Academy. DAVE DARRIN'S SECOND YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Midshipmen as Naval Academy "Youngsters." DAVE DARRIN'S THIRD YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Leaders of the Second Class Midshipmen. DAVE DARRIN'S FOURTH YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Headed for Graduation and the Big Cruise. The Young Engineers Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The heroes of these stories are known to readers of the High School Boys Series. In this new series Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton prove worthy of all the traditions of Dick & Co. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN COLORADO; Or, At Railroad Building in Earnest. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA; Or, Laying Tracks on the "Man-Killer" Quicksand. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN NEVADA; Or, Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN MEXICO; Or, Fighting the Mine Swindlers. Boys of the Army Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK These books breathe the life and spirit of the United States Army of to-day, and the life, just as it is, is described by a master pen. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE RANKS; Or, Two Recruits in the United States Army. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS ON FIELD DUTY; Or, Winning Corporal's Chevrons. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS SERGEANTS; Or, Handling Their First Real Commands. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE PHILIPPINES; Or, Following the Flag Against the Moros. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS LIEUTENANTS; Or, Serving Old Glory as Line Officers. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS WITH PERSHING; Or, Dick Prescott at Grips with the Boche. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS SMASH THE GERMANS; Or, Winding Up the Great War. Dave Darrin Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK DAVE DARRIN AT VERA CRUZ; Or, Fighting With the U. S. Navy in Mexico. DAVE DARRIN ON MEDITERRANEAN SERVICE. DAVE DARRIN'S SOUTH AMERICAN CRUISE. DAVE DARRIN ON THE ASIATIC STATION. DAVE DARRIN AND THE GERMAN SUBMARINES. DAVE DARRIN AFTER THE MINE LAYERS; Or, Hitting the Enemy a Hard Naval Blow. The Meadow-Brook Girls Series By JANET ALDRIDGE THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS AFLOAT. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS IN THE HILLS. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS BY THE SEA. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ON THE TENNIS COURTS. High School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK In this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. Boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports. THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond. THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron. THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard. Grammar School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK This series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar School boys, comes near to the heart of the average American boy. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS OF GRIDLEY; Or, Dick & Co. Start Things Moving. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SNOWBOUND; Or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN THE WOODS; Or, Dick & Co. Trail Fun and Knowledge. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER ATHLETICS; Or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure. High School Boys' Vacation Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK "Give us more Dick Prescott books!" This has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. Almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, and the other members of Dick & Co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. Boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB; Or, Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE; Or, Dick & Co. Making Themselves "Hard as Nails." The Circus Boys Series By EDGAR B. P. DARLINGTON Mr. Darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Making the Start in the Sawdust Life. THE CIRCUS BOYS ACROSS THE CONTINENT; Or, Winning New Laurels on the Tanbark. THE CIRCUS BOYS IN DIXIE LAND; Or, Winning the Plaudits of the Sunny South. THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI; Or, Afloat with the Big Show on the Big River. The High School Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. These breezy stories of the American High School Girl take the reader fairly by storm. GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshman Girls. GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics. GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, Fast Friends In the Sororities. GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Parting of the Ways. The Automobile Girls Series By LAURA DENT CRANE No girl's library--no family book-case can be considered at all complete unless it contains these sparkling twentieth-century books. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT NEWPORT; Or, Watching the Summer Parade. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES; Or, The Ghost of Lost Man's Trail. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT CHICAGO; Or, Winning Out Against Heavy Odds. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT PALM BEACH; Or, Proving Their Mettle Under Southern Skies. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT WASHINGTON; Or, Checkmating the Plots of Foreign Spies. 
26613	----	Ruth Fielding At College OR THE MISSING EXAMINATION PAPERS BY ALICE B. EMERSON Author of "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," "Ruth Fielding on Cliff Island," Etc. _ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1917, by Cupples & Leon Company Ruth Fielding at College Printed in U. S. A. [Illustration: "ASHORE! PUT US ASHORE!" RUTH GASPED.] CONTENTS I. Looking Collegeward II. Maggie III. Expectations IV. First Impressions V. Getting Settled VI. Miss Cullam's Trouble VII. Fame Is Not Always an Asset VIII. The Stone Face IX. Getting on X. A Tempest in a Teapot XI. The One Rebel XII. Ruth Is Not Satisfied XIII. The Girl in the Storm XIV. "Oft in the Stilly Night" XV. An Odd Adventure XVI. What Was in Rebecca's Trunk XVII. What Was in Rebecca's Heart XVIII. Bearding the Lions XIX. A Deep, Dark Plot XX. Two Surprises XXI. Many Things Happen XXII. Can It Be a Clue? XXIII. The Squall XXIV. Treasure Hunting XXV. The End of a Perfect Year RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE CHAPTER I LOOKING COLLEGEWARD "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" By no possibility could Aunt Alvirah Boggs have risen from her low rocking chair in the Red Mill kitchen without murmuring this complaint. She was a little, hoop-backed woman, with crippled limbs; but she possessed a countenance that was very much alive, nut-brown and innumerably wrinkled though it was. She had been Mr. Jabez Potter's housekeeper at the Red Mill for more than fifteen years, and if anybody knew the "moods and tenses" of the miserly miller, it must have been Aunt Alvirah. She even professed to know the miller's feelings toward his grand-niece, Ruth Fielding, better than Ruth knew them herself. The little old woman was expecting the return of Ruth now, and she went to the porch to see if she could spy her down the road, and thus be warned in time to set the tea to draw. Ruth and her friends, who had gone for a tramp in the September woods, would come in ravenous for tea and cakes and bread-and-butter sandwiches. Aunt Alvirah looked out upon a very beautiful autumn landscape when she opened the farmhouse door. The valley of the Lumano was attractive at all times--in storm or sunshine. Now it was a riot of color, from the deep crimson of the sumac to the pale amber of certain maple leaves which fell in showers whenever the wanton breeze shook the boughs. "Here they come!" murmured Aunt Alvirah. "Here's my pretty!" She identified the trio striding up the roadway, distant as they were. Ruth, her cheeks rosy, her hair flying, came on ahead, while the black-haired and black-eyed twins, Helen and Tom Cameron, walked hand-in-hand behind her. This was their final outing together in the vicinity of the Red Mill for many months. Helen and Tom were always very close companions, and although they had already been separated during school terms, Tom had run over from Seven Oaks to see his sister at Briarwood for almost every week-end. "No more of 'sich doin's now, old man," Helen said to him, smiling rather tremulously. "And even when you get to Harvard next year, you will not be allowed often at Ardmore. They say there is a sign 'No Boys Allowed' stuck up beside every 'Keep Off the Grass' sign on the Ardmore lawns." "Nonsense!" laughed Tom. "Oh, I only repeat what I've been told." "Well, Sis, you won't be entirely alone," Tom said kindly. "Ruth will be with you. You and she will have your usual good times." "Of course. But _you'll_ be awfully lonely, Tommy." "True enough," agreed Tom. Then Ruth's gay voice hailed them from the porch upon which she had mounted yards ahead of them. "Come on, slow-pokes. Aunt Alvirah has put on the tea. I smell it!" Ruth Fielding did not possess her chum's measure of beauty. Helen was a dainty, compelling brunette with flashing eyes--eyes she had already learned to use to the undoing of what Ruth called "the youthful male of the species." As for Ruth herself, she considered boys no mystery. She was fond of Tom, for he was the first friend she had made in that long-ago time when she arrived, a little girl and a stranger, at the Red Mill. Other boys did not interest Ruth in the least. Without Helen's beauty, she was, nevertheless, a decidedly attractive girl. Her figure was well rounded, her eyes shone, her hair was just wavy enough to be pretty, and she was very, very much alive. If Ruth Fielding took an interest in anything that thing, Tom declared, "went with a bang!" She was positive, energetic, and usually finished anything that she began. She had already done some things that few girls of her age could have accomplished. The trio of friends trooped into Aunt Alvirah's clean and shining kitchen. "Dear me! dear me!" murmured the little old woman, "I sha'n't have the pleasure of your company for long. I'll miss my pretty," and she smiled fondly at Ruth. "That's the only drawback about coming home from school," grumbled Tom, looking really forlorn, even with his mouth full of Aunt Alvirah's pound cake. "What's the drawback?" demanded his twin. "Going away again. Just think! We sha'n't see each other for so long." He was staring at Ruth, and Helen, with a roguish twinkle in her eye, passed him her pocket-handkerchief--a wee and useless bit of lace--saying: "Weep, if you must, Tommy; but get it over with. Ruth and I are not gnashing _our_ teeth about going away. Just to think! ARDMORE!" Nothing but capital letters would fully express the delight she put into the name of the college she and Ruth were to attend. "Huh!" grunted Tom. Aunt Alvirah said: "It wouldn't matter, deary, if you was both goin' off to be Queens of Sheby; it's the goin' away that hurts." Ruth had her arms about the little old woman and her own voice was caressing if not lachrymose. "Don't take it so to heart, Aunt Alvirah. We shall not forget you. You shall send us a box of goodies once in a while as you always do; and I will write to you and to Uncle Jabez. Keep up your heart, dear." "Easy said, my pretty," sighed the old woman. "Not so easy follered out. An' Jabe Potter is dreadful tryin' when you ain't here." "Poor Uncle Jabez," murmured Ruth. "Poor Aunt Alvirah, you'd better say!" exclaimed Helen, sharply, for she had not the patience with the miserly miller that his niece possessed. At the moment the back door was pushed open. Helen jumped. She feared that Uncle Jabez had overheard her criticism. But it was only Ben, the hired man, who thrust his face bashfully around the edge of the door. The young people hailed him gaily, and Ruth offered him a piece of cake. "Thank'e, Miss Ruth," Ben said. "I can't come in. Jest came to the shed for the oars." "Is uncle going across the river in the punt?" asked Ruth. "No, Miss Ruth. There's a boat adrift on the river." "What kind of boat?" asked Tom, jumping up. "What d'you mean?" "She's gone adrift, Mr. Tom," said Ben. "Looks like she come from one o' them camps upstream." "Oh! let's go and see!" cried Helen, likewise eager for something new. Neither of the Cameron twins ever remained in one position or were interested solely in one thing for long. The young folk trooped out after Ben through the long, covered passage to the rear door of the Red Mill. The water-wheel was turning and the jar of the stones set every beam and plank in the structure to trembling. The air was a haze of fine white particles. Uncle Jabez came forward, as dusty and crusty an old miller as one might ever expect to see. He was a tall, crabbed looking man, the dust of the mill seemingly so ground into the lines of his face that it was grey all over and one wondered if it could ever be washed clean again. He only nodded to his niece and her friends, seizing the oars Ben had brought with the observation: "Go 'tend to Gil Martin, Ben. He's waitin' for his flour. Where ye been all this time? That boat'll drift by." Ben knew better than to reply as he hastened to the shipping door where Mr. Martin waited with his wagon for the sacks of flour. The miller went to the platform on the riverside, Ruth and her friends following him. "I see it!" cried Tom. "Can't be anybody in it for it's sailing broadside." Uncle Jabez put the oars in the punt and began to untie the painter. "All the more reason we should get it," he said drily. "Salvage, ye know." "You mustn't go alone, Uncle Jabez," Ruth said mildly. "Huh! why not?" snarled the old miller. "Something might happen. If Ben can't go, I will take an oar." He knew she was quite capable of handling the punt, even in the rapids, so he merely growled his acquiescence. At that moment Ruth discovered something. "Why! the boat isn't empty!" she cried. "You're right, Ruth! I see something in it," said Tom. Uncle Jabez straightened up, holding the painter doubtfully. "Aw, well," he grunted. "If there's somebody in it----" He saw no reason for going after the drifting boat if it were manned. He could not claim the boat or claim salvage for it under such circumstances. But the strange boat was drifting toward the rapids of the Lumano that began just below the mill. In the present state of the river this "white water," as lumbermen call it, was dangerous. "Why, how foolish!" Helen cried. "Whoever is in that boat is lying in the bottom of it." "And drifting right toward the middle of the river!" added her twin. "Hurry up, Uncle Jabez!" urged Ruth. "We must go out there." "What fur, I'd like to know?" demanded the miller sharply. "We ain't hired ter go out an' wake up every reckless fule that goes driftin' by." "Of course not. But maybe he's not asleep," Ruth said quickly. "Maybe he's hurt. Maybe he has fainted. Why, a dozen things might have happened!" "An' a dozen things might _not_ have happened," said old Jabez Potter, coolly retying the painter. "Uncle! we mustn't do that!" cried his niece. "We must go out in the punt and make sure all is right with that boat." "Who says so?" demanded the miller. "Of course we must. I'll go with you. Come, do! There is somebody in danger." Ruth Fielding, as she spoke, leaped into the punt. Tom would have been glad to go with her, but she had motioned him back before he could speak. She was ashamed to have the miller so display the mean side of his nature before her friends. Grumblingly he climbed into the heavy boat after her. Tom cast off and Ruth pushed the boat's nose upstream, then settled herself to one of the oars while Uncle Jabez took the other. "Huh! they ain't anything in it for us," grumbled Mr. Potter as the punt slanted toward mid-stream. CHAPTER II MAGGIE Ruth Fielding knew very well the treacherous current of the Lumano. She saw that the drifting boat with its single occupant was very near to the point where the fierce pull of the mid-stream current would seize it. So she rowed her best and having the stroke oar, Uncle Jabez was obliged to pull _his_ best to keep up with her. "Huh!" he snorted, "it ain't so pertic'lar, is it, Niece Ruth? That feller----" She made no reply, but in a few minutes they were near enough to the drifting boat for Ruth to glance over her shoulder and see into it. At once she uttered a little cry of pity. "What now?" gruffly demanded Uncle Jabez. "Oh, Uncle! It's a girl!" Ruth gasped. "A gal! _Another gal?_" exclaimed the old miller. "I swanny! The Red Mill is allus littered up with gals when you're to hum." This was a favorite complaint of his; but he pulled more vigorously, nevertheless, and the punt was quickly beside the drifting boat. A girl in very commonplace garments--although she was not at all a commonplace looking girl--lay in the bottom of the boat. Her eyes were closed and she was very pale. "She's fainted," Ruth whispered. "Who in 'tarnation let a gal like that go out in a boat alone, and without airy oar?" demanded Uncle Jabez, crossly. "Here! hold steady. I'll take that painter and 'tach it to the boat. We'll tow her in. But lemme tell ye," added Uncle Jabez, decidedly, "somebody's got ter pay me fur my time, or else they don't git the boat back. She seems to be all right." "Why, she isn't conscious!" cried Ruth. "Huh!" grunted Uncle Jabez, "I mean the boat, not the gal." Ruth always suspected that Uncle Jabez Potter made a pretense of being really worse than he was. When a little girl she had been almost afraid of her cross-grained relative--the only relative she had in the world. But there were times when the ugly crust of the old man's character was rubbed off and his niece believed she saw the true gold beneath. She was frequently afraid that others would hear and not understand him. Now that she was financially independent of Uncle Jabez Ruth was not so sensitive for herself. They towed the boat back to the mill landing. Tom and Ben carried the strange girl, still unconscious into the Red Mill farmhouse, and bustling little Aunt Alvirah had her put at once to bed. "Shall I hustle right over to Cheslow for the doctor?" Tom asked. "Who's goin' to pay him?" growled Uncle Jabez, who heard this. "Don't let that worry you, Mr. Potter," said the youth, his black eyes flashing. "If I hire a doctor I always pay him." "It's a good thing to have that repertation," Uncle Jabez said drily. "One should pay the debts he contracts." But Aunt Alvirah scoffed at the need of a doctor. "The gal's only fainted. Scare't it's likely, findin' herself adrift in that boat. You needn't trouble yourself about it, Jabez." Thus reassured the miller went back to examine the boat. Although it was somewhat marred, it was not damaged, and Uncle Jabez was satisfied that if nobody claimed the boat he would be amply repaid for his trouble. Naturally, the two girls fluttered about the stranger a good deal when Aunt Alvirah had brought her out of her faint. Ruth was particularly attracted by "Maggie" as the stranger announced her name to be. "I was working at one of those summer-folks' camps up the river. Mr. Bender's, it was," she explained to Ruth, later. "But all the folks went last night, and this morning I was going across the river with my bag--oh, did you find my bag, Miss?" "Surely," Ruth laughed. "It is here, beside your bed." "Oh, thank you," said the girl. "Mr. Bender paid me last night. One of the men was to take me across the river, and I sat down and waited, and nobody came, and by and by I fell into a nap and when I woke up I was out in the river, all alone. My! I was frightened." "Then you have no reason for going back to the camp?" asked Ruth, thoughtfully. "No--Miss. I'm through up there for the season. I'll look for another situation--I--I mean job," she added stammeringly. "We will telephone up the river and tell them you are all right," Ruth said. "Oh, thank you--Miss." Ruth asked her several other questions, and although Maggie was reserved, her answers were satisfactory. "But what's goin' to become of the gal?" Uncle Jabez asked that evening after supper, when he and his niece were in the farmhouse kitchen alone. Aunt Alvirah had carried tea and toast in to the patient and was sitting by her. The girl of the Red Mill thought Maggie did not seem like the usual "hired help" whom she had seen. She seemed much more refined than one might expect a girl to be of the class to which she claimed to belong. Ruth looked across the table at her cross-grained old relative and made no direct reply to his question. She was very sure that, after all, he would be kind to the strange girl if Maggie actually needed to be helped. But Ruth had an idea that Maggie was quite capable of helping herself. "Uncle Jabez," the girl of the Red Mill said to the old man, softly, "do you know something?" "Huh?" grunted Uncle Jabez. "I know a hull lot more than you young sprigs gimme credit for knowin'." "Oh! I didn't mean it that way," and Ruth laughed cheerily at him. "I mean that I have discovered something, and I wondered if you had discovered the same thing?" "Out with it, Niece Ruth," he ordered, eyeing her curiously. "I'll tell ye if it's anything I already know." "Well, Aunt Alvirah is growing old." "Ye don't say!" snapped the miller. "And who ain't, I'd like to know?" "Her rheumatism is much worse, and it will soon be winter." "Say! what air ye tryin' to do?" he demanded. "Tellin' me these here puffictly obvious things! Of course she's gittin' older; and of course her rheumatiz is bound to grow wuss. Doctors ain't never yet found nothin' to cure rheumatiz. And winter us'ally follers fall--even in this here tarnation climate." "Well, but the combination is going to be very bad for Aunt Alvirah," Ruth said gently, determined to pursue her idea to the finish, no matter how cross he appeared to be. "Wal, is it _my_ fault?" asked Uncle Jabez. "It's nobody's fault," Ruth told him, shaking her head, and very serious. "But it's Aunt Alvirah's misfortune." "Huh!" "And we must do something about it." "Huh! Must we? What, I'd like to have ye tell me?" said the old miller, eyeing Ruth much as one strange dog might another that he suspected was after his best marrow bone. "We must get somebody to help her do the work while I am at college," Ruth said firmly. The dull red flooded into Uncle Jabez's cheeks, and for once gave him a little color. His narrow eyes sparkled, too. "There's one thing I've allus said, Niece Ruth," he declared hotly. "Ye air a great one for spending other folks' money." It was Ruth's turn to flush now, and although she might not possess what Aunt Alvirah called "the Potter economical streak," she did own to a spark of the Potter temper. Ruth Fielding was not namby-pamby, although she was far from quarrelsome. "Uncle Jabez," she returned rather tartly, "have I been spending much of _your_ money lately?" "No," he growled. "But ye ain't l'arnt how to take proper keer of yer own--trapsin' 'round the country the way you do." She laughed then. "I'm getting knowledge. Some of it comes high, I have found; but it will all help me _live_." "Huh! I've lived without that brand of l'arnin'," grunted Uncle Jabez. Ruth looked at him amusedly. She was tempted to tell him that he had not lived, only existed. But she was not impudent, and merely went on to say: "Aunt Alvirah is getting too old to do all the work here----" "I send Ben in to help her some when she's alone," said the miller. "And by so doing put extra work on poor Ben," Ruth told him, decidedly. "No, Aunt Alvirah must have another woman around, or a girl." "Where ye goin' to find the gal?" snapped the miller. "Work gals don't like to stay in the country." "She's found, I believe," Ruth told him. "Huh?" "This Maggie we just got out of the river. She has no job, she says, and she wants one. I believe she'll stay." "Who's goin' to pay her wages?" demanded Uncle Jabez, getting back to "first principles" again. "I'll pay the girl's wages, Uncle Jabez," Ruth said seriously. "But you must feed her. And she must be fed well, too. I can see that part of her trouble is malnutrition." "Huh? Has she got some ketchin' disease?" Uncle Jabez demanded. "It isn't contagious," Ruth replied drily. "But unless she is well fed she cannot be cured of it." "Wal, there's plenty of milk and eggs," the miller said. "But you must not hide the key of the meat-house, Uncle," and now Ruth laughed outright at him. "Four people at table means a depletion of your smoked meat and a dipping occasionally into the corned-beef barrel." "Wal----" "Now, if I pay the girl's wages, you must supply the food," his niece said, firmly, "Otherwise, Aunt Alvirah will go without help, and then she will break down, and _then_----" "Huh!" grunted the miller. "I couldn't let her go back to the poorfarm, I s'pose?" He actually made it a question; but Ruth could not see his face, for he had turned aside. "No. She could not return to the poorhouse--after fifteen years!" exclaimed the girl. "Do you know what _I_ should do?" and she asked the question warmly. "Somethin' fullish, I allow." "I should take her to Ardmore with me, and find a tiny cottage for her, and maybe she would keep house for Helen and me." "That'd be jest like ye, Niece Ruth," he responded coolly. "You think you have all the money in the world. That's because ye didn't aim what ye got--it was give to ye." The statement was in large part true, and for the moment Ruth's lips were closed. Tears stood in her eyes, too. She realized that she could not be independent of the old miller had not chance and kind-hearted and grateful Mrs. Rachel Parsons given her the bulk of the amount now deposited in her name in the bank. Ruth Fielding's circumstances had been very different when she had first come to Cheslow and the Red Mill. Then she was a little, homeless, orphan girl who was "taken in out of charity" by Uncle Jabez. And very keenly and bitterly had she been made to feel during those first few months her dependence upon the crabbed old miller. The introductory volume of this series, "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill, or, Jacob Parloe's Secret," details in full the little girl's trials and triumphs under these unfortunate conditions--how she makes friends, smooths over difficulties, and in a measure wins old Uncle Jabez's approval. The miller was a very honest man and always paid his debts. Because of something Ruth did for him he felt it to be his duty to pay her first year's tuition at boarding school, where she went with her new friend, Helen Cameron. In "Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall," the Red Mill girl really begins her school career, and begins, too, to satisfy that inbred longing for independence which was so strong a part of her character. In succeeding volumes of the "Ruth Fielding Series," we follow Ruth's adventures in Snow Camp, a winter lodge in the Adirondack wilderness; at Lighthouse Point, the summer home of a girl friend on the Atlantic coast; at Silver Ranch, in Montana; at Cliff Island; at Sunrise Farm; with the Gypsies, which was a very important adventure, indeed, for Ruth Fielding. In this eighth story Ruth was able to recover for Mrs. Rachel Parsons, an aunt of one of her school friends, a very valuable pearl necklace, and as a reward of five thousand dollars had been offered for the recovery of the necklace, the entire sum came to Ruth. This money made Ruth financially independent of Uncle Jabez. The ninth volume of the series, entitled, "Ruth Fielding in Moving Pictures; or, Helping the Dormitory Fund," shows Ruth and her chums engaged in film production. Ruth discovered that she could write a good scenario--a very good scenario, indeed. Mr. Hammond, president of the Alectrion Film Corporation, encouraged her to write others. When the West Dormitory of Briarwood Hall was burned and it was discovered that there had been no insurance on the building, the girls determined to do all in their power to rebuild the structure. Ruth was inspired to write a scenario, a five-reel drama of schoolgirl life, and Mr. Hammond produced it, Ruth's share of the profits going toward the building fund. "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" was not only locally famous, but was shown all over the country and was even now, after six months, paying the final construction bills of the West Dormitory, at Briarwood. In this ninth volume of the series, Ruth and Helen and many of their chums graduated from Briarwood Hall. Immediately after the graduation the girl of the Red Mill and Helen Cameron were taken south by Nettie Parsons and her Aunt Rachel to visit the Merredith plantation in South Carolina. Their adventures were fully related in the story immediately preceding the present narrative, the tenth of the "Ruth Fielding Series," entitled, "Ruth Fielding Down in Dixie; or, Great Times in the Land of Cotton." Home again, after that delightful journey, Ruth had spent most of the remaining weeks of her vacation quietly at the Red Mill. She was engaged upon another scenario for Mr. Hammond, in which the beautiful old mill on the Lumano would figure largely. She also had had many preparations to make for her freshman year at Ardmore. Ruth and Helen were quite "young ladies" now, so Tom scoffingly said. And going to college was quite another thing from looking forward to a term at a preparatory school. Nevertheless, Ruth had found plenty of time to help Aunt Alvirah during the past few weeks. She had noted how much feebler the old woman was becoming. Therefore, she was determined to win Uncle Jabez to her plan of securing help in the Red Mill kitchen. The coming of the girl, Maggie, though a strange coincidence, Ruth looked upon as providential. She urged Uncle Jabez to agree to her proposal, and the very next morning she sounded Maggie upon the subject. The strange girl was sitting up, but Aunt Alvirah would not hear to her doing anything as yet. Ruth found Maggie in the sitting-room, engaged in looking at the Ardmore Year Book which Ruth had left upon the sitting-room table. "Pretty landscapes about the college, aren't they?" Ruth suggested. "Oh yes--Miss. Very pretty," agreed Maggie. "That is where I am going to college," Ruth explained. "I enter as a freshman next week." "Is that so--Miss?" hesitated Maggie. Her heretofore colorless face flushed warmly. "I've heard of that--that place," she added. "Indeed, have you?" Maggie was looking at the photograph of Lake Remona, with a part of Bliss Island at one side. She continued to stare at the picture while Ruth put before her the suggestion of work at the Red Mill. "Oh, of course, Miss Fielding, I'd be glad of the work. And you're very liberal. But you don't know anything about me." "No. And I shouldn't know much more about you if you brought a dozen recommendations," laughed Ruth. "I suppose not--Miss." It seemed hard for the girl to get out that "Miss," and Ruth, who was keenly observant, wondered if she really had been accustomed to using it. They talked it over and finally reached an agreement. Aunt Alvirah was sweetly grateful to Ruth, knowing full well that there must have been a "battle royal" between the miller and his niece before the former had agreed to the new arrangement. Ruth was quite sure that Maggie was a nice girl, even if she was queer. At least, she gave deference to the quaint little old housekeeper, and seemed to like Aunt Alvirah very much. And who would not love the woman, who was everybody's aunt but nobody's relative? Once or twice Ruth found Maggie poring over the Year Book of Ardmore College, rather an odd interest for a girl of her class. But Maggie was rather an odd girl anyway, and Ruth forgot the matter in her final preparations for departure. CHAPTER III EXPECTATIONS "I expect she'll be a haughty, stuck-up thing," declared Edith Phelps, with vigor. "'Just like _that_,'" drawled May MacGreggor. "We should worry about the famous authoress of canned drama! A budding lady hack writer, I fancy." "Oh, dear me, no!" cried Edith. "Didn't you see 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl' she wrote? Why, it was a good photo-play, I assure you." "And put out by the Alectrion Film Corporation," joined in another of the group of girls standing upon the wide porch of Dare Hall, one of the four large dormitories of Ardmore College. The college buildings were set most artistically upon the slope of College Hill, each building facing sparkling Lake Remona. Save the boathouse and the bathing pavilions, Dare and Dorrance Halls at the east side of the grounds, and Hoskin and Hemmingway Halls at the west side, were the structures nearest to the lake. Farther to the east an open grove intervened between the dormitories and the meadows along the Remona River where bog hay was cut, and which were sometimes flooded in the freshet season. To the west the lake extended as far as the girls on the porch could see, a part of its sparkling surface being hidden by the green and hilly bulk of Bliss Island. The shaded green lawns of the campus between Dare and Hoskin Halls were crossed by winding paths. A fleshy girl who was near the group but not of it, had been viewing this lovely landscape with pleasure. Now she frankly listened to the chatter of the "inquisitors." "Well," Edith Phelps insisted, "this Ruth Fielding was so petted at that backwoods' school where she has been that I suppose there will be no living in the same house with her." Edith was one of the older sophomores--quite old, indeed, to the eyes of the plump girl who was listening. But the latter smiled quietly, nevertheless, as she listened to the sophomore's speech. "We shall have to take her down a peg or two, of course. It's bad enough to have the place littered up with a lot of freshies----" "Just as we littered it up last year at this time, Edie," suggested May, with a chuckle. "Well," Edith said, laughing, "if I don't put this Ruth Fielding, the authoress, in her place in a hurry, it won't be because I sha'n't try." "Have a care, dearie," admonished one quiet girl who had not spoken before. "Remember the warning we had at commencement." "About what?" demanded two or three. "About that Rolff girl, you know," said the thoughtful girl. "Oh! I know what you mean," Edith said. "But that was a warning to the sororities." "To everybody," put in May. "At any rate," Dora Parton said, "Dr. Milroth forbade anything in the line of hazing." "Pooh!" said Edith. "Who mentioned hazing? That's old-fashioned. We're too ladylike at Ardmore, I should hope, to _haze_--my!" "'My heye, blokey!'" drawled May. "You are positively coarse, Miss MacGreggor," Dora said, severely. "And Edie is so awfully emphatic," laughed the Scotch girl. "But she will have to take it out in threatenings, I fear. We can't haze this Fielding chit, and that's all there is to it." "Positively," said the quiet girl, "that was a terrible thing they did to Margaret Rolff. She was a nervous girl, anyway. Do you remember her, May?" "Of course. And I remember being jealous because she was chosen by the Kappa Alpha as a candidate. Glad _I_ wasn't one if they put all their new members through the same rigmarole." "That is irreverent!" gasped Edith. "The Kappa Alpha!" "I see Dr. Milroth took them down all right, all right!" remarked another of the group. "And now none of the sororities can solicit members among either the sophs or the freshies." "And it's a shame!" cried Edith. "The sorority girls have such fun." "Half murdering innocents--yes," drawled May. "That Margaret Rolff was just about scared out of her wits, they say. They found her wandering about Bliss Island----" "Sh! We're not to talk of it," advised Edith, with a glance at the fat girl in the background who, although taking no part in the discussion, was very much amused, especially every time Ruth Fielding's name was brought up. "Well, I don't know why we shouldn't speak of it," said Dora Parton, who was likewise a sophomore. "The whole college knew it at the time. When Margaret Rolff left they discovered that the beautiful silver vase was gone, too, from the library----" "Oh, hush!" exclaimed May MacGreggor, sharply. "Won't hush--so now!" said the other girl, smartly, making a face at the Scotch lassie. "Didn't Miss Cullam go wailing all over the college about it?" "That's so," Edith agreed. "You'd have thought it was her vase that had been stolen." "I don't believe the vase was stolen at all," May said. "It was mixed up in that initiation and lost. I know that the Kappa Alpha girls are raising a fund to pay for it." "Pay for it!" scoffed some one. "Why, they couldn't do that in a thousand years. That was an Egyptian curio--very old and very valuable. Pay for it, indeed! Those Kappa Alphas, as well as the other sororities, are paying for their fun in another way." "But, anyway," said the quiet girl, "it was a terrible experience for Miss Rolff." "Unless she 'put it on' and got away with the loot herself," said Edith. "Oh, scissors! _now_ who's coarse?" demanded May MacGreggor. But the conversation came back to the expected Ruth Fielding. These girls had all arrived at Ardmore several days in advance of the opening of the semester. Indeed, it is always advisable for freshmen, especially, to be on hand at least two days before the opening, for there is much preparation for newcomers. The fleshy girl who had thus far taken no part in the conversation recorded, save to be amused by it, had already been on the ground long enough to know her way about. But she was not yet acquainted with any of her classmates or with the sophomores. If she knew Ruth Fielding, she said nothing about it when Edith Phelps began to discuss the girl of the Red Mill again. "Miss Cullam spoke to me about this Fielding. It seems she has an acquaintance who teaches at that backwoods' school the child went to----" "Briarwood a backwoods' school!" said May. "Not much!" "Well, it's somewhere up in New York State among the yaps," declared Edith. "And Cullam's friend wrote her that Fielding is a wonder. Dear me! how I _do_ abominate wonders." "Perhaps we are maligning the girl," said Dora. "Perhaps Ruth Fielding is quite modest." "What? After writing a moving picture drama? Is there anything modest about the motion picture business in _any_ of its branches?" "Oh, dear me, Edie!" cried one of her listeners, "you're dreadful." "I presume this canned drama authoress," pursued Edith, "will have ink-stains on her fingers and her hair will be eternally flying about her careworn features. Well! and what are _you_ laughing at?" she suddenly and tartly demanded of the plump girl in the background. "At you," chuckled the stranger. "Am I so funny to look at?" "No. But you are the funniest-talking girl I ever listened to. Let me laugh, won't you?" Before this observation could be more particularly inquired into, some one shouted: "Oh, look who's here! And in style, bless us!" "And see the freight! Excess baggage, for a fact," May MacGreggor said, under her breath. "Who _can_ she be?" "The Queen of Sheba in all her glory had nothing on this lady," cried Edith with conviction. It was not often that any of the Ardmore girls, and especially a freshman, arrived during the opening week of the term in a private equipage. This car that came chugging down the hill to the entrance of Dare Hall was a very fine touring automobile. The girl in the tonneau, barricaded with a huge trunk and several bags, besides a huge leather hat-box perched beside the chauffeur, was very gaily appareled as well. "Goodness! look at the labels on that trunk," whispered Dora Parton. "Why, that girl must have been all over Europe." "The trunk has, at any rate," chuckled May. "Hist!" now came from the excited Edith Phelps. "See the initials, 'R. F.' What did I tell you? It is that Fielding girl!" "Oh, my aunt!" groaned the plump girl in the background, and she actually had to stuff her handkerchief in her mouth to keep from laughing outright again. The car had halted and the chauffeur got down promptly, for he had to remove some of the "excess baggage" before the girl in the tonneau could alight. "I guess she must think she belongs here," whispered Dora. "More likely she thinks she owns the whole place," snapped Edith, who had evidently made up her mind not to like the new girl whose baggage was marked "R. F." The girl got out and shook out her draperies. A close inspection would have revealed the fact that, although dressed in the very height of fashion (whatever _that_ may mean), the materials of which the stranger's costume were made were rather cheap. "This is Dare Hall, isn't it?" she asked the group of girls above her on the porch. "I suppose there is a porter to help--er--the man with my baggage?" "It is a rule of the college," said Edith, promptly, "that each girl shall carry her own baggage to her room. No male person is allowed within the dormitory building." There was a chorused, if whispered, "Oh!" from the other girls, and the newcomer looked at Edith, suspiciously. "I guess you are spoofing me, aren't you?" she inquired. "Help! help!" murmured May MacGreggor. "That's the very latest English slang." "She's brought it direct from 'dear ol' Lunnon'," gasped one of the other sophomores. "Dear me!" said Edith, addressing her friends, "wouldn't it be nice to have a 'close up' taken of that heap of luggage? It really needs a camera man and a director to make this arrival a success." The girl who had just come looked very much puzzled. The chauffeur seemed eager to be gone. "If I can't help take in the boxes, Miss, I might as well be going," he said to the new arrival. "Very well," she rejoined, stiffly, and opening her purse gave him a bill. He lifted his cap, entered the car, touched the starter and in a moment the car whisked away. "I declare!" said May MacGreggor, "she looks just like a castaway on the shore of a desert island, with all the salvage she has been able to recover from the wreck." And perhaps the mysterious R. F. felt a good deal that way. CHAPTER IV FIRST IMPRESSIONS Greenburg was the station on the N. Y. F. & B. Railroad nearest to Ardmore College. It was a small city of some thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. The people, not alone in the city but in the surrounding country, were a rather wealthy class. Ardmore was a mile from the outskirts of the town. Ruth Fielding and Helen Cameron, her chum, had arrived with other girls bound for the college on the noon train. Of course, the chums knew none of their fellow pupils by name, but it was easily seen which of those alighting from the train were bound for Ardmore. There were two large auto-stages in waiting, and Ruth and Helen followed the crowd of girls briskly getting aboard the buses. As they saw other girls do, the two chums from Cheslow gave their trunk checks to a man on the platform, but they clung to their hand-baggage. "Such a nice looking lot of girls," murmured Helen in Ruth's ear. "It's fine! I'm sure we shall have a delightful time at college, Ruthie." "And some hard work," observed Ruth, laughing, "if we expect to keep up with them. There are no dunces in this crowd, my dear." "Goodness, no!" agreed her friend. "They all look as sharp as needles." There were girls of all the classes at the station, as was easily seen. Ruth and Helen chanced to get into a seat with two of the seniors, who seemed most awfully sophisticated to the recent graduates of Briarwood Hall. "You are just entering, are you not--you and your friend?" asked the nearest senior of Ruth. "Yes," admitted the girl of the Red Mill, feeling and looking very shy. The young women smiled quietly, saying: "I am Miss Dexter, and am beginning my senior year. I am glad to be the first to welcome you to Ardmore." "Thank you so much!" Ruth said, recovering her self-possession. Then she told Miss Dexter her own name and introduced Helen. "You girls have drawn your room numbers, I presume?" "They were drawn for us," Ruth said. "We are to be in Dare Hall and hope to have adjoining rooms." "That is nice," said Miss Dexter. "It is so much pleasanter when two friends enter together. I am at Hoskin Hall myself. I shall be glad to have you two freshmen look me up when you are once settled." "Thank you," Ruth said again, and Helen found her voice to ask: "Are all the seniors in Hoskin Hall, and all the freshmen at Dare Hall?" "Oh, no. There are members of each class in all four of the dormitories," Miss Dexter explained. "I suppose there will be much for us to learn," sighed Ruth. "It is different from a boarding school." "Do you both come from a boarding school?" asked their new acquaintance. "We are graduates of Briarwood Hall," Helen said, with pride. "Oh, indeed?" Miss Dexter looked sharply at Ruth again. "Did you say your name was Ruth Fielding?" "Yes, Miss Dexter." "Why, you must be the girl who wrote a picture play to help build a dormitory for your school!" exclaimed the senior. "Really, how nice." "There, Ruth!" said Helen, teasingly, "see what it is to be famous." "I--I hope my reputation will not be held against me," Ruth said, laughing. "Let me tell you, Miss Dexter, we all at Briarwood helped to swell that dormitory fund." "I fancy so," said the senior. "But all of your schoolmates could not have written a scenario which would have been approved by the Alectrion Film Corporation." "I should say not!" cried Helen, warmly. "And it was a great picture, too." "It was clever, indeed," agreed Miss Dexter. "I saw it on the screen." Miss Dexter introduced the girl at the other end of the seat--another senior, Miss Purvis. The two entering freshmen felt flattered--how could they help it? They had expected, as freshmen, to be quite haughtily ignored by the seniors and juniors. But there were other matters to interest Ruth and Helen as the auto-bus rolled out of the city. The way was very pleasant; there were beautiful homes in the suburbs of Greenburg. And after they were passed, there were lovely fields and groves on either hand. The chums thought they had seldom seen more attractive country, although they had traveled more than most girls of their age. The road over which the auto-bus rolled was wide and well oiled--a splendid automobile track. But only one private equipage passed them on the ride to Ardmore. That car came along, going the same way as themselves, just as they reached the first of the row of faculty dwellings. There was but one passenger in the car--a girl; and she was packed around with baggage in a most surprising way. "Oh!" gasped Helen, in Ruth's ear, "I guess there goes one of the real fancy girls--the kind that sets the pace at college." Ruth noticed that Miss Dexter and Miss Purvis craned their necks to see the car and the girl, and she ventured to ask who she was. "I can't tell you," Miss Dexter said briskly. "I never saw her before." "Oh! Perhaps, then, she isn't going to the college." "Yes; she must be. This road goes nowhere else. But she is a freshman, of course." "An eccentric, I fancy," drawled Miss Purvis. "You must know that each freshman class is bound to have numbered with it some most surprising individuals. _Rarae aves_, as it were." Miss Dexter laughed. "But the corners are soon rubbed off and their peculiarities fade into the background. When I was a freshman, there entered a woman over fifty, with perfectly white hair. She was a _dear_; but, of course, she was an anomaly at college." "My!" exclaimed Helen. "What did she want to go to college for?" "The poor thing had always wanted to go to college. When she was young there were few women's colleges. And she had a big family to help, and finally a bedridden sister to care for. So she remained faithful to her home duties, but each year kept up with the graduating class of a local preparatory school. She was really a very well educated and bright woman; only peculiar." "And what happened when she came to Ardmore?" asked Ruth, interested, "is she still here?" "Oh, no. She remained only a short time. She found, she said, that her mind was not nimble enough, at her age, to keep up with the classes. Which was very probably true, you know. Unless one is constantly engaged in hard mental labor, one's mind must get into ruts by the time one is fifty. But she was very lovely, and quite popular--while she lasted." Helen was more interested just then in the row of cottages occupied by the members of the faculty, and here strung along the left side of the highway. They were pretty houses, set in pretty grounds. "Oh, look, Helen!" cried Ruth, suddenly. "The lake!" responded Helen. The dancing blue waters of Lake Remona were visible for a minute between two of the houses. Ruth, too, caught a glimpse of the small island which raised its hilly head in the middle of the lake. "Is that Bliss Island?" she inquired of Miss Dexter. "Yes. You can see it from here. That doesn't belong to the college." "No?" said Ruth, in surprise: "But, of course, the girls can go there?" "It is 'No Man's Land,' I believe. Belongs to none of the estates surrounding the lake. We go there--yes," Miss Dexter told her. "The Stone Face is there." "What is that, please?" asked Ruth, interested. "What is the Stone Face?" "A landmark, Miss Fielding. That Stone Face was quite an important spot last May--wasn't it, Purvis?" the senior asked the other girl. "Oh, goodness me, yes!" said Miss Purvis. "Don't mention it. Think what it has done to our Kappa Alpha." "What do you suppose ever became of that girl?" murmured Miss Dexter, thoughtfully. "I can't imagine. It was a sorry time, take it all in all. Let's not talk of it, Merry. Our sorority has a setback from which it will never recover." All this was literally Greek to Ruth, of course. Nor did she listen with any attention. There were other things for her and Helen to be interested in, for the main building of the college had come into view. They had been gradually climbing the easy slope of College Hill from the east. The main edifice of Ardmore did not stand upon the summit of the eminence. Behind and above the big, winged building the hill rose to a wooded, rounding summit, sheltering the whole estate from the north winds. Just upon the edge of the forest at the top was an octagon-shaped observatory. Ruth had read about it in the Year Book. From the balcony of this observatory one could see, on a clear day, to the extreme west end of Lake Remona--quite twenty-five miles away. The newcomers, however, were more interested at present in the big building which faced the lake, half-way down the southern slope of College Hill, and which contained the hall and classrooms, as well as the principal offices. The beautiful campus was in front of this building. "All off for Dare and Dorrance," shouted the stage driver, stopping his vehicle. The driveway here split, one branch descending the hill, while the main thread wound on past the front of the main building. Ruth and Helen scrambled down with their bags. "Good-bye," said Miss Dexter smiling on them. "Perhaps I shall see you when you come over to the registrar's office. We seniors have to do the honors for you freshies." Miss Purvis, too, bade them a pleasant good-bye. The chums set off down the driveway. On their left was the great, sandstone, glass-roofed bulk of the gymnasium, and they caught a glimpse of the fenced athletic field behind it. Ahead were the two big dormitories upon this side of the campus--Dare and Dorrance Halls. The driveway curved around to the front of these buildings, and now the private touring car the girls had before noticed, came shooting around from the lake side of the dormitories, passing Ruth and Helen, empty save for the chauffeur. "Goodness!" exclaimed Helen. "I wonder if that dressy girl with all the goods and chattels is bunked in _our_ dormitory?" "'Our' dormitory, no less!" laughed Ruth. "Do you feel as much at home already as _that_?" "Goodness! No. I'm only trying to make myself believe it. Ruth, what an e-_nor_-mous place this is! I feel just as small as--as a little mouse in an elephant's stall." Ruth laughed, but before she could reply they rounded the corner of the building nearest to the campus and saw the group of girls upon its broad porch, the stranger at the foot of the steps, and the heap of baggage piled where the chauffeur had left it. "Hello!" May MacGreggor said, aloud, "here are a couple more kittens. Look at the pretty girl with the brown eyes and hair. And the smart-looking, black-eyed one. Now! _here_ are freshies after my own heart." Edith Phelps refused to be called off from the girl and the baggage, however. She said coolly: "I really don't know what you will do with all that truck, Miss Fielding. The rooms at Dare are rather small. You could not possibly get all those bags and the trunk--and certainly not that hat-box--into one of these rooms." "My name isn't Fielding," said the strange girl, paling now, but whether from anger or as a forerunner to tears it would have been hard to tell. Her face was not one to be easily read. "Your name isn't _Fielding_?" gasped Edie Phelps, while the latter's friends burst into laughter. "'R. F.'! What does that stand for, pray?" At this moment the fleshy girl who had been all this time in the background on the porch, flung herself forward, burst through the group, and ran down the steps. She had spied Ruth and Helen approaching. "Ruthie! Helen! _Ruth Fielding!_ Isn't this delightsome?" The fleshy girl tried to hug both the chums from Cheslow at once. Edie Phelps and the rest of the girls on the porch gazed and listened in amazement. Edie turned upon the girl with the heap of baggage, accusingly. "You're a good one! What do you mean by coming here and fooling us all in this way? What's your name?" "Rebecca Frayne--if you think you have a right to ask," said the new girl, sharply. "And you're not the canned drama authoress?" "I don't know what you mean, I'm sure," said Rebecca Frayne. "But I _would_ like to know what I'm to do with this baggage." Ruth had come to the foot of the steps now with Helen and the fleshy girl, whom the chums had hailed gladly as "Jennie Stone." The girl of the Red Mill heard the speech of the stranger and noted her woebegone accent. She turned with a smile to Rebecca Frayne. "Oh! I know about that," she said. "Just leave your trunk and bags here and put your card and the number of your room on them. The men will be along very soon to carry them up for you. I read that in the Year Book." "Thank you," said Rebecca Frayne. The group of sophomores and freshmen on the porch opened a way for the Briarwood trio to enter the house, and said never a word. Jennie Stone was, as she confessed, grinning broadly. CHAPTER V GETTING SETTLED "What does this mean, Heavy Jennie?" demanded Helen, pinching the very comfortable arm of their fleshy friend. "What does that mean? Ouch, Helen! You know you're pinching something when you pinch _me_." "That's why I like to. No fun in trying to make an impression on bones, you know." "But it doesn't hurt bones so much," grumbled Jennie. "Remember what the fruit-stand man printed on his sign: 'If you musta pincha da fruit, pincha da cocoanut.' You can't so easy bruise bony folk, Helen." "You are dodging the issue, Heavy," declared Helen. "What does this mean?" "What does what mean?" demanded the fleshy girl, grinning widely again. "How came you here, of course?" Ruth put in, smiling upon their gay and usually thoughtless friend. "You said you did not think you could come to Ardmore." "And you had conditions to make up if you did come," declared Helen. "I made 'em up," said Jennie, laughing. "And you're here ahead of us! Oh, Heavy, what sport!" cried Helen, undertaking to pinch the plump girl again. "Now, that's enough of that," said Jennie Stone. "I have feelings, as well as other folk, Helen Cameron, despite my name. Have a heart!" "We are so glad to see you, Heavy," said Ruth. "You mustn't mind Helen's exuberance." "And you never said a word about coming here when you wrote to us down South," Helen said, eyeing the fleshy girl curiously. "I didn't know what to do," confessed Jennie Stone. "I talked it over with Aunt Kate. She agreed with me that, if I had finished school, I'd put on about five pounds a month, and that's all I _would_ do." "Goodness!" gasped Ruth and Helen, together. "Yes," said Heavy, nodding with emphasis. "That's what I did the first month. Nothing to do, you see, but eat and sleep. If I'd had to go to work----" "But couldn't you find something to do?" demanded the energetic Ruth. "At Lighthouse Point? You know just how lazy a spot that is. And in winter in the city it would be worse. So I determined to come here." "To keep from getting fatter!" cried Helen. "A new reason for coming to college." "Well," said Jennie, seriously, "I missed the gym work and I missed being uncomfortable." "Uncomfortable?" gasped Ruth and Helen. "Yes. You know, my father's a big man, and so are my older brothers big. Everything in our house is big and well stuffed and comfortable--chairs and beds and all. I never was comfortable in my bed at Briarwood." "Horrible!" cried Helen, while Ruth laughed heartily. "And _here_!" went on Heavy, lugubriously. "Wait till you see. Do you know, all they give us here is _cots_ to sleep on? _Cots_, mind! Goodness! when I try to turn over I roll right out on the floor. You ought to see my sides already, how black-and-blue they are. I've been here two nights." "Why did you come so early?" "So as to try to get used to the food and the beds," groaned Heavy. "But I never will. One teacher already has advised me about my diet. She says vegetables are best for me. I ate a peck of string beans this noon for lunch--strings and all--and I expect you can pick basting threads out of me almost anywhere!" "The teacher didn't advise you to eat _all_ the vegetables there were, did she?" asked Ruth, as they climbed the stairs. "She did not signify the amount. I just ate till I couldn't get down another one. I sha'n't want to see another string bean for some time." Ruth and Helen easily found the rooms that had been drawn for them the June previous. Of course, they were not the best rooms in the hall, for the seniors had first choice, and then the juniors and sophomores had their innings before the freshmen had a chance. But there was a door between Ruth's and Helen's rooms, as they had hoped, and Jennie's room was just across the corridor. "We Sweetbriars will stick together, all right," said the fleshy girl. "For defence and offence, if necessary." "You evidently expect to have a strenuous time here, Heavy," laughed Ruth. "No telling," returned Jennie Stone, wagging her head. "I fancy there are some 'cut-ups' among the sophs who will try to make our sweet young lives miserable. That Edie Phelps, for instance." She told them how the sophomores had met the new girl, Rebecca Frayne, and why. "Oh, dear!" said Ruth. "But that was all on _my_ account. We shall have to be particularly nice to Miss Frayne. I hope she's on our corridor." "Do you suppose they will haze you, Ruth, just because you wrote that scenario?" asked Helen, somewhat troubled. "There's no hazing at Ardmore," laughed Ruth. "They can't bother me. 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!'" she singsonged. "Just the same," Jennie said, morosely, "that Edie Phelps has a sharp tongue." "We, too, have tongues," proclaimed Helen, who had no intention of being put upon. "Now, girls, we want to take just what is handed us good-naturedly," Ruth advised. "We are freshmen. Next year we will be sophomores, and can take it out on the new girls then," and she laughed. "You know, we've all been through it at Briarwood." "Goodness, yes!" agreed Helen. "It can't be as bad at college as it was during our first term at Briarwood Hall." "This Edie Phelps can't be as mean as The Fox 'useter was,' I suppose," added Jennie Stone. "Besides, I fancy the sophs need us freshmen--our good will and help, I mean. The two lower classes here have to line up against the juniors and seniors." "Oh, dear, me," sighed Ruth. "I hoped we had come here to study, not to fight." "Pooh!" said the fleshy girl, "where do you go in this world that you don't have to fight for your rights? You never get something for nothing." However, the possibility of trouble disturbed their minds but slightly. For the rest of the day the trio were very busy. At least, Ruth and Helen were busy arranging their rooms and unpacking, and Jennie Stone was busy watching them. They went to the registrar's office that day, as this was required. Otherwise, they were in their rooms, after their baggage was delivered, occupied until almost dinner time. Heavy had been on the ground long enough, as she said, to know most of the ropes. They were supposed to dress rather formally for dinner, although not more than two-thirds of the girls had arrived. There were in Dare Hall alone as many pupils as had attended Briarwood altogether. This was, indeed, a much larger school life on which they were entering. So many of the girls they saw were older than themselves--and the trio of girls had been among the oldest girls at Briarwood during their last semester. "Why, we're only _kids_," sighed Helen. "There's a girl on this corridor--at the other end, thank goodness!--who looks old enough to be a teacher." "Miss Comstock," said Heavy. "I know. She's a senior. There are no teachers rooming at Dare. Only the housekeeper downstairs. But you'll find a senior at the head of each table--and Miss Comstock looks awfully stern." Ruth and Helen found the rooms they were to occupy rather different from those they had chummed in at Briarwood. In the first place, these rooms were smaller, and the furniture was very plain. As Jennie had warned them, there were only cots to sleep upon--very nice cots, it was true, and there was a heavy coverlet for each, to turn the cots into divans in the daytime. "I tell you what we can do," Ruth suggested at the start. "Let's make one room the study, and both sleep in the other." "Bully idea," agreed Helen. They proceeded to do this, the result being a very plain sleeping room, indeed, but a well-furnished study. They had brought with them all the pennants and other keepsakes from Briarwood, and sofa pillows and cushions for the chairs, and innumerable pictures. Before night the study looked as homelike as the old room had at the preparatory school. They had rugs, too, and one big lounging chair, purchased second-hand, that Heavy had, of course, occupied most of the afternoon. "Well! I hope you've finished at last," sighed the fleshy girl when the warning bell for dinner rang. "I'm about tired out." "You should be," agreed Ruth, commiseratingly. "You've helped so much." "Advising is harder than moving furniture and tacking up pictures," proclaimed Jennie. "Brain-fag is the trouble with me and hunger." "We admit the final symptom," said Helen. "But if your brain is ever fagged, Heavy, it will only be from thinking up new and touching menus. Come on, now, we're going to scramble into some fresh frocks. You go and do the same, Miss Lazybones." CHAPTER VI MISS CULLAM'S TROUBLE Ruth and Helen were much more amply supplied with frocks of a somewhat dressy order than when they began a semester at Briarwood Hall. Their wardrobes here were well filled, and of course there was no supervision of what they wore as there had been at the preparatory school. When they went downstairs to the dining-room with Jennie Stone, they found they had made no mistake in "putting their best foot forward," as Helen called it. "My! I feel quite as though I were going to a party," Ruth confessed. The girls rustled through the corridors and down the wide stairways, laughing and talking, many of the freshmen, it was evident, already having made friends. "There's that girl," whispered Jennie Stone, suddenly. "What girl?" asked Helen. "Oh! the girl with all the luggage," laughed Ruth. "Yes," said the fleshy girl. "What was her name?" "Rebecca Frayne," said Ruth, who had a good memory. She bowed to the rather over-dressed freshman. She saw that nobody was walking with Rebecca Frayne. "I hope she sits at our table," Ruth added. "Of course," Helen rejoined, with a smile, "Ruth has already spied somebody to be good to." "Shucks!" said Jennie. "I don't think she'd make a particularly pleasant addition to our party." "What does _that_ matter?" demanded Helen, roguishly. "Ruth is always picking up the sore-eyed kittens." "I think that is unkind," returned Ruth, shaking her head. "Maybe Miss Frayne is a very nice girl." "I wonder what she's got in all those bags and the big trunk?" said Jennie. "I see she's wearing the same dress she traveled in." "I wager she misses her maid," sighed Helen. "Can't dress without one, I s'pose." But there were too many other girls to watch and to comment on for the trio to give much attention to Rebecca Frayne. Ruth, however, said, with a little laugh: "I must feel some interest in her. Her initials are the same as mine." "And her arrival certainly took the curse off yours, my dear," Jennie agreed. "Edie Phelps and her crowd were laying for you and no mistake." "I wonder if we shouldn't eschew all slang now that we have come to Ardmore?" Helen suggested demurely. "You set the example then, my lady!" cried Heavy. Miss Comstock, the very severe looking senior, sat at the table at which the Briarwood trio of freshmen found their numbers; but Miss Frayne was at the housekeeper's table. There were ten or twelve girls at each table and throughout the meal a pleasant hum of voices filled the room. Ruth and Helen, not to mention their fleshy chum, were soon at their ease with their neighbors; nor did Miss Comstock prove such a bugaboo as they feared. Although the senior was a particularly silent girl, she had a pleasant smile and was no wet blanket upon the enjoyment of the dinner. At least, she did not serve as a wet blanket upon Jennie Stone. The fleshy girl's appetite betrayed the fact that she had been stinted at noon, and that a diet of string beans was scarcely a satisfactory one. As they left the dining-room and came out into the wide, well-lighted entrance hall of the house, a lady just entering bowed to Jennie Stone. "There she is!" groaned the fleshy girl. "Caught in the act!" "Who is she, Heavy?" demanded Helen, in an undertone. "She looks nice," observed Ruth. "Miss Cullam. She's the one that advised the string beans," declared Jennie out of the corner of her mouth. Then she added, most cordially: "Oh! how do you do! These are my two chums from Briarwood--Ruth Fielding and Helen Cameron. Miss Cullam, girls." The teacher, who was rather elderly, but very brisk and neat, if not wholly attractive, approached smiling. "You will meet me in mathematics, young ladies," she said, shaking hands with the two introduced freshmen. "And how are you to-night, Miss Stone? Have you stuck to your vegetable diet, as I advised?" Heavy made her jolly, round face seem as long as possible, and groaned hollowly. "Oh, Miss Cullam!" she said, "I believe I could have stuck to the diet, if----" "Well, if what?" demanded the teacher. "If the diet would only stick to _me_. But it doesn't. I ate _pecks_ of string beans for lunch, and by the middle of the afternoon I felt like a castaway after two weeks upon a desert island." "Nonsense, Miss Stone!" exclaimed the teacher, yet laughing too. Heavy was so ridiculous that it was impossible not to be amused. "You should practise abstinence. Really, you are the very fattest girl at Ardmore, I do believe." "That sounds horrid!" declared Jennie with sudden vigor, and she did not look pleased. "You may as well face the truth, my dear," said the mathematics teacher, eyeing the distressing curves of the fleshy girl without prejudice. "Here are upwards of a thousand girls--or will be when all have arrived and registered. And you will be locally famous." "Oh, don't!" groaned Ruth. "Poor Heavy!" gasped Helen. Miss Cullam uttered a short laugh. "Your friends evidently love you, my dear," she said, patting the fleshy girl's plump cheek. "But you want to make new friends--you wish to be admired, I know. It will not be pleasant to gain the reputation of being Ardmore's heavyweight, will it?" "It sounds pretty bad," admitted Heavy, coming out of her momentary slough of despond. "But we all have our little troubles, don't we, Miss Cullam?" Somehow this question seemed to quench the teacher of mathematics' good spirits. A cloud settled upon her countenance, and she nodded seriously. "We all have; true enough, Miss Stone," she said. "And I hope you, as pupils at Ardmore, will never suffer such disturbance of mind as I, a teacher, sometimes do." Ruth, who had started up the stairway next to the teacher, put a friendly hand upon Miss Cullam's arm. "I hope we three will never add to your burdens, my dear Miss Cullam," she whispered. The instructor flashed a rather wondering look at the girl of the Red Mill; then she smiled. It was a grouty person, indeed, who could look into Ruth Fielding's frank countenance and not return her smile. "Bless you! I have heard of you already, Ruth Fielding. I have no idea I shall be troubled by you or your friends." They had fallen behind the others a few steps. "But we never can tell. Since last term--well!" Much, evidently, was on Miss Cullam's mind; yet she kept step with Ruth when they came to the corridor on which the rooms of the three Briarwoods opened. Ruth could always find something pleasant to say. This woman with the care-graved countenance smiled whimsically as she listened, keeping at the girl's shoulder. Evidently somewhat oppressed by the attentions of the instructor, Helen and Heavy had disappeared into the fleshy girl's room. "Do come in and see how nicely we have fixed our sitting-room--study, I mean, of course," and Ruth laughed, opening the door. "Looks homelike," confessed Miss Cullam. Then, with a startled glance around the room, she murmured: "Why, it's the very room!" "What is that you say?" asked Ruth, curiously. "Do you know who had this room last year?" "Of course I haven't the first idea," returned the girl of the Red Mill. "Miss Rolff." "Do I know her?" asked Ruth, somewhat puzzled. "She left before the end of the term. I--I am not sure just what the matter was with her. But she is connected in my mind with a great misfortune." "Indeed, Miss Cullam?" said the sympathetic Ruth. It was, perhaps, the sympathy in her tone that urged the instructor to confide her trouble to a strange girl--a freshman, at that! "I hope I shall never have the same fears and doubts regarding you and your friends, Miss Fielding, that I have felt about some of these girls who are now sophomores--and some of the juniors, too." "Oh, Miss Cullam! What do you mean?" "Well, I'll tell you, my dear," the teacher said, taking the comfortable chair at Ruth's gestured recommendation, as the girl switched on the electricity. "You seem like an above-the-average sensible girl----" Ruth laughed at that, but she dimpled, too, and Miss Cullam joined in the laughter. "Some of these girls were mere flyaways," she said. "But not many, after all. Girls who come as far as college, even to the freshman course in college, usually have something in their pretty noddles besides ideas for dressing their hair. "Well, I will confide in you, as I say, because I have a fancy to. I like you. Listen to the troubles of a poor mathematics instructor." "Yes, Miss Cullam," said Ruth, demurely. "You see, my dear," said Miss Cullam, who had a whimsical way about her that Ruth had begun to delight in, "after all, we college instructors are all necessarily of the race of watch dogs." "Oh, Miss Cullam!" "Our girls are put upon their honor and are in the main worthy of our confidence. But we have experiences that show us how frail human virtue is. "For instance, there are examinations. A most trying necessity are examinations. They come mainly toward the close of the college year, and a few of our girls are not prepared to pass. "Last year I felt that some of my freshmen and sophomores could not possibly comply with the mathematical requirements. When I received from the printers my copies of the questions to be proposed to the classes I really felt that a few of my girls were going to have a hard time," and she smiled again, yet there was still trouble in her eyes. "I chanced to be in the library when I received the papers. You have not seen our library yet, have you, Miss Fielding?" "No, Miss Cullam. You know, Helen and I arrived only this afternoon at Ardmore." "That is so. Well, the library is a very beautifully furnished building. It was a gift from certain alumni. I was alone in the reception-room when I examined the papers, and being called suddenly to a duty and not wishing to take the papers with me, I rolled them up and thrust them into a vase standing upon the table. When I returned in a few minutes, still hurried by a task before me, I found that I had thrust the papers so far into the small-mouthed vase that I could not reach them. Quite a ridiculous situation, was it not? "But now the plot thickens," went on the teacher, with a sigh. "The papers were safe enough there, of course. The vase was a very beautiful and valuable silver one, and had its place of honor on that table. I could not stop to retrieve the question papers with a pair of tongs--as I might, had I not been hurried. When I returned armed with the tongs in the morning----" "Yes, Miss Cullam?" rejoined Ruth, interestedly, as the teacher paused in her story. "The vase--and, of course, the question papers--was gone," said the lady, in a sepulchral tone. "Oh!" "And almost all the girls I had marked for failure in mathematics went through the examination with colors flying!" "Oh!" exclaimed Ruth again, and quite blankly. "Do you see the terrible suspicion that has been eating at my mind ever since? There happened to be other unfortunate matters connected with the disappearance of the vase, too. _It_ has never been found. One of the very freshmen who I feared would fail in the examination left the college under a cloud." "Oh, Miss Cullam!" gasped Ruth. "Is she suspected of stealing the vase--and the examination papers?" "I scarcely know what to say in answer to that," said Miss Cullam, gravely. "It seems that one of the sororities was initiating candidates on that night. One of the--er--'stunts,' as they call their ridiculous ceremonies, included the filching of this vase after dark and its burial somewhere on Bliss Island. So Dr. Milroth later informed me. "The girl chosen for this ridiculous performance, Miss Rolff, who occupied this very room, was found at daybreak wandering alone upon the island in a hysterical condition. She insisted upon leaving the college immediately, before I had discovered the absence of the vase and the missing papers. "I felt that I could not arouse suspicion in Dr. Milroth's mind by mentioning the papers. I secured copies from the printer. Of course, it is all ancient history now, my dear," ended the mathematics teacher, with a sigh. "But you see, suspicion once fastened upon my mind, it still troubles me." "But what became of the poor girl?" asked Ruth, sympathetically. "That I cannot tell you," Miss Cullam said, rising. "She has not returned this year, and I understand that Dr. Milroth lost trace of her." CHAPTER VII FAME IS NOT ALWAYS AN ASSET Just why the teacher of mathematics had taken Ruth Fielding into her confidence upon this rather curious event, it would be hard to say. Teachers are human like other people, and perhaps sometimes prone to gossip. However, Ruth felt that it was a confidence, and she did not mention the matter of the missing examination papers to her chum or to Jennie Stone. The other Briarwood girls were the only members of the freshman class Ruth was likely to be intimate with for some days. Friendships are not made so quickly at college as at smaller schools. There were so many girls that it took some time for the trio to adjust themselves and to become acquainted with their mates. In the morning they went again to the registrar's office, and there they met Miss Dexter, who was appointed to escort them about, show them the college offices, the bookstore, and introduce them to such of the instructors as came in the path of the new girls. Of course, their tuition fees--one hundred and seventy-five dollars each--for the year had been already paid. Their board would be nine dollars weekly, and all books, stationery, gymnastic suits and supplies, as well as medical and hospital fees (if they chanced to be ill) would be extra. There were only a few simple rules of behavior to note. If a girl is not well trained in ladylike demeanor before arriving at the college age she is, of course, hopeless. The faculty have other things to do besides watching the manners as well as the mental attributes, of the students. Ruth and her friends learned that they were not to leave the college grounds before six in the morning. "And who'd want to?" demanded Heavy. "That's the best time to sleep." However, the fleshy girl soon learned that if she was to have a reasonable time for breakfast she must be up betimes. The meal was served from seven to a quarter to eight. Chapel was at eight-thirty, but not compulsory. Recitations began at nine and lunch was at twelve. Recitations and lectures (these latter did not interest our freshmen, for they had no lectures the first year) ended at three-thirty, when, all the girls were supposed to take gymnastics of some kind. Otherwise, their time was their own until dinner at six o'clock. The girls had the time free from seven till seven-thirty. The following two hours were those devoted to quiet study (or should be) in their own rooms, or in the reference department of the library. At ten all were supposed to retire. The students might leave the grounds at any time during the day, but never in the evening without a chaperon. These rules and requirements seemed easy enough to the trio from Briarwood Hall, used as they were to the far stricter oversight of the teachers in the preparatory institution. More girls appeared at Ardmore that day, and the one following would see the opening of the semester and, as Jennie Stone said, "the buckling down to real work." A notice was posted on the bulletin boards already commanding all freshmen to meet at Hoskin Hall after dinner that evening, signed by the president of the sophomore class. "What's _she_ got to do with _us_?" Helen demanded, with a sniff. "Aren't we allowed to run our own class affairs here?" Heavy asked. "I fancy not," Ruth rejoined. "Miss Dexter told me that the sophs and freshies were usually lined up against the two older classes. The sophs need us, and we need them." "I have an idea," said Heavy, with a warning shake of her head, "that some of the sophs don't care so much for us." The trio were returning from the college hall as they chatted. Helen suddenly exclaimed: "Girls! did you ever see so many tam-o'-shanters in your little lives? And such a wealth of colors?" It was true that every girl in sight (and there were "just hundreds!" to quote Heavy again), unless she were bareheaded, wore a tam-o'-shanter. "The most popular thing in head covering at Ardmore this year, that is sure," said Ruth. "Oh! will you look at the one that Frayne girl is wearing?" Helen gasped. "Goodness!" said Heavy. "Looks like an Italian sunset." "Or a badly scrambled egg," put in Helen. "There! I believe that girl would look a fright whatever she put on." "She can't help her taste, poor girl," Ruth said. "My!" sighed Heavy. "I like to hear you talk, Ruth. You're as full of excuses for everybody criticised as a chestnut is of meat," and she nibbled one of the nuts in question as she spoke. Then: "Wow! Oh, the nasty thing!" Helen laughed uproariously. "Something besides meat in that chestnut, Heavy. Did it squirm much?" "Don't ask me," said the fleshy girl, gloomily. "Of such is life! 'I never owned a gay gazelle----'" "Cut it out. You never owned a gazelle of any kind," said Helen. "You know you never did." It was just here that the trio came upon a group of girls of whom Edith Phelps was evidently the leader. It was opposite the gymnasium, under the wide-spreading oaks that gave shade to that quarter of the campus. The Briarwood girls had been about to enter the gymnasium building to look around. Edith and her friends were mostly in gymnasium costumes. They had been tossing the medicine ball; but it was plain that they had gathered here near the path the three freshmen friends followed, for a purpose. "Oh, here comes the leading lady!" cried Edith Phelps, in a high and affected voice. "Get set! Camera!" The girls, or most of them, struck most ridiculous attitudes at Edie's word, while an oblong, black box suddenly appeared, affixed upon a tripod, and May MacGreggor, who was out for fun as much as any of the sophomores, began to turn a tiny crank on one side of the box. "Hi! what are you trying to do--you fat person there?" demanded Edie, excitedly, imitating a movie director, and waving back the amazed and somewhat angry Jennie Stone. "Want to crab the film?" "Oh, the mean things!" gasped Helen, growing as red as though the joke were aimed directly at herself. "Cracky!" murmured the fleshy girl, who couldn't help seeing the ridiculous side of it. "Isn't that funny?" At the moment, too, a thin little tune began to wander from the black box, none other than "The Wearing of the Green." Inside the box was one of those little, old-fashioned Swiss music boxes, and May was industriously turning the crank. "Register fear, Miss Fielding!" shouted Edith, energetically. "Fear, I say! Don't you realize that you are about to be flung over a cliff and that a mad bull is waiting bel-o-o-w to catch you on his horns? Close up of the bull, please!" Ruth had been first surprised, then not a little displeased; but she knew instinctively if she showed that this buffoonry offended and troubled her it would only be repeated again and again. Much better able than her chum, Helen Cameron, to control her features, she began now to smile broadly. "Girls!" she said aloud to her two friends, "it must be that that girl knows Mr. Grimes personally or has seen him at work. You remember Mr. Grimes, the Alectrion director who filmed our play at Briarwood?" "And was so nasty to Hazel Gray? I should say!" exclaimed Jennie, instantly falling in with Ruth's attempt to pass the incident off as a joke. "I think _she's_ nasty-mean," muttered Helen, her black eyes snapping. "If you played that tune while making a film for me, Miss MacGreggor, I should want to jig," Heavy cried, and started to do a few ridiculous steps in front of the black box. Ruth continued to smile, too, saying to Edith Phelps: "You might have warned us of this. I'd have liked to primp a little before posing for the camera." The other girls laughed. It did not take much to make them laugh, and it is possible that they laughed as much at Edie as with her. But as the trio of freshmen went on toward Dare Hall, Ruth shook her head doubtfully. "What's the matter, Ruthie?" asked Helen, squeezing her arm. "The mean things!" "I wonder," murmured Ruth. "You wonder what?" demanded Helen. Ruth sighed. "I guess fame isn't always an asset," she said. CHAPTER VIII THE STONE FACE Ruth knew better than to show anger over any such silly joke. If she was to be made the laughing stock of her class by the sophomores, she might as well face it and bear the cross good-naturedly. Ruth was as sensitive as any refined girl. It hurt her to be ridiculed. But she had not spent years at boarding school without learning that the best way--indeed, the only way--to bear successfully such indignity is to ignore it. That is, to ignore the fun poked at one as far as possible. To bear the jokes with a smile. So she would not allow her friends to comment much upon this scene before the gymnasium building. She had never given herself airs because of her success in writing scenarios. Another girl might have done so. But Ruth was naturally modest, and had never really ceased to be surprised at her own success. The new scenario she was at work upon, the scenes of which were laid at the Red Mill, was born of an idea she had evolved when her attention had first been turned to motion-picture writing. Mr. Hammond, her kind friend and the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation, had advised her to postpone the use of this idea until she had tried her apprentice hand on other and simpler scenarios. The time seemed ripe now, however, for the writing of "Crossed Wires," and he had encouraged her to go ahead. All the visible effect Edith Phelps' joke had upon Ruth was to send her to the unfinished scenario. After returning from the college offices on this occasion she worked on her play until lunch time. "There's too much new to see and to do for you to pore over letter writing, Ruth," Helen declared, misunderstanding her friend's occupation. "We want to see Ardmore. We want to go out on the lake if we can get a boat. We've got to see the gym and the library. And to-night we must turn up at this meeting, it seems, and see what Miss Dunstan, the soph president, has to say to us freshies." "Oh, I want to go out on the lake!" cried Ruth, agreeing. "And I want to explore that island." "What island?" demanded Jennie, coming into the chums' study. "Bliss Island." "'Tisn't part of the college grounds," said the fleshy girl. "Don't care. Want to see it," declared Ruth. "I hope we can get a boat. I didn't see many in use this morning." "Some of the girls own their own. Especially canoes," said Jennie Stone. "But it's _the_ thing to make the 'eight.' Let me tell you, us Ardmores are supposed to be some rowists! Our first eight beat the Gillings College first eight last June." "We'll all try for the eight then," Helen said. "And _you_, Jennie?" asked Ruth, mildly. "Oh, _me_!" "String beans for yours, Heavy," Helen cried, clapping her hands. "You'll have to diet on them until you have reduced to little more than a string yourself if you expect to make the eight." "Bet I could do it," grumbled Heavy. "A bet's a bet!" cried Helen. "I take you." "Don't be rude, girls," advised Ruth. "You sound like regular, sure-enough gamblers. And, anyway, Heavy will never be able to make the eight. She might as well pay her wager now." "Oh! oh! oh!" laughed Helen. "A palpable hit!" "You just see!" said Heavy, firmly. "I'll show you." "My dear," Ruth said, "if you show us a sylph-like form in time to make the freshman eight----" "It will be the eighth wonder of the world," finished Helen. Jennie tossed her head. "I don't know about the sylph-like form, but at least I mean to possess a slender figure when I have followed Miss Cullam's advice on diet. You'll see!" "Poor Heavy!" groaned Helen. "She is letting herself in for a most awful time, and no mistake." After luncheon the three girls set forth to explore the place. "If I keep this up I'll need nothing else to get me thin. We have tramped miles," the fleshy girl announced at length. "Oh! my poor, poor feet!" "Wear sensible shoes, then," said Helen, who was the very last person to follow her own advice on this point. "Easy enough to say," groaned Jennie. "There ain't any such an animal! You know that in this day and generation shoe makers have ceased to make sensible shoes. I look at 'em in the shop windows," pursued the aching girl, "and I wonder what sort of foot the human pedal extremity will become in a generation or two. Those pointed toes! "Why," declared the suddenly warmed up Jennie Stone, "they tell us about a two-toed sloth living in Central and South America. Believe _me_! the present-day shoemaker seems to have secured a last to fit a _one_-toed sloth." "I don't know about the number of their toes," Ruth said, laughing; "but many of those who wear the fancy shoes are _sloths_, all right." They had looked over the library before this, and walked down past Hoskin and Hemmingway Halls on the west side of the campus, and so reached the lake. There were some girls at the boathouse, and a few craft were out. It was possible for the three friends to get a boat and Ruth and Helen rowed, with Heavy lazily reclining in the stern. "Beginning that strenuous life that is to reduce your weight, Heavy?" questioned Helen. "I am practising deep breathing," Jennie said. "They say that helps a lot." They headed the light skiff directly for Bliss Island. It was not more than a mile off shore, and was a beautiful place. At the landing they saw several girls whom they knew were sophomores, for among them was May MacGreggor. "Here are some more of Cook's Trippers," said the Scotch girl, gaily. "Seeing the sights, _mes infantes_?" "Trying to," Jennie announced. "But you're really not so bad looking, Miss MacGreggor. I wouldn't call you a 'sight.'" "Now, that will be all of that, Miss Stone!" exclaimed the sophomore, but her brown eyes danced as the other girls laughed. "I believe you three girls are Briarwoods, are you not?" "Yes," Helen said. "I can believe it," said May. "I have felt the briers. Now, let us call a truce." "With all my heart, Miss MacGreggor," Ruth said quickly. "You're a good little thing!" returned the Scotch girl. "I know your heart is big enough. And we sophs really shouldn't nag you freshies, you know, for we must pull together against the seniors and juniors. But you'll hear about that to-night." "Thank you, Miss MacGreggor," Ruth said. "And now that we are at this island, would you mind telling us where the Stone Face is situated?" "Ah! one of the wonders of the place," said May. "And who told you about the Stone Face, Freshie?" "I have heard it is well worth seeing," said Ruth, demurely. "I will be your escort," said May. They found the Scotch girl very companionable. She led them up a rugged path through the trees and around the rocks. "And did that girl have to come up here--_and in the dark_?" murmured Ruth at last. "What girl?" Helen asked. "Who are you talking about, Miss Fielding?" asked the sophomore. "That girl--Miss Rolff." "Oh! don't mention her name!" groaned May MacGreggor. "If it hadn't been for _her_, you-uns and we-uns wouldn't be cut out of the sororities. A wicked shame!" "Oh, I've heard about that," said Jennie, puffing because of the hard climb. "Did she really have to come here, and _alone_, when she was initiated?" "She started for here," said May, gloomily. "With a flashlight, I believe. But she lost her nerve---- "There! there's the rock you're looking for." It was a huge boulder in an open field. At the angle from which they viewed it, the face of the rock really bore some semblance to a human countenance--the features of an old, old woman. "Ugly old hag!" was May MacGreggor's comment upon the odd boulder. CHAPTER IX GETTING ON The three freshmen friends from Briarwood learned a good deal more that evening than the Year Book would ever have taught them. The girls began to crowd into the Hoskin Hall dining-room right after dinner. The seniors and the juniors disappeared, but there were a large number of sophomores present, besides the president of that class who addressed the freshmen. The latter learned that in athletics especially the rivalry between the two lower and the two upper classes was intense. It was hardly possible, of course, for any of the freshmen, and for few of the sophomores to gain positions on any of the first college teams in basket ball, rowing, tennis, archery, or other important activities of a physical nature. All athletic sports, which included, as well as those named above, running and jumping and other track work, were under the direct supervision of the college athletic association. All the girls could belong to that. Indeed, they were expected to, and the fees were small. But for a freshman to show sufficient athletic training to make any of the first teams, would almost seem impossible. They could get on the scrubs and possess their souls with patience, hoping to win places on the first teams perhaps in their sophomore year. However, there had once been a girl in a freshman class at Ardmore who succeeded in throwing the hammer a record-making distance; and once a freshman had been bow oar in the first eight. These were targets to aim for, Miss Dunstan, the sophomore president, told the new girls. She was, of course, a member of the athletic committee, and having told the new girls all about the sports she proceeded to advise them about organizing their class and electing officers. This should be done by the end of the first fortnight. Meanwhile, the freshman should get together, become acquainted, and electioneer for the election of officers. Class politics at Ardmore meant something. There were already groups and cliques forming among the freshmen. It was an honor to hold office in the class, and those who were ambitious, or who wished to control the policy of the class, were already at work. Ruth and her friends were so ambitious in quite another direction--in two, in fact--that they rather overlooked these class activities. The following day actually opened the work of the semester, and as they already had their books the trio settled immediately to their lessons. They were taking the classical course, a four-years' course. During this first year their studies would be English, a language (their choice of French or German) besides the never-to-be-escaped Latin; mathematics, including geometry, trigonometry and higher algebra. They had not yet decided whether to take botany or chemistry as the additional study. "We want to keep together as much as possible, in classes as well as out," Helen said. "Let's take the same specials, too." "I vote for botany," Ruth suggested. "That will take us into the woods and fields more." "You mean, it will give us an excuse for going into the woods and fields," Jennie said. "I'm with you. And if I have to walk much to cut down weight, it will help." "My goodness!" exclaimed Helen. "Heavy really _has_ come to college to get rid of her superabundance of fat." "Surest thing you know," agreed the fleshy girl. The freshmen learned that they would have from fifteen to eighteen recitation periods weekly, of forty-five minutes each. The recitation periods occurred between nine and twelve in the forenoon and one and three-thirty in the afternoon. It took several days to get all these things arranged rightly; the three friends managed to get together in all classes. The classes numbered from twenty to forty students and the girls began to get acquainted with the teachers very quickly. Trust youth for judging middle-age almost immediately. "I like Dr. McCurdy," Helen said, speaking of their English instructor, who was a man. "He knows what he's about and goes right at it. No fooling with him. None of this, 'Now young ladies, I hope you are pleasantly situated and that we are going to be good friends.' Pah!" Ruth laughed. "The dear old things!" she said gaily. "They mean well--even that Miss Mara, whom you are imitating. And she _does_ have a beautiful French accent, if she _is_ Irish." They liked Dr. Frances Milroth. Her talk in chapel was an inspiration, and that first morning some of the girls came out into the sunshine with wet eyelashes. They began to realize that they were here at college for something besides either play or ordinary study. They were at Ardmore to learn to get a grip on life. Instrumental and vocal music could be taken at any time which did not interfere with the regular recitations, and of course Ruth took the latter as a special, while Helen did not neglect her violin. "I guess I'll take up the study of the oboe," grumbled Jennie Stone. "I don't seem to know just what to do with myself while you girls are making sweet sounds." "Why don't you roll, Heavy?" demanded Helen. "Roll _what_? Roll a hoop?" asked the fleshy girl. "No. Roll a barrel, I should say would be nearer to it," Helen responded, eyeing Jennie's plump waistline reflectively. "Get down and roll. Move back the furniture, give yourself plenty of room, and _roll_. They say that will reduce one's curves." "Wow! And what would the girl say downstairs under me?" asked Jennie Stone. "I'd begin by being the most unpopular girl in this freshman class." These first few days were busy ones; but the girls of the freshman class were fast learning just where they stood. Then happened something that awoke most of the class to the fact that they needed to get together, that they must, after all, take up cudgels for themselves. "Just like a flock of silly sheep, running together when they see a dog," Helen at first said. "I guess there is a good reason in nature for sheep to do that," Ruth said, on reflection. "Sheep fear wolves more than any other animal, and a dog is a wolf, after all, only domesticated." "Huh!" grunted Jennie. "Then we are sheep and the seniors are wolves, are they? I could eat up most of these seniors I've seen, myself. I will be a savage sheep--woof! woof!" The matter that had made the disturbance, however, was not to be ignored. CHAPTER X A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT Arrangements for the organization of the freshman class had lagged. This fact may have been behind the notice put upon the bulletin boards all over the Ardmore grounds some time after bedtime one evening and before the rising bell rang the next morning. It intimated a bit of hazing, but hazing of a quality that the faculty could only wink at. The notice was as follows: FRESHMEN _It is the command of the Senior Class of Ardmore that no Freshman shall appear within the college grounds wearing a tam-o'-shanter of any other hue save the herewith designated color, to wit: Baby Blue. This order is for the mental and spiritual good of the incoming class of Freshmen. Any member of said class refusing to obey this order will be summarily dealt with by the upper classes of Ardmore._ Groups gathered immediately after breakfast about the bulletin boards. Of course, the seniors and juniors passed by with dignified bearing, and without comment. The sophomores remained upon the outskirts of the groups of excited freshmen to laugh and jeer. "A disturbed bumblebees' nest could have hummed no louder," Helen declared, as the three friends walked up to chapel, which they made a point of attending. "Why! to think of the _cheek_ of those seniors!" ejaculated Jennie. "And the juniors are just as bad!" "What are you going to do about that tam of yours, Heavy?" asked Ruth, slily. "It's a gay thing--nothing like baby blue." "Oh well," growled the fleshy girl, "baby blue is one of my favorite colors." "Mine, too," said Ruth, drily. "Oh, girls! Are you going to give right in--_so_ easy?" gasped Helen. "I don't feel like making myself conspicuous," Ruth said. "You can wager that most of our class will hustle right off and get the proper hue in tams." "Then we'd better go to town this very afternoon," Jennie cried, in haste, "and see if we can find three of baby blue shade. The stores will be drained of them by to-morrow." "But to give--right--in!" wailed Helen, who dearly loved a fight. "No. It isn't that. But, as the advertisements say: 'Eventually, so why not now?' We'll have to come to it. Let's get our tams while the tamming's good." Helen could not see the reason for obeying the senior order; but she could see no reason, either, for not following her chum's lead. The three girls telephoned for a taxicab, which came to Dare Hall for them at half past three. They were not the only girls going to town; but some of the freshmen, like Helen, wished to display their independence and refused--as yet--to obey the senior command. A line at the bottom of the notice announced that three days were allowed the freshmen to obtain their proper tam-o'-shanters. "Three days!" gasped Heavy, as they started off in the little car. "Why, it will take the stores in Greenburg two weeks to supply sufficient tams of the proper color." "Then if we don't get ours," laughed Ruth, "we'd better go bareheaded until the new tams can be sent us from home." "I won't do that!" cried the annoyed Helen. "Oh! oh!" she exclaimed, the next moment, and before they were out of the grounds. "See Miss Frayne! She has her scrambled-egg tam on." "Don't you suppose she has read the notice?" worried Ruth. "Why hasn't she?" "Well, she seems to flock together with herself so much. Nobody seems to be chummy with her--yet," Ruth explained. "Now, old Mother Worry!" exclaimed Helen, "bother about _her_, will you?" "Yes, ma'am," said Ruth, demurely. "I shall, I suppose." "Goodness, Ruth!" cried Jennie. They discovered a rather strange thing when they arrived in Greenburg and entered the first store that dealt in ladies' apparel. Oh, yes, indeed! the proprietor had tam-o'-shanters of just the required shade, baby blue. The friends bought immediately for fear some of the other girls who had come to town would find these and buy the proprietor out. And then, prone to the usual feminine frailty, they went "window shopping." And in every store seeking trade from the college girls they found the baby blue tam-o'-shanters. "It's the most astonishing thing!" gasped Helen. "What do you suppose it means? Did you ever see so many caps of one kind and color in all your life?" "It is amazing," agreed Ruth. Yet she was reflective. Jennie began to laugh. "Wonder if the seniors are just helping out their friends among the tradespeople? It looks as though the storekeepers had bought a superabundance of baby blue caps and the seniors were putting it up to us to save the stores from bankruptcy." Ruth, however, thought it must be something other than that. Was it that the storekeepers had been notified by the senior "powers that be" to be ready to supply a sudden large demand for tam-o'-shanters of that particular hue? At least, one little Hebrew asked the three friends if they had already bought their tam-o'-shanters. "For vy, I haf a whole case of your class colors, ladies, that my poy iss opening." "What class color?" demanded Helen, grumpily enough. "Oh, Mees! A peau-ti-ful plue!" "They're all doing it! They're all doing it!" murmured Jennie, staggering out of the "emporium." "This is going to affect my brain, girls. _Did_ the seniors know the storekeepers had the tams in stock, or have the storekeepers been put wise by our elder sisters at Ardmore?" "What's the odds?" finally laughed Helen, as they got into the waiting car. "We've got _our_ tams. I only hope there are enough to go around." The appearance of more than a score of baby-blue caps on the campus before evening showed that our trio of freshmen were not the only members of their class who considered it wise to obey the mandate of the lordly seniors, and without question. The tempest in the teapot, however, continued to rage. Many girls declared they had not come to Ardmore to "be made monkeys of." "No," May MacGreggor was heard to say. "Some of you were already assisted by nature. But get together, freshies! Can't you read the handwriting on the wall?" "We can read the typewriting on the billboards," sniffed Helen Cameron. "Don't ask us to strain our eyesight farther." Perhaps this was really the intention behind the senior order--that the entering girls should become more quickly riveted into a compact body. How the rooms occupied by the more popular freshmen buzzed during the next few days! Our trio of friends, Ruth, Helen and Jennie, had been in danger of establishing a clique of three, if they had but known it. Now they were forced to extend their borders of acquaintanceship. As they were three, and were usually seen about the study-room Ruth and Helen had established, it was natural that other girls of their class on that corridor of Dale Hall should flock to them. They thus became the nucleus at this side of the campus of the freshman class. From discussing the rule of the haughty seniors, the freshmen began to talk of their own organization and the approaching election. Had Ruth allowed her friends to do so, there would have been started a boom by Helen and Jennie Stone for the girl of the Red Mill for president of the freshman class. This honor Ruth did not desire. There were several girls whom she had noted already among her mates, older than she, and who evidently possessed qualities for the position. Besides, Ruth Fielding felt that if she became unduly prominent at first at Ardmore, girls like Edith Phelps would consider her a particularly bright target. She told herself again, but this time in private, that fame was not always an asset. CHAPTER XI THE ONE REBEL However much the natural independence of the freshmen balked at the mandate promulgated by the seniors, baby-blue tam-o'-shanters grew more numerous every hour on the Ardmore campus. The sophomores were evidently filled with glee; the juniors and seniors smiled significantly, but said nothing. The freshmen had been put in their place at once, it was considered. But the attack upon them had made the newcomers eager for an organization of their own. "If we are going to be bossed this way--and it is disgraceful!--we must be prepared to withstand imposition," Helen announced. So they began busily settling the matter of the organization of the class and the choosing of its officers. Before these matters were arranged completely, however, there was an incident of note. The freshmen, as a body, were invited to attend a sophomore "roar." It was to be the first out-of-door "roar" of the year and occurred right after classes and lectures one afternoon. The two lower classes scamped their gymnasium work to make it a success. Now, a "roar" at Ardmore was much nicer than it sounds. It was merely an open-air singing festival, and this one was for the purpose of making the freshmen familiar with the popular songs of the college. Professor Leidenburg, the musical director, himself led the outdoor concert. The sophomores stood in a compact body before the main entrance to the college hall. Massed in the background, and in a half circle, were the freshmen. The weather had become cool and all the girls wore their tam-o'-shanters. For the first time it was noticeable how pretty the pale blue caps on the freshmen's heads looked. And the new girls likewise noted that most of the tam-o'-shanters worn-by their sophomore hostesses were pale yellow. It was whispered then (and strange none of the freshmen had discovered it before) that the class preceding theirs at Ardmore--the present sophomores--had been forced to wear caps of a distinctive color, too. These pale yellow ones were their old caps, left over from the previous winter. The open-air assemblages of the college were made more attractive by this scheme of a particular class color in head-wear. There was a blot in the assembly of the freshmen on this occasion. It was not discovered in the beginning. Soon, however, there was much whispering, and looking about and pointing. "Do you see _that_?" gasped Jennie, who had been straining her neck and hopping up and down on her toes to see what the other girls were looking at. "What _are_ you rubbering at, Heavy?" demanded Helen, inelegantly. "Yes; what's all the disturbance?" asked Ruth. "That girl!" ejaculated the fleshy one. "What girl now? Any particular girl?" "She's not very particular, I guess," returned Jennie, "or she wouldn't do it." "Jennie!" demanded Helen. "_Who_ do _what_?" "That Frayne girl," explained her plump friend. Rebecca Frayne stood well back in the lines of freshmen. It could not be said that she thrust herself forward, or sought to gain the attention of the crowd. Nevertheless, among the mass of pale blue tam-o'-shanters, her parti-colored one was very prominent. "Goodness!" gasped Ruth. "Doesn't she know better?" "Do you suppose she is one of those stubborn girls who just 'won't be driv'?" giggled Helen. It was no laughing matter. The three days of grace written upon the seniors' order regarding the caps had now passed. There seemed no good reason for one member of the freshman class to refuse to obey the command. Indeed, they had all tacitly agreed to do as they were told--upon this single point, at least. "There certainly are enough of them left in town so that she can buy one," Jennie Stone said. "Goodness!" snapped Helen. "If _my_ complexion can stand such a silly color, _hers_ certainly can." Before the out-of-doors concert was over, news of this rebellion on the part of a single freshman had run through the crowd like a breath of wind over ripe wheat. It almost broke up the "roar." As the last verse of the last song was ended and the company began to disperse, the freshmen themselves, and the sophomores as well, stared at Rebecca Frayne in open wonder. She started for her room, which was in Dare Hall on the same corridor as that of the three girls from Briarwood, and Ruth and Helen and Jennie were right behind her. "That certainly is an awful tam," groaned Jennie. "What do you suppose makes her wear it, anyway? Let alone the trouble----" She broke off. Miss Dexter, the first senior who had spoken to Ruth and Helen coming over from the railway station on the auto-bus, stopped the strange girl whose initials were the same as those of the girl of the Red Mill. "Will you tell me, please, why you are wearing that tam-o'-shanter?" asked Miss Dexter. Rebecca Frayne's head came up and a spot of vivid red appeared in either of her sallow cheeks. "Is that _your_ business?" she demanded, slowly. "Do you know that I am a senior?" asked Miss Dexter, levelly. "I don't care if you are two seniors," returned Rebecca Frayne, saucily. Miss Dexter turned her back upon the freshman and walked promptly away. The listeners were appalled. None of them cared to go forward and speak to Rebecca Frayne. "Cracky!" gasped Helen. "She's an awful spitfire." "She's an awful chump!" groaned Jennie. "The seniors won't do a thing to her!" But nothing came at once of Rebecca's refusal to obey the seniors' command regarding tam-o'-shanters. It was known, however, that the executive committees of both the senior and junior classes met that next night and supposedly took the matter up. "Oh, no! They don't haze any more at Ardmore," said Jennie, shaking her head. "But just wait!" CHAPTER XII RUTH IS NOT SATISFIED Ruth Fielding was not at all satisfied. Not that her experiences in these first few weeks of college were not wholly "up to sample," as the slangy Jennie Stone remarked. Ruth was getting personally all out of college life that she could expect. The mere fact that a little handful of the girls looked at her somewhat askance because of her success as a motion picture writer, did not greatly trouble the girl of the Red Mill. She could wait for them to forget her small "fame" or for them to learn that she was quite as simple and unaffected as any other girl of her age. It was about Rebecca Frayne that Ruth was disturbed in her mind. Here was the case of a student who, Ruth believed, was much misunderstood. She could not imagine a girl deliberately making trouble for herself. Rebecca Frayne by the expenditure of a couple of dollars in the purchase of a new tam-o'-shanter might have easily overcome this dislike that had been bred not alone in the minds of the girls of the two upper classes, but among the sophomores and her own classmates as well. The sophomores thought her ridiculous; the freshmen themselves felt that she was bringing upon the whole class unmerited criticism. Ruth looked deeper. She saw the strange girl walk past her mates unnoticed, scarcely spoken to, indeed, by the freshmen and ignored completely by members of the other classes. And yet, to Ruth's mind, there seemed to be an air about Rebecca Frayne--a look in her eyes, perhaps--that seemed to beg for sympathy. It was no hardship for Ruth to speak to the girl and try to be friendly with her. But opportunities for this were not frequent. In the first place Ruth's own time was much occupied with her studies, her own personal friends, Helen and Jennie, and the new scenario on which she worked during every odd hour. Several times Ruth went to the door of Rebecca's room and knocked. She positively knew the girl was at home, but there had been no answer to her summons and the door was locked. The situation troubled Ruth. When she was among her classmates, Rebecca seemed nervously anxious to please and eager to be spoken to, although she had little to say. Here, on the other hand, once alone in her room, she deliberately shut herself away from all society. Soon after the outdoor song festival that had been so successful, and immediately following the organization of the freshman class and its election of officers, Ruth and Helen went over to the library one evening to consult some reference books. The reference room was well filled with busy girls of all classes, who came bustling in, got down the books they required, dipped into them for a minute and then departed to their own studies, or else settled down to work on their topics for a more extended period. It was a cold evening, and whenever a girl entered from the hall a breath of frosty air came with her, and most of those gathered in the room were likely to look up and shiver. Few of those assembled failed to notice Rebecca Frayne when she came in. "Goodness! See who has came," whispered Helen. "Oh, Rebecca!" murmured Ruth, looking up as the girl in question crossed the room. "Hasn't she the cheek of all cheeks to breeze in here this way?" Helen went on to say with more force than elegance. "That awful tam again." One could not fail to see the tam-o'-shanter very well. It was noticeable in any assembly. Perhaps half of the girls in the reference room were seniors and juniors. Several of the members of the younger classes nodded to the newcomer, though not many noticed her in this way. There was, however, almost immediately a general movement by the girls belonging to the senior and junior classes. They got up grimly, put away the books they were at work upon, and filed out, one by one, and without saying a word. Helen stared after them, and nudged Ruth. "What is it?" asked her chum, who had been too busy to notice. "Did you see that?" asked Helen. "Did I see what?" "There isn't a senior or a jun left in the room. That--that's something more than a coincidence." Ruth was puzzled. "I really wish you would explain," she said. Helen was not the only girl remaining who had noticed the immediate departure of the members of the two older classes. Some of the sophomores were whispering together. Rebecca's fellow-classmen glanced at her sharply to see if she had noticed what had occurred. "I can't believe it," Ruth said worriedly, after Helen explained. "They would not go out because she came in." The next day, however, the matter was more marked. Rebecca could sing; she evidently loved singing. In the classes for vocal music there was often a mixture of all grades, some of the seniors and juniors attending with the sophomores and freshmen. Ruth Fielding, of course, never missed these classes. She hoped to be noticed and have her voice tried out for the Glee Club. Professor Leidenburg was to give a little talk on this day that would be helpful, and the class was well attended. But when Rebecca Frayne came into the small hall just before the professor himself appeared, there was a stir throughout the audience. The girls, of course, were hatless here; but that morning Rebecca had been seen wearing the "scrambled-egg tam," as Helen insisted upon calling it. There was an intake of breath all over the room. Rebecca walked down the aisle in search of an empty seat. And suddenly half the seats were empty. She could have her choice--and a large one. "Goodness!" Helen gasped. Every senior and junior in the room had arisen and had left her seat. Not a word had been spoken, nor had they glanced at Rebecca Frayne, who at first was unaware of what it portended. The older girls filed out silently. Professor Leidenburg entered by the door beside the organ just in time to see the last of them disappear. He looked a bit surprised, but said nothing and took up the matter at hand with but half an audience. Rebecca Frayne had seen and understood at last. She sat still in her seat, and Ruth saw that she did not open her lips when, later, the choruses were sung. Her face was very pale. Nobody spoke to her when the class was dismissed. This was not an intentional slight on the part of her mates; simply, the girls did not know what to say. The seniors and juniors were showing Rebecca that she was taboo. Their attitude could not be mistaken. And so great was the influence of these older girls of Ardmore upon the whole college that Rebecca walked entirely alone. Ruth and Helen walked down the hill behind Rebecca that afternoon. Ruth was very silent, while Helen buzzed about a dozen things. "I--I wonder how that poor girl feels?" murmured the girl of the Red Mill after a while. "Cold, I imagine!" declared her chum, vigorously. "I'm half frozen myself, Ruth. There's going to be a big frost to-night and the lake is already skimmed over. Say, Ruth!" "Well?" asked her friend, absently. "Let's take our skates first thing in the morning down to that man who sharpens things at the boathouse; will you?" CHAPTER XIII THE GIRL IN THE STORM Ruth Fielding was quite as eager for fun between lessons as either Helen or Jennie, and the prospect of skating on such a large lake as Remona delighted her. The second day following the incident in the chorus class, the ice which had bound Lake Remona was officially pronounced safe. Gymnasium athletics lost their charm for those girls who were truly active and could skate. There were luxurious damsels who preferred to be pushed about in ice-chairs by more active girls or by hired attendants; but our trio of friends did not look upon that as enjoyment. Even Jennie Stone was a vigorous skater. After a day or two on the ice, when their ankles had become strong enough, the three made a circuit of Bliss Island--and that was "some skate," to quote Jennie. The island was more than a mile from the boathouse, and it was five or six miles in circumference. Therefore, the task was quite all of an eight-mile jaunt. "But 'do or die' is our motto," remarked Helen, as they set forth on this determined journey. "Let's show these pussy girls what it means to have trained at Briarwood." "That's all right! that's all right!" grumbled Jennie. "But your motto is altogether too grim and significant. Let's limit it. I want to _do_ if I can; but mercy me! I don't want to _die_ yet. You girls have got to stop and rest when I say so, or I won't go at all." Ruth and Helen agreed. That is why it took them until almost dinner-time to encircle the island. Jennie Stone was determined to rest upon the least provocation. "We'll be starved to death before we get back," Helen began to complain while they were upon the south side of the island. "I should think you would feel the pinch of privation, Heavy." "I do," admitted the other hollowly. "Well, why didn't you escape it by refusing to come, or else by bringing a lunch?" demanded the black-eyed girl. "No. This is a part of the system," groaned Jennie. "What system, I'd like to know?" Ruth asked, in surprise. "System of martyrdom, I guess," sniffed Helen. "You've said it," agreed the plump girl. "That is the truest word yet spoken. Martyrdom! that is what it means for me." "What means to you?" snapped Helen, exasperated because she could not understand. "This dieting and exercising," Jennie said more cheerfully. "I deliberately came so far and without food to see if I couldn't really lose some weight. Do you know, girls, I am so hollow and so tired right now, that I believe I must have lost a few ounces, anyway." "You ridiculous thing!" laughed Helen, recovering her good nature. "Should we sacrifice ourselves for your benefit, do you think, Jennie?" Ruth asked. "Why not? 'Love thy neighbor as thyself,' only more so. I need the inspiration of you girls to help me," Jennie declared. "Do you know, sometimes I am almost discouraged?" "About what?" asked Helen. "About my weight. I watch the bathroom scales with eagle eye. But instead of coming down by pounds, I only fall by ounces. It is awfully discouraging. And then," added the fleshy girl, "the other day when we had such a scrumptuous dinner--was it Columbus Day? I believe so--I was tempted to eat one of my old-time 'full and plenty' meals, and what do you think?" "You had the nightmare," said Helen. "Not a chance! But I went up _two pounds and a half_--or else the scales were crazy!" "Girls!" exclaimed Ruth, suddenly. "Do you know it is snowing?" "My! I never expected that," cried Helen, as a feathery flake lit upon the very point of her pretty nose. "Ow!" "Well, we'd better go on, I guess," Ruth observed. "Put your best foot forward, please, Miss Jennie." "I don't know which is my best foot now," complained the heavy girl. "They are both getting lame." "We'll just have to make you sit down on the ice while we drag you," announced Helen, increasing the length of her stroke. "Not much you won't!" exclaimed Jennie Stone, "I'm cold enough as it is." "Shall we take off our skates and walk over the island, girls?" suggested Ruth. "That will save some time and more than a little work for Heavy." "Don't worry about me," put in Jennie. "I need the exercise. And walking would be worse than skating, I do believe." It was snowing quite thickly now; but the shore of the island was not far away. The trio hugged it closely in encircling the wooded and hilly piece of land. "Say!" Helen cried, "we're not the only girls out here to-day." "Huh?" grunted Jennie, head down and skating doggedly. "See there, Ruth!" called the black-eyed girl. Ruth turned her face to one side and looked under the shade of her hand, which she held above her eyes. There was a figure moving along the shore of Bliss Island just abreast of them. "It's a girl," she said. "But she's not skating." "Who is it? A freshie?" asked Jennie, but little interested. Ruth did not reply. She seemed wonderfully interested by the appearance of the girl on shore. She fell behind her mates while she watched the figure. The snow was increasing; and that with the abruptly rising island, furnished a background for the strange girl which threw her into relief. At first Ruth was attracted only by her figure. She could not see her face. "Who can she be? Not one of the girls at Dare Hall----" This idea spun to nothingness very quickly. No! The figure ashore reminded Ruth Fielding of nobody whom she had seen recently. The feeling, however, that she knew the person grew. The snow blew sharply into the faces of the skating girls; but she on shore was somewhat sheltered from the gale. The wind was out of the north and west and the highland of the island broke the zest of the gale for the strange girl. "And yet she isn't strange--I _know_ she isn't," murmured Ruth Fielding, casting another glance back at the figure on the shore. "Come on, Ruth! _Do_ hurry!" cried Helen, looking back. "Even Heavy is beating you." Ruth quickened her efforts. The strange girl disappeared, mounting a path it seemed toward the center of the island. Ruth, head bent and lips tightly closed, skated on intent upon her mystifying thoughts. The trio rounded the island at last. They got the wind somewhat at their backs and on a long slant made for the boathouse landing. It was growing dusk, but there was a fire at the landing that beckoned them on. "Glad it isn't any farther," Helen panted. "This snow is gathering so fast it clogs one's skates." "Oh, I must be losing pounds!" puffed Jennie Stone. "I bet none of my clothes will fit me to-morrow. I shall have to throw them all away." "Oh, Heavy!" giggled Helen. "That lovely new silk?" "Oh--well--I shall take _that_ in!" drawled Jennie. "I've got it!" exclaimed Ruth, in a most startling way. "Goodness me! are you hurt?" demanded Helen. "What you got? A cramp?" asked Jennie, quite as solicitous. "I know now who that girl looked like," declared Ruth. "What girl?" rejoined Helen Cameron. "The one over yonder, on the other side of the island?" "Yes. She looks just like that Maggie who came to the mill, Helen. You remember, don't you? The girl I left to help Aunt Alvirah when I came to college." "Well, for the land's sake!" said Jennie Stone. "If she's up there at the Red Mill, how can she possibly be down here, too? You're talking out of order, Miss Fielding. Sit down!" CHAPTER XIV "OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT" Ruth Fielding could not get that surprising, that almost unbelievable, discovery out of her mind. It seemed ridiculous to think that girl could be Maggie, "the waif," she had seen on Bliss Island. Aunt Alvirah had written Ruth a letter only a few days before and in it she said that Maggie was very helpful and seemed wholly content. "Only," the little old housekeeper at the Red Mill wrote, "I don't know a mite more about the child now than I did when Mr. Tom Cameron and our Ben brought her in, all white and fainty-like." The girls had to hurry on or be late to dinner. But the very first thing Ruth did when she reached their rooms in Dare Hall was to look up Aunt Alvirah's letter and see when it was dated and mailed. "It's obvious," Ruth told herself, "that Maggie could have reached here almost as soon as the letter if she had wished to. But why come at all? If it was Maggie over on that island, why was she there?" Of course, these ruminations were all in private. Ruth knew better than to take her two close friends into her confidence. If she did the mystery would have been the chief topic of conversation after dinner, instead of the studies slated for that evening. An incident occurred, however, at dinner which served to take Ruth's mind, too, from the mystery. There were a number of seniors and juniors quartered at Dare Hall. Nor were all the seniors table-captains at dinner. This evening the dining hall had filled early. Perhaps the brisk air and their outdoor exercise had given the girls sharper appetites than usual. It had the three girls from Briarwood. They were wearied after their long skate around the island and as ravenous as wolves. They could scarcely wait for Miss Comstock, at the head of their particular table, to begin eating so they might do so, too. And just at this moment, as the pleasant bustle of dinner began, and the lightly tripping waitresses were stepping hither and yon with their trays, the door opened and a single belated girl entered the dining hall. As though the entrance of this girl were expected, a hush fell over the room. Everybody but Jennie looked up, their soup spoons poised as they watched Rebecca Frayne walk down the long room to her place at the housekeeper's table. "Sh!" hissed Helen, admonishing Jennie Stone. "What's the matter?" demanded the fleshy girl in surprise. "Is my soup noisy? I'll have to train it better." But nobody laughed. All eyes were fastened on the girl who had made herself so obnoxious to the seniors and the juniors of Ardmore. She sat down and a waitress put her soup before her. Before poor Rebecca could lift her spoon there was a stir all over the room. Every senior and junior (and there were more than half a hundred in the dining hall) arose, save those acting as table-captains or monitors. The rustle of their rising was subdued; they murmured their excuses to the heads of their several tables in a perfectly polite manner; and not a glance from their eyes turned toward Rebecca Frayne. But as they walked out of the dining hall, their dinners scarcely tasted, the slight put upon the freshman who would not obey was too direct and obvious to be mistaken. Even Jennie Stone was at length aroused from her enjoyment of the very good soup. "What do you know about _that_?" she demanded of Ruth and Helen. Ruth said not a word. To tell the truth she felt so sorry for Rebecca Frayne that she lost taste for her own meal, hungry though she had been when she sat down. How Rebecca herself felt could only be imagined. She had already shown herself to be a painful mixture of sensitiveness and carelessness of criticism that made Ruth Fielding, at least, wonder greatly. Now she ate her dinner without seeming to observe the attitude the members of the older classes had taken. "Cracky!" murmured Jennie, in the middle of dinner. "She's got all the best of it--believe me! The seniors and the juns go hungry." "For a principle," snapped the girl beside her, who chanced to be a sophomore. "Well," said Jennie, smiling, "principles are far from filling. They're a good deal like the only part of the doughnut that agreed with the dyspeptic--the hole. Please pass the bread, dear. Somebody must have eaten mine--and it was nicely buttered, too." "Goodness! nothing disturbs your calm, does it, Miss Stone?" cried another girl. Few of the girls in the dining hall, however, could keep their minds or their gaze off Rebecca Frayne. In whispers all through the meal she was discussed by her close neighbors. Girls at tables farther away talked of the situation frankly. And the consensus of opinion was against her. It was the general feeling that she was entirely in the wrong. The very law which she had essayed to flaunt was that which had brought the freshmen together as a class, and was welding them into a homogeneous whole. "She's a goose!" exclaimed Helen Cameron. And perhaps this was true. It did look foolish. Yet Ruth felt that there must be some misunderstanding back of it all. It should be explained. The girl could not go on in this way. "First we know she'll be packing up and leaving Ardmore," Ruth said worriedly. "She'll leave nobody in tears, I guess," declared one girl within hearing. "But she's one of us--she's a freshman!" Ruth murmured. "She doesn't seem to desire our company or friendship," said another and more thoughtful girl. "And she won't pack up in a hurry," drawled Jennie, still eating. "Remember all those bags and that enormous trunk she brought?" "But, say," began Helen, slowly, "where are all the frocks and things she was supposed to bring with her? We supposed she'd be the peacock of the class, and I don't believe I've seen her in more than three different dresses and only two hats, including that indescribably brilliant tam." Ruth said nothing. She was thinking. She planned to get out of the dining hall at the same time Rebecca did, but just as the dessert was being passed the odd girl rose quickly, bowed her excuses to the housekeeper, and almost ran out of the hall. "She was crying!" gasped Ruth, feeling both helpless and sympathetic. "I wager she bit her tongue, then," remarked Jennie. Ruth hurried through her dessert and left the dining hall ahead of most of the girls. She glanced through the long windows and saw that it was still snowing. "I wonder if that girl is over on the island yet?" she reflected as she ran upstairs. Her first thought just then was of an entirely different girl. She went to Rebecca's door and knocked. She knocked twice, then again. But no answer was returned. No light came through the keyhole, or from under the door; yet Ruth felt sure that Rebecca Frayne was in the room, and weeping. It was a situation in which Ruth Fielding longed to help, yet there seemed positively nothing she could do as long as the stubborn girl would not meet her half way. With a sigh she went to the study she and Helen jointly occupied. Before switching on the light she went to one of the windows that looked out on the lake. Bliss Island was easily visible from this point. The snow was still falling, but not heavily enough to obstruct her vision much. The white bulk of the island rose in the midst of the field of snow-covered ice. It seemed nearer than it ordinarily appeared. As Ruth gazed she saw a spark of light on the island, high up from the shore, but evidently among the trees, for it was intermittent. Now it was visible and again only a red glow showed there. She was still gazing upon this puzzling light when Helen opened the door. "Hello, Ruthie!" she cried. "All in the dark? Oh! isn't the outside world beautiful to-night?" She came to the window and put her arm about Ruth's waist. "See how solemnly the snow is falling--and the whole world is white," murmured the black-eyed girl. "'Oft in the stilly night'----Or is it 'Oft in the silly night'?" and she laughed, for it was not often nor for long that the sentiment that lay deep in Helen's heart rose to the surface. "Oh! What's that light over there, Ruth?" she added, with quick apprehension. "That is what I have been looking at," Ruth said. "But you don't tell me what it is!" cried Helen. "Because I don't know. But I suspect." "Suspect what?" "That it is a campfire," said Ruth. "Yes. It seems to be in one spot. Only the wind makes the flames leap, and at one time they are plainly visible while again they are partly obscured." "Who ever would camp over on Bliss Island on a night like this?" gasped Helen. "I don't see why you put such mysteries up to me," returned Ruth, with a shrug. "I'm no prophet. But----" "But what?" "Do you remember that girl we saw on the island this afternoon?" "Goodness! Yes." "Well, mightn't it be she, or a party she may be with?" "Campers on the island in a snow storm? No girls from this college would be so silly," Helen declared. "I'm not at all sure she was an Ardmore girl," said Ruth, reflectively. "Who under the sun could she be, then?" "Almost anybody else," laughed Ruth. "It is going to stop snowing altogether soon, Helen. See! the moon is breaking through the clouds." "It will be lovely out," sighed Helen. "But hard walking." Ruth gestured towards their two pairs of snowshoes crossed upon the wall. "Not on those," she said. "Oh, Ruthie! Would you?" "All we have to do is to tighten them and sally forth." "Gracious! I'd be willing to be Sally Fifth for a spark of fun," declared Helen, eagerly. "How about Heavy?" asked Ruth, as Helen hastened to take down the snowshoes which both girls had learned to use years before at Snow Camp, in the Adirondacks. "Dead to the world already, I imagine," laughed Helen. "I saw her to her room, and I believe she was so tired and so full of dinner that she tumbled into bed almost before she got her clothes off. You'd never get her out on such a crazy venture!" Helen was as happy as a lark over the chance of "fun." The two girls skilfully tightened the stringing of the shoes, and then, having put on coats, mittens, and drawn the tam-o'-shanters down over their ears, they crept out of their rooms and hastened downstairs and out of the dormitory building. There was not a moving object in sight upon the campus or the sloping white lawns to the level of the frozen lake. The two chums thrust their toes into the straps of their snowshoes and set forth. CHAPTER XV AN ODD ADVENTURE Six inches or more of snow had fallen. It was feathery and packed well under the snowshoes. The girls sank about two inches into the fleecy mass and there the shoes made a complete bed for themselves and the weight of their wearers. "You know what I'd love to do this winter?" said Helen, as they trudged on. "What, my dear?" asked Ruth, who seemed much distraught. "I'd like to try skiing. The slope of College Hill would be just splendiferous for _that_! Away from the observatory to the lake--and then some!" "We'll start a skiing club among the freshies," Ruth said, warmly accepting the idea. "Wonder nobody has thought of it before." "Ardmore hasn't waked up yet to all its possibilities," said Helen, demurely. "But this umpty-umph class of freshmen will show the college a thing or two before we pass from out its scholastic halls." "Question!" cried Ruth, laughing. Then: "There! you can see that light again." "Goodness! You're never going over to that island?" cried Helen. "What did we come out for?" asked Ruth. "And scamp our study hour?" "Goodness!" cried Helen, again, "just for _fun_." "Well, it may be fun to find out just who built that fire and what for," said Ruth. "And then again," objected her chum, "it may be no fun at all, but _serious_." "I have a serious reason for finding out--if I can," Ruth declared. "What is it, dear?" "I'll tell you later," said Ruth. "Follow me now." "If I do I'll not wear diamonds, and I may get into trouble," objected Helen. "You've never got into very serious trouble yet by following my leadership," laughed Ruth. "Come on, Fraid-cat." "Ain't! But we don't know who is over there. Just to think! A camp in the snow!" "Well, we have camped in the snow ourselves," laughed Ruth, harking back to an adventure at Snow Camp that neither of them would ever be likely to forget. They scuffed along on the snowshoes, soon reaching the edge of the lake. Nobody was about the boathouse, for the ice would have to be swept and scraped by the horse-drawn machines before the girls could go skating again. The moon was pushing through the scurrying clouds, and the snow had ceased falling. "Look back!" crowed Helen. "Looks as though two enormous animals had come down the hillside, doesn't it?" "The girls will wake up and view our tracks with wonder in the morning," said Ruth, with a smile. "Perhaps they'll think that some curious monsters have visited Ardmore." "That would cause more wonderment than the case of Rebecca Frayne. What do you suppose is finally going to happen to that foolish girl?" "I really cannot guess," Ruth returned, shaking her head sadly. "Poor thing!" "Why! she can't be _poor_," gasped Helen. "Look at all those trunks she brought with her to Ardmore. And her dresses are tremendously fancy--although we've not seen many of them yet." Ruth stared at her chum for a moment without replying. It was right there and then that she came near to guessing the secret of Rebecca Frayne's trouble. But she forbore to say anything about it at the time, and went on beside her chum toward the white island, much disturbed in her mind. Now and then they caught sight of the dancing flames of the campfire. But when they were nearer the island, the hill was so steep that they lost sight completely of the light. "Suppose it's a _man_?" breathed Helen, suddenly, as they began to climb the shore of Bliss Island. "He won't eat us," returned Ruth. "No. They don't often. Only cannibals, and they are not prevalent in this locality," giggled Helen. "But if it _is_ a man----" "Then we'll turn around and go back," said Ruth, coolly. "I haven't come out here to get acquainted with any male person." "Bluie! Suppose he's a real nice boy?" "There's no such an animal," laughed Ruth. "That is, not around here at the present moment." "Oh yes. I see," Helen rejoined drily. "The nearest _nice_ one is at the Seven Oaks Military Academy." "So you say," Ruth said demurely. "But if it were Tom?" "Dear old Tom and some of his chums!" cried Helen. "Wouldn't it be great? This Adamless Eden is rather palling on me, Chum. The other girls have visitors, but our friends are too far away." "Hush!" advised Ruth. "Whoever it is up there will hear you." Helen was evidently not at all enamored of this adventure. She lagged behind a little. Yet she would not allow Ruth to go on alone to interview the mysterious camper. "I tell you what," the black-eyed girl said, after a moment and in a whisper. "I believe that fire is up near the big boulder we looked at--you remember? The Stone Face, do they call it?" "Quite possibly," Ruth rejoined briskly. "Come on if you're coming. I'm sure the Stone Face won't hurt us." "Not unless it falls on us," giggled Helen. The grove of big trees that covered this part of the hillside was open, and the chums very easily made their way toward the fire, even on snowshoes. But the shoes naturally made some noise as they scuffed over the snow, and in a minute Ruth stopped and slipped her feet out of the straps, motioning Helen to do the same. They wore overshoes so there was no danger of their getting their feet wet in the snow. Hand in hand, Ruth and Helen crept forward. They saw the fire flickering just before them. There was a single figure between the fire and the very boulder of which Helen had spoken. Reaching the edge of the grove the girls gazed without discovery at the camp in the snow. The boulder stood in a small open space, and it was so high and bulky that it sheltered the fire and the camper quite comfortably. As Ruth had suspected, the latter was the girl she had seen walking upon the southern shore of Bliss Island. She knew her by her figure, if not by her face, which was at the moment hidden. "She's alone," whispered Helen, making the words with her lips more than with her voice. "What _can_ she be doing out here?" was the black-eyed girl's next demand. Her chum put out a hand in a gesture of warning and at once walked out of the shelter of the trees and approached the fire. Helen lingered behind. After all, it was so strange a situation that she did not feel very courageous. The moon had quite broken through the clouds now and as Ruth drew nearer to the fire and the girl, her shadow was projected before her upon the snow. The girl who looked like Maggie suddenly espied this shadow, raised her head, and leaped up with a cry. "Don't be frightened, Maggie," said Ruth. "It's only us two girls." "My--my name is--isn't Maggie," stammered the strange girl. And sure enough, having once seen her closely, Ruth Fielding saw that she was quite wrong in her identification. This was not the girl who had drifted down the Lumano River to the Red Mill and taken refuge with Aunt Alvirah. This was a much more assertive person than Maggie--a girl with plenty of health, both of body and mind. Maggie impressed one as being mentally or nervously deficient. Not so this girl who was camping here in the snow on Bliss Island. Yet there was a resemblance to Maggie in the figure of the stranger, and Ruth noted a resemblance in her features, too. "My goodness me!" she said, laughing pleasantly. "If you're not our Maggie you look near enough like her to be her sister." "Well, I haven't any sister in that college," said the strange girl, shortly. "You're from Ardmore, aren't you?" "Yes," Ruth said, Helen now having joined them. "And we saw your light----" "My _what_?" demanded the camping girl, who was warmly, though plainly dressed. "Your campfire. You see," explained Ruth, finding it rather difficult after all to talk to this very self-possessed girl, "we skated around the island to-day----" "I saw you," said the stranger gruffly. "There were three of you." "Yes. And I thought you looked like Maggie, then." "Isn't this Maggie one of you?" sharply demanded the stranger. "She's a girl whom--whom I know," Ruth said quickly. "A really nice girl. And you do look like her. Doesn't she, Helen?" "Why--yes--something like," drawled Helen. "And did you have to come out here to see if I were your friend?" asked the other girl. "When I saw the campfire--yes," Ruth admitted. "It seemed so strange, you know." "What seemed strange?" demanded the girl, very tartly. It was plain that she considered their visit an intrusion. "Why, think of it yourself," Ruth cried, while Helen sniffed audibly. "A girl camping alone on this island--and in a snowstorm." "It isn't snowing now," said the girl, smiling grimly. "But it was when we saw the fire at first," Ruth hastened to say. "You know yourself you would be interested." "Not enough to come clear out here--must be over a mile!--to see about it," was the rejoinder. "I usually mind my own business." "So do we, you may be sure!" spoke up Helen, quick to take offence. "Come away, Ruth." But the girl of the Red Mill was not at all satisfied. She said, frankly: "I do wish that you would tell us why you are here? Surely, you won't remain all night in this lonely place? There is nobody else on the island, is there?" "I should hope not!" exclaimed the girl. "Only you two busybodies." "But, really, we came because we were interested in what went on here. It seems so strange for a girl, alone----" "You've said that before," was the dry reply. "I am a girl alone. I am here on my own business. And _that_ isn't yours." "Oh!" ejaculated Helen, angrily. "Well, if you don't like being spoken to plainly, you needn't stay," the strange girl flung at her. "I see that very well," returned Helen, tossing her head. "_Do_ come away, Ruth." "Ha!" exclaimed the strange girl, suddenly looking at Ruth more intently. "Are you called Ruth?" "Yes. Ruth Fielding is my name." "Oh!" and the girl's face changed in its expression and a little flush came into her cheeks. "I've--I've heard of you." "Indeed! How?" cried Ruth, eagerly. She felt that this girl must really have some connection with Maggie at the mill, she looked so much like the waif. "Oh," said the other girl slowly, looking away, "I heard you wrote picture plays. I saw one of them. That's all." Ruth was silent for a moment. Helen kept tugging at her arm and urging her to go. "We--we can do nothing for you?" queried the girl of the Red Mill at last. "You can get off the island--that's as much as I care," said the strange girl, with a harsh laugh. "You're only intruding where you're not wanted." "Well, I do declare!" burst out Helen again. "She is the most impolite thing. _Do_ come away, Ruthie." "We really came with the best intentions," Ruth added, as she turned away with her chum. "It--it doesn't look right for a girl to be alone at a campfire on this island--and at night, too." "I sha'n't stay here all night," the girl said shortly. "You needn't fret. If you want to know, I just built the fire to get warm by before I started back." "Back where?" Ruth could not help asking. "_That_ you don't know--and you won't know," returned the strange girl, and turned her back upon them. CHAPTER XVI WHAT WAS IN REBECCA'S TRUNK The two chums did not speak a word to each other until they had recovered their snowshoes and set out down the rough side of Bliss Island for the ice. Then Helen sputtered: "People like _that_! Did you ever see such a person? I never was so insulted----" "Pshaw! She was right--in a way," Ruth said coolly. "We had no real business to pry into her affairs." "Well!" "I got you into it. I'm sorry," the girl of the Red Mill said. "I thought it really was Maggie, or I wouldn't have come over here." "She's something like that Maggie girl," proclaimed Helen. "_She_ was nice, I thought." "Maybe this girl is nice, taken under other circumstances," laughed Ruth. "I really would like to know what she is over here for." "No good, I'll be bound," said the pessimistic Helen. "And another thing," Ruth went on to say, as she and her chum reached the level of the frozen lake, "did you notice that pick handle?" "That what?" demanded Helen, in amazement. "Pickaxe handle--I believe it was," Ruth said thoughtfully. "It was thrust out of the snow pile she had scraped away from the boulder. And, moreover, the ground looked as though it had been dug into." "Why, the ground is as hard as the rock itself," Helen cried. "There are six or eight inches of frost right now." "I guess that's so," agreed Ruth. "Perhaps that's why she built such a big fire." "What _do_ you mean, Ruth Fielding?" cried her chum. "I think she wanted to dig there for something," Ruth replied reflectively. "I wonder what for?" When they had returned to Dare Hall and had got their things off and were warm again, they looked out of the window. The campfire on the island had died out. "She's gone away, of course," sighed Ruth. "But I would like to know what she was there for." "One of the mysteries of life," said Helen, as she made ready for bed. "Dear me, but I'm tired!" She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Not so Ruth. The latter lay awake some time wondering about the odd girl on the island and her errand there. Ruth Fielding had another girl's troubles on her mind, however--and a girl much closer to her. The girl on the island merely teased her imagination. Rebecca Frayne's difficulties seemed much more important to Ruth. Of course, there was no real reason for Ruth to take up cudgels for her odd classmate. Indeed, she did not feel that she could do that, for she was quite convinced that Rebecca Frayne was wrong. Nevertheless, she was very sorry for the girl. The trouble over the tam-o'-shanter had become the most talked-of incident of the school term. For the several following days Rebecca was scarcely seen outside her room, save in going to and from her classes. She did not again appear in the dining hall. How she arranged about meals Ruth and her friends could not imagine. Then the housekeeper admitted to Ruth that she had allowed the lonely girl to get her own little meals in her room, as she had cooking utensils and an alcohol lamp. "It is not usually allowed, I know. But Miss Frayne seems to have come to college prepared to live in just that way. She is a small eater, anyway. And--well, anything to avoid friction." "Of course," Ruth said to Helen and Jennie Stone, "lots of girls live in furnished rooms and get their own meals--working girls and students. But it is not a system generally allowed at college, and at Ardmore especially. We shall hear from the faculty about it before the matter is done with." "Well, we're not doing it," scoffed Jennie. "And that Rebecca Frayne is behaving like a chump." "But how she does stick to that awful tam!" groaned Helen. "Stubborn as a mule," agreed Jennie. "I saw her with another hat on to-day," said Ruth, reflectively. "That's so! It was the one she wore the day she arrived," Helen said quickly. "A summer hat. I wonder what she did bring in that trunk, anyway? She has displayed no such charming array of finery as I expected." Ruth did not discuss this point. She was more interested in the state of Rebecca's mind, though, of course, there was not much time for her to give to anything but her studies and regular duties now, for as the term advanced the freshmen found their hours pretty well filled. Scrub teams for certain indoor sports had been made up, and even Jennie Stone took up the playing of basketball with vigor. She was really losing flesh. She kept a card tacked upon her door on which she set down the fluctuations of her bodily changes daily. When she lost a whole pound in weight she wrote it down in red ink. Their activities kept the three friends well occupied, both physically and mentally. Yet Ruth Fielding could not feel wholly satisfied or content when she knew that one of her mates was in trouble. She had taken an interest in Rebecca Frayne at the beginning of the semester; yet of all the freshmen Rebecca was the one whom she knew the least. "And that poor girl needs somebody for a friend--I feel it!" Ruth told herself. "Of course, she is to blame for the situation in which she now is. But for that very reason she ought to have somebody with whom to talk it over." Ruth determined to be that confidant of the girl who seemed to wish no associate and no confidant. She began to loiter in the corridors between recitation hours and at odd times. Whenever she knocked on Rebecca's door there was no reply. Other girls who had tried it quickly gave up their sympathetic attentions. If the foolish girl wished for no friends, let her go her own way. That became the attitude of the freshman class. Of course, the sophomores followed the lead of the seniors and the juniors, having as little to do with the unfortunate girl as possible. But the day and hour came at last when Ruth chanced to be right at hand when Rebecca Frayne came in and unlocked her room door. Her arms were full of small packages. Ruth knew that she had walked all the way to the grocery store on the edge of Greenburg, which the college girls often patronized. It had been a long, cold walk, and Rebecca's fingers were numb. She dropped a paper bag--and it contained eggs! Now, it is quite impossible to hide the fact of a dropped egg. At another time Ruth might have laughed; but now she soberly retrieved the paper bag before the broken eggs could do much damage, and stepped into the room after the nervous Rebecca. "Oh, thank you!" gasped the girl. "Put--put them down anywhere. Thank you!" "My goodness!" said Ruth, laughing, "you can't put broken eggs down _anywhere_. Don't you see they are runny?" "Never mind, Miss Fielding----" "Oh! you've a regular kitchenette here, haven't you?" said Ruth, emboldened to look behind a curtain. "How cunning. I'll put these eggs in this clean dish. Mercy, but they are scrambled!" "Don't trouble, Miss Fielding. You are very kind." "But scrambled eggs are pretty good, at that," Ruth went on, unheeding the other girl's nervousness. "If you can only get the broken shells out of them," and she began coolly to do this with a fork. "I should think you would not like eating alone, Rebecca." The other girl stared at her. "How can I help it?" she asked harshly. "Just by getting a proper tam and stop being stubborn," Ruth told her. "Miss Fielding!" cried Rebecca, her face flushing. "Do you think I do this for--for fun?" "You must. It isn't a disease, is it?" and Ruth laughed aloud, determined to refuse to take the other's tragic words seriously. "You--you are unbearable!" gasped Rebecca. "No, I'm not. I want to be your friend," Ruth declared boldly. "I want you to have other friends, too. No use flocking by one's self at college. Why, my dear girl! you are missing all that is best in college life." "I'd like to know what _is_ best in college life!" burst out Rebecca Frayne, sullenly. "Friendship. Companionship. The rubbing of one mind against another," Ruth said promptly. "Pooh!" returned the startled Rebecca. "I wouldn't want to rub my mind against some of these girls' minds. All I ever hear them talk about is dress or amusements." "I don't think you know many of the other girls well enough to judge the calibre of their minds," said Ruth, gently. "And why don't I?" demanded Rebecca, still with a sort of suppressed fury. "We all judge more or less by appearances," Ruth admitted slowly. "I presume _you_, too, were judged that way." "What do you mean, Miss Fielding?" asked Rebecca, more mildly. "When you came here to Ardmore you made a first impression. We all do," Ruth said. "Yes," Rebecca admitted, with a slight curl of her lip. She was naturally a proud-looking girl, and she seemed actually haughty now. "I was mistaken for _you_, I believe." Ruth laughed heartily at that. "I should be a good friend of yours," she said. "It was a great sell on those sophomores. They had determined to make poor little me suffer for some small notoriety I had gained at boarding school." "I never went to boarding school," snapped Rebecca. "I never was _anywhere_ till I came to college. Just to our local schools. I worked hard, let me tell you, to pass the examinations to get in here." "And why don't you let your mind broaden and get the best there is to be had at Ardmore?" Ruth demanded, quickly. "The girls misunderstand you. I can see that. We freshmen have got to bow our heads to the will of the upper classes. It doesn't hurt--much," and she laughed again. "Do you think I am wearing this old tam because I am stubborn?" demanded the other girl, again with that fierceness that seemed so strange in one so young. "Why--aren't you?" "No." "Why do you wear it, then?" asked Ruth, wonderingly. "_Because I cannot afford to buy another!_" Rebecca Frayne said this in so tense a voice that Ruth was fairly staggered. The girl of the Red Mill gazed upon the other's flaming face for a full minute without making any reply. Then, faintly, she said: "I--I didn't understand, Rebecca. We none of us do, I guess. You came here in such style! That heavy trunk and those bags----" "All out of our attic," said the other, sharply. "Did you think them filled with frocks and furbelows? See here!" Ruth had already noticed the packages of papers piled along one wall of the room. Rebecca pointed to them. "Out of our attic, too," she said, with a scornful laugh that was really no laugh at all. "Old papers that have lain there since the Civil War." "But, Rebecca----" "Why did I do it?" put in the other, in the same hard voice. "Because I was a little fool. Because I did not understand. "I didn't know just what college was like. I never talked with a girl from college in my life. I thought this was a place where only rich girls were welcome." "Oh, Rebecca!" cried Ruth. "That isn't so." "I see it now," agreed the other girl, shortly. "But we always have had to make a bluff at our house. Since _I_ can remember, at least. Grandfather was wealthy; but our generation is as poor as Job's turkey. "I didn't want to appear poor when I arrived here; so I got out the old bags and the big trunk, filled them with papers, and brought them along. A friend lent me that car I arrived in. I--I thought I'd make a splurge right at first, and then my social standing would not be questioned." "Oh, Rebecca! How foolish," murmured Ruth. "Don't say that!" stormed the girl. "I see that I started all wrong. But I can't help it now," and suddenly she burst into a passion of weeping. CHAPTER XVII WHAT WAS IN REBECCA'S HEART It was some time before Ruth could quiet the almost hysterical girl. Rebecca Frayne had held herself in check so long, and the bitterness of her position had so festered in her mind, that now the barriers were burst she could not control herself. But Ruth Fielding was sympathetic. And her heart went out to this lonely and foolish girl as it seldom had to any person in distress. She felt, too, did Ruth, as though it was partly her fault and the fault of the other freshmen that Rebecca was in this state of mind. She was fearful that having actually forced herself upon Rebecca that the girl might, when she came to herself, turn against her. But at present Rebecca's heart was so full that it spilled over, once having found a confidant. In Ruth Fielding's arms the unfortunate girl told a story that, if supremely silly from one standpoint, was a perfectly natural and not uncommon story. She was a girl, born and brought up in a quiet, small town, living in the biggest and finest house in that town, yet having suffered actual privations all her life for the sake of keeping up appearances. The Frayne family was supposed to be wealthy. Not as wealthy as a generation or so before; still, the Fraynes were looked upon as the leaders in local society. There was now only an aunt, Rebecca, a younger sister, and a brother who was in New York struggling upward in a commission house. "And if it were not for the little Fred can spare me and sends me twice a month, I couldn't stay here," Rebecca confessed during this long talk with Ruth. "He's the best boy who ever lived." "He must be," Ruth agreed. "I'd be glad to have a brother like that." Rebecca had been hungry for books. She had always hoped to take a college course. "But I was ignorant of everything," she sighed. Ruth gathered, too, that the aunt, who was at the nominal head of the Frayne household, was also ignorant. This Aunt Emmy seemed to be an empty-headed creature who thought that the most essential thing for a girl in life was to be fancifully dressed, and to attain a position in society. Aunt Emmy had evidently filled Rebecca's head with such notions. The girl had come to Ardmore with a totally wrong idea of what it meant to be in college. "Why! some of these girls act as waitresses," said Rebecca. "I couldn't do _that_ even to obtain the education I want so much. Oh! Aunt Emmy would never hear to it." "It's a perfectly legitimate way of helping earn one's tuition," Ruth said. "The Fraynes have never done such things," the other girl said haughtily. And right there and then Ruth decided that Rebecca Frayne was going to have a very hard time, indeed, at Ardmore unless she learned to look upon life quite differently from the way she had been taught at home. Already Ruth Fielding had seen enough at Ardmore to know that many of the very girls whose duties Rebecca scorned, were getting more out of their college life than Rebecca Frayne could possibly get unless she took a radically different view of life and its comparative values from that her present standards gave her. The girls who were waitresses, and did other work to help pay for their tuition or for their board were busy and happy and were respected by their mates. In addition, they were often the best scholars in the classes. Rebecca was wrong in scorning those who combined domestic service with an attempt to obtain an education. But Ruth was wise enough to see that this feeling was inbred in Rebecca. It was useless to try to change her opinion upon it. If Rebecca were poverty-stricken, her purse could not be replenished by any such means as these other girls found to help them over the hard places. In this matter of the tam-o'-shanter, for instance, it would be very difficult to help the girl. Ruth knew better than to offer to pay for the new tam-o'-shanter the freshman could not afford to buy. To make such an offer would immediately close the door of the strange girl's friendship to Ruth. So she did not hint at such a thing. She talked on, beginning to laugh and joke with Rebecca, and finally brought her out of her tears. "Cheer up," Ruth said. "You are making the worst possible use of your time here--keeping to yourself and being so afraid of making friends. We're not all rich girls, I assure you. And the girls on this corridor are particularly nice." "I suppose that may be. But if everywhere I go they show so plainly they don't want me----" "That will stop!" cried Ruth, vigorously. "If I have to go to Dr. Milroth myself, it shall be stopped. It is hazing of the crudest kind. Oh! what a prettily crocheted table-mat. It's old-fashioned, but pretty." "Aunty does that, almost all the time," Rebecca said, with a little laugh. "Fred once said--in confidence, of course--that half the family income goes for Aunt Emmy's wool." "Do _you_ do it, too?" Ruth asked suspiciously. "Oh yes. I can." "Say! could you crochet one of these tams?" cried Ruth, eagerly. "Why--I suppose so," admitted the other girl. "Then, why not? Do it to please the seniors and juniors. It won't hurt to bow to a custom, will it? And you only need buy a few hanks of wool at a time." Rebecca's face flamed again; but she took the suggestion, after all, with some meekness. "I _might_ do that," she admitted. "All right. Then you'll be doing your part. And talk to the girls. Let them talk to you. Come down to the dining-room for your meals again. You know, the housekeeper, Mrs. Ebbets, will soon be getting into trouble about you. Somebody will talk to Dr. Milroth or to some other member of the upper faculty." "I suppose so," groaned Rebecca. "They won't let poor little me alone." "Oh, you can't expect to have your own way at school," cried Ruth, laughing. "Oh, and say!" "Well, Miss Fielding?" "_Do_ call me Ruth," begged the girl of the Red Mill. "It won't cost you a cent more," but she said it so good-naturedly that Rebecca had to laugh. "I will," said the other girl, vehemently. "You are the very nicest little thing!" "Well, now that's settled," laughed Ruth, "do something for me, will you?" "Any--anything I can," agreed Rebecca, with some doubt. "You know we girls on this corridor are going to have a sitting-room all to ourselves. That corner room that is empty. Everybody is going to buy--is going to give something to help furnish the room." "Oh, Ruth! I can't----" "Yes you can," interrupted Ruth, quickly. "When you stop this foolish eating by yourself, you can bring over your alcohol lamp. It's just what we want to make tea on. Now, say you will, Rebecca!" "I--I will. Why, yes, I can do that," Rebecca agreed. "Goody! I'll tell the girls. And you'll be as welcome as the flowers in May, lamp or no lamp," she cried, kissing Rebecca again and bustling out of the room. CHAPTER XVIII BEARDING THE LIONS Ruth had shown a very cheerful face before Rebecca Frayne, but when she was once out of the room the girl of the Red Mill did not show such a superabundance of cheerfulness. She knew well enough that Rebecca had become so unpopular that public opinion could not be changed regarding her in a moment. Besides, there were the two upper classes to be considered. Their order regarding the freshmen's head-covering had been flagrantly disobeyed, and would have to be disobeyed for some time to come. A girl cannot crochet a tam-o'-shanter in a minute. Having undertaken to straighten out Rebecca Frayne's troubles, however, Ruth did not publicly shrink from the task. She was one who made up her mind quickly, and having made it up, set to work immediately to carry the matter through. Merry Dexter, the first senior she had met upon coming to Ardmore, was kindly disposed toward her, and Ruth knew that Miss Dexter was an influential member of her class. Therefore, Ruth took her trouble--and Rebecca's--directly to Miss Dexter. Yet, she did not feel that she had a right to explain, even to this one senior, all that Rebecca Frayne had confided to her. She realized that the girl, with her false standards of respectability and social standing, would never be able to hold up her head at college if her real financial situation were known to the girls in general. Ruth was bound, however, to take Miss Dexter somewhat into her confidence to obtain a hearing. She put the matter before the senior as nicely as possible, saying in conclusion: "And she will knit herself a tam of the proper color just as soon as possible. No girl, you know, Miss Dexter, likes to admit that she is poor. It is dreadfully embarrassing. So I hope that this matter will be adjusted without her situation being discussed." "Goodness! _I_ can't change things," the senior declared. "Not unless that girl agrees to do as she is told--like the rest of you freshies." "Then my opinion of your class, Miss Dexter," Ruth said firmly, "must be entirely wrong. I did not believe that they ordered us to wear baby blue tams just out of an arbitrary desire to make us obey. Had I believed _that_ I would not have bought a new tam myself!" "You wouldn't?" "No, Miss Dexter. Nor would a great many of us freshmen. We believed the order had a deeper significance--and it _had_. It helped our class get together. We are combined now, we are a social body. And I believe that if I took this matter up with Rebecca's class, and explained just her situation to them (which, of course, I do not want to do), the freshmen as a whole would back me in a revolt against the upper classes." "You're pretty sure of that, Ruth Fielding, are you?" demanded the senior. "Yes, I am. We'd all refuse to wear the new tams. You seniors and juniors would have a nice time sending us all to Coventry, wouldn't you? If you didn't want to eat with us, you'd all go hungry for a long time before the freshmen would do as Rebecca foolishly did." Miss Dexter laughed at that. And then she hugged Ruth. "I believe you are a dear girl, with a lot of good sense in your head," she said. "But you must come before our executive committee and talk to them." "Oh, dear! Beard the lions in their den?" cried Ruth. "Yes, my dear. I cannot be your spokesman." Ruth found this a harder task than she had bargained for; but she went that same evening to a hastily called meeting of the senior committee. Perhaps Miss Dexter had done more for her than she agreed, however, for Ruth found these older girls very kind and she seemingly made them easily understand Rebecca's situation without being obliged to say in just so many words that the girl was actually poverty-stricken. And it was probable, too, that Ruth Fielding helped herself in this incident as much as she did her classmate. The members of the older classes thereafter gave the girl of the Red Mill considerably more attention than she had previously received. Ruth began to feel surprised that she had so many warm friends and pleasant acquaintances in the college, even among the sophomores of Edith Phelps' stamp. Edith Phelps found her tart jokes about the "canned-drama authoress" falling rather flat, so she dropped the matter. Older girls stopped on the walks to talk to Ruth. They sat beside her in chapel and at other assemblies, and seemed to like to talk with her. Although Ruth did not hold an office in her own class organization, yet she bade fair to become soon the most popular freshman at Ardmore. Ruth was perfectly unconscious of this fact, for she had not a spark of vanity in her make-up. Her mind was so filled with other and more important things that her social conquests impressed her but little. She did, however, think a good bit about poor Rebecca Frayne's situation. She warned her personal friends among the freshmen, especially those at Dare Hall, to say nothing to Rebecca about the unfortunate affair. Rebecca came into the dining-room again. Ruth knew that she had actually begun to crochet a baby blue tam-o'-shanter. But it was a question in Ruth's mind if the odd girl would be able to "keep up appearances" on the little money she had left and that which her brother could send her from time to time. It was quite tragic, after all. Rebecca was sure of good and sufficient food as long as she could pay her board; but the girl undoubtedly needed other things which she could not purchase. Naturally, youth cannot give its entire attention to even so tragic a matter as this. Ruth's gay friends acted as counterweights in her mind to Rebecca's troubles. The girls were out on the lake very frequently as the cold weather continued; but Ruth never saw again the strange girl whom she and Helen had interviewed at night on Bliss Island. Hearing from Aunt Alvirah as she did with more or less frequency, the girl of the Red Mill was assured that Maggie seemed content and was proving a great help to the crippled old housekeeper. Maggie seemed quite settled in her situation. "Just because that queer girl looked like Maggie doesn't prove that Maggie knows her," Ruth told herself. "Still--it's odd." Stormy weather kept the college girls indoors a good deal; and the general sitting-room on Ruth's corridor became the most social spot in the whole college. The girls whose dormitory rooms were there, irrespective of class, all shared in the furnishing of the sitting-room. Second-hand furniture is always to be had of dealers near an institution like Ardmore. Besides, the girls all owned little things they could spare for the general comfort, like Rebecca Frayne's alcohol lamp. Helen had a tea set; somebody else furnished trays. In fact, all the "comforts of home" were supplied to that sitting-room; and the girls were considered very fortunate by their mates in other parts of the hall, and, indeed, in the other three dormitory buildings. But during the holiday recess something happened that bade fair to deprive Ruth and her friends of their special perquisite. Dr. McCurdy's wife's sister came to Ardmore. The McCurdys did not keep house, preferring to board. They could find no room for Mrs. Jaynes, until it was remembered that there was an unassigned dormitory room at Dare Hall. Many of the girls had gone home over the brief holidays; but our three friends from Briarwood had remained at Ardmore. So Ruth and Helen and Jennie Stone chanced to be among the girls present when the housekeeper of Dare Hall came into the sitting-room and, to quote Jennie, informed them that they must "vamoose the ranch." "That is what Ann Hicks would call it," Jennie said, defending her language when taken to task for it. "We've just got to get out--and it's a mean shame." Dr. McCurdy was one of the important members of the faculty. Of course, the girls on that corridor had no real right to the extra room. All they could do was to voice their disappointment--and they did that, one may be sure, with vociferation. "And just when we had come to be so comfortably fixed here," groaned one, when the housekeeper had departed. "I know I shall dis-_like_ that Mrs. Jaynes extremely." "We won't speak to her!" cried Helen, in a somewhat vixenish tone. "Maybe she won't care if we don't," laughed Ruth. But it was no laughing matter, as they all felt. They made a gloomy party in the pretty sitting-room that last evening of its occupancy as a community resort. "There's Clara Mayberry in her rocker again on that squeaky board," Rebecca Frayne remarked. "I hope she rocks on that board every evening over this woman's head who has turned us out." "Let's all hope so," murmured Helen. Jennie Stone suddenly sat upright in the rocker she was occupying, but continued to glare at the ceiling. A board in the floor of the room above had frequently annoyed them before. Clara Mayberry sometimes forgot and placed her rocker on that particular spot. "If--if she had to listen to that long," gasped Jennie suddenly, "she would go crazy. She's just that kind of nervous female. I saw her at chapel this morning." "But even Clara couldn't stand the squeak of that board long," Ruth observed, smiling. Without another word Jennie left the room. She came back later, so full of mystery, as Helen declared, that she seemed on the verge of bursting. However, Jennie refused to explain herself in any particular; but the board in Clara Mayberry's room did not squeak again that evening. CHAPTER XIX A DEEP, DARK PLOT "Heavy is actually losing flesh," Helen declared to Ruth. "I can see it." "You mean you _can't_ see it," laughed her chum. "That is, you can't see so much of it as there used to be. If she keeps on with the rowing machine work in the gym and the basket ball practise and dancing, she will soon be the thinnest girl who ever came to Ardmore." "Oh, never!" cried Helen. "I don't believe I should like Heavy so much if she wasn't a _little_ fat." People who had not seen Jennie Stone for some time observed the change in her appearance more particularly than did her two close friends. This was proved when Mr. Cameron and Tom arrived. For, as the girls did not go home for just a few days, Helen's father and her twin unexpectedly appeared at college on Christmas Eve, and their company delighted the chums immensely. On Friday evenings the girls could have company, and on all Saturday afternoons, even during the college term. Also a girl could have a young man call on her Sunday evening, provided he took her to service at chapel. The three Briarwood friends had had no such company heretofore. They made the most of Mr. Cameron and Tom, therefore, during Christmas week. There was splendid sleighing, and the skating on the lake was at its very best. Ruth insisted upon including Rebecca Frayne in some of their parties, and Rebecca proved to be good fun. Tom stared at Jennie Stone, round-eyed, when first he saw her. "What's the matter with you, Tom Cameron?" the fleshy girl asked, rather tartly. "Didn't you ever see a good-looking girl before?" "But say, Jennie!" he cried, "are you going into a decline?" "I decline to answer," she responded. But she dimpled when she said it, and evidently considered Tom's rather blunt remark a compliment. The Christmas holidays were over all too soon, it seemed to the girls. Yet they took up the class work again with vigor. Their acquaintanceship was broadening daily, both in the student body and among the instructors. Most of the strangeness of this new college world had worn off. Ruth and Helen and Jennie were full-fledged "Ardmores" now, quite as devoted to the college as they had been to dear old Briarwood. After New Year's there was a raw and rainy spell that spoiled many of the outdoor sports. Practice in the gymnasium increased, and Helen said that Jennie Stone was bound to work herself down to a veritable shadow if the bad weather continued long. Ruth was in Rebecca's room one dingy, rainy afternoon, having skipped gymnasium work of all kind for the day. The proprietor of the room had finished her baby blue cap and had worn it the first time that week. "I feel that they are not all staring at me now," she confessed to Ruth. Ruth was at the piles of old papers which Rebecca had hidden under a half-worn portierre she had brought from home. "Do you know," the girl of the Red Mill said reflectively, "these old things are awfully interesting, Becky?" "What old things?" "These papers. I've opened one bundle. They were all printed in Richmond during the Civil War. Why, paper must have been awfully scarce then. Some of these are actually printed on wrapping paper--you can scarcely read the print." "Ought to look at those Charleston papers," said Rebecca, carelessly. "There are full files of those, too, I believe. Why, some of them are printed on wall paper." "No!" "Yes they are. Ridiculous, wasn't it?" Ruth sat silent for a while. Finally she asked: "Are you sure, Becky, that you have quite complete files here of this Richmond paper? For all the war time, I mean?" "Yes. And of the South Carolina paper, too. Father collected them during and immediately following the war. He was down there for years, you see." "I see," Ruth said quietly, and for a long time said nothing more. But that evening she wrote several letters which she did not show Helen, and took them herself to the mailbag in the lower hall. Before this, Mrs. Jaynes, Dr. McCurdy's sister-in-law, was settled in the room which had formerly been used by the girls as their own particular sitting-room. She was not an attractive woman at all; so it was not hard for her youthful associates on that corridor of Dare Hall to declare war upon Mrs. Jaynes. Indeed, without having been introduced to a single girl there, Mrs. Jaynes eyed them all as though she suspected they belonged to a tribe of Bushmen. Naturally, during hours of relaxation, and occasionally at other times, the girls joked and laughed and raced through the halls and sang and otherwise acted as a crowd of young people usually act. Mrs. Jaynes was plainly of that sort that believes that all youthfulness and ebullition of spirits should be suppressed. Luckily, she met the girls but seldom--only when she was going to and from her room. On stormy days she remained shut up in her apartment most of the time, and Mrs. Ebbetts sent a maid up with her tray at meal time. She never ate in the Dare Hall dining-room. Meantime, Jennie Stone had several mysterious sessions with certain of the girls who felt quite as she did regarding the usurpation of Dr. McCurdy's sister-in-law of the spare room. Had Ruth not been so busy in other directions she would have realized that a plot of some kind was in process of formation, for Helen was in it, as well. Jennie Stone had made a friend of Clara Mayberry on the floor above. In fact, a number of the girls on the lower corridor affected by the presence of Mrs. Jaynes, were in and out of Clara's room all day long. None of these girls remained long at a time--not more than half an hour; but another visitor always appeared before the first left, right through the day, from breakfast call till "lights out." And after retiring hour there began to be seen figures stealing through the corridors and on the stairway between the two floors. That is, there would have been seen such ghostly marauders had there been anybody to watch. Mrs. Jaynes crossly complained to Mrs. Ebbetts that she was kept awake all night long--and all day, for that matter! But as she never put her head out of her room after the lights were lowered in the corridors, she did not discover the soft-footed spectres of the night. "But," she complained to Mrs. Ebbetts, "it is the noisiest room I ever was in. Such a squeaking you never heard! And all the time, day and night." "I do not understand that at all," said the puzzled housekeeper. "I'd like to know how the girl who had that room before I took it, stood that awful squeaking noise," said the visitor. "Why, Mrs. Jaynes," said the housekeeper, "no girl slept there. It was a sitting-room." "Even so, I cannot understand how anybody could endure the noise. If I believed in such things I should declare the room was haunted." "Indeed, Madam!" gasped the housekeeper. "I do not understand it." "Well, I cannot endure it. I shall tell my sister that I cannot remain here at Ardmore unless she finds me other lodgings. That awful _squeak, squeak, squeak_ continues day and night. It is unbearable." In the end, Dr. McCurdy found lodgings for his sister-in-law in Greenburg. The girls of Ruth's corridor were delighted, and that night held a regular orgy in the recovered sitting-room. "Thank goodness!" sighed Jennie Stone, "no more up and down all night for us, either. We may sleep in peace, as well as occupy the room in peace." "What _do_ you mean, Heavy?" demanded Ruth. "Oh, Ruthie! That's one time we put one over on you, dear," said the fleshy girl sweetly. "You were not asked to join in the conspiracy. We feared your known sympathetic nature would revolt." "But explain!" "Why, Clara let us use her rocking chair," Jennie said demurely. "It's a very nice chair. We all rocked in it, one after another, half-hour watches being assigned----" "Not at night?" cried the horror-stricken Ruth. "Oh, yes. All day and all night. Every little minute that rocker was going upon the squeaky board. It's a wonder the board is not worn out," chuckled the wicked Jennie. "Well, I never!" proclaimed Ruth, aghast. "What won't you think of next, Jennie Stone?" "I don't know. I know I'm awfully smart," sighed Jennie. "I did so much of the rocking myself, however, that I don't much care if I never see a rocking-chair again." CHAPTER XX TWO SURPRISES Ruth Fielding knew that Rebecca Frayne was painfully embarrassed for money. She managed to find the wherewithal for her board, and her textbooks of course had been paid for at the beginning of the college year. But there are always incidentals and unforeseen small expenses, which crop up in a most unexpected manner and clamor for payment. Rebecca never opened her lips about these troubles, despite the fact that she loved Ruth and was much with the girl of the Red Mill. But Ruth was keen-eyed. She knew that Rebecca suffered for articles of clothing. She saw that her raiment was becoming very, very shabby. The girl in this trouble was foolish, of course. But foolishness is a disease not so easily cured. There was not the slightest chance of giving Rebecca anything that she needed; Ruth knew that quite well. Her finery--and cheap enough it was--the girl would flaunt to the bitter end. Deep down she was a good girl in every respect; but she did put on airs and ape the wealthy girls she saw. What garments she owned had been ultra-fashionable in cut, if poor in texture, when she had come to college. But fashions change so frequently nowadays that already poor Rebecca Frayne was behind the styles--and she knew it and grieved bitterly. Most of her mates at Dare Hall, the freshmen especially, usually dressed in short cloth skirts and middy blouses, with a warm coat over all in cold weather. Would Rebecca be caught going to classes in such an outfit? Not much! That was why her better clothes wore out so quickly and now looked so shabby. Jennie Stone said, with disgust, and with more than a little truth, perhaps: "That girl primps to go to recitations just as though she were bound for a party. I don't see how she finds time for study." Ruth realized that Rebecca was made that way, and that was all there was to it. She wasted no strength, nor did she run the risk of being bad friends with the unwise girl, by criticising these silly things. Ruth believed in being helpful, or else keeping still. Rebecca could never be induced to try to do the things that other poor girls did at college to help pay their expenses. Perhaps she was not really fitted for such services, and would only have failed. Other girls acted as waitresses, did sewing, one looked after the linen for one of the dormitories, another darned hose and repaired lingerie. Dr. Frances Milroth's own personal secretary was a junior who was working her way through Ardmore and was taking a high mark, too, in her studies. One girl helped Mrs. Leidenburg with her children during several hours of each day. Some girls were agents for articles which their college mates were glad to secure easily and quickly. Indeed, the field of endeavor seemed rather well covered, and it would have been hard to discover anything new for Rebecca Frayne to do, had the girl even been willing to "go into trade," a thing Rebecca had told Ruth a Frayne had never done. This attitude of the Frayne family seemed quite ridiculous to Ruth, but she knew it was absolutely useless to scold Rebecca. Indeed, it was not Ruth Fielding's way to be a scold. If she could not be helpful she preferred to ignore that which she saw was wrong. And in Rebecca Frayne's case she was determined to be helpful if she could. Rebecca was a bright scholar. After all, she would shine in her class before all was said and done. They could not afford to lose such a really bright girl from among the freshmen. Often on stormy days Ruth spent the time between recitations and dinner in Rebecca's room. "I never saw anybody so fond of old papers as you are, Ruthie," Rebecca said. "Do take 'em all if you like. Of course, I'll never be silly enough to carry them back home with me. They are only useful to help build the fire." "Don't dare destroy one of them, Rebecca Frayne!" Ruth had warned her--and actually made her promise that she would not do so. Then the replies to Ruth's letters came. She had gone all through the bundles of papers by this time, arranged them according to their dates of issue, and wrapped the different years' issues in strong paper. Rebecca could not see for the life of her, she said, what Ruth was about. "Surely they can't be worth much as old paper, Ruthie. I know you are a regular little business woman; but junk men aren't allowed on the college grounds." "Expressmen are, my dear," laughed Ruth. "What do you mean? What _are_ you going to do with those papers?" "You said you didn't care----" "And I don't. They are yours to do with as you please," said the generous Rebecca Frayne. "To punish you," Ruth said seriously, "I ought really to take you at your word," and she shook her head. "What meanest thou, my fair young lady?" asked Rebecca, laughing. "Read this," commanded Ruth, handing her, with the air of the stage hero "producing the papers," one of the letters she had received. "Cast your glance over this, Miss Frayne." The other received the letter curiously, and read it with dawning surprise. She read it twice and then gazed at Ruth with almost speechless amazement. "Well! what do you think of your Aunt Ruth _now_?" demanded the girl of the Red Mill, laughing. "It--it can't be _so_, Ruthie!" murmured Rebecca Frayne, the hand which held the letter fairly shaking. "It's just as _so_ as it can be," and Ruth continued to laugh. The tears suddenly flooded into Rebecca's eyes. She could not turn quickly enough to hide them from Ruth's keen vision. But all she said was: "Well, Ruthie! I congratulate you. Think of it! Two hundred dollars offered for each set of those old papers. Well!" "You see, it would scarcely have been wise to have built the fire with them," Ruth said drily. "I--I should say not. And--and they have lain in our attic for years." "And you brought them to college as waste paper," Ruth added. Rebecca was silent. Ruth, smiling roguishly, stole up behind her. Suddenly she put both arms around Rebecca Frayne and hugged her tight. "Becky! Don't you understand?" she cried. "Understand what?" Rebecca asked gruffly, trying to dash away her few tears. "Why, honey, I did it for _you_. I believed the papers must be worth something. I had heard of a set of New York illustrated papers for the years of the Civil War selling for a big price. These, I believed, must be even more interesting to collectors of such things. "So I wrote to Mr. Cameron, and he sent me the names of old book dealers, and _they_ sent me the addresses of several collectors. This Mr. Radley has a regular museum of such things, and he offers the best price--four hundred dollars for the lot if they prove to be as perfect as I said they were. And they _are_." "Yes--but----" "And, of course, the money is yours, Rebecca," said Ruth, promptly. "You don't for a moment suppose that I would take your valuable papers and cheat you out of the reward just because I happened to know more about their worth than you did? What do you take me for?" "Oh--oh, Ruthie!" "What do you take me for?" again demanded Ruth Fielding, quite as though she were offended. "For the best and dearest girl who ever lived!" cried Rebecca Frayne, and cast herself upon Ruth's breast, holding her tightly while she sobbed there. This was one surprise. But there was another later, and this was a surprise for Ruth herself. She was very glad to have been the means of finding Rebecca such a nice little fortune as this that came to her for the old periodicals. With what the girl's brother could send her, Rebecca would be pretty sure of sufficient money to carry her through her freshman year and pay for her second year's tuition at Ardmore. "Something may be found then for Rebecca to do," thought Ruth, "that will not so greatly shock her notions of gentility. Dear me! she's as nice a girl as ever lived; but she is a problem." Ruth had other problems, however, on her mind. One of these brought about the personal surprise mentioned above. She had found time finally to complete the scenario of "Crossed Wires," and after some changes had been made in it, Mr. Hammond had informed her that it would be put in the hands of a director for production. It called for so many outdoor scenes, however, that the new film would not be made until spring. Spring was now fast approaching, and Ruth determined to be at the Red Mill on a visit when the first scenes were taken for her photo-drama. Of course, if she went, Helen must go. They stood excellently well in all their classes, and it was not hard to persuade Dr. Milroth, who had good reports of both freshmen, to let them go to Cheslow. Ruth's coming home was in the nature of a surprise to Uncle Jabez and Aunt Alvirah. The old housekeeper was outspoken in her joy at seeing "her pretty" once more. Uncle Jabez was startled into perhaps a warmer greeting of his niece than he ordinarily considered advisable. "I declare for't, Ruth! Ain't nothin' the matter, is there?" he asked, holding her hand and staring into her face with serious intent. "Oh, no, Uncle. Nothing at all the matter. Just ran home to see how you all were, and to watch them take the pictures of the old mill." "Ain't lost any of that money, have ye?" persisted the miller. "Not a penny. And Mr. Hammond sent me a nice check on account of royalties, too," and she dimpled and laughed at him. "All right," grunted Uncle Jabez. "Ye wanter watch out for that there money. Business is onsartain. Ain't no knowin' when everything'll go to pot _here_. I never see the times so hard." But Ruth was not much disturbed by such talk. Uncle Jabez had been prophesying disaster ever since she had known him. Maggie welcomed Ruth cordially, as well as Ben. Maggie was still the puzzling combination of characteristics that she had seemed to Ruth from the first. She was willing to work, and was kind to Aunt Alvirah; but she always withdrew into herself if anybody tried to talk much to her. The others at the Red Mill had become used to the girl's reticence; but to Ruth it remained just as tantalizing. She had the feeling that Maggie was by no means in her right environment. "Doesn't she ever write letters?" Ruth asked Aunt Alvirah. "Doesn't she ever have a visitor?" "Why, bless ye, my pretty! I don't know as she writes much," Aunt Alvirah said, as she moved about the kitchen in her old slow fashion. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! Well Ruthie, she reads a lot. She's all for books, I guess, like you be. But she don't never talk much. And a visitor? Why, come to think on't, she did have one visitor." "Is that so?" cried the curious Ruth. "Let's hear about it. I feel gossipy, Aunt Alvirah," and she laughed. She knew that Maggie was away from the house, and they were alone. She could trust Aunt Alvirah to say nothing to the girl regarding her queries. "Yes, my pretty," the old woman said, "she did have one visitor. Another gal come to see her the very week you went away to college, Ruthie." "Is that so? Who was she?" "Maggie didn't say. I didn't ask her. Ye see, she ain't one ter confide in a body," explained Aunt Alvirah, shaking her head and lowering herself into her rocking chair. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "But didn't you see this visitor?" "Why, yes, Ruthie. I seen her. It was funny, too," Aunt Alvirah said, shaking her head. "I meant to write to you about it; then I forgot. "I hears somebody knock on the door one day, and I opened the door and there I declare stood Maggie herself. Or, I thought 'twas her." "What?" gasped Ruth, very much interested. "She looked a sight like her," said Aunt Alvirah, laughing to herself at the remembrance. "Yet I knowed Maggie had gone upstairs to make the beds, and this here girl who had knocked on the door was all dressed up." "'Why, Maggie!' says I. And she says, kinder tart-like: "'I ain't Maggie. But I want to see her.' "So I axed her in; but she wouldn't come. I seen then maybe she was a little younger than Maggie is. Howsomever I called to Maggie, and she went out, and the two of 'em walked up and down the road for an hour. The other gal never come in. And I seen her start back toward Cheslow. Maggie never said no word about her from that day to this. "Do you know what I think about it, Ruthie?" concluded Aunt Alvirah. "No, Aunt Alvirah," said the girl of the Red Mill, reflectively. "I think that was Maggie's sister. Maybe she works out for somebody in Cheslow." Ruth merely nodded. She did not think much of that phase of the matter. What she was really puzzling over was her memory of the girl she and Helen had interviewed on the island in Lake Remona before the Christmas holidays. That girl had looked very much like Maggie, too! CHAPTER XXI MANY THINGS HAPPEN It was, of course, hard to tell by merely seeing them taken what the pictures about the old Red Mill would be like; but Ruth and Helen both acted in them as "extras" and were greatly excited over the film, one may be sure. The director, not the cross Mr. Grimes this time, assured Ruth that he was confident "Crossed Wires" would make good on the screen. Hazel Gray played the lead in the picture, as she had in "The Heart of a School Girl," and Ruth and Helen were glad to meet the bright little screen actress again. Miss Gray seemed to have forgotten all about Tom Cameron and Ruth, for some reason, felt glad. She ventured to ask Helen if her twin was still as enamored of the young actress as he had seemed to be the year before. "Why, no," Helen said thoughtfully. "You know how it is with boys; they have one craze after another, Ruthie." "No. Do they?" asked the other. "Yes. Tom made a collection of the photographs of a slap-stick comedian at first. Then he decorated his room at Seven Oaks with all the pictures he could find of Miss Gray. Now, when I was over there with father the other day, what do you suppose is his chief decoration on his room walls?" "I haven't the least idea," Ruth confessed. "Great, ugly, brutal boxers! Prize-fighters! Awful pictures, Ruth! I suppose next he will make a collection of the photographs of burglars!" and Helen laughed. The chums were whisked back to Ardmore, having been absent five days. They were so well prepared in their recitations, however, that they did not fall behind in any particular. Indeed, these two bright-minded girls found it not difficult to keep up with their classes. Even Jennie Stone, leisure loving as she naturally was, had no real difficulty in being well to the front in her studies. And she had become one of the most faithful of devotees of gymnastic practice. Ardmore's second basket ball five pushed the first team hard; and Jennie Stone was on the second five. As the spring training for the boats opened she, as well as Ruth and Helen, tried for the freshmen eight-oared shell. All three won places in that crew. Jennie was still somewhat over-weight. But the instructor put her at bow and her weight counted there. Ruth was stroke and Helen Number 2. As practice went on it was proved that the freshman crew was a very well balanced one. They more than once "bumped" the sophomore shell in trial races, and once came very near to catching the junior eight. The seniors and juniors began now to pay more attention to the freshman class; especially to those members who showed well in athletics. Because of their characters and their class standing, several of the instructors besides Miss Cullam, the mathematics teacher, were the friends of the Briarwoods. Miss Cullam had shown a warm appreciation of Ruth Fielding's character all through the year. Not that Ruth was a prize pupil in Miss Cullam's study, for she was not. Mathematics was the one study it was hard for Ruth to interest herself in. But when the girl of the Red Mill had a hard thing to do, she always put her whole mind to it; and, therefore, she made a good mark in mathematics in spite of her distaste for the study. "You are doing well, Miss Fielding," Miss Cullam declared. "Better than I expected. I have no doubt that you will pass well in the year's examinations." "And you won't be afraid that I'll crib the answers, Miss Cullam?" Ruth asked, laughing. "Hush! don't repeat gossip," Miss Cullam said smiling, however, rather ruefully. "Even when the gossip emanates from an old cross-patch of a teacher who gets nervous and worries about improbabilities. No. I do not believe any of my girls would take advantage of the examination papers. Yet, I would give a good deal to know just where those papers and that vase went." "Has nothing ever been heard from Miss Rolff since she left Ardmore?" Ruth asked. "No. Not a word. And it is hard on the sororities, too. Heretofore, the girls have enjoyed the benefits of the associations for three years. _You_, I am sure, Ruth, would have been invited by this time to join one of the sororities." "And I should dearly love to," sighed Ruth. "The Kappa Alpha. It looks good to me. But there are other things in college--and out of it, too. Oh see, Miss Cullam! Here is what I wanted to show you," and the girl of the Red Mill brought forth a large envelope from her handbag. They were talking together in the library on this occasion, it being a Saturday afternoon when there was nothing particular to take up either the teacher's time or the pupil's. Ruth emptied the envelope on the table. "See these photographs? They are stills taken in connection with my new scenario. I want you to see just how lovely a place the old Red Mill, where I live, is." Miss Cullam adjusted her eyeglasses with a smile, and picked up the topmost picture which Mr. Hammond had sent to Ruth. "That's dear old Aunt Alvirah herself feeding the chickens. She doesn't know that we took that picture of her. If I had said 'photograph' to the dear old creature, she would have been determined to put on her best bib and tucker!" "That's the back yard. Isn't it, dear? Who is that on the porch?" asked Miss Cullam. "On the porch? Why, _is_ anybody on the porch? I don't remember that." Ruth stooped to peer closer at the unmounted photograph in the teacher's hand. "Why! there _is_ somebody standing there," she murmured. "You can see the head and shoulders just as plain----" "And the face," said Miss Cullam, with strange eagerness. "Oh, I know!" cried Ruth, and she laughed heartily. "Of course. That's Maggie." "Maggie?" "Yes. The girl who helps Aunt Alvirah. And she's quite an interesting character, Miss Cullam. I'll tell you about her some day." "Yes?" said Miss Cullam, reflectively. "Now, here is the front of the old house----" "Allow me to keep this picture for a little while, will you, Miss Fielding?" broke in the teacher, still staring at the clearly exposed face of Maggie on the porch. "Why, yes, certainly," responded the girl, curiously. "I wish to show this girl's face to somebody else. She seems very familiar to me," the mathematics teacher said. CHAPTER XXII CAN IT BE A CLUE? Ruth gave the matter of Maggie's photograph very little thought. Not at that time, at least. She merely handed the print over to Miss Cullam and forgot all about it. These were busy days, both in the classroom and out of it. The warmth of late spring was in the air; every girl who felt at all the blood coursing in her veins, tried to be out of doors. The whole college was eager regarding the coming boat races. Ardmore was to try out her first eight-oared crew with three of several colleges, and two of the trials would be held upon Lake Remona. There were local races between the class crews every Saturday afternoon. Jennie Stone had to choose between basket ball and rowing, for there were Saturdays when both sports were in ascendency. "No use. I can't be in two places at once," declared Jennie, regretfully resigning from the basketball team. "No, honey," said Helen. "You're not big enough for that now. A few months ago you might have played basket ball and sent your shadow to pull an oar with us. See what it means to get thin." "My! I feel like another girl," said the fleshy one ecstatically. "What do you suppose my father will say to me in June?" "He'll say," suggested Helen, giggling, "'you took so much away, why do you bring so little back from college?'" It was several days before Miss Cullam returned to Ruth the picture she had borrowed; and when she did she made a statement regarding it that very much astonished the girl of the Red Mill. "I will tell you now, my dear; why I wished to keep the photograph," the teacher said. "I showed it to Dr. Milroth and to several of the other members of the faculty." "Indeed?" responded Ruth, quite puzzled. "Some of them agree with me. Dr. Milroth does not. Nevertheless, I wish you would tell me all about this Maggie who works for your aunt----" "Maggie!" gasped Ruth. "What do you mean, Miss Cullam? Was it because her face is in the picture that you borrowed it?" "Yes, my dear. I think, as do some of the other instructors, that Maggie looks very much like the Miss Rolff who last year occupied the room you have and who left us so strangely before the close of the semester." "Oh, Miss Cullam!" "Foolish, am I?" laughed the teacher. "Well, I suppose so. You know all about Maggie, do you?" "No!" gasped Ruth. Eagerly she explained to the mathematics teacher how the strange girl had appeared at the Red Mill and why she had remained there. Miss Cullam was no less excited than Ruth when she heard these particulars. "I must tell Dr. Milroth this," Miss Cullam declared. "Say nothing about it, Ruth Fielding. And she says her name is 'Maggie'? Of course! Margaret Rolff. I believe that is who she is." "But to go out to housework," Ruth said doubtfully. "That doesn't matter. We must learn more about this Maggie. Say nothing until I have spoken to Dr. Milroth again." But if this was a clue to the identity and where-abouts of the girl who had left Ardmore so abruptly the year before, Ruth learned something the very next day that, unfortunately, put it quite beyond her ability to discover further details in the matter. A letter arrived from Aunt Alvirah and after reading it once through Ruth hurried away to Miss Cullam with the surprising news it contained. Maggie had left the Red Mill. Without any explanation save that she had been sent for and must go, the strange girl had left Aunt Alvirah and Uncle Jabez, and they did not know her destination. Ben, the hired man, had driven her to the Cheslow railway station and she had taken an eastbound train. Otherwise, nothing was known of the strange girl's movements. "Oh, my dear!" cried Miss Cullam. "I am certain, then, that she is Margaret Rolff. Even Dr. Milroth has come to agree that it may be that strange girl. I hoped there was a chance of learning what really became of those missing examination papers--and, of course, the vase. But how can we discover what became of them if the girl has disappeared again?" "Well, it's a very strange thing, I am sure," Ruth admitted. "Of course, I'll write the folks at the Red Mill that if Maggie--or whatever her real name is--ever turns up there again, they must let me know at once." "Yes, do," begged the teacher. "Now that the subject has come up again I feel more disturbed than ever over those papers. _Were_ they lost, or weren't they? My dear Ruth! you don't know how I feel about that mystery. All these girls whom I think so highly of, are still under suspicion." "I hope nothing like that will happen this year, dear Miss Cullam," Ruth said warmly. "I feel that we freshmen all want to pass our examinations honestly--or not at all." "That is exactly what I believe about the other girls," groaned the teacher. "But the sorority members admit that Margaret Rolff was instructed to remove the Egyptian vase from the library as a part of the stunt she was expected to do during the initiation ceremonies. "And in that vase were my papers. Of course, the girls did not know the examination papers were there before the vase was taken. _But what became of them afterward?_" "Why, Miss Cullam," Ruth said thoughtfully, "of course they must still be in the vase." "Perhaps. Then, perhaps not," murmured the teacher. "Who knows?" CHAPTER XXIII THE SQUALL The first college eight went off to Gillings, and, as it was only a few miles by rail, half the student body, at least, went to root for the crew. The Ardmore boat was beaten. "Oh, dear! To come home plucked in such a disgusting way," groaned Helen, who, with Jennie, as well as Ruth, was among the disgruntled and disappointed girls who had gone to see the race. "It is awful." "It's taught them a lesson, I wager," Ruth said practically. "We have all been rowing in still water. The river at Gillings is rough, and the local eight was used to it. I say, girls!" "Say it," said Jennie, gruffly. "It can't be anything that will hurt us after what we've seen to-day. Three whole boatlengths ahead!" "Never mind," broke in Helen. "The races with Hampton and Beardsley will be on our own lake." "And if there is a flutter of wind, our first eight will be beaten again," from Jennie Stone. "No, no, girls!" Ruth cried. "I heard the coach tell them that hereafter she was going to make them row if there was a hurricane. And that's what _we_ must do." "_Who_ must do, Ruthie? What do you mean?" asked Helen. "The freshman eight." "E-lu-ci-date," drawled Jennie. "We must learn to handle our shell in rough water. If there is a breath of wind stirring we mustn't beat it to land," said Ruth, vigorously. "Let's learn to handle our shell in really rough water." "Sounds reasonable," admitted Jennie. "Shall we all take out accident policies?" "No. All learn to swim. That's the wisest course," laughed Ruth. "Ain't it the _trewth_?" agreed Jennie, making a face. "I'm not much of a swimmest in fresh water. But I never could sink." The freshmen with the chums in the eight-oared shell proved to be all fair swimmers. And that crew was not the only one that redoubled its practice after the disastrous race at Gillings College. Each class crew did its very best. The coaches were extremely stern with the girls. Ardmore had a reputation for turning out champion crews, and the year before, on their own water, the Ardmore eight had beaten Gillings emphatically. "But if we can win races only on our own course," _The Jasper_, the Ardmore College paper declared, "what is the use of supporting an athletic association and four perfectly useless crews?" They had all been so sure of victory over Gillings--both the student body and the faculty--that the disgrace of their beating cut all the deeper. "It is fortunate," said the same stern commenter, "that our races with Hampton, and again with Beardsley, will be on Lake Remona. At least, our crew knows the water here--on a perfectly calm day, at any rate." "I see Merry Dexter's fine Italian hand in _that_," Ruth declared, when she and her chums read the criticism of the chief college eight. "And if it is true of the senior shell, how much more so of our own? We must be ready to risk a little something for the sake of pulling a good race." "Goodness!" murmured Helen. "When we're away off there in the middle of the course between the landing and Bliss Island, for instance, and a squall threatens, it is going to take pluck, my dear, to keep us all steady." "I tell you what!" exclaimed Jennie Stone. "Tell it, if you're sure it won't hurt us," laughed Helen. "Let's get the coach to have us circle the island when we're out in practice. It's always a little rough off both ends of Bliss Island, and we should get used to rough water before our final home races." For, before the season was over, the four Ardmore eights would compete, and that race was the one which the three under-classes particularly trained for. Jennie's suggestion sounded practical to her chums; so there were three already agreed when it was broached to the freshmen eight. The coach thought well of it, too; for there was always a motor boat supposed to be in sight of the shells when they were out at practice. This was in April, and, in Ardmore's latitude, a very uncertain month April is--a time of showers and smiles, calms and uncertain gales. Nevertheless, so thoroughly were the freshmen eight devoted to practice that it had to be a pretty black looking afternoon, indeed, that kept them from stepping into their boat. The boatkeeper was a weather-wise old man, who had guarded the Ardmore girls against disaster on the lake for a decade. Being so well used to reading the signs he never let the boats out when he considered the weather threatening in any measure. One afternoon, when there had been a call passed for the freshmen eight to gather at the boathouse immediately after recitations, Johnnie, as the boatman was called, had been called away from his post. Only a green assistant was there to look after the boats, and he was much too bashful to "look after the girls," as Jennie, giggling, observed. "I don't see why they don't put blinders on that young man," she said. "Whenever he has to look at one of us girls his freckles light up as though there was an electric bulb behind each individual one." "Oh, Heavy! Behave!" murmured Helen, yet amused, too, by the bashfulness of the assistant. "We _are_ a sight, I admit," went on Jennie. "Everything in the shell, girls? Now! up with it. Come on, little Trix," she added to the coxswain. "Don't get your tiller-lines snarled, and bring your 'nose-warmer'"--by which inelegant term she referred to the megaphone which, when they were really trying for speed was strapped to the coxswain's head. The eight oarswomen picked the light shell up, shoulder high, and marched down the platform to the float. Taking their cue from the tam-o'-shanters the seniors had made them wear early in their college experience, the freshmen eight wore light blue bandannas wound around their heads, with the corners sticking up like rabbit-ears, blue blouses, short skirts over bloomers, and blue stockings with white shoes. Their appearance was exceedingly natty. "If we don't win in the races, we'll be worth looking at," Helen once said pridefully. The assistant boatkeeper remained at a distance and said not a word to them, although there was a bank of black cloud upon the western horizon into which the sun would plunge after a time. "We're the first out," cried one of the girls. "There isn't another boat on the lake." "Wrong, Sally," Ruth Fielding said. "I just saw a boat disappear behind Bliss Island." "Not one of _ours_?" cried Jennie, looking about as they lowered the shell into the water. "No. It was a skiff. Came from the other side, I guess. Or perhaps it came up the river from the railroad bridge." "Now," said Trix Davenport, the coxswain, "are we going to ask that boy to get out the launch and follow us?" "Oh, goodness me! No," said Helen, with assurance. "We don't want him tagging us. Do we, girls?" "Perhaps it might be better," Ruth said slowly. But the chorus of the other girls cried her down. Besides, she did not believe there was any danger. Of course, a rowing shell is an uncertain thing; but she had never yet seen an accident on the lake. All stepped in, adjusted their oars, and the coxswain pushed off. Having adjusted the rudder-lines, Trix affixed the megaphone, and lifted her hand. The eight strained forward, and the coxswain began to beat time. Ruth set the pace in a long, swinging stroke, and the other seven fell into time. The shell shot out from the landing just as the coach appeared around the corner of Dare Hall, on her way down from the gymnasium. She gave one glance at the sky, and then started to run. "Those foolish girls!" she exclaimed. "Where's Johnny?" The freshman eight was far out upon the lake when she reached the boathouse, and she quickly saw that the old boatkeeper was not in sight. She tried to signal the crew of the shell to return; but the girls in the frail craft were too interested in their practice to look back toward the shore. Indeed, in a very few minutes, they swept through the slightly rough water at the eastern end of the island and disappeared behind it. The coach, Miss Mallory, beckoned the assistant boatman and ordered out the launch. But there was something wrong with the engine, and he lost some time before getting the craft started. Meanwhile, the cloudbank was rolling up from the west. The sun suddenly was quenched. A breath of cold wind swept down the lake and fretted the tiny waves. They sprang up in retaliation and slapped the bow of the launch, which finally got under its sputtering way. Then a squall of wind swooped down and Miss Mallory was almost swept off her feet. The boatman steered carefully, but the engine was not yet working in good fashion. The coach made a mistake, too, in directing the launch. Instead of starting directly up the lake, and rounding the head of the island to meet the freshman shell, she ordered the boatman to trail the boat that had disappeared. The launch was some time in beating around the lower end of the island. CHAPTER XXIV TREASURE HUNTING The freshmen shell was well around the end of Bliss Island and behind it, before the squall broke. Pulling into the rising gale as they were and the water being always a little rough here, at first none of Ruth Fielding's associates in the craft realized that there was the least danger. They were well off shore, for near the island the water was shallow and there were rocks. These rowing shells are made so lightly that a mere scraping of the keel over a sunken boulder would probably completely wreck the craft, and well the girls knew this. Trix Davenport steered well out from the dangerous shallows. "Pull away, girls!" she shouted through her megaphone. "It's going to blow." And just then the real squall swept down upon them. Ruth, although setting a good, long stroke, found of a sudden that the shell was scarcely moving ahead. The wind was so strong that they were only holding their own against it. "Pull!" shouted the coxswain again. Ruth bent forward, braced her feet firmly and drove the long oar-blade deep into the jumping little waves. Those waves quickly became larger and "jumpier." A white wreath formed upon their crests. The shell in a very few seconds was in the midst of white water. Once with Uncle Jabez, and in a heavy punt, the girl of the Red Mill had been caught in the rapids of the Lumano below the mill, and had fought with skill and courage to help save the boat. This effort was soon to be as great--and she realized it. She set a pace that drove the shell on in the teeth of the squall; but the boat shivered with every stroke. It was as though they were trying to push the narrow, frail little shell into a solid wall. In pulling her oar Ruth scarcely ever raised her eyes to a level with the coxswain's face; but when she chanced to, she saw that Trix was pallid and her eyes were clouded with fear. Ruth hoped none of the other girls saw that mask of dread which the situation had forced upon their little coxswain. She wanted to cry out to Trix--to warn her to hide her emotion. But she had no breath to spare for this. Every ounce of breath and of muscle she owned, Ruth put into her stroke. She felt the rhythmic spring of the craft, and knew that her mates were keeping well up with her. They were doing their part bravely, even though they might be frightened. And then, suddenly and fortunately, the freshman craft found a sheltered bit of water. A high shoulder of the hilly island broke the force of the wind. "Ashore! Put us ashore!" Ruth managed to gasp so that Trix heard her. "We--we'll wreck the shell!" complained Trix. "It's so shallow." "We'll not drown in shallow water," ejaculated Ruth, expelling the words between strokes. The coxswain shot them shoreward. She caught a glimpse of another boat pulled up on the beach--the skiff they had earlier seen rounding the point of the island. In thirty seconds they were safe. The rain began to pour down upon them in a brisk torrent. But that did not matter. "Rather be half drowned in the rain than wholly drowned in the lake!" Jennie Stone declared, as they scrambled out into the shallow water, more than ankle deep, and lifted the treacherous shell out of the lake. "Goodness! what a near one that was!" Helen declared. Ruth looked at the skiff drawn up on the shore, and then up into the grove of trees. "I wonder where the girl is who was in that boat?" she said. "Was it a girl?" asked Helen, with interest. "Yes. She must have found shelter somewhere from this rain. Come on! We may be able to keep reasonably dry up there in the woods." The other girls followed Ruth, for she was naturally their leader. The rain continued to beat down upon them; but before they reached the opening in which was situated the Stone Face, Ruth spied an evergreen, the drooping branches of which offered them reasonable shelter. "Come on into the green tent, girls!" shouted Jennie Stone, plunging into the dimly lighted circle under the tree. "Oh! Goodness! What's that?" "A dog!" "A cow! and I'm afraid of co-o-ows!" wailed Sally Blanchard, seizing upon Ruth as the nearest savior. "Don't be silly, child," vouchsafed Helen, who had followed Jennie. "How would a cow come upon this island--a mile from shore?" "Or a dog?" laughed Ruth. "What _did_ you see, Jennie Stone?" "She just tried to fool us," Helen declared. "Didn't either," the stout girl said warmly. "Something ran out at the far side as I came in." "An animal?" gasped Trix Davenport. "Well," returned Jennie Stone, "it certainly wasn't a vegetable. At least, I never saw a vegetable run as fast as that thing did." "You needn't try to scare us to death, Heavy," complained Helen. "Of course it must have been the girl Ruth said came ashore in that skiff." "Well, I didn't think of her," admitted Jennie. "But she ran like a ferret. I'd like to know who she is." "Remember the girl we found over here that night in the snowstorm?" whispered Helen to Ruth. "The girl who looked like that Maggie?" "Oh, don't I!" exclaimed Ruth, shaking her head. "What do you suppose _she_ was after--and what is this one over here on the island for?" pursued Helen, languidly. Ruth made no reply, but her cheeks flushed and her eyes grew brighter. She stooped and peered out at the decreasing rainfall. There was a path leading straight toward the Stone Face. Had this girl whom Jennie had seen gone in that direction? The other members of the freshman crew were so inordinately busy chattering and laughing and telling jokes and stories that nobody for the moment noticed Ruth Fielding, who stole out from the covert through the fast slackening rainfall without saying a word. Lightly running over the crest of the hill, she came in sight of the huge boulder at which she and Helen had experienced their never-to-be-forgotten adventure the winter before. She saw nobody at the foot of the boulder, but she pressed on to the edge of the grove to make sure. And then she saw that somebody had certainly and very recently been at work near the boulder. There was a pickaxe--perhaps the very one she had seen there in the winter--and a shovel. Some attempt had been made to dig over the gravelly soil for some yards from the foot of the boulder. "Goodness me! what can this mean?" thought the girl of the Red Mill. "Something must be buried here! Treasure hunters! Fancy!" and she laughed a little uncertainly. "Can somebody believe that this is one of the hiding places of Captain Kidd's gold? Who ever heard the like?" The rain ceased falling. There was a tooting of a horn down behind the island. The launch had come in sight of the shell and Miss Mallory was trying to signal the girls to return to the shore. But Ruth did not go back. She heard the girls shout for her, but instead of complying she went straight across to the Stone Face and picked up the heavy pickaxe. "I don't believe whoever has been digging has found anything yet," she told herself. "No. She's been here before--for, of course, it is that girl. She couldn't have dug all this over in a few minutes. No. She has been here and dug unsuccessfully. Then she has come back to-day for another attempt at--at the treasure, shall we call it? Well!" There was already an excavation more than a foot in depth and several yards in circumference. Whatever it was the strange girl had been after she was not quite sure of its burial place. In the winter when she had essayed to dig for the hidden thing there had been too much frost in the ground. Besides, doubtless Ruth and Helen's inquisitiveness had frightened the strange girl away. Now she was back again--somewhere now on Bliss Island. She had not accomplished her purpose as yet. Ruth smote the hard ground at her feet with all her strength. The pick sunk to its helve in the earth, now softened by the spring rain. "Oh! I hit something!" she gasped. In all probability she would not have continued to dig had this success not met her at the beginning. Really, her swinging of the pickaxe had been idly done. But the steel rang sharply on something. She raised the pick and used it thereafter more cautiously. There certainly was something below the surface--not very far down---- Dropping the pickaxe, Ruth gained possession of the shovel and threw aside the loose earth. Yes! there was some object hidden there--some "treasure" which she desired to see. In a few moments, becoming impatient of the shovel, she cast it aside and stooping, with her feet planted firmly in the muddy earth, she groped in the hole with both hands. Before she dragged the object into sight Ruth Fielding was positive by its shape and the feel of it, of the nature of the object. As she rose up at last, firmly grasping the object, a sharp voice said behind her: "Well, now that you've interfered and found it, suppose you hand it over to me. You haven't any business with that vase, you know!" CHAPTER XXV THE END OF A PERFECT YEAR Helen Cameron came running over the hill and down the sloppy path through the grove. When she reached the Stone Face where Ruth and the strange girl were standing, she cried: "What _is_ the matter with you, Ruthie Fielding? Come on over to the boat. Miss Mallory sent me after you.... Why! who's this?" "Don't you remember this girl, Helen?" asked Ruth, seriously. "Why! it's the girl who was camping in the snow, isn't it?" said Helen, curiously eyeing the stranger. "How-do?" But the other was not pleased to allow the situation to develop into merely a well-bred meeting of three former acquaintances. She did not vouchsafe Helen a glance, but said, directing her words toward Ruth: "I want that vase. It doesn't belong to you." "Goodness, Ruthie!" put in her chum, for the first time seeing the object in Ruth's hands. "What is that thing?" "I just dug it up here. It is the Egyptian vase taken from the Ardmore library last year I believe." "It doesn't matter where it came from. I want it," cried the strange girl, and she stepped forward quickly as though to seize the muddy vase. But Helen sprang forward and pushed her back. "Hold on! I guess if Ruth's got it, you'll have to wait and prove property," said Helen. "How about it, Ruth?" "She must tell us all about it," said Ruth, firmly. "Perhaps I may let her have it--if she tells us the truth." "The truth!" exclaimed Helen. "I won't tell you a thing!" cried the strange girl. "You haven't any right to that vase." "Nor have you," Ruth told her. "Well----" "Nor has Margaret Rolff," went on Ruth, coolly. "I take it you are acting for her, aren't you?" "Why," cried Helen, beginning to understand. "That is the girl who left Ardmore last year?" "And came to the Red Mill after spending the summer at a camp on the Lumano and helped Aunt Alvirah," Ruth added, with a smile. "Well, I never! Not Maggie?" demanded Helen. "I think I am right," Ruth said quietly. "Am I not?" to the other girl. "Our Maggie is Margaret Rolff, and _you_ must be her sister. At least, you look enough like her to be some relative." The other made a gesture of resignation and dropped her hands. "I might as well confess it," she admitted. "You are Ruth Fielding, and Margy told me long ago you might be trusted." "And this is my particular friend, Helen Cameron," Ruth said, "who is to be fully trusted, too." "I suppose so," said the girl. "My name is Betty. I'm Margy's younger sister. Poor Margy. She never was very strong. I mean that she was always giving in to other people--was easily confused. "She's bright enough, you know," pursued the other girl, warmly; "but she is nervous and easily put out. What those girls did to her last year at this college was a shame!" Another hail from behind the hill warned Ruth that she must attend Miss Mallory's command or there would be trouble. "We cannot wait to hear it all, Miss--Betty, did you say your name was? Where are you staying?" "I have been working in Greenburg all winter. We're poor girls and have no parents. Margy is with me now," said the girl. "And I want that vase. I want it for Margy. She will never be satisfied until she can give it back to the dean of the college herself and explain how she came to hide it, and then forgot where she hid the vase." "Tell me where to find you in Greenburg," said Ruth, hastily. "No! I'll not let you have the vase now. I will not show it to anybody else, however, and we'll come over to town this evening and bring it with us, and talk with Maggie." "Oh, Miss Fielding----" "That must satisfy you," said Ruth, firmly; and Betty Rolff had to be satisfied with this promise. She told the chums where she and Margaret were staying and then Ruth and Helen ran back to their friends, Ruth concealing the hastily wiped silver vase under the loose front of her blouse. "Goodness!" she said to Helen, "I hope nobody will see it. Do I bulge _much_?" There was so much excitement among the crew of the freshman eight, however, that Ruth's treasure-trove was not discovered. Under Miss Mallory's direction they launched the shell again, climbed aboard, and made a safe passage to the dock. A notice was put up that very evening, however, to the effect that none of the racing shells were to be taken out unless the launch was manned and went with the frailer craft. The students of Ardmore were allowed to leave the college grounds in the evening if they were properly chaperoned. And when Ruth went to Miss Cullam and explained a little of what was afoot, the mathematics instructor was only too glad to act in the capacity of chaperon. Helen had telephoned for a car, and the three rode down to Greenburg immediately after dinner. Ruth carried the recovered vase, just as she had dug it out of the hole by the Stone Face on Bliss Island, wrapped in a paper. She had not had time either to clean it or to examine it more thoroughly. They easily found the boarding house, the address of which Betty Rolff had given to Ruth. It was a respectable place, but was far from sumptuous. It was evident, as Ruth had been previously informed, that the Rolff girls were not very well off in this world's goods. When the visitors climbed to the second floor bedroom where the sisters were lodged, Miss Cullam took the lead, walked straight in, seized Margaret Rolff in her arms and implanted a kiss upon the pale cheek of the girl who had for so many months been Aunt Alvirah's assistant at the Red Mill. "You poor girl!" said the mathematics teacher. "What you must have been through! Now, I am delighted to see you again, and you must tell me all about it--how you came to take the vase, and bury it, and all." There was a good deal of talk on both sides before all this that Miss Cullam asked was explained. But the facts were made clear at last. In the first place, Margaret Rolff had always been very much afraid of the dark and of being alone at night. But she wanted so much to become a member of the Kappa Alpha that she did not try to cry off when she received her instructions as a candidate for membership in that sorority. The first part of her initiation test was easy enough. She secured the Egyptian vase from the reception room of the library without being apprehended. Then she was rowed across the lake to the island by several black-robed and hooded figures whom she did not know. Left with a flashlight and a spade to bury the stolen vase within a short distance of the Stone Face, Margaret had tried her best to control her nerves and do as she was commanded. But she could never really remember whether she had buried the vase or not. The idea had been for her to bury it, and then another candidate would be made to search for it the next night. Everything about the initiation went wrong, however, because Margaret lost her nerve. The members of the sorority could not find the place where the candidate had really dug her hole and buried the vase. And Margaret had fled in a panic from the college before further inquiry could be made. "All this time," explained the practical sister, Betty, "Margy has wanted to know if she did bury the vase or not. She felt she had stolen from the college and could be punished for it. I think those girls that set her the task should be punished." "They have been," said Miss Cullam, grimly. "Yet, it was really a misunderstanding all around. Now, let me see that vase, Ruth Fielding." The latter was glad to do this. The teacher opened the package and immediately turned the vase upside down and shook it. There was evidently something inside, and after some work with the handiest of all feminine tools, a hatpin, a soggy mass of paper was dislodged from the Egyptian vase. "The missing examination papers, girls!" sighed Miss Cullam, with much satisfaction. "There, Margaret! You may have the vase and return it to Dr. Milroth to-morrow if you like. And I hope you will return to the college and be with us next year. "I have what _I_ am after and feel more contented in my mind than I have for some months. Dear me, girls! you don't at all understand what a number of trials and perplexities are heaped upon the minds of us poor teachers." * * * * * There were many other incidents occurring at Ardmore before the end of what Helen Cameron declared was a "perfect year." But nothing created more interest than the recovery of the Egyptian vase with the missing examination papers, unless it was the boat races. Though to a few, perhaps, certain plans for the coming summer overtopped even these in importance. These were such a very great secret that the chums scarcely dared discuss them. But those readers who may so desire will read about the happenings that developed from these plans of Ruth and her friends in the subsequent volume of the series, entitled, "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle; or, College Girls in the Land of Gold." First of the races was that with the first eight of Beardsley; and the crew of Ardmore won. Then came the trial between Ardmore and Hampton College, and the former won that as well. Ardmore was in high fettle at that. _The Jasper_ was quite as enthusiastically complimentary now as it had been critical after the race with Gillings, for in winning the race against Hampton College, the Ardmore crew had been forced to row through very rough water. Commencement came in June, and two days before the graduation exercises of the senior class, the local aquatic sports were held. The main incident of this carnival was the race between the class eights. The shells were started at twenty-yard intervals, and in the order of the classes. The freshman eight, in which rowed Ruth, Helen and Jennie, had practised vigorously all these weeks and now they displayed the value of their exertions. Within the first quarter they "bumped" the sophomore eight. This crew dropped out of the race immediately and the freshmen spun ahead, Ruth setting a wonderfully effective stroke, and little Trix Davenport swaying her body in time with the motion of the boat and shouting encouragement through her megaphone. On and on crept the freshman eight until there was barely a hand's breadth between the nose of their shell and the stern of the junior craft. The crowd along shore cheered the younger girls vociferously, and although they did not quite "bump" the juniors before crossing the mile line---- "We came so near it there was no fun in it!" declared Jennie Stone, delightedly. "Oh, girls! some of us are going to be great rowists after a few more years at Ardmore." "Dear me," panted Helen, making the last pun of the term. "It should be called _Hard_-more. I never worked so hard in my life as I have this first year at college." "But it will never hurt us," laughed Ruth, later. "We have got on famously." "_You_ have, my dear," interposed Helen. "You stand A, number one in classes. And look at that new play of yours--a big success! Money is rolling in on you----" "Think a little of yourself," proposed Ruth. "Don't you consider your time well spent here, my dear chum?" "Sure! It _is_ the end of a perfect year," agreed Helen. "And think of me--_little_ me!" cried Jennie Stone, bursting into the chums' study at that moment, and in time to hear the last of the conversation. "Do you know what's happened, girls?" "No! What?" demanded the curious Helen. "I have lost another pound," said the ex-fat girl, in a sepulchral voice. THE END THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON [Illustration] _12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional_. Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. Ruth Fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. 1. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL 2. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL 3. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP 4. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT 5. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH 6. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND 7. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM 8. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES 9. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES 10. RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE 11. RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE 12. RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE 13. RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS 14. RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT 15. RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND 16. RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST 17. RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST 18. RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE 19. RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING 20. RUTH FIELDING IN THE FAR NORTH 21. RUTH FIELDING AT GOLDEN PASS 22. RUTH FIELDING IN ALASKA 23. RUTH FIELDING AND HER GREAT SCENARIO 24. RUTH FIELDING AT CAMERON HALL 25. RUTH FIELDING CLEARING HER NAME 26. RUTH FIELDING IN TALKING PICTURES 27. RUTH FIELDING AND BABY JUNE 28. RUTH FIELDING AND HER DOUBLE 29. RUTH FIELDING AND HER GREATEST TRIUMPH 30. RUTH FIELDING AND HER CROWNING VICTORY These books may be purchased wherever books are sold _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BARTON BOOKS FOR GIRLS By MAY HOLLIS BARTON [Illustration] _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored Jacket._ _Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ _May Hollis Barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. Her style is somewhat of a reminder of that of Louisa M. Alcott, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. Clean tales that all the girls will enjoy reading._ 1. THE GIRL FROM THE COUNTRY 2. THREE GIRL CHUMS AT LAUREL HALL 3. NELL GRAYSON'S RANCHING DAYS 4. FOUR LITTLE WOMEN OF ROXBY 5. PLAIN JANE AND PRETTY BETTY 6. LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE 7. HAZEL HOOD'S STRANGE DISCOVERY 8. TWO GIRLS AND A MYSTERY 9. THE GIRLS OF LIGHTHOUSE ISLAND 10. KATE MARTIN'S PROBLEM 11. THE GIRL IN THE TOP FLAT 12. THE SEARCH FOR PEGGY ANN 13. SALLIE'S TEST OF SKILL 14. CHARLOTTE CROSS AND AUNT DEB 15. VIRGINIA'S VENTURE _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BETTY GORDON SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON [Illustration] Author of the "Ruth Fielding Series" _12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ _A new series of stories bound to make this writer more popular than ever with her host of girl readers. Every one will want to know Betty Gordon, and every one will be sure to love her._ 1. BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM 2. BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON 3. BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL 4. BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL 5. BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP 6. BETTY GORDON AT OCEAN PARK 7. BETTY GORDON AND HER SCHOOL CHUMS 8. BETTY GORDON AT RAINBOW RANCH 9. BETTY GORDON IN MEXICAN WILDS 10. BETTY GORDON AND THE LOST PEARLS 11. BETTY GORDON ON THE CAMPUS 12. BETTY GORDON AND THE HALE TWINS 13. BETTY GORDON AT MYSTERY FARM 14. BETTY GORDON ON NO-TRAIL ISLAND 15. BETTY GORDON AND THE MYSTERY GIRL _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York Books for Girls BY ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL Or, Solving the Campus Mystery. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP Or, Lost in the Backwoods. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT Or, Nita, The Girl Castaway. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND Or, The Old Hunter's Treasure Box. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM Or, What Became of the Raby Orphans. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES Or, The Missing Pearl Necklace. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES Or, Helping the Dormitory Fund. RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE Or, Great Times in the Land of Cotton. RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE Or, The Missing Examination Papers. RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE Or, College Girls in the Land of Gold. Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York. 
34986	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. The ADVENTURES OF A FRESHMAN By JESSE LYNCH WILLIAMS Author of "Princeton Stories" and "The Stolen Story and other Newspaper Stories" CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 153-157 Fifth Avenue :: New York Copyright, 1899, by Charles Scribner's Sons To HENRY MEADE WILLIAMS A SUB-FRESHMAN [Illustration: THE FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH THE SOPHOMORES "You big, green Freshman from Squeedunk.... Well give you just five seconds to take off that ugly hat, and if you don't----"] CONTENTS Chapter Page I. The First Day at College 1 II. The "Big, Green Freshman from Squeedunk" 9 III. The Great Sophomore-Freshman Rush 19 IV. Welcome and Unwelcome Visitors 42 V. Hazing 56 VI. Work--Play--"Procs" 66 VII. The Last Hazing of "The Meek Butt of all Classes" 88 VIII. How it Feels to be a Hero 110 IX. A Question of Money 125 X. How he Stayed in College 137 XI. The Trouble with being a Hero 153 XII. Serving Two Masters 159 XIII. The Last Chance 176 XIV. "Home from College" 186 XV. The End of it 198 ILLUSTRATIONS _From drawings by Fletcher Ransom_ The First Encounter with the Sophomores _Frontispiece_ "You big, green Freshman from Squeedunk.... We'll give you just five seconds to take off that ugly hat, and if you don't----" Facing page After the Rush 40 In walked ... the little Sophomore, and behind him a very big Sophomore. Young recognised him as the one.... Hazing 58 "Now both sit up on your haunches and chatter awhile." The Hero of the Bell-Clapper 70 Lee was one of the most prominent and popular men in the class. "Meek Butt of all Classes!" 108 Before curfew rang in Old North at the close of that day, the whole college was talking about it. "The Invincibles" 118 They had a dignified negro waiter, and they dined in the evening and it all seemed very fine and luxurious. 2 A.M. 158 However, after saying good night ... he would sneak off to his room, tie a wet towel around his head, and pole.... The Meeting 186 "I don't know, mother," he said slowly, "I don't know...." CHAPTER I THE FIRST DAY AT COLLEGE "Hi, there! you big Freshman, take off your hat--yes, we're talking to _you_--take off your hat to the class above you--stop, don't try to get by, my sober-faced young friend. That would not be nice of you." At first the Freshman did not understand that he was the one addressed, and, when he did, his first startled impulse was to hurry by and pretend not to notice them. But he could not now; the walk was blocked by this group of four fellows who were now calmly smiling at him in an amused way, as if he were a curious child, though really he was as old as any of them. The only way he could avoid them was by turning back toward the street, and this he would not do. So he stood his ground and looked straight back at them. "Well, you seem to enjoy looking; how do you like us, Freshman?" asked one of the Sophomores, taking his pipe out of his mouth. Three of them were smoking pipes and all four wore those queer striped-flannel coats of broad orange and black that had attracted his attention when he first got off the train. Afterward he learned that they were called blazers. They were close beside him now and they were looking him up and down. One of them remarked to the others, "O, ye shades of Aaron Burr, but this is a green one. What's your name, Freshman?" Then one of the others interrupted in a loud tone, "Take off your hat, Freshman." It was the same high voice that had broken in upon him at the first. Its owner was the shortest of the lot, but he smoked the longest pipe. "Take off your hat," he commanded, "and don't look so sober. We aren't going to hurt you." They were all looking at him. The Freshman felt himself blushing; he smiled and tried to look good-natured. "I wouldn't smile if I were you," put in one of the others; "your teeth aren't even." The others laughed at this, but the small Sophomore said, "Come, wipe away that smile and take off your hat, I tell you." The Freshman stopped smiling and looked up across the campus instead. Two men were entering an old brown building, busily talking, their arms about each other's shoulders; they seemed very happy. He shifted from one foot to the other. "See here, Freshman," cried the little Sophomore, in an amazed tone, "didn't you hear me tell you to take off your hat?" He had a large, sneering mouth, and he constantly tried to say sarcastic things. He held his chin elevated, as if to make himself a little taller, and the big Freshman, looking down at him, thought how he would like to pick him up and spank him. The Freshman had no intention of taking off his hat. Perhaps the Sophomore knew what he was thinking; at any rate, he stepped up close to him, and shaking a finger under his face, he snarled out, "You big, green Freshman from Squeedunk, you're the freshest one I've seen yet. We'll give you just five seconds to take off that ugly hat, and if you don't----" "Look out--look out! there comes Matt," in a quick, scared voice, one of the others interrupted. Matthew Goldie, the famous old proctor, was sauntering down the walk wriggling his fingers, as was his habit, and looking apparently in the other direction. This was also his habit. Even in those days, before hazing was abolished by the undergraduate vote, when it was thought, even by the Faculty, that hazing had its redeeming features, it was a rather reckless proceeding for a crowd of Sophomores to take a Freshman in hand on the front campus in broad daylight and in plain sight of the Dean's house. The small Sophomore's pipe was not two inches from the Freshman's face when the warning was sounded and Matt Goldie was coming straight down the walk toward him, and yet, to the surprise of all, he went on in the same earnest manner, only now he was saying: "I tell you, my dear sir, you will thank me all your life if you join Whig Hall. Why, there is no comparing the two literary societies. Now, just look at the records of the past years: In the first place, Whig Hall was founded by President James Madison when he was a student here"----and then the small Sophomore went glibly on with the arguments the Whig men usually employ when claiming superiority to their rival society, Clio Hall. Matthew Goldie had approached, come even with the group and passed by, oblivious of its existence, apparently. But the Sophomores knew he was not so oblivious as he looked, so they began to move off. "Good-by, Freshman," they said, laughingly, "sorry we have to leave you so soon. Come on, Channing." But Channing lingered a moment. "What's your name?" he demanded The Freshman thought it was none of this fellow's business, but he wanted to show he was not afraid. "Young," he said. "Your initials?" "My name is William Young, if you want to know," answered the Freshman, decisively. "Willie, eh?" Those of the others who were near enough to hear laughed at this. "Well, you are rather old to be called Young--Willie Young, especially. Hereafter you shall be known as 'Deacon Young.'" "Aw, come on, Chan," called the others. "All right," said Channing, but he turned to the Freshman as he started off and remarked, threateningly, "We'll meet again, you big, green Freshman." "I hope so," promptly returned Young, "you little, mouthy Sophomore." And this was the very worst thing he could have said, as he was afterward taught, if he had wanted to avoid hazing. He did not know that the best way to get along with the Sophomores was to take their initiating--not humbly, which was almost worse than getting mad about it--but laughingly and good-naturedly, for as soon as he acknowledged the fact that he was only a Freshman and recognized that he belonged to the lowest of four grades of college importance, they would let him alone. But Young was not of a sort readily to acknowledge subordination to anybody, and he had never been hazed and he knew very little about college custom and all that, because he had been a college man less than twenty-four hours and the tray of his trunk was still unpacked. It was Wednesday afternoon, the first day of the term, and he was on his way to chapel to attend the opening exercises of the college year, the first real college duty of his life, and he had almost reached the quadrangle when he was interrupted by the Sophomores and the disagreeable voice which called, "Hi, there, Freshman," at him, and which he thought he would never forget. And now he went on up the stone walk under the tall elms, wiping his brow and telling himself that he was not homesick, but that he did not propose to let anybody talk to him that way, even if he was green and from the country, and he would show them. He was from the country, to be sure, but that had nothing to do with it. He was guyed because he was a Freshman. * * * * * He was from the country, and he had come here to get a college education, and he had worked hard to come. He meant to make the best of his opportunities, and you could see that by the energetic way he strode through the quadrangle and up the broad path to chapel and took his place with two hundred others, who also were Freshmen and as green, many of them, as he was, and trying just as hard not to show it, though he did not know that. He thought they were upper-classmen and knew ever so much, and were looking at him. CHAPTER II THE "BIG, GREEN FRESHMAN FROM SQUEEDUNK" There were very important reasons why this particular Freshman had made up his mind to do well at college. He had done very well at the High School out at home, and it was one of the best in all Illinois. But that was not the reason, nor had he graduated first in his class, indeed; one of the girls did, as usual, though, to be sure, Young had done outside studying with the minister and that was a handicap. He had a different sort of reason for wanting to do well, now he was here at last. He could recall, as vividly as though it were yesterday, how his father looked the time he said: "And I tell you now, once and forever, I ain't going to spend my hard-earned money making a dude of any son of mine; and that's all I have to say about it. On the first of next month you're going to get to work in the bank; and you ought to be glad of it. Few farmers' sons have such chances." Young remembered how sarcastic seemed his father's answer to the question, "Won't you just lend me the money, father? I'll pay it back with interest, in time?" "Lend you money!--where's your collateral, hey?" and Mr. Young laughed. "Then that is your final decision, father?" "Final as I can make. If you go to college you pay your _own_ way. Good-night. I guess that settles it." Until this offer of the place in the bank came, just after Will's graduation from the High School, his father had only said, "What's the sense of going to college? You can't make any more money by it." And Will had quietly gone on with his Greek lessons, not doubting that his father would give his consent in the end. But now it was: "This is too good a chance to miss, Will--why, you'll soon make a rich man of yourself. Of course, you must take it. What's the use of having your father a director of the Farmers' National Bank, any way? You'll soon get over your fool notions. Charlie hasn't any fool notions about 'higher education.' He's my right-hand man on the farm." And the farm was one of the most prosperous in the county. Will knew his father and said nothing more, and on July 1st took the place in the bank and began to work at $5 a week. But he did not get over his fool notions. You see, ever since Young could remember, he had dreamed and planned about going to college, and what is more he had put in a great many hours of good, solid study with the minister during the past years preparing himself for it, and in consequence it was often 'way after the dark by the time he had driven out home and had finished his "chores." And he did not propose to let all that work count for nothing. He had made up his mind to get a university education. It was out of the question now to study all summer and enter the next fall, but the minister told him he was still young; he could enter the following year. * * * * * "Your boy Will's catching on quicker than Henry Johnson or any of the young men that ever worked under me yet." That's what the cashier said to Mr. Young. "That means he's getting over his fool notions," thought Mr. Young. Really it meant that he still had them. Will never mentioned the word college to his father again; and to those of his old friends who said, "Oh, so you aren't going East after all: why's that?" he merely replied in effect that that was _his_ business, and bent over the ledger again. He knew that most of the town was talking and laughing about him because from the time he first announced (with a somewhat superior air, perhaps) what he intended to do after leaving the High School, more than one of them thought, and said, that it was a queer idea for Will Young to go to college when he did not want to be a preacher or a professional man; not so very many boys went to college from that part of the country. But Will did not worry about that very much. He did not have time. He was working every day in the bank from eight o'clock in the morning until five or six in the evening--until nine or ten at night, sometimes, on the first of the month--and was besides doing all the chores for Miss Wilkins, with whom he boarded. And that was not all the work he did, either. Those who passed by Miss Wilkins's house late at night generally noticed a light in the little third-story window long after all the other boarders' rooms were dark. And the nights he was not studying in his room he was reciting at the minister's. It is no easy thing to save money on $5 a week, and pay board and buy clothes and incidentals out of it besides. That was the reason he did the chores for Miss Wilkins. He got his board for that, and he earned it. Out of the first month's salary Will saved $10. Fifty per cent of earnings saved is not a bad proportion. Out of the second month's earnings he saved $25. That may sound impossible, but you see they had raised his salary to $10 a week as they promised to do as soon as he had made himself worth it. Besides, Mr. Young was a director. It was very slow and sometimes it seemed very discouraging, and he did not know how he could have succeeded if it had not been for the Sunday afternoon talks with his mother, who was with him from the start in the project; and for the minister, who used to say, "You seem to think a fellow must be a millionaire to go to college." The minister had a frank, friendly unstilted manner of talking, that made some of the older people shake their heads and think him unclerical. "Why, there are hundreds of fellows," the minister said, "paying their own way through every year, and if you can't do it I'm mistaken in you. That is one reason," the minister explained, "though not the most important one, why I advised you to go to a large college. There are so many more ways of earning money. There are more eating-clubs to be managed (and all the manager has to do is collect a tableful of congenial fellows and then he gets his own board free). There are more men that want tutoring at a large institution, and the price of tutoring is better, too--(a man in my class in the seminary used to get $3 an hour); and there are more newspapers to correspond for and shoe-stores and steam-laundries and railroads to act as agents for--why, there are any number of ways to earn money if you only look out for them. And, as I told you before, the college authorities will remit your tuition if you show that it is necessary and if," said the minister, smiling, "if you can give testimonials of high moral character. All you have to do this year is to make enough to get started on, and that's what you are rapidly doing." * * * * * One day after Will Young had been working in the bank for nearly a year his father burst into the kitchen. "Mother," he shouted to his wife, almost excitedly, "what do you think? Will is going to resign from the bank! I just now heard it in town." "Yes," said Mrs. Young, gently, "I know." "What does he mean by it! He has had his salary raised twice inside of a year. He'll be made assistant cashier soon. Why, the boy's a fool. Does he expect to get a better place up in Chicago?" "No," said Mrs. Young. "He only went to Chicago on his vacation to take his examinations for college and----" "For college! Chicago!" "And to buy his clothes--yes, they hold the examinations all over the country." Then she went on, "You remember, father, you said Will could go if he earned his own money, and now----" "When did I say that?" thundered Mr. Young; and then the storm broke. It was rather severe while it lasted, but it did not last as long as she had feared it would. Mr. Young was just, and he had to acknowledge, inwardly, that Will was right from his standpoint, though it was a sore disappointment: and he saw no reason why Will should be forgiven. "We'll see how long you stay there," was what Mr. Young said in bidding Will good-by. He knew about how much his son had been able to save. "All right, sir," said Will, feeling sorry his father would not give his approval even now. "Good-by, sir." And he glanced at his mother once more and then looked away again, and the train pulled out. A moment later he had a last, distant view of the straight white farmhouse, as the cars dashed by, and of the big red barn with white trimmings, and the wind-brake of tall, straight poplars, to the north, in even row, planted by his father's own hand before Will was born; he saw their tops waving in the breeze as they were cut off from view--and all that seemed years and years ago, though, in reality, it was only Monday, the day before yesterday, and here he was at last, actually at college and sitting in chapel listening to the President's kind words of welcome; and feeling somewhat important at being one of those particularly addressed by such a famous and learned man and feeling very proud at the thought that he was part of such an ancient and mighty seat of learning--and hoping that the small account he had opened at the Princeton Bank was going to tide him over till an opportunity for earning money turned up. As he and his many classmates trooped forth into the sunny outdoors again some orange-and-black-bedecked Sophomores on the steps murmured, "right, left, right, left," in time to their footsteps, and then Will Young did not feel so proud and important. But this big, green Freshman did not take off his hat to them as some of his classmates did. In fact his hat did not come off until the evening of the following day--and then not quite in the way you might expect. CHAPTER III THE GREAT SOPHOMORE-FRESHMAN RUSH Freshman Young had an experience on the second night of his college course that he was never to forget. And few of those who shared it with him forgot it, and not many of the hundreds of other men that have been in college before and since have forgotten similar experiences of their own on the second or third night of college existence. Not one of them would care to miss it if he had it to do over again. He was in his room going over for the fifth time the Latin passages in Livy, Book I. The recitation came the first thing in the morning. That meant at half-past eight, immediately after chapel. His room was on the third story, back, of a queer, old-fashioned house in a still queerer, old, crooked street called Canal Street, because, he supposed, it led down to the canal. The little room seemed quite bare and cheerless, but he did not mind that. He had got down to work as a "college man." That day, for the first time, he had met his professors in the classroom along with the other Freshmen of his division. He was the last man of the last division, because his last name began with Y. Later on in the term, when they were to be divided according to rank, he would not be in the last division; he had made up his mind to that. So he was going over the Livy lesson for the fifth time, although he had worked it all out during the afternoon. Perhaps there was another reason for keeping his mind so busy. The old white farmhouse with the well-trimmed lawn and the evergreen trees in front and the tall, straight wind-pump to the west, and beyond that the long, level sweeps of rich prairie acres, all seemed very far away to-night. "I'm not homesick--of course not," he told himself, but all the same he thought he could study better if he could hear the old wind-pump go "kitty-chunk, kitty-chunk," as when he was studying his High School lessons on windy winter nights, long ago; so long that it all seemed like a different existence. It was because he was thinking very hard about that previous existence that he started so when he suddenly heard a sound--away off in the distance. It was in the direction of the campus. It was someone singing. It was nothing to get excited over; men in the upper classes were all the time going around in groups lazily singing, laughing and talking, and looking as if they never thought of their studies. So he turned over the leaves of his book again. But after awhile this singing came nearer and nearer. There were many voices, all singing in concert, if not all in tune, but Young did not notice that fault, for just then the singing stopped--the quick, short college cheer cut through the air, and on the end of the cheer the Freshman class numerals--_his_ class numerals. He waited a moment to make sure. Then it came again: "Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger! Siss-boom-ah! Ninety-blank!" Then another one, a "long cheer" this time--the same as the other except that the Siss, the Boom, and the Ah were prolonged impressively: "Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger--sisses! Boom-m! Ah-h-h--Ninety-blank!" Now, it gives a freshman a peculiar thrill the first time he hears many voices shouting in concert for his class. Young's heart began to thump. "That's my class," he said to himself, and then he turned to his books again because he had not come to college to have a good time, but to study. But he sighed a little. Now the voices began singing to the tune of "Balm of Gilead": "Here's to Ninety--blank--Drink her down--drink her down-- "Here's to Ninety-blank-- Drink her down--drink her down, Here's to Ninety-blank-- For she's always----" something that rhymed with the other part of Ninety. Young put down his book for a minute. They were coming still nearer. He could hear some of the individual voices now. Up Dickinson Street they came. They turned the corner at Canal Street. Now they halted. Then a shrill voice shouted, "Now then, altogether, fellows, Hip! hip!" "Ninety-blank! this! way!!" the many shouted in unison. It made a great noise. Young opened his window. "Once more," cried the shrill voice. The call was repeated. Young stuck his head out. "Now then, fellows, a good rousing cheer for the honor of your class. Let everybody talk. Hip, hip!" And the cheer fairly shook the house. "Now then," commanded the clear, shrill voice, "Ninety-blank this way again once more--Hip, hip!" Young drew his head in from the window and the next minute he was running downstairs three steps at a time. He could not help it. Two other Freshmen joined him from neighboring houses on the way to the corner. There, with the street light glaring dimly upon them, stood the Freshman class, or most of it, closely drawn up four abreast, cheering for itself with all its might. The Juniors were leading the cheers with energetic waving of the arms; other Juniors were marshalling the forces. Young and his two unknown companions began to run as they drew nearer, and those in the rear ranks hearing their footsteps gave a yell of welcome. It sounded like a prolonged "Yea-a-a." The three new-comers modestly fell in at the rear. A quick-stepping nervous Junior came down the line looking each row over as he came along. He wore glasses, Young noticed, and a faded orange-and-black blazer. "Here, you big fellow, you'll do to go in front," he said, in a voice husky from cheering, and with that Young was taken by the arm, led way up to one of the front rows, shoved in beside three other fellows, and the Junior said, "Now, Tommy, that row's complete." The Freshman next to Young grabbed him by the coat-sleeve and locked an arm through his as if they had been comrades for four years instead of just about to be. He had on a soiled canvas football jacket and was hatless. His hair was long. "How much do you weigh, old man?" he asked in an excited manner. There was a lull in the cheering; everyone seemed to be whispering and chatting nervously; some of those in the rear were laughing at what one of the Juniors was telling them. "About one hundred and eighty-five pounds," said Young to his neighbor wondering who he was and what kind of a fellow. "Good! I weigh a hundred and seventy-nine and a half, stripped, just now--go up, though, after training awhile. You play football, I suppose?" Young had never seen real football played, but he did not like to say so--and he did not have to, for just then another cheer was demanded and they both joined in with the rest of the class, shouting with all their might, and then the command to march was given, and the line started forward, irregularly at first and with much treading upon heels, until one of the Juniors shouted, "Spread out, fellows, spread out; you'll have" (laughing) "all the close rank work you want when you get on the campus," and then someone put them in step by saying, "Hep!... Hep!... Hep!" And when the column was in step, a Junior in the rear who had a high tenor voice started up the famous marching time of "Hoorah! Hoorah! The flag that set us free. Hoorah! Hoorah! The year of jubilee." only the words they used were: "Nassau! Nassau! Ring out the chorus free-- Nassau! Nassau! Thy jolly sons are we. Care shall be forgotten, all our sorrows flung away, While we are marching through Princeton!" "Oh, we'll do 'em!" remarked Young's comrade, excitedly, at the conclusion of the song. Young wanted to say something in reply, but he did not know who "they" were or how they were to be done. So he only said, "Think so?" "Dead easy--we outnumber them three to two." Soon the main street, Nassau Street, was reached; and by that time, after much cheering and many "This ways," nearly two hundred Freshmen were in the ranks and shouting like good fellows. The line turned down toward the main college gate. Along both sides of the streets walked a crowd of onlookers: upper-classmen in flannel clothes seeming mildly interested in what was to them an old story; little town boys in short trousers shouting "Ray for de Freshmans!" and looking forward with excitement to what was never an old story to them. The shopkeepers were standing in their doors to see them pass. Upstairs windows opened and heads stuck out. In a pause between the verses of a song Young heard, far off in the distance, the quick eager: "Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger, siss, boom, ah!" of the short cheer. It was much more sharply and crisply given than the cheers he had joined in, and on the end of it came the numerals of the Sophomore class. Now, he had understood vaguely that there was to be some sort of contest between his class and the Sophomores, but this blatant, confident cheer away off somewhere in the distant, indefinite darkness, gave him a start; just for a moment he felt frightened. He was not the only one. "Oh, we'll do 'em," said the man next to Young. "Dead easy!" said Young, this time. They had passed the first gate by the Dean's house and were marching in good order down the broad old street. "Column right--wheel!" said the Junior in front, and they turned in at the carriage entrance. Before he quite realized it Young found himself walking on the soft, green turf of the campus itself. The singing had ceased. The talking stopped now. Nothing could be heard but the "tr'm, tr'm, tr'm," of many feet taking many steps at the same instant. "Halt!" said one of the Juniors in a whisper. "Form close ranks--lock step." The long line began to concentrate. Another of the Juniors went down the line saying, in a low voice, "Put your caps in your pockets, fellows--put your caps in your pockets, fellows." Many of them had already done so. Some only pulled theirs on tighter. "Are you ready back there, Tommy?" asked one of the Juniors. "Yes, Jack." The man hugging Young's arm whispered, "That's Jack Stehman, the great tackle." "Oh," said Young, looking admiringly at the powerful-looking football hero. "Now then, fellows," Stehman was saying to the Freshmen, "the Sophomores are lined up and waiting for you over by West College; one of our men has just come from there. You fellows are nearly fifty men stronger than they are. Stick together and you'll rush them dead easy." At this four or five excited Freshmen started a faint cheer but it was crushed down by several vigorous "sishes!" "Keep your mouths shut," said one of the other Juniors. "Now, follow me and, mind, _stick together_, what_ever_ you do. Stick together!" This was big Jack Stehman again. Young admired him; hoped to become well acquainted with him some day. The compact mass moved forward, their bodies close together and their legs and feet beneath taking quick short steps as best they could. It was like a huge dark centipede, except that centipedes probably do not step on so many of their heels at once. On either side walked upper-classmen, some calmly smoking pipes as if there was nothing to be excited about, laughing lightly and making remarks. The way they looked at Young and his companions reminded him of his father and the other farmers judging live stock at the county fair. "Pretty good looking Freshman class, Harry," said one fellow whose face Young couldn't see in the dark. "Um," said the one addressed, nodding. "There's a fellow, looks----" Young lost the rest of it. Up the gravel driveway the black mass crept toward the opening between the dark Library and darker Dickinson Hall. Young was grabbing tight hold of the Freshman in front of him and wondering what would come next. They were just through the opening and were about to turn toward the quadrangle. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound, like distant thunder. Then shouted Jack Stehman, the big Junior: "Here they come! here they come. Now then keep together, fellows, keep together, keep together--come at 'em _hard_!" Now the many feet of the Freshman column began to rumble. On they plunged, increasing their speed every second. The spectators on either side sprang back. On came the Sophomores with still more momentum, showing a front row of hardened football men with football suits. A distant light shone on them and Young had a vivid glimpse of their determined faces. Then, with the Juniors crying, "Come faster! come faster! stick together!" and the Seniors who coached the Sophomores shouting, "Rush 'em, rush 'em, rush 'em!" the two lines came together. Young was conscious of a dull crunching "thrump." It sounded as if bones were breaking, though none was. Then he saw the two rows in front of him lifted up in mid-air. The front rows of Sophomores were squeezed up also. It was like colliding trains of cars. Young could see them up there struggling, could hear them straining and grunting and pushing and shouting while the distant light gleamed on their dishevelled hair. "Now! now! that's the way--now we're getting them!" one of the Juniors was shrieking. "That's the way!" yelled another. "Stick together!" roared Stehman, jumping in and shoving mightily himself. He seemed as strong and as regardless of his body as a mad bull, and yet he was as calm as a man loading hay. "Rush 'em off the campus! Rush the Freshmen!" shouted the Seniors now becoming alarmed. "Yea-a-! we're doing 'em," panted the well-built man beside Young. "Shove! shove! shove!" Young was straining and shoving with his teeth set and he felt as if his ribs would soon break. But he had the exultant joy of victory. His feet were off the ground and he was being carried along by the force of those behind him. The Sophomores had tried to take them by surprise before they got up the grade by the Library. If they had been successful they would have made short work of the Freshmen. As it was they had more momentum, but in hurrying across the campus to accomplish their design their lines had become loose. The Freshmen, on the other hand, were solid through and through, and now the compact mass in the rear was beginning to tell. The Freshmen were shoving the Sophomores back. Young heard shouts of victory. But at this point the usual and natural result took place. The lines were too long for their width, and so it was only for a moment that they kept straight head to head; the pushing from behind bent them and they doubled in upon themselves. The Freshmen 'way back there in the rear thinking the Sophomores had retreated rushed on hard, shouting for their class and their victory, while at the same time part of the Sophomores did the same thing on the other side. And so sections of each column passed each other shouting, "Rush 'em!" and the rest turned around on each other and got hopelessly mixed up and excited. In this mix there was much shouting and considerable cap-grabbing and some rough work. And the confused, disorganized Freshmen did not know just what was going on until a sudden cry went up, "Look out! look out! Here they come again." "Get in line--for Heaven's sake," hurriedly shouted a Junior, and "This way," roared big Stehman, "_this_ way, I tell you, you fools!" But it was too late. The rumbling was heard again, and from an unexpected direction, and before the huddling Freshmen could even get started, a compact mass of Sophomores came pounding down upon them, ploughed through them, knocked some of them over and came out solid on the other side. Then there was great shouting among the Sophomores, with much blatant, exultant cheering. Meanwhile the rallying cry of "Ninety-blank this way!" began ringing out again. It was over by the quadrangle and now the scattered Freshmen were scurrying over toward the sound of it. "Ninety-blank?" shouted a boyish voice in Young's ear not two feet away from it. "Yes," said Young, excitedly, and took the owner of it by the arm and hurried along through the crowd toward their comrades. Just then an unseen hand made a grab at Young's hat--off it went; and the grabber dodged out of sight in the crowd and darkness. "There goes my hat," said Young. "Mine went long ago," said his new-found comrade, meaning ten seconds before. He was a little fellow and seemed very young. "We oughtn't to have taken them out of our pockets." He was laughing excitedly as he ran along. They hurried into line with the others by West College. A Junior dressed in a conspicuous white flannel suit came running over, shouting, "The Sophs are just beginning to form over there by the cannon. Hurry and you can get them on the flank." "All right," cried Jack Stehman, "come on, fellows. Never mind weights and sizes. Now do something, do something for your class." "Come on," called another, "this time we get the cannon!" Without waiting for all the class to collect, or for perfect formation, the Freshman column dashed down at the thick of the Sophomores who now stopped giving "This-way" shouts and started forward to meet their opponents. They knew that to be caught napping meant to be rushed, and then the Freshmen would gain the coveted cannon. Again the two columns met like two big waves, and like spray the front lines were dashed on high. Young was up there this time, literally face to face with the Sophomores. He could see them straining and grunting and pushing like himself. The little fellow that had fallen in rank beside him was up there too, being tossed about like a cork. The Sophomores were only half prepared for the attack, and were being charged back; Young felt them giving way before him. It felt good. "Hold them, hold them, fellows!" shouted the Seniors, and some of them pitched in to help their allies, the Sophomores. But they could not hold them, and the little fellow beside Young began screaming, "We're rushing 'em! we're rushing the Sophs," in the Sophomores' very faces. A big Sophomore in the front rank got one arm free, reached up and struck the little fellow in the face, then got hold of his coat and began to jerk the little one down. Young reached over, grabbed the big Sophomore's wrist and freed his little classmate. "Hi! Deacon!" cried a disagreeable voice somewhere in the rows of Sophomores before him. Young was devoting all his energy to the little fellow whose nose was now bleeding; this did not seem to bother the latter, for he wriggled around, nimbly clambered up on Young's big shoulders, then kneeling on them and having free play for his arms he began to strike right and left at the Sophomores beneath him as fast as he could, and he seemed to be able to strike both fast and hard. Seeing his pluck those behind him now plunged forward harder than ever. "Yea-a-a--the cannon--the cannon, we've got it!" cried the little fellow. Young felt himself brushing up against something hard and solid. Sure enough it was the big iron breech of the old cannon that he had seen standing muzzle down, in the centre of the quadrangle. The little fellow jumped down from Young's shoulders upon it, and began to lead a cheer, though he did not know how to do it very well. But he waved his hands about his head and everyone yelled exultingly. They had won. Then Jack Stehman, the Junior coach, hustled the little one off, jumped up on the cannon himself and led a cheer in the right way. The little fellow was out of sight now, but not out of memory. He was a hero. Meanwhile some of the other Sophomores had zealously rushed some of the other Freshmen off the quadrangle and were shouting themselves hoarse for _their_ victory down by Clio Hall, but the Freshmen had the cannon. That was what they were after all this time, as Young now learned. "It's all over now. Go home, you fellows," said the hoarse-voiced Juniors, silencing the exuberant Freshmen. "We rushed them, though, didn't we?" eagerly asked a Freshman with necktie gone and coat torn half off. Young saw it was his small comrade. "'Course you did," said Jack Stehman, his voice sounding gruff and authoritative. "Go to your rooms as fast as you can; Sophs'll haze tar out of you if they catch you to-night. They expected to have an easy thing of it." The little fellow had spied Young. "Good-night," he said, holding out his hand, "much obliged for what you did. My name's Lee." "Young is my name." They shook hands. "Hope you aren't hurt," Young added, smiling. "Nope; see you again. Good-night." The Freshmen now began to scatter in all directions in the darkness, some of them limping and some of them going slowly because out of breath; and some had fewer garments than when they left their rooms. But all had a great deal more class spirit, and that is the object of the cannon rush. There was not one among them who would have missed it for anything. Young reached his room without adventure. He limped a little as he went upstairs, but he did not know it. He had been in his room but a few moments when a knock came at the door. He had had no callers before this. "Come in," said Young, cheerfully. He thought perhaps it was Lee. [Illustration: AFTER THE RUSH. In walked ... the little Sophomore, and behind him a very big Sophomore. Young recognized him as the one....] In walked Channing, the little Sophomore, and behind him a very big Sophomore, dressed in a football suit. Young recognized him as the one that struck little Lee, and he seemed to recognize Young; at least he grinned and showed the place where a front tooth was gone. And Channing wore Young's hat. CHAPTER IV WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS Suppose you were a Freshman and hazing were still in vogue, and the first callers in your college course were two Sophomores, and each of them had reasons for wanting to humiliate you, and one of the fellows was a football player with muscles larger than your own; how would you feel if they strode into your room, looking arrogant? You, possibly, might not mind it. If so, Will Young was different from you, for he felt very queer as he arose from his chair. Channing said, "How do you do, Mr. Young?" Then, closing the door so the landlady might not hear, "Well, Deacon," with his sarcastic smile, "we've come for you." Young said nothing. Instinctively he offered chairs. "This is Deacon Young of Squeedunk, the freshest man in the class, Bally. Bow, Freshman, to Mr. Ballard, of whom you have doubtless heard--the famous centre rush of the famous Sophomore football eleven that will do your futile Freshman team up so badly you can't see, later in the term." "No, thanks," said the big fellow to Young, in a very big voice, "never sit on chairs." He had seated himself on Young's table, with one foot on a chair, and was looking around the room as Channing went on: "We secured several of your charming classmates on the campus. They aren't far away from here now." Ballard chuckled at this. "But we missed you on the campus, Deacon. You must have run home after the rush." The Sophomores both laughed at this, but Young said nothing, and wondered how Channing had found out where he roomed. "You have given us some trouble. That is unfortunate for you. But you were kind enough yesterday to oblige me with your name; so I went to the registrar's office and asked where my dear old friend Willie Young roomed. I told them I wanted to look you up and take care of you. We'll take care of you, all right--eh, Bally?" Ballard laughed his loud laugh at this way of talking. He thought Channing very witty, and so did Channing. Young was leaning against the mantelpiece. "But we mustn't waste time here," Channing went on; "pick up your hat and come on like a good little boy; we're all going for a nice little stroll to the canal together." Young had heard, since he last saw Channing, what the Sophomores did with Freshmen at the canal. He did not move. "Oh, I forgot," said Channing, "you have no hat; you lost yours in the rush this evening, didn't you? Well, well, that was too bad. You will have to go bareheaded. However, Freshman," he added, patronizingly stern, "this will teach you a good lesson--two good lessons. In the first place, little Willie must wear a cap and not a big felt hat like this." He took Young's hat off his own head and looked at it critically. "I suppose this is the latest thing out at Squeedunkville." Ballard grinned. Young flushed and bit his lip. "In the second place, you must always take it off when you meet your superiors and thus save us the trouble of taking it off for you; and," he added, looking out of the window in the direction of the canal, "and so save yourself some trouble also." Ballard was now beginning to look interested. "I guess the Freshman's got another hat in his closet," he said, gruffly. Then he commanded, "Go get it, Freshman, and come on." Ballard was standing now. Young did have a hat--a derby hat, the one he wore on the train and when he first arrived--in his closet, but he did not go and get it, and he did not come on. "Didn't you hear what I said?" growled Ballard. "Come on." He let Channing do the guying, but he liked to take a hand in the bossing himself. Apparently Young heard nothing; he had not said a word, and he was quietly looking down at the carpet, but his heart was beating fast. "Now, see here, Deacon," said Channing, "we don't want to have any trouble with you. Are you going to come along peacefully and have an easy time of it, or are you going to make a little trouble for us and a lot for yourself?" Young did not speak or look up. He seemed to be moving his tongue about in his cheek. Ballard approached him. "You won't come, eh?" he said, angrily. And with that he took him by the shoulder. "Take your hands off me," said the Freshman, shrilly, and wrenched quickly away, backing up against the wall. He stood there breathing hard, and he glanced from one Sophomore to the other. Now, it is not the easiest thing in the world for a big man and a little man to drag out of a room one very good-sized man who looks as if he had made up his mind to stay in it. At any rate, to do it without considerable noise is impossible. Therefore Channing stepped across to the open window, stuck his head out, and gave a long, peculiar whistle. He waited a moment and then repeated it Then an answer came back from the distance. "We'll soon fix _you_, Deacon," he remarked, nodding his head, as he returned from the window. Young was still standing backed up against the wall. Ballard, braced against the door opposite to prevent the Freshman's escape, was scowling. "They'll be here in a minute," said Channing. He referred to the classmates he had signalled to. You see if they had all come in together it would have aroused the landlady's suspicions. As it was, Channing had been obliged to tell her that Ballard and himself represented the college Y. M. C. A., and that they wanted to ask Mr. Young to join it. "When they whistle I'll tip-toe down and let them in," said Channing. "Listen! What's that?" Footsteps were heard coming up the stairs. "They couldn't have gotten here so soon," said Ballard. "I didn't hear any whistle," said Channing. The footsteps came nearer. "Is this the room?" said a voice just outside the door. "Yes, that's the one," came the reassuring tones of the landlady below. The Sophomores had stopped talking. A knock. No reply. Another knock. "Come in," said Young, defiantly. Ballard stepped to one side. The door opened. "Is this Mr. Young?" "That's my name," said Young. "Come in." He was still standing by the mantelpiece. A dark-eyed, strong-faced, matured-looking man with rather long hair stood in the doorway. "I am Nolan," he said, "of the Junior class, and this is Mr. Linton," turning to a man behind him. "Hello there, Ballard," Nolan said, casually then suddenly taking in the situation and smiling, "sorry to spoil your fun," he said. "Hello, where's your young friend going in such a hurry?" Channing was seen slipping out of the still open door. "I'll be right back," he said, grinning. The whistle had sounded while Nolan and Linton were entering the room, and Channing wanted to get down in time to--but it was too late. The Juniors had left the front door open when they entered, and now the other Sophomores were on the way up the second flight of stairs. "Where's the Freshman's room, Chan?" they said, in a loud whisper. "Wait, there's no use coming now," began Channing. But Linton was now at the head of the stairs saying, in an amused tone: "Oh, come right up; don't mind us." So, rather than seem afraid of the Juniors they trooped in, all six of them looking as if caught at something they were ashamed of. Linton smiled drolly at one of the Sophomores he happened to know personally. "Hard luck, Valentine," he said. Nolan nodded gravely to one or two of them, and they said, "How do you do?" very respectfully. No one said anything else for a moment. "Don't let us interrupt you," said Channing, grinning. "We had no intention of being interrupted," said Linton, without looking up. And Freshman Young noticed that the others seemed to consider this a good joke on Channing, and Channing noticed that Young noticed it, and this was one thing more to remember against Young. "By the way," Linton went on in a lazy, matter-of-fact way, as he began filling a pipe, "perhaps it would be just as well if you fellows all got up and got out of here now. Billy and I came here to talk hall to this Freshman, and we have a number of others to call on, and Billy mustn't stay up late these days, you know." "Billy" meant Nolan, the one with long hair, and he was a university football man, and the training season had begun. Linton made this remark in an ordinary tone, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to request seven or eight men to leave a room. He struck a match for his pipe as he finished speaking, and then lifted his feet up on the table and leaned back without looking at the under-classmen. The Sophomores said, "All right," meekly arose, murmured, "Good-night," and smiling rather sheepishly departed. Young looked on with mingled feelings. They outnumbered the Juniors seven to two, and yet the arrogant Sophomores did not even question the Junior's power. He was learning something about these traditions and customs; evidently the authority was not in bodily strength. But the two upper-classmen, without waiting to see what became of the Sophomores, began forthwith to tell Young how different were the two secret literary societies, whose mysterious, Greek temples looked so much alike there side by side on the campus, and to point out how superior was their own "hall," as they called it. Nolan, who was a famous orator in this hall, did most of the talking. Linton only put in a word now and then, but he kept glancing at the Freshman in a queer, quizzical way as he blew smoke. When they arose to go Linton said, in a pleasant tone: "I suppose the Sophomores are bothering you a good deal?" Young wondered what made Linton say so. "No," he replied; "they tried to make me take off my hat yesterday, but I wouldn't do it." He thought that would impress these upper-classmen. Linton glanced at Nolan, who smiled. "Say, Young," said Linton, kindly, "of course it's none of my business, but--well, I'd take off my hat if I were you." "Why?" "Oh, well, because you're a Freshman." "But what right have they to make me take off my hat to them? They aren't any better than----" "Because they're Sophomores. Come on, Billy." He opened the door. "You think it over, Young. Good-night. Glad to have met you, Young." Then on his way downstairs he added to his friend Billy Nolan, "I like that big, green Freshman, but he needs hazing." "He _is_ rather fresh. Do you think we'll secure him, Jim?" "But you can hardly blame him for taking himself so seriously," Linton went on as they gained the street "You see he has always lived at home, didn't go away to prep. school, was never guyed or anything of that sort in all his innocent life, and he doesn't know how to take it. He was an important person at home--probably led his class at the High School--has a lot of little brothers and sisters that bow down to him; and they've told him that he is a great man so often that he thinks there must be something in it. His hands show he has worked on a farm, but the palms are soft now--I noticed that shaking hands--so he's probably clerked in a store or taught school; yes, he's probably taught school." Linton considered himself a student of human nature, and he did guess pretty well this time, though Young had no sisters and had never taught school. "Anyway," he concluded, and in this he was right, perhaps, "college will be a great thing for him. No one ever made him realize his relative unimportance in the world." "As we made big Bally realize it last year," interposed Nolan, smiling. "Yes, and as we, too, were made to realize it the year before. My, what a big chump you'd have been, Billy, if you hadn't been hazed." "And, oh, what a supercilious ass you'd have made, Jim. Do you remember that time----" And these two walked on toward the campus with arms thrown carelessly about each others' shoulders, reminiscencing about days which, to hear them talk, you would have thought were half a generation ago; and so they were--half a college generation. Meanwhile Young was doing what Linton had told him to do, thinking over what had been said to him. Also he thought over what he had observed when the Juniors and Sophomores were in the room together, and he came to certain conclusions. Then he went to bed. CHAPTER V HAZING The very next evening, as Young and a classmate named Barrows were on the way from supper, someone stepped out from behind a tree-box and said, "Here he is, fellows," and the next moment the two Freshmen, surrounded by a dozen Sophomores, were on their way to the canal. Channing acted as ringmaster, as usual. To his surprise and, perhaps, disappointment, Young was not sullen or stubborn; he seemed rather good-natured about it. "Take off your hat, Deacon." "All right," said Young, smiling cheerfully, and lifted his hat. "Do it again and don't smile." He did it again and did not smile. "Who said you could put it back on your head? Take it off and keep it off." Young held it in his hand. "Put it on again," shouted Channing. And so it went. "Now, Deacon, since you have taken off your cap and have shown how low you can bow, show us how the prairie-dogs run, out home on the farm." The group was getting beyond the houses now. "But there aren't any prairie-dogs where I live in Illinois," returned Young, smiling. "That doesn't matter," growled Ballard; "do it anyway." So William Young, thinking of how the people out home were in awe of him because he had gone East to college, got down on all fours and ambled along the dusty road. "Now you do it, you little Freshman with the big head." Barrows gave his version of a prairie-dog's method of progress, laughing as if it were a good joke. "Now both do it at once," said Channing. The Sophomores laughed gleefully, especially at Young, he was so big and awkward. [Illustration: HAZING. "Now both sit up on your haunches and chatter awhile."] "That's pretty good," said Channing, as if he were the exhibitor of trained animals. "Now both sit up on your haunches and chatter awhile." Everybody laughed, Young included. "Don't laugh," said Channing. "Cork up your laughter," said Ballard. Then they were made to crow like roosters and bark like dogs, and give other imitations, until they reached the tow-path of the canal. Here they were made to strip. "Can you swim?" one of the fellows asked. Both said they could. "Then jump in and swim across. Be quick about it." The water was cool, but it did not hurt them. "Now swim back and get your clothes." While dressing they were made to sing "Home, Sweet Home"--"in order to keep warm," Channing said. "Now cheer for the illustrious class above you. Are you ready?--Hip--Hip!" The college cheer was given with the Sophomore class numerals on the end. "I don't think I heard your sweet voice, Deacon Young," said one of the Sophs, a tall fellow with glasses. "Suppose you give us one all alone. Now then, Hip--Hip!" Young kept silent. "See here, you cheer, Deacon. Do as we tell you." This from Ballard, who bellowed. Young looked around at the Sophomores--there were twelve of them--and then glanced at the canal; he did not want to go in there again; he was shivering already. "Hip--Hip!" said Ballard. Young gave a feeble cheer. The man with the glasses said: "H'm, you'll have to do better than that. Now then, a loud one." Young cleared his throat and gave a loud, full cheer. "That's the way to talk," they said, encouragingly. "It won't hurt you, you see," said one of them, rather kindly, in a low voice. "You are improving, Deacon Young," said Channing, patronizingly. "We'll make a man of you yet." Thus began a new epoch in the life of William Young. During the next week or so of his college course he was hazed perhaps more than anyone in his class, although from that first time he no longer resisted or tried to maintain his superiority. Undoubtedly hazing, as Linton, the Junior, said, was a good thing for his system, as it is for any young man, but Young certainly did not need such severe doses nor so many of them. Some of the fellows said so the third time he was taken to the canal. "The old Deacon is all right now," they said; "why d'you give it to him so hard?" But Channing was one of these small men that love to get power over big men; he loved to haze and he hated to have anyone call him little or mouthy, and Young had called him both. The next night he and Ballard, who, as will be seen later, had much of the bully in him, would bring around a different crowd and Channing would take out his pipe, shake it at Young and say to the others, "Now this old jay Deacon is innocent and meek enough to look at, but he is atrociously fresh at bottom--isn't he, Bally, you old horse?" Young said nothing and took his hazing cheerfully and patiently, hoping they would soon get tired of it. "I suppose," he said to himself, as he hurried back to his room to work until past midnight, in order to make up for lost time. "I suppose I must be very fresh, or they would not keep it up so long. I did not know I was so fresh." But he told himself that if he were only well liked by his own classmates as he had expected to be, he would not care what his enemies thought of him. That he had not sprung into popularity, he decided, was due to that painful occurrence at his first recitation. It made him flush to think of it even now. It was on the morning after the rush and after the Sophomores had been turned out of his room. He went in to the Livy recitation for which he had prepared himself so thoroughly--he went over it four and a half times, you may remember--and took his seat, feeling strong and confident, and, "Mr. Young, please to translate," said the professor, before the class was hardly settled in its seats. It was in a low voice. Young was in the back of the room. He was not dreaming of being called upon first anyway, and he wondered why the fellow next to him was nudging him with an elbow. Young turned and looked at him inquiringly. "Get up," whispered the man. "What for?" whispered Young. "Isn't Mr. Young present?" said the professor in a tone loud and clear, and Young fairly jumped out of his seat, exclaiming, "Yes, marm--yes, sir, I mean." He added it quickly but it was too late. Everyone had heard and everyone was laughing, and even the professor joined in, though he did not mean it unkindly, and then they all laughed still more. The walls fairly echoed with it. Even after the professor had rapped for order and the laughter had quieted down, someone in the front row tittered and that set them all off again. A new class is always somewhat hysterical. Some of those in the front rows turned and stared at him in their laughter. It was a natural mistake. This freshman had prepared for college at a high school, and most of the High School teachers were women. Young should have joined in the laughter, but he only stood there, scarlet and serious-looking and wishing he could disappear forever. Finally the professor said, kindly, "Now then, Mr. Young." But Mr. Young was confused, and though he had been over the passage until he had it nearly by heart, he now became all tangled up and excited and finally took his seat dripping with perspiration and wishing he had never come to college. Instead of being perfect his first college recitation was a flat failure. But the professor did not count this failure against him because he saw that the fellow was rattled and because the next time he came in he made the best recitation of the day. But that was not the trouble. The fellows would not forget it and would not let up on it. "Thank you, marm," they whispered as he arose to recite, and "Thank you, marm," they shouted to him on the crowded campus. The Sophomores took it up. It became a second nick-name. The worst of it was--in fact the reason of it all was--that he took this as he did himself and everything else, with entirely too much self-importance. Instead of laughing or answering back he looked sullen and sedate when they said, "Thank you, marm," and naturally they said it then all the more. It cut and hurt to have his own classmates--the men with whom he had stood shoulder to shoulder in the rush and at the class meeting--treat him thus. If they had known that he was taking it so seriously, they would have stopped. But they did not know it. How should they? Most people have to suffer before they learn to be sympathetic. So, altogether, with the Sophomores who hazed and the classmates who guyed, Will Young decided that college life was not all it was cracked up to be. But you may be sure he did not let this opinion get into the letters he wrote home. Because he was discouraged was no reason for making his mother discouraged too. But, oh, it would have helped a lot, if he had only somebody to talk to about it all. He did not know how to make friends with the others, and the others did not seem to care to make friends, thank you, marm, with the sober-faced old Deacon. It was all very well for a fellow like Linton to say that something of this sort was a good thing for a fellow like Young. But Linton was a Junior, with friends that loved him; and Juniors forget. Besides, sometimes we get too much of a good thing, and then it becomes a bad thing. If it had kept on this way Young might have become meek and backboneless, and such an extreme would be even worse than that of self-importance. But it did not keep on. It all stopped one day quite suddenly. CHAPTER VI WORK--PLAY--"PROCS" "PRINCETON, N. J., Sunday. "DEAR MOTHER: Yes, the Sophomores _have_ hazed me a good many times since I first wrote about it, but I do not mind it much now. Honestly I do not. They mean it all in joke. You must not worry. I ought not to have told you anything about it. I am seldom homesick, and am very happy here at college." And so he was. For each hour of discomfort there were many other hours that were exceedingly comfortable and satisfactory, for he was working with all his might at what he had always wanted to work--he was getting a college education. And when all is said and done there is nothing like hard work and a good digestion to make a fellow happy. That is if the work is congenial and the food is good; and they were. His work was so congenial that his recitations sometimes made the fellows in the front rows turn and look at him, the same fellows that had turned and looked at him during that first frightful recitation; but their faces wore different expressions now. He was getting a reputation for being one of the "keeners" of his division. And as for his food, it was good--and so were the table-mates, for now that the shyness was rubbing off he was beginning to enjoy meeting and sitting down at the table with those dozen classmates more than any part of the day, if only that long, thin fellow who was studying for the ministry would not say, solemnly, after Young had handed the bread, "Thank you, marm." However, he did not mind even that quite so much as at first, because he was learning how to take good-natured chaff now, and, more than that, to answer it. And that is something one is likely to be taught at college if he learns nothing else. The letter continued: "A Junior manages, or runs, our club; that is, he gathered in us twelve Freshmen during the first day or two of the term, and brought us to Mrs. Brown's table. I told you how several club managers asked me to join their clubs the first day? Most of them were too expensive, though. This boarding system is a good bargain for the ladies who supply the tables, for they cannot collect the students themselves, and a good bargain for the managers, for they get their board free, and so save the largest item of expense at college." Young was finding out that there were, as the minister had told him, a great many fellows at college who had to consider items of expense seriously, but he was surprised to find it so hard to tell which ones did and which did not. "Everybody talks as if he were 'dead broke' all the time, and you would think all were, to look at them. It is not the thing to dress well here. A student is made fun of if he tries it. I wear the black cut-away coat only on Sundays, as I used to, instead of every day, as you thought I should have to do. I did not have to buy a new hat. I bought a flannel cap instead, such as all the fellows wear." At first Young was rather shocked at the slouchy way these college men dressed, and he made up his mind that he would not wear corduroy trousers when he became an upper-classman. But there were not only many long months, but a very serious problem to go through with, before he became an upper-classman, or even a Sophomore. However, he had money enough in the bank to scrape along for awhile; the term was only just begun, and things might turn up before it ended, and meanwhile he did not want to think about that, because it always reminded him of his father's attitude in the matter. "Huh! We'll see how long you stay there with those dudes." A fellow does not like to feel that he is doing something his father does not approve of, no matter how old or independent he is. Mr. Young had not once written a line to Will at college, and through Mrs. Young had only sent the most formal messages. The Freshman concluded that his father hated him. There came a time when he found how mistaken he was. * * * * * One day, about a week after college opened--though it seemed to Young more like seven weeks than seven days, because he had seen and felt so many new things and, though he was not aware of it perhaps, because he had developed so much--at any rate, one afternoon just one week from the time he had first met Channing and his crew, Young heard about another new thing. This, too, resulted in developing him a good deal. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and he was on the way across the quadrangle after "English," no longer feeling lost or out of place on the campus, for he knew by this time nearly all its nooks and crannies and the names of most of the buildings. "There are 225 acres in the grounds," he had written home to Charlie in another cheerful sounding letter, "and we have over thirty buildings." And he told with pride something of the Revolutionary history of Nassau Hall, "the venerable brown building they called 'Old North,' once the largest building in this hemisphere and for a time the most important." But that was not the reason he felt so proud just now. It was because he was walking beside little "Lucky" Lee. [Illustration: THE HERO OF THE BELL-CLAPPER. Lee was one of the most prominent and popular men in the class.] Lee was the class secretary and treasurer, and one of the most prominent and most popular men in the class. He had sprung into considerable class prominence when he sprang upon Young's shoulders that night in the rush. But the next night he climbed still higher and into greater fame by scaling the belfry of Old North at dead of night, where, with the aid of Stevens, his room-mate, he carried off the bell-clapper, "and that was a great thing, I tell you," Young wrote home. "Of course, no Freshman class would be respected," Linton, the Junior, had explained the next time he and Nolan had come to "talk hall" with Will--who explained it to Charlie--"they'd be disgraced if they didn't steal the bell-clapper. The college authorities expect it to be done. They have a barrelful of new ones down in the cellar. When the rope is pulled and they find the bell doesn't ring, they simply fork out a new clapper and climb up and fasten it on, and then start in to ringing as though nothing unusual had happened." None the less it was a daring deed, and Lee and Stevens had come within a small margin of getting caught by stealthy Matt Goldie, the chief proctor. But they weren't, and the big heavy clapper was now in the city of Trenton, being melted down into many diminutive souvenir clappers (to be worn as watch-charms by the whole class) at this very moment, while Lee was walking across the campus and Young beside him was hoping that the fellows who called him "Thank you, marm!" could see him now. Just then "Minerva" Powelton, the recently chosen captain of the class baseball team, joined Lee and Young, or rather he joined Lee; he paid little attention to Young. He had been brought up to keep away from boys whose family he knew nothing of, and he considered Young beneath him in every way. He got over it in time. "Say, Lucky," he said in a low tone, putting his arm fawningly around little Lee, "the Sophs will be getting out the procs pretty soon. We'd better watch out." "Naw," said Lucky, with the conviction of superior knowledge. "Not till after Saturday's game, at the earliest. Why, in my brother's Freshman year they did not do it till after cane-spree." "Well, we'd better keep our eyes peeled, all the same," said Captain Powelton. Young looked sober and said nothing. To tell the truth, he did not know what they were talking about. Was it that the Sophs were going to turn the college proctors against them in some cowardly way? But what Saturday's baseball game between the two classes had to do with it he knew no more than what a cane-spree might be; and he walked home wondering. That evening at the club one of the fellows--who, perhaps, had also overheard a conversation--said, in a pause, "I understand the Sophs will bring out the procs pretty soon." Young was not so shy before his own crowd. "No, they won't," said he. "Not until after Saturday's baseball game." "Why not, Young?" he was asked. "What are the procs, anyway?" inquired Barrows, at the foot of the table, who had been Young's champion on the first trip to the canal. He was a small, ingenuous fellow with a big head, and had taken a prize for passing the best entrance examinations from his State. Young was about to laugh and own up that he did not know, when the Junior who ran the club cleared his throat and explained. He was fond of instructing these Freshmen. He had been very green himself two years before, and he knew how it felt. He also knew how impressive an upper-classman seems to the entering student. "The two lower classes," he said, with a great deal of Junior dignity, "always get out proclamations on each other. It is one of the customs. The Sophs generally bring theirs out first; they are like big bill posters." "What's on them?" asked Barrows. "On them is printed a lot of nonsense in green type. They cast aspersions on you, call you fresh and green and heap ignominy on your prominent men and deride your eccentric characters." "Well, where do they put them?" asked the one who brought up the subject. "All over the State." "What!" "They paste them all over this town and its environs, on the blank walls and the sidewalks, and on every barn in the county, on wagons, on telegraph-poles, on freight-cars--not only that, but they go off to Trenton and New Brunswick and paste them all over the town and on freight-trains about to pull out." "Well! what do we do all this time?" asked Young. Everyone was listening now. "Pull them down," said the Junior, simply, "and soon afterward you get out a proc saying sarcastic things about _them_, which they pull down, feeling very indignant, and then they haze you worse than ever. Please hand me the butter." "But I still don't see," said Barrows, the small fellow with the big head, "what Saturday's baseball game has to do with it?" "They wait until after that," replied the Junior, smiling, "in order to write verses on the score and jeer you on being so badly beaten." "Maybe we won't be beaten," said Barrows. "I sincerely hope you won't," said the Junior, benignantly. The series of inter-class baseball games lasting a week had begun as usual on the Monday previous. They are played so early in the term because football soon absorbs all athletic interest of the fall. The Freshman class, which was large and had had many aspirants to athletic honors, had barely had time to pick out its nine, who were, so said the Junior class baseball captain who was coaching the players, unusually good material, but quite lacking in team play. This was only natural, as only three of them had ever seen each other a week before. However, they made a very good showing against the Juniors on Tuesday, and by Thursday they had improved so much that they beat the lazy Seniors. To tell the truth the latter had not put a very ambitious team in the field, and played horse throughout the game. But this encouraged the Freshmen wonderfully, and confidence was just what they needed. After the practice on Friday afternoon the Junior coach said, "I think you fellows will win to-morrow--_if_ you don't get rattled," he added, shaking his head and thinking of his own Freshman year. The Sophomore-Freshman game is the concluding match of the week, and is always the special event of the series, owing to the intense rivalry between the two lower classes. It is advertised in the bill-posters in letters twice as large as the other games, and many alumni gather from New York and Philadelphia to witness it, which makes the two lower classes feel quite important. Great was the excitement in the Freshman class, and great was the hope of victory. The Sophomores, though they did not show it, were also excited, but they were blatantly confident of winning. It would be a terrible disgrace if they lost to the Freshmen. Soon after the mid-day meal on Saturday the Freshman class marched down to University Field in a body, and sat there cheering for itself and its team all the afternoon. Just before the game began the Sophomores, in a solid mass of orange and black, making a deafening lot of noise with college songs on kazoos, led by a big brass band, entered the field with banners waving, took possession of a solid section of the bleachers, derided the Freshmen, drowned out their cheers, guyed their batters, rattled their pitcher, and won the game by a score of 18 to 7. That night the country for miles round was scoured by faithful Freshmen. Not a proclamation was found. The next night still a larger number of Freshmen lost half of their eight hours' sleep in the cause, and in vain. The next afternoon Lucky Lee whispered to Young, coming out of mathematics: "The Sophomores get out their procs to-night, sure; they are being printed in Trenton--I have a detective down there who found out all about it. I want you to come up to my room in University Hall this evening after you have finished your 'poling'--I mean studying. Wear your old clothes. You'll come, won't you?" Young had not been engaged in the previous nightly searches, and he had not intended to join in this one. But it was Lee. "I'll come," said Young--"soon's I get through 'poling,'" he added, for he wanted young Lee to know that he too understood college slang, even though he was a quiet Freshman. There was something fascinating to Young about that bright-faced little fellow. Everybody liked him. The territory to be covered and the men to cover it had been divided up beforehand among a number of leaders, and when Lee had said, in talking it over in Powelton's room, "I'm going to get that man Young, he's a big, strong fellow," Powelton had said, "What, that big, awkward poler from the backwoods?--the man everybody guys? Bah! he hasn't any more class spirit than my pipe." Everyone at college is called a student, but a poler is one who studies to excess. "Poler or no poler," answered Lee, "he's got muscle all right, and he stood by me in the rush in great shape!" Promptly at ten o'clock Young slammed shut his Homer and the Greek lexicon and started for University Hall, a big rambling place full of noisy, whistling students that scrape their feet along the wide carpetless corridors. He had done a good evening's work for himself; now he was going to work for Lee and for the class. Some Sophomores at the foot of the third flight of stairs said, "Quack! quack! Freshmen!" as Young went by, but he did not mind that, and they did not dare do more because Sam, the night watchman, was downstairs in the main hall. "Wasn't that Deacon Young?" said a man joining the group. "What did you let him go by for?" It was Channing, of course, and he went hurrying upstairs after Young, to show off how bold he was. "Channing certainly has nerve," said one of them. By the time Channing caught up, Young had turned down the narrow corridor which led to Lee's room. "You'll have to come back," said Channing, in a matter-of-fact way, which made it all the more irritating. "Here! I said, 'come back.'" Young might have done it ordinarily, but he had promised Lee to come to his room at ten o'clock and he was accustomed to keep his word; he did not even look around. Channing, catching up with him, laid a hand on his arm, and said, sneeringly, "Come back, or it'll be worse for you," and called Young a name that he should have known better than to call anyone unless willing to fight in consequence. For answer Young turned promptly about, grabbed the little Sophomore by the shoulders, then taking both wrists in one of his strong hands and shaking the other fist in his face, said, "You little reptile, you're too small for me to hurt, but I'll give you what I wanted to give you since I first laid eyes on you." With that he quietly picked up the small Sophomore, turned him over his left knee and gave him a good sound spanking with his big right hand. "There," he said, holding Channing upon his knee a moment. "That's what I think of you. Now run and tell everybody." And he gave him a gentle push which was not as gentle as he meant it to be. Channing got up from the floor hastily, looked about, saw that no one was near, and then sneaked around the corner in a hurry toward the stairs. He hadn't said another word. As he drew near his friends he slackened up and began to whistle carelessly. "Couldn't find him," he said, "the old cow must have heard me coming, and scooted into some room." Inwardly he was thanking his stars he had not been seen. But he had been seen. The door of one of the rooms along the hall had been ajar; two upper-classmen within had just put out their lights to go to bed, the whole scene had been enjoyed, and before Channing was many days older the whole college was to know the story. Meanwhile Young had gone on to Lee's room, where he said nothing about what had happened. The room was full of Freshmen and when the door opened they were talking at a great rate about football in loud voices; but as soon as they saw it was not a Sophomore they began to talk in low tones about the procs again. Lee said, "I don't know whether you know all these fellows," and began to introduce him in an informal way. "Oh, yes, I know Young," said one of them. It was the football man who had been next to him in the rush. Others said, "I know your face--how are you, Young?" Some only nodded and then seemed to ignore him. He felt a little constraint at first; some of these were prominent members of the class, and he felt that they had a poor opinion of him, but presently they all fell to talking about their plans so earnestly--and included Young in their glances occasionally--that soon he too began to get excited like the rest of them. He felt the thrill of a conspirator. But they did not talk much longer, for Lee said: "Young and I are going to bed. You fellows had better sneak off and get some sleep too." He had already begun to undress. "You are to sleep here, Young," he added; "my room-mate has gone to Trenton to start out early from there." The others were leaving--not all at once, for that would excite suspicion if any Sophomores might be passing by. They left in ones and twos. "Good-night, Lucky, we'll see you later, good-night." Some of them remembered to say good-night to Young, too. "Good-night, old man," said one of them, a jolly fat fellow. Young did not sleep very much, but Lucky was quite worn out and dropped off immediately, and then sprang half out of bed when the muffled alarm clock went off under his pillow. It was four o'clock. They were to meet the others at a spot on the Theological Seminary grounds at 4.30. From there they were to work their way down toward Trenton on the old stagecoach highway and meet Stevens (Lee's room-mate) and the others coming up. It did not take long to slip out of the room and into the silent corridor. The lights were all out. It was dead dark. "Take hold of my arm," said Lee, "I know these corridors as well as our own house at home." Their footsteps seemed to echo and re-echo as they went down the three flights of stairs. The big clock in the hall ticking loudly showed thirteen minutes after four. "We have plenty of time," whispered Young, as Lee opened the front door. The outside air was cold and damp; Young shivered as it struck his face. He was glad he had put on his blue flannel shirt, the one he used to plough corn in. It was black outside except for a symptom of dawn in the East, which made the darkness even more ghastly. Someone was walking somewhere. They could hear the footsteps on the pavement. They reached the corner. "What's that?" said Young. "Where?" exclaimed Lee, in a whisper. He was one of the pluckiest men in the class, yet he jumped back a little. "There," said Young, "on that tree-box. It's a proc." "By George, you're right--the sneaks! They must have begun early." It was too dark to make out anything but the first three lines in big letters: "ATTENTION! YE FOUL AND FOOLISH FREAKS OF FRESHMEN!" "It hasn't been up long," said Young. "The paste is still wet." He began to tear it down. "They must be near here," whispered Lee. "We'd better first go and meet----" "Sist! who's that?" said a low voice in the darkness. The two Freshmen stood motionless. The voice now whispered, "Ninety-blank this way." It sounded friendly, but the thing for Young and Lee to do was not to wait to see whether it was friend or foe but turn, and run in opposite directions and then bring up afterward at their appointed meeting-place where the others were. That indeed was Lee's impulse, but, "Wait, it's one of our fellows," said Young, innocently, and just then several figures darted in at them and before Young or Lee could do anything more they were surrounded on all sides, seized by the arms and held tight. "No use scrapping, fellows," said one of them in Young's ear, triumphantly. "We've got you, we've got you." Just then the first figure walked close up to Young, turned the slide of a detective's dark-lantern, and remarked, calmly, as the dazzling light shone on Young's blinking eyes: "Yes, this is the old Deacon; well, well, that's good! that's good!" It wasn't necessary to see the face. Young recognized the disagreeable, sneering voice. CHAPTER VII THE LAST HAZING OF "THE MEEK BUTT OF ALL CLASSES" It was all Young's fault that his little friend Lee was, like himself, in the embarrassing embrace of these Sophomores, and he knew it; and that worried him more than anything they might do to himself. This was a fine way to repay Lee for his kindness! Channing was still sticking the lantern up close to Young's blinking eyes, and saying, mockingly, "Well, well, you poor old fool of a Deacon! you poor old pathetic fool." If Young could only jerk himself free he thought he could snatch Lee away from the two Sophomores holding him and then in the darkness they could surely escape. There was everything to gain and nothing to lose in the attempt. "Now," said Channing, "let's see who the other foolish Freshman is." Then through Young's mind there darted the thought: "Now's the time! Their attention is diverted." The dazzling light had been taken off his eyes. At the same instant, and as quick as the flash of the lantern, he neatly whisked his arms out of the hands that held them, sprang backward, throwing, as he did so, the two startled Sophomores forward by the shoulders, and wheeled around toward Lee. Now little Lee, you may be sure, was watching for a chance to make a dash for liberty. Hearing the scuffle of feet in front of him he tried a similar trick. But his captors also had heard the scuffle; instinctively they tightened their grasps. Lee shook off but one of them, whirled around, and started off; the smaller of the two Sophomores was hanging like a bull-dog to his left arm. Young, half-blinded in the change to darkness from dazzling light, bumped into Lucky, hurriedly grabbed him by the free hand and away they dashed. It was not quite two seconds from when Young made his first jump to the time he was going down Nassau Street and making good speed considering that he was pulling Lee by the left hand, who in turn dragged unwillingly with the other hand the Sophomore whose knees were scraping the flagstones. Of course, by this time the other Sophomores were after them--were now only a few yards behind and were gaining at every stride. For about forty yards Young ran as he never ran before. The only hope was that the clinging Sophomore would get tired of sweeping Princeton pavements with his knees; a moment more and he would surely drop. "Stick to him," the other Sophomores were shouting in the dark. Two of the pursuers were almost up to them. Lee gave a furious wrench. It was a little too furious. He tripped and fell. Young slackened up and tried to pull Lee to his feet, but Lee purposely loosed his hand and cried, "I'm a goner, run!" At that instant two Sophomores dropped on him as they would on a rolling football and cut off his wind. But Young did not run--he turned around to try and free his friend--a third Sophomore running at full speed tackled him furiously, as football players tackle. They both tripped over the bodies on the ground. Lee felt two more men come tumbling down in a tangle upon those already on him. "We got 'em both, fellows," screamed one of the Sophomores in the darkness to the others behind. "Are you hurt, Lee?" asked a voice near the back of his neck. "How'd you--get--in this?" Lee panted. "Thought you were--block 'way by--this time." Young was panting, too, so he only said, "No--still here." He had got Lee into this mess and he meant to stick by him. The Sophomores, keeping tight hold of Lee and tighter hold of Young, slowly arose, allowing their recaptured prisoners to stand up. "I hope you're not hurt, Lee?" asked one of them in a somewhat sympathetic voice. He still kept tight hold of the Freshman, however. "Nope, I reckon not," said Lee, who hadn't been playing football since the age of twelve for nothing. They all leaned against the fence and panted for a moment Young made out nearly a dozen Sophomores in the half-dark. Lee stopped panting and smiled. "Well, what are you going to do with us?" he asked, grimly. "Shut up, Freshman, that's our business," said one of them. It was the same man that had asked Lee if he was hurt a moment before. "So, Deacon," said Channing, "you _wouldn't_ come back when we told you to, you old hay-seed Deacon!" Young knew what he referred to, but only looked sober and said nothing, as usual. "Well, well," went on Channing, "so you two proc.-hunters thought you'd get away, didn't you? Too bad, too bad; teaches Freshmen a good lesson: little boys must not be out at night. It's not nice." "Well, Channing, where shall we put these two foolish virgins?" asked a gruff voice. The dawn was coming in and Young and Lee saw that it was that big Ballard. Now, it was customary on occasions of this sort to take all prisoners to some room, generally right there in University Hall, and lock them up for the rest of the night, and that's what the Sophomores would have done in this case but for Channing. "Put them!" replied Channing, indignantly, "we sha'n't put them anywhere until we have dealt out due chastisement for their rash impudence in trying to escape from their lawful lords and masters. Am I not right? They should make recompense for the trouble they have given us." It was Channing's usual vein. "Aw, see here, Chan," said one of the others, "we've got a lot of work still to do and it's getting light already. We can't stop to do any hazing. Let's lock them up in George Black's room." But Channing was not going to let this opportunity slip by for getting square for what Young had done only a few hours previous. He did not know that there had been witnesses to the spanking--as yet. "Let the prisoners follow," he said, and he led the way back to the corner where the two parties had met. Near by, on the ground beside the iron fence, stood a bucket of paste, a big brush, and a roll of proclamations. Young and Lee had not seen them before. "Here are paste and proclamations," said Channing, "and here are strong hands and willing. What is to hinder the strong hands being set to work? Arise, Freshmen, gird up your loins and paste procs, for the day soon cometh when no man can paste." "Right," said the others, smiling. "Kill two birds with one stone." Little Lee fairly gasped to himself: "Going to make us paste procs--procs against our own class!" Ballard, who had apparently just got the idea through his head, began to laugh, and said, "That's a good scheme, Chan, haw, haw, haw!" "Don't laugh so loud," said Channing. "Come on, Freshmen, that blank wall across the street is a good place to begin." They were led across the street to the corner grocery store. A tight hold was kept on Young and Lee this time. "Now, this is the way it is done." Channing quickly and rather daintily pasted up a proclamation. By this time it was light enough for the letters to show green, and the Freshmen read the thing. Up near the top Lee, the class secretary, was called "a puppy drum major" and "Mamma's blue-eyed baby boy, the little toy secretary." In the portion in finer type, beneath the slurs on the baseball team and the arrogant prohibitions against the wearing of the college colors and silk-hats and the smoking of pipes and carrying of canes, Young spied his own name. "Next in the line of freaks," it said, "will amble that poor, meek butt of all classes, Deacon Young, the overgrown baby of Squeedunk, who always does everything you tell him to, and says 'Thank you, marm!'" "That means me," thought Young, scowling, as he remembered how important he had always been considered by everyone out at home. "What would they think of me now, I wonder?" Channing had finished his work. "Now then," he said, and unfolded another proc and advanced toward the Freshmen. "Don't all speak at once, children; will Little Willie Young show us how they handle the brush when they whitewash the fences on the farm?" "Naw, let the class secretary do it first," interrupted Ballard, in his rough voice. Though the crowd had often hazed Lee they had always found him such a bright, good-natured little chap that Ballard was never allowed to humble him as much as since the rush he had always wanted to. Here was a fine chance. Young could wait; it was not much fun to haze Young, anyway, he was so meek. "Get to work there now, Secretary," Ballard shouted in his loud voice. He did not have brains enough, Young thought, to be sarcastic, but he had plenty of lungs. "Close in around them, fellows." Of course the Freshmen required the use of their hands if they were to paste procs, so the two were shoved in toward the wall and the dozen Sophomores with locked arms formed a semi-circle about them. It would be out of the question for the two to try and escape now. Young and Lee were standing by the paste-bucket with their backs to the Sophomores, who were about twelve feet away from them. "Come, get to work there, little boys," said Channing. "You and Young have nearly fifty more to paste before breakfast." "Hurry up there," Ballard echoed, shouting in a tone to wake the neighborhood. Just then a lazy voice was heard. "Heads out! Sophomores are making Freshmen paste procs! heads out--, everybody look!" It was a Senior leaning from an upstairs window of University Hall. He was in his pajamas. Meantime, Ballard, who loved to show his power, had stepped arrogantly into the ring saying, "Do you hear what I say, you little fool! Pick up that brush and get to work." "Heads out, everybody, heads out! Lots of fun," cried the sleepy-looking Senior. Windows began to open and frowsy heads and yawning faces to stick out from all over the University Place side of the big building. Lee thought, with true loyal horror, of how, if he should do as Ballard said, the Sophomores would taunt him forever afterward. He fancied how his own classmates would feel about it when they heard that their secretary had aided in posting those scurrilous proclamations. But what was there to do? He had only one classmate with him and there were a dozen Sophomores about him--no, eleven, for the twelfth was now standing close beside him, shaking a big fist in his face and saying, "See here, you little fool, are you going to do what I tell you or not?" Little Lee calmly looked up into Ballard's face and said, "No, and you can't make me." "You'll see whether I can make you or not," returned Ballard, and with that he grabbed the little fellow by the coat-collar and shaking him back and forth roared, "Now, you little fool, you paste that proc or I'll paste you on the jaw with this fist." Possibly he really meant to do it, but, at any rate, he did not, for just then Young cried: "No, you won't, Ballard! No, you won't! Don't you shake him that way; don't you lay hands on him; don't you touch him." The voice was very high and earnest. "Yea-a. Good enough for you, big Freshman." The upper-classmen were becoming interested. By this time in the windows across the street were about twenty lookers-on. Ballard knew that, and he was a Sophomore. Young was a Freshman. He laughed scornfully. "What have you got to do with it, you big, overgrown baby?" "I'll show you what I've got to do with, you big bully." Young's voice trembled. "Let go that boy," and much to everyone's astonishment the Freshman took hold of the Sophomore very much as Ballard had hold of Lee. At this, Ballard, in sheer astonishment that any Freshman should have the audacity to touch him, Ballard, the centre rush of the Sophomore team, dropped Lee, wrenched away from Young and whirled around toward him with fist drawn up in fighting position, dancing up and down, and saying, "You impudent pup of a Freshman, you impudent pup!" ["Yea-a! big scrap!" shouted those upstairs--"Aw! Freshman's afraid."] Now, Young considered himself the better man, but all he wanted was to make Ballard let go of Lee, and he had succeeded. ["Aw! Freshman's bluffed out--too bad!"] Ballard had turned once more toward Lee. "Get to work," he bawled. Lee stood still. Ballard drew back as if to demolish the little fellow. "Now," he began--but just then in ran Young. His unclenched hands were stuck out awkwardly in front of him; it made the upper-classmen in the windows shout with laughter; some of the Sophomores in the ring giggled excitedly. Young did not hear it. He guarded off one blow, was struck on the chest by the second, dodged the third--and as he ducked, he plunged in and grappled. They clinched and began to wrench and twist and scuffle about the ring; the rest of the Sophomores falling back to keep out of the way whenever the two big fellows came over too near the edge. Now, Young was no boxer, but he had, like many another country boy, wrestled ever since he first put on trousers, and he had not forgotten all his tricks. He made a feint as if to try a hip throw, then slipped his arms down on Ballard, twisted his feet around, threw his chin and his weight forward, and down they both came, Young on top, while the voices up in University Hall yelled approvingly: "The Freshman is doing him! the Freshman is doing him!" This made Ballard beside himself with rage. But Young having proved himself the better man, released Ballard quickly, jumped up, stepped across to Lee, and in a sober manner was saying, "Now, Lee, I think----" when a staggering blow from Ballard's fist on the half-turned face nearly upset Young, who was entirely unprepared for this unexpected attack; he might have fallen but for Lee. Up to this point Young, though very much in earnest, had been quite cool and deliberate. But now, with the cowardly blow stinging on his face, he became infuriated. He turned and charged at Ballard like one of the bulls on his father's farm, with his head down and regardless of consequences. His eyes were wide open and teeth set. His fury gave him double strength. Paying no more attention to Ballard's blows than to so many raindrops, he dived down and grasped him around the middle, lifted him up, got him on the right hip, and whirled him over and down upon the ground between the sidewalk and the curbstone, a full, clean throw. The men up in the windows were now really excited, "Good enough, Freshman! good enough! Served him right! Do it again!" That was just what Young, with teeth set and nostrils distended, was proceeding to do, though not because they told him to, for he was now oblivious to everything but showing Ballard that there was a limit to hazing and to Freshman meekness! Up went Ballard's legs in the air once more with the enraged Freshman's long, strong arms locked tightly about him. And again he came down hard upon the ground. And he had barely got to his feet when in rushed the Freshman again with his head down, and for the third time Ballard was thrown flat and fair. This time it was in the gutter, and it was lucky for Ballard that it was full of leaves, for Young fell heavily on top of him. Up to this point Ballard's classmates had been busy keeping out of the way of his whirling heels. Now they began to realize that they were becoming disgraced; something must be done. Channing was calling, excitedly, "Get in there, somebody; don't let a Freshman do that, fellows," while he himself kept well out of the way. Perhaps they did not admire Ballard for what he had done, but he was their classmate. One of the bigger fellows dashed in and got Young by the legs and began to pull. Quick as a flash little Lee ran in and immediately tripped him up. No one had been watching Lee. Another Soph. slipped in and pulled Lee off. A couple of them held him. Then the others began grabbing Young's arms and legs. He held on like a bull-dog. One man was sitting on his head. Two were on his body. Ballard was wriggling and swearing. He got one arm over Young's neck. "Here, here, give the Freshman a show; give him fair play!" cried some authoritative voices. It was some Juniors and Seniors hurrying out from University Hall--some half-dressed and some not dressed at all. They ran across the street and brushed Sophomores right and left, saying, "Get off there--get off there, I tell you!" Some Sophomores jumped up; others were pulled off. "Ballard has hurt his ankle! Ballard has hurt his ankle--let him up." It was Channing's shrill voice. "Well, if he's hurt let him up," said the Juniors. The Freshman was still on top. "Get off, Freshman, you did him; Ballard has hurt his ankle." Young jumped up quickly. "Is he hurt?" he asked, panting, and looking around; he was amazed to see so many people about him. He had an ugly bruise under his left eye, where Ballard had hit him; he didn't feel it now. Ballard had hastily jumped up. He did not look at Young; he did not say a word. He was panting hard; he leaned on Channing's arm and limped quickly and quietly away. The other Sophomores followed behind; none of them looked back. There was a dramatic silence. "He's not much hurt," said a Junior who knew Ballard of old, and he was right, for before the Sophomores quite reached the corner Ballard had stopped limping and was walking as well as anybody. "Say, Channing," another upper-classman called after them, "how about that spanking?" and before the small Sophomore was out of earshot he had the pleasure of hearing the upper-classman begin a narration which was received with squeals and shouts of laughter. Meanwhile Young, in the centre of another ring, was sitting on the curbstone panting like a good fellow. Lee was bending over him mopping his face with his own handkerchief and patting him on the back and laughing excitedly. "Are you hurt, old man?" asked one of the Juniors. Young shook his head. "What's his name?" asked one of the others. "Young's his name," answered little Lee, proudly, like the exhibitor of something rare. "Well, he's a good one," said one of the new arrivals. Others were hurrying down the steps of University Hall and across the street every moment; they all asked questions. Several of the first arrivals were telling the new arrivals all about it, with gestures. "Tried to make the big fellow paste procs," one man was saying, while another was crying: "But you ought to have seen that beautiful spanking last night! Oh, dear! I'll never forget Channing's look when...." The big roll of proclamations, by the way, which had been lying on the ground, had disappeared. Some of the new arrivals were Freshmen, and Lee, who had hidden it under his coat, gave it to them to carry away. First they tore down all the procs that were in sight. A Junior picking up a piece was reading aloud, "the meek butt of all classes." "This is 'the meek butt of all classes,'" said Lee, laughing. Young got up from the curbstone. "Come on, Lucky," he said, "we'll have to hurry to meet those other fellows on the way from Trenton." Lee tried to help him up; Young would not allow it. But as they started off Lee insisted on putting his arm about him. "What! that big, awkward-looking chap?" Young heard a new arrival ask one of the others. Then just as they reached the corner Lee and Young suddenly heard: "Ray, ray, ray! Tiger, siss, boom, ah! 'Meek butt of all classes!'" It was the Juniors giving a cheer for him in the early dawn. Lee turned around and waved his hand at them. Young blushed, but did not turn his head. Lee reached up and lifted Young's hat to them, which made the others laugh. It made Young laugh a little, too. Then they turned the corner and were out of the crowd. [Illustration: MEEK BUTT OF ALL CLASSES! Before curfew rang in Old North at the close of that day the whole college was talking about it.] Before curfew rang in Old North at the close of that day the whole college was talking about it: "Big green Freshman ... thought he didn't dare say his soul was his own.... That irrepressible little Channing, first ... worm turned ... yes, on the third floor of University--Bob Ellis saw the whole thing himself ... caught big Freshman this morning with Lee--yes, that nice little fellow.... Sophs undertook to make him paste procs--no, Lee first.... Little one was game.... Big Bally--yes, went at Lee.... Big Freshman turned on Bally--Bally punched him--um, right up here, under eye, a nasty one--then big, meek Freshman.... Oh, my! lovely!----" Only in the telling it became twenty or thirty Sophomores, and it was over a fence that Ballard was thrown. Deacon Young was a hero now. CHAPTER VIII HOW IT FEELS TO BE A HERO Several weeks had passed since Deacon Young had become a class hero, and a great many things had happened. The Freshmen had published and posted their own proclamations since then (with a good crack on a man named Ballard), and the Sophomores had torn them down, long ago. The Ninety-blank class football team had been started, and Young was trying for the position of right guard--and finding football not so much a matter of mere muscle as it looked; the class glee club had been organized; a great many friendships had begun; nearly everybody had joined Whig or Clio Hall (whether they cared to debate or not); and they were all becoming thoroughly accustomed to being at college and had begun to love it. But Freshman Young was not yet accustomed to having people treat him with so much consideration, and he did not know quite what to make of it. It was still amazing to him that such a comparatively small matter could make such a difference in the way he was regarded. One day he was the most obscure and despised man in the Freshman class, and the next day--he was the most talked of character on the campus. He did not wake up to find himself famous; he had become famous all in a minute, before he had a chance to go to sleep. Ever since, it had been, "How are you, old man," from the very ones who used to laugh and say, "Here comes 'Thank you marm.'" Prominent fellows in the class who formerly merely nodded to him, said, "You must drop up to my room some evening." The Sophomores bothered him no more; Channing and Ballard--somehow they were always looking in the other direction when Young met them on the walk. Even upper-classmen said, "Hello there, Young," condescendingly but pleasantly, and that fellow Linton stopped him one day and congratulated him. "Only," he added, puffing his pipe, "only don't get stuck on yourself, Young." "Hello-o-o, Deacon, hold up a minute," called Minerva Powelton one day on the way from Recitation Hall. "Say, Deacon, old man, come over to my room, I want to talk to you." He threw an arm carelessly over one of the Deacon's good shoulders. "It's about something important," he said in an undertone as they passed between the Bulletin Elm and Old Chapel, where the crowd was always thickest. More than one Freshman, looking on, wished he could be on such familiar footing with Young. There were others who wished they could be thus sought out by Powelton. It was right here, Young remembered, Powelton put this same arm in the same way about Lee that day he first heard about the proclamations. Powelton ignored Young that day. But that was before the Ballard episode. "Deacon," said Powelton, when they had reached the latter's room--everyone called him "Deacon" now, and he liked it--"a crowd of us fellows are getting up a new eating-club, so we can all be together; at present, you know, the gang is scattered all over town. We thought we'd go some place where we could have an extra room to loaf and read the papers in, like the upper-classmen clubs, besides getting better grub, even if we have to pay a little more for it. There'll be Lucky, of course, and Stevie and Todd--Polk would come, only he has been taken to the 'Varsity training table" (that was the football man who was next to Young in the rush), "and White, and, well the whole gang of us, you know, and we want you to join us. It's the best crowd in the class, all right enough, even if I do say it myself." "Much obliged for asking me," Young interrupted, "but I can't afford it." A few weeks ago Young would have given some other excuse, or would have blushed and hemmed and hawed before he got out this one. And a few weeks before, the other Freshman might not have known how to reply to it: but they had both gained some new ideas since they came to college, and also had lost some old ones, which is equally important. "Lucky told me you were hard up this year," Powelton said, as if he were often equally hard up himself. "As I was going on to ask, what would you say to managing the club--would you mind the bother? Then it wouldn't cost you a cent. It wouldn't be much bother. Somebody's got to run it, and we want somebody that's congenial. Come on, won't you?" "Well, Minerva," said Young, finally, "I'll think about it and tell you." "That's right. Think it over. You've got a week to make up your mind in. So long." "Thank you for asking me. Good-by." Young had no objections to managing a club; that was not the reason he hesitated. It was because he did not agree with Powelton that the fellows named were the best crowd in the class. In fact, he did not approve of most of them, and some of them seemed not to realize what they had been sent to college for. He walked on to his room, debating the matter, and finally wrote a letter to his mother. "DEAR MOTHER: "... The sixteen fellows composing the proposed club are the most prominent men in the class. It is a great compliment to be asked to join them, I suppose, and what is more important, I should be saving money by it. But although they are all nice to me, I do not altogether like them--except that little fellow, Lee, I told you about, and one or two others. "To be sure, I do not know much about them, but I know enough to know they do not study much--or 'pole,' as we call it--and more than that, some of them--well, I don't think you would like them. Now my friends at my present eating-club all study hard and have a definite aim in life. They are helpful and congenial friends. I should not like to leave them. They say they would hate to have me go, too. But they also say I would be foolish, for financial reasons, not to accept the offer." When Mrs. Young read this letter, she at first wanted to say, "keep out of fast company, whatever you do!" But on second thoughts she saw that if Will did not embrace this opportunity he might not be able to stay in college at all--and as for the new associates, she knew that her boy was no weakling. Finally she agreed with Will's friends that he would be foolish to let the chance go by, and wrote immediately, saying so. "And your own conduct will be a good example to the others," she wrote. Will had already made up his mind that way before receiving this letter, and felt so glad and relieved about it that he played very well at right guard that day; twice he broke through and stopped the opposing quarter-back from passing the ball, and was duly applauded by those watching from the terrace behind Witherspoon Hall. He was commended even by Nolan, the Junior who coached the team. "Now that you're learning to use your weight," said Nolan, "you're improving a little. By next year you will know something about the game; by Junior year you might run a chance of making the 'Varsity." And this was a good deal for a reserved man like Nolan to say, and quite enough to make Young's heart beat faster, though it was going pretty fast already from the hard exercise. "Wait a minute, Young," said the Freshman captain, "we're going to let you stay at right guard. Come up to my room to-night and get measured for your suit." This meant that he was no longer trying for the Freshman eleven, but had earned his place upon it. So he dog-trotted back to his room, feeling exuberant and strong and hopeful, and very glad that he had determined to run the new club. "Well, it's beginning to look now as if I might get through the year," he said to himself as he jogged along. "Haven't any board to pay now, and if I get through this year, I guess I can manage as a Sophomore all right. There's the Freshman $200 prize--I run a chance at winning that at the end of the year; and I'll still have this club next year. I'll still have tuition remitted. Perhaps I can get one of those rooms in Old North: the rent is free there, and the rooms are big, too; and maybe I can get some newspapers to correspond for, or else I can get some tutoring. Oh, I'll manage somehow, all right, if I'm careful. Then, what'll father say?" Panting and perspiring he hurried upstairs to his room, sponged off and rubbed down with witch-hazel, put on dry clothes, and then walked over to the club--the old club still; the new one was not to begin till next week--glowing and glad to be alive. They all shouted, "Yea-a-a, Deacon!" at him when he came in, and jumped up to congratulate him on making the team and pounded him on the back, for Barrows had overheard what the captain said. Young could tell from their manner that they were genuinely glad of his success. After eating a huge meal with his congenial clubmates he returned to his room, spent a studious evening with Xenophon, went to bed and slept like a bear, or rather like a healthy young athlete that is in perfect condition and has a clear conscience. Oh, these were happy days! The next day Young made the arrangements with a woman in Nassau Street who was famous for good cooking, secured two fine front rooms, subscribed for a number of New York and Philadelphia daily papers, and showed Powelton, the president of the club, and the other members of the Board of Directors, how skilful he was in business affairs. His experience in the bank helped him here. [Illustration: "THE INVINCIBLES." They had a dignified negro waiter, and they dined in the evening and it all seemed very fine and luxurious.] On the following Wednesday he took his place at the head of the table. "The Invincibles" the club called itself, and they had a dignified negro waiter and they dined in the evening, and it all seemed very fine and luxurious to Young. He missed Barrows and old Jim Wilson, the long, thin fellow who was studying for the ministry, and he felt a little abashed at first before these more noisy, jolly fellows. He was afraid they would think him very green. But they respected him all the more for being quiet, and his soberness of mien, which had formerly made him ridiculous, now impressed these fellows as something fine. They were younger than he. "He doesn't say much," one of them remarked after the first day at the new club. "No," said another, "but when the time comes he can act." "He's matured, and has reserved strength and all that. You can see it in his face." That was Lucky Lee, who had reason for admiring Young's strength. Naturally it was quite flattering to Young--and so it would be to you or me--to find these fellows of whom he had been half afraid, treating him as if they were half afraid of him. He could not help discerning how pleased some of the younger members were to find themselves walking to chapel or recitation with the right guard of the class team--"the man that did up Ballard." Nor could he help being pleased at it. And, Young soon decided, they were not such a bad lot as he had at first thought. Undoubtedly they were not a poling crowd and perhaps some of them were "sporty," but not so many of them as he had feared. College was a great place to broaden your mind, he concluded. However, as he remarked to some of his former clubmates, when they asked how he liked the new crowd: "They may be doing a great many things when I'm not around that I don't know anything about. Sometimes at the other end of the table they make references to things, and they seem not to want me to understand. I know the other day when I came in late from football practice, I heard one of 'em say, 'Shut up, Billy, here comes the Deacon!'" And this shows why Wilson, the man studying for the ministry, told Young, when alone, "Deacon, you have an excellent opportunity for exercising a steadying, sobering influence upon that set of gay, thoughtless fellows--they all respect you heartily." * * * * * The Divisional examinations came along soon after the organization of the club, and Young was in great demand by those taking the academic course like himself. Few of the Invincibles had studied conscientiously during the preceding weeks. They had rather prided themselves on not being "greasy polers" as they called fellows like Young's former clubmates, but now they were all poling at a great rate themselves, and some of them declared they would not get through, though to Young's amazement they seemed not to care whether they were to be conditioned or not; they considered it a joke. Perhaps one or two of them would not have passed, if it had not been for Young. "The old Deacon is a valuable man to have around," said Billy Drew. Most of them landed in the lower divisions, but one of them proved quite a wonder to Young. His name was Todd, and he had never opened a book, apparently, since the term began. To Young's knowledge he took long walks into the country--up over the hills to the north of town--every afternoon after examination instead of studying, and invariably he was the first to finish his paper and leave the examination-room. And yet when the lists of divisions were posted, much to everyone's surprise, Todd's name was in the First division--along with Young's. They jokingly called him "Poler Todd," and made him treat the whole club to cigars on the way back from dinner. Apparently he was as much surprised as anyone, but he seemed not to care very much, and the dignified Deacon did not know what to make of him. Young himself felt very much gratified over his success and wrote home to the minister about it, and confided to him, that he was going to try to capture the Freshman First Honor prize. The minister wrote back a fine, long letter, wishing him success and congratulating him on his progress, and also upon his making the team. Will had no idea the minister would be so pleased over athletic success. So, every day now it was, "Deacon, how many lines of Homer do we have to-day?" "How do you demonstrate this, Deacon?" At first he liked to have them appeal to him, but after awhile it became a little tiresome; not that he minded the trouble--it was no trouble; but he did not like to be thought of only as a man who always knew where the lesson was. He began to wish they would treat him more in the hail-fellow well-met way they treated each other. With Todd, for instance, they were as familiar and free and easy as they were with Billy Drew, and yet Todd was a First division man, like Young. Sometimes he found himself watching them after dinner, and it was a matter of wonder to him how Todd could always answer Powelton back, with a witty piece of repartee, quick as a flash, without looking up from the dessert-plate at which he was aiming tobacco-smoke. Somehow, Will thought, he would like to be able to do that way. The truth was they did not dare to be familiar with Young; they respected him too much. Sometimes he felt tired of cold respect and wanted warm liking. You see he was a hero to these boys. You and I know that he was made of flesh and blood, and weakness and strength, like the rest of us. CHAPTER IX A QUESTION OF MONEY The great Yale-Princeton football game, which took place during the Thanksgiving holidays in New York, was now a matter of history--and of rejoicing, to one side. But as all those interested in football know which side won the championship that year, it is not necessary to recount the game and rub it into the losers. Everyone, almost, had gone to see the great contest and to cheer for the team, and Princeton seemed as deserted as in mid-summer. The Invincibles secured a huge four-in-hand coach and were half frozen driving up Fifth Avenue to the game; but they had the privilege, granted to Freshmen on such occasions only, of wearing the sacred orange and black--yards of it, hung all over their hats, their clothes, the coach, the driver, and the horses. They cheered themselves voiceless, and had a time they were never to forget. The Freshman team had played the Columbia University Freshmen in the morning, and had no difficulty in defeating them by a large score. Right Guard Young put up a very fair, steady game, the critics said, but had no chance to make any brilliant play, as he had hoped. But the Deacon felt very big and important when his exultant classmates ran out at the close of the game and carried him and the rest of the eleven off the field on their shoulders, cheering for each player by name. He felt less important in the afternoon, when the great contest, the event of the day, took place; he wondered if many of those flocking in realized that he was Right Guard Young of the Freshman team; again he feared that he looked like the big green farmer that he did not want people to think he was. The enormous grand-stands and bleachers, and the coaches and carriages, and even the neighboring houses were jammed with thousands and thousands of eager human beings, wearing violets or chrysanthemums; and some of the old grads had come from as far as the Pacific coast to see this manly match, which was to decide the championship of the two best football teams in the western hemisphere. Young had never before seen so many people at once--"more than the population of the whole county you're in," he wrote to his brother Charlie--and never before had he been so thrilled as when long Jack Stehman made his famous tackle after that Yale half-back had dodged past all the rest of the Princeton team.... But the game and its noise and victory and defeat were all over now, and the two universities had returned to go on where each had left off before Thanksgiving. * * * * * Big Freshman Young had to go on along very pleasant lines, enviable lines they seemed to many a Freshman who longed in vain to be prominent and popular, and a member of the dashing Invincibles; but the Deacon had his worries. It had been very fine at first to be looked up to and admired, but the novelty had worn off by this time, and he had been hoping and hoping that his table-mates would soon begin to act toward him in the same easy, familiar, good-fellow way they acted toward each other. Why they had not, he failed to understand; he knew it wasn't because he was poor and ran the club; he wondered if it was because he had not prepared for college at a large school, and hence was green and ignorant of the ways of the world. That was one of the things that had off and on worried him, but that was not the worst; that was not what was making him stay awake at night thinking. It was that alarming question of money bobbing up again. He had supposed that with the club to run, which wiped out the largest item of expense, he would have enough to worry along with until something else turned up. But his account in the Princeton bank was slowly but surely being drained, and thus far nothing had turned up. He had intended to be more economical, but--well, for instance, the other Invincibles were always "blowing in" money for spreads in their rooms and all that; and Young did not like to accept favors without returning them. To be sure he might have declined their invitations occasionally, but he wanted to show them that the "dignified Deacon," as they called him, was not so terribly dignified and stiff, as they seemed to think. Then, too, when subscription lists were passed around for various purposes, and they came to him among the first as "one of the influential men of Ninety-blank," he felt that he ought to do his share; "it's my duty to the good old class," he said, "I hate stinginess, anyway." As a matter of fact he had been doing more than his share, and it was the appearance of stinginess, possibly, that he hated even more than stinginess itself. Now, he might easily have said: "Here, I can't afford this pace; you fellows get money from home--I have to earn mine, and so, much as I'd like to, I simply can't keep step with you--and that's all there is about it;" he would have been liked none the less and respected all the more. "Why, certainly; you are dead right," they would have said. But he did not want to; he preferred to keep step, and did not like them to know how little money he had. It was nothing to be ashamed of, surely. It was not on account of money, as his own experience had shown him, that a man became popular or prominent. More money had gone when he went to New York at Thanksgiving time. His expenses up and back were paid, of course, by the Freshman football fund, but Lucky Lee had invited him to stay over Sunday at his home there; and Young felt ashamed of his cut-away coat--though Lucky said, "Nonsense"--and so he bought something which he considered very magnificent at a large ready-made place on Broadway, together with some brilliant neckties, something like Billy Drew's, and a huge scarf-pin (but decided not to tell his mother how much they all cost, in the letter describing what a good time he had and how nice Mrs. Lee was). So, altogether, with the new term staring him in the face, and room-rent to pay, and books--though that was a small item compared to what he had "blown in" foolishly--it was beginning to look as if Deacon Young would have to hustle if he meant to stay in college much longer. "We'll see how long you stay there," his father had said. "All right," thought Will, "we'll see! More fellows earn their way through college than the people out home have any idea of, and I think I'm as good as the next man. I'll talk to Barrows and Wilson and some of those quiet fellows about it." But it was all very well to say: "Why, there's Dougal Davis in the Junior class who commands $2.50 an hour for tutoring, and there's Harris, the Senior, who sometimes makes as much as $20 in a week writing for the New York and Philadelphia papers;" it was easy enough to point out how many men made money in various other ways; no doubt many did; but that was just the trouble--so many did that all the opportunities seemed to be snapped up already. Now, a year hence, if he won the Freshman First Honor prize, he would not only have the $200 but, in consequence of his high stand, he could get all the tutoring he would want; but this year he was still a Freshman and there was no class below him to tutor. Next year, also, he would have some of those newspaper correspondences of Harris's. Young had already arranged for that--but this year Harris was still in college. Young might also get the agency for shoes, or athletic goods, or photographic supplies next year, or possibly the contract for issuing the programmes of the baseball and football and track athletic games; or, he might, as a Sophomore, publish syllabuses of the lecture courses (and sell them for a dollar each). In fact, now that he was on the field, he saw more ways of earning money while getting a college education than he had dreamed of--hundreds of ways, very good ways, if only he had hustled and availed himself of them at the beginning of the term. Other Freshmen had secured the jobs of distributing the _Daily Princetonian_ and _The Nassau Literary Magazine_ and _The Tiger_, or had taken the agency for steam-laundries at Trenton, and so on, and so on, while he, who needed money more than most of them, had only spent it foolishly, had not earned a cent, had not done a thing for himself, but accept the club management which had, so to speak, been thrown into his lap--and this is what he kept telling himself as he walked to and from recitations, and repeated when he went to bed at night, and remembered when he awoke in the morning ... until--how time flies at college!--Christmas vacation was only a week off and still nothing had turned up. He couldn't go through another term this way. Meanwhile what made it all the harder for Young was to watch the ease with which Lee and Powelton and the others with whom he sat down three times a day at the club, received their comfortable allowances from home. "Ah!" they would say, cheerfully, when a check came fluttering out of a letter. All they had to do to get money was to open envelopes and then sign their names. "You fellows," Young used to think as he watched them--"You fellows don't know how lucky you are." But of course he said nothing to them of what worried him. He was not that kind. They had great respect for his abilities and thought he could do anything. They did not guess what was going on in his mind these days, while they talked of the fun they were going to have during the holidays. "I can't bear to think of your being away from us at Christmas," wrote the Deacon's mother. "Perhaps," said Young to himself, "I sha'n't be away, after all." Then he wondered what the fellows would think and what the people "out home" would say. He knew just how his father would laugh at him, remarking, "I told you so," and how his mother, who kept everyone informed of how Will was getting on at college, would cry; for it would be as great a disappointment to her as to him. It would surprise her, too, for he had not let her know how much he had spent, telling himself that it would only worry her unnecessarily, that when the time came he would pitch in and do something. "Deacon," said Lucky Lee on the way to luncheon, "you're to come home with me for the holidays--at least mother says so in this letter. Course, I don't want you, but I'll obey my mother." The sober Deacon laughed at the pleasantry, and thanked Lucky, but shook his head at the little fellow's repeated importunities. Young felt that he couldn't afford even to buy a ticket to New York and back. His excuses were so lame, however, that the bright-eyed little Lucky suddenly got an inkling of what was the trouble. "Say, Deacon," he began when they were alone, "if you should ever get hard up, I hope you have decency enough to give your friends a chance to----" Young blushed and shook his head. "I don't mean particularly about this vacation," Lucky went on. "You're coming home with me all right, if I have to carry you on my back all the way. I mean in general. For instance, if you--er--that is, well, blame it, we're good enough friends. If you are 'temporarily embarrassed,' as they say, when you come back after Christmas, you'll do what I would do if I were hard up, won't you? If you wouldn't you're no friend of mine." "What would you do, Lucky?" "I'd let you lend me some dough--naturally." Young hesitated. "Lucky," he said, "I am hard up--don't tell anybody, but I'm mighty hard up. I'd rather leave college, though, than borrow money to stay here with." But Young spent Christmas holidays with Lucky Lee in New York, and it turned out to be a very good thing that he did--not only on account of the temporary rest from worry. CHAPTER X HOW HE STAYED IN COLLEGE "Business is the systematic supplying of wants. When all visible wants are supplied, you must simply create new wants to satisfy. Patient willingness to do whatever turns up will only bring success when things turn up. Under the conditions of modern competition things seldom turn up of themselves." Mr. Lee, Lucky's father, had said this one evening after dinner during the happy holidays; and Will remembered every word of it, not only because he had great respect for successful Mr. Lee's opinions, but because what he said seemed to apply to his own quandary. Mr. Lee seemed to have taken a fancy to Young, and talked to him frequently. Mrs. Lee liked him, too. She seemed to consider his preferring to eat his peas with a spoon a very small matter (though Will himself blushed scarlet when he discovered his mistake). She said she was glad her son had chosen for one of his intimate friends a young man with so much maturity and character--this she said to Young himself--"And I know you will look after him," she said; "he's such an impressionable boy, but he admires you so much that you can influence him any way you desire." The Deacon blushed and said he would try, but what Lucky's father said made more impression upon him at the time. "When all the wants are satisfied you must simply create new wants." It seemed to Young that this ought to apply to the little world of college quite as well as to the big world of commerce of which Mr. Lee spoke. Every day as he walked to and from recitations through the campus, now muddy and monotonous after a wet snow, Young tried and tried and tried to think of some new want to satisfy. Lucky said he was trying, too; but generally he forgot as soon as anyone yelled, "Hold up, there, Lucky!" and joined him on the walk. It did not mean so much to him. The Deacon was walking past Old Jimmy, the peanut-and fruit-vender, when the idea came to him. He suddenly stopped short, slapped his thigh, and said: "I've got it! I've got it!" That night he unfolded his scheme to Lucky, whose eyes grew big. "Deacon, you're a dandy! But, say, are you sure it'll work?" "Sure? No, I'm not sure it'll make much. But I'm sure I'll have to leave college, anyway, if I don't do something, and----" "But why go to all the expense of the posters?" "To advertise it, get 'em talking, create the want! That's the way to do business. And just now everything is dull in the college world--no athletics to distract attention." "Well, I'll help you stick 'em up. It'll remind us of pasting procs, eh?" * * * * * One morning, a few days later, the whole University, on its way to and from recitations and lectures, saw a poster on the Bulletin Elm. It had two black letters on it, C. C. There was nothing else there. They glanced at it, wondered what it meant, and passed on. The next day a new one was there in letters twice as big, C. C. Again the college wondered what it meant; but this time some of them did not pass on until they had asked someone else, "What's that thing for?" "What's the meaning of that?" No one could answer. A snow-storm washed it off during the afternoon. A fresh one was put up the next morning. "Here's that queer poster again," said the passers-by. "What's it for, anyway?" "Nobody seems to know." The next morning the same letters on larger-sized paper were found not only on the bulletin-board, but tacked up on all the available trees of the campus, and in the town on all the billboards, old barrels, tumble-down sheds, and stalled wagons. On the way to recitation, or lectures, every one saw C. C. half a dozen times. They saw it on the tree-boxes along the street. When they took walks they saw it on old barns down toward Kingston. Now at Princeton, what there is of a town is little more than a setting for the University. There are no outside distractions, such as theatres and the like, as at most large institutions of learning. The campus life is the only life, and the college students are dependent upon the college world for all their amusements and between-hour interests. Everyone keeps in touch with everything that is going on. So when this poster with its brief legend continued to appear and reappear every day, and no one deciphered its meaning, the college began to get interested--all the more so because it was midwinter, and therefore neither football nor baseball was absorbing the undergraduate interest. "What's going to happen?" everyone asked. "What's the meaning of this mystery?" And no one could answer. The thing had now kept up for over a week. The _Daily Princetonian_ commented upon it. Even the faculty began to inquire, in a dignified way, as to "the meaning of those cabalistic symbols." The undergraduates had begun to make up words to fit, and rumors floated about the campus. "C. C.--college clowns," said someone; "it's to be a horse minstrel troupe." "No, that's not it," said another, "it's Curious Customs:--a new book by a member of the faculty." "What nonsense!" sneered a wise Senior, "it's only a hoax perpetrated by some under-classmen who think themselves funny; it isn't worth talking about," and he went on down to the club and talked half through dinner about it himself. Those who considered themselves humorous began to make jokes about it. "Look, here," one would say, and the other would reply, "I C. C." And now suddenly the posters disappeared. None could be found in any part of the town; Bronson, a Junior, paid half a dollar for one to put in his scrap-book. "What's become of it!" they asked. "C. C.--can't come," answered a funny man. They were still talking about its disappearance when, a few days later, the posters again appeared, more of them than ever, and this time it was a poster to make the undergraduate world excited. It was in the college colors, for one thing, the paper being orange and the letters black. That alone was enough to lend fresh interest, but that was not the most important change. Under the letters C. C. were the words: "TO-MORROW, THE 12TH, AT NOON, BY THE CANNON." The Cannon is the centre of the front quadrangle and the hub of the campus life. At half-past twelve o'clock all the morning lectures and recitations of both upper and lower classes are over, and no one has anything immediate to attend to. The next day, by the time the bell in the Old North had finished announcing the noon hour, nearly the whole university found it convenient to be in the neighborhood of the Cannon. Old Jimmy Johnson, the ancient negro fruit-and peanut-vender, stood beside the Cannon, against which leaned his wheelbarrow heaped high with a mass of small orange-and-black objects, and over them waved an orange banner on which were two big black letters, C. C. That was all there was to look at; and old Jimmy was as silent and bored-looking as ever. The crowd drew nearer. The orange-and-black things were small pasteboard boxes, shaped like miniature bricks. On one side of them was printed these words, "Made from the purest materials, in the most careful manner, by a secret receipt in the possession of Fraulein Hummel of New York." On the other side appeared the words, "Delicious College Caramels, five cents a box," and on either end, "C. C." Old Jimmy kept on looking solemn and silent. At first the crowd seemed inclined to laugh--not at Jimmy or his load so much as at themselves, for being so worked up over a small affair. "Is that all it is?" everyone thought, and some noisy Sophomores began to shout, in loud voices, "Sold!" "Leg-pull! Leg-pull!" "Let's go," said someone else; "all over!" But curiosity had been whetted too strongly during the past fortnight not to have it satisfied as fully as possible. Besides, the boxes looked very neat, and the simple inscription on them sounded very attractive. Also it was several hours since breakfast; a number of fellows were observed to swallow something when reading the word "delicious." First, three jocular Juniors, who prided themselves on always doing as they pleased, strode over to Jimmy's wheelbarrow, arm in arm, announcing to everybody as they did so, "We are going to have some C. C. We must have C. C.," and bought a box, which they proceeded to open, and the contents of which they ostentatiously and with much smacking of lips devoured before the assembled crowed. "Oh, we like C. C.!" shouted the three Juniors. "Give us some more, Jimmy," and then they marched through the crowd munching and saying, "We are the first to see C. C. We are the first to see C. C. Three cheers for C. C.!" By this time several other Juniors, grinning to show they, too, were joking, went over to the wheelbarrow and put down five cents each. Then other Juniors, then some of the Sophomores--who always like to do what Juniors do--and after that a few Freshmen, made bold to approach the wheelbarrow, and finally even a Senior or two, "just to see what they were like, anyway," sampled C. C., and they immediately stopped looking superior and remarked, "By Jove, they are good! Try them." That was what everybody seemed to think, for within half an hour old black Jimmy, who almost turned white making change, found his wheelbarrow empty, and went toddling off to have it replenished; while the undergraduate body of the University of Princeton strolled off to its mid-day meal, chewing. Two of the crowd who lagged behind seemed pleased about something, and one was quietly punching the other in the ribs, and saying: "Well, well! Deacon, well, well! Your little scheme is certainly working, in spite of my prediction. I hope it will keep on working." "Stop punching me, Lucky!" the Deacon said, but he laughed excitedly in spite of himself. "It'll keep on working all right, you see if it doesn't. There wasn't any good candy here, and all this needed was an introduction." "Aren't you glad now you went home Christmas with me?" said Lucky, exultingly; "otherwise you wouldn't have heard us talking about that old woman and her bully caramels." For a week or so C. C.'s were sold as fast as they could be supplied. They had become "the thing." Students munched them in their rooms, during their walks, on the way to lecture-rooms, and even inside. They sent them home to their sisters and to their roommates' sisters. They told the story in their letters, and their friends sent stamps and requests for other packages of "those delicious things." Of course the first boom died down, as Young knew it would; but there remained a good, steady, normal demand for them, and before long he had cleared, in all, $150. "Now," thought Will Young, "I am going to lean back and enjoy life like Todd and the rest of them. Seems to me I have a right to." Of course it had leaked out by this time, as such things always do, who was at the bottom of the C. C. business, and the college said: "What! that big, sober-looking green Freshman that did up Ballard? He's quite a boy, isn't he?" Now, when this got around to the Invincibles, and so to Will Young, he only scowled and thought: "I don't see why they still call me green. I should think by this time"--then he looked down the table. "Are you coming up to get in the game this evening?" he heard Billy Drew murmur to Minerva Powelton. They did not ask the Deacon, and for some reason the Deacon resented it. Why? A few months ago he would have resented it if they had asked him. * * * * * One wet, muddy day toward the end of the winter two dignified Juniors, Jimmy Linton, the philosopher, and Billy Nolan, the football man, were walking across the quadrangle to a four o'clock lecture. "Billy," said Linton, "a Freshman is a funny thing. You never can tell how they are going to turn out. See that fellow ahead there?" "Why, that's Young the Freshman guard. Say, Jim, that boy's going to make the Varsity before he gets out of college." Linton said, "He may make the team, but he's going to make a fool of himself first." "How do you mean?" "Oh, it's the same old story," Linton smiled. "He's in with a sporty crowd and is beginning to try to act the way they do. He's a Freshman." Nolan shook his head. "You're stuck on your ability to size people up, but I don't believe Young's that sort of a fool." "No, and he doesn't, either. That's just the trouble. It's coming on him unconsciously. You see he's heard his table-mates talk so much about things he used to abhor that he's got accustomed to them, and he's ceased to abhor them. But he doesn't stop there; they seldom do, you know. You can tell by his walk that his way of looking at things has changed." "But, Jim, Young's not such a kid." "He wouldn't be, but, you see, he's had too much success in too many ways--it has dazzled and rattled the young man from the country. Success has turned his head. He's flattered at being taken up by these prominent young sporty Freshmen, and he doesn't know how to let well enough alone." "You mean----" "I mean that he wants to get clear 'in it.' He doesn't want to be considered a big, green giant. He wants to make himself like the rest of the--Invincibles, I think they call themselves. That is the way to be a college man, he thinks." "Well," said Nolan, "can you account for the way people in general, not only here in college, but in the big, outside world--people that ought to know better, people you'd never expect it of--can you account for their making fools of 'emselves to stand in with the crowd? Asses!" Then these two moralizers changed the subject to baseball. Both thought of taking an early opportunity of giving the big Freshman a friendly tip, for they knew him well enough by this time. And both went off and forgot; and if it recurred to them, they put it off till they "felt more like it." What had Deacon Young actually done? Oh, nothing at all, or next to nothing. Billy Drew one morning at breakfast was telling about his experience of the night before, and then stopped suddenly when Young entered the room. "Go on, I want to hear the rest of it," said the Deacon, smiling broadly. "I heard the first part while I was taking off my coat in the hall. Go on." So Drew went on in the grinning, boastful way of a certain sort of Freshman, with his account of how he fell upstairs, and how he tried to catch the bed as it whirled around. Some of them began to chuckle. Lucky Lee looked at Young; so did one or two of the others. Young knew they were looking at him. Here was his chance to show them he was not so stiff and sober and green as they imagined. He leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. Then Lucky Lee and the rest of the table laughed heartily. And after that no one took pains to keep things away from the Deacon again. That seems a very little thing, but, as Linton said, he was not very likely to stop there. CHAPTER XI THE TROUBLE WITH BEING A HERO The winter, with its jolly long evenings about cosey fire-places, was over, and the Freshman-Sophomore snowball fight was almost forgotten. The University baseball candidates had left the "Cage" and were practising outdoors on the diamond. The glorious spring term had come, and the Seniors had begun twilight singing on the steps of Old North. The elms were putting on their new leaves; the undergraduates their new flannel trousers. The Invincibles were on their way from the club, to stretch out under the old elms and hear the Seniors sing the old songs. Powelton was saying: "I don't see why you are so anxious to put him up for any office. To tell the truth, the old chump has been disgusting me lately." "I'm not anxious," returned Todd, "but you see, he'll take with the poling element." "But will he, _now_? He isn't such a gospel shark as we all thought at first." "Of course, he's no saint, but they don't know anything about the Deacon, except his high stand and his serious-looking face, and the reputation he made with that C. C. business. Now, as we're running you and Ashley for president and vice-president, I think it would be foxy to put up somebody like the old Deacon for the secretary-treasurership." It was drawing near the time for the election of class officers for the next year, and Todd was somewhat of a politician. "Maybe you're right, but I don't care to serve with him. He's so uncouth." Powelton need not have worried about that; he did not have to serve with Young. Powelton was not elected; Young was the only nominee of the Invincibles that was. The club had gained a reputation, not altogether deserved, for snobbishness. They were also considered, rightly perhaps, the sportiest crowd in the class; and either of these is dangerous, and the two together are fatal to a crowd's chances when it comes to class elections. Besides, the Invincibles had been running class affairs long enough, and the class thought it would be just as well to distribute authority and prominence. The Invincibles had made the error of taking it for granted that they would continue to run the class, and bitter was their chagrin when they found how very mistaken they were. They did not know how to take it; for several days nobody said very much at the table; they only looked glum and sour--except Deacon Young. "Oh, cork up that tuneless whistle," growled Minerva Powelton; "you make too much noise." They were familiar with him now. Young laughed noisily, but kept on whistling and looked about the table, as he had seen the others do. Then lighting a cigar, he arose, said, "So long, fellows--see you later," and walked up the street with his hands deep in his pockets, his body inclined forward in a kind of slouch, like a certain upper-classman he admired. "Look at him," said Powelton from the window. "My, but he makes me tired when he tries to do the dead-game act." He made them all more or less tired, though most of them liked him somewhat still, but in a very different way now. He was not a hero any more. He tried to make himself as much like them as he could, but he had only succeeded in seeming unlike himself. They had not expected or wanted him to be like them. They laughed at him, behind his back and to his face. He tried harder. They laughed more. He did not realize why. There were a great many things that he did not realize. When he was nominated for the secretary-treasurership, as Powelton now felt like telling him, it was not because they wanted him, but because the club wanted the office. And neither did he realize that he was elected chiefly because of his good reputation, now undeserved, with the despised quiet fellows of the class. All he realized was that he, William Young, who had started out a poor, ridiculed nonentity from the country, had conquered the famous bully of the Sophomore class, had won a place as right guard of the Freshman team, had been sought out by the Invincibles, had earned enough money to take him through the year, and, finally, had been elected the secretary and treasurer of the great class of Ninety-blank by popular vote. It was the very office formerly held by the admired Lucky Lee. It was ill that was needed to turn his head. So he strutted about and looked patronizingly down on his old friends Barrows and Wilson, and blew smoke in their faces, telling himself how narrow-minded they were. You see, he came to the Invincibles a hero dizzy with success. It is hard on anyone to be a hero, and success had proved too much for him. Instead of doing the Invincibles good, as he had intended, they had done him harm, as they surely never intended. It was such a pity. He could have made a very different thing of the whole club if he had only used his influence in the right way. But this was another thing he did not realize; at least not until a little later. And then he did not have the influence. CHAPTER XII SERVING TWO MASTERS Although Deacon Young was trying so hard to do the "dead-game act," the Freshman First Honor prize was still a matter of daily effort with him. He was really working exceedingly hard for it. He pretended that he was not working at all. He was nearly always with the "crowd" in the evenings and was frequently seen wandering around as aimlessly as the rest of them during the day. That was the way he kept from being called a poler. [Illustration: 2 A.M. However, after saying good night ... he would sneak off to his room, tie a wet towel around his head, and pole....] However, after saying good-night yawningly to the other fellows, he would sneak off to his room, tie a wet towel around his head, and pole until 2 a.m. He utilized half-holidays when the others were reading or were off running hare and hounds, or taking long rambles across country, or canoeing up the Millstone, or shooting with the gun club, or paying visits to the neighboring cities; also he had dropped out of literary Hall work entirely, took little exercise, and devoted to his curriculum studies even the spare time he had formerly put in at miscellaneous reading. That was the way he kept up his high stand in class. So, as the fellows would see him with the idlers until bedtime at night, and then heard of his making recitations as good as "Poler" Barrows in the morning, it was no wonder that some began to think him a "phenomenon" like Todd. That was what Young wanted them to think. He thought a great deal about what others thought about him--a great deal too much, some of his more intimate associates decided one evening, while waiting for him in Minerva Powelton's room. "No, don't begin yet," Powelton was saying. "I promised the Deacon we'd wait for him." "I don't see why he is always so anxious to get in the game," said Billy Drew, inhaling cigarette-smoke. "I don't believe he really enjoys it very much." "The trouble with the Deacon," said Todd, "is that he is too much afraid of your opinion. If he hadn't got so bored when we called him dignified he wouldn't have made the mistake in the first place of trying to be a dead-game, you know. It isn't his style to be that, so he was guyed and laughed at. But instead of bracing up and being like himself, he sticks it on all the harder. He thinks to win favor that way. That's the plain English of it." "Aw, you make me tired!" said Lee, good-naturedly. "Somehow, lately, you're always preaching. The Deacon wants a little recreation, like the rest of us. That's all. He has plenty of good stuff in him." "Plenty," said Todd. "Trouble is, he doesn't let it out." The door opened. "Yea! Deacon," said the others. "Been doing the poler act on the sly again, have you?" asked Powelton, throwing a sofa cushion at him. "Naw. Hello there, Lucky! You here? Going to get in the little game this evening, hey?" said Young, smiling. "Toddie, you are, aren't you?" "No, thanks," said Todd, arising and stretching himself. "'Fraid, are you?" asked Young. Todd laughed contemptuously. "I'm not afraid to have you think I'm afraid, if it gives you any pleasure; it doesn't hurt me. Lucky, are you coming with me?" "No," said Lee, looking at the Deacon, "I reckon I'll stay awhile." "Come on, Lucky," Todd said. Lee shook his head. Todd turned, watched the others a moment, while they got out the cards and chips, and drew up their chairs to the table; then, smiling quizzically at Young, he took his hat and left the room. Now Young may not have been poling just before he arrived, but together with late hours and lack of exercise, he looked as pale and haggard as the hardest poler in college. And by the strong light opposite him, as he sat playing at the table, a fellow like Linton might have fancied he saw other lines in his face--unpleasant lines that meant something besides hard study and lack of exercise. Somehow, at this game, he did not look like the same Deacon Young who trotted home from football practice last fall, glowing and glad to be alive. The attitude of most of the club toward the class at large was very much what Young's was toward Barrows and Wilson and those fellows. The Invincibles had been frowned upon by the class for being "sporty"; consequently they hated the class. Instead of changing their conduct, they became "sportier" than ever, and they were fast gaining a reputation throughout the college world, and they considered themselves very dangerous. The poker game went on. It was getting late, but nobody noticed that. "Whose deal is it?" "Mine," said Lucky, picking up the cards with a nervous hand; he began to shuffle them. Powelton smiled in his superior way. "Look at Lucky's fingers twitch," he said. The others laughed, and Young added, indulgently, "The little boy will get over that in time." Lee was dealing, and he was too much excited to hear or reply to this sally; it was 1 A.M. of the first night he had ever played cards for money in his life, and with a beginner's luck he had been winning all evening. "Can you open it, Tommy?" asked Lee, the dealer. "Nope," said Stevens. "I can't," said Powelton. "Can you, Deacon?" "No, of course not." "Can you, Billy?" Drew shook his head. "No," said Jones, without waiting to be asked. "Sweeten it up, then," said Powelton. "Wait a minute," said Lee. "I can. Who's coming in?" He giggled excitedly. Three of the six simply laid down their hands hopelessly. "I never saw such luck," one of them said. Young hesitated a moment "I guess I'll come in," he said finally. "Four cards please." He puffed on an extinguished cigar-butt. "Well, well! the Deacon's got nerve," said Drew. "Oh! he's getting to be an old hand," said Minerva Powelton, winking. "See how coolly he picks up his cards," remarked Billy Drew. Young paid no attention to these remarks. He was cool outwardly, but it was the coolness of desperation. He had been losing all the evening as steadily as Lucky had been gaining. But you see he was not a beginner now; he had played five or six times and felt himself, as they said, an old hand at it, and he too had laughed at Lucky's greenness--early in the evening. But now Lucky, who was never persuaded to play poker until the Deacon played, was winning away all his money. Young did not know how much he had lost; he would not let himself think. But he knew it was more than he could afford, and he made up his mind that if he lost this time he would not give himself a chance to lose again. He picked up the four cards he had drawn in place of the discarded ones, and looked at them. His heart gave a bound. He covered the cards for a moment, and then looked at them again. "Yes, it's really true," he said to himself. "Surely this hand can't be beaten." "Well, what do you do, Deacon?" For answer Young simply laid down a large bet. "Hully Gee!" whispered Powelton to Drew. "Big bluff the Deacon is throwing, eh?" Lee overheard it. He meant to show the Deacon that he could not be bluffed out, even if he were a beginner. Besides, he had a hand he was willing to stake a good deal upon. He put down twice the amount of Young's bet. "Hoho! the bluff didn't work," laughed Drew. "Now, then, Deacon, let's see what you can do." "Shut up!" said Young. "Don't bother us!" He puffed on his cold cigar a moment, and then put down another large bet. "I'm with you!" said Lucky Lee, and he increased the stake again. His eyes were glistening. For several minutes they kept on increasing the amount in the centre of the table, one thoughtfully, the other excitedly. The older players now left off making patronizing remarks, and became interested. Finally Young said, "No, I won't make it any higher. What have you got?" Lee slapped down his cards. His voice trembled a little as he asked, confidently, "Can you beat that?" "Yep," said Young, and he coolly laid down his victorious hand. The others all looked at it. "It's about time I was winning," he said, calmly enough; but his heart was thumping. "Why didn't you keep on raising him?" asked Powelton, sneeringly. "I wish I had," thought Young, as he gathered in what meant a large winning for one swoop. Lee was laughing loudly to show he did not care. He was excited, and would have gone on betting for a long time, Young thought. That was the turning-point. Had Young lost, he might have stopped; but to stop now would look mean, he reflected. "The luck has turned," he whispered to himself. "I'll play a few more hands." And when the game broke up at dawn, he had lost his winnings, and more. That night he tossed in his bed, and said: "I must stop; that's all there is about it; I _must_ stop." The next time they met to play, Young said, "Go ahead without me; I don't feel like it to-night." "The Deacon hasn't any sporting blood. He's afraid of his own pupil," Powelton said, and the others laughed. Lucky laughed, too; he was the pupil. Young played. That night Young won handily. He felt especially pleased to win that night. He thought, "I'll stop the minute I have won back what I lost." But he did not win back what he had lost, and so played on the next night, and on the next. And so it went until he was brought to a stop with a jerk. It came near the end of the term and of the year, shortly before the final examinations. The crowd had been playing nearly every night, and of late, somehow, Young had been losing nearly every time he played; but he said: "I can't afford to stop now. Surely this bad luck can't continue. I must win! I will win next time!" He could not stop. It is called "gambler's fever." He could not sleep; he was neglecting his studies. He had used up all his allowance of "absences." He did not mind that, but he had within these few weeks lost--he would not allow himself to reckon how much! He had borrowed from the fellows, and he had been steadily drawing from the bank the precious money for which he had worked so hard, and which meant so much more to him than money meant to boys with monthly allowances from home. One morning he made out another check to his own order. "This is positively the last time," he said to himself. He had said that before, but this time it was true. That night he began to lose with the first hand. He laughed, he played recklessly, he lost. He went home, and found a letter in his pocket while undressing which he had forgotten to open, in hurrying to the game. This letter said, "We beg leave to call your attention to the fact that your account seems to be overdrawn to the amount of seventy-five cents." It was from the Princeton Bank. This meant that William Young owned not a cent in the world, and was a debtor even to the bank besides owing various sums to his companions. He was bankrupt. It was pretty bad. But that was not the worst of it. That was not the reason he stood by the table letting his lamp smoke while he kept staring at the letter in his hand. He had kept with his personal account the fund of his class, and every cent of it was gone with the rest. He had held it in trust as treasurer. It had amounted to something over one hundred dollars. But he had drawn it out unconsciously? No; he knew he had used all his own money long ago. But surely he had meant to return what he had borrowed from the class fund? Oh, yes; but this kind of "borrowing" is called embezzlement--an ugly word. It really means theft and breach of trust combined. Young could not take it all in at first. For awhile he stood there, saying to himself, "Isn't it funny this letter was in my pocket all the evening while I was playing--isn't it funny?" Then he looked up, sniffed, and said, "That lamp is smoking." He turned it down, and stared at the flame for nearly a minute. Then suddenly he blew it out, and was alone in the darkness. Oh, yes, it was all true. There was no way of getting out of it. He realized it all now vividly. He, William Young, a member of the church, son of honest old Farmer Young, was a gambler and--yes, he might just as well call it by its right name--a thief! He was the one of whom the others at home used to stand in awe because he was going East for a higher education. He was the one for whom the minister predicted such great things. He was the one who had his tuition remitted in consideration of "high moral character." He was the one whose letters from college were read aloud at the sewing society by a proud little mother, who thought he was the best son in the world. Why hadn't he stayed at home and remained an honest man, working hard in the bank or as a plain farmer, like good little Charlie? Oh, how did he ever sink so low? If he only had a chance to do it all over again--if he could only wake up and find it all a dream--if he could only wipe it all out of existence, how joyous and sunny would be life and duty and hard work again! But it wasn't a dream! It was all very real, indeed. None of it could be wiped out. It was all there and staring him in the face, real, horribly real. And that was not all; matters could not remain only as bad as _this_. He was an out-and-out embezzler, liable to be found out and exposed as such at any moment--and then what? Leave college with a disgraced name--but that would not be all. The news would go home; it would get there before he did. Everyone in the county would hear it, and talk about him. Some of them would laugh and sneer, and say, "Too bad!" and really be secretly glad. Perhaps the authorities would send and--it made him weak and sick to think of it--have him arrested--by an officer of the law--and put in jail. This would kill his honest, old gray-bearded father. And as for his mother--but that hurt too much! He shut his eyes; he simply would not let himself think of that. But what could he do? Time was flying. Just now he had heard Old North strike four in the dark, silent distance--good Old North, on whose steps he had hoped to sing as a Senior some day. Every moment brought him nearer to ruin. Something must be done. He took hold of his head to quiet its buzzing. "It will do no good to think about it any more," he said aloud. "Act, act, act--you must!" First, he spent a few bitter moments on his knees by the bed It is no one's concern what he said to God. Then he arose, quite calmly struck a match, and with an almost steady hand lighted the lamp. Then very deliberately, in a matter-of-fact way, he drew up the rocking-chair so that the light would come over his left shoulder. He dragged over another chair to put his feet upon. He sat down. He did a little figuring at first on the envelope in his hand. Then he opened his trigonometry and studied furiously until chapel-time. There was, you see, good stuff in Will Young yet. It would do no good to tell himself any longer how low he had fallen; but it would do a great deal of good to win the Freshman First Honor prize; and he had no time to lose. To win was not a mere ambition now--it was a grim necessity. It was the one way of keeping from being disgraced in the eyes of the world as deeply as he was in his own and God's. The prize would not come until commencement. Before that time the class might vote to use its money. They might instruct their "honorable treasurer" to expend the funds on decorations and a brass band, as was sometimes done at the close of examinations to celebrate their Sophomorehood; and what would he do then! He decided that he must not let himself think about that now. It made his heart stop so short it fairly hurt; besides, it interrupted his work. He had figured it all out in his neat businesslike hand on the envelope. On one side, under assets, he wrote, "Freshman prize, if won, $200;" on the other side the following list: The Princeton Bank overdraw $0.75 Henry Powelton, borrowed 10.00 Carey H. Lee, borrowed 25.00 William Sinclair Drew 23.35 The class of Ninety-blank debt 117.20 ------- Total $176.30 Two hundred dollars would "square" him, and just leave enough to buy a ticket back to the old farm--that is, if he wanted to go there. CHAPTER XIII THE LAST CHANCE Many times that huge, dark thing in the background of his thoughts jumped into the foreground and interrupted his work; but he accomplished a good deal. He felt a glow of hope. It was only ten days to the examinations, but it had only been during the past month of madness that he had neglected his studies. He could soon make that up. Just as he started for chapel, he suddenly began to wonder if he had been mistaken about that prize. Wasn't it only $100 after all? He took down a catalogue and looked it up. He was right, the prize was $200. "A prize of $200, part of the income of the J. S. K. fund;" but what was this?--"To be paid in quarterly instalments during the following year"! He had never noticed that before. For a moment it made him feel sick at the stomach. Then he decided that it was not so bad after all, for if he only won the prize he could borrow money on the certificate of it that would be presented the winner at commencement. For the first day or two the club guyed him for turning poler, and they thought his serious and grave demeanor was very funny when he declined to join with them in their pursuits. At first he paid no attention to their jeers; he had no time. Then came the day he got angry and said. "It makes no difference to me what you fellows think. I've quit my foolishness for good, and that's all there is to it. Now let me alone." He struck the table a heavy blow, and looked as if he meant everything he said; and no one felt inclined to guy him again. He looked like the old Deacon who had done up Ballard. "The Deacon must have an attack of R. E. Morse," Billy Drew said, as he left the room. "I think he's pretty hard hit financially," said Lucky Lee, who had been pretty hard hit of late himself. "He's working his way through college, you know. I wish he hadn't lost so much money." "He had no business playing, then," said Powelton. "I respect him for stopping, anyway," said Todd, who seldom played cards; recently he had not played at all; he had been doing some studying, "just for fun," he said. "So do I," said Lee, in a low voice, and the others agreed--in lower voices. Meanwhile, Young was studying as if his life depended upon it, and the strain was telling. He had lost twenty-four pounds since the football season. The fellows saw nothing of him now except at meals, where he kept his white face turned down to the book beside his plate. They had left off guying him, and were worrying about him instead. They began saying: "See here, old man, you've got to quit this. You'll kill yourself if you keep on this way. The prize isn't worth it." But it did no good. Finally a number of them came up to his room one evening to see what they could do about it. They were headed by Lucky Lee. "I wish you would let me alone," was all that Young would say. "I've simply got to win that prize." "Why have you got to?" asked Lucky, in his nice, refined voice. At that Young only smiled queerly, and turned to the table where his books were. "See here, you old chump," said Lucky. "I believe you've got a notion--say, fellows, the Deacon's got a notion that just because he owes some of us a couple of dollars or so we are in a hurry to be paid back. If he thinks that, he's an old ass, isn't he, fellows?" "Why, certainly," said Powelton. "Thank you," said Young, curtly; "but as I said before, I intend to square up at commencement." "Why, we can get along just as well till next fall," Lucky went on, although he had pawned some of his clothes as well as his bicycle last week. "In fact, if you're worrying about it, why--well--they were gambling debts, Will, and----" "Lucky," said Young, flushing, "that's no way to talk. I'm an honest man and"----then he stopped suddenly; he was not an honest man, and this was the first time he had been called "Will" since he left home, and home was what he hated most of all to think of in these days, and this was Lucky Lee, who never would have had gambling debts, if it had not been for him, and whose kind mother he had promised---- Altogether he felt very queer and wrought up, and for a wild moment he had a notion to tell them all about it, and make a clean breast of it. If he had done so they might have helped him out and sworn secrecy; but Young was not the sort that could do it. "Please go away, fellows, and leave me alone. You're mighty good, but--you don't understand," he said. They could see something was troubling him greatly. They did go away, and they did not understand, but they felt very sorry. After that Todd, without telling the reason, left off studying hard and took to rambling in the woods again. "Aren't you going to try for the prize, then?" they asked him. "I wouldn't stand any chance against Young," he answered. But the others were not so sure about that. Meanwhile every hour brought final examinations sixty minutes nearer, and Young, all alone in his little bake-oven of a room, was studying as probably no student had ever studied in that old room before. Sometimes he felt that even his powerful constitution would not stand the strain much longer; but he could not afford to break down or die until after commencement, until after disgrace had been averted from his family name. It was that thought which kept his heavy eyelids open. Examination week was like a long, hideous nightmare. There were tasks that seemed superhuman to perform, and with them the sickening dread that he could not perform them. When the last paper was finished and handed in he had a horrible conviction that he had lost the prize. He felt sure of it. But he could not be sure until commencement day itself, and before that came four days of preliminary commencement gayety. Each one of these contained for Young twenty-four hours of suspense, and these were worse than examination days--there was nothing to take his mind off what he did not want to think about. He could not sleep. His nerves were used up; and everybody else was so happy! The campus was bright with hundreds of attractive girls in summer costumes, and alive with rollicking old graduates holding noisy reunions. But even at the baseball game, when the nine was beating Yale and everyone else was crazy with exultant joy, Young was saying to himself: "How should I break the news to mother? Should I let matters take their course, or--what are they all cheering for now? Oh, I see, Cap has made another hit!" The worst of it was that he had no one to take him out of himself. Nearly all his classmates and all his intimates were packing up and going home, as Freshmen usually do, without waiting for commencement. Luckily they had not voted to celebrate their Sophomorehood! He wandered about all alone; and all alone he went in to hear his fate decided on commencement morning. Near the door he stood, squeezed in beside some graduates he had never seen before, who wondered why this long, gaunt undergraduate started so when the clerk of the Board of Trustees arose and began to announce the fellowships and prizes. The awards were read from a long list in the clerk's hand, and after each announcement there was a cheer from the members of the literary society to which the victor belonged. It delayed matters so. Sometimes they cheered several times. Then the clerk cleared his throat and went on slowly. At last he came down toward the end of the list. "Now, then," said Young, bracing himself. "I know I am going to lose." He did not dare look up. Just in front of him sat a good-looking girl. He saw her put her pretty orange-and-black-bordered programme to her lips and suppress a yawn while the loud, monotonous voice of the clerk said, "The Freshman First Honor prize awarded to J. Milton Barrows, of Pennsylvania." Young stood perfectly still. He did not move a muscle. He heard the loud cheering. He heard a man behind him say, "Well! well!" He heard the band strike up a lively air. Still looking at the girl, he saw her begin to beat time to the music with her programme against her pursed lips. Then he shut his eyes tight for a moment and asked himself: "What was it I was going to do? I cannot remember somehow. What was it? Shall--shall I telegraph----" In a few minutes the valedictorian had finished his oration, then the benediction was pronounced, and the audience flocked out laughing and talking while the band played with all its might. Commencement was over, and the college year was a matter of history. * * * * * A few hours later Young was speeding across the country at the rate of ever so many miles an hour toward the old prairie farm, toward the home he had disgraced. He did not know why he was going home, unless it was because the watch he pawned brought just the right amount of money. Instinct made him do it, perhaps. As the train started off down the grade he stood on the rear platform, and looked back at the green campus and the dear old brown building. "Perhaps," he said to himself, "perhaps in time they'll forget that there ever was a fellow named 'Deacon' Young." Then the car turned the curve, and the college was hidden from view. CHAPTER XIV "HOME FROM COLLEGE" She was standing beside the neatly painted horse-block, waiting to welcome her boy. Will had spied her from the road. As the buggy turned in through the gate he began to brace himself for meeting her. This was going to be harder, he knew, than had been the meeting at the railroad station a little while before, with his father, whose honest old eyes had looked at him so searchingly. He was coming nearer and nearer. She was smiling. It was the same motherly smile he had known he would see. Now she was speaking his name. The next moment he was out of the buggy, and she was kissing him just as when he was an innocent little boy. She was frightened at her son's pale, haggard face, but she did not want him to know it, and only said, patting his cheek laughingly, "Why didn't you take better care of yourself, child?" [Illustration: THE MEETING "I don't know, mother," he said slowly, "I don't know...."] They were walking up the path. Will looked down at her. The tears were forming in the little mother's eyes. He looked away again. "I don't know, mother," he said, slowly, "I don't know why I didn't take better care of myself." "There, don't talk. You must rest after your long journey. Keep still now. You can tell me all about everything later on." They opened the screen door and went in. Even Mr. Young had been alarmed when he saw his son step off the train. At least he treated him very considerately and said, as he shook his hand: "I guess you've been studying too hard there at school, ain't you? 'All work and no play'--you know the rest of it." Will dropped his eyes as he thought of the kind of playing he had been doing. Then he said, abruptly: "Well, I'll have plenty of time to get well in," looked up the street and remarked that everything seemed the same. "Yes, everything's the same with us," his father replied, unhitching the horse. "Hello, Molly," Will said to the mare, "do you remember me?" He was embarrassed in his father's presence, and Mr. Young seemed to notice it, for as they got into the buggy he said, in an uneasy manner: "Mother got your telegram, but I had to come to town anyway, so I thought I might just as well drive you out home myself. Had a pleasant trip?" Indeed, his father, who had never once written him a letter during the nine months' absence, was the last one Will expected to meet at the station, but that was not what caused Will's constraint. It was the queer searching way he looked at him every now and then. "Could he have heard about it!" Will kept asking himself. "No, he _can't_ know. If he knew--if he knew, he would be taking me to jail instead of home. He would say it served me right for going against his wishes." At supper-time his father and his brother Charlie came in from the cornfields together. "Hope you'll bring us rain," said Mr. Young. "We need it." Charlie was brown and big, and he gave Will's hand a hearty grip and said, "Glad to see you back, Will, blamed if I ain't." Charlie never had ambitions for higher education. "Lucky Charlie!" thought Will, remembering how he used to look down on him. "They must make you study a lot, though!" Charlie added, looking at Will's face. Mr. Young disappeared for a few minutes into the next room; when he returned he interrupted the conversation with, "By the way, mother, Will says he don't think he'll go back there to school any more." Mrs. Young did not want the matter discussed just now, for she saw a pained look come over Will's face at the mention of it. "Whatever he does," she said, in her bright, quick manner, "he must get well and strong and happy again. Cheer up, Will, cheer up, look happy--my goodness! just see his face," she went on laughing. "Don't you know you're home, anyway, boy?" Yes, he was home, anyway. But what a way it was; not very much like the proud homecoming he had pictured long ago. Mr. Young did not like to be switched off the subject. He went on, in a queer tone: "Yes, I thought you'd come around to my way of thinking. I thought you'd get tired of putting yourself through college, as you called it. I ain't surprised, not a bit." Will did not feel piqued or indignant. He only asked himself how much longer he would wait before telling them all that he, William Young, son of his father, member of the church, and the boy who had his tuition remitted in consequence of a "high moral character," was a gambler and a thief, and was liable to be exposed as such at any moment. Even now at this hour somebody there in the East might be making inquiries as to his whereabouts. This load was becoming more than he could bear. Why not tell them all, right then and there, and have it over with? "Listen, father," said Will, his voice breaking a little. "You little understand the meaning of my actions. Listen, everybody. I have something important to say." "Shissh, Will, keep quiet, you're nervous," interrupted his mother. "Father, don't let the poor boy try to talk. He's sick. He's all wrought up; look at him." "But I must explain--I _will_ explain. You all must know. Now listen: the reason I'm not going back--the reason I had to study so----" "Keep still, Will," said his father, in a grave tone; "you needn't go on. I know all about it." Will's heart stood still. "You know all about it, father?" "Yes, the minister told us how hard you were working for the prize. And we read in the Chicago papers that another boy won it----" "Oh, you don't understand; you don't know why I needed to win it. You don't know anything about it--anything about it." "Yes, yes, I do, Will," said Mr. Young, fumbling in his pocket for something, "yes, I do." Mrs. Young put in excitedly: "It was because you had to have the money to go back next year. That was the reason you worked yourself nearly into the grave and wrote such short, irregular letters home and----" "Now, mother, keep still," interrupted Mr. Young, "I have something to say." He dropped his eyes as though ashamed. He had taken out of his pocket a slip of paper. There was some printing on it and some blank places filled in with writing. He cleared his throat in the way he was accustomed to do when he got up in prayer-meeting. "You had to have the money. It was a necessity. You worked hard for it, but you missed it. And I thought, seeing you missed the prize there at school, I would show my appreciation of your efforts there at school, that--now, Will, take this and stop looking at me in that way. You done your best. Now you won't have to change your plans. I hate to see people change their plans." His father had put the slip of paper in his hand. Will looked at it. It was a check drawn on the Farmers' National Bank. It said, "Pay to the order of William Young Two Hundred Dollars ($200)." What did it all mean? It meant that the obstinate will of good old Farmer Young, that could not be budged by the arguments of the minister or bent by the coaxing of his wife, had finally been melted away by his own full heart at seeing this poor sick boy of his, who bore the marks of having struggled so pluckily and so discouragingly to earn for himself what his father had refused to grant. Also it meant that Will Young could lift his head once more, a free man. "Why, where are you going, Will?" asked his mother. He had got up from the table. "I'm not hungry," he said, in a strange voice; "I'm going up to my room. I'll be down soon." Then as he opened the door he said, without turning around: "I don't deserve this, father. I can't tell you just now how little I deserve it, but I'm going to take it." The door closed. "What on earth's the matter with the boy?" said Mrs. Young, sighing. "I suppose it's because he takes losing that prize so to heart. He's too conscientious. Don't deserve it!--nonsense!" When Will came down he looked better. "Did Charlie say he was going to drive to town," he asked. "Yes," said his mother. "But you don't want----" "No, but I've got some letters here I'd like to go East the first thing in the morning." And the next morning they were going East as fast as the United States mail-cars could carry them. One of them was to the Princeton Bank, and it contained the check for $200, and an apology for overdrawing his account the month previous, which was "not likely to happen again," he said. The other contained checks also, drawn on that very bank for various amounts to the order of Carey H. Lee and the rest, whose home addresses he had looked up in the college catalogue. And then he had the first calm full night's sleep in over a month and came down to breakfast singing "The Orange and the Black," and all the family thought it a "real pretty song," and did not know that Will sang it to a tune of his own. He felt like a new man. Perhaps he was. "Father," said Mrs. Young, "look at Will; he's better already. I knew my cooking and a little home comfort would do worlds for him. And I guess," she added, in Mr. Young's ear, "you cheered him up more by giving him that money, father." Mr. Young felt that he had been pretty generous, but he only growled. They did not know the real reason Will was so exuberant this bright sunny morning. Was it necessary for them to know? That was one thing left to worry about: whether it would be right to overwhelm his parents by telling them of what their son had been through, or would it be wrong to keep on taking their love and sympathy (as it seemed he had received his father's check) on false pretences? He kept on being perplexed until he finally confessed his whole story to the minister and asked him what to do about it. The minister, in his straightforward way, asked, "Have you confessed it to God, Will?" "Yes, sir," said Will, dropping his eyes. "And has He forgiven you?" Will paused a moment. "I think He has now." "Then I think that is enough. In one sense it is certainly deceiving them not to tell them, but I think it is the lesser of two evils. It would do little or no good to tell your good old parents. It would only grieve them as much as it would amaze them. You can pay back what you owe your parents in love and kindness as well as in money. Don't you think so?" Will thought so and he made up his mind to try. It became a matter of comment among the neighbors the way Will Young, whom they were inclined to look at sceptically since "he went East to college," was pitching in and working harder than any hired man on his father's place and, what was more surprising, seeming to enjoy it; they did not know quite what to make of it. He was paying back the $200. It surprised his father also and pleased him, and so did Will's respectful manner and his simple boyish endeavors to carry out all his wishes. He was trying to pay back the other debt also. When the fall came again Mr. Young hated more than ever to have him leave, but this time, as he told Will's mother, he would fix it, he guessed, so Will wouldn't have to work himself to a skeleton. CHAPTER XV THE END OF IT "Hello, here comes Deacon Young with a brand new orange-and-black blazer on!" "Yea-a-a," interrupted one fellow in a loud, shrill voice, and the others all joined in and yelled, "Yea-a, Deacon!" and ran at him and pounded him on the shoulders, jumped on his back and made other signs of pleasure at seeing a classmate once more, while they asked him what kind of a vacation he had had, and told him he looked as though he had been training for football all summer. Will laughed and told how he had trained. "It must be great to work on a farm," said Lee, punching the Deacon's shoulders. "Come on," one of them shouted, "we're taking a walk about the old place to see how everything looks. Let's gather a crowd--Ninety-blank this way!" They shouted the old cry in concert and started off together. "What are you going to do this year, Deacon?" It was Todd who happened to be marching next to Young. "How do you mean?" "Well, are you going to pole or loaf or be a dead-game or what?" "Well," answered Young, "I'm going to do some of the first and combine some football with it if I have good luck; but I am not going to try any more of the last. I don't know as I need tell you that, Todd." He wanted to say more, but only frowned as he thought of how hard it would be to accomplish what he had resolved to accomplish with the club this year. Todd said, "I'm glad you told me, though. I think the whole club made a fool of itself last year. It needs to take a big brace." Young turned and looked at him. Todd had spoken in his usual quiet, careless manner, but Young thought his words implied something. "Do you think--say, Todd, do you think there's much hope of its bracing?" "Not unless they're made to," laughed Todd. "Perhaps," he said, looking the other way, "we can make 'em if we pull together. What do you say, Deacon?" "Let's try," said Young. He held out his hand. Todd took it in an embarrassed manner, and then shouted: "Hi, there, you fellows in front! Let's go down to meet the 2.17. There'll be a lot of the class in on that train. Start up a song, somebody." They all marched off across the campus singing, with loud happy voices: "Here's to Ninety-blank-- Drink her down--drink her down." Arms were thrown carelessly over shoulders and perhaps they swaggered a little as they marched. But it feels very good to be a Sophomore, especially the first day. And all this fraternal joyousness, together with the superabundance of orange and black, greatly impressed one of the very green Freshmen who happened just then to be scurrying by with wonder in his eyes. And it happened to be at about the same spot in the walk that another Freshman had met another crowd of Sophomores and was called "Deacon" for the first time in his life. But that was a whole year ago. Young had learned a good deal in that year, he was thinking. "Not all of what you are taught at college," he said to himself, "comes out of the text-books--especially in Freshman year." By Jesse Lynch Williams * * * * * The Stolen Story And Other Newspaper Stories _Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25_ * * * * * Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers * * * * * "Mr. Williams has had the good fortune--it really seems largely a matter of luck in many cases--to treat his fresh material with a simplicity which imparts a sense of strong reality. The newspaper life has a lasting fascination for any one who has ever known it, and I think the most ignorant must feel something of its charm in these tales."--W. D. HOWELLS in _Literature_. "This is not, however, a volume of moral essays on journalism; it is first and last a collection of stories, told in a compressed, rapid style that carries you along with something of the zest that took possession of Billy Woods when he was on the track of a beat."--DROCH in _Life_. "Told with such fidelity and skill as to command the attention and favorable comment of the men who make newspapers."--CHESTER S. LORD, Managing Editor of the New York _Sun_, in the _Book Buyer_. "Have not only taken the newspaper world by storm, but the reading world in general are turning to bestow more than a second glance at the work of this brilliant writer.... More than a quarter of the work is new matter, now appearing for the first time."--_The Boston Courier_. By Jesse Lynch Williams * * * * * Princeton Stories _EIGHTH EDITION. 16mo, $1.00_ "Here is the evanescent charm, the touch of poetry and sentiment that pervades a thousand unpoetic and rather reserved young men. You will find here the good-fellowship depicted without any rant about it. There isn't a prig in these stories ... that are well written and well constructed, judged from the standard of good American short-story writing."--DROCH in _Life_. "Beside being well constructed and well told, they breathe a spirit of commendable vigor and manliness. Princeton men are fortunate in having the life of their college so favorably presented to the outside world."--_Atlantic Monthly_. "The stories are told with a naturalness and truthfulness that are very charming. The author ... enables the reader to find the real Princeton man of to-day, not as he ought to be, but as he is."--_Boston Home Journal_. "No stories of American college life that have yet appeared are equal to 'Princeton Stories.'"--_The Golden Rule_. "He has the real art of not saying the one word too much."--_The Book Buyer_. * * * * * Charles Scribner's Sons 153-157 Fifth Avenue New York 
6426	----	None 
25893	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 25893-h.htm or 25893-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/8/9/25893/25893-h/25893-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/8/9/25893/25893-h.zip) BEATRICE LEIGH AT COLLEGE A Story for Girls by JULIA A. SCHWARTZ * * * * * * A SONG-CALENDAR BY A. L. C. I "When blood of autumn Runs warm and red In all the branches Over head-- Sing clear bright sunshine, And tender haze, Sing glad beginning Of College Days! II "When pines and spruces Are bowed with snow, When ponds are frozen And keen winds blow-- Sing cozy corners Or jingling sleighs, Sing work or frolic Of College Days! III "When comes sweet April, With soft slow rain, And earth has broken Her frozen chain-- Sing low shy birdnotes, And woodland ways, Sing mirth and music Of College Days! IV "When June days linger, And warm winds blow O'er fields of daisies Adrift like snow-- Sing sad leave-takings And tender praise Of all the mem'ries Of College Days!" --Vassarion, '95. * * * * * * Cordial acknowledgment is due to the editors of the _Youth's Companion_ for their courteous permission to reprint in the following chapters of college life the episodes entitled respectively "Wanted: a Friend," and "Her Freshman Valentine." * * * * * * BEATRICE LEIGH AT COLLEGE A Story for Girls by JULIA A. SCHWARTZ Author of "Elinor's College Career" etc. Illustrated by Eva M. Nagel [Illustration: SHE HID HER FACE AGAINST MARTHA'S DRESS] The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia MCMVII Copyright 1907 by the Penn Publishing Company CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Bea's Roommate 9 II Enter Robbie Belle 35 III A Question of Economy 59 IV Her Freshman Valentines 81 V The Giftie Gie Us 92 VI A Wave of Reform 115 VII Four Sophomores and a Dog 145 VIII Classes in Manners 172 IX This Vain Show 198 X Consequences 214 XI A Girl to Have Friends 231 XII An Original in Math 255 XIII Just This Once 283 XIV Classmates 299 XV Victory 321 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE SHE HID HER FACE AGAINST MARTHA'S DRESS Frontispiece Lila Stood Staring Out at the Snow 28 "Anything New?" 73 "Oh, Thank You; I Don't Want Anything to Eat" 96 We Handed Over Five Dollars Apiece 201 She Waved an Open Letter In Her Hand 276 She Held Both Hands, Smiling 301 BEATRICE LEIGH AT COLLEGE CHAPTER I BEA'S ROOMMATE Lila Allan went to college in the hope of finding an intimate friend at last. Her mother at home waited anxiously for her earliest letters, and devoured them in eager haste to discover some hint of success in the search; for being a wise woman she knew her own daughter, and understood the difficulty as well as the necessity of the case. The first letter was written on the day of arrival. It contained a frantic appeal for enough money to buy her ticket home immediately, because she had a lonesome room away up in the north tower, and nobody had spoken to her all the afternoon, and her trunk had not come yet, and she did not know where the dining-room was, and the corridors were full of packing-boxes with lids scattered around, and girls were hurrying to and fro with step-ladders and kissing each other and running to hug each other, and everything. The second letter, written the following day, said that a freshman named Beatrice Leigh had come up to help her unpack. Beatrice had a long braid too, and her hair was the loveliest auburn and curled around her face, and she laughed a good deal. Lila had noticed her the very first evening. She was sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the big dining-room. When Lila saw her, she was giggling with her head bent down and her napkin over her eyes, while the other girls at that table smiled amused smiles. Lila knew instantly that this poor freshman had done something dreadful, and she was sorry for her. Later that same evening in Miss Merriam's room she told how she had marched in to dinner alone and plumped down at that table among all those seniors. She seemed to consider it a joke, but Lila was sure she had been almost mortified to death when she learned of her mistake, and that was why she had laughed so hard. Several other freshmen were at Miss Merriam's. Two of them were named Roberta, and one was named Gertrude something. But Lila liked Beatrice best. Miss Merriam called her Bea. Miss Merriam was a junior who had invited in all the students at that end of the corridor to drink chocolate. Lila did not care for her much, because she had a loud voice and tipped back in her chair and said yep for yes. The third missive was only a postal card bearing a properly telegraphic communication to the effect that it was Saturday morning, and Bea was waiting to escort her to the chapel to hear read the lists of freshman names assigned to each recitation section. Mrs. Allan scanned the message with a quick throb of pleasure; then sighed as she laid it down. The indications were hopeful enough if only Lila would be careful not to drive away this friend as she had the others. Meanwhile on that Saturday morning Bea and Lila, silent and shy, had crowded with their two hundred classmates into chapel. The two friends sat side by side. Lila was in terror of making some horrible blunder that might overwhelm her with a vast indefinite disgrace. She leaned forward in the pew, the pencil trembling between her fingers, the blood pounding in her ears, while from the platform in front a cool voice read on evenly through page after page of names. And then at last the tragic despair of finding that she had jotted down herself for two sections in English and none in Latin! When she managed to gasp out the awful situation in Bea's ear, that young person looked worried for full half a minute. It was a very serious thing to be a freshman. Then her cheery common sense came to the rescue. "Never mind. We'll go up and look the lists over after she has finished them all." "Oh, can we? Will you truly go with me?" Lila drew a quick breath of relief and gratitude. This was one of the precious privileges of having found a friend. She gazed at Bea with such an adorable half-wistful, half-joyful smile on her delicate face that Bea never quite forgot the sensation of realizing that it was meant wholly for her. The memory of it returned again and again in later days when Lila's exacting ways seemed beyond endurance. For Lila's nature was one of those that give all and demand all and suffer in a myriad mysterious ways. On the afternoon of that Saturday when Bea skipped up the narrow tower stairs to invite Lila to go to the orchard to gather a scrapbasket full of apples, she discovered the door locked. In answer to her lively rat-tattoo and gay call over the transom, she heard the key turn. Bea started to dash in; then after one glance stopped and fumbled uneasily with the knob. In her happy-go-lucky childhood with many brothers and sisters at home, tears had always an embarrassing effect. "Let's--let's go to the orchard," she stammered. "It's lovely, and the fresh air will help your--your headache." She had a boyish notion that anybody would prefer to excuse heavy eyes by calling it headache rather than tears. Lila pointed to the bed which was half made up. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded in agonized reproach. "I thought the maids attended to the beds here. I left the mattress turned over the foot all day long, and the door was wide open. Everybody in the neighborhood must have looked in and then decided that I was lazy and shiftless. They believe that I have been brought up to let things go undone like that. They do, they do! Miss Merriam just the same as said so. She poked in her head a minute ago and said, 'Heigho, little one, time to make up your bed. It has aired long enough and the maid is not expected to do it.' She said that to me! Oh, I hate her!" Lila caught her breath hard. Bea opened her candid eyes wider in astonished curiosity. "But didn't you want to know about the maid?" "She mortified me. Do you know how it feels to be mortified? The--the awfulness--" Lila stopped and swallowed once or twice as if something stuck in her throat. "She might have told me in a different manner so as not to wound me so heartlessly. She isn't a lady." "Please." Bea twirled the door-knob in worried protest. "Don't talk that way. She is my friend. We live in the same town. She's nice, really. You've only seen the outside. Please!" "Oh, well!" Lila raised her shoulders slightly. "She isn't worth noticing, I dare say. Such people never are. I can't help wishing that you were not acquainted with her. I want you all to myself. I'm glad she belongs to another class anyhow." Into Bea's puzzled face crept a troubled expression. "You're a funny girl, Lila," she said; "let's go to the orchard." On their way across the campus, they passed countless girls hurrying from building to building. Every doorway seemed to blossom with a chattering group, a loitering pair, or an energetic single lady on pressing business bent. Bea met every glance with a look of bright friendliness in her eager eyes and lips ready to smile, no matter whether she had ever been introduced or not. But Lila's wild-flower face, in spite of its lovely tints and outlines, seemed almost icy in its expression of haughty criticism. No wonder, then, that this miniature world of college reflected a different countenance to each. "Aren't they the dearest, sweetest girls you ever saw!" exclaimed Bea as the two freshmen turned from the curving concrete walk into the road that led to the orchard. "I saw only one who was truly beautiful," commented her companion. "I expected to find them prettier." "Oh, but they are so interesting," protested Bea in quick loyalty. "Nearly everybody appears prettier after you get acquainted. I've noticed that myself. It is better to dawn than to dazzle, don't you think? Sue Merriam, for instance, improves and grows nicer and nicer after you know her. You will learn to love her dearly." "Never!" At the tone Bea gave an involuntary whistle; then checked herself at sight of Lila's quivering lips. "Oh, well, don't bother. Let's go on to the orchard. Look! There comes Roberta Abbott with about a bushel of russets. She is a funny girl too. To judge from her appearance, you would say she was sad and dignified. She has the most tragic dark eyes and mouth. But just wait till you hear her talk. Didn't you meet her last night at Sue's?" "Yes." Lila turned away to hide the flicker of jealousy, for she had learned long since how transparently every emotion showed in her features. "I think we ought not to waste any time now. And anyway I'd rather get acquainted with you all alone this afternoon." Bea stared. "You're the funniest girl!" She walked on after waving a sociable hand at Roberta. "It is interesting to have friends that are different, don't you think?" "To have one friend who is different," corrected Lila. "All right," laughed Bea. "Oh, see what a gorgeous glorious place this is, with the trees and scarlet woodbine and the lake sparkling away over there, and girls, girls, girls! But I don't believe that there is a single other one exactly like you." During the next week this thought recurred to her more than once. By means of some diplomatic maneuvering, the two friends managed to have their single rooms exchanged for a double. After moving in, Lila seized a moment of solitude to plan a beautiful cozy corner for Bea. She dragged her own desk into a dusky recess and set Bea's at an artistic angle at the left side of the sunniest window. Just as she was hanging her favorite picture above it, Bea came rushing in with her arms full of new books. "Oh, no, no, no!" she exclaimed impulsively, "that won't do at all. You must put it at the right so that the light will fall over the left shoulder. Otherwise the shadow of your hand will go scrambling over the paper ahead of your pen. Here, let me show you." By the time she had hauled the desk across to its new position, Lila had vanished. Bea found her huddled in a woe-begone heap behind the wardrobe door in her bedroom, and flew to her in dismay. "Oh, Lila, dearie, did you smash your finger or drop something on your foot? There, don't cry. I'll get the witch-hazel and arnica and court-plaster. What is it? Where? Why-ee!" she gasped bewildered, "why, Lila!" for her weeping roommate had pushed her gently away and turned her face to the wall. "I was doing it for you," she sobbed. "I was trying to please you, and then you were so cr-cr-cruel! You were cruel." "Cruel?" echoed Bea, "why, how? I haven't done a thing except buy the books I ordered last week. Yours were down in the office, too, but I didn't have enough money for all, because Sue Merriam borrowed four dollars. She asked after you and said----" Bea hesitated, smitten with novel doubt that she ought to begin to think three times before speaking once where such a sensitive person was concerned. Lila sat up in swift attention and winked away her tears. "Said what?" "Oh, nothing much." Bea wriggled. "Just talking." "I insist." "Oh, well, it doesn't signify. I was only thinking----" Bea paused again before blurting out. "She said that roommates are good for the character." At this Lila rose with such an air of patient endurance that poor Bea felt clumsy, remorseful, injured and perplexed simultaneously. A cloud of resentful silence hovered over them both through the weary hours of the afternoon. Not until the ten o'clock gong sent the echoes booming through the deserted corridors, did Lila break down in a storm of weeping that terrified Bea. She found herself begging pardon, apologizing, caressing, explaining and repenting wholesale of rudeness about the desk, of selfish neglect in the case of the books, of disloyalty in giving ear to Miss Merriam's gratuitous comments. This gale blew over, leaving one girl with darker circles under her eyes and a more pathetic droop at the corners of her mouth, leaving the other with a fellow feeling for any unfortunate bull who happens to get into a china shop, intentionally or otherwise. Life at college promised to be like walking over exceedingly thin ice every day and all day long. And yet, after she had learned to make allowances for the oversensitiveness, Bea found Lila more lovable and winning week by week. She was philosopher enough to recognize the fact that every one has the "defects of his qualities." The very quality that sent Lila hurrying up-stairs in an agony of mortification because a senior had forgotten to bow to her, was the one that inclined her to enter into Bea's varying moods with exquisite responsiveness. It was delightful to have a friend who was ever ready to answer gayety with gayety and sober thoughts with sympathy. Indeed, when Lila was not wrapped up in her own suffering, she could not be surpassed in the priceless gift of sympathy. For the sake of that, much might be forgiven. Much but not everything. Just before the midyear examinations came a crisis in the growth of their friendship. One afternoon Lila reached the head of the stairs barely in time to make a sudden swerve out of Miss Merriam's breezy path. "Heigho, Eliza Allan," she called in careless teasing, "why don't you spell your name the way it is in the catalogue? More dignified, I think. By the way, I've been into your room and left some burned cork for your chapter play. We had more than we needed last night. By-bye." Lila walked on in frosty silence. By-bye, indeed! And to address her as Eliza, too, on this very afternoon when she had as much as she could bear anyhow. To hear her essay read aloud and criticised before the class, and then to have it handed to her across the desk, so that anybody could see the awful REWRITE in red ink scrawled on the outside! To be sure, all the essays had been distributed at the same time, and nobody knew for sure that hers had been the one read aloud. Still they might have seen the name on it or noticed how red and pale she turned, or something. And worse still, the examinations were coming soon, and she was sure she would fail. If it were not for leaving Bea, she would go home that night. She certainly would! As she entered, Bea looked up brightly from the cardboard which she was cutting into squares. "Here you are!" she exclaimed in cheery greeting, though her eyes had shadowed instantly at sight of the unhappy drooping of every line. "Sue Merriam has been in to show me how to make you up for the play next month. It takes quite an artistic touch to darken the brows and touch up the lashes. Catch these corks and put them away. They're messing up my dinner-cards." Lila's shoulders quivered as if pricked by a spur even while she mechanically caught the bits of black and fumbled them in her fingers. "She meant that my brows are too thin and my lashes too light. I would thank her to keep her criticism until it is called for." For half a minute Bea kept her head down while her chest heaved over a sigh of weary anticipation. Then she turned with an affectionate query: "What has happened now, Lila? Tell me, dear." Upon hearing about the affair of the essay, she expostulated consolingly, "Of course that is no disgrace. She is severe with all the girls, tears their essays into strips and empties the red ink over them. She doesn't mean it personally, you know. How can we learn anything if nobody corrects our mistakes? Anyway it was an honor to have it read aloud. Very likely the girls did not see the REWRITE. She never bothers much with the utterly hopeless papers. Come, cheer up! The red ink was a compliment." "Do you really think so?" Lila smiled a little doubtfully. "It sounds like one of the sophists--'to make the worse appear the better reason.' I'd love to believe it, and you are sweet to me." She laid one arm caressingly across Bea's shoulders. "It is queer that I don't mind more when you scold me so outrageously." "Scold you?" repeated the other in amazement at such a description of her soothing speech. Lila nodded. "I never stood it from anybody else. Maybe it is because you are my special dearest friend. That is why I came to college, you know. At home the girls disappointed me. There were several in the high school who might have been my friends if they had been different from what they were. Ena Brownell and I were inseparable for weeks till one morning she went off with another girl instead of waiting for me on the corner, though I had telephoned that I would meet her there. Even if I was a few minutes late, she would have waited if she had really cared. I cried myself to sleep every night for a long time but I never forgave her." "Um-m-m," muttered Bea, her head again bent over the cardboard, "how horrid! See, isn't this a lovely daisy I'm drawing? They're to be dinner cards for my next spread. This is for your place." "It's sweet. I think you are the most talented girl in the class." Lila stooped for a hug but carefully so as not to interfere with the growth of the silvery petals. "There was another girl, and her name was Daisy. She seemed perfect till I discovered that she prized her own vanity more highly than my happiness. She refused to take gym work the third hour when I was obliged to have it. She said the shower bath spoiled the wave in her hair, and so she chose the sixth hour class. Yet she knew very well that I had Latin at that period. I don't care for that selfish kind of friendship, do you?" "Um-m, no!" Bea's brush dropped an impatient splash of yellow in the heart of the flower. Then she glanced up with a penitent smile. "You're so awfully loyal yourself, Lila," she said. "You try to measure everybody up to that standard. I shan't forget that day in hygiene when you declined to answer the question that floored me. It was like that poem about the girl who wouldn't spell a word that the boy had missed, because she hated to go above him. And at the tennis tournament you wouldn't leave till I had finished the match, though you shivered and shook in the frosty October air. You do a lot for me, and I am downright ashamed sometimes. See, behold the completed posy!" "It is too pretty for a mere dinner card." Lila dropped into a rattan chair and idly tossed the corks from hand to hand. "Aren't you planning a long time ahead? Your family knows exactly what to send in a box. That last was the most delicious thing! I suppose we'll just ask our crowd of freshmen, Berta and Gertrude and the rest." Lila's eyes were so intent upon the dancing corks that she failed to note the swift glance which Bea darted in her direction. "Um-m-m," she said cautiously, "I think I might like an upper class girl or two. Some of them have been awfully kind to me this year. Sue Merriam escorted me to the first Hall Play, and she proposed our names for Alpha, and on her birthday she asked me to sit at her table and meet some seniors as an invited guest. She said the "invited" with such a thump on it that my heart almost broke. Isn't she the greatest tease?" No answer. "It was mostly due to her that I came to college," continued Bea with an effort to speak naturally though her fingers shook the least bit in their grasp of the brush, and one anxious eye was watching Lila's face. "I've known her all my life. She persuaded the family to send me, and she tutored me last summer and helped in a million different ways. You don't understand how much I owe her. It is such a little thing to invite her to my--to our party. I'd love to do it, Lila." Still no answer. The silence lengthened out minute after minute. Finally Bea ventured to raise her head and hold up another card for inspection. "See, a new daisy, but this one has a different disposition. Do you observe the expression--sort of grinning and cheerful? This is like Sue, while the first one is like you, an earnest young person, not one bit impudent. See it, lady. The dearest flower-face. I love it." "And yet"--Lila's voice sounded choked, "you want to invite her to the party. You know it will spoil my pleasure. You--know--I--hate--her." Bea's frame trembled once in a nervous shiver. Her fascinated eyes followed Lila to the window, where she stood staring out at the dazzling winter world of snow. "You must choose between Susan Merriam and me. I have a right to demand it. I have a right. I have a right." Bea saw Lila lift her arm as if to brush away the tears. Then one hand fumbled for her handkerchief, while the other squeezed the burned corks with unconscious force. She was certainly wiping her eyes. "You must--you must--choose to-day--between Susan Merriam and me. If you choose her, I shall never speak to you again. If you choose me, you must have nothing to do with her. Nothing! You must drop her acquaintance. You cannot have both." Bea suddenly tipped back in her chair, teetered to and fro for a frantic moment, then brought it down with a bump on all four feet. "Nonsense!" she snapped. Lila stood motionless so long that Bea had time to notice the ticking of her watch. Then she turned slowly around from the window. "And this is friendsh----" [Illustration: LILA STOOD STARING OUT AT THE SNOW] "Oh!" squealed Bea, "oh, oh, oh! Ha, ha, ha!" Flinging her arms out over the desk she buried her face upon them and shook with uncontrollable laughter. Lila crimsoned to her hair, then went white with anger. Without a word she walked into her own room and locked the door. Half an hour later when she rose from the bed and began to pour out a basinful of water to bathe her smarting eyes, she heard a rustle on the threshold. Glancing quickly around she saw a square of white paper being thrust beneath the door. It was a letter from home on the five o'clock mail. Lila picked it up and opened it listlessly. The fit of weeping had left her exhausted. "My darling daughter," she read, "This is a hasty note to say that your great aunt Sarah is on her way east, and will stop at the college for a day's visit with you. I wish to caution you, dear girl, against even the semblance of a slight in your treatment of her. Do not forget to inquire after Gyp the terrier, Rex the angora cat, Dandy the parrot, and Ellen the maid. Your aunt is exceedingly sensitive about such small attentions. You might invite your friends to meet her at afternoon tea, and if you can manage it tactfully you might warn them not to discuss topics with which she is unacquainted. She has, as you know, a very peculiar disposition. The least suspicion of neglect or hint of criticism exasperates her beyond endurance. In her childhood she suffered continually because of this oversensitive nature. I suspect that she made no effort to conquer the fault. Indeed so far as I may judge from her present attitude, she has always considered it a proof of superior delicacy and refinement. She has cherished her selfishness instead of fighting it. As a consequence her life has been embittered and unspeakably lonely. I believe that she has not a friend on earth except her pets, and even Gyp has learned not to frisk with joy at sight of anybody but his mistress. "I am sure I may trust you, dear, to make her visit as happy as possible, although in truth it seems irony to speak of real happiness in connection with such a temperament. You may not be aware that even your Aunt Sarah was once the heroine of a romance. He was an extraordinarily fine man, and she would have found happiness with him, if with anybody. But one day in the rush of an important law-suit, he forgot to keep an engagement with her, and she never forgave the slight. After that disappointment--and it was a grievous disappointment, however self-inflicted--especially grievous to such an expert in self-torture--her nature grew rapidly and steadily more self-absorbed and unlovely. "My darling little daughter, sometimes I have feared that you may have inherited a similar tendency. It has been difficult, dearest, to guide aright where even the slightest word of criticism stings and burns and lashes. You, more than many girls, need the discipline of wisest, frankest friendship with others of your own age. I see that during your high school days I did wrong in trying to supply their place to you with my own companionship. A child, however precious, cannot be forever kept wrapped in cotton-wool. "So, dearest daughter, you will understand how joyful I am this year in hearing of your new friends. Don't let them slip away through any fault of yours. Whatever is worth winning is worth keeping, even at the cost of many a sacrifice of foolish pride. "When you see your aunt, be sure to remember me to her. "With a heart full of love, "Mother." Lila read the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and walking across the little room threw herself again face downward on the bed. After a while the dressing-gong whirred its tidings through the corridors. Lila slid to her feet and began to walk mechanically toward the mirror. "But Bea laughed. She laughed at me. Mother doesn't know that Bea laughed. And I thought she was my friend." Lila felt another sob come tearing up toward her throat and clenched her teeth in the struggle to choke it back. Blinded by a rush of fresh tears, she opened the top drawer of the bureau and felt for her brush with groping fingers. "She laughed right in my face. I--I--could have forgiven everything else. But--but mother doesn't know that Bea in-insulted me. She--laughed--right--in--my----" Then through the blur Lila happened to catch sight of her reflection in the looking-glass. The last sob broke off sheer in the middle, and left her with her lips still parted in an unfinished quiver. The horrified face that stared back at her from the mirror was striped and rayed with startling streaks of black. The astonished eyes shone out from white circles framed in ebony sunbursts; the nose was like an islet washed by jetty waves; the mouth slowly widened under a fiercely upcurved line of inky hue. In the study on the other side of the door, remorseful Bea was wearing several paths in their best rug, as she waited for some sign. Suddenly a new sound welled up and she bent her head to listen, in quick dread of another storm of weeping. But, no! This was different. It was not a sob, though it did seem rather gaspy. It bubbled and chuckled. It was laughter. "Lila!" cried Bea, and made a dash toward the room. Lila flung open the door. "Bea!" she answered, "I am going to give a tea for my Aunt Sarah. Do you think Sue Merriam will come if I invite her?" CHAPTER II ENTER ROBBIE BELLE Now it happened one evening in the early fall, while Bea and Lila were learning to live together, that the Students' Association held a meeting to appoint corridor wardens for the year. In the throng that came pouring out of chapel afterward, Bea, who had an eel-like rapidity in gliding through crowds, found herself at the doors some yards in advance of Lila. Halting to wait in the vestibule, she overheard a junior instructing a new freshman officer in her duties. "It is very simple. Oh, no, Miss Sanders, no, indeed! There is nothing meddlesome about it. You're not expected to spy upon the girls in your neighborhood. The aim is merely to preserve a certain degree of quiet. Girls are often thoughtless about being noisy in the corridors. Simply remind them now and then in flagrant cases that they are disturbing those who wish to study. Of course you must be tactful, though it is rarely that a student wilfully disregards the rights of others." Bea peered around the edge of her particular door in order to catch a glimpse of this freshman so distinguished. It was the tall, fair-faced child with the splendid long braid, who lived at the end of Berta's transverse. Now the sweet mouth was drooping disconsolately, and the big eyes looked dewy with anxious tears. "I--I don't think I'd like to," she said. "Oh, but it is something that must be done, and you have been selected as the one in that vicinity who strikes us as best fitted for the duties of the position. It is really, you know, a case of public service. Every one at some time or other ought to be willing to make sacrifices of personal desires for the good of the community, don't you think? But forgive me for preaching. I didn't mean to. By the way, how do you like college, Miss Sanders?" "It isn't so much fun as I had expected," said she. Bea's head popped around the door again. The junior was smiling with an air of amused superiority. "Ah, yes, I understand. Probably you used to have a sister or cousin at college, and from her letters you supposed that the life was composed chiefly of dancing, fudges and basket-ball with a little work sandwiched in between. Is it not so? And now----" "I don't mind the work," here Bea's head popped out a third time to contemplate this interesting classmate, "but----" "Beatrice," called Lila at her other ear, "Berta says to hurry or we'll miss the best of the fun. It's to be a sheet-and-pillow-case party to-morrow, and a lot of the girls are coming in to learn how to do the draping. Berta has an idea. Come along quick!" Robbie Belle Sanders stared after them wistfully. "Those girls live near me," she said, "they have fun all the time." The junior's keen glance spied in the open countenance something that kept her lingering a moment longer. "This is a democratic place," she said in a more sympathetic tone, "every girl finds her own level sooner or later. The basis is not money or social rank of the families at home. It is not brains or clothes or stuff like that. It is simply that the same kind of girls drift together. They're congenial. It seems to be a law. A general law, you understand. Of course," she hesitated for an instant before being spurred on by her sense of scrupulous honesty, "there are exceptions. Once in a while a girl fails to find her special niche. Maybe she rooms off the campus and is not thrown in contact with her own kind. She may be abnormally shy--that hinders her from making friends. Or perhaps she does something that queers herself first thing." "Queers herself?" echoed Robbie Belle, "how does a person queer herself?" "Oh, I don't know." She paused to reflect. "She does outlandish things. And still it isn't what she does so much as what she is. Her acts express her character. If her character is queer, she behaves queerly, and the others fight shy of her. After all, I dare say she does find her own level, and there is nobody else there. So she goes along solitary through the four years." Robbie Belle looked frightened. "I wish I knew what things are queer," she said. "Oh, being different from the other girls, for instance, awfully different, so different that everybody notices it. Not just original, you know, but actually queer. Watch the girls, particularly those who always go around alone, and you'll learn. Good-night, Miss Sanders. I must congratulate you again on the honor of being appointed freshman warden. Good-night." Robbie Belle walked slowly down the corridor to her room. "I wonder if I am queer," she thought. "I am almost always alone." She halted before a door that displayed a small square of white paper pinned in the middle of its upper half. Robbie Belle, her hand on the knob, regarded the sign hopelessly. "If you have a roommate who never takes down her ENGAGED, and she doesn't like company and she won't go anywhere with you herself, maybe you can't help being queer." Robbie Belle entered softly. It was a large room and seemed quite bare because of the absence of curtains, rugs, and cushions. The unsociable roommate was sitting beside the centre table, her elbows propped on its shiny surface that was innocent of any cover and ignorant of the duster. A green shade over her eyes connected a blur of nondescript hair with a rather long nose beneath which a pair of pale lips in the glow of the drop-light was rapidly gabbling over some lines in Greek scansion. Without looking up, she waved one hand forbiddingly; and Robbie Belle obediently shut her mouth over the few words that were ready to be uttered in greeting. She stood waiting in her tracks, so to speak, until the final hexameter had wailed out its drawling length, and Miss Cutter pushed back the green shade. "Well," she demanded, "what was the important business before the meeting? I could not spare valuable time for self-government foolishness to-night." "They appointed corridor wardens," answered Robbie Belle. "Oh, indeed! It is certainly time, I must say. In theory it is all very well to make the rules a matter of honor, but when you happen to live in a nest of girls who behave as if they were six years old, I insist that something more forcible than chapel admonitions is required. Who is the warden for this neighborhood?" "I am," said Robbie Belle. "You are!" Miss Cutter pushed the green shade farther up on her high forehead. "Well, I must say!" She surveyed her roommate with new interest. "How exceedingly extraordinary!" Robbie shifted her weight to the other foot. "I didn't want to be," she said. "No, of course not, and you nothing but a child yourself. It must be your height and that grave way you have of staring. With that baby-face, couldn't they see that your dignity is all on the outside?" Robbie said nothing, but if Miss Cutter had not been quite so near-sighted she might have spied deep in the violet eyes a glint of black remotely resembling anger. "Think of appealing to a sixteen-year-old infant--really you are literally in-fans, which is to say, one without the power of speech! Fancy me applying to you to compel quiet in the halls! Imagine that boisterous crowd trailing after Miss Abbott and Miss Leigh et al.--Hist!" She lifted her head like a warhorse sniffing battle near. "There they are now." Robbie Belle lifted her head too and listened, although indeed the noise would have penetrated to the most inattentive ears. A multitude of feet were marching lock-step past the door to a chorus of giggling, stifled squeals and groans, while at intervals a voice choking with emotion rose in shrill accents: "There was an old woman all skin and bones, o-o-oh!" When it faltered and collapsed on the o-o-oh, the other voices joined in and dragged out the syllable to lugubrious and harrowing length. Then some one giggled hysterically and another squealed. The soloist took up the verse: "She went to the church to pray, o-o-oh!" The chorus wailed and moaned and croaked and whimpered and groaned in concert. Miss Cutter regarded Robbie Belle sternly. Robbie Belle's shoulders rose and fell over a deep breath. She stepped across to the door and closed the transom softly just as the next weird line hissed out above the tumult and then sank into its smothering welter and moan of vowels. Robbie spoke more loudly. "One of them said that they were going to dress up in sheets and pillow-cases to-night. They are practicing for the Hallowe'en party. It's only fun." Berta's voice--it was Berta who did the solo--here rose in a quavering shriek that halted not for keys in their holes or transoms in their sockets: "The worms crawled in and the worms crawled out, o-o-o-oh!" Miss Cutter rose to her indignant feet. "Roberta Sanders, as you are the corridor warden for this neighborhood, I appeal to you. I make formal complaint----" "They've gone." Robbie Belle smiled in relief and sat down rather quickly. The lock-step had receded into the muffled distance and the ear-splitting wail wafted back in tones that grew steadily fainter. Miss Cutter took off her glasses, rubbed them bright, put them on again, and contemplated Robbie Belle. "I do believe that you would rather I suffered than that they became offended with you. You are afraid to rebuke them." Robbie's eyes fell and the guilty color rose slowly through the delicate skin of throat and brow. But Miss Cutter did not see it. She had pulled down the green shade and propping her elbows in their former position had returned to her scansion. She had wasted too much time already. Conscience-smitten Robbie Belle slid silently through the door and stood at loss for a minute in the deserted corridor. It was Friday night. Nobody studied on Friday night except girls who were queer or who roomed with superior special students like Miss Cutter. On her first day at college Miss Cutter had remarked that there might be a vacant seat of congenial minds for Robbie at her table. Somehow the grave young freshman who was hoping for fun failed to find them satisfying. She had not won a real friend yet, and here it was the end of October. Robbie Belle was not conceited enough to feel sorry for herself, or else she might have perceived a certain pathos in that listless journey of a lonely child from her worse than solitary room to the deadly quiet of the library. One of the hilarious ghosts who were weaving spells under the evergreens happened to glance in through a great softly shining window and recognized the drooping head above a long deserted table between the shelves of books. "There's our noble warden," whispered Bea, "studying on Friday night! Looks like a dig as well as a prig, n'est-ce-pas?" Berta's eager dark face grew sober under the swathing folds of her pillow-case. "Maybe it isn't her fault," she said. But Robbie Belle unaware of this precious drop of sympathy plodded through an essay on Intellect, wrote out a laborious analysis, and at the stroke of the nine-thirty gong crept reluctantly back to her room. The next morning she translated her Latin, committed a geometrical demonstration to a faithful memory, consumed a silent luncheon amid a dizzying cross-fire of psychological arguments, walked around the garden, through the pines and over the orchard hill for a scrupulously full hour of exercise, read her physiology notes, and composed one page of her weekly theme before dinner time. After dinner she stood in a corner of Parlor J and watched the dancing. Then she went to chapel with Miss Cutter, returned alone in haste to dress in the concealing sheet and pillow case. It was rather difficult to manage the drapery without aid, especially in the back and at the sides. The strange junior who had chosen Robbie's name from the class list and undertaken to escort her to the party found awaiting her a rumpled young ghost with raiment that sagged and bagged quite distressingly in unexpected places. But the eyes that shone from between the crooked bands of white were joyous with excitement. In this disguise she was sure that no one would recognize her; and so of course they would not know that she was queer, and perhaps she would have fun at last. And at first it really seemed as if she would. Imagine a big gymnasium with jack-o'-lanterns on the rafters and a blazing wood-fire in the wide fireplace, and five hundred figures in white circling and mingling among the shadows, and at least a thousand sticks of candy, and three big dish-pans full of peanuts, and gallons and gallons of red lemonade. When her escort proposed that they should go up-stairs to look in upon the seniors and sophomores who were having a country dance, Robbie Belle moistened her lips and said, "If you please, don't wait for me. I enjoy it so much here." Then at the junior's formal, "Oh, certainly, Miss Sanders!" she remembered that often people did not understand her unless she used a bothersome number of words. So she added hastily, "I mean that you must go with your own friends and leave me here, because I am watching some girls I know, and I want to speak to them. Please don't trouble any more about me, thank you." "I do know them," she assured herself as her escort disappeared, "and I do want to speak to them even if they don't know me. I think"--she hesitated and turned quite pale at the prospect of such daring, "I think I shall go and play with them. They will suppose I am one of them. Nobody will know." At this point the file of impudent ghosts, headed by Berta, who looked unusually tall and still angular under her flowing sheet, paraded past Robbie Belle's corner, their elbows flapping like wings. With a gasp for courage she took one step forward and found herself prancing along at the end of the line. It was such fun! Robbie Belle had shot up to an annoying stature so comparatively early in life that her romping days seemed to have broken short off in the middle. She had never had enough of tag and hide-and-seek and coasting. She hated long skirts. Indeed that was one reason why she longed to join the enviable circle of freshmen around Berta: they wore golf skirts all day long, except when hockey called for the gymnasium costume or bicycling demanded its appropriate array. The reason why she liked Miss Abbott best of course was because her name was Roberta, too. On this Hallowe'en, in joyous faith in her disguise, she forgot her height and breadth and the dignity imposed thereby. And anyhow Berta Abbott was just as tall, if not of such stately proportions. So Robbie Belle with exulting zest in the frolic raced up-stairs and down with the mischievous band of freshmen. They skipped saucily around members of the faculty, chased appreciative juniors, frightened the smallest forms into scuttling flight, and gave their great performance of "There was an old woman all skin and bones," in the middle of the upper hall, where the seniors were entertaining the sophomores. It was fun to howl. It was so long since Robbie Belle had grown up that she had almost forgotten the joy of using her lungs to their full capacity. With her spirits dancing in the afterglow of such vocal exercise, she marched after the others down to the hall below. There in the vestibule Berta halted her followers for final instructions. "Now, girls, fall into line according to height. We are going to astonish----Why!" She fixed two amazed dark eyes upon the tallest, "who are you?" Robbie Belle heard; she felt her heart shriveling within her; her shoulders seemed to shrink together; her head drooped. Then turning away slowly she moved toward the gymnasium apartment, a loose corner of her robe trailing at her abashed heels. But she did not escape swiftly enough to avoid catching the sound of hisses. "Ha! an interloper!" "Hist! ye false intruder!" "Seize him! To the shambles!" "To the guillotine! Ho, brothers! pursue!" That made Robbie Belle flee so fast that she was able to take refuge behind Prexie himself while the vengeful furies withdrew to a respectful distance. That night when she was shaking her pillow back into its case Robbie noticed some damp spots amid its creases. A few minutes later she laid her head down on it and proceeded to create some more. There was only one comfort in the throng of scorching reflections: this was that it had not been Berta's voice that had called her an intruder. Perhaps Berta did not think she had done something so awfully wicked after all. This faint hope infused more dreadful bitterness into the incident that happened in mathematics C on Monday. Anybody would have believed that Berta was offended past forgiveness. She sat next to Robbie. She was not very well prepared that morning, possibly in consequence of Saturday's excitement. The instructor was more than usually curt and crisp with an unsmiling sternness that struck terror to palpitating freshman hearts. In the middle of the hour Berta became aware that a problem was traveling rapidly down the row toward her; and she had not been paying attention. She had not even noticed the statement of it, for it had started at an apparently safe distance from her seat. Turning with a swift motion of the lips she asked Robbie Belle to tell her. And Robbie Belle--how she longed to tell it! It had almost leaped from her lips while conscience reasoned wildly against it as deceit. It would not be honest. And yet--and yet--the girls would think she was queer. They would say she was mean and priggish, for she might have told Berta as easily as not. There! the third girl from Berta was trying to explain her own ignorance and failing brilliantly. Now the second was stammering through a transparent bluff. Berta had settled back, coolly resigned to fate. How she must suffer, after having stooped to ask for aid! Poor Robbie Belle! Poor, lonely, disappointed Robbie Belle! For strange to say she flunked too and the question journeyed on triumphantly to the mathematical prodigy at the end of the row. In the corridor outside Berta exerted her nimble self to overtake Miss Sanders, who was sidling away in a strikingly unprincesslike manner, her eyes shifting guiltily. "So you didn't know the answer either? Wasn't that the biggest joke on me! And really, Miss Sanders, I beg your pardon for asking. It popped out before I could gather my wits. I am scared to death in that class, though of course that is no excuse for sponging. I'm glad you didn't know it enough to tell me after all." Robbie Belle lifted the lashes from her flushed cheeks. "I--I did know it," she said with a gulp. "Oh!" said Berta, and stared, "how--how peculiar!" Robbie Belle held back the tears till she had reached her room, seized her hat and snatched her thickest veil. Then she fled to the loneliest walk among the pines. Her veil was a rarity that rendered her an object of curiosity to everybody she passed on the way. But she hurried on, somewhat comforted by the conviction that no one could mark her reddened eyelids. In truth she had good need of comfort, for Berta Abbott herself had said that she was peculiar. And peculiar meant queer! That evening Robbie sat down to study for the Latin test announced for the next day. Miss Cutter was studying, too, harder than ever. The green shade was pulled so fiercely forward that a fringe of hair stood up in a crown where the elastic had rumpled it. Her grammar, lexicon and text-book occupied most of the table, but Robbie did not complain. She could manage very well by laying her books, one on the open face of another, in her lap. For once she was grateful that an ENGAGED sign shielded them from interruptions, for Latin was her shakiest subject, especially the rules of indirect discourse. The instructor had warned the class that this weak spot was to be the point of attack. If Robbie Belle should not succeed in drumming the rules into her head before the ideas in it began to spin around and around in their usual dizzy fashion when she waxed sleepy, she might just as well stay away from the recitation room. Or better perhaps, for in absence there was a possibility of both doubt and hope: hope on Robbie Belle's part that she might have been able to answer the questions if she had been there, on the teacher's part doubt concerning the exact extent of the pupil's knowledge. At the end of the corridor just outside their door a narrow stairway led to the north tower rooms on the floor above. Beatrice Leigh and Lila Allan and a number of their liveliest friends lived up there on the fifth, with Berta Abbott at the foot of the stairs near Robbie's place of abode. Just as Robbie's usually serene brow was puckering its hardest over the sequence of tenses, a door banged open in the tower and the stairs creaked under swift clatter of feet--a dozen at the very least. Miss Cutter scowled beneath the green shade; Robbie Belle could tell that from the way the fringe of upright hair vibrated. "Savages!" she muttered, "they'll tear the building to pieces. No wonder the newspapers report that the college girl's favorite mode of locomotion is sliding down the banisters." "No," said Robbie Belle, "not that. They take hold of the railing and jump several steps at a time. I've seen them. Miss Leigh says she does it for exercise." "And this also is exercise!" Miss Cutter clutched her ears as a tornado swept past their threshold. Robbie bent to listen anxiously. "They're going to the ice-cooler," she said, "pretty soon they will go back again." "Yes," said Miss Cutter as she rose and moved toward the door, "they will doubtless go back, and doubtless also they shall go in a different manner." Then she went out and remonstrated briefly but to the point. Whereupon the culprits apologized with noble profusion and tiptoed their way to the stairs. This would have been an admirable proof of repentance if their heels had not persisted in coming down on the bare boards in very loud clicks at very short intervals. And every click was greeted by a reproving chorus of "Sh-sh-sh!" The instant they reached the hall above, pandemonium broke loose. To judge from the sounds, they were playing blindman's buff with scampering of heavy shoes, scraping of chairs, banging against walls, flopping on mattresses. Even reluctant Robbie Belle looked upward in fear that the ceiling might fall. When a deputation of wild eyed sophomores from an adjacent study arrived to protest against a continuation of the outrage, the shrinking corridor-warden had no loophole for escape from her duty. Outwardly calm, inwardly quivering, she mounted the stairs to expostulate on behalf of the Students' Association for Self-Government. When the peace officer reached the foot of the flight, the noise sank abruptly into a silent scurrying--on unadulterated tiptoes this time. When she appeared at the top, she beheld the tower hall deserted, every door shut and a suspiciously profound stillness reigning in the dimly lighted Paradise of fun. Ah! she drew a breath of relief from away down in her boots. Surely now she had performed her duty. Nobody could expect her to find fault after the disturbance had ceased. Now the girls below would be at liberty to study in peace. Barely had she completed her hurried descent before the strange silence above was shattered suddenly by the simultaneous banging of seven doors. Seven full-lunged voices burst forth into a howling song, while twice as many feet thumped and tapped and pranced and pounded in the mazes of an extemporaneous jig. Robbie Belle halted instantly, with a quick lift of her head. Her nostrils quivered. Her violet eyes snapped black. Her hands clenched. Turning swiftly she mounted the stairs once more. But this time she was angry. The uproar was an insult to the authority of the Students' Association. She forgot for the minute all about shy Robbie Belle. And the mischievous freshmen above--the flippant fun-loving irresponsible six-year-old freshmen--they waited ready to meet the warden with an impudent burst of revelry, and thus to dash her official dignity from its exasperating estate. When they saw Robbie Belle's face they simply stared. They listened in silence to the few rapid words that stung and burned and smarted. They watched her depart, her head still held at its angle of wrathful justice. Then they looked at one another. They could not see how, when once safely in the haven of her room, she broke down utterly and lay trembling and sobbing in Miss Cutter's astonished arms. Now at last she had surely committed an unpardonable offense against the only girls for whom she cared in the whole collegeful--especially Berta. Now Berta would be certain she was queer. Meanwhile in the tower, Berta drew a long breath and glanced around at her dismayed and sobered companions. "The more I see of that girl," she said, "the better I like her. And we have been awfully silly--that's a fact. The next time I see her I shall tell her so too. Now suppose we go and do a little studying our own selves." Somehow or other before Thanksgiving Day, Robbie Belle Sanders had ceased to be disappointed in college. With Berta for a dearest friend and Miss Cutter withdrawn to a more congenial neighborhood, she was finding it even more fun than she had expected. CHAPTER III A QUESTION OF ECONOMY "I LOVE music myself," said Robbie Belle, lifting serene eyes from her porridge, "but to-day is Thanksgiving Day." "Oh!" sighed Berta, as she clasped her hands--those thin nervous hands with the long fingers that Robbie Belle admired all the more for their contrast with her own dimpled ones, "think of hearing Caruso and Sembrich together in grand opera! I could walk all the way on my knees." "What!" cried Robbie Belle in wide-eyed astonishment, her spoon half way to her mouth, "walk seventy miles! And miss the Dinner?" The graduate fellow at the head of their table looked quite sad as she nodded her pretty head, though to be sure her napkin was hiding her lips. "Why!" gasped Robbie Belle, freshman, "but Dinner is to begin at three and last till almost six. And we are going to have salted almonds and nesselrode pudding and raw oysters and chocolate peppermints and turkey and sherbet and macaroons and nuts and celery and Brussels sprouts and everything. We are painting the place-cards this morning and one is for you. It is a shame for you to sacrifice it just to hear grand opera, Miss Bonner. Are you really intending to take the nine o'clock train?" Again the fellow nodded. Robbie Belle's wondering gaze rested a moment on Berta's gypsy face alight now with an intensity of longing. Deliberately depositing her spoon on one side of her saucer and her buttered bit of roll on the other she devoted her entire attention to this marvel. "I cannot understand," she said clearly, "it is only singing. And to-day is Thanksgiving Day. It comes once a year." Miss Bonner brushed her napkin across her mouth rather hurriedly and excused herself from the table. Robbie Belle watched her retreating down the long vista of the dining-room. "Would you honestly choose to go with her if you could, Berta?" she asked, "grand opera is only something to see and hear and then it is all over." "Oh, Robbie Belle!" groaned Berta, "how about the Dinner? That is only something to eat, and then it is all over too." "Why don't you go if you want to?" inquired Robbie Belle as she reflectively picked up her roll again. "We can invite somebody else to take your place at the table. Bea and Lila are going to the hothouse for smilax and chrysanthemums." "Why don't I go?" Berta leaned back and drew a long and melancholy sigh from the bottom of her boots. "Girls," she turned to the others who were still lingering over their breakfast, "she asks why I don't go to hear grand opera. And it costs two dollars railroad fare even on a commutation ticket, and seats are three dollars up, and I have precisely thirty-seven cents to last me till Christmas." "Oh," commented Robbie Belle repentantly, "I didn't think. I'd love to pay for all of you, only I haven't any money either." Berta clutched at her heart and bent double in a bow of gratitude unspeakable. Robbie Belle continued to stare at her thoughtfully. "If you truly want to, Berta, we might save up and go to the opera some other day. I'm willing." "Willing! Dear child! Willing! Behold how she immolates herself upon the altar of friendship! She is willing to go to grand opera and sit listening to sweet sounds from dawn to dark----" "Oh, Berta!" interrupting in alarm, "not from dawn to dark really? How about----" "Luncheon?" the other caught up the sentence tragically. "Ah, no, but calm thyself, dear one. Be serene--as usual. There is an intermission for luncheon. We could go to a restaurant. It would be a restaurant with a vinegar cruet in the centre of the table and plates of thick bread at each end and lovely little oyster crackers for the soup. Perhaps if you had two dollars extra you might order terrapin." "And pickles," put in Bea generously, "with striped ice-cream." "And angel food with chocolate frosting an inch thick," contributed Lila. "It's a long time till spring," said Robbie Belle regretfully, "but very likely we will need all that while to save it up." As it turned out, they did need all that while to save it up. For beauty-loving Berta with her eternally slim purse and hopelessly meagre account-book, the plan at first seemed only a vision of the moment. Nobody can save out of nothing, can she? Robbie Belle, however, had a stubborn fashion of clinging to an idea when once it became fixed. Her ideas, furthermore, were apt to be clean-cut and definite. This is how she reasoned it out: If a girl receives five dollars a month from home to pay for books and postage and incidentals, she is entitled to whatever she saves from the allowance. Every time this girl refrains from writing a letter, she has really saved two cents or the value of the stamp, to say nothing of the paper. Whenever she walks down town instead of riding, she has a right to the nickel to add to the fund in the back of her top bureau drawer. If she buys a ten-cent fountain-pen instead of a dollar one, she virtually earns ninety cents. If she rents a grammar for twenty-five cents instead of paying one dollar and a half for a new book, she is a thrifty person who deserves the difference. Every time she declines--mournfully--to drop in at the restaurant for dinner with a crowd of friends, or refuses to join in a waffle-supper, Dutch treat, she is so much nearer being a melancholy and noble capitalist. "Yes, that's all right for you," assented Berta airily when told of this working theory, "but supposing you don't have the money to save in the first place? I fail to receive five dollars a month from home or even one dollar invariably; and I always walk to town and never enter the restaurant except to wait while you save ten cents by buying half a pound of caramels when you want to buy a whole pound." "They're forty cents a pound, Berta," objected scrupulous Robbie Belle. "I really saved twenty cents yesterday, you see." "Ah, of course, how distressingly inaccurate of me. And I also--I saved five dollars and fourteen cents by using my wash-stand for a writing-table instead of buying that bargain desk for four dollars and ninety-eight cents. The extra fifteen was saved on the inkwell I did not buy either. I say, Robbie Belle Sanders, let's save the entire sum by denying ourselves that set of Browning we saw last week." Robbie Belle looked grieved. "You always make fun of everything. You act as if you didn't care." Berta turned away for a minute, and stood gazing from the window of her little tower room. The window was small and high, but the view was wide and wonderful toward the purple hills in the west. At length she said something under her breath. Robbie Belle heard it and understood. It was only, "I'm afraid." Robbie Belle knew that Berta was afraid of caring too much. She had listened once in twilight confidence under the pines to the story of how Berta had been all ready to start for college three years before, when a sudden family misfortune changed her plans and condemned her to immediate teaching. In the bitterness of her disappointment she had vowed never to set her heart on any plan again. Walking over to Berta's side Robbie Belle took the listless hand in both her comforting ones. "Even if we shouldn't manage it this year, you know, we could try again next year. We might earn something extra during the summer." "Next year!" echoed Berta under her breath. "I can't count on next year--I dare not. You do not understand, for your scholarship is certain through the course, while mine depends on what Prexie thinks I am worth. I am under the eye of the faculty. Don't talk about next year. I am pretending that this is the last time I shall be here in October, then in November, then in December. I look at everything--the lake, the trees, the girls, the teachers, the dear, dear library, and say, 'Good-bye! Good-bye, my college year.' They may not help me to come back, you know. If I really try not to expect it, I will not be disappointed in any case. Of course, I am not worth four hundred dollars to them. I am afraid to hope for it." "Why, you are the brightest student here. Bea says so and you know it!" exclaimed Robbie Belle indignantly; "there isn't any question about your being granted another scholarship when you apply for it next spring. They weigh everything--intellect, personality, character, conduct. Never you fear. If they give only one scholarship in the whole college, it shall be to you. You are superstitious: you fancy that if you do your best to expect the worst, the best will happen, because it is always the unexpected that happens. Only of course, that isn't true at all." Berta was smiling mistily around into the fair face. "Dear old Robbie Belle! Will Shakespeare was right--'there's flattery in friendship'--it makes me rejoice. The trouble, you see, sweetheart, lies in my character. I misdoubt me that Prexie will spurn my plea if he hears how often we have a meeting of the fudge club at a tax of two cents per head. Let's save up that two cents for the Opera fund." Robbie Belle drew a deep sigh. "All right," she agreed with a doleful glance toward the particular blue plate in which she was accustomed to pour her share of the delicacy. "Anyway the doctor calls fudge an 'abomination.' Bea will scold because she hates scrimping. But then she doesn't care so much as we do for music unless it is convenient." Berta's contributions were the result of more active exertions than the other's passive self-denial. She sat up one night till two o'clock to dress a doll. Every fall a few hundred dolls were distributed to be dressed by the girls for the Christmas tree at the Settlement House in the city. Some of the students took dolls and paid other girls to make the clothes. Berta earned a dollar by helping Bea with the three which that impulsive young woman had rashly undertaken. In February she composed valentines and sold them to over-busy maidens who felt unequal to rhyming in the reaction after the midyear examinations. In March she painted Easter eggs and in April she arranged pots of growing ferns and flowers from the woods. By May the fund was complete and the tickets were bought. As the longed-for event drew nearer, Berta made a string of paper dolls and joyfully tore off one for each passing day. At last the morning dawned. Robbie Belle was dreaming that she had fallen asleep in fifth hour Latin. It seemed as if the instructor called her name and then came walking down from the platform, thump, thump, thump, in her broad-soled shoes. It was unladylike to thump so heavily, thought Robbie Belle in the midst of her confused dismay over having lost the place in the text as well as forgotten the translation. The thumping sharpened to a rat-tat-tat upon the bedroom door. "Robbie Belle, Robbie Belle, you lazybones! The night watchman has knocked twice already. Get up, get up this instant! We're going to hear Grand Opera to-day! O-o-ooh!" Robbie Belle lifted her head to listen. "Berta Abbott, you've got a chill. I hear you shivering. Hurry into your clothes this minute. I'll bring you the quinine." Quinine! Berta shivering from excitement laughed softly to herself. Dear old Robbie Belle! Quinine on this wonderful day! Listen! That was the twittering of swallows under the eaves. A squirrel peered in at her window, his bright eyes twinkling. It was too bad that he did not enjoy music. But perhaps he did after all. Hark! that was a robin. And listen! There sounded the full-throated whistle of a brown thrush. The world was ringing with music--beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! And she was going to hear Grand Opera to-day! That had been her most precious dream next to coming to college. To come to college and to hear Grand Opera too! "My cup runneth over! My cup runneth over," she chanted softly to herself, while from Robbie Belle's room rose a faint noise of deliberate dressing, subdued splashing, slow steps, a rustling that was almost methodical in its rhythm. "Berta," she announced, appearing with hat set straight and firm over her smooth dark hair, her coat over one arm, her umbrella neatly strapped, "I think I shall carry my Horace, for it is a two-hours' ride, and to-day is Saturday and after Sunday comes Monday." Berta clapped her hands over her ears, "Go away, go away to your breakfast, miserable creature! Horace! that worldly wise old Roman! With the river before your eyes, the beautiful river in May!" "The next ode begins, 'O Fons Bandusiæ!'--a fountain, you understand," protested Robbie Belle in injured tones, "he loved the country. I wanted to read it aloud to you and get in my practice on scansion that way. I am learning to do it quite well. Listen! 'Splendidior vitro-o-o,'" she declaimed, dragging out the syllables to lugubrious length. "Dear Robbie Belle," murmured Berta pleasantly, "if you breathe one line of that stuff on this journey I shall throw you into the river myself--cheerfully." She nodded vigorous approval of her own sentiments, and her contrary hair seized the opportunity to tumble down again in resentment of impatient fingers. "Oh, Robbie Belle, come and twist this up for me, won't you? We shall be late for the train. I don't believe we care for breakfast anyhow." "Not care for breakfast!" Robbie Belle shut her mouth determinedly. She walked over to the wardrobe, pinned Berta's hat securely on the fly-away hair, caught up her jacket, tucked the tickets into her own pocket, and sternly marched her scatter-brained friend out of the room and down the corridor. "It's gone to her head," she muttered sadly as if communing with herself, "the idea of music has gone to her head. I must address her soothingly. Yes, yes, we're going--we're going soon, don't worry. But we're a-going clothed and in our right mind--mine at least, and fed." On tiptoe they flitted down to the big empty dining-room. A special breakfast was being served to the dozen or more students who intended to take the early train to the city. The unaccustomed stillness in the vast apartment usually vibrating with clatter of dishes and chatter of tongues seemed dreamlike to Berta in her exalted mood. Robbie Belle found it necessary to exert her firmest authority in order to get Berta to eat even a roll and swallow a cup of chocolate. Two of the seniors who were going shopping lamented that they had neglected to apply for opera tickets until the house had been sold out. Berta gazed at them pityingly. To have the money and to be in the city, and yet not to be able to go! Why hadn't they thought of it in time? She had anticipated it years in advance. This world was full of queer people--all sorts of people who did not care for music, and even some who did not care for books. Wasn't it the strangest thing--not to care! When somebody consulting her watch announced that the special electric car was to leave the Lodge Gates for the station in seven minutes, Berta dropped spoon and napkin in eager haste to depart. Out into the corridor and around the balusters to the messenger room where they were required to register their names and destination. At the foot of the broad staircase hung the bulletin board in the pale flicker of a lowered gas-jet. The morning light was brightening through the windows beyond. Berta halted mechanically to scan the oblong of dark red in search of possible new notices. Something may have been posted since chapel last night. Ah, yes, there was a fresh square of white tucked under the tapes that marked the felt into convenient diamonds. Berta read it at a glance. "All students requiring financial assistance for the coming year are requested to make written application to the President before May 10th. It is understood that those receiving such aid will exercise all reasonable economy in avoiding unnecessary expenditure." Berta did not move, though her mobile face seemed to harden in a curiously stony expression. She read the notice again. Robbie Belle came breezily from the messenger room. "Anything new, Berta? You look queer." She followed the direction of the fascinated eyes. She read it slowly and drew a deep breath. "So we can't go after all," she said. Berta seemed to wake up suddenly from a trance. "Robbie Belle!" "I can't help it," doggedly though the smooth forehead had clouded in a quick frown of pain at the cry, "it would not be honest. I didn't know before." "It's our own money," protested Berta defiantly. "But our scholarships are the same as borrowed." [Illustration: "ANYTHING NEW?"] "The tickets are bought and paid for." Robbie Belle caught a glimpse of figures emerging from the dining-room. "There come those two seniors who forgot to get seats in advance. Isn't it lucky! Now we can sell them ours." "Give me my ticket," demanded Berta's voice sullenly, "you never cared." "But it is not honest," repeated Robbie Belle stubbornly. "I never thought of it in that light before. It is not honest to spend five dollars and more for a luxury while we are living on borrowed money." "Give--me--my--ticket." The seniors rustled past. To Berta their laughter sounded far away. "Oh, girls, we'll have to hurry! Hear that bell jangle." "The conductor does it on purpose to see us run. We have three minutes yet. Those two freshmen by the bulletin-board are going." "It is not honest," said Robbie Belle. Fragments of gay chatter floated back to them. "Caruso and Sembrich in Lucia di Lammermoor! Fancy! It is the most wonderful combination of extraordinary talent--genius. I shall certainly go if I have to stand up every minute of the three hours." "It is simply wicked to miss such an opportunity." "Important part of our education, isn't it? I only wish my thesis were on the 'Development of the Drama.' I should employ the laboratory method most assuredly." "The critics say that such a chance as this does not occur more than once in a century." "It is not honest," said Robbie Belle, back in the shadowy corridor before the bulletin-board. "Will you give me my ticket?" Robbie Belle flinched before the passionate low tones, and the roseleaf color in her cheeks went quite white. She handed Berta both tickets. "You may do what you like with mine," she said and turned slowly away. Berta fled in the wake of the hurrying seniors. Her head buzzed with frantic arguments. It was her own money--she had earned it. Nobody had a right to dictate what she should do with it. Robbie Belle never could see more than one side of a question. To forbid unnecessary expenditure just because she accepted a loan to carry her through college! Who was to say whether it was unnecessary or not? The Opera was part of her musical education. She would repay the scholarship with interest at the earliest possible date after she began to earn a salary. What meddling insolence! The girls who held scholarships were the brightest and finest in college--some of them. And to treat them as if they were extravagant, silly little spendthrifts! It was honest. Hadn't she denied herself everything all the year--clubs and dinners and drives and flowers and ribbons and gloves and new books and fine note-paper and that cast of the Winged Victory which she had wanted and wanted and wanted? Not that she assumed any credit for such self-denial--it simply had to be, that was all. But now, this was different. She owed it to herself not to miss such a wonderful occasion. A chance in a century--that was what the senior said. Ting-aling, ting-aling! jangled the bell madly. The conductor paused, his hand on the strap. A breathless girl sprang upon the platform, darted into the car, tossed a packet upon a convenient lap. "There are two seats for the Opera. We can't go." And she had leaped from the moving steps and vanished through the great iron gates of the Lodge. Back in the dormitory before the bulletin-board Miss Bonner, the graduate fellow, was staring at the new placard. She gave a slight start of astonishment at a glimpse of Berta hastening past her. Then because she had heard the story from Robbie Belle two minutes earlier, she pretended to be absorbed in the notices, for she suspected that any comment would start the tears that Berta was holding back. However, she was smiling to herself after the girl had vanished up the stairs. When the gong struck for breakfast, she halted at the faculty table to whisper a few words to the professor in her special department. The professor answered, "How glad I am!" "And you really believe that it would have prejudiced the scholarship committee against Miss Abbott, if she had persisted in this extravagance? She has worked so hard to earn it." "I understand," the professor was sympathetic but unswerving from her convictions; "it seems somewhat cruel when one considers how passionately fond of music the child is. Still you must remember that this scholarship fund is the result of endless self-denial. I have known several alumnæ, to say the least, who have sacrificed greater privileges than visits to the Opera for the sake of contributing an extra mite. Would it be just for one who benefits from the economy of others to spend in self-indulgence?" Meanwhile Berta, unconscious of the fact that her whole college career and the future to be moulded by it had depended upon her decision to do right in this apparently insignificant respect, had trudged up to a certain lonely room. Robbie Belle lifted a wet face from a consoling pillow. "Berta!" It was like a soft little shout of triumph. "I knew----" Berta swallowed a lump in her throat and managed to smile a whimsical smile from behind dewy lashes. "Maybe we'll have clam chowder for luncheon," she said, "and then won't those two seniors be sorry!" CHAPTER IV HER FRESHMAN VALENTINES WHEN Bea straightened her head from its anxious tilt over the desk, she drew the tip of her tongue from its perilous position between two rows of white teeth, and heaved a mighty sigh of relief. Then she blinked admiringly upon the white pile of envelopes lying in the glow of the drop-light. "There! That makes fifteen valentines all for her. She will be sure to receive more than any other senior, and that will teach Berta Abbott a thing or two. The idea of her insisting that her senior is more popular than my senior!" With a smile that was rather more sleepy than dreamy, the industrious young freshman picked up the precious missives. "O Lila,--my magnanimous roommate,--are you asleep? Do you want to listen to my last valentines? I intend to run down and put them in the senior caldron presently. Is this sentimental? When I read it to Berta, she laughed at it. "My Music "At thy birth were gathered voices of the sea, Murmur of the breezes in the forest tree, Songs of birds and laughter--" At this point an open umbrella, which hid the pillow on the farther narrow bed, gave a convulsive shiver, and a fretful voice complained: "Will you turn off that gas and stop your nonsense? Here it is midnight, if it's an hour, and I haven't slept a wink, with that light blazing. I know I shall fail in the written test to-morrow, Valentine's day or not." Bea stared pensively at the Topsy-like corona above the flushed face. "I don't believe she ever puts her hair up in curlers now, do you? She is superior to such vanities, and anyway, it is naturally curly, you know, and that probably makes a difference. I wonder if she even stoops to making verses. Do you suppose she sends valentines to other girls? Of course, she doesn't care a snap whether she receives more than any, and is declared the most popular senior. H'm-m-m!" drifting into reverie afresh. "I dare say I could compose a poem on that idea. For instance: "I know a senior all sedate--" The umbrella bounced tempestuously across the floor, and was followed by a pillow driven hard and straight at a tousled head that ducked just in time. "U-huh!" ferociously. "Well, "I know a freshman, sure as fate! Who shall no longer sit up late, Because her long-suffering roommate--" Here the gas flared suddenly into darkness, and slippered feet scurried away from the desk. The door opened and shut quickly; and Bea, her valentines clutched safely against her dressing gown, was speeding through the dark corridors toward the senior parlor. There a kettle, overflowing with bits of white, swung from a tripod before the shadowy folds of the parlor portières. Ah! Bea, bending toward the caldron with arm extended, stiffened without moving. She had heard something. Yes, there it was again--a muffled footfall on the stairs near by. Hark! Down the black shaft from the cave above came stealing a second slender figure in a flowing robe of some pale woolly stuff. In her hands also was clasped a packet of envelopes. "Hello, Berta!" Bea said. "Oh, good-morning, Miss Leigh!" responded Berta, advancing with a tread the stateliness of which was somewhat impaired by a loosely flapping sole. "Did you rise early in order to prepare for the Latin test?" Bea brushed aside the query with the contempt it deserved. "Are all those for your senior? I don't think it's fair for you to copy verses out of any old book, while every one of mine is original; and yet yours count exactly as much. Well, anyway, I wouldn't send my senior anything that was ordinary and unworthy of her acceptance. How many have you?" This ignoble curiosity was likewise ignored by Miss Berta, who proceeded with dignified slowness to drop her valentines one by one into the caldron. Bea, with lingering care, deposited her contribution on the very top. One slid over the edge, and in rescuing it she disturbed a fold of the portière. A glimpse within set her eyes to sparkling. "Berta, there's an open fire in the senior parlor, and it's still red!" "Ho," whispered Berta, in reply to the unspoken challenge, "I'm not afraid! Let's," and two flowing, woolly robes glided into the warm room, with its heart of glowing coals. One bold intruder nestled in the biggest arm-chair, the other fumbled for the tongs. "Aren't we wicked! Robbie wouldn't do it." Berta cuddled deeper among the comforting cushions. "But--oh!--doesn't it feel good in here!" Bea poked a coal until it split into a faint blue blaze. "We're worse than wicked. We're cheeky,--that's what,--coming into this room without being invited. Suppose some senior should discover us!" She paused, smitten by the terror of the new thought. "Just suppose my senior should find me here! She has a horror of anything underhanded or sly. I should die of shame!" It was a genuine groan, and Berta was too startled to laugh. "I guess it isn't very nice of us," she acknowledged meekly. "I'm going this instant." Bea's hand was on the portière when a rustling in the kettle caught her attention. Through a rift between the folds she spied lace ruffles about a delicate hand that was dropping envelopes down upon the others. Over the tripod a face appeared for one moment in the dim light, and then was gone. Light steps retreated swiftly, and a door closed not far away on the senior corridor. Bea had recognized her senior. When the two midnight visitors stole timorously forth a moment later, Bea's eyes traveled wistfully toward the big envelope lying squarely on top of all the valentines. Berta regarded her keenly. "Why don't you march up and read the name, if you want to so much?" was her blunt question. "She must be pretty fond of somebody," whispered Bea, "if she stayed up till now just to write valentines for her. I wish----" "Do you think it is sneaking to look?" persisted Berta. "If she objected to having it seen, she might have turned it address down." "It is address down," murmured Bea, sadly, "and I know it would be dishonorable to try to see it. She herself would call any act like that contemptible." At this crisis Berta sneezed--sneezed hard and long and with suspicious vehemence. And when Bea cast one lingering farewell glance toward the caldron, she perceived that the topmost missives were sliding over the edge in the breeze raised by that gusty sneeze. The big square envelope tumbled clumsily down upon its back and lay staring, quite close to the flickering gas. Bea's wilful eyes rested on it one illuminating instant, and then leaped away, while her cheeks whitened suddenly. The name on the valentine was that of the senior herself. Poor little Bea! After the first dazed moment she began to select and gather up the fifteen valentines which she had deposited five minutes before. "Why, Beatrice Leigh!" gasped Berta. "You haven't any right to take them back after you have mailed them!" "Do you imagine for one moment that I shall give valentines to a girl who sends them to herself? And the senior who receives the most is declared the most popular in the class!" "But--but," stammered Berta, "perhaps she thought--perhaps she didn't think----" "And I was afraid a girl who could do a thing like that might blame us for entering the senior parlor uninvited!" Bea's hands fell listlessly at her sides as she walked away. "I don't care," she said. And Berta, who was wise in some unexpected ways, wondered why people always said they did not care just when they cared the most. Next day various anonymous verses were delivered at the door where Lila Allan wrestled with the rules for indirect discourse, while her roommate, chin in hand, stared gloomily out at the snow-darkened sky. Valentines were silly, anyway, and it was a shame for any one to waste time and energy in hunting foolish rhymes for eyes and hair and smiles and hearts. How could a person be sure about anybody, if a girl with a face like a white flower could send valentines to herself with the address side down? All day long the senior caldron bubbled notes faithfully till the very last minute. After chapel the class fluttered into their little parlor, with its fire blazing merrily and its shaded lamps glowing. Somebody, disguised in a long gray beard and flowing gray robe, stalked in amid laughter and clapping, and began to distribute the contents of the kettle. Berta, hanging at a perilous angle over the stairway just outside, felt some one halt silently beside her, and glanced up into Bea's eyes. "Hello!" she said, in an excited whisper. "Can you see all right, Bea? I think she has called my senior's name about twenty times already. Look how the valentines are heaped in her lap! Where's your senior?" "That person with the gray beard," began Bea, calmly, only to be interrupted by, "Why, so it is! What fun! Where does she put the envelopes addressed to herself? Oh, yes, I see. Why----" Berta caught Bea's skirts in a firm grasp. "See here, young lady, you'll go over the banisters head first if you don't undouble yourself pretty soon. You'll----" "That's the very valentine--that big, square envelope in her hand this instant! She sent it to herself----" Bea saw Saint Valentine read aloud the name, and then stop short, staring at the address in a puzzled way. She turned the envelope over to examine its back, and study the waxen seal. Suddenly she bent her head in the delighted laughter that Bea once had thought so charming. She laughed till the long gray beard threatened to shake itself free. "Isn't that the greatest joke! I was scribbling verses last night till I was too sleepy to see straight. I didn't mean to send this to myself. How perfectly ridiculous!" and she tossed the innocent missive into the fire. Outside on the shadowy stairway Berta gave a little squeal of pain. "Ouch! You're pinching me black and blue! Why, Bea, Bea Leigh, whatever in the world----" A packet of white, bound with an elastic, went flying through the air, to fall with a rustling plop into the half-empty caldron. An inquisitive senior going out to investigate spied only the deserted stairs, and heard nothing but four scampering feet on the corridor overhead. Saint Valentine, with a voice that dropped lower and lower into a muffled murmur, read her own name fifteen times in succession, and blushed rose-pink, from gray beard to powdered hair, while the other seniors laughed and laughed. Two minutes after the valentines had been counted and the result announced Bea was waltzing about Berta's room, with that unwilling captive in her arms. "Ho! Who says your senior is more popular than my senior now?" she jeered. "Who won that time, I want to know?" "Before I'd have a senior who sends valentines to herself!" grumbled Berta wickedly, to the ceiling. "Ho!" chanted shameless Bea. "I knew it was a mistake all along. That's the reason I didn't tear up my valentines." "Yes?" commented Miss Berta, with an inflection so maddening that in three seconds she was fleeing for her life. CHAPTER V THE GIFTIE GIE US It had been raining for a week. Berta was writing a poem, her elbows on the desk, her hair clutched in one hand, her pen in the other. At the window Robbie Belle was working happily over her curve-tracing, now and then drawing back to gaze with admiration at the sweeping lines of her problem. Once the slanting beat of the drops against the pane caught her eye, and she paused for a moment to consider their angle of incidence. She decided that she liked curves better than angles. She did not wonder why, as Berta would have done, but having recognized the fact of preference turned placidly back to her instruments. Splash! came a fiercer gust of rain, and Berta stirred uneasily, tossing her head as if striving subconsciously to shake off a vague irritation of hearing. Another heavier sound was mingling with the steady patter. Rub-a-dub-dub, rub-a-dub-dub! Robbie Belle glanced up and listened, her pencil uplifted. "It's Bea," she said, "she's drumming with her knuckles on the floor in the corridor. She says that it is against her principles to knock on the door when it has an engaged sign on it. Shall I say come?" Apparently Berta did not hear the question. With her chin grasped firmly in one fist, she was staring very hard at a corner of the ceiling where there was nothing in particular. Robbie looked at her and sighed, but the resignation in the sigh was transfigured by loving awe. She picked up her pencil in patient acquiescence. Berta must not be disturbed. "Chir-awhirr, chir-awhirr, tweet, tweet, tweet!" It was Bea's best soprano, with several extra trills strewn between the consonants. "Listen to the mocking-bird. Oh, the mocking-bird is singing on the bough. Bravo, encore! Chir-awhirr! Encore! "'Make me over, Mother April, When the sap begins to stir. When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart throbs and quivers To revive the joys that were, Make me over, Mother April, When the sap begins to stir.'" Robbie Belle was leaning back in her chair to listen in serene enjoyment. She loved to hear Bea sing. Berta was listening, too, but with an absent expression, as if still in a dream. The voice outside the door declared itself again. "Ahem, written by Bliss Carmen. Sung by Beatrice Leigh. Ahem!" It was a noticeably emphatic ahem, and certainly deserved a more appreciative reply than continued silence from within. After a minute's inviting pause, the singer piped up afresh. "'Make me over in the morning From the rag-bag of the world. Scraps of deeds and duds of daring, Home-brought stuff from far-sea faring, Faded colors once so flaring, Shreds of banners long since furled, Hues of ash and hints of glory From the rag-bag of the world.' Ahem!" The concluding cough was so successfully convulsive that Robbie Belle's mouth opened suddenly. "It must be something important," she said. Berta woke up from her trance. "Come!" she called. At the first breath of the syllable, the door flew open with a specially prepared bang, and Bea shot in with an instantaneous and voluntary velocity that carried her to the centre of the rug. "Oh, girls!" she exclaimed in the excited tone of a breathless and delighted messenger bringing great and astonishing news, "it's raining!" In the ensuing stillness, she could almost hear the disgusted thud of expectation dashed to earth. "Villain!" said Berta, and swung around to her interrupted poem. Robbie's puzzled stare developed slowly into a smile. "I think that is a joke," she said. Then Bea laughed. She collapsed on the sofa and shook from her boots to her curls. It was contagious laughter that made Robbie chuckle in sympathy and Berta grin broadly at a discreet pigeon-hole of her desk. When the visitor resumed sufficient self-possession to enable her to enunciate, she sat up and inquired anxiously, "Did you hear me sing?" Berta regarded her solemnly. "We did," she answered. "Yes," said Robbie Belle. "Well, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to change. I'm going to be made over, Mother April. I'm going to turn into a genius for a while. I've always wanted to be a genius. It's no fun to be systematic and steady and conscientious, and so forth, is it, Robbie Belle? At least it isn't very much fun, considering what might be done with our opportunities. So I intend to behave as if I had an artistic temperament. I am going to let my work pile up, cut late, skip meals, break engagements, never answer letters, give in to moods, be generally irresponsible, and so forth, just like Berta. I'm going to----" "What!" Bea laughed again mischievously at the sound of outraged dignity in Berta's voice. "Yes, I am. I have the spring fever: I don't want to do anything, and I don't want to do nothing either. In fact, this is the single solitary thing I do want to do. That's the reason why it will be so agreeable to be a genius. At least, it will be agreeable to me, if not to my contemporaries and companions. I shall do exactly as I please at the moment. Another reason will be the thrill of novelty--I'm simply dying for excitement." "Thrill of novelty!" groaned Berta. "I infer that you never do as you please. You continually 'sackerifice' yourself----" "Yes, yes, of course, but I was afraid you hadn't noticed." Bea raised her fingers to smooth the corners of her mouth straight. "Now, you've been growing worse--I mean, more and more of a genius ever since entering college. I myself ought to be called Prexie's Assistant, somewhat after the order of Miss Edgeworth's 'Parent's Assistant,' you know, because my career has been such an awful warning to the undergraduate. But you're an example----" "I am not a genius," Berta spoke with biting severity of accent; "Lucine Brett is a genius, and I despise her." "You used to despise her," put in Robbie Belle gently. Berta caught her lip between her teeth for a fleeting instant of irritation, for she was not naturally meek. Then she glanced at Robbie with a quick smile all the sweeter for the under-throb of repentance over her impatient impulse. "All right, I used to long ago. But to return to our guest. I am not a genius, I hasten to remark again. Furthermore I shall be excessively obliged if Miss Leigh will march out of this apartment and stay where she belongs." In the pause which was occupied by Bea in considering a choice of retorts stupendous, Robbie spoke again. "I think Bea misses Lila while she is in the infirmary," she said. Bea swung magnificently on her heel. "I have decided that the proper rejoinder is a crushing silence. I wish you good afternoon." At the door she halted. "And I shall be a genius for a spell. You just watch me and see. Shelley was lawless, you know, and Burns and Carlyle, I guess, and Goethe and George Eliot----" [Illustration: "OH, THANK YOU; I DON'T WANT ANYTHING TO EAT"] "What!" This was a shout of such indignation that Bea vanished instanter. A moment later she poked her head around the lintel. "Well, they were," she said, "and so are you. It is a marvel to me how you hoodwink Prexie about your work. Pure luck! Vale!" Berta's repartee consisted of a sofa pillow aimed accurately at the diminishing crack. The next day was Saturday. Bea failed to appear at breakfast--a catastrophe which had not occurred before in the memory of the oldest junior. Berta who usually arrived herself half an hour late headed a procession of inquiring friends, three of whom bore glasses of milk and plates of rolls to supply the dire omission. A succession of crescendo taps at her door was at length rewarded by a drowsy-eyed apparition in bath-robe and worsted slippers. "Oh, thank----" she exclaimed at sight of the sympathetic group, and suddenly remembered that she must be different from her ordinary self. "I don't want anything to eat. I didn't feel exactly like getting up early. I seem to prefer to be alone this morning." And she managed, though with a hand that faltered at the misdeed, to shut the door in their astonished faces. "Well, I never!" "What has happened?" "Was it a telegram?" "How perfectly atrocious!" "Is she sick?" "Beatrice Leigh to treat us with such unutterable rudeness!" Berta listened with a queer little smile on her sensitively cut lips. Once she noticed a hasty twist of the knob as if Bea had snatched at it from the other side under the prick of the comments floating over the transom. As she walked slowly away the smile faded before a shadowing recollection. She was wondering if her own manner had truly been so unpardonable on that autumn morning when Robbie had carried her a baked apple with cream on it and plum bread besides. It had certainly been irritating to be interrupted in the middle of that rondel for the sake of which she had skipped Sunday breakfast. She had not forgotten how amazed and disappointed Robbie had looked with the saucer in one hand, the plate in the other, while the door swung impatiently back to its place. But then, the poem was sufficient excuse for that discourtesy, Berta assured herself in anxiety to justify her behavior. If she had waited to be polite, the thought and the rhymes would doubtless have scattered beyond recall. Nobody could condemn her for slamming the door and hurrying again to her desk. She had saved the rondel, and it had been printed in the Monthly. That was worth some sacrifice, even of manners to dear old Robbie. She always understood and forgave such small transgressions of the laws of friendship. Only it certainly looked different when somebody else did it. An hour or so later while Berta was bending devotedly over her notes in the history alcove of the library, she was vaguely aware of a newcomer sauntering carelessly behind her chair. A heavy book clattered to the floor, and somebody's elbow in stooping to pick it up nudged her arm. Her pen went scratching in a mad zigzag across the neat page and deposited a big tear of red ink where it suddenly stopped. "Oh, I'm sorry," exclaimed Bea repentantly, for she was indeed the culprit; "it's horrid to be heedless on purpose. I didn't know it would really do any harm." Berta glanced up quickly from her blotter. So Bea considered a reckless disregard for books and persons also a quality of genius. Berta felt a slow blush creeping up to her brow at the candid memory of her tendency to bump into things and brush against people when in a dreamy mood--and to pass on without even a beg pardon. "You're evidently new to the business, my cautious and calculating young friend," she whispered, "you should have ignored the resultant calamity. Ah--why, child!" she stared in surprise, "your collar is pinned crooked and your turnover is flying loose at one end, and your hair is coming down. You look scandalous." Bea looked triumphant also. "It's an artistic disarray," she explained. "It's hard work because I've slipped into the habit of being prim and precise, and I had to bend a pin intentionally. Four girls already have warned me about my hair falling down. It worries me a lot and yet it doesn't give the same effect as yours. Does yours feel loose and straggly?" Berta's hand flew to her head. "You sinner! Mine is just as usual." "Yes, I know it," assented Bea innocently, "it's a negligee style. I'm being a geni----" "Go away!" Berta snatched up her bottle of red ink. "Fly, villain, depart, withdraw, retreat, abscond, decamp,--in short, go away!" Bea went, holding her neck stiffly on one side to balance the sensation of unsteadiness above her ears. Berta watched her with a wavering expression that veered from wrathful amusement to uneasy reflectiveness. Was it really true that she dressed so untidily as this little scamp made out? Perhaps she did slight details once in a while, but though not scrupulously dainty like Lila, still she tried to be neat enough on the whole. Could it be possible that the other girls criticised her so severely as this? The suspicion bothered her so effectually that she left the library five minutes early and hurried to her room for a few renovating touches before luncheon. Her hair caused her such extraordinary pains that she was late in reaching the table. She found that Bea had usurped her place at the head, but forgot to object in the confusion of being greeted with: "Heigho, Berta, what's happened?" "You're spick and span enough for a party." "Are you going to town this afternoon?" "Young ladies!" Berta ignored the warm color that she felt rising slowly under her dark skin, "I am astonished at your manners. Don't you know that you should never refer to an individual's personal appearance? I read that in a book on etiquette. You may allude to my money, to my brains, to the beauty of my soul, but you must not remark upon my looks. I don't understand the principle of the thing, unless it is that compliments on the other three articles fail to injure the character, whereas flattery with regard to my pulchritude----" Bea's hand shot into the air and waved frantically. "Please, teacher, what is that funny word?" "Go to the Latin lexicon, thou ignoramus." "I can't," said Bea, "you borrowed mine and never brought it back. It's being a----" "But aren't you going anywhere?" asked Robbie Belle who had been filling Berta's plate and pouring her milk during the discourse. Bea sent a bewitching smile straight into Berta's eyes. "I'm 'most sure she is going to give me a swimming lesson at half past four. Then if it is still raining this evening, we can all swim over to the chapel for the concert. Please, Berta." "All right," acquiesced Berta carelessly. "I will do it because I am so noble and you are a literary person, though how in this world of incomprehensibilities you managed to get elected to that editorial board passes my powers of apperception. Robbie, will you be so kind as to reach me that saltcellar?" "You ought to say, 'Salt!' at the beginning, and then while you are putting in the rest of the words, she can be handing it over," advised Bea; "ah, what was the thought I was about to think?" She paused in dispensing the main dish and rolled up her eyes vacantly for a moment before she dropped the spoon without a glance at the cloth to see if it left a stain and rising walked dreamily out of the dining-room. The other girls stared. Robbie looked alarmed till Gertrude caught the likeness and explained: "It's 'sincerest flattery' for you, Berta. Imitation, you understand. When an idea strikes you, you drop everything and wander away while Robbie or Bea picks up the spoon and goes on ladling out the stuff in the dish at your place. What a monkey!" "No, a missionary," corrected Berta, her eyes and mouth contradicting each other as usual. This time her eyes tried to hide a troubled spark in their depths while her mouth twitched over the joke of it all. "She is posing as an awful example." "Here I am again!" Bea appeared suddenly in her seat. "I find I'm considerably hungry still," she vouchsafed in response to a chorus of taunts and jeers. "Ideas aren't filling, so to speak. At least, mine aren't--and they most of them belong to other people; hence I infer that other people's aren't either. Is that plain, my dear young and giddy friends? Now, somebody, applesauce!" she called, and added politely, "please pass it." Berta regarded her sternly. "Beatrice Leigh, you are running this scheme pretty far into the ground. When you reach bed-rock, something is likely to get a bump. Take care! Remember!" "Thank you, yes, Berta. Half-past four at the swimming-tank in the gymnasium. I'll be there. Trust me!" "Trust you!" echoed Berta in withering scorn. Bea lifted a face bearing a suitably wounded expression. "I trust you," she murmured in touchingly plaintive tones. "I shall be in the water at the stroke of the half hour--in the icy water. Promise that you will not fail me." "All right!" Berta dismissed the engagement from her mind with a heedless assent. An hour later while she was absorbed in looking over the week's daily themes which she had found in the box, Robbie walked in rather disconsolately. "Bea's writing a poem, too," she said; "she scowled at me." Berta frowned in abstraction. "Yes," she muttered, "yes, yes." Robbie looked at her and then stared out at the steady pall of rain. "I think I shall go swimming with you, if you want me." "Do come." It was a mechanical response while Berta's eyes narrowed in the intensity of her application. "Now I wonder what that question-mark on the margin can mean. She is the vaguest critic I ever had. Suggestive, I reckon, and nothing else." Robbie sighed. "Bea always used to be interested in everything. I wish she wouldn't write poems. She walked right past four girls and didn't see them. They were astonished. They asked me if she was sick or anything. Her eyes were sort of rolled up in her head, as if she were being oblivious on purpose." "Um-m," replied Berta brilliantly from the depths of her own obliviousness, "quite likely. Alas! there is another questionable question-mark. I do wish she weren't so stingy with her red ink." Robbie sighed again and looked at the clock. "It will be half past four in two hours," she volunteered. Berta pushed back her hair with an impatient gesture. "Robbie Belle, the longer it rains, the more loquacious you become. Do go and write a note to Lila, or darn stockings or something. I have a committee meeting at three, and you bother me dreadfully, with your chatter. Do run along, there's a dear." Robbie rose and wandered away forlornly. Even though she did not feel like studying, she half wished that she had not finished the preparation of Monday's lessons. College on a rainy Saturday afternoon, when all your friends are writing poems, is not a very cheerful place. At half-past four Berta was in the midst of a fiery argument about the program for the Junior Party to the seniors. The dispute concerned some fine point of æsthetic taste in the choice of paper and position of monogram. The stroke of the half hour reminded her of the engagement with Bea, but she lightly pushed aside the thought as of no consequence in comparison with the present emergency. It was ten minutes to five when she seized an umbrella and scurried across the campus to the gymnasium. There in the dusk of fading light from the clouded sky outside she beheld the swimming-tank deserted, its surface still glinting in soft ripples as if from recent plunging. At sound of a rustle in one of the dressing-rooms, Berta called Bea's name. It was Robbie's voice that answered her. "Bea's gone out walking." "Out walking?" echoed Berta scandalized and incredulous. "Yes, she was here in the water at half-past four, just as she had said she would be. She waited for you, and tried to swim at the end of a curtain pole. I held it steady for her, but when she was the teacher, she let me duck under. And we weren't sure about the stroke anyhow. And we kept getting colder and colder." "Oh!" the voice sounded as if suddenly enlightened. "At what time did you go in?" "It was after three, and she waited for you till twenty minutes to five. Then she said she thought it would be interesting to go up to the orchard and gather apple-blossoms with rain-drops fresh on the petals. She said it would be poetic and erratic and a lot of fun. So she went. She said it would be more like a real genius if she went alone, and so I didn't go with her. Besides that, she took my umbrella, and it isn't big enough for two." "It is queer that she did not wait longer," commented Berta wonderingly. "She said it would be more whimsical and unexpected to stroll off in that eccentric way. She explained how she is being made over, Mother April, from the rag-bag of the world; and so she has to be different." "I hope that she gets very wet indeed," said Berta, "and I don't see why I should worry." Robbie's voice answered, "Bea worried about you that day last fall when you went off alone in that storm to find fringed gentians. The branches were crashing down in the wind, and one girl had seen a tramp out on that lonely road. You said you could take care of yourself, but we worried." "Oh, that was different," exclaimed Berta. "I am perfectly capable of judging for myself. But Bea is such a scatterbrain that I can't help feeling"--she hesitated, then added as if to herself, "There isn't any sense in feeling responsible. She is old enough----" "I can't hear when you mumble," called Robbie. "Bea is an awful idiot," replied Berta in a louder key. "Did you catch that valuable bit of information, Robbie Belle?" "It sounds," spoke Robbie with unexpected astuteness, "as if you are really worrying after all." "Does it?" groaned Berta; "well, then I am an idiot too." She sternly refused to look anxious even when the dressing-gong found the wanderer still absent in the rain. At six Berta started for the dining-room, leaving Robbie hovering at Bea's open door with a supply of hot water, rough towels, dry stockings, and spirits of camphor. In the leaden twilight of the lower corridor a draggled figure passed with a sodden drip of heavy skirts and the dull squashing of water in soaked shoes. "Where are the apple-blossoms?" asked Berta in polite greeting as they met at the elevator. "I've b-b-b-been studying b-b-b-bobolinks," Bea's teeth chattered. "It's original to follow birds in the rain." "But"--Berta's eyes snapped, "I myself when I did it I wore a gym suit and a mackintosh and rubber boots. Of all the idiots!" "'O wad some power the giftie gie us,'" chanted Bea's tongue between clicks, "'To see oursels as ithers see us, It wad fra mony a blunder free us, And foolish notion.'" Then as Berta took a threatening step in her direction, she broke into a run. "I think I'll take some exercise now," she called back mockingly as she fled up the stairs. At midnight Berta was roused wide awake by an insistent rapping on the wall between her room and Bea's. Startled at last wide awake, she asked what was the trouble. Upon receiving no audible reply, she hurried around through the corridor to the door. She heard the key turned as she grasped the knob. An instant later she felt Bea sway against her and stand choking for breath, her hands to her chest. "It's croup," she gasped. "The doctor! Run!" Berta ran. She ran as she had never run before. Down the endless corridor and up the stairs, two steps at a time. Then a hail of frantic knocks on the doctor's door brought her rushing to answer. In four minutes they were back beside Bea's bed, and the doctor's orders kept Berta flying, till after a limitless space of horror and struggle she heard dimly from the distance: "She'll do now." Whereupon Berta sat down quietly in a chair and fainted. The next day was Sunday. Berta carried Bea her breakfast. "Good-morning, Beatrice," she said. "I've decided that I am tired of being a genius." "So am I," said Bea. "No more poems!" cried Robbie Belle and clapped her hands. "Oh, goodie!" CHAPTER VI A WAVE OF REFORM Bea did her hair high for the first time in public on the evening of the Philalethean Reception in her sophomore year. As was to have been expected, this event of vital importance demanded such careful preparation that she missed the address in chapel altogether and was late for the first dance. When at last she really put in an appearance--and a radiant appearance it was, with cheeks flushed from the ardor of her artistic labors, she found the revelry in full swing, so to speak. The corridors and drawing-rooms were thronged with fair daughters and brave sons. Naturally the daughters were in the majority, most of them fair with the beauty of youth. The sons were necessarily brave to face the cohorts of critical eyes that watched them from all sides. Two of the critical eyes belonged to Bea as she stood on the stairs for a few minutes and mourned that her handsomest cousin was not there to admire her new white crêpe, and also to be admired of the myriad guestless girls. She caught a glimpse of Lila in rose-colored mull as she promenaded past with a cadet all to herself. Berta and Robbie were walking together in the ceaseless procession from end to end of the second floor corridor, while the orchestra played and the couples whirled in the big dining-room. They were talking just as earnestly as if they had not seen each other every day for a year. Bea's dimple twinkled and she took a step forward under the impulse to join them for the fun of chaffing them about such polite devotion. At that moment Gertrude touched her shoulder. "Oh, Beatrice Leigh, have you anybody engaged for this number and the next? My brother has turned up unexpectedly, and I haven't a single partner for him. Won't you take care of him while I rush around to fill his program? Do! There's a dear!" "All right," said Bea, "can he talk?" "N-no, not much, but you can, and he's awfully easy to entertain. Tell him about the girls or college life or anything. He's interested in it all. Will you? Oh, please! There goes Sara now. I've got to catch her first thing." "Bring on the brother," exclaimed Bea magnanimously, "I'll talk to him." And she did. Twenty minutes later, when Gertrude in her frantic search through the shifting crowds explored the farthest group of easy chairs in senior corridor, she discovered Miss Bea still chattering vivaciously to a rapt audience of one. "I've been telling him about our playing at politics last month," she paused to explain; "he was interested." The brother smiled down at her. "It is certainly a most entertaining story," he said. "Things generally are when Bea tells them," commented Gertrude, "that is one of her gifts." "Oh, thank you!" Bea swept her a curtsey. "But don't hurry. Didn't you know that I promised him a dance as a reward for listening to my dissertation on reform. Some day I'll maybe tell you the story." This is the story: Did Gertrude ever tell you about our playing at politics when we were sophomores? Possibly you have heard politics defined as present history, and history as past politics. On that understanding, this tale is a history. It is the history of a great reform. When I sit down to reflect, a luxury for which I seldom have time even in vacation, it really seems to me that I have been reforming all my life. Lila has reformed a good deal since she entered college, and Berta has been almost as bad as I. Robbie Belle is the best one among us, but she does not realize it. That is the reason why she is such a dear. She never preaches--that is, never unless it is her plain duty as at that time in the north tower, when we were freshmen, you remember. If she disapproves of any of our schemes, she simply says she doesn't want to do it. That was what she said when the rest of us proposed to masquerade as a gang of wardheelers on election day. You know what wardheelers are, I suppose. They are politicians who hang around the polls and watch the voting and see that people vote for the right party, or the wrong party, for the matter of that. It all depends on which side they belong. When they notice anybody going to vote for the other side, they sort of intimidate him, tell him to get away, or else push him out of line or punch him in the head or something like that. Sometimes they stuff the ballot-boxes, too, or go from one poll to another, voting over and over. Now Robbie Belle had joined in with all the other fun that autumn. There were imitation rallies and parades and receptions to candidates and mock banquets with real speeches and fudges and crackers to eat. She made a perfectly splendid presidential candidate at one of the meetings. She looked ever so much like him too as she sat gravely on the platform with her hair parted on one side, and a borrowed silk hat clasped to the bosom of her brother's dress suit. When all at once her face crinkled in a sudden irresistible smile, even the seniors said she was dear. But this time she said she'd rather not be a wardheeler. She wouldn't come to a banquet of the gang the night before election day either. She said she guessed she didn't want to. Berta and Lila and I collected butter and sugar and milk at the dinner table that evening. In our dormitory we are allowed to carry away bread and milk to our rooms, but we are not supposed to take sugar or butter for fudges. That seemed awfully stingy to us then; for in the pantry there were barrels of sugar, great cans of milk, hundreds and thousands of little yellow butterballs piled on big platters. We thought it wouldn't do any harm to use a tiny bit of it all for our banquet. At dinner I slid two butterballs into my glass of milk, and Lila filled her glass with sugar from the bowl and then poured enough milk over it to hide the grainy look. Robbie Belle kept her eyes in another direction, but Berta said we had a right to one of the balls anyhow, because she had not eaten butter all day. Berta is the brightest girl in the class and she can argue about everything, and let the other person choose her side of the question first too. It was not until later that she reformed from that tendency to juggle with her intellect, as Prexie calls it. Well, Lila and I marched down the long dining-room, past the seniors and the faculty table, with our glasses held up in plain sight. As soon as we reached the corridor in unmolested safety, Lila gave a skip so joyous that some drops spattered on the floor. She said, "Nobody caught us that time." "Hush!" I jogged her elbow so that unluckily more milk splashed on the rubber matting, "there's Martha." Martha, you know--or probably you don't know until I tell you--was a freshman who roomed with Lila and me that year. She was the dearest little conscientious child with big eyes that were always staring at us solemnly and giving me the shivers. She appeared to think so much more than she spoke that we respected her a lot and tried to set her a good example. Martha was waiting for the elevator. She turned around and gazed at us without saying a word. She is considerably like Robbie Belle in her exasperating power of silence, but neither of them does it on purpose. Unfortunately just then a senior behind her turned around too and said, "Nobody catches anybody here. This is a college, not a boarding school." Now such a remark as that was distinctly unkind, not so much because either Lila or I had ever been to a boarding school, for we hadn't, as because we wished we had. We had devoured all the stories about them and envied the girls in them. We had hoped that we would find some of the same kind of fun at college itself. Lila blushed, and I could not think of any repartee that would be appropriate, especially as Martha was staring so hard at the glass of sugar. I had noticed all the fall that she was an odd child about candy. She never would touch a mouthful of any that we made--and we made it pretty often--maybe four times a week. She always just shook her head and said she'd rather not. It was a relief to hear the elevator come rattling up from the first floor. The dining-room is on the second, you see, though I don't know that this fact has any bearing on the story; still it may supply local color or realism or something like that. Well, we entered the elevator, and there stood a junior in the corner. This junior chanced to be an editor of the college magazine which had offered a ten dollar prize for the best short story handed in before October twentieth. She glanced at us and then stared hard at Martha till we had passed the third floor, and at the fourth she walked out behind us and spoke to Martha. She said, "Miss Reed, I think I am not premature in congratulating you upon the story which you submitted in the contest. You will receive official notice of your victory before very long." And then she smiled the nicest sweetest smile at sight of Martha's face. It was like a burst of sunshine--anybody would have smiled. I hugged her--Martha, not the junior, because I am not well acquainted with her, you understand--but I wanted to hug everybody. Lila squeezed Martha so hard that she squeaked out loud. "Oh," sighed the little freshman almost to herself, "now I can send mother a birthday present." Wasn't that dear of her to think of giving it away first thing! Of course some girls would have thought of having a spread to celebrate and invite in all the crowd; but Martha was only a freshman and probably had no college spirit as yet. Her remark seemed to remind Lila of something, for she quite jumped and exclaimed, "Why, you baby, I had forgotten all about that two dollars and seventy-five cents I borrowed of you last month. And here it is only the sixth of November, but my allowance is nearly gone. Why didn't you poke up my memory?" "And I owe her ninety cents," said I. The little freshman walked on with her hands clasped high up over her necktie. "Will they give me the prize soon?" she asked softly, "because the birthday is Thursday, and to-day is Monday, and it takes two days to get there." Lila looked at me and I looked at Lila. "We can scrape it together somehow," she said. Then she touched Martha on the shoulder. "Do you want to buy it to-morrow?" she inquired, "because if you do, you shall. We'll manage it somehow. We'll pay you what we owe, and then you can buy a present even if the prize doesn't arrive in time." "Oh, thank you!" It was strange to see how voluble happiness was making the child. "Will you really? I've wanted and wanted, but I couldn't ask. I've got an engagement down town to try on my gymnasium suit to-morrow afternoon and I shall be so glad. I can mail it then." "All right," said I, "we'll get it for you." Then we forgot all about it till noon the next day. That was election day and full of excitement, even if we hadn't been late to breakfast, because the fudges kept us awake the night before. Martha had gone into her room early to study. Though she had closed the door I am afraid the girls made a lot of noise; and she woke up with a headache. Of course Berta and I and the others had a right to cut late if we wanted to do so, but we didn't mean to keep anybody from working. Martha returned from breakfast just as I was catching together a tiny hole in my stocking above the shoe. It wasn't really my stocking, for I had lost mine by sending them unmarked to the laundry, and so I had borrowed these from Martha. They were her finest best ones, I believe, and very nice, though her clothes generally seemed shabby. This morning she told us to hurry down please, because the maid was feeling miserable. We did hurry and tried not to complain of the cold cocoa or the tough steak, though it is certainly the maid's duty to get fresh hot things no matter how late the girls are. She couldn't find our favorite crescent rolls in the pantry or down-stairs in the bakery or anywhere. Before we were through eating, the other maids had cleared away their breakfast dishes and had their tables all set for luncheon. Our maid was naturally slow, I suspect. After breakfast we had barely time to smooth the counterpanes over sheets and blankets that lay in wrinkles. They looked pretty well on top, but honestly I was relieved to have Martha and her big eyes out of the way. Though we snatched our books and ran through the corridors we were two minutes tardy in reaching the Latin room. The instructor was so irritable that she laid down her book and the whole class waited while Lila and I tiptoed to our seats in the middle of the last row. With all the campaign excitement of course we had let our work get crowded out, and the other girls appeared to be in the same fix. When the most dazzling star in the class flunked on a grammatical reference, the instructor bit her lip and sent the question flying up one row and down another as fast as the students could shake their heads. As it came leaping nearer and nearer to us, Lila remembered a college story about a girl sliding from her place and kneeling behind the seat in front till the question had passed on over the vacant spot. Lila was so agitated that she forgot how conspicuous we had been in entering late. She slipped out of her seat and hid like the girl in the story. Then fell an awful stillness. The question stopped right there, hovering over the empty place. Everybody waited. The instructor set her mouth in grimmer lines, and waited, her eyes glued to the spot from where Lila had vanished. Those in front turned around to look. Lila knelt there waiting and waiting for the question to be passed on to me. I shook my head as vigorously as I dared, but nobody paid any attention. Lila waited and waited; the instructor waited; everybody waited and waited, till Lila's knees ached so that she lifted her face and peeked. She peeked straight into those grim waiting eyes on the platform. Then the instructor said, "Miss Allan?" with the usual dreadful interrogative inflection, and Lila shook her head. She slid back into her seat with her cheeks as red as fire. The minute we escaped into the hall at the end of the recitation, the girls gathered around us and giggled and teased Lila till she almost broke down and cried before them all. There is a lot of difference between playing jokes on another person and appearing ridiculous yourself. The first few weeks of the year we had teased Martha by telling her it was etiquette for freshmen to rise when addressed by sophomores and stuff like that. The little thing was so unsophisticated that we made up yards and yards of stories about the dangers of going walking alone or being out after dusk. One student really did have her purse snatched last year, and a senior saw a masked robber in the pines, and once a maid caught a glimpse of a face outside her window, and actually one evening six of us beheld with our own eyes a man jump through the hedge. On this particular morning I had no time to waste, for my tutor in mathematics had warned me that she intended to charge me for the hour for which I had engaged her, no matter whether I arrived on the scene or not. That struck me as queer and rather mean, because on some days I did not feel like going, and I failed to see why I should pay her for tutoring that I had not received. She said that her time was valuable and an hour squandered in waiting for a delinquent pupil was so much loss. I guess it was a loss to me too. While I was flying around, trying to find my notes and pen, I heard a gulp and a sob from Martha's bedroom, and popped in to find her with her head buried in the pillow. The little idiot was crying because she had flunked in English. "Oh, but English is so easy to bluff in!" I exclaimed, "almost any string of words will do if the teacher asks for a discussion of a tendency or of nature or vocabulary or poetic form or something. Didn't you make a try at some sort of an answer?" "I said I didn't know," sobbed Martha, "and I didn't. My thoughts were all mixed up and I couldn't remember a line." "You goosie!" I was disgusted. "If I said I didn't know at every opportunity where I could say it truthfully, how long do you think I would be allowed to stay in this institution of learning? When I don't know a fact, I use fancy. It is the greatest fun to catch a hint and elaborate it into a brilliant recitation without a jot of knowledge to back it up. It takes brains to do it. You've got to learn to bluff, and then get along without studying." The little freshman raised her heavy eyes, all reddened about the lids. "Oh, but that isn't honest," she said. "Not honest?" For an instant I was actually alarmed. Once when I myself was a freshman I nearly lost my faith in human nature because a senior whom I admired did something that looked dishonest. But sending valentines to yourself in order to win a prize is different from bluffing. So I said, "Nonsense!" and was just hurrying out of the door when she called in a quivery voice: "P-please, may I borrow a sheet of theme paper? Mine's all gone and I can't buy--I mean, it's due to-night." "Help yourself," I answered, "there's a heap of it that I carried away from the last German test. Right hand drawer of the desk." "No, no! I can't take that. Haven't you any that you bought with your own money? I'll pay it back. That paper--they gave it to you--didn't they give it to you just for the test?" I stopped and walked over to feel of her head and tell her that she ought to see the doctor or take a nap or something. Then I gave her three sheets of the paper and told her not to be silly. I don't know whether she used it or not. At luncheon she appeared with her fingers inky and her hat on. Berta said, "Whither, my child?" She answered, "Down town." And then she looked at Lila with such anxious eyes that I jumped and clapped my hands together in contrition. "Lila, we've forgotten to get that money for her!" Martha turned her face toward me and sat gazing like a little dog. We asked all the girls at the table for contributions, but they were nearly penniless. I said, "Are you in a hurry, Martha?" And she said she had to be there at two o'clock. So we told her to hurry on, and we would get the money somewhere and meet her on the corner of Main and Market Streets at quarter past four sharp. She said, "Honest?" And I answered, "Yes, trust me. We'll be there, and I'll stand treat for soda water, if I can scrape up any extra pennies. You run along and pick out your present." And then, do you know, in spite of all that and our promise to meet her, we forgot every bit about it till half-past four! You see, it was election day, and we were frightfully busy. After the fifth hour recitation we hurried into the ragged blue overalls that we had worn in one of the torchlight parades. Lila punched up the crown of an old felt alpine hat, and I battered my last summer's sailor till it looked disreputable enough. Then we rushed over to the gymnasium to join our gang of wardheelers. We found the judges sitting at bare tables with their lists before them and wooden booths along the walls. And then--oh, I can't do justice to the fun we had! Some of us hung around outside and tried to scare away opposing voters by telling how the judges might make them sing scales or slide down ropes or wipe off their smiles on the carpets or chant the laundry list or write their names in ink with their noses, if they should be challenged. We actually succeeded in frightening away several timid freshmen. The rest of the gang pretended to stuff ballot-boxes and buy votes, just as we had read in the papers. Berta, Lila and I voted while wearing our overalls. Then we dashed back to our rooms and dressed in our ordinary clothes and attempted to vote a second time. Such fun! The judges recognized us and refused to accept our ballots. Such an uproar as we raised! The other wardheelers stormed to the rescue; the lists were scattered, and the tables overturned. Of course it was only a joke, and most of us were too weak from laughing to clear away the disorder in time for the polls to close promptly. And then we happened to remember Martha. There it was half-past four and it would certainly be five before we could get ready and catch the car and reach the corner of Main and Market. So we let it go and decided that she would be tired of waiting by that time and start for home, and we might most likely miss her anyhow, even if we should collect the money and try to keep the engagement. And besides that we were having such a picnic telling about the turmoil at the polls that we hated to waste a minute away from the scene. Berta had a splendid idea about dressing up as policemen and borrowing the express wagon belonging to the janitor's grandson, and then tearing over to the gym as if we had been summoned to arrest the hoodlums and take them to jail in the patrol. It was so late, however, that we had to give this plan up and get ready for dinner. It was a dreadful disappointment. Martha hadn't come yet. It was half-past five and dark, and then it was quarter of six, and then it was six, and we went down to dinner, but she hadn't come yet. And then it was half-past six, and we went down the avenue to the Lodge to watch the car unload, but no Martha. We danced in parlor J for a while, and then we went to chapel at seven, but she hadn't come yet. And then we walked down to the Lodge again and watched three cars stop and turn around the curve, one after another, but she wasn't in any of them. And then we went back to tell Mrs. Howard, the lady principal, about it. And she was awfully anxious and asked all sorts of questions about Martha, and what kind of a girl she was, and if she had any money with her, or any friends in town, or any peculiar habits about running away from her friends, or any trouble lately or anything. Then she began to telephone and went to see Prexie, and Lila and I wandered out to the stairs above the bulletin board where the students were waiting to hear the election returns. Between the successive telegrams the girls clapped and laughed and stamped and hissed at speeches by the seniors and juniors, or else they sang patriotic songs. When Miss Benton, president of the Students' Association, the greatest honor in the college course, and she is the finest senior in the class too--was urged upon a chair to make a speech, Lila almost pushed me through the banisters in her excitement. She has admired Miss Benton ever since the first day when it rained, and we were so terribly homesick, and she smiled at us in the corridor. "Hush!" whispered Lila, "listen! Isn't she beautiful!" "Ouch!" said I, "she isn't beautiful, she's downright plain with her hair smoothed back that way." But I said it pretty low, because that staircase banked with girls was no place for distinctly enunciated personalities. It was a humorous speech, for one reason of Miss Benton's popularity is her fun under a dignified manner. In the middle of the cheering after she had finished, the messenger girl appeared with a new bulletin. Somebody read it aloud so that we could all hear. It reported the victory of the corrupt party machine in an important city. Nobody spoke. There was just the faint sound of a big sighing oh-h-h! and then a hush. The next thing I knew, Miss Benton and some other seniors were coming up the stairs, and the girls were moving this way and that to open a path for them. Lila crowded closer to me so as to make way. A junior on the step below reached up her hand and stopped Miss Benton as she was passing. "Do wait for the next telegram, Mary," she said, "perhaps that will be more encouraging. The country as a whole seems to be going right." Miss Benton dropped down beside her with an awfully discouraged sort of a sigh. "You don't live there, and I do," she said. "You do not know how the reform party has worked with soul and strength to defeat that boss. Something is terribly wrong with the citizens and their standards of honesty. How could they? How could they?" The junior bent nearer to speak in lower tones; but Lila and I could not help hearing. "Mary, something is wrong with us too," she whispered. "Did you know that to-day at our mock election some of the sophomores pretended to be corrupt voters and wardheelers? They intimidated voters, challenged registrations, played at buying votes, tried to stuff the ballot-boxes. There was a most disgraceful scrimmage! To turn such crimes into a joke! How could they? How could we?" Miss Benton straightened herself with a movement that was sorrowful and angry and discouraged all at once. She drew a deep breath. "I will tell you what is wrong with us as well as with the entire country. Our ideal of honesty is wrong. With us here at college the trouble is in little things; with the world of business and politics the evil is in great matters too. But the principle is the same. We are not honest. We condemn graft in public office. Is it not also graft when a student helps herself to examination foolscap and takes it for private use? Is the girl who carries away sugar from the table any better than the government employee who misappropriates funds or supplies in his charge? We cry out in horror at revelations of bribery. Ah, but in our class elections do we vote for the candidate who will best fill the office, or for our friends? I have known a girl who desired to be president of the Athletic Association to bargain away her influence to another who was running for an editorship." "And some of us travel on passes which are made out in other names." Miss Benton did not hear. "We exclaim--we point our fingers--we groan over the trickery of officials, scandals, bribery, treachery, lawlessness. And yet we--is it honest to bluff in recitations--to lay claim to knowledge which we do not possess? Is it honest to injure a library book and not pay for the damage? Is it honest to neglect to return borrowed property? Some of us rob the maids of strength by obliging them to work overtime in waiting on us at the table. Our lack of punctuality steals valuable time from tutors and teachers and each other. We cheat the faculty by slighting our opportunities and thus making their life work of inferior quality to that which they have a right to expect. By heedless exaggeration we may murder a reputation--mutilate an existence. We wrong each other by being less than our best. We are unscrupulous about breaking promises. Down town this afternoon at the corner of Main and Market Streets I saw a freshman waiting in the cold. She was walking to and fro to get warm. Her teeth chattered,--she was crying from nervous suspense. When I spoke to her and advised her to return to college before dark, she shook her head, and said no, somebody had promised to meet her, and she had to stay. Now that girl, whoever it was, who broke that engagement, is responsible----" I leaned forward and clutched Miss Benton's shoulder. "She hasn't come back yet," I cried; "do you think she is there still? I forgot--I thought it didn't matter. I didn't mean to--" Miss Benton turned around her head to look up at me, and the others near us looked too, and down at the foot of the stairs the crowd packed in front of the bulletin board sort of quieted for a minute and seemed to be listening and watching us. And up on the wall over their heads the big clock went tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, and its long pendulum swung to and fro. Then swish, swish, swish, the lady principal came hurrying through the reception hall beyond, with her silk skirts rustling, and her face quite pale. And the girls turned their heads toward her. She raised her hand and said in her soft voice: "Are Miss Martha Reed's roommates here?" And then some more girls with their hats and coats on came running up the steps from the vestibule. The crowd was buzzing like everything when Lila and I pushed our way through to tell Mrs. Howard we were there. We caught scraps of sentences flying hither and thither. "Run over?" "Lying in the road----" "Who found her?" "Yes, right there in the loneliest part." "Such a timid little thing----" "Frightened and fell maybe----" "Queer she didn't take the car." "Is she dead?" Lila pushed ahead, thrusting the girls right and left from her path. I couldn't see her face, but her shoulders kept pumping up and down as if she were smothering. You know she's more sensitive than I am, and I felt badly enough. Mrs. Howard took her hand and said, "Miss Reed wishes to see you both and leave a message." Of course such a speech would make anybody think she was dying. I rubbed my sleeve across my eyes and shut my teeth together and swallowed once, for the other girls around were gazing after us. Lila walked on with her head up. I couldn't see anything but the line of her cheek, and that looked sort of cold and stony. We followed on over the thick rugs into the second reception room. There sitting in a big chair, leaning back against a cushion kind of limp and pale but not dead at all--there was Martha. "Did you get the money?" she asked. Lila didn't answer. She just dropped on her knees and hid her face against Martha's dress. "It was a centerpiece I thought Mother would like. I chose it in the shop-window there at the corner while I was waiting. Maybe it will get there almost in time if it is mailed to-morrow, but the doctor says I must go to the infirmary for a day or two. If you would please send it away for me in the morning--if you have the money to buy it, Lila,--I'm sorry." The doctor walked in alert and brusque as usual but gentle too. "Now for my captive," she said, "time's up. Life in a study with two sophomores is hard on a freshman's nerves. A few days of the rest-cure will about suit you." Martha glanced at me, for Lila was still hiding her face. "It was silly of me," she explained shyly, "but I grew so nervous when you didn't meet me that I cried and that made it worse. I watched every car and both sides of the street, and I waited till after dark. You see, I didn't have any money for car-fare. After they began to light the lamps, I started to walk out here to the college. Everybody was eating supper, and I was all alone on the road with dark fields on both sides. I could not help thinking of those dreadful robbers and maniacs and tramps----" "What?" cried the doctor. I drew a deep breath. "We told her," I said. "I--I'm afraid we exaggerated. I--I thought it would be more interesting." "Oh!" said the doctor. It was such a grim sort of an oh that I repented some more, though indeed it was not necessary. Martha smiled at me. I always did consider her the dearest, most sympathetic little thing. "It was my fault," she said, "I am such a coward anyhow. And then when I ran past a rock, I imagined I saw something move and jump toward me. I lost my wits and ran and ran and ran till I twisted my ankle and fell. I must have struck my head on a stone. I'm sorry. It was silly of me to run. Please don't worry." "That will do for the present," said the doctor. Then they carried her over to the infirmary. Lila and I walked out past the crowd in front of the bulletin board. They were cheering. "Listen, Lila," I said, "good news from somewhere." "We promised to meet her," said Lila. I hate regrets. "Well," I said, "that's all over and done with. There is no use in bothering about it now. But the next promise we make----" Berta rushed up to us. "Oh, girls!" she exclaimed, "did you catch that last return? Reform is sweeping the country. Hurrah!" CHAPTER VII FOUR SOPHOMORES AND A DOG The last recitation of the winter term was over, and the corridors were alive with girls hurrying this way and that, pinning on their hats, buttoning jackets, crowding into the elevator, unfurling umbrellas, and chattering all the time. "Hope you'll have the nicest sort of a time!" "Don't stay up too late!" "Good-bye!" "Oh, good-bye!" "Be sure to get well rested this vacation!" "Awfully, awfully sorry you wouldn't come home with me, Gertrude, you bad child! But I know you won't suffer from monotony with Berta and Beatrice in the same study." "Hurry, girls, there's the car now. Just hear that bell jingle, will you!" "Good-bye, Gertrude, and don't let Sara work too hard!" "Oh, good-bye!" Gertrude felt the clutch of arms relax from about her neck, and managed to breathe again. This was one of the penalties--pleasant enough, doubtless, if a person were in the mood for it--of being a popular sophomore. For a minute she lingered wearily in the vestibule to watch the figures flying down the avenue to the Lodge gates. How their skirts fluttered and twisted around them, and how their hats danced! Their suit-cases bounded and bumped as they ran, and their umbrellas churned up and down in choppy billows before the boisterous March wind. There! the last one had vanished in a whirl of flapping ends and lively angles beyond the dripping evergreens. As she was turning languidly away, a backward glance espied two girls emerging from one of the dormitories far across the flooded lawn. They came skipping over the narrow planks that had been laid in the rivers flowing along the curving walks. The first was Berta swathed in a hooded waterproof; and the second, of course, was Beatrice, a tam flung askew on her red curls, her arms thrust through a coat sleeve or two, a laundry bag swinging from one elbow, and a tin fudge pan clasped tenderly and firmly beneath the other, while with the hands so providentially left free she stooped at every third step to rescue one or the other of her easy-fitting rubbers from setting out on a watery voyage all by itself. "Hi!" she gasped after a final shuffling dash, as she caught sight of immaculate Gertrude, "I wore your overshoes. Hope you don't mind. They're not very wet inside, and I brought over your things so that we can move into our borrowed study right off now." "Where are my things?" asked Gertrude with natural curiosity and perhaps unnatural calm. "Here," jerking the laundry bag, "it holds a lot--brushes, soap, nightgown, toothpowder, fountain-pen, note-book, everything. Berta carried your mending basket. You needn't bother one bit." "I'll run back and forth for anything you want," volunteered Berta hastily at sight of an irritable frown on the usually serene brow of handsome Gertrude. "You're cross!" commented Bea with a cheerful vivacity that was exasperating to the highest degree, considering that everybody ought to be worn down to an unobtrusive state of limp inertia after the three busy months just concluded, "you've been cross ever since Sara----" "Berta, lend me your gossamer and rubbers, please," when Gertrude was unreasonably provoked she had a habit of snapping out her words even more clear-cut than usual. An instant later she swept forth into the rain only to stop short and hurry in again before the door had swung shut. "We might as well look at the study first," she said in a more gracious tone, "and we can draw lots to see who is to have the inside bedroom. I dare say the change to this building will be a rest." Berta took quick survey from the window to explore the cause for this amazing wavering of purpose. "Ah!" she murmured in swift enlightenment, "it's Sara. She's coming over the path." A peculiar expression flitted across Bea's ingenuous face--an expression half quizzical, half sorry. "Then we'd better follow Gertrude's example, and clear the track. She'll cut us dead again--that meek little mouse of a girl! And I don't blame her for it either, so there!" Berta tucked a pensive skip in between steps as they moved through the gloomy corridor past rain-beaten windows. "It wasn't like Gertrude to burst out like that just because Sara came late to our domestic evening, but it did spoil the fudges and the game and everything." "And not to give her a chance to explain!" fumed Bea's temper always ready to flame over any injustice. "Before she could open her lips, Gertrude blazed up, cold as an icicle----" "What?" interpolated demure Berta with her most deeply shocked accent, "an icicle blaze?" "Oh, hush, you're the most disagreeable person! I wish Lila hadn't gone home. Well, she did just that. She said the artistic temperament was no excuse for discourteous falsehood--or she almost the same as said it--meaning breaking your word, you know, for Sara had promised she would come at eight, and there it was quarter to nine. She said that it might be wiser next time to invite somebody more reliable about keeping engagements. Sara did not answer a word--only went white as a sheet and walked out of the room. Now she even cuts us--because we were there--stares right over our heads when we meet her anywhere." "I'm sure Gertrude was sorry the minute she had spoken. And she's been working awfully hard over committees and the maids' classes and the last play. She was tired and nervous up to the brim, and then to wait and wait and wait for Sara. Why, I was getting cross myself." "Well, why doesn't she beg Sara's pardon then, and make it all right?" demanded the young judge severely. "Sara has always simply worshiped her, but because she never has made mistakes nor learned how to apologize, and everybody admires her and flatters her, she is too proud to say she was wrong. It's plain vanity--that's what it is. She can't bear to make herself do it." "She's unhappy,--that's what I think, though she sort of pretends she doesn't care." "She's cross as a bear--that's what I think," snapped Bea, "and Sarah has dark circles under her eyes. It's dreadful--those two girls who used to be inseparable! Quarrels are--are horrible!" The impetus of this conviction almost succeeded in hurling its proprietor against the water cooler at the bathroom door. "Say, Berta, what if you and I should quarrel, with Robbie Belle and Lila one thousand miles away?" "I'm too amiable," responded Berta complacently, "sugar is sweet----" The tin cup dropped with a flurried rattle against the fudge pan. "Oh!" a shriek of dismay, "my dear young and giddy friend, we're all out of sugar. What if we should want to make anything to-night? Let's run back to the grocery by the kitchen this minute." Owing to this delay, Gertrude had been in the study for more than ten minutes, staring out at the trees writhing in the wind, when she was startled by the sound of a suffocated shriek, followed by a scamper of four thick-soled shoes, the heels smiting the corridor floor with disgracefully mannish force. The door flew inward vehemently, and Bea shot clear across the room to collapse in the farthest corner, hiding her face in the fudge pan while her shoulders quivered and heaved terrifyingly. Berta walked in behind her, and after one reproachful look, sat down carefully in a rocker and brushed her scarlet face before beginning to giggle helplessly. "You're the meanest person! Beatrice Leigh, you knew I was turning into the wrong alleyway, but you never said a word. You wanted to see me disgraced. The door opened like magic, and there she stood as if she had slid through the keyhole. She stood there plastered against the wall and--and--regarded us----" "Oh!" moaned Bea in ecstasy, one fiery ear and half a cheek emerging from the kindly shelter of the fudge pan, "she glared. She wondered why those two idiotic individuals were stalking toward her without a word or knock or smile, when suddenly the hinder one exploded and vanished, while the other ignominiously--stark, mute, inglorious--fled, ran, withdrew--so to speak----" "Why didn't you say something?" groaned Berta. "I simply lost my wits from the surprise. She was the very last person I expected to see anywhere around here. How in the world did she happen to borrow the next room to ours? She'll think we were making fun of her--that we did it on purpose. She's awfully sensitive anyhow!" "Well, you two are silly!" commented Gertrude, her face again toward the driving storm. "Who was it? Not a senior, I hope, or a faculty?" Bea straightened herself abruptly, the laughter driven sternly out of every muscle except one little twitching dimple at the corner of her mouth. "It was Sara," she exclaimed, "and she is pale as a ghost. She has never been so strong since waking up on that boat and finding a burglar trying to steal the ring off her finger during the holidays. You know how she jumps at every sudden noise, and she's been getting thinner and thinner, and I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself clear down to the ground." Here the dimple vanished in earnest. "I know I'm ashamed of myself, and so's Berta. Even her lips were white. Now we've hurt her feelings worse. I didn't think. Nice big splendid excuse for a sophomore, isn't it?" "There's the gong for luncheon," was Gertrude's only reply as she moved toward the door. Bea's flare of denunciation had subsided quickly in her characteristic manner. She sat absently nibbling the handle of the obliging pan, while staring after the receding figure, its girlish slenderness stiffened as if to warn away all friendliness. "She's stubborner than ever. I say, Berta, let's reconcile them." "Oh, let's!" in echoing enthusiasm, adding as the beauty of the plan glowed brighter, "they'll probably thank us to the last day that they live. I know I would, if it were Robbie and I who were drifting farther and farther apart." "Very likely," responded the arch-conspirator, beginning at the lower edge of the tin doubtless itself delicious from long association with dainties, "but the question is: How are we going to do it? One is proud, and the other is proud too. I don't see exactly how we can fix it." As Berta did not see either, they decided with considerable sound sense meanwhile to go to luncheon. The next day after many minutes of discouraging meditation mingled with a few hours of tennis in the gymnasium, an idea came to them. While they rested on the window ledge, watching Gertrude stroll to and fro in the sunshine balmy at last, Bea began to waste her breath as usual. "'To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow drags out its weary course from day to day,'" she quoted with mindless cheerfulness, only to interrupt herself good naturedly, "say, Berta, do you realize that the third to-morrow aforementioned is April Fool's Day? I wish something interesting would happen. This is the most monotonous place in vacation." "To-morrow never is, it always will be," corrected the carping critic. Bea with indifference born of long endurance paid no attention. "I say!" rapturously as the idea began to dawn upon her inward vision, "let's reconcile them with a joke." "All right," agreed her partner with most charming alacrity, "what joke?" The question was rather a poser, as Bea was inclined to take only one step at a time and utter one thought as it obligingly arrived, without anxiety about the next. This tendency had occasionally landed her high and dry on the shores of nothingness in the classroom. "Oh, um-m-m, I haven't determined that point yet. It isn't only great minds that move slowly." Gertrude's cape swung into view at the turn of the walk. "Berta, she looks awfully lonesome, doesn't she?" "Well," argued the other, "nobody can expect us to do all the tagging around ourselves, especially where a contemporary is concerned. If she wants us to walk with her, she might omit a few snubs now and then. I'm tired of chasing after her." "The trouble is that you are not a faithful friend, faithful friend," rattled Bea, "man's faithful friend, the dog. Oh, oh, oh, Berta, I have an idea!" "Noble girl!" Berta patted her on the head. "I generously refrain from comment." "Thank you, sweetheart. I feared you could not deny yourself that remark about keeping my idea, as I might never get another. But this one is an idea about a dog. Let's find a puppy to give Gertrude for a soothing companion this vacation. I love puppies." "The question is: does Gertrude also love puppies? Or is it a joke?" "Let's get a dog and surprise her with it April Fool's morning. He will be such a friendly little fellow and so faithful that her conscience will sting her----" "I must acknowledge that you are a humane, tender-hearted individual. To plot a stinging conscience----" "Oh, hush, Berta! Do be nice and agreeable. I'm awfully tired this week, and I really need some distraction. The corridors stretch out empty and silent, and breakfast doesn't taste good at all, and--and I want to do something for Sara." "Oh, all right!" Berta spied the glint of an excitable tear and shrugged the weight of common sense from her shoulders. "I'm with you." Three days passed--three days of blue sky and fluffy clouds and air that sent Bea dancing from end to end of the long stone wall while Berta stumped conceitedly along the path in her new rubber boots. Gertrude wondered aloud why two presumably intelligent young women insisted upon spending every morning in foolish journeys over muddy country roads. Noting an unaccustomed accent of peevishness in the energetic voice, Berta began to worry a bit over the likelihood that such petulance was due to impending sickness. Bea jeered at this, though with covert side glances to detect any signs of fever. In her secret soul, where she hid the notions which she dimly felt looked best in the dark, she reflected that an attack of some mild disease might be a valuable form of retribution, and also afford the invalid leisure to repent of her sins. Still she did not quite like to mention this thought aloud, as it seemed too unkindly vengeful with regard to any one so obviously miserable as Gertrude. One day on charitable plans intent the two conspirators dragged Gertrude out across the brown fields to have fun building a bonfire, as they had done the previous spring. But somehow the expedition was not much of a success--possibly because the wood was too damp to burn inspiritingly. On that other occasion Sara had been with them, and had kept them laughing. She could say the funniest things without stirring a muscle of her small solemn face. That stump speech of hers given from a genuine stump had sent them actually reeling home. This year--alas!--while returning to college rather silently, they saw Sara plodding toward them with an air of being out for sober exercise, not pleasure. The moment she spied them, she deliberately retraced her steps, and vanished through a hole in the hedge. This incident set Gertrude to chattering so excitedly about nothing in particular that the others knew she cared even more than they had fancied. On the evening of the last day of March, Bea and Berta came rushing into the dining-room twenty minutes late for dinner. When they both declared that they did not want any soup--their favorite kind, too--Gertrude sighed impatiently over countermanding her order to the maid. It seemed as if she were not getting rested one bit this vacation, though she did nothing but read novels all day long. She felt sometimes as if she were hurrying every minute to escape from herself and her own thoughts. Everything irritated her in the strangest way. In all her busy healthful life she had never been nervous before. It was not hard work that had worn upon her. The doctor told them when they were freshmen that no girl ever broke down from work unless worry was added. Gertrude knew perfectly well what torturing little worry was gnawing away in her mind. She kept telling herself that her speech to Sara had been true--it was so--Sara had broken her engagement--and she could not, could not, could not humble herself to apologize. In fact, Sara was the one who ought to offer apologies. And all this time wilful Gertrude refused to acknowledge even to herself that she was juggling with her conscience in the desperate determination to hold herself free from blame in her own esteem. She simply could not beg anybody's pardon, and she was not going to do it, because--well, because she had not been to blame--so there! On this particular evening, after five solid minutes of silence on the part of her exasperating roommates, she raised her heavy eyes, and let them rest expressionlessly on the two wind-freshened faces, till Bea's roses blossomed to her hair. "We're not doing anything," rebelliously, "you are so boss-y." "Moo-oo," muttered Berta to her plate. "Bow-wow-wow." Bea choked over her glass and fled precipitately, leaving her partner to capture a pitcher of milk ostensibly to drink before going to bed. Of course they would have regretted missing dessert as well as soup, if Gertrude had not asked permission to carry some of the whipped cream to her room. It was easier to do something unnecessarily generous than to beg Sara's pardon--which was merely plain hard duty. The girls were not in the study when she entered with her offering, but soon Bea dashed in and dropped breathlessly on the couch, with a conspicuous effort to act as if accustomed to arrive without her present double. Gertrude listened unsuspiciously to the flurried explanation that Berta was kept by a--a--a--friend, before she revealed the brimming trophy from dessert. Bea clapped her hands. "Oh, you darling! the very thing! Won't that pup"--an abrupt and convulsive cough subsided brilliantly into, "that pet of a Berta be pleased! I'll take it to her this instant." However, she did not invite Gertrude to accompany her, and upon her return after a prolonged absence, she conducted herself with odd restlessness. In the intervals of suggesting that they put up an engaged sign or read aloud or darn stockings or play patience before going to a certain spread, she stared at the clock. Promptly at eight she escaped from the door, near which she had been lingering for the past quarter-hour, with the carefully distinct announcement that she was going after Berta, and later she might attend the spread. Five minutes later she was bending over a fluffy little creature nestling on Gertrude's best pillow in one of the partitioned off bathrooms at the end of the corridor. "He's been pretty good," said Berta as she surrendered the spoon, "and he likes the cream, only the bubbles in it keep him awake, I think. Somebody hammered at the door so long that I had to stuff a lot into his mouth every time he started to cry." Bea assumed her station of nurse with businesslike briskness. "Hurry back to Gertrude, and coax her to go to that spread if you can. She's terribly blue to-night. Be sure to get back here at nine, and I will take my turn at the party so that nobody will be too curious about this affair. At ten we shall both be here to decide about the night." "Then we can hook the door on the inside, and climb over the partition. Won't it be fun! I wonder if I shouldn't better practice doing it now," and Berta looked longingly at the black walnut precipice. "You trot along this instant, and don't let Gertrude suspect anything for the world. Be just as natural as you know how--more than ever before in your life. I reckon I shall put him to sleep in a jiffy." "Try it," called the ex-nurse with laconic scorn, "I'll allow you the full hour for the experiment." It must have been a very full hour indeed, to judge from Bea's feelings as the minutes dawdled past. It seemed to her that instead of flying with their sixty wings, according to the rhyme, each minute trailed its feathers in the dust as it shuffled along. At first, it was amusing to watch for the mouth to open, and then pop in a spoonful of cream. But this soon became monotonous, especially when she learned that no matter how long she sat motionless beside the pillow, the bright little eyes blinked wide awake at her slightest stir to rise. It was lonesome in that end of the great building. Their suite and Sara's room next to it were the only ones occupied in that neighborhood during the vacation. This bathroom was as much as forty steps distant even from that populated spot, and not a single footfall had sounded in the corridor since Berta had disappeared into the gloom. The light from the outer apartment glimmered dully over the partition. At intervals in the stillness, a drop of water clinked from the faucet out there. Bea found herself holding her breath to listen for the tinkle of its splash. Outside the small window, a pale moon was drifting among fluffy clouds. More than once Bea rose with exquisite caution, and stole to the outer door, only to hear a plaintive whine, while four clumsy paws came pattering after her. Then followed more minutes of soothing him with cream, and watching for the little woolly sides to cease heaving so piteously. Perhaps after all it would have been wiser to have left this troublesome joke with his mother on the farm. By the time this vague suggestion had wavered into her consciousness, the strain of waiting and listening began to re-act on her temper. Of course, Berta had forgotten all about her watching there alone in the dark. Berta was selfish and thoughtless and heedless. That very afternoon, while they were bringing the puppy to college, she had almost tipped the buggy over into a puddle. Berta had no right to impose upon her like this, and make her do the worst part of the work every time. Why, even when they went calling together, Bea always had to do the knocking and walk in first and manage the conversation and everything. And now Berta was having fun at the spread, and it must be near ten o'clock, for the watchman had already shuffled softly past and turned the gas still lower. And she knew her foot was going to sleep, and she could never feel the same toward Berta Abbott again. Bea was so sorry for herself that her lip began to quiver over a sobbing breath, when steps came hurrying helter-skelter, the door banged open, and Berta dived in. "Oh, Bea, I'm dreadfully sorry! I couldn't get away before. They held me--actually--and made me jig for them, and sing that last song I wrote. The preserved ginger was so delicious that I saved some for you. Nobody suspects a thing. How is the little dear?" Bea rose with impressive dignity till the straightening of numb muscles inspired an agonized, "Ouch!" and a stiff wriggle. It was every bit Berta's fault, and she evidently didn't care a snap. She would show people whether they could walk all over her and never say boo! She would not lose her temper--oh, no! she would not utter a word--not a single one of all the scorching things she could think of. She would just be dignified and self-possessed and teach certain persons that she did not intend to be imposed upon one instant longer. Therefore, Miss Beatrice Leigh flung open the door and stalked away without a backward glance. "Hulloa!" ejaculated Berta, staring blankly after her, "what's your rush?" No answer; merely a somewhat more defiant swing of the slender shoulders vanishing in the dusk of the deserted corridor. "What shall we do with the dog? You borrowed him--you're responsible--it's your idea," following in a puzzled flurry as far as the threshold. "Shall I lock him in alone? I said all along it was silly." Those insolent shoulders sailed silently around the transverse and out of sight. After a petrified moment, Berta drew a deep breath, and threw back her head while the crimson of quick resentment flamed from neck to hair. That was a nice way to be treated, when she had simply done her best not to arouse suspicion, exactly as Bea had warned her. She took two steps hastily away from the spot; then turned slowly and glanced in at the soft heap of white showing dimly on the darker blur of the pillow. She certainly did not propose to spend the entire night in playing nurse to anybody, especially after Bea had insulted her so unpardonably. It had been Bea's idea all along too, and Berta had worked herself nearly to death to make it a success. The miles and miles she had tramped through the mud--and all to no result! Now everything was spoiled, and everybody had quarreled with everybody else. Whereupon Berta marched away to bed, leaving the swinging door unhooked and the outer door ajar. Bea was indisputably right in criticising her fellow conspirator as heedless. At midnight Gertrude sprang from her pillow, both arms flung out into the darkness, every nerve quivering as she listened for a second scream. She had chosen the inside bedroom that had a window opening on the corridor. Now in the breathless silence, she heard a swift creak ending in the bang of an up-flung sash. A swish of light garments, a thud shaking the floor outside, and then bare feet flying in frantic haste past her room and into the alleyway. A crash against the study door, and the knob rattled wildly. "Let me in, quick, quick! Help, Gertrude, help!" There was a flash of white across the floor, the lock grated, and Sara was in Gertrude's arms. Portières rustled apart, and two more apparitions loomed pallidly in the dark. "Hulloa!" gasped Berta's voice, while a woodeny click from Bea's direction told of Indian clubs snatched bravely in readiness for war. "Light the gas, girls," ordered Gertrude quietly; "there, dear, don't be frightened now. See, we are all here. We will take care of you. What was it startled you?" "I don't know. It was dark. Something moved. I heard something. I was afraid." Gertrude felt her tremble, and held her closer. Over the bowed head she spoke with her lips to the other two. "That steamboat shock." Bea caught the idea impulsively. "Oh, Sara!" she exclaimed, "you're only nervous. You've often waked up and screamed a little ever since that night on the boat. It's nothing. Crackie! but you frightened us at first!" Sara lifted a white face. "This was different," she said; "this was something alive. Hark!" They leaned forward, listening. Yes, there was a footstep outside, muffled, stealthy. A board creaked. Something was breathing. Gertrude and Berta looked at each other in quick challenge for mutual courage. All the other rooms at that end of the building were vacant; the long dark corridor stretched out its empty tunnel between them and available help. What could four girls do? "We can scream," said Bea. "Lock the door--and the inner window--quick!" Gertrude flew to one, Berta to the other. "Sara, take this Indian club. Now if it really is--anything, scream. But don't run. Don't scatter. Scream--scream all together. Ah!" The footsteps were coming down the alleyway toward the door. Bea filled her lungs, and opened her mouth in valiant preparation. "Wee-wee-wee, bow-wow!" Two little paws scratched at the door. Bea's breath issued in a feeble squeak, as she dropped neatly down upon the floor and buried her face in her hands. Berta swooped upon her. "The puppy!" Gertrude felt herself freed from the encircling arms. She moistened her lips. "I am sorry, Sara, about the other night. I am--sorry." The pale little face upturned toward hers began to glow as if touched with sunshine. "I was late because Prexie kept me. I should have explained, but--but it hurt. I knew you were sorry." Berta sat up as if jerked into position by a wire, and briskly brushed the hair out of her eyes. "Listen, Bea," she whispered to a small pink ear half hidden by red curls, "they're reconciled." "So are we," said Bea, "please open the door for the puppy." CHAPTER VIII CLASSES IN MANNERS Gertrude's brother paid another visit to his sister at Class Day. At least, he was supposed to be visiting his sister, but it was really Bea who took charge of him during all that radiant June morning while Gertrude, as chairman of the Daisy Chain committee, was busy with her score of workers among the tubs of long-stemmed daisies in a cool basement room. Bea had immediately enrolled the young man as her first assistant in the arduous task of gathering armfuls of the starry flowers in the field beyond the dormitories. After that labor was finished, and even Lila had deserted her for the sake of an insensate trunk that demanded to be packed, Bea conducted her companion to the lake. There through the golden hour of midday they drifted in the shadow of the overhanging trees along the shore. Once they paddled softly around the little island at the end, and a colony of baby mud-turtles went scrambling madly from a log into the water. When the brother began to fish for one with an oar, Bea protested in a grieved tone. "But you don't seem to realize that I am worrying about freckles every minute that we stay out here in the broad sunlight. What are trees for if not to provide shade for girls without hats? And anyhow it is unkind to seek to tear a turtle from his happy home. If you do that, I shall never, never consent to admit you to our highest class in manners." "Highest class in manners," he echoed, "that sounds promising. Is it another story?" "It certainly is," replied Bea, "and if you are very good indeed and will keep the boat close to the bank from the first word to the last, I will tell you all about it." Berta called it our classes in manners, but Miss Anglin, our sophomore English teacher, said that it was every bit as bad as gossip. When Berta told her that she was the one who had started us on it by advising us to read character in the street-cars, she looked absolutely appalled, and groaned, "What next?" This was the beginning of it. When Miss Anglin took charge of our essay work the second semester, she explained that we should be required to write a one-page theme every day except Saturday and Sunday. Lila almost fainted away, because she hates writing anything, even letters home. Robbie Belle looked scared, and I opened my mouth so wide that my jaw ached for several minutes afterward. But Berta kept her wits about her. She said, "Miss Anglin, we are all living here together, and we see the same things every day. I'm afraid you'll be bored when you read about them over and over. Why can't some of us choose intellectual topics?" By intellectual topics she meant subjects that you can read up in the encyclopædia. Miss Anglin sort of smiled. "Do you truly think that you all see the same things day after day? How curious! Have you ever played a game called Slander?" "Yes, Miss Anglin," said Berta, and went on to tell how the players sit in a circle, and the first one whispers a story to the second; and the second repeats it as accurately as she can remember to the third; and the third tells it to the fourth, and so on till the last one hears it and then relates it aloud. After that the first one gives the story exactly as he started it. It is awfully interesting to notice the difference between the first report and the last one, because somehow each person cannot help adding a little or leaving out a little in passing it on to the next. That is the way slander grows, you know. The gossip may be true at first, or almost true, but it keeps changing and getting worse and worse and more thrilling as it spreads till finally it isn't hardly true at all. That is how our classes in manners turned out. Well, to go back to that day in the rhetoric section. Miss Anglin saw that we were discouraged before we had commenced and we didn't know how to start; and so she began to suggest subjects. For instance, she said, one girl might wake up in the morning----Oh, but I am forgetting her application of the illustration from the game of Slander. She said that if no two persons receive the same impression from a whispered story spoken in definite words, it is probable that no two pairs of eyes see the same thing in the same way, to say nothing of the ideas aroused in the different brains behind the eyes. One girl might wake up in the morning, as I was saying, and when she looks from the window she sees snow everywhere--provided it did snow during the night, you understand. Then she writes her daily theme about the beautiful whiteness, the shadows of bare trees, diamond sparkles everywhere and so forth. Another girl looks out of that very same window at the same time, and she doesn't think of the beautiful snow merely as snow; she thinks of coasting or going for a sleigh-ride or something like that. And so her theme very likely will prove to be a description of a coasting carnival or tobogganing which she once enjoyed. Another girl looks out and thinks first thing, "Oh, now the skating is spoiled!" Her theme maybe will tell how she learned to skate by pushing a chair ahead of her on the ice. Berta raised her hand again. "Well, but, Miss Anglin," she said, "suppose it doesn't snow?" Berta is not really stupid, you know, quite the reverse indeed, but she is used to having the girls laugh at what she says. They laughed this time, and Miss Anglin did too, because she knew Berta was just drawing her out, so to speak. She went on to give other examples about the things we see while out walking or shopping or at a concert, and finally she drifted around to character-reading. She said a street-car was a splendid field for that. The next time one of us rode into town, she might try observing her fellow travelers. There might be a working-man in a corner, with a tin-bucket beside him. Maybe he would be wearing an old coat pinned with a safety-pin. By noting his eyes and the expression of his mouth the girl could judge whether he was just shiftless or untidy merely because his wife was too busy with the children to sew on buttons. She told a lot of interesting things about the difference between the man who holds his newspaper in one hand and the man who holds his in both. Some temperaments always lean their heads on their hands when they are weary, and others support their chins. A determined character sets her feet down firmly and decidedly at every step--though of course it needn't be thumping--while a dependent chameleon kind of a woman minces along uncertainly. Why, sometimes just from the angle at which a person lifts his head to listen, you can tell if he has executive ability or not. Before the bell rang at the end of the hour, we were awfully enthusiastic about reading character. The first thing Robbie Belle did was to stumble over the threshold. "Oho!" jeered Berta, "you're careless. That's as easy as alpha, beta, gamma." She meant a, b, c, you understand, but she prefers to say it in Greek, being a sophomore. "But she isn't careless," protested Lila, "she's the most careful person I ever met. The sole of her shoe is split, and that is the reason she stumbled." "Why is it split?" demanded Berta in her most argumentative tone; "would a nobly careful and painstakingly fastidious person insist upon wearing a shoe with a split sole? No, no! Far from it. If she had stumbled because the threshold wasn't there, or because she had forgotten it was there, the inference would be at fault. I should impute the defect to her mentality instead of to her character, alas! A stumble plus a split sole! Ah, Robbie Belle, I must put you in a daily theme." Robbie Belle looked alarmed. "Indeed, Berta, I'd rather not. I was going to trim it off neatly this morning, but I have lent my knife to Mary Winchester." "Ha! lent her your knife!" declaimed Berta sternly, "another clue! This must be investigated. Why did she borrow your knife?" "To sharpen her pencil," answered Robbie. "I made her take it." "Her pencil! Her pencil!" muttered Berta darkly, "why her pencil? Are there not pens? Mayhap, 'tis not her pencil. Alas, alas! Her also I thrust into a daily theme." "She's snippy about returning things," said Lila, "she acts as if she didn't care whether you do her a favor or not. I don't like her." "She's queer," I said. Now I had a perfect right to say that because it was true. Mary Winchester was just about the queerest girl in college. Everybody thought so. But I shall say no more at present, as her queerness is the subject of the rest of this story. If I told you immediately just how she was queer and all the rest of it, there wouldn't be any story left, would there? Well, as the weeks whirled past, we studied character and wrote daily themes till we were desperate. Robbie Belle grew sadder and sadder until Berta suggested that she might describe the gymnasium, the chapel, the library, the drawing rooms, the kitchen, and so forth, one by one, telling the exact size and position of everything. That filled up quite a number of days. When Miss Anglin put a little note of expostulation, so to speak, on the theme about the corridor--it was, "This is a course in English, not mathematics, if you please,"--Berta started her in on the picture gallery. There were enough paintings there to last till the end of the semester. Of course, such work did not require her to read character. Robbie Belle didn't want to do that somehow; she said it seemed too much like gossip. However, at first, it wasn't gossip. For instance one day Lila and I collected smiles. We scurried around the garden and dived in and out of the hedge in order to meet as many people as possible face to face. Then we took notes on the varieties of greeting and made up themes about them. Miss Anglin marked an excellent on mine that time. For another topic we paid one-minute calls on everybody we knew. When they looked surprised and inquired why we did not sit down, we frankly explained that we were gathering material for an essay on Reading Character from the Way a Person says "Come in!" After we had been grinding out daily themes for three weeks we began to long for something to break the monotony. My brain was just about wrung dry, and Lila said she simply loathed the sight of a sheet of blank paper. One afternoon while I was struggling over my theme, Berta threw a snowball against my window, flew up the dormitory steps, sped down the corridor, gave a double rat-tat-too on my door, and burst in without waiting for an answer. "Listen! Quick! I have an idea. It struck me out by the hedge. Why not study manners as well as character? Why not divide----" "Go away. That snowball plop against the pane spoiled my best sentence. This is due in forty minutes. I've written up my family and friends and books and pictures, my summer vacations--a sunset at a time, my little----" "Why not divide everybody, I say----" "----dog at home," I continued placidly. "I've composed themes about the orchard, the woods, the table-fare, the climate, the kitten I never owned, the thoughts I never had. To-day I was in despair for a subject till I happened to borrow one of your cookies and----" "You did! My precious cookies! Burglar!" "----bite it into scallops. Ha! an idea! I arranged myself on the rug with much care in order that I might stretch out the process to a whole page of narration. Thereupon I nibbled off the corners of the scallops till the cookie was round and smooth again. Next I bit it into scallops and then I nibbled off the corners; and next I bit and then I nibbled; and next I bit and then I nibbled; and next I bit----" "You did! Oh, I wish I----" "----and then I nibbled; and next I bit and then I nibbled, till there was nothing left but the hole. Now I am writing a scintillating and corruscating theme about it. Go away." Berta turned toward the door. "Some day you'll wish you had listened," she declared in accents heavy with gloom, "some day when you can't think of a single thing to write about, and the hand keeps moving around the clock, and the paper lies there blank and horrible before your vacant eyes, and your pen is nibbled so short that your fingers----" "I didn't mean go away," I said, "I meant, go on. Tell me about it." "Nay, nay! To lacerate my feelings, spurn my proffered aid, insult my youthful pristine zeal, and then to call me back--in short, to throw a dog a bone! Nay, nay!" "Oh, Berta, be sweet. Tell me. You know that I think you have the most original ideas in college." After I had coaxed her quite a lot, she told me her new scheme. It was something like advanced character reading and biology combined. Just as scientists classify trees and plants in botany, Berta proposed that we should divide the students into different classes according to their manners. "It will be so improving and instructive too," she pleaded, "we'll be paragons of politeness before we finish them all. We'll be so particular about our highest class that we will notice every little thing and thus take warning." She paused a moment; then, "Did you hear me say thus?" she inquired. When I nodded, she gazed at me sadly. "People who belong to the highest class never gesticulate; they use spoken language exclusively. Furthermore, as to the thus. I wondered if an up-springing sense of courtesy persuaded you to refrain from hooting at such elegant verbiage. That would be a sign of benefit already derived from the classes. By the way, it was Mary Winchester who inspired the idea." "Oh, but she has no manners at all!" I exclaimed before I thought. "That is precisely the point. I met her flying along like a wild creature on her bicycle, eyes staring, hair streaming in the wind. At least, some locks were streaming. She gave the impression of a being utterly lawless. Then I thought----See here, Miss Leigh, are you interested in my thoughts?" "Yes'm," I answered meekly. "Then drop that pen and pay attention. Even the girls who are to belong to the second class in manners know how to do that. Well, I thought that she hardly ever accepts an invitation, and she looks as she didn't expect anybody to like her, and she minds her own business and does exactly as she pleases generally. My next important thought was that sometimes she cuts me in the hall, and sometimes she doesn't, just as she happens to feel. That led to the philosophic reflection that politeness is a question of law." "Ah, pardon me, Miss Abbott, but I remember from a story which was read by my teacher about forty years ago when I was in the fourth reader that "'Politeness is to do or say The kindest thing in the kindest way.'" "That's what I meant. The law of kindness--that's what politeness is. Listen to the logic. Mary Winchester is lawless, hence she breaks the law of kindness, hence she has no manners, hence it will be fun to divide everybody here into various classes according to their manners." So that is the way our classes began. It was awfully, awfully interesting. Robbie Belle said she didn't want to; but Berta and Lila and I talked and talked and talked. We sat in the windows and talked instead of dancing between dinner and chapel. We talked after chapel, and on our way to classes or to meals. And of course we talked while we were skating or walking or doing anything similar that did not demand intellectual application. Lila even talked about the classes in her sleep. We discussed everybody who happened to attract our attention. Finally we had sifted out all the candidates for the highest class except three. One was the senior president, pink and white and slender and gentle and she never thumped when she walked or laughed with her mouth open or was careless about spots on her clothes or forgot the faces of new girls who had been introduced to her. The second was a professor who was shy and sweet and went off lecturing every week. The third was a teacher who looked like a piece of porcelain and always wore silk-lined skirts and never changed the shape of her sleeves year after year. Not one of the three ever hurt anybody's feelings. Miss Anglin was obliged to go into the second class because she had moods. No, I don't mean because she had them,--for sometimes you cannot help having moods, you know--but because she showed them. She let the moods influence her manner. Some mornings she would come down to breakfast as blue as my dyed brilliantine--(how I hated that frock!)--and would sit through the meal without opening her mouth except to put something into it; though on such occasions we noticed that she rarely put into it very much besides toast and hot water. On other days she made jokes and sparkled and laughed with her head bent down, and was so absolutely and utterly charming that the girls at the other tables wished they sat at ours, I can tell you. We three were exceedingly fond of her, but we agreed at last after arguing for seven days that true courtesy makes a person act cheerfully and considerately, no matter how she may feel inside. There were about nine in that second class, and fourteen in the third and twenty in the fourth, when we started in on Mary Winchester. Lila and I were rushing to get ready for the last skating carnival of the season. Some one knocked at the door. It was Mary, but she didn't turn the knob when I called, "Come." She just waited outside and gave me the trouble of opening it myself. Then in her offish way she asked if we were through with her lexicon. After I had hunted it up for her, she happened to notice that Lila was wailing over the disappearance of her skates. "I saw a pair of strange skates in my room," she said and walked away as indifferent as you please. Now wouldn't any one think that was queer? It made Lila cross, especially when she found that the skates had three new spots of rust on them. March is an irritable month, anyhow, you know. Everybody is tired, and breakfast doesn't taste very good. She sputtered about the rust till we reached the lake where we found two big bonfires and three musicians to play dance music while we skated. Imagine how lovely with the flames leaping against the background of snowy banks and bare black trees! Berta and Lila and I crossed hands and skated around and around the lake with the crowd. When we stopped in the firelight, Lila looked unusually pretty with her rosy cheeks and her curls frosted by her breath. Berta's eyes were like stars. Of course Robbie Belle was beautiful, but she did not associate much with us that evening. After one turn up and back again while we discussed Mary Winchester, she said she thought she would invite our little freshman roommate for the next number. We kept on talking about Mary. Lila was insisting that she ought to be put in the tenth class or worse, while Berta maintained that she wasn't quite so bad as that. I kept thinking up arguments for both sides. Lila counted off her crimes, and she didn't speak so very low either. "Mary Winchester doesn't deserve a place even in the tenth class. Why, listen now. You admit that she borrows disgracefully and never returns things. At least, she helped herself to my skates. It is almost the same as stealing. She has no friends. She always goes off walking alone, and sits in the gallery by herself at lectures and concerts. Everybody says she is queer." "Miss Anglin thinks girls in the mass are funny," I volunteered, "though maybe they are not any more so than human kind in the bulk. She says that we all imagine we admire originality, but when we see any one who is noticeably different from the rest, we avoid her. We call her queer and are afraid to be seen with her." "Mary Winchester's independence is commendable," protested Berta. "I envy her strength of character. She ignores foolish conventions----" "As for instance, the distinction between mine and thine," interrupted Lila, "you don't live next to her, and you don't know. Her disregard for the property rights of others indicates a fatal flaw----" "Fatal flaw, fatal flaw!" chanted Berta mischievously, "isn't that a musical phrase! Say it fast now, and see if it tangles your tongue." I was afraid Lila would feel wounded, so I remarked hastily that we agreed that Mary was not polite; the question was as to the degree of impoliteness. "Even Robbie Belle acknowledges that she is not a lady," chimed in Berta; "she said it when Mary wanted to take that stray kitten to the biological laboratory. She declared it would be happier if dead." "And it wasn't her kitten either," I contributed. "Robbie found it up a tree. It is necessary to weigh every little point in a scientific study like this." "Don't you see, girls, that Mary Winchester does not come from good stock," began Lila, "of course she isn't a lady. Her attitude toward the rights of others is certain proof that her family has a defective moral sense. Perhaps her brother----" "Oh, let's follow out the logical deductions," cried Berta. "That course in logic is the most fascinating in the whole curriculum. See--if a girl lacks moral judgment, she either inherits or acquires the defect. If she inherits it, her father doubtless was dishonest. Maybe he speculated and embezzled or gambled or something. If she acquired it through environment, her brother must have suffered likewise as they were presumably brought up together. So perhaps Mary Winchester's brother was expelled from college for kleptomania." "Then," said Lila triumphantly, "how can we possibly put her into even the lowest of our classes in manners?" "Hi, there!" I started to scream before the breath was knocked out of me by colliding with some girls who had been skating in front of us. One of them had caught her skate in a crack, and we were so intent on our conversation that we bumped into them, and all tumbled in a heap. Nobody was hurt. That is, nobody was hurt physically. We picked ourselves up and went on skating as before. It was not until days later that we discovered what had been hurt then. It was Mary Winchester's reputation. Those girls in front had overheard part of our remarks. And they thought that we were talking about real facts instead of just analyzing character. It was exactly like a game of slander, only worse. The rumor that Mary Winchester's father was a gambler and that her brother had been expelled from college for stealing spread and grew like fire. You know, as I said before, she was a queer girl--so queer in countless small ways that she was conspicuous. Even freshmen who did not know her name had wondered about the tall, wild-looking girl who had a habit of tearing alone over the country roads as if trying to get away from herself. Naturally when such a report as this one of ours reached them, they adopted it as a satisfactory explanation. They also, so to speak, promulgated it. The first we knew of the rumor was from Robbie Belle. It was the afternoon before the Easter vacation, and Lila and I were in Berta's room to help her pack her trunk. At least Lila held the nails while Berta mended the top tray and I did the heavy looking on. When Berta stopped hammering and put her thumb in her mouth, I remarked that nobody who squealed ouch! in company could belong to our highest class in manners. Lila's expression changed from the pained sympathy of friendship to the scientific zeal of character study. "Girls, have you noticed Mary Winchester lately? It is the strangest thing! She seems more alone and alien than ever. The girls avoid her as if she had the plague. In the library and the corridor to-day it was as plain as could be. They stop talking when she comes around. They watch her all the time though they try not to let her know it. Of course, she couldn't help feeling it. They point her out to each other, and raise their brows and whisper after she has passed. She moves on with her head up and her mouth set tight. Her manners are worse than ever." "When I met her this morning, she looked right through me and didn't see anything there, I reckon," said I, "and, oh, Lila, you were mistaken about her borrowing your skates without leave. It was Martha who had them that morning. In rushing to class she got mixed up and threw them in at the wrong door, that's all. Our example is corrupting the infant." Berta forgot her aching thumb. "Something is wrong. Mary's eyes are those of a hunted creature. Driven into a corner. Everybody against her. I wonder----" Robbie Belle walked slowly into the room, her clothes dripping with water. "Mary Winchester fell into the lake," she said, "you did it." In the silence I heard Berta draw a long sigh. Then she dropped her hammer. "She broke through the ice," added Robbie Belle. "But the ice is rotten. How did she get on it?" asked my voice. "She walked," answered Robbie Belle, "I saw her." Then she crossed over to Berta, put both arms around her neck, hid her face against her shoulder, and began to shake all over. "I helped pull her out, and she fought me--she fought----" At that moment little Martha, our freshman roommate, came running in. "That queer girl jumped into the lake. I saw them carrying her to the infirmary. She did it because everybody knows her father is in the penitentiary. They heard about it at the skating carnival. Her brother is an outlaw too----" Robbie Belle lifted her head. "She hasn't any brother, but it is true about her father. The doctor knows. She wonders how the story got out. It was a secret. Mary changed her name. She--she fought me." I heard Berta sigh again. It sounded loud. Lila sat staring straight in front of her with such a horrified expression on her white face that I shut my eyes quick. When I opened them again, Miss Anglin stood in the doorway. I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life. But we did not tell her then about our classes in manners. We waited till one day in June when she asked us how we had managed to win Mary out of her shell. As I look back now I cannot possibly understand how we succeeded. It was the most discouraging, hopeless, hardest work I ever stuck to. Over and over again Berta and I would have given up if it had not been for Lila. She said that she dared not fail. Of course Robbie Belle helped a lot in her steady, beautiful way. Martha did her best too, partly because she was so sorry about her share in the affair of the skates. In fact all the girls were perfectly lovely to Mary after the doctor had persuaded her not to throw everything up and run away to hide. By and by she realized that it was no use to refuse to be friends. Indeed she is a dear girl when you get to know her real self. Her unfortunate manner--it was unfortunate, you know--had been a sort of armor to shield her sore pride. She had been afraid of letting anybody have a chance to snub her. That was the reason why she had seemed so offish and suspicious and indifferent and lawless and queer. Do you know, I never heard Robbie Belle say a sharp thing except once. She said it that day when we were telling Miss Anglin about the classes. It was: "Whenever I want to say something mean about anybody, I think I shall call it a scientific analysis of character." CHAPTER IX THIS VAIN SHOW It was the first evening at college in their junior year. Upon coming out of the dining-room Lila caught sight of Bea waiting at the elevator door. Dodging three seniors, a maid with a tray, and a man with a truck full of trunks, she made a dash for the new arrival who in a sudden freak of perversity danced tantalizingly just beyond reach. "You imp! And I haven't seen you for three months. Help me!" she beckoned to Berta who that moment emerged from dinner, "run around that side and catch her." But Bea, swiftly subsiding from her mischievous agility, stood still and regarded them with an air of surprised, sad dignity as the two flung themselves upon her. "Young ladies, I am astonished at such behavior. Leading juniors--real, live, brand-new juniors--and to display such lack of self-restraint, such disdain of gracefulness and repose! Oh!" her voice changed magically, "oh, you, dear sweet, darling girls, I love you pretty well." "Then why," queried Berta, gasping as she released herself, "then why, I repeat, do you endeavor to choke us to death?" "Because," answered Bea, as she meekly allowed Lila to straighten her hat while Berta rescued her satchel from the middle of the corridor, "because you are so nice and noble and haven't any false feeling about little tokens of affection like that. In fact, you haven't any false pride or anything false, and I have a tale of woe to tell you by and by. Hereafter I intend to be a typical college girl, not an exception." The promised by and by proved to be the hour of unpacking after chapel services. While Bea was emptying her satchel that night she snatched up a little fringed napkin and shook it vigorously before the other girls. "See the crumbs! Thereby hangs the tale. Now, listen. This summer we have been feeling rather poor at home, you know. My father's firm was forced to make an assignment. It wasn't his fault, you understand; it was because of the hard times. Every few days we would hear of a bank closing its doors or a factory shutting down. People have been cutting off expenses in all directions. Of course my family has to economize. I am thankful enough to be able to come back to college. About a dozen girls in the class have dropped out this year of the panic. I knew that I could earn fifty dollars or more by tutoring and carrying mail, if I once got here. That will help quite a lot toward books and postage and ordinary personal expenses. Father said he could manage the five hundred for board and tuition. You had better believe that I do not intend to be needlessly extravagant, when my mother is keeping house without a maid, and my father is riding to his office on a bicycle. Now I rather suspect that this explanation is no excuse for the foolish way I behaved on the journey to college that September. But the summer has been so horrid, and two or three acquaintances changed around after the failure and treated us as if we had ceased to be worth noticing. Of course I know that such persons are not worth noticing themselves, still it did hurt a little. I guess the reason why I pretended to have plenty of money while traveling with Celia was because I was afraid of being hurt again. And then too I remembered how she had said one evening the year before when we were playing Truth that she despised stinginess beyond any other vice. That had made an impression on me because I was just going to say the very same thing myself. Celia is a new student who is to join our class this year. We met her last spring when she came up from a boarding-school in New York to visit a senior. You remember her? It was at a fudge party in her honor that we played the game of Truth, to which I have already alluded. She is the kind of person who is generally asked to be an usher at a hall play or on Founder's Day. She is tall, holds her head high, has an air. The doctor herself said when she saw her in chapel the evening of her visit, "Who is that striking girl?" She dresses beautifully too; and I think I shall ask her to let me put down her name for two dances next month, if my cousin and his roommate come from Yale for the reception. Being new to the college atmosphere, she had an excuse for the way she acted on the journey. An excuse that I did not have, you know--and I know too. But as for that, more anon, anon! At present I start in and continue by stating that on a certain September day I was sitting by myself in the Union Station at Chicago, while I waited for my train. I had arrived two hours before, and I was hungry, and I was also, as explained above, strongly inclined to be economical. And therefore I was eating my luncheon out of a pasteboard box, instead of going to a restaurant. On my lap was a fringed napkin upon which reposed one slice of chocolate cake with frosting, one big peach, and seven large white grapes each containing at least three seeds. Just at the very moment when I took a bite of the peach, hoping that none of the weary passengers around me was taking notes, for that peach was certainly juicy,--just at that exact moment, I happened to glance across to the door. There was Celia Lane, with her head higher than ever, looking up and down for an empty seat. And the only empty seat in the whole waiting-room was next to mine. And my lap was strewn with an economical luncheon. It was silly of me. I admit that once and forever, and shall not repeat it again. But like lightning her remark about stinginess flashed into my mind. Before she had taken the second step in my direction, I had crammed all those seven grapes into my mouth, bundled the napkin with crumbs, cake and pit into my satchel, shoved it under the bench, and rose nonchalantly swallowing the grapes whole as I haughtily lifted my chin in order to survey my worthless companions. Then of course my eyes fell upon her, and I started forward in vivacious greeting. I don't believe she had recognized me before, for she said, "Oh!" with a queer little gasp. Then she put out her hand in that cordial way of hers. It made me think that I was the person she had been longing to find. She inquired what road I was going on, and said, "Ah, yes, what a charming coincidence!" But honestly it seemed to me that there was a worried expression in her eyes. And there I sat miserably shaking in my old shoes. It may appear funny to you, but it was an awful feeling. Even now months afterward I never want to smile at the memory. You see, it costs five dollars to ride in a Pullman car from Chicago to New York. I had planned to go into the common passenger coach until nightfall, and thus save two dollars and a half toward books for the new semester. That sounds a bit mean and sordid, doesn't it? And I know my family would have objected if I had told them, because the sleeping-cars are much safer in case of accidents. Oh, how I hated to say anything about it! You can't imagine. I wonder how Berta would express it with literary vividness. Maybe she might say that she "shrank in every fibre." But it was worse than that--I just didn't want to, I simply couldn't. [Illustration: WE HANDED OVER FIVE DOLLARS APIECE] The hand of the clock kept moving around--oh, lots faster than it had done before Celia appeared. When it was nearly time for the train to be ready, I began to mutter and mumble and finally managed to remark that I thought I had better see about engaging my berth. What do you suppose? She gave a sort of astonished jump and exclaimed, "Why, I must too." So we both marched over to the agent's window and handed over five dollars apiece. I was dying to ask her to go shares with me, because one berth is plenty--or, I mean almost plenty--large enough for two. But though I opened my mouth a few times and coughed once, I absolutely did not dare to propose such a penurious plan. She might have thought me close-fisted, and perhaps she would not have slept very well either. No sooner had we settled ourselves in the sleeper, than I began to worry about the meals. Naturally she would assume that I intended to go into the dining-car every time. Most of the girls do as a matter of course. In fact I remember feeling condescending whenever I saw anybody eating from a box while the other passengers were filing down the aisle, or up, whichever it happened to be. This year I was to be one of the brave unfortunates left behind in their seats. Well, very likely you understand that people while traveling really ought not to eat so heartily as usual. Much food in a dining-car clogs the system and ventilates the pocketbook, so to speak. I appreciated myself hard for being right and noble and abstemious and foresighted--with respect to the semester's expenses, you perceive, and also self-denying and self-reliant. There are a number of selfs in that sentence, likewise in the idea and in my mind at the time. I don't believe honestly that poverty is good for the character, though Berta says that she knows it isn't good for anything else. Celia and I went out to sit on the rear platform of the observation-car. The scenery was not particularly interesting in comparison with Colorado; and consequently I had spare energy for meditating on Emerson's essays and his observation that "What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think." I wish I were strong-minded. To reflect sincerely, however, I don't believe it is so much a question of a strong mind as of a weak imagination. If I had been unable to imagine what Celia might think, doubtless I wouldn't have bothered about it. But I was bothered. The sensation of botheration deepened and swelled and widened as supper time drew nearer and nearer, and every moment I expected to hear the waiter's voice intoning behind me, "Supper is now ready in the dining-car." What made this state of affairs all the sadder was the memory of springing gladness inspired by the same sound on previous journeys. I sat there dreading and dreading and dreading. And then, what do you think? Celia was asking me about Lila and Berta and Robbie Belle and the fun we have and incidentally something about the work. I was talking so fast that I forgot all about being poor. When the waiter's voice suddenly rang out at the end of the car, I jumped up instantly just as I had always done on former occasions of the same nature. And I exclaimed, "I am simply starved to death." Then I remembered and sat down so quickly that my camp-chair tipped against Celia and knocked her over so that she might have fallen off the platform if there had not been a railing around it. That catastrophe created such a flurry of anxieties, apologies, and so forth, that I succeeded in letting the crisis slip past unmolested. At least, that first crisis did. The second crisis arrived a little later when the voice behind us rang out again with, "Second call to supper in the dining-car." I glanced sidewise at Celia just in time to catch her glancing sidewise at me. That made me spring lightly to my feet, I can tell you. Was she getting suspicious? Was she too courteous to suggest an extravagance the refusal of which might hurt my pride? Was she wondering why I seemed to have forgotten that I was starving to death, if not already starved? So I said in a tone of patient consideration, "Shall we wait any longer, Miss Lane?" She jumped up like a flash, and her face was quite red. "No, indeed! Not on my account certainly." She emphasized the my so distinctly that I was sure she suspected. That dreadful thought caused me to stiffen my manner, and as hers had been strangely stiff all the afternoon, we were awfully polite to each other during supper. Each of us insisted upon paying the bill and feeing the waiter. It was terrible. I couldn't afford to pay it all, and yet I was too silly to give in gracefully, especially as some other passengers were listening, and the waiter hovered near. Finally it resulted in his receiving twice the sum, half for the bill, and half for a fee. I hope he appreciated it. Then we talked politely to each other for an hour or two before going to bed. And in the morning, there was the problem of breakfast confronting me. The problem woke me early. Being poor is bad for the health as well as bad for the character, I think. Probably it is bad for the soul also. Or maybe it is not the poverty so much as being ashamed of it that perverts a person's life. Well, actually I almost cherished the deceitful plot of getting up so early that I should be already dressed before Celia would appear, and then I could tell her that I had been so hungry that I had eaten my breakfast alone. It would have been true too, because I intended to nibble my malted milk tablets behind a magazine. But this plan came to naught; for when I poked my head out between the curtains I saw Celia herself staggering toward the dressing-room with her satchel. Thereupon I lay down again and nibbled the tablets in the berth. That would enable me to assert truthfully that I was not hungry and did not care for breakfast in the diner. Oh, dear! Wasn't it awful! I did tell her that very thing, and she said she didn't believe she was hungry either. Then we were polite to each other till noon. When the waiter's dreaded voice once more rang out, I made my little speech that I had been composing all the morning. It was as follows: "Don't wait for me, Miss Lane. I consider that over-eating is a heinous fault among Americans, and so I have decided to omit the dining-car for the remainder of this journey. Pray, do not let me keep you." She said, "Why, that's exactly what I think, too." Just fancy! And there I was almost famished. I thought she would leave me at once, and I could have a chance to eat the luncheon spoiling in my box. Chicken sandwiches and jelly and olives and salted almonds and fruit and cake and everything good. I had been thinking of it for hours. What could I do? There she sat, and there I sat in plain sight of each other, being in the same seat for the sake of sociability, though her section was the one in front of mine. She seemed rather quiet and formal--not so much stiff as limp, so to speak. Still there was no cordiality about it. Just as I felt I could not stand starvation another minute, she rose and said she believed she would go into the observation-car for a while. She did not invite me to accompany her, and I made no offer to go. I simply sat and smiled and watched her fumble in her bag for a few minutes before extricating what was apparently a rolled up magazine. Then she marched down the aisle. The instant she had vanished into the vestibule, I made a dive for my box. In just thirty seconds I had consumed half a sandwich and a slice of cake. I kept my eyes on the spot where she had disappeared, you had better believe. Oh, wasn't I silly? But then, I promised not to allude to that obvious fact again. That lunch tasted good. And I had plenty of time to eat all I wanted, though I cut short the chewing process. When it was all down to the very last olive, I brushed off all the crumbs I could see, and decided to walk into the observation car and be polite again. So I did. And what do you suppose? Through the glass at the rear I saw her sitting sort of sidewise so that one eye could watch the door where I was entering. It seemed to me that she gave a little quiver as I came within view, and then actually she threw something overboard. People always see more than you think they do. At least I saw that, and she thought I didn't, for when I emerged upon the platform she looked up with a surprised smile of welcome and said, "Isn't the river beautiful!" I said, "Oh, isn't it!" and then I gazed at it very hard and attentively so as to give her a chance to wipe the spot of jelly from her shirtwaist. She had been eating her luncheon too. She had carried it wrapped up in the funneled magazine. She had been ashamed to acknowledge that she needed to be economical, too. I saw it all in a flash. She had intended to ride in the common coach and save pullman fare, just like me. And there we had been racing, neck and neck, trying to keep up with each other. "Oh, dear!" I said at last, "I wish we had taken a berth together and saved our two dollars and a half apiece." I heard her give a little gasp and I felt her staring at me. The next minute she said, "There are crumbs on your necktie too." And then she bent down her head and laughed and laughed and laughed till I had to laugh too. "I hope it'll be a lesson to us," I said at last. She wiped the tears from her lashes. "It will be. I expect to be repenting for weeks ahead,--at least, until my next allowance comes in. But, you! Why, Miss Leigh, it seems so queer. I thought the college girl was different as a rule--independent and frank and--oh, pardon me--and--and so forth." "She is," I assured her sadly, "as a rule. But I am an exception. I prove the rule." CHAPTER X CONSEQUENCES For her junior year Bea was fortunate enough to secure a mail-route, the proceeds of which helped to make her independent of a home allowance for spending money. To tell the truth, however, she enjoyed the work even more than the salary. While distributing the letters she felt a personal share in every delighted, "Oh, thank you!" in each ever-unsatisfied, "Is that all?" or the disappointed, "Nothing for me to-day?" From her own experience and observation during the years already past, she was particularly interested in the different pairs of roommates who came within the scope of her daily trips. In a certain double lived two freshmen, one of whom always greeted her with, "Oh, thank you!" whether the mail was addressed to her or to her roommate. But when the roommate answered the knock, she invariably exclaimed, no matter how much was handed to her, "Is that all?" More than once in her reports to Lila, Bea declared that it was about time for a wave of reform in the vicinity of Ethelwynne Bruce. Perhaps she might even have contemplated the possibility of engineering something of the kind herself, if she had not been too busy to spare the necessary thought-energy. In the course of events, fate with its machinery of circumstances added an extra lesson to Ethelwynne's college course. It happened one evening during the skating season. Ethelwynne with her skates jingling over her arm came shivering into the room. "Oo-oo-ooh!" Her teeth chattered. "Wynnie's freezing. Do shut that window and turn on the heat, Agnes. It is hard lines to live in a double with a regular Polar bear direct from the land of Sparta. You ought to keep it up as high as forty degrees anyhow." "Sh-h!" The smooth dark head at the desk bent lower over the water-color before her. "Don't interrupt this minute. There's a dear. I've got to catch this last streak of daylight----" "But it isn't daylight," fretted Ethelwynne, "the moon's up already. And I'm so chilly! I wish you would help me make some hot chocolate." "Look at the thermometer. Ah, one more stroke of that exquisite saffron on the stem! Hush, now. Look at the thermometer, look at the thermometer," she muttered abstractedly while concentrating all her mental attention in the tips of her skilful fingers. Ethelwynne stared at her a moment before giving a little chuckle that ended in a shiver. "Look at the thermometer, look at the thermometer," she echoed sarcastically, "I reckon that'll warm me up, won't it? Like somebody or other who set a lighted candle inside the fireless stove and then warmed himself at the glowing isinglass. Suppose your old thermometer does say seventy or eighty or ninety or a hundred? Maybe it is telling a story. Why should I trust an uneducated instrument that has never studied ethics? Now listen here!" She lifted her skates and poised them to throw from high above her head. "Hist! if you don't drop those hideous toadstools of yours and begin to sympathize with me this instant, I shall hur-r-rl this clanking steel----" Agnes still painting busily raised one elbow in an attitude of half-unconscious defense. "----upon the floor-r-r!" At the crashing rattlety-bang Agnes sprang to her feet with a nervous shriek. Ethelwynne dived for her skates and felt them carefully. "I tried to pick out the softest spot on the rug," she complained whimsically, "but there wasn't any other way to wake her up. And I simply had to have some sympathy. Oo-oo-ooh, Wynnie's freezing!" Agnes had returned to her brushes and was wiping them dry in heartless silence. "Wynnie's freezing, I say." "Say it again," counseled the other's calm voice. "I am so provoked at myself for jumping at every little noise! It is shameful to have so little control over my own nerves even if I am tired. Ah! what was that?" "Jump again," advised Ethelwynne in a tone that was meant to be serene but proved rather jerky. "It was nothing but my teeth chattering and clicking together." "Generally it's your tongue," retorted Agnes with interest but broke off in this promising repartee to exclaim with genuine anxiety, "Why, Wynnie, child, you have a regular chill. Lie down quick and let me cover you up. Have you been out skating ever since I left you on the lake?" "Yes, I have," she replied with an air of defiance, "you needn't preach. I couldn't bear to come in. Everybody out. We had square dances, shinney-on-the-ice, wood tag. Perfectly glorious! Such a splendid elegant sunset behind the bare trees! I simply had to stay. Beatrice Leigh and her crowd were there. A big moon came sailing up. We skated to music--somebody whistled it. I couldn't bear to stop. I wanted to stay, I tell you. I wanted to stay." "Hm-m," said Agnes, "I wanted to stay too. But what with the Latin test to-morrow and this plate for the book on fungi to be sent off in the morning, I managed to tear myself away." "You're different. Oo-oo-ooh!" Ethelwynne shivered violently again. "You like to deny yourself. You enjoy discipline. It gives you pleasure to do what you hate. You love duty just because it is disagreeable." "My--land!" Agnes clutched her own head. "The infant must have slipped up a dozen times too often. Did the horrid bad ice smite her at the base of the brain? Poor little darling! Is her intellect all mixedy-muddle-y? We will fix it right for her. We'll give her a pill." "I think I have caught cold," moaned her roommate from the depths of the blankets. Agnes looked judicial. "Our doctor at home has a theory that people take cold easily when they have been eating too much sweet stuff. He says that colds are most frequent after Thanksgiving. Now I wonder--I believe--why, you surely did go to a meeting of the fudge-club in Martha's room last night. Ethelwynne, did you eat it? Did you eat it even after all the doctor said to you about your sick headaches?" "Of course I ate it. How do you expect me to sit hungry in a roomful of girls all digging into that plateful of brown delicious soft hot fudge with their little silver spoons, and I not even tasting it? I hated to make myself conspicuous before the juniors there. They would think I am a hypochondriac, and Berta Abbott might have said something to make the others look at me and laugh. I don't believe the stuff hurts me a particle. Doctors always want you to give up the things you like best." "Oh, Ethelwynne!" groaned Agnes, "you never deny yourself anything. It is the only trait I don't like in you. Now you have caught a dreadful cold just because you could not refuse the candy. You must break it up with quinine." She fetched a small box from the bureau in her bedroom. "Here, open your mouth." The other girl opened her mouth obediently. "I love pills. We're homeopaths, you know. Once when I was a baby, I got hold of mother's medicine chest and ate all the pellets. I thought they were candy. Sweet--oh, delicious! I used to enjoy being sick. And now this nice big chocolate-coated pill!" She sprang up suddenly, her face twisted into an expression of agony. "Oh, oh, oh!" Agnes white as a sheet flew to her side. "What is it? Quick, quick, Wynnie! Is it your heart? Your head? A darting pain! Where, oh, where?" "Crackie!" Ethelwynne ruefully rubbed her mouth. "I've been sucking that pill." After a moment's struggle to retain her sympathetic gravity, Agnes gave way and dropping her head on her hands shook alarmingly for at least half a minute. "I told you I was a homeopath," expostulated Ethelwynne, "how was I to know that allopaths always swallow their pills whole?" "Wh-wh-why did you suppose it was coated with chocolate?" gasped Agnes. "So as to improve the taste of course and tempt me to eat it. I am fond of chocolate. If it is my duty to eat a pill, I want it to be inviting. I don't want to do anything that I don't want to do, specially when I am sick. Well, anyhow, I shall never touch another." However, by bedtime Ethelwynne was feeling so miserable that finally after long urging she consented to swallow another dose of quinine in the orthodox way. She allowed Agnes to put a hot water bottle at her feet and to tuck in the coverlets cozily; and then she tried to go to sleep. But that was another story. It was a story of fitful jerks and starts, of burning fever alternating with shivering spells, of terrifying dreams and wretched haunted hours of wakefulness. At last the longed-for morning stole in at the windows to find her eyes heavy, her limbs languid, her brain muddled and dull, her head roaring. It was the quinine that had done it--she knew it was--unspeakably worse than the cold unattended. Worried Agnes acknowledged that the dose might effect some systems violently. "But it has broken up your cold," she pleaded, "that's certainly gone." "What?" said Ethelwynne fretfully, "don't mumble so and run your words together. I can't hear the gong very well either. And the Latin test is coming the first hour after breakfast. I haven't had a chance to review an ode. I feel so wretched! Oh, me! oh, me!" Ethelwynne never forgot that Latin test. The very first line written by the instructor on the blackboard smote her with despair. She had never been able to translate from hearing anyhow. This morning when Miss Sawyer took her seat on the platform and opened her book, Ethelwynne bent forward anxiously, every nerve alert and strained. What was the first word? Oh, what was it? She had not caught it. It sounded blurred and mazy with no ending at all. And the next--and the next! And the third! Now she had lost it. The first was gone. She had forgotten the second. The voice went reading on and on. She floundered after, falling farther and farther behind. There wasn't any sense to it, and she couldn't hear the words plainly, and everything was all mixed up. The other girls seemed to understand. They were writing down the translation as fast as they could scribble--at least some of them were. But she could not make out a particle of meaning. It was Agnes's fault--it was all her fault. She had coaxed her to take the quinine, and now she could not hear plainly or think or remember or anything. In wrathful discouragement she turned to the rest of the questions. One or two were short and easy. She managed to do the translations already familiar. But when she reached the last part and attempted to write down an ode which she had memorized the week before, she found that many of the words had slipped away from her. The opening line was vivid enough, then came a blank ending in a phrase that kept dancing trickily from spot to spot in her visual imagination of the page. Here she recalled two words, there three, with a vanishing, vague, intangible verse between. The meaning had slid away utterly, leaving only these faulty mechanical impressions of the way the poem had looked in print. Struggle as she would, the thought frolicked and pranced just beyond the grasp of her memory. Ethelwynne bit her lip grimly and put the cap on her fountain-pen. It was not the slightest use. Miss Sawyer had always told them to learn the odes understandingly, not in parrot fashion. It was better to submit a blank than a paper scribbled with detached words and phrases. It was all Agnes's fault--every bit. She had forced her to swallow that pill--the pill that had muddled her brain and dulled her hearing--the pill which was causing her to flunk in Latin. She had known that ode perfectly only the previous day. It wasn't her fault--it was entirely Agnes's. She would go instantly and tell her so. And she went the moment class was over. To be sure, she did not go so fast as she wished, for her head had a queer way of spinning dizzily at every sudden movement. Once or twice her knees faltered disconcertingly in her progress down the corridor. But at last she reached the room and walked in with a backward slam of the door. Agnes was putting the final touches to the water-color drawing of exquisite fungi before her. "Sh-h," she murmured, "don't interrupt. Just one more stroke--and another--now this tiny one. There, it is finished. Professor Stratton sends her manuscript off to-day and she is waiting for this. Think of it! Thirty dollars for this sheet of paper! Thirty whole big beautiful dollars to send home for Christmas. They need it pretty badly. I've worked hours and hours, and now they shall have a real Christmas! I know what mother wants and couldn't afford----" Ethelwynne stamped her foot. "It was all your fault. I couldn't hear. I couldn't think. I couldn't remember. The pill did it. You made me take it. You always think you know best. You're always preaching and advising. You wanted to make me flunk. You knew it would make my ears ring and my head whirl. You did it on purpose. I shall never forgive you, never, never, never!" "What!" At the tone Ethelwynne suddenly shivered, threw herself on the couch, and fell to crying weakly. "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it at all. I only wanted to say something horrid. I wanted you to suffer too. I just wanted to say it, and so I did say it. Oh, oh, oh, I am so miserable! I want to go home." Agnes paid no attention. In her sudden sharp resentment at the preposterous accusation, she had swung around in her chair, and her elbow had tipped over the inkwell, spilling the contents over the desk. She sat staring in horrified silence at her ruined drawing. Finally Ethelwynne puzzled by the continued stillness peered with one eye from the sheltering fringes. She sprang up with a jump. "Agnes, your beautiful fungi!" A knock sounded at the door. "Come," called Agnes in mechanical response. There was a pause; then the knob turned and the visitor entered with diffident step. Ethelwynne hastily smoothed her hair with one hand and felt of her belt with the other. "Oh, good evening, Professor Stratton," she stuttered from surprised embarrassment, "I mean, good morning. How do you do? Won't you sit down?" Agnes turned to look, and rose in sober greeting. "You see it is spoiled," she pointed to the ink-splotched drawing. "It was an accident. You don't know how exceedingly sorry I am, Professor Stratton. The work on your book can go on without it, I hope." The older woman forgot her incorrigible shyness in dismay. "What a shame! How distressing!" She hurried forward impulsively to examine the sheet. "Since you brought it to me last night I have been exulting in the thought of it. You have great talent for such work. The time you have spent on it! How distressing!" She stopped in thoughtful fear that she might be adding to the girl's disappointment. "An accident, you say? How did it happen?" "Something startled me so that I twirled around in my seat, and my elbow knocked the ink over. I--I am very sorry." Her lips felt stiff. Ethelwynne watching with miserable eyes saw her moisten them. They were drooping at the corners. "It is my fault," she burst out hurriedly, "it is all my fault. I made her jump. I startled her on purpose. I said mean things to her because I felt like saying them. I felt like saying them because I had flunked in Latin. And I flunked in Latin because I took a p-p-pill--oh, no, no! I mean, because I caught cold from staying out on the ice too long. And I stayed out long because I wanted to. And the reason why I caught cold from staying out too long was because my digestion was upset from eating fudge when the doctor told me not to. And I ate the fudge because I wanted it. And it is all my fault. It is all because I do things just because I want to do them and not because I ought to do them or ought not to do them. I ought to leave them undone, you know. And Prexie says that most miseries in life come from that attitude of I-do-it-because-I-want-to-do-it-and- I-don't-do-it-because-I-don't-want-to-do-it. And now Agnes won't have thirty dollars to send home for Christmas. And it is all my----" "Hush!" said Agnes, "hush, now, dear! That'll be all right. It was my fault anyhow. I should have had better control of my nerves and learned not to let myself get startled." She smiled reassuringly across the bowed head into Professor Stratton's concerned eyes. "I will see what I can do about holding back the manuscript till you reproduce the drawing," said the older woman, "it is barely possible that I can manage it." As the door closed softly behind her, Ethelwynne lifted her tear-wet face. "Agnes, do you think it was the pill that did it?" "Did what? Everything?" "Oh, no, no! Was it the pill that made me flunk in Latin?" "I don't know," she answered doubtfully, "perhaps it helped." "I want to say it was the pill. I want to believe it was the pill. I want to, but I won't, because it wasn't--not really way down underneath truly, you know. It was my own selfish self." She reached up both arms to draw Agnes closer in a repentant hug. "Wynnie's sorry," she said. CHAPTER XI A GIRL TO HAVE FRIENDS "Laura!" It was a soft little call sent fluttering in through the keyhole. "Laura, are you there?" Laura with her chin propped on her hands at one of the broad sills stirred uneasily in her chair and glanced sideways at her roommate who was seated before the other window. Lucine had stopped reading aloud and was regarding the door with an irritable frown on her vivid dark face. "I do wish, Laura, that you would tell Berta Abbott that an engaged sign on our door means nothing if not the desire for undisturbed privacy. She is the most inconsiderate person in the junior class. This is the third time----" "Laura!" called the voice again, "answer me! I know you are in there. I've simply got to speak to you one minute. It's awfully important." Laura half rose with a pleading smile toward Lucine who motioned her indignantly back to her seat. "Laura Wallace, stay right there. You promised to help me revise this essay. You know that I can't do it alone, because I haven't a particle of critical ability; and the editors say they cannot print it as it is now. You are exceedingly selfish to think of deserting me just when I most need your suggestions. The board of editors meets to-night to choose the material for the next number of the magazine, and if they decline this again I shan't be eligible for election next month. You promised." "Laura, there's something I've got to ask you. If you don't come out, I shall have to take this sign down and walk in my own self. Laura! Ah!" The door swung open and tall Berta popped in. Slamming it behind her, she stood with both hands on the knob, her eyes fixed with an expression of innocent inquiry upon Lucine who had halted in the middle of her sudden dash across the floor, her hand still outstretched toward the key. "Excuse me, Miss Brett. Were you just going out? I'm glad I did not disturb you. Shall I hold it open for you?" She stepped to one side and waited gravely without moving a muscle till Lucine after a withering stare had stalked angrily back to her window. The corner of Berta's mouth gave a quick, queer little twitch before settling back into proper solemnity. "Come, Laura. You'd better. I shan't keep you long." At her imperious gesture Laura slid out of the room at an apologetic angle, her head twisted for a final shy glance back at Lucine who was apparently absorbed in her papers. When safely outside in the corridor Berta seized her about the waist and whirled her away from all possible earshot through cracks and transom. "Now then, exit the ogre, or rather eximus nos, leaving the ogre alone. For what particular reason is she trampling all over you to-day? I didn't catch all her last speech. You don't mean to say that you have promised to help her with her writing?" "Yes," Laura nodded her rough curly head. She was a delicate little thing with the irregular features that generally accompany such hair. Her beauty lay in her expression which brightened charmingly from minute to minute since her escape. "Oh, how good the air smells!" she stopped to lean from an open window. "Lucine shivers at every draught. It is hard to manage the ventilation to suit two persons in the same room. I smother----" "Of course you smother--and you smother a good many more hours than she shivers. Trust her for that. Such a little ninny as you are! Don't forget that you have agreed to room with my best little sister when she enters next fall. You would not have been thrust in with Lucine Brett this year if I could have prevented it." "Oh, but if I can't come back--you know, I'm almost sure I shan't come back. And anyhow I'm the only friend she has. I've got to stick to her. If you could hear her mourning over her loneliness! Nobody cares for her--nobody in all the world! And the girls don't like her. I promised to be her friend. She--she needs me." "Humph!" growled Berta sourly, but somehow her arm was stealing around the slight shoulders so far beneath her own, "that's the silly kind of a person you are. If any creature needs you, from a lame kitten to a lion with a toothache, you'll cling. Idiocy, that's what it is! Your brother warned me last summer to restrict your charities. And now to help her with her writing, and she your most dangerous rival for the editorship!" "Ah, but she doesn't know it, you understand. She doesn't know that I am eligible. The editors have been so awfully kind to me and gave me book reviews to do and reports to make, and they printed my verses and two editorials. Every freshman who has had so many words published is eligible for election on the board at their annual meeting next month. Lucine's last story was clipped so much that she is short about two thousand words; and this is her last chance to qualify by getting her essay accepted for the next issue. I've got to help." "Yes, certainly you've got to help a rival qualify for a competition in which she is likely to defeat you. Do you realize that?" Berta swung Laura around in front of her and studied her curiously while she spoke. "You are a good steady worker, you understand. You have critical ability and a simple, sincere style. If elected you would make an excellent editor, but--now listen, but, I say, you are not a genius like Lucine Brett. She is brilliant. Oh, I acknowledge that, even if I do despise her for being selfish and disagreeable and ego----" "Hush! She tries--she doesn't understand----You mustn't talk that way. I won't listen. I promised to be her friend. She wonders why the girls don't like her." "And yet she expects you to help her defeat you! She is willing to accept that sacrifice from you! When it means so much to you that----" "Oh, hush, Berta!" Laura slipped out of the range of that keen straight-ahead gaze and nestled under the protecting arm again. "She doesn't know that I am eligible, I tell you. My articles weren't signed usually except with initials. And she is not thinking about other girls' qualifications--she's bothered about her own. It's got to be a fair race with everybody in it, if they want to be. Of course she will be elected--there isn't a doubt--and I'll be as glad as any one." "Yes!" Berta's voice veered from sarcasm to genuine anxiety. "You'll be glad--but you'll be glad at home. You can't come back to college--you told me so yourself--unless you are elected editor. That's why I called you out just now. Did your uncle really say that he was disappointed in your career here?" Laura cleared her throat. "He doesn't like it because I haven't won any honors yet. Don't you know how almost every girl here came from a school where she was the brightest star and carried off all the prizes and things like that? My uncle doesn't understand. He thinks it is the fault of the college because I haven't done anything great. Oh, you know, Berta. I--I do hate to talk in such a conceited way. He doesn't realize that I am not brighter than the rest and can't dazzle. He wants me to win an honor that he can put in the papers at home. He says if I don't distinguish myself this year, I might as well stop and go to the Normal next fall. He thinks college is too expensive. This editorship is the only chance, because--because there isn't anything else for our class now that the offices are filled and committees appointed. He didn't like it because my articles in the magazine were signed with initials and not the whole name. He said, 'Well, niece Laura, let me see your name printed plain in that list of editors, and then we'll decide about next year.' He--he's disappointed." "And yet," Berta spoke slowly, "you are going to help Lucine Brett with that essay. And you know how much my little sister cares about being at college with you." Laura gave a startled jump and turned to run. "Oh, Berta, I had forgotten. She's waiting. I've stayed too long. She'll be so angry!" "Let her," growled Berta; but Laura had fled. Meanwhile Lucine when left alone had dropped the sheets of her essay in her lap and planting her elbows on the sill crouched forward, staring miserably out at the brown soaked lawn flecked with sodden snowdrifts in the shadows of the evergreens that were bending before a rollicking March wind. "Nobody cares," she mourned, "even Laura doesn't care whether I succeed or not. I want the girls to like me, but they won't." Tears of self-pity dimmed her lashes when Laura slipped timidly into the room and after a worried glance at the scattered papers resumed her former seat. "Now, Lucine, if you will read that last paragraph once more, I will try to see where the difficulty lies. It--it's fine so far." Lucine looked down at her essay, then across at the attentive small face that appeared quite plain when fixed in such a worried pucker. "No," she said at last, "I won't. You are not interested in the essay or in my hopes of success. You offer to help merely because you think it is your duty. I refuse to accept such grudging friendship. You toss aside my affairs at the slightest whim of an outsider, and then expect me to welcome the remnant of your mental powers. No, thank you." Laura bit her lip. "I'm sorry," she said, "you ought not to feel that way about it. I do truly wish to help you all I can. Please!" Lucine made a half-involuntary movement to gather up the sheets; then checked herself. "No, I have too much pride to play second fiddle. Your neglect has wounded me deeply, and I do not see how I can ever forgive you. To forsake me for such a shallow, disagreeable person as Berta Abbott is an unpardonable insult." Laura gave a little shiver and lifted her head sharply. "I have tried to be your friend. I have endured--things. But I won't endure this--I won't--I can't. Berta is my friend. You shall not speak of her like that to me. Say you're sorry--quick! Oh, Lucine, say you didn't mean it and are sorry." "I am not sorry," said Lucine distinctly, "and I did mean it. I am glad I have dared to speak the truth about her. She is shallow and disagreeable." "And what are you?" Laura sprang to her feet. "A conceited selfish inconsiderate----" She clapped her hand to her mouth with a quick sobbing breath. "Oh, Lucine, we can't be friends. I've tried and tried, but we can't." From beneath lowered eyelids Lucine watched the slight little figure hurry to the door and vanish. Then rising abruptly she jerked a chair in front of her desk, slapped down a fresh pad of paper, jabbed her pen into the inkwell, shook it fiercely over the blotter--and suddenly brushing the pages hither and thither she flung out her arms upon them and buried her face from the light. A few minutes later Laura entered noiselessly and stopped short at sight of the crouching form with shoulders that rose and fell over a long quivering sob. Laura took one step toward her, next two away; finally setting her teeth resolutely she glided softly across the room and patted the bent, dark head. For an instant Lucine lay motionless; then with a swift hungry gesture she reached out her arms and swept the younger girl close to her heart. "Laura, I can't spare you, I can't spare you. You are all I have. Forgive me and let me try again. It is an evil spirit that made me talk that way. And, oh, Laura, dear, I want you to like me better than you like Berta. I need you more." Laura put up her mouth in child-fashion for a kiss of reconciliation. "I like you both," she said, and freeing herself gently stooped to pick up the loose leaves of the essay. "Shall we go on with revising this now, Lucine? It is due this evening, you know. The board meets at eight in the magazine sanctum." Lucine watched her with a wistfulness that softened to tenderness the faint lines of native selfishness about her mouth. "Laura, I want you to room with me next year. We can choose a double with a study and adjoining bedrooms. It will make me so happy. Do you know, last autumn when I lived in the main building and you away off in the farthest dormitory, I used to sit in a corridor window every morning to watch for you. I care more for you than for any one else. I shall teach you to care most for me next year." Laura seemed to have extraordinary trouble in capturing the last sheet, for it fluttered away repeatedly from her grasp and she kept bending to reach it again. Lucine could not see her face. "Will you," she repeated, "will you room with me next year, Laura?" Laura coughed and made another wild dive in pursuit of the incorrigible paper. "Let's not talk about next year," she mumbled uncomfortably, "it is so far off and ever so many things may happen before June. Of course," she faltered and swallowed something in her throat, "I'd love to room with you, if--if I can. But now we must hurry with this essay." "Well, remember that I have asked you first," said Lucine, "and I can't spare you." Laura said nothing. After the essay had been read and discussed by Laura whose critical insight was much keener than Lucine's, the older girl settled herself to rewrite the article before evening. Dinner found her still at her desk, fingers inky, hair disordered, collar loosened in the fury of composition. In reply to Laura's urgent summons to dress, she paused long enough to push back a lock that had fallen over her brow. "Don't bother me now. I'm just getting this right at last. Go away. I don't want any dinner." The pen began again on its busy scratching. "Lucine, you know the doctor warned you to be more regular about eating. Whenever you work so intensely, you always pay for it in exhaustion the next day. Do come now and finish the essay later." The rumpled head bent still lower. "I wouldn't drop this now for thirty dinners or suppers. It's good--it's fine--it's bound to be accepted--it means the editorship. To sacrifice it for dinner! Do go away. I wish you would leave me alone." Laura turned away silently. If the success of the article was in question, she certainly could not interfere further. Lucine wrote on, paying no heed to the gong except for the tribute of an impatient frown at the sound of many feet clicking past in the corridor, with a rustling of skirts and light chat of voices. At seven when the bell for chapel again filled the halls with murmur and movement, she only shrugged uneasily and scribbled faster. By half-past she had finished and was re-reading it for final corrections. Then folding it with a smile of weary contentment, for at last she knew that it was sure of success, she set out to carry it to the magazine sanctum. Down the stairs and through the lower corridor she hastened toward the plain wooden door whose key she hoped next year to claim for her own fingers. The transom shone dark, and no voice yet disturbed the quiet of the neighborhood. Evidently the editorial board had not yet begun to assemble for the business session. Lucine decided to wait till they arrived, so as to be certain that the precious essay reached their hands in safety. If she should drop it through the letter slit in the door, it might be overlooked. Curling up on a window ledge in a shadowy corner behind a wardrobe she waited while dreamily gazing at the moon which was sailing through clouds tossed by the still rollicking wind. Ever since her first glimpse of the magazine's brown covers, she had determined to become editor-in-chief some time. Now this essay would surely be accepted, and when printed this month would render her eligible for election as the first sophomore editor. From that position she would advance to the literary editorship next year, and then to be chief of the staff when she was a senior. Then--ah, then the girls would be eager and proud to be friends with her. And Laura would be glad she had not forsaken her in her early struggles. So far she had been too busy with her writing to make friends and keep them. It took so much time and was such a bother to be friendly and do favors all the while. But by and by she would have leisure to grow unselfish and show the girls how noble and charming and altogether delightful she could be--by and by. Meanwhile her work came first. She simply had to succeed in winning this editorship. While Lucine lingered there, leaning her forehead against the cool pane, footsteps sounded from around the transverse; and two figures, arm in arm, strolled nearer. They glanced at the dusky transom, laughed over the tardiness of their stern editor-in-chief, and sat down on a convenient box to wait. Lucine after an intent scrutiny to identify the two seniors as subordinate editors turned again to the moon, and listened half unconsciously to the low trickle of words till suddenly her own name roused her alert. "Yes, they're the favorite candidates." It was Bea's voice that spoke. "If Miss Brett completes her quota of lines this month she will undoubtedly have the best chance in the election, even if she is personally unpopular. She is exceedingly self-centred, you know, and does not trouble herself even to appear interested in anybody else. Her manner is unfortunate. However she is unquestionably the ablest writer in the class though little Laura Wallace is a close second. Berta knew her at home and is very fond of her. Laura and Berta's sister Harriet have always been special friends." "Is Laura eligible? I do think she is the sweetest child!" "Didn't you know it? Her work has been mainly inconspicuous contributions signed only with initials. Stuff like that counts up amazingly in the long run. She is a better critic though not so original as Miss Brett. For my part I think the editor-in-chief ought to be primarily a critic, but perhaps I am wrong. Anyhow the theory is that the election goes to the best writer. I'm sorry. I half wish Miss Brett would fail to qualify. The editorship means such a heap to Laura." "How?" "Her uncle who pays her expenses here is rather queer--thinks he ought to see more results of her career. He's disappointed because she doesn't gather in prizes as she did in the country schools. She may in her senior year, but freshmen don't have much chance to win anything more than an honorable record. He doesn't believe in college anyhow and consented to send her under protest. Now he threatens to stop it if she doesn't do something dazzling this year." "Poor infant! What a ridiculous attitude! But since that is the case, why not vote her in? Lay the circumstances before the board, and they'll elect her." "Oh, no, they won't. The board is altogether too scrupulous and idealistic this season to let personal feelings interfere. You're rather new to office as yet. Mark my words and trust me: if Miss Brett qualifies, she will be elected. I know--and that's why I wish she wouldn't." "There come the others. See that pile of manuscript. We'll be lucky if we get away at midnight. I only hope nobody will ask me to compose a poem to fill out a page; my head feels as if stuffed with sawdust." Lucine turned her head slowly to watch the group of girls wander into the office and light the gas amid a flutter of papers and dressing-gowns mixed with sleepy yawns and tired laughter. Then some one shut the door. Lucine was still sitting in the shadowy window-seat, her essay clutched tightly in her hand. After a minute she rose, walked toward the door, and lifted her arm as if to knock. Then giving herself an impatient shake she swung around and hurried down the corridor as far as the transverse. There she hesitated, halted, half swerved to retrace her steps, stamped one foot down hard, brought up the other beside it, and clenching both fists over the essay fled from the neighborhood. When she reached her room, she paused to listen. Hearing no sound she slipped inside, threw the essay into a drawer, locked it, and put the key in her pocket. Then after a wistful glance around she stooped to pick up Laura's white tam from the couch, pressed it against her cheek for a moment, and laid it gently in the empty little chair where Laura had sat while listening to the essay that afternoon. "Laura," she whispered, "I can't spare you, Laura. You shall come back next year, and we shall room together again, you and I." Without a backward look toward the drawer where the manuscript lay buried, Lucine gathered up note-book and fountain-pen and departed for the library. She walked slowly through the long apartment, glancing into alcove after alcove only to find every chair occupied on both sides of the polished tables that gleamed softly in the gaslight. Finally she discovered one of the small movable steps that were used when a girl wished to reach the highest shelf. Capturing it she carried it to the farther end of a narrow recess between two bookcases and doubled her angular length into a cozy heap for an evening with Shelley's poem of "Prometheus Unbound." That was to be the English lesson for the next day. As she read verse after verse, the music of the wonderful lines soothed her restless mood, and the beauty of the thought that love and forgiveness are stronger than selfishness lifted her to a height of joyous exaltation. The idea of Prometheus suffering all agonies for the sake of men came to her like a revelation. While she pondered over it, suddenly like the shining of a great light she understood the truth of "he that loseth his soul shall find it." The Christ-ideal of self-sacrifice meant the highest self-realization. "My cup runneth over, my cup runneth over," sang Lucine in her heart, as she read on and on. "I have been blind but now I see. It has been always true, always, always. My cup runneth over. Listen: "'It doth repent me; words are quick and vain; Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine, I wish no living thing to suffer pain.'" "Laura!" Lucine raised her head dreamily. She was unconscious of how the evening hours had drifted past, leaving only a few lingering students here and there in the library. She could not see the two girls bending over the table on the other side of the bookcase behind which she was nestling. But their voices floated mistily to her ears. "Laura, remember that you have promised to live with my sister next year. Don't let Lucine coax or frighten you out of it. You have promised." "But if I don't come back?" "Well, anyway you have promised to room with Harriet if you do. We'll choose a parlor away off at the other end of the campus from Lucine, so that I can protect you from her demands. You've been growing thinner and whiter all the year. Now, remember. Don't you give in to her selfishness. She is able to take care of her precious self without killing you in the process. Promise." Lucine heard a sigh. "I've promised to be her friend and I do care for her dearly; but I want with all my heart to room with Harriet, if I can manage to get back for next year. I'm almost sure I shan't. Now, see here, does this verb come from vinco or vincio? I'm so sleepy I can't read straight." Lucine very white about the lips was sitting erect in her corner. "My cup runneth over, my cup runneth over," echoed faintly in her brain. "My cup runneth over and Laura likes her best and the essay is up-stairs and I wish no living thing to suffer pain--suffer pain. My cup runneth over. 'Pain, pain ever, forever!' I won't, I won't, I can't do it, I can't, I can't, I can't! To sacrifice it all for her and then--and then to be forsaken!" Lucine glided from the recess, passed swiftly from the library, climbed the stairs to her room, moved toward the drawer which held the essay, and felt for the key in her pocket. It was gone. It must have fallen out while she read, doubled up on the low step. In wild haste now, for the minutes were flying and the board of editors might even now have adjourned, she hurried back to search. The green baize doors swung open in her face, and Berta and Laura came loitering out, their arms around each other, their heads bent close together affectionately. "Lucine, oh, Lucine!" Laura at sight of her slipped away from Berta, "what is the matter? What has happened? Didn't they accept the essay?" Brushing her aside Lucine swept on into the library, turned into the recess, and dropped on her knees beside the step to look for the stray key. Her eyes fell upon the open book which lay face downward where she had forgotten it. Then she remembered. "I wish no living thing to suffer pain." It was long past ten o'clock and the corridors stretched out their dusky deserted length from one dim gas-jet to another flickering in the shadows, when Lucine crept back to her room. Laura raised a wide-eyed anxious face from the white pillow. "Lucine, I couldn't sleep until I knew." The older girl sat down on the bed and drew the little figure close. "When you are editor, Laura, will you try to like me still? And will you keep on forgiving me and helping--helping me to deserve to have friends? And will you--will you teach me how to make Harriet like me too?" "Oh, Lucine!" Laura flung her warm arms around the bowed neck. "I know what we shall do next year, if I can come back. The idea has just struck me. You and Harriet and I shall room together in a firewall with bedrooms for three!" CHAPTER XII AN ORIGINAL IN MATH When Gertrude's brother turned up at college just before the holidays of their senior year, he boldly asked for Bea in the same breath with his sister's name. When the message was brought to her, that fancy-free young person's first thought was a quick dread that Berta would tease her about the preference. But no. Miss Abbott, chairman of the Annual's editorial board, clasped her inky hands in relief. "Bless the boy! He couldn't have chosen better if he had looked through the walls and discovered Bea the sole student with time to burn--or to talk, for that matter. Trot along, Beatrice, and tell him that Gertrude is coming the moment she has dug her way out of this avalanche of manuscript. I can't possibly spare her for half an hour yet. Go and distract his mind from his unnatural sister by means of another story." "Tell him about your little original in math, Bea," called Lila after her, "that's your best and latest." Bea retraced her steps to thrust back an injured countenance at the door. "I guess I am able to converse as well as monologue, can't I?" she demanded indignantly, "you just listen." However, when confronted by a young man with a monosyllabic tongue and an embarrassingly eloquent pair of eyes, she seized a copy of the last Annual from the table in the senior parlor, and plunged into an account of her own editorial trials. Gertrude is on the board for this year's Annual, you know, and Berta Abbott is chairman. At this very moment they are struggling over a deluge of manuscripts submitted in their prize poem contest. Of course, I sympathize, because I have been through something of the same ordeal. The Monthly offered a prize for a short story last fall, and we had rather a lively sequel to the decision. Shall I tell you about it from the beginning? At our special meeting, I read the stories aloud, because I happen to be chief editor. Nobody said anything at first. Janet, the business editor, tipped her chair back and stared at the piles of magazines on the shelves opposite. Laura, who does the locals, pressed her forehead closer to the pane to watch the girls hurrying past on their way to the tennis tournament on the campus. Adele and Jo, the literaries, nibbled their fountain-pens. I spread out the manuscripts, side by side, in a double row on the big sanctum desk, picked up my scribbled pad, leaned back till the swivel screw squeaked protestingly from below, and said, "Well?" Janet brought her chair down on all four feet with a bump. "Nary one is worth a ten dollar prize," she declared pugnaciously, "especially now that Robbie Belle has gone to the infirmary for six weeks and she can't help me in soliciting advertisements." Laura turned her head. "Robbie Belle had promised to write up the first hall play for me. She was going to review two books for Jo and compose a Christmas poem for Adele's department. I think maybe there are perhaps a dozen or so girls who might have been more easily spared." I brushed a hand across my weary brow. It did not feel like cobwebs exactly,--more like cork, sort of light and dry and full of holes. I had been up almost all night, studying over those fifteen manuscripts, applying the principles of criticism, weighing, balancing, measuring, arguing with myself, and rebelling against fate. If Robbie Belle had been there she could have recognized the best story by instinct. Ever since I became chief editor I had depended upon her judgment, because she is a born critic and always right, and I'm not. And now just when I needed her most of all and more than anybody else, there she had to go and get quarantined in the infirmary. "Girls," I said, "do express an opinion. Say what you think. We simply must decide this matter now, because the prize story has to go to press before the first, and this is our only free afternoon. I know what I think--at least I am almost sure what I think--but I want to hear your views first. Adele, you're always conscientious." Adele was only a junior and rather new to the responsibility of being on the editorial board. She glanced down at her page of notes. "Every one of the stories has some good points," she began cautiously. "Most of them start out well and several finish well. Six have good plots, nine are interesting, five are brightly written. Number seven is, I believe--yes, I think I consider it the best. The trouble is----" "Altogether too jerky," interrupted Jo, "a fine plot but no style whatever. This is a cat. See the cat catch the rat. That's the kind of English in number seven. Now I vote for number fifteen." "Oh, but, Jo," I broke in eagerly, for number seven was my own laborious choice also, and Adele's corroboration strengthened me wonderfully. "Jo, it is the simplicity of the style that is its greatest recommendation. You know how Professor Whitcomb has drummed into us the beauty of Anglo-Saxon diction. It's beautiful--it's charming--it's perfect. Why, a six-year-old could understand it. Fifteen is far too sensational for good art. Just listen to this----" Jo was stubborn. "The use of short words is a mere fad," she said, "it is like wearing dimity for every occasion. Now listen to this!" She snatched up one manuscript and read aloud while I declaimed from the other. Adele listened with a pained frown on her forehead, Janet laughed and teetered recklessly to and fro on her frisky chair, Laura fidgeted at the window and filled every pause with a threat to leave us instanter for the tournament positively had to be written up that day. Finally I put the question to the vote, for Jo is so decided in her manner that she makes me feel wobbly unless I am conscious of being backed up by Robbie Belle. I suppose it is because my own opinions are so shaky from the inside view that I hate to appear variable from the outside. It would have been horrid to yield to Jo's arguments and change my ideas right there before the whole board. The rest of them except Jo had fallen into a way of deferring to my judgment, for I had seemed to hit it off right almost always in accepting or rejecting contributions. Nobody knew how much I had depended on Robbie Belle. The board awarded the prize to number seven, my choice, you know. Janet was on my side because the story had a nice lively plot, and that was all she cared about. Laura put in a blank ballot, saying that her head ached so that it was not fair to either side for her to cast any weight upon the scale. Adele of course voted with me. Jo stuck to number fifteen till the end. "Well, that's over!" sighed Laura and escaped before any one had put the motion to adjourn. Janet vanished behind her, and Jo picked up the manuscript of which she was champion. "By the way, girls," she said, "I will return this to its writer, if you don't mind. And I shall tell her to offer it to the Annual. The committee will jump at the chance. Find out who she is, please." I slipped the elastic band from the packet of fifteen sealed envelopes and selected the one marked with the title of the story. The name inside was that of a sophomore who had already contributed several articles to the Monthly. Then I opened the envelope belonging to number seven. "Maria Mitchell Kiewit," I read, "who in the world is she? I've never heard of her. She must be a freshman." Jo who was half way out of the room stopped at the word and thrust her head back around the door. "Did little Maria Kiewit write that? No wonder it is simple and jerky. She's a mathematical prodigy, she is. Her mother is an alumna of this college. See! The infant was named after our great professor of astronomy. She wants to specialize herself in mathematical astronomy when she gets to be a junior. Her mother was head editor of the Monthly in her day. Maria rooms somewhere in this corridor, I believe. It will be a big thing for her to win the prize away from all the upper class girls. I didn't vote for her. By-bye." "Oh!" exclaimed Adele, clasping her hands in that intense way of hers, "won't she be happy when she hears! A little ignorant unknown freshman to win the prize for the best short story among eight hundred students! Her mother will be delighted. Her mother will be proud." "Hist!" Jo's head reappeared. "She's coming down the corridor now. Red cheeks, bright eyes, ordinary nose, round chin, long braid, white shirtwaist, tan skirt--nothing but an average freshman. She doesn't look like a mathematical prodigy, but she is one. And an author, too--dear, dear! There must be some mistake. Authors never have curly hair." Adele and I poked our faces through the crack. Jo wickedly flung the door wide open. "Walk right out, ladies and gentlemen. See the conquering heroine comes," she sang in a voice outrageously shrill. During the trill on the hero, she bowed almost double right in the path of the approaching freshman. Maria Mitchell Kiewit stopped short, her eyes as round as the buttons on her waist. Jo fell on her knees, lifting her outspread hands in ridiculous admiration. "O Maria Mitchell Kiewit," she declaimed, "hearken! I have the honor--me, myself--I snatch it, seize it--the honor to announce that thou--thee--you--your own self hast won the ten dollar prize for the best short story written for the Monthly by an undergraduate. Vale!" She scrambled upright by means of clutching my skirt and put out a cordial hand. "Nice girl! Shake!" "Josephine!" gasped Adele in horrified rebuke. My breath was beginning to come fast over this insult to our editorial dignity when I caught sight of the freshman's face. Her cheeks were as red as ever, but she had turned white about the lips, and her eyes were really terrified. "Oh, I don't want it!" she cried involuntarily, shrinking away from us, "I don't want it." Jo's mouth fell open. "Then why in the world----" The little freshman fairly ran to the alleyway leading to her room. Jo turned blankly to us. "Then why in the world did she write the story and send it in?" Adele--I told you she was conscientious, didn't I? and inclined to be mathematical herself--stared at the spot where Maria had disappeared. "Such an attitude might be explained either by the supposition that she is diffident--sort of stunned by the surprise, you understand--she never expected to win. Or maybe she is shy and dreads the notoriety of fame. Everybody will be looking at her, pointing her out. Or--or possibly----" Adele hesitated, glanced around uneasily, caught my eye; and we both dropped our lids quickly. It was horrid of us. I think it is the meanest thing to be suspicious and ready to believe evil of anybody. But truly we had just been reading a volume of college stories, and one was about a girl who plagiarized some poems and passed them off as her own. And this Maria Mitchell Kiewit had behaved almost exactly like her. "Or possibly what?" demanded Jo. Adele stammered. "Or p-p-possibly--oh, nothing! Maybe she is ashamed of the story or something like that. She lacks self-esteem probably. She didn't expect it to be published, you know, and--and she is surprised. That's all. She--I guess she's surprised." "Come along, Adele," I slipped my arm through hers and dragged her away from Jo's neighborhood, "you must help me reject these fourteen others. That's the part I hate worst about this editorial business." "Don't you want to reconsider the decision?" called Jo, "since she doesn't wish the prize herself, you'd better choose my girl. This is your last chance. The committee for the Annual will surely gobble number fifteen up quick. Berta Abbott knows good literature when she sees it. Going, going----" "Let her go. Now, Adele," I said, closing the sanctum door with inquisitive stubborn Jo safely on the outside, "here are the rest of the names. You doubtless know some of their owners by sight, and I hope I know others. This is how we shall manage. Whenever you see one of them securely away from her room--maybe in the library or recitation or out on the campus or down town or anywhere--you tell me or else run yourself and take her manuscript and poke it under her door. I'll write a nice polite little regretful admiring note to go with each story, and that ought to take the edge off the blow. But be sure she is not at home. It would be simply awful to hand anybody a rejected article right to her real face and see how disappointed she is. I think it is more courteous to give her a chance to recover alone and unobserved." "But suppose she has a roommate?" said Adele. "Oh, dear! Well, in that case we'll have to watch and loiter around till they are both out of reach. It may take us all the week." And it actually did. It took a lot of time but it was exciting too in a way. We felt like detectives or criminals--it doesn't matter which--to haunt the corridors and grounds till we spied one of those girls headed away from her room (of course we had to find out first where each one lived), and then we scurried up-stairs and down and hung around in the neighborhood and walked past the door, if anybody happened to be near, and finally shoved the manuscript to its goal. Certainly I understand that we were not obliged to take all this trouble but I simply could not bear to send those long envelopes back through the post. Every student who distributes the mail would have recognized such a parcel as a rejected manuscript. And of course that would have hurt the author's feelings. Naturally I was rushed that week because Thanksgiving Day came on Thursday, and I had an invitation to go down to the city to hear grand opera that afternoon. It was necessary to take such an early train that I missed the dinner. That evening when I returned I found the whole editorial board and Berta too groaning in Lila's study while Laura acted as amanuensis for a composite letter to Robbie Belle. You see, they had eaten too much dinner--three hours at the table and everything too good to skip. Each one tried to put a different groan into the letter. They were so much interested in the phraseology and they felt so horrid that nobody offered to get me crackers or cocoa, though I was actually famishing. After poking around in the family cupboard under the window seat, I routed out a bag of popcorn. I lighted the gas stove and popped about three quarts, and then boiled some sugar and water to crystallize it. When you are starving, have you ever eaten popcorn buttered for a first course and crystallized for a second? It is the most delicious thing! I had just settled myself in a steamer-chair with the heaped up pan of fluffy kernels within reach of my right hand, when there came a knock on the door. "Enter!" called Janet. The knob turned diffidently and in marched Maria Mitchell Kiewit. Lila pushed another pillow behind Jo on the couch, Laura lifted her pen, Janet exerted herself to rise politely. I carelessly threw a newspaper over the corn, and then poked it off. After all, editors are only human, and freshmen might as well learn that first as last. "I wish to see Miss Leigh," said the visitor in a high, very young voice that quavered in the middle. I straightened up into a dignified right angle. "What can I do for you, Miss Kiewit?" "I wish to withdraw my story," she announced still at the same strained pitch, "I have changed my mind. Here is the ten-dollar bill." "But it went to press three days ago," I exclaimed. "And the Annual has gobbled up second choice," said Jo triumphantly. "We jumped at it," corroborated Berta. "To take out the prize story now would spoil the magazine," cried Adele. "Impossible!" declared Janet. "Nonsense!" said Laura under her breath. The little freshman stared from one to another. Then suddenly her round face quivered and crumpled. Throwing up one arm over her eyes she turned, snatched at the door knob and stumbled out into the corridor. I looked at Adele. "Yes," she replied to my expression, "you'd better go and find out now. It's for the honor of the Monthly. It would be awful to print a--a--mistake," she concluded feebly. Just as I emerged from the alleyway I caught sight of the small figure fluttering around the corner of a side staircase half way down the dimly lighted hall. I had to hurry in order to overtake her before she could reach her own room. She must have been sobbing to herself, for she did not notice the sound of my steps on the rubber matting till I was near enough to touch her elbow. Then how she jumped! "Pardon me, Miss Kiewit. May I speak to you for one minute?" She nodded. I am not observant generally but this time I could see that she said nothing because she dared not trust her voice to speak. She went in first to light the gas. The pillows on the couch were tossed about in disorder, and one of yellow silk had a round dent in it and two or three damp spots as if somebody had been crying with her face against it. Now I hate to ask direct questions especially in a situation like this where I wished particularly to be tactful, and of course she would be thrust into an awkward position in case she should dislike to reply. So I sat down and looked around and said, "How prettily you have arranged your room!" The freshman had seated herself on the edge of her straightest chair. At my speech she glanced about nervously. "My mother graduated here," she explained, "and she knew what I ought to bring. Ever since I can remember, she has been planning about college for me." "What a fortunate girl you are!" This was my society manner, you understand, for I was truly embarrassed. I always incline to small talk when I have nothing to say. She caught me up instantly. "Fortunate! Oh, me! Fortunate! When I hate it--I hate the college except for math. My mother teaches in the high school--she works day after day, spending her life and strength and health, so that I may stay here. I--I hate it. She wants me to become a writer. And I can't, I can't, I can't! I want to elect mathematics." "Oh!" said I. "When she was a girl, she longed to write, but circumstances prevented. Then I was born and she thought I would carry out her ambition and grow to be an author myself. She's been trying years and years. But I can't write. I'm not like my mother. I have my own life to live. I--I hate it so. And--and----" The child stopped, swallowed hard, then leaned toward me, her eyes begging me. "And if you keep my story for the prize, she will hear about it, and she won't let me elect mathematics for my sophomore year." "Oh!" I said, and I was surprised to such a degree that the oh sounded like a giggle at the end. That made me so ashamed that I sat up a little more erect and ejaculated vivaciously, "You--you astonish me." It was the funniest thing--she hung her head like a conscience-smitten child. "I--I haven't told her about it because it would encourage her and then later she would--would be all the more disappointed. I can't write, I tell you." "The vote was almost unanimous," I remarked stiffly. She stared at me doubtfully. "Well, maybe that story is good but I know I couldn't do it again. And anyhow my mother told me the plot." "Oh," I said. It was really the plot that had won the prize, you understand, though indeed I had found the style eminently praiseworthy also according to all the principles of criticism. It almost fulfilled the rhetorical rules about unity, mass and coherence. "So you will let me withdraw?" she questioned timidly, "here's the ten dollars." She held out the crumpled bill which she had been clutching all the evening. I thought I might as well be going. "It's allowable to use your own mother's plot," I assured her, "don't bother about that. Good bye." Without looking at her I hurried through the alleyway into the corridor, flew past the sanctum, darted into the staircase, then halted, turned around, stopped at the water-cooler for a taste of ice water, then walked slowly back to her room. I put my head in at the door. "You heard me say, didn't you, that the story has gone to press?" She lifted her face from that same yellow silk pillow. "Yes," she said. "All right." I started away briskly as if I thought I was going, but I didn't. This time I turned around, went clear into the room and sat down on the couch. "And anyway," I said, "you haven't any right to deceive your mother like that. It is robbing her of a joy that she surely deserves. She has earned it. You haven't any right not to tell her that your story won the prize. Whether we let you withdraw it or not, it would be wrong for you to steal that pleasure from your own mother. You are thinking merely of your own selfish wishes." "No, no, no! Don't you see?" She flung herself toward me. "It is like being a surgeon. I must cut out the ambition. I can never fulfill it. Never, never, I tell you. The news of this prize will make it grow and grow like a cancer or something, till it will hurt worse, maim, kill, when I fail at last. If she would only see that I love mathematics and can do something in that maybe some day. But in literature. Suppose I shut myself up for years, struggle, struggle, struggle to wring out something that isn't in me, while she wears herself out to support me. The publishers will send it back, one after another. I can't write, I tell you. I know it. It will be all an awful sacrifice--a useless sacrifice, with no issue except waste of her life and my life. Don't you see?" "Don't you think," said I calmly, "don't you think that you are just a little foolish and intense?" That is what a professor said to me once and it had a wonderfully reducing effect. So I tried it on this excited little freshman. But the result was different. Instead of clearing the atmosphere with a breeze of half mortified laughter, it created a stillness like the stillness before a whirlwind. I got up hastily. "I think I had better be going," I said. This time I heard the key turn in the lock behind me as I walked rapidly away. Actually I had to hold myself in to keep from scuttling away like a whipped puppy. That is how I felt inside. I didn't believe that she would ever forgive me. There were two compensations for this episode in my editorial career: one was the realization that the little freshman had plenty of dignity to fall back on, the other was that she would not be very likely to ask again for the return of the prize story. Considering that this was my sincere attitude, you may imagine how amazed I was to hear my name called by this young person the very next morning. She came running up to me at the instant my fingers were on the knob of the sanctum door. Her hands were filled with those little cardboard rhomboids, polyhedrons, prisms and so forth which the freshmen have to make for their geometry work. "I'm going to do it," she began breathlessly, "I'm going to tell my mother. Perhaps it would please her more if--if you should write me a note on paper with the name of the Monthly at the top, you know. She used to be an editor when she was in college. In it say that the board gave me the prize. I think it will please her." "I shall be delighted," I exclaimed. Then something in the way she was gazing down at those geometrical monstrosities (I never could endure mathematics myself) made me want to comfort her. "Why, child, it won't be necessary to sacrifice math entirely. You can elect analytics and calculus to balance the lit and rhetoric. Cheer up." She raised eyes brimming with tears. "My mother thinks that math has an adverse tendency. She doesn't want me to take much science either. She says that science deals with facts, literature with the impression of facts." "Oh," I remarked. You notice that I had found occasion to use the foregoing expletive several times since first meeting Miss Maria Mitchell Kiewit. She nodded gloomily in acknowledgment of my sympathetic comprehension. "Yes, once when I described lights in a fog as 'losing their chromatic identity' instead of saying they 'blurred into the mist,' she asked me to drop physics in the high school. She said it was ruinous, it was destroying the delicacy of my perceptions." "Doesn't your mother ever----" I hesitated, then decisively, "doesn't she ever laugh?" Maria dimpled suddenly. "Oh, yes, yes! She's my dearest, best friend, and we have fun all the time except when she talks about my becoming a writer. She said that now at college I could show if there was any hope in me. She meant that this is my chance to learn to write. I--I----" She paused and glanced at me dubiously from under her lashes. "I sent in that story just to show her that I couldn't write. I was going to tell her I had tried and failed." "Oh!" Then I chuckled, and the freshman after a moment of half resentful pouting joined in with a small reluctant laugh. "It is funny," she said, "I think that maybe from your side of the affair it is awfully funny. But----" I turned the knob swiftly. "No but about it. I shall write that note this minute, and you shall mail it home at once. That is the only right thing to do." "Yes." She heaved a deep, long sigh. "I know that. I have worked it all out as an original in geometry. For instance: Given, an unselfish mother with a special ambition for her rebellious selfish daughter. Problem: to decide which one should sacrifice her own wishes. Let the mother's desire equal this straight line, and the daughter's inclination equal this straight line at right angles to the other. To prove----" "See here, little girl," I interrupted her kindly but firmly, "no wonder your mother dreads the effect of mathematical studies on your tender brain! I said farewell to geometry exactly two years and four months ago. I did the examination in final trig three times. Comprehend? Now run into your own room and get that letter written quick. If you are very agreeable indeed, I may let you enclose the proof sheets, who knows?" "Thank you," she exclaimed in impulsive joy, "that will be lovely. Mother will be so pleased." Then the vision of coming woe in exile from beloved calculations descended upon her, and she hugged the paper figures so convulsively that the sharpest, most beautiful angle of the biggest polyhedron cracked clear across from edge to edge. They were perfectly splendid clean edges, edges that even I could see had been formed by the carefully loving hands of a mathematical prodigy. After that day came a pause in the drama (Adele declared that it was really a tragedy caused by one life trying to bend another to its will) until the day when the new issue of the Monthly arrived in the noon mail. As Robbie Belle was still in the infirmary of course, the rest of the board took hold of her share of the work. We divided the list of subscribers between us, and started out to distribute the magazines at the different rooms in the various dormitories. [Illustration: SHE WAVED AN OPEN LETTER IN HER HAND] Part of my route happened to include the neighborhood of the sanctum. Just as I turned into Maria's alleyway to leave the three copies always provided for every contributor, she came dashing out of her room in such a headlong rush that I barely saved my equilibrium by a rapid jump to one side. As soon as she could control her own impetus she whirled and bore down upon me once more. "Mercy, mercy!" I cried, backing into a corner by the hinges and holding my pile of magazines in front as a rampart, "don't be an automobile any more." She waved an open letter in her hand. "Mother says I may elect all the math I want. She says I can't write a little bit. She says that this prize story shows I can't. She says it is awful--all except the plot, and that isn't mine, you know. She says that the vocabulary, sentence structure, everything proves me mathematical to the centre of my soul. She says she has always been afraid she was making a mistake to force a square peg into a round hole. I'm the peg, you understand. She says I needn't struggle any more, and she'll be just as proud of a mathematical genius as of a mechanical author. She says she is grateful for the honor of the prize, but she thinks the board of editors made a mistake." I walked feebly into the room, sank on the couch, and propped myself against that yellow silk pillow. "It's horrid to be an editor," I said, "especially when Robbie Belle has to go and get taken to the infirmary just when I need her most." "My mother knows," chanted the little freshman, "and she says I can't write a little bit. She says I can elect mathematics. Whoopee!" CHAPTER XIII JUST THIS ONCE Ellen drummed restlessly on the window pane. "I'm 'most sure it would not matter just this once. We've had the mildest sort of a fever, and I don't see yet why they keep us shut up so long away off here. I'm crazy to send a letter home." Lila's thin shoulders gave an irritable little shrug under the silken folds of her dressing-gown, and her finely cut features screwed for an instant into an expression of impatient dislike. It was only for an instant--then the mask of her conventional courtesy dropped again between the two convalescents. "Why not tell the doctor or the nurse what you wish to write? They will attend to it for you. Infection may be conveyed in a dozen ways, you know. We are beginning to peel, and that is the worst----" "Oh, are we?" broke in Ellen excitedly, "are we really peeling?" She lifted one hand and examined the wrist. "No, I'm not even beginning. Every morning the moment I wake up I rub and rub, but it won't peel. It simply won't. And I've got to stay here till I do. Are you peeling? Really?" She darted across to her companion and seized her arm without noticing the quiver of distaste before it lay limp in her eager grasp. "Oh, oh, it is, it certainly is! You are peeling. You will get through first and be set free and go back to the girls. I shall be left here alone. It isn't fair. We both came the same day. Think of almost six weeks lost from college! My first spring in this beautiful place! It doesn't mean so much to you, because you're a junior. You don't care." Lila had withdrawn her hand under the pretext of picking up a case knife to sharpen her pencil. Now though her lids were lowered as she hacked at the stubby point, she was perfectly aware of the hopeful curiosity in the freshman's side glance at her. Lila despised the habit of side glances. For the past few days she had felt increasing scorn of a childishness that sought to vary by quarrels the monotony of their imprisonment. Hadn't the girl learned yet that she--Lila Allan, president of the junior literary society--was not to be provoked into any undignified dispute by puerile taunts? "You don't care," repeated Ellen from her old position at the window. "I guess you'd rather anyhow have all your time to write poetry instead of studying." She glanced around just in time to see Lila's lips set in a grimmer line as the lead in the short pencil snapped beneath a more impatient jab of the dull knife. She laughed teasingly. "What's the use of writing all that stuff now? You're wearing out your pencil fast. Aren't you afraid the paper will carry infection? Or will it be fumigated? I think it is silly to bother about germs. Oh, dear!" She began to drum again on the pane. "I'm so tired of this infirmary. There's nothing to do. I can't make up poetry. My eyes ache if I try to read." Here she paused, and Lila was aware of another side glance in her direction. "My eyes ache if I try to read," repeated Ellen slowly, "and there is an awfully interesting story over on the table." She stopped her drumming for a moment to listen to the steady scribble behind her. The little face with its round features so unlike Lila's delicate outlines took on a disconsolate expression. "Do your eyes ache when you try to read," for an instant she hesitated while a mischievous spark of daring danced into her eyes. Then she added explosively, "Lila?" She had done it. She had done it at last. Never before through all the weeks of imprisonment together had she ventured to call Miss Allan by her first name. A delightful tingle of apprehension crept up to the back of her neck. She waited. Now surely something would happen. But nothing happened except the continued scribble of pencil on paper in the silence. Oh, dear! this was worse than she had expected. It was worse than a scolding or a freezing or an awful squelching. It was the queerest thing that they were not even acquainted really after the many weeks. There was a shell around this junior all the time. It made Ellen feel meaner and smaller and more insignificant every minute. The freshman pressed her forehead wearily against the glass. "Oh, look! There come the girls. They're your friends away down on the lawn. Miss Abbott, I think, and Miss Leigh, and Miss Sanders. See, see! The rollicking wind and the racing clouds! Their skirts blow. They hold on their tams. They are looking up at us. They are waving something. Maybe it is violets, don't you think? Once I found violets in March. Can't you smell the air almost? I'm going to open the window. I am, I am! Who's afraid of getting chilled?" "I would advise you not to do anything so utterly foolhardy," spoke Lila's frigid voice. A certain inflection in the tone made Ellen shrink away instinctively. For an instant she looked full into the serene, indifferent eyes, and her own seemed to flutter as if struggling against the contempt she saw there. Then with a defiant lift of her head she hurried to the writing table and seized the pencil which Lila had dropped upon rising to approach the window. A few minutes later when the older girl turned from the greetings and messages in pantomime with her friends below, she saw Ellen's rough head bending over a paper. It was a needlessly untidy head. During the weeks of close confinement and enforced companionship, she had felt her dislike steadily growing. The girl was on her nerves. She was wholly disagreeable. Everything about her was displeasing, her careless enunciation, queer little face, coarse clothes, impulsive, crude ways, even occasional mistakes in grammar. She told herself that the child had no breeding, no manners, no sense of the fitness of things. There was no reason why she should admit her into the circle of her intimates merely because the two had been thrown together by the exigencies of an attack of scarlet fever. Such a fortuitous relation would be severed in the shortest possible time, completely and irremediably severed. Trust Lila Allan, president of the junior literary society, to manage that. Meanwhile she intended to leave the girl severely alone. Think of the impudence of calling her Lila! Lila, indeed! And that hint about reading aloud! The incredible impertinence of it! And to appropriate her pencil! Atrocious! But of course she would keep on being polite. She owed that to herself, to her position, to her self-respect. Accordingly Miss Allan busied herself graciously about other matters till Ellen had finished her note, addressed an envelope, and advanced with it to the window. She hesitated doubtfully, with one hand on the sash. "It won't matter just this once," she said as if arguing, "somebody will pick it up and mail it for me. It concerns something important and private. People are silly about infection. I'm quite sure it won't matter just this once." She paused this time with rather an anxious little side glance toward Lila. That young lady said nothing. She was engaged in contemplating with a studiously inexpressive countenance the stub of her precious and only pencil. It needed sharpening again. Ellen raised the window half an inch. "The doctor here is so foolish," she commented with an injured air, "she's always bothering about infection or contagion or whatever you call it. It isn't necessary either. I know a doctor at home and he told a woman to wrap up her little girl and bring her down to his office, and the little girl was peeling too. He knew it wouldn't do any harm even if she did go in the street car. He was sensible." Lila smothered a sigh of long suffering as she reached for the case knife again. "And I am so tired," insisted Ellen with fretful vehemence. "I am bored to death, and nobody amuses me, and my eyes ache when I try to read, and my wrist won't peel, and all the other girls are enjoying themselves, and my letter is awfully important and private, and mother will be so glad to receive it, and my little sister will snatch it quick from the postcarrier, and they'll all be glad, and there isn't the least bit of danger, and I'm going to do it." She flung the sash wide and glanced around for an instant with a face in which reckless defiance wrestled with a frightened wish to be dissuaded. "I'm going to do it," she repeated, "I'm going to do it--Lila!" Miss Allan raised her head with a politely controlled shiver. "Would you mind closing the window at your earliest convenience, Miss Bright?" The younger girl gave her one look, then turned and leaning out over the sill sent the envelope fluttering downward till it rested square and white on the concrete walk far below. Lila shrugged her shoulder and finished sharpening her pencil. In the course of weary time she was set at liberty. Fair and sweet and delicate in her fresh array she walked down the corridor in the centre of an exultant crowd of friends. In listening to the babel of chatter and laughter, she forgot utterly her companion in imprisonment. Just once she happened to look back from the entangling arms of Bea and Berta and Robbie Belle, and caught sight of a forlorn little figure staring after her from the shadows of the infirmary door. In the glow of her new freedom and heart-warming affection, Lila nodded to her with such a radiant smile that Ellen blushed with joy. On her journey to her room she told herself that Miss Allan liked her after all. It was a solitary journey, for Ellen had boarded in town till February. After moving into the dormitory she had barely begun to make acquaintances before the ogre of fever had swooped down upon her and dragged her away to his den in the isolation ward. The vision of that smile must have remained with her through the troubled weeks that followed; for one April evening in parlor J she ventured to invite Miss Allan to dance. Beyond distant glimpses in the corridors and chapel, Lila had seen nothing of her fellow convalescent. To tell the truth, she had taken pains to avoid any chance association. Once she had found hardly time to take refuge behind an ENGAGED sign before the dreaded little freshman came tiptoeing shyly into the alleyway. Another time when she spied the small face waiting with an expectant wistful half smile at the foot of the stairs she turned to retrace her steps as if she had suddenly recalled an errand in another direction. On this particular evening, Lila had been the guest of honor at a senior birthday table. The senior whose birthday was being celebrated was chief editor of the Monthly. She declared that she invited Lila because of the rhymes that came in so handy to fill up several pages in the last number of the magazine. As Lila, lovely in pale rose and blue and silver, sat at the table gay with flowers and shaded candles, she told the story of how she had written the verses in the infirmary. On her witty tongue the stubby pencil, the dull knife, and the teasing midget of an impudent freshman made a delightfully humorous tale. Even the explosive "Lila!" and its accompanying side glance of terrified joy in the daring developed into a picture that sent the seniors into tempests of laughter. Somehow she did not care to mention the letter which Ellen had dropped out of the window. After dinner Lila pressed on with the others to the dancing in parlor J. The applause and admiration surrounding her made her look her prettiest and talk her wittiest, for Lila's nature was always one that throve best in an atmosphere of praise. She felt as if whirling through fairyland. In the midst of the gayety of music, lights, and circling figures, she lifted her head in gliding past the great mirror and beheld her own radiant face smiling back at her from the flower-tinted throng. Just at that moment through a rift in the throng she caught a glimpse of two big troubled eyes in a queer small face atop of a drooping ill-clad form. Half a minute later as she leaned breathless and glowing against the mirror's gilt frame, she became aware of a timid touch on her arm. Turning quickly she saw Ellen beside her. Her smile faded to an expression of formally polite and distant questioning as she drew her skirts a few inches away. "Will you----" the freshman swallowed once, then pushed out the words with a desperate rush, "will you dance with me?" "Oh, Miss Bright," exclaimed Lila in an overwhelmingly effusive manner, "I am so dreadfully sorry, but I regret to say that I am already engaged for every number. Good-bye!" She slid her hand about her partner's waist and propelled her swiftly into the concealing vortex of waltzers. The partner in question happened to be a certain lively and independent young person called Bea by her friends. "Lila Allan," she scolded as soon as she could steer their steps to a sheltered eddy in a corner, "why in the world did you snub that poor child so unmercifully? After six weeks together in the infirmary too! I'm downright ashamed of you. You ought to be above snobbishness. And it isn't a point of snobbishness either. It is plain cruelty to children. Didn't you see how you hurt her? And the poor little thing has enough trouble without your adding to the burden." "Trouble?" echoed Lila uneasily. "Yes, trouble. Haven't you heard? Her little sister is desperately ill with scarlet fever. Infection conveyed in a letter, I understand. A telegram may come for her any hour. And then when she tries to cheer up, you treat her so abominably! Lila, you are growing more and more spoiled every day. People praise you too much. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You've improved a lot since you first began to room with me, but still----" Lila had vanished. Winding her swift way between the circling pairs, she hurried into the corridor where girls were strolling idly as they waited for the gong to summon them to chapel. Beyond the broad staircase Ellen's disconsolate little figure stood in the glare of the gas-jet over the bulletin-board. Lila hastened toward her. "Miss Bright, oh, Miss Bright, I did not know. I am exceedingly sorry. You will keep me posted? If there is anything that I can do, of course--I feel--I feel--so guilty." Ellen raised her face. Her mouth was trembling at the corners. "I sent the letter," she said, "I'm waiting." She winked rapidly and her odd features worked convulsively for a moment. "If--if they telegraph----" "Miss Bright." It was the voice of a messenger girl who had that instant emerged from an adjacent apartment. "Will you step into the office at once, if you please? There is a message----" Ellen was gone like a flash. Lila walked across to the staircase and very deliberately seated herself with her head resting against the banisters. It was there that Bea found her a few minutes later when the stream of students was beginning to set toward the chapel doors. Bea was startled. "Lila, what is it? You look like a ghost. Shall I get some water?" Lila opened her eyes. "I think that her little sister is dead," she said. "Oh!" Bea clasped her hands in pity. "How can we help?" "I think that I killed her," said Lila. "What!" It was almost a shout. Then noticing that several girls turned to stare curiously in passing, Bea put out her hand. "Come, Lila, get up. It's time to go to chapel. You don't realize what you're saying." She rose obediently in mechanical response to the gesture. "It was my fault because I was the older and I knew the danger. She was only a freshman. She wanted me to persuade her not to drop that letter from the window. I could have kept her from feeling lonely. I made her reckless. It wasn't her fault. But now her little sister is dead." "How do you know she is?" asked Bea. "A message came." "Hush!" They slipped into a pew near the rear of the chapel. During the reading of Scripture, Lila sat gazing blankly straight before her over the rows of heads, dark and fair. As if in a dream she rose with the others for the singing of the hymn. Still as though moving in a mist, she sank again into her seat and bowed her forehead upon the pew in front. While the rustling murmur was subsiding into a hush before the prayer, she stirred and lifting her face turned for one fleeting moment toward the wide doors at the back. Ah! She raised her head higher to watch, motionless, breathless. The doors were noiselessly swinging shut behind a girl with a queer small face atop of an ill-clad little figure. But the face instead of being crumpled in grief was alight with joy; and the little figure advanced with a lilt and a swing, as if just freed from a burden. The message had been a message of good tidings. Lila watched the child slip exultantly into a convenient corner. Then with a sudden, swift movement the older girl dropped full upon her knees and covered her eyes with her hands. CHAPTER XIV CLASSMATES Bea reached for Robbie with one arm, grasped Lila with the other, and went skipping after the rest of the seniors over the lawn to their class tree. She dragged them under its spreading branches to the centre of the throng that had gathered in the June twilight. Berta was already there, mounted on a small platform that had been built against the trunk in preparation for the morrow's Class Day ceremonies. "She looks pretty decent," whispered Bea to Robbie in order to frustrate the queer sensation in her throat at sight of the eager face laughing above them on this last evening together before the deluge of commencement guests. "I hope the alumnæ who are wandering around admire our taste in presidents." "Maybe," Robbie spoke reflectively, "they're almost as much interested in their classmates as we are in ours." "Um-m," said Bea, "why, maybe so they are. I never thought of that before. Robbie, you're my liberal education. Now, then, attention! Berta is raising her hand to mark time for the songs to be rehearsed for to-morrow." But Berta's hand dropped at sound of a shout from across the campus. "There!" she exclaimed, "the sophomores are coming." They certainly were coming, on a double-quick march, two by two, shouting for the seniors. As they approached the shouting changed to singing. When they reached the tree, they spread out and joining hands went skipping, still viva voce, around the seniors who watched them, silent and smiling. The air was sweet with the cool, spicy breath of spruces. Lila thought that she could even smell the roses in the garden beyond the evergreens. She lifted her face toward the soft evening sky, and her mouth grew wistful. Bea caught a glimpse of it, and immediately became voluble if not eloquent. "This is impromptu," she commented, generous with her least thoughts. "I enjoy impromptus, except speeches--or that last lecture when the man couldn't read his own notes. Now my history which is to astonish the world to-morrow will doubtless glitter with extemporaneous wit which has cost me two weeks of meditation. Likewise this impromptu on the spur of the moment----" "I think it's beautiful," said Robbie. She was watching Berta's eyes as the last lingering strains died away. Oh, dear! why did they sing that good-bye serenade again? Berta was going to cry. Hark! A robin's twilight call rose melodiously from the heart of a shadowy spruce. In the thrill of it Robbie felt the sting of sudden tears. She turned to Bea. "Now I know how Berta feels when she listens to music. I'm beginning to understand. But I think a robin is different from a brass band." "Is it now? You astonish me." Bea squeezed her understandingly, nevertheless. "I know. Being with Lila has taught me a lot. She is like a windharp--every touch finds a response. Berta's a violin, I guess. It takes skill to play on her. And you--oh, I believe you're a splendid big drum. You've been marking time for the rest of us all the four years. As for me, I'm only an old tin horn. You need to spend all your breath to get any music. Even then it isn't sickeningly sweet, so to speak. Still for an audience in sympathy with the performer----" "That is what college has given us," put in Lila who had been listening, "it gives us sympathy. Being with different persons, you know, and loving them." "Oh, yes!" Robbie's sigh of intense assent left her breathless, "loving them." "Now, then, girls!" Berta's hand was lifted again to beat time as the clapping for the sophomores subsided. Then the seniors sang. They sang the songs that were to be interspersed as illustrations in Bea's class history. There was the elegant stanza which they had shouted all the way to the mountain lake that first October at college. "'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! kerchoo, kerchoo! We are freshmen-- Who are you?" From that brilliant composition the selections ranged through four years of fun and sentiment with an occasional flight to the poetry of earnest feeling as well as many a joyous swoop into hilarious inanity. When tired of standing around the tree, the class fluttered across the campus to the broad stone steps in front of the recitation hall. Bea clung to Robbie's arm again and reached for Lila in their flight. "I'm 'most sure we look like nymphs flying through the glades, with our draperies blowing in the lines of swift motion. I love to run when I feel like it. Robbie Belle, shall we ever dare to run when we get home?" Robbie did not hear her. From her seat on the steps she gazed at Berta who was standing before the ranks of familiar faces, her eager face alight with the exhilaration of the hour. Once she threw back her head, laughing at some ridiculous verse. Her eyes sought Robbie's for an instant, smiled, then danced away again. Robbie swallowed once, unconsciously, and moved closer to Bea. In a semicircle sweeping around the group of singers, sophomores and stray juniors and many a wandering alumna in a flower-decked hat had gathered to listen. In a pause between the songs. Robbie surveyed them gravely, unrecognizing any of the older guests until presently one face stood out vaguely familiar in the clear twilight. It was a beautiful face, framed by dusky hair beneath the wreath of crimson roses on her hat. The eyes were dusky too and deep-set. They were staring at Robbie with an intensity of grieving affection that contrasted sharply with the stern, almost resentful, expression of her finely cut mouth. As Robbie gazed back in fascinated perplexity, the face suddenly curved into a smile so tenderly radiant that Robbie felt quite dazzled for a moment. Involuntarily she smiled back, while striving to grasp the dim recollection. Who could it be? She had surely seen her before somewhere. But where? At college? At home? Where was it? Slowly a vision grew distinct in her groping memory. It was a vision of Elizabeth, her sister, lifting a photograph from a pile of others. "This," she had said, "is my Jessica. She knows all my family from their pictures, and some day she shall come home with me and meet you your own selves. She wishes Robbie Belle were to enter college before we finish. Robbie will be a senior when we go back for our fifth year reunion." Robbie's chest heaved abruptly under the shock of identifying the face amid the encircling throng. It was Jessica More, Elizabeth's best friend at college. This was the June of her class reunion. Robbie Belle was a senior. But Elizabeth was not there, as she had planned. Jessica had been expelled before she graduated, and Elizabeth had died. Before the singing was over, Jessica had disappeared. Then in the rush of last things Robbie forgot her for a time. Some of the seniors hurried away on hospitable duties bent, for numerous relatives had already arrived. There were to be informal gatherings in different rooms. A few went to the Phi Beta Kappa lecture in the chapel. To tell the truth, however, these were but few indeed, for to the seniors the last evenings were too precious, to be wasted on mere scholarly discourse. Probably Jessica had gone there with the rest of the alumnæ, reflected Robbie Belle as she sat beside Berta and the others in the soft sweet darkness. With arms intertwined they talked low or fell silent, lingering over this farewell to the dear college days. "I love everybody in the class," whispered Lila once. "In the college," amended Bea promptly. "Oh, in the whole world!" exclaimed Berta. Robbie nodded assent so solemnly that Bea leaned down to peer at her more closely. "A regular Chinese mandarin," she teased, "or are you nodding in your sleep? You approve of Berta's breadth evidently. Why do people always speak about the value of being broadened? I think it is nobler to be deep than broad, I do. I'd rather divide my heart in four pieces than in forty billion." "There are two hundred in the class," said Robbie, "and there were only one hundred in my sister's class, but I am quite sure that they did not love each other any more than we do." [Illustration: SHE HELD BOTH HANDS, SMILING] The next morning saw the seniors assemble at the amphitheatre which had been prepared for the Class Day exercises. Berta was already on the platform, assisting the committee in the arrangement of seats for the class. Among later comers who were hurrying across the campus Bea caught up with Robbie Belle. "I am hastening across the sward," she announced in cheerfully inane greeting, "what is a sward anyhow, and why isn't it pronounced the same as sword?" "It's grass," said Robbie Belle. Bea felt a speaking silence fall and glanced up to catch the direction of her gaze. Between them and the expanse of mingled chairs and girls around the platform against the wall of the nearest dormitory, a stranger was moving rapidly toward them, her eager eyes on Robbie. "Little Robbie Belle! I knew you last night from your picture." She held both hands, smiling. Bea considered the two pairs of shoulders on a level. "Little!" she sniffed to herself, "it must be a very old alum." Robbie turned to introduce her. "This is my friend, Beatrice Leigh, Miss More. Bea, this is my sister's best friend. I remembered you too, last night, Miss More. I remembered--I--I wondered----" Robbie's tongue stumbled in embarrassment at the verge of candor. Miss More's mouth hardened slightly, though her eyes still smiled. "You wondered how I happen to be here for the reunion of a class from which I was expelled. Is that it? Perhaps you are unaware that I have been reinstated. The faculty has at last reconsidered their unjust decision. They acknowledge that it was based upon a misunderstanding. I have made up the work at home. To-morrow I shall receive two degrees, the Bachelor's with your class, the Master's with the post-graduates. I am sure you congratulate me." "Oh!" gasped Robbie Belle, "oh, yes!" Bea succeeded in depressing somewhat the round-eyed stare with which she had listened to this extraordinary speech. "I think it is perfectly lovely, Miss More," she said. "Your class must be delighted. It is a triumph--a splendid triumph. Oh,--ah!" She turned at the sound of a faint call behind her: "Jessica!" From a group of alumnæ under a cluster of spruces, somebody was walking quickly toward the three. Bea recognized in her a brilliant young instructor at the college. "Jessica, I am--glad. How do you do?" She put out her hand. Miss More lifted her eyes, coolly scanned the other woman from the tip of her russet shoes to the crown of her sailor hat, then gazed vacantly over her head, before addressing Robbie again. "Then to-morrow, Robbie. Don't forget that I wish to see you after the commencement exercises for a few minutes. There are questions I desire to ask. Your mother is well, I hope." Two minutes later Robbie had reached one of the chairs and dropped into it with a limpness strangely inharmonious with her statuesque proportions. "Bea, they belong to the same class." Bea sank down beside her. "That was awful--awful. Those others were watching her from the path. Why did she do it? I don't understand." Robbie passed her hand across her forehead. "I don't quite remember everything," she said, "but I have an impression that it was Miss Whiton who was to blame for having Miss More expelled. She was class president, or something, and felt responsible. Elizabeth said she thought it was for the honor of the college. She meant to do right. And now to think it was all a mistake! Miss More will receive her degrees to-morrow." "Did Miss Whiton accuse her of any wrong or make complaint?" "No, not exactly. I think she believed that Miss More's behavior somewhere reflected on the college, and she considered it her duty to report the circumstances. Or maybe it was appearances--it seems now that it must have been only appearances. That started the trouble, and Miss More resented it. She was stubborn or indifferent about some requirements. I don't remember quite what, and Elizabeth never liked to talk about it. Elizabeth wrote to her every week until she--until she left us." Robbie's lip twitched suddenly. Bea saw it and gently passing her arm through the other's arm drew her on to join the class assembled at the amphitheatre. The next day brought commencement. Bea from her place among the rows of white-clad seniors in the body of the chapel could by bending forward slightly catch a glimpse of Miss More's profile at the head of the front pew at the right. When she raised her eyes she could see Miss Whiton's coldly regular features conspicuous in their clean-cut fairness among the younger instructors in the choir-seats behind the trustees on the platform. Bea had never liked Miss Whiton. It seemed to her now, as she studied the immobile face, that she had always recognized there a suggestion of the self-righteous Pharisee. There could be nothing but misunderstanding and antagonism between the possessor of such a countenance and Miss More with those eyes of hers, that nose and that mouth. Bea's labors over the classes in manners had included some research in the subject of physiognomy. Now she leaned forward to secure another view of that profile in the front pew. Then she settled back with the contented sigh of an investigator whose surmise has proved correct. Miss More's features certainly expressed an impulsive, reckless and lovable temperament as opposed to Miss Whiton's conscientious and calculating prudence. Oh, yes, there was conscience enough in the icily handsome face among the instructors. It was conscience doubtless that had driven her across the campus to speak to Miss More on Class Day morning. Bea sighed again, this time with a faint twinge of sympathy. She generally meant well herself. A conscience was a very queer thing--she thought so still even if she had heard it all explained and analyzed in senior ethics. "Surgite." That was Prexie's voice. The class rose in obedience to the word. Bea found herself standing with the others while the Latin sentences rolled melodiously over their heads. She never could translate from hearing. Absently her glance sought the front pew where Miss More had turned to watch them. The girl's wistful gaze caught the expression of passionate regret in her deep-set eyes, and clung there fascinated for an endless moment before tearing itself free. After it was over, after the class had filed upon the platform to receive their diplomas, after Prexie had delivered his annual address and the procession of graduates, alumnæ and faculty had marched out into the golden sunshine, Bea drew aside to wait under an elm. Berta spied her and beckoned, then came hurrying. "Lila is over at the doors on guard to capture the various relatives and start them toward the cottages for dinner. The trustees entertain the alumnæ in the main dining-room. The seniors will go to Strong Hall. Aren't you ready?" "I'm getting an impression," answered Bea, "gothic portals, graceful elms, bare-headed girls in white, sun-flecked lawns and glimpse of the sparkling lake beyond, groups intermingling----" "I'll help give you that impression." Bea slipped nimbly out of reach in time to escape the promised pinch--or it may have been a squeeze. "I've got it already--a hundred of them. You're in two or three. And Robbie--do you see Robbie anywhere?" Robbie approached at the moment. "Bea, have you noticed Miss More pass? I found something last night in my sister's college scrapbook--her memory-bill, you know. It is something for Miss More." "Yes, over there half way to the main building. Look--that one in white all alone. You can overtake her if you hurry, Robbie. Oh, Berta!" Bea turned and held out one hand impulsively. "If you could only have seen her eyes while she watched us in chapel! She was thinking of her own class, how she had been driven away from them in disgrace. It was tragic. She--she----" Bea gulped and caught herself back from falling over the brink into the pit of palpable emotion. "In fact, I am almost sure she--hm-m,--envied us." She glanced apprehensively at her companion in dread of the usual quick teasing rejoinder; but Berta was soberly gazing after Robbie. "Robbie has dropped a paper, Bea," she said, "I saw it flutter. Come." Bea flitted across the grass, her bright hair an aureole in the sunlight. Her fingers seized the bit of white; her eyes read the message: * * * * * "Sunday evening after Bible lecture. "Jessica and the rest of us are choosing mottoes to live out just for experiment this week. "Marian: 'Love seeketh not her own.' (She always gets to places first.) "Alice: 'Is not easily provoked.' (Oh, oh!) "Louise: 'Is not puffed up.' (Ah!) "Jessica: 'is kind.' (And when she is good, she is very, very good.) Elizabeth: "envieth not." (My brain doesn't suit.) "Jessica says hers is the easiest because it means just to keep from hating anybody, and she loves the whole college." * * * * * "Oh, I didn't mean to read it." Bea almost clapped her hand over her impetuous eyes. "Robbie," she broke into a run, "Robbie Belle, here is something you dropped." As Robbie turned at the call, one of the trustees, an elderly woman whose white hair seemed to soften the effect of her energetic manner and keen gaze, paused to speak to Miss More. The two seniors strolled on at a leisurely pace while waiting for an opportunity to ask attention without interrupting a speech. The distance intervening lessened step by step till Bea could not help overhearing the trustee's distinct low tones. "----exceedingly difficult to choose between the two candidates. Their qualifications balance distractingly. Personally I incline to Miss Whiton, and I should very much like to see her win this unusual position. Her original work certainly deserves it. However I know her so slightly that I am reluctant to give my decisive vote until I learn more of her from her contemporaries. You were in her class, Miss More, I understand." "Yes." At the smothered intensity of that simple word, Bea's head rotated swiftly to stare at the source of it. She had never seen that beautiful face like this before. On the campus Class Day morning it had been friendly though with the hint of hardness about the mouth. In chapel it had been tragic with regret over the irrevocable. Now the dusky eyes were blazing with the light of coming triumph over an enemy at last delivered into her power. "It is an exceptional distinction for so young a woman," continued the trustee, "and because it means so much to each of the rivals, a feather's weight of evidence may turn the scales for one or the other. I am anxious to be impartial. I invite this discussion merely to assure myself of Miss Whiton's irreproachable record. I wish sincerely to see her win." "You never heard the exact circumstances that led to my expulsion from college?" The defiant ring of this abrupt question brought Bea to her sense of the situation. She put out one hand to draw Robbie beyond earshot. But Robbie did not notice her. She was already touching Miss More's arm. "Miss More, pardon me. I have hurried to give you this. I--I think Elizabeth would have enjoyed showing it to you. I--wish--she could have been here to-day. She would have been--glad." Miss More took the paper mechanically. "Thank you, Robbie Belle. Will you wait one moment, dear? I want to speak to you." She turned again to the older woman. "It may be an enlightening little tale," she began, "and Miss Whiton plays a part in it. These are the facts." Bea watched her, fascinated. The eyes seemed to be gazing away beyond the evergreens at old, unhappy, far-off things. Slowly they returned to nearer objects, dropped suddenly and caught for an instant upon some one passing by. At sight of the swift gleam of bitter recognition, Bea followed the direction, and beheld Miss Whiton. She looked back again in time to see a wonderful change as Miss More's glance traveled unconsciously to the paper in her hand. Robbie's wistful regard was also lingering upon the paper. "Elizabeth loved it all--the class--the whole college." The trustee was evidently in haste. "And this enlightening little tale of yours, Miss More? Pardon me for urging you on. The importance of the issue--ah!" Bea saw her nod acquiescence in response to a gesture from some one who was waiting at the porte cochere. "I fear I shall not have time for it now. May I consult you later? You are sure, Miss More, that the story is something that I ought to hear?" Miss More hesitated. "I don't know," she said slowly. "It may have been merely a schoolgirl misunderstanding. I will--think it over and let you know after the dinner. In any event, I thank you for your confidence. Miss Whiton certainly merits the honor." It seemed to Bea that Miss More looked after the older woman with an expression of half-puzzled surprise at her own indecision. Then she turned to Robbie. "I remember that evening," she spoke in a curiously softened tone. "Elizabeth sat in the glow of the drop-light and scribbled this card, while the rest of us watched her idly, and talked, half serious, half in fun over the novelty of choosing our mottoes. It was Elizabeth who had proposed it. She had such a shy, sweet, humorous way of being good. Everybody loved her." Robbie nodded speechlessly. After a moment she said, "The rest of your verse is 'Love suffereth long and is kind.'" The deep-set eyes clouded again under the dusky hair. "I--have--suffered," she said slowly. Bea pinched her own arm in a quick agony of vicarious embarrassment. How could a person show her feelings right out like that before anybody? What was the use of going around talking about such things? It was not very polite to make other people uncomfortable. Bea smothered a quick little sob and walked on, staring straight ahead. It was Robbie who turned to look into the face so near her own. She saw the clouds lift before the dawning of an exquisite smile like a ray of sunshine after a stormy day. "'Love suffereth long and is kind,'" repeated the oddly gentle voice. "I have suffered, and I will try--to be kind. I think Elizabeth would have been glad." "Elizabeth is glad," said Robbie Belle. CHAPTER XV VICTORY At her escape into the corridor Berta paused for a moment in the shadow of the staircase to brush the excitement from her glowing face. She winked rapidly once or twice in hopes of smothering the sparkle in her eyes, but succeeded only in nicking a happy tear drop from her lashes. Then she smoothed the dimple from her cheek and tried to straighten her lips into the sober dignity proper for a senior who was on the honor list and had just come from an interview with the critic of her commencement essay. Her efforts were all in vain, however, for at the very minute that the dimple came dancing out again and the rebellious mouth quivered back into its joyous curves, somebody with a swift tap-tap-tap of light heels flew down the stairs in a rustle and a flutter and darted toward Berta. "They've come! They're here! The Board of Editors is going to meet in the lecture room immediately to open the boxes. Four big beautiful boxes full of splendid great books all in green with gilt lettering. Hurry! Hurry quick yourself! You're head literary editor. It's really your book--the ideas, editorials, verses, farce, everything! The sale opens at five. Everybody's crazy to see the new senior Annual. Our Annual! Oh, Berta!" She seized the taller girl around the waist and whirled her down the hall till loose sheets of paper from her dangling note-book flitted merrily hither and yon. "Bea, take care! You're crumpling my essay." "Your essay? Oh, that's so! Senior president, Annual editor, honor girl, commencement speaker, graduate fellow-heigho! She 'bore her blushing honors thick upon her.' No wonder you look uplifted. Listen! Behold! Tell me, do her little feet really touch the solid humble earth?" As mischievous Bea stopped, with anxiety and awe written large on her saucy features to investigate Berta's shoes, a door near them opened and a slender woman with fast-graying hair and a curiously still face emerged. There was the ghost of a twinkle in her gray eyes. The transom had not been entirely closed. "Miss Abbott, may I take that essay again, for a few minor suggestions? If you will drop in after chapel I shall have it ready for you. Permit me once more to congratulate you on its excellence and originality. It has never been my pleasure to read any undergraduate work of greater promise." She withdrew after the nicker of a quizzical smile in Bea's direction. That young lady gasped and then happening to notice that her mouth was ajar carefully closed it with the aid of both hands. "Berta Abbott! To have your essay praised by Miss Thorne the terrible, who never approves of anything, and yet you stand there like a common mortal! You live, you breathe, you walk, you talk, just the same as you used to do! She says it has promise. I do believe that she never said as much before about anybody except maybe Shakespeare when he was young. Oh, just wait until she sees the Annual!" Berta had colored hotly. "Bea, don't tell anybody, please. Of course, I care what she says. I care most of all--I care heaps--about her opinion that the qualities are--are promising. But if I should fizzle out and never amount to anything! It's all in the future, you see, and I'd be so ashamed to have the girls quoting her now. If I shouldn't win the fellowship, if I had to go to teaching next year and give it up----" Bea pounced upon her. "You're a nice sweet girl, and I love you to distraction. Don't you worry about that fellowship, but trot up-stairs with me this instant and help hammer the covers off those boxes. You'll be surprised!" "Shall I?" said Berta idly, as she followed in Bea's eddying wake, "I don't see how, since I read the proof and corrected the lists of names." "Hm!" Bea turned confidentially and shot an alarming sentence toward her companion. "Well, I'll tell you; everything you wrote is signed. The other editors did it last thing--sometimes your initials, sometimes your name. It's for the sake of your reputation." "My reputation!" exclaimed the victim. "Oh," she groaned, "they did that? Oh, my land! My name on everything. I shall sink through the floor. Run, run quick!" The corridors were almost deserted during that recitation period. There was no stray freshman in sight to gaze scandalized at the vision of two reverend seniors racing toward the lecture room door. Berta dashed in just as the chairman of the board, with hair flying and cheeks flushed from the exertion, was brandishing a hatchet in one hand and a splintered fragment of wood in the other. The business editor hammered away with characteristic energy at the ragged remnants. The rest stood around waiting as patiently as possible in their weaponless zeal. Several glanced up and grinned provokingly at the appearance of their head literary editor. "So you've heard the news, have you?" began the artist, "you look wild. We knew you'd never consent to sign the things yourself, and it was rank injustice to let you do the work and receive no special credit. Even the ideas are yours, but we couldn't tag a name to them. Wish we could. That one for the main feature--the pictures of distinguished alumnæ----" "Hold on!" the chairman backed into a convenient corner before Berta's frenzied reproaches, "it's all right. We added a note of explanation. Nobody will blame you for writing so well. And the initials are very small anyhow. Here, look!" She made a dive for the box, ripped off a second board with quick blows, snatched away the wrapping paper underneath, and dislodged a handsome green volume from its snug nest. She thrust it into Berta's hands. "It's your book really more than anybody's--your first published book." Berta took it, sat down in a desk-chair near by, and turned the leaves slowly with fingers that trembled from nervousness. Bea bent over her shoulder. "It seems as if that name of yours is on every page," she teased, "pretty name, don't you think? And isn't it a beautiful, beautiful book! Wide margins, heavy paper, clear print, fine reproductions. Won't the girls be delighted with those pictures of the basket ball teams! See, ah, there is the page of photographs. You suggested that the editors should appear as the babies they used to be forty years or so ago. What a dear little curly-head you were at the age of two, Berta! I want to hug you." The embarrassment began to fade from Berta's expression as she gazed at the baby faces before her. "That's the great thing I miss at college, don't you, Bea? There aren't any babies here. We ought to borrow some once in a while to vary the monotony of books. I have three little nieces at home, you know. Such darlings! I wish I had one here now this minute." "Which do you choose--the baby or the book? Oh, Berta! Would you sacrifice this book for a mere child? This beautiful, splendid, green book with gilt lettering and your name scrawled everywhere?" "The oldest baby looks a good deal like that photograph of me," continued Berta softly, "she is named after me, too. I wish you could see her. The way she holds up her little arms and clings to you! I haven't seen her since last September." "Hark!" Bea sprang from her perch on a desk-arm. "There are the girls now clamoring for admission. It must be the hour for the sale to begin. Isn't it fun! Fly, Berta Abbott, flee and bury your blushes. The play is now on." Berta fled. She felt an impulse to creep away into some dark corner till all the excitement--and criticism--had subsided. Of course, it was rather pleasant, she acknowledged reluctantly to her candid self. There was something down underneath tingling and glowing. Very likely it was gratified vanity. Everybody liked to be praised and admired, but not too much, for that was uncomfortable. It was like being set upon a pinnacle and stared at. And she did care. She had worked hard and long for success. She had proved that she could work. Now if she should be granted the foreign fellowship, she could go on and on, step by step, till some day perhaps she might become a famous college professor or maybe the president of a university. That would be accomplishing a career worth while. Berta never quite remembered how she screwed up resolution enough to enter the dining-room that night and face the storm of congratulations, affectionate jests, and laughing taunts over her eminence. The last copy of the Annual had been sold before the gong whirred out its summons to dinner; and dozens of dilatory students were already besieging the chairman for an extra edition. After dinner Berta was captured for a dance in parlor J till chapel time. The lilt of the music was still echoing in her ears, her heart beating in happy rhythm to its harmony, when at last she slipped into the back pew and leaned her head against the wall, her lips relaxing in happy curves, her hands lying idle in her lap. Prexie's voice sounded soothingly far away. Generally he read a chapter first, then gave out the hymn, and after the singing he always led in prayer. It hardly seemed worth while to listen when one's own thoughts were so pleasant. Berta dropped her lashes to hide the shining light of gladness. Weren't they dear, dear unselfish girls to rejoice with her and for her! She loved them and they loved her. The best part of any triumph was the consciousness that victory would please her friends and her family. Her mother would be glad, and her father, the small brothers and sisters, and even the pretty little sister-in-law. Eva would not understand entirely, for she hated to read and cared about nothing but the babies since Robert had died. Robert would have sympathized, since he had loved study almost as much as he had loved Eva. When he decided to marry, he gave up his science and went into a bank. He chose a wife and children instead of congenial ambition. If he had lived, he would have been glad in Berta's success. Maybe when the baby nieces grew old enough to understand, they would be proud of their famous aunt. It was very, very sweet to feel that people were proud of her. Listen! Berta straightened suddenly and then leaned forward. What was Prexie saying? Why, he hadn't even opened the Bible yet. "--and so, as the essays submitted in competition were all remarkably good, the judges would have experienced great difficulty in reaching a decision if it had not been for one exceptional even among the dozen most excellent papers. The prize for the best Shakespearean essay has been unanimously awarded to Miss Roberta Abbott." A low murmur swept over the bright-hued congregation. Several faces in the pew before her turned to smile at Berta. She smiled back half involuntarily and gripped her fingers together, conscious only of a smothering sensation and a wonder that her chest kept heaving faster and faster. It frightened her to have things happen like this one after another. She had won the Shakespearean prize. How much was it? Thirty dollars? Fifty? It didn't matter. She could take baby Berta to the seashore with her. She had won. The girls would get tired of congratulating her. Hark! Prexie had gone on speaking. "Accordingly," he was saying as Berta braced herself once more to attention, "I am sure you will agree with me that the faculty acted justly and wisely this afternoon in electing Miss Roberta Abbott to hold the European Fellowship this coming year." The murmur this time swelled to a soft tumult of fluttering and whispering, which broke here and there into a muffled clapping, for everybody liked Berta. But when more faces turned in joyous nodding toward the back pew they found no answering smile. Berta in panic had slipped down the aisle and vanished through the swinging doors into the dusky corridor. "Ah, Miss Abbott!" The messenger girl overtook her at the foot of the broad staircase. "Here is a special delivery letter for you. It was brought from town five minutes ago." Berta glanced at the address. Yes, it was from her sister-in-law as she had expected. Eva was always falling into foolish little flurries and rushing to consult friends and relatives by mail or wire or word of mouth. Possibly this important communication was a request for advice about the babies' pique coats. It could wait for a reading till Berta had found a safe refuge from the girls who would certainly surround her as soon as chapel was over. They would follow Robbie and Bea. Where could she go to escape the enthusiasm? Her room would be the first point of attack, and Bea's the second. Ah, now she recalled Miss Thorne's speech about calling for the commencement essay at this hour. She might as well go there now and wait till her critic should return from services, if indeed she had attended them to-night. At the door Berta knocked and bent her head to listen, then knocked again. Still no answer. She waited another minute, her eyes absently hovering over the plants that banked the wide window there at the end of the transverse corridor. The evening breeze sweet from loitering in clover fields drifted in through the open casement. Miss Thorne was very fond of flowers. That was a queer trait in a person who seemed to care so little for persons. There always seemed something frozen about this gray-haired, immobile-faced woman with her stern manner and steely eyes. Sometimes Berta thought of her as like a dying fire that smoldered under smothering ashes. Berta turned the knob gently and entered. A faint rosy glow from the lowered drop-light shone on the piles of papers and scattered books on the library table. The curtains rippled in the sudden draught caused by the opening of the door, and a whiff of fragrance from a jar of apple-blossoms on the bookcase floated past the visitor. Berta glanced around with a little shrug that was half a shiver. A room frequently partakes of the nature of its occupant; and the atmosphere of this one always made her heart sink with a quiver of loneliness over the strange chill of lifelessness there in spite of the rosy drop-light, the fluttering curtains, and the drifting breath of flowers. It was a large room with many easy chairs in it--and they were all empty. Even when Miss Thorne was there it seemed lonesome, perhaps because she was such a slender little woman and so icily quiet. Berta chose one of the empty chairs and read the letter. Then she let the sheets fall loose in her lap and sat there without moving while the minutes went creeping by and the transparent curtains rippled now and then in the evening breeze. Through the window she could see a great star hanging above the peak of a shadowy evergreen that stirred softly to and fro against the fading sky. Once the twilight call of a distant robin sounded its long-drawn plaintive music, and Berta felt her lip tremble. She raised her hand half unconsciously to soothe the ache in her throat. Miss Thorne glided in. "Good evening, Miss Abbott. May I add my congratulations, or am I right in concluding that you have taken refuge here from the persecutions of your friends? It is a great pleasure to me to know that you will have the opportunity to keep on with your studying this next year. You must allow me to say so much at least. And now, with regard to the essay----" Berta watched the slight figure move noiselessly about in the act of making tea. "I wished to call your attention particularly, Miss Abbott, to the qualities which strike me as most promising. A vast amount of futile effort is wasted every year by workers who have not yet recognized their special talents. There is continual friction between the round peg and the square hole, and vice versa. Now in your case, when you are ready to plan your course of study for your graduate work abroad----" "Don't!" The tone was so sharp that Miss Thorne lifted her head quickly and shot a keen glance at the girl before her. The attractive face had grown strained and the eyes were burning restlessly. "What is it, Berta?" No student had ever heard her voice so soft before. "You are in trouble." Berta looked at her for a moment without replying. Then she picked up her letter, folded it carefully in its original creases, and fitted it into the envelope. "Yes," she said at last, "I am in trouble. My sister-in-law has lost her income from a foolish investment, entirely her own fault, and she is utterly helpless. My parents have no money to spare. There is nobody else but me to support her and the three babies. She writes that a position in the high school will be vacant next year and I ought to apply at once." Miss Thorne sat silent. "And there is no other way?" she asked after what seemed a long, long time. "None," answered Berta. "You will give up the fellowship, your hopes of doing exceptional work? You will sacrifice all your ambition and take up the drudgery of teaching in an uncongenial sphere for the rest of your life?" "Well, I can't let the babies go to an orphan asylum, can I?" demanded the girl brusquely to conceal the pain, "there is no one else, I tell you." The woman rose and put both arms around the girl. "Berta, dear," she said, "you are right. Once I hesitated at the point where you are now. I had to choose between the demands of home and the invitation of ambition. I let the home-ties snap, and--here is my empty room. Now there is nobody that cares." Berta glanced around again with a little shiver. "There isn't any question about it for me," she said, "I've got to take care of the babies. And"--she straightened her shoulders suddenly as if throwing off a weight, "it won't be so hard when I get used to the idea, because, you see, I--love them." Faithful Robbie Belle had found out her refuge somehow and was waiting in the corridor. With that comforting arm across her shoulders, Berta poured out the story of her sudden disappointment. At first Robbie was silent. Then she spoke gently: "But, Berta, you have had the four years at college, you know, and four years are a good deal. There are thousands and thousands of girls who never have even that." "I know," answered Berta, her voice smothered against the convenient shoulder. "And that thought helps--at least, I think it will help to-morrow." Robbie's strong, warm hand sought and clasped Berta's nervous fingers. "All right," she acquiesced cheerily. "Now who do you suppose wrote that epilogue in last year's Annual? "'We go to meet the future, strong of soul, In sunlight or in shadow, holding fast The inviolable gift the years enroll; The Past is ours; nothing can change the Past.'" 
36684	----	[Illustration: "I think my trunk is on this train," she said.--_Page 7._] MOLLY BROWN'S FRESHMAN DAYS By NELL SPEED _WITH FOUR HALF-TONE ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES L. WRENN_ NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1912, BY HURST & COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. WELLINGTON 5 II. THEIR NEIGHBOR 19 III. THE PROFESSOR 32 IV. A BUSY DAY 46 V. THE KENTUCKY SPREAD 62 VI. KNOTTY PROBLEMS 75 VII. AN INCIDENT OF THE COFFEE CUPS 86 VIII. CONCERNING CLUBS,--AND A TEA PARTY 99 IX. RUMORS AND MYSTERIES 115 X. JOKES AND CROAKS 130 XI. EXMOOR COLLEGE 140 XII. SUNDAY MORNING BREAKFAST 152 XIII. TRICKERY 164 XIV. AN INSPIRATION 177 XV. PLANNING AND WISHING 188 XVI. THE MCLEAN SUPPER 204 XVII. A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 216 XVIII. THE FOOTBALL GAME 230 XIX. THREE FRIENDS 241 XX. MISS STEEL 255 XXI. A BACHELOR'S POCKET 266 XXII. CHRISTMAS--MID-YEARS--AND THE WANDERTHIRST 276 XXIII. SOPHOMORES AT LAST 291 ILLUSTRATIONS "I think my trunk is on this train," she said. _Frontispiece_ PAGE "I wish you would tell me your receipt for making friends, Molly," exclaimed Nance. 51 "I'm scared to death," she announced. Then she struck a chord and began. 60 It was quite the custom for girls to prepare breakfasts in their rooms. 152 Molly Brown's Freshman Days CHAPTER I. WELLINGTON. "Wellington! Wellington!" called the conductor. The train drew up at a platform, and as if by magic a stream of girls came pouring out of the pretty stucco station with its sloping red roof and mingled with another stream of girls emptying itself from the coaches. Everywhere appeared girls,--leaping from omnibuses; hurrying down the gravel walk from the village; hastening along the University drive; girls on foot; girls on bicycles; girls running, and girls strolling arm in arm. Few of them wore hats; many of them wore sweaters and short walking skirts of white duck or serge, and across the front of each sweater was embroidered a large "W" in cadet blue, the mystic color of Wellington University. In the midst of a shouting, gesticulating mob stood Mr. Murphy, baggage master, smiling good naturedly. "Now, young ladies, one at a time, please. We've brought down all the baggage left over by the 9.45. If your trunk ain't on this train, it'll come on the next. All in good time, please." A tall girl with auburn hair and deep blue eyes approached the group. There was a kind of awkward grace about her, the grace which was hers by rights and the awkwardness which comes of growing too fast. She wore a shabby brown homespun suit, a shade darker than her hair, and on her head was an old brown felt which had plainly seen service the year before. But knotted at her neck was a tie of burnt-orange silk which seemed to draw attention away from the shiny seams and frayed hem and to cry aloud: "Look at me. I am the color of a winter sunset. Never mind the other old togs." Surely there was something very brave and jaunty about this young girl who now pushed her way through the crowd of students and endeavored to engage the attention of the baggage-master. "I think my trunk was on this train," she said timidly. "I hope it is. It came from Louisville to Philadelphia safely, and when I re-checked it they told me it would be on this train." Now, Murphy, the baggage master, had his own peculiar method of conducting business, and it was strictly a partial and prejudiced one. If he liked the face of a student, he always waited on her first, regardless of how many other students were ahead of her; and, as he told his wife later, he "took a fancy to that overgrown gal from the fust." "I beg your pardon, but Mr. Murphy is engaged," put in a haughty looking young woman with black eyes that snapped angrily. "Now, Miss Judith," said the baggage master, who knew many of the students by name, "don't go fer to git excited. I ain't made no promises to no one. It's plain to see this here young lady is a newcomer, and, as sich, she gits my fust consideration." "Oh, please excuse me," said the girl in shabby brown. "I'm not used to--I mean I haven't traveled very much." Judith turned irritably away. "I should think you hadn't," she said in a low voice, but loud enough to be overheard. "Freshies have a lot to learn and one is to respect their elders." The new girl put down her straw suit case and leaned against the wall of the station. She looked tired and there was a streak of soot across her cheek. The trip from Kentucky in this warm September weather was not the pleasantest journey in the world. While she waited for Mr. Murphy to return with news of her trunk, her attention was claimed by two girls standing at her elbow who were talking cheerfully together. "Yes," said one of them, a plump, brown-eyed girl with brown hair, a slightly turned-up nose and a humorous twitch to her lips, "I have a room at Queen's cottage. It's the best I could do unless I went into one of the expensive suites in the dormitories, and you know I might as well expect to take the royal suite on the Mauretania and sail for Europe as do that." The other girl laughed. "You'd be quite up to doing anything with your enterprising ways, Nance Oldham," she exclaimed. "Oh, are you going to Queen's cottage?" here broke in the girl in shabby brown. "I'm there, too. My name is Molly Brown. I come from Kentucky. I feel awfully forlorn and homesick arriving at the University station without knowing a soul." There was a kind of ringing note to Molly Brown's voice which made the other girls listen more closely. "I wonder if she doesn't sing," thought Nance Oldham, giving her a quick, scrutinizing glance. "Yes, I am at Queen's cottage," she continued aloud, "but that's about all I can tell you. I feel like a greeny, too. We'll soon learn, I suppose. This is Miss Brinton, Miss Brown." Caroline Brinton was rather a nondescript young person with dreamy eyes and an absent-minded manner. She came from Philadelphia, and she greeted the new acquaintance rather coldly. "Your trunk ain't here, yet, Miss," called the baggage master. "Like enough it'll come on the 6.50." Molly looked disturbed, while the black-eyed Judith standing nearby flashed a triumphant smile, as much as to say: "It only serves you right for pushing in out of turn." "What are we to do now?" she asked of her new friends, rather helplessly. "Take the 'bus up to Wellington," said brisk Nance Oldham. "I know that much. There's one filling up now. We'd better hurry and get seats." The three girls crowded into the long, narrow side-seated vehicle already half filled with students. Even at this early stage in their acquaintance, the bonds of loneliness and sympathy had drawn them together. "I'm a stranger in a strange land," Molly Brown had confided to the listening ear of Nance Oldham. "I had made up my mind not to be homesick. I really didn't know what the feeling was like, because I have never had a chance to learn. But I know now it's a kind of an all-gone sensation. I suppose little orphans have it when they first go into an orphan asylum." "Oh, you'll soon get over it," answered Nance. "It's because you live so far away. Kentucky, didn't you say?" Molly nodded and looked the other way. The memory of an old brick house with broad piazzas and many windows blurred her vision for a moment. But she resolutely pressed her lips together and began to watch the passing scenery, as new and strange to her as the scenery in a foreign land. The road leading to Wellington University skirted a pretty village and then plunged straight into the country between rolling meadow lands tinged a golden brown with the autumn sun. And there in the distance were the gray towers of Wellington, silhouetted against the sky like a mediæval castle. Molly Brown clasped her hands and smiled a heavenly smile. "Is that it?" she exclaimed rapturously. "It must be," answered Nance, who also felt some quiet and reserved flutterings. "It is," said Miss Brinton. "I came down to engage my room, so I know." In the meantime, there was a busy conversation going on around them. "I'm going to cut gym this year. It interferes too much," exclaimed a tiny girl with birdlike motions and intelligent, beady little eyes as bright and alert as the eyes of a little brown bird. But evidently Molly was not the only person who had noticed this resemblance, for one of the students called out: "Now, Jennie Wren, you must admit that gym never had any charms for you and it's a great relief to give it up." "Of course she must," put in another girl. "The only exercise Jennie Wren ever takes is to hop about on the lawn and prune her feathers." "Never!" cried Jennie Wren. "I never wear them, not even quills. I belong to the S. P. C. A." "Is there much out-of-door life here?" asked Molly Brown, of a tall, somewhat older girl sitting opposite her. "This new girl may have timid manners," thought Nance Oldham; "but she is not afraid to talk to strangers. I suppose that's the friendly Southern way. She hasn't been in Wellington a quarter of an hour and she has already made three friends,--Caroline and the station-master and me. And now she's getting on famously with that older girl. What I like about her is that she isn't a bit self-conscious and she takes it for granted everybody's going to be kind." "Oh, yes, lots of it," the older girl was saying to Molly kindly. "If you have a taste for that kind of thing, you may indulge it to your heart's content. There is a splendid swimming pool attached to the gym, and there are golf links, of course. You know they are quite famous in this part of the world. Then, there are the tennis courts, and we'll still have some canoeing on the lake before the weather gets too cold and later glorious skating. Besides all that, there are perfectly ripping walks for miles around. The college has several Saturday afternoon walking clubs." "But don't these things interfere with--with lectures?" asked Molly, who was really quite ignorant regarding college life, although she had passed her entrance examinations without any conditions whatever. The older girl laughed pleasantly. She was not good looking, but she had a fine face and Molly liked her immensely. "Oh, no, you'll find there's plenty of time for everything you want to get in, because most things have their season, and most girls specialize, anyhow. A golf fiend is seldom a tennis fiend, and there are lots of walking fiends who don't like either." Molly's liking for this big girl and her grave, fine face increased as the conversation progressed. She had a most reassuring, kindly manner and Molly noticed that the other girls treated her with a kind of deferential respect and called her "Miss Stewart." She learned afterward that Miss Stewart was a senior and a member of the "Octogons," the most coveted society in the University. She led in all the athletic sports, was quite a wonderful musician and had composed an operetta for her class and most of the music for the class songs. It was whispered also that she was very rich, though no one would ever have guessed this secret from Mary Stewart herself, who was careful never to allude to money and dressed very simply and plainly. The omnibus now turned into the avenue which led to the college campus and there was general excitement of a subdued sort among the new girls and greetings and calls from the older girls as they caught glimpses of friends strolling on the lawn. "Queen's Cottage," called the driver and Molly stood up promptly, shrinking a little as twenty pairs of eyes turned curiously in her direction. Then the big girl leaned over and took her hand kindly. "Won't you look me up to-morrow?" she said. "My name is Mary Stewart, and I stop at No. 16 on the Quadrangle. Perhaps I can help you get things straightened out a bit and show you the ropes." "Oh, thank you," said Molly, with that musical ring to her voice which never failed to thrill her hearers. "It's awfully nice of you. What time shall I come?" "I'll see you in Chapel in the morning, and we'll fix the time then," called Miss Stewart as Molly climbed out, dragging her straw telescope over the knees of the other passengers, followed by Nance Oldham, who had waited for her to take the initiative. As the two girls stood watching the disappearing vehicle, they became the prey to the most extreme loneliness. "I feel as if I had just left the tumbrel on the way to my execution," observed Molly, trying to laugh, although the corners of her mouth turned persistently down. "But, anyway, I'm glad we are together," she continued, slipping her arm through Nance's. "Queen's Cottage does seem so remote and lonesome, doesn't it? Just a thing apart." The two girls gazed uncertainly at the rather dismal-looking shingled house, stained brown and covered with a mantle of old vines which appeared to have been prematurely stripped of their foliage. It was somewhat isolated, at least it seemed so at first. The next house was quite half a block on and was a cheerful place, all stucco and red roof like the station. "Well, here goes," Molly went on. "If it's Queen's, why then, so be it," and she marched up the walk and rang the front door bell, which resounded through the hall with a metallic clang. "Shure, I'm after bein' wit' you in a moment," called a voice from above. "You're the new young ladies, I'm thinkin', and glad I am to see you." There was the sound of heavy footsteps down the stairs and the door was opened by Mrs. Murphy, wife of the baggage master and housekeeper for Queen's Cottage. She was a middle-aged Irish woman with a round, good-natured face and she beamed on the girls with motherly interest as she ushered them into the parlor. "Since ye be the fust comers, ye may be the fust choosers," she said; "and if ye be friends, ye may like to be roommates, surely, and that's a good thing. It's better to room with a friend than a stranger." The two girls looked at each other with a new interest. It had not occurred to them that they might be roommates, but had not they already, with the swiftness peculiar to girls, bridged the gulf which separates total strangers, and were now on the very verge of plunging into intimate friendship? Would it not be better to seize this opportunity than to wait for other chances which might not prove so agreeable? "Shall we not?" asked Molly with that charming, cordial manner which appeared to win her friends wherever she went. "It would be a great relief," answered Nance, who was yet to learn the value of showing real pleasure when she felt it. Nevertheless, Nance, under her whimsical, rather sarcastic outer shell, had a warm and loyal heart. Thus Molly Brown and Nance Oldham, quite opposites in looks and temperaments, became roommates during their freshman year at Wellington College and thus, from this small beginning, the seeds of a life-long friendship were sown. The two girls chose a big sunny room on the third floor looking over a portion of the golf links. Molly liked it because it had blue wallpaper and Nance because it had a really commodious closet. CHAPTER II. THEIR NEIGHBOR. Molly Brown was the youngest member of a numerous family of older brothers and sisters. Her father had been dead many years, and in order to rear and educate her children, Mrs. Brown had been obliged to mortgage, acre by acre, the fine old place where Molly and her brothers and sisters had been born and brought up. Every time anybody in the Brown family wanted to do anything that was particularly nice, something had to go, either a cow or a colt or a piece of land, according to the needs of the moment. A two-acre lot represented Molly's college education--two perfectly good acres of orchard. "If you don't bring back at least one golden apple in return for all these nice juicy ones that are going for your education, Molly, you are no child of mine," Mrs. Brown had laughingly exclaimed when she kissed her daughter good-bye. "I'll bring back the three golden apples of the Hesperides, mother, and make the family rich and happy," cried Molly, and from that moment the three golden apples became a secret symbol to her, although she had not decided in her mind exactly what they represented. "But," as Molly observed to herself, "anybody who has had two acres of winter sweets, pippins and greenings spent on her, must necessarily engage to win a few." Those two fruitful acres, however, while they provided a fund for an education, did not extend far into the margin and there was little left for clothes. That was perhaps one of the reasons why Molly had felt so disturbed about the delay in receiving her trunk. "I can stand traveling in this old brown rag for economy's sake," she thought; "but I would like to put on the one decent thing I own for my first day at college. I was a chump not to have brought something in my suit case besides a blouse. However, what's done can't be undone," and she stoically went to work to remove the stains of travel and put on a fresh blue linen shirtwaist; while Nance Oldham, who had been more far-sighted, made herself spic and span in a duck skirt and a white linen blouse. She had little to say during the process of making her toilet, and Molly wondered if, after all, she would like a roommate so peculiarly reserved and whimsical as this new friend. She hoped there would be lots of nice girls in the house of the right sort, girls who meant business, for while Molly meant to enjoy herself immensely, she meant business decidedly, and she didn't want to get into a play set and be torn away from her studies. As these thoughts flitted through her mind she heard voices coming up the stairs. "Now, Mrs. Murphy, I do hope you've got something really decent. You know, I hadn't expected to come back this year. I thought I would stay in France with grandmamma, but at the last moment I changed my mind, and I've come right here from the ship without engaging a thing at all. I'll take anything that's a single." The voice had a spoiled, imperious sound, like that of a person in the habit of having her own way. "I have a single, Miss, but it's a small one, and they do say you've got a deal of belongings." "Let's see it. Let's see it, quick, Granny Murphy," and from the noise without our two young persons judged that this despotic stranger had placed her hands on Mrs. Murphy's shoulders and was running her along the passage. "Now, you'll be giving me apoplexy, Miss, surely, with your goings-on," cried the woman breathlessly, as she opened the door next theirs. "Who's in there? Two freshies?" "Yes, Miss. They only just arrived an hour ago." "Greenies from Greenville, Green County," chanted the young woman, who did not seem to mind being overheard by the entire household. "Very well, I'll take this little hole-in-the-wall. I won't move any of my things in, except some books and cushions. And now, off wit' yer. Here's something for your trouble." "Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss." The two girls seemed to hear the Irish woman being shoved out in the hall. Then the door was banged after her and was locked. "Dear me, what an obstreperous person," observed Nance. "I wonder if she's going to give us a continuous performance." "I don't know," answered Molly. "She'll be a noisy neighbor if she does. But she sounds interesting, living in France with her grandmamma and so on." Nance glanced at her watch. "Wouldn't you like to go for a stroll before supper? We have an hour yet. I'm dying to see the famous Quadrangle and the Cloisters and a few other celebrated spots I've heard about. Aren't you?" "And incidentally rub off a little of our greenness," said Molly, recalling the words of the girl next door. As the two girls closed the door to their room and paused on the landing, the door adjoining burst open and a human whirlwind blew out of the single room and almost knocked them over. "I beg your pardon," said Nance stiffly, giving the human whirlwind a long, cool, brown glance. Molly, a little behind her friend, examined the stranger with much curiosity. She could not quite tell why she had imagined her to be a small black-eyed, black-haired person, when here stood a tall, very beautiful young woman. Her hair was light brown and perfectly straight. She had peculiarly passionate, fiery eyes of very dark gray, of the "smouldering kind," as Nance described them later; her features were regular and her mouth so expressive of her humors that her friends could almost read her thoughts by the curve of her sensitive lips. Even in that flashing glimpse the girls could see that she was beautifully dressed in a white serge suit and a stunning hat of dull blue, trimmed with wings. But instead of continuing her mad rush, which seemed to be her usual manner of doing things, the young woman became suddenly a zephyr of mildness and gentleness. "Excuse my precipitate methods," she said. "I never do things slowly, even when there's no occasion to hurry. It's my way, I suppose. Are you freshmen? Perhaps you'd like for me to show you around college. I'm a soph. I'm fairly familiar." Nance pressed her lips together. She was not in the habit of making friends off-hand. Molly, in fact, was almost her first experience in this kind of friendship. But Molly Brown, who had never consciously done a rude thing in her life, exclaimed: "That would be awfully nice. Thanks, we'll come." They followed her rather timidly down the steps. Across the campus the pile of gray buildings, in the September twilight, more than ever resembled a fine old castle. As they hastened along, the sophomore gave them each a quick, comprehensive glance. "My name is Frances Andrews," she began suddenly, and added with a peculiar intonation, "I was called 'Frank' last year. I'm so glad we are to be neighbors. I hope we shall have lots of good times together." Molly considered this a particular mark of good nature on the part of an older girl to two freshmen, and she promptly made known their names to Frances Andrews. All this time Nance had remained impassive and quiet. Ten girls, arm in arm, were strolling toward them across the soft green turf of the campus, singing as in one voice to the tune of "Maryland, My Maryland": "Oh, Wellington, My Wellington, Oh, how I love my Wellington!" Suddenly Frances Andrews, who was walking between the two young girls, took them each firmly by the arm and led them straight across the campus, giving the ten girls a wide berth. There was so much fierce determination in her action that Molly and Nance looked at her with amazement. "Are those seniors?" asked Nance, thinking perhaps it was not college etiquette to break through a line of established and dignified characters like seniors. "No; they are sophomores singing their class song," answered Frances. "Aren't you a sophomore?" demanded Nance quickly. "Yes." "Curious she doesn't want to meet her friends," thought Molly. But there were more interesting sights to occupy her attention just then. They had reached the great gray stone archway which formed the entrance to the Quadrangle, a grassy courtyard enclosed on all sides by the walls of the building. Heavy oak doors of an antique design opened straight onto the court from the various corridors and lecture rooms and at one end was the library, a beautiful room with a groined roof and stained glass windows, like a chapel. Low stone benches were ranged along the arcade of the court, whereon sat numerous girls laughing and talking together. Although she considered that undue honors were being paid them by having as guide this dashing sophomore, somehow Molly still felt the icy grip of homesickness on her heart. Nance seemed so unsympathetic and reserved and there was a kind of hardness about this Frances Andrews that made the warm-hearted, affectionate Molly a bit uncomfortable. Suddenly Nance spied her old friend, Caroline Brinton, in the distance, and rushed over to join her. As she left, three girls came toward them, talking animatedly. "Hello, Jennie Wren!" called Frances gayly. It was the same little bird-like person who had been in the bus. "Howdy, Rosamond. How are you, Lotta? It's awfully nice to be back at the old stand again. Let me introduce you to my new almost-roommate, Miss Brown," went on Frances hurriedly, as if to fill up the gaps of silence which greeted them. "How do you do, Miss Andrews," said Jennie Wren, stiffly. Rosamond Chase, who had a plump figure and a round, good-natured face, was slightly warmer in her greeting. "How are you, Frankie? I thought you were going to France this winter." The other girl who had a turned-up nose and blonde hair, and was called "Peggy Parsons," sniffed slightly and put her hands behind her back as if she wished to avoid shaking hands. Molly was so shocked that she felt the tears rising to her eyes. "I wish I had never come to college," she thought, "if this is the way old friends treat each other." She slipped her arm through Frances Andrews' and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. "Won't you show me the Cloisters?" she said. "I'm pining to see what they are like." "Come along," said Frances, quite cheerfully, in spite of the fact that she had just been snubbed by three of her own classmates. Lifting the latch of a small oak door fitted under a pointed arch, she led the way through a passage to another oak door which opened directly on the Cloisters. Molly gave an exclamation of pleasure. "Oh," she cried, "are we really allowed to walk in this wonderful place?" "As much as you like before six P. M.," answered Frances. "How do you do, Miss Pembroke?" A tall woman with a grave, handsome face was waiting under the arched arcade to go through the door. "So you decided to come back to us, Miss Andrews. I'm very glad of it. Come into my office a moment. I want a few words with you before supper." "You can find your way back to Queen's by yourself, can't you, Miss Brown?" asked Frances. "I'll see you later." And in another moment, Molly Brown was quite alone in the Cloisters. She was glad to be alone. She wanted to think. She paced slowly along the cloistered walk, each stone arch of which framed a picture of the grassy court with an Italian fountain in the center. "It's exactly like an old monastery," she said to herself. "I wonder anybody could ever be frivolous or flippant in such an old world spot as this. I could easily imagine myself a monk, telling my beads." She sat down on a stone bench and folded her hands meditatively. "So far, I've really only made one friend at college," she thought to herself, for Nance Oldham was too reserved to be called a friend yet, "and that friend is Frances Andrews. Who is she? What is she? Why do her classmates snub her and why did Miss Pembroke, who belonged to the faculty, wish to speak with her in her private office?" It was all queer, very queer. Somehow, it seemed to Molly now that what she had taken for whirlwind manners was really a tremendous excitement under which Frances Andrews was laboring. She was trying to brazen out something. "Just the same, I'm sorry for her," she said out loud. At that moment, a musical, deep-throated bell boomed out six times in the stillness of the cloisters. There was the sound of a door opening, a pause and the door closed with a clicking noise. Molly started from her reverie. It was six o'clock. She rushed to the door of antique design through which she had entered just fifteen minutes before. It was closed and locked securely. She knocked loudly and called: "Let me out! Let me out! I'm locked in!" Then she waited, but no one answered. In the stillness of the twilit courtyard she could hear the sounds of laughter and talking from the Quadrangle. They grew fainter and fainter. A gray chill settled down over the place and Molly looked about her with a feeling of utter desolation. She had been locked in the Cloisters for the night. CHAPTER III. THE PROFESSOR. Molly beat and kicked on the door wildly. Then she called again and again but her voice came back to her in a ghostly echo through the dim aisles of the cloistered walk. She sat down on a bench and burst into tears. How tired and hungry and homesick she was! How she wished she had never heard of college, cold, unfriendly place where people insulted old friends and they locked doors at six o'clock. The chill of the evening had fallen and the stars were beginning to show themselves in the square of blue over the Cloisters. Molly shivered and folded her arms. She had not worn her coat and her blue linen blouse was damp with dew. "Can this be the only door into the Cloisters?" she thought after the first attack of homesick weeping had passed. She rose and began to search along the arcade which was now almost black. There were doors at intervals but all of them locked. She knocked on each one and waited patiently. "Oh, heavens, let me get out of this place to-night," she prayed, lifting her eyes to the stars with an agonized expression. Suddenly, the high mullioned window under which she was standing, glowed with a light just struck. Then, someone opened a casement and a man's voice called: "Is anyone there? I thought I heard a cry." "I am," said Molly, trying to stifle the sobs that would rise in her throat. "I've been locked in, or rather out." "Why, you poor child," exclaimed the voice again. "Wait a moment and I'll open the door." There were sounds of steps along the passage; a heavy bolt was thrust back and a door held open while Molly rushed into the passage like a frightened bird out of the dark. "It's lucky I happened to be in my study this evening," said the man, leading the way toward a square of light in the dark corridor. "Of course the night watchman would have made his rounds at eight, but an hour's suspense out there in the cold and dark would have been very disagreeable. How in the world did it happen?" By this time they had reached the study and Molly found herself in a cozy little room lined from ceiling to floor with books. On the desk was a tray of supper. The owner of the study was a studious looking young man with kindly, quizzical brown eyes under shaggy eyebrows, a firm mouth and a cleft in his chin, which Molly had always heard was a mark of beauty in a woman. "You must be a freshman?" he said looking at her with a shade of amusement in his eyes. "I am," replied Molly, bravely trying to keep her voice from shaking. "I only arrived an hour or so ago. I--I didn't know they would lock----" She broke down altogether and slipping into a big wicker chair sobbed bitterly. "Oh, I wish--I wish I'd stayed at home." "Why, you poor little girl," exclaimed the man. "You have had a beastly time for your first day at college, but you'll come to like it better and better all the time. Come, dry your eyes and I'll start you on your way to your lodgings. Where are you stopping?" "Queen's." "Suppose you drink some hot soup before you go. It will warm you up," he added kindly, taking a cup of hot bouillon from the tray and placing it on the arm of her chair. "But it's your supper," stammered Molly. "Nonsense, there's plenty more. Do as I tell you," he ordered. "I'm a professor, you know, so you'll have to obey me or I'll scold." Molly drank the soup without a word. It did comfort her considerably and presently she looked up at the professor and said: "I'm all right now. I hope you'll excuse me for being so silly and weak. You see I felt so far away and lonesome and it's an awful feeling to be locked out in the cold about a thousand miles from home. I never was before." "I'm sure I should have felt the same in your place," answered the professor. "I should probably have imagined I saw the ghosts of monks dead and gone, who might have walked there if the Cloisters had been several hundreds of years older, and I would certainly have made the echoes ring with my calls for help. The Cloisters are all right for 'concentration' and 'meditation,' which I believe is what they are intended to be used for on a warm, sunny day; but they are cold comfort after sunset." "Is this your study?" asked Molly, rising and looking about her with interest, as she started toward the door. "I should say that this was my play room," he replied, smiling. "Play room?" "Yes, this is where I hide from work and begin to play." He glanced at a pile of manuscript on his desk. "I reckon work is play and play is work to you," observed Molly, regarding the papers with much interest. She had never before seen a manuscript. "If you knew what an heretical document that was, you would not make such rash statements," said the professor. "I'm sure it's a learned treatise on some scientific subject," laughed Molly, who had entirely regained her composure now, and felt not the least bit afraid of this learned man, with the kind, brown eyes. He seemed quite old to her. "If I tell you what it is, will you promise to keep it a secret?" "I promise," she cried eagerly. "It's the libretto of a light opera," he said solemnly, enjoying her amazement. "Did you write it?" she asked breathlessly. "Not the music, but the words and the lyrics. Now, I've told you my only secret," he said. "You must never give me away, or the bottom would fall out of the chair of English literature at Wellington College." "I shall never, never tell," exclaimed Molly; "and thank you ever so much for your kindness to-night." They clasped hands and the professor opened the door for her and stood back to let her pass. Then he followed her down the passage to another door, which he also opened, and in the dim light she still noticed that quizzical look in his eyes, which made her wonder whether he was laughing at her in particular, or at things in general. "Can you find your way to Queen's Cottage?" he asked. "Oh, yes," she assured him. "It's the last house on the left of the campus." The next moment she found herself running along the deserted Quadrangle walk. Under the archway she flew, and straight across the campus--home. It was not yet seven o'clock, and the Queen's Cottage girls were still at supper. A number of students had arrived during the afternoon and the table was full. There were several freshmen; Molly identified them by their silence and looks of unaccustomedness, and some older girls, who were chattering together like magpies. "Where have you been?" demanded Nance Oldham, who had saved a seat for her roommate next to her own. All conversation ceased, and every eye in the room was turned on blushing Molly. "I--I've been locked up," she answered faintly. "Locked up?" repeated several voices at once. "Where?" "In the Cloisters. I didn't realize it was six o'clock, and some one locked the door." Molly had been prepared for a good deal of amusement at her expense, and she felt very grateful when, instead of hoots of derision, a nice junior named Sallie Marks, with an interesting face and good dark eyes, exclaimed: "Why, you poor little freshie! What a mediæval adventure for your first day. And how did you finally get out?" "One of the professors heard me call and let me out." "Which one?" demanded several voices at once. "I don't know his name," replied Molly guardedly, remembering that she had a secret to keep. "What did he look like?" demanded Frances Andrews, who had been unusually silent for her until now. "He had brown eyes and a smooth face and reddish hair, and he was middle aged and quite nice," said Molly glibly. "What, you don't mean to say it was Epiménides Antinous Green?" "Who?" demanded Molly. "Never mind, don't let them guy you," said Sallie Marks. "It was evidently Professor Edwin Green who let you in. He is professor of English literature, and I'll tell you for your enlightenment that he was nicknamed in a song 'Epiménides' after a Greek philosopher, who went to sleep when he was a boy and woke up middle-aged and very wise, and 'Antinous' after a very handsome Greek youth. Don't you think him good-looking?" "Rather, for an older person," said Molly thoughtfully. "He's not thirty yet, my child," said Frances Andrews. "At least, so they say, and he's so clever that two other colleges are after him." "And he's written two books," went on Sally. "Haven't you heard of them--'Philosophical Essays' and 'Lyric Poetry.'" Molly was obliged to confess her ignorance regarding Professor Edwin Green's outbursts into literature, but she indulged in an inward mental smile, remembering the lyrics in the comic opera libretto. "He's been to Harvard and Oxford, and studied in France. He's a perfect infant prodigy," went on another girl. "It's a ripping thing for the 'Squib,'" Molly heard another girl whisper to her neighbor. She knew she would be the subject of an everlasting joke, but she hoped to live it down by learning immediately everything there was to know about Wellington, and becoming so wise that nobody would ever accuse her again of being a green freshman. Mrs. Maynard, the matron, came in to see if she was all right. She was a motherly little woman, with a gentle manner, and Molly felt a leaning toward her at once. "I hope you'll feel comfortable in your new quarters," said Mrs. Maynard. "You'll have plenty of sunshine and a good deal more space when you get your trunks unpacked, although the things inside a trunk do sometimes look bigger than the trunk." Molly smiled. There was not much in her trunk to take up space, most certainly. She had nicknamed herself when she packed it "Molly Few Clothes," and she was beginning to wonder if even those few would pass muster in that crowd of well-dressed girls. "Oh, have the trunks really come, Miss Oldham?" she asked her roommate. "Yes, just before supper. I've started unpacking mine." "Thank goodness. I've got an old ham and a hickory nut cake and some beaten biscuits and pickles and blackberry jam in mine, and I can hardly wait to see if anything has broken loose on my clothes, such as they are." Nance Oldham opened her eyes wide. "I've always heard that Southern people were pretty strong on food," she said, "and this proves it." "Wait until you try the hickory nut cake, and you won't be so scornful," answered Molly, somehow not liking this accusation regarding the appetites of her people. "Did I hear the words 'hickory nut cake' spoken?" demanded Frances Andrews, who apparently talked to no one at the table except freshmen. "Yes, I brought some. Come up and try it to-night," said Molly hospitably. "That would be very jolly, but I can't to-night, thanks," said Frances, flushing. And then Molly and Nance noticed that the other sophomores and juniors at the table were all perfectly silent and looking at her curiously. "I hope you'll all come," she added lamely, wondering if they were accusing her of inhospitality. "Not to-night, my child," said Sally Marks, rising from the table. "Thank you, very much." As the two freshmen climbed the stairs to their room a little later, they passed by an open door on the landing. "Come in," called the voice of Sally. "I was waiting for you to pass. This is my home. How do you like it?" "Very much," answered the two girls, really not seeing anything particularly remarkable about the apartment, except perhaps the sign on the door which read "Pax Vobiscum," and would seem to indicate that the owner of the room had a Christian spirit. "Your name is 'Molly Brown,' and you come from Kentucky, isn't that so?" asked Sally Marks, taking Molly's chin in her hand and looking into her eyes. "And yours?" went on the inquisitive Sally, turning to Molly's roommate. "Is Nance Oldham, and I come from Vermont," finished Nance promptly. "You're both dears. And I am ever so glad you are in Queens. You won't think I'm patronizing if I give you a little advice, will you?" "Oh, no," said the two girls. "You know Wellington's full of nice girls. I don't think there is a small college in this country that has such a fine showing for class and brains. But among three hundred there are bound to be some black sheep, and new girls should always be careful with whom they take up." "But how can we tell?" asked Nance. "Oh, there are ways. Suppose, for instance, you should meet a girl who was good-looking, clever, rich, with lots of pretty clothes, and all that, and she seemed to have no friends. What would you think?" "Why, I might think there was something the matter with her, unless she was too shy to make friends." "But suppose she wasn't?" persisted Sally. "Then, there would surely be something the matter," said Nance. "Well, then, children, if you should meet a girl like that in college, don't get too intimate with her." Sally Marks led them up to their own room, just to see how they were fixed, she said. Later, when the two girls had crawled wearily into bed, after finishing the unpacking, Molly called out sleepily: "Nance"--she had forgotten already to say Miss Oldham--"do you suppose that nice junior could have meant Miss Andrews?" "I haven't a doubt of it," said Nance. "Just the same, I'm sorry for the poor thing," continued Molly. "I'm sorry for anybody who's walking under a cloud, and I don't think it would do any harm to be nice to her." "It wouldn't do her any harm," said Nance. "Epiménides Antinous Green," whispered Molly to herself, as she snuggled under the covers. The name seemed to stick in her memory like a rhyme. "Funny I didn't notice how young and handsome he was. I only noticed that he had good manners, if he did treat me like a child." CHAPTER IV. A BUSY DAY. The next day was always a chaotic one in Molly's memory--a jumble of new faces and strange events. At breakfast she made the acquaintance of the freshmen who were staying at Queen's Cottage--four in all. One of these was Julia Kean, "a nice girl in neutral tints," as Molly wrote home to her sister, "with gray eyes and brown hair and a sense of humor." She came to be known as "Judy," and formed an intimate friendship with Molly and Nance, which lasted throughout the four years of their college course. "How do you feel after your night's rest?" she called across the table to Molly in the most friendly manner, just as if they had known each other always. "You look like the 'Lady of the Sea' in that blue linen that just matches your eyes." She began looking Molly over with a kind of critical admiration, narrowing her eyes as an artist does when he's at work on a picture. "I'd like to make a poster of you in blue-and-white chalk. I'd put you on a yellow, sandy beach, against a bright blue sky, in a high wind, with your dress and hair blowing----" And with eyes still narrowed, she traced an imaginary picture with one hand and shaped her ideas with the other. Molly laughed. "You must be an artist," she said, "with such notions about posing." "A would-be one, that's all. 'Not yet, but soon,' is my motto." "That's a bad motto," here put in Nance Oldham. "It's like the Spanish saying of '_Hasta mañana_.' You are very apt to put off doing things until next day." Julia Kean looked at her reproachfully. "You've read my character in two words," she said. "Why don't you introduce me to your friends, Judy?" asked a handsome girl next to her, who had quantities of light-brown hair piled on top of her head. "I haven't been introduced myself," replied Judy; "but I never could see why people should stop for introductions at teas and times like this. We all know we're all right, or else we wouldn't be here." "Of course," said Frances Andrews, who had just come in, "why all this formality, when we are to be a family party for the next eight months? Why not become friends at once, without any preliminaries?" Sally Marks, who had given them the vague yet meaningful warning the night before, appeared to be absorbed in her coffee cup, and the other two sophomores at the table were engaged in a whispered conversation. "Nevertheless, I will perform the introductions," announced Judy Kean. "This is Miss Margaret Wakefield, of Washington, D. C.; Miss Edith Coles, of Rhode Island; Miss Jessie Lynch, of Wisconsin, and Miss Mabel Hinton, of Illinois. As for me, my name is Julia Kean, and I come from--nowhere in particular." "You must have had a birthplace," insisted that accurate young person, Nance Oldham. "If you could call a ship a birthplace, I did," replied Judy. "I was born in mid-ocean on a stormy night. Hence my stormy, restless nature." "But how did it happen?" asked Molly. "Oh, it was all simple enough. Papa and mamma were on their way back from Japan, and I arrived a bit prematurely on board ship. I began life traveling, and I've been traveling ever since." "You'll have to stay put here; awhile, at least," said Sally Marks. "I hope so. I need to gather a little moss before I become an habitual tramp." "Hadn't we better be chasing along?" said Frances Andrews. "It's almost time for chapel." No one answered and Molly began to wonder how long this strange girl would endure the part of a monologist at college. For that was what her attempts at conversation seemed to amount to. She admired Frances's pluck, at any rate. Whatever she had done to offend, it was courageous of her to come back and face the music. Chapel was an impressive sight to the new girls. The entire body of students was there, and the faculty, including Professor Edwin Green, who gave each girl the impression he was looking at her when he was really only gazing into the imaginary bull's-eye of an imaginary camera, and saw not one of them. Molly decided his comeliness was more charm than looks. "The unknown charm," she wrote her sister. "His ears are a little pointed at the top, and he has brown eyes like a collie dog. But it was nice of him to have given me his soup," she added irrelevantly, "and I shall always appreciate it." After chapel, when Molly was following in the trail of her new friends, feeling a bit strange and unaccustomed, some one plucked her by the sleeve. It was Mary Stewart, the nice senior with the plain, but fine face. "I'll expect you this evening after supper," she said. "I'm having a little party. There will be music, too. I thought perhaps you might like to bring a friend along. It's rather lonesome, breaking into a new crowd by one's self." It never occurred to Molly that she was being paid undue honors. For a freshman, who had arrived only the afternoon before, without a friend in college, to be asked to a small intimate party by the most prominent girl in the senior class, was really quite remarkable, so Nance Oldham thought; and she was pleased to be the one Molly chose to take along. The two girls had had a busy, exciting day. They had not been placed in the same divisions, B and O being so widely separated in the alphabet, and were now meeting again for the first time since lunch. Molly had stretched her length on her couch and kicked off her pumps, described later by Judy Kean as being a yard long and an inch broad. [Illustration: "I wish you would tell me your receipt for making friends, Molly," exclaimed Nance.--_Page 51._] "I wish you would tell me your receipt for making friends, Molly," exclaimed Nance. "You are really a perfect wonder. Don't you find it troublesome to be so nice to so many people?" "I'd find it lots harder not to be nice," answered Molly. "Besides, it's a rule that works both ways. The nicer you are to people, the nicer they are to you." "But don't you think lots of people aren't worth the effort and if you treat them like sisters, they are apt to take advantage of it and bore you afterwards?" Molly smiled. "I've never been troubled that way," she said. "Now, don't tell me," cried Nance, warming to the argument, "that that universally cordial manner of yours doesn't bring a lot of rag-tags around to monopolize you. If it hasn't before, it will now. You'll see." "You make me feel like the leader of Coxey's Army," laughed Molly; "because, you see, I'm a kind of a rag-tag myself." Her eyes filled with tears. She was thinking of her meagre wardrobe. Nance was silent. She was slow of speech, but when she once began, she always said more than she intended simply to prove her point; and now she was afraid she had hurt Molly's feelings. She was provoked with herself for her carelessness, and when she was on bad terms with herself she appeared to be on bad terms with everybody else. Of course, in her heart of hearts, she had been thinking of Frances Andrews, whom she felt certain Molly would never snub sufficiently to keep her at a distance. The two girls went about their dressing without saying another word. Nance was coiling her smooth brown braids around her head, while Molly was looking sorrowfully at her only two available dresses for that evening's party. One was a blue muslin of a heavenly color but considerably darned, and the other was a marquisette, also the worse for wear. Suddenly Nance gave a reckless toss of her hair brush in one direction and her comb in another, and rushed over to Molly, who was gazing absently into the closet. "Oh, Molly," she cried impetuously, seizing her friend's hand, "I'm a brute. Will you forgive me? I'm afraid I hurt your feelings. It's just my unfortunate way of getting excited and saying too much. I never met any one I admired as much as you in such a short time. I wish I did know how to be charming to everybody, like you. It's been ground into me since I was a child not to make friends with people unless it was to my advantage, and I found out they were entirely worthy. And it's a slow process, I can tell you. You are the very first chance acquaintance I ever made in my life, and I like you better than any girl I ever met. So there, will you say you have forgiven me?" "Of course, I will," exclaimed Molly, flushing with pleasure. "There is nothing to forgive. I know I'm too indiscriminate about making friends. Mother often complained because I would bring such queer children out to dinner when I was a child. Indeed, I wasn't hurt a bit. It was the word 'rag-tag,' that seemed to be such an excellent description of the clothes I must wear this winter, unless some should drop down from heaven, like manna in the desert for the Children of Israel." Without a word, Nance pulled a box out from under her couch and lifted the lid. It disclosed a little hand sewing machine. "Can you sew?" she asked. "After a fashion." "Well, I can. It's pastime with me. I'd rather make clothes than do lots of other things. Now, suppose we set to work and make some dresses. How would you like a blue serge, with turn-over collar and cuffs, like that one Miss Marks is wearing, that fastens down the side with black satin buttons?" "Oh, Nance, I couldn't let you do all that for me," protested Molly. "Besides, I haven't the material or anything." "Why don't you earn some money, Molly?" suggested Nance. "There are lots of different ways. Mrs. Murphy, the housekeeper, was telling me about them. One of the girls here last year actually blacked boots--but, of course, you wouldn't do anything so menial as that." "Wouldn't I?" interrupted Molly. "Just watch me. That's a splendid idea, Nance. It's a fine, honorable labor, as Colonel Robert Wakefield said, when his wife had to take in boarders." Molly slipped on the blue muslin. "It really doesn't make any difference what she wears," thought Nance, looking at her friend with covert admiration. "She'd be a star in a crazy quilt." The two girls hurried down to supper. Molly was thoughtful all through that conversational meal. Her mind was busy with a scheme by which she intended to remove that unceasing pressure for funds which bade fair to be an ever-increasing bugbear to her. No. 16 on the Quadrangle turned out to be a very luxurious and comfortable suite of rooms, consisting of quite a large parlor, a little den or study and a bedroom. Mary Stewart met them at the door in such a plain dress that at first Molly was deceived into thinking it was just an ordinary frock until she noticed the lines. And in a few moments Nance took occasion to inform her that simplicity was one of the most expensive things in the world, which few people could afford, and furthermore that Mary Stewart's gray, cottony-looking dress was a dream of beauty and must have come from Paris. There were six or seven other girls in the crowd, including that little bird-like, bright-eyed creature they called "Jennie Wren," whose real name was Jane Wickham. The only other girl they knew was Judith Blount, who had been so snubby to Molly the day before about the luggage. All these girls were musical, as the freshmen were soon to learn, and belonged to the College Glee Club. "What a pretty room!" exclaimed Molly to her hostess, after she had been properly introduced and enthroned in a big tapestry chair, in which she unconsciously made a most delightful and colorful picture. "I'm glad you like it. I have some trouble keeping it from getting cluttered up with 'truck,' as we call it. It's about like Hercules trying to clean the Augean Stables, I think, but I try and use the den for an overflow, and only put the things I'm really fond of in here. That helps some." "They are certainly lovely," said the young freshman, looking wistfully at the head of "The Unknown Woman," between two brass candlesticks on the mantel shelf. On the bookshelves stood "The Winged Victory," and hanging over the shelves on the opposite side of the room was an immense photograph of Botticelli's "Primavera." The only other pictures were two Japanese prints and the only other furniture was a baby grand piano and some chairs. It was really a delightfully empty and beautiful place, and Molly felt suddenly strangely crude and ignorant when she recalled the things she had intended to do to her part of the room at Queen's Cottage toward beautifying it. She was engaged in mentally clearing them all out, when a voice at her elbow said: "Are you thinking of taking the vows, Miss Brown?" It was Judith Blount, who had drawn up a chair beside her's. There was something very patronizing and superior in Miss Blount's manner, but Molly was determined to ignore it, and smiled sweetly into the black eyes of the haughty sophomore. "Taking what vows?" she asked. "Why, I understood you had become a cloistered nun." Molly flushed. So the story was out. It didn't take long for news to travel through a girl's college. "I wasn't cloistered very long," she answered. "And the only vow I took was never to be caught there again after six o'clock." "How did you like Epiménides? I hear he's made a great joke of it," she continued, without waiting for Molly to answer. "He's rather humorous, you know. Even in his most serious work, it will come out." "I don't think there was much to joke about," put in Molly, feeling a little indignant. "I was awfully forlorn and miserable." "The real joke was that he called you 'little Miss Smith,'" said Judith. Molly's moods reflected themselves in her eyes just as the passing clouds are mirrored in two blue pools of water. A shadow passed over her face now and her eyes grew darker, but she kept very quiet, which was her way when her feelings were hurt. Then Mary Stewart began to play on the piano, and Molly forgot all about the sharp-tongued sophomore, who, she strongly suspected, was trying to be disagreeable, but for what reason for the life of her Molly could not see. Never before had she heard any really good playing on the piano, and it seemed to her now that the music actually flowed from Mary's long, strong fingers, in a melodious and liquid stream. Other music followed. Judith sang a gypsy song, in a rich contralto voice, that Molly thought was a little coarse. Jennie Wren, who could sing exactly like a child, gave a solo in the highest little piping soprano. Two girls played on mandolins, and Mary Stewart, who appeared to do most things, accompanied them on a guitar. Then came supper, which was rather plain, Molly thought, and consisted simply of tea and cookies. "I suppose it's artistic not to have much to eat," her thoughts continued, but she made up her mind to invite Mary Stewart to supper before the old ham and the hickory nut cake were consumed by hungry freshmen. "It seems to me that with such a voice as yours you must sing, Miss Brown," here broke in Mary Stewart. "Will you please oblige the company?" "I wouldn't like to sing after all this fine music," protested Molly. "Besides, I don't know anything but darky songs." "The very girl we want for our Hallowe'en Vaudeville," cried Jennie Wren. "What do you use, a guitar or a piano?" "Either, a little," answered Molly, blushing crimson; "but I haven't any more voice than a rabbit." "Fire away," cried Jennie Wren, thrusting a guitar into her hands. Molly was actually trembling with fright when she found herself the center of interest in this musical company. [Illustration: "I'm scared to death," she announced. Then she struck a chord and began.--_Page 60._] "I'm scared to death," she announced, as she faintly tuned the guitar. Then she struck a chord and began: "Ma baby loves shortnin', Ma baby loves shortnin' bread; Ma baby loves shortnin', Mammy's gwine make him some shortnin' bread." Before she had finished, everybody in the room had joined in. Then she sang: "Ole Uncle Rat has come to town, To buy his niece a weddin' gown, OO-hoo!" "A quarter to ten," announced some one, and the next moment they had all said good-night and were running as fast as their feet could carry them across the campus, "scuttling in every direction like a lot of rats," as Judith remarked. "Lights out at ten o'clock," whispered Nance breathlessly, as they crept into their room and undressed in the dark. It was very exciting. They felt like a pair of happy criminals who had just escaped the iron grasp of the law. When Molly Brown dropped into a deep and restful sleep that night, she never dreamed that she had already become a noted person in college, though how it happened, it would be impossible to say. It might have been the Cloister story, but, nevertheless, Molly--overgrown child that she may have seemed to Professor Green--had a personality that attracted attention wherever she was. CHAPTER V. THE KENTUCKY SPREAD. "Molly, you look a little worried," observed Nance Oldham, two days before the famous spread was to take place, it having been set for Friday evening. Molly was seated on her bed, in the midst of a conglomerate mass of books and clothes, chewing the end of a pencil while she knitted her brows over a list of names. "Not exactly worried," she replied. "But, you know, Nance, giving a party is exactly like some kind of strong stimulant with me. It goes to my head, and I seem to get intoxicated on invitations. Once I get started to inviting, I can't seem to stop." "Molly Brown," put in Nance severely, "I believe you've just about invited the whole of Wellington College to come here Friday night. And because you are already such a famous person, everybody has accepted." "I think I can about remember how many I asked," she replied penitently. "There are all the girls in the house, of course." "Frances Andrews?" Molly nodded. "And all the girls who were at Miss Stewart's the other night." "What, even that girl who makes catty speeches. That black-eyed Blount person?" "Yes, even so," continued Molly sadly. "I really hadn't intended to ask her, Nance, but I do love to heap coals of fire on people's heads, and besides, I just told you, when I get started, I can't seem to stop. When I was younger, I've been known to bring home as many as six strange little girls to dinner at once." "The next time you give a party," put in Nance, "we'd better make out the list beforehand, and then you must give me your word of honor not to add one name to it." "I'll try to," replied Molly with contrition, "but it's awfully hard to take the pledge when it comes to asking people to meals, even spreads." The two girls examined the list together, and Molly racked her brains to try and remember any left-outs, as she called them. "I'm certain that's all," she said at last. "That makes twenty, doesn't it? Oh, Nance, I tremble for the old ham and the hickory nut cake. Do you think they'll go round? Aunty, she's my godmother, is sending me another box of beaten biscuits. She has promised to keep me supplied. You know, I have never eaten cold light bread in my life at breakfast, and I'd just as soon choke down cold potatoes as the soggy bread they give us here. But beaten biscuit and ham and home-made pickles won't be enough, even with hickory nut cake," she continued doubtfully. "I have a chafing dish. We can make fudge; then there's tea, you know. We can borrow cups and saucers from the others. But we'll have to do something else for their amusement besides feed them. Have you thought of anything?" "Lillie and Millie," these were two sophomores at Queen's, "have a stunt they have promised to give. It's to be a surprise. And Jennie Wren has promised to bring her guitar and oblige us with a few selections, but, oh, Nance, except for the eatin', I'm afraid it won't be near such a fine party as Mary Stewart's was." "Eatin's the main thing, child. Don't let that worry you," replied Nance consolingly. "I think I have an idea of something which would interest the company, but I'm not going to tell even you what it is." Nance had a provoking way of keeping choice secrets and then springing them when she was entirely ready, and wild horses could not drag them out of her before that propitious moment. On Friday evening the girls began to arrive early, for, as has been said, Molly was already an object of interest at Wellington College, and the fame of her beaten biscuits and old ham had spread abroad. Some of the guests, like Mary Stewart, came because they were greatly attracted toward the young freshman; and others, like Judith Blount, felt only an amused curiosity in accepting the invitation. As a general thing, Judith was a very exclusive person, but she felt she could safely show her face where Mary Stewart was. "This looks pretty fine to me," observed that nice, unaffected young woman herself, shaking hands with Molly and Nance. "It's good of you to say so," replied Molly. "Your premises would make two of our's, I'm thinking." "But, look at your grand buffet. How clever of you! One of you two children must have a genius for arrangement." The study tables had been placed at one end of the room close together, their crudities covered with a white cloth borrowed from Mrs. Murphy, and on these were piled the viands in a manner to give the illusion of great profusion and plenty. "It's Molly," laughed Nance; "she's a natural entertainer." "Not at all," put in Molly. "I come of a family of cooks." "And did your cook relatives marry butlers?" asked Judith. Molly stifled a laugh. Somehow Judith couldn't say things like other girls. There was always a tinge of spite in her speeches. "Where I come from," she said gravely, "the cooks and butlers are colored people, and the old ones are almost like relatives, they are so loyal and devoted. But there are not many of those left now." The room was gradually filling, and presently every guest had arrived, except Frances Andrews. "We won't wait for her," said Molly to Lillie and Millie, the two inseparable sophomores, who now quietly slipped out. Presently, Nance, major domo for the evening, shoved all the guests back onto the divans and into the corners until a circle was formed in the centre of the room. She then hung a placard on the knob of the door which read: MAHOMET, THE COCK OF THE EAST, _vs._ CHANTECLER, THE COCK OF THE WEST. There was a sound of giggling and scuffling, the door opened and two enormous, man-sized cocks entered the room. Both fowls had white bodies made by putting the feet through the sleeves of a nightgown, which was drawn up around the neck and over the arms, the fullness gathered into the back and tied into a rakish tail. A Persian kimono was draped over Mahomet to represent wings and a tightly fitting white cap with a point over the forehead covered his head. His face was powdered to a ghastly pallor with talcum and his mouth had been painted with red finger-nail salve into a cruel red slash across his countenance. Chantecler was of a more engaging countenance. A small red felt bedroom slipper formed his comb and a red silk handkerchief covered his back hair. The two cocks crowed and flapped their wings and the fight began, amid much laughter and cheering. Twice Chantecler was almost spurred to death, but it was Mahomet's lot to die that evening, and presently he expired with a terrible groan, while the Cock of the West placed his foot on Mahomet's chest and crowed a mighty crow, for the West had conquered the East. That was really the great stunt of the evening, and it occupied a good deal of time. Molly began carving the ham, which she had refused to do earlier, because a ham, properly served, should appear first in all its splendid shapely wholeness before being sliced into nothingness. Therefore she now proceeded to cut off thin portions, which crumbled into bits under the edge of the carving knife borrowed from Mrs. Murphy. But the young hostess composedly heaped it upon the plates with pickle and biscuit, and it was eaten so quickly that she had scarcely finished the last serving before the plates were back again for a second allowance. During the hot fudge and hickory nut cake course, the door opened and a Scotch laddie, kilted and belted in the most approved manner entered the room. His knees were bare, he wore a little Scotch cap, a black velvet jacket and a plaidie thrown over one shoulder. But the most perfect part of his get-up was his miniature bagpipe, which he blew on vigorously, and presently he paused and sang a Scotch song. "Nance!" cried several of the Queen's Cottage girls, for it was difficult to recognize the quiet young girl from Vermont in this rakish disguise. In the midst of the uproar there was a loud knock on the door. "Come in," called Molly, a little frightened, thinking, perhaps, the kindly matron had for once rebelled at the noise they were making. Slowly the door opened and an old hag stepped into the room. She was really a terrible object, and some of the girls shrieked and fell back as she advanced toward the jolly circle. Her nose was of enormous length, and almost rested on her chin, like a staff, like the nose of "The Last Leaf on the Tree." Also, she had a crooked back and leaned heavily on a stick. On her head was a high pointed witch's cap. She wore black goggles, and had only two front teeth. The witch produced a pack of cards which she dexterously shuffled with her black gloved hands. Then she sat down on the floor, beckoning to the girls to come nearer. "Half-a-minute fortune for each one," she observed in a muffled, disguised voice, but it was a very fulsome minute, as Judy remarked afterward, for what little she said was strictly to the point. To Judith Blount she said: "English literature is your weak point. Look out for danger ahead." This seemed simple enough advice, but Judith flushed darkly, and several of the girls exchanged glances. Molly, for some reason, recalled what Judith had said about Professor Edwin Green. Many of the other girls came in for knocks, but they were very skillful ones, deftly hidden under the guise of advice. To Jennie Wren the witch said: "Be careful of your friends. Don't ever cultivate unprofitable people." To Nance Oldham she said: "You will always be very popular--if you stick to popular people." It was all soon over. Molly's fortune had been left to the last. The strange witch had gone so quickly from one girl to another that they had scarcely time to take a breath between each fortune. "As for you," she said at last, turning to Molly, "I can only say that 'kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood,' and by the end of your freshman year you will be the most popular girl in college." "Who are you?" cried Molly, suddenly coming out of her dream. "Yes, who are you?" cried Judith, breaking through the circle and seizing the witch by the arm. With a swift movement the witch pushed her back and she fell in a heap on some girls who were still sitting on the floor. "I will know who you are," cried Jennie Wren, with a determined note in her high voice, as she grasped the witch by the arm, and it did look for a moment as if the Kentucky spread were going to end in a free-for-all fight, when suddenly, in the midst of the scramble and cries, came three raps on the door, and the voice of the matron called: "Young ladies, ten o'clock. Lights out!" The girls always declared that it was the witch who had got near the door and pushed the button which put out every light in the room. At any rate, the place was in total darkness for half a minute, and when Molly switched the lights on again for the girls to find their wraps the witch had disappeared. In another instant the guests had vanished into thin air and across the moonlit campus ghostly figures could be seen flitting like shadows over the turf toward the dormitories, for there was no time to lose. At a quarter past ten the gates into the Quadrangle would be securely locked. Nance lit a flat, thick candle, known in the village as "burglar's terror," and in this flickering dim light the two girls undressed hastily. Suddenly Molly exclaimed in a whisper: "Nance, I believe it was Frances Andrews who dressed up as that witch, and I'm going to find out, rules or no rules." She slipped on her kimono and crept into the hall. The house was very still, but she tapped softly on Frances' door. There was no answer, and opening the door she tiptoed into the room. A long ray of moonlight, filtering in through the muslin curtains, made the room quite light. There was a smell of lavender salts in the air, and Mollie could plainly see Frances in her bed. A white handkerchief was tied around her head, as if she had a headache, but she seemed to be asleep. "Frances," called Molly softly. Frances gave a stifled sob that was half a groan and turned over on her side. "Frances," called Molly again. Frances opened her eyes and sat up. "Is anything the matter?" she asked. Molly went up to the bedside. Even in the moonlight she could see that Frances' eyes were swollen with crying. "I was afraid you were ill," whispered Molly. "Why didn't you come to the spread?" "I had a bad headache. It's better now. Good night." Molly crept off to her room. Was it Frances, after all, who had broken up her party? Molly was inclined to think it was not, and yet---- "At any rate, we'll give her the benefit of the doubt, Nance," she whispered. But there were no doubts in Nance's mind. CHAPTER VI. KNOTTY PROBLEMS. "I tell you things do hum in this college!" exclaimed Judy Kean, closing a book she had been reading and tossing it onto the couch with a sigh of deep content. "I don't see how you can tell anything about it, Judy," said Nance severely. "You've been so absorbed in 'The Broad Highway' every spare moment you've had for the last two days that you might as well have been in Kalamazoo as in college." "Nance, you do surely tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," said Judy good naturedly. "I know I have the novel habit badly. It's because I had no restraint put upon me in my youth, and if I get a really good book like this one, I just let duty slide." "Why don't you put your talents to some use and write, then?" demanded Nance, who enjoyed preaching to her friends. "Art is more to my taste," answered Judy. "Well, art is long and time is fleeting. Why don't you get busy and do something?" exclaimed the other vehemently. "What do you intend to be?" Judy had a trick of raising her eyebrows and frowning at the same time, which gave her a serio-comic expression and invested her most earnest speeches with a touch of humor. But she did not reply to Nance's question, having spent most of her life indulging her very excellent taste without much thought for the future. "What do you intend to be?" she asked presently of Nance, who had her whole future mapped out in blocks: four years at college, two years studying languages in Europe, four years as teacher in a good school, then as principal, perhaps, and next as owner of a school of her own. "Why, I expect to teach languages," said Nance without a moment's hesitation. "Of course, a teacher. I might have known!" cried Judy. "You've commenced already on me--your earliest pupil! "'Teacher, teacher, why am I so happy, happy, happy, In my Sunday school?'" She broke off with her song suddenly and seized Nance's hand. "Please don't scold me, Nance, dear. I know life isn't all play, and that college is a serious business if one expects to take the whole four years' course. I've already had a warning. It came this morning. It's because I've been cutting classes. And I have been entirely miserable. That's the reason I've been so immersed in 'The Broad Highway.' I've been trying to drown my sorrows in romance. I know I'm not clever----" "Nonsense," interrupted the other impatiently. "You are too clever, you silly child. That's what is the matter with you, but you don't know how to work. You have no system. What you really need is a good tutor. You must learn to concentrate----" "Concentrate," laughed Judy. "That's something I never could do. As soon as I try my thoughts go skylarking." "How do you do it?" "Well, I sit very still and dig my toes into the soles of my shoes and my finger nails into the palms of my hands and say over and over the thing I'm trying to concentrate on." The girls were still laughing joyously when Molly came in. Her face wore an expression of unwonted seriousness, and she was frowning slightly. Three things had happened that morning which worried her considerably. The first shock came before breakfast when she had looked in her handkerchief box where she kept her funds promiscuously mixed up with handkerchiefs and orris root sachet bags and found one crumpled dollar bill and not a cent more. There was a kind of blind spot in Molly's brain where money was concerned, little of it as she had possessed in her life. She never could remember exactly how much she had on hand, and change was a meaningless thing to her. And now it was something of a blow to her to find that one dollar must bridge over the month's expenses, or she must write home for more, a thing she did not wish to do, remembering the two acres of apple orchard which had been sunk in her education. "And it's all gone in silk attire and riotous living," she said to herself, for she had bought herself ten yards of a heavenly sky blue crêpey material which she and Nance proposed to make into a grand costume, also she had entertained numbers of friends at various times to sundaes in the village. One of the other of her triple worries was a note she had received that morning from Judith Blount, and the third was another note, about both of which she intended to ask the advice of her two most intimate friends. "What's bothering you, child?" demanded Judy, quick to notice any change in her adored Molly's face. "Oh, several things. These two notes for one." She drew two envelopes from her pocket and opening the first one, began to read aloud: "'DEAR MISS BROWN: "'Since you come of a family of cooks and are expert on the subject, I am going to ask you to take charge of a little dinner I am giving to-morrow night in my rooms to my brother and some friends. I shall expect you to be chief cook, but not bottle-washer. You'll have an assistant for that; but I'd like you to wait on the table, seeing you are so good at those things. Don't bother about cap and apron. I have them. "'Yours with thanks in advance, "'JUDITH BLOUNT.'" The note was written on heavy cream-colored paper with two Greek letters embossed at the top in dark blue. Judith lived in the Beta Phi House, which was divided into apartments, and occupied by eight decidedly well-to-do girls, the richest girls in college, as a matter of fact. It was called "The Millionaire's Club," and was known to be the abode of snobbishness, although Molly, who had been there once to a tea, had been entirely unconscious of this spirit. Judy and Nance were speechless with indignation after Molly had finished reading the note. "What do you think of that?" she exclaimed, breaking the silence. "It's a rank insult," cried Nance. "If you were a man, you could challenge her to a duel," cried Judy; "but being a girl, you'll have to take it out in ignoring her." "It's written in such a matter-of-fact way," continued Molly, "that I can't believe it's entirely unusual. After sober, second thought, I believe I'll ask Sallie before I answer it." "Speaking of angels--there is Sallie!" cried Judy, as that young woman herself hurried past the door on her way to a class. "What is it? Make it quick. I'm late now!" ejaculated Sallie, popping her head in at the door with a smile on her face to counteract her abrupt manner. "Who's in trouble now?" The three freshmen stood silently about her while she perused Judith's note. "Did you ever hear of such a thing?" burst out Judy with hot indignation. "Oh, yes, lots of times, little one. It's quite customary for freshmen to act as waitresses when girls in the older classes entertain in their rooms. The freshies like to do it because they get such good food. I do think this note is expressed, well--rather unfortunately. It has a sort of between-the-lines superiority. But Judith is always like that. You just have to take her as you find her and ignore her faults. You'd better accept, Molly, with good grace. You'll enjoy the food, too. To-morrow--let me see, that's New England boiled dinner night, isn't it? You'll probably have beefsteak and mushrooms and grape fruit and ice cream and all the delicacies of the season." "Very well, if you advise it, I'll accept, like a lady," said Molly resignedly. "It's customary," answered Sallie, smiling cheerfully and waving her hand as she hurried down the hall. "Well, that's settled," continued Molly sighing. Somehow, Judith Blount did get on her nerves. "Now, the other note is even more serious in a way. Listen to this." Before reading it, she carefully closed the door, drew the other girls into the far end of the room and began in a low voice: "'DEAR MISS BROWN: "'May I have the pleasure of being your escort to the sophomore-freshman ball? Let me know whether you intend to wear one of your cerulean shades. The carriage will stop for us at eight o'clock. You might leave the answer at my door to-night. "'Yours faithfully, "'FRANCES ANDREWS.'" The girls looked at each other in consternation. "What's to be done?" "Say you have another engagement," advised Judy, who was not averse at times to telling polite fibs in order to extricate herself from a difficulty. But Molly was the very soul of truth, and even small fibs were not in her line. "Hasn't any one else asked you yet?" asked Nance. "No; you see, it's a week off, and I suppose they are just beginning to think of partners now." "All I can say is that if you do go with her you are done for," announced Nance solemnly. Molly sat down in the Morris chair and wrinkled her brows. "I do wish she hadn't," she said. "She just regards you as a sort of life preserver," exclaimed Judy. "She's trying to keep above the surface by holding on to you. If I were you, I wouldn't be bothered with her." "Of course, I know," said Molly, "that Frances Andrews did something last year that put her in the black books with her class. She's trying to live it down, and they are trying to freeze her out. Nobody has anything to do with her, and she's not invited to anything except the big entertainments like this. I can't help feeling sorry for her, and I don't see how it would do me any harm to go with her. But I just don't want to go, that's all. I'd rather take a beating than go." "Well, then you are a chump for considering it!" exclaimed Judy, whose self-indulgent nature had little sympathy for people who would do uncomfortable things. "Then, on the other hand," continued Molly, "suppose my going would help her a little, don't you think it would be mean to turn her down? Oh, say you think I ought to do it, because I'm going to, hard as it seems." Nance went over and put her arms around her friend, quite an unusual demonstration with her, while Judy seized her hand and patted it tenderly. "Really, Molly, you are quite the nicest person in the world," she exclaimed. Then she added: "By the way, Molly, can you spare the time to tutor me for a month or so? I don't know what the rates are, but we can settle about that later. Nance tells me I must get busy or else take my walking papers. I'd be afraid of a strange tutor. I'm a timid creature. But I think I might manage to learn a few things from you, Molly, dear." Did Judy understand the look of immense relief which instantly appeared on Molly's sensitive face? If she did she made no sign. "Now, don't say no," she went on. "I know you are awfully busy, and all that, but it would be just an act of common charity." "Say no?" cried Molly, laughing lightly. "I can hardly wait to say yes," and she cheerfully got out six pairs of muddy boots from the closet, enveloped herself in a large apron, slipped on a pair of old gloves and went to work to clean and black them. Molly had become official bootblack at Queen's Cottage at ten cents a pair when they were not muddy, and fifteen cents when they were. When she had completed her lowly job she sat down at her desk and wrote two notes. One was to Judith Blount, in which she accepted her invitation to wait at table in the most polite and correct terms, and signed her name "Mary Carmichael Washington Brown." The second letter, which was to Frances Andrews, was also a note of acceptance. Then Molly removed her collar, rolled up her sleeves, kicked off her pumps--a signal that she was going to begin work--and sat down to cram mathematics,--the very hardest thing in life to her and the subject which was to be a stumbling block in her progress always. CHAPTER VII. AN INCIDENT OF THE COFFEE CUPS. Molly turned up at the Beta Phi House about five o'clock the next evening. She wore a blue linen so that if any grease sputtered it would fall harmlessly on wash goods, and in other ways attired herself as much like a maid as possible with white collar and cuffs and a very plain tight arrangement of the hair. "If I'm to be a servant, I might as well look like one," she thought, as she marched upstairs and rapped on Judith's door. "Come in," called the voice of Jennie Wren. "Judith's gone walking with her guests," she explained; "but she left her orders with me, and I'll transmit them to you," she added rather grandly. "You are to do the cooking. Here are all the things in the ice box, and there's the gas stove on the trunk. Miss Brinton and I will set the table." Molly gathered that Caroline Brinton, the unbending young woman from Philadelphia, had been chosen as her assistant. The tiny ice box was stuffed full of provisions. There was the inevitable beefsteak, as Sallie had predicted; also canned soup; a head of celery, olives, grape fruits, olive oil, mushrooms, cheese--really, a bewildering display of food stuffs. "Did Miss Blount decide on the courses?" Molly asked Jennie Wren. "No; she got the raw material and left the rest entirely with you. 'Tell her to get up a good dinner for six people,' she said. 'I don't care how she does it, only she must have it promptly at six-fifteen.'" There were only two holes to the gas stove and likewise only two saucepans to fit over them, so that it behooved Molly to look alive if she were to prepare dinner for six in an hour and a quarter. "Where's the can opener?" she called. A calm, experienced cook with the patience of a saint might have felt some slight irritability if she had been placed in Molly's shoes that evening. Nothing could be found. There was no can opener, no ice pick, the coffeepot had a limited capacity of four cups, and there was no broiler for the steak. It had to be cooked in a pan. It must be confessed also that it was the first time in her life Molly had ever cooked an entire meal. She had only made what her grandmother would have called "covered dishes," or surprise dishes, and she now found preparing a dinner of four courses for six people rather a bewildering task. At last there came the sound of voices in the next room. She put on the beefsteak. Her cheeks were flaming from the heat of the little stove. Her back ached from leaning over, and her head ached with responsibility and excitement. "Is everything all right?" demanded Judith, blowing into the room with an air of "if it isn't it will be the worse for you." "I believe so," answered Molly. "Why did you put the anchovies on crackers?" demanded the older girl irritably. "They should have been on toast." "Because there wasn't enough bread for one thing, and because there was no way to toast it if there had been," answered Molly shortly. No cook likes to be interfered with at that crucial moment just before dinner. "Here are your cap and apron," went on Judith. "You know how to wait, don't you? Always hand things at the left side." "Water happens to be poured from the right," answered Molly, pinning on the little muslin cap. She was in no mood to be dictated to by Judith Blount or any other black-eyed vixen. Judith made no answer. She seemed excited and absent-minded. Caroline placed the anchovies while Molly poured the soup into cups, there being no plates. The voices of the company floated in to her. Jennie Wren had joined them, making the sixth. She heard a man's voice exclaim: "I say, Ju-ju, I call this very luxurious. We never had anything so fine as this at Harvard. You always could hold up the parent and get what you wanted. Now, I never had the nerve. And, by the way, have you got a cook, too?" "Only for to-night," answered Judith. "We usually eat downstairs with the others." "You're working some poor little freshman, ten to one," answered Judith's brother, for that was evidently who it was. Then Molly heard some one run up a brilliant scale and strike a chord and a good baritone voice began singing: "'Oh, I'm a cook and a captain bold, And a mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmatemite, And the crew of the captain's gig.'" "Why don't you join in, Eddie? But I forgot. It would never do for a Professor of English Literature at a girls' college to lift his voice in ribald song." Some one laughed. Molly recognized the voice instantly. She knew that Professor Edwin Green was dining at Judith's that night, and her inquiring mind reached out even further into the realms of conjecture, and she guessed who was the author of his light opera. "Cousin Edwin, will you sit there, next to me?" said Judith's voice. "Cousin?" repeated Molly. "So that's it, is it?" Then other voices joined in--Mary Stewart, Jennie Wren and Martha Schaeffer, a rich girl from Chicago, who roomed in that house. They gobbled down the first course as people usually dispatch relishes, and as Caroline removed the dishes, Molly appeared with the soup. None of the girls recognized her, of course, which was perfectly good college etiquette, although Mary Stewart smiled when Molly placed her cup of soup and whispered: "Good work." Molly gave her a grateful look, and Professor Edwin Green, looking up, caught a glimpse of Molly's flushed face, and smiled, too. "I say, Ju-ju, who's your head waitress?" Molly could not help overhearing Richard Blount ask when she had left the room. "Oh, just a little Southern girl named Smith, or something," answered Judith carelessly. "That young lady," said Professor Edwin Green, "is Miss Molly Brown, of Kentucky." The young freshman's face was crimson when she brought in the steak and placed it in front of Mr. Blount. Then she took her stand correctly behind his chair, with a plate in her hand, waiting for him to carve. Sometimes two members of the same family are so unlike that it is almost impossible to believe that blood from the same stock runs in their veins. So it was with Richard Blount and his sister, Judith. She was tall and dark and arrogant, and he was short and blond and full of good-humored gayety. He rallied all the girls at the table. He teased his Cousin Edwin. He teased his sister, and then he ended by highly praising the food, looking all the time from one corner of his mild blue eyes at Molly's flushed face. "Really," he exclaimed, "a French chef must have broiled this steak. Not even Delmonico, nor Oscar himself at the Waldorf, could have done it better. Isn't it the top-notch, Eddie? What's this? Mushroom sauce? By Jupiter, it's wonderful to come out here in the wilds and get such food." Mary Stewart began to laugh. After all, it was just good-natured raillery. "Why, Mr. Blount," she said, "there is something to be found here that is lots better than porter-house steak." "What is it? Name it, please!" cried Richard. "If I must miss the train, I must have some, whatever it is--cream puffs or chocolate fudge?" "It's Kentucky ham of the finest, what do you call it--breed? Three years old. You've never eaten ham until you've tasted it." She smiled charmingly at Molly, who pretended to look unconscious while she passed the vegetables. Judith endeavored to change the subject. She was angry with Mary for thus bringing her freshman waitress into prominence. But Molly was destined to be the heroine of the evening in spite of all efforts against it. "Old Kentucky ham!" cried Richard Blount, starting from his chair with mock seriousness, "Where is it? I implore you to tell me. My soul cries out for old ham from the dark and bloody battleground of Kentucky!" Everybody began to laugh, and Judith exclaimed: "Do hush, Richard. You are so absurd! Did he behave this way at Harvard all the time, Cousin Edwin?" "Oh, yes; only more so. But tell me more of this wonderful ham, Miss Stewart." Molly wondered if Professor Green really understood that it was all a joke on her when he asked that question. Suddenly she formed a resolution. Following her assistant into the next room, she whispered: "Which would you rather do, Miss Brinton? Go over to Queen's and ask Nance to give you the rest of my ham or wait on the table while I go?" "I'd rather get the ham," replied Miss Brinton, whose proud spirit was crushed by the menial service she had been obliged to undertake that evening. The dinner progressed. In a little while Molly had cleared the table and was preparing to bring on the grape-fruit salad when Caroline appeared with the remnants of the ham. Molly removed it from its wrappings and, placing it on a dish, bore it triumphantly into the next room. "What's this?" cried Richard Blount. "Do my eyes deceive me? Am I dreaming? Is it possible----" "The old ham, or, rather, the attenuated ghost of the old ham!" ejaculated Mary Stewart. Even Judith joined in the burst of merriment, and Professor Green's laugh was the gayest of all. Molly returned with the carving knife and fork, and Richard Blount began to snip off small pieces. "'Ham bone am very sweet,'" he sang, one eye on Molly. "It is certainly wonderful," exclaimed Professor Green, as he tasted the delicate meat; "but it seems like robbery to deprive the owner of it." "Now, Edwin, you keep quiet, please," interrupted Richard. "I've heard that some owners of old hams are just as fond of things sweeter than ham bones. A five-pound box ought to be the equivalent of this, eh?" "Really, Richard, you go too far," put in Judith, frowning at her brother. But Richard took not the slightest notice of her, nor did he pause until he had cleaned the ham bone of every scrap of meat left on it. "Aren't you going to catch your train?" asked Judith. "I think not to-night, Ju-ju," he answered, smiling amiably. "Edwin, can you put me up? If not, I'll stop at the inn in the village." "No, indeed, you won't, Dick. You must stop with me. I have an extra bed, solely in hopes you might stay in it some night. And later this evening we might run over--er--a few notes." He looked consciously at Richard, then he gave Molly a swift, quizzical glance, remembering probably that he had confided to her and her alone that he was the author of the words of a comic opera. Having cleared the table, Molly now returned with the coffee. The cups jaggled as she handed them. She was very weary, and her arms ached. When she had reached Professor Edwin Green, Richard Blount, with his nervous, quick manner, suddenly started from his chair and exclaimed: "Now, I know whom you remind me of--Ellen Terry at sixteen." Nobody but Molly realized for a moment that he was talking to her, and she was so startled that her wrist gave a twist and over went the tray and three full coffee cups straight on to the knees of the august Professor of English Literature. There was a great deal of noise, Molly remembered. She herself was so horrified and stunned that she stood immovable, clutching the tray wildly, as a drowning person clings to a life preserver. She heard Judith cry: "How stupid! How could you have been so unpardonably awkward!" At the same moment Mary Stewart said: "It was entirely your fault, Mr. Blount. You frightened the poor child with your wild behavior." And Professor Green said: "Don't scold, Judith. I'm to blame. I joggled the tray with my elbow. There's no harm done, at any rate. These gray trousers will be much improved by being dyed _cafe au lait_." Then Richard Blount rose from the table and marched straight over to where Molly was standing transfixed, still miserably holding to the tray. "Miss Brown," he said humbly, "I want to apologize. All this must have been very trying for you, and you have behaved beautifully. I hope you will forgive me. My only excuse is that I am always forgetting my little sister and her friends are not still children. Will you forgive me?" He looked so manly and good-natured standing there before her with his hand held out, that Molly felt what slight indignation there was in her heart melting away at once. She put her hand in his. "There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Blount," she said, and the young man who was a musician pricked up his ears when he heard that soft, musical voice. "And I've robbed you of your ham," he continued. "It was a pleasure to know you enjoyed it," she said. Presently Molly began clearing the table. Richard sat down at the piano. It was evident that he never wandered far from his beloved instrument, and the girls gathered around him while he ran over the first act of his new opera. Professor Edwin Green said good night and took himself and his coffee-soaked trousers home to his rooms. "You can follow later, Dickie," he called. As he passed Molly, standing by the door, he smiled at her again, and Molly smiled back, though she was quite ready to cry. "The ham was delicious," he said. "Thank you very much." That night, when Molly had wearily climbed the stairs to her room and flung herself on her couch, Nance, writing at her desk, called over: "Well, how was the beefsteak?" "I didn't get any," said Molly. "Even if there had been any left, I was too tired to eat anything. I'm afraid I wasn't born to be anybody's cook, Nance, or waitress, either." And Molly turned her face to the wall and wept silently. Lest we forget, we will say now that two days after this episode of the coffee cups, there came, by express for Miss Molly Brown, a five-pound box of candy without a card, and the girls at Queen's Cottage feasted right royally for almost two evenings. CHAPTER VIII. CONCERNING CLUBS,--AND A TEA PARTY. At the first meeting of the freshman class of 19--, Margaret Wakefield of Washington, D. C., had been elected President. Just how this came about no one could exactly say. She could not have been accused of electioneering for herself, and yet she made an impression somehow and had won the election by a large majority. "Anybody who can talk like that ought to be President of something," Molly had observed good naturedly. "She could make a real inauguration speech, I believe, and she knows all about Parliamentary Law, whatever that is." "She dashed off the class constitution just as easily as if she were writing a letter home," said Judy. "That's not so easy, either," added Nance mournfully. The girls were silent. It had gradually leaked out as their friendship progressed that Nance's home was not an abode of happiness by any means. And yet Nance had written a theme on "Home," which was so well done that she had been highly complimented by Miss Pomeroy, who had read it aloud to the class. Molly often wondered just what manner of woman Nance's mother was, and she soon had an opportunity of finding out for herself. But the conversation about the new class president continued. "President Wakefield wants us to have bi-monthly meetings," continued Judy. "She wishes to divide the class into committees and have a chairman for each committee--" "Committees for what?" demanded Molly. "Dear knows," laughed Judy, "but her father's a Congressman, and she has inherited his passion for law and order, I suppose. She wants to conduct a debate on Woman's Suffrage to meet Saturdays. It's to be called 'The Woman's Franchise Club,' and she wishes to establish by-laws and resolutions and a number of other things that are Greek to me, for 'the political body corporate.' She says it's a crying shame that women know so little about the constitution of their own country, and in establishing a debating society, she hopes to do some missionary work in that line." Judy had risen and was waving her arms dramatically while her voice rose and fell like an old-time orator's. "I suppose we ought," said Molly; "but I'd rather put it off a year or so. There are so many other things to enjoy first. Besides, it will be four years before I reach the voting age, and by that time I hope my 'intellects' will have developed sufficiently to take in the constitution of the country." "Anyhow," exclaimed Judy, "I'm proud to have a class president who's such a first-class public speaker, because it takes it all off our shoulders. Whenever there's a speech to be made or anything public and embarrassing to be done, we'll just vote for her to do it, because she will enjoy it so much." "But are you going to join the debating club?" asked Nance. "I suppose it's our duty to," replied Molly; "but I do hate to pin myself down. Suppose we say we'll go to one and listen?" "Well, you'd better settle it now, because here comes the President sailing up the walk. She's going the rounds now, I suppose, and in another two minutes she'll be springing the question on us." Judy, who was sitting at the front window of her own room, nodded down into the yard and smiled politely, and the girls had just time to settle among themselves what they were going to say when there was a smart rap on the door and President Wakefield entered. She wore rather masculine-looking clothes, and carried a business-like small-sized suit case in one hand and a notebook in the other. "Hello, girls!" she began; "I'm so glad I caught you together. It saves telling over the same thing three times. I want to know first exactly how you stand on the woman's suffrage question. Now, don't be afraid to be frank about it, and speak your minds. Of course, I'm sure that, being women who are seeking the higher education, you are all of you on the right side--the side of the thinking woman of to-day----" Here Judy sneezed so violently that she almost upset the little three-legged clover-leaf tea table at her elbow. "How do you feel on the subject, Molly?" Molly smiled broadly, while Nance cleared her throat and Judy blew her nose and exclaimed: "I think I must be taking cold. Excuse me while I get a sweater," and disappeared in the closet. "I--I'm afraid I don't know very much about the subject, Margaret. You see, I was brought up in the country, and I haven't had a chance to go into woman's suffrage very deeply." "There is no time like the present for beginning, then," said Margaret promptly, opening the business-like little suit case. "Read these two pamphlets and you'll get the gist of the entire subject clearly and concisely expressed. I will call on you for an opinion next week after you've had time to study the question a bit." Molly took the pamphlets and began hastily turning the leaves. She wanted to laugh, but she felt certain it would offend Margaret deeply not to be taken seriously, and she controlled her facial muscles with an effort while she waited for attack No. Two. "Nance, have you taken any interest in this question?" continued Margaret, who seemed to have the patience of a fanatic spreading his belief. "I know something about it," replied Nance quietly. "You see, my mother is President of a Woman's Suffrage Association, and she spends most of her time going about the country making speeches for the National Association." "What, is your mother Mrs. Anna Oldham, the famous clubwoman?" cried Margaret. Nance nodded her head silently. "Why, she is one of the greatest authorities on women's suffrage in the country!" exclaimed Margaret with great enthusiasm. "It says so here. Look, it gives a little sketch of her life and titles. She is president of two big societies and an officer in five others. It's all in this little book called 'Famous Club Women in America and England.' Dear me," continued Margaret modestly, "I think I'd better resign and give the chair to you, Nance. I'm nobody to be preaching to you when you must know the subject from beginning to end." Nance smiled in her curious, whimsical way. "Have you ever eaten too much of something, Margaret," she said, "and then hated it ever afterward?" "Why, yes," replied the President, "that has happened to every one, I suppose. Mince pie and I have been strangers to each other for many years on that account." "Well," continued Nance, "I've been fed on clubs until I feel like a Strausberg goose. I've had them crammed down my throat since I was five years old. When I was twelve, I was my mother's secretary, and I've sent off thousands of just such pamphlets as you are distributing now. I learned to write on the typewriter so I could copy my mother's speeches. I've been usher at club conventions and page at committee meetings. I've distributed hundreds of badges with 'Votes for Women' printed on them. I had to make a hundred copies of mother's speech on 'The Constitution and By-Laws of the United States,' and send them to a hundred different women's clubs. So, you see," she added, simply, frowning to keep back her tears, "I think I'll take a rest from clubs while I'm at college and begin to enjoy life a little with Molly and Judy." Margaret Wakefield, who was really a very nice girl and exceedingly well-bred, leaned over and placed a firm, rather large hand on Nance's. "I should think you had had enough," she exclaimed, giving the hand a warm squeeze. Seeing teardrops glistening in Nance's eyes, she rose and started to the door. "If ever you do want to come to any of the meetings, you will be very welcome, girls," she said; "but you don't want to overdo anything in life, you know, and if there are things that interest you more than Woman's Suffrage you oughtn't to sacrifice yourselves. People should follow their own bent, I think. Good-bye," she went on, smiling brightly, "and don't bother to read the pamphlets, Molly, dear, if you don't want to. It's a poor way to carry a point to make a bugbear of the subject." She went out quietly and closed the door. "I call her a perfect lady," exclaimed Molly, trying not to look at Nance, but wishing at the same time that her friend would give way just once and have a good cry. "Let's cut study this afternoon and take a walk," exclaimed Judy. "Trot along and get on your sweaters. It's much too glorious to stay indoors. Nance, can't you do your theme after supper? Molly, you look a little peaked. It will do you good to breathe the fresh, untainted air of the pine woods." Judy, it must be confessed, was always glad of a good excuse to get away from her books. "Splendid!" cried Molly with enthusiasm. "And I'll bring my English tea basket," went on Judy. "Who's got any cookies?" "I have," said Nance, now fully recovered. In five minutes the three girls had started across the campus to the road and presently were making for the pine woods that bordered the pretty lake. Everybody seemed to be out roaming the country that beautiful autumn afternoon. Parties of girls came swinging past, who had been on long tramps through the woods and over to the distant hills which formed a blue and misty background to the lovely rolling country. The lake was dotted with canoes and rowboats, and from far down the road that wound its way through the valley there came the sound of singing. Presently a wagon-load of girls emerged into view, followed by another wagon filled with autumn leaves and evergreens. "It's the sophomore committee on decoration," Judy explained. Apparently she knew everything that happened at college. "They are getting the decorations for the gym. for the ball to-morrow night." Molly quickly changed the subject. She had had two invitations to go to the Sophomore-Freshman Ball since she had accepted Frances Andrews' offer, and several of the sophomores had been to see her to ask her to change her mind, but, having given her word, Molly intended to keep it, no matter what was to pay. "Let's go to the upper end of the lake," she suggested. "It's wilder and much prettier," and she led the way briskly along the path through the pine woods. In a little while they came out at the other end of the small body of water where the woods abruptly ended at the foot of a hill called "Round Head," which the girls proceeded to climb. From this eminence could be seen a widespreading panorama of hills and valleys, little streams and bits of forests, and beyond the pine woods the college itself, its campus spread at its feet like a mat of emerald green. The girls paused breathlessly and Judy put down her tea basket. "Here's where a little refreshment might be very welcome," she said, opening her basket of which she was justly proud, for not many girls at Wellington could boast of such a possession. She filled the little kettle from the bottle of water she had taken the precaution to bring along, and they sat down in a circle on the turf. The autumn had been a dry one, and the ground was not damp. Nibbling cookies and sweet chocolate, they waited for the water to boil. "Look, here comes some one," whispered Judy, indicating the figure of a man appearing around the side of the hill. "I do hope it's not a tramp," exclaimed Nance uneasily. Molly Brown hoped so, too, although she said nothing. But she felt nervous, as who wouldn't in that lonely place? As the man came nearer, it became plain that he was making straight for them, and he did most assuredly look like a wanderer of some kind. He was dressed in an old suit of rough gray, wore an old felt hat and carried a staff like a pilgrim. The girls sat quite still and said nothing. There had been a silent understanding among them that it was better not to run. As the man drew nearer, Molly became suddenly conscious of the fact that across the gray trousers just above the knees was a deep coffee-colored stain. The next moment the man stood before them, leaning on his staff, his hat under his arm. It was "Epiménides Antinous Green." "Confess now," he said, smiling at all of them and looking at Molly, whom he knew best of the three, "you took me for a tramp?" "Not exactly for a tramp," answered Molly; "but for one who tramps." "What's the difference, Miss Brown?" he asked laughing. "Oh, everything. Clothes----" she paused, blushing deeply. Her eyes had fallen on the coffee stain. "Why doesn't he have it cleaned off?" she thought, frowning slightly. "And--and looks," she continued out loud. "Even in the walk," Judy finished. "Perhaps we can give you a cup of tea, Professor," she added politely. The Professor was only too glad for a cup of tea. He had been roaming the hills all day, he said, and he was tired and thirsty. While he sipped the fragrant beverage, he glanced at his watch. "The truth is, I had an appointment at this spot at four-thirty," he announced. "I was to meet my young brother George, familiarly known as 'Dodo.' He's at Exmoor College, ten miles over, and was to walk across the valley to the rendezvous, and I was to conduct him safely to my rooms for supper. He was afraid to enter the college by the front gate for fear of meeting several hundreds of young women. He runs like a scared rabbit if he sees a girl a block off." "Won't it give him an awful shock when he catches a glimpse of us waiting here on the hilltop?" asked Molly. "It's a shock that won't hurt him," replied the professor. "We'll see what happens, at any rate." He put his cup and saucer on the ground, while his quizzical eyes, which seemed to laugh even when his face was serious, turned toward Molly. And Molly was well worth looking at that afternoon, although she herself was much dissatisfied with her appearance. Her auburn hair had almost slipped down her back. Her blue linen shirtwaist was decidedly blousey at the waist line. "It's because I haven't enough shape to keep it down," she was wont to complain. Her cheeks were glowing and her eyes as calmly blue as the summer skies. "Perhaps we'd better start on," said Nance uneasily. She always felt an inexplicable shyness in the presence of men, and her friends had been known to nickname her "old maid." But before Professor Green could protest that he was only too glad to have his bashful brother make the acquaintance of three charming college girls, Judy, ever on the alert, exclaimed, "Look, there he comes around the side of the hill." The Professor rose and signaled with his hat, chuckling to himself, as he watched his youthful brother pause irresolutely on the hillside. "Come on, Dodo," he shouted, making a trumpet of his hands. "I believe not this afternoon, thank you," Dodo trumpeted back. "I have an important engagement at six." The girls could not keep from laughing. "It's a shame to frighten the poor soul like that," exclaimed Molly. "We'll start back, Professor, and leave him in peace." But the Professor was a man of determination, and had made up his mind to bring his shy brother into the presence of ladies that afternoon, very attractive ladies at that, of George's own age, with simple, unaffected manners, calculated to make a shy young man forget for the moment that he had an affliction of agonizing diffidence. "George," called the professor, running a little way down the hillside, "come back and don't be a fool." The wretched lad turned his scarlet face in their direction and began to climb the hill. He was a tall, overgrown youth, with large hands and feet, and when he stood in their midst, holding his cap nervously in both hands, while the Professor performed the introductions, he looked like a soldier facing the battle. It remained for Molly and Judy to put him at his ease, however, with tea and cookies and questions about Exmoor College, while the Professor conversed with Nance about life at Wellington, and which study she liked best. At last the spirit of George emerged from its shy retreat, and he forgot to feel self-conscious or afraid. They rose, packed the tea things and started back. And it was the Professor who carried Judy's tea basket, while George, glancing from Molly's blue eyes to Judy's soft gray ones, strolled between them and related a thrilling tale of college hazing. "That was a swift remedy, was it not, Miss Oldham?" observed the Professor, laughing under his breath. But undoubtedly the cure was complete, for that very evening Molly received a note, written in a crabbed boyish hand, and signed "George Green," inviting the three girls to ride over to Exmoor on the trolley the following Saturday and spend the day. Miss Green, an older sister, would act as chaperone. And not a few thrills did these young ladies experience at the prospect. CHAPTER IX. RUMORS AND MYSTERIES. How many warm-hearted, impetuous people get themselves into holes because of those two qualities which are very closely allied indeed; and Molly Brown was one of those people. Carried away by emotions of generosity, she found herself constantly going farther than she realized at the moment. Why, for instance, could she not have put Frances Andrews off with an excuse for a day or so? Some one would surely have asked her to the Sophomore-Freshman ball. And if she had only liked Frances, matters would have been different. If it had been an act of friendship, of deep devotion. But in spite of herself, she could not bring herself to trust that strange girl, beautiful and clever as she undoubtedly was, and sorry as Molly was for her. After all, it was rather selfish of Frances to have obtained the promise from Molly. Did she think it would reinstate her in the affections of her class to be seen in the company of the popular young freshman? All this time, Molly said nothing to her friends, but on the morning of the ball she could not conceal from Judy and Nance her apprehension and general depression. And seeing their friend's lack-lustre eye and drooping countenance, they held a counsel of war in Judy's small bedroom. At the end of this whispered conference, Judy was heard to remark: "I'm afraid of the girl, to tell you the truth. Her fiery eyes and her two-pronged tongue seem to take all the spirit out of me." "I'm not afraid of her," said Nance, who had a two-pronged tongue of her own, once she was stirred into action. "You wait here for me, and when I come back, you can go and notify the sophomores of what's happened. Of course, Molly will get to the ball all right. The thing is to extricate her from the situation by the most tactful and surest means." Judy laughed. "No," she answered, "the thing is not to let Molly know we have saved her life." "If Frances hadn't done that witch's stunt and said all those malicious things at Molly's Kentucky spread, I don't think I should have minded so much. And do you know, Judy, that the report has spread abroad that she and Molly had prepared the whole thing beforehand, speeches and all and were in league together? You see, Molly was the only one who wasn't hit." "You don't mean it," cried Judy. "Then, more than ever, I want to spare the child the humiliation she might have to suffer if she went with Frances to-night. Go forth to battle, Nance, and may the saints preserve you." Nance girded her sweater about her like a coat of mail, stiffened her backbone, pressed her lips together and marched out to the fray. She never told even Judy exactly what took place between Frances and her in that small room, with its bewildering array of fine trappings, silver combs and brushes, yellow silk curtains at the window, Turkish rugs, books and pictures. No one had ever seen the room except Molly the night of the spread, when it was too dark to make out what was in it. There was no loud talking. Whatever was said was of the tense quiet kind, and presently Nance emerged unscathed from the encounter. "She made me give my word of honor not to tell what was said," she announced to the palpitating Judy, "but she's writing the note to Molly now; so go quickly and inform someone that Molly has no escort for the ball." Judy departed much mystified and Nance remained discreetly away from her own room until she perceived Frances steal down the hall, push a note under their door and then hurry back, bang her own door and lock it. Then, after a moment's grace, Nance marched boldly to their chamber. Molly was reading the note. "What do you think, Nance?" she exclaimed with a tone of evident relief in her voice, "Frances Andrews can't go to-night." "Indeed, and what reason does she give?" asked Nance, feeling very much like a conspirator now that she was obliged to face Molly. "None. She simply says 'I'm sorry I can't go to-night. Hope you'll enjoy it. F. A.' How does she expect me to get there, I wonder, at the eleventh hour?" Nance examined her finger nails attentively. "Perhaps she's seen to that," she replied after a pause. "Nance," said Molly, presently, "I'm so relieved that I think I'll have to 'fess up. It's mean of me, I know, and I feel awfully ungenerous to be so glad. You see, nobody can ever tell what strange, freakish thing she's going to do. Of course she was the witch. I knew it from the conscious look that came into her face when I told her about it afterwards." "The mistake she has made is being defiant instead of repentant," said Nance. "Instead of trying to brazen it out, she ought to 'walk softly,' as the Bible says, and keep quiet. She is the most embittered soul I ever met in all my life. If hatred counted for much, her hatred for her own class would burn it to a cinder." There was a sound of hurrying footsteps on the stairs and Judy burst into the room. Her face was aflame and she flung herself into a chair panting for breath. "What's your hurry?" asked Molly, slipping on her jacket. "Excuse me, I must be chasing along to French. Tell her the news, Nance." No need to tell Judy news, who had news of her own. "I tell you, Nance," she exclaimed, "there are times when I think the position of a freshman is one of the lowliest things in life. The first sophomore I met was Judith Blount. I did feel a little timid, but I told her what had happened. 'You can tell your friend,' she said, 'that we sophomores are not so gullible as all that, and if her nerve has failed her at the last moment, it's her fault, not ours.'" "Why, Judy," exclaimed Nance, "you didn't know you were jumping from the frying pan right into the fire when you told that to Judith Blount, who has never liked Molly from the beginning. It's jealousy, pure and simple, I think; although there almost seems to be something more behind it sometimes. She takes such pains to be disagreeable. Was anyone else there to hear you?" "Oh, yes. She was surrounded by her satellites, Jennie Wren and a few others." The two girls sat in gloomy silence for a few minutes. After that rebuff, they hardly cared to circulate the bit of news any further in the sophomore class, which, it must be confessed, had the reputation of being run by a clique of the most arrogant and snobbish set of girls Wellington College had ever known. "Let's go and tell our woes to nice old Sally Marks," suggested Judy, and off they marched in search of the good-natured funny Sally, whose room was on the floor below. "Come in," she called at their tap on the door, and noticing at once their serious faces, she exclaimed: "I declare, I am beginning to feel like the Oracle at Delphi. What's the trouble, now, my children?" "You ought never to have gone to Judith Blount," she continued after they had unburdened their secrets. But having gone to her, "it would be well," so spake the Oracle, "to sit back and hold tight. The news is certain to spread, and of course only Judith and her ring would believe that Molly sent you out to find her an escort. There is one thing sure: Molly is obliged to go to the dance, not only because she has so many friends, but because she figures, I am told, so largely in 'Jokes & Croaks,' and it would be sport spoiled if she wasn't there when the things are read out. Now, trot along, children, I'm cramming for an exam., and I'm busier than the busiest person in Wellington to-day." The afternoon dragged itself slowly along. Nance took her best dress out of its wrappings, heated a little iron and smoothed out its wrinkles. She lifted Molly's blue crepe from its hanger and laid it on the couch. "It was made in the simplest possible way out of the least possible goods in the least possible time," she informed Judy, who had wickedly cut a class and sat moping in her friend's room. "Isn't it pretty? We made it together, and I'm really quite puffed up about the result. It's Empire, you know," she added proudly. The dress did indeed show the short Empire waist. The round neck was cut out and finished with a frill of creamy lace which Molly happened to have, and there had not been much of a struggle with the sleeves, which came only to the elbow and were to all intents and purposes shapeless. But the color was the thing, as Molly had said. "I'd be willing to drown in a color like that," Judy observed. Judy was quite a _poseuse_ about colors and assured her friends that she could never wear red because it inflamed her temper and made her cross; that violet quieted her nerves; green stirred her ambitions, and blue aroused her sympathies. While they were looking at the dress, Margaret Wakefield and Jessie Lynch, her roommate and boon companion, after rapping on the door, sailed into the room. "We came to consult about clothes," they announced. "Is this to be an evening dress affair, or what's proper to wear?" "The best you have," replied Judy, "at least that's what I was told by the oracular Sally below stairs." "For the love of heaven, don't tell that to Jessie," cried Margaret. "If you give her so much rope, she'll be wearing purple velvet and cloth of gold." Jessie laughed good-naturedly. She was already considered the best dressed and prettiest girl in the freshman class, and it was a joke at Queen's Cottage that she had been obliged to apply to the matron for more closet room, because the large one she shared with Margaret Wakefield was not nearly adequate for her numerous frocks. It had been a constant wonder to the other girls in the house that these two opposite types could have become such intimate friends; but friends they were, and continued to be throughout their college course, although Jessie never could rake up an interest in the U. S. Constitution or woman's suffrage, either. The two girls really formed a sort of combination of brains and beauty, and it became generally known that Jessie would hardly have pulled through the four years, except for the indefatigable efforts of her faithful friend, Margaret. Mabel Hinton, a Queen's Cottage freshman, now popped her head in at the door, which was half open. She was a very odd character, but she was popular with her friends, who called her "The Martian," probably because she had a phenomenal intellect and wore enormous glasses in tortoise shell frames which made her eyes look like a pair of full moons. "I thought I heard a racket," she said in her crisp, catchy voice. "I suppose you are all discussing the news." "News? What news?" they demanded. She closed the door carefully and came farther into the room. "Gather around me, girls," she said mysteriously, enjoying their curiosity. "But what is it, Mabel? Don't keep us in suspense," cried Judy, always impatient. "Well, there is evidence that someone was going to set fire to the gym. to-night," she began, in a whisper. "This morning a bundle of oil-soaked rags was discovered in a closet, and then they began to search and found several other bundles like the first. There was a lot of excitement, and the Prex came over. They tried to keep it quiet, but the story leaked out, of course, and is still leaking----" she smiled. The girls exchanged horrified glances. What terrible disaster might not have befallen them if the rags had not been discovered? "Of course it was the work of an insane person," said Margaret Wakefield. "Of course, but who? Is she one of the students or some outside person?" With a common instinct, Judy and Nance looked up at the same moment. Their glances met. Without making a sound, Judy's lips formed the word "Frances." "Is the dance to take place, then?" asked Jessie. "Oh, yes. It's all been hushed up and things will go on just as usual. I'm going to look on from the balcony. I shan't mingle with the dancers, because they knock off my spectacles and generally upset my equilibrium." The door opened and Molly appeared in their midst like a gracefully angular wraith, for her face looked white, her shoulders drooped and her long slim arms hung down at her sides dejectedly. "Why, Molly, dear, has anything happened to you?" cried Nance. "No, I won't say that nothing has happened," answered Molly, sinking into a chair and resting her chin on her hand. "I have been put through an ordeal this day, why, I can never tell you, but I am glad you are all here so that I can tell you about it." They pressed about her, full of sympathy and friendliness, while Judy, who loved comfort and recognized the needs of the flesh under the most trying circumstances, lit Nance's alcohol lamp and put on the kettle to make tea. "But what is it?" they all demanded, seeing that Molly had fallen into a silence. "I've been with the President for the last hour," she said, "though for what reason I can't explain. I can't imagine why I was sent for and brought to her private office. She was very nice and kind. She asked me a lot of questions about myself and all of Queen's girls. I was glad enough to answer them, because we have nothing to be ashamed of, have we, girls?" Molly rose and stood before them, spreading out her hands with a kind of deprecating gesture. The circle of faces before her almost seemed abashed under the steady gaze of her clear blue eyes. "It was a pleasure to tell her what nice girls were stopping at Queen's Cottage." "Did she mention?" began Judy and pointed to the dividing wall of the next room. "Oh, yes, I was coming to that. But what do I know about----" Mollie stopped short and caught her breath. Her eyes turned towards the door, which was opened softly. There stood Frances Andrews. She had evidently just come in, for she still wore her sweater and tam o' shanter, and brought with her the smell of the fresh piney air. "It's all right about your escort for to-night, Miss Brown. You are to go with Miss Stewart, who has got special privilege from the sophomore president to take you. Good-bye. I hope you'll have a ripping time. I shan't see you at supper. I'm going off on the 6.15 train and won't be back until Sunday night." There was such a tense feeling in the circle of freshmen as Frances stood there, that, as Judy remarked afterwards, they almost crackled with electricity. It was quite late, and as most of the girls intended to dress for the party before supper, they took their departure immediately without any comment. "Is anything special the matter?" asked Molly, after they had gone and she was left alone with her friends. They told her the strange story which Mabel Hinton had reported to them a little while before. "But that is the work of a lunatic," exclaimed Molly, horrified. "And I suppose," went on Nance, "that the reason Prexy sent for you was that she suspected a certain person, who shall be nameless, and she was told that you were the only person who had ever been nice to her, and furthermore that you were going to the dance with her." "Of course that must be the reason," said Molly, "and of course it's absurd, I mean suspecting Frances Andrews. She might be accused of many things, but she is certainly in her right mind. She's much cleverer than lots of the girls in her class." "Clever, yes. But should you call her balanced?" Molly did not answer. She felt anxious and frightened, and a rap on the door at that moment made her jump with nervousness. It proved to be one of the maids of the house with two boxes of flowers, both for Molly. One was pink roses and contained the card of Mary Stewart, and the other was violets, and contained no card whatever. She divided the violets in half and made her two friends wear them that night to the dance. CHAPTER X. JOKES AND CROAKS. "I'm beginning to feel that we shall issue happily out of all our troubles," cried Judy Kean, bursting into her friends' room without knocking, "and the reason why I feel that way is because when I am clothed in silk attire my soul is clothed in joy. Especially when there's dancing to follow. Button me up, someone, please, so that I may take a good look at my resplendent form in your mirror. I can't see more than a square inch of neck in my own two by four." The girls stood back to admire their friend, who indulged her artistic fancy in rather theatrical clothes much too old for her, but who usually succeeded in gaining the effect she sought. "Dear me, 'she walks in beauty like the night,'" said Molly laughing. "You look like a charming and very youthful widow-lady, Judy, but how comes it you are wearing black?" "Black is for certain types," replied Judy sagely, "and I am one of them. Next to black my bilious skin takes on a dazzling, creamy tint and my mouse-colored hair assumes a yellow glint that is not its own." The girls laughed at their erratic friend, who was, indeed, dressed in black chiffon, from the fluffy folds of which her vivacious young face glowed like a flower. "If you object to me, wait until you see Jessie," cried Judy. "She might be going to the opera, she is so fine. She is wearing pink satin that glistens all over like a Christmas tree with little shiny things." As a matter of fact, Nance, whose well balanced and correct tastes in most things rarely failed her, was the most suitably dressed of our girls, in her pretty white lingerie frock. At eight o'clock that evening Molly rolled away luxuriously in a village hack with Mary Stewart, holding her roses tenderly and carefully under her gray eiderdown cape, so as not to crush them. "I'm awfully glad I was so lucky as to draw you this evening, Molly," the older girl was saying. "I'm the lucky one," answered Molly, her thoughts reverting to the strange discovery of the morning. "Oh, Miss Stewart, what did Frances Andrews do last year to get herself into such a mess and be frozen out by all her class this year?" "I'll tell you perhaps some day, but not to-night. We want to enjoy ourselves to-night. Can you guide, Molly?" "Like a streak. I always guided at home at the school dances, because I was the tallest girl in my class." "I'm a guider, too," laughed Mary, "and when two guiders come together, I imagine it's a good deal like a tug of war." During the ride over to the gymnasium, neither of the girls mentioned the thing uppermost in their minds: the attempt to set the gymnasium on fire that night. Nor was the rumor referred to by anyone at the dance later. It was a strictly forbidden topic, the President herself having issued orders. The great room was a mass of foliage and bunting, Japanese lanterns and incandescent lights in many colors, and it was really quite a brilliant affair according to Molly's notions, who had never seen anything but small country dances usually given at the schoolhouse several miles from her home. Lovely music floated from behind a screen of palms and lovely girls floated on the floor in couples, to the strains of the latest waltz. "I'm afraid I'm going to be an awful wallflower," thought Molly, feeling suddenly overgrown and awkward in the midst of this swirling mass of grace and beauty. "I can't help feeling queer and I don't seem to recognize anybody." But Molly had plenty of partners that evening, and after that first delightful waltz, it was nearly an hour before she caught a glimpse of Mary Stewart again in the crowd of dancers. "Isn't it jolly?" called Judy, as they dashed past each other in a romping barn dance. "I never thought I could have such a good time at a manless party," Jessie Lynch confided to Molly while they rested against the wall later. "But, really, it's quite as good fun." "Isn't it?" replied Molly. "I think I never had a better time in my life. But I'm afraid our roommates and friends are not enjoying it very much," she added ruefully, pointing to the gallery, where seated in a silent bored row were Margaret Wakefield, Nance Oldham and Mabel Hinton. "Of course," said Jessie, "you would never expect Mabel to join this mad throng, but I'm surprised at Nance and Margaret." "Margaret prefers conversation parties, I suppose, and Nance is not fond of dancing, either. She would always rather look on, she says." The two girls were standing near the musicians and from the other side of the screen of palms they now heard a voice say: "Have you danced with the fantastic Empress Josephine as yet?" "Not as yet," came the answer with a laugh. "But be careful, she is near----" Molly moved away hastily, her face crimson. Jessie had heard the question also and recognized the voice of Judith Blount. "Why, Molly," she exclaimed, glancing at her face, "you don't think they meant----" "Yes," said Molly, trying to smile naturally, "I do." She glanced down at her home-made dress. Perhaps it did look amateurish. She and Nance had worked very hard over it, but, after all, they were not experienced dressmakers. "Why, you look perfectly charming," went on Jessie generously. "The color is exactly right for you----" "Yes, color," answered Molly, "but there ought to be something besides color to a dress, you know. Never mind, I shouldn't be such a sensitive plant, Jessie. One ought not to mind being called fantastic. It's not nearly so bad as being called--well, malicious--cruel. I'd rather be fantastic than any of those things. But I did think the dress was pretty when we made it." "Come along, and let's get some lemonade, Molly. Your dress is sweet and suits you exactly, so there." Then someone came up and claimed Jessie for the next dance, but Molly was grateful to the pretty butterfly creature for her assurances and she resolved to forget all about her dress. As she lingered in the corner, uncertain whether to stay where she was or join her friends in the gallery, Mary Stewart made her way through the crowd and called: "Oh, here you are. Some of the seniors are just outside and want to meet you. Will you come?" "I should think I would," replied Molly, joyfully. Fantastic, or not, she had one good friend among the older girls. "This is Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky," announced Mary Stewart presently to a dozen august seniors who shook her hand and began asking her questions. "We had two reasons for wanting to meet you, Miss Brown," here put in a very handsome big girl, who spoke in an authoritative tone, which made everybody stop and listen. (She was, in fact, the President of the senior class.) "One of course was just to make your acquaintance, and the other was to ask if you would do us a favor. We are going to have a living picture show Friday week for the benefit of the Students' Fund, and we wondered if you would pose in one of the pictures, maybe several, we haven't decided on them yet. But that dress must be in one of them, don't you think so, Mary? One of Romney's Lady Hamilton pictures for instance, with a white gauze fichu; or a Sir Thomas Lawrence portrait----" "You don't think it's too fantastic?" asked Molly. "What, that lovely blue thing? Heavens, no! it's charming----" Molly had barely time to thank her and accept the invitation, when she and Mary were dragged off to make up the big circle of "right and left all around," which wound up the dance. After this whirling romp, three loud raps were heard and gradually the noise of talking and laughter subsided into absolute silence. A girl had mounted the platform. She carried a megaphone in one hand and a book in the other. She was the official reader of her class, and now proceeded to recite through the megaphone all the best and most amusing material from "Jokes & Croaks." According to time honored custom, the jokes were greeted with applause and laughter, and the croaks with groans and laughter, and anybody who groaned at a joke or applauded a croak, if she happened to be caught, was publicly humiliated by being made to stand up and face the jeers of the multitude. The girls finally decided, after many ludicrous mistakes, that the jokes were on the sophomores and the croaks were on the freshmen. For instance, here was a croak: "A lady of notable luck, Who cared not for turkey or duck, Cried, 'Give me old ham And I don't give a slam, If it comes from Vermont or Kaintuck.'" This was greeted with laughing groans, and Molly for the first time realized the significance of her roommate's name. Margaret Wakefield figured in several croaks, as "the Suffragette of Queen's." In fact Queen's girls came in for a good many croaks and began to wait fearfully for what was to come next. But the witticisms were all quite good-natured, even the last, which called forth so many merry groans that they soon ceased to be groans at all and became uproarious laughter, and Molly, very red and laughing, too, was the centre of all eyes. This was the croak: "They have locked me in the Cloisters, They have fastened up the gate! Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out. It's getting very late. 'Tis said the ghosts of classes gone Do wander here at night. Oh, let me out; Oh, let me out, Before I die of fright! And then there rang a clarion voice. It's tone was loud and clear. 'Oh, dry your eyes and cease your cries, For help, I ween, is near. But promise me one little thing Before I ope the gate: Oh, never pass the coffee tray, If I am sitting nigh; Or, if you pass the coffee tray, Oh, then, just pass me by!'" It was all very jolly and delightful, and for the first time the girls felt that they were really a part of the college life. Mary Stewart was very sweet to Molly when she took her home that night, and the young freshman never realized until long afterwards, when she was a senior herself, what a nice thing her friend had done; for sophomore-freshman receptions were an old story to Mary Stewart. CHAPTER XI. EXMOOR COLLEGE. Busy days followed the sophomore-freshman ball. The girls were "getting into line," as Judy variously expressed it; "showing their mettle; and putting on steam for the winter's work." The story of the incendiary had been reported exaggerated and had gradually died out altogether. Frances Andrews had returned to college, more brazenly facetious than ever, breaking into conversations, loudly interrupting, making jokes which no one laughed at except Molly and Judy out of charity. She was a strange girl and led a lonely life, but she was too much like the crater of a sleeping volcano, which might shoot off unexpectedly at any moment, and most of the girls gave her a wide berth. The weather grew cold and crisp. There was a smell of smoke in the air from burning leaves and from the chimneys of the faculty homes wherein wood fires glowed cheerfully. At last Saturday arrived. It was the day of the excursion to Exmoor, and it was with more or less anxiety regarding the weather that the three girls scanned the skies that morning for signs of rain. But the heavens were a deep and cloudless blue and the air mildly caressing, neither too cold nor too warm. "It is like the Indian summers we have at home," exclaimed Molly, when, an hour later, they turned their faces toward the village through which the trolley passed. Mabel Hinton, passing them as they started, had called out: "Art off on a picnic?" And they had answered: "We art." Some other girls had cried: "Whither away so early, Oh?" And they had cried: "To Exmoor! To Exmoor, for now the day has come at last!" paraphrasing a song Judy was in the habit of singing. Indeed the day seemed so perfect and joyous that they could hardly keep from singing aloud instead of just humming when they boarded the trolley car. Through the country they sped swiftly. The valley unfolded itself before them in all its beauty and the misty blue hills in the distance seemed to draw nearer. Over everything there was a sense of autumn peace which comes when the world is drowsing off into his deep sleep. "Exmoor!" called the conductor at last, and the three girls stepped off at a charming rustic station. With a clang of the bell which rang out harshly in the still air, the car flew on. The three girls looked at the empty station. Then they looked at each other with a kind of mock consternation, for nothing really mattered. "Where is Dodo?" asked Judy, with the smile of the victor, since she had predicted only a few moments before that Dodo might by this time have become so frightened at his boldness that he would suddenly become extinct like his namesake, the dodo-bird. "Well, if Dodo is really extinct," said Molly, "we'll just take a little walk back through the fields. Epiménides thought nothing of it. He expects to walk to-day and meet us at lunch." But Dodo was not extinct that morning, and they beheld him now running down the steep road as fast as his heavy boots could carry him. "Behold, his spirit has risen from its fossil remains and he now walks among us in the guise of a man," chanted Judy. "Don't make us laugh, Judy, just as the poor soul arrives without enough breath to apologize," said Nance, and the next instant the embarrassed young man stood before them blushing and stammering as if he had been caught in the act of picking a pocket or committing some other slight crime which required explanation. "I'm terribly sorry--have you waited long?--the schedule was changed--I didn't know--you should have come half an hour later--I don't mean that--I mean I wasn't ready--" he broke off in an agony of embarrassment and the girls burst out laughing. "Don't you be caring," said Judy. "We're here and nothing else really matters." "I shouldn't have thought the station of a man's college could be so deserted," observed Molly, looking about the empty place. Dodo assured her that plenty of people would be there in half an hour, when the train arrived; just then everybody was either in the village on the other side of the buildings, or down on the football grounds watching the morning practice game. There was to be a real game that afternoon. "You see, it's only a small college," he went on. "There are only two hundred and fifty in all. The standards are so high it's rather hard to get in, but we are heavily endowed and can afford to keep up the standards," he added proudly. They climbed the road to the college almost in silence and in ten minutes emerged on a level elevation or table land which commanded a view of the entire countryside. Here stood the college buildings, built of red brick, seasoned and mellowed with time. They were a beautiful and dignified group of buildings, and there was a decidedly old world atmosphere about the place and the campus with splendid elm trees. Molly had once heard Judith Blount refer to Exmoor as that "one-horse, old-fashioned little college," and she was not prepared for anything so fine and impressive as this. Nor was she prepared for the surprise of Miss Green, sister of Professor Edwin and Dodo. The girls had pictured her a middle-aged spinster, having heard she was older than the Professor himself, who seemed a thousand to them. And here, waiting for them, in the living room of the Chapter House, was a very charming and girlish young woman with Edwin's brown eyes and cleft chin and George's blonde hair; the ease and graciousness of one brother and the youthful fairness of the other. She had come down from New York the night before especially to meet them, she said. Rather an expensive trip, they thought, for one day's pleasure, since it took about seven hours and meant usually one meal and of course at night a berth on the sleeper. "At first I thought I couldn't manage it for this week," she continued, "but Edwin was so insistent and no one has ever been known to refuse him anything he really wanted." Edwin! But why Edwin? Why not the youthful and blushing Dodo? So Molly wondered, while they were conducted over the entire college; the beautiful little Gothic chapel with its stained glass windows; through the splendid old library which was much smaller than the one at Wellington, but much more "atmospheric" as Judy had remarked; then through the dormitories where they remained discreetly in the corridors, and finally back to the Chapter House, in which George lodged with some thirty schoolmates. There on the piazza was Professor Edwin Green waiting for them. He had made an early start, he said, and walked the whole distance in less than three hours. Some other young men came up and were introduced, and the entire gay party, Nance shyly sticking closely beside Miss Green, went off to view the village, which was a quaint old place well worth visiting, they were told. The train had evidently come in, and crowds of people were hurrying up the road. There was a sound of a horn and a coach dashed in sight filled with students wearing crimson streamers in their buttonholes. "It's a crowd of Repton fellows come over to see their team licked," George explained, "but look, Edwin, here comes Dickie Blount. I thought he was in Chicago." "Evidently he isn't," said the Professor, his eyes smiling, his mouth serious. It was Richard Blount, the hero of the ham bone, and he straightway attached himself to Molly and declined to leave her side for the rest of the day. "Don't tell me that that delightful, joking, jolly person is brother to Judith," whispered Judy in Molly's ear. Molly nodded. "There's no family resemblance, but it's true, nevertheless." Motor cars and carriages of all varieties now began to arrive. The whole countryside had turned out to see the great game between the two local college teams, and the Wellington girls pinned green rosettes in their buttonholes to signify that their sympathies were all for Exmoor. "It's the most exciting, jolliest time I ever had in all my life," cried Molly to Professor Green, who walked on her other side. "And to think I have never seen a football game before in all my life." "I must draw a diagram for you and show you what some of the plays are, or you will be in a muddle," said the Professor, looking at her gravely, almost, as Molly thought, as if she were one of his English Literature pupils. At lunch, according to the etiquette of the place, George and his guests were placed at the senior table. There was no smoking nor loud talking and the students behaved themselves most decorously, although George confided to Judy that ordinarily pandemonium prevailed. After lunch they started for the grounds in a triumphal procession; for our Wellington freshmen and their chaperone had an escort of at least four or five young men apiece. Nance looked bewildered and shy and happy; Judy was never more sparkling nor prettier, and Molly was in her gayest, brightest humor. They had hardly left the Chapter House behind them and proceeded in a snake-like procession across the campus, when a black and prancing, though rather bony, steed dashed up bearing a young lady in a faultlessly fitting riding habit. It was Judith Blount. Nobody looked particularly thrilled at Judith's appearance, not even Judith's brother, and Judy almost exclaimed out loud: "Bother! Why couldn't she stay at home just once?" "How do you do, Cousin Grace?" called Judith from her perch. "I heard you were going to be down and I couldn't resist riding over to see you." "How are you, Judith? I'm so glad to see you," answered Cousin Grace in a tone without much heart to it. "Why didn't you come sooner? We've just finished lunch." "Thanks, I had a sandwich early. I suppose you are off for the grounds. Go ahead. I'll get Cousin Edwin to help me tie up this old animal somewhere. We'll follow right behind." Molly was almost certain that Cousin Edwin was about to place this office on the shoulders of his younger brother, but glancing again at the flushed and happy face of Dodo at the side of Judy, the Professor relented and dropped behind to look after his relation. Never had Molly been so wildly excited as she was over the football game that afternoon. It was a wonderful picture, the two teams lined up against each other; crowds of people yelling themselves hoarse; the battle cry of the Repton team mingling with the warlike cry of the Exmoor students. The cheer leaders at the heads of the cheer sections made the welkin ring continuously. At last a young man, who seemed to be a giant in size and strength, dashed like a wild horse across the Russian steppes straight up the field with the ball under his arm, and from the insane behavior of the green men, including Professor Edwin Green and his fair sister, Molly became suddenly aware that the game was over and Exmoor had won. The cheering section could yell no more, because to a man it had lost its voice; but, oh, the glad burst of song from the Exmoor students as they leaped into the field and bore the conquering giant around on their shoulders. And, oh! the dejection of the men of crimson as they stalked sadly from the scene of their humiliation. At last the whole glorious day was over and the girls found themselves on the way to the trolley station. Richard Blount and his cousin, Miss Green, had hastened on ahead. They were to take the six o'clock train back to New York. "Cousin Edwin, why can't you hire a horse in the village and ride back to Wellington with me?" asked Judith, when they paused at the Chapter House for her to mount her black steed. "Because I'm engaged to take these young ladies home by trolley, Judith," answered the Professor firmly. Judith leaped on her horse without assistance, gave the poor animal a savage lash with her whip and dashed across the campus without another word. The ride back at sunset was even more perfect than the morning trip. The Professor of English Literature appeared to have been temporarily changed into a boy. He told them funny stories and bits of his own college experiences, and made them talk, too. Almost before they knew it, the conductor was calling: "Wellington!" CHAPTER XII. SUNDAY MORNING BREAKFAST. It was quite the custom at Wellington for girls to prepare breakfasts on Sunday morning in their rooms. There was always the useful boneless chicken to be creamed in one's chafing dish; and in another, eggs to be scrambled with a lick and a promise, at these impromptu affairs; and it was a change from the usual codfish balls of the Sunday house breakfast. [Illustration: It was quite the custom for girls to prepare breakfast in their rooms.--_Page 152._] On this particular Sunday morning, Judy was very busy; for the breakfast party was of her giving, in Molly's and Nance's room; her own "singleton" being too small. She was also very angry in her tempestuous and unrestrained way, and having emptied the vials of her wrath on Molly's head, she was angrier with herself for giving away to temper. Although it was Judy's party, Molly, as usual kind-hearted and grandly hospitable, had invited Frances Andrews. Then she had gone and confessed her sins to Judy, who flared up and said things she hadn't intended, and Molly had wept a little and owned that she was entirely at fault. But what could be done? Frances was invited and had accepted. To atone for her sins, poor Molly had made popovers as a surprise and arranged to bake them in Mrs. Murphy's oven. But the hostess being gloomy, the company was gloomy, since the one is apt to reflect the humor of the other. However, as the coffee began to send forth its cheerful aroma from Judy's Russian samovar, discord took wings and harmony reigned. It was a very comfortable and sociable party. Most of the girls wore their kimonos, it being a time for rest and relaxation; but when Frances Andrews swept into the room in a long lavender silk _peignoir_ trimmed with frills of lace, all cotton crepe Japanese dressing gowns faded into insignificance. "There is no doubt that college girls are a hungry lot," remarked Margaret Wakefield, settling herself comfortably to dispose of food and conversation and arouse argument, a thing she deeply enjoyed. "So much brain work requires nourishment," observed Mabel Hinton. "There is not much brain nourishment at Queen's," put in Frances Andrews. "I've been living on raw eggs and sweet chocolate for the last week. The table has run down frightfully." Sallie Marks was a loyal Queen's girl, and resented this slur on the table of the establishment which was sheltering her now for the third year. "The food here is quite as good as it is at any of the other houses," she said coldly to the unfortunate Frances, who really had not intended to give offence. "Pardon me, but I don't agree with you," replied Frances, "and I have a right to my own opinion, I suppose." Judy gave Molly a triumphant glance, as much as to say, "You see what you have done." Everybody looked a little uncomfortable, and Margaret Wakefield, equal to every occasion, launched into a learned discussion on how many ounces of food the normal person requires a day. Once more the talk flowed on smoothly. But where Frances was, it would seem there were always hidden reefs which wrecked every subject, no matter how innocent, the moment it was launched. "Molly, I can trade compliments with you," put in Jessie Lynch, taking not the slightest notice of her roommate's discourse. "It's one of those very indirect, three-times-removed compliments, but you'll be amused by it." "Really," said Molly, "do tell me what it is before I burst with curiosity." "I said 'trade,'" laughed Jessie, who liked a compliment herself extremely. "Oh, of course," replied Molly. "I have any number I can give you in exchange. How do you care for this one? Mary Stewart thinks you are very attractive." "Does she, really? That's nice of her," exclaimed Jessie, blushing with pleasure as if she hadn't been told the same thing dozens of times before. "I think she's fine; not exactly pretty, you know, but fine." "I suppose you don't know how her father made his money?" broke in Frances. There was a silence, and Molly, feeling that she was about to be mortified again by something disagreeable, cried hastily: "Oh, dear, I forgot the surprise. Do wait a moment," and dashed from the room. While she was gone, Nance and Judy began filling up the intervals with odd bits of conversation, helped out by the other girls, and Frances Andrews did not have another opportunity to put in her oar. Suddenly she rose and swept to the door. "You would none of you feel interested to know, I suppose, that Mary Stewart's father started life as a bootblack----" "That's what I'm starting life as," cried Molly, who now appeared carrying a large tray covered with a napkin. "I am the official bootblack of Queen's, and I make sometimes one-fifty a week at it. I hope I'll do as well as Mr. Stewart in the business. Have a popover?" She unfolded the napkin and behold a pile of golden muffins steaming hot. There were wild cries of joy from the kimonoed company. "And now, Jessie, I'll take my second-hand, roundabout compliment----" she began, when Judy interrupted her. "Won't you have a popover, Miss Andrews?" she asked in a cold, exasperated tone. "Thanks; I eat the European breakfast usually--coffee and roll----" "Yes, I've been there," answered Judy. "I'll say good morning. I've enjoyed your little party immensely," and Frances marched out of the room and banged the door. "I should think you would have learned a lesson by this time, Molly Brown," cried Judy hotly. "There is always a row whenever that girl is around. She can't be nice, and there is no use trying to make her over." "I'm sorry," said Molly penitently. "I wish I could understand why she behaves that way when she knows it's going to take away what few friends she has." "I think I can tell you," put in Mabel Hinton. "Nobody likes her, and nobody expects any good of her. If you are constantly on the lookout for bad traits, they are sure to appear. It's almost a natural law. Everybody was expecting this to-day, and so it happened, of course. If we had been cordial and sweet to her, she never would have said that about Mary Stewart or the food at Queen's, either." "Dear me, are we listening to a sermon," broke in Judy flippantly. But, in spite of Judy's interruption, Mabel's speech made an impression on the girls, some of whom felt a little ashamed of their attitude toward Frances Andrews. "Did you ever see a dog that had been kicked all its life?" went on Mabel; "how it snarls and bites and snaps at anybody who tries to pet it? Well, Frances is just a poor kicked dog. She's done something she ought not to have done, and she's been kicked out for it, and she's so sore and unhappy, she snarls at everybody who comes near her." "Mabel, you're a brick!" exclaimed Sallie Marks. "I started the fight this morning and I'm ashamed of it. I'm going to make a resolution to be nice to that poor girl hereafter, no matter how horrid she is. It will be an interesting experiment, if for no other reason." "Let's form a society," put in Molly, "to reinstate Frances Andrews, and the way to do it will be to be as nice as we can to her and to say nice things about her to the other girls." "Good work!" cried Margaret Wakefield, scenting another opportunity to draw up a constitution, by-laws and resolutions. "We will call a first meeting right now, and elect officers. I move that Molly be made chairman of the meeting." "I second the motion," said Sallie heartily. "All in favor say 'aye.'" There was a chorus of laughing "ayes" and a society was actually established that morning, Molly, as founder, being elected President. It consisted of eight members, all freshmen, except the good-natured Sallie Marks, who condescended, although a junior, to join. "Suppose we vote on a name now," continued Margaret who wished to leave nothing undone in creating the club. "Each member has a right to suggest two names, votes to be taken afterward." It was all very business-like, owing to Margaret's experienced methods, but the girls enjoyed it and felt quite important. As a matter of fact, it was the first society to be established that year in the freshman class, and it developed afterward into a very important organization. Among the various names suggested were "The Optimists," "The Bluebirds," "The Glad Hands," mentioned by Sallie Marks, and "The Happy Hearts." "They are all too sentimental," said the astute Margaret, looking them over. "There'll be so many croaks about us if we choose one of these names that we'll be crushed with ridicule. How about these initials--'G.F.' What do they stand for?" "Gold Fishes," replied Mabel Hinton promptly. The others laughed, but the name pleased them, nevertheless. "You see," went on Mabel, "a gold fish always radiates a cheerful glow no matter where he is. He is the most amiable, contented little optimist in the animal kingdom, and he swims just as happily in a finger bowl as he does in a fish pond. He was evidently created to cheer up the fish tribe and I'm sure he must succeed in doing it." The explanation was received with applause, and when the votes were taken, "G.F." was chosen without a dissenting voice. It was decided that the club was to meet once a week, it's object, to be, in a way, the promotion of kindliness, especially toward such people as Frances Andrews, who were friendless. "We'll be something like the Misericordia Society in Italy," observed Judy, "only, instead of looking after wounded and hurt people, we'll look after wounded and hurt feelings." It was further moved, seconded and the motion carried that the society should be a secret one; that reports should be read each week by members who had anything to report; and, by way of infusing a little sociability into the society, it was to give an entertainment, something unique in the annals of Wellington; subject to be thought of later. It was noon by the time the first meeting of the G. F. Society was ready to disband. But the girls had really enjoyed it. In the first place, there was an important feeling about being an initial member of a club which had such a beneficial object, and was to be so delightfully secretive. There was, in fact, a good deal of knight errantry in the purpose of the G. F.'s, who felt not a little like Amazonian cavaliers looking for adventure on the highway. "Really, you know," observed Jessie, "we should be called 'The Friends of the Wallflowers,' like some men at home, who made up their minds one New Year's night at a ball to give a poor cross-eyed, ugly girl who never had partners the time of her life, just once." "Did they do it?" asked Nance, who imagined that she was a wallflower, and was always conscious when the name was mentioned. "They certainly did," answered Jessie, "and when I saw the girl afterward in the dressing room, she said to me, 'Oh, Jessie, wasn't it heaven?' She cried a little. I was ashamed." "By the way, Jessie, I never got my compliment," said Molly. "Pay it to me this instant, or I shall be thinking I haven't had a 'square deal.'" "Well, here it is," answered Jessie. "It has been passed along considerably, but it's all the more valuable for taking such a roundabout route to get to you. I'll warn you beforehand that you will probably have an electric shock when you hear it. You know I have some cousins who live up in New York. One of them writes to me----" "Girl or man?" demanded Judy. "Man," answered Jessie, blushing. There was a laugh at this, because Jessie's beaux were numerous. "His best friend," she continued, "has a sister, and that sister--do you follow--is an intimate friend----" "'An intimate friend of an intimate friend,'" one of the girls interrupted. "Yes," said Jessie, "it's obscure, but perfectly logical. My cousin's intimate friend's sister has an intimate friend--Miss Green----" "Oh, ho!" cried Judy. "Now we are getting down to rock bottom." "And Miss Green told her intimate friend who told my cousin's intimate friend's sister--it's a little involved, but I think I have it straight--who told her brother who told my cousin who wrote it to me." "But what did he write," they demanded in a chorus. "That one of Miss Green's brothers was crushed on a charming red-headed girl from Kentucky." Molly's face turned crimson. "But Dodo is crushed on Judy," she laughed. "It may be," said Jessie. "Rumors are most generally twisted." The first meeting of the G. F.'s now disbanded and the members scattered to dress for the early Sunday dinner. They all attended Vespers that afternoon, and in the quiet hour of the impressive service more than one pondered seriously upon the conversation of the morning and the purpose of the new club. CHAPTER XIII. TRICKERY. It was several days before the G. F.'s had an opportunity to practise any of their new resolutions on Frances Andrews. The eccentric girl was in the habit of skipping meals and eating at off hours at a little restaurant in the village, or taking ice cream sundaes in the drug store. At last, however, she did appear at supper in a beautiful dinner dress of lavender crêpe de chine with an immense bunch of violets pinned at her belt. She looked very handsome and the girls could not refrain from giving her covert glances of admiration as she took her seat stonily at the table. It was the impetuous, precipitate Judy who took the lead in the promotion of kindliness and her premature act came near to cutting down the new club in its budding infancy. "You must be going to a party," she began, flashing one of her ingratiating smiles at Frances. Frances looked at her with an icy stare. "I--I mean," stammered Judy, "you are wearing such an exquisite dress. It's too fine for ordinary occasions like this." Frances rose. "Mrs. Markham," she said to the matron of Queen's, "if I can't eat here without having my clothes sneered at, I shall be obliged to have my meals carried to my room hereafter." Then she marched out of the dining room. Mrs. Markham looked greatly embarrassed and nobody spoke for some time. "Good heavens!" said Judy at last in a low voice to Molly, "what's to be done now?" "Why don't you write her a little note," replied Molly, "and tell her that you hadn't meant to hurt her feelings and had honestly admired her dress." "Apologize!" exclaimed Judy, her proud spirit recoiling at the ignoble thought. "I simply couldn't." But since her attack on Molly, Judy had been very much ashamed of herself, and she was now taking what she called "self-control in broken doses," like the calomel treatment; that night she actually wrote a note to Frances and shoved it under the door. In answer to this abject missive she received one line, written with purple ink on highly scented heavy note paper: "Dear Miss Kean," it ran, "I accept your apology. "Yours sincerely, "FRANCES LE GRAND ANDREWS." "Le Grand, that's a good name for her," laughed Judy, sniffing at the perfumed paper with some disgust. But she wrote an elaborate report regarding the incident and read it aloud to the assembled G. F.'s at their second meeting. In the meantime, Sallie Marks had her innings with the redoubtable Frances, and retreated, wearing the sad and martyred smile of one who is determined not to resent an insult. One by one the G.F.'s took occasion to be polite and kind to the scornful, suspicious Frances. Her malicious speeches were ignored and her vulgarities--and she had many of them--passed lightly over. Little by little she arrived at the conclusion that refinement did not mean priggishness and that vulgarity was not humor. Of course the change came very gradually. Not infrequently after a sophomore snub, the whipped dog snarled savagely; or she would brazenly try to shock the supper table with a coarse, slangy speech. But with the persistent friendliness of the Queen's girls, the fires in her nature began to die down and the intervals between flare-ups grew longer each day. Frances Andrews was the first "subject" of the G.F.'s, and they were as interested in her regeneration as a group of learned doctors in the recovery of a dangerously ill patient. In the meantime, the busy college life hummed on and Molly felt her head swimming sometimes with its variety and fullness. What with coaching Judy, blacking boots, making certain delicious sweetmeats called "cloudbursts,"--the recipe of which was her own secret,--which sold like hot cakes; keeping up the social end and the study end, Molly was beginning to feel tired. A wanness began to show in the dark shadows under her eyes and the pinched look about her lips even as early as the eventful evening when she posed for the senior living picture show. "This child needs some make-up," the august senior president had exclaimed. "Where's the rouge and who's got my rabbit's foot? No, burned cork makes too broad a line. Give me one of the lighter colored eyebrow pencils. You mustn't lose your color, little girl," she said, dabbing a spot of red on each of Molly's pale cheeks. "Your roses are one of your chief attractions." A great many students and some of the faculty had bought tickets for this notable occasion, and the gymnasium was well filled before the curtain was drawn back from a gigantic gold frame disclosing Mary Stewart as Joan of Arc in the picture by Bastien Le Page, which hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. There was no attempt to reproduce the atmospheric visions of the angel and the knight in armor, only the poor peasant girl standing in the cabbage patch, her face transfigured with inspiration. When Molly saw Mary Stewart pose in this picture at the dress rehearsal, she could not help recalling the story of the bootblack father. "She has a wonderful face, and I call it beautiful, if other people don't," she said to herself. As for our little freshman, so dazed and heavy was she with fatigue, the night of the entertainment, that she never knew she had created a sensation, first as Botticelli's "Flora," barefooted and wearing a Greek dress constructed of cheesecloth, and then as "Mrs. Hamilton," in the blue crepe with a gauzy fichu around her neck. After the exhibition, when all the actors were endeavoring to collect their belongings in the confusion of the green room, Sallie Marks came running behind the scenes. "Prexy has specially requested you to repeat the Flora picture," she announced, breathlessly. "Is Prexy here?" they demanded, with much excitement. "She is so," answered Sallie. "She's up in the balcony with Professor Green and Miss Pomeroy." "Well, what do you think, we've been performing before 'Queen Victoria and other members of the royal family,' like P. T. Barnum, and never knew a thing about it," said a funny snub-nosed senior. "'Daily demonstrations by the delighted multitude almost taking the form of ovations,'" she proceeded. "Don't talk so much, Lulu, and help us, for Heaven's sake! Where's Molly Brown of Kentucky?" called the distracted President. Molly came forth at the summons. Overcome by an extreme fatigue, she had been sitting on a bench in a remote corner of the room behind some stage property. "Here, little one, take off your shoes and stockings, and get into your Flora costume, quick, by order of Prexy." In a few minutes, Molly stood poised on the tips of her toes in the gold frame. The lights went down, the bell rang, and the curtains were parted by two freshmen appointed for this duty. For one brief fleeting glance the audience saw the immortal Flora floating on thin air apparently, and then the entire gymnasium was in total darkness. A wave of conversation and giggling filled the void of blackness, while on the stage the seniors were rushing around, falling over each other and calling for matches. "Who's light manager?" "Where's Lulu?" "Lulu! Lulu!" "Where's the switch?" "Lulu's asleep at the switch," sang a chorus of juniors from the audience. "I'm not," called Lulu. "I'm here on the job, but the switch doesn't work." "Telephone to the engineer." "Light the gas somebody." But there were no matches, and the only man in the house was in the balcony. However, he managed to grope his way to the steps leading to the platform, where he suddenly struck a match, to the wild joy of the audience. Choruses from various quarters had been calling: "Don't blow out the gas!" "Keep it dark!" And one girl created a laugh by announcing: "The present picture represents a 'Nocturne' by Whistler." Then the janitor began lighting gas jets along the wall and finally a lonesome gas jet on the stage faintly illumined the scene of confusion. The gigantic gilt frame outlined a dark picture of hurrying forms, and huddled in the foreground lay a limp white object, for Botticelli's "Flora" had fainted away. The confusion increased. The President joined the excited seniors and presently the doctor appeared, fetched by the Professor of English Literature. "Flora" was lifted onto a couch; her own gray cape thrown over her, and opening her eyes in a few minutes, she became Molly Brown of Kentucky. She gazed confusedly at the faces hovering over her in the half light; the doctor at one side, the President at the other; Mary Stewart and Professor Green standing at the foot and a crowd of seniors like a mob in the background. Suddenly Molly sat up. She brushed her auburn hair from her face and pointed vaguely toward the hall: "I saw her when she----" she began. Her eye caught Professor Green's, and she fell back on the couch. "You saw what, my child?" asked the President kindly. "I reckon I was just dreaming," answered Molly, her Southern accent more marked than ever before. The President of the senior class now hurried up to the President of Wellington University. "Miss Walker," she exclaimed, her voice trembling with indignation, "we have just found out, or, rather, the engineer has discovered, that some one has cut the electric wires. It was a clean cut, right through. I do think it was an outrage." She was almost sobbing in her righteous anger. The President's face looked very grave. "Are you sure of this?" she asked. "It's true, ma'am," put in the engineer, who had followed close on the heels of the senior. Without a word, President Walker rose and walked to the centre of the platform. With much subdued merriment the students were leaving the gymnasium in a body. Lifting a small chair standing near, she rapped with it on the floor for order. Instantly, every student faced the platform, and those who had not reached the aisles sat down. "Young ladies," began the President in her calm, cultivated tones that could strike terror to the heart of any erring student, "I wish to speak a word with you before you leave the gymnasium to-night. Probably most of you are aware by this time that the accident to the electric lighting was really not an accident at all, but the result of a deliberate act by some one in this room. Of course, I realize, that in so large a body of students as we have at Wellington University there must, of necessity, be some black sheep. These we endeavor, by every effort, to regenerate and by mid-years it is usually not a difficult matter to discover those who are in earnest and those who consider Wellington College merely a place of amusement. Those who do consider it as such, naturally, do not--er--remain with us after mid-years." To Molly, sitting on the platform, and to other trembling freshmen in the audience, the President seemed for the moment like a great and stern judge, who had appointed mid-years as the time for a general execution of criminals. "I consider," went on the speaker in slow and even tones, "idleness a most unfortunate quality, and I am prepared to combat it and to convince any of my girls who show that tendency that good hard work and only good hard work will bring success. A great many girls come here preferring idleness and learn to repent it--before mid-years." A wave of subdued laughter swept over the audience. "But," said the President, her voice growing louder and sterner, "young ladies, I am not prepared to combat chicanery and trickery by anything except the most severe measures, and if there is one among you who thinks and believes she can commit such despicable follies as that which has been done to-night, and escape--I would say to her that she is mistaken. I shall not endure such treachery. It shall be rooted out. For the honor and the illustrious name of this institution, I now ask each one of you to help me, and if there is one among you who knows the culprit and does not report it to me at once, I shall hold that girl as responsible as the real culprit. You may go now, and think well over what I have said." The President retired and the students filed soberly and quietly from the gymnasium. "How do you feel now, dear?" asked President Walker, leaning over Molly and taking her hand. "Much better, thank you," answered Molly, timidly. "Could you hear what I was saying to the girls?" continued the President, looking at her closely. "Yes," faltered Molly. "Think over it, then. And you had better stay in bed a few days until you feel better. Have you prescribed for her, doctor?" The doctor nodded. He was a bluff, kindly Scotchman. "A little anæmic and tired out. A good tonic and more sleep will put her to rights." Mary Stewart had telephoned for a carriage to take Molly home, and Judy, filled with passionate devotion when anything was the matter, hurried ahead to turn down the bed, lay out gown and wrapper and make a cup of bouillon out of hot water and a beef juice capsule; and finally assist her beloved friend--whom she occasionally chastened--to remove her clothes and get into bed. "I may not have many chances to wait on you, Molly, darling," she exclaimed, when Molly protested at so much devotion. "I may not have a chance after mid-years." If she had mentioned death itself, she could not have used a more tragic tone. "Judy," cried Molly, slipping her arms around her friend's neck, "I'm not going to let you go at mid-years if I have to study for two." CHAPTER XIV. AN INSPIRATION. "This is like having a bedroom _salon_," exclaimed Molly with a hospitable smile to some dozen guests who adorned the divans and easy chairs, the floor and window sills of her room. Surely there was nothing Molly liked better than to entertain, and when she had callers, she always entertained them with refreshments of some kind. Often it had to be crackers and sweet chocolate, and she had even been reduced to tea. But usually her family kept her supplied with good things and her larder was generally well stocked. She lay in bed, propped up with pillows, and scattered about the bed were text-books and papers. "You've been studying again, you naughty child," exclaimed Mary Stewart, shaking her finger. "Didn't Dr. McLean tell you to go easy for the next week?" "Go easy, indeed," laughed Molly. "You might as well tell a trapeze actor to do the giant-swing and hold on tight at the same time. But it's worth losing a few days to find out what loving friends I have. Your pink roses are the loveliest of all," she added, squeezing her friend's hand. "Tell us exactly who sent you each bunch?" demanded Jessie, passing a box of ginger-snaps, while Judy performed miracles with a tea ball, a small kettle and a varied assortment of cups and saucers. "I have a right to ask you," continued Jessica, "because you asked the same question of me last Tuesday when two boxes came." "No suitor sent me any of these, Mistress Jessica," answered Molly, "because I haven't any. Miss Stewart sent the pink ones, and the President of the senior class sent the red ones. Judy brought me the double violets and Nance the lilies of the valley, bless them both, and another senior the pot of pansies. The seniors have certainly been sweet and lovely." "There's one you haven't accounted for," interrupted Jessie. "The violets?" asked Molly, blushing slightly. "Oh, ho!" cried Jessie in her high, musical voice, "trying to crawl, were you? You can't deceive old Grandmamma Sharp-eyes. Honor bright, who sent the violets?" "To tell you the truth, I don't know. I suspected Frances Andrews, but when I thanked her for them, she looked horribly embarrassed and said she hadn't sent them. I was afraid she would go down and get some after my break, but thank goodness, she had the good taste not to." "You mean to say they were anonymous?" demanded Jessie. "I mean to say that thing, but I suppose some of the seniors who preferred to remain unknown sent them." "It's just possible," put in Mary, and the subject was dropped. "Let's talk about the only thing worth talking about just now," broke in Judy. "The Flopping of Flora; or, Who Cut the Wires?" "Why talk about it?" said Molly. "You could never reach any conclusion, and guessing doesn't help." "Oh, just as a matter of interest," replied Judy. "For instance, if we were detectives and put on the case, how would we go about finding the criminal?" "I should look for a silly mischief-maker," said Mary Stewart. "Some foolish girl who wanted to do a clever thing. Freshmen at boys' colleges are often like that." "You don't think it was a freshman, do you, Miss Stewart?" cried Mabel Hinton, turning her round spectacles on Mary like a large, serious owl. "Oh, no, indeed. I was only joking. I haven't the remotest notion who it is." "If I were a detective on the case," said Mabel Hinton, "I should look for a junior who was jealous of the seniors. Some one who had a grudge, perhaps." "If I were a detective," announced Margaret Wakefield, in her most judicial manner, "I should look for some one who had a grudge against Molly." "Of course; I never thought of that. It did happen just as Molly was about to give the encore, didn't it?" "It did," answered Margaret. The girls had all stopped chattering in duets and trios to listen. "Has any one in the world the heart to have a grudge against you, you sweet child?" exclaimed Mary Stewart, placing her rather large, strong hand over Molly's. The young freshman looked uncomfortable. "I hope not," she said, smiling faintly. "I never meant to give offence to any one." Pretty soon the company dispersed and Molly was left alone with her two best friends. "Judy," she said, "will you please settle down to work this instant? You know you have to write your theme and get it in by to-morrow noon, and you haven't touched it so far." Nance was already deep in her English. Molly turned her face to the wall and sighed. "I can't do it," she whispered to herself; "I simply cannot do it." But what she referred to only she herself knew. In the meantime Judy chewed the end of her pencil and looked absently at her friend's back. Presently she gave the pad on her lap an impatient toss in one direction and the pencil in another, and flung herself on the foot of Molly's couch. "Don't scold me, Molly. I never compose, except under inspiration, and inspiration doesn't seem to be on very good terms with me just now. She hasn't visited me in an age." "Nonsense! You know perfectly well you can write that theme if you set your mind to it, Judy Kean. You are just too lazy. You haven't even chosen a subject, I'll wager anything." "No," said Judy sadly. "Why don't you write a short story? You have plenty of material with all your travel----" "I know what I'll write," Judy interrupted her excitedly, "The Motives of Crime." "How absurd," objected Molly. "Besides, don't you think that's a little personal just now, when the whole school is talking about the wire-cutter?" "Not at all. We are all trying to run down the criminal, anyhow. I shall take the five great motives which lead to crime: anger, jealousy, hatred, envy and greed. It will make an interesting discourse. You'll see if it doesn't." "The idea of your writing on such a subject," laughed Molly. "You're not a criminal lawyer or a prosecuting attorney." "I admit it," answered Judy, "and I suppose Lawyer Margaret Wakefield ought to be the one to handle the subject. But, nevertheless, I am fired with inspiration, and I intend to write it myself. I shall not see you again until the deed is done, if it takes all night. By the way, lend me some coffee, will you? I'm all out, and I always make some on the samovar for keeping-awake purposes when I'm going to work at night." "I don't know what I'm going to do with you, Judy," sighed Molly, as the incorrigible girl sailed out of the room, a jar of coffee under one arm and her writing pad under the other. At first she wrote intermittently, rumpling up her hair with both hands and chewing her pencil savagely; but gradually her thoughts took form and the pencil moved steadily along, almost like "spirit-writing" it seemed to her, until the essay was done. It was half-past three o'clock and rain and hail beat a dismal tattoo on her window pane. She had not even noticed the storm, having hung a bed quilt over her window and tacked a dressing gown across the transom to conceal the light of the student's lamp from the watchful matron. Putting out her light and removing all signs of disobedience, she now cheerfully went to bed. "Motives for crime," she chuckled to herself. "I suppose I'm committing a small crime for disobeying the ten-o'clock rule, and my motive is to hand in a theme on time to-morrow." The next morning when Judy read over her night's work, she enjoyed it very much. "It's really quite interesting," she said to herself. "I really don't see how I ever did it." She delivered the essay at Miss Pomeroy's office and felt vastly proud when she laid it on the table near the desk. Her own cleverness told her that she had done a good thing. "I don't believe Wordsworth ever enjoyed his own works more than I do mine," she observed, as she strolled across the campus. "And because I've been _bon enfant_, I shall now take a rest and go forth in search of amusement." She turned her face toward the village, where a kind of Oriental bazaar was being held by some Syrians. It would be fun, she thought, to look over their bangles and slippers and bead necklaces. In the meantime, Miss Pomeroy was engaged in reading over Judy's theme, which, having been handed in last, had come to her notice first. Such is the luck of the procrastinator. She smiled when she saw the title, but the theme interested her greatly, and presently she tucked it into her long reticule, familiar to every Wellington girl, and hastened over to the President's house. "Emma," she said (the two women were old college mates, and were Emma and Louise in private), "I think this might interest you. It's a theme by one of my freshman girls. A strange subject for a girl of seventeen, but she's quite a remarkable person, if she would only apply herself. Somehow, it seems, whether consciously or unconsciously, to bear on what has been occupying us all so much since last Friday." The President put on her glasses and began to read Judy's theme. Every now and then she gave a low, amused chuckle. "The child writes like Marie Corelli," she exclaimed, laughing. "And yet it is clever and it does suggest----" she paused and frowned. "I wonder if she could and doesn't dare tell?" she added slowly. "I wonder," echoed Miss Pomeroy. "Is she one of the Queen's Cottage girls? They appear to be rather a remarkable lot this year." "Some of them are very bright," said Miss Pomeroy. "Louise," said the President suddenly, "Frances Andrews is one of the girls at that house, is she not?" "Yes," nodded the other, with a queer look on her face. "She's clever," said the President. "She's deep, Emma. It is impossible to make any definite statement about her. One must go very slowly in these things. But after what happened last year, you know----" She paused. Even with her most intimate friend she disliked to discuss certain secrets of the institution openly. "Yes," said Miss Pomeroy, "she is either very deep or entirely innocent." "Some one is guilty," sighed the President. "I do wish I knew who it was." Judy's theme not only received especial mention by Miss Pomeroy, but it was read aloud to the entire class and was later published in the college paper, _The Commune_, to Judy's everlasting joy and glory. She was congratulated about it on all sides and her heart was swollen with pride. "I think I'll take to writing in dead earnest," she said to Molly, "because I have the happy faculty of writing on subjects I don't know anything about, and no one knows the difference." "I wish you'd take to doing anything in dead earnest," Molly replied, giving her friend a little impatient shake. CHAPTER XV. PLANNING AND WISHING. "Mrs. Anna Oldham, the famous suffragette, will speak in the gymnasium on Saturday afternoon, at four o'clock, on 'Woman's Suffrage.' All those interested in this subject are invited to be present." Molly and Judy, with a crowd of friends, on the way from one classroom to another one busy Friday had paused in front of the bulletin board in the main corridor. "Mrs. Anna Oldham?" they repeated, trying to remember where they had heard the name before. "Why, Judy," whispered Molly, "that must be Nance's mother. Do you--do you suppose Nance knows?" "If she does, she has never mentioned it. You know she never tells anything. She's a perfect clam. But this, somehow, is different." Both girls thought of their own mothers immediately. Surely they would have shouted aloud such news as Nance had. "Shall we mention it to her, or do you think we'd better wait and let her introduce the subject?" asked Molly. "Surely she corresponds with her own mother," exclaimed Judy without answering Molly's question. "Her father writes to her about once a week, I know; but I don't think she hears very often from Mrs. Oldham. You see, her mother's away most of the time lecturing." "Lecturing--fiddlesticks!" cried Judy indignantly. "What kind of a mother is she, I'd like to know? I'll bet you anything Nance doesn't know at all she's going to be here. I think we ought to tell her, Molly." "Poor Nance," answered Molly. "I don't know which would mortify her most: to know or not to know. Suppose we find out in some tactful roundabout way whether she knows, and then I'll offer to go in with you Saturday night and give her mother my bed." Judy cordially consented to this arrangement, having a three-quarter bed in her small room, although secretly she was not fond of sharing it and preferred both her bed and her room to herself. It was not until much later in the day that they saw Nance, who appeared to be radiantly and buoyantly happy. Her usually quiet face was aglow with a soft light, and as she passed her two friends she waved a letter at them gayly. "You see, she knows and she is delighted," exclaimed Judy. "Just as we would be. Oh, Molly, wait until you see my mother, if you want to meet a thing of beauty and a joy forever. You'd think I was her mother instead of her being mine, she is so little and sweet and dainty." Molly laughed. "Isn't she coming up soon? I'd dearly love to meet her." "I'm afraid not. You know papa is always flying off on trips and mamma goes with him everywhere. I used to, too, before I decided to be educated. It was awfully exciting. We often got ready on a day's notice to go thousands of miles, to San Francisco or Alaska or Mexico, anywhere. Papa is exactly like me, or, rather, I am exactly like him, only he is a hundred times better looking and more fascinating and charming than I can ever hope to be." "You funny child," exclaimed Molly; "how do you know you are not all those things right now?" "I know I'm not," sighed Judy. "Papa is brilliant, and not a bit lazy. He works all the time." "So would you if you only wanted to. You only choose to be lazy. If I had your mind and opportunities there is no end to what I would do." Judy looked at her in surprise. "Why, Molly, do you think I have any mind?" she asked. "One of the best in the freshman class," answered her friend. "But look, here are some letters!" She paused in the hall of Queen's Cottage to look over a pile of mail which had been brought that afternoon. There were several letters for the girls; Judy's bi-weeklies from both her parents, who wrote to her assiduously, and Molly's numerous home epistles from her sisters and mother. But there were two, one for each of the girls, with the Exmoor postmark on them. Molly opened hers first. "Oh, Judy," she exclaimed, "do you remember that nice Exmoor Sophomore named 'Upton?' He wants to come over Saturday afternoon to call and go walking. Dodo has probably written the same thing to you. I see you have an Exmoor letter." "He has," answered Judy, perusing her note. "He wishes the honor of my company for a short walk. Evidently they don't think we have many engagements since they don't give us time to answer their notes." "Judy!" "Molly!" The two girls looked at each other for a brief moment and then broke into a laugh. "Nance's letter must have been from one of the others, Andy McLean, perhaps, that was why she was so----" Judy paused. Somehow, it didn't seem very kind to imply that poor Nance was elated over her first beau. "Dear, sweet old Nance!" cried Molly, her heart warming to her friend. "She will probably have them by the dozens some of these days." "I'm sure I should camp on her trail if I were a man," said Judy loyally. "But, Molly," she added, laughing again, "what are we to do about old Mrs. Oldham?" "Oh, dear! I hadn't thought of that. And poor Nance would have enjoyed the walk so much more than a learned discourse on woman's rights." Just before supper time Nance burst into the room. She was humming a waltz tune; her cheeks looked flushed, and she went briskly over to the mirror and glanced at her image quickly, while she took off her tam and sweater. The girls had never seen her looking so pretty. They waited for her to mention the note, but she talked of other things until Judy, always impatient to force events, exclaimed: "What was that note you were waving at us this afternoon, Nance?" "Oh, that was from----" A tap on the door interrupted her and Margaret Wakefield entered. "Oh, Nance," she cried, "I am so excited over your mother's coming to speak at college to-morrow afternoon. Isn't it fine of her? It's Miss Bowles, Professor in Advanced Math., who is bringing her, you know, of course?" Except that her face turned perfectly white, Nance showed no sign whatever that she had received a staggering blow, but her two friends felt for her deeply and Molly came to her rescue. "By the way, Nance, dearest," she said, "I thought you might want to have your mother with you to-morrow night, and I was going to offer you my bed and turn in with Judy." "Thanks, Molly," answered Nance, huskily; "that would be nice." Very little ever escaped the alert eyes of Margaret Wakefield; but if she noticed anything strange in Nance's manner, she made no comment whatever. She was a fine girl, full of sympathy and understanding, with a certain well-bred dignity of manner that is seldom seen in a young girl. "It will be quite a gala event at Queen's if Mrs. Oldham eats supper here," she said gently; "but no doubt she will be claimed by some of the faculty." Then she slipped quietly out of the room, just in time, for quiet, self-contained Nance burst suddenly into a storm of weeping and flung herself on the bed. "And she never even took the trouble to tell me," she sobbed brokenly. "She has probably forgotten that I am even going to Wellington." It was a difficult moment for Molly and Judy. Would it be more tactful to slip out of the room or to try and comfort Nance? After all, she had had very little sympathy in her life, and sympathy was what she craved and love, too, Molly felt sure of this, and with an instinct stronger than reason, she slipped down beside her friend on the couch and put her arms around her. "Darling, sweetest Nance," she cried, "I am sure the message will come. Perhaps she'll telegraph, and they will telephone from the village. Judy and I love you so dearly, it breaks our hearts to see you cry like this. Doesn't it, Judy?" "Indeed, it does," answered Judy, who was kneeling at the side of the couch with her cheek against Nance's hand. It was a comfort to Nance to realize that she had gained the friendship and affection of these two loving, warm-hearted girls. Never in her life had she met any girls like them, and presently the bitterness in her heart began to melt away. "Perhaps she will telegraph," she said, drying her eyes. "It was silly of me to take on so, but, you see, I had a little shock--I'm all right now. You're dears, both of you." Judy went into her own room and returned in a moment with a large bottle of German cologne. Filling the stationary wash basin with cold water she poured in a liberal quantity of the cologne. "Now, dearest Nance," she said, "bathe your face in that, and then powder with Molly's pink rice powder, and all will be as if it never had been," she added, smiling. The others smiled, too. Somehow, Nance's outburst had done her more good than harm. For the first time in her life she had been coddled and sympathized with and petted. It was almost worth while to have suffered to have gained such rewards. After all, there were some pleasant things in life. For instance, the note which had come to her that afternoon from young Andy McLean, son of Dr. McLean, the college physician. To think that she, "the little gray mouse," as her father had often called her, had inspired any one with a desire to see her again. It was almost impossible to believe, but there was the young Scotchman's note to refute all contrary arguments. "DEAR MISS OLDHAM," it said, in a good, round handwriting, "I have been wanting so much to see you again since our jolly day at Exmoor. I am bringing some fellows over on Saturday to supper at my father's. If you should happen to be in about four o'clock, may I call? How about a walk before supper? I can't tell you how disappointed I'll be if you have another engagement. "Yours sincerely, "ANDREW MCLEAN, 2D." Of course, she would have to give up the walk now, but it was pleasant to have been remembered and perhaps he would come again. That night at supper Nance was unusually bright and talkative. She answered all the many questions concerning her famous mother so easily and pleasantly that even Margaret Wakefield must have been deceived. The two sophomores at Queen's were giving a dance that evening, and while the girls sat in the long sitting room waiting for the guests to arrive, Judy took occasion to whisper to Molly: "Why should she have to appear at the lecture, anyhow?" "Because it would be disrespectful not to," answered Molly. "She must be there, of course. Would you go gallivanting off with a young man if your mother was going to give a lecture here?" "I should say not; but that's different." "No, no," persisted Molly; "it's never different when it's your mother, even when she doesn't behave like one. Can't you see that Nance would rather die than have people know that her mother isn't exactly like other mothers?" The next day was one of the busiest in the week for Molly. Two of her morning hours she spent coaching Judy in Latin. Then there were her lace collars to be done up, her stockings to be darned; a trip to be made to the library, where she stood in line for more than twenty minutes waiting for a certain volume of the Encyclopædia Britannica, and spent more than an hour extracting notes on "Norse Mythology." It was well on toward lunch time when she finally hastened across the campus to Queen's to fill some orders for "cloud-bursts," which were intended to be part of the refreshments for certain Saturday evening suppers. So weary was she and so intent on getting through in what she called "schedule time," that she almost ran into Professor Edwin Green before she even recognized him. "Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed, a wave of color sweeping over her pale face. "Why are you hurrying so fast on Saturday?" he asked pleasantly. "Don't you ever give yourself a holiday?" "Oh, yes; lots of them," she answered; "but I'm a little rushed to-day with some extra duties." She thought of the "cloud-bursts," which must be made and packed in boxes by the afternoon. "You are overdoing it, Miss Brown. You are not obeying the doctor's orders. When I see you there to-night I shall confront you in his presence with the charge of disobedience." "There to-night?" repeated Molly. "Certainly. Have you forgotten about the supper to-night?" "But I'm not invited." "Oh, yes, you are," answered the Professor, with a knowing smile. "You'll probably find the note waiting for you. And you must be sure and come, because the McLean's are real characters. They will interest you, I am sure." "Poor Nance," was Molly's first thought. And her second thought was: "If her mother is invited out to dine, she can accept." Her face brightened at this, and without knowing it, she smiled. Molly led such a busy, concentrated life, that when she did relax for a few moments, she sometimes seemed absent-minded and inattentive. The Professor was looking at her closely. "You are pleased at being asked to the McLean's?" he said. "I was thinking of something else," she said. "I was wondering if, after all, Nance couldn't arrange to go. Of course, she'll be invited, too; but, you see, her mother is to be here." "Is Mrs. Oldham, the Suffragette, her mother?" he asked in surprise. "Yes." "Mrs. Oldham is to dine at the President's to-night. I know, because I was asked to meet her, but"--he looked at her very hard indeed--"I had another engagement." "Then Nance can go. Isn't it beautiful? I am so glad!" Molly clasped her hands joyously. Professor Green gave her such a beautiful, beaming smile that it fairly transfigured his face. "You are a very good friend, Miss Brown," he said gently; "but would not Miss Oldham rather be with her mother, that is, in case the President should invite her, too, which is highly probable?" "Oh, I hope she won't. You see, Nance has never had much pleasure with young people, and"--it was difficult to explain--"and her mother----" she hesitated. "Her mother, being the most famous clubwoman in America, hasn't spent much time at home? Is that it?" "Well, yes," admitted Molly. "In fact, she hardly remembers she has a daughter," she added indignantly, and then bit her lip, feeling that she was bordering on disloyalty. The Professor cleared his throat and thrust his hands into his pockets. He was really very boyish-looking to be so old. "So you have set your heart on Miss Oldham's going to the supper to-night?" he said gravely. "If there is any fun going, Judy and I would be sorry to have her miss it," she answered. "And I don't suppose it would be thrilling to dine at the President's with a lot of learned older people." "I'm just on my way to President Walker's now," pursued the Professor thoughtfully. "In fact, I was just about to deliver my regrets in person regarding dinner to-night, and having some business to attend to with Miss Walker, I thought I would call. While I am there, it is possible--well, in fact, Miss Brown, there should be a good fairy provided by Providence to grant all unselfish wishes. She would not be a busy fairy by any means, I am afraid, except when she hovered around you. Good morning," and lifting his hat, the Professor hastened away, leaving Molly in a state of half-pleased perplexity. On the table in her room she found a note from Mrs. McLean, inviting her to supper that evening. Two other invitations from the same lady were handed to Nance and Judy, but Nance was at that moment seated at her desk accepting an invitation from Miss Walker to dine there with her mother at seven. She was writing the answer very carefully and slowly, in her best handwriting, and on her best monogram note paper. "Do you think that's good enough?" she demanded, handing the note to Molly to read. "Why, yes," answered Molly, looking it over hastily while she prepared to write her own answer to Mrs. McLean, and then she threw herself into the business of "cloud-bursts." Just as the lunch gong sounded, Bridget, the Irish waitress at President Walker's house, appeared at their half-open door. "A note for Miss Oldham," she said; "and the President says no answer is necessary. Good afternoon, ma'am; they'll be waitin' lunch if I don't make haste." "'MY DEAR MISS OLDHAM,'" Nance read aloud. "'I have just learned that you are invited to a young people's supper party to-night at Mrs. McLean's, and I therefore hasten to release you from your engagement to dine with me. Your mother will spare you, I am sure, on this one evening, and I hope you will enjoy yourself with your friends. With kindest regards, believe me, "'Cordially yours, "'EMMA K. WALKER.'" "Isn't she a brick?" cried Judy, dancing around the room and clapping her hands. "It was awfully nice of her," said Nance thoughtfully. "I wonder how she knew I was invited to the McLean's?" "Some good fairy must have told her," answered Molly, half to herself, as she stirred brown sugar into a saucepan. CHAPTER XVI. THE MCLEAN SUPPER. Nance did get a telegram from her mother that afternoon. It was very vague about trains and merely said: "Arrive in Wellington about two this afternoon. Meet me. Mother." Fortunately, the girls were as familiar with the train schedule as with their own class schedules, and knew exactly what train she meant. "It's the two-fifteen, of course," announced Judy. "Shall we go down with you to meet her, Nance?" "Why, yes; I think mother would like that very much," answered Nance, pleased with the idea. "She loves attention." Therefore, when the two-fifteen pulled into Wellington station, our three freshmen, together with Margaret Wakefield heading a deputation from the Freshman Suffrage Club, and Miss Bowles, teacher in Higher Mathematics, were waiting on the platform. "There she is!" cried Nance, with a note of eagerness in her voice that made Molly's heart ache. They all moved forward to meet a gaunt, tired-looking woman, with a sallow, faded complexion and a nervous manner; but her brilliant, clear brown eyes offset her unprepossessing appearance. Glowing with intelligence and with feverish energy they flashed their message to the world, like two mariner's lights at sea, and those who caught that burning glance forgot the tired face and distraught manner of the woman of clubs. "How are you, my dear?" she said, kissing Nance quite casually, without noticing where the kiss was going to land, and scarcely glancing at her daughter. She had evidently been making notes on the trip down and still carried a pencil and some scrap paper in one hand, while the other grasped her suit case, of which Nance promptly relieved her. She shook hands cordially with Miss Bowles, and the girls whom Nance introduced, searching the face of each, as a recruiting officer might examine applicants for the army. Then they all climbed into the bus and presently she plunged into a discussion with Miss Bowles on the advance of the suffrage movement in England and America. "And this is the woman," whispered Judy to Molly dramatically, "who has spoken before legislatures and represented the suffrage party abroad and been regent of Colonial Dames and President of National Societies for the Purification of Politics and--and lecturer on 'The History of Legislation----'" "How under the sun can you remember it all?" interrupted Molly. "I don't think I have got them straight," answered Judy, "but they all sound alike, anyhow, so what's the odds?" Molly discreetly took herself off to Judy's room that afternoon, leaving Nance and her mother together for the short time that elapsed before the lecture was to begin. But Nance soon followed them. "Mother wants to be alone," she said. "She has some notes to look over, and she has never read her day-before-yesterday's mail yet. By the way, you are not going to the lecture, are you?" "Of course we are," answered the girls in the same breath. "But the walk?" "That can be postponed until to-morrow," answered Molly promptly. "The boys are going to spend the night at the McLean's, you know." Thus Nance's happiness was all arranged for by her two devoted friends. The gymnasium was only half full when the girls escorted "the most distinguished clubwoman in America" across the campus and into the great hall. The freshmen had turned out in full force, partly to do honor to Nance and partly because President Margaret Wakefield had been talking up the lecture beforehand. Miss Walker and others of the faculty were there, and in a far gallery seat Molly caught a glimpse of Professor Green, whose glance seemed to be turned unseeingly in her direction. If Judy and Molly had had any fears as to how the absent-minded member of clubs was going to conduct herself on the platform, all doubts were soon dispelled. After the introduction made by the President, the lecturer's nervous manner entirely disappeared. She approached the front of the platform with a composure marvelous to see, and in a cultivated, trained voice--not her everyday voice, by any means--she delivered an address of fervid and passionate eloquence; a plea for woman's rights and universal suffrage so convincing that the most obstinate "anti" would have been won over. After the lecture there was an impromptu reception on the platform; then tea at Miss Bowles' room and at last home to dress for the supper parties. Judy and Molly had hastened ahead, leaving Nance to tear her mother from her circle of admirers with the plea that she would be too late. At twenty minutes before seven they hurried in, Mrs. Oldham looking so frail and exhausted that it hardly seemed possible she could keep up. While her poor daughter dashed into her own clothes, her mother sat limp and inert during the process of having her hair beautifully arranged with lightning speed by the deft and handy Judy, while Molly gave the weary woman aromatic spirits of ammonia in a glass of water and presently hooked her into a dinner dress which was really very handsome, of black lace over gray satin. "Thank you, my dears," she said amiably, giving an absent-minded glance at herself in the glass. "You are very kind, I am sure. I am such a busy woman I have little time to spare for beautifying; but I must say Miss Kean has improved my appearance by that high arrangement of hair." They were surprised that she remembered Judy's name until they learned from Nance later that such was her training in meeting strangers, she never forgot a name or face. "Now, where am I going?" continued the famous clubwoman. "You will drop me there, you say? You are going somewhere, Nance?" "Yes, mother," answered Nance patiently. It was the third time she had told her mother that fact. At last they got her be-nubiaed and be-caped, and at exactly two minutes past seven o'clock deposited her at the President's front door. Then, with feelings of indescribable relief, they ran gayly across the campus, chattering and laughing like magpies. Ten minutes later they were seated at Mrs. McLean's large round supper table. Professor Green, seated just opposite Nance, gave her happy, glowing face a long questioning look, then turning to Molly next to him, he said: "She is enjoying it, isn't she?" "Yes," whispered Molly; "thanks to you, good fairy." "But the wish must come before the fairy acts, so that, after all, one is far more important than the other," he replied. "Wasn't the lecture wonderful?" asked Molly. "Very remarkable," he answered. "Women like that should take to the platform and leave families to other women to rear." "They certainly can't do both," said Molly, remembering poor Nance's outburst the afternoon before. "And if you have the vote," went on the Professor in a louder voice, and with a kind of mock solemnity, "what will you do with it?" "They'll pitch all the men out of office, Professor," called Dr. McLean, who had overheard this question; "and they'll do all the work, too, and we men will begin to enjoy life a little. We've been slaves long enough. I'm for the emancipation of men," he cried, "and Woman's Suffrage is the only way to bring it about." They all laughed at this original view of the question, and Mrs. McLean, a charming woman with a beautiful Scotch accent, impossible to imitate, observed: "My dear, the women are just as great slaves as the men, and they work much harder, if only you knew it. But you don't because we are careful to conceal it. There are _vera_ few women who do not wear their company manners in the presence of a man, take my word for it." "Is that the reason you are always so charming, Mrs. McLean?" put in Professor Green. "But I suspect you have only company manners." "Not at all, Professor; young Andy will tell you that I can be rude enough at times." Andy McLean, a tall, raw-boned youth with sandy hair and a thin, intelligent face, was too deeply engaged in conversation at that moment with Nance, to hear his mother's speech. "Let him alone, he's busy," remarked his father with a humorous smile. "There's an old song we sing at home," went on Mrs. McLean, "'there's nae luck in tha' hoose when the gude man's awa',' but it should be the gude wife, for if ever a house goes to sixes and sevens it is my own house when I leave the two Andys and take ship for Scotland for a bit of a visit. There's nae luck in the hoose for certain, and glad they are to get me back again, if 'tis only for their own personal comfort." "Hoity, toity, mother," exclaimed the doctor; "we're joost as glad to have you for your ainsel', my dear." "Now, is it so, then?" laughed the gude wife. "Well, that's satisfying assurance, truly." They found the doctor and his wife very amusing, and Molly liked Lawrence Upton, too, who was seated on her other side. He was a typical college youth, tall and stalwart, his brown hair brushed back in a pompadour, his clear, ruddy complexion glowing with vigor. In fact, he was one of the leading athletes at Exmoor, and had won a championship at high jumping and running. "I hope we'll have some dancing after dinner, Miss Brown," he said. "I hear Southern girls fairly float, and I'd like to have a chance to find it out." "I'm afraid you'll be disappointed with me, then," answered Molly. "I've been leading at most of the college dances this fall, and it's ruination to good dancing, you know. A leader is always pulling against the bit like a badly trained horse." "You look to me like a thoroughbred, Miss Brown," said the gallant youth. "I'm not afraid of your pulling against the bit." There _was_ some dancing after dinner in the McLean's long, old-fashioned drawing-room, while Mrs. McLean herself played long old-fashioned waltzes on the piano, funny hop polkas and schottisches of antique origin. They enjoyed it immensely, however, fitting barn dances to the schottisches and mazurkas and two steps to the polkas. Twice Professor Green engaged Molly in a waltz. She had anticipated that his dancing would be as old-fashioned as the music, but to her surprise, she found him thoroughly up to date. In fact, she was obliged to admit that the Professor in English Literature danced better than any of the younger men at Mrs. McLean's that night. It was really the most delightful evening Molly had spent since she had been at Wellington. To Nance, it was the most delightful evening of her entire life and Judy, who always enjoyed the last time best of all, told Mrs. McLean when they left that she had never had a better time in her life. After the dance, they sat around the big open fire, roasting chestnuts, while Dr. McLean sang a funny song called "Wee Wullie," and Judy followed with an absurd "piece" on the piano called "Birdie's Dead," in schottische time, which sent them into shrieks of laughter and amused Dr. McLean so that he laid his head on his wife's shoulder and wept with joy. Sitting in the inglenook by the fireplace, Professor Green said to Molly: "I have been waiting to say something to you, Miss Brown, and I will ask you to regard it as confidential." She looked up thinking perhaps it was the comic opera he was going to talk about, but she was vastly mistaken. "When, as Botticelli's Flora, you came to that night with the words, 'I saw her----' you did not guess, did you, that I, too, had seen her?" They looked at each other and a flash of understanding passed between them. They now shared two secrets. "I always wanted to tell you," he continued in a low voice, "how much I admired your generous silence. You are a very remarkable young woman." With that the party broke up. Later, stretching her long slenderness in the three-quarter bed beside Judy, Molly smiled to herself, and decided that some older men were almost as nice as some young ones. CHAPTER XVII. A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE. Just about this time a new figure appeared at Wellington College. She was known as "inspector of dormitories," and her office was mainly sanitary, and did not infringe on the duties of the matrons. The new inspector lodged at Queen's, since there was an empty room in that establishment, and her name was Miss Steel. "If she had had her choice of all the names in the English language, she could not have chosen a more suitable one," remarked Judy who had taken a violent dislike to Miss Steel from the first. She was indeed a steel-like person, steely eyes, steel-gray hair, pale, thin lips, and at her belt metallic chains from which jangled notebook and pencil. When she spoke, which was rarely, her voice was sharp and incisive, and cut the air like a knife. But her most objectionable quality, the girls thought, was that she never made any sound when she walked, the reason being that she had rubber heels on her shoes. The first real encounter the girls had with Miss Steel was at a Thanksgiving Eve spread given by the combined G. F. Society, most of the members having received bountiful Thanksgiving boxes from home. Nance's neglected and lonely father had sent her a five-pound box of candy in lieu of the usual box, which takes a woman to plan and pack, and Judy's devoted parents, always on the fly, had shipped her a box of fruit. All the others had received regular boxes full of Thanksgiving cheer, and the feast was to be a grand one. Each member invited guests, and by general vote extra ones were asked: Frances Andrews, who declined because she was going away, and two freshmen who lived in the village, and were working their way through college. Judith Blount was to be there by invitation of pretty Jessie Lynch, and Molly had invited Mary Stewart. Most of the girls wore fancy costumes, and Molly's and Nance's large room was the scene of an extravaganza. The feast was piled on four study tables placed in an unbroken row and covered with a white cloth. Jessie had worn her famous ballet costume, and was as pretty as a little captive sprite. Judith was in a gorgeous Turkish dress consisting of full yellow silk trousers, a tunic of transparent net and embroidered Turkish slippers. Nance wore her Scotch costume, and at the last minute Molly, who had been too busy even to think of a costume all day, dressed herself up charmingly like a Tyrolean peasant in what she could collect from the other girls. A great many of the guests had arrived and the room was filled when a chambermaid appeared in the doorway with a tray of cards. "Some gentlemen to call, Miss," she said, endeavoring not to smile at a Little Boy Blue and a Little Lord Fauntleroy, who were waltzing together. There were four cards on the tray: "Mr. Edwin Green," "Mr. George Theodore Green," "Andrew McLean, 2d," and "Mr. Lawrence Upton." "Well, of all the strange times to pay a call," exclaimed Molly. "Will you say that we are very sorry, but we must be excused this evening," she said to the maid. The servant bowed and slipped away, while all the girls in the room pounced on the cards. "Well, I never! Four beaux, and one of them a professor!" cried Jessie, showing the cards to Judith. "Miss Brown could hardly claim Cousin Edwin as a beau," said Judith, her black eyes snapping. "His younger brother, George, often drags him into things, and poor Cousin Edwin consents to go because George is so timid, but as for paying a social call on a freshman, even the most self-confident freshman could hardly regard a visit from him as that." "I don't regard it as that," ejaculated Molly. She was not accustomed to sharp-tongued people, and it was really difficult for her to deal with them properly, as Judy could, and Nance, too. But she forced herself to remember that Judith was a guest in her room, and was about to partake of some of her good Kentucky fare. She turned away without saying another word, and fortunately the maid came back just then and relieved the strained situation. "The gentlemen say they must see you, ma'am," she said; "and if you won't come down to them, they'll just come upstairs." "What?" cried a chorus of girls. Suddenly there was a wild scramble on the stairs; shouts of laughter, a sound of heavy boots thumping along the hall, and four tall young men burst into the room. There were shrieks from disappearing Boy Blues and Fauntleroys, who endeavored to cover their extremities with sofa cushions, the captive sprite rushed into a closet and a wild scene of disorder and pandemonium followed. "Don't be frightened, ladies," said the tallest young man, who wore correct evening clothes, from his opera hat and pearl studs to his pointed patent leather pumps. His hair was light and curly, and he had a long yellow mustache, like Lord Dundreary's. "Ladies! ladies! why all this excitement?" called another of the quartette, dressed in full black and white checked trousers, a short tan overcoat, a red tie and a brown derby. The third young man wore a smoking jacket and white duck trousers, and the fourth was dressed in an English golf suit and visored cap. "Oh, you villains!" cried Jessica, popping her head out of the closet. "You have frightened us almost to death. Do you think I wouldn't know you, Margaret Wakefield, even in that sporting suit. Come over here and show yourself!" The bogus gentlemen were indeed three of the evening's hostesses and one of the guests. Mary Stewart wore the evening clothes, borrowed from her brother for a senior play to take place shortly. Judy had on the golf suit, Sallie Marks the dinner coat and Margaret the rakish sporting costume. "But where did you get the cards?" asked Judith, ashamed of herself, now that the visitors' real identity was disclosed. "I wrote to Dodo and asked him for them," answered Judy, giving her a look, as much as to say, "What affair is it of yours?" After the banquet was commenced and the fun waxed fast and furious, there was a cakewalk at the last, with a box of "cloud-bursts" as the prize, the eight hostesses taking turns as judges. "After this wild orgy, I think we'd better be leaving," said Mary Stewart. "It's getting cold and late, but we've had a glorious time. Will you permit a gentleman to kiss you on the cheek, Molly?" "That I will," answered Molly, "and proud of the honor." Slipping on a skirt and a long ulster, Mary took her departure with Judith and the other girls, who did not have rooms at Queen's, and pretty soon the party had disbanded. "I'll stay and help you gather up the loaves and fishes," Judy announced. "It'll soon be ten, but we can hang a dressing gown over the transom and draw the blinds and no one will know the difference just this once," she added, proceeding to carry out her ideas of deception. "I'm still hungry," observed Nance. "I had to wait on so many people I didn't have a chance to eat any supper myself." "So am I famished," said Molly; "but I was ashamed to confess it." "I'd like a cup of hot tea," observed Judy, who had waited on nobody but herself. "When Mrs. Markham comes around," cautioned Nance, "in case she knocks on the door, one of us be ready to put out the light. Judy, you slip into the closet. She's been known to come in, you know, after one of these jamborees." "Mrs. Markham's away," answered Judy. "'Steel beads' is taking her place until after Thanksgiving." The girls munched their sandwiches and talked in low voices. Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door. Instantly the light went out and there was dead silence. Judy, crawling on all fours toward the closet, was about to conceal herself behind protecting skirts, when the rap was repeated. "Well, what is it?" called Nance, the boldest among them, "the light is out." There was no answer and the rap was not repeated. The girls waited a few moments, and then cautiously lighting a student's lamp with a green shade, proceeded with their supper. Judy looked at her watch. It was a quarter of eleven. Again they were interrupted. This time by some pebbles thrown against the window. Molly raised the sash softly and gazed down into the darkness below. "What is it?" she called. "It's Margaret," answered a voice from the yard. "For the love of heaven, can't you let me in? I'll explain afterward. I wouldn't mind ringing up Mrs. Markham, but I'm afraid of that Steel woman." "Wait a minute," answered Molly, and closing the window, she turned to consult with the others. "There's nothing to be done but to go down," they decided, and Molly insisted on being the sacrificial lamb. Judy made her slip on her nightgown over her dress, and her dressing gown over that, in order to appear in the proper guise in case anything happened. But they were doomed to another shock that night. Just as Molly opened the door she came face to face with Miss Steel standing outside in the hall. "Oh, I beg your pardon," said Molly politely, feeling thankful she had put on her nightgown, "I thought I heard a noise outside." "You seem to be sitting up very late to-night, Miss Brown," said Miss Steel, looking at her coldly. "I was told to enforce the ten o'clock rule in Mrs. Markham's absence, and I must ask you to get to bed at once, unless you wish to be reported." "I'm sorry," said Molly. The woman seemed unnecessarily stern, she thought, because, after all, this was not a boarding school, but a college. However, she went back, and closed and bolted the door. In her heart she felt a contempt for any one who would creep about and listen at people's doors. Mrs. Markham would have been incapable of it. Just then there came another pebble against the window. Judy crept to the window this time. "Wait, Margaret," she called. "Miss Steel is about." There was perfect stillness for several long black minutes. The three girls sat in a row on the floor listening with strained ears and to Judy at least the adventure was not without its enjoyment. At last they felt that it might be safe to act. Taking off their shoes they moved noiselessly to the window and looked down. There stood the courageous Margaret in full view on the roof of the piazza. She had actually shinned up one of the pillars, which was not such a difficult feat as it might seem, as the railing around the piazza had placed her within reach of the wooden grillwork and swinging onto that she had drawn herself up to the roof. She had skinned her wrist and stumped one of her stockinged toes, having removed her shoes and hidden them under the house, but she appeared now the very figure of courage and action, waiting for the next move. The three girls stood looking down at her in a state of fearful uncertainty as to what should be done next, and as if this were not exciting enough, three light telegraphic taps were heard on the door. "That's not Miss Steel," whispered Judy. "Who is it," she called softly through the keyhole. "Jessie," came the answer. Instantly the door was opened and Jessie crept in. "Miss Steel is up," she whispered. "I saw her on the landing below just now. Be careful. I am scared to death because Margaret hasn't come back." For an answer, they led her to the window and pointed to the shadowy figure of her roommate on the piazza roof. Because Molly had conceived a dislike and distrust for Miss Steel, she made up her mind to outwit her and save her friend. She reflected that if Margaret tried any of the girls on the second floor whose windows opened on the roof, she might get in but she would still have the third flight to make and as the stairs creaked at every step, it would be a difficult matter. Fortunately Miss Steel's room was on the other side of the hall. "I have a scheme," she whispered at last. "Now, don't any one move. I can manage it without making a sound." There was a ball of twine on the mantelpiece. Thank heavens for that. She tied one end to the back of a cane chair, which she let slowly out of the window. Then, snipping off the end of the cord, she gave it to Nance to hold. Another chair, which was fortunately smaller, she let down in the same way and finally a stool. Margaret placed one on top of the other, mounted the precarious and toppling pyramid, and with the strength of arm and wrist which showed her gymnasium training, pulled herself to the window sill and was in the room. "Be quiet," they whispered. "Miss Steel is about." The four girls lay down on the couches and waited a long time. Judy really fell asleep in the interval before they dared risk pulling back the chairs. It was, in fact, a risky business, and had to be done cautiously and carefully to keep them from bumping against the walls of the house. At last, however, the whole thing was accomplished. Margaret explained that she had gone over to one of the other houses to return the clothes she had borrowed and had joined another Thanksgiving party and stayed longer than she had intended. They also had been held up by the matron, and had been obliged to put out the lights and hide everything under the bed. She had escaped from the house by a miracle without being found out, and had trusted to luck and her friends for getting into Queen's unobserved. And now, at last, the adventure was almost over. After another interminable wait, Judy and Margaret and Jessie crept off to their rooms. Judy's door was still ajar when she saw a flash of light on the stairs, which heralded the approach of Miss Steel, still fully clothed, and walking noiselessly as usual. Judy closed her door and locked it softly. "Only a spy would wear felt slippers," she said to herself scornfully. Then she laughed. "It was rather good fun to be sure, but would it have mattered so much, after all, if Margaret had boldly come in at the front door and explained?" They would never have gone to all that trouble to deceive nice Mrs. Markham, her thoughts continued as she removed her manly attire, but Miss Steel was different. As for Molly, her thoughts were about the same as Judy's. "A lady doesn't creep," she was thinking, as she thankfully crawled into bed; "a lady doesn't listen at doors or wear soundless slippers in order to walk like a cat. No, Miss Steel is decidedly not a lady." And when Molly came to this decision about a person, she avoided them carefully ever afterward. Her definition of a "lady" was about the same as a man's definition of a "gentleman." It had nothing whatever to do with birth or education. CHAPTER XVIII. THE FOOTBALL GAME During those fast flying weeks which tread on one another's heels so rapidly between Thanksgiving and Christmas, came one of the most important events of the season. It was announced on the bulletin board as the "Harboard-Snail Football Game," and was, in fact, a grand burlesque on a game played not long before between two university teams. Quite half of the Wellington students took part in the affair and those who were not actively engaged were placed in the cheer sections to yell themselves hoarse. There were a dozen doctors, an ambulance, stretcher bearers, trained nurses and the two teams in proper football attire. Everybody in college turned out one Saturday afternoon to witness this elaborate parody. A coach drove over from Exmoor fairly alive with students, and the fields outside the Wellington athletic grounds were black with people. Judy was a member of the corps of physicians who were all dressed alike in frock coats reaching well below the knees, gray trousers and silk hats. They had imposing mustaches, carried bags of instruments and were the most ludicrous of all the actors that day. But it was the stretcher bearers who seemed to excite the greatest merriment in the grand parade which took place before the game began. They were dressed something like "Slivers," the famous clown, in full white pantaloons and long white coats cut in at the waist with wide skirts. The members of the cheering sections which headed the grand column were dressed in every sort of absurd burlesque of a college boy's clothes that could be devised. "How they ever collected all those ridiculous costumes is a marvel to me," exclaimed President Walker to Dr. McLean, whose face had turned an apoplectic purple from laughter and who occasionally let out a roar of joy that could be heard all the way across the field. Following the cheering sections in the parade were the two teams, hardly recognizable at all as human beings. Their wigs of tousled hair stood out all over their heads like the petals of enormous chrysanthemums. Most of them wore nose guards or their faces were made up in a savage and barbaric fashion. In their wadded football suits, stuffed out of all human recognition, they resembled trussed fowls. In the vanguard of this strange and ludicrous procession stalked a gigantic figure of Liberty. She was about fifteen feet high, and her draperies reached to the ground. Her long red hair blew in the breezes and she carried a Wellington banner, which she majestically waved over the heads of the multitude. By her side ran a dwarf. They were the mascots of the two sides. "Why, if that isn't our little friend, Miss Molly Brown," exclaimed Dr. McLean, pointing to Liberty. "She's a bonnie lass and a sweet one. Think now, of her being able to walk on those sticks without losing her balance. It's a verra great achievement, I'm thinking, for a giddy-headed young woman. For they're all giddy-headed at seventeen or thereabouts." It was indeed Molly, the only girl in all Wellington who could walk on stilts. The seniors had advertised in _The Commune_ for a first-class "stiltswoman," and Molly had promptly offered her services. Jessie had been selected as the dwarf. "I hope the child won't fall and break her neck," said Mrs. McLean on the other side of the doctor. "It's verra dangerous. Suppose she should become suddenly faint----" "Don't suppose anything of the sort, mither. You've no grounds for thinkin' the lass will tumble. She seems to be at home in the air." Professor Green, just beyond Mrs. McLean, frowned, and put his hands in his pockets. He wondered if Dr. McLean had forgotten that he had been sent for just three weeks before when Molly had fainted in the gymnasium, and the Professor breathed a sigh of relief when Liberty presently descended to the earth and the game began. It was one of the bloodiest and roughest games in the history of football. The ambulance bell rang constantly. Every time a victim fell, the cheering section on the other side set up a wild yell. Doctors and nurses were scattered all about the edges of the field attending to the wounded and the stretchers were busy every minute. As fast as one man tumbled another jumped into his place, and at last when there came a touchdown the players seemed to have fallen on top of each other in a mad squirming mass. People laughed that day who were rarely seen to smile. Even Miss Steel's severe expression relaxed into a cold, steely smile. Molly had gathered up her long cheesecloth robe and was sitting with Jessie on a bench at the side of the field. "Isn't it perfect, Jessie?" she was saying. "I don't think I ever enjoyed anything so much in all my life. It will make a wonderful letter home." Jessie smiled absently. With a pair of field glasses, she was searching the faces of the spectators for two friends (men, of course), who had motored over to see the sport. At her belt was pinned the most enormous bunch of violets ever seen. In fact, they were two bunches worn as one, from her two admirers. Presently Judith joined them on the bench. Ever since the Thanksgiving spread she had endeavored to be very nice to Molly. "Hello, Ju-ju!" called Jessie; "you are a sight." "I know it," she said. "I feel that I am a disgrace to the sex. I only hope I'm not recognizable." "Your shiny black eye is the only familiar thing about you. The rest is entirely disguised." "I think I'd recognize that ring, Miss Blount," put in Molly. "Almost everybody knows that emerald by sight now, who knows you at all." Judith glanced quickly at her finger. "Do you know," she exclaimed, "I forgot I was wearing it? How stupid of me! I am booked to take Rosamond's place in a minute. Will one of you girls take care of it for me? I shall be much obliged." "You'd better take it, Jessie," said Molly, looking rather doubtfully at the ring. She had only one piece of jewelry to her name, a string of sapphires, which had belonged to her mother when she was a girl. But the ring was too big for Jessie's slender, pretty little fingers. "I can't," she said, "unless I wear it on my thumb, and it might slip off, you know. You'll have to take it, Molly." Molly slipped it on her finger and held it up for admiration. "It's the most beautiful ring I ever saw," she exclaimed. "It's the color of deep green sea water. Not that I ever saw any, but I've heard tell of it," she added, laughing. "You don't mean to say you have never seen the ocean!" cried Judith in a pleasant tone of voice. Molly had never seen her so amiable before. "No," replied the freshman, "this is the nearest I have ever been to it." "Well, thanks for taking care of my ring," went on Judith. "I'll see you after the game," and she departed to take up her duties on the field, just as Rosamond, at the appointed time, with a gash across her face, made with finger-nail salve, was borne from the field on a stretcher. After the game came another grand procession in which all the wounded took part, Molly on stilts, with Jessie running beside her, as before. All that morning Molly had felt buoyed up by the fun and excitement of the great burlesque. But, now that the game was over, as she strode along on the giant stilts, she began to feel the same overpowering fatigue she had experienced that night at the living picture show. For a week she had been living on her nerves. Often at night she had not slept, but had tossed about on her bed trying to recall her lessons or make mental notes of things she intended to do. On cold mornings, her feet and hands were numb and dead and Judy often made her run across the campus and back to start her circulation. And now that numbness began to climb from her toes straight up her body. Molly turned unsteadily and with shaky strides at least six feet long, hastened across the field. Her feeling that she must get out of the noise and turmoil, away from everybody in the world, carried her back of a row of sheds under which the players sat during the intermissions. Once in this quiet place she let herself down from the stilts. She was conscious of being very cold. There was a deep red light in the western sky from the setting sun, then the numbness reached her brain and she remembered nothing more until she opened her eyes and saw Dr. McLean at one side of her and Professor Green at the other. "Here she comes back at last," exclaimed the doctor. "Aye, lass, it's a good thing this young man has an observant eye. Otherwise ye might have been lying out here in the cold all night. You feel better now, don't you?" "Yes, doctor," answered Molly weakly. "I don't like these fainting spells, my lass. You're not made of iron, child. You'll have to give up one thing or t'other--study or play." But there were other things Molly did beside studying and playing. Of course the doctor did not know about the "cloud-bursts" and the shoe-blacking and the tutoring. "Aye, here comes one of my associates with a carriage," he went on, chuckling to himself. "Shall we have a consultation now, Dr. Kean?" Judy, still in her absurd burlesque costume, had driven up in one of the village surreys. As the two men lifted Molly into the back seat, she noticed for the first time that she was wearing a man's overcoat. It was dark blue and felt warm and comfortable. She slipped her hands into the deep pockets and snuggled down into its folds. Certainly she felt shivery about the spine, and her hands and feet, which were never known to be warm, were now like lumps of ice. As the doctor was still wearing his great coat of Scotch tweed, it was evidently the coat of the Professor of English Literature she had appropriated. "It's awfully good of you to lend me your coat," she said to Professor Green, who was standing at the side of the carriage while the doctor climbed in beside her. "I'm afraid you'll take cold without it." "Nonsense," he said, almost gruffly, "I'm not dressed in cheesecloth." "But I have on a white sweater under all this," said Molly timidly. The carriage drove away, however, without his saying another word, and later that afternoon, after Molly had taken a nap and felt rested and refreshed, she engaged one of the maids at Queen's cottage to return Professor Green's overcoat with a message of thanks. Then, with a sigh of relief, because when she had borrowed anything it always weighed heavily on her mind, and because she felt somehow that the Professor was provoked with her, she turned over and went to sleep again. Just as the clock in the chapel tower sounded midnight she sat up in bed. "What is it, Molly, dear?" asked Nance, who was wakeful and uneasy about her friend. Molly was looking at her right hand wildly. "The ring!" she cried. "Judith's emerald ring--it's gone!" The ring was indeed gone. Neither of her friends had seen it on her finger since she had been in her room. It was gone--lost! "It must have slipped off my finger when I fainted," sobbed the poor girl. Nance had summoned Judy at this trying crisis, and the two girls endeavored to comfort their friend, who seemed to be working herself into a state of feverish excitement. "Never mind, we'll find it in the morning, Molly," cried Nance. "You know exactly where it was you fell, don't you? Somewhere behind the sheds. It's sure to be there. Judy and I promise to go there first thing, don't we, Judy?" "Yes, indeed," acquiesced Judy, who loved her morning sleep better than anything in life. But Judy was learning unselfishness since she had been associating with Molly and Nance. There was no more sleep for poor Molly that night, however, and she lay through the dragging hours with strained nerves and throbbing temples wondering what would happen if she did not find the ring. CHAPTER XIX. THREE FRIENDS. Nance was still sound asleep when Molly crept from her bed and dressed herself. It was a dismal cold morning. A fine snow was falling and she shivered as she tied a scarf around her head, threw her long gray eiderdown cape over her shoulders and slipped from the room, without waking her friend, who was weary after the excitements of the day before. Across the wind-swept campus she hastened, anxiety lending swiftness to her steps, and at last reached the Athletic Field. At the far end snuggled several low wooden sheds like a group of animals trying to keep warm by staying close together. "I must hurry," Molly thought, "or the snow will be so thick I shall never be able to find the ring," and summoning all her energy she ran as fast as she could straight to the spot where she remembered to have dropped the day before behind the sheds. Breathless and tingling all over with little prickly chills, she knelt down and began to search in the dead grass, brushing the snow away as she hunted. She had not stopped to find gloves, neither had she wasted any time lacing her boots, but had slipped on some pumps at the side of the bed. For a long time Molly searched every inch of the ground back of the sheds where she might have been. Then, with an ever-growing feeling of desperation, she hunted in the field itself, across which she had followed the parade. And it was here that Judy and Nance found her so absorbed in her search that she had not even noticed their approach. "Oh, Molly, Molly! what are we going to do with you?" cried Nance, seizing her by the arm impulsively. "You'll kill yourself by your imprudence. Why didn't you wait and let us look?" Molly opened her mouth to answer, and the words came out in a husky whisper. She had entirely lost her voice from hoarseness, without even knowing that she had caught cold. "I've looked everywhere," she whispered, "and I haven't found it. I couldn't have lost it while I was on the stilts, because I never let go of them for a moment. It must have been when I fainted." "Judy, you take her home while I look again," volunteered Nance. "Take her to the infirmary, you mean," answered Judy, and she promptly led Molly by a short cut toward the last house on the far side of the campus, where stood the small college hospital. Molly obediently allowed herself to be piloted along. Her cheeks were burning; there was a feverish light in her eyes, and she no longer felt cold at all, but hot all over with little chills along her spine. "I'm afraid I'm a great nuisance, Judy, dear. I hope you'll forgive me, but I'm really in great trouble," she said huskily, as Judy confided her to one of the two nurses at the hospital. "Don't worry," was Judy's parting command. "We'll find the ring. It can't possibly be lost utterly. It's too big and green. I'll see Judith Blount, too. Some one may have found it and returned it to her by this time. I'll leave a notice on the bulletin board and stand my little St. Joseph on his head," she added laughing. "You may be sure I'll leave nothing undone to find that old ring." The first thing Judy did after breakfast that Sunday morning was to pay a visit to Judith Blount. There was a placard on her door announcing to whom it might concern that Judith was busy and did not wish to be disturbed, but Judy knocked boldly and at an impatient "Who is it?" replied: "I wish to see you on important business. Please unlock the door." Judy couldn't make out why Judith Blount looked so white and uneasy when she entered the room; nor why her expression changed to one of intense relief a moment later. "I came to ask you," began Judy abruptly, "if any one had found your emerald ring." "Miss Brown has my ring," answered Judith promptly. "Didn't you know that Molly had fainted and is now ill in the hospital and the ring is lost?" "My emerald ring lost?" Judith almost shouted. "Don't carry on so about it," put in Judy. "It'll be found. Molly herself was up at dawn this morning. She stole away before anybody could stop her, and went to the field to look for it, but she hasn't been able to find it, and neither has Nance, who looked for it later. Nance has gone down to the village to find the surrey that took Molly home. We are all doing everything we can and in the meantime I thought I would tell you so that you could help us." Judy could be very impudent when she wanted to, and she was impudent now, as she stood looking straight into Judith's angry black eyes. "She should have been more careful," burst out Judith in a rage. "How do I know that----" she stopped, frightened at what she was about to say. "Better not say that," said Judy calmly. "It simply wouldn't go, you know, and you must know as well as I do that it would be absolutely false." "How do you know what I was going to say?" "I could guess," said Judy, shrugging her shoulders. "I can often guess things you would like to say, but don't, Miss Blount. What I came for was to ask you to help us find the ring. Molly is very ill, and, of course, it's the loss of the ring as much as anything else that's made her so. We're all doing the best we can, and if you'll just kindly add your efforts to ours, it might help some." "Supposing the ring isn't found, what redress have I? It's been in our family for generations. It was brought over from France by a Huguenot ancestor----" "Nice place to be wearing it, then, at a football game!" exclaimed Judy indignantly. "And then forcing other people to take charge of it for you! Redress, indeed! Do you want Molly to pay you for your ring? I tell you, Miss Blount, that a person who really had Huguenot ancestors would never have suggested such a thing. It wouldn't have been Huguenot etiquette." And Judy flung herself out of the room and down the steps before the astonished Judith had time to realize that she had been insulted by an upstart of a freshman. It looked very much for a day or two as if Molly were going to have a congestion in one lung. For several days she was a very sick girl. She had a strange delirium that she was looking for something while she was walking on stilts. Many times she asked the nurse if sapphires were as valuable as emeralds, and once she demanded to know if an emerald as large as her little finger nail was worth much money, say, two acres of good orchard land. But the lung was not congested, as Dr. McLean had at first thought. In a day or two the fever subsided and by Thursday she was able to sit up in bed, propped by many pillows and see Judy and Nance. Her room was a bower of flowers. They had even come from Exmoor, Lawrence Upton having sent her a box of lovely pink roses. Mrs. McLean had brought her a bunch of red berries from the woods, and one day two cards were brought up, one of which looked familiar: Miss Grace Green and Mr. Edwin Green, inquiring as to the improvement in Miss Molly Brown's condition, were pleased to hear that she was better. And now Nance and Judy sat on either side the young invalid, each trying to assume a cheerful expression and each feeling that whatever disagreeable things had happened--and several had happened--they must be hidden from Molly at all costs. Judith Blount had scattered reports around college of an extremely hateful character which Molly's friends had done their best to suppress. The ring had never been found, although everything had been done that could be thought of in the way of advertising and searching. Moreover, Miss Steel had asked twice of Molly's condition in a very meaning tone of voice, and had wished to know exactly when the nurse thought Molly would be able to see visitors. These things the girls knew, and since Molly was still weak and very hoarse, her friends were careful to keep off dangerous subjects. Strange to say, Molly had never mentioned the ring to any one since she had been in the hospital. "Everybody has been so beautifully kind," she was saying, "and really, I think the rest is going to do me so much good, that when I get well I'll be better than I was before I got sick," she added, laughing. "We've missed you terribly," said Nance dolefully. "Queen's just a dead old hole without you, Molly, dear," went on Judy affectionately. Molly smiled lovingly at her two friends. "You are the dearest----" she began, taking a hand of each when the nurse entered. "Miss Stewart would like to see you, Miss Brown." "Oh, yes," cried Molly; "do ask her to come up." Nance and Judy did not linger after Mary Stewart's arrival. Her face also wore a serious look, and she took Molly's hand and gazed down into her face almost with a compassionate expression. "How are you, Molly, dear?" "Oh, I'm much better," replied Molly, cheerfully. "I shall be up by to-morrow, the doctor says, and I expect to go back to Queen's Sunday." Mary sat down and drew her chair up close to the little white bed. "It's almost providential my being in the hospital like this," went on Molly, "it's rested me so. You see, I was terribly worried about something when I came here." "And you aren't worried any longer?" "No; I've conquered it. I know it's got to be faced; but I believe there will be a way out of it, and I'm not frightened any more. I have always had a kind of blind faith like that when things look very black." "You are talking of the emerald ring, aren't you, Molly?" "Yes, Mary. I know it hasn't been found, of course. I can tell that by the girls' faces, and I know that Judith Blount is--well, she is your friend, Mary----" "Oh, no; not now," put in Mary. "We've had a--er--difference of opinion that has--well, not to put too fine a point on it, broken up our friendship. I always admired her, without ever really liking her." Molly looked at Mary and a very tender expression came into her heavenly blue eyes. "Was the difference about me?" she asked presently. Mary hesitated. "Yes, Molly; since you force me to tell you, it was." "She has been saying some horrid things? Of course, I knew she would. I was prepared for that. And I could tell----" Molly paused. "No, no, I mustn't!" she exclaimed hastily. "What could you tell, Molly?" "Don't ask me. I would never speak to myself again, if I did tell. She has been saying that I never lost the ring, that I was poor and needed the money, and things like that. Tell me honestly, isn't that the truth?" Mary nodded her head and frowned. There was a silence, and presently Mary's strong, brown fingers closed over Molly's slender ones. "Molly," she began in a business-like tone of voice, "I'm almost glad that this subject has come up because I came here really to----" she broke off. "It's very hard," she began again. "I hardly know how to put it. You knew, Molly, dear, that I was rich, didn't you?" "Why, yes; I guessed you must be, although you have been careful not to mention it yourself. You're the most high-bred, finest girl I ever knew, Mary," she added impetuously. Mary laughed. "That's nice of you to say such things, dear, because I haven't but one ancestor on my paternal side and that's father, but he's generations in himself, he's so splendid. But to go on, Molly, dear, I am rich, not ordinarily rich, but enormously, vastly rich. It's absurd, really, because we'll never spend it, and we don't care a rap about saving it; but whatever father touches just turns to gold." "I wish he'd touch something for me," laughed Molly, wistfully. "Now, listen to me, dear, and don't interrupt. Father adores me to that extent that I could spend any amount of money and he would just smile and say: 'Go ahead, little Mary, go as far as you like.' But, you see, I only want a few very nice things, consequently, I can't be extravagant to save my life." Molly laughed aloud at this naïve confession. "The point I'm coming to is this, Molly: Judith Blount is being exceedingly horrid over that ring. I believe myself it will be found eventually. But until it is found, I want you--now don't interrupt me and don't carry on, please--I want you to ask her the value of her old ring and give her the money for it. If she chooses to be ill-bred, she must be treated with ill-bred methods." "But, dearest Mary, I can't----" began Molly. "Yes, you can. I haven't known you but a few months, Molly, but I've learned to love you in that time. And when I really care for any one, which is seldom, she becomes a sister to me. You are my little sister, and shall always be. I shall never change. And between sisters there must be no foolish pride. Now, Molly, I want to settle this thing with Judith Blount once and for all, through you, of course. She is not to know I had anything to do with it. You must tell her that you have raised the money and would like to pay her the full value of the ring. When the ring is found, she can give you back the money. That will stop her wicked, wagging tongue, at least." Molly tried hard not to cry, but the tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She took Mary's hand and kissed it. "I wish I could kiss you, dearest Mary," she sobbed; "but you see, I've got such a bad cold." How could she thank Mary for her generous offer or explain that her family would never allow her to accept the money, even if she felt she could herself? "You are the finest, noblest, most generous girl," she went on brokenly. "No, I'm not," said Mary. "It's easy to do things for people we love and easier still when we have the money to do it with. If I hadn't been so fond of you, Molly, and had been obliged to deny myself besides, that would have been generosity. This is only a pleasure. A sort of self-gratification, because I've adopted you, you see, as my little sister." Molly lay quietly for a while with her cheek pressed against Mary's hand. "Are you thinking it over?" asked Mary at last, patting her cheek. "I'm thinking how happy I am," answered Molly. "As soon as you are well, then," went on Mary, rising to go, "you must have an interview with Judith and settle the whole thing." Molly smiled up at her friend and squeezed her hand. There are times when two friends need not speak to express what they think. "Even if I never win the three golden apples," she reflected after Mary had gone, "I have won three friends that are as true as gold." CHAPTER XX. MISS STEEL. With the wonderful powers of recuperation which natures like Molly's have, on Sunday morning she was up and dressed, almost dancing about her room in the infirmary, long before it was time for Dr. McLean to call and grant her permission to leave. It was good to be up and well again; it was good to be at college, for she had been homesick for Wellington since she had been shut up in the hospital, and better still, it was good to have friends, such friends as she had. As for the emerald ring--a shadow darkened her face. The thought of the emerald ring would push its way into her mind. "I believe it will come out all right," she said to herself. "I believe it--I believe it! I couldn't help losing it, and if it isn't found, I can't help that, either. I just won't be miserable, that's all. I feel too happy and too well." "Are you at home to visitors this morning, Miss Brown?" asked a sharp unmusical voice at the door. "Oh, yes; do come in," answered Molly, rising to meet Miss Steel, who had walked up the uncarpeted steps and along the echoing corridor without making a sound, as usual. Molly's manners were unfailingly cordial to visitors, and when she shook hands with Miss Steel and insisted on making her take the armchair, that flint-like person visibly softened a little and faintly smiled. Molly wondered why the sanitary inspector had called on her, but she appreciated attentions from anybody and was as grateful for being popular as if it were something entirely new and strange to her. She showed Miss Steel her flowers and pinned a lovely pink rose on the inspector's granite-colored cloth coat. She made light of her illness, and rejoiced that she was returning in a few hours to dear old Queen's. She was, in fact, so wonderfully sweet and charming that Sunday morning that it must have been very difficult even for the stony inspector to touch on the real business of her visit. At last, however, Miss Steel buckled on her armor of decision, averted her eyes for a moment from Molly's glowing face and plunged in. "I don't suppose, Miss Brown, you suspected my title of 'Dormitory Inspector' here was merely a nominal one, and that I had another motive in being at Wellington College?" Molly hardly liked to tell her that they had long considered her a spy and detested her for that reason. She said nothing, therefore, and sat in her favorite position when listening intently with her hands clasping one knee and her shoulders drooping; a very wrong position indeed, considering that it would eventually make her round-shouldered and hollow chested; but Molly was never more graceful or comfortable than when she adopted this unhealthful attitude. "I am an inspector," went on the other, "but I am an inspector of police, that is, a detective. Doubtless you have heard of certain mysterious things that have happened at Wellington this autumn; the attempt to burn the gymnasium, which we now believe was only a practical joke to frighten the sophomore class; the cutting of the electric wires one night, and there are a few other things you have not heard; for instance, Miss Walker has received lately several anonymous letters--two of them about you----" Molly started. "About me?" she exclaimed. "Yes," said Miss Steel, watching her closely. "But they were not disagreeable letters, strange to say, since anonymous letters usually are. They expressed the most ardent admiration for you. They mentioned that you had enemies who were trying to ruin your reputation." "How absurd!" exclaimed Molly indignantly. She detested anything deceitful and underhand with all her soul. "When did these letters come?" "Just since you have been at the Infirmary." "They must be about the emerald ring," broke in Molly. "Exactly," answered the inspector. "You have lost a valuable emerald ring belonging to another girl who is making it disagreeable for you." "But I didn't want to take care of her ring," protested Molly. "She insisted on it. It was too big for my finger, and when I fainted it must have slipped off. I've done everything I could to find it, but she needn't worry. She'll be paid for it, if two acres of good apple orchard that were to have paid my college expenses have to go." "Nonsense, child!" exclaimed Miss Steel, suddenly melting into a human being. "I'm going to find that ring for you if it takes the rest of this winter." Molly seized her hand joyfully. By one of those swift flashes of insight which come to us when we least expect them, it was revealed to Molly that she had made a friend of the inspector. "I have been here almost a month," continued Miss Steel, giving the girl's hand a little vicelike squeeze, which was her way of expressing cordiality, "and I have found out a great many things. A girls' college is a strange place. There is a good deal of wire-pulling and petty jealousy among a certain class of girls, and yet I have reason to know that the code of honor here is exceedingly high, and I find myself growing more and more interested in the girls and their lives. Nowhere but in college could such devoted friendships be formed. They are elevating and fine, especially for selfish girls, who learn how to be unselfish by example. The girls develop each other. Your G. F. Society, for instance, has had a remarkably refining and, shall I say, quieting effect on Miss Andrews----" Molly started. She was amazed at the inspector's insight into the college life. "Which brings me to the point I have been aiming to reach. Since I have been here I have taken pains to learn the history of Miss Andrews as well as to study her character. She is a strange girl. Doubtless you know the incident of last year?" Molly shook her head. "To begin at the beginning: Miss Andrews' parents were rather strange people. Her father is a city politician who never made any secret of his grafting methods. Her mother was an actress and is dead. Frances hadn't been brought up to any code of honor. She had been allowed to do as she chose, and had all the money she wanted to spend. If she is vulgar and pretentious, it isn't really her fault. Last year she offended her class by telling a falsehood. She was under honor, according to the custom here when a student leaves the premises, to be back from some visit by ten o'clock Sunday night. She missed the ten o'clock train and took the train which arrived at midnight. However, as luck would have it, the ten o'clock train was delayed by a washout and drew into Wellington station just in front of the train Frances was on. She, of course, found this out immediately, and taking advantage of it, she gave out that she had been on the earlier train, which saved all unnecessary explanations. It must have been a great temptation for a girl brought up as she had been. But truth always comes to the top, sooner or later, and as the President of her own class happened to have been on the earlier train, she was found out. She was summoned by the Student Council, tried and found guilty. Then she was treated, I imagine, something in the same way that a French soldier is expelled from the army. Figuratively speaking, her sword was broken and her epaulettes torn from her uniform!" "How terrible!" exclaimed Molly. "Yes; it was pretty severe. But she was very defiant, and said dreadful things, denounced her class and college. Few girls would have had the courage to return to college next year, but she came back, hoping to live her dishonor down, and when she found her class to a member ignored her very existence, she became almost insane with bitterness and rage, and having studied her character closely, I judge that for a while, until your secret society took her in hand, she was hardly responsible for her actions. "Now, Miss Walker is very sorry for Frances Andrews; but she considers her a dangerous element in college, and at mid-years she would like some definite reason for asking her not to come back. I am speaking plainly, because Miss Walker is convinced that you know a definite reason and through some mistaken idea of kindness, you keep it to yourself. In fact, Miss Brown, Miss Walker is convinced that you and you alone saw Frances Andrews cut the wires in the gymnasium that night." "But I didn't," cried Molly, much excited; "or, rather, it wasn't Miss Andrews." Miss Steel looked at her in surprise, so sure was she that Molly would confirm her suspicions. Molly sat down again and clasped her knees with her long arms. Her cheeks were crimson and her eyes blazing. "Who was it, then?" asked the inspector. "I can't tell you that, Miss Steel. If I should give you the girl's name I should be dishonored all my life. I have been brought up to believe that the one who tells is as low as the one who did the deed. When we were children, my mother would never listen to a telltale. I do think it was a wicked, mischievous thing to have done--a contemptible thing; but I'd rather you found out the name of the girl in some other way than through me, especially right now----" "Why right now?" But Molly would not reply. Miss Steel could see nothing but truth in the depths of Molly's troubled blue eyes. She took the girl's hand in her's and looked at her gravely. "You are a fine girl, Miss Brown," she said, "and if you tell me that the girl who cut the wires was not Miss Andrews, I believe you implicitly. Of course, Miss Walker would never tell Miss Andrews not to return to Wellington without something very definite and tangible on which to base her dismissal. Luke Andrews, the girl's father, is as hot-headed and high tempered as his daughter, and he would probably make a great deal of trouble and cause a great deal of publicity if Frances were asked to leave college quietly." "I'm sorry for her," said Molly. "I think she might have been helped if she had had just a little more time. After all, the worse thing about her is her bringing up." "And this other girl whom you are shielding, Miss Brown, does she deserve so much generosity from you?" Molly closed her lips firmly. "That isn't the question with me, Miss Steel," she said at last. "The question is: could I ever show my face again if I told." "But no one need ever know, that is, no one but the President and me." "You don't understand," said Molly wearily. "It's with me, you see. I could never be on comfortable terms with myself again. I should always be thinking that I hadn't behaved--well, like a gentleman." Then the inspector did a most surprising thing. She went over and kissed Molly. "I wouldn't for worlds keep you from being true to yourself, my child," she exclaimed. "It's a rare quality, and one which will make you devoted friends all your life, because people will always know they can trust you." Molly looked at the inspector, and lo and behold, a strange transformation had taken place in that inscrutable, expressionless face. The cold gray eyes were softened by a mist of tears and the thin lips were actually quivering. She looked almost beautiful at that moment, and Molly suddenly put her arms around her neck and laid her head on the flat, hard chest. "You'll forgive me, won't you, Miss Steel?" "I will, indeed, dear," answered the other, patting Molly's cheek. "And now, don't bother about all this business. Get well and strong. Don't overwork, and I promise to find that ring for you if I have to turn the college upside down to do it." Then she gave Molly a warm, motherly squeeze, kissed her on the forehead and took her departure as quietly as she had come. CHAPTER XXI. A BACHELOR'S POCKET. Miss Steel was a very busy woman that afternoon. She was shut up with Judy Kean for half an hour; she visited the livery stable in the village, she paid a call on Dr. McLean and finally she went to see Professor Green. It is in Professor Green's study on the Cloisters that we now find her, sitting bolt upright in her chair, alert and bright-eyed. At such times as this, Miss Steel is not unlike a hunting dog on the scent of his quarry. Professor Green sits at his desk. He looks tired, and his heavy reddish eyebrows are drawn together in a frown. When the inspector came into the room he had pushed a pile of manuscript under some loose papers, but a sheet had slipped off and now lay in plain view. Across it was written in a bold hand: "Exeunt FAIRIES in disorder, leaving WOOD SPRITE at Left Centre. "THE SONG OF THE WOOD SPRITE." "I hope you will pardon this intrusion, Professor. I see you are very busy," the inspector began, glancing at the manuscript with a look of some slight amusement. The Professor hastily covered up the sheet. "Not at all," he said politely; "I'm just idling away a little time. What can I do for you?" He had seen Miss Steel about the building and most of the Faculty knew her by this time as "Inspector of Dormitories." "Do you remember helping a young lady who fainted on the day of the football game?" "Oh, yes, certainly," replied the Professor, absent-mindedly fingering a paper cutter. "You lent her your overcoat that afternoon, didn't you?" "Why, yes; I believe I did." "Have you worn the coat since?" "Certainly," he answered, laughing; "every day, and several times a day. It's the only one I have. Are you a detective?" "Yes. Do you ever put things in the pockets of your coat?" The Professor smiled shamefacedly like a schoolboy culprit. "In one of them. There's been a hole in the other one for a long time--two years at least." "Would you mind letting me see that coat?" He lifted the blue overcoat from a hook on the door and placed it on a chair beside Miss Steel. "Am I a suspect?" he asked politely. "Has anything been lost?" The detective seized the overcoat and began rummaging through the pockets with a practised hand. "Yes," she answered; "something has been lost, and extremely disagreeable things have been said by the owner about it." "About me?" asked the Professor, still groping in the dark. "No, no; about the girl who lost it." "Miss Brown?" The detective did not reply. She had run her hand through the hole in the pocket and was now searching the corners between the lining and the cloth. "Ha!" she cried at last, exactly like the detective in a play. "Here it is!" With a swift movement she extricated her hand from the bottomless pocket and displayed between her thumb and forefinger a large emerald ring. "Why, that's the ring of my cousin, Judith Blount!" exclaimed the Professor in amazement. "And I have had it in my pocket all this time. Great heavens! what an extraordinary thing, and how did it get there?" "Miss Blount forced Miss Brown to take charge of it while she was playing football. After Miss Brown came to from her faint, she must have been very cold and slipped her hands in the pockets of this coat for warmth----" "She did," confirmed the Professor. "And the ring slipped off. When she found it was lost she got up at dawn next day and went out in her slippers in the snow to find it, and nearly caught her death. But she's had no thanks for her trouble from your relation, I can assure you. Nothing but abuse----" "What!" shouted the Professor. "You mean to say that Judith has dared to insinuate----" "She has," said Miss Steel. "And she whom Miss Brown has shielded--great heavens! this is too much." He began walking up and down the room in a rage. "Shielded from what?" "I am not at liberty to tell you," he replied. "The girl repented of what she did. I know that, but she's an ungrateful little wretch." A scholarly professor of English literature, however, is no match for a well-trained detective, and with a knowing smile on her lips the inspector rose to leave. "You may return the ring," she said. "It will be a great relief to Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky to know it has been found. She was about to give up two acres of good apple orchard to pay for it; the land, in fact, which was to provide the money for her college expenses." And with that she sailed out of the room and went straight to the home of President Walker, with whom she spent the better part of an hour. Professor Green followed close on her heels. He did not pause at Miss Walker's pretty stucco residence, however, but hastened down the campus and rang the bell at Queen's Cottage. Miss Brown was in, he learned from the maid. She had only arrived from the Infirmary that afternoon. The Professor waited in the sitting room deserted by the students at that hour, those who were not studying in their rooms being at Vespers. Presently Molly appeared, looking very slender and tall, like a pale flower swaying on its stalk. The Professor rushed up and seized her hand unceremoniously. "My dear child!" he cried, "how am I ever going to make my apologies to you for all this trouble of which I have been the unconscious cause?" "For what----" began Molly, too much astonished to finish her question. "The ring! The ring! It's been concealed in the ragged lining of my shabby old overcoat all this time, and that clever detective of dormitories, or whatever she is, ferreted it out just now. Perhaps I should have thought of it myself; but, you see, I hadn't even heard the ring had been lost. I am afraid you suffered a great deal." "I did at first; but after I grew better I never let myself slip back into that state again. I kept believing it would be found. I was so sure of it that I haven't really been unhappy at all. You see, everybody is so beautifully kind and no one believed----" "Great heavens!" interrupted the Professor, storming excitedly around the room, "that ungrateful, wicked girl to have made such an accusation--she shall hear from me what she owes to you! I'll take the ring to her myself later. She is my cousin, and her brother is as near to me as my own brother, but----" "You aren't going to tell Prexy?" cried Molly. "I must. Besides, I nearly gave it away to Miss Steel." "Oh, well, if that's the case, she knows already. She's a detective, and if you let two words slip, she can easily guess the rest. There's no keeping anything from her. You may be sure Prexy knows it by this time." "I'm rather relieved," said the Professor. "Judith will probably be well punished; but she should be." "I've always wondered," said Molly, after a short pause, "why Judith did it." The Professor looked at her closely with his humorous brown eyes. "Have you no idea why?" he asked. "Except for mischief and to annoy the seniors," she answered. "Possibly," he said. "A girl who has been spoiled and petted as she has will give in to almost any whim that seizes her. However, such actions are not tolerated at Wellington, and she will have to learn a few pretty stiff lessons if she expects to remain here." Then Professor Green shook hands with Molly, gave her a little paternal advice about taking care of her health, and took his departure. His next destination was the President's house, where he waited in the drawing-room until Miss Steel had terminated her interview. He was prepared for a round scolding from his old friend, who had known him since his early youth, but the President was inclined to be lenient with the young man. "It all goes to show," she said at the end of the interview, "that murder will out. But why did the foolish girl do that mischievous thing? What did she have to gain by it?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Jealous of some one prettier and more popular than herself, probably," he answered. The President sighed. "Who can understand the intricacies of a young girl's heart," she said. "I have been studying them for twenty years, and they are still a closed book to me." When Professor Green a little later returned the emerald ring to his cousin, he cut the visit as short as possible. He told her that she had deliberately and wrongfully accused one who had shielded her even at the risk of offending the President of Wellington College, and that it was he who had given the detective, already suspicious, the clue she wanted. Judith wept bitterly, but her cousin showed no signs of relenting. "If you want to be loved," he said, "learn unselfishness and gentleness and truthfulness. These are the qualities that make men and women beloved. You will never gain anything by cheating and lying." The end of the episode was a pretty severe punishment for Judith Blount. She was suspended from college for three weeks and was compelled to resign from all societies for the rest of the winter. She left college next morning early, and no one saw her again until after Christmas, when she returned a much chastened and quieted young woman. A few days after she had gone Molly received a note from her from New York. It read: "DEAR MISS BROWN: "Will you forgive me? I am very unhappy. "JUDITH BLOUNT." You may be sure that Molly's reply was prompt and forgiving. CHAPTER XXII. CHRISTMAS--MID-YEARS--AND THE WANDERTHIRST. There are few lonelier and more dismal experiences in life than Christmas away from home for the first time. Molly felt her heart sink as the great day approached. One morning a trainload of chattering, laughing girls pulled out of the Wellington station. Judy hanging recklessly to the last step, waved her handkerchief until Molly's figure grew indistinct in the distance, and Nance on the crowded platform called out again and again, "Good-bye, Molly, dear. Good-bye!" Molly almost regretted that she had ever left Kentucky, as the Christmas train became a point of black on the horizon. "I might have ended my days as a teacher in a country school-house and been happier than this," she thought desperately, starting back to college. Some one came running up behind her. It was Mary Stewart who had been down to see some classmates off. She was to take the night train to New York. "When do you get off?" she asked, slipping her arm through Molly's like the good comrade she was. "I'm surprised you didn't leave yesterday, with such a long journey before you." "I'm not going home this Christmas," replied Molly. "Not going?" began Mary. "You're to be left at Queen's by yourself?" Molly nodded, vainly endeavoring to smile cheerfully. "Then you're to go with me. I'll come right along now and help you pack," announced Mary decisively. "But, Mary, I can't. I haven't anything--money or clothes----" "Don't say 'but' to me! I've got everything. I've even got the drawing-room to myself on the night train to New York. You shall go with me. I don't know why I never thought of it before. We'll have a beautiful Christmas together. Since mother's death, five years ago, Christmas has been a dismal time at our house. You'll be just the person to cheer us up. It will be like having a child in the house. You shall have a Christmas tree and hang up your stocking. Father will be delighted and so will Brother Willie." Thus overruled, Molly was borne triumphantly to New York that same evening, and spent one of the most wonderful Christmases of her life in Mary's beautiful home on Riverside Drive. As her mother and godmother both wisely sent her checks for Christmas gifts, she was not embarrassed by any lack of ready money. She was even rich enough to purchase a new evening dress and a pretty blouse which Mary had ordered to be sent up on approval, and not for many a year afterward did she guess why those charming things happened to be such bargains. But Molly was a very inexperienced young person, and knew little concerning prices at that time. Mary's father was a fine man, quiet and self-contained, with a splendid rugged face. He treated his only daughter with indescribable tenderness, and called her "Little Mary." They did not see much of "Brother Willie," a sophomore at Yale, and very busy enjoying his holiday. He regarded Molly as a child and his sister as an old maid, but condescended to take them to the theatre twice. But all good things must come to an end, and it seemed just a little while before Molly found herself back at her old desk in her room at Queen's, writing a "bread-and-butter" letter to Mr. Stewart, which pleased him mightily, since Mary's guests had never before taken that trouble. Judy came back radiantly happy. She had had a glorious time in Washington with her "vagabond" parents, as she called them. Nance, too, had enjoyed her Christmas with her father and busy mother, who had come home to rest during the holidays. Only one of Queen's girls did not join the jolly circle that now congregated in the most hospitable room in the house to "swap" holiday experiences. But a letter had arrived from the missing member addressed to "Miss M. C. W. Brown," and beginning: "My Dear Molly Brown." "Good-bye," the letter ran. "I'm off for Europe and Grandmamma, by the _Kismet_, sailing the eighteenth. I am afraid I was too much like a bull in a china shop at college. I was always breaking something, mostly rules. I've done lots of foolish things, and I am sorry. They were jokes, of course, most of them, and intended to frighten silly self-important people. I've learned a great deal from you and your friends, but I'd rather practice my new wisdom on other people. If you ever see me again you'll find me changed. I may enter a convent for a few years in France and learn to keep quiet. You did what you could for me, and so did the others. You are a first rate lot and you make a jolly good freshman class. I shall miss you, and I shall miss old Wellington. I wouldn't have come back this year if I hadn't felt the call of its two gray towers. Somehow, it's been more of a home to me than most places, and when I'm quite old and forgotten I shall go back and see it again some day. Good-bye again, and good luck. I've told Mrs. Murphy to give you my Persian prayer rug. It's just your color of blue. "F. ANDREWS." Molly read the letter aloud and the girls were half sorry and half relieved over its contents. After all, Frances was a very disturbing element, but as Margaret Wakefield announced later at a meeting of the G. F. Society, she had responded to kind treatment, and she, Margaret, moved that they send her a combination steamer letter of farewell and a bunch of violets to cheer her on her lonely voyage. The movement was promptly seconded by Molly, carried by universal acclaim, and the resolution put into effect immediately. After Christmas comes the terror of every freshman's heart--the mid-year examinations. As the dreaded week approached, lights burned late in every house on the campus and nobody offered any interference. Behind closed doors sat scores of weary maidens with pale concentrated faces bent over text-books. Judy Kean made a record at Queen's. She crammed history for thirty-six hours at a stretch, only stopping for food occasionally or to snatch a half hour's nap. It was Saturday and bitter cold. Examinations were to begin on Monday, and there yet remained two more blessed days of respite. Molly, in a long, gray dressing gown, with a towel wrapped around her head, had been cramming mathematics since six in the morning, and now at eleven o'clock, she lifted her eyes from the hated volume and looked about her with a dazed expression as if she had suddenly awakened from a black dream. Nance had hurried into the room. "Molly, for heaven's sake, go to Judy. I think she's losing her mind. She has overstudied and it has affected her brain. I can't do anything with her at all." "What?" cried Molly, rushing down the hall, her long, gray wrapper trailing after her in voluminous folds. She opened Judy's door unceremoniously and marched in. The room looked as if a cyclone had struck it. The contents of the bureau drawers were dumped onto the floor; the closet was emptied, clothes and books piled about on the bed and chairs, and Judy's two trunks filled up what floor space remained. Judy herself was working feverishly. She had packed a layer of books in one of the trunks and was now folding up her best dresses. "Julia Kean, what are you doing?" cried Molly in a stern voice. Judy gave her a constrained nod. "Don't bother me now. There's a dear. I'm in a dreadful hurry." Molly shook her violently by the shoulder. She had a feeling that Judy was asleep and must be waked up. "Get up from there this minute and answer my question," she commanded. "What was your question?" asked Judy with an embarrassed little laugh. "Oh, yes, you asked what I was doing. I should think you could see I wasn't gathering cowslips on the campus." "Are you running away, Judy?" asked Molly, trying another tack. "Yes, my Mariucci," cried Judy, quoting a popular song, "'_I'm gona packa my trunk and taka my monk and sail for sunny It._'" Molly refused even to smile at this witticism. "I know what you're doing," she exclaimed. "You are running away from examinations. You're a coward. You are no better than a deserter from the army in time of war. It's bad enough in time of peace, but just before the battle--I'm so ashamed and disappointed in you that I can hardly understand how I ever could have loved you so much." Judy went on stolidly packing, rolling her clothes into little bundles and stuffing them in anywhere she could find a place between her numerous books. "Have you lost your nerve, Judy, dear?" said Molly, after a minute, kneeling down beside her friend and seizing her hands. "I suppose so," said Judy, extricating her hands, and speaking in a hard, strained voice in an effort to keep from breaking down. "I'd rather not stay here and be disgraced by flunking, but there's another reason beside that, Molly. I know I look like a deserter and deserve to be shot, but there's another reason," she wailed; "there's another good reason." "Why, Judy, dearest, what can it be?" asked Molly gently. "They're going to Italy," she burst out. "They're sailing on Monday. I got the letter to-day, and, oh, I can't stand it--I can't endure it. They'll be in Sicily in a few weeks--and without me! Mamma hates the cold. So do I. I'm numb now with it. Oh, Molly, they'll be sailing without me, and I want to go. You can't understand what the feeling is. There is something in me that is calling all the time, and I can't help hearing it and answering. In my mind I can live through every bit of the voyage. At first it's cold, bitter cold, and then after a few days we get into the Gulf Stream and gradually it grows warmer. Even in the winter time the air is soft and smells of the south. At last the Azores come--cunning little islands snuggling down out there in the Atlantic--and finally you see a long line of coast--it's Africa; then Gibraltar and the Mediterranean--oh, Molly--and Algiers, lovely Algiers, nestling down between the hills and looking across such a harbor! You can see the domes of the mosques as you sail in and Arab boys come out in funny little boats and offer to row you to shore. It's delightfully warm and you smell flowers everywhere. The sky is a deep blue. It's like June. And then, after Algiers, comes Italy----" Judy had risen to her feet now, and her eyes had an uncanny expression in them. She appeared to have lost sight entirely of the little room at Queen's, and through the chaos of books and clothing, she was seeing a vision of the South. "Come back to earth, Judy," said Molly, gently pulling her sleeve. "Wouldn't your mother and father be angry with you for giving up college and joining them uninvited?" "Angry?" cried Judy. "Of course not. Even if I just caught the steamer, it would be all right, they would fix it up somehow, and they would be glad--oh, so glad! What a glorious time we will have together. Perhaps we shall spend a few weeks in Capri. I shall try and make them stay a while in Capri. Such a view there is at Capri across the Bay. Papa loves Naples. He even loves its dirtiness and calls it 'local color.' We'll have to stay there a week to satisfy him, and then mamma will make us go to Ravello. She's mad about it; and then I'll have my choice--it's Venice, of course; but we'll wait until it's warmer for Venice. April is perfect there, and then Rome after Easter. Oh, Molly, Molly, help me pack! I'm off--I'm off--isn't it glorious, Italy, when the spring begins, the roses and the violets and the fresias----" Judy began running about the room, snatching her things from the bed and chairs and tossing them into the trunks helter-skelter. Molly watched her in silence for a while. She must collect her ideas, and think of something to say. But not now. It was like arguing with a lunatic to say anything now. At last Judy's feverish energy burned itself out and she sat down on the bed exhausted. "So you're going to give up four splendid years at college and all the friends you've made--Nance and me and Margaret and Jessie, and nice old Sallie Marks and Mabel, all the fun and the jolly times, the delightful, glorious life we have here--and for what? For a three months' trip you have taken before, and will take again often, no doubt. Just for three short, paltry little months' pleasure, you're going to give up things that will be precious to you for the rest of your life. It's not only the book learning, it's the associations and the friends----" "I don't see why I should lose my friends," broke in Judy sullenly. "They'll never be the same again. They couldn't after such a disappointment as this. You see, you'll always be remembered as a coward who turned and ran when examinations came--you lost your nerve and dropped out and even pretty little Jessie has the courage to face it. Oh, Judy, but I'm disappointed in you. It's a hard blow to come now when we're all fighting to save ourselves and pull through safely. And you--one of the cleverest and brightest girls in the class. Don't tell me your father will be pleased. He'll be mortified, I'm certain of it. He's much too fine a man to admire a cowardly act, no matter whose act it is. You'll see. He'll be shocked and hurt. If he had thought it was right for you to give up college on the eve of examinations, he would have written for you to come. It will be a crushing blow to him, Judy." Judy lay on her bed, her hands clasped back of her head. There was a defiant look on her face, and she kicked the quilt up and down with one foot, like an impatient horse pawing the ground. Then, suddenly, she collapsed like a pricked balloon. Burying her face in the pillows, she began sobbing bitterly, her body shaking convulsively with every sob. It was a terrible sight to see Judy cry, and Molly hoped she would be spared such another experience. Without saying another word, Molly began quietly unpacking the trunks and putting the things back in their places. Then she pulled the empty trunks into the hall. This done, she filled a basin with water, recklessly poured in an ample quantity of Judy's German cologne, and sitting on the side of the bed, began bathing her friend's convulsed and swollen face. Gradually Judy's sobs subsided, her weary eyelids drooped and presently she dropped off into a deep, exhausted sleep. Nance crept into the room. "She's all right now," whispered Molly. "She's had an attack of the 'wanderthirst,' but it's passed." All day and all night Judy slept, and on Sunday morning she was her old self once more, gay and laughing and full of fun. That afternoon she was an usher at Vespers in Wellington Chapel, with Molly and Nance, and wore her best suit and a big black velvet hat. She never alluded again to her attack of wanderthirst, but her devotion to Molly deepened and strengthened as the days flew by until it became as real to her as her love for her mother and father. Once in the midst of the dreaded examinations they did not seem so dreadful after all. The girls at Queen's came out of the fight with "some wounds, but still breathing," as Margaret Wakefield had put it. Molly had a condition in mathematics. "I got it because I expected it," she said. But Judy came through with flying colors--not a single black mark against her. Jessie barely pulled through, and her friends rejoiced that the prettiest, most frivolous member of the freshman class had made such a valiant fight and won. CHAPTER XXIII. SOPHOMORES AT LAST. "Freshman, arise! Gird on thy sword! Captivity is o'er. To arms! To arms! For, lo! thou art A daring sophomore!" The words of this stirring song floated in through the open windows at Queen's one warm night in early June. Moonlight flooded the campus, and the air was sweet with the perfume of lilac and syringa. A group of sophomores had gathered in front of the house to serenade the freshmen at Queen's, who had immediately repaired to the piazza to acknowledge this unusual honor paid them by their august predecessors. "I think it would be far more appropriate if they sang: "'When all the saints who from their labors rest,'" remarked Mabel Hinton, who, in order to make a record, had studied herself into a human skeleton. "Well," said Molly Brown, "when I left home last September, one of my brothers cheerfully informed me that I looked like 'a rag and a bone and a hank of hair.' I am afraid I don't feel very saint-like now, because I have gained ten pounds, and I'm not tired of anything, except packing my clothes. I'm so sorry to leave blessed old Queen's that I could kiss her brown cheek, if it didn't look foolish." "Well, go and kiss the side of the house then," put in Judy. "You have a poetic nature, Molly; but I wouldn't have it changed. I like it just as it is." "Do you know," interrupted Margaret Wakefield, "that Queen's, from having once been scorned as a residence, has now become a very popular abode, and there were so many applications for rooms here for next year that the registrar has had to make a waiting list for the first time in connection with Queen's. Think of that at old Queen's!" "It's because it's the residence of a distinguished person," announced Molly. "I think we should put a brass plate on the front door, stating that in this house lived a class president who possessed every attribute for the office. She was versed in parliamentary law, she had an executive mind, and she was beloved by all who knew her." Margaret was pleased at this compliment. "_Voyons, voyons, que vous me flattez!_" she exclaimed. "It's your warm Southern nature that makes you so enthusiastic. Now, the real reason why old brown Queen's, with her moldering vines, is so popular all of a sudden is because you are here." It was Molly's turn now to be pleased. "We won't argue such a personal matter," she said, squeezing Margaret's hand. "But I'm glad I'm booked here for next year. I was afraid Nance would want a 'singleton,' she has such a retiring nun-like nature." "Me?" exclaimed Nance, disregarding English in her amazement. "Why, I've had the happiest winter of my whole life with you, Molly. If there's a chance for another one like it, I'm only too thankful." "Certainly Mary Carmichael Washington Brown is a modest soul," thought Judy, who happened to know that her friend had had some five or six tempting offers to move into better quarters the next year at no greater expense to herself. One was from Mary Stewart, who was to return next winter for a post-graduate course. Another was from Judith Blount, who had proposed Molly for membership in the Beta Phi Society next year, and had furthermore invited the surprised young freshman to take the study of her apartment for a bedroom and offered her the constant use of her sumptuous sitting room. Certainly, if ever there was an expression of true remorse and repentance, that was one, Molly thought, and the allusion to roommates reminded her that she must say good-bye to Judith, for there would be no time in the morning for last farewells. "I am going over to the Beta Phi house for a minute," she announced. "Any one want to come along?" Margaret and Jessie, who had friends in that "abode of fashion," as it was called, joined her, and presently the three white figures were lost in the shadows on the campus. "She is going to say farewell to black-eyed Judith," observed Judy in a low voice to Nance, "and all I would say is what the colored preacher said: 'Can the le-o-pard change his spots?'" Nance smiled gravely. She did not possess Judy's prejudiced nature, but her convictions were strong. "Do you think she's a 'le-o-pard,' Judy?" she asked. "She may be a domesticated one," said Judy, "of the genus known as 'cat.'" "Aren't you ashamed, Judy?" exclaimed Nance, reprovingly. But it must be confessed that a few doubts still lurked in her own heart concerning the sincerity of proud Judith's repentance. In the meantime, the three freshmen had separated in the upper hall of the Beta Phi House, and Molly had given a timid rap with Judith's fine brass knocker. Instantly the door flew open and she found herself precipitated into a roomful of people, at least it seemed so at first, who had just subsided into quiet because some one was going to play. Molly was about to retreat in great confusion when Miss Grace Green seized one hand and Mary Stewart the other. Judith came forward with a show of extreme cordiality and Richard Blount left the piano and actually ran the full length of the room, exclaiming: "It's Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky!" Molly knew she was breaking into a party, but there was nothing to do but make a call of a few minutes and then take her leave as gracefully as possible under the circumstances. Professor Edwin Green had also shaken her by the hand warmly, and pushing up a chair had insisted on her sitting down. They had all drawn their chairs around her in a semicircle, and Richard Blount had brought over the piano stool and placed it directly in front of her so that he could look straight at her. In fact, here sat the little freshman, blushing crimson and painfully embarrassed, enthroned in a large armchair, and gathered around her was a circle of very delightful, not to say, admiring persons. As one of these persons was Judith's brother and two were her near cousins, Molly thought she could explain their excessive cordiality. They knew the story of the ring and they were anxious to make amends. She recalled, with a furtive inner smile, the last time she was in those rooms, when, as a waitress, she had upset the coffee on the Professor's knees. How glad she was that the painful experience was well over and forgotten by now. But she was glad about many things that evening. She was happy to see that Mary and Judith had made up their differences, and were once more friends. She knew that Mary, who had the kindest heart in the world, could never stay angry long. "I didn't know that Judith was giving a party," Molly began, still very much embarrassed. "I just dropped in to say good-bye because I am leaving to-morrow morning." "To-morrow morning?" repeated Richard Blount. "Wasn't it lucky for me you happened in to-night. I had expected to call on you to-morrow afternoon, and think how disappointed I should have been to have found the nest empty and the bird flown." "So you are really off to-morrow?" broke in Professor Green. "I am so sorry. I was going to ask you to have tea in the Cloisters with my sister and me in the afternoon." Again Molly smiled to herself. Tea in the Cloisters, with a distinguished professor and his charming sister! Only nine months before she had been a lonely, shivering little waif of a freshman locked in the Cloisters. The words of the sophomore "croak" came back to her: "They have locked me in the Cloisters; They have fastened up the gate. Oh, let me out! Oh, let me out! It's growing very late." "I am sorry that my ticket is bought and my berth engaged, and the expressman coming for my trunk to-morrow at nine," she said. "If all those things were not so, I should love to drink soup----" she stopped and flushed a deep red. What absurd trick of the mind had made her say "soup"? "I mean tea," she went on hastily, hoping no one had heard the break. Miss Green was talking with Mary Stewart. Richard Blount was twirling on the piano stool, his hands deep in his pockets, and Judith was engaged at a side table in pouring lemonade into glasses. There was a twinkle of amusement in the Professor's brown eyes, and he gave Molly a delightful smile. "I must be going," she said anxiously, rising. "Not till you've had a glass of lemonade, for I made it myself," said Richard, gallantly handing her one on a plate. Molly looked doubtfully toward Judith. "I don't want to be like that young man in the rhyme," she said. "'There was a young man so benighted, He never knew when he was slighted. He'd go to a party and eat just as hearty, As if he'd been really invited.'" Everybody laughed, and Judith suddenly becoming a model hostess, exclaimed: "Indeed, you must stay, Molly, and have some lemonade. Richard didn't make it at all. He only squeezed the lemons." Molly, therefore, remained and had a beautiful time, and when she really did take her departure the entire party, including Judith, escorted her across the moonlit campus to the door of Queen's. But Molly was still certain that it was the ring episode and nothing else that made them all so polite and attentive. And so she informed Nance and Judy that night as she unlocked her trunk for the third time in ten minutes to stuff in some overlooked belonging. But Judy sniffed the air and exclaimed: "Ring, nothing! It's popularity!" Molly smiled and went to bed, feeling that her last day at Wellington had been a decided improvement on the first one. The next morning Queen's Cottage was a pandemonium of trunks and bags and excited young women, rushing up and down the halls. Cries could be heard from every room in the house of: "The laundress hasn't brought my shirtwaists! Perfidious woman!" "The expressman's here!" "Is your trunk strapped?" "I've got to sleep in an upper berth." "Don't forget to write me." "Where are you to be this summer?" "I can't get this top down and the trunk man's waiting!" "Oh, dear, do hurry! We'll miss the bus!" "Young ladies, the bus is coming," called the voice of Mrs. Markham from the front door. And then, with a fluttering of handkerchiefs and many a last call of "good-bye," the bus-load of girls moved sedately down the avenue. Molly, looking back at the twin gray towers of Wellington, understood why Frances Andrews wanted so much to return. "How glad I am to be only a sophomore," she cried. "I shall have three more years at Wellington!" THE END. Transcriber's Note: Besides some minor printer's errors the following correction has been made: on page 172 "Professor" has been changed to "President" (the doctor at one side, the President at the other). Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. 
37926	----	"AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE" Books by the Same Author =Harry Russell=; a Rockland College Boy. 12mo, cloth, .85 =Saint Cuthbert's.= 12mo, cloth, .85 =Shadows Lifted.= 12mo, cloth, .85 =Tom Losely: Boy.= 12mo, cloth, .85 =The Making of Mortlake.= 12mo, cloth, .85 =The Son of Siro.= A Novel. Illustrated. 12mo, cloth, 1.50 [Illustration: It was hard! It was a sore trial to give up his dream of years!--_Page 20._] "As Gold in the Furnace" A COLLEGE STORY (Sequel to "SHADOWS LIFTED") By Rev. JOHN E. COPUS, S.J. Author of "Harry Russell," "The Son of Siro," etc. [Illustration: Small religious line drawing] NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO BENZIGER BROTHERS PRINTERS TO THE | PUBLISHERS OF HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE | BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE 1910 COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS. CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE Roy Surprises His Friends 7 CHAPTER II The Motive 13 CHAPTER III The Conditions 19 CHAPTER IV Roy and Garrett 25 CHAPTER V A Pitching Cage 30 CHAPTER VI Advice 38 CHAPTER VII The Little Sisters 45 CHAPTER VIII Something Happens 56 CHAPTER IX Who? 64 CHAPTER X A Day's Adventure 72 CHAPTER XI An Afternoon's Fun 82 CHAPTER XII Reports 90 CHAPTER XIII What Henning Remembered 96 CHAPTER XIV Facing the Boys 104 CHAPTER XV Suspicions 111 CHAPTER XVI Roy Makes a Move 119 CHAPTER XVII Garrett is Angry 129 CHAPTER XVIII A Talk 135 CHAPTER XIX The Unexpected 142 CHAPTER XX The Fairest Lily 149 CHAPTER XXI The Passing of Ethel 157 CHAPTER XXII Roy and His Father 163 CHAPTER XXIII The Great Blow 170 CHAPTER XXIV The Fallen Tree 177 CHAPTER XXV Surprises for Roy 185 CHAPTER XXVI Stockley's Story 193 CHAPTER XXVII Stockley's Story (_Continued_) 201 CHAPTER XXVIII The Unraveled Tangle 206 "AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE" CHAPTER I ROY SURPRISES HIS FRIENDS "I tell you what it is, gentlemen, once for all. I can not go in for baseball next spring, nor even for the few games we have still to play this fall." Roy Henning was talking to a group of college boys of the upper classes in St. Cuthbert's yard. It was late September and still very warm. The little gathering of friends found the shade of a large elm tree in one corner of the yard very grateful. A hearty burst of laughter followed Roy's announcement. No one for an instant entertained the idea that Henning was in earnest and meant what he said. Was he not passionately fond of the game? Had he not, before vacation, been the very best player on the college diamond? "Oh! of course not! of course not!" exclaimed Jack Beecham, Roy's truest friend and constant companion. "Of course not! You're no good anyway! You couldn't be center-rush on the eleven if you tried! You don't know a thing about baseball either! Oh! no! And another team wouldn't do a thing to us if you left the pitcher's box! Oh! no, not at all!" "Look here, Jack," said Henning, "I'm in earnest. I am not going to engage in sports at all this year." "Not for the money, I know that. It has always cost you a good penny. But let me assure you, you dear old goose, that you can't come any sort of game like that on us--not on me, at least. Let me tell you, Roy boy, that you are most decidedly and most strictly in it, and in it every time." "Look here, Jack, will you listen to reason----" began Roy Henning. "With pleasure, when I find evidence that you are in possession of that valuable commodity." "But----" began Roy again. "That's all right, old fellow. We know your modesty, and all that. We're also under the impression that you have recently developed a remarkable penchant--that's the word, isn't it, boys--for practical jokes. But this time be so condescending as to remember that joke-day--April 1, you know--is a long way off. See?" "Yes, I see," replied Henning, "but you fellows will not, nor will you listen to reason. So it is useless for me to talk." "That's precisely what we wish to do," said Jack--laughing Jack Beecham--who struck an attitude and continued, "but you persist in talking anything but reason. What an incontestably preposterous thing for you to say that you are not going to play ball. Is a fish going to swim?" "Nonsense or not, boys, I have good reason for saying what I have said. It's a fact. I am not going to play." Roy Henning's clean-cut, handsome face was flushed at the moment with vexation. His eyes showed his annoyance, and his brows contracted in displeasure. It was vexatious enough for him to make--to be compelled to make--such an announcement to his friends, but his chagrin was rendered four-fold by having his companions receive his statement with incredulity. Not the least part of his annoyance came from the fact that his own particular friend should affect to believe that he was perpetrating a practical joke, especially as he was very much in earnest and the announcement had cost him much effort to make. When Roy Henning first came to St. Cuthbert's, he was a narrow-chested, weakly boy of very quiet manners and of a retiring disposition, as the readers of the chronicles of St. Cuthbert boys may remember. Month after month, however, saw him growing stronger and taller and more robust, until now, in his last year at college, he was one of the biggest boys in the yard, with the strength of a giant, and, as some who knew declared, the grip of a blacksmith. The opportunities of acquiring brawn and muscle he had not neglected, resulting in a proficiency in running, jumping, swimming, and boating, and in all the manly and invigorating exercises of school life. He was well aware how much the success of next summer's baseball season really depended on him. He knew, also, what the boys expected of him. They all regarded it as a foregone conclusion that he would again be the captain and the principal pitcher on next season's team. No one but himself knew what annoyance it had been to him to make the statement which his hearers had refused to accept otherwise than as the merest joking. Yet he intended to give up sports for this school year. Why? The reason for so doing, and all the consequences that such a course of action brought in its train, will constitute the following narrative. Roy's eyes, quick to sparkle in fun, quick to soften in sympathy, yet quicker to glitter with indignation at any exhibition of smallness or meanness, just now had a look in them other than was their wont. Their owner was annoyed because the boys standing around him seemed determined not to take him seriously, and this annoyance could be seen. For a moment he felt a strong throb of anger, such as quickens the pulse, and the hasty word was on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself in time. Why should he not be believed when he had made a plain statement and had reiterated it? Yet there was a smile as of incredulity on nearly all the faces grouped around him. The truth of the matter was that Jack Beecham and his companions were hoping against hope. They clearly saw Henning's annoyance, and several of them had more than a suspicion that, after all, he meant exactly what he had said. Beecham's badinage was only a cover for his uneasiness. A silence fell on the group, during which, to their nimble imaginations, visions of future victories on the diamond grew dim, for every boy there had the most unlimited confidence in the proven prowess of Henning to lead them to victory. "But, Roy," said Tom Shealey, a short, thick-set, sturdy, whole-souled boy, who had a habit of calling a spade a spade: "Give us your reason. You are not sick?" "No, not sick, certainly," said Henning, smiling at such an idea. "What's your reason, then?--supposing you have a reason and are not joking." "I'm not joking, Tom," said Henning, "but I can not give you my reason." "Guess he has none," said Andrew Garrett, a youth who affected a blue sweater instead of a coat and vest and whose face was not a healthy-looking one. "Guess he has no reason. He's merely posing." The remark vexed Henning all the more that it came from his own cousin, to whom in a difficult situation he might have looked naturally for some form of support. "Stop that, Garrett," said Tom Shealey, hotly. "Do you wish to insult your own cousin? I'd rather believe him than you--there! If Roy says he has reasons for acting as he is doing and does not want to give them to us, I believe he has them anyway. I guess you don't know your own cousin as well as we do." "Well, why doesn't he give his reasons for not playing?" asked Garrett, sulkily. "Because," answered Henning, with no little natural dignity, "I do not feel at liberty to do so. If I did I would give them readily. Believe me, boys, it is not by my own choice that I resign my position on the baseball and football teams." "We believe you, Roy," said Shealey. "Although we regret your action, we believe you have good reasons; don't we, Beecham?" Jack Beecham nodded affirmatively. "Yes," he replied, after a moment's silence, "I joked at first only because I thought Roy was joking. Sorry he wasn't. Garrett, you had better believe what your cousin says. He is not accustomed to lie into or out of a thing." This remark was received by Garrett in silence. With a look unpleasant enough to be considered a leer on his face he walked away, but Shealey's innuendo, as we shall see later, had more significance for the one to whom it was directed than the rest of the group realized. Were it not on account of the relationship with Roy, the boys in general would have ignored Garrett. Winters and Hunter and Stapleton and Clavering were gone from St. Cuthbert's, having graduated the previous year. Henning and Ambrose Bracebridge, Rob Jones and Tom Shealey were taking their places, and among these Henning was most popular. In a few minutes Henning walked away, and his friends began freely to discuss his decision, vaguely guessing at the motive which prompted it, and entirely unsuccessful in arriving at any solution of the difficulty. "Of course," said Jack Beecham to Shealey, as they strolled about the yard somewhat disconsolately, "Henning must have some good reason for backing out, but I am more sorry than I can say that he has done so. I am afraid things are going to be mighty unpleasant for him in consequence." "I, too, am afraid they will be." "Well, I'm going to stick to him, come what may." "Same here," replied Shealey. "It won't be hard to do that, because he is the soul of honor and a royal good fellow. You might as soon expect anything wrong with him as--as to see----" "You at the head of your class in next examination," interrupted Jack. "Thanks! Or to see you heading the philosophers." "Thanks, too." CHAPTER II THE MOTIVE Before proceeding to narrate the complications which beset Roy Henning's path during his last year at St. Cuthbert's, and the many curious cross-purposes of which he may be said to have been the victim, we shall endeavor to give some idea of the motive which actuated him in retiring from the arena of college sports. It must be remembered that Roy Henning, in the previous year, was a fast friend of Claude Winters, Hunter, Selby, Clavering, and Stapleton. The companionship of these boys had helped as much to form his character as had the careful work of the professors. Under his friends' influence he had gradually lost much of his bashfulness. By the time that Winters and his other friends had graduated, he could conduct himself with an amount of ease and composure. He no longer blushed and squirmed immoderately, like a small boy, when addressed by a stranger or by one in authority. He could now speak to a Father or even the President without wishing to fall through the floor. Roy was much improved, yet the influence which his companions of the previous year had exercised over him had taken a somewhat peculiar turn. As far as he knew, not one of his last year's friends, now graduated and gone, had any aspirations to study for the sacred ministry of the priesthood. Their joyous piety, nevertheless, and their cheerful goodness had been the means, entirely unknown to themselves, of making Henning entertain a profound veneration for the ecclesiastical state. From often contemplating how eminently suited, both in talents and in virtue, were many of his companions for this state, Roy had passed from admiring them to the thought of the feasibility of embracing that state himself. The more he thought of this, and the more frequently he examined himself, the more enamored of the lofty idea he became; so that at the expiration of the previous year's term he had fully made up his mind to enter the priesthood should he secure the sanction of his spiritual director. Before he left college for vacation he had a long interview with the white-haired, holy old chaplain, from which he received great encouragement, but was told to keep his intention a secret from all save his parents. He took the admonition literally and obeyed it exactly, so that he left St. Cuthbert's in the previous June without his most intimate acquaintances so much as dreaming that he entertained such exalted ambitions and aspirations to a dignity than which there is none greater on earth. It was not remarkable that his companions should never imagine such things of him. Was he not the recognized leader of all sports and games? Who had a merrier shout? No one's laugh rang more musically across the playground. How should boys--mere boys, after all--imagine that graver thoughts and sublimer ambitions were coexistent with merry pranks, resounding cheers, or harmless escapades. Well, boys, college boys even, are gifted with only a limited prescience, and none suspected the great plan of life which was now continually in Roy's mind. He did not broach the subject to his father until the vacation months were drawing to a close, and it was time to think about returning to St. Cuthbert's. The Hennings spent the summer months in the lake region. One beautiful calm, warm evening in August, Mr. Henning was sitting on the broad veranda of his cottage, watching in quiet content the silver pathway which the full moon made across the water, and marveling how the light made the sails of the yachts appear now black, now silver as the vessels tacked about. Roy, who for several days had been watching his opportunity to have a private talk with his father, saw that it had now come. He took a seat near his father. "Where are Mama and the children, Roy?" "They are down on the beach, Father, throwing sticks into the lake for Fido to swim after. The dog is almost crazy with the delight of the game." "Why are you not down there too? You seem to be moping lately, my boy. Is anything the matter? Are you quite well?" "Quite, thanks. I am not moping, but the fact is, Father, I have something I wish to talk to you about, and as the rest won't be back for some time, perhaps this is a good opportunity to tell you what I have to say." "Dear me! what a lot of mystery! Say on, son. I am all attention. Let me see: how old are you? Nineteen next month, eh? You'll be graduated next year at St. Cuthbert's, will you not?" "I hope so," replied the boy modestly. "That's right. Well, I suppose you want to talk about the choice of a profession. It is quite time you made a choice, you know." "That is precisely what I wish to speak about." "Ah! Well, go on. I am willing to listen to your ideas, reserving, of course, the right of veto, Is it to be the law, or medicine, or the army? Perhaps 'tis the navy? I have influence enough to get you into Annapolis, if you wish to follow the sea." "It is none of these you have mentioned, sir," said Roy, nervously, and the next moment he blurted out awkwardly, "I want to enter the priesthood!" "The priesthood!" said Henning senior, with an intonation that expressed various emotions. "H--um!" And he remained a long time silent. The light from the sitting-room fell on Mr. Henning's face. Roy watched the florid features of his father. His closely-cropped white hair and side-whiskers worn in the style once designated "mutton-chop," the short-trimmed mustache, and clean-shaven, well-rounded chin, all showed distinctly in the strong light of the reading lamp, which sent a flood of light out across the veranda. Roy thought that his father's face was unusually flushed. It appeared almost purple in the artificial light, and the son became anxious, momentarily fearing that the suddenly communicated intelligence might have caused a rush of blood to the head. The family physician not long before had told Mrs. Henning that her husband was quite liable to an attack of apoplexy. Roy could not guess what was passing within the mind of his father, who remained silent a long time. Nothing was heard except the nervous tapping of Mr. Henning's eyeglasses on the arm of the rocker. The boy knew that his father was irascible, and he was more or less prepared for a storm. He waited for what he thought several minutes--in reality less than forty seconds--for his father to speak. No sound was heard save the nervous tap-tap-tapping on the arm of the chair. Roy twirled his cap and shifted his weight from one foot to another. Then, as it often does, the unexpected occurred. Mr. Henning arose from his chair, and without noticing his son, or saying a word, retired into the house, leaving the surprised boy on the porch. The young man was perplexed at this turn of affairs. Had his father flatly refused he could have pleaded and coaxed. Had he stormed, the boy knew enough of his parent to be aware that the end he desired would most probably be attained--when the storm blew over. Roy left the porch in a dazed sort of way. He had never seen his father act so peculiarly. Wanting to be alone to think over the affair, he sauntered off to a secluded part of the large lawn. * * * * * "Hi, Roy, is that you? Where have you been? I have been searching for you everywhere. Put on your dancing pumps and come over to our villa. We are going to have a carpet dance. All the tables and chairs have been put out on the lawn, and we are going to have a jolly time. Come on." The speaker over the hedge was Andrew Garrett, Roy's cousin, whose father had rented the adjoining villa for the summer. Garrett was on the road, seated in a stylish dogcart. He held a pair of white ribbons over a mettlesome horse whose silverplated harness ornaments shone brightly in the moonlight. "You must make my excuses----" began Roy. "Eh! what? Oh! come! that won't do. My sisters have netted a lot of girls, many of whom are already there, and the cry is 'still they come.' We haven't enough partners for them. I am not slow at this kind of affair, but, you know, a fellow can't make himself ubiquitous. Run and put on your dancing-shoes, and if you spoil them in the dew coming home, I'll buy you another pair to-morrow." "The puppy!" thought Roy, and the ugly word was on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself in time, and said: "I am sorry indeed to disappoint you, but I have more important things to think about to-night. I really can not come. You must make my excuse to auntie and your sisters." "Oh! hang it all, man; we haven't enough dancers!" "I am sorry, but to-night----" "Sorry!----" We regret to say that Garrett used an expression not at all becoming to the lips of a Catholic young man. "You won't come, then?" "I can not, to-night." "You won't, you mean!" "I did not say that." "But you mean it. Well, I can go up the road and get the Meloche boys, and the Poultneys, and others. Mark my words, Roy; I'll get even with you for this. You'll be sorry for it yet. It's a mean trick. Get up, Nance." And he gave the mare a vicious cut, which sent her rearing and racing up the dusty country road, giving the ill-tempered boy all he could do to prevent the spirited animal from running away with him. A week later, Roy Henning was surprised to learn that Andrew Garrett was to be a student at St. Cuthbert's the coming term. His first effort at "getting even" with his cousin was attempted as we have seen in the preceding chapter, when Henning made the unwelcome announcement of his retirement from college sports. CHAPTER III THE CONDITIONS The following morning, Mr. Henning called Roy to him soon after breakfast. When the two had taken seats under a shady beech on the lawn, Roy saw that his father appeared moody, and as if suffering from a great disappointment. "What is this I hear about your refusing to go to your Aunt Garrett's last night?" "I did not refuse to go and see Aunt Helen, sir. Andrew wanted me to go and dance. I did not care to dance. Nor could I have gone and retained my self-respect." "Dear me! dear me! Are not your Aunt Helen's children and their friends good enough associates for you?" "Quite good enough. But, sir, you mistake my meaning. I had two reasons for refusing. I do not care for dancing, and do not care to be made a mere convenience of, nor do I wish to be patronized by my cousin Garrett. My other reason was that I was anxious and worried, having received no word from you since I told you of my earnest desire to study for the priesthood." "Ah! Yes, to be sure. You may think my abrupt leaving you last night was a strange proceeding. It was. I am sorry I vexed you. I want to be kind." "Thank you, Father; I am sure you do." Mr. Henning was not a demonstratively affectionate man, and it must be charged to heredity that his own child possessed decidedly similar characteristics, especially in all absence of demonstrativeness. Roy loved his father deeply, but no terms of endearment or outward show of affection, so far as the boy could remember, had ever passed between them. If Roy had only known he could have crept very close to his father's heart this morning. If Roy could have known just then, he would have seen his father's heart sore and sensitive, trying to discipline itself into renouncing its life-long ambition--that of his son's advancement. He had so earnestly wished the boy to adopt his own profession. Was he not already getting along in years? Would not a partner in his law practice become ere long an imperative necessity? He had too clear and too well-trained a mind not to see the futility of attempting to thwart the boy's inclinations. He was too sincere a Catholic of principle and too well instructed in the obligations of his faith to wish effectually to prevent or destroy a vocation, and yet--oh, it was hard! It was a sore trial to give up his dream of years! "Thank you, Father; I am sure you wish to be kind." Roy, seeing that his father had remained silent an unusually long time, repeated his remark. The elder man's lips twitched. The muscles of his cheeks moved with the strong emotions he was experiencing. "Oh, Roy, Roy! Think what it all means for me! My shattered hopes for you! I know that as a Catholic I dare not thwart you in following so high a vocation, nor would I have it on my conscience to do so. But all my shattered hopes of you! I have wealth and position, but they are not everything. I have looked forward to you as my prop and stay and my honor in my declining years. Must you--must you leave us? Are you sure of this call? Is it not a mere passing fancy, such as many good and pure boys have? Are you sure that your duty does not point to your family rather than to the seminary? Are you sure, my lad?" The old gentleman's words were almost passionate. Young Henning was unwontedly affected. He had never been placed in so peculiar a position. His father evidently regarded him now, spoke to him, even appealed to him, as to a man, with a man's responsibilities. For a moment he was thrilled with exquisite pleasure in being so treated, but he did not waver in his purpose. He knew that he would probably add to his father's regrets, yet he was conscious that he could not hold out the faintest hope that the parental wish, which appeared to run contrary to what he now conceived to be his plain duty, would be gratified. "My dear father," he said, "I am sorry to cause you pain, but I believe I have this vocation and I must, in conscience, follow it." There was a long pause. "Well--what must be, must be, I suppose, but, my child, have you well considered the step? Are you willing to live on a meager pittance, as most priests do? Are you willing to lead a life of penurious denial and of study? Can you face the ordeal of the confessional for hours at a time, listening to tales of misery, wretchedness, and degradation? Can you be strong with the strong, and not too strong with the weak? Can you bear all this? Are you sure of yourself?" Now Roy Henning, during the previous year at St. Cuthbert's had thought over the question of his vocation time and time again, examining himself rigorously as to his fitness, and, as far as his experience allowed, reviewing the life of the ordinary parish priest. He saw clearly that no one embraced the priestly life from a purely natural motive. Such as did, he argued, must become failures, and unfit for their state. He had, as every one who has a true vocation, a higher motive than a merely natural one. With him the supernatural was paramount, and in its light all prosaic, squalid, unheroic circumstances sank into insignificance. He, therefore, answered: "Yes, sir, I have thought it all over. I firmly believe I have a vocation, and after I graduate, I think it will be my duty to enter a seminary with a view to probing and testing it." "I will not thwart you, my boy; I dare not. But do you think yourself worthy of so high a calling?" "I do not, indeed, Father; but my confessor encourages me to go on." Mr. Henning sighed on discovering that the opinion of the boy's confessor was averse to his wishes--sighed as if giving up his last hope of being able to change his son's views. He then altered his manner suddenly, as if ashamed of having displayed emotion before any member of his family. He was again the sharp, shrewd man of affairs. "Very well, sir," he said, with a crispness in his voice which hitherto had been absent; "you take your degree the coming year. After that you have my permission to enter a seminary. I will be responsible for your expenses until your ordination. As you desire, however, to enter a hard and self-denying life I consider it my duty to test you myself to some extent during the coming school year." In the midst of the delight at his father's capitulation, Roy looked up in surprise. He wondered what was coming next. "You must apply yourself wholly and solely to your studies. I shall allow you only twenty-five dollars for your private expenses, and I desire and insist that for the last year of your college life you relinquish all sports of whatsoever kind." "Father!" cried the poor boy in dismay; and oh, the heart-sinking that was expressed in that one word! "I mean precisely what I say," persisted Mr. Henning, almost relentlessly; "a priest's life is one of constant self-sacrifice and denial. You can not begin to practise those virtues too soon." "But, Father, I am captain of the ball nine, and the football eleven, at college!" And there was a world of appeal in the boy's voice. "I am sorry, under the circumstances, to hear it. Abstinence from baseball and football and boating and all sorts of contests is the condition under which I sanction your plans, which, pardon me if I say it, I can not but consider chimerical. The test I have selected will prove how right or wrong I am in my opinion. You will take only enough exercise to keep a sound mind in a sound body." Whether Roy Henning's father was acting judiciously or otherwise, we will not undertake to say. We merely give the facts. Mr. Henning was desirous to see how his son would act under circumstances which he readily admitted would be particularly trying. It is probable that many boys will be inclined to think that Roy Henning was not in such a very sad plight after all, and perhaps would be willing to exchange places with him if their pocketbooks were exchanged too. It is true that many a boy goes to college with far less spending money than that which was to be Roy's share for his graduating year. It must be understood, in order to make Roy's position clear, that the boy was generous to a fault, and never having stinted his expenditures at college, or been stinted in the supply, he was looked to for pecuniary assistance by all sorts of college associations whose financial condition, as most collegians are aware, is perennially in a state of collapse. He was one of the most popular boys, because his purse was always open. His father had, indeed, arranged a severe test for him. He little realized what the trials of a rich boy's poverty were. Little did he imagine to what hours of guiltless ignominy he was unwittingly condemning his son. We must do the lawyer the justice to say that had he imagined but one-tenth of the trials which were to come upon his son by his restrictive action, he would have been the last man to have imposed the conditions. Roy Henning accepted them unreservedly, and the conversation at the beginning of the first chapter shows us how fully and completely he intended to obey his father's injunctions. CHAPTER IV ROY AND GARRETT Henning was not overwhelmingly delighted when he learned that Andrew Garrett was to accompany him to St. Cuthbert's. He knew his cousin's disposition fairly well and did not expect to derive much pleasure from his presence at college, although he was aware that the relationship would occasion more or less close intimacy. Never were two boys more dissimilar in character. Henning had been molded at St. Cuthbert's for five or six years. He had imbibed that spirit which is found among the students of every well-conducted Catholic college--that peculiar something which is so difficult to define, but which is so palpable in its effects, elevating and rendering the Catholic student the comparatively superior being he is. Those who have intelligently watched this college phenomenon admit that the tone, or spirit, or influence, or whatever it may be, is like nothing else on earth, so that if nothing else were accomplished, this result gives abundant reason for the existence of our Catholic colleges. If one were asked to define the exact process, to point out the various means employed, in transforming a crude youth into the manly, generous, self-possessed young man of high ideals and noble purpose, it would be found a most difficult thing to do. Roy Henning was a fair example of what Catholic training does for a well-disposed youth. He was not perfect, as we shall probably see later on in our story; yet he had qualities that endeared him to all who knew him. Hating any appearance of meanness, he was ever the champion of the weak or the oppressed, as many a boy who was not the "under-dog" found to his cost. His cheerful, manly piety made religion attractive. There was nothing squeamish or mawkish about him. Everybody who knew him would laugh at the idea that Henning and effeminacy had the remotest connection. If the truth were told of him at this time he was, owing to his splendid health and sound physique, verging on the opposite of effeminacy. Under the tutelage of such boys as Hunter, Claude Winters, Clavering, and others, he had developed into a really fine athlete. The "muscles of his brawny arms were" literally "strong as iron bands," and that one was certainly to be pitied who, if under Roy's displeasure, came in close contact with him. Andrew Garrett was his cousin's antithesis. He was about the same inches as Roy, who measured five feet ten inches in his stocking feet, but beyond this all resemblance ceased. Andrew was not an athlete. He was of spare build, but did not look healthy. His chest was narrow, his arms and legs spindling and flabby. He had no muscle, because he took little exercise, and was, consequently, frequently bilious, which often resulted in his saying or doing much meaner and pettier things than he intended. It would be difficult to find two more dissimilar characters than these two cousins. In justice to Andrew Garrett it must be stated that when he came with his cousin to St. Cuthbert's he had not the slightest knowledge of the conditions under which Roy was laboring. Owing to what he had previously known of the state of Roy's purse both at home and during vacation time, he had not the slightest suspicion that now his cousin's paternal allowance had been inconveniently curtailed. Whether he would have acted differently had he known all the circumstances is a matter of conjecture. Garrett was a factor in much of the annoyance Roy Henning suffered during the year. For several days after the arrival of Andrew Garrett, Mr. Shalford, the prefect, watched him closely. Being a cousin of Henning, the prefect thought it was natural that he would associate with the Henning-Bracebridge-Shealey-Beecham set, and be one of those to whom no particular attention need be given. He was not a little surprised to discover that these boys had very little to do with him. There was no overt act on their part by which Garrett could be said to have been snubbed or "dropped," but the prefect saw that there seemed to be a tacit understanding among these boys to let Garrett severely alone. No one had any particular liking for him, and it is quite probable that had he not been Henning's cousin, he would have experienced several times a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. Roy Henning was now one of the leaders among the forthcoming graduates. His influence was now as great as Hunter's or Winter's had been in the previous year, and his relationship with Garrett saved that boy much annoyance, which, by his want of tact and a lack of companionableness, he would have brought upon himself. "You do not seem to get along with the other boys, Garrett," said Mr. Shalford kindly, one day not long after the conversation recorded in our first chapter. "I guess I can manage without them," was the ungracious reply. "I don't think you can, my boy," said Mr. Shalford. "Well, I do. I think I can manage my own affairs." The prefect did not know whether this speech was intended as a rebuff to his advances, but he took a charitable view of it, and ascribed it to awkwardness, rather than to intentional boorishness. He said: "Let me tell you, Andrew, that you can do no such thing." "Yes, I can." "Look here, my young man. You are forgetting yourself. I do not know what sort of training you received at home, but while you are here, you must speak to your superiors with more respect. Prefects and professors and the other officers of the college are accustomed to be treated here with at least a certain amount of deference." The boy winced under the allusion to his home training. He prided himself upon being a gentleman, and, indeed, his home life was all that was delightful. As if he had read his thoughts, the prefect said: "Do you know the meaning of gentleman--a gentle man? It is not necessarily an inherited quality of birth. It is rather a question of manners, is it not?" Garrett hung his head. He knew that he had been rude and uncouth. "Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to be ungentlemanly. But I do not like these boys here. They don't seem to treat me squarely." "Why? What is wrong?" asked the prefect, now satisfied. "Oh! I don't exactly know. They all seem inclined to let me alone. Nobody seems to want to have anything to say to me." "Perhaps that statement is not altogether exact. Have you not annoyed or vexed several of them one way or another? Think now of what you may have done. If you want to get along with St. Cuthbert's boys, you will have to act honorably and above board in everything. Do not for a moment imagine that I am accusing you of anything underhand or mean. I am far from doing so. But boys are quick to discern character--frequently quicker than men. It is a species of intuition with them, and they are rarely deceived. You have been here a month. Do you know of any nicknames among the boys?" "Yes, sir; several of them. There is Shanks, and Owly, and Pinchey, or Pinchbeck, and a lot more of them." "Just so. Now, do you not see that each of these boys to whom a nickname sticks has just the characteristic or foible the name indicates?" "Yes, sir, that is true." "I am glad you recognize it. You have not as yet developed or shown any particular trait which would give the boys an opportunity of attaching any particular name to you. I should advise you to watch carefully, for, believe me, if they do give you a name, it will not be a pleasant one, and probably it will be one that will sting. At all events it will be one that will show to you your foibles pretty clearly. Watch yourself, therefore, and prevent it if you can." With this warning the prefect left the boy and went to ring the great bell as first warning for supper. Garrett remained in a "brown study" for some time. Had he taken the prefect's advice he might have saved himself many hours of subsequent regret and remorse. CHAPTER V A PITCHING CAGE Jack Beecham and Tom Shealey were standing at a window in their classroom one dark afternoon in the late fall. They had their heads together, for both were reading from the same letter, which the former had just received. They were evidently much interested in its contents, for neither noticed the entrance of Rob Jones, nor were they conscious of his presence until he, boylike, gave them both simultaneously a thump on the back. "You must be mightily interested, you two, not to hear me come in," said Jones. "We felt your presence, Rob, quick enough," said Beecham. "It was quite striking," added Shealey. "What's the news? It must be of tremendous importance to cause such absorption." "It is important," said Shealey. "Jack has just received a nice letter from those nice fellows of Blandyke College. They write elegantly--perfect gentlemen." "What have they to say?" inquired Jones. "It isn't a challenge for next spring, or anything of that sort," said Jack, "but a sort of recapitulation of this year's games we played together, and a chat over the prospects of next year. Listen to this: 'We met with few defeats this summer, and I am instructed by the nine to say that if we were to be defeated--and we were once or twice, as you remember--we preferred to have been defeated by no one but the St. Cuthbert's team, not only because you, gentlemen, were considered worthy of our steel, but also because every player on your team was a gentleman whom it was a pleasure and an honor to meet.'" "Now isn't that nice!" exclaimed Beecham. "But let us see what more he has to say. They are capital fellows, these Blandykes," and Jack read on: "'We intend to meet you early next summer, if we can arrange some games with you. We have great pleasure in telling you that we intend to wipe out all defeats of this season. With this in view, we have, already, men daily in the pitching cage, and our captain intends to keep his men in training all the winter months.'" "They must feel pretty sure of victory to tell us all their plans," remarked Beecham. "Pshaw! isn't it a pity that Henning has gone back on us! I wonder what we shall do without him!" "I don't know. I can't imagine," remarked Jones. "Whatever we do, we must not be behind the Blandykes. We, too, must get a cage and practice pitching and catching. We can't afford to dim the glory of last summer's record. You remember we won two out of the three games we played with the Blandykes. Next spring we must capture the three." "But we have no cage, and they are expensive things," observed Beecham. "Pass round the hat," remarked Shealey promptly; "of course Roy will help us as usual. He is always generous with his money; just the fellow who deserves to have plenty of it." "Yes, that's true," said Jones, "and I suppose his cousin, young Garrett, has plenty of cash to spare too, but I doubt whether he will be as generous as Roy has always been. Thanksgiving day will be here in ten days, and we ought to have the pitching cage ready when the football season closes." "What will Mr. Shalford say about it?" asked Beecham. "Oh! he will leave it all to us, that's sure; but we may expect his one proviso which he is very strong on, and that is, as you know, that we do not go into debt." "Very good," said Jack. "Then we had better begin at once. Here comes Garrett. I'll try him first." Beecham explained the project to Garrett, and then asked him whether he would help them out. His first words rang with a false note. "Has my cousin given anything?" he asked. "Not yet. We have not seen him yet. You are the first that has been asked." "Very well. Put me down for five dollars." "Thanks; much obliged," said Beecham, without a particle of enthusiasm. Strange to say, young Garrett did not feel satisfied. He had at once conceived this an opportunity to make himself popular by a liberal donation. The gift, for a college student, was liberal enough; but there was something in the merely civil "Thanks," from Beecham, which told him he had not succeeded, at this time, in his purpose. He thought he detected in the tone a covert sneer. But of this he was not sure. He made another mistake. "Let me know," he said, "what my cousin subscribes, and if he gives more than I have given, I will increase mine." A second civil--but colder--"Thanks," greeted this speech, and Garrett walked away in no very pleasant frame of mind. "Why is Roy so popular and I a nonentity?" he asked himself, but it was to be a long time before he would learn the answer to his own question. Beecham and Shealey started at once on a subscription tour. They caught Henning in the study-hall. "Hello, Roy! We have come to bleed you, old man. We are going to put up a pitcher's cage in one end of the long playroom for winter practice. How much shall we put you down for?" Roy Henning blushed slightly and a look resembling pain came over his face. His father's test was beginning to operate. Roy, owing to his restricted capital, had made a resolution to spend only two dollars and a half each month. He made a rapid calculation of the present month's necessary boyish expenses, and he knew that he would have very little to offer them. Before he could speak, however, Beecham remarked: "Say, Roy boy, we know you won't play next spring; but we want you to be treasurer and secretary of the club." "Yes, you are the man for the job," said Shealey, "none better. Won't you take it? You can do ten times more with the boys than either Jack or myself." "I don't know----" hesitated Henning, for several reasons. "Oh, yes, you do, Roy," urged Jack. "You are a capital beggar, you know, and with your own big donation at the head of the list you will be irresistible." "Call him a good solicitor," laughed Shealey, "it's more euphonious." "I think I can act as treasurer and secretary for you, if the boys are willing. It is the least I can do if I don't play." "Of course it is. Thanks. That's good of you," said Beecham, and Shealey nodded approvingly. "Now, Roy, how much shall I put you down for before I hand over to you the subscription list? Twenty is too much, I suppose," said Shealey. Roy looked out of the window in a perplexed sort of way. He had always been a liberal contributor. What would his friends think of him now? The paternal test was certainly a hard one in more ways than one. "I am afraid I shall disappoint you," he said. "In what?" asked Beecham. "In book-agent assurance? Never fear. I am willing to certify that beneath all your laughing good humor, you are possessed of an unlimited amount of--of--well--to put it without circumlocution--an unlimited amount of cheek. No one can withstand your winning smile and drawing manner. But what is your own gift? Let us head the list with that. I must tell you that your cousin Garrett has promised to equal your subscription, so make it large, if you please. He has already given----" "How much?" asked Henning uneasily. "Five dollars." "Oh!" said Henning, with something very like a sob in his throat. "Better make it twenty-five, Roy; you can spare it, and it's practically giving an extra twenty which comes out of the pocket of that beg--Oh! I beg your pardon. I am constantly forgetting that he is your cousin. I wish he wasn't." Beecham spoke the last sentence in blunt, boyish fashion. Roy understood him, but just now he was not inclined either to defend his cousin, or discuss his friend's desires. "I am afraid I shall disappoint you this time, boys," said Roy. "You never have yet," remarked Shealey. "But I shall this time, I am sure." "Well, let's see the amount of the disappointment," said Beecham laughingly. Jack Beecham, of late, could not, as he himself expressed it, "make out" his friend Roy. Several times since the beginning of September he had surprises from Henning. He was beginning to regard him as an uncertain or even an unknown quantity. Was his friend becoming miserly? This idea made Jack Beecham laugh. Roy misanthropical! The clever, bright, jolly Roy doing aught but loving all mankind was absurd to think of, but yet--There certainly had come over his bright, genial friend a change which was puzzling. What could---- But his thoughts, as he stood expectantly, with his pencil and notebook in hand, were interrupted by what Roy said next: "You may put me down for two dollars and fifty cents." Shealey only partly suppressed a giggle, supposing that Roy, as usual, was hoaxing. Roy saw the laugh and was deeply hurt. "Phew!" began Jack Beecham, and he was about to make a very straightforward remark when he caught a side view of poor Roy's face, which was suffused with the blushes of mortification. There was a look of positive pain there. Good, sensible Jack at once saw there was something wrong somewhere. Hastily changing his pencil from right-hand to left, he took Roy's hand and pressed it warmly, sympathetically. The action told more than words could do. Beecham gave a quick glance toward the door for Shealey, which that individual understood and immediately departed. When they were alone Jack said: "You are in trouble, Roy. Is there--is there any financial difficulty at home?" "None whatever, Jack; but I can't explain." There was another silent pressure of the hand. "Nor will I ask you to do so. But there is something wrong somewhere. Oh, Roy! If I could do--if I could share--look here, Roy," he at last blurted out, boy-fashion, "look here. I intend to give twenty dollars--let me put ten of it under your name--do let me." "No, no, Jack," said Roy, after a few moments of silence which his emotion compelled him to observe; "no, you must not do that. I can't explain, but come what may I want you not to misunderstand me. Whatever you may hear or see I want you not to lose faith in me," and Roy Henning held out his hands to his friend, while there was a hungry, eagerly hungry, look in his eyes. There was, of course, no absolute reason why Roy Henning could not have given his entire confidence to his friend. His father had made no such restriction in the test he had imposed. It was Roy's own peculiar temperament which prevented him from confiding in any one; in consequence his trials were in reality much more severe than even his father could have foreseen. "Have faith in you! Believe in you! Well, I should guess. I don't understand it all--your refusing to play, and this--this small donation, and everything; but, believe in you! Roy, I would as soon cease to believe in myself." Roy's eyes were hot, and his lips were dry. "Thanks, old man. I knew you would. I can't explain--yet. But as long as you have confidence in me I'll go through it all right. God bless you, Jack." Young Beecham was more mystified than ever at this exhibition of emotion, but he felt at the moment something like the knight of old who sought quarrels to vindicate the fair name of the lady of his heart. To make the simile more in accordance with our own more prosaic times, Jack Beecham became Henning's champion, and went around for several days with a metaphorical chip on his shoulder, daring any one to come and knock it off. Of course, the chip represented Roy Henning's actions and intentions. After this interview, Roy looked a long time out of the study-hall window. CHAPTER VI ADVICE Whether Roy Henning's small donation to the boys' collection for the purchase of the pitching cage for the winter practice was the cause, or whether there was some other occult reason, the subscriptions came in very slowly. Many boys, seeing that Roy, usually the largest contributor to all such schemes, had given so small an amount, measured their own donations by his. The project, consequently, dragged along very slowly. The treasurer-secretary more than once called those interested together, and proposed that they should give up the plan. To this neither Shealey, nor Beecham, nor Bracebridge would listen. They were boys who, having once taken a project in hand, were determined to carry it through to success. Bracebridge encouraged Henning to continue his work of soliciting, but the latter found that he was working against some impalpable obstacle to success, the nature of which he could not divine. The boys were as free and as genial with him as ever. Every one appeared to like him as usual, yet withal there was an intangible something in the atmosphere, as it were, which appeared to militate against his success. Roy often tried to discover the cause. Was this silent but unmistakable change toward him, which had lately come over most of the boys, of his own causing? After much introspection he could discover no reason for blaming himself. His retirement from the field of college sports had been more than a nine-days' wonder. All his friends, not understanding or guessing his motive, expostulated with him, and time and again urged him to reconsider his decision. He had remained firm. His more immediate friends had long ago ceased to make the matter a subject of conversation in his presence, giving him credit for acting from right intentions, although what these were, now near Christmas, was as much a mystery to them as they were on the September day on which he had announced his withdrawal. Others were not so considerate. With a savagery often found among thoughtless but not necessarily ill-intentioned boys, they frequently discussed his "going back on his team," as they expressed it, in Roy's presence, with an almost brutal unreserve. "If I could play ball as you do, Henning," said a coarse-grained youth named Stockley, one day, "I would call myself a dog in the manger." "And why, please?" asked Henning, who was by this time getting used to such talk from those whose opinion he did not value. "The old reason. A bird that can sing and won't sing, ought to be made to sing. The honor of the college is at stake." "Your motto has no application in this case," replied Henning. "If I do any injustice to any one by not playing ball, then I ought to be the bird who should be made to sing. But I think you will have some difficulty in proving that I am acting against justice. As to the honor of the college being at stake, in that you know as well as I do, if you have any sense at all, that you are talking sheer nonsense." "I don't know whether I am," sneered Stockley. "I am not the only one who thinks there is a nigger in the woodpile in this affair. Your cousin was saying only this morning that he could tell the boys something why you will not play ball that would make things mighty ugly for you." "Now look here, Stockley," said Henning warmly, "you go and mind your own business and leave me and Garrett alone or--or it will be decidedly unpleasant for you." Stockley, coarse as he was, was observant. He saw Henning's fist close tightly, and he observed the muscles of his arm swell up for a minute. He discreetly moved some paces away. "When I want your advice upon my conduct," continued Henning, "I will ask it. Till then, mind your own affairs, and keep your tongue from wagging too freely about mine." The young fellow walked away, muttering some unintelligible words between his teeth. Roy saw no more of him for several days. Henning entered the Philosophy classroom with a flushed face and an unpleasant frown. "What's up, Roy?" asked Ambrose Bracebridge, seeing that his friend had been suffering some annoyance. "Nothing, Brosie; only I have had to talk pretty freely to one fellow who attempted the mentor business over me." "Nothing serious, I hope?" "Oh, no. I merely told him to mind his own business; that's all." "Do you care to walk?" asked Bracebridge, who saw Henning was very much annoyed. "Yes, come along," replied Henning. They walked some time in the face of a cutting wind, such as brings tears to the eyes. While facing it conversation was impossible. Presently they came to the base of a wooded hill which afforded them some shelter. Here they could talk at ease. "How much money have you collected, Roy, for the cage?" asked Ambrose as soon as both had finished rubbing their chilled cheeks to bring back the circulation. "I have collected sixty-four dollars in cash, but about eighty-seven has been subscribed. Why do you ask?" "Please do not think me impertinently curious if I ask you where you keep it." "Certainly not. It is in the drawer of the table in the dressing-room of the gymnasium. That room just off the playroom. You know, Ambrose, that is the place of meeting of all committees of the various college associations. It's safe there; don't you think so?" "Yes--perhaps," answered Bracebridge, with evident hesitation. "I would rather you keep it there than in your desk, or in your trunk." "Why? You appear uneasy. What's the matter?" "It may be foolish of me, but, Roy, I can not help thinking there is some ugly work being concocted. No doubt you think I am fanciful, but I have accidentally overheard here a word and there a word which I do not like." "From whom?" "I can not tell you from whom, because it is all too vague, and if I mentioned any name I may be doing an innocent boy a grave injustice. There is a good deal of talk against you. Many silly fellows have taken it as a personal affront that you refuse to play ball." "Pshaw! I----" "Wait, old fellow: of course that is all nonsense. It is no one's business except your own, and their talking is not worth your consideration. Nevertheless there are a few restless spirits here this year, and it is my opinion they are only waiting their chance to make trouble for you." "What would you advise me to do, Brosie?" "Why not put all the money you have collected into the hands of the college treasurer? He will take care of it for you. It will be safer in the office vault than in the committee-room." "I think it would be the better plan, but really I do not think there is any necessity for it. There is no one here who would attempt a robbery." "Maybe there is not; but as I said, it is better to be on the safe side." "All right. Much obliged. I guess I'll take your advice. Jack Beecham, only yesterday, hinted something similar to what you have just said about the ugly spirit against me. I wonder why it should have arisen, Ambrose, if it really does exist outside of your imagination. I have done nothing small or mean to any one. The head and front of my offending seems to be that I have withdrawn from next year's ball team. I happen to be a good player. Personally I regret having to take the course, but circumstances have occurred, which, in a way, compel this action. I can not divulge my reasons for so doing, even to my nearest friends--not even to Jack or you, Ambrose." "Nor do we wish to know them," replied Ambrose, "it is quite sufficient for us to know that you do not wish to give them. Both Beecham and Shealey, and of course, myself, have every confidence in you, and you may rely on our staunch support in anything that may happen. By the way, how does the prefect, Mr. Shalford, regard you?" "I do not know exactly," said Henning, cautiously. "You see, he is a great enthusiast for sport and games among us boys. I know I have vexed him by my decision. More than once he asked me to retract it. When I refused to do so, and told him I could give him no reason, he seemed, or at least I fancied he seemed, to be cool toward me." "Don't misjudge him, Roy," said the other, warmly. "It was only yesterday that he advocated your cause to half a dozen pessimistic baseball malcontents. He's all right. Before he had done with these fellows, they held very different views concerning you. Still, he has not influenced all in your favor, for, as you know, not all will take a common-sense view of things, nor listen to reason." Henning nodded assent. "The fact is," Ambrose continued, "the yard seems to be dividing or divided into two camps. One is pro-Henning, the other contra. Therefore, and I know you will take what I say in the right spirit, I want you to watch yourself and be quite careful in what you say and do." "Do you think I shall be attacked?" Ambrose glanced over the big form of his friend, and laughed loudly. "Not much. There is no one such a fool as to invite corporal punishment. But there are a dozen means of annoying and vexing without resorting to the lowest means--physical force." "I am really very grateful, Ambrose, for the interest you take in me. Be sure that, come what may, you shall never be ashamed of having done so. It seems to me that, without the slightest fault of my own, I am placed in a most awkward position. Come what may, I'll try to do nothing I should afterward regret." "That's right. I know you will be careful." The two shook hands with the warmth of confident friendship, as they began to retrace their way to the college. On their way home they were joined by Garrett, who still affected the sky-blue sweater, although he now wore it under his coat. In the presence of Garrett the two friends dropped the subject of their confidences, and the conversation became general. CHAPTER VII THE LITTLE SISTERS Time crept slowly, as it is apt to do with boys at school. To the St. Cuthbert boys it seemed as if the year had leaden wings, but at length the week before Christmas arrived. All were now in expectation of coming events. If anticipation is half the joy, then most of the boys were taking their Christmas pleasures in advance. Already the Christmas feeling was in the atmosphere. In various out-of-the-way places were stored bunches of holly and cedar and laurel. At all times of the day when boys where free from lessons, some one or other would be carrying strange wooden devices from place to place. Now one would be seen carrying to some out-of-the-way shed or unused classroom, wooden stars or double triangles. Another would partially and often unsuccessfully secrete a knot of clothesline. There never was such a demand for fine wire or binding twine. All of which meant the mediate preparation for decorating the chapel, study-hall, refectory, and even to some extent, the gymnasium. It was a pretty fiction among the boys that all the preparations had to be done in secret. It was fiction only, for the real fact was that, in both divisions, everybody was interested and everybody knew exactly what everybody else was doing. None entered into the work of remotely preparing for Christmas more heartily than Roy Henning and his friends, Bracebridge, Shealey, and Beecham. There is a certain skill required in decorating. To some this proficiency never comes. It is perhaps an innate quality. It had never come to Roy Henning: He was no decorator. He could neither make a wreath of evergreens, nor cover a device with green stuff creditably. Owing to this defect of at least a certain kind of artistic temperament, Henning was the subject of a good amount of banter from his friends. He took all their teasing good-naturedly, and admitted his utter inability to make or cover designs. "I have been thinking--ouch!" said Henning. The last word was spontaneous. It came from sudden pain, caused by the sharp point of a holly leaf penetrating his finger, which member he immediately applied to his mouth. "By my halidom," remarked Shealey, "'tis strange!" "Don't do it again," laughed Bracebridge, "but learn from experience what an awful and immediate retribution follows upon such a crime. Hast lost much blood in this encounter?" "I think each of you fellows has a screw loose," retorted Roy, still sucking his wounded finger. "I am sure Shealey is _non compos mentis_." "Sane enough to keep holly thorns out of our fingers," retorted Shealey. "But, fellows, I really have an idea," said Henning. "Halt! Attention! Stand at ease! Dismiss company!" shouted Beecham with mock gravity, and then with a military salute, he said: "Now, colonel, I am all attention. What is it?" "It's this, boys. It wants but five days to Christmas. Between now and the great day all our Christmas boxes will have arrived." "There's nothing very new in that idea," answered Jack Beecham. "History, just at this time of the year, has the pleasantest way in the world of repeating itself." "You'll be accused of having brains, Jack," said Henning, "if you keep on that way. If it is not too great a waste of gray matter, or too violent a cerebration for you, just try to listen to me for a moment." Jack Beecham fell against the wall, and fanned himself with his handkerchief. "Poor fellow! Isn't it too bad! and so near the holidays, too," he said. "Does any one know when the first symptoms appeared?" Jack turned to Shealey and Bracebridge. "Hadn't we better call an ambulance at once?" "You'll need one if you don't stop your nonsense and listen to me," said Roy, and he doubled up his great fist. His friends knew Roy's blows, although given only in jest, and having no desire for sore bones for Christmas, they were immediately all attention. Henning laughingly relaxed his muscles and allowed his hands to fall to his sides. "I thought I could bring you fellows to reason," he remarked. "We are all attention. Say on, say on," they shouted. "My idea is this, then. When we get our Christmas boxes, we shall each have much more than we need. Now you know the Little Sisters of the Poor maintain a large number of men and women in their institution. Without any settled income, don't you think it must often be a difficult matter for them to secure enough for the old people to eat and drink?" "Never thought anything about it. Guess it's true, though; but how does that affect us?" "Just this way," said Roy. "Let us ask every boy to give something out of his abundance to provide a feast for the old people." "Capital idea!" shouted Bracebridge. "I do not believe there is a boy who would refuse." "I agree with you," said Jack. "But the difficulty is," remarked Ambrose, "that we can not feast old folk on cake and nuts and candy. I suppose this is about all that comes in those boxes." "You mistake," remarked Roy. "I am sure you will find all sorts of cooked meats--turkeys, chickens, geese, and an unlimited supply of canned meats and delicacies." Bracebridge was surprised, but then he had not much experience in college Christmas boxes. He was inclined to be slightly incredulous. This was Ambrose's second year at St. Cuthbert's. As he had spent the previous Christmas at home, owing to the fact that he lived but a few miles from the college, he had not yet seen the college sights of Christmas time. Had he seen the hundreds of Christmas boxes arrive a few days before the great feast; had he learned that one of the smaller study-halls had to be converted into a temporary boxroom for the holidays; had he seen the contents of an average Christmas box from home, he would have been possessed by no doubt as to the possibility of the boys, presuming they were willing, to supply the inmates of the home for the aged poor with as bounteous a dinner as heart could desire. The proposal appealed to the fancy of our friends. They went at once to the President to obtain the necessary permission. "I give you leave willingly," said the head of the college, "and I am pleased to see my boys cultivating a spirit of charity and considerateness for others. It will bring down God's blessing on you all." "Father, it wasn't our idea at all," said Jack. "It originated with----" "We have another permission to ask, Father," interrupted Roy Henning. "What next?" said the President, smiling. "We would like to be allowed to go and serve the dinner to the old people some day during the Christmas week." "Dear me! What would three hundred and fifty boys do there?" "I don't mean everybody, Father." "Whom, then?" "Just enough to serve all their tables." "How many inmates are there in the Home?" asked the Father. "About two hundred, I believe," replied Beecham. "Very well, Henning; you may select two dozen boys to go with you." "Thank you, Father. When may the feast take place?" "Christmas day falls on Monday this year. Suppose you arrange matters for Wednesday. But Wednesday night there is to be the Seniors' play, isn't there?" "Yes, Father," said Bracebridge, "but I do not think that will interfere. We can have the last rehearsal in the morning, if necessary, or we can be back by three o'clock in the afternoon." "Very good," said the genial President; "arrange everything with your prefect; but remember the matter drops unless the response is generous among the students. It would not do to send half a feast." "There won't be any danger of that, Father," said Jack Beecham confidently. "Very well. God bless you for your charitable intentions," and they were dismissed. Beecham was correct. The students, almost to a man, became enthusiastic over the proposed feast. Abundance of provisions from the boys' boxes was donated. Every boy, instinct with the spirit of the season, gave something and gave it willingly. Some were offended because they were not allowed to give as much as their generosity prompted. One or two who were inadvertently neglected were very much vexed over not being asked to give their share. Many wondered why the beautiful idea had not occurred to them before. Others were so certain in advance of the success of the banquet that they then and there proposed to make it an annual occurrence. The little black wagon of the Sisters--and who does not know those wagons! a familiar sight in nearly every city in the Union--made several trips to the college on the Wednesday of Christmas week. Hitherto the boys had paid little attention to this vehicle as it daily drove modestly to the door of the kitchen. On this day it came triumphantly into the boys' yard, amid the lusty cheers of the generous-hearted lads. Even old "Mike," the driver, noted everywhere in town for his delicious brogue, was an object of special interest. Owing to the excitement of the occasion--the boys afterward declared this most solemnly--the driver performed the remarkable feat of making the old gray mare, which had seen almost as many years as her driver, canter, actually, positively _canter_, up to the classroom door where the provisions were stored. In the after-discussion of this startling event authentic documents were called for, and as they were not forthcoming the cantering incident remains an historic doubt until this day. This old gray mare was known---- The boys would not let the two nuns load the wagon. There were too many strong arms and willing hands for that. At last all the boxes were on the wagon, and old "Mike" mounted his chariot once more. This was a slow operation, for the old man's joints were stiff and he was no longer active. When one of the boys put the lines into his knotted rheumatic fingers, he broke through his usual taciturnity and said: "You are good boys: good boys. God bless yees all." "Three cheers for Mike!" shouted a lively youngster in the crowd. The signal was taken up, and it is safe to say that the old man never received such an ovation before in all his life. As the leather curtain fell the cheering boys caught a last glimpse of the faces of two smiling Sisters, jubilant over the fact that they were carrying home an unwonted treasure for their old people. When the wagon had driven clear of the mob of good-natured boys, Jack Beecham ran alongside, and lifting the flap said to the Sisters: "Twenty of us are coming by eleven o'clock to-morrow. So you are to do no work. We are going to set the tables and serve the old people. Please tell the Mother-Superior that she and the Sisters are to stand by and give the orders, and we will do the rest." And the feast itself! What a revelation the inside of the convent was to these gay, careless, happy boys. The sight of so much pain and suffering and dependence and resignation was to them a revelation indeed. To Ambrose Bracebridge, who eagerly accepted the invitation to don an apron and turn waiter for the occasion, the scene was one of absorbing interest. It will be remembered by those who have read the second book of the series of three which deal with the fortunes of the St. Cuthbert's students, that at this time Ambrose was a convert to Catholicism of about six months' standing, and consequently had seen little or nothing of the workings of the vast fields of practical charity within the Catholic Church. The immense Catholic charities of almost every imaginable kind which dot the land are so familiar to ordinary Catholics that they scarcely cause comment or notice. To Ambrose Bracebridge all was new and wonderful. As a waiter on the old people he did not prove a success. He did not do much serving, but spent most of his time watching the old people feasting, and the good Sisters looking after their comfort. "A penny for your thoughts," said the chaplain of the institution as he came up to Ambrose. "I was thinking, Father," said Ambrose, amid the rattle of knives and forks, "what a wonderful charity this is." "Yes? What impresses you most deeply?" "The retiring modesty of the Sisters, I think, and the wonderful way they have of managing these old people." "Anything else?" "Yes, I am impressed with the docility and evident gratitude these old people show toward the Sisters. How is the institution supported, Father?" "By the charity of all classes. Have you not often seen the Sisters' modest wagon on the streets? It seems to me that this one charity has touched the tender spot in the heart of the American people. Did you ever know a merchant, or a hotel manager, Catholic or non-Catholic, to refuse the Sisters?" "Never," replied the boy. "Yet, after all, this is Catholic charity working in only one direction. Did you ever realize what the Catholic Church is doing for the State in this country? It seems to me that the State would be simply overwhelmed if all the Catholic orphanages, asylums, hospitals, academies, protectories, deaf-mute institutes, and, above all, the vast system of parochial schools, which make, literally, a network of Catholic charity over the land--if, I say, all these were closed and the State had to do the work." "Some, of pessimistic view," continued the chaplain, who was evidently quite optimistic in his own views, "are always grumbling over the fact that many non-Catholic institutions of learning are so richly endowed, and that Catholics of the country are doing nothing for education. I believe there never was a greater mistake. It is true that, as yet, there are few large Catholic endowments. They will come in time. The money paid by Catholics in the interest of Catholic education--and, mind you, at the same time they are paying their pro rata share of taxes for the support of all secular institutions, including the public schools--the money paid by Catholics, I say, throughout the country, makes a magnificent showing when compared to the few highly endowed secular universities." "Is not this a rather optimistic view, Father?" asked Bracebridge. "I do not think so," was the reply. "Ponder over it, and you will see that what I say is correct." "Here, you lazy rascal--oh! excuse me, Father--here, Ambrose, you lazy rascal, get some of that cranberry sauce from that table. You would not earn your salt as a waiter, Brosie," and Roy Henning, red-faced and excitedly busy, laughingly pushed Ambrose in the direction of the sideboard. Thus the talk with the chaplain was abruptly broken off. Nevertheless, Bracebridge had received much food for thought for future days. He pondered to good effect, and the result was that his graduation speech at the end of that year was on "Catholicity, a State Aid," which was subsequently the cause of much comment. One event occurred during the old folks' dinner which was of great interest to some of our friends. Roy Henning, during the latter part of the feast, when the demand for the services of the voluntary waiters was not so urgent, frequently passed a few words with the chaplain who had acted as a sort of honorary general superintendent of the banquet. On one of these occasions Jack Beecham happened to be passing with a plate of fruit for the table in one direction, and Bracebridge was carrying something in the opposite. Both were near enough to inadvertently hear portions of what appeared to the priest to be a very interesting revelation. Both boys heard the end of a sentence: "Seminary! You?" "Yes, Father, please God." "When?" "Next year." "For this diocese?" "No, my own." "Ah! I am sorry." Bracebridge and Beecham exchanged glances as they passed each other. What a revelation was here for both in regard to Henning's conduct. Did not this explain a thousand things? As soon as the services of the two amateur waiters could be dispensed with, they came together in one corner of the room, and while wiping their fingers on the aprons the thoughtful Sisters had provided for them, they eagerly discussed their accidental discovery, but in a rather curious fashion. "Please, Brosie, give me a good kick," said Jack. "Why?" asked his companion. "Just to think, numskulls that we are, that we never thought just this about dear old Roy." "I do not see how we could. Roy never gave us the slightest hint." "No, but if we were not such ninnies--Oh! I say, Ambrose, do you think it is true?" "No doubt of it. 'Seminary--next year--his own diocese' tells the tale most conclusively for me." "I'm so glad! If any one of us fellows is worthy of being a priest, it surely is Roy." "Amen. But why has he kept it such a secret? Now all his actions are clear to me, although I confess I think some of them are mistaken or ill-advised." "I won't admit that until I know more," remarked loyal Jack. "That's right, too. But knowing what we now know, we can make things much pleasanter for Roy than they have been so far this year." "Yes; if only for that I am glad we were involuntary eavesdroppers." CHAPTER VIII SOMETHING HAPPENS The charitable boys returned from the Little Sisters early in the afternoon, aglow with the warmth of their own good deeds, in time to take a rest and an early supper, and put themselves in good condition for the play that evening. It was the Seniors' night, and they were to present "Richelieu" for the first time at St. Cuthbert's in years. The last performance of that great play, ten years ago, had been a brilliant success. The present generation of student actors were nervously anxious to equal, and, if such a thing were possible, to excel the reputation of the bygone players. To make the situation more critical, several of the old boys who had taken part in the play at its former presentation had been invited to witness its reproduction. Six or seven, stirred by the memories of old times, had accepted the invitation. They were the welcome guests of the college for Christmas week. It can, then, be well understood that this play was to be the great event of the holidays. The afternoon passed quickly and already the college theater was lighted. Already the boys had more or less noisily scrambled to secure the best positions. Suddenly the footlights shot up, sending a thrill of expectancy through the audience. Amid a rather unmeaning applause, for as yet it was certainly unearned, the orchestra took their places. Before the curtain, much expectancy; behind it a much larger amount of suppressed excitement. Some of the actors were busy scanning over their lines for the last time, and with regretful haste, sorry now that they had not taken more to heart the advice of the trainer and committed them to memory better. Others were thronging around the busy make-up man, getting into his way, and--as always happens--upsetting the spirit-gum used to fasten on artificial mustaches and beards. Roy Henning, in the scarlet robe and white fur tippet of _Richelieu_, nervously tugged at a blue silk ribbon which was around his neck, and patiently waited his turn for his make-up. Shealey was _De Mauprat_ and looked well in a black velvet suit. Ambrose Bracebridge had a decidedly comical appearance in a Capuchin's brown habit and cord, with fleshlings and sandals, as the monk, _Joseph_. Ernest Winters, who this year had been promoted to the large yard, was to impersonate _Richelieu's_ page, _François_, and certainly his brother Claude would have been proud of him could he have seen at this moment how fine he looked in his handsome doublet and trunks. The play had been slightly modified to allow of its presentation by college students. The _Julie de Mortemar_ had been for this occasion metamorphosed in _Julius de Mortemar_, and was consequently nephew instead of niece of the great cardinal. The adaptation of the lines had been cleverly done, so the transposition of this character did not greatly injure the play. Behind the curtain the actors could hear faintly the squeakings and tunings of the orchestra violins. Presently the first overture began, and the actors knew their time had come. The manager, with a commendable horror of delays and stage waits, and knowing that anything of that kind would ruin the very best production, had everything arranged for the opening scene when the music ceased. The manager's little bell rings once, twice, and up rises the curtain on the drinking scene in _Marion de Lorme's_ house. The great play of the year had begun. Is it not strange that so many really good plays open with a drinking or carousing scene? At best, there is nothing elevating in them, and it takes the finest kind of professionalism to make them even tolerable. The St. Cuthbert's college boys were not professionals. The consequence was that the first scene went but slowly. It was not until Henning, magnificently costumed as _Richelieu_, entered, in the second scene, that any of the players appeared at their ease. The round of applause which greeted his entrance with _Joseph_ seemed to steady the actors and give them confidence. There now occurred a strange thing during this scene, which led to much talk and fruitless speculation for many subsequent days. Henning made a good entrance. He began his lines in a rich baritone: _Richelieu_--"And so you think this new conspiracy The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox?-- Fox!--Well, I like the nickname! What did Plutarch Say of the Greek Lysander?" _Joseph_--"I forget." _Richelieu_--"That where the lion's skin fell short he eked it Out with the fox's. A great statesman, Joseph, That same Lysander." Just as Henning had finished the rendering of the sentence, "That where the lion's skin fell short he eked it out with the fox's," there was heard from the far right-hand corner of the hall a loud, distinct sound--one word. Clear and resonant, every one in the hall and the actors on the stage heard it distinctly. As nearly as letters will represent the sound it was "UGH!" The intonation of the one syllable was such as to convey without doubt to the hearers that the perpetrator regarded the words of the cardinal as practically applicable to the actor himself. Many heads were momentarily turned in the direction whence the sound had come. Henning himself gave a rapid glance to the corner of the hall. As he did so, he saw his cousin Garrett drop his head and look fixedly at the floor. Boys at a Christmas play do not usually fix their gaze on the floor. Henning felt that, for some reason or other, his cousin had made the interruption. For what purpose? Roy could not imagine. That it was Garrett there was no shadow of a doubt, for the actor plainly recognized the blue sweater his cousin wore constantly. Perhaps after all this time, thought Roy, his cousin was now trying to "get even" with him, as he had promised, for refusing to accompany Garrett to that carpet dance during the summer. Roy loyally put this thought out of his mind, but in doing this he was more mystified than ever, as it left him without a motive which could explain the curious action. Fortunately for the success of the play the intended interruption, and probably intended insult, did not sufficiently distract Henning to the extent of spoiling the scene. There was a pause but for a moment. "A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander," he repeated, and thus recovering himself, the play went on without further interruption to a most successful finish. The next day the attempted spoiling of the scene was the general subject of conversation. Many boys were uncertain who made the attempt. Henning did not refer to the matter when Garrett approached him. He accepted the many congratulations without evidence of either pleasure or displeasure, merely politely bowing. He appeared indifferent to praise or blame from his cousin. When, however, among his own special coterie of friends he was by no means passive. After breakfast the Philosophers met in their own classroom, which, as we have before stated, was a sort of clubroom for them. Everybody crowded around Roy. Some shook his hand vigorously, others patted him patronizingly on the shoulders, assuring him that he was "the stuff" without deigning to explain their use of that word; others, in their enthusiasm, thumped him on the back, and Ernest Winters, who because he had taken part in the play, had been allowed to come up to the classroom, presented him, amid the profoundest salaams, with a bouquet of paper flowers surrounded by cabbage leaves which he had purloined from the kitchen. "Ye done rale good, an' this is fer yees," said the young rascal. "He did that," said Jack Beecham, and turning to Roy he continued: "If I knew who it was who tried to rattle you, I would----" "What?" asked Roy. "I would--would punch his head!" replied Jack, and manner, look, and gesture showed how pugilistic were his inclinations at that moment. "Who was it, Roy?" he continued, "I wasn't on the stage just at that time, you know." "I do not know," replied Henning slowly. "Mental reservation," said Bracebridge laughing. "I do not know," repeated Roy, and his friends could get no more out of him. "By the way," said George McLeod, "are you going to finish taking the subscriptions for the pitcher's cage to-day, Roy?" "Yes," answered Roy. "The boys seem to have plenty of money now, and we want only about twenty-six dollars more." "That's splendid," said George, "we must have that cage ready by the time classes begin again after the Christmas holidays." "That reminds me," said Henning, aside to Ambrose Bracebridge, "that I forgot to take that money out of the table-drawer and place it with the treasurer. I intended to do it every day for several days past, but every time I put more money in I forget all about it." A shade of vexation passed over Bracebridge's bright features. He said: "I am sorry you forgot. It would be much safer with the treasurer of the college. But I suppose it's all right, anyway." "I have seven dollars in my pocket now belonging to the fund. Let us go over to the playroom, boys, and I will unlock the drawer and take the money to the treasurer for safe-keeping." The group of boys left the classroom and went diagonally across the yard to the playroom, which was situated under a large study-hall, and was a half-basement room. There were about two dozen boys in the playroom when our friends entered it. As Roy passed up the long room, first one and then another complimented the _Richelieu_ of the previous evening on his fine acting. Roy's cheeks flushed with pleasure. There was some of that semiconscious gentleness of perfect success about him. He was experiencing some of the pleasantest moments he had ever spent at St. Cuthbert's. Jack Beecham took the key from Roy and unlocked the door of the sports-committee room. The group that had recently left the classroom entered, those in the playroom paying little attention to them. Boys were accustomed to see various groups enter the small room for the purpose of discussing various sporting events and conditions of the college games. "How much have you collected, Roy?" asked Tom Shealey. "About seventy-two dollars--seventy-nine with this in my pocket. Wait; we'll see in a minute." He felt in his pocket for a small bunch of keys, but could not find them. "There! I have left my keys in my desk. Wait a moment, boys, and I'll be back," and he started for the classroom. "What a dastardly thing that attempt last night was," said one of the company. "I guess Roy knows who it was well enough," remarked Tom Shealey, "but cousin or no cousin, if he did such a thing to me, I would have to get a very satisfactory explanation, or by the nine gods he would pay dearly for it." "But Henning is too generous to take any further notice of it," said a boy named White, "but I wonder whether Mr. Shalford will move in the matter at all." "Haven't the least idea," said Shealey. "I do not see what he could do exactly. It seems to me it were better to let the matter drop, and I am sure that is Roy's wish too. Treat it with the silent contempt it deserves." Which speech shows that Shealey was not always consistent. Ambrose agreed with him, although at the time he was furiously angry. As _Joseph_ in the play he was close to Richelieu, and beneath the disguising grease-paint on Henning's face he saw the hot flushes of passion rise, for a moment. Ambrose thought that Roy was going to address the interrupter, but he saw him check himself in time to save a scene that would indeed have been memorable. "Go on, Roy," Ambrose had whispered. "A great statesman, Joseph, that same Lysander." Henning took the cue from Ambrose, and although trembling with suppressed indignation his friend knew the play was saved. "Where on earth is that Roy all this time?" asked Beecham. Just at that moment that young man reappeared, red, and out of breath. "Oh! I say, fellows, forgive me for keeping you waiting so long, but Mr. Shalford caught me in the yard, and--and, really, he was very complimentary." "Is he going to find out who attempted the interruption last night?" asked young McLeod. "Not if I can help it, George," replied Roy. CHAPTER IX WHO? "Have you your keys, Roy?" asked Bracebridge. "Yes, here they are." Henning moved to the end of the table where the drawer was, and picked out the key which was to unlock the table drawer. By this time all were engaged in a general discussion as to the kind of pitcher's cage which should be procured. "I can not make up my mind," said Roy, as he inserted the key into the lock, "whether to recommend the committee to get a wire backstop, or a canvas one." He had now opened the drawer and was feeling mechanically for his subscription book. "I think a canvas one will be better because it will not be so hard on the balls, and be less noisy, too. Why! where is my book--Ah! here it is." He drew out from the drawer the book containing the list of donors. In the back of the book Henning had made a rough sketch of what he supposed was wanted as a pitcher's cage. He showed it to the boys. "Who's the artist?" asked Jack. "Your humble servant," replied Roy. "H'm! Perspective all out. It looks two miles long. I guess the grease-paint man of last night could do better than that." "That's what you say, Jack," answered Roy good-naturedly; "I would like to see you do as well, anyway." Jack Beecham was not in earnest. Henning had caught him winking to the others while decrying his work. "Well," continued Roy, as he put his hand again into the drawer, "I would not ask Mr. John Beauchamps--to draw--for me--a--a barn door--Great heavens! Where's that money! I can't feel it anywhere in the drawer!" All this time Henning's forearm was in the drawer and his fingers were nervously searching for the bag. "Give yourself more room. Open the drawer wider, you goose," said Beecham. Henning pushed back his chair so suddenly that it fell. He pulled out the drawer to its full length. Then taking out the contents of the drawer he put them excitedly on the table. There was a large leather blotter, with pouches, a pad of athletic club letterheads, a lot of spoiled half sheets of foolscap, about a quire of clean paper, and a few small miscellaneous articles. "Did you have the money in a purse?" asked Bracebridge, who could not keep his anxiety out of his voice. "No; it was in one if those yellow bank canvas bags." "Look again through the pile of papers and be sure it is not there." They all searched. The money was gone. Those who saw Henning at that moment pitied him from the bottom of their hearts. For a few seconds he stood as one dazed. When he realized the force of the catastrophe which had happened to him he turned ghastly pale. His lips became livid. Around them were distinct white lines. For a moment the six boys stood in perfect silence. Ambrose Bracebridge seemed afraid to look at his friend. Henning stood as one dazed, not at present seeming to realize all of the untoward thing that had happened to him. It seemed to him as if he were under water and could not breathe. He panted for breath. A moment or two later a reaction set in and the blood rushed to his head, making his sight waver and his temples throb, and reddening his face to crimson. He felt as if he were falling forward, yet he remained motionless. "Fetch Mr. Shalford, Ernest, but tell him nothing. Say we want him at once," whispered Bracebridge to young Winters. The boy slipped out noiselessly and it is doubtful if any one except the last speaker noticed or knew of his departure. In half a minute Mr. Shalford came in. As he pushed the door open he saw the standing group, and began to laugh. "High tragics, eh? Are you all posing for a tableau? Where's the camera? What! What on earth is the matter with you boys? Speak some of you; what has happened?" They certainly did look a lot of frightened boys. Suddenly Roy regained the power of speech. With a full realization of his own predicament he threw up his hands in a despairing attitude. "Oh, oh, oh! I shall be branded as a thief!" Then he dropped on his knees and buried his face in his arms on the table. "That's quite dramat----" again began Mr. Shalford, but suddenly checked himself. He now saw there was something woefully wrong. A moment before Roy Henning had a strong inclination to burst out laughing at his ridiculous position, but his self-control was too great to permit him to give way to the nervous hilarity of misfortune. Just as Mr. Shalford entered the room the thought flashed across his mind of the consequences at home for him. What would his stern father say! Then a momentary thought of his mother's grief--and he gave way. Who can blame him? Roy was as yet only a boy, after all. At present he lacked the stability and poise of later years. Fifteen or twenty years later he would have borne the crash of a financial misfortune with a certain kind of equanimity. But he was young yet, living in boy-world, with all a boy's thoughts and feelings. And he wept. Do not blame him. It is more than probable that under the same circumstances you and I, and a hundred others, if we ever had a spark of boy nature, or boy feeling about us, would have done the same, and not thought it derogatory either. Mr. Shalford, putting his hand on Roy's shoulder in a kindly way, said: "What is wrong, Roy? What has happened? Your friends do not want to see you in this way." The poor boy raised his head from his arm. "It's gone. The money's gone. My character is ruined!" "That is not so, my boy. Be sensible. No one in his senses will ever accuse you. How much was taken?" "All, sir, except seven dollars in my pocket." "But how much?" "Seventy-two dollars." "Dear me! dear me! Seventy-two dollars! Why did you keep so large a sum in a place like this, Roy?" "If I had a particle of common-sense I would have taken Bracebridge's advice long ago. He recommended putting it away safely two weeks ago, but I forgot to do it. What a fool I was--fool! fool!" "Don't say that, my boy. Come, cheer up. There is not a shadow of moral wrong for you in the whole affair. It's a misfortune for you, truly. You can bear that bravely. We may catch the thief yet." "Yes; but, sir, I shall be suspected. Many fellows will point the finger at me. Oh!--oh! I think I had better go home and give up all my plans." Give up all his plans! In the bitterness of his heart he thought that all was ruined, that the secret hopes of a vocation were now irretrievably lost, character gone, opportunities wasted. Well, Roy Henning was not the first and will not be the last of those who, when sudden misfortune comes, grow exceedingly pessimistic and want to give up. This was the first great grief of Roy's life. All the petty annoyances he had suffered from Garrett and his undesirable clique sank into insignificance in the face of this overwhelming calamity. Oh, why had he not followed Bracebridge's advice, and, days ago, put the money out of his own keeping! "Yes," he said again, "I think I had better leave----" "No, no, no, no, Roy!" came the chorus from his friends. "If you do so, now, Roy," said Mr. Shalford, who motioned silence to the others, "you make the mistake of your life. You give your enemies--I mean those ill-disposed toward you, if there are any--a free field, and unlimited opportunities to vilify you. You can not, you must not go." "But I must." "No, no, you must not, Roy." "But I must, sir. Oh, I can't stand it!" "Well, if you must, think over your friends' sorrow at such a course." "Sir?" asked the bewildered boy, not at all understanding. "I say, think of our sorrow, your friend's sorrow at such a step. And, Roy, think of your mother's sorrow! A son with a blighted name! Don't you see that by running away now you make a tacit confession of some guilt? No, you must not go!" Long ago Mr. Shalford had surmised what were Henning's intentions and aspirations for a future career. He saw this affair would be an occasion of trying the very soul of the boy before him, and that it would either make or break him. He thought, and correctly, that he knew the character of the youth now in such deep trouble, and he was anxious that he should make no false step. He looked Roy straight in the eye, and said seriously: "Definitely, you must not go," and then, as calmly as he had spoken before, he made use of a somewhat enigmatic expression: "Eagles live on mountain heights where storms are strongest." A quick glance from Henning told the prefect that the boy understood him, and the saying also told the boy that the prefect had divined his intention accurately. Mr. Shalford had thought the words and the glance would be understood by himself and Henning only. In this he was mistaken. Two boys, who had overheard Roy's words to the chaplain at the Little Sisters, understood perfectly. "Very well, sir. I stay," said Roy. "That is right; that is sensible," said Mr. Shalford, but in a moment Henning burst out, with an agony in his voice that was piteous: "Oh, the shame of being suspected! What shall I do! What shall I do!" "Let me think what is best to do," said Mr. Shalford, who walked up and down the room once or twice. He realized that it was a critical moment in Henning's life, and he wanted to gain a little time. He decided that it was wisest to get Henning away from the scene of his misfortune at least for a few hours. "What you will do now is this, all of you. You--Henning, Bracebridge, Beecham, and Shealey, will go out at once for a long tramp, buy your dinners somewhere, and do not come home till dark. Have you plenty of money?" "Yes, sir; yes, sir, lots of it," answered the delighted three who were not in trouble. "I don't think----" began the despondent Henning. "That's right; just now do not think," said the energetic prefect. "It will do no good. Walk and talk instead. Come home tired out, all of you." Three out of the group were enthusiastic over the plan. But there were two other very long faces just then. George McLeod and Ernest Winters were not included in the generous proposal. "I say, Mr. Shalford, may not the kids come, too?" asked Tom Shealey. "The kids! Whom do you mean?" and the prefect turned and saw two very disconsolate faces. He thought for a moment. "Let--me--see. Records clear, Ernest? George?" "Yes, sir," answered the two, their hopes rising. "How were your notes in the Christmas competitions?" "Pretty good, sir, eighty-two," answered Ernest. "Fine, sir, mine were eighty-nine," answered McLeod for himself. In the meantime Mr. Shalford had caught Henning's eye. By a slight raising of his eyelids he wordlessly inquired if the company of these smaller boys would be acceptable. Roy answered by an almost imperceptible affirmative movement of the head. "Very well, then," the prefect said, "I suppose you both may go, too, but it's only another weakness on my part, letting small boys out all day. You big boys must take care of them." "Whoop!" shouted Ernest vociferously, and even the disconsolate Henning smiled at Ernest's resemblance in voice and manner to Claude, his brother, especially under stress of any pleasurable excitement. "Of course I will set about investigating this money matter at once," resumed Mr. Shalford, "and you six here had better keep the whole matter a secret, at least for a time." This injunction was useless. The prefect, this time, had reckoned without his host. At his own exclamation of surprise at the discovery of the theft, several boys who were in the large playroom, crowded around the door, unobserved by the prefect, whose back was toward them. Already the fact was known in the yard to some extent. Already had little excited groups begun to discuss the startling event. CHAPTER X A DAY'S ADVENTURE Mr. Shalford at once told the President of the theft, and what he had arranged for Henning. The head of the college agreed with the prefect in thinking that a day's outing for Roy would be the best distraction he could get. A change of scenery and of faces would be beneficial, and prevent the unfortunate boy's mind from dwelling too morbidly on his misfortune while the event was still fresh. "Why, why, why! What's this? Boys out of bounds? Where are you going? Dear me, dear me!" The President, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, shook his gray locks, and a long finger, at the six boys whom he purposely met on the snow-covered lawn in front of the college. "Where are you going?" he asked again. "We hardly know yet, Father," said Jack Beecham. "We have only a few minutes ago obtained permission from Mr. Shalford for a day off." "A day off! and what do you expect to do with it?" "Take a good tramp, buy our dinners at a farmhouse, and have a good time, Father." "H--hm! Have a good time, eh? Well, that's right. You can all be trusted. Hope you will enjoy yourselves. Wait. Where are your skates? If I were you I would take them with me. In your journeying you may come across a frozen pond, and then you would regret being without them." "That's a good idea, Father. We will go back and get them," said Jack. "Do, and meet me here before you start." The boys turned back into the yard, and the President went to his office. A few minutes later he met the boys. He was carrying a good sized parcel. "Were you not some of the charitable boys who, out of their abundance, provided the old folks with a feast yesterday?" Not one of those engaged in that enterprise answered, but Ernest Winters said: "Yes, Father, these four big fellows were some of them and I think they are all a set of mean fellows." The four, and the President, too, looked surprised. "Why do you think that, my child?" he asked. "Because they didn't give any of us smaller boys a chance to give anything toward the feast." The four big "mean" fellows burst into a laugh. "Never mind, Ernie, this time," said Jack Beecham, "we had too much anyway. You shall have a chance for the next spread." The President smiled at Ernest's vehemence, and at the nature of his charge. "On your way," he said to Henning, "I want you to call at the Little Sisters and give them this package. I learned last night that although your dinner there was a great success yesterday, still there are many poor creatures, both men and women, who are in the infirmaries and could not attend. Here are a couple of boxes of cigars for these old men, and two boxes of candy for the old women." The boys were delighted to be given such a mission. A bright smile of welcome spread over the features of the Sister who answered the door, when she saw these college boys again. "Come into the parlor, young gentlemen, and I will call Mother." The Superioress soon came. She was profuse in her thanks for what the students had done that week for her charges. "May God bless you all," she said. "Our old people, since yesterday's dinner, have done nothing but talk about the kindness of the young gentlemen in remembering them. Many extravagantly funny, and some really comical things were said in your praise," and the nun's eyes twinkled and a smile stole around the corners of her mouth at the remembrance of many a quaint bit of Irish humor from the old men. "Oh, tell us some of the things, Mother," said the impetuous young Winters. "I am unable to reproduce any of it. I should only spoil it if I were to attempt it. You must come and hear them yourselves some day." Henning then told her their mission. "Please convey my thanks to the President. All of you must visit the infirmaries and distribute the gifts." Whether this is what the President intended--we are inclined to think it is--that visit was the very best thing that could have happened to Henning in his present frame of mind. There is nothing like witnessing the sorrow and misery of others to make us think less of our own. For the first time in his life Henning was face to face and in close touch with pain and suffering and disease and all the calamities of impoverished old age. What was a misfortune like his to that of being doubled and rendered helpless by rheumatism? Here one was totally blind, but marvelously patient. There another whose distorted hands rendered her powerless to help herself. Another had to be lifted and tended and fed as a little child in the helplessness of old age and years of sickness. Yet all, under the fostering charity of the nuns, were clean, docile, grateful, and as cheerful as their condition would permit. Yes, the visit was very beneficial to Henning. It is true that Roy's greatest distress was, after all, in the anticipation of what was to come. He knew there were many who were by no means kindly disposed toward him. Would these set afloat rumors and reports? Would they attempt to blacken his character? He greatly feared they would. The chagrin caused by having lost the money entrusted to him through want of a little prudential forethought, or through mere forgetfulness of what he had the intention of doing, was bad enough. The imputations and the innuendos he dreaded far more. He realized that life could be made very bitter for him. But after all, what was all he might have to suffer, even granting the gloomiest view of the future to be the actual one, in comparison to the chronic and hopeless pains of these poor people in the Sisters' infirmaries? He left the convent in a much more cheerful frame of mind than he had experienced since the discovery of the theft. His companions gladly saw the change. They did their utmost during the long tramp over the hills, by quip and prank and song and jest, to make the time pass pleasantly. It was a splendid day for a winter's walk. It is true there was no sun, but neither was there a breath of cold air stirring. There was an even gray sky, a motionless atmosphere, and just sufficient snow to accentuate the beauties of a winter landscape, but not enough to envelop everything in an indiscriminating white pall. It was an ideal winter day in which to be outdoors. The fresh snow that had fallen during the night and early morning remained on the trees, loading down every branch and twig. The well-known bridle-path through the woods, along which the boys passed merrily, had a double carpet, the upper one of snow, and beneath that a spreading of dry autumn leaves. The great charm of a windless snow-covered forest is the absolute silence that prevails. Nothing was heard by the travelers save the distant occasional bark of a shepherd-dog, or a far-off train whistle, sounding like a dismal appeal for help, and subconsciously regarded by the hearers as an irreverent intrusion upon the silence of the solitude. Once in a while from an overweighted bough the soft snow would fall, but with a muffled sound as if fearful of breaking nature's sabbath calm. As the boys traveled merrily on, here and there they saw the "vestigia" of birds or rabbits, and once they discovered what they supposed to be deer tracks in the snow. Descending to a pretty hollow they saw a scene which delighted them immensely. In the bottom of the hollow, which in the summer time was a beautiful glade in the forest, there was standing out alone with a clear space around it, a magnificent snow-laden spruce tree. Each graceful downward curve of the limbs sustained its load of pure white snow. The symmetry of the forest king was unmarred, but appeared glorified by its covering of whiteness. The six were enraptured. They gazed long at the beautiful sight and would have delayed much longer had not Jack Beecham, who had assumed a temporary leadership of the excursion, warned them of the unwisdom of staying too long in one place. A little farther along they saw an ideal winter scene. A large, comfortable farmhouse, with all the sheds and barns of a well-kept farm, lay at their feet under a mantle of white. From the broad chimney arose a straight column of blue smoke, telling of warmth within. In the barnyard were several head of comfortable-looking sheep and fat cattle were contentedly ruminating in the shelter of a huge straw stack. One of the inmates of this cosy looking farmhouse had, probably unconsciously, added the last touch to complete the artistic effect of this scene of gray and white. In the door yard on a clothesline were three or four brilliantly red woolen shirts which heightened by contrast the more somber colors of the scene. "That's our Mecca if the fates be propitious," said Tom Shealey, as the boys were viewing the scene here described from an elevated point at least a mile away. "It is a comfortable looking house and doubtless has a well-stocked larder. I wonder if the Dowsibel of the Kitchen could be induced to turn a spit for us." "'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished," observed Beecham, "for already I believe I could eat a couple of sheep and a Michaelmas goose." The boys had already walked a good seven miles. All were beginning to feel tired and to realize the necessity of a good meal. "Suppose we can not be entertained there?" suggested Ernest Winters. "Then we shall have to tramp on till we find a place where we can be--perhaps ten miles more," said Roy Henning teasingly. "O--oh!" groaned Ernest. Roy laughed. "Well, do not despair, little one. Nine miles from here I know of a wayside hostelry where we may perhaps get some year old crackers and eggs, with an apology for coffee, and have the privilege of paying Delmonico prices." "Oh, oh! Nine miles--oh! Sixteen miles and crackers! Oh!" groaned Winters again. All burst out laughing at the comical look of despair Ernest's face had assumed. "Look here, Ernie," said Roy again, "if it comes to the worst we can eat our shoes and our skate straps, and our gloves for dessert." During their chatter they had continued their walk down the hillside toward the comfortable-looking farm. When about half way down the road they saw a jolly looking, red-faced man--in the clear atmosphere they could easily distinguish his red face--come out of the farmhouse, take his stand on the stoop or veranda, shade his eyes with his hand, and look a long time at the approaching boys. "We shall know our fate in a few minutes," said Jack Beecham in a tragic whisper to Ernest. "If we are not welcome he will set his savage dogs on us as soon as we get near enough, and then we shall be hungry orphans out in the cold world, sure enough." But no such catastrophe occurred. After gazing a few minutes the man went into the house and closed the door. The boys opened the yard gate with trepidation, fearful of the onslaught of some vicious watchdog, and more afraid than they would have been owing to the rascal Jack's ominous forecast of the possibilities. To their great relief no canine enemy appeared. All they saw pleased them. There was an air of prosperous, generous plenty everywhere. The hay-mows were bursting with sweet-smelling hay. The wheat barn was congested with unthreshed grain. The cows, pigs, and sheep were fat, and evidently well cared for. Repose was everywhere. In such a place as this, thought Roy, life must be well worth the living. "Cave canem," whispered Bracebridge, as he espied the watchdog lying on the porch of the house. This old Roman warning, "Beware of the dog" was, on this occasion, unnecessary, for when the animal saw the visitors he merely wagged his tail and did not take the trouble to stir. He seemed too fat and too contented with life to care about molesting a mere parcel of college boys, and his instinct told him they did not belong to the genus tramp. As they reached the porch of the house the good-natured looking man who had watched them coming down the hillside opened the door. The boys noticed that he had put on his coat to welcome them. While making his observations he had been in his shirt-sleeves. "Welcome, young gentlemen. Come right in by the fire," was his hearty greeting. "Mother, Mother! Here are some young gentlemen from Cuthberton," he called to some one in the large living-room. A kind, motherly woman appeared in the doorway. She was clad in a warm homemade linsey dress, with a white handkerchief over her shoulders, and white muslin cuffs to match. A black lace coif surmounted her snow-white hair. The boys saw a very smiling, kindly face in the doorway greeting them. "Welcome, welcome, my dears. You are welcome. But, please, scrape the snow off your shoes before you come in. I am very particular about that, am I not, Roland?" and she glanced affectionately at the big man beside her. "Yes, yes, indeed she is," he remarked humorously. "Would you believe it, gentlemen, she leads me an awful life about my dirty boots--awful--awful!" "Roland," said the elderly lady, "how you do talk!" The husband gave a sly, comical wink to the boys, who immediately understood the nature of the amicable bantering which they soon found was going on constantly between these two. "Take off your overcoats, my dears, and come up to the fire. You must be cold. There's no wind, but it's near zero. And did ye walk all the way, from St. Cuthbert's College? You must all be tired." She saw at once they were college boys. "Did ye now! Well now! well! well! My! but that's a long way to walk. Roland, go ye and get another hickory back log, and start a good blaze. Now sit ye there and warm yourselves. I'll be back in a minute or two," and the kindly woman put down her knitting and bustled out of the room. "This is fine!" said Tom Shealey. "We are in luck for sure." "I wonder where she has gone," ventured Ernest Winters, in a whisper. "Gone? Um! um! don't you know, youngster?" said Jack Beecham, with a shrug, and a stage whisper. He was a terrible tease. "Better keep your eyes on your skates and overcoat, Ernest. Of course she has gone to gather all the hired men on the farm who will soon be here to drive us off the premises. The ogre of this castle won't stand for any such invasion as ours. You can see it in her eye." But Ernest was not to be caught a second time. "You can't fool me this time, mister. I think--but hush! here she comes." She came. With her came two of her maids bearing with them eatables--sweet homemade bread, apparently created to make a hungry schoolboy's mouth water, delicious pats of golden butter, red cheese, and an enormous pitcher of new milk--what a lunch for hungry boys! "I am very glad you came," again remarked the dear old lady. "To-day I give the farmhands and the dairy maids a sort of Christmas week feast. It is a holiday in this house to-day. We don't have dinner to-day until after two o'clock, and as that is late and you must be hungry with your long walk already--my! it's nigh onto eight miles to the big school, isn't it--you had just better take a snack before dinner-time. Come, sit up to the table, my dears; that is if you are warmed enough." The young fellows did not need a second invitation. Hunger is a good sauce. Growing boys are always hungry and the sweet, wholesome farmhouse fare was extremely enticing. Such butter! No oleomargarine there. Were it not, as mentioned before, that boys have a perpetual appetite, I am afraid that the amount of bread, cheese, butter, and milk disposed of would have seriously interfered with the enjoyment of the forthcoming dinner. At all events it wanted considerably over two hours to dinner-time. CHAPTER XI AN AFTERNOON'S FUN If the writer of these veracious chronicles knows anything about boys--and he has been accused of having that knowledge--he is sure that his boy readers, and his girl readers, too, for that matter, will expect an account of that famous farmhouse dinner. Well, we can not delay the story by merely describing what people eat; yet it was a gorgeous feast for our friends. The enjoyment was greatly enhanced by the complete unexpectedness of it all. Not the least part of this enjoyment was the hearty, extraordinary welcome given to a troop of boys who had never been to the house before and were entire strangers to the good people who entertained them so royally. A few minutes after two o'clock the farmer took from a shelf in the common living-room a large seashell and went to the porch and sounded it lustily, much to the astonishment of George McLeod, who had never seen a shell put to such a use before. "How did you do it?" he asked. "Just blew into it. Try it yourself," said the farmer. McLeod tried and tried again, but could not produce a sound. "What is it for?" he inquired. "To call the hands to dinner. We have no bells or whistles out here in the country, so we use a horn, or a big shell, which is the next best thing, and I believe it sounds farther. On a still day I have heard this shell five miles away." "Come, boys; wash for dinner," called the motherly housekeeper. They were not allowed in the kitchen while the maids were dishing the dinner. They were taken to a side porch and there shown a rain-barrel and several tin pans and soap. A large round towel hung on a nail close by. The boys enjoyed this primitive method of performing their ablutions. The dinner was a surprise even to those boys who were not unused to occasional big dinners at home. George McLeod said that never in his life had he seen so large a turkey, but it was found none too large after it had passed the guests and traveled to the end of the table. And the stuffed ham! And the mince pies, and tarts, and rosy apples and nuts, and that old-fashioned plum-pudding! Well, we must stop: it is not fair. There were two wings in the rear of the house which the boys had not noticed when descending the hill in front of the dwelling. To one of these all the maids of the large household retired after dinner, and the farmhands went to the other, where they spent the rest of the afternoon in smoking and enjoyment until it was time to feed and water the stock, milk the cows, and do the other necessary daily farm chores. Roy Henning and his companions, after the dinner, were invited to sit around the blazing yule log. The old lady sat in the center of the group in an old-fashioned armchair whose back reached some twelve inches above her head, and which had large, broad, comfortable arms. It was well padded and comfortable, and was covered with a serviceable chintz of a soft green color. She sat in the midst of her guests, before the blazing logs, a very picture of content and matronly dignity. Her husband sat next to her, and their guests were arranged on either side. With fine tact she drew out each boy and made him appear at his best. Although, owing to the generous welcome given them, all reserve and bashfulness had vanished long before the dinner, yet the coziness of a winter afternoon indoors made them chatty and even confidential. They told her of the play the night before and of its success. They found interested listeners in host and hostess. "I should so like to have been there," said the old lady. "I am so fond of good dramatic productions. Providing the tone is correct there is no more elevating form of amusement than the drama." "Hold on there, mother," said the husband, "grand opera is finer. In that we get all that dramatic presentation gives, with the addition of excellent music." "You know, my dears," said Mrs. Thorncroft, for that was the old lady's name, "my husband is an enthusiast in matters musical." "So is Ernie Winters," said his friend George McLeod. "Is that so?" said Mr. Thorncroft, enthusiastically. "Is that so? Well, well! Now I wonder, mother, whether these young gentlemen could not sing some songs for us. Wouldn't that be fine, eh?" "Jack Beecham can sing, ma'am," said George again. "Oh! you keep quiet, youngster," said Jack. "I won't. He sings first rate, sir." "Capital! Anybody else?" "Yes," said Beecham, "George McLeod there, who is so fond of getting other people into difficulty, can sing, too." McLeod shook his fist at Jack. But it was well known that he had a good voice. Then, to the infinite delight of the musical farmer, songs and glees and madrigals and rounds were sung. It was an impromptu concert, but of no mean order, for the lads were well trained and had a good stock of songs. They wished, properly, to make a return in some way for the kindly treatment they had received and were still receiving. "Holy Night" was given, and "Good King Wenceslaus," and "God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen," "Angels We Have Seen and Heard," and many others. Then followed the college songs, and the concert was closed with the old favorite of St. Cuthbert's, the "O Sanctissima." When the singing had ceased there was a momentary silence, during which the six boys exchanged signals and glances. Suddenly there were two very startled people in the company around the ingle nook. The old lady half arose from her chair in consternation and amazement. Her husband stared in wonder when he heard such a vociferous and unexpected sound. Had the boys gone crazy? Certainly the old people, kind and hospitable as they were, for at least one minute thought so. Such an unearthly noise! It resembled nothing so much as a wild Indian warcry. After all it was only the college yell. In the school-days of Mr. and Mrs. Thorncroft no such thing had ever been dreamed of. Living now in seclusion out in the country amid plenty and a certain rustic refinement, this elderly couple had never heard that modern accomplishment of a college man--the yell. It may be exhilarating to the college man; its use may be within the modern bounds of propriety, and it may, among the coteries of the more advanced, be considered the correct thing; but it is certain that the old lady, who had been educated in a French convent in her youth, hearing the yell for the first time did not think so. Her unformulated idea, judging from her looks, was that it was an indication of atavism--a going back, in one particular--to man's former state of savagery. The boys were amused at her surprise. She then saw that it was something done for her entertainment. They evidently thought it was something very fine. These lads lacked, just now, what one may call perspective. They lacked the proper appreciation of the correctness, or fitness, of things. They knew the college yell was the most enthusing thing on earth to them when used on the campus in a grand rush to victory, but they did not think, or realize, that the same yell given in a small room might be startling and even offensive to an elderly lady. "You must excuse me now, boys, for a little while," said the farmer. "I must go and look after my men. I will be back soon. Mother"--he always called his wife by that name--"are all the walnuts gone?" "No. Dear me! I never thought about them. I will get some." She returned with a large dish of walnut and hickory nuts. In lieu of the usual table nut-crackers she brought a flat stone and two hammers. While the boys were busy cracking and eating nuts she said: "You do not know, my children, what an unexpected pleasure your visit has been to me. Would you like to know the reason? Very well, I will tell you," she seated herself comfortably again in her green chintz-covered chair. "I love boys because somewhere in the world there are wandering two of my own dear children. Both left home when they were about the age of you four big boys, and I love to remember them as such even now. They were fine lads, with rosy healthy cheeks, and they were good. You lads with your bright eyes and clear skins, and good pure faces make me see my own two darlings once again. Do I long to see them? Ah, yes. Oh, how much, how much!--once again before I die. But I am not grieving about them. No. Every night I commend them to the keeping of our blessed Mother, and I feel that wherever they may be a mother's prayers for them must be heard. I am sure that Our Lady is taking care of them." "Why did they leave home?" asked Henning sympathetically. "Ah! the wanderlust. The desire to see the world. But you boys must come and see me again and I will tell you the story. There is no time now, as I see my husband coming from the cattle-shed." "Mother!" said the cheery voice of Roland Thorncroft a moment later, as he opened the door, "would not these young gentlemen like a good skate on the meadow pond? It has been swept by the wind, and is capital ice." Jack Beecham looked at his watch. It was already four o'clock. "We are thankful," he said, "but I am afraid we must do without that pleasure. It is quite time we started for home." Husband looked at wife. She nodded, and then he nodded. Something was settled between them. "Don't you like skating, boys? I thought you did, seeing each had a pair of skates along." "Very much, sir," said Tom Shealey, "but we must be starting now." "Come along, then. Bring your skates. There is no wind and it is not nearly as cold as it was this morning. You will not want your top-coats." The boys looked puzzled. The host saw the look of mystification on their faces. He burst into a merry laugh. "You simple children!" he said, as soon as he could. "Do you think that after being our guests all day, and singing for us as you have done, we are going to let you walk home! No, no. You just get your skates and come along with me. I'll show you the finest piece of ice in the country. You can skate there for an hour or an hour and a half. By that time coffee will be ready, eh, mammy? And a bobsleigh. We are going to have just the finest, most musical sleighride this evening you ever saw, or heard. You had better come along, mother, too." "Really, I have half a mind to." "Do, do, do, Mrs. Thorncroft; do, do!" chorused the boys. "I will see by the time you return for supper." When the time came for starting, however, she decided to stay at home. She had prepared a lunch for the journey, for there was no time now for a formal supper. After each boy had taken a bowl of steaming coffee, she bade them adieu. Such handshakings! Such good-byes! The jolly lads subdued their merriment momentarily when she kissed each one a farewell on the brow. It was a beautiful moment in each one's life and was never forgotten by any of them. They had a glorious ride in the moonlight and the frost. And so it happened that six merry boys came joyously into the college yard at about seven o'clock, happy, tired, excited, and chattering like magpies about the unexpected good time they had enjoyed. "I am glad the plan worked," said Mr. Shalford to himself. The boys never learned that the dinner at Thorncroft's was a prearranged affair. As soon as he had decided to send Henning and his companions out for a day's change, the prefect had told one of the farmhands to get a fast horse and arrange with the Thorncrofts for the boys' entertainment. He had suggested to Tom Shealey and Jack Beecham the best route to take without arousing their suspicions, and everything had happened just as he had planned. Some men are positively ingenious in their charity. CHAPTER XII REPORTS Perhaps it was not the wisest course to have pursued, after all, on the part of the prefect, to have allowed all the boys who were present at the discovery of the theft to be absent for the whole day. Twelve hours was ample time for a number of rumors to be born, grow strong, and become, in the minds of some, established facts. There were, unfortunately, all too many willing to believe, not maliciously but thoughtlessly, the wildest and most absurd report. A few were anxious to find something more than a mere misfortune in that which had befallen the treasurer. These did not hesitate to sit in judgment on their fellows, to discuss and impute intentions which with knowledge any less than omniscient they could not possibly possess. Almost as soon as the discovery had been made, the news spread like wildfire through the yard. Excited boys gathered in groups and discussed the situation. It was certainly the biggest sensation St. Cuthbert's had witnessed in many a day--more exciting than the Deming affair. The rumors were legion and as contradictory as numerous. "Hi! Jones; have you heard the news?" asked Smithers, about half an hour after the discovery. "No. What?" asked Rob. "Haven't heard of the robbery?" "No. What robbery? No one has stolen our costumes, have they?" Rob Jones was full of the play of the night before, and just at this moment he considered the costumes, if not the most valuable, at least the most attractive things for a thief to make away with. "Costumes! Not much! It's cash. Hard-earned cash; at least cash subscribed by other people. The delectable and very pious Henning has managed to lose seventy-two dollars which the boys had already subscribed for the cage." "Managed to lose! I don't understand. Speak plainer." "I mean, then, that Roy has lost that money and the report is that he was robbed of it." "You miserable cur!" said Rob Jones. In a flash he saw Smithers' motive. There had evidently been a robbery. No matter how, or when, or where, without knowledge of any of the details whatever, Rob Jones was as sure as he was sure of his own existence that Roy, big, generous, noble-hearted Roy, was guiltless of the least shadow of complicity. As soon as he realized that Smithers, in the mere telling of the event, was so coloring the facts by innuendo and sneer that Roy's name would probably suffer, Jones became furiously angry. "You miserable cur!" he repeated, and made a spring for the other's throat. Luckily the high collar he wore saved Smithers to some extent, or he might carry to this day some ugly marks. Jones fairly shook him, as a mastiff would shake a whelp. "You cur! Is this the way you would blacken one's reputation! I tell you Roy is innocent, and you shall apologize to him for your dastardly insinuations. Come with me, come with me, I say," and he began to drag the now frightened boy across the yard to where he thought Henning was. Smithers, trembling, began to say something, but it was unintelligible, which is very likely to be the case when another has a strong hold on the speaker's throat. "Hold on there, Jones. You can't find Henning. He's gone out. I saw him and several others leave about half an hour ago," said John Stockley. A crowd had now gathered about the two. "A fight! a fight!" was the word that ran around the yard. Rob Jones relaxed his hold, but did not release the boy. Holding his fist close to his captive's face he said: "Now take it back, or I'll thrash you till you can't see." "Wha--what did I say?" asked Smithers. "You know very well what you said. You said that the delectable and pious Henning had managed to lose seventy-two dollars of the boys' money. That's a lie. Take it back, or I'll----" "It isn't a lie," whimpered the choking Smithers. "Didn't he have charge of the money? And hasn't it been stolen?" "But did he, as you say, manage to have it stolen? That is, is he implicated in the theft, as you imply, or is he not? Speak out, man, if you have a spark of honor in you. Speak out, or I'll thrash you if I have to leave here to-morrow." Generous Rob! There were few boys at the college at this time who knew that this same Rob Jones once played the rôle which Smithers was so unsuccessfully attempting. He had repented of that long ago, but never had there come a time, for which he had often wished, when he could safeguard another's reputation, as a species of reparation for the damaging of Howard Hunter's in the long ago. Irrespective of the idea that actuated him, Jones was quite convinced, even without knowing the simplest details, that Roy Henning must be free from all moral blame. Roy Henning was a boy whom Jones honored and loved. All these circumstances must be considered when we pass judgment on the vehement burst of passion which put young Smithers in danger of strangulation. He muttered some kind of apology to the absent Roy, and Jones with a positive grunt of disgust flung the frightened boy as far as he could send him. He stumbled along for several paces before regaining a steady footing. Mumbling something inaudibly, he slunk away, but more than one of the students saw an ugly, ominous look on his face as he went. "I hear all sorts of reports," said Stockley; "tell us the true story, somebody." There was no lack of talkers, and almost as many theories. Few versions of the affair agreed in substantials. In the course of the morning all sorts of foolish rumors were flying around. One was, that Roy Henning had been caught in the act of pocketing the money and had been instantly expelled. In confirmation of this, the question was asked: "Where is he? No one has seen him since the discovery!" Another busy rumor had it that six boys were implicated and had been summarily dismissed. "Did not the President see six boys off the premises this morning?" was advanced as a reason for this wild guess. Robert Jones, the absent boy's champion, happened to hear this last stupid remark. "You set of babbling geese! You lot of old women! Here you go and jabber away people's reputations as easily as--Oh! you make me sick! Look here, you fellows, those six boys, and Henning among them, are out for a day's holiday. I say the President would rather send home six dozen dull-heads such as you fellows, than these six. They have been given a privilege that you ninnies would never get if you were here fifty years. Mark my words! To-morrow morning I shall call upon some of you brainless gossips--some of you silly babblers--to repeat before them what you have the impudence to say behind their backs." In this manner Rob Jones did much to keep down the public excitement, and to reduce all stupid talk to a minimum. Mr. Shalford, also, had put something of a quietus on many senseless and ugly remarks which some malicious or thoughtless boys had set afloat. While admitting that the loss of the money was to be deplored, he did all in his power to exonerate Henning. "Although the loss is severe," he said, "yet after all no one individually suffers much. It is true that, probably, we shall not be able this winter to purchase the much-wished-for cage. Well, we have never had one yet, and we can wait a little longer. The whole affair might have worn a much worse aspect than it does. Suppose it had been one of our own boys that had been guilty! I shudder to think of such a thing! Now do not spread idle and useless conjectures as facts. We shall endeavor strenuously to discover the thief, and until he is discovered it were better to make no rash surmises. Especially must we refrain from accusing any one of the crime until we have positive proof of his guilt, and until he is discovered it were better and safer to make no surmises. Some very stupid rumors have already reached me. Pray do not lose all credit for common-sense. Let every boy act with moderation and justice. No one has a right to constitute himself a judge of his fellows. If any well-grounded suspicious circumstance comes to light, I am the one to be consulted and no other." With such sensible remarks, and Rob Jones' generous defense of his absent friend, much of the excitement had died down before the return of the six excursionists. When they arrived, wrapped in buffalo robes and hoarse from singing on the way, all the boys had assembled in the college theater to hear a burnt-cork minstrel entertainment and to listen to the orchestra. Supper was prepared for them in the infirmary, and they were told that they might occupy beds there "for one night only" if they wished to avail themselves of that privilege. Thus it happened that Roy Henning and his friends met none of the boys that night. They had no opportunity of judging the public pulse until the next morning. Tired as Henning was from the exercise and the strain and excitement of the day, he could not sleep. After tossing from one side to the other for an hour he got up, and, throwing a blanket around him, sat at the window and began to do the worst possible thing under the circumstances. He began to think and brood. CHAPTER XIII WHAT HENNING REMEMBERED There was much in Roy Henning's disposition to make him a creature of temperament. Had he not been so strong and muscular one would sometimes be inclined to imagine that he was possessed of the peculiarly feminine accomplishment, yclept "nerves." For the least reason, and sometimes apparently for none, he was all exhilaration and enthusiasm. On such occasions everything was the brightest of bright rose-color, and the failure of a project in hand was not even to be dreamed of. Should anything go ever momentarily wrong in a pet scheme, he became the veriest pessimist. All would go wrong; all the world was conspiring against him. If it rained at such times, even nature herself was in league against him. While he was to a large extent a creature of temperament, it must not be supposed that he had not a high appreciation of manly qualities. None, perhaps, at St. Cuthbert's, certainly none of his day, had loftier ideals. With these and with his splendid physique he represented as fair a type of Catholic early manhood as could be found. Henning had one peculiar trait, and to this may be traced much of the trial and vexation to which he had already been subjected, and much of which was to fall to him for the remainder of his time at St. Cuthbert's. He remained too much self-centered. This was frequently an occasion of trouble to him. An instance: it will be remembered that he was told by his director not to tell any one save his parents of his intention of entering the ecclesiastical state. He took this advice as absolute, and on it molded his conduct, with what inconvenience to himself we have already seen. It is not to be wondered at, then, that he kept his thoughts and his fears and troubles arising from the loss of the money to himself. All that day, except that first burst of grief, he made no outward manifestation of what he was feeling or suffering. Of course he was thus depriving himself of the sympathy and help which his friends were only too ready to offer. Actuated by the highest of supernatural motives, he nevertheless deprived himself in his difficulties of the guidance and assistance of a faithful friend. Roy had yet to learn that troubles told into sympathizing ears are more than half healed. Small wonder then, with this habit of reserve, if the circumstances in which he found himself on this holiday night of Christmas week paved the way for a very gloomy meditation. He recalled his early school-days. Why had he been so unlike other boys at school and at college? They were always full of self-assertiveness and self-reliance; he had always been timid and retiring. Perhaps it was the reflection of that timidity he had always felt in the presence of his father. Had his college life been a happy one? Unfortunately, for the most part, no. Not until last year--one year out of seven--when he had the company and full sympathy of such noble characters as Howard Hunter, Claude Winters, Harry Selby, Frank Stapleton, and others. With such characters as those he could not help being happy. But all these had gone; passed out of his life. Oh, if some of them were here now to help and show him what to do! Those dear boys! And oh, that visit to Rosecroft, and that nearly fatal accident when he so narrowly escaped being struck by the chute boat! There was this consolation, that if the clouds thickened around him he would get Ambrose Bracebridge to take him over to Rosecroft Manor. There was Mrs. Bracebridge there, who would understand him and who could always help and direct and encourage him. Thinking of her, Roy became more cheerful. I have said that he was a creature of temperament. Here it served him in good turn. He began to take a brighter view of the trials he knew awaited him on the morrow. Was he not entirely innocent? Who would dare to impugn his character? He would face all bravely, explain how he discovered the theft, and blame himself publicly for his imprudence in keeping so much money locked in a common table drawer. Then who would dare to say a word against his integrity! All would pass over soon. He would write a full account to his father, who would doubtless make good the loss. "By the way," he suddenly thought, half aloud, "am I responsible? Must I make restitution of the lost money?" This was a puzzling question which he could not decide. He determined to consult his spiritual director the first thing in the morning. But wouldn't he like to catch the thief! This last thought led him to a mental survey of all persons who might possibly be guilty. To his credit, he spurned the idea that any one of the college boys could be the culprit. No St. Cuthbert boy could do such a thing, and if by chance it should happen to be a student, were they not all Catholic boys? Would not the first confession the thief made result in a full restitution of the ill-gotten goods? He had little hope that any such thing would occur, but he had not the slightest idea that any college student would prove to be the delinquent. He endeavored to imagine a way the theft could have been accomplished. It must have been committed between seven o'clock on Wednesday night and six on Thursday morning, when the boys rose. It could not have been done later than a minute or two after six, because it was the custom of a number of boys who were in training to use the playroom as a kind of indoor running-track immediately upon rising and before they took their shower bath. He remembered that the door of the committee-room had been locked by himself in the evening just before the play began. It is true that the only window of this room was not fastened, but there were iron bars on the outside. He remembered now that one of these bars--they were half above ground and half in a window well which was covered by an iron grating, that one of these bars was loose, for he now recalled the fact that yesterday he had seen a boy move one of them with his foot as he stood on the grating. Could the thief have gone through the window? Henning suddenly clutched his chair in the greatest excitement. There had flashed into his memory an incident which he had witnessed the night before, but which until this very moment had not come to his memory. He remembered now that after the play last night he stood at the Philosophy classroom window, and across the yard he had seen a boy crouching down at these very bars. He had paid little attention at the time, as his mind was full of the _Richelieu_ he had just played. The electric light in the yard was so located that it put the boy, the window, and one-third of the sidewalk in deep shade. The other part of the sidewalk was very bright. He now remembered that when he first saw the boy he was in a crouching position. He had not paid much attention, and other things occupying his mind, he soon forgot all about it. What was that other thought? Ah! now he remembered. It was that wretched attempt to spoil the second scene of the play. He now recalled that for some time he forgot all about the boy at the grating but when he did think of him again he remembered seeing the boy as if he were just rising from his knees, which, as he stood, he brushed with his hand. At the time the boy received very little attention from Roy, who now remembered having vaguely wondered why any one was out in the yard when all, except the players, were in the chapel at evening prayers. Chapel bell had sounded immediately after the play, so the actors could not divest themselves of paint and disguises in time to attend. Who could that boy have been? Last night Henning was not interested enough to find out. To-night he would give a great deal to know. He remembered now that the person, whoever he was, wore a black soft felt hat, which was pulled down well over his eyes and hid a great portion of his face. A soft felt hat would not identify any one. There were dozens of them in the yard. Oh, if he could only remember how the boy was dressed! "Great heavens!" he ejaculated aloud in sudden, intense excitement. He arose and clutched the blanket around him and folded his hands across his breast. His face was very white. He trembled. He began to pace the floor, muttering as one demented, or at least as one under the strongest stress of excitement. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. At one time he thought he was going to faint. He had made a discovery, and the discovery sickened him. The boy he saw at the window grating had worn a blue sweater! "No, no, no, no!" said Roy to himself many times. "I can't--I won't believe it. I must be mistaken. It can not be he! No, no! Yet no one else has a sweater of that color!" By this time he had left his room and was excitedly pacing up and down the lengthy corridor. Luckily he was barefooted, or he would have disturbed everybody. The more he thought over his discovery the more he became convinced of the identity of the burglar. His conviction and wretchedness grew in proportion. "It can not be! It can not be! Impossible! Impossible!" he muttered, as he strode up and down. "Andrew is mean in many things, but not a common felon! It can not, can not be true!" and he was hoping against hope for his family's sake. Henning was never so excited in his life. For a long time he walked up and down on the cocoa-matting. His blanket trailing behind him, often caught the leaden binding of one of the strips of matting. This would be raised about a foot and fall with a bang; his excitement prevented him from noticing the noise he was making. Not so the old infirmarian, whose room was at the end of the corridor. Peering out, he at first thought he saw a ghost. But ghosts do not trip on cocoa-matting. He followed the disturber of his repose. Henning, still under pressure of strong excitement, walked the whole length of the corridor. He turned suddenly to encounter the angry infirmarian. "Oh, it's Henning! What are you doing at this unearthly hour of the night, disturbing my sleep?" said the old man in an unusually sharp tone for him, for he was generally mild and kindly. The official at first thought it was an ordinary case of somnambulism, but he soon found Henning to be very wide-awake. "I've found it--the secret. I've got it," exclaimed Roy in excitement. "I guess you have--bad," said the old man with grim humor. "Well, if you boys will fill yourselves up with rich plum-pudding and cake in the daytime, you must expect to suffer at night. There now, get back into bed, and don't disturb the whole house with your nonsense." "Oh, if I were only sure, I would settle the whole thing to-morrow," muttered Roy. It is doubtful if, in his excited condition, he had seen the infirmarian at all. "I'll settle you in the morning if you don't get back to bed at once. Get now." But Roy did not move. He had lapsed into a thoughtful mood. He stood, with his chin on his hand, motionless. "Do you hear me, boy? It's time to stop this Indian ghost-dance business. There's no sense in breaking an old man's rest. Get to bed." The infirmarian was fully persuaded that the whole affair was only a practical joke, such as even sick boys, or those, at least, who sometimes get passed into the infirmary on the plea of sickness, are not always above playing. Seeing that Henning did not move or pay any attention to his words, the infirmarian took hold of his shoulders and gave him a vigorous shaking. This operation had the effect of bringing the distracted boy down to the knowledge of mundane things at once. "Eh! oh, ah!" he said in a bewildered, sheepish way. "I've made--a horrible--discovery!" "You'll make another very unpleasant one in the morning if you don't get into bed at once. Don't cause any more disturbance." Without another word Henning went back to his room, and softly closed the door. He did not get into bed, but continued his ruminations. "Andrew! Andrew!" he moaned, "I did not think it would come to this!" He dropped his head on the window-sill and thought for a long, long time. It was in some degree a contest between self-interest and family pride. It was a long struggle, and the result of these cogitations he announced to himself as he threw the blanket from his shoulders across the bed. They were comprised in two short sentences: "I must keep silence! I _will_ keep silence!" The decision may have been fanciful, or it may have been heroic. We shall see later. It led him into complications, the nature of which he little dreamed. CHAPTER XIV FACING THE BOYS When Roy Henning entered the college chapel at half-past six to attend Mass, his movements from the time he appeared at the door until he had taken his seat were watched by many scores of pairs of curious eyes. To even the small boys, who came near the big fellows only in the chapel, Roy was an object of deep interest, for by some means the reports and rumors of the big yard had seeped through to the small division, and the most wonderfully distorted stories had been circulated. Henning had been attacked, fought desperately, conquered and bound, three men single-handed. He had been captured and carried away by burglars (wasn't he absent all day?) to their cave, and gained his liberty by the most daring feats of skill and bravery! Young imaginations are active, and young tongues more so. The Philosophers--Henning's class--occupied the front benches in the chapel. When Bracebridge and Henning came in they had as yet met no boys since the public knowledge of the discovery of the robbery. Roy was in some peculiar way quite conscious that his advance along the aisle was causing quite a commotion, although its manifestation was decorous on the part of the boys, owing to the place in which they were gathered, and to their reverence for its divine Guest. Rob Jones occupied the outer seat of the bench. As the two friends were passing him he turned his knees aside for them to do so and took Roy's hand and gave it a warm squeeze. The pressure was gratefully returned. Roy took heart. Much strengthened by this show of sympathy, he determined to meet all inquiries after breakfast and give all the information he possessed to any one who should ask. His regret over the loss was as poignant as when it was first discovered, but in some way he now felt that he could face all the boys and answer all their questions. He could not have done this the day before. Perhaps Jones' unspoken sympathy had given him courage. As he expected, a large group gathered around him after breakfast. "How did it all happen?" asked John Stockley, anxious to learn the particulars down to the minutest detail. Henning gave them all the information he possessed. When the discussion had died down a little, he said: "As far as I can see, the thief must have entered through the window." "From the yard side, or the garden side?" "There is but one window, if you remember, in the committee-room, and that is on the yard side. All the windows on the garden side are in the playroom outside the committee-room." "That's true, come to think of it," said Stockley; "but could not the thief have gone in by the playroom by way of the partition door?" "I do not think so," answered Roy, "because, you know the door has a Yale lock, and I am the only one who has a key to it, except Mr. Shalford." "It is not likely that he robbed the drawer," said Stockley with a laugh. "We are all very sorry for you and you have our sympathy." Stockley looked around, and the others in the group nodded in affirmation. "Thanks. You are very kind. You can not regret this occurrence more than I do, especially since I failed to take Bracebridge's advice to put the money in a safer place." "It's lucky that a fellow like you lost that money, and not a poor beggar like me," remarked Smithers, who was standing on the outer edge of the gathering. Henning looked sharply at the speaker: "Why?" he asked. "Simply because a fellow like you who always has plenty of money will find no difficulty in replacing that which is gone. Such a thing would be impossible for impecunious me," and the speaker turned his empty trousers' pockets inside out, and spun around on his heel. A few laughed, but the majority were silent, not liking the clownish exhibition of bad taste. Henning was, naturally under the circumstances, in a nervous condition. He at once suspected that this Smithers was merely the spokesman of many others, and that he was expressing their sentiments as to what his line of action should be. Whether he acted judiciously or not in this immature stage of developments, we leave to subsequent events to determine. He replied, and rather warmly, too: "I don't know so much about that, Smithers. It may turn out to be the misfortune of all, at least of all who contributed. I really do not remember whether you gave anything or not. I shall certainly not make up the loss unless the President fully convinces me that I am under obligation to do so. I am going to see him now. Even should he decide against me I do not know whether I shall be able to replace the money." A faint murmur of surprise and dissatisfaction, Henning was convinced, ran through the increasing group, as he, in company with Bracebridge, moved away toward the President's office. The two walked slowly away from the crowd of boys. Bracebridge appeared to be thinking deeply. He had something to say, but hesitated to say it. Ambrose, with the instincts of a born gentleman, was always extremely careful of the feelings of others. "Roy!" "Yes." "You said just now to that cad of a fellow that you did not know----" "Whether I should be able to repay the money. Yes. What of it?" "That is a startling statement----" "Not so very. But in the first place I am not at all sure that I shall be held responsible. Look here, Brose----" They stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the President's room. "Look here. Supposing there had been a fire, and the money had been burned. I should not have been told to restore it, should I?" "I do not know that you would be held." "Now if one undertakes to hold money temporarily for others, and takes ordinary precautions for safe-keeping, do you think he would be held responsible for it if it were stolen?" "But the safer plan would have been----" "Am I held to take the safer plan? Of course, I regret that I did not take the safer plan, as you suggested, but am I held to have taken the safer plan? Wasn't the ordinary precaution sufficient? The door of that room was locked, the drawer of the table was locked, and it was not generally known that I kept the money there at all." "You seem to make out a good case for yourself," said Bracebridge laughing, "but we will let the President decide the case. It is too hard for us. But I did not intend to talk about that." "What then, old fellow?" "You told Smithers, for the benefit of the whole yard I take it, that you did not know whether you would be able to pay back the money. Now I thought----" But he stopped awkwardly upon seeing the deep blushes suffuse Henning's brow. What had he said? Were these blushes of shame or vexation? What could possibly be the matter? "I--I--thought--that--I thought----" he stammered, at a loss how to proceed. "Go on, old man. I know that whatever you would say, you do not intend to wound me." "Thank you, Roy. That's perfectly true. But perhaps I should not have broached the subject at all." "Go on; go on." "Well, if you insist. I thought that you always had plenty of money. From what you say it seems that this is not the case. Now if--if you will allow me--if I might--if you would not be offended--if--oh! you understand me, Roy," he blurted out at last. "I want to help you pay it back." Henning did not speak: indeed he could not have done so just at that moment. There was a very big lump in his throat. He hemmed and coughed once or twice, but that only made it worse. Bracebridge saw his friend's embarrassment, but did not speak. He took Roy's hand. "I understand--true friend," said Roy, huskily, "but I can not explain." He was silent for some time. He then said, partly to himself and partly aloud--"but I can. Why should I not do so? He is true and loyal. My father put no conditions of secrecy on me, or on his strange action. Ambrose?" "Well?" "Will you listen to me?" "Of course I'll listen to you." "Thank you. In order that you may know why I believe I shall not be able to pay back that money, I must first tell you of a peculiar thing my father has thought fit to impose upon me." "Go ahead then, but since confidences are in order, let me tell you one first, which will make your story easier to tell, more probably. Next year you are going to study for the priesthood!" "How on earth did you learn that?" "At the Little Sisters' dinner. I was an unintentional eavesdropper, and I heard you say to the chaplain, as I was passing with some dish or something, these words--'for my own diocese: next year.' Let me congratulate you, Roy, on your choice. I have always thought ever since I first knew you that you were worthy of that high calling." "You do surprise me, indeed," said Roy, "but your knowledge does not make my story the easier to tell." Roy Henning then told Ambrose of his desire to enter the seminary, of his broaching the subject to his father during the last vacation, and of the strange test to which his father had thought fit to subject him. "Now, Ambrose," he said, when he had finished his narration, "you may understand my conduct in refusing to play ball this year, on account of which so many of the boys seemed so disappointed. I have met with so many annoyances since last September that more than once before this loss of yesterday I had all but determined to leave old St. Cuthbert's, and be quit of it all. I would have done so if it had not been for you and Jack and Tom." "I am sincerely glad you did not." "Well, I do not know whether I am. But let me go back to my subject. You see, that with my father's present peculiar view of things, it is by no means certain that he will make good this loss, and if he refuses I shall be in a bad pickle." "Oh, Roy!" said Bracebridge, with a vehemence that was almost passion, "let me do it. Let me do it for you. You know my father. You know that he has every confidence in me; he is not a crank, and----" "Stop, Ambrose," said Roy, "I can not allow you, even by implication, to speak disrespectfully of my father. That I do not understand his motives is true. That it is mighty hard on me is equally true, but he is my father." "There!" said the other in dismay. "I am always putting my foot into it. Forgive me. I didn't mean anything; indeed I did not. Oh! Roy, you know what I mean. Let me help you out of this. It's as easy as A-B-C, you know. No one need know. Pshaw! one would be a poor friend, if, when quite able, he should hang back." "Thanks, dear old fellow. Many thanks. We will see. We will see. If it comes to the worst, I won't hesitate to talk to you again about this. In the meantime we will drop it for the present." With this Ambrose had to be content. The two friends then rapped at the President's door. CHAPTER XV SUSPICIONS Upon the whole, Roy Henning was well pleased with the manner in which the boys had received him. Over-sensitive as he was, he had expected that they would either accuse him of complicity, or openly blame him for the loss of the money. Taken altogether, they behaved remarkably well. The majority had real sympathy for him in the awkward position in which he found himself. With a fine regard for his feelings, no one, after Roy's first announcement of his probable incapacity to refund, mentioned openly to him the question of restitution. Everybody understood that the President had arrived at some decision on this point, but all were in the dark as to its nature. The days passed into weeks. Every effort was made to trace the thief, but without success. It became finally the general conclusion that some outsider, in no way connected with the college, was the culprit, and that he had gotten off safely with his booty. But in the many impromptu committees, organized in moments of unusual zeal for the purpose of "doing something," the unanswerable difficulty always arose--"How could a stranger know there was money in that particular room of the dozens in the college?" The pitcher's cage was not purchased that winter. It was noticed by the boys that Andrew Garrett, as far as they could observe, never once spoke to his cousin about the loss. Roy, owing to the result of the thoughts of the sleepless night he had spent in the infirmary, imagined that Garrett had good reasons for keeping clear of him. He was keenly alive to Garrett's every action, resulting from what he believed to be well-grounded suspicions. He did not fail to notice one peculiarity on the part of his cousin. Very soon after the robbery Garrett discarded the sky-blue sweater which had made him so conspicuous a figure in the yard ever since September. Roy confessed to himself that he was unable to attach any importance to this. The theft had been too genuine a sensation at the college for all discussion to die out soon. In the course of time the whole yard appeared to be divided into two factions or parties. One side was loyal and strenuous in upholding Henning, claiming him to be beyond reproach and spotless in his integrity. As may be surmised, the leaders of this party were Jack Beecham, Tom Shealey, Ambrose Bracebridge, and Rob Jones, the first defender of Roy in his absence. These companions knew Henning well. They called him "Don Quixote." They teased him often, yet they knew that he was the soul of honor. Any one of these would as soon suspect himself as cast suspicion on Roy. The existence of this party was the outgrowth of a popular indignation against a few boys who had, in discussing the robbery, persistently left the impression that they considered that there was an unsatisfactory mystery about it. Out of kindness to Roy, little--scarcely anything--of what his friends heard in the yard reached his ears. When he did not happen to be present his friends were by no means backward in denouncing the opposition. Henning asked no questions, even of his friends, yet by a kind of unconscious assimilation he became aware of the strong sentiment against him, and of the strong resentment of those opposed to him. These things he learned more by averted glances and partially concealed avoidances than by overt act or speech. He never mentioned this to his friends, who thought he did not observe it. No one had ever told him of Jones' catlike spring at the throat of Smithers, yet Roy learned of it in some way, and while he was filled with gratitude toward Jones it only tended to confirm his own opinion that there was a large party antagonistic to him. There was now only a mere speaking acquaintance between Henning and Garrett, which, as cousins, they could not avoid. They observed the merest civilities. About the middle of February Henning and his friends were surprised to note that Garrett was spending money very freely. He had always availed himself of every little luxury that could be purchased within the college bounds, but now it seemed that he was more lavish than ever. Spring was approaching. Garrett purchased two or three baseball bats, a fine shield, mask, catcher's glove, and a number of the best baseballs. He evidently paid the highest prices, for upon inquiry it was found he had had no communication with the prefect, or with the sports' committee who usually secured some discount for cash. Clothes, shoes, hats, and ties were also lavishly purchased. What could it all mean? To add to the mystery Stockley and that boy Smithers, who had turned his pockets inside out in proof of his impecuniosity, were also spending considerable money, although a much less amount than Garrett. All this, of course, strengthened Roy's suspicions. Where did he get all the money? And why was he making such a lavish display? Roy was, nevertheless, puzzled by the evident fact that while all noticed Garrett's free purchasing, no one appeared to suspect him of any connection with the lost funds. Henning could not in conscience mention his suspicions to any one. If any one would but broach the subject, then he would talk and take advice on what was the best line of action to pursue. His common-sense told him that to accuse his cousin publicly on his mere suspicion would be worse than useless. To add to the complications of the situation, within a week or two of Garrett's expenditures Roy himself began to spend money freely. Where it came from was a mystery which was not cleared up for many a day. He expended quite a sum on books, baseball goods, shoes, etc. It is quite certain that Henning did not realize how large the majority was who were in opposition to him. Had he done so he would have acted with more discretion, for the time was critical for him. Even some of his best friends were sorely put to it to account for his outlay. More than one of his staunchest supporters began to waver in their allegiance. No one doubted his integrity, but some were not pleased with his want of prudence. Before closing this narrative we shall explain where this money came from, why Roy bought the particular goods he did, and why he bought them at this particular time. "I wonder how it is," said Smithers, "that Henning has so much money to spend just now." "Don't know I'm sure, but I suppose it is all right," replied Stockley. "But isn't it strange that he who has been so close all the year should change and be lavish so suddenly?" "Oh, come off! that's an innuendo! Give the fellow a show. You are hinting that it is the subscription money he is now spending, and that, consequently, he was the thief." "Oh, say, don't put it that strong!" said Smithers uneasily. "But that's what you mean, all the same. I don't like him, but to do him justice, I don't think--I'm sure--he had any hand in getting away with that money." "Why?" "Oh, because--because I don't believe he had, that's all." "But that's no proof." "Didn't say it was. I said it was my belief." Just at that moment Bracebridge and Garrett joined the speakers. "Look here, Bracebridge," said Smithers, "Stockley says that he doesn't believe that Henning had anything to do with taking that money." "I'm sick of all this talk," said Ambrose angrily; "just as if any one who knew Henning at all could entertain such a thought for a moment!" "But why is he spending so much just now?" insinuated Smithers. "I don't know, and I don't care. It's none of our business anyway." But he did care. He was very uneasy. He remembered what Roy had told him of his home affairs. He was sorely puzzled, yet his loyalty did not waver. "For my part," said Garrett, "although Henning is my relative and I am therefore naturally concerned in all that he does, I can not help thinking that his action is a little unfortunate." "For your part," retorted Ambrose, "and for your own credit, you had better say as little as you can." "For my part I shall say what I choose, and to whom I choose." "Then do not choose to say it to me, for I won't hear it," and Ambrose walked away, very angry. "Humph! the great mogul is getting quite huffy," remarked Smithers. "Well, never mind, Garrett, for although Henning is your cousin you are not to blame if he falls under suspicion." In his heart Garrett knew Henning was innocent. But he did not like him. He was jealous of him. He saw in him qualities of mind and heart which he knew he himself did not possess, and, as is the case with all small natures, he was jealous. He had neither the wish nor the courage to state his belief in Roy's innocence. On the other hand Garrett despised Smithers. The boy was poor. Every one knew that. But poverty is no disgrace, and never at St. Cuthbert's has it been a subject of reproach. There are some natures which become vicious because of their poverty. Smithers was one of these. He was one of those who, in season and out of season, was forever reiterating what he called his suspicions. This was the more base, because, had there been any foundation for them, gratitude should have compelled him to remain silent. On more than one--on many an occasion--Henning had quietly and unostentatiously helped this boy out of little financial difficulties, such as paying his library fees and fines, securing for him tennis shoes, and little things of that kind. Garrett had just heard all this for the first time, and the better side of his nature at that moment, notwithstanding his strange remark to Bracebridge, was in the ascendant. Secretly he was ashamed of his comradeship with Smithers, who was perhaps one of the most undesirable boys at St. Cuthbert's. "Shock" Smithers--so named on account of the permanently untidy condition of his hair--was, therefore, very much surprised indeed at what he next heard from Garrett. "Of course," Garrett began, "as you speak with so much certainty about my cousin, you have positive proof of his guilt?" Smithers began to laugh. He thought that a good joke. "I see no laughing matter. I ask you a plain question. You have proof of Henning's guilt--which for some reason you are withholding?" "Not--not exactly proof, you know, but, eh--but you know, eh--you know as well as I do how suspicion points to him." "Then you make all this to-do on mere suspicion?" "Of course. We have nothing more than suspicions, have we?" "Yes, certainly. You must have more than suspicion when you state publicly that Roy deserves to be in State's prison." "I--I did not say that. I--" "Yes, you did. I heard you myself, and on that I largely based my own judgment. Don't lie." "I did not say that definitely, you know. I said that if what is said about him is true he ought to be there, Andy." "You are a liar! I myself heard you say it, and what is more, I have only just now heard how Roy has been treating you ever since September, giving you books, money, and buying things for you. You're a skunk! that's what you are." Garrett walked away. Smithers was left in no enviable frame of mind. The principal part of his chagrin arose, not from the fact that he had been mean and cowardly, but that it had been discovered that he had received assistance from any one, and especially from Roy Henning. CHAPTER XVI ROY MAKES A MOVE Roy Henning gave much anxious consideration to the ugly tangle in which he found himself involved. He sincerely, but unavailingly, regretted that he had allowed himself to become the treasurer. Perhaps, he thought, if he had followed the letter of his father's wishes this unfortunate business would never have happened. The more he thought over what he remembered to have seen on the night of the play the more convinced he became of the guilt of one who would be the very last he could wish to be implicated. At times he doubted and wavered in his convictions. Was he absolutely sure that it was his cousin whom he had seen that night? Could it not have been some one else? There was no one else in the yard who wore a blue sweater. He was sure he had seen this on the boy who had entered the window. Yet was he absolutely sure that it was Andrew? When he put this question to himself and demanded an answer, he always gave it unhesitatingly in the affirmative. Yet, strange to say, at other times he doubted the accuracy of his conclusions. Might he not be mistaken after all? There was a possibility. The figure was in the glare of the arc light so short a time, and in the shadow so much longer. Was it not possible that he was mistaken after all? The size of the boy certainly corresponded with his cousin's build and height, but, after all, most boys of about the same age resemble each other in build. Oh, if it had not been for that soft hat pulled down over the face! Could he have obtained but one glance at the face in the strong electric light there would be no hesitating. But this the thief took precautions against. The leaf of the hat was drawn well over the nose, making it impossible to see the face. There was no question about the blue sweater being there. The short black coat which Garrett usually wore over the sweater was there too. Was there a sufficient motive on the part of Andrew to commit such a crime? On this point the boy was much puzzled. Garrett, he knew, had plenty of money. There could be no pecuniary inducement to commit the crime. Ha, perhaps there was an inducement after all. Before Christmas had it not been an open secret that several boys had lost heavily--heavily for boys at school--on some foolish betting? Mr. Shalford had heard of this foolishness, found out a few of the bets, and forced the winners to return the money. He had broken up, apparently, the habit which periodically becomes a temporary mania with a certain class of boys. Perhaps Garrett had lost a bet and wanted money! Henning could not believe that any personal pique against himself would be a sufficient inducement for his cousin to go to such lengths to gratify it. Felony is high payment for the gratification of spite. That threat of "getting even," which Garrett had used against him last summer, Roy believed to be the expression of a momentary vexation. It is certain he did not connect it with anything so serious as this robbery. Long ago he had forgotten it, and he supposed Andrew had done so too. What then, supposing it were he who had committed the crime, could have been Garrett's motive? Roy could not fathom the difficulty. He had to leave it unsolved. He saw there was no proportion between Garrett's little pique and the enormity of this deed, which would forever brand the perpetrator as belonging to the criminal class. Surely Andrew had more sense than to do such a thing; and yet! "Why, oh! why did I," said Roy to himself, "go mooning about and looking out of that window after the play that night! Why didn't I go to bed at once, like the rest? Then I would never have been haunted with this memory. I am going to get this thing settled, and that soon. I'll see Garrett privately if I can, publicly if I must. I will make him exonerate me from all suspicion. I can not imagine how any suspicion became attached to me. He would hardly dare to set it afloat. This thing has to come to an end, and that at once." These tormenting thoughts came to his mind one Sunday afternoon in early spring. Everything out of doors spoke of joy and cheerfulness. The trees had burst their buds, and the winter bareness of landscape had been once more turned into a thing of beauty. No trees were as yet in full leaf, but there was a delicate pale-green tracery on bough and twig, a sign of life and luxurious beauty later on, and full of the beauty of promise now. Beneath the feet the young grass was rich and soft, while here and there were seen the first white flowers in the vocal hedgerows. Full of thoughts by no means attuned to the happy season, or in keeping with the loveliness of the day, Roy started out to find his cousin. He was just in the mood to "have it out" with him. He had worked himself up to a pitch of resolution, in which was blended no little anger at the injustice of his position. He was determined to have the wretched affair settled at once and forever. He was morally certain that no one save himself knew of his cousin's supposed delinquency, because, he argued and probably correctly, if any one else had known it, it would have been divulged long ago. Searching the yard, study-hall, and gymnasium, as well as the large reading-room and playroom, he could find no trace of Garrett. "He is out walking, I suppose. Oh, well! I'll catch him before supper and see what he has to say for himself." Henning did not care to have his friends, Jack and Ambrose, with him just now. He wanted to be alone to think over the situation. With this object in view he went toward the college walk, a beautiful winding path, overshadowed by fine old elms, beeches, and oaks. Here and there along this half-mile of graveled way rustic seats had been placed for the convenience of the students. The path was irregularly circular. In the center the ground was much lower and was thickly covered with fine trees, whose tops in many instances barely reached the level of the footpath. On the outer side of the walk the ground rose and the slope was covered with noble forest trees. The softness of the spring verdure, the sweet caress of the warm air, the repose of this charming spot, and its complete sequestration from the perennial noise and bustle of the yards and ballfields, tended to soothe the irritated feelings of our friend. He went to the farthest limit of the walk without meeting a single friend. There he sat down on a bench to rest. In a few minutes he heard approaching footsteps on the gravel. Determined to let the intruder upon his thoughts pass on unnoticed, he did not raise his head from his hands as the walker approached. "Good afternoon, Roy." Henning looked up and saw--Garrett. He was surprised by the way his cousin addressed him, for, never since the first week of the school year had the cousins used any other form of address than their surnames. "Oh! Good afternoon." "Fine weather for early spring." "Yes." Roy saw that, by his manner, Garrett had something to say, but he wanted just then to have the saying. At all events he was determined to say the first word of consequence. "I wonder you are willing to talk with me--are not afraid of being seen talking with me." "I don't see why you should----" Henning interrupted. He was quite ill-tempered this afternoon, and this was quite unusual with him. "No, you don't see why," he said. "You haven't been the cause of my being suspected of that wretched thieving, have you! You are not hand and glove with those fellows who would stop at nothing if they could injure me." "I must admit," said the other, "I have heard a great deal some of them say." "And of course believe it all, or pretend to." "Pretend to! What do you mean?" "I mean that before them you pretended to believe me guilty. Knowing what you know, it must have been all a pretence." "Knowing what I know! What do you mean?" "You know very well, indeed, what I mean." "I do not." "Yes, you do; you are only pretending now. Your action now is of a piece with your whole conduct ever since December 28, when the money was taken." "Roy Henning! what on earth do you mean? You are either crazy, or laboring under some great mistake." Garrett saw with alarm the trend of Henning's remarks. Was his cousin going to charge him with the theft? He was very well aware that Roy's charge, if he should make one, would receive much more credence in the yard than would any counter-charge against Roy. He became quite alarmed, for he was quick enough to see some very unpleasant consequences. His look of alarm tended to confirm Roy in his suspicions. "No wonder you look frightened, cousin--dear cousin--loving cousin," said Henning sarcastically. He had a long time suffered greatly from innuendo and unfriendliness, but we must do Roy the justice to say that such a manner of speech was uncommon with him. Just at this moment he was nervous and over-irritable and had not complete control of himself or of his words. "No wonder you look frightened," he continued, "now that the tables are beginning to turn. I have borne suspicion and averted looks from the boys long enough. You have to bring about a change. You can do it." "And how, pray?" Garrett was getting angry. "You know how very well. One word from you would clear me. And--you--have--got--to say it!" "It seems to me that you are taking leave of your senses. How on earth will one word of mine clear you? The only way that could be done, it seems to me, would be to incriminate myself, and as to that--no, I thank you." "I care not one red cent whether you incriminate yourself or not. You must clear me--do you hear?" "I would like to know how, and, moreover, I would like to see you make me." "I can not--that is, I will not make you--but not for your own sake." Henning remembered the promise he had made to himself of silence on the night he had spent in the infirmary. On the other hand Garrett was becoming very much afraid of his cousin. He had never seen him so excited or determined before. What did Roy know? What could he tell to harm him? He knew that his record with the faculty, and with the boys too, was not an enviable one. Whatever Roy would do he would undoubtedly be believed, and he realized that he would have hard work to disprove any allegations Roy might make. "You speak correctly when you say you can not," Andrew retorted. "I do not! I can make you if I will. For other reasons I do not wish it. You must do it without compulsion." "Do what?" "Clear me. Clear me of all suspicion." "It seems to me that in the present state of the boys' minds that would be impossible. In saying what I have said about you, Roy, I have only followed the lead of others. Things have been hinted so often that at last I began to believe some of them--at least partly believe them." "You coward!" said Henning, now thoroughly angry. Both boys rose from the bench simultaneously and faced each other. By a singular chance each had his hands in his pockets. It appeared for an instant that they were coming to blows. So strained was the situation, that if either had at that moment taken his hand from his pocket it would have been a signal for a fight. Henning's face was white with anger. Garrett's was red with apprehension and vexation. "You are a coward," repeated Henning; "you know a great deal about this affair." Garrett thought best to deny all knowledge. "I do not." "Indeed! and I suppose you know nothing of the loosened bars of the window of the committee-room?" "No." "I thought not. And I suppose you know nothing of the boy who was seen to have gone through that window on the night of the play?" "No." "Oh, no! Of course not. I suppose, too, there are half a dozen boys who sport sky-blue sweaters to make themselves conspicuous." Henning waited a moment and Garrett said: "It is no one's concern but my own what I wear." "Well, my dear, affectionate cousin, that blue sweater was seen--seen, mind--that night to go through that window and come out again." Garrett started violently. Henning took the motion for an admission of guilt, but Garrett had no intention of making such acknowledgment. Indeed he became as angry as Henning was. "Whether I am guilty or not, a question I absolutely decline to discuss, do you think, you jackanapes, that I would admit it to you? Not if I know myself. Do you think I am going to swallow whole a story like that? You must think I am dreadfully green, or dreadfully afraid of you. If you have evidence, bring it forward. That you can, and will not, is to me, permit me to say, all buncombe. Bah! You weary me! Do what you can and what you dare!" Snapping his fingers with a show of righteous indignation, Garrett walked away. If the boy were guilty, if it were he who was seen to enter the room through that window on the night of the theft, he now acquitted himself of a splendid piece of acting. If he were innocent, then his indignation were natural. Henning would then have to acknowledge that he had done him a gross injustice. But Roy was firmly convinced that his cousin had brazened the thing out. He regretted that he had let him know that he would not compel him to make an acknowledgment of his guilt. Roy had never expected that he would do so. All he required from his cousin was that he would speak in his favor and make an effort to turn the tide of opinion, trusting in his friends for the rest. When Andrew Garrett moved away Roy's first impulse was to follow him and compel a confession. Suddenly the thought came to him that perhaps he had blundered. Under the new and annoying impression he stood motionless until Garrett had disappeared along the winding walk. Once more, as his anger left him, he sat down and, head in hands, meditated on the ugly position in which he found himself, made worse than before if he had blundered. He began now to have doubts regarding the identity of the thief. Was it not just possible that some other person possessed a blue sweater as well as his cousin? Could he have been mistaken, after all? The window from which he saw the thief was a hundred yards away. Could he, after all, positively identify a person at that distance at night? Was he not too much excited after the successful _Richelieu_ performance to be in a condition to be certain? He had taken only a casual glance at the figure, and it was more than twenty-four hours afterward that he had remembered the boy wore the fatal blue sweater, which he now began to realize was the one and only means of identifying his cousin. Garrett must have some good grounds for his steady and persistent denials; yet that he should deny was not surprising to Roy for he knew his cousin fairly well. The young man would have remained long in his unpleasant and disturbing meditations had he not heard some one approaching, and singing some ridiculous parody which had recently "caught" the yard, having been cleverly introduced into a recent debate on the relative importance of the Hibernians and the Anglo-Saxons in this country. It ran: "There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was beany and chill-- Ere the ship that had brought him had passed out of hearin', He was Alderman Mike, introducing a bill." It was Jack Beecham's happy voice, and his merry laugh echoed through the trees. At that moment, as he turned a bend in the walk, he caught sight of Roy. "Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home," he shouted. "Come on, Roy; Tom Shealey and myself are going for a good long tramp in the woods. Why, man, you look as doleful as a November day. What's up? Come on; a good walk will drive the blues away." The two friends took Henning for a good long tramp, which is the most satisfactory curative process for driving away depression of spirits, settling one's nerves, and banishing ill-temper. CHAPTER XVII GARRETT IS ANGRY When Andrew left his cousin on the college walk he was in a very angry mood. He was quite sure that Henning did not know whether he was guilty or not, and he was satisfied that he had so guarded his words in his unexpected interview that Roy would not be able to take anything he had said as an admission of guilt. As soon as he discovered the drift of his cousin's remarks he made up his mind that he would not be betrayed into any speech that afterward might be used against him. He had actually started out, as Henning had done, to find his cousin to talk with him. It will be remembered that he had used a very conciliatory tone, and spoke to his relative by his Christian name. He was acting at the moment under one of the few good impulses that came to him at that period of his life. But all this was most unfortunately frustrated by Henning's miserable ill-humor of the moment. Returning to the yard after this stormy interview, he met the two boys, who, unfortunately, exercised the worst influence over him of any boys in the school, Smithers and Stockley. Nothing could have been more inopportune than their presence just when he was sore in spirit and angry. He was sore and more or less ashamed at the part he had played in regard to his cousin's reputation. He was not always without touches of compunction on this subject. He was angry, too, because of the recent interview. He knew that on account of this very anger he would very likely do more injury to Henning. His mind was in that state that made it ripe for any mischief these two worthies might suggest. "We have been looking for you, Garrett. Where have you been?" said Smithers. "Along the walk." "Some one in the yard said you had gone hobnobbing with your respectable relative," remarked Stockley. "I was talking with him for a while, but not hobnobbing, as you call it." "What had he to say?" asked Smithers. There was an ugly, vindictive leer on Smithers' face which Garrett never liked and which in his better moments he detested. He really despised him, and all his life he had never associated with this class of boy. Not being in very good humor, he said: "He had no compliments for you, at any rate." "Didn't expect he had. It's not very likely that one hanging over a precipice with regard to his reputation, as he is, would have any compliments for any one. But what did he say, anyway?" "Oh, nothing!" answered Garrett. "I find that he is more fully aware of the suspicions against him than I imagined. He is pretty sore under them, I can tell you." Smithers' eyes glittered with satisfaction. By a strange perversion he was pleased that Henning was suffering. Why? The answer is difficult. Because, perhaps, Henning had done him many a good turn. In time of necessity he was glad enough to receive assistance. When better times came for him, he promptly forgot. He lacked gratitude. He was only one more exemplification of the old adage: "If you want to lose a friend, lend him money, and if you want to gain an enemy put some one under great obligations to you." "Sore, is he? I can make him sorer still. Have you heard what has been found?" asked Smithers, looking first at Stockley and then at Garrett. Had the latter been a little more observant he would have noticed Smithers' eyelids twitch in an unmistakably nervous way, and his fingers open and close spasmodically. "No, I have not. Not the stolen money, I suppose," laughed Garrett mirthlessly. "Not much," said Smithers, "that's not likely to be found. I guess that's gone for good." "What then?" "A piece of writing!" "Whose?" "Henning's." "Of what nature? What has it to do with the suspicion in the yard?" "It has a good deal to do with it." "Well, out with it, if you have anything to tell. I'm tired of this dallying. What's up?" Garrett, still out of temper, was quite testy. It can be seen that he had very little respect for these boys. He made no pretense of choosing his words with them. Smithers, nothing daunted by the surly manner in which he had been addressed, after more or less fumbling, drew from the inside pocket of his coat a crumpled sheet of letter-paper. It bore the college printed address on the top, and was dated December 23. "Whose writing is that, do you think?" asked Smithers. "I don't know. Let me look at it. Yes, I do though! It's my cousin's! What does he say?" He straightened out the creases and read the letter hurriedly. "Phew! by all that's great, this is a stunner!" said Garrett. The other two boys exchanged glances of satisfaction. Smithers' eyelids twitched more than ever. "Where did you get this from?" "No matter where it came from," answered Stockley; "it's just what we want to settle this business. It has been hanging fire long enough. It ought to be settled for everybody's sake. I think this will do it." Garrett did not like his cousin, and hitherto had not been above doing him a bad turn occasionally. He was recognized, more or less, as the mouthpiece of those opposed to Roy. To do Andrew justice it must be admitted that he never quite realized what injury he was doing his cousin. A full realization of the injustice of his course was not to come to him for a long time, but now, since this interview, he was very uneasy. If Henning was determined to act on the offensive, he must prepare to defend himself. Here was a piece of paper, luckily thrown in his way, with which he could divert suspicion from himself should his cousin be goaded into retaliating. He knew enough of Roy's character to realize that he would have his hands full, if that individual decided to take the initiative in the tangle. But what of the "find" of Smithers? What important piece of information did it contain which was evidently so detrimental to Henning as to draw the sudden exclamation of surprise from Garrett's lips? It was not a complete letter, but merely a first draft. It ran as follows: "My dear friend." The word "friend" had been marked through and "chum" inserted instead. "Your letter rec'd last Monday. Sorry to say that ... have no money now ... so can't possibly do the thing you wish ... awfully sorry ... feel like stealing the money rather than letting this thing go undone. However, wait till the end of Christmas week. It won't be too late then. Something's going to happen before that! Then we can go into partnership--at least for the merit of the thing. Keep everything dark. Don't say a single word to anybody about it. Mind now, chum, everything must be kept a secret, or--smash. Yours, Roy H." The missive, or first copy of one, looked mysterious enough. To these boys into whose possession it had by some means fallen, it had a decidedly dark-lantern appearance. To their minds, in view of what had happened near the end of the Christmas week, the words seemed to have a peculiarly sinister meaning in proportion to each one's prejudice. Was the sketch of the proposed letter genuine? There was no doubt as to that in Garrett's mind. Everybody knew Henning's writing. Without hesitation Garrett pronounced it genuine. But what could the letter mean? Had his cousin deliberately planned the robbery? Smithers believed, or said he believed, this to be the case. Garrett knew better. In spite of this letter he knew that was too absurd a notion to entertain. He was, nevertheless, shrewd enough to see the value of this crumpled note as a weapon of defense for himself. He deliberately put it into his pocket. "Hold on there, Garrett!" exclaimed Smithers, "that note belongs to me." "Excuse me," replied Andrew, "but I believe it belongs strictly to Roy Henning." "No, it doesn't. It's my property. I risked--I mean I discovered it, and it's mine." "I beg your pardon, but for the present you may consider it my property. There may be further risk, you know, for you. It will be quite safe, I assure you, in my keeping." "Well, I'll be hanged!" exclaimed the dismayed Smithers. "Shouldn't wonder in the least--some day," replied Garret imperturbably. "But it's mine!" "Beg to differ with you. It never was yours. It is mine now, at least for a time. I haven't decided yet what to do with it--whether to tear it up, or restore it to its rightful owner." He intended to do neither one nor the other. He had formed his plan, but he had not the slightest intention of taking either Stockley or Smithers into his confidence. The latter was very angry at the loss of the letter, but he knew very well that he could not get it back until Garrett pleased to return it. His ill-humor was not lessened when Garrett said as he walked away: "By the way, I should recommend you to say nothing about this so-called 'find' of yours, you fellows, for I am strongly under the impression that it is bogus, and besides, it might be difficult to convince people you came by it honestly." Smithers' eyelids exhibited that nervous twitching more rapidly than ever. CHAPTER XVIII A TALK Shealey and Beecham captured Roy Henning and took him for a long stroll through the woods that Sunday afternoon. He, in the keen enjoyment of witnessing nature once again awake from its long winter slumber, for a time forgot his annoyances, and was the merriest of the three. The time passed as only a bright holiday can pass with the light-hearted. Now there was a hunt for the nimble squirrel, which always got safely away. Anon there was a plunge into the thickest coppice for spring flowers. From these dense undergrowths the three more than once emerged minus the treasures they sought, and plus a number of scratches on hands and face, and with not a little damage to Sunday suits. In the sunny spots they found the first delicate fern fronds. In one particularly romantic spot they found a number of beautiful fungi. Jack Beecham dexterously made a little birch-bark box, which he filled with soft green moss, carefully placing his treasures therein. In their journey they were lucky enough to come across some morels, and one or two of those vegetable curiosities, the earth-star. With these boys a ramble into the country was much more than so many steps taken to a certain spot, and so many back again. Their studies had sharpened their powers of outdoor observation, so that a walk was an intellectual exercise as well as a physical one. Many times during that afternoon Roy recalled the interview with his cousin a few minutes before starting, but with a certain determination he put the matter from his mind for the present, intent on giving himself entirely to the enjoyment of the beauties of nature on an ideal spring day, and to the pleasant companionship of two very delightful fellow-students. For a time he forgot all about Garrett. When the journey was near its end; when the tired and healthy, hungry three were once more nearing the college grounds, the thoughts of what he had said and done with regard to his cousin, and that same cousin's noncommittal responses, once more filled Roy's mind and made him thoughtful and reserved again. "There you are!" scolded Jack Beecham; "I do declare, Roy, you ought to live in the woods altogether. As soon as you come near home you at once put on a long face, turn down the corners of your mouth, and look as sour as--as vinegar and water." "Yes," added Tom Shealey, "I'm going to call you in future Old Glum--that's the only name that suits you now. What on earth is the use of being so sober and somber about things?" "Just at present," answered Roy, "I do not think I have anything to make me unusually cheerful; nothing certainly that would make me dance and sing with joy." "Afraid of your semi-annual exam?" asked Beecham. "No. That examination does not bother me. The Little Go, as our English cousins call it, will, I believe, be somewhat of a picnic for me." "That's what you think," said Jack, "but we don't all think that way, do we, Tom?" "Indeed, no," answered Tom Shealey grimly. The half-yearly had certain terrors for poor Tom. He had not shone with particular brilliancy in the examination in minor logic. He assured his friends that the examiners were unanimous that he had not shown any remarkable scintillations of genius in his mathematical trial, and the least said about the opinion entertained of him by his professor in geology and astronomy, the better for Tom's reputation as a hard student. "Well, then, Roy," asked Beecham, "if you are not afraid of the semi, why do you look so gloomy?" "I wish most heartily, Jack, that something would turn up to settle that wretched robbery business. At all events, one great load is off my mind. Yesterday I received a letter from my father. I think I have already told you that he is a pretty stern man. Well, he's all right. He wrote that he had the fullest confidence in me in this money business." "Whoopla!" shouted Shealey, "good for the old gentleman. Whoop! Don't you know, old fellow, I was terribly afraid for you from that quarter. He's a brick!" "He tells me that every effort should be made to discover the culprit. He even said he was willing to bear a good share of the expense of securing a detective and so forth, considering that his son was the one who had the management of the funds." "What's the matter with Henning père?" shouted Shealey the irrepressible. "Wait, Tom. He wrote more. He is willing to send me a check for the seventy-two dollars, if by paying it back into the fund I do not compromise myself." "How? What does he mean?" asked Beecham. "This way, I suppose. If I pay it back I shall be considered by some to have--to speak plainly--to have taken it myself, or to have had some knowledge of the guilty party, and, consequently, to have connived at it." "Does any living soul in his sound senses, you Don Quixote," exclaimed Beecham, with an earnestness curiously resembling anger, "for an infinitesimal moment imagine you knew anything of it!" The generous tone of voice, the absolute confidence it displayed, was grateful and soothing to the worried boy. His suspicions of his own cousin, which were not dissipated by that afternoon's encounter, was the difficulty with him now. The letter of his father said: "to have any knowledge of the guilty party." Of course, conniving was out of the question. But Garrett! What to think of that which he saw on the night of the play! Could he have been mistaken? Oh, if Garrett that afternoon had only openly denied all knowledge of it, how happy Roy would be now! Under his present knowledge, however, he felt he could not accept the money from his father. Under a full conviction of his cousin's guilt he had made that strange promise of silence, and this he was determined to keep, let come what might. Thus his quandary, which arose on his part from a certain sense of honor, for he would not act upon a mere suspicion, and he also earnestly desired to save a relative the shame of being accused. "No, I really believe," said Henning, in answer to Beecham's indignant question, "I really believe that even those boys who profess to suspect me do not believe what they say. I do not believe there is a boy in the yard, nor a single member of the faculty, who has the least real suspicion that I know anything about the theft." "I guess not," said Jack, and then added, "well, then, it's settled, isn't it?" "Unfortunately, no. There is something in this affair, which, until the robber is caught and the whole question disposed of forever, I can not mention; yet it is important enough for me to be prevented in honor from writing for that money." Jack Beecham and Tom Shealey looked at each other in blank surprise. They then indulged in a long stare--not a mere look or glance, but a long, open stare--at Roy. Under the two pairs of very wide-open eyes he remained as inscrutable as a sphinx. There was not a movement of eyes or lips which could give them the slightest clue by which they might arrive at some understanding of the strange announcement. "You don't mean to say," said Shealey, with eyes still wide open, "that, after all, you are in some way impli--oh! hang it all, I'm talking nonsense now!" Roy Henning burst out laughing. Notwithstanding his worry he enjoyed his friends' bewilderment. "I guess you are," he said. "Look here, Mr. Roy Aloysius Henning," said Jack Beecham, "I consider you the most inexplicable, inexorable, incomprehensible creature on the face of the footstool. Now look here! No humbug, you know--we, your friends, I, Tom, and Brose, for here he comes--demand from you an explanation right here and now. You must tell us the whole affair." "No." "Yes." "No. I can not do it." "If you don't do it, I'll----" Jack stopped dismayed. He saw that Roy was firm. "I'll fling some more big names at you." "Can't help it, Jackie. I guess I can stand 'em." "But this thing's got to be straightened out!" "If so, it has to be done without my taking any part in the straightening--see?" "But, man alive! You are the most interested! If you know anything of importance, why not inform your friends, and let us ferret out the truth or falsity of your surmises?" "No. It can not be done. If I am to be exonerated from these very unjust and, I confess, very annoying aspersions, it must be done gratuitously and of the free will of the person or persons malignant enough to start the rumors. Do you not see, my friends, that if you began to move in order to exonerate me, everybody would consider you as acting as my agents and under my direction----" "Quixotic nonsense----" began Beecham. "Wait, Jack. This is the penalty you pay for your friendship. I will tell you this much, in gratitude for your interest and loyalty. I have made a solemn pledge to keep absolutely silent with respect to any suspicions I may have until the whole is settled and cleared up." "But you in the meantime are suffering!" said Jack. "Can't help it. Better suffer than be unjust. Better bear a little, than perhaps do another an almost irreparable injury." His friends began to have some glimmerings of the reasons why he would not move or be moved. All of them were aware of his delicacy of conscience. They knew of his high sense of honor, of his exactitude, which amounted in their eyes to scrupulosity. It was, therefore, with no small amount of admiration, which, however, they disguised under much banter and teasing, that they acquiesced in Henning's view of his own conduct in the matter. "Roy, you're a chump!" said Shealey. "Yes, and a gump!" added Jack Beecham. "And my quota of abuse is," said Bracebridge, who by this time understood the drift of the talk, "is that you are a--what shall I say--oh! yes--that you are a frump, whatever that is; it rhymes anyway." Roy bowed low, as if receiving compliments and bouquets. When he left to go to his classroom to write to his father, Jack Beecham said: "That fellow is a second Bayard--_sans reproche_." "So say all who know him," added Shealey, and Ambrose said: "Amen." CHAPTER XIX THE UNEXPECTED It was remarkable, and even surprised Garrett himself, that Smithers and Stockley made no capital out of their knowledge of the existence of what appeared to be an incriminating document. The sketch of the letter which they had shown with such assurance to Garrett, and which that individual, with an assumption of superiority that had completely cowed the two, had coolly kept in his possession, did have something of a suspicious appearance. Why did Garrett retain it? Was it a last card held in reserve to play against his cousin's hand? Did he believe the letter to be genuine? Finally, after all, did he wish to spare his cousin? At this time this last consideration had no weight with him. He had various reasons for acting as he had done. One strong one was that he proposed to hold all the threads of the plot in his own hands and manipulate them to his own advantage. He was by no means sure how this evidence of Roy's supposed complicity would be received by the boys. He felt sure that many would pooh-pooh such a document as worthless. He did not desire to prove nothing by overstepping the mark in attempting to prove too much. Suspicious as the letter looked objectively, Garrett was not so stupid as not to know there must be some very good explanation of the words; although unsupported by an explanation they certainly did appear to incriminate the writer, in view of all that had happened since they were penned. Smithers saw plainly enough that without the letter being produced (confound that Garrett's impudence!) his words would have no weight. This young man was quite well aware that he bore a very odorous--in fact a malodorous--reputation among even his friends. Many knew of his despicable ingratitude toward Roy Henning. Stockley had a plan of his own which he told to neither Smithers nor Garrett, and had adopted a Fabian policy. Thus it happened that Roy Henning was spared the knowledge that one of these boys had in his possession a copy or draft of a letter of his, which he could, had he so wished, use against him and thus cause him more annoyance. Meanwhile time flew on. The warm weather had come. It was now very pleasant to be out of doors, and, of course, the great question now occupying all interest was that of the prospects of the ball team. It was found to the general satisfaction that there was very good material after all, in spite of the lack of the winter practice. Harry Gill, a fast friend of Henning, and a great supporter of Rob Jones, was chosen captain and manager. He was a popular boy who could write a pleasing challenge and gain and retain the good will of those teams who even refused to play St. Cuthbert's. To the surprise of all he secured a game with the celebrated Blandyke team, to be played on the home grounds. This was delightful news for the yard, the more so because it was so unexpected. The Blandykes had assured the St. Cuthbert's boys early in the spring, that they had played them for the last time, not because of any disagreement or because they had been beaten previously, but because their faculty had ruled against the long travel. Yet here was Gill, at the very opening of the season, securing the first great game without hitch or flaw, and on the home grounds. The boys were jubilant. Their satisfaction was increased when they learned that Gill, by his irresistible charm of manner, had induced Henning to practice with the team. He could not get Roy to promise to play in the match game, but to have him in the practice games was something. Every one admitted that Roy was an exceptionally fine player. Much of the beginning of the undercurrent of talk against him in the previous fall was, it will be remembered, owing to his refusal to have any more to do with sports, and especially with baseball. How could he now reconcile himself to his father's positive injunction to engage in no sports and yet play practice games? Roy had thought the matter over and had come to a decision. His father had told him there were to be no sports. This he adhered to scrupulously. His father had said there was to be enough exercise only by which to keep a sound mind in a sound body. Now to him, as to many another healthy, hearty boy, after the long dormant months of winter, there was need of good outdoor exercise. Where could one find it better than in the great game? But was not this sport, in the understanding of his father? Roy thought it was not, that is, practice games were not. With match games it was different. He reasoned that his father knew that he was athletic, that wheeling could not always suffice, and that long walks were a mere winter expedient. He therefore arrived at the eminently satisfactory conclusion that his father did not intend, when he told him to keep a sound mind in a sound body, that he should be altogether excluded from the game which, above all others, was best able to secure that end. Casuists may argue pro and con on the soundness of Roy's conclusion if they will. We leave it to them. It is well known that there is nothing in a college so well adapted to the breaking up of animosities and of undesirable alliances and dangerous particular friendships which lead to no good, as baseball. The adage, "birds of a feather flock together," is particularly true of boys at school during the winter season. Crowded together in a certain circumscribed space of one or two or three halls, according to the excellence of the college equipment, the very best boys are often forced to form acquaintances with those with whom they would otherwise not closely associate. This had been particularly the case this year at St. Cuthbert's, owing to the diversity of opinion as to the question of the identity of the undiscovered thief. As we know, many boys were inclined to suspect Roy Henning. Among these were some of the best ball-players. Now Harry Gill, captain and manager, was substitute pitcher. Stockley was a splendid first baseman, and could pitch well. Smithers, too, although not liked generally by the boys, was too fine a player to be ignored. Beecham, of course, was on the team, as was Bracebridge. Garrett, so the boys declared, "would have eaten his hat" to have been selected for a place on the first nine. Gill, however, appointed strictly according to merit, and Andrew rose no higher than substitute for third baseman. That, however, was something in a place like St. Cuthbert's, because the substitutes, beside traveling with the team, were always the opposing team in practice games, and during the spring and early summer saw a deal of fine work. It is an axiom that in order to play good ball, all differences of opinion must be dropped. No team could be enthusiastic for victory with three or four currents of self-interest or animosity thwarting and dampening all efforts and rendering harmonious and united action impossible. All disagreements had been dropped, or at least hidden away. All were enthusiastic. When Gill announced to the team that Roy Henning had consented to play at all practice games, the percentage of enthusiasm, if it could be measured in that way, rose very high. Now all bickerings and animosities seemed to be forgotten, and they actually were for a time. As far as team work went, there was one heart and one soul. The prospects were indeed bright. What a splendid player Roy was! He stood there in the pitcher's box, a picture of fine young manhood. His long brown hair blowing over his forehead appeared to get into his eyes at every move. With a graceful leonine backward movement of the head he would toss the hair out of his way. He was never excited. He always had his wits about him. In a critical moment he could be relied upon. He had the habit of keeping a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. To the uninitiated it appeared the most important part of the game for him to keep his jaws in steady, slow motion. Some said it kept him from becoming excited--that the attention required to keep up the regular, slow motion of his molars prevented any other kind of distraction. Be this as it may, he never showed excitement, but was always calm and cool, and not unfrequently at critical moments exasperatingly slow. And then what an arm he had, and what movement! He seemed merely to put his hand forward and the ball went high, or low, or wherever he willed. He was a great acquisition to the team. The baseball enthusiasts, which is equivalent to saying all the boys, certainly had some excuse for chagrin when, without explanation, he retired from the game the year before. Who does not love the sight of ball-players on the diamond, especially in the early summer! The bright uniforms, the brighter faces flushed with the joy of living and of anticipation! Then the merry shout and laugh! How it makes the blood tingle, and sends the spirit of youth once more through one's veins! In the last practice game before the match with the Blandykes the boys in their uniforms, white shirts and blue pants, stockings, and caps, presented a picturesque scene. The kindly sun, as yet not too hot, flushed their cheeks, while the liquid blue above and the fresh tender grass beneath their feet lent additional zest to their enjoyment. It was the first important practice game the boys had played. When at length it came to an end all the players clustered around Roy Henning at the home plate, congratulating him on his pitching. Jack Beecham and Ambrose stood a little apart, watching the group. "Isn't it a pity, Brose, that Roy won't play against the Blandykes next Tuesday," remarked Jack. "Indeed it is--a thousand pities. But you may be sure he knows what he is doing." "Guess he does. But there's a particularly sable individual in the woodpile somewhere! I wonder what it all means?" "Many beside you have wondered," responded Bracebridge. "Oh, he must play next week--must, must, we can't do without him! He must play, and that's all there is about it." "I am afraid he won't though. Hello, what's up? Look, here comes Mr. Shalford. How serious he looks!" The two boys touched their hats as the prefect approached. "Have you seen Henning, boys? Ah, there he is!" The prefect went to the group surrounding their ideal pitcher. They were using all the art persuasive they could command to extort a promise from him to play in the forthcoming match game. It is hard to say how much longer he would have had to withstand their importunities, had they not suddenly ceased upon catching sight of Mr. Shalford. "Henning, I want you." Roy disengaged himself from the crowd. "Here's a telegram for you. The President told me to give it to you at once, and you are to go to him immediately." Outside of strictly business circles, the arrival of a telegram has always its preliminary terrors. The yellow missive may contain such startling news! The message which Roy's father had sent him was startling enough. It read: "Ethel is believed to be dying. Come at once. G. H." Roy went over to where Beecham and Bracebridge were standing. Without a word he placed the telegram in Ambrose's hand. After reading it the three friends at once moved toward the college. The crowd of boys, lately so loud and clamorous, were silent now, in the presence of some unknown calamity. Roy walked on as if stunned, for a little while scarcely knowing where he was going. Jack and Ambrose, after one sympathetic pressure of his hand, walked with him in silent sympathy. CHAPTER XX THE FAIREST LILY The President was waiting for Henning in his office. The two friends left Roy at the door, and quietly stole out of the corridor into the sunshine, where with subdued voices they discussed the misfortune which was overshadowing their friend. "I never knew a boy to meet with so many misfortunes in one year as Roy has done," said Beecham. "It is hard," replied Bracebridge, "but God knows best. I sometimes think he is being tried, as gold is tried in the furnace, for some great purpose." Beecham was silent. Such thoughts were just a little above Jack's ordinary plane of thinking. Bracebridge continued: "What do you say if, during his absence, we make a grand effort to find the thief? What a glorious thing it would be if he could come back cleared of all suspicion!" Beecham was never patient when the words "suspicion" and "Henning" were mentioned in the same connection. This time he said something quite rough, and, to tell the truth, quite unlike himself. Ambrose looked up in surprise. "You must excuse me. I lose all patience in this affair." "All right, old fellow. We will make a big effort, eh?" "You may bet your last little round red cent we will." Henning reappeared. He had but little time to spare if he would catch the six o'clock train. By traveling all night he would reach home by seven o'clock in the morning. Hurriedly changing his clothes, he shook hands with the two and was driven to the depot. Both promised to write as soon as there was anything important to write about. While Roy Henning is traveling homeward as fast as a night express can take him, we will explain the reason why the telegram had been sent. This can not be done better than by going to the Henning home, and there tracing the course of events. * * * * * "I think it's real mean to rain like this," said Tommy Henning, early in the morning of the day on which Roy, his big brother, had received the alarming telegram. Tommy let his picture book drop to the floor, and swung his fat little legs backward and forward. Soon tiring of this, he flattened his nose against the window pane of the drawing-room where the two children had been trying to amuse themselves. "What's mean, Tommy?" asked his sister, Ethel. "Oh, things!" and with this broad generalization he continued to exercise his legs. "What's the use if it's going to rain all the time?" "But it isn't going to rain all day. It will clear up before long, see if it doesn't." Tommy was a real boy and, like his big brother, hated above all things to be obliged to remain indoors. It had been raining for twenty-four hours, and he longed to get outside in the free, fresh air, being particularly anxious just now to take Ethel for a ride in the boat on the big pond below the orchard. Tommy was sturdy, but his sister was a frail girl, of shy and nervous disposition. Her chief characteristic was her passionate love for her brother Tom, who did not show much appreciation of her affection, because he did not realize its depth. He loved his sister, but in a somewhat boisterous manner. Not unfrequently he showed his affection in a way that was rather painful than otherwise to the delicate child. This was because he did not think. He did not intend to be rough, yet he secretly thought that it was a hardship that she was not a boy, for then he could have "lots more fun." They got along well together, however, and loved each other very dearly. True to Ethel's prediction, it soon ceased raining, the clouds breaking and rolling away in great masses. Tom's vivacity returned with the sunshine. "Ma! ma! may we go down to the pond now, and get some of those lilies?" begged Tommy, as he rushed into his mother's room. "I am afraid not for the present, my son," replied his mother, "at least Ethel can not go. It is a little chilly after the rain, and besides, the boat will be full of water." Ethel did not really care about going just then, but seeing how anxious her brother was to enjoy the ride and get the beautiful flowers, the first lilies of the summer, she also pleaded for permission. At length under the combined pleading of the two, Mrs. Henning consented. "Now, Tommy," she said, "if I let you go, you must promise me not to go near the mill-race." "All right, Ma; there's lots of room without going near there," and the handsome little fellow scampered off in high glee, with the full intention of keeping his promise. The injunction was not an unnecessary one. The mill-race was a dangerous spot. At the sluice there was a considerable current of water which would take a boat caught in it over the bank and dangerously dash it into deep water, if it escaped being broken to pieces on some large boulders which had formerly been a part of the masonry of an old mill. The pond was noted in the neighborhood for the profusion and beauty of its water-lilies. The children found no greater delight in the summer than in gathering them and adorning their pretty suburban home with them. The boy found there was not much water in the boat. With Ethel's assistance he bailed it out and they were soon among the water-lilies. They formed a pretty picture--these two children, Tom in his white flannel shirt adorned with a pretty pink tie, a special Christmas gift of Ethel; she in her pink dress and white sunbonnet, her lap almost covered with luxuriant flowers. "That's enough, Tom; plenty for to-day," said Ethel. "All right. Now for a good row around the pond while you cut the stalks." Tommy had a good voice, and as he rowed he began to sing: "See our oars with feathered spray Sparkle in the beam of day, As along the lake we glide Swiftly o'er the silent tide." The pond was large enough to afford the boy a good pull with the oars. He enjoyed it immensely. The boat had glided from shore to shore several times, when Master Tommy Henning began to look for fresh excitement. Stealthily he began to pull stronger on one oar than on the other, and so gradually to near the mill-race. "Oh, Tom! Tommy! look, look, we are getting near the dam!" shouted Ethel, very much frightened. "That's nothing. There's no danger here," said the boy. He made a turn, then came nearer than before to the dangerous spot. "I'm so frightened! Tom, please, Tom, don't go so near," pleaded Ethel. "That's because you are a girl. If you were a boy you wouldn't be frightened a little bit." He rowed away for a little space, and soon in a spirit of pure bravado he pulled nearer a few feet. Ethel began screaming with fright. "That's just like girls. They always scream at something or other," said the ungallant Tommy. Ethel was very much frightened. She trembled violently, but Tom affected not to see. With another stroke he went still nearer to the mill-race. At this Ethel gave a prolonged, agonizing shriek of fear, which made even her madcap brother feel a little uncomfortable, although he still persisted in teasing her, for he knew his strength and as yet had the boat under complete control. "I'm going nearer yet, Sis," he said to the greatly frightened little girl, and began to turn the prow of the boat a little. She began one more wild shriek of terror, but stopped suddenly. She could scream no more. The horror of her perilous position rendered her mute. She could do nothing but shiver and tremble violently. Her eyes were wide and staring. "What do you stop screaming for? You ain't out of danger yet. Girls always scream longer than that in one breath." There was no reply. Tom looked around to see his sister burst into a very torrent of tears. This was too much for the boy. "Oh, come, Ethel. I was only fooling. Don't cry. There's no danger. See!" He headed the boat in the opposite direction and began to row away from the dangerous locality. Ethel continued to sob convulsively, unable to restrain herself. She had been thoroughly frightened, and now she could not speak. Her eyes were staring wildly; the blue veins on her forehead stood out rigidly. She seemed choking as if half stifled with the horror she had felt. Tom was now heartily ashamed of himself, and heartily wished he had not disobeyed. "Stop crying, Ethie, and I'll give you my new box of paints," said he anxiously. The magnitude of the inducement was the measure of Tom's anxiety. But with even this tempting offer of his greatest wealth, she could not refrain from weeping and sobbing. "I never thought you would take on so, or I never would go near the old thing. I just did it for fun," urged the boy persistently. All his coaxing was of no avail and he became alarmed at her hysterical sobbing. To add to his confusion, as he neared the boat-landing he saw his mother standing on the bank. She had heard the screaming, and rushed down to the pond, fearing some accident had happened. "What have you been doing to your sister?" she asked sternly. "I thought I would scare her a little bit--only a little, though; that's all, Mama." "And you went near the dam?" "Not very close--true if I did. There was no danger." Ethel's pale face and hysterical weeping told how near he had been. "Go to the house, sir, and stay there for the rest of the day," said his mother, in a tone Tommy knew from experience was not to be disobeyed. This was a great punishment for Tommy, for, of all things, he loved to be out of doors in the free air of heaven. There was, however, a certain manliness about the little fellow, so he went to his punishment without a word. He could not understand why his sister had screamed so much, and more especially why she did not now stop crying. Ethel did not easily recover from her fright. Her mother brought her to the house and laid her on a cushioned lounge, where she remained all the afternoon completely prostrated. Tommy was told to stay in the same room, which he did more or less sulkily. He thought his punishment excessive, and he showed his resentment to his sister by being a little bit cross to her. Early in the afternoon he worked himself into the belief that he was actually the injured one. All this was a proceeding most unusual with Tommy. The little girl lay on the lounge quite weakened and very sick from her adventure. She did not move, but lay still and quiet, with an occasional hard sob, resembling the last muttering of a storm in the distance. Toward four o'clock of that long afternoon she said faintly to her brother: "Tommy, I am so thirsty; will you get me a drink?" Now Master Tom was still quite ill-tempered and, contrary to his usual custom, very much disinclined to oblige her. Seeing a glass of water on the table, he handed it to her, saying: "Here's some. Drink this." She touched her feverish lips to it and said: "It's quite warm. It has been here all day. Mama brought it in this morning for the canary." "Well, it's good water, anyhow," said Master Tommy, and he went back to his seat and sulked. She sighed and closed her eyes without allaying her thirst. Presently Mrs. Henning came into the room, and saw, with alarm, that Ethel was in a high fever. She telephoned at once for the family physician, who was in his office when the message came. When he came he looked very grave, and declared that the child would not live more than twenty-four hours. The physician knew Ethel's constitution well. She had grown up an extremely delicate child. He gave no hope of her recovery. He declared the attack had been brought on by some unwonted exertion beyond her strength, or by some extraordinary strain caused by great fear or overwhelming grief. When told of what had occurred on the pond he shook his head ominously, and frankly told the mother to expect the worst, recommending, as a conscientious physician, that a priest be called without delay. CHAPTER XXI THE PASSING OF ETHEL As soon as Tommy realized that Ethel was really sick there came a revulsion of feeling such as all generous natures are subject to. He was no longer angry or sulky. He racked his brains to discover means by which he could make amends for his unkindness of the afternoon. Tommy had one great treasure which no one was allowed to touch. This was a precious silver mug, a birthday present. He never used it except on some very extraordinary occasion. It was rarely taken from his mother's china-closet, where it occupied a place of honor. Now he thought of this mug, but first he took a pitcher out to the pump and used the handle vigorously until his arms ached. He then went to the cupboard and took out his great treasure, carrying it and the pitcher to where Ethel was lying. "Sissie dear," he said softly, "I'm awful sorry I've been mean to you 's afternoon. I didn't know you were sick, sure. If I had known that I'd got you a barrelful of water, sure I would." Ethel opened her eyes with a pleasant smile. She knew that Tommy loved her. He was trying to make amends. That was enough to make her happy. "Here, Ethel, dear. I've brought you the coldest water I could get from the well, and here's my silver cup to drink it out of." The little sufferer was now too far gone to care for water. Wishing to respond to her brother's kindness she took the mug and put it to her lips, as if drinking a long draught. But Tommy saw she was not drinking. "Why, Ethel, you only make believe! Don't be afraid to drink. I'll keep on carrying in pitchers all night if you want 'em. 'Taint no trouble at all for me." Ethel saw his generosity of purpose and smiled again. "Drink some more, Ethel. It's good." She could not resist such importunity, and she drank some of the water, more than she needed, in order to please him. Tommy exaggerated his fault in his own eyes. Now, in order to make amends, he strove urgently to make his sister drink, coaxing her at least every ten minutes to do so, until at last she was fain to tell him it was impossible for her to take any more. If he could not make her drink, he could, nevertheless, keep the water cool, so he changed it at least every fifteen minutes. Who shall say but what the angels carried these crude acts of reparation to the Mercy Seat, and brought back blessings for sorrowful Tommy? Ethel realized that she was very ill. The doctor's grave face confirmed her worst fears. She did not fear to die. Had she not gone to confession every week for a year past, and although the pure little child knew it not, the good priest knew full well that for weeks together he scarcely found matter for absolution. She did not want to die, not yet at least, if it were the will of God, until she had made her First Communion. Her pure soul had not yet been strengthened by the Bread of Angels. How ardently for months she had longed for the day of her First Communion, and now it seemed so hard to die before that great event. Would not the sweet Jesus spare her at least until she could receive Him! Long and earnestly, on her couch of suffering, she prayed that she might receive this supreme happiness. She knew that she was dying. The frightful pain in her back told her, as she lay there in such helplessness, that her weakness could not long battle against so sudden and so violent an attack. But oh, to be deprived of the great privilege! "Lord, I am not worthy! Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come to me! Come, oh, come, my Lord Jesus!" she repeated again and again, between her acts of contrition. It was in this hour of supreme suspense and anxiety of her parents that Ethel's beautiful character shone forth. Patient, humble, thankful for the least kindness shown, or office performed for her, she fairly broke the heart of father and mother, who now realized, more completely than ever, what a beautiful treasure they were losing. The priest was grieved to see this stricken one of his flock. Ethel's eyes brightened when she saw him. He heard the child's last confession and administered Extreme Unction. Long the confession lasted--those guileless self-accusations of an almost guiltless soul. When the family were re-admitted they saw that both priest and penitent had been weeping. "Has the poor child told you her greatest desire, Father?" asked the grieving mother. "Yes. I have no hesitation in giving her Holy Communion. She was sufficiently prepared a year ago. If you will make the proper preparations I will bring the Holy Sacrament and administer First Communion." Not until Tommy saw the priest visit the house, and learned that his sister had been anointed did he realize that she was dangerously ill. When the priest left, he rushed to the couch, and kneeling, took Ethel's hand and covered it with tears and kisses, crying passionately with heartrending sobs: "Ethel, Ethel, Ethel! don't die, don't die yet! Ask God and His Mother to make you well again. You know they will if you ask them." His cry was an unconscious tribute to his sister's goodness. Ethel waited with joy and calmness the approach of her Lord. Very soon the priest, bearing the Sacred Host, arrived and the whole household assembled to honor the divine Visitor, and to pray for the departing soul. Notwithstanding her intense pain, Ethel appeared to be in a transport of joy. Her calm, waxlike face was faintly flushed at the fulfilment of her ardent longings. As she lay making fervent acts of love and thanksgiving, she resembled an angel rather than a child of human clay. So thought her spiritual director as he gave her the last absolution and blessing and began to recite the prayers for the dying. Tommy's grief became deeper and more demonstrative. His mother gently drew him into the next room, telling him it was for Ethel's good, as he was disturbing her recollection and happiness. With this assurance he became content, although he sobbed as if his heart would break. Silently, and in helpless, though resigned, anguish the father and mother watched through the long night the flickering spark of life fade and expire. More than once during these long hours they believed the beautiful soul had flown to God, its Maker. Hoping against hope, they earnestly desired that she might last until Roy should reach home at seven, but about three the end came. "Fetch the boy," said the father, in a whisper. Mrs. Henning softly left the room. She found Tommy, his face all tear-stained, asleep on the mat just outside the door. Gently waking him, she told him to come to Ethel. The boy, alert in a moment at the sound of her name, came slowly into the room. Neither father nor mother spoke, but the latter led him to the couch where lay the lifeless form of his sister still holding the crucifix in her hand. Her pure soul had flown. Seeing that she had passed away, the boy bent down and kissed her white forehead and her lips. His mother involuntarily moved a step nearer, intending to catch and console him in his first wild burst of grief. To her surprise the boy neither wept nor spoke. He took one long look at the placid face of his dead sister, and turned away, going out into the open air of the warm night. By the first gray streaks of dawn he wandered through the garden path down to the pond. There lay the boat as he had left it, half drawn up on the shore, and there, withered, lay the lilies she had gathered. The boy remembered how she had used all her little strength to pull up one large bud. She had, at length, laughingly succeeded, dropping it into the boat and letting the long stalk hang in the water. As the gloaming of the sad day of the funeral drew on Tommy took his beads from his pocket. Then came the realization that he was alone to say them. "Ethel! Ethel!" he cried, and the floodgates of his tears were open. Big, strong Roy caught him up in his arms as he would a baby. There Tommy, resting his tired little head on his big brother's breast, wept unrestrainedly. On the day of the passing of Ethel Roy pondered long about sending a message to his friends at St. Cuthbert's. He could not decide to whom to send it. Bracebridge, Beecham, Shealey, Gill, and Jones, all were thought of, but he remained undecided. While thinking over this, his aunt, Andrew Garrett's mother, entered the room. Roy loved this good and beautiful woman almost as much as he loved his own mother, whom she was supporting and comforting in her sudden affliction. "I am glad you received my telegram in time," she said. "You will be just now such a support and comfort to your mother and father, Roy, in their sorrow." She kissed him on the forehead. "When the sickness came to Ethel," she continued, "they were both too distracted by grief to think of sending for you, so I wired in your father's name." Roy made up his mind about his message. He filled out a blank: "Dear Andrew: Ethel passed away at three. Pray and get prayers for her. I know you will. Roy." For many a long day after, Roy Henning had reason to bless the influence which prompted him to send this message to his cousin, rather than to any one else. The message had the effect of working a wonderful change in Andrew Garrett, so that when Roy next saw him, he scarcely recognized him. Many strange things will happen before Roy again sees his cousin. CHAPTER XXII ROY AND HIS FATHER When, in four or five days, the grief in the household had subsided sufficiently to lose some of its poignancy, Mr. Henning called his son to his study for the purpose of having a long talk with him concerning his prospects and the affairs at St. Cuthbert's. He was still under the impression that the extraordinary test to which he had submitted his son was a wise one. The two sat opposite each other in large, leather-covered reading-chairs in a very wealthy man's private "den." Roy waited respectfully for his father to begin. Full of the thoughts of Ethel, he began to speak of his recent loss. "So the poor child is gone, gone! I never thought she would last very long; she was too frail and delicate. If she had grown up I am sure she would have become a nun. Ah, that reminds me! Do you still hold to the notion you mentioned to me last summer?" "Of the priesthood? Most assuredly, sir." "Humph!" The white whiskers looked whiter as the florid face became more florid. "H--um! So! I thought then that it was a mere passing fancy of yours, and that it would soon go. As you have asked for no more money than the small--yes, very small--allowance I settled on, I began to think--yes, I began to believe, that you had more of the Henning family spirit--yes, more of the real family spirit--than at first I gave you credit for. So far, so good. So you are determined, if possible, to become a priest?" "Yes, sir," said the young man firmly. "Now tell me, my boy, how you have passed through the tests I set." Roy was silent. He thought of the many times he had experienced more or less bitterly rebellious thoughts against these tests. "Don't be afraid, Roy. Speak plainly. Have you failed?" "No, father," he answered emphatically; "I have not." "That is good. I am very glad to hear that." "I confess that it was very hard. Frequently I felt like writing to you about the prohibition of sports and of my--my shortness of cash." "So most of your troubles came from lack of cash, eh?" "Oh, no! Really the greatest test of obedience I have ever had was to follow your instruction strictly when you declared that I should engage in no sports except enough to keep a sound mind in a sound body." "Yes, I remember to have said that." "That, sir, was a hard blow to me. All the unpleasantness of the year has arisen from trying to be faithful to your command." "How so? Explain." "As you know, I am an enthusiastic and pretty good ball-player." "Yes, I have heard enough about that to be well acquainted with the fact." "And I am a good all-round athlete as well. As a consequence, I stood high in the councils of the college athletic circles. When I announced my intention of retiring from the football eleven, and the baseball nine there was a good deal of disagreeable talk. I must confess, father, this was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my whole life." "So?" "Yes, and the worst of it was I was made miserable by insinuations and innuendos that I had betrayed the college teams. I was disloyal. I was acting out of pique or spite. This was all very hard to bear because I was actuated by the very best intentions. I wanted to prove to you that I was a dutiful and obedient son." "I never doubted that, my boy, never for a moment doubted that!" "I thank you, sir." "Poor lad! all this is too bad; but tell me about the robbery. By the way, you never sent for that check; but tell me all about it, that is, as far as it concerns yourself." "I will, sir. Not being allowed to engage in any sports by your orders, I did not see why I could not make myself useful in some other way. Late in the fall there was much talk about the following season's games. In order to keep the team in practice it was decided to take up a collection among the boys and purchase a pitcher's cage, to be placed in the playroom, where indoor practice could be had all the winter. The boys appointed me solicitor and treasurer. I kept the money in the table-drawer in the committee-room off the playroom. From that drawer the money was stolen. What made my chagrin the deeper was that I had been warned by a close friend to place the money with the college treasurer for safer keeping. This I intended to do, but during the Christmas holidays it escaped my memory." "I do not see why you could not have written for that check. As far as I can see there is nothing in all this story to prevent you from replacing the money. Surely you and your cousin Andrew did everything in your power to trace the thief and get the money back?" Here was a critical moment for Roy. Blood is thicker than water with the father as well as the son. Mr. Henning never dreamed but that Andrew would make this a family affair and exert himself with his cousin to recover the stolen money. It was a temptation for Roy. Should he expose Andrew's conduct? Should he permit his father to know that he had a nephew who was selfish and cowardly and mean, and not above trading upon another's reputation? Roy had to think rapidly in making up his mind what to do. His father's keen eyes were upon him. The old gentleman was awaiting an answer. Roy's good angel prevailed. The boy replied: "Everything, I believe, was done that could be done to detect the thieves by myself and my friends, but without success. Had we found the thief and discovered that the money had been disposed of beyond recovery I should then have written gladly to you to replace it, after your generous offer." "That's right; that's right." "But," continued Roy with some hesitation, which his father did not fail to notice, "affairs turned out so differently from what I expected. Whether from natural causes, or from design, I do not know, but there were two or three opinions soon prevalent about the robbery, and there was one party who--who gave it out that they--they suspected me." "Suspected you!" almost shouted the lawyer. "The scoundrels! Who were they, Roy; who were they?" "Some whose names are not worth mentioning, and whose reputations are still worse." "Dear me, dear me! The rascals, to suspect my son!" fumed the old man. He walked excitedly up and down the room. By some occult process he connected these suspicions with his son's stringency of cash, and blamed himself in proportion to his indignation. "My boy, my boy! this is all too bad, too bad! If I had allowed you your regular amount all this would not have happened. Such a thing could not then have happened." "I do not see that, father, unless by having plenty of money as usual I should not have undertaken the treasurership. I do not see how this consequence flows from the premises. Indeed I think it more than likely had matters been normal with me I should have been treasurer just the same." "Well, we must rectify all this. You want to go back to St. Cuthbert's, or do you wish to stay away?" "I want to go back, sir, of course, and graduate. And please, father," said Roy right loyally, "please do not think these few boys represent St. Cuthbert's. There are not a finer set of fellows in the world. These I spoke of are the exceptions." This remark thoroughly pleased the father who was himself an alumnus of old St. Cuthbert's. "And besides," continued the young man, "I want to go back and live down the ugly rumor--for that is all it is--and make somebody eat his words. I know, I feel certain it will come out all right. Matters always do. I want to be there. If I were to stay away now, would it not be, at least for some, a sort of tacit acknowledgment, or at least it might be so construed by some unfriendly to me, who might say I knew more than I chose to tell and so kept away as soon as I had a chance to do so?" "You are right, my boy; you are right. Go back and fight it down. Suspected of dishonesty! A Henning, too, preposterous! Yes, yes, you must go back, boy. You must go back." "I am glad you look at it in that light, sir. I think it the best thing to do." Mr. Henning drew from his pocket a bunch of keys. Opening his desk he took out a roll of bills. "You must consider your test, your trial, as over. It is over as far as I am concerned, and I am more than satisfied with you. You are free now to take up what sports you like, and spend, in moderation, what money you like, and in fact I leave your course of action entirely to yourself. I am sure I need have no fear for your prudence. Here, take this; you will need it." Mr. Henning handed over to his son a fair-sized roll of bills. How much he gave we will not state, but leave the amount to the imagination of the reader, merely remarking that Mr. Henning was a very rich man, did few things by halves, and, at the moment, was actuated by the most generous impulse. In giving Roy the money, he remarked: "Give your cousin Andrew twenty-five dollars, with my regards. I suppose schoolboys are never very flush at this time of the year. I never was." While Roy, with a bounding heart, was thanking his father, a loud ring of the door bell disturbed the quiet of the house. In a moment one of the servants brought in a telegram. "For Master Roy, sir," she said. With a bow and a "Permit me" to his father, Roy opened the envelope and read: "Come at once. Great news! St. C. 8. B. 3. Ambrose." The mystified boy showed the telegram to his father. "Perhaps the first part refers to the robbery. You had better go. Can you bid your mother and aunt farewell and be ready at the depot by 7.30?" "Yes, quite easily." "Very good. The carriage will be ready for you to catch the 7.30 train." CHAPTER XXIII THE GREAT BLOW Notwithstanding the death of his little sister, Roy left home with a lightened heart, owing to the more perfect and decidedly pleasanter understanding with his father. Had he not full permission to play ball, or do anything else he chose! If the reader thinks this was a small reason for being light-hearted, then it is safe to say that same reader never was a boy. Every real boy knows what that permission meant. Roy, as we know, was conscientious. We know the struggle he went through. We know some of the unpleasant consequences which followed from conscientiously carrying out his father's wishes. Just in proportion as the restriction had been bitter, this freedom now was sweet. He was a strong, healthy, vigorous boy, all his life used to outdoor exercise, delighting in all manly sports. Now he was free again! Free to enjoy it all! The promised delights appeared all the more entrancing from his long abstention from them. Would he not surprise the boys! No, he would give the credit, all of it, to Harry Gill. He would make it appear that the manager's diplomacy had been irresistible. Gill should have an extra feather in his cap! And Garrett! What a pity he was developing such undesirable traits of character! Could he not be weaned in some way from those companions with whom at present he seemed so infatuated? Roy was convinced that he was not really a bad fellow at heart. How could he be with such a mother as Aunt Helen? Was there ever a finer, more lovable woman, except his own mother? Her gentle touch, her womanly way, her wise and soothing words! What a treasure Andrew had, did he but realize it! No, he could not be really bad with her influence, and the memory of her, and her prayers for him! These were some of the thoughts which passed through Roy's mind as the train sped along in the darkness. Then he remembered Bracebridge's telegram. He took it out of his pocket and read it again. He puzzled again over those words "Come at once." What could they mean? Had the thief been discovered? His heart gave a great leap at the thought. But what if, after all, his suspicions had been well founded! What if the thief should prove to be Andrew Garrett! The thought made him sick at heart; and yet--and yet! oh, he must be mistaken in that surmise! Ambrose would not have wired him to come at once had the guilt been traced to Garrett. He would certainly have been in no hurry to bring him back to so unpleasant a state of affairs. In that supposition it would have been "great news" indeed, but most disastrous news. No, it must be some one else, if the message meant what he hoped it did mean. "And so the first great match has come off victoriously," he said to himself. "Good! good!" He fell into a train of pleasant thoughts during which he looked so bright and so happy that an old lady on the opposite seat, who had watched him for some time, smiled kindly at him. Roy returned the smile. She was quite advanced in years and evidently traveled but rarely. She liked the look of the bright, handsome face before her, whose youthful sparkling eyes spoke goodness and enthusiasm, and whose clear skin at this moment showed a decided flush of joy. "Are you going home?" she ventured timidly. "No, ma'am. I'm leaving home." She looked puzzled. It was contrary to her experience to see children so happy on leaving home. Roy enjoyed her puzzled look for a minute, and then explained: "I am not going home, but I have just left the best father and mother in the world, and am now going back to school to join the best and truest friends a fellow could find anywhere on this round earth." "Is that so! I am glad to hear it. If they are all like you they must be good boys." Roy actually blushed. Just then the conductor called the old lady's station. As she arose and with the assistance of Roy gathered her traveling impedimenta, she said: "Keep that bright smile, my dear, and remember that no one can keep so bright a face unless he keeps a bright soul within. I am an old woman, and I know what I say." Now while Roy retires to his sleeper to get as much rest as is possible on the rail, we will hurry forward and learn why he was wired to come at once, and find out what has been happening during the last few days at St. Cuthbert's. The Blandyke team arrived before noon on the day Ambrose had sent the message to his friend. Their manager told Gill that the condition of their coming was that they returned on the 3.50 train of that afternoon. The game, consequently, began at one o'clock. It was over by three, with the result already known. The day had been extremely hot, with not a breath of air stirring. The atmosphere was stifling. All nature seemed to be in a dead calm. Even the dogs sought shady spots and lay still and panted. The afternoon seemed more oppressive than an August day, because so early in the summer every one was unaccustomed to the great heat. As the game was finished by three o'clock on a recreation day, there were three vacant hours before supper time. Owing to the unusual sultriness few cared to tramp over the hills, or along the lower road of the valley. A few, however, started out, either to walk, or hunt black squirrels on the higher, wooded grounds in the rear of the college. About four a slight breeze began to blow from the southwest, cooling the atmosphere very considerably. "Ah, that's fine!" said Jack Beecham, as he faced the breeze and filled his lungs with the cooler air. "That's fine! My, but it was hot! Never knew it so hot in May before in my life. Oh, look, Ambrose," and he pointed to the direction from which the breeze was coming, "look at that queer-shaped cloud!" Bracebridge looked toward the southwest. Dark, coppery clouds were forming and rapidly approaching. The temperature dropped suddenly many degrees. The cooler breeze became stronger and soon it was a wind. Before many minutes elapsed it was a very high wind in which it was difficult to stand steadily. Suddenly a brilliant flash of lightning leaped from the now leaden sky. The boys could hear the electric discharge snap and crackle against the sides of the buildings. It was followed almost instantly by a deafening crash of thunder, tropical in its intensity. Down came the rain, not in drops, but apparently in sheets of water. Flash followed flash, peal succeeded peal, and the wind grew more furious every moment. Bracebridge, Shealey, Beecham, and Harry Gill watched the terrific war from the Philosophy classroom window. Ever and anon the downpour would cease, but the wind did not abate. At intervals could be seen the havoc the wind was doing. The air was thick with leaves and twigs and straw. In the lowlands the boys saw the rail fences carried away like matches and deposited over the fields. An old wooden windmill tower was toppled over. Boards and shingles and slates were flying everywhere. All knew that such violent warfare must be brief. Already in the west there was a streak of light beneath the clouds. Before the storm had spent its fury the watchers at the window were to witness a remarkable sight. Behind the college there was, as has often been remarked, thickly wooded high ground. The boys at the window were watching the hillside path, which every now and then was obscured by the rain. Suddenly a forked bolt struck the largest tree on the hillside, and hurled to the ground across the college walk at least one-third of it. The boys looked at each other in a frightened way. In the mind of each was: "What if the college had been struck!" When the deafening thunder-crash had passed, Bracebridge, for the sake of saying something, remarked: "It's lucky that none of us were out in such a storm." "We would have been nicely drenched, eh?" said Tom Shealey. "No one of common-sense would be out," said Beecham; "all would run to shelter somewhere." "But some may have been too far away to reach it. You know how sudden the storm was," observed Bracebridge. "What on earth is that?" suddenly exclaimed Tom Shealey, as he pointed to something or some one crossing the yard. After the last thunder-crash the rain had ceased suddenly. The wind dropped, and the storm, furious while it lasted, spent itself. The boys threw open the classroom window to get a better view of the yard. Some one had entered from the field gate nearest the woods. He was drenched; his hat was gone; his hair dishevelled. He was white and frightened. Although his clothes clung to his skin he was making violent, meaningless gestures as he ran, and appeared to be gibbering or muttering something as if in that stage of fright which borders on imbecility. "It is Smithers," shouted Shealey. "Let's go and see what's up. Hurry!" "What's up, Smithers? What's happened?" asked Shealey, a moment later, hatless and breathless. The frightened boy had a scared, wild look. He muttered something quite unintelligible. His lips were dry and white. "Now be calm. Tell us quietly what has happened," said Bracebridge. Smithers again gibbered something. The listeners could make nothing of it. They began to think the boy had lost his reason. "--prefect--dead--struck--innocent," were some of the words caught by the listening boys. "Good gracious!" exclaimed Beecham, "the prefect is dead, struck by lightning, up on the hill walk. Is that it, Smithers?" The one appealed to, not fully comprehending the question, and half beside himself, nodded assent. "Gill, quick, go at once to the President. Then take care of this fellow. Send a priest as soon as you can up the hill. Jack and Tom, you come with me." Ambrose naturally assumed the leadership in the emergency. The three ran along the walk and up the hillside path as fast as their legs could carry them. CHAPTER XXIV THE FALLEN TREE Having seen from the classroom a large part of the great oak fall when the bolt came, the three boys supposed that was the spot where the tragedy must have taken place. They noticed the havoc the storm had wrought. Many large limbs of trees were scattered across their path. In several places the walk was washed out, leaving large gullies. On the thickly wooded hillside the damage was the greatest. Arriving at the oak tree they were at a loss. They saw no sign of any human being. They picked up Smithers' plaid cloth cap which he had lost in his wild flight homeward. Beecham began to beat it against a young sapling to rid it of some of the mud. "We must go farther yet. This is not the place," said Ambrose. Fully one-third of the great oak tree had been riven from the trunk. It lay across their path, necessitating a detour amid the still dripping underbrush to pass it. The oak was in the full of its early summer foliage, forming an impenetrable green wall across the hillside path. As they were threading their way through the thick low growth on the upper side, Jack Beecham glanced into the dense mass of fallen foliage. His eyes were caught by something black beneath the green. Thinking it was perhaps an old log, blown there by the storm before the lightning damaged the oak, he was about to pass on, but gave a second look. The black thing under the leaves was surely not a bough! Again he peered into the tree-top. "Great heavens! there he is under that oak!" he said. The three pushing aside the boughs saw the bleeding, white face of some one who was apparently dead. "Poor Mr. Shalford!" exclaimed Shealey. "Nonsense! Don't you see that's not Mr. Shalford at all. It's one of the boys. Who can it be?" They all looked again into the leaves, and were satisfied that it was not their prefect. "Who is it?" asked Shealey. "I believe it is--it is Stockley," said Bracebridge. "You don't say!" exclaimed Shealey, "at all events we must get him out of that tangle, dead or alive." "I don't believe that oak killed him, anyway," remarked Jack Beecham. "Why?" asked Ambrose, in a whisper, for in the presence of death they were awed. "Look here," said Beecham, "no big limb has reached him. These twigs and leaves would give one a sharp switch when falling, and probably knock him down, but they are too small to break any bones." "Maybe that's true. Well, we shall soon find out," said Ambrose. "Now, boys, how are we to get him clear of that tree-top?" They procured a strong stick, and while two lifted as many of the small boughs as they could, Bracebridge pushed the pole over the prostrate body. He then raised his end, the other being on the ground on the other side of the body. The two other boys took hold of Stockley's shoulders and successfully drew him from under the tree, as, fortunately, he had not been caught by any of the larger limbs. Gently as possible they drew him out from under the mass of foliage, but gentle as they were, they necessarily used some force. To their surprise--and satisfaction--they heard him groan. He was not dead after all, but undoubtedly badly hurt. No sooner had Stockley been extricated than Mr. Shalford appeared. The boys who were bending over the prostrate body looked up. "Oh, sir!" said Ambrose, "we thought it was you," and he pointed to Stockley. There was love in the tone, making Mr. Shalford treasure the simple words for many a day. "Why?" "That stupid Smithers said so. I think he was too frightened to know what he was saying." The moving of Stockley restored him to a state of semi-consciousness, in which he talked incoherently. One arm hung loosely, evidently broken above the elbow. When touched in the ribs the suffering boy groaned aloud, so that it was quite probable that some were fractured. There was a cut on the forehead, and another on the lower lip. The injuries, as far as could be then learned, while serious, were not necessarily fatal. A priest from the college having arrived, the rest withdrew some paces while the minister of God tried to elicit some act of conscious sorrow for sin. It seemed to the boys that he succeeded, for from the distance they saw him raise his hand and make the sign of the cross as in sacramental absolution. "I do not think he will die," said the priest as the others drew near. "See there, that is what must have done the mischief. He was caught up here in the wind-storm, and one of those dead limbs struck him. You say you found him beneath the tops of the fallen oak. Those twigs could not have inflicted these injuries." Intermittently Stockley muttered incoherent words. Bracebridge and Beecham knelt on either side of him, nervously anxious to catch every sound. Unknown to each other, both had simultaneously formed a strange suspicion. Once both distinctly heard the words: "Clear--Henning." What could that mean? They caught the word "letter," but to neither did this convey intelligence, because neither knew of the existence of the copy or draft of that letter which Roy Henning had written to some unknown friend. They heard other disconnected words, for instance, "sweater," and "Garrett," but these words had no meaning for them. They did not, for all that, lose a single word, but stored up everything in their memories, being sure that something would come of it in good time. Harry Gill and others arrived with a wire mattress, the best temporary substitute for a stretcher. There was no lack of willing hands to convey the injured boy down the hill to the infirmary. Gill's report of Smithers' frantic words spread like wildfire in the yard. Most of the boys believed the kindly prefect had been killed by a falling tree. Few had seen him after the report began, because he had at once started for the walk. Notwithstanding the appalling nature of the accident, when the boys saw Mr. Shalford return safe and sound they could scarce refrain from giving a hearty cheer. One began to wave his hat and was on the point of opening his mouth. Mr. Shalford was immensely surprised at such a strange proceeding at such a solemn moment, never for a moment dreaming it was all for him. He stopped all noise with an imperative "Hush!" All the boys clustered around the infirmary steps awaiting the reappearance of the prefect. In about half an hour he came. He told the boys the extent of Stockley's injuries, and said that it was the physician's opinion that none of the wounds were likely to prove fatal. "Hurrah for Mr. Shalford!" shouted George McLeod. "McLeod, are you taking leave of your senses? If you don't be quiet I'll send you back to Mr. Silverton to the division yard." But the boys took up McLeod's lead and gave three cheers for the prefect. "And what on earth is that for?" he asked. "Why, sir, don't you know? Smithers said you were killed!" "Smithers was too excited to know what he was saying." "But you are not killed--that's the point. Hurrah!" In spite of himself the prefect was again cheered. Do what he would, put his fingers to his lips, point to the infirmary, wave down the noise with his hand, he could not stop the boys giving one more shout for his safety. When Bracebridge and Beecham were again alone in their room, the former said: "What do you make of it all?" "I think it is very important." "I think so too." "You heard all he said?" "Every word." "I am not sure," said Jack, "but I believe there is a rift in the cloud for dear old Roy. Fancy, Brose! suppose this wounded boy should know all about the robbery!" "And we could make him tell," added Bracebridge. "I tell you what I think," continued Jack, "it is my conviction that he not only knows all about the thieving, but that he----" "Oh, don't say that," urged Ambrose. "I know what you think. I believe I think the same, but don't like to give it expression." "I don't mind doing so if it will lead to the clearing of Henning." "I wish I knew what he meant--what was on his mind when he mentioned Garrett and his sweater! And what could he mean by repeating frequently, 'letter, letter, Garrett.' It's all a mystery to me as yet. I do wish Roy was here. Maybe he knows what the words mean. Perhaps Roy could get Stockley to tell who the thief was, that is, supposing he really knows." "It seems clear to me," said Beecham, "that Stockley knows something. But who can say what that something is? Say! Suppose you telegraph for Henning. Give him to-day's score, too. He'll want to know that." "That's a great idea. I'll do it," said Ambrose. "All right. Do it at once, so that he may get the message in time to start to-night and be here early to-morrow morning, should he consider the affair important enough." Thus the telegraphic message was sent to Roy Henning. When Smithers had recovered from his fright sufficiently to be able to talk sensibly, Beecham and Shealey plied him with questions about the accident. He said, substantially: "We were at the other end of the forest path when the storm came up--Stockley and I. We took shelter in the cave for some time until the water began to flow in from above and drove us out. Then we made for home. It was very dangerous. Sticks and limbs were flying in all directions. We had passed the big oak by about thirty feet when Stockley was struck by a piece of a branch about four feet long and as thick as your arm. It hit him on the arm and on the chest or side. He fell with a scream. At that moment there came a brilliant flash, and a bolt of lightning struck quite close to us, blinding me for a few seconds. I was about ten feet ahead of Stockley when it came. I was so frightened I thought I would go crazy. When I could see again I saw the oak tree falling right where he was lying. I never was so frightened in my life. Then I ran home, believing he was killed. I don't remember how I got down the hill, or what I said after." "Will you answer me one question, Smithers?" asked Beecham. "If I can, yes. What is it?" "When the accident happened were you two talking about Henning and the robbery last Christmas?" "Yes," he answered, "we were. I'm sorry now I had anything to do with it." "With what?" asked Beecham with a nervous start. Foolish fellow. He was not cool enough. The other fellow took immediate alarm. "Oh, nothing!" and he refused to say anything more, and walked away. "That was too bad," said Beecham to himself, very much chagrined. "If I had been a little more diplomatic I might have wormed out of him all he knew of the matter." Now Jack was indeed sorely puzzled. Did Smithers mean that he was sorry that he had talked to Stockley about it, or did he mean that he was now, under the influence of a great fright, sorry that he had participated in the robbery? Beecham sat a long time on a bench tilted against the wall, disconsolate and severely bringing himself to task. "Here am I," he said, "with conceit enough to imagine I have brains enough to become a lawyer, and at the very first opportunity for an important cross-questioning I make a decided goose of myself. Pshaw! I wish some one would kick me! I deserve it!" When Beecham found Bracebridge and told him what he had done, the latter laughingly admitted the sentence which Jack had passed upon himself ought to be immediately executed, and volunteered to be the executioner. "You did make a mess, of it, certainly. There's no telling what the boy knows--much more than he will ever reveal, I'm thinking. We can now only wait for Roy. He wired that he would be here to-morrow morning." "'Rah for Roy! He's the one we want!" shouted Jack with renewed enthusiasm. CHAPTER XXV SURPRISES FOR ROY Henning arrived at the Cuthberton depot at seven in the morning. In stepping from the sleeper he was surprised to see Ambrose Bracebridge awaiting him. "Welcome back, old fellow, to St. Cuthbert's," said Ambrose. "I was very sorry to hear of your loss. May she rest in peace," and the gentlemanly boy raised his hat reverently. "Thank you," said Roy, warmly shaking hands, "thanks. It was very sudden. Poor little Ethel died a saint if ever there was one." "I have not forgotten you in your absence. I have the promise of five Masses for her from the Fathers. I felt sure that would be pleasing to you." "Thanks, indeed!" He was touched by his friend's thoughtfulness, and the remembrance of Ethel brought a big lump into his throat, and for a moment there was a catching of the breath. "Excuse me, Ambrose. Your kindness--our sudden loss--my heart is wrenched--her--she--oh! you know how it is!" "Yes, yes, I know----" "And I have come back," said Roy, certainly irrelevantly, "I have come back under the most favorable conditions with respect to my father." "Yes?" answered Ambrose, quite ignorant of what the conditions might be. Roy saw that for all their talks, Bracebridge remembered nothing of the previous relations between himself and his father. He saw by his questioning "yes," and by his eyes, which were nothing less than interrogation points, that his friend was curious to learn more, although he delicately refrained from asking. "It's a long story, Brosie, old man. I can't tell it to you now on the platform here. I'll tell you some time to-day--after we have had breakfast. I am as hungry as a wolf. Let's go to a hotel and get breakfast." "No, the college carriage is outside waiting for you, and breakfast for four is to be ready by the time we get back." "For four?" "Why, yes. Didn't I tell you that Harry Gill and Jack are waiting outside in the carriage? The ticket man at the gate wouldn't let them in. I was the least suspicious-looking of the three, I suppose." "Let's be off, then," said Roy. Both made a grab simultaneously at Roy's suitcase. "No, you don't." "Yes, I do," answered Ambrose, keeping hold of it. They both tugged for a moment or two, much to the amusement of two ladies in an opposite train who burst out into merry laughter at the friendly contest. Warm greetings awaited Roy in the carriage. After the welcoming was over, and the delicate condolences tendered, Roy leaned over to Gill's ear and whispered something. Whatever the whispering was about it ended by Roy putting his finger over his lips as an admonition to remain silent. The information conveyed to Gill must have been of a startling nature for he immediately proceeded to behave as if he were suffering from a fit. He threw up his heels into Bracebridge's lap, clutched the carriage strap with one hand and Beecham's coat collar by the other, and began to scream at the top of his voice. Roy held his sides at the other's antics. Ambrose guessed the cause of Gill's jubilation, but Jack Beecham was quite in the dark. "Here! take this maniac off, or I'll soon be a physical wreck," he shouted. "By the way, Ambrose," asked Henning, "what is the great news you wired you had for me? But first how did the great game come off?" Then all three in their enthusiasm began to talk at once and independently of each other. Each described what he considered the beauties and fine points of the game. In the midst of this jumble of words, from which Roy managed to pick out a deal of information about the game, the carriage drove into the college grounds. The prefect at once hurried the four into the infirmary building where a somewhat elaborate breakfast had been prepared for them. "Get along, boys. Clear out now. These boys are hungry. You can see Roy after breakfast. There is plenty of time to hear all the news, if he has any to tell. Now, John, let no boy into the infirmary this morning without my permission." "All right, Mr. Shalford. I'll keep them out, sure enough," answered the kind old fellow who attended to the wants of the sick. This time he was as good as his word, for as soon as the four were fairly inside he shut the door and locked it. During the breakfast--such a breakfast the infirmarian explained he had to get up once in a while to keep his hand in for convalescents who had to be coaxed to eat to get strong, an explanation readily admitted by the four--Henning's three friends told him of the wind-storm and of the accident to Stockley. They told him how through Smithers' incoherence of speech they had first believed that Mr. Shalford had been crushed by the falling oak; how Stockley had been found beneath the branches, and, finally, how when he had returned to semi-consciousness he had uttered some very strange words which might mean nothing at all or a great deal for Henning. Roy, as he gradually learned the full particulars became very much interested and finally intensely excited. Was he going to have the wretched affair of the robbery cleared up at last? Did this boy know who the thief was? Could he point him out? Would he do so? And what if, after all, his suspicions about his own cousin should prove correct! While he was thus pondering, and listening to his friends' suggestions and information, Mr. Shalford came in. "Henning," he said, "you may be surprised that I did not let Garrett go to the depot to meet you. The fact is, these rascals here begged so hard that I could not find the heart to refuse them, and you know that the old-fashioned carriage will only hold four. To make amends I will send Garrett to you at once. He has asked several times to be allowed to come in, but I refused until you had finished your breakfast." A minute later Andrew Garrett entered, holding out his hand in sympathy to Roy, as he walked across the room. There was a wonderful change in the boy. He looked better than he had looked for months. The blotches and disfiguring pimples had disappeared. Healthy food, regular meals, and being much out of doors had effected that. But there was a change of countenance as well as of face. There was a look of candor not usually seen there of late. The eyes were steady and had lost much of their restlessness. There was at this moment a gratifying air about Garrett which plainly indicated that he wanted to repair any injustice and wrong which he had formerly done to his cousin. Henning was very much puzzled at the change, which was more apparent to him than to the others who witnessed the meeting. "Poor little cousin Ethel. Oh, Roy, I'm so sorry. She was such a charming child!" Roy looked at him in surprise. Could this be the boy who had done him so much injury and had kept the secret all these months? What to make of the tone, the evident look of candor, the change in Garrett, Roy did not know. Sensible fellow as he was, he made the most of it, judging that if the present meeting were merely a piece of good acting on Andrew's part, he would sooner or later find out the true state of affairs. So he offered his hand to Garrett and it was pressed with genuine sympathy. "And how does Aunty bear the shock?" Roy told him. "And mother? Did you see my mother?" "I did, Andrew, and she grieves quite as much as my mother and father. She sends her love, and Papa sends this with his kindest regards to his nephew." Roy gave the sealed envelope, containing the elder Henning's present. Garrett did not open it at once. He said: "I have several things I wish to say to you when we are alone. Of course you have heard by this time all about the accident to Stockley?" He then whispered to Roy: "There's more behind this than you think. Get rid of these fellows for a little while. I have a lot to say to you." "I can not just now," Roy whispered back. "You see they are in a way my guests for the present. To send them away would not only offend, but it would be very unkind." "Very well then; as soon as you can be alone in the yard this morning?" "All right." Garrett then joined in the general conversation around the breakfast table. Roy was much puzzled. He could not understand Andrew at all. Never during the whole time that Garrett had been with him at St. Cuthbert's had he acted in so cousinly a manner. Roy wondered whether the change had been brought about by Ethel's death. Yet unless Andrew was playing a much deeper game than his cousin gave him credit for being able to play, his advances--for they were in Roy's estimation distinct advances--were genuine. He gave up the problem as too hard of solution--and waited. His cogitations were soon cut short. The physician came down stairs from his morning visit to the injured boy. "No, I do not think the boy will die," they heard him remark to the infirmarian, "I am sure he will not, although he thinks he is going to. He'll be all right in a few weeks. What? I told you last night--two ribs and his arm." "Can he see any one?" asked the infirmarian. "He had better be kept quiet for a few days. By the way, he said something about wanting to see a Troy, or a Joy, or some such name--and some one else. Who was it, Denning, Heming, Henning--some such name." "It's all one person, doctor. It's Roy Henning he wants to see. May he see him?" "Yes, I think it would be better to let him see this boy as soon as he wishes. There appears to be something important that he has to say which he wants to get off his mind. Yes, let him see this boy--a chum of his, I suppose. Perhaps it will do him good. Can not do any harm." "A chum of his! Ugh!" said Roy, _sotto voce_. There was really so comical a look of disgust on his face that the other boys, who were watching him closely, burst out laughing. The infirmarian came in: "The doctor says ye can see the one with a broken arm, though what he do be wantin' ye for, I dunno. It's sorry I am to be hearing ye lost your sister, Master Roy, an' sure the Lord'll be having mercy on her." "Thank you very much, for your kind wishes." His friends now left him, wishing him all sorts of success in the interview. He thanked them, but did not go upstairs. Instead, he went to the window and looked out as if expecting some one. Some time later his friends were surprised to see him still standing there. Mr. Shalford thought that by this time the interview must be nearly over. He, too, was surprised to see Henning gazing out of the breakfast-room window. The prefect went over to him. "Why are you not talking with Stockley?" he asked rather sharply. "For two reasons, sir. I am a little nervous at present. You know how much depends for me on what that boy will say. I want to be cool, so I am waiting a little while. Secondly, I do not intend to go there alone." "Not go alone! Why! What do you mean? Are you afraid?" "No, sir. But if this fellow should, and somehow I think he can, say something to exculpate me, what good would his statement, or perhaps admission, be to me without witnesses? I should be just where I was before." "You are right. You should have witnesses. Whom do you want?" "Ambrose and Jack and Rob Jones, if you like, sir." "No; two are enough. I will send Bracebridge and Beecham to you at once." CHAPTER XXVI STOCKLEY'S STORY When our unfortunate treasurer of the pitching cage fund entered the sickroom he was scarcely prepared for what he found there. The room, to his imagination, resembled an emergency hospital. The air was impregnated with the odors of arnica, and iodine and ether--decidedly sickly smells to one coming in suddenly and not accustomed to them. On the table near the bed where Stockley was lying were a number of bottles, gauze, and sponges and the remains of a light breakfast. The boy was propped up with pillows, his broken arm in splints resting on one, while another was gently pressed against his fractured ribs. Stockley was not an ill-featured boy. It is true that he had somewhat neglected his personal appearance of late, but there was nothing about him that was really repulsive, and now after his alcohol bath and with his hair well brushed from his forehead he appeared quite presentable. He had a fine mouth and his eyes were large and clear. His forehead was high and intelligent, and notwithstanding his faults one could not fail to recognize a sort of innate nobility in him, and Roy discovered something more than even this as he watched him. He saw on his face a softened, chastened look. His countenance showed that softening effect which appears in so peculiar yet unmistakable a way immediately after receiving one of the sacraments of the Church. His look was subdued and yet exalted. There was a species of radiance on the face which Roy felt he could not define, but yet was quite discernible. There was also a change of manner of speech. Stockley had been very close to the gates of death and that tremendous fact had changed his views, and the sacrament of Penance had the effect of softening his hitherto somewhat hard exterior conduct and manner and he was even now under the apprehension that it was quite doubtful whether he would recover from his injuries, although the physician had told him that unless most unexpected complications ensued there was no danger. He was nevertheless quite frightened, and was now very serious. It must not be understood, however, that the story he told was due to his fright, for he had quite a different motive in relating what he did. Roy saw the change in the boy, yet he could not help but regard him with disfavor, although he determined to be perfectly just to him. He was anxious, also, to keep his wits about him in order to lose nothing of what might be said. In justice to himself he meant to get the whole story, although in his heart of hearts he had the sickening dread that this boy lying wounded and bruised before him would confirm his worst fears concerning his cousin Garrett. Henning realized that the present moment was a critical one in his life; that now, or perhaps never, would all suspicion be removed. He felt that if this interview should result in nothing not already known, and he remain under the unjust and cruel suspicion, it would compel him to reconsider seriously his purpose of entering the seminary. Was there not also a possibility that the bishop would reject him--would be compelled to reject him--upon learning that his character for honesty was impugned? All this and much more he saw as he stood by the bedside of the injured boy, waiting for him to speak. While waiting he offered a fervent prayer to the Sacred Heart for direction for himself, and that if it were in Stockley's power to do so, he might clear up everything. To see Henning at this moment one would never imagine that he was very much excited. His two friends thought he was taking the matter very coolly. He stood at the bedside with his hands in the side pockets of his trousers, and with as much apparent nonchalance as if he were watching a ball-game. Perceiving that Stockley would not, or at least did not begin the conversation, he remarked: "I am sorry that you have met with so serious and so terrible an accident." There was no reply. Stockley put out his uninjured hand, but Roy did not take it. He felt that there was something in the character of the boy lying before him that was entirely antagonistic to his own character and disposition. They were the opposites of each other in almost everything. The one was animated with noble and generous impulses, with exalted ideals of life and duty and goodness. The other, as far as Roy had known him, was the antithesis of all this. Seeing that Stockley did not speak, he again made an attempt to open the conversation. "The infirmarian tells me that you wish to say something to me." "Yes," said the other in a low voice. He was really suffering a great deal of pain. "Yes, won't you all take chairs? Sit down, all of you." "Thanks, I prefer to stand," said Roy, but the other two found seats. "But it is rather a long story I have determined to tell. It will take some time." Roy sat down. "That's right. It makes it easier for me to say what I am going to tell." Henning nodded his head, without venturing a reply. "You seem rather sour with me." "No. Excuse me if I appear so. I am anxious to hear what you have to say." "By the way, where is Smithers? Why hasn't he been up here to see me? Where is he?" "I know nothing about him. You know I have only arrived from home this morning. As yet I have no news of the yard." "Well, he might have come, seeing how thick we have been. But there! I'm not going to say anything about him, or about anybody but myself." Roy nodded his head in approbation. "Ah! that suits you. You pious fellows are so particular about what is said about one's neighbor. I must be careful. You are right, of course, and besides I received a pretty close call, up there on the hillside, so I am going to try to undo some of the harm I have done. The chaplain has urged me, too." "Yes, be careful, please. But what is your story?" "I was brought up," he began in a low voice, "in a strange, unwholesome way. I suppose heredity, or at least environment, must have something to do with my tendencies and disposition. The only piece of good fortune I have had was in being sent to St. Cuthbert's, but, now when it is too late, I see how I have missed my chances here. Ever since I can remember, my father has been a heavy drinker and our home has been one of squalid discomfort, and I became more or less soured with everything and everybody and found myself doing many a mean thing. Do you know who it was who put the suspicion of theft on you? Three of us worked that, or strictly speaking, two; It was I and Smithers, and occasionally--once in a great while--your cousin Garrett." "So I have thought all along; in fact I knew it," said Henning, "but why on earth did you do such a thing? Do you not know how much I have suffered from this? And you must know how terribly hard this was to bear." "I know very well. Why did we do it? I, for one, was thoroughly envious of your popularity. I was angry, as a good many others were, at your refusal to play baseball or football. I did not, and to tell you the truth, do not like you, and I wanted to do something to vex you. Of course I see these things now in a different light after confession. You know I have been to confession, don't you." "I suspected as much. I am glad of that. So you started the cowardly rumor against my honesty all the time knowing I was innocent." Henning was determined to be diplomatic, so the question was not put as in anger, or with any apparent excitement or resentment, but rather as if he were helping the boy make a full confession by suggesting to him facts known to both. "Yes, I acted this way knowing you to be innocent," answered Stockley. "Did you realize that you might have ruined me for life?" "To be honest, I never dreamed of such a result. It was done simply to annoy you, and for no other reason, on my part." "Did you suggest this to Garrett or he to you?" asked Roy. "To do him justice, I must say that we, Smithers and I, suggested it to him. We had a hard job to bring him over, in fact he never did really come over. He would never let the letter be circulated." "Letter! What letter? What do you mean?" "Don't you know? That was my biggest card and it fell flat. Don't know? Oh, well, if you don't know about the letter, you must ask your cousin. He wouldn't give it up. I guess he's got it yet." Roy was much mystified. He could not imagine what the letter could be, or what bearing it had on the case. "Stockley, you have told us some things of importance. Now will you not go farther? You know I am innocent of the robbery, and of any possible connection with it?" "No doubt about that," said the other. "Now to make your story complete, and of immense value to me, will you not reiterate your statement before Bracebridge and Beecham here that you know me to be innocent of all the charges which have been circulated about me in the yard?" "Why, yes. I repeat emphatically that you are guiltless of them all." "Thanks! thanks! You are sure of what you say?" "Quite sure. You are scot-free." "Thanks again. Now, Stockley, as you are quite sure, do you not see the only way in which you can convince others that you are correct is to admit you know the thief?" The boy on the bed laughed. "Well, Henning, I suppose you think you have caught me nicely. You think I have either said too much or too little. If I had not been to confession I should not have allowed you to drive me into this corner, but I did not intend to stop at this. Yes, I will tell you the name of the thief." "Who is he?" asked Roy, as calmly as he could, although he felt himself half choking with suppressed excitement. "I must continue my story. When I have done you will know. What time is it?" "Twenty minutes to ten," answered Roy. "You've got it yet," said the boy, pointing his finger at Roy's watch, which he still held in his hand. "What? The watch? Oh! yes." It was a rather small gold hunting-case watch. "That watch was the cause of the robbery," said Stockley dramatically. Henning clicked the watch shut with a start, and put it back in his pocket. "This watch the cause of the robbery! What on earth are you talking about? Your senses must be leaving you----" "Just wait. You'll soon see I'm not wandering. Why should there be such an unequal distribution of wealth, and of the good things of the world? Why can you have all that heart can desire, and why must I get along with a mere pittance, just enough to make me wince under my own indigence? Look at my father and yours; my home and your home. Your father is a wealthy and honored lawyer with a home like a palace; mine, as I said before, one of squalid discomfort. My father gave me five dollars to get through the school year with, yours probably gave you a hundred." Henning began to pity the boy. Laying his hand gently on Stockley he said: "Hold on. I begin to catch your view, but you are getting on too fast. I am going to tell you something which I have never breathed to a living soul. Do you know how much money I had to spend this year?" "As I said," replied the other, "about a hundred, or perhaps much more." "You are mistaken. I had just twenty-five dollars--not one cent more--and you see that's a very small amount for me, because I am supposed--just as you suppose now--to have plenty." "Oh! Come off! You gave Smithers nearly ten!" "I know it, and it left me fifteen." Jack and Ambrose were never so surprised in their lives--and felt like cheering. Stockley remained silent. This was a revelation to him. He had supposed that a rich man's son, because he was a rich man's son, always had all the money he wanted. He was sharp enough to realize Roy's position during the year. "My, that must have been hard on you!" "It was hard," replied Roy. Another long pause. The injured boy was thinking new thoughts. CHAPTER XXVII STOCKLEY'S STORY (CONTINUED) "I've been thinking," said Stockley, at length breaking the silence. "I've been thinking that if I had known last Christmas what you have told me now things might have happened very differently. I guess I am not the only fellow who has seen hard lines here. Yes, things would have been different." "How so?" asked Henning. "It's this way. I told you that it was your gold watch that was the cause--or the occasion--of all the trouble that came to you. It happened this way. For some time before Christmas I envied you, your good clothes, this gold watch, and--and your popularity. Along by Christmas my father neglected me. He sent me no money, which he might easily have done had he given me one thought. The more nearly broke I was at holiday time the deeper my envy. I knew, for I watched you closely, that you were collecting a pretty sum for the cage. I saw where you kept the money. The idea of securing a gold watch for myself took strong hold upon me. It did not take long or many attempts to loosen one of the outside window bars. Then on the _Richelieu_ night when everybody was full of thoughts of the play, when the prefects were hurrying the boys to bed, I entered through the window and secured the money." "And it wasn't--it wasn't--" Roy choked up. "Who? It wasn't anybody but myself. Smithers had no hand in it then." Roy Henning's heart gave a great bound of relief. It was not his cousin, after all. Thank God, thank God! The family honor was saved! How glad he was now of his silence! Was ever silence so golden? What irretrievable damage a hasty word could have done. The thief known, on his own confession, and before witnesses. His cousin exonerated! Thank God, thank God! Of course Roy was curious now to know all the details and it was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained his excitement sufficiently to be able to speak in a natural tone. "How did you manage to do it?" "Umph! This information which you have been seeking for the last five months does not seem to affect you much." "With that we can deal later. Now I am curious to know how you did it. Please tell me." "As you take the matter so coolly, I will. I laid my plans well. I determined, if caught in lifting the grating, to be hunting for a ball, which I had previously dropped down there. I watched my time. I made the entry while the boys were in the chapel at night prayers. I settled with myself that if I were caught coming out, to bring the money to you to prove to you how foolish you were to leave it in a common table drawer. In the dark it took only a minute to lift the grating. You know that it is thick iron with small holes. Three boys did actually walk over the grating that night while I was crouching beneath it with the money in my pocket." Henning startled both Stockley and his companions by saying, dramatically: "I saw you that night there." "What, you saw me! Oh, I say, that's a likely story--and didn't say a word all this time!" "I can prove it." "How?" "Why did you wear Garrett's blue sweater?" "Guess you did see me then, for I wore it. I wanted a disguise. If any one saw me near that window with Garrett's sweater on they would take me for him, provided I hid my face well--which I did. No one would suspect Garrett of thieving." Again Henning was thankful that he had kept his resolution of silence. It was not for Garrett's sake he had made it. Why it was made, and kept in the face of such suspicious circumstances, the reader will learn ere long. "Did you purchase the gold watch you wanted with your--your ill-gotten gains?" "I did not. I was afraid to do so. I saw at once if I did I should compromise myself. I saw that I should have to tell where I got the money for such a purpose. Everybody, and especially the faculty, knew that I did not have overmuch pocket-money. My common-sense, after all, told me I could not use the money here. So I made myself a felon for nothing. What is left--most of it--is now with the President." Stockley paused a minute, and then continued: "Don't think this is an easy task for me, boys. I promised the chaplain to straighten things out, and as you had to have the essentials, you might as well have the details also. I shall never face the boys again, for as soon as I can be moved I am to be sent home. Anyway, Henning, I like the way you received the story." "I am very thankful to you that you make it so clear and circumstantial." "You remember in the early spring there was a good deal of money spent by the boys. If I remember rightly you yourself bought a number of books, bats, balls, and shoes. Well, at that time I ventured to spend some, but I was horribly suspicious all the time. Somehow I imagined that every dollar I spent was marked in some invisible way and would be traced back to me. No, I tell you that has done me no good, given me not one moment of satisfaction, and has only added an extra burden to my conscience." "Did Smithers have a hand in this thievery?" asked Roy. "Leave others out. You said that to me just now, and now you are trying to get some one else incriminated." "No, I am not. I am merely acting in self-defense. You have cleared me of all suspicion. I must, if he was implicated in this wretched affair, have him clear me also." "You need not bother about Smithers," said Bracebridge; "that charming and courageous individual departed for unknown pastures between two suns. You will see him no more. The boys say he is daffy on account of the storm. Let it go at that, Roy." Henning was surprised at this news, but not altogether pleased. Matters had thus far gone so propitiously that he wanted every knot in the tangle straightened out. "That's all right, Roy," said Bracebridge. "There will be no more trouble from that quarter." He then turned to Stockley, saying: "I must say that we are obliged to you for your candor. It is rather a manly acknowledgment after all." "You see, I went to confession last night, and----" "I understand. You are properly trying to undo the wrong you have done. You will never be able to undo the mental torture you have inflicted on Henning all these months." "I never shall. I am sorry for all that now, and I ask your pardon, Henning." The three boys were discovering that there was something manly in Stockley after all. "That's all right," said Roy heartily. "It's all over now. Try and keep straight for the future." "Now," said Bracebridge, "there is only one thing more to be done. Of course you will sign a paper exonerating Henning from all possible implication, now you have acknowledged your own guilt. Our word as witnesses would be sufficient, but it would come with better grace from you, don't you think so?" "There's not much gracefulness in the whole wretched business, I'm thinking, but I'll sign." That afternoon, with the permission of the prefect, there was posted on the bulletin board a notice which created more intense excitement than anything since the loss of the money during the Christmas holidays. It ran as follows: "This is to certify that I, of my own free will and without coercion, admit that I stole the seventy-two dollars last Christmas week, and that no one now at the college had the least thing to do with planning or carrying out the theft except myself." "JOHN STOCKLEY." CHAPTER XXVIII THE UNRAVELED TANGLE Unpleasant as the interview had been to Roy, he no sooner left the sickroom than he found his spirits rise with a great bound. At last! At last he was cleared! Now the way was smoothed for him. All aspersions on his character would be scattered like the morning mist before the sun, as soon as the contents of the precious paper were made known. The three boys left the infirmary at about half an hour after eleven o'clock. In a quarter of an hour classes would be dismissed for the day, it being a customary half-holiday. Jack Beecham was eager to post the notice on the bulletin board at once. They took the wiser and safer course. They decided to see the prefect first, as nothing appeared on the board without his sanction, and when it did it was regarded as official. "Come in," they heard him call in response to their rap at the door. "Great news, Mr. Shalford!" shouted Jack Beecham before he entered the room. "Everything's settled. Roy's all right now. The head of the clique has done it this time--in black and white, too; see, sir." Mr. Shalford arose, smiling, and extended his hand to Henning. "I am very glad. It has been an ugly business. It has caused no end of anxiety. The rumors and charges were always so intangible that I never could trace one to its source. But let me see the paper." This boys' true friend gave a low whistle as he read Stockley's acknowledgment. "So you are cleared, Henning; and the thief is known? That's capital. Poor boy! Isn't it too bad, boys, to find a student--one of us--a thief, a burglar, a felon! Oh, the pity of it! Well, pray for him, boys, pray for him. Leave this note with me, Henning. I'll see that it does its work. Congratulations, all of you. Whatever you have, Roy, you have some loyal friends. Congratulations, congratulations, all of you!" The note was immediately posted. Then the excitement began, at first among half-a-dozen around the board, then among other groups, and in a very short time throughout the college. George McLeod and Ernest Winters simply went wild, and in less than an hour they could scarcely speak at all, so hoarse were they from shouting. Where was Henning? A rush was made to the Philosophy classroom. He was not there. Perhaps he was with the rector or the prefect of studies. Both these places were invaded by excited boys, but Roy was not forthcoming. Just as the big bell rang for dinner, George McLeod made a rush for the chapel, sure that he would find his friend there. And there he did find the three, Jack, Ambrose, and Roy, pouring out their thanksgiving with grateful hearts for the happy turn events had taken. "Come, Roy; it's dinner. The big bell has rung; come on." Roy did not move, nor did his companions. He evidently intended to avoid the crowd, waiting until they should all be at dinner, knowing that in the refectory they would have to remain quiet. This time he miscalculated entirely. No sooner did he make his appearance than the whole of the students of the senior refectory rose to their feet and gave three hearty cheers for Roy Henning. The prefect made no attempt to stop the demonstration, while Ernest Winters, out in the middle of the room, was fairly dancing with joy and excitement. At a given signal from Mr. Shalford all cheering ceased. Every one resumed his seat--except Ernest, who danced on in his glee, to the intense amusement of all, and to his own utter confusion when he discovered that he was the only boy now making any noise in the refectory. Before the laugh at his expense had subsided the prefect whispered to Roy: "Shall I give talking at table in honor of the event?" "To-morrow, please, sir," replied Roy, "now I want to think a little." Mr. Shalford gave a look and a nod to the reader, and the meal, save for the reader's voice, was finished in silence. If the boys were not allowed to talk for a little while, there was no lack of signs and signals. Harry Gill was frantic to signal across the room his congratulations, and had a fit of coughing for trying to eat his dinner and at the same time send a series of telegraphic messages to Roy. Henning was pleased to see that Andrew Garrett was quite demonstrative of good will. Andrew, for a long time tried to catch his cousin's eye. When he did so, he dropped his knife and fork and imitated a handshaking. Roy did the same to his cousin, and was repaid by seeing a look of intense pleasure spread over Andrew's face. Of course all these signs and signals and other unusual occurrences were breaches of discipline which, at any other time would not have gone unchecked and unpunished. But Mr. Shalford knew exactly "how it was." He had been a real boy himself once, and knew exactly when not to see too much. He believed in the scriptural motto, "Be not over just." And after dinner! What a scene the yard presented for a few minutes! The delighted boys shook Roy's hand until his arm fairly ached. His arm ached because he allowed it to be shaken by others, instead of himself shaking every hand extended. In this business he was unexperienced. In the midst of the enthusiasm, which resembled that which follows an important and successful baseball game, only more intense, Harry Gill jumped upon a long bench by the wall and shouted: "Listen, gentlemen. I have good news for you. Hi, there! listen. Listen there, boys, listen, listen! Roy Henning has promised to pitch for the rest of the year! Did--you--hear that--boys?" Roy suddenly remembered that he had intended to give Gill the credit for this. He jumped on the bench in a second. Raising his hand, the hero of the hour obtained silence in a much shorter time than Gill had done. "If I pitch for the rest of the year," he said, "it is all Gill's fault. I simply could not resist his importunities. Oh, he's a sly one!" "It isn't," said Gill laughing. "It is." "It is not." "It is." Then there was a cheer which could be heard down at Cuthberton. After a time Roy, Jack, Ambrose, and Rob Jones extricated themselves from the throng of happy boys, and with Gill and Andrew Garrett repaired to the Philosophy classroom, or Hilson's parlor, as it was called, which the other members of the class considerately left at their disposal for the time being. "Oh, what a day we're having!" sighed Jack Beecham as he sank into a chair. "Glorious, isn't it?" said the jubilant Bracebridge. "And now that we are alone," began Andrew Garrett, "that is, among special friends, I want to say something." All were silent in an instant. Gill, who did not appear to have realized the previous strained relations between the two cousins began to say something funny, but he was checked by an unmistakably significant glance from Ambrose, who had become quite serious, for he rather expected a scene, if not an explosion. Shealey, who had come in, was too full of fun and nonsense to imagine that anybody just now could be serious, but when he saw the nervous look on Ambrose's face, and the evident nervousness of Garrett, he, too, realized that it was time to suspend bantering. All the friends were standing in a group around Henning, laughing and chattering as only boys thoroughly happy can laugh and chatter, when Garrett began to speak. At the sound of his voice, they all, with Roy in the center, turned and faced Garrett as he stood two or three feet away. "I want to say something," Garrett began again, "and I think it only fair, Roy, to say it before these others, as well as to you." Henning bowed slightly, having only a faint idea of what was coming. At present he was too pleased to know that Garrett was not implicated and that the family name was untarnished. "I want to say that I consider myself to have been a pretty mean and small sort of a fellow in this whole business." "Oh! Don't----" began Roy in protest. "Wait a minute, Roy. This is the task I have set myself, for it seems to me the only possible way in which I can make reparation. I want to say that I had a good deal to do with those rumors. I got in, somehow, with a crowd of boys I ought to have been ashamed to associate with. How it all happened I don't exactly know. Things went from bad to worse with me, and pretty far, too. It seems a dream to me now. About a week ago suddenly I began to realize my position. How this realization came about I don't know. It must have been dear little Ethel's prayers for me, but I began to think of my position, think of what I was doing, and, yes, to think of the sin of it all. You were away, Roy, and when I remembered your trouble and grief at home, and when, finally, your brotherly telegram came, I began to be thoroughly ashamed of myself. So now all I can do is to ask your pardon, and the pardon of all these, your loyal and staunch friends." As he listened to this manly avowal, there arose in Roy Henning's breast an admiration for his cousin's moral courage. The other auditors were deeply impressed. They waited with curiosity to see what Roy would do. And he? He did precisely what might be expected of him. Without saying a word, he stepped forward, took Garrett's hand and shook it warmly. Then: "It's all over, old man. Let bygones be bygones. I forgive everything and forget." "Thanks, very much. I do not deserve this, but you shall see I shall deserve it." There was a world of pathos and earnestness in Andrew's voice at that moment. The rest of the gathering of friends extended their hands, and Andrew shook hands all around. "Now," said Roy, "will you permit me to ask a few questions, to clear up some obscure points in my mind?" "Certainly; anything," said Andrew, with alacrity. "How did that wretched Stockley come to wear your blue sweater? He tells me he did, and, besides, I saw him get down below that grating that night and I thought it was you." "Thought it was me!" said Garrett in the greatest amazement. "You thought it was I, and all this time you thought I was the thief, and yet stood all I said against you, and never said a word! Oh, Roy! No wonder on that Sunday afternoon you insisted on my clearing you!" Andrew Garrett appeared to be fairly overcome by his cousin's generosity. "Why, oh, why didn't I know all this before? How differently I would have acted. Believe me, it is only this very day I learned that the thief wore my sweater that night. Before going to bed on the night of the play I hung my sweater on a peg in the study-hall. The next morning I saw that it had been used by some one, for there were dirt stains on it and some rust marks from contact with rusty iron. I determined not to wear it after that. I had no idea the thief had used it, though." "Thanks," said Roy. "Now one more question, Andrew." "Fire away." "This morning Stockley said something about a letter which you knew something of--one in some way connected with me. Can you tell me anything about it?" Now it so happened that the affair of the letter was the only incident in the untoward conduct of Garrett for many months past in which he could take any kind of satisfaction. It will be remembered that he had refused to allow Stockley and Smithers to circulate it among the boys. He had retained it ever since. "That's easy enough," he answered, as he drew the crumpled letter from his pocket. "But I have to ask you a question now, for the wording of the letter certainly looks compromising enough. Listen to this, gentlemen." Andrew read the scrap of paper to the astonished listeners. "Dec. 23rd. My dear chum: Your letter received last Monday. Sorry to say that"--"here's a blank," said Garrett, and then continued, "have no money just now, so can not do the thing you wish. Awfully sorry. Feel like stealing the money rather than letting this thing go undone. However, wait till the end of Christmas week. Something's going to turn up before that--then we can go into partnership in this, at least for the merit--keep everything dark. Don't say a word to anybody about it. Mind, now, chum, everything must be kept secret or--smash! Yours, Roy H." When Garrett began to read the note, Henning looked puzzled. After a time he seemed to remember all about it, and then he--blushed. "Oh! that's----" but he stopped suddenly. He was going to make a revelation of some kind, and suddenly thought better of it. He blushed profusely--like a girl. He was awkward. For a moment he appeared embarrassed in no slight degree. Twice he was going to say something; twice he changed his mind. His friends were very much puzzled. Was there a shade of truth in some of the charges made against Roy after all? Had their idol fallen? Was he, after all, not to be their hero? Was he a lesser character than all along they had judged him? Roy saw these fleeting fancies on their wavering faces, all except Ambrose's. He never doubted, nor did he show the least sign of wavering. Roy saw wonder and incipient doubt elsewhere, at which he blushed the more furiously. The situation was certainly dramatic. A climax had come to-day. Was there, after all, to be an anticlimax? Was the idol to be shattered at the very last moment? "What does it all mean, Roy?" asked Garrett. "I would rather not say," was the reply. "You had better, Roy," said Bracebridge, in confidential tones. Still blushing, Roy said: "I say, you fellows, you don't mean to say there is anything crooked in this, do you?" "No," replied Andrew Garrett, "but an enemy of yours could make mighty good capital out of it all the same. Tell us what it means, Roy." "If you must know, then, it's merely this," answered Roy, a little angrily, not exactly with his friends, but more at the exigencies of the situation. "There is a poor--quite poor--student in a seminary who is and has been a great friend of mine, in fact pretty much of a hero, as you would say if you knew his story. He had the greatest longing to get home last Christmas to see his widowed mother after years of absence. He could not afford it, and, like a real friend, asked me to assist him. Unfortunately my funds were very low--too low to help him. I expected that my mother would send me her usual Christmas present. I found out that she was willing to do so, and I wrote to her to send most of it to my friend instead. There's your great mystery! I was short of funds because my father cut down my allowance this year." "So that's the reason you were so close this year?" asked Andrew. "What?" "Because your father cut down, and yet, by Jove! you were willing to send what you did get to some one else. Well, I call that noble, indeed I do. Oh, I wish I had known all this before! If I had but known! If I had----" "Say, you fellows, haven't you done catechising me?" said Roy Henning, attempting to divert their attention from himself. "If you please, cousin, one more question," said Andrew. Roy made a wry face, and a mock gesture of impatience. "You would try the patience of a saint!" "May I?" "Well, fire ahead." "You say that all along you thought I was the thief?" "I certainly did, Andrew," answered Roy, serious in a minute, "for no one but you here ever wore a blue sweater." "Then why did you not, especially as I had acted so meanly toward you--why did you not do or say something that would point suspicion to me, or openly make the charge?" The question aroused considerable emotion in Roy's breast. It showed itself in the workings of the muscles of his cheeks. Taking Andrew Garrett by the hand, he looked into his eyes. "Shall I tell you, Andrew?" "Yes, please do." "If I spoke or moved in this I knew it would break your mother's heart." Andrew could stand no more. He broke down. Boy as he was, with all a boy's natural distaste for displaying emotion before others, he was not ashamed to rest his head for a moment on his cousin's shoulder and sob. The only words that fell from his lips were: "Noble Roy!" PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK. Benziger Brothers' New Plan for Disseminating Catholic Literature A NEW PLAN FOR SECURING Catholic Books on Easy Payments Small Monthly Payments. Books Delivered Immediately. All New Copyright Works by the Foremost Writers PRINTED FROM NEW PLATES, ON GOOD PAPER, SUBSTANTIALLY BOUND IN CLOTH A MOST LIBERAL OFFER! The following pages contain a list of the books in our Catholic Circulating Library which can be had from us on the easy-payment plan. Though the books are sold on easy payments, the prices are lower than the regular advertised prices. Any library advertised in these pages will be sent to you immediately on receipt of $1.00. CATHOLIC CIRCULATING LIBRARY THE PLAN FOR FORMING == READING CIRCLES == Dues only 10 Cents a Month. A New Book Every Month $12 Worth of Books to Read Total Cost for a Year, $1.20 THIS EXPLAINS THE PLAN You form a Reading Club, say of twelve members, and order one of the Libraries from us. Each member pays you ten cents a month, and you remit us $1.00 a month, thus paying us for the books. _On receipt of the first dollar we will send you a complete library._ You give each member a book. After a month all the members return their books to you and you give them another one. The books are exchanged in this way every month till the members have read the twelve volumes in the Library. After the twelfth month the books may be divided among the members (each getting one book to keep) or the books may be given to your Pastor for a parish library. Then you can order from us a second library on the same terms as above. In this way you can keep up your Reading Circle from year to year at a trifling cost. _On the following pages will be found a list of the books in the different Libraries. They are the best that can be had._ MAIL A DOLLAR BILL TO-DAY AND ANY LIBRARY WILL BE FORWARDED AT ONCE THE OTHER PLAN Or if, instead of forming a Reading Circle, you wish to get a Library for yourself or your family, all you need do is to remit a dollar bill and any Library will be forwarded to you at once. Then you pay One Dollar a month. BENZIGER BROTHERS NEW YORK: 36-38 Barclay Street. CINCINNATI: 343 Main Street. CHICAGO: 211-213 Madison Street. Dues, 10c. a Month Catholic Circulating Library 2 New Books Every Month JUVENILE BOOKS 20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young, by the Best Authors Special net price, $10.00 You get the books at once, and have the use of them, while making easy payments Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page Juvenile Library A TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A START. By REV. F.J. FINN, S.J. "The best boy's book that ever came from the press." THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. By REV. H.S. SPALDING, S.J. "This is a story full of go and adventure." HARRY RUSSELL, A ROCKLAND COLLEGE BOY. By REV. J.E. COPUS, S.J. "Father Copus takes the college hero where Father Finn has left him, through the years to graduation." CHARLIE CHITTYWICK. By REV. DAVID BEARNE, S.J. Father Bearne shows a wonderful knowledge and fine appreciation of boy character. There is no mark of mawkishness in the book. NAN NOBODY. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. "Keeps one fascinated till the last page is reached." LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. By MARION A. TAGGART. "Will help keep awake the strain of hero worship and ideal patriotism." THE GOLDEN LILY. By KATHARINE T. HINKSON. "Another proof of the author's wonderful genius." THE MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. By ANNA T. SADLIER. "A bright, sparkling book." OLD CHARLMONT'S SEED-BED. By SARA T. SMITH. "A delightful story of Southern school life." THE MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE'S. By MARION J. BRUNOWE. "Plenty of fun and frolic, with high moral principle." BUNT AND BILL. By CLARA MULHOLLAND. "There are passages of true pathos and humor in this pretty tale." THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. By MAURICE F. EGAN. "They are by no means faultless young people and their hearts lie in the right places." PICKLE AND PEPPER. By ELLA L. DORSEY. "This story is clever and witty--there is not a dull page." A HOSTAGE OF WAR. By MARY G. BONESTEEL. "A wide-awake story, brimful of incident and easy humor." AN EVERY DAY GIRL. By MARY T. CROWLEY. "One of the few tales that will appeal to the heart of every girl." AS TRUE AS GOLD. By MARY E. MANNIX. "This book will make a name for itself." AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By S.M. O'MALLEY. "The book is destined to become a true friend of our boys." THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. By ANNA T. SADLIER. "Sure to stir the blood of every real boy and to delight with its finer touches the heart of every true girl." TWO LITTLE GIRLS. By LILLIAN MACK. "A real tale of real children." RIDINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. By REV. DAVID BEARNE, S.J. "His sympathy with boyhood is so evident and his understanding so perfect." 20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young By the Best Catholic Writers SPECIAL NET PRICE, $10.00 $1.00 down, $1.00 a month Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages Juvenile Library B HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. By REV. F.J. FINN, S.J. Profusely illustrated. "A delightful story by Father Finn, which will be popular with the girls as well as with the boys." THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. By REV. H.S. SPALDING, S.J. "From the outset the reader's attention is captivated and never lags." SAINT CUTHBERT'S. By REV. J.E. COPUS, S.J. "A truly inspiring tale, full of excitement." THE TAMING OF POLLY. By ELLA LORAINE DORSEY. "Polly with her cool head, her pure heart and stern Western sense of justice." STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. "Takes hold of the interest and of the heart and never lets go." JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By C. MAY. "Courage, truth, honest dealing with friend and foe." A KLONDIKE PICNIC. By ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. "Alive with the charm that belongs to childhood." A COLLEGE BOY. By ANTHONY YORKE. "Healthy, full of life, full of incident." THE GREAT CAPTAIN. By KATHARINE T. HINKSON. "Makes the most interesting and delightful reading." THE YOUNG COLOR GUARD. By MARY G. BONESTEEL. "The attractiveness of the tale is enhanced by the realness that pervades it." THE HALDEMAN CHILDREN. By MARY E. MANNIX. "Full of people entertaining, refined, and witty." PAULINE ARCHER. By ANNA T. SADLIER. "Sure to captivate the hearts of all juvenile readers." THE ARMORER OF SOLINGEN. By W. HERCHENBACH. "Cannot fail to inspire honest ambition." THE INUNDATION. By CANON SCHMID. "Sure to please the young readers for whom it is intended." THE BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By MARION A. TAGGART. "Pleasing and captivating to young people." DIMPLING'S SUCCESS. By CLARA MULHOLLAND. "Vivacious and natural and cannot fail to be a favorite." BISTOURI. By A. MELANDRI. "How Bistouri traces out the plotters and foils them makes interesting reading." FRED'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By SARA T. SMITH. "The heroine wins her way into the heart of every one." THE SEA-GULL'S ROCK. By J. SANDEAU. "The intrepidity of the little hero will appeal to every boy." JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. FIRST SERIES. A collection of twenty stories by the foremost writers, with many full-page illustrations. 20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young By the Best Catholic Writers SPECIAL NET PRICE, $10.00 $1.00 down, $1.00 a month Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages Juvenile Library C PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A BOY OF HIM. By REV. F.J. FINN, S.J. "The most successful Catholic juvenile published." THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. By REV. H.S. SPALDING, S.J. "Father Spalding's descriptions equal those of Cooper." SHADOWS LIFTED. By REV. J.E. COPUS, S.J. "We know of no books more delightful and interesting." HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY, AND OTHER STORIES. By MAURICE F. EGAN. "A choice collection of stories by one of the most popular writers." WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. By C. MAY. "Chapters of breathless interest." MILLY AVELING. By SARA TRAINER SMITH. "The best story Sara Trainer Smith has ever written." THE TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. "An excellent girl's story." THE PLAYWATER PLOT. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. "How the plotters are captured and the boy rescued makes a very interesting story." AN ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. By GABRIEL FERRY. PANCHO AND PANCHITA. By MARY E. MANNIX. "Full of color and warmth of life in old Mexico." RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. By MARY G. BONESTEEL. "Many a boyish heart will beat in envious admiration of little Tommy." BY BRANSCOME RIVER. By MARION A. TAGGART. "A creditable book in every way." THE QUEEN'S PAGE. By KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. "Will arouse the young to interest in historical matters and is a good story well told." MARY TRACY'S FORTUNE. By ANNA T. SADLIER. "Sprightly, interesting and well written." BOB-O'LINK. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. "Every boy and girl will be delighted with Bob-o'Link." THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. By MARION A. TAGGART. "There is an exquisite charm in the telling." WRONGFULLY ACCUSED. By W. HERCHENBACH. "A simple tale, entertainingly told." THE CANARY BIRD. By CANON SCHMID. "The story is a fine one and will be enjoyed by boys and girls." FIVE O'CLOCK STORIES. By S.H. C. J. "The children who are blessed with such stories have much to be thankful for." JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. SECOND SERIES. A collection of twenty stories by the foremost writers, with many full-page illustrations. 20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young By the Best Catholic Writers SPECIAL NET PRICE, $10.00 $1.00 down, $1.00 a month Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages Juvenile Library D THE WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. By REV. DAVID BEARNE, S.J. "Here is a story for boys that bids fair to equal any of Father Finn's successes." THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. By GEORGE BARTON. There is a peculiar charm about this novel that the discriminating reader will ascribe to the author's own personality. HARMONY FLATS. By C.S. WHITMORE. The characters in this story are all drawn true to life, and the incidents are exciting. WAYWARD WINIFRED. By ANNA T. SADLIER. A story for girls. Its youthful readers will enjoy the vivid description, lively conversations, and plenty of striking incidents, all winding up happily. TOM LOSELY: BOY. By REV. J.E. COPUS, S.J. Illustrated. The writer knows boys and boy nature, and small-boy nature too. MORE FIVE O'CLOCK STORIES. By S.H. C.J. "The children who are blessed with such stories have much to be thankful for." JACK O'LANTERN. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. This book is alive with interest. It is full of life and incident. THE BERKLEYS. By EMMA HOWARD WIGHT. A truly inspiring tale, full of excitement. There is not a dull page. LITTLE MISSY. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. A charming story for children which will be enjoyed by older folk as well. TOM'S LUCK-POT. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. Full of fun and charming incidents--a book that every boy should read. CHILDREN OF CUPA. By MARY E. MANNIX. One of the most thoroughly unique and charming books that has found its way to the reviewing desk in many a day. FOR THE WHITE ROSE. By KATHARINE T. HINKSON. This book is something more than a story; but, as a mere story, it is admirably well written. THE DOLLAR HUNT. From the French by E.G. MARTIN. Those who wish to get a _fascinating_ tale should read this story. THE VIOLIN MAKER. From the original of OTTO V. SCHACHING, by SARA TRAINER SMITH. There is much truth in this simple little story. "JACK." By S.H. C.J. As loving and lovable a little fellow as there is in the world is "Jack," the "pickle," the "ragamuffin," the defender of persecuted kittens and personal principles. A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By ANNA T. SADLIER. This is a beautiful book, in full sympathy with and delicately expressive of the author's creations. DADDY DAN. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. This is a rattling good story for boys. THE BELL FOUNDRY. By OTTO V. SCHACHING. So interesting that the reader will find difficulty in tearing himself away. TOORALLADDY. By JULIA C. WALSH. An exciting story of the varied fortunes of an orphan boy from abject poverty in a dismal cellar to success. JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. THIRD SERIES. A collection of twenty stories by the foremost writers. Dues, 10c. a Month Catholic Circulating Library A New Book Every Month NOVELS 12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors SPECIAL PRICE, $12.00 You get the books at once, and have the use of them while making easy payments Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page Library of Novels No. I THE RULER OF THE KINGDOM. By GRACE KEON. "Will charm any reader." KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. By J. HARRISON. "A real, true life history, the kind one could live through and never read it for romance." IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. By MARION A. TAGGART. Illustrated. "A tale of the time of Henry V. of England, full of adventure and excitement." HEARTS OF GOLD. By I. EDHOR. "It is a tale that will leave its reader the better for knowing its heroine, her tenderness and her heart of gold." THE HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. By COUNTESS HAHN-HAHN. "An exquisite story of life and love, told in touchingly simple words." THE PILKINGTON HEIR. By ANNA T. SADLIER. "Skill and strength are shown in this story. The plot is well constructed and the characters vividly differentiated." THE OTHER MISS LISLE. A Catholic novel of South African life. By M.C. MARTIN. A powerful story by a writer of distinct ability. IDOLS; OR, THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D'ANTIN. By RAOUL DE NAVERY. "The story is a remarkably clever one; it is well constructed and evinces a master hand." THE SOGGARTH AROON. By REV. JOSEPH GUINAN, C.C. A capital Irish story. THE VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. By MAURICE F. EGAN. "This is a novel of modern American life. The scene is laid in a pleasant colony of cultivated people on the banks of the Hudson, not far from West Point." A WOMAN OF FORTUNE. By CHRISTIAN REID. "That great American Catholic novel for which so much inquiry is made, a story true in its picture of Americans at home and abroad." PASSING SHADOWS. By ANTHONY YORKE. "A thoroughly charming story. It sparkles from first to last with interesting situations and dialogues that are full of sentiment. There is not a slow page." 12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors SPECIAL NET PRICES, $12.00 $1.00 down, $1.00 a month Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. Library of Novels No. II THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT'S WAGER, and Other Stories. 30 stories by 30 of the foremost Catholic writers. A DAUGHTER OF KINGS. By KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. "The book is most enjoyable." THE WAY THAT LED BEYOND. By J. HARRISON. "The story does not drag, the plot is well worked out, and the interest endures to the very last page." CORINNE'S VOW. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. With 16 full-page illustrations. "There is genuine artistic merit in its plot and life-story. It is full of vitality and action." THE FATAL BEACON. By F.V. BRACKEL. "The story is told well and clearly, and has a certain charm that will be found interesting. The principal characters are simple, good-hearted people, and the heroine's high sense of courage impresses itself upon the reader as the tale proceeds." THE MONK'S PARDON: An Historical Romance of the Time of Philip IV. of Spain. By RAOUL DE NAVERY. "A story full of stirring incidents and written in a lively, attractive style." PERE MONNIER'S WARD. By WALTER LECKY. "The characters are life-like and there is a pathos in the checkered life of the heroine. Pere Monnier is a memory that will linger." TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. By ANNA T. SADLIER. "One of the most thoroughly original and delightful romances ever evolved from the pen of a Catholic writer." THE UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. By MARION A. TAGGART. With four full-page illustrations. "This story tells of the adventures of a young American girl, who, in order to get possession of a fortune left her by an uncle, whom she had never seen, goes to France." THAT MAN'S DAUGHTER. By HENRY M. ROSS. "A well-told story of American life, the scene laid in Boston, New York and California. It is very interesting." FABIOLA'S SISTER. (A companion volume to Cardinal Wiseman's "Fabiola.") Adapted by A.C. CLARKE. "A book to read--a worthy sequel to that masterpiece, 'Fabiola.'" THE OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE: A Novel. By A. DE LAMOTHE. "A capital novel with plenty of go in it." 12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors SPECIAL NET PRICE, $12.00 $1.00 down, $1.00 a month Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. Library of Novels No. III "NOT A JUDGMENT." By GRACE KEON. "Beyond doubt the best Catholic novel of the year." THE RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. By ANNA T. SADLIER. "A story of stirring times in France, when the sturdy Vendeans rose in defence of country and religion." HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER. By KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. "So dramatic and so intensely interesting that the reader, will find it difficult to tear himself away from the story." OUT OF BONDAGE. By M. HOLT. "Once his book becomes known it will be read by a great many." MARCELLA GRACE. By ROSA MULHOLLAND. Mr. Gladstone called this novel _a masterpiece_. THE CIRCUS-RIDER'S DAUGHTER. By F. V. BRACKEL. This work has achieved a remarkable success for a Catholic novel, for in less than a year three editions were printed. CARROLL DARE. By MARY T. WAGGAMAN. Illustrated. "A thrilling story, with the dash of horses and the clash of swords on every side." DION AND THE SIBYLS. By MILES KEON. "Dion is as brilliantly, as accurately and as elegantly classical, as scholarly in style and diction, as fascinating in plot and as vivid in action as Ben Hur." HER BLIND FOLLY. By H. M. ROSS. A clever story with an interesting and well-managed plot and many striking situations. MISS ERIN. By M. E. FRANCIS. "A captivating tale of Irish life, redolent of genuine Celtic wit, love and pathos." MR. BILLY BUTTONS. By WALTER LECKY. "The figures who move in rugged grandeur through these pages are as fresh and unspoiled in their way as the good folk of Drumtochty." CONNOR D'ARCY'S STRUGGLES. By MRS. W. M. BERTHOLDS. "A story of which the spirit is so fine and the Catholic characters so nobly conceived." Continuation Library YOU SUBSCRIBE FOR FOUR NEW NOVELS A YEAR, TO BE MAILED TO YOU AS PUBLISHED, AND RECEIVE BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE FREE. Each year we publish _four new novels_ by the best Catholic authors. These novels are interesting beyond the ordinary--not religious, but Catholic in tone and feeling. They are issued in the best modern style. We ask you to give us a _standing order_ for these novels. The price is $1.25, which will be charged as each volume is issued, and the volume sent postage paid. _As a special inducement_ for giving us a _standing order_ for the novels, we shall include free a subscription to _Benziger's Magazine_. _Benziger's Magazine_ is recognized as the best and handsomest Catholic periodical published, and we are sure will be welcomed in every library. The regular price of the Magazine is $2.00 a year. Thus for $5.00 a year--paid $1.25 at a time--you will get four good books and receive in addition a year's subscription to _Benziger's Magazine_. The Magazine will be continued from year to year, as long as the standing order for the novels is in force, which will be till countermanded. THE FAMOUS ROUND TABLE SERIES 4 VOLUMES, $6.00 50 CENTS DOWN; 50 CENTS A MONTH On payment of 50 cents you get the books and a free subscription to Benziger's Magazine _The Greatest Stories by the foremost Catholic Writers in the World_ With Portraits of the Authors, Sketches of their Lives, and a List of their Works. _Four exquisite volumes_, containing the masterpieces of 36 of the foremost writers of AMERICA, ENGLAND, IRELAND, GERMANY, AND FRANCE. Each story complete. Open any volume at random and you will find a great story to entertain you. SPECIAL OFFER In order to place this fine collection of stories in every home, we make the following special offer: _Send us 50 cents_ and the four fine volumes will be sent to you immediately. Then you pay 50 cents each month until $6.00 has been paid. LIBRARY OF SHORT STORIES BY A BRILLIANT ARRAY OF CATHOLIC AUTHORS ORIGINAL STORIES BY 33 WRITERS Four Handsome Volumes and Benziger's Magazine for a Year at the Special Price of $5.00 50 CENTS DOWN; 50 CENTS A MONTH You get the books at once, and have the use of them while making easy payments. Send us only 50 cents, and we will forward the books at once; 50 cents entitles you to immediate possession. No further payment need be made for a month; afterwards you pay 50 cents a month. STORIES BY Anna T. Sadlier Mary E. Mannix Mary T. Waggaman Jerome Harte Mary G. Bonesteel Magdalen Rock Eugenie Uhlrich Alice Richardson Katharine Jenkins Mary Boyle O'Reilly Clara Mulholland Grace Keon Louisa Emily Dobrée Theo. Gift Margaret E. Jordan Agnes M. Rowe Julia C. Walsh Madge Mannix Leigh Gordon Giltner Eleanor C. Donnelly Teresa Stanton H. J. Carroll Rev. T. J. Livingstone, S.J. Marion Ames Taggart Maurice Francis Egan Mary F. Nixon-Roulet Mrs. Francis Chadwick Catharine L. Meagher Anna Blanche McGill Mary Catherine Crowley Katherine Tynan-Hinkson Sallie Margaret O'Malley Emma Howard Wight 900 PAGES 500 ILLUSTRATIONS A GREAT OFFER THE LIFE OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST AND OF HIS VIRGIN MOTHER MARY FROM THE ORIGINAL OF L. C. BUSINGER, LL.D. BY Rev. RICHARD BRENNAN, LL.D. Quarto, half morocco, full gilt side, gilt edges, 900 pages, 500 illustrations in the text and 32 full-page illustrations by M. FEUERSTEIN PRICE, NET $10.00 EASY PAYMENT PLAN $1.00 DOWN, $1.00 A MONTH Mail $1.00 to-day and the book will be shipped to you immediately. Then you pay $1.00 a month till $10.00 is paid. This is not only a Life of Christ and of His Blessed Mother, but also a carefully condensed history of God's Church from Adam to the end of the world in type, prophecy and fulfilment, it contains a popular dogmatic theology and a real catechism of perseverance, filled with spiritual food for the soul. The Best Stories and Articles Over 1000 Illustrations a Year BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE The Popular Catholic Family Monthly _Recommended by 70 Archbishops and Bishops of the United States_ SUBSCRIPTION, $2.00 A YEAR What Benziger's Magazine gives its Readers: Fifty complete stories by the best writers--equal to a book of 300 pages selling at $1.25. Three complete novels of absorbing interest--equal to three books selling at $1.25 each. Over 1000 beautiful illustrations. Twenty-five large reproductions of celebrated paintings. Twenty articles--equal to a book of 150 pages--on travel and adventure; on the manners, customs and home-life of peoples; on the haunts and habits of animal life, etc. Twenty articles--equal to a book of 150 pages--on our country: historic events, times, places, important industries. Twenty articles--equal to a book of 150 pages--on the fine arts: celebrated artists and their paintings, sculpture, music, etc., and nature studies. Twelve pages of games and amusements for in and out of doors. Fifty pages of fashions, fads and fancies, gathered at home and abroad, helpful hints for home workers, household column, cooking receipts, etc. "Current Events," the important happenings over the whole world, described with pen and pictures. Prize competitions, in which valuable prizes are offered. This is what is given in a Single Year of Benziger's Magazine Send $2.00 now and become a subscriber to the best and handsomest Catholic Magazine published. BENZIGER BROTHERS NEW YORK: CINCINNATI: CHICAGO: 36-38 Barclay Street. 343 Main Street. 211-213 Madison Street. 
36717	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 36717-h.htm or 36717-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36717/36717-h/36717-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36717/36717-h.zip) [Illustration: DID I FRIGHTEN YOU? I AM SORRY.--_Page 35._] MOLLY BROWN'S JUNIOR DAYS by NELL SPEED Author of "Molly Brown's Freshman Days," "Molly Brown's Sophomore Days," etc., etc. With Four Half-Tone Illustrations by Charles L. Wrenn New York Hurst & Company Publishers Copyright, 1912, by Hurst & Company CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. DAUGHTERS OF WELLINGTON 5 II. MINERVA HIGGINS 18 III. IN THE CLOISTERS 32 IV. A LITERARY EVENING 44 V. VARIOUS HAPPENINGS 57 VI. "THE BEST LAID SCHEMES" 74 VII. A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 89 VIII. COVERING THEIR TRACKS 105 IX. THE GRAVE DIGGERS 116 X. A VISIT OF STATE 134 XI. A SWOPPING PARTY AND A MOCK TRIAL 147 XII. ALARMS AND DISCOVERIES 163 XIII. "THE MOVING FINGER WRITES" 175 XIV. AN INVITATION AND AN APOLOGY 187 XV. A CHRISTMAS GHOST STORY THAT WAS NEVER TOLD 200 XVI. MORE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AND A COASTING PARTY OF TWO 212 XVII. THE WAYFARERS 226 XVIII. HEALING THE BLIND 246 XIX. A WARNING 259 XX. THE PARABLE OF THE SUN AND WIND 272 XXI. THE JUNIOR GAMBOL 289 ILLUSTRATIONS Did I frighten you? I am sorry _Frontispiece_ PAGE They set to work to dig a small grave for Judy's slipper 129 "And she's given me a pair of silk stockings," cried Molly 213 The next thing she knew she was buried deep in a snow drift, and Judy was whizzing on alone 224 Molly Brown's Junior Days CHAPTER I. DAUGHTERS OF WELLINGTON. No. 5 in the Quadrangle at Wellington College was in a condition of upheaval. Surprising things were happening there. The simultaneous arrival of six trunks, five express boxes and a piano had thrown the three orderly and not over-large rooms into a state of the wildest confusion. In the midst of this mountain of luggage and scattered boxes stood a small, lonely figure dressed in brown, gazing disconsolately about. "I feel as if I had been cast up by an earthquake with a lot of other miscellaneous things," she remarked hopelessly. It was Nance Oldham, back at college by an early train, and devoutly wishing she had waited for the four-ten when the others were expected. "This is too much to face alone," she continued. "If it had been at Queen's it never would have happened. Mrs. Markham wouldn't have allowed six trunks and a piano and five boxes to be piled into one room. And mine at the very bottom, too. If it wasn't a selfish act, I think I'd leave everything and go call on Mrs. McLean--but, no, that wouldn't do on the first day." Nance blushed. "But Andy's there to-day." She blushed again at this bold, outspoken thought. "I shall get the janitor to come up here and distribute these things," she added presently, with New England determination not even to peep at a picture of pleasure behind a granite wall of duty. The doors of No. 5 opened on a broad, high-ceiled corridor, the side walls of which were wainscoted halfway up with dark polished wood. On either side of this corridor ranged the apartments and single rooms of the Quadrangle, one row facing the campus, the other the courtyard. An occasional upholstered bench or high-backed chair stood between the frequent doors and gave a home-like touch to the long gallery. They had been the gift of a rich ex-graduate. Nance, closing the door of No. 5, paused and looked proudly down the polished vista of the hallway, which curved at the far end and continued its way on the other side of the Quadrangle. The sound of voices and laughter floated to her through the half open doors of the other rooms. With a smile of contentment, she sat down in one of the high-backed chairs. "Dear old Wellington," she said softly, "other girls love their homes, but I love you." Thus she apostrophized the classic shades of the university while her gaze lighted absently on a large laundry bag stuffed full standing just outside one of the doors. It was different from the usual Wellington laundry bag, being of a peculiar shape and of material covered with Japanese fans. "It's Otoyo's. Of course, she must have been here since Monday. I heard she had spent the summer down in the village." She hastened along the green path of carpet running down the middle of the corridor and paused at the room of the Japanese laundry bag. "Otoyo Sen," she called. "Why don't you come out and meet your friends?" The Japanese girl was seated on the floor gazing at a photograph. She rose quickly and flew to the door, thrusting the picture behind her. "Oh, I am so deeply happee to see you again, Mees Oldham," she exclaimed. "She has learned the use of adverbs," thought Nance, kissing Otoyo's round dark cheek. "You see I have been studying long time. I now speak the language with correctness. Do you not think so?" said Otoyo, apparently reading Nance's thoughts. "Perfectly," answered Nance. "But tell me the news. Is Queen's not to be rebuilt?" "No, no. Queen's is to remain flat on the ground. She will not be erected into another building." "And have you had a happy summer? Was it quite lonesome for you, poor child?" "No, no," protested Otoyo, still hiding the photograph behind her. "Those who remained at Wellington were most kind to little Japanese girl." "And who remained, Otoyo?" "Professor Green was here long time. I studied the English language under him. He is a great man. It is an honorable pleasure to learn from one so great." "He is, indeed. And who else? Any of the rest of the faculty?" "No, no. They had all departing gone." Nance smiled. There was still a relic of last year's English. "Mrs. McLean and her family remained at Wellington through the entire summer," went on Otoyo fluently. "And were they nice to you, Otoyo?" "Veree, exceedinglee." "Was Andy well?" "Quite, quite," replied the Japanese girl, backing off from Nance and slipping the photograph into a book. Not for many a day did Nance find out that it was a portrait of that youth himself, taken at the age of eight in Scotch kilties and a little black velvet hat with two streamers down the back. Suddenly Otoyo became very voluble. She changed the subject and talked in rapid, smooth English. Could she not see the new rooms of her friends? She understood everybody was coming down on the four-ten train. It would be very crowded. She had found a new laundress whom she could highly recommend. Nance looked at her curiously as they strolled back to the other rooms. Something was changed about the little Japanese girl. She seemed older and much less timid. It was Miss Sen who found the man to move the trunks, and who helped Nance unpack her things and lay them in half the chest of drawers; and it was Otoyo, also, who, with the skill of an artisan, removed all the nails from the express box tops so that they might be unpacked immediately by their owners. At lunch time she led Nance into the great dining hall of the Quadrangle where more than a hundred girls ate their meals three times a day. There was no attention she did not show to Nance, and all because her conscience was heavy within her on account of the one dishonorable act of her life. How could she know that among the scores of photographs taken of young Andy from his babyhood to his present age, Mrs. McLean would never miss one small, faded picture out of the pile thrust into a cabinet drawer? At last it came time to meet the four-ten, and Nance, looking spic and span in fresh white duck and white shoes and stockings, was rather surprised to find Otoyo also attired in a pretty white dress, her face shaded with a Leghorn hat trimmed with pink roses. "Why, Miss Sen," she exclaimed, "how did you learn so soon to dress yourself in this charming American style?" "At a garden party at Mrs. McLean's I learned a very many things," said Otoyo, "and by the purchasing agent I have obtained dresses of summer, of duckling, lining and musling; also this hat and two others very pretty." Nance laughed. "You mean duck, linen and muslin, child," she said. When the four-ten train to Wellington pulled into the station it seemed as if every student in the university must be crowded inside. They leaned from the windows and packed the doorways, overflowing onto the platforms. The air vibrated with high feminine shrieks of joy. Only the poor little freshies were silent in all this jubilation of reunions. Suddenly Nance, spying Molly Brown and Judy Kean, rushed to meet them, Otoyo following at her heels like a toy spaniel after a larger dog. There was a long triangular embrace. "Well, here we are, _and juniors_," was Judy's first comment. "Nance, you're looking fine as silk. No sign of travel on that snowy gown." "There oughtn't to be," said Nance. "I just put it on half an hour ago." "And look at our little Jap," cried Molly, hugging Otoyo. "Look at little Miss Sen, all dressed up in a beautiful linen." "Little Miss Sen has been learning a thing or two," said Nance. "She's been to parties, she's been studying English under a famous professor; she's been buying duckling, lining and musling dresses through a purchasing agent with very good taste, and she's got a photograph she looks at in private and hides away when any one comes into the room. Oh, you needn't think I didn't see you!" Otoyo blushed scarlet and hung her head. "Oh, thou crafty one," Judy was saying, when four of the old Queen's girls pounced on them with suit cases and satchels. "Why, here are the Gemini," Judy continued, embracing the Williams sisters. "Burned to a mahogany brown, too. Where did you get that tan? You look like a pair of--hum--Filipinos." "Don't be making invidious remarks, Judy," put in Katherine. "Learn to see the beautiful in all things, even complexions." In the meantime Margaret Wakefield, looking five years older than her real age because of her matured figure and self-possessed air, was shaking hands all around, making an appropriate remark with each greeting, like the politician she was; and Jessie Lynch was crying in heartbroken tones: "I left a box of candy and a bunch of violets and two new magazines on the train!" "Where's my little freshman?" Molly demanded of the other girls above the din and racket. "There she is," Judy pointed out. "But there is no hurry. Every bus is jammed full." The lonely freshman was standing pressed against the wall of the waiting room looking hopelessly on while the usual mob besieged Mr. Murphy, baggage master. "Why, the poor little thing," cried Molly, rushing to take the girl under her wing. "It's astonishing how one good deed starts another," thought Nance, looking about her for other stranded freshies; and both the Williamses were doing the same thing. There were several such lonely souls wandering about like lost spirits. They had been jostled and pushed this way and that in the crowd, and one little girl was on the point of shedding tears. "I can always tell a new girl by the wild light in her eye," observed Edith Williams, making for an unhappy looking young person who had given up in despair and was sitting on her suit case. At last they were all bundled into one of the larger buses from the livery stable. The older girls were thrilled with expectant joy while they watched eagerly for the first glimpse of the twin gray towers; the new girls, most of them, gazed sadly the other way, as if home lay behind them. "It isn't a case of 'abandon hope all ye who enter here,'" observed Judy to a dejected freshman who in five minutes had lost all interest in her college career. "Look at us blooming creatures and you'll see what it can do. There's no end to the fun of it and no end to the things you'll learn besides mere book knowledge." "I suppose so," said the girl, struggling to keep back her tears, "but it's a little lonesome at first." "Poor little souls," thought Molly, who had overheard with much pride Judy's eulogy of college, "how can we explain it to them? They'll just have to find it out themselves as we did before them." The truth is, our new juniors felt quite motherly and old. A hushed silence fell over the Queen's girls when the bus drove by the grass-grown plot where once had stood their college home. "If a dear friend had been buried there, we couldn't have felt more solemn," Molly wrote her sister that night. But the prestige felt in alighting finally at the great arched entrance to the Quadrangle drove away all sad thoughts, and when they hastened down the long polished corridor to their rooms, they could not quench the pride which rose in their breasts. It was the real thing at last. Queen's and O'Reilly's had been great fun, but this was college. They were the true daughters of Wellington now, and that night when the gates clicked together at ten, they would sleep for the first time behind her gray stone walls. At that moment the voices of a hundred-odd other daughters hummed through the halls, but it was all a part of the college atmosphere, as Judy said. Their bedrooms were not quite as large as the old Queen's rooms, but oh, the sitting room! They viewed it with pride. Each of the three had contributed something toward additional furniture. The piano was Judy's; the divan, Nance's; and the cushions, yet to be unpacked, Molly's. There was another contribution not made by any of the three. It was the beautiful Botticelli photograph left for Molly by Mary Stewart, who had gone to Europe for the winter. "How glad I am the walls are pale yellow and the woodwork white!" exclaimed Judy joyfully. "How glad I am there's plenty of room on these shelves for everybody's books," said Nance. "And how glad I am to be a junior and back at old Wellington," finished Molly, squeezing a hand of each friend. CHAPTER II. MINERVA HIGGINS. "There's only one thing worse than a faculty call-down and that's a Beta Phi freeze-out," remarked Judy Kean one Saturday afternoon a few weeks after the opening day of college. "Why do you bring up disagreeable subjects, Judy? Have you been getting a call-down?" asked Katherine Williams. "Not your old Aunty Judy," replied the other. "I'm far too wise for that after two years' experience, but I saw some one else get one of the most flattening, extinguishing, crushing call-downs ever received by an inmate of this asylum for young ladies. And they do tell me it was followed soon after by another one." "Do tell," exclaimed an interested chorus. "It was that fresh Miss Higgins from Ohio," continued Judy, with some enjoyment of the curiosity she was exciting. "You know she's always trying to attract the attention of the masses----" "We being the masses," interrupted Edith. "And stand in the limelight. She's bright, I hear, very bright, but she knows it." "I recognized her type almost immediately," said Katherine. "She's one of those brightest-girls-in-the-high-school-pride-of-the-town kind." "Exactly," answered Judy. "She has been regarded as a prodigy for so long that she doesn't understand the relative difference between a freshman and a senior. I honestly believe she thought everybody in Wellington knew all about her, and she wears as many gold medals on her chest as a field marshal on dress parade." "We saw the gold medals on Sunday," interposed Molly. "I think it's rather pathetic, myself. She is more to be pitied than scorned, because of course she doesn't know any better." "She'll have to live and learn, then," said Judy. "Get to the point of your story, Judy. Who extinguished her?" ejaculated Margaret Wakefield, impatient of such slipshod methods of narration. "How can I tell a tale when I'm interrupted by forty people at once?" exclaimed Judy. "Besides, I haven't the gift of language like you, old suffragette." Margaret laughed. She was entirely good-natured over the jibes of her friends about her passion for universal suffrage. "Well, the Beta Phi crowd of seniors," went on Judy, "were walking across the campus in a row. I don't suppose Miss Higgins had any way to know this soon in the game that they represented the triple extract of concentrated exclusiveness at Wellington. Anyhow, she knows it now. She came rushing up behind them and gave Rosomond a light, friendly slap on the back. If you could have seen Rosomond's face! But Miss Higgins was entirely dense. She began something about 'Hello, girls, have you heard the news about Prexy----' but she never got any further. Rosomond gave her the most freezing look I ever saw from a human eye." "What did she say?" "That was it. She never said anything. Nobody said anything. Eloise Blair carries tortoise-shell lorgnettes----" "She doesn't need them," broke in Nance. "She only does it to make herself more haughty." "Anyway, Eloise raised the lorgnettes." "Poor Miss Higgins," cried Molly. "There was perfect silence for about a minute. Then they all walked on, leaving little Higgins standing alone in the middle of the campus." "And where were you?" asked Margaret. "Oh, I was with the seniors," answered Judy, flushing slightly. "I had been over to Beta Phi to see Rosomond about something." It was impossible for Judy's friends not to make an amiable unspoken guess as to why she had visited the Beta Phi circle. It had been evident for some time that she was working to get into the "Shakespeareans," the most exclusive dramatic club in college. There was an awkward silence as this thought flashed through their minds. Molly felt embarrassed for her chum. After all, she was no worse than Margaret Wakefield, who had managed to get herself elected three years in succession as president of her class. "What was the other extinguisher Miss Higgins had, Judy?" asked Molly. "Oh, yes. That was even worse. It came from your particular friend, Professor Green. She interrupted him in the middle of a lecture with one of those unnecessary questions new girls ask to show how much they know. And then she said something about methods at Mill Town High School." "Really?" chorused the voices. "And what did he say?" "He looked very much bored and replied that they were not interested in Mill Town High School, and he would be obliged if she would pay attention to the lecture. It was a public rebuke, nothing more nor less." "The mean thing," exclaimed Molly. "Now, Molly," interposed Margaret, "you know very well that girls of that type ought to be taken down. They are never tolerated at college. A conceited boy at college is always thoroughly hazed until there's not a drop of conceit left, and it does him good. And since we can't haze, we simply have to extinguish a fresh freshie. Miss Higgins may develop into a very nice girl in a year or two, but at present she's the veriest little upstart----" "Do be careful," said Molly cautiously. "I've invited her this afternoon to drink tea----" "Molly Brown," they cried, pummeling her with sofa cushions and beating her with her own slippers. "Really, Molly, you must restrain your inviting habits," said Judy. "I'm sorry," apologized poor Molly. "Why did you do it, pray? You know perfectly well no one here wants her." "I know it, but I was sorry for her. She seemed so brash and lonesome at the same time. I thought it might help her some to mingle with a few fine, intelligent, well-bred girls like you----" "Here, here! Don't try to get out of it that way." "She appears to be very learned," continued Molly, turning her blue eyes innocently from one to the other. "I thought it would be nice to pit her against Margaret and Edith. She discusses deep subjects and uses big words I can only dimly guess the meaning of----" There was a tap at the door. "Now, be nice, please." "Come in," called Nance, in a tone of authority, and Minerva Higgins appeared in their midst. She had done honor to the occasion by putting on a taffeta silk of indigo blue, and by pinning on some of her most conspicuous gold medals acquired at intervals during her early education. Judy shook her head over the indigo blue. "Only certain minds could wear it," she thought. Molly rose, but before she could frame a cordial greeting, the new guest was saying: "How do you do, Molly? Awfully nice of you to ask me. You don't mind my calling you by your first name, do you? My name is Minerva but the girls at Mill Town High School called me 'Minnie.' I hope you'll do the same." "I shall be glad to," answered Molly, rather taken back by this sudden intimacy. After she had performed all necessary introductions, wicked Katherine Williams remarked: "Minnie is a very charming name, but I insist on calling you 'Minerva' after the Goddess of Wisdom. She never wore gold medals, but then it wasn't the fashion among the early Greeks." Minerva's face was the picture of complacency. "In Greece she would have been 'Athene,'" she observed. There was a loud clearing of throats and Judy, as usual, was seized with a violent fit of coughing. "Sit down here, Miss Higgins--I mean Minnie," said Molly hastily. "The tea will be ready in a minute." "You have been to college before, Minerva?" asked Edith Williams solemnly. Minerva looked somewhat surprised. "Oh, no. Not college. I am just out of High School. Mill Town High School is a very wonderful educational institution, you know. Perhaps you have heard of it. A diploma from there will admit a girl into any of the best colleges in the country. I could have gone to a private school. My father is professor of Greek at the Academy in Mill Town, but I preferred to take advantage of the high standards of the High School, which are even higher than those of the Academy." "I suppose your father's taste in Greek caused him to name you Minerva," observed Judy. "But Minerva isn't Greek, Julia," admonished Katherine. Again Molly interceded. It was cruel to make fun of the poor girl, although there was no denying that Minerva had a high opinion of herself. "Have a sandwich," she said soothingly. There was a long interval of silence while Minerva crunched her sandwich. "Your life at Mill Town High School must have been one grand triumphal progress, judging from your medals, Miss Higgins," said Edith Williams finally. Minerva glanced proudly down at the awards of merit. "There are a good many of them," she observed, with a smile that was almost more than they could stand. "And there are more of them still. I've won one or two medals each year ever since I started to school. But I don't like to wear them all at once." "That's very modest of you." "Are you going to specialize on any subjects, Miss Higgins?" asked Margaret Wakefield, really meaning to be kind and lead the girl away from topics which made her appear ridiculous. "Biology, I think. But I am interested in Comparative Philology, too, and after I skim through a little Greek and Latin, I intend to take up some of the ancient languages, Sanskrit and Hebrew." Was it possible that Minerva was making game of them? They regarded her suspiciously, but she seemed sublimely unconscious. "Why not study also the ancient tongue of the Basques?" asked Edith, quite gravely. "That would be interesting," replied Minerva, "but I want to get through this little college course first." Molly batted her heavenly eyes and suddenly burst out laughing. "Excuse me," she said. "I didn't mean to be rude, but the course at Wellington doesn't seem so small to us. We have to study all the time and then just barely pull through. I've almost flunked twice in mathematics. I wish I could call it a little course." "Ah, well, we are not all Minervas," observed Margaret. "Some of us are just ordinary school girls learning the rudiments of education. We have not had the advantages of Mill Town High School, and if any of us have won gold medals we never show them." This measured rebuff, however, had no more effect on Minerva's impervious vanity than a cup of water dashed against a granite boulder. She was already up, wandering about the room, boldly examining the girls' belongings, ostentatiously reading the titles of books aloud. "Plays by Molière. Oh, yes, I read them in the original two years ago. They're easy. 'Green's Short History of the English People,' very interesting book. 'The Broad Highway.' I never read fiction. Only biography and history----" Edith Williams, stretched at her ease on the divan, gave an inaudible groan and turned her face to the wall. Molly glanced helplessly about her. "'The Primavera,' that's by Botticelli," went on the girl, infatuated by her own intelligence. "Good artist, but I don't care for the old masters as a general thing. They are always out of drawing." Katherine rolled her eyes up into her head until only the whites could be seen, which gave her the horrible aspect of a corpse. There was a long and eloquent silence. Presently Minerva took her departure, and Molly, hospitable to the last gasp, saw her to the door and invited her to come again. With the door safely locked and Minerva out of earshot, there was a general collapse. Nobody laughed, but the room was filled with painful sounds, moans and groans. Judy pretended to faint on top of Edith, and Molly sat in a remote corner of the room. Somehow, they felt beaten, vanquished. "I am sore all over with repressed emotions," cried Judy. "I couldn't stand another séance like that." "Does she know as much as she claims?" asked Nance. "Of course not," exclaimed Margaret irritably. "If she really knew she wouldn't claim anything. It's only ignorant people who boast of knowledge. I suppose she has been looked up to for so long that she regards herself as a fountain of wisdom." "She must be taken down," said Edith firmly. "This mustn't be allowed to go on at Wellington." "But hazing isn't allowed," put in Molly. "Not by hazing, goosie. By some homely little practical joke that will show herself to herself as others see her." "All right," consented Molly. She felt indeed that something should be done to save poor Minerva Higgins from eternal ridicule. "If anybody has suggestions to make," here announced Margaret Wakefield, self-constituted chairman of all committees, impromptu or otherwise, "they may be stated in writing or announced by word of mouth to-morrow night in our rooms at a fudge party." "Accepted," they cried in one breath. In the meantime, Minerva Higgins was writing home to her mother that she had been, if not the guest of honor, almost that, at a junior tea, and had found the girls rather interesting though poor talkers. In fact, it was necessary to do almost all the talking herself. CHAPTER III. IN THE CLOISTERS. Life in the Quadrangle hummed busily on. The girls found themselves in the very heart of college affairs. As a matter of fact the old Queen's circle had been somewhat restricted, having narrowed down to less than a dozen; whereas now, they associated with many times that number and were invited to a bewildering succession of teas and fudge parties. Also they were nearer to the library, the gymnasium, the classrooms and the cloisters. Here, during the warm, hazy days of Indian summer Molly loved to walk. It was not such a popular place as she had imagined with the Quadrangle girls, and often she was quite alone in the arcade, bordered now with hydrangeas turning a delicate pink under the autumn suns. One afternoon, a few days after Margaret's fudge party to discuss the question of Minerva Higgins, Molly sought a few quiet moments in the cloistered walk. It was a half hour before closing-up time, but she would not miss the six strokes of the tower clock again, as she had on her first day at college two years before. She usually confined her walks to the far side of the arcade, keeping well away from the side of the cloisters on which the studies of some of the faculty opened. That afternoon she carried her volume of Rossetti with her, and pacing slowly up and down, she read in a low musical voice to herself: "'The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.'" Waves of rhythm ran through Molly's head, and when she reached the end of the walk she turned mechanically and went the other way without pausing in her reading. Many girls studied in this way in the cloisters and it was not an unusual sight, but Molly made a picture not soon to be forgotten by any one who might chance to wander in the arcade at that hour. She was still spare and undeveloped, but the grace that was to come revealed itself in the girlish lines of her figure. Her eyes seemed never more serenely, deeply blue than now, and her hair, disordered from the tam o'shanter she had pulled off and tossed onto a stone bench, made a fluffy auburn frame about her face. Molly was by no means beautiful from the standpoint of perfection. Her eyebrows and lashes should have been darker; her chin was too pointed and her mouth a shade too large. But few people took the trouble to pick out flaws in her face or figure. Those who loved her thought her beautiful, and the few who did not could not deny her charm. Presently she sat down on a bench, continuing to declaim the poem out aloud, making a gesture occasionally with her unoccupied hand. After reading a verse, she closed her eyes and repeated it to herself. Opening her eyes between verses, she encountered the amused gaze of Professor Edwin Green who, having seen her in the distance, had cut across the grassy court and now stood as still as a statue leaning against a stone pillar. "Oh," exclaimed Molly, with a nervous start. "Did I frighten you? I am sorry. I should have walked more heavily. It's unkind to steal up on people who are reading poetry aloud." "I was learning the--something by heart," she said, blushing a little as if she had been detected in a guilty act. After all, it was the professor who had introduced her to that poem and given her the book last Christmas, but that, of course, was not the reason why she was so fond of the poem she was studying. "How do you like the Quadrangle?" he asked. "Are you comfortable and happy?" Molly clasped her hands in the excess of her enthusiasm. "I was never so happy in all my life," she cried. "It is perfect. Our rooms are beautiful, and a sitting room, too. Think of that, with yellow walls and a piano!" The professor looked vastly pleased. For an instant his face was lighted by a beaming, radiant smile. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets and pressed his lips together in a thin line of determination. "I feel as if I were one of the workers inside the hive now," Molly continued. "And all the difficulties about tuition have been settled?" he asked. "Forgive my mentioning it, but I felt an interest on account of my close relationship to the Blounts." "Oh, yes. The money from the two acres of orchard settled that. You see, whoever bought it, whether it was an old man or a company--for some reason the name is still a secret with the agent--paid cash. They rarely do, mother says, and the money is usually spent in driblets before you realize it. Mr. Richard Blount expects to settle with his father's creditors in a few months. My sisters are working. They say they enjoy it, but they are both engaged to be married," she added, smiling. "Did the orchard yield a good crop this year?" asked the professor irrelevantly. "Oh, splendid. The apples were packed in barrels and sent away. Several of them were sent to mother as a present. Very nice of the owner, wasn't it?" "Very," replied the professor, fingering something in his pocket absently. "The owner of the orchard has it kept in fine condition. The trees have been trimmed and the ground cleared. Mother says she's ashamed of her own shiftlessness whenever she looks at it. The grass was as smooth as velvet all summer until the drought came and dried it brown. I used to go there summer mornings and lie in a hammock and read. I didn't think any one would care. There's no harm in attaching a hammock to two trees. Mother says I don't seem to remember that we are no longer the owners of the orchard. I have played in it and lived in it so much of my life that I've got the habit, I suppose." The professor cleared his throat. "You said the ground sloped slightly, did you not?" "Yes, just a gradual slope to a little brook at the bottom of the hill. The water seems to cool the air in summer. It never goes dry and there is a little basin in one place we used to call 'the birds' bath tub.' Such birds you never imagined! They are attracted by the apples, I suppose. But there are hundreds of them. They sing from morning to night." "You paint a very attractive picture, Miss Brown. It must have been hard to give up this charming property." "But you see we haven't given it up exactly. It's there right against us. We can still look at it and even walk under the trees. No one minds. And see what I have for it! Nothing could ever take the place of college--not even an apple orchard." A sharp voice broke in on this pleasant conversation. "Cousin Edwin, I've been looking for you everywhere." Judith Blount appeared hastening down the walk. The professor watched the advancing figure calmly. "Well, now you have found me, what do you want?" he asked. Molly detected a slight note of annoyance in his voice. She had a notion that Judith was one of the trials of his life. "I have rewritten the short story you criticized for me last week, and I want you to look it over again." He took the roll of paper without a word and thrust it into his coat pocket. Molly rose. "I must be going," she said. "It must be nearly six o'clock." Judith promptly sat down on the bench facing her cousin, who still leaned against the stone pillar. "Don't you think it's a little chilly to be lingering here, Judith?" he remarked politely, as he joined Molly. "It wasn't too chilly for you a moment ago," answered Judith hotly. But she rose and walked on the other side of the professor. "How do you like your rooms?" he asked presently. "I hate them," she replied, with such fierce resentment that Molly was sure that Judith was glad to have something on which to vent her angry mood. "Thank heavens, this is my last year. I detest Wellington. I have never been happy here. It's brought shame and misfortune on me. It's a horrid old place." "Oh, Judith," protested Molly, unable to endure this libel on her beloved college. "My dear child, you can't blame Wellington for your misfortunes," interposed the professor, who himself cherished a deep affection for the two gray towers. "It is hard to live in the village instead of at college," said Molly, feeling suddenly very sorry for the unhappy Judith. But Judith was in no state to be sympathized with. All day she had been nursing a grievance. One of her friends in prosperity at the Beta Phi House had turned a cold shoulder on her that morning; and Judith was so enraged by the slight that her feelings were like an open sore. She turned on Molly angrily. "You ought to know," she said. "You had to do it long enough." "Judith, Judith," remonstrated the professor. "Can't you understand that you gain nothing, and always lose something, by giving way like this? Denouncing and hating make the object you are working for recede. You'll never get it that way." "How do you know what I'm working for?" she demanded, more quietly. "We are all of us working for the same thing," he answered. "Happiness. None of us proposes to get it in the same way, but all of us propose to reach the same goal. What would give me happiness no doubt would never satisfy you." "You don't know that, either. What would give you happiness?" Judith asked, with some curiosity. The professor paused a moment, then he said calmly: "A little home of my own in a shady quiet place with plenty of old trees, where I could work in peace. I have always fancied an old orchard. There might be a brook at one end----" Molly smiled. "He's thinking of my orchard," she thought. "There must be hundreds of birds in my orchard," went on the professor, "and the grass must always be thick and green, except perhaps when the drought comes and it can't help itself----" The six o'clock bell boomed out. "Have an apple," he said, taking two red apples from his pocket and giving one to each of the girls. Then he opened the small oak door and stood politely aside while they passed out. CHAPTER IV. A LITERARY EVENING. The entertainment designed to bring Miss Minerva Higgins to a true understanding of her position as a freshman took place one Friday evening in the rooms of Margaret and Jessie. It was called on the invitation "A Literary Evening," and was to be in the nature of a spread and fudge affair. There had been two rehearsals beforehand, and the girls were now prepared to enjoy themselves thoroughly. Molly was loath to take part in the literary evening. "I can't bear to see anybody humiliated even when she ought to be," she said, but she consented to come and to give a recitation. Several study tables had been united for the supper, the cracks concealed by Japanese towelling contributed by Otoyo. There was no Mrs. Murphy in the Quadrangle from whom to borrow tablecloths. All the chairs from the other rooms were brought in to seat the company, who appeared grave and subdued. Most of the girls were dressed to resemble famous poets and authors. Judy was Byron; Margaret Wakefield, George Eliot; Nance, Charlotte Bronté; Edith Williams, Edgar Allan Poe; and Molly was Shelley. Shakespeare, Voltaire and Charles Dickens were in the company, and "The Duchess," impersonated by Jessie Lynch. The unfortunate Minerva was a little disconcerted at first when she found herself the only girl at the feast in her own character. "Why didn't you tell me, so that I could have come in costume, too?" she asked Margaret. "But you had your medals," was Margaret's enigmatic answer. Minerva looked puzzled. Then her gaze fell to the shining breastplate of silver and gold trophies. She had worn them all this evening. The temptation had been too great. The medals gleamed like so many solemn eyes. She wondered if the others could read what was inscribed on them, or if it would be necessary to call attention to the most choice ones: "THE HIGHEST GENERAL AVERAGE FOR FOUR YEARS"; "REGULAR ATTENDANCE"; "MATHEMATICS"; "THE BEST HISTORICAL ESSAY"; "ENGLISH AND COMPOSITION." Edith opened the evening by delivering a speech in Latin which was really one of Virgil's eclogues mixed up with whatever she could recall of Livy and Horace, and filled out occasionally with Latin prose composition. It was so excruciatingly funny that Judy sputtered in her tea and was well kicked on her shins under the table. Minerva, however, appeared to be profoundly impressed, and the company murmured subdued approvals when, at last, the speaker took breath and sat down, gazing solemnly around her with dark, melancholy eyes very much blacked around the lids. Margaret then delivered a learned discourse on "Poise of Body and Poise of Mind," which was skillfully expressed in such deep and intricate language that nobody could understand what she was talking about. "Very, very interesting, indeed," observed Edith. "Remarkable; wonderful; so clearly put," came from the others. Minerva rubbed her eyes and frowned. Nance recited "The Raven," translated into very bad French. This was almost more than their gravity could endure, and when she ended each verse with "_Dit le corbeau: jamais plus,_" many of the girls stooped under the table for lost handkerchiefs and Japanese napkins. But it was not until Judy had sung a lullaby in Sanskrit--so called--that Minerva became at all suspicious. Even then it was the wrong kind of suspicion. She thought that perhaps she should have laughed, and the others had politely refrained because she hadn't. After a great deal of learned talk, Molly stood on a soap box and recited "Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night." This was the crowning joy of that famous evening, but still Minerva appeared seriously impressed. "I recited that once at Mill Town High School," she remarked. "Can't you give us something to-night?" asked Molly kindly, feeling that in some way the unfortunate Minerva ought to be allowed to join in. "I don't know that I ought to give another poem by the same man," she replied, "except that Miss Oldham gave 'The Raven' in French." "Don't tell us you know 'The Bells'?" demanded Edith Williams, in a trembling whisper. "Oh, yes. I've given it at lots of school entertainments." "We had better turn down the lights," said Margaret. "The room should be in darkness except the side light where Miss Higgins will stand. That will be the spot light." This was a fortunate arrangement because, while Minerva recited "The Bells," with all proper gestures, intonations and echoes, according to Cleveland's recitation book, the girls silently collapsed. When she had finished, they were reduced to that exhausted state that arrives after a supreme effort not to laugh. At last the entertainment came to an end. Minerva departed with some of the others, while those who lived close by remained to chat for a few minutes. "I give up," exclaimed Margaret Wakefield. "Minerva is beyond teaching. She must remain forever the smartest girl in Mill Town High School." "The only pity of it is that it was all wasted on one humorless person. We really furnished her with a most delightful entertainment and she never even guessed it," declared Nance. "I'm glad she didn't," remarked Molly. "It was cruel, I think. Suppose she had caught on? Do you think it would have helped her? And we would have been uncomfortable." "Suppose she did understand and pretended not to. The joke would have been decidedly on us," put in Katherine. Later events of that evening would seem to bear out this suggestion, although just how deeply, if at all, Minerva was implicated in what followed no one could possibly tell. It was a question long afterwards in dispute whether one person had managed the sequel to the Literary Evening, or whether there had been a confederate. Certainly it seemed that every imp in Bedlam had been set free to do mischief, and if Minerva, as arch-imp, was looking for revenge, she found it. "I don't like to appear inhospitable, girls, but it's five minutes of ten and I think you'd better chase along," said Margaret Wakefield. But when Judy laid hold of the knob and tried to open the door, it would not budge. "It won't open," she exclaimed. "What's to be done?" What was to be done? They pulled and jerked and endeavored to pry it open with a silver shoe horn and a pair of scissors, and at last Jessie, as the smallest, was chosen to climb over the transom and go for help. It was five minutes past ten, and they prudently turned out the lights. "Let me get at that knob just once before we work the transom scheme," ejaculated Margaret, who was very strong and athletic. "People always think they can open tin cans and doors and pull stoppers when other people can't," observed Judy sarcastically. Margaret treated this remark with contemptuous indifference. Seizing the knob with both hands, she turned it and, putting her knee to the jamb, pulled with all her force. The arch fiend on the other side must have turned the key at this critical moment, for the door flew open and the president tumbled back as if she had been shot from a catapult, knocking a number of surprised poets and authors into a tumbled heap. They were all considerably bruised and battered, and Margaret bit her tongue; a severe punishment for one whose oratory was the pride of the class. "Hush," whispered Jessie, who alone had escaped the tumble, "here comes the house matron." Softly she closed the door, and the girls waited until the danger was over. Then Margaret hastened to examine the keyhole. "There's no key in it," she whispered, speaking with difficulty, because her tongue was bleeding from the marks of two teeth. Whoever played the trick must have unlocked the door, jerked the key out and fled the instant the matron appeared at the end of the corridor. There was no time to discuss the mystery, however. She would be coming back in two minutes. Again they waited in silence until they heard the swish of her dress as she went past the door, now left open a crack in order that Judy, lying flat on her stomach on the floor, and enjoying herself immensely, might be on the lookout. "Come on," she hissed, as the large, rotund figure of Mrs. Pelham was lost in the darkness, and out they scuttled like a lot of mice loosed from the trap. But the evening's adventures were not over. As Judy, in advance of Molly and Nance, pushed open their door, already ajar, a small pail of water, placed on the top of the door by the arch-imp, whoever she was, fell on Judy's head and deluged her. It contained hardly a quart of water, but it might have been a gallon for the wreck it made of Judy's clothes and the room. "Oh, but I'll get even with somebody," exclaimed that enraged young woman. They turned on the green-shaded student's lamp and drew the blinds, the night watchman being very vigilant at the dormitories, and began silently mopping up the floor with towels. Judy removed her wet clothes, and unbound her long hair, light in color and fine as silk in quality. "I can't go to bed," she announced, "until I find out what's happened to the Gemini," and without another word she crept into the corridor. "Nance," whispered Molly, when they were alone, "if Minerva Higgins did this, she's about the boldest freshman alive to-day. But, after all, we can't exactly blame her, considering what we did to her." "She is taking great chances," replied Nance, who had a thorough respect for college etiquette and class caste. "Every pert freshman must be prepared for a call-down; and if she doesn't take it like a lamb, she'll just have to expect a freeze-out. It's much better for her in the end. If Minerva were allowed to keep this up for four years, she would be entirely insufferable. She's almost that now." "Don't you think she could find it out without such severe methods?" "Severe methods, indeed," answered Nance indignantly. "Do you call it severe to be asked to sup with the brightest girls in Wellington? Margaret's speech alone was worth all the humiliation Minerva might have felt; but she didn't feel any. Do you consider that rough, crude jokes like this are going to be tolerated?" "But we don't know that Minerva played them, yet," pleaded Molly. "I do admit, though, that it must have been a very ordinary person who could think of them. Margaret might have been badly hurt if she hadn't fallen on top of the rest of us." Presently Judy came stalking into their bedroom. "It's just as I expected," she announced. "The Williamses' bed was full of carpet tacks and Mabel Hinton fell over a cord stretched across her door and sprained her wrist. She has it bound with arnica now." "I don't see how Minerva could have had time to do all those things," broke in Molly. There are some rare and very just natures--and Molly's was one of them--which will not be convinced by circumstantial evidence alone. "She would have had plenty of time," argued Judy. "It would hardly have taken five minutes provided she had planned it all out beforehand. Besides, it's easy for you to talk, Molly. You didn't bite your tongue, or sprain your wrist, or get a ducking; or undress in the dark and get into a bedful of tacks. You escaped." "Disgusting!" came Nance's muffled voice from the covers. "It is horrid," admitted Molly. "Whoever did it----" "Minerva!" broke in Judy. "--must have a very mistaken idea of college and the sorts of amusement that are customary." So the argument ended for the night. CHAPTER V. VARIOUS HAPPENINGS. Guilty or innocent, Minerva Higgins displayed an inscrutable face next day, and the juniors, lacking all necessary evidence, were obliged to admit themselves outwitted; but they let it be known that jokes of that class were distinctly foreign to Wellington notions, and woe be to the author of them if her identity was ever disclosed. In the meantime, Molly was busy with many things. As usual she was very hard up for clothes, and was concocting a scheme in her mind for saving up money enough to buy a new dress for the Junior Prom. in February. She bought a china pig in the village, large enough to hold a good deal of small change, and from time to time dropped silver through the slit in his back. "He's a safe bank," she observed to her friends, "because the only way you can get money out of him is to smash him." The pig came to assume a real personality in the circle. For some unknown reason he had been christened "Martin Luther." The girls used to shake him and guess the amount of money he contained. Sometimes they wrote jingles about him, and Judy invented a dialogue between Martin Luther and herself which was so amusing that its fame spread abroad and she was invited to give it many times at spreads and fudge parties. The scheme that had been working in Molly's mind for some weeks at last sprung into life as an idea, and seizing a pencil and paper one day she sketched out her notion of the plot of a short story. It was not what she herself really cared for, but what she considered might please the editor who was to buy it as a complete story, and the public who would read it. There were mystery and love, beauty and riches in Molly's first attempt. Then she began to write. But it was slow work. The ideas would not flow as they did for letters home and for class themes. She found great difficulty in expressing herself. Her conversations were stilted and the plot would not hang together. "I never thought it would be so hard," she said to herself when she had finished the tale and copied it out on legal cap paper. "And now for the boldest act of my life." With a triumphant flourish of the pen, she rolled up the manuscript and marched across the courtyard to the office of Professor Green. "Come in," he called, quite gruffly, in answer to her knock. But when she entered, he rose politely and offered her a seat. Sitting down again in his revolving desk chair, he looked at her very hard. "I know you will think I have the most colossal nerve," she began, "when you hear why I have called; but I really need advice and you've been so kind--so interested, always." "What is it this time?" he interrupted kindly. "More money troubles?" "No, not exactly. Although, of course, I am always anxious to earn money. Who isn't? But I have a writing bee in my head. I've had it ever since last winter, although I confined myself mostly to verse----" Molly paused and blushed. She felt ashamed to discuss her poor rhymes with this learned man nearly a dozen years older than she was. "There's no money in poetry," she went on, "and I thought I would switch off to prose. I have written a short story and--I hope you won't be angry--I've brought it over for you to look at. I knew you looked over some of Judith's stories." "Of course I shan't be angry, child. I'm glad to help you, although I am not a fiction writer and therefore might hardly be thought competent to judge. Let's see what you have." He held out his hand for the manuscript. "On second thought," he continued, "suppose you read it aloud to me. Girls' handwriting is generally much alike--hard to make out." Molly, trembling with stage fright, her face crimson, began to read. The professor, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers, turned his whimsical brown eyes full upon her and never shifted his gaze once during the entire reading, which lasted some twenty-five minutes. When she had finished, Molly dropped the papers in her lap and waited. "Well, what do you think of it? Please don't mince matters. Tell me the truth." The professor came back to life with a start. She knew at once that he had not heard a word. "Oh, er--I beg your pardon," he said. "Very good. Very good, indeed. Suppose you leave the manuscript with me. I'll look it over again to-night." She rose to go. After all she had no right to complain, since she had asked this favor of a very busy man; but she did wish he had paid attention. "Wait a moment, Miss Brown, there was something I wanted to say. What was it now?" He rubbed his head, and then thrust his hands into his pockets. "Oh, yes. This is what I wanted to say--have an apple?" A flat Japanese basket on the table was filled with apples. "Excuse my not passing the basket, but they roll over. Take several. Help yourself." He made Molly take three, one for Nance, one for Judy and one for herself. Then he saw her to the outer door, bowing silently, all the time like a man in a dream. The next morning the manuscript was returned to Molly by the professor after the class in Literature. It was folded into a big envelope and contained a note. The note had no beginning and was signed "E. G." This is what it said: "Since you wish my true opinion of this story, I will tell you frankly that it is decidedly amateurish. The style is heavy and labored and the plot mawkishly sentimental and mock heroic. "Try to think up some simple story and write it out in simple language. Do not employ words that you are not in the habit of using. Be natural and express yourself as you would if you were writing a letter to your mother. Write about real people and real happenings; not about impossibly beautiful and rich goddesses and superbly handsome, fearless gods. Such people do not really exist, you know, and you are supposed to be painting a word picture of life. "You have talent, but you must be willing to work very hard. Good writing does not come in a day any more than good piano playing or painting. I would add: be yourself--unaffected--sincere--and your style will be perfect." Molly wept a little over this frank expression of criticism, although there did seem to be an implied compliment in the last line. She reread the story and blushed for her commonplaceness. Surely there never had been written anything so inane and silly. For a long time she sat gazing at the white peak of Fujiyama on the Japanese scroll. "Simple and natural, indeed," she exclaimed. "It's much harder than the other way. Unaffected and sincere! That's not easy, either." She sighed and tore the story into little bits, casting it into the waste-paper basket. "That's the best place for you," she continued, apostrophizing her first attempt at fiction. "Nobody would ever have laughed or cried over you. Nobody would even have noticed you. My trouble is that I try too hard. I am always straining my mind for words and ideas. Now, when I write letters, how do I do? I let go. I never worry. Can a story be written in that way?" "How now, Mistress Molly," called Judy, bursting into the room. "Why are you lingering here in the house when all the world's afield? Get thee up and go hence with me unto the green woods where we are to have tea, probably for the last time before the winter's call." "Who's 'we'?" asked Molly. "Why, the usual crowd, and a few others from Beta Phi House." "But you'll never have enough teacups to go around, child," objected Molly. "Oh, yes, we shall. There are two other tea baskets coming from Beta Phi. There will be plenty and some over besides. Rosomond Chase and Millicent Porter were so taken with my basket last year that they each bought one. Of course Millicent's is much finer than mine or Rosomond's." "I dare say. But I don't think I want to go, Judy." The truth was Molly never felt in sympathy with those two Beta Phi girls, who represented an element in college she did not like. They dressed a great deal, for one thing, especially Millicent Porter, the girl who had sub-let Judith Blount's apartment the year before. "Now, Molly, I think you're unkind," burst out Judy. She never could endure even small disappointments. "They are awfully nice girls and they want to know you better. They said they did." "Well, why don't they come and see me? That's easy." Judy did not reply. She was pulling down all the clothes in the closet in a search for Molly's tam and sweater. She was in one of her queer, excited moods. Could it be that Judy thought the sparkling coterie from Queen's was being honored by these two rich young persons from Beta Phi? Molly rejected the suspicion almost as soon as it entered her mind. No, it was simply that poor old Judy was obsessed with a desire to get into the "Shakespeareans," and by courting the most influential members she thought she could make it. Molly pulled her slender length from the depths of the Morris chair where she had been lolling. "Very well," she said resignedly. "I was meditating on my ambitions when you broke in on me. You are a very demoralizing young person, Judy." Judy laughed. She made a charming picture in her scarlet tam and sweater. "Come along," she cried, "and ambitions be hanged." She seized her tea basket under one arm and a box of ginger snaps under the other. "Why, Judy, I am really shocked at you," exclaimed Molly. "I think I'll have to give you another shaking up before long. You're getting lax and lazy." "Nothing of the sort. I only want to enjoy life while the weather is good. It's lots easier to think of ambitions on rainy days." The other girls were waiting on the campus: the Williamses, Margaret and Jessie, Nance and presently the two Beta Phi girls. Rosomond Chase was a plump, rather heavy blonde type, always dressed to perfection and bright enough when she felt inclined to exert her mind. Millicent Porter was quite the opposite in appearance; small, wiry, with a prominent, sharp-featured face; prominent nose, prominent teeth and rather bulging eyes. She talked a great deal in a highly pompous tone, and her voice always slurred over from one statement to another as if to ward off interruption. She seemed much amused at this little escapade in the woods, quite Bohemian and informal. The Queen's girls could hardly explain why she appeared so patronizing. It was her manner more than what she said; although Margaret insisted that it was because she monopolized the conversation. "We didn't go to listen to a monologue," Margaret thundered later when they were discussing the tea party. "We came to hear ourselves talk." What surprised Molly was the attention that the young person of unlimited wealth bestowed upon her. "Come and sit beside me, Miss Brown, and tell me about Kentucky," she ordered. "I am afraid I haven't the gift of language," replied Molly, without budging from her seat on a log. "Ask Margaret Wakefield. She's the only conversationalist in the crowd." "I suppose Mahomet must go to the mountain, then," observed Miss Porter, and she moved graciously over to the log, where she regaled Molly with a great deal of wordy talk. "If she's going to do all the conversing, it might as well be on something interesting," thought Molly, and she started Millicent on the topic of silver work. This young woman, rich beyond calculation, had an unusual talent which had not been neglected. She worked in silver. "Her natural medium," Edith had observed when she heard of it. She could beat out chains and necklaces, rings of antique patterns, beautiful platters with enameled centers with all the skill of a real silversmith. Molly listened with polite interest to Millicent's lengthy description of her art. There was often an unconscious flattery in the sympathetic attention Molly gave to other people's talk. It had the effect of loosening tongues and brought forth confidences and heart secrets. She was a good listener and the repository of many a hidden thought. "I am only going to college, you know, to please papa," Millicent was saying. "He thinks I should be finished off like a piece of statuary or a new house. I would much rather do things with my hands. I can't see how I am to be benefited by all these classics. In the sort of life I shall lead they won't do me any good. Society people never quote Latin and Greek or make learned references to early Roman history and things of that sort. It isn't considered good form. Modern novels are the only things people read nowadays, but papa is determined. Now, with silver work, it's quite different. I love it. I love to make beautiful things. I have just finished a grape-vine chain. The workmanship is exquisite. My sitting room is my studio, you know, and I work there when I am not busy with stupid books. You seem interested. Do you know anything about silver work?" Molly admitted her ignorance on the subject, but Millicent did not pause to listen. Her voice slurred over from the question to her next outburst. "I like beautiful rich colors. I intend to design all the costumes for the next Shakespearean performance. If I had been born in a different sphere in life, I should have divided my time between silver work and costuming. I can draw, too, but it's more designing than anything else." Then Millicent, encouraged by Molly's sympathetic blue eyes, lowered her voice and plunged into confidences. "The truth is," she said, "we were not so--er--well-to-do two generations ago. My great-grandfather was an Italian silversmith. Isn't it interesting? He was really an artist in his way, and made wonderful vessels for the church, crucifixes, and things like that. I tell mamma I believe her grandfather's soul has entered into my body. But that isn't all. Now, if I tell you this, will you promise never to breathe it? It's really a family secret, but it accounts for my love of rich, beautiful things. I can sew, you know. I adore to embroider. If I had to, I could easily make all my own clothes----" "But that's nothing to be ashamed of," broke in Molly. "No, no. That isn't the secret. The secret is where I got the taste for such things. You promise not to mention this?" "I promise," replied Molly gravely, repressing the smile that for an instant hovered on her lips. "The silversmith grandfather had a brother who was a merchant. He had a shop in Florence where he sold all sorts of beautiful fabrics, velvets and brocades and lots of antique things." "No doubt it was an antique shop," thought Molly. "Mamma remembers it well, and the shop is still there to-day, but it's in other hands." Molly felt much amusement at this explanation of heredity. It would not be difficult to add a few lines to Millicent's small, thin face and place it on the shoulders of the old silversmith or of his brother, the dealer in antiques. How would they feel if they could hear this granddaughter conversing about society and the classics? "But I have rattled on. Here I have told you two family secrets. But of course they will go no farther. You know more about me than any girl in Wellington. Won't you come over to dinner with me Saturday evening and see my studio?" "I am so sorry," said Molly, "but I have an engagement,"--to try to write a sincere, natural, simple short story, she added, in her mind. "Oh, dear, what a nuisance! Can you come Sunday? They have horrid early dinners Sunday, but no matter." Molly was obliged to accept, anxious as she was to keep out of the Beta Phi crowd. "By the way, do you act?" asked Millicent abruptly. "A little," answered Molly, and that ended the tea party. In the evening Judy was slightly cold to Molly. It was almost imperceptible, so subtle was the change, and Molly herself was hardly aware of it until her friend, stretched on the couch reading, suddenly closed her book with a snap and remarked: "Considering you dislike the Beta Phi girls, you certainly managed to monopolize one of them." "Judy!" remonstrated Nance, shocked at this unaccountable exhibition of temperament. Molly said nothing whatever, and presently she slipped off to bed. "We've all got our faults," she kept saying to herself, but she was bitterly hurt, nevertheless. CHAPTER VI. "THE BEST LAID SCHEMES." Judy did have her failings, the faults of an only child spoiled by indulgent parents. But they were only on the surface, impulsive flashes of irritability that never failed to be followed by deep, poignant regret when the tempest had passed. The next morning Molly was wakened by the fragrance of violets, and, opening her eyes, she looked straight into the heart of a big bunch of those flowers lying on her chest. "Goodness, I feel like a corpse," she exclaimed. Scrawled on a card pinned to the purple tissue ribbon around the stems of the violets was the following inscription: "For dearest Molly from her devoted and loving Judy." "The poor child must have got up early this morning and gone down to the village for them," she said to Nance. "And she does hate getting up early, too." Thus the coldness between the two girls came to a temporary end. Molly did not go to the Beta Phi House to dinner on Sunday. Millicent sent word that she was ill with a headache and would like to postpone the visit. Some of the Shakespeareans came to the apartment of the three girls to call one evening, but they were Judy's friends, invited by her to drop in and have fudge, and Molly and Nance kept quiet and remained in the background. If Judy was working to get into the Shakespeareans, she should have the field to herself. The three visitors, seniors all of them, left early, but in some mysterious way the news of their call spread through the Quadrangle. "Which of you is boning for the 'Shakespeareans'?" Minerva Higgins demanded of Nance next day. This irrepressible young person had already acquired a smattering of college slang and college gossip. But still she had not learned the difference between a freshman and a junior. Nance drew herself up haughtily. "Miss Higgins," she said, "there are some things at Wellington that are never discussed." "_Excuse me_," said Minerva, making an elaborate bow. But Nance did not even notice the bow. She had gone on her way like an injured dignitary. The air was certainly full of rumors, however. Everybody, even the faculty, wondered upon whose shoulders the Shakespeareans' highly coveted honors would fall. The new members of this distinguished body were always chosen after the junior play, preparations for which were now under way. There had been first a stormy meeting of the class. It was quite natural for President Wakefield to want all her particular friends to form the committee to choose a play and select the actors, and it was equally human of the Caroline Brinton forces to resent the old clique rule. But Margaret was a mighty leader and would brook no interference. So the Queen's girls were the ruling spirits of the entertainment. Judy was chairman of the committee, and was to have the principal part in the play, it being tacitly understood that she wanted to show the Shakespeareans what she could do. It was like the scholarly group to give a wide berth to the modern comedies and melodramas usually selected by juniors for this performance, and to settle on "Twelfth Night." "We can never do it," Caroline Brinton had announced in great vexation. "We haven't time and we have no coach." But she had been calmly overruled and "Twelfth Night" it was to be, with daily rehearsals except on Saturdays, when there were two. Molly was cast for the part of Maria, the maid. And she was glad, chiefly because the costume was easy. Judy was to play Viola, Edith Williams, Malvolio, and the other parts were variously distributed, Margaret being Sir Toby Belch. When a college girl reaches her junior year her mind is well trained to concentrate and memorize. Two years before, perhaps only Edith Williams, whose memory was abnormal, would have trusted herself to memorize a Shakespearean part. But the girls were amazed now at their own powers. Miss Pryor, teacher of elocution, was present at many of the rehearsals, criticizing and suggesting, and hers was the only outside assistance the juniors had in their ambitious production. It was probably through her that the accounts of their ability were noised abroad, and on the night of the play there was a great rush for seats. The president herself was there and many of the faculty. Professor Green had a front balcony seat looking straight down on the stage. "Goodness, but I'm scared!" exclaimed Molly, peeping through the hole in the curtain at the large assembly. "Heaven help us all," groaned Nance, dressed as an attendant of the Duke. "Don't talk like that," Judy admonished them. "We must make it go off all right. Molly, don't you forget and be too solemn. Your part calls for much merriment, as the notes in the book said." "Don't you be so dictatorial," said Nance, under her breath, hoping instantly that Judy, in a high state of nerves and excitement, had not heard her. When the seniors began thumping on the floor with their heels and the sophomores commenced clapping, Molly's mind became a vacuum. Not even the first line of her part could she recall. At last the curtain went up and the play began. She had no idea how Judy had conducted herself. A girl near her said: "She certainly had an awful case of stage fright, but she'll be all right in the next act." The words had no meaning to Molly, and she sat like a frozen image in the wings until Nance touched her on the shoulder and whispered: "Hurry up." Then she stepped into the glare of the footlights. Her blood ceased entirely to circulate. Her hands became numb. Icy fingers seemed to clutch her throat, and when she opened her mouth to speak, no voice came. She remembered making a fervent, speechless prayer. In an instant her blood began to flow normally. She felt a wave of crimson surge into her cheeks, and she heard her own voice speaking to Margaret, stuffed out with sofa cushions to resemble Sir Toby Belch. When the scene was over there was a great clapping of hands. It sounded to Molly like a sudden rainstorm in summer. And, like a summer shower, it was refreshing to the young actors in the great comedy. "Good work, Molly," Margaret whispered. "I think we carried that off pretty well. If only Judy doesn't get scared again the thing will go all right." "Did Judy have stage fright?" demanded Molly, in surprise. "You mean to say you didn't know? She almost ruined the scene." "Poor old Judy," thought Molly, "and just when she wanted to do her best, too." Judy did improve considerably as the play progressed, but even a friendly audience has an unrelenting way of retaining first impressions; or perhaps it was that poor Judy, sensitive and high strung, imagined the audience was cold to her and so allowed her spirit to be quenched. There were no cries for "Viola" from the people in front, and there were many for Malvolio, Sir Toby and Maria. Again and again these three actors came forth and bowed their acknowledgment. During the intermission several of the freshmen ushers carried down bouquets of flowers. Jessie received two from admirers who appeared to keep a running account at the florist's in the village. A splendid basket of red roses and a bunch of violets were handed over the footlights for Molly, and when she was summoned from the wings to appear and receive these floral offerings she flushed crimson and remarked to the usher: "There must be some mistake. They couldn't be for me." A ripple of laughter went over the entire house. There was another burst of applause which again brought Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky into prominence through no fault of her own. The card on the magnificent basket of roses made known to her the fact that Miss Millicent Porter had thus honored her. The card on the violets merely said: "From a crusty old critic who believes in your success." "I thought Millicent Porter had a big crush on you," observed Margaret later in the green room. "There's no doubt about it now after this noble tribute." "Nonsense," said Molly. "It's because she has so much money and likes to spend it." "On herself, yes, buying clothes and big lumps of silver to play with; but not on you, Molly, dear, unless she had been greatly taken with your charms." Molly had seen a few college crushes and considered them absurd, a kind of idol worship by a young girl for an older one; but because she had been so closely with her own small circle, she had escaped a crush so far. "I'll never believe it," she said. "I'm much too humble a person to be admired by such a grand young lady. She sent the roses because she had to recall her invitation to dinner." "Only time will prove it, Miss Molly," answered Margaret. The play ended with a grand storm of applause and college yells. Not in their wildest dreams had the juniors hoped for such success. "It's difficult to tell who was the best, they were all so excellent," the president was reported to have said. Finally, to satisfy the persistent multitude, each actor marched slowly in front of the curtain, and each was received with more or less enthusiasm. "Rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah; Wellington--Wellington--Margaret Wakefield," they yelled; or "What's the matter with Molly Brown? She's all right. Molly--Molly--Molly Brown." In the intoxicating excitement of this fifteen minutes nobody realized that Judy had withdrawn from the group of actors and hidden herself away somewhere behind the scenery. There was some speculation in the audience as to why Viola had not filed across the stage with the others, but since Judy's really devoted friends were all behind the scenes, there was no one to bring her out unless she chose to show herself with the others. "Wasn't it simply grand?" cried Jessie, the last to taste the sweets of popularity. The hall was still ringing with: "Jessie--Jessie--she's all right!" when she bowed herself behind the curtain and joined her classmates in the green room. Then there came cries of: "Speech! Speech! Wakefield! Wakefield!" Margaret, as composed as a May morning, stepped to the front of the platform and gave one of her most appropriate addresses to the joy of the audience and the intense amusement of the faculty. "Think of that child, only eighteen, and making such a speech! They are certainly a remarkable group of girls. So much individuality among them," said Miss Walker to Miss Pomeroy, at her side. "And rare charm in some of the individuals," added Miss Pomeroy. "The little Brown girl, for instance, who, by the way, is as tall as I am, but so thin that she seems small, has magnetism that will carry her through many a difficulty in life. They tell me she is almost adored by her friends." In the meantime the juniors, entirely unconscious of these compliments from high places, and perhaps it was quite as well they were, had just missed Judy from their midst. "Didn't she go before the curtain with the rest of us?" some one asked. "But how strange, when she had the leading part." "I thought I heard them give her the yell." "Judy, Judy," called Molly. "Here I am," answered a muffled voice from behind the scenery. Presently Judy appeared, showing a face so white and tragic that her friends were shocked. With a tactful instinct most of the girls hurriedly gathered their things together and disappeared, leaving only the intimates in the green room. "Why, Judy, dearest, why did you hide yourself, and you the leading lady of the company?" exclaimed Molly reproachfully, when all outsiders had departed. "Don't flatter me, Molly," Judy answered, in a hard, strained voice. "But you were," said Molly, "and you acted beautifully." "I ruined the play," said Judy angrily. "I ruined the entire business, and you made me do it." "Oh, Judy," cried Molly, "you are talking wildly. What do you mean?" "You did. You upset me completely when you said: 'don't be so dictatorial.' I never heard you make a speech like that before. And just as I was about to go on, too. It was cruel. It was unkind. If it had come from any one else but you----" "Here--here," broke in Margaret. "Really, Judy, you're losing your temper." "She never said it, anyhow," cried Nance. "I said it myself." "She did say it, Nance. You're just trying to screen her," replied Judy, who had worked herself into a nervous rage. "Is this going to be a free fight?" asked Edith, who always enjoyed battles. Molly was gathering up her things. "Not as far as I am concerned," she answered, in a trembling voice. As she went out she looked sorrowfully back at Judy, but not another word did she say. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Judy Kean?" cried Nance. "You're jealous and that's the whole of it," and she flung herself out of the door after Molly. The others quickly followed. Certainly sympathy was against Judy. And what of poor Judy left all alone in the gymnasium? Torn with anger, remorse, jealousy and disappointment, she threw herself face downward on the empty stage. Presently the janitor came in and switched off the lights. CHAPTER VII. A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE. Molly and Nance had little to say to each other that night as they undressed for bed. Nance was still filled with hot indignation over Judy's "falling-off" as she called it, and Molly had no heart for conversation. The door to Judy's bedroom at the other end of the sitting room was closed and they were not surprised when she did not call "good night" as was her custom. Nobody looked in on them. It was late and the Quadrangle was soon perfectly still. Under the sheets, her head buried in the pillows, Molly cried a long time, softly and quietly, like a steady downpour of rain. It seemed somehow that her beloved friend, Judy, had died, and that she was grieving for her. At last, worn out, she fell asleep. It was a very heavy sleep. She felt as if her arms were tied and she was sinking down into space and, as is always the case with dreams of falling, she waked with a nervous leap as if her body had hit the bed and rebounded. As she fell she had dreamed that she heard a voice calling. Never mind what it said; already the word, whatever it was, was a mere pin point in her memory. It had flashed through her mind like a shooting star across the sky. It was brilliantly illuminating for the instant. Molly was sure that it meant a great deal. It was an important word, and it had an urgent significance. For the tenth of a second her mind had been wide awake, and now it was quite dark again. Molly leaped out of bed and began pulling on her clothes. "Why am I dressing?" she thought. "It is because I must--_hurry!_" "Hurry," that was the word. It came back to her now, quietly and significantly. Nance wakened and sat up in bed. "What is it?" she asked. "I don't know. I must hurry. Don't stop me," answered Molly. Nance looked at her curiously. "You've had a nightmare, Molly," she said. Molly glanced up vaguely as Nance switched on the light. "Have I? I don't know, but I must make haste, or I'll be too late." "Too late for what?" "I don't know yet." "Wake up, Molly. You're asleep. Nothing is going to happen. You are here, in your own room." "Yes, yes. I understand, but I must hurry. Don't stop me, Nance. You may come if you like, but don't stop me." Nance had often heard that it was dangerous to awaken sleepwalkers too suddenly, and she believed now as she saw Molly slipping on her skirt and sweater that she was certainly asleep. "Dearest Molly," she insisted. "This is college. You are in your own room. It's a quarter to twelve. Don't go out of the room." Molly took no notice. Nance turned on another light and slipped across to Judy's room. She must have help, and Judy was the nearest person. "Judy's not in her room," she exclaimed suddenly, in a scared voice. Molly gave a slight shudder. "It's Judy who needs me," she said. "I was trying to remember. I couldn't make it out at first. Put on your things, Nance. Don't delay. Put out the light. We must hurry." Nance got into a few clothes as fast as she could. She slipped on tennis shoes and an ulster and presently the two girls were standing in the corridor. "Where are we going, Molly?" asked Nance, now under the spell of the other's conviction. "This way," answered Molly, looking indeed like a sleepwalker as she glided down the hall to the main steps. If the girls had glanced back they would have noticed a figure creep softly after them. "But the gate is locked," objected Nance. "I know, but we'll find another way. Come on." Down the steps they hastened noiselessly. At the bottom, instead of going straight ahead, Molly turned to the left and led the way to a sitting room for visitors on the ground floor of the tower. The windows of the Tower Room, as it was known, looked out on the campus. They were small, deep-silled, and closed with iron-bound wooden shutters like the doors into the cloisters. Mounting a bench, Molly opened the inside glass casement of one of the windows and drew back the bolt which secured the shutter. Then she hoisted herself onto the sill, crawled through the window, and holding by both hands dropped to the ground. Nance, of a more practical temperament, wondered how they would ever get back into the Tower Room; but blind, unquestioning faith is an infinitely stronger staff to lean upon than uneasy speculation, as Nance was one day to find out. "When the night watchman makes his rounds, will he see the window open in the tower?" she thought. "And if he does, what will he do? Give the alarm at once or try to find out our names and report us? If he reports us, what then? We may be expelled, or suspended or punished in some awful way." So Nance's thoughts busily shaped out these tragic events as she followed Molly out of the window and dropped to the gravel walk below. The tower clock struck twelve while the two girls flitted across the campus. It was a strange adventure, Nance pondered, and one she would never have undertaken, or even considered, alone. But then her instincts were not like Molly's. The inner voice which spoke to her sometimes was usually the sharp, reproving voice of a Puritan conscience. It spoke to her now, but she turned a deaf ear to it for once. It told her how absurd she would appear to other people in this dangerous midnight escapade; what risks she was running. Judy, of course, had spent the night with one of the other girls, it said. It troubled her mind with whispers of doubts and fears; it ridiculed and abused her, but not once did it weaken her determination to follow Molly wherever she intended to go. And presently, when Molly quickened her footsteps into a run, Nance kept right at her elbow like a noonday shadow, foreshortened and broadened. Molly turned in the direction of the lake. Nance's heart gave a violent thump. She had believed all along that they were taking a short cut across to the gymnasium, instead of following the gravel walk. "Molly, you don't think----" she began breathlessly. "Don't talk now. Hurry," was Molly's brief reply. Across a corner of the golf course they flew, and before Nance could take breath for another dash through a fringe of pine trees she caught sight of the waters, as black as ink. She clutched Molly's arm. "Did you hear anything?" she asked, in a frightened whisper. They waited a moment, straining their ears in the darkness. From the middle of the lake came the sound of a canoe paddle dipping into the water. Molly breathed a sigh of relief. "It's all right," she said, and they hastened down to the platform of the boathouse. In another moment they had launched a small rowboat and were out on the lake. "Will Judy Kean never learn sense?" Nance thought impatiently. "She's just like a prairie fire. It only takes a spark to set her going and then she burns up everything in sight." Nance had never been able to understand why Judy could not hold her passionate, excitable temperament more in control. She, herself, had learned self-denial at an early age. But that was because she had a selfish mother. "How did you ever guess she would be here, Molly?" she asked, as the prow of the boat cut softly through the waters of the lake with a musical ripple. Nance was rowing, and Molly, who had never learned to handle oars, was sitting facing her. "I don't know. I can't explain it. I dreamed that some one said 'hurry,' and the lake seemed to be the place to come to." Some two hundred feet beyond they now made out the silhouette of a canoe. Judy--of course it was Judy; already they recognized the outline of her slender figure--kneeling in the bottom of the boat, had stopped paddling. She held up her head like a startled animal when it scents danger. It occurred to Nance, watching her over her shoulder as they drew nearer, that there was really something wild and untamed in Judy's nature. She remembered that, the first morning they had met her at Queen's, Judy had laughingly announced that she had been born at sea on a stormy night. But it was no joking matter, Nance was thinking, and she fervently wished that Judy would learn to quell her troubled moods. The next instant the two boats touched prows. The little canoe, the most delicate and sensitive craft that there is, quivered violently with the shock of the collision and sprang back. As it bounded forward again, Molly held out her hand. Instinctively Judy grasped it, and the two boats drew alongside each other. "Crawl into our boat, Judy, dearest," said Molly. "It will be easier to pull the canoe to shore if it's empty." Judy prepared silently to obey. But a canoe is not a thing to be reckoned with at critical moments. Just as Judy raised her foot to step into the other boat, the treacherous little craft shot from under her, and over she toppled, headforemost into the waters. Fortunately, she was an excellent swimmer, and the star diver of the gymnasium pool. But the lake was not deep, and when she came up, sputtering and puffing, she found herself standing in water that was only shoulder high. Nance often thought, in looking back on this painful episode, that nothing they could have said to Judy would have brought her so completely to her senses as this cold ducking. Certainly, if Judy had actually planned to jump into the lake, her wishes were most ludicrously carried out, and the struggle she now made to climb back into the boat showed that she was not anxious to stay any longer than she could help in the icy bath. It was a sight for laughter more than for tears, sensible Nance pondered with a slight feeling of contempt--that of Judy, struggling and kicking to draw herself into the boat. Indeed, she almost managed to upset them, too; but she did tumble in somehow, shivering and wet but extremely contrite. "How did you know I was out here?" was the first question she put, when, having seized the rope on the prow of the canoe, they headed for shore. "I didn't know. I only guessed," answered Molly. "She was up and dressed before she even knew you were not in your room," announced Nance. "I was a fool," exclaimed Judy, "and I know now what good friends you are to have come for me. I don't know exactly what I intended to do out here," she went on brokenly. "I felt ashamed to face any one, even mamma and papa. I might----" she broke off, shivering. Rivulets of water were pouring from her wet clothing into the bottom of the boat. She still wore the costume she had worn in the last scene of the play. "I'll give you my ulster as soon as we land, Judy," said Nance, rowing with long rapid strokes which sent the boat skimming over the water. "I'm just a low-down worthless dog," went on Judy, taking no notice of Nance's interruption. "There's no good trying to apologize, Molly. Words don't mean anything. But when the chance comes--and the chance always does come if you want it--I'll be able to show you how sorry I am for what I did, and how much I really love you." "You showed me what a real friend you were last winter, Judy," broke in Molly, "when you gave up your room at Queen's for my sake. I wasn't angry about what happened at the gym. I was hurt of course because I'm a sensitive plant, but I knew it would be all right in the end because we are too close to each other now to let a few hasty words come between us. But here we are at the boat landing." Having tied the two boats in the boat house, which was never kept locked, they hurried back to college. Nance insisted upon Judy's putting on her ulster. "You know I'm never cold," she said. "You girls will just kill me with kindness," exclaimed Judy humbly. But Nance did not even hear this abject speech. The question of how they were to get back into the Quadrangle was occupying her mind. "We're taking an awful risk," she observed to Molly, in a low voice. "There is no other way but the window, I suppose." "I can't think of any other way," answered Molly, "unless we ring the bell over the gate and alarm the entire dormitory." "Suppose the night watchman has closed the window? What then?" demanded Nance. "Why, we'll just have to find some other way, then," answered her optimistic friend. But the window in the Tower Room was wide open, just as they had left it. The doubting Nance still had another theory. "Suppose the night watchman has left it open on purpose to catch us when we come back?" she suggested. "I do wish you would stop hunting up troubles, Nance," ejaculated Molly irritably. "I never found supposing did any good, anyhow." Nance, thus rebuked, said nothing more. Molly, boosted by the other girls, pulled herself onto the window sill and climbed into the room. She looked about her cautiously. But Nance's fears were groundless so far. The room was perfectly empty. "Let down a chair," whispered Judy. There were no small chairs about, however, and she was obliged to choose a bench. "How are we to get it back again?" she asked, after Nance had clambered in, and Judy, halfway through, paused to consider this question. "Hurry, the watchman," hissed Nance, on the lookout at the door. "He's coming down the side corridor." The next instant Judy had leaped into the room, and the three girls were tearing along the hall and up the steps, Judy leaving a trail of water behind her. The watchman had seen them. They could hear the beat of his steps on the cement floor as he ran. The fugitives reached the upper corridor just as he arrived at the first landing on the stairs. "Kick off your pumps, Judy, and pick up your skirts. He'll trace us by the wet trail if you don't." Another dash and they were in their sitting room, the door locked behind them. Oh, blessed relief! Judy, in her stocking feet, was holding up her skirts with both hands. Nance had seized one of the slippers and she thought that Molly had the other. But the final excitement of that eventful night was veiled in mystery. As they had burst into their sitting room, some one ran swiftly across the room, through the passage into Judy's room and into the corridor. They dared not follow and run the risk of meeting the night watchman, probably standing at that moment at the end of the corridor trying to trace that path of water, which, thanks be to Nance's prudence, ended there and was lost on the green strip of carpet. Below in the Tower Room the windows of the casement flapped back and forth in the wind which was rising steadily, and on the path below stood that telltale bench. "Anyhow," said Molly, "there's only one person who knows we were out to-night and, whoever she is, she can't tell without giving herself away." CHAPTER VIII. COVERING THEIR TRACKS. When the dressing bell rang next morning, three heavy-eyed and extremely weary young women felt obliged to pull themselves together and appear at the breakfast table. Judy had caught cold, and to disguise this condition had plastered pink powder on her nose, and now held her breath almost to suffocation to avoid coughing in public. "Have you heard the news?" demanded Jessie, hurrying in late and sitting next to Nance. "Why, no. What is it?" asked Nance calmly. Molly felt the color rising in her cheeks, and Judy buried her snuffles in a long letter from her mother. "There's the greatest tale going around the Quadrangle! Everybody is talking about it," continued Jessie. "One of the chambermaids started it, I think, because she told it to me just now." "What is it?" asked Edith Williams impatiently. "Some of the Quadrangle girls were out last night gallivanting. They climbed through the Tower Room window, left a bench outside and the window open. I suppose the watchman frightened them before they could hide all traces." "That sounds like a wild freak," commented Katherine. "What do you suppose they were doing?" "They might have been doing lots of things," replied Jessie mysteriously. "The maid said the watchman thought they had been driving or motoring with some Exmoor boys." "Whew!" ejaculated a sophomore. "I'm sorry for them if they are found out. I happen to know Prexy's feelings about escapades like that." "Why? Were you ever caught?" "No, of course not. Don't you see me sitting here at the table? But my older sister was in the class with a girl who was caught. She was a campus girl." "What happened to her?" demanded Judy, forgetting her cold in the interest of the story. "Bounced," answered the sophomore briefly. The Williamses and Jessie looked at Judy with mixed feelings of surprise; not because they noticed her cold or regarded it with any suspicion, but because, when they had parted company with her the night before she had been in the throes of a jealous rage and had spoken most insultingly to her best friend. Their glances shifted to Molly. The two girls were seated side by side. Judy was leaning affectionately against Molly's shoulder while they looked together at a picture post card sent by Mary Stewart from France. "All bets are off," whispered Edith to her sister. "They have made it up. Molly is an angel of forgiveness. We were wrong for once." "And Margaret was correct." "A pound of Mexican kisses and two pounds of mixed chocolates," said Margaret in Edith's other ear. "I've won my bet, I hope you'll take notice." "We were just taking notice," answered Edith. "But there's some more of the story," piped out Jessie again. "Don't you want to hear the most exciting part?" "Heavens, yes. Did they catch them?" asked several voices. "No, no, but one of the girls was wet," announced Jessie impressively. "She left a trail of water after her all the way up the steps." "I should think they could have traced her by that," said Margaret. "They could have if she had kept on trailing, but she must have remembered and held up her skirt, for it stopped right there." "Wise lady," put in Katherine. "She must have been canoeing and not driving, then," observed Margaret. "Else why the significant fact of wet clothes?" "Nice night to go canoeing in, cold and dark. Strange notion of pleasure," remarked Edith. "Well, there's more still to come," announced Jessie, when they had finished commenting on this remarkable escapade. "For heaven's sake, Jessie, you're like a serial story of adventure--a thriller in every chapter. What now?" "Well," said Jessie, "you may well prepare for a thriller this time. The watchman found something." "What? What?" they cried, and Nance, Judy and Molly joined in the chorus with as much excitement as any of the others. "He found a slipper." Judy made an enormous effort to keep her hand from trembling, as she raised her coffee cup to her dry, feverish lips. Molly, as usual under excitement, changed from white to red and red to white. Nance alone seemed perfectly calm. "I don't see how they can prove anything by that," she observed. "There are probably fifty girls or even a hundred who wear the same size shoes here. Molly is the only girl I know of who wears a peculiar size, six and a half triple A." "Well, 'one thing is certain and the rest is lies,' as old Omar remarked," said Margaret, rising from the table, "and that is, all juniors can prove an alibi last night. No junior would ever go gallivanting on the night of the junior play." "Hardly," answered Nance, who had risen to the occasion with fine spirit and tact. Molly's face resumed its normal color and Judy looked relieved. "The thing they will have to do," said Edith, "is to find the other slipper. And if the owner of that slipper takes my advice she'll drop it down the deepest well in Wellington County." Molly and Nance and Judy hurried through breakfast and rushed back to their apartment. They locked all the doors carefully and gathered in Judy's room. "We have nearly fifteen minutes before chapel," said Nance, speaking rapidly. "Judy, are your things dry? Get them quickly. They may search our rooms. Miss Walker is pretty determined once she's roused, I hear." Judy gathered up the stiff, rough-dry garments that had been hanging on the heater all night, while Molly found tossed in a corner the mate to the fatal slipper. Judy held up Viola's dress of old rose velvet. "It's ruined," she exclaimed, "and that's another complication. Suppose----" "Don't suppose," interrupted Molly hastily, snatching the dress away from her. "Hurry, Nance, where shall we put them?" For a temporary safe hiding place they chose the interior of the upright piano. Then they hastily made their beds, set their dressing tables to rights and dashed off to chapel just as the matron appeared on an ostensible tour of inspection. It was possible that she was not being very vigilant with the juniors, however, that particular morning, knowing that they were one and all engaged in producing a very important play the night before. At any rate, she only glanced casually around, saw nothing incriminating and departed to the next room. The president looked grave and worried at chapel, but, contrary to expectations, she had nothing to say after the prayer. "It's a bad sign," observed a student. "When Prexy doesn't say anything, she means business." Except for a few moments at lunch, the three girls did not meet in private consultation again until late in the afternoon. There was a busy sign on their study door. Molly smiled knowingly to herself, and gave the masonic tap. "It's a good idea," she thought, "and will keep out inquisitive people until we decide what to do." She found Judy stretched on the sofa, feverish and coughing, while Nance was dosing her with a large dose of quinine and an additional dose of sweet spirits of niter. "You're going to kill me, Nance," Judy was grumbling. "For heaven's sake, be quiet," scolded Nance. "You haven't any voice to waste. Molly, will you make her a hot lemonade? I think we had better get her to bed and cover her up with all the comforts so as to bring on a perspiration." "Only one?" inquired Judy. "Get up from there and go to bed," ordered Nance. "The inspection is over and there won't be any chance of another one to-day. You'll have to miss supper to-night. We'll say you have one of your sick headaches." Judy obediently got out of her things while Molly flew around making hot lemonade, and Nance hung a blanket over the heater and pulled down their three winter comforts off a shelf in the closet. Judy meekly allowed herself to be smothered under a mountain of covers, while she drank the lemonade with childish enjoyment. "You always make good ones, Molly, darling, because you put in enough sugar. I'll probably be melted into a fountain of perspiration like Undine, only she went away in tears," she complained presently. "That's the object of the treatment," answered Nance sternly. "Whatever is left of you after the melting process is over is quite well of the cold." Molly could have laughed if she had not been thinking of something else very hard. The two girls sat down on the divan and began a subdued and earnest conversation. "What are we to do with these things, Molly? We can't leave them in the piano because the moment some one sits down to play we'll be discovered." "Murderers take up the planks in the floor and hide their bloodstained clothing underneath," observed Molly. "But we can't do that, of course." They took the bundle from its hiding place and looked over the garments. "I have an idea," announced Nance, who had many practical notions on the subject of clothes. "Suppose we take the dress to the cleaner's in the village and have it steamed." "Why can't we steam it ourselves over the tea kettle?" demanded Molly. "We can and we'll do it right now and press it on the wrong side. If it hadn't been so much admired, it wouldn't matter so very much, but some one's sure to ask to see it or borrow it or something. How about the underclothes? Can't we smooth them out with a hot iron before they go to the laundry?" They set to work at once to heat water and irons, and presently were engaged in restoring the old rose velvet to a semblance of its former beauty. "What are we going to do about that slipper?" demanded Molly, pausing in her labors. "I've made up my mind to that," replied Nance. "We must bury it." CHAPTER IX. THE GRAVE DIGGERS. Three times during the night Molly and Nance crept into Judy's room and looked at her anxiously. She seemed to be sleeping heavily, but she tossed about the bed with feverish restlessness, and her forehead was burning hot. Early in the morning the faithful friends were up again, tipping about like two wraiths of the dawn in their trailing dressing gowns. "I'll bathe her face and hands before she takes any tea," said Molly. "She's awake. I saw her open her eyes when I peeped in just now." Judy was awake and sitting bolt upright when they presently entered with the basin and towels. There was a strange look in her eyes. Molly remembered to have seen it before when Judy was in the grip of the wander thirst. "Here you are, Sweet Spirits of Niter," she cried, in a hoarse, excited voice. "Knowst thou the land of Sweet Spirits of Niter?" she began singing. "Knowst thou the Sweet Spirits? They are tall, slender, gray ladies done in long curving lines, like that." She illustrated her ideas of these strange beings by sketching a picture on an imaginary canvas. "They lean against slim trees. They have soft musical voices and speak gently because they are sweet. You see? And the Land of Niter, what of it? It is a land of gray mists, always in twilight, and the Sweet Spirits who live in it are shadows. It is a sad land, but it is still and quiet and there are cool fountains everywhere. Sweet spirit, wouldst give me to drink of thy cup?" Molly and Nance laughed. They knew that Judy was delirious, but it was impossible not to laugh over her strange, poetic illusion regarding sweet spirits of niter. Setting down the basin and towel, they retreated to the next room. "We'd better make her a cup of beef tea as quickly as we can," said Nance. "That will quench her thirst and nourish her at the same time. Good heavens, Molly, what shall we do if she begins to talk about the slipper and the lake?" "I don't know," replied Molly, lighting the alcohol lamp, while Nance found the jar of beef extract. "I wish you hadn't given her so much physic, Nance." Molly had a deep-rooted objection to medicine, while Nance, on the other hand, was a firm believer in old-fashioned remedies. "Her stomach was in no condition for all that stuff. It was utterly upset. Her gastric juices had been lashed into a storm and hadn't had time to subside." Nance smiled at Molly's ignorance. "You are getting the emotions and the stomach mixed, Molly, dear." Now, Molly had her own ideas on this subject, but it was vain to argue with her friend, the actual proprietor of a real medicine chest marked "Household Remedies," which contained more than a dozen phials of physics. Judy was, in fact, paying the penalty for her mental storm when on the night of the play she had run through the whole scale of emotions, beginning with stage fright and an awful fear and passing into mortification, disappointment, rage, remorse and finally sorrow, or it might be called self-pity, which inspired her to launch a canoe and paddle into the middle of the lake at midnight. It will never be known how near she came to jumping into the lake. It is difficult to reckon with an unrestrained, hypersensitive nature like hers, always up in the heights or down in the depths; sometimes capable of splendid acts of generosity and unselfishness, but capable also of inflicting cruel punishments for imagined offences. Nance was for more medicine. "Suppose I give her a big dose of castor oil, Molly," she suggested, while she stirred the tea. "She had better take it before she drinks this." "Goodness, Nance, you'll kill her," exclaimed Molly, horrified. "Don't you see that it is entirely a mental thing with Judy? What she needs is absolute quiet, and the quinine has probably excited her and made her delirious. She doesn't need things to stimulate her. She's almost effervescent in her normal condition, anyhow." "Castor oil isn't a stimulant, child." "Perhaps not, but she'd better not be upset any more," and in the end Molly had her way. Returning in a few moments to bathe Judy's face, she found the sick girl half out of bed. "Get back into bed, Judy," she said firmly. "You're to have a nice quiet day in here and no one to bother you." "But the slipper. I'm looking for the other slipper," began Judy, weeping. "Oh, dear, I must find the slipper. Nance, Molly, the slipper, have you seen the slipper, the old oaken slipper, the iron-bound slipper that hangs in the well. If it's in the well now, drop it to the bottom. I hope it's a deep well, the deepest well in Well County." It was unkind to laugh, but Molly could not keep her countenance. "I might have known," she thought, "that Judy could be more delirious than anybody in the world." Judy submitted to having her face bathed and drank the beef tea without a murmur. She appeared greatly refreshed and quieted and said a few rational words about having had bad dreams. It was Sunday morning, frosty and bright. The bell of the Catholic Church in the village called devotees to early mass. It rang out joyfully and persuasively, reiterating its message to unbelievers. It was a cheerful sound and, in spite of Judy's troubles, they felt comforted. The steam heat began its pleasant matins in the pipes. The kettle on the alcohol stove hummed busily. Molly began to make preparations for breakfast. Although she was not self-indulgent, discomfort was never an acceptable state to her. "Get your bath, Nance," she ordered, "and then you can come back and make the toast while I take mine." Nance departed for the bathrooms with soap and towels, while Molly busied herself spreading a lunch cloth on one of the study tables and placing a blue china bowl full of oranges in the center. Then she carefully extracted four eggs from a paper bag in a box on the outer window ledge; cut four thin, even slices of bread to be inserted in Judy's patent electric toaster, and at intervals poured boiling water through the dripper into the coffee pot. "If I were at home this morning," she said, "I would be eating hot waffles and kidney hash." Suddenly she looked up. Judy was standing in the doorway. "Molly," she said, "I want my slipper." Molly took her hand and gently led her back to bed. "Judy, would you like a cup of delicious, strong, hot coffee?" she asked, endeavoring to divert Judy's quinine-charged senses. "Very much, but the slipper----" Judy began to whimper like a child. Molly hurried into the next room, found one of Nance's slippers and gravely handed it to Judy, who grasped it carefully with both hands as if it were something very precious and brittle. "When I gave her your slipper, Nance, I felt something like the old witch who had kidnapped the Queen's infant and put a changeling in its place," Molly observed later, in telling about this incident to Nance. "But there is nothing to do but humor her, I suppose, until the influence of the quinine wears off." "Where has she got it now?" asked Nance, ignoring Molly's allusions to quinine. "What? The changeling slipper? Under her pillow." Nance laughed. "I'm thinking, Molly," she remarked, "that to-day would be an excellent time to get rid of that other slipper. I don't feel as if I could sleep comfortably another night in these rooms with the guilty thing around. Until we dig a hole and bury it deep, we shall never have any peace of mind." Molly was carefully peeling the shell from the end of an egg. "Do you think we could leave her alone this afternoon?" she asked. "How long does quinine continue its ravages?" "Oh, not long," answered Nance, in a most matter of fact voice. "She's such a sensitive subject, that is the trouble. Quinine doesn't usually make people take on so. I never met any one so excitable and high strung as Judy. She gets her nerves tuned up to such a high pitch sometimes that I wonder they don't snap in two." "Nance, don't you think we ought to confess the whole thing to Miss Walker?" "Do you think Judy would ever forgive us if we did?" Molly sighed. "I'm afraid not," she said. "Confessing would involve so much. We would have to go back so far to the original cause, those wretched Shakespeareans. It would be pretty hard on poor old Judy. But the slipper, Nance--it's such a ridiculous thing, our hiding that slipper. Where shall we hide it?" "We must dig a grave and bury it," said Nance, "and we must do it this afternoon and get the thing off our minds. Then all evidence will be destroyed and there will be no possible way of finding out about Judy." "You have forgotten about the visitor to our room in the night." "Yes," admitted Nance, "there is that visitor. Who was she? What did she want? You haven't missed anything, have you?" "No," replied Molly. "I have nothing valuable enough to steal except old Martin Luther, and he's quite safe." She reached for the china pig on the bookshelves and shook him carefully. His interior gave out a musical jingle. Clothed and fed and comforted, the two girls leaned back in their Morris chairs, with extra cups of coffee resting on the chair arms, to consider the question of Judy's slipper. At last they came to a mutual agreement. Otoyo, the safest, discreetest and least inquisitive of their friends, was to be taken partly into their confidence and left to look after Judy while they went on their mysterious errand. Otoyo, who had the racial peculiarity of the Japanese of never being surprised at anything, accepted this position of trust without a comment. Few students took Sunday morning walks at Wellington, and therefore morning was the safest time for the expedition. Judy, reënforced with a soft-boiled egg and a cup of coffee, appeared perfectly rational and quiet. She surrendered the slipper without a murmur, and turning over on her side dropped off to sleep. A Not-at-Home sign was hung on the door and Otoyo was cautioned not to let any one into Judy's room. She was to say to all callers that Judy had a headache and was asleep. Dressed for a tramp, with Judy's slipper in one of the deep pockets of Nance's ulster, and a knife, fork and table spoon for digging purposes in the other, the two girls presently left Otoyo on the floor immersed in study. They had scarcely closed the door when Judy called from the next room: "Bring me that slipper, Otoyo." And the little Japanese, with a puzzled look on her face, obeyed. As they hastened down the corridor, hoping devoutly not to meet intimate friends, Molly and Nance were stopped by the irrepressible Minerva Higgins. "Isn't this a stroke of luck?" she exclaimed. "You are going for a walk and so am I. I was just on the lookout for somebody. Girls here are so industrious Sunday mornings, I can never get any one to go walking until afternoon." Molly was silent. At that moment she yearned for the courage of Nance, who with a word could scatter Minerva's cheeky assurance like chaff before the wind. "It's lack of character, I suppose," she thought disconsolately. "But I couldn't crush a fly, much less that presumptuous little freshman." She stood back, therefore, and let Nance have a clear field for the struggle. "You are very kind to offer us your company, Miss Higgins, but we must beg to be excused to-day," said Nance calmly. "I call that a nice, Sunday-morning, Christian spirit," cried Minerva, with an angry flash in her small, pig-like eyes. "No, no, Minerva," put in Molly gently. "You must not think that way about it. Nance and I have some important business to discuss, that's all. You mustn't imagine it's unkind when older girls turn you down sometimes. You know it isn't customary here for a freshman to invite herself to join an older girl. I believe it isn't customary in any college. Don't be angry, please." Hidden under layers of vanity, selfishness and stupid assurance, was Minerva's better self which Molly hoped to reach, and some day she would break through the crust, but not this morning. "Don't tell me anything about upper-class girls--conceited snobs! I know all about them," exclaimed Minerva angrily, as she marched down the corridor in a high state of rage. "Don't bother about her. She's a hopeless case, just as Margaret said," remarked Nance. Once off the campus, they followed the path along the lake and turned their faces toward Round Head as being the spot most apt to be deserted at that hour in the morning. It was not long before they were climbing the steep hill. "Where shall we lay it to rest, poor weary little _sole_?" asked Nance, laughing. "Let's dig the grave on the Exmoor side," answered Molly. "Behind one of those big rocks is a good spot. We'll be hidden from sight and the ground is softer there." [Illustration: THEY SET TO WORK TO DIG A SMALL GRAVE FOR JUDY'S SLIPPER.--_Page 129._] Talking and giggling, because after all they were entirely innocent of any wrongdoing, they set to work to dig a small grave for Judy's slipper. "When the earth casts up its dead on the Day of Judgment, Nance, do you suppose this slipper will seek its mate?" "I hope it won't seek it any sooner," answered Nance dryly. At last the grave was ready. They laid the slipper in the hole, carefully covered it with earth, and concealed all evidences of recent disturbance with bits of grass and splinters of rock. Then Molly, leaning against the side of the boulder and clasping her hands, remarked: "Let this be its epitaph: "'Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie; Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. "'This be the verse you 'grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.'" Scarcely had the last words died on her lips when Nance gave a low, horrified exclamation. Molly glanced up quickly. Just above them in the shadow of another big rock stood Professor Green in his old gray suit. So still was he that he might have been a part of the geological formation of the hill, planted there centuries ago. Molly felt the hot blood mount to her face. How long had he been there? How much had he seen? What did he think? Forcing its way through all these wild speculations came another thought: there was a brown coffee stain on one of his trouser legs. She tried to speak, but the words refused to come, and before she could get herself in hand, the professor coldly lifted his hat and walked away. In his glance she read DISAPPOINTMENT as plainly as if it had been written across his brow in letters of fire. "Oh, Nance," she cried, and burst into tears. "He won't tell, even if he has seen," Nance reassured her. "Don't mind, Molly, dear. Come along. I'm not afraid." "It's not that! It's not that!" sobbed Molly. But then, of course, Nance wouldn't understand what it really was, because she hardly understood it herself. He believed, of course, that she had gone rowing with some Exmoor boys after ten o'clock. He had heard the story of the slipper. Everybody had heard it. It was the talk of college. For a moment Molly felt a wave of resentment against Judy. Then her anger shifted to Professor Green. "At least he might have given us a chance to explain," she exclaimed, as she followed Nance along the lake path back to the campus. As soon as they entered the room, a little while later, they saw by Otoyo's face that something had happened. "What is it?" they demanded uneasily. "Oh," ejaculated Otoyo, raising both hands with an eloquent gesture, "it was that terrible Mees Heegins. You had but scarcely departing gone when there came to the door a rap-rap-rap--so. I thought it was you returning, and when I open, she push her way in, so." Otoyo gave an imitation of Minerva forcing her way into the sitting room. "She say: 'I wish to see Mees Kean on a particular business.' I say: 'Mees Kean has a sickness to her head.' She say: 'Move away, little yellow peril. Don't interfere with me. I wish to inquire after her health.' Then she make great endeavors to remove me from the door." "And what did you do, Otoyo?" they asked anxiously. Otoyo's face took on an expression half humorous and half deprecating. "It will not make you angry with little Japanese girl?" "No, of course not, child." "I employ jiu jitsu." The girls both laughed, and Otoyo, relieved, joined in the merriment. "She receive no bruises, but she receive a shock, because it arrive so suddenlee, you see? So she quietlee walk away and say no more." "You adorable little Japanese girl," cried Molly, embracing her. Nance opened the door and peeped into Judy's room. She was sleeping quietly, the slipper clasped in both hands. CHAPTER X. A VISIT OF STATE. Judy still slept the sleep of the exhausted. Her tired forces craved a long rest after the storm that had lashed and beaten them. The girls crept about the room softly and spoke in low voices, and when they went down to the early dinner locked the door and took the key with them. Later, fearing callers, again they hung out a Busy sign and settled themselves comfortably for a peaceful afternoon. Nance, armed with a dictionary and notebook, was translating "Les Misérables," a penitential task she had set for herself for two hours every Sunday. Molly was also engaged in a penitential task. She was endeavoring to compose a story on simple and natural lines. It was very difficult. Her mind at this moment seemed to be an avenue for bands of roving and irrelevant thoughts and refused to concentrate on the work at hand. She made several beginnings, as: "One blustering, windy day in March a lonely little figure----" With a contemptuous stroke of her pencil, she drew a line through the words and wrote underneath: "It was a calm, beautiful morning in May----" Twirling her pencil, she paused to consider this statement. "No, no, that won't do," she thought. "It's entirely too commonplace." She glanced absently over at the book Nance was reading. "Victor Hugo would probably have put it this way: 'It was the fifteenth of May, 17--. A young girl was hurrying along the Rue----. She paused at the house, No. 11.' Oh, dear," pondered Molly, "one has to tell something very important to write in that way. It's like sending a telegram. Just as much as possible expressed in the fewest possible words. Can the professor mean that? Would he mind if I asked him and then at the same time, perhaps----" Again the wandering thoughts broke off. "It's rather hard he should have misunderstood about this morning. Is there no way I can explain without involving Judy? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! How complicated life is, and what a complicated nature is Judy's." There were two quick raps on the door. Molly and Nance exchanged frightened glances. It was not the masonic tap of their friends, and no one else would have knocked on a door which advertised a Busy sign. There was, in fact, a note of authority in the double rap. Some instinct prevented Nance from calling out "Come in," a matter later for self-congratulation. She rose and opened the door and President Walker entered. If Miss Walker had ever paid a visit to a student before, the girls had not heard of it. It was, so far as they knew, an entirely unprecedented happening and quite sufficient to make innocent people look guilty and set hearts to pumping blood at double-quick time. "I saw your Busy sign," said Miss Walker, glancing from one startled face to the other, "but I shall not keep you long. What a pretty room," she added, looking about her approvingly. "Thank heavens, it's straight," thought Nance, groaning mentally. "Won't you sit down, Miss Walker?" asked Molly, pushing forward one of the easy chairs. The President sat down. There was a plate of "cloudbursts" on the table. Would it be disrespectful to offer the President some of this delectable candy? Nance considered it would be, decidedly so. But Molly, a slave to the laws of hospitality, took what might be called a leap in the dark and silently held the plate in front of the President. If this turned out to be a visit of state it was rather a risky thing to do. But Miss Walker helped herself to one piece and then demanded another. "Delicious," she said. "Did you make it, Miss Brown?" "Yes, Miss Walker." It had been purely a stroke of luck with Molly, who had no way to know that Miss Walker had a sweet tooth. "I must have that recipe. What makes it so light?" "The whites of eggs beaten very stiff, and the rest of it is just melted brown sugar. It's very easy," added Molly, forming a resolution to make the President a plate of "cloudbursts" without loss of time. "Who is the third girl who shares this apartment with you?" asked Miss Walker, unexpectedly coming back to business. "Julia Kean." "And where is she to-day?" Nance hesitated. "She is sick in bed to-day, Miss Walker." "Ahem! Cold, I suppose?" "It's more excitement than anything else," put in Molly. "The junior play----" "Oh, yes. She was 'Viola,' of course," said the President. "You see she had a bad attack of stage fright," continued Molly, "and Judy is so excitable and sensitive. She exaggerated what happened and it made her ill." "And what did happen? She forgot her lines, as I recall. But that often occurs. Even professionals have been known to forget their parts. Ellen Terry is quite notorious for her bad memory, but she is a great actress, nevertheless." The girls were silent. They wondered what in the world Miss Walker was driving at. "And then what happened next?" They looked at her blankly. "What happened next?" repeated Molly. "Yes. I want you to begin and tell me the whole thing from beginning to end." Molly rested her chin on her hand and looked out of the window. This is what had been familiarly spoken of in college as being "on the grill." "What do you want us to tell, Miss Walker?" asked Nance with a surprising amount of courage in her tones. "I want to know," said the President sternly, "where you were between twelve and one o'clock on Friday night." "We were on the lake," announced Nance, with keen appreciation of the fact that when President Walker made a direct question she expected a direct answer and there was no getting around it. "Alone?" "Yes." "You mean to tell me that you three girls went rowing on the lake alone at that hour? What escapade is this?" Her voice was so stern that it made Molly quake in her boots, but Nance was as heroic as an early Christian martyr. "It was not a mad escapade. We did it because we had to," she answered. "Why?" Nance paused. This was the crucial point. It looked as if Miss Walker must be told about Judy's folly, or themselves be disgraced. "They came for me," announced a hoarse voice from the door. It was such an unexpected interruption that all three women started nervously, but if Molly and Nance had been more observant they would have noticed the President stifle a smile which twitched the corners of her mouth. Judy, in a long red dressing-gown, her hair in great disorder and her eyes glittering feverishly, came trailing into the room. In one hand she grasped Nance's slipper and with the other she made a dramatic gesture, pointing to herself. "They came for me," she repeated. "I had been angry and said cruel, unjust things to Molly. Everybody went off and left me after the play. I was locked out and I was so unhappy, I wanted to be alone. Water always comforts me. You see, I was born at sea, and I took a canoe from the boat house and paddled into the middle of the lake. Then those two Sweet Spirits of Niter came for me, and the canoe upset and I--I dropped my slipper somewhere, 5-B is the number--I don't know who found it--here's its mate----" Judy waved the slipper over her head and laughed wildly. "The child's delirious," exclaimed Miss Walker, smiling in spite of herself. They persuaded Judy to get back into bed and the President sent Nance flying for the doctor. Presently, when Judy had dropped off to sleep again, Molly finished the story of that exciting evening. "But, my dear," said the President, slipping her arm around Molly's waist and drawing her down on the arm of the chair, "what prompted you to go to the lake and nowhere else?" "I can never explain really what it was," replied Molly. "I dreamed that someone said 'hurry.' I wasn't even thinking of Judy when I started to dress. You see, we thought she had gone to bed. I hadn't thought of the lake, either. It was just as if I was walking in my sleep, Nance said. Then we found Judy wasn't in her room, and I knew she needed me. I remember we ran all the way to the lake." "Strange, strange!" said Miss Walker. She drew Molly's face down to her own and kissed her. There were tears on the President's cheek and Molly looked the other way. "Sometimes, Molly," she said after a moment, "you remind me of my dear sister who died twenty years ago." It was a good while before Nance returned with Dr. McLean and in the interval of waiting Molly and Miss Walker talked of many things. Molly told her how they had buried the slipper on Round Head, and of how they had seen the Professor and been frightened. They talked of Judy's temperament and of what kind of mental training Judy should have to learn to control her wild spirits. From that the talk drifted to Molly's affairs, and then she asked the President to do her the honor of drinking a cup of tea in her humble apartment. The two women spent an intimate and delightful hour together, with Judy sound asleep in the next room, and no one to disturb them because of that blessed Busy sign. At last Dr. McLean came blustering in, and, seeing the President and Molly in close converse over their cups of tea, chuckled delightedly and observed: "They are all alike, the women folk--the talk lasts as long as the tea lasts, and there's always another cup in the pot." "Have a look at your patient, doctor," said Miss Walker, "and we'll save that extra cup in the pot for you." The doctor was not disturbed over Judy's delirium. "It's joost quinine and excitement that's made her go a bit daffy," he said. "Keep her quiet for a day or so. She'll be all right." Imagine their surprise, ten minutes later, when Margaret Wakefield and the Williamses, peeping into the room, found Molly and Nance entertaining the President of Wellington and Dr. McLean at tea. The news spread quickly along the corridor and when the distinguished guests presently departed almost every girl in the Quadrangle had made it her business to be lingering near the stairway or wandering in the hall. Only one person heard nothing of it, and that was Minerva Higgins, who, after Vespers, had taken a long walk. Nobody told her about it afterward, because she was not popular with the Quadrangle girls and had formed her associations with some freshmen in the village. When it was given out that evening that Miss Walker had come to see about Judy, who had been quite ill, the talk died down. Having dropped the heavy load of responsibility they had been carrying for two days, Molly and Nance felt foolishly gay. Molly made Miss Walker a box of cloudbursts before she went to bed, while Nance read aloud a thrilling and highly exciting detective story borrowed from Edith Williams, whose shelves held books for every mood. "By the way, Nance," observed Molly, when the story was finished, "how do you suppose Miss Walker found it all out?" "Why, Professor Green, of course," answered Nance in a matter of fact voice. "There was never any doubt in my mind from the first moment she came into the room." "What?" cried Molly, thunderstruck. "There was no other way. He saw us burying the slipper and I suppose he thought it his duty to inform on us." "He didn't feel it his duty to inform on Judith Blount when she cut the electric wires that night," broke in Molly. "Perhaps he didn't think that was as wrong as rowing on the lake with boys from Exmoor. Besides, she was his relative." Molly took off her slipper and held it up as if she were going to pitch it with all her force across the room. Then she dropped it gently on the floor. "I'm disappointed," she said. CHAPTER XI. A SWOPPING PARTY AND A MOCK TRIAL. There was never any tedious convalescing for Judy; no tiresome transition from illness to health. As soon as she determined in her mind that she was well, she arose from her bed and walked, and neither friendly remonstrances nor doctor's orders could induce her to return. On Monday morning she appeared in the sitting room wearing a black dress with widow's bands of white muslin around the collar and cuffs. Molly and Nance were a little uneasy at first, thinking that the delirium still lingered, but Judy seemed entirely rational. "Why, Judy," exclaimed Molly, "are you a widow?" "I shall wear mourning for awhile," answered Judy solemnly, ignoring Molly's facetious question. "It is my only way of showing that I am a penitent. I can't wear sackcloth and ashes as they do in Oriental countries or flagellate my shoulders with a spiked whip like a mediæval monk; nor can I go on a pilgrimage to a sacred shrine. So I have decided to give up colors for awhile and wear black." Molly kissed her and said no more. She knew that Judy went into everything she did heart and soul even unto the outward and visible symbol of clothes, and if wearing black was her way of showing public repentance she felt only a great respect for her friend's sincerity of motive. "But what are we to tell people when they ask if you have gone into mourning, Judy, because they certainly will?" demanded Nance, taking a more practical and less romantic view of the situation. "Tell them I'm doing penance," answered Judy, and thus it got out around college that Judy was making public amends for her angry words to Molly, and there was a good deal of secret amusement, of which Judy was as serenely unconscious as a pious pilgrim journeying barefoot to a holy tomb. In the midst of these happenings there came a note one day from Mrs. McLean inviting the three young girls to the annual junior week-end house party at Exmoor. Their hosts were to be Andy McLean, George Green and Lawrence Upton and they were to stay at the Chapter House from Friday night until Sunday noon. It meant a round of gayeties from beginning to end, but to Molly it meant something almost out of reach. "Clothes!" she exclaimed tragically, "I must have clothes. I can't go to Exmoor looking like little orphan Annie." It was in vain that Judy and Nance offered to share their things with her. Molly obstinately refused to listen to them. "I won't need any colored clothes, anyhow," said Judy. "Yes, you will, Judy. You just must come out of those widow's weeds for the house party," Molly urged. "No," said Judy, "I've made a vow and until that vow is fulfilled I shall never wear colors. I've sent two dresses down to the Wellington Dye Works to be dyed black. Fortunately my suit is black already and so is my hat. Now, I have a proposition to make, Molly. I'm in need of funds more than clothes just now and I'll sell you my yellow gauze for the contents of Martin Luther. He must be pretty full by now." "He's plumb full," answered Molly proudly. "I hadn't realized how much I had put in until I tried to drop a quarter in this morning, and lo, and behold, he couldn't accommodate another cent." She held up the china pig and shook him. "How much should you think he'd hold altogether?" asked Judy. "I don't want to be getting the best of the bargain and perhaps Martin Luther is worth more than the dress." "No, no," protested Molly. "He could never be worth that much. I think he has about fifteen dollars in his tum-tum. I've put in all the money I earned from cloudbursts and about ten dollars, changed up small, for tutoring." Judy insisted on adding a blue silk blouse and a pair of yellow silk stockings to the collection to be sold. "I'll sell them to someone else if you won't buy them," she announced, "and if you need a dress, you might as well take this one off my hands." "Well," Molly finally agreed, "we'll break open Martin, and count the money and, if there's anything like a decent sum, I'll buy the dress. Let's make a party of it," she added brightly. "I'll cut the hickory-nut cake that came from home last night, and Nance can make fudge." It was like Molly's passion for entertaining to turn the breaking open of the china bank into a festival. Nance had once remarked it was one thing to have a convivial soul and quite another to have the ready provisions, and Molly never invited her friends to a bare board. "Try on the dress and let's see how you look in it, Molly dear," ordered Judy. "We'll open the bank to-night with due ceremony, but I want to see you in the yellow dress now." The two girls were about the same height and build. Molly was not so well developed across the chest as her friend and was more slender through the hips. But the dress fitted her to perfection. "Oh, you're a dream," cried Nance, when Molly presently appeared in the yellow dress. "Molly, you are adorable," exclaimed Judy. "You always look better in my clothes than I do." "They always fit me better than my own," said Molly, looking at herself in the mirror over the mantel. "I feel like a princess," she ejaculated, blushing at her own charming image. "Oh, Judy, I have no right to deprive you of this lovely gown. Your mother, I'm sure, would be very angry." "Mamma is never angry," said Judy. "That is why I am so impossible. Besides, I told you I needed the money. I have spent all my allowance and I won't get another cent for two weeks." Molly took off the dress and laid it carefully in the box, stuffing tissue paper under the folds to prevent premature wrinkles. Her eyes dwelt lingeringly on the pale yellow masses of chiffon and lace. It would certainly be the solution of her troubles, and oh, the feeling of comfort one has in a really beautiful dress! She put the top on the box and pushed it away from her. "I'll decide in the morning, Judy. I can't make up my mind quite yet. It seems like highway robbery to take the most beautiful dress you have and the most expensive, too, I am certain." "I tell you I never liked the color," cried Judy. "I'm determined to wear black. When I have on black I feel superior to all persons wearing colors. It gives me dignity. There is a richness about robes of sable hue. Some day I'm going to have a black velvet evening dress made quite plain with an immense train stretching all the way across the room. My only ornaments will be a great diamond star in my hair and a necklace of the same, and I shall carry a large fan made of black ostrich feathers." The girls laughed at this picture of magnificence and as Molly hurried away to invite the guests to the spread she heard Nance remark: "You'll look like the bride of the undertaker in that costume, Judy." "Not at all. I shall look like the Queen of Night, Anna Oldham." Judy went to the door and looked out. Molly was safely around the corner of the Quadrangle. "Nance," she continued, "don't you think Molly would let me give her the dress?" Nance shook her head. "I am afraid not. You know how proud she is. It's going to be hard to persuade her to buy it at that price. You know it's worth lots more." Judy sighed. "If I could only do something," she said. "If I only had a chance." "Perhaps the chance will slip up on you, Judy, when you least expect it. That's the way chances always do," said Nance. It occurred to Judy, thinking over the matter of the yellow dress later, that it might be fun to have a "Barter and Exchange Party," and if all the girls were swopping things Molly could be more easily persuaded to take the yellow dress. All guests therefore were notified to bring anything they wanted to swop or sell to the rooms of the three friends that night. It turned out to be a very exciting affair. The divans were piled with exchangeable property. Jessie Lynch brought more things than anybody else, ribbon bows, silk scarfs, several dresses and a velvet toque. Millicent Porter, who now spent more time in the Quadrangle than at Beta Phi House, to the surprise of the girls, brought a rather dingy collection of things which no one would either swop or buy. But she enjoyed herself immensely. Edith Williams made two trips to carry all the books she wished to exchange for other books, clothes, hats or money. But Otoyo Sen had the most interesting collection and was the gayest person that night. She was willing to exchange anything she had just for the fun of it. It was so exciting that they forgot all about Martin Luther until the time arrived for refreshments and they gathered about the hickory-nut cake, now a famous delicacy at Wellington. "What surprises me is how pleased everybody is to get rid of something someone else is equally pleased to get," observed Margaret. "Now, for instance, I have a black hat I have always hated because it wobbles on my head. I feel as if I had received a gift to have exchanged it for this green one of Judy's. And Judy's so contented she's wearing my black one still." "Oh, but I am the fortunate one," said Otoyo. "I have acquired an excellent library for three ordinary cotton kimonos." "But such lovely kimonos," exclaimed Edith. "Katherine and I are in luck. Look at this pale blue dressing gown, please, for a French dictionary." "I have the loveliest of all," broke in Molly, "amber beads." "But they did not appear becomingly on me," protested Otoyo, not wishing to seem worsted in her bargains. "And what do I receive in exchange? A pair of beautiful knitted slippers for winter time, so warm, so comfortable." "They were too little for me," announced Molly. "It was no deprivation to exchange them for a beautiful necklace. Really, Judy, this was a most original scheme of yours." "But what about Martin Luther?" asked someone. "I thought this spread was really for the purpose of counting up the pennies he had been accumulating." Molly took the china pig from the shelf and placed him on the table. "How shall I break him?" she asked. "Shall I crush him with one blow of the hammer, or shall I knock off his head on the steam heater?" "Poor Martin!" ejaculated Edith. "He's not a wild boar to be hunted down and exterminated. He's a kindly domestic animal who has performed the task set for him by a wise providence. I think he should choose his own death." "Every condemned man has a right to a lawyer," said Margaret. "I offer my services to Martin Luther and will consult him in private." "We'll give him a trial by jury," broke in Katherine. "But what's he accused of?" demanded Molly. "He's accused of withholding funds held in trust for you," put in Margaret promptly. There was a great deal of fun at the expense of Martin Luther and his mock trial. Katherine presided as Judge. There were two witnesses for the defense and two on the other side, and Margaret's speech for the accused would have done credit to a real lawyer. The jury, consisting of three girls, Otoyo, Mabel Hinton and Rosomond Chase--Millicent Porter had excused herself with the plea of a headache and departed--sat on the case five minutes and decided that the pig should be made to surrender Molly's fund in the quickest possible time and by the quickest possible means. It was almost time to separate for the night when Molly at last placed Martin Luther on a tray in the center of the table and with a sharp rap of the hammer broke him into little bits. If interest had not been so concentrated on the amount of money hidden in the pig, perhaps it might have occurred to the company that Molly and her two friends had been playing a joke on them when they looked at the heap of ruins on the tray. But if this suspicion did enter the mind of anyone, it was dissolved at once at sight of Molly's white face and quivering lips. "My money!" she gasped. What happened was this. When the china pig was demolished, there rolled from his ruins no silver money but a varied collection of buttons and bogus stage money made of tin. Only about a dollar in real silver was to be found. "What a blow is this!" at last exclaimed Molly, breaking the silence. "But what does it mean?" demanded Rosomond. "It means," said Nance, "that someone has taken all Molly's savings out of the china pig and substituted--this." She pointed to the pile of stage money. "But they couldn't have done it," cried Judy. "How could they have fished it up through such a small slot?" "What a low, miserable trick!" cried Katherine. It was a despicable action. Who among all the bright, intelligent students at Wellington could have been capable of such a dastardly thing? They agreed that it must have been a student. None of the college attendants could have planned it out so carefully. "Who else has missed things?" asked Margaret with a sudden thought. "I have," replied Jessie, "but I never mentioned it because I'm so careless and it did seem to be my own fault. I lost five dollars last week out of my purse. I left it on the window sill in the gym. and forgot about it. When I came back later the purse was there, but the money was gone." "How horrid!" cried Molly, her soul revolting in disgust at anything dishonest. "To tell you the truth I have not been able to find my gold beads for nearly two weeks," put in Judy. "I haven't seen them since--" she paused and flushed, "since the night of our play. I remember leaving them on my dressing table that morning." Molly and Nance exchanged glances, recalling the mysterious visitor to their room that night. Several of the other girls had missed small sums of money and jewelry which they had not thought of mentioning at the time. "But how on earth was this managed?" demanded Jessie, pointing dramatically to the broken china pig. "I suspect," replied Molly, "that this is not the real Martin Luther. When I bought him there were several others just like him on the shelf at the store. Whoever did this must have bought another Martin and the stage money at the same time. They have a lot of it at the store, silver and greenbacks, too. I saw it myself when I bought Martin. They keep it for class plays, I suppose." There was a long discussion about what ought to be done. The housekeeper must be told, of course, next morning and a list of all missing articles made out, headed by Molly's loss of almost fifteen dollars. It was rather a tragic ending to the jolly hickory-nut cake party. Molly tried to laugh away her disappointment about her savings, but she could not disguise to herself what it actually meant. "I'm afraid I can't buy your dress, Judy," she announced, when the company had disbanded. "I'll mend up one of last year's dresses. It will be all right. It's a lesson to me not to place so much importance on clothes." Judy said nothing, but she made a mental resolution that Molly should have that dress. The next morning the housekeeper was properly notified of what had happened and it was not long before the rumor spread that somewhere about college there dwelt a thief. So remote did such a person seem from the Wellington girls that the thief came to be regarded as a kind of evil spirit lurking in the shadows and gliding through the halls. CHAPTER XII. ALARMS AND DISCOVERIES. Several things of importance to this history happened during the week before the house party at Exmoor. One morning, just before chapel, Molly was visited by several members of the Shakespearean Society, who presented her with a scroll of membership and fastened a pin on her blouse. They then solemnly shook hands and marched out in good order. By this token Molly became a full fledged member of that exclusive body. Margaret Wakefield, Jessie Lynch and Edith Williams were also taken into the society. Most of the other girls in the circle were elected to the various societies that day. Judy and Katherine became "Olla Podridas," which, as all Wellington knows, is Spanish for mixed soup. Nance was elected into the "Octogons," and all the girls belonged to one or the other of the two big Greek letter societies. If Judy had any feelings regarding the Shakespeareans, she was careful to keep them well hidden under her gay and laughing exterior. The Shakespeareans at Beta Phi House gave a supper for the new members, and later Millicent Porter, in a stunning, theatrical looking costume of old blue velvet, received them in her rooms. Margaret and Edith wore their best to this affair. The Shakespeareans were a dressy lot. "I wonder why, in the name of goodness, they ever asked me to belong," exclaimed Molly to herself, as she got into her white muslin, which was really the best she could do. "I wish I could surprise somebody with something," her thoughts continued. "College friends are just like members of the same family. I can't even surprise the girls with a shirtwaist. They are intimately acquainted with every rag I possess." Molly enjoyed the Beta Phi party, however, in spite of her dress, which Millicent Porter had dignified by calling it a "lingerie." "How much nicer you look than the other girls in more elaborate things," she said admiringly. Molly felt gratified. "I don't feel nicer," she said. "I have a weakness for fine clothes. I love to hear the rustle of silk against silk. Your blue velvet dress is like a beautiful picture to me. I could look and look at it. There's a kind of depth to it like mist on blue water." Millicent bridled with pleased vanity. "It is rather nice," she admitted modestly. "It's a French dress made by the same dressmaker who designs clothes for a big actress. Don't you want to see some of my work? I have put it on exhibition to-night. I thought it would interest the new members. The girls here are quite familiar with it, of course." Molly was delighted to see the craftsmanship of this unusual young woman, who appeared to be a peculiar mixture of pretentiousness and genius. When, presently, she led Molly into the little den where her silver work was spread out on view it was almost as if she had turned into a little old man and was taking a customer into the back of his shop. Some of the other girls had followed and they now stood in an admiring circle around the table whereon were displayed rings and necklaces, buckles and several silver platters. "You are a wonder," cried Molly, deeply impressed. Millicent accepted this compliment with a complacent smile. "Papa and mamma think I am," she remarked, "but I have artistic knowledge enough to know that this is only a beginning. When I am able to make a bas-relief of Greek dancing figures on a silver box, I shall call myself really great. At present I am only near-great." "What are you going to do with these things?" asked Margaret. "Oh, nothing. They just accumulate and I pack them away. I don't have to sell any of them, of course." "Don't you want to exhibit some of them at the George Washington Bazaar?" asked Margaret. "The Bazaar will sell them for you at ten per cent commission. The money goes to the student fund. You can have a booth if you like and dress up as Benvenuto Cellini or some famous worker in silver. I am chairman and can make any appointments I choose." Molly could hardly keep from smiling over the expression on Millicent's face. The worker in silver and the dealer in antiques were struggling for supremacy in the soul of their descendant. "Oh," she cried in great excitement, "I will fix it up like a Florentine shop, full of beautiful old stuffs and curios. It will be the most beautiful booth in the Bazaar. And I will choose Miss Brown to assist me. You shall be dressed as a Florentine lady of the Renaissance. I have the very costume." Now Margaret, as Chairman of the Bazaar, preferred all appointments to be made officially, but seeing that Millicent was very much in earnest and that such a booth would greatly add to the picturesqueness of the affair, she made no objections. "There is one thing I would advise you to do, Miss Porter," she said when the plan was settled, "and that is to keep your silver things under lock and key because there is a thief about in Wellington. You might as well know it, because, sooner or later, you'll lose something. We all of us have. My monogram ring went this morning. I left it on the marble slab in the wash room and when I came back for it not three minutes later it was gone." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Molly, "I do hate things like that to happen. Why will people do such things?" Millicent shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps they can't help themselves," she answered. "I've lost a few little things myself," she added. "But come into my room, Miss Brown, and let's talk about your costume. I have a gold net cap that will be charming." For the next half hour Molly was lost in the delights of Millicent's collection of beautiful theatrical costumes, pieces of old brocades and velvets. She drew them carelessly from a carved oak chest and tossed them on the bed in a shimmering mass of rich colors. Molly lingered so late over these "rich stuffs" that she was obliged to run all the way back to the Quadrangle and fell breathless and exhausted on a stone bench just inside the court as the watchman closed the gates. Nance and Judy were late, too. Nance had been to a secret conclave of the Octogons and Judy had been having a jolly, convivial time with the Olla Podridas. The three girls met in their sitting room as the last stroke of ten vibrated through the building. They were undressing in the dark stealthily, in order to avoid the eager eye of the housekeeper, who was not popular, when they heard a great racket in the corridor. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" called several voices through half open doors. The housekeeper making her rounds for the night passed them on the run. "I've been robbed! I've been robbed!" wailed the voice of Minerva Higgins. "I won't stand having my things stolen from me. Who has dared enter my room?" "What have you been robbed of?" asked the matron sharply. She was a lazy woman and detested disturbances. "Two of my best gold medals I won at Mill Town High School. They were pure gold and very valuable." "Good riddance," laughed Judy. "If anything in school could be spared, it is her gold medals." "You're only in the same box with all the rest of us, Miss Higgins," called a student who roomed across the hall. "Everybody in the Quadrangle has lost something." "They haven't lost gold medals," cried Minerva. "They haven't had them to lose. I could have spared anything else. I valued them more than everything I possess. They will be heirlooms some day for my children to show with pride." There were stifled laughs from several of the rooms, and someone called out: "Suppose you don't have any?" "Then she'll leave 'em to her grandchildren," called another voice. "Poor, silly, little thing," exclaimed Molly, as the matron, intensely annoyed, went heavily past. "Old Fatty's gone now. Let's light a lamp," suggested Judy, who either felt intense respect or none at all for all persons. There was no moderation in her feelings one way or the other. "It's a queer thing about this thief-business," sighed Molly. "It makes me uncomfortable. I can't think of anyone I could even remotely suspect of such a thing." "She must be a real klep.," observed Judy, "or she never would want the fair Minerva's gold medals. They're of no use to anybody but Minerva." "Do you suppose Miss Walker will get another detective like Miss Steel?" asked Nance. "She was a fine one. The way she tipped around on noiseless felt slippers and listened outside people's doors was enough to scare any thief." "Oh, yes," said Judy. "She was the real thing. And she wanted everything quiet. If Minerva Higgins had set up a yowl like that at Queen's she would have been properly sat upon by Miss Steel." If Molly's mind had been especially acute that evening she would have noticed that her two friends were keeping up a sort of continuous duet as they lingered over their undressing. As it was, she barely heard their chatter because she was thinking of something far removed from thieves and detectives. "We'll be called down about the light if you don't hurry, girls," she cautioned. "Why are you so slow?" "By the way, did you know there was a package over here on the table addressed to you, Molly?" said Nance. "Why, no; what can it be?" Filled with curiosity, Molly made haste to cut the string around a square pasteboard box. Whatever was inside had been wrapped in quantities of white tissue paper. "It feels like china," cried Molly, tearing off the wrappings. "Why it's----" "It's after ten, young ladies," said a stern voice outside the door. Judy turned out the light. "It's Martin Luther, girls," whispered Molly. Judy crept to her room and returned presently with a little electric dark lantern her father had given her. This she flashed on the china pig. "One sinner hath repented," she whispered. "It is Martin." Nance reached for the hammer. "Break him open," she ordered. "Let's, see if the money's safe. He might be filled with stage money, too." Molly struck Martin Luther with the hammer, muffling the sound with a corner of the rug. The flashlight revealed quantities of silver. "Oh, girls!" she exclaimed, "I've got it all back. I'm glad the thief repented and I'm glad, oh, so glad, to get the money." "And now the sale is on again," said Judy, jumping about the room in a wild, noiseless dance. "I can't resist it," ejaculated Molly. "I'll buy the dress if you really want to sell it, Judy." They looked carefully at the address on the box. It was printed with a soft pencil and merely said: "Miss M. Brown." "I suppose the girl felt sorry," Molly remarked. "But it's a pity she started up so soon again after her repentance and took Minerva's medals." CHAPTER XIII. "THE MOVING FINGER WRITES." The girls had agreed to pack all their clothes in one trunk and carry a suitcase apiece to the Junior Week-End Party at Exmoor. Nance was official packer and stood knee-deep in finery while she considered whether it was better to begin with party capes or slippers. Molly was studying and Judy was stretched on the divan idly swinging one foot. Otoyo poked her head in the door. "May I ask advice of kind friends?" Molly looked up and smiled. She had once heard a preacher say that humility was as necessary to a well-rounded character as a sense of humor and she could see now what he meant. Otoyo was an excellent illustration. She was filled with humble gratitude for little kindnesses, never boasted and never forgot her perfect manners. "Indeed, you may, little one," spoke up Judy. "Come right in and state your grievances." "Oh, I have no grievances. I have only happinesses," said Otoyo. "But I am packing and I wish to ask advices regarding clothes." "Clothes for what?" "For Exmoor," replied Otoyo, blushing and casting down her eyes. "Why, you dear little Jap, you didn't tell us," exclaimed Molly. "I have obtained the knowledge of it myself only this morning. Mrs. McLean has so kindly offered to look after little Japanese girl." "And who is your escort?" they demanded in one chorus. "Professor Green," said Otoyo, trying not to show how intensely proud she felt of the honor. "He is what you call 'a-lum-nus,'" she said, "and he invites me to go with him, and Mr. Andrew McLean, junior, is making out a card of dances for me. Is it not wonderful? And is it not of great good fortune that I have now learned to dance?" She began circling about the room. "Only I can do it much better alone. Poor little Japanese girl will be frightened to dance with American gentleman." The girls laughed again. "You are an adorable little person," exclaimed Molly, kissing her, "and young American gentleman will be only too glad to dance with little Japanese girl." Otoyo was now well provided with clothes, and there being still plenty of room in the trunk, they allowed her to pack two evening dresses and a diminutive black satin party wrap with their things. Molly was half sorry that Professor Green was going. Except at classes, she had never seen him since that Sunday morning on Round Head. Once he had smiled at her like an old friend when they had met in the main hall, but she was careful not to return the smile and bowed coldly. "Yes, I am disappointed," she had thought. "I am glad Prexy found out about us that night, but he needn't have been the one to tell. I hope I shall be too much engaged in having a good time at Exmoor to see him. I am glad Lawrence Upton is going to look after me, because he always does so much for one. It was nice of Professor Green to take Otoyo. He is kind, of course." However, that afternoon when the trolley started with its load of Wellington guests for Exmoor--there were several other parties--Molly found herself seated between Mrs. McLean and Professor Green. How it had happened she could not tell. She had intended to sit anywhere but next the Professor, whom she regarded as a false friend. But there she was and the Professor was saying: "Miss Brown, you and I have been almost strangers of late. Are you working so hard that you have no time for old friends this winter?" Molly paused for an instant to consider what she should reply to this question. Then she said a thing so bitter and foreign to her nature that the Professor gave a start of surprise and Molly felt that someone else must have said it. "I have plenty of time for really _loyal_ friends, Professor Green," she said in a frigid tone of voice. She turned her back and began to talk to Mrs. McLean, and for the rest of the trip the Professor devoted himself to Otoyo. Molly was in high spirits when she reached Exmoor. She was determined not to let her cruel speech ruin her good time. But through all the gayeties of that afternoon and evening, at the teas, the dinner and the Glee Club concert, the tang of its bitterness reached her. Across the aisle at the concert she could see Professor Green sitting by Otoyo, smiling gravely while the little Japanese girl entertained him, but never once did he look in Molly's direction. A lump rose in her throat and she dropped her gaze to the program. "It is never right to make mean speeches," she decided, "no matter how much provocation one has." "Aren't you having a good time?" asked Lawrence Upton at her side. "You look a little tired." "I'm having a lovely time," answered Molly, "and I thought I was looking my best." "Oh, you couldn't look any better. I think you are--well, the prettiest girl in the room. I meant there was a kind of sad look in your eyes." "Don't try to cover it up with compliments," answered Molly. "When a thing's said, you can't change it, you know. It's like this: "'The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.'" "Please don't be so severe, Miss Molly," said Lawrence humbly. "I wasn't thinking of what you said, particularly," said Molly. "I was thinking of any speech one might make and regret and never be able to recall." "You _are_ sad," said Lawrence. "I was certain of it. Will it make you any gladder to hear about to-morrow? You are engaged for every hour in the day. I had a great to-do keeping a little time for myself. Three fellows wanted to take you driving in the morning, but I reserved that privilege for yours truly. Dodo and I are going to drive you and Miss Judy over to Hillesdell after breakfast. Then there's the Junior Lunch. That's quite a big affair, you know. It's like a reception. Prexy always comes to that and any of the alumni who happen to be down. A crowd of them come usually. Andy's giving a tea in the Chapter rooms and there are some other teas, and then come the dinner and the ball." "If there's anything left of us by then," said Molly, laughing. It was an intermission and everybody was visiting as they did at the Wellington Glee Club concerts. Molly, the center of a jolly crowd of young people, joined in the merriment and talk and all the time there was a taste of bitterness on her lips and in her ear a voice kept dinning over and over: "I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green." That night, when they had gone to bed in their rooms in the Chapter House, they were serenaded by a roving band of juniors. When at last the serenaders moved away and the house was still, Molly could not go to sleep. Dozens of times she repeated her cruel speech. She analyzed and parsed it, as she used to parse sentences years before in her first lessons in grammar. She named the subject, the predicate, the object, and modifying words. She tried to define the meaning of the word loyal. What were its synonyms? Faithful was one, of course. When she closed her eyes, she could see her speech written in red across a black background like a flaming sign. Was the Professor hurt or angry or both? She recalled every kindness he had ever done for her and there were many. She remembered with a burning blush what pains he and his sister had taken to make her have a happy Christmas a year ago. He had informed President Walker on her, of course, but he was only doing his duty. And she had made that cruel speech! "I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green." Her mind traveled in a circle. She tossed and turned, trying one side until it ached and then trying the other; resting on her back for a moment and finding the position intolerable. At last she fell asleep and woke up stiff and weary in the morning, devoutly wishing the day were well over. She had hoped to see Professor Green in the morning, if only for a moment, but he had returned to Wellington, leaving the entertainment of Otoyo in charge of some of his brother's friends. Of what earthly pleasure is a beautiful corn-colored evening gown when one's heart is like a lump of lead and one's conscience heavy within? All her numerous partners at the ball could not console Molly, nor could the knowledge that she was looking her best as she floated through the dances in her diaphanous dress. "I know now how Judy felt after she was so unkind to me at the junior play," she thought, "and, if heaven is kind to me, I hope never to say anything to hurt anyone again." In the meantime there were those who were enjoying themselves to the utmost limit of enjoyment. Otoyo Sen, in a seventh heaven, was dancing with young Andy, who towered above her like a lighthouse over a cottage. Judy in her black dress was sparkling with vivacity. Her fluffy light brown hair gleamed yellow and her skin was cream white, against the dark folds of her chiffon frock. Could this be the same Judy who, only a few weeks ago, was contemplating--heaven knows what? Nance, with one eye on Andy, was also happy and light-hearted. How trim and charming she looked in her white silk dress! Molly found herself laughing and talking a great deal, and all the time she was thinking: "We'll be back to-morrow at noon. On Monday the holidays begin. Oh, if I can only see him before he goes!" A great many young men came down to the station to see them off next morning. There was a din of farewells. On all sides girlish voices were calling: "Good-bye!" "It was the jolliest dance!" "I never had a better time in all my life!" "Awfully nice of you to ask us." Molly had joined in the chorus with the others and had grasped many outstretched hands and smiled and waved her handkerchief and listened to Otoyo in one ear, crying: "Oh, Mees Brown, I do like the American young gentleman veree much," while Judy in the other was saying: "Wasn't it glorious fun? I never saw you look better. I have a dozen compliments for you." The car fairly crept back to Wellington, so it seemed to poor Molly. At last they arrived and a carry-all took them back to the Quadrangle. Without waiting to explain, she left her suitcase in the hall and ran to the cloisters. Pausing at the door marked "E. A. Green," she knocked urgently. There was no answer. A door farther down the corridor was opened and the professor of French looked out. "Professor Green has gone away," he said. "He will not return until after the holidays." CHAPTER XIV. AN INVITATION AND AN APOLOGY. Millicent Porter invited Molly to go to New York with her for the holidays and visit in the grand Porter mansion. Molly understood it was a palace filled with tapestries and fine pictures. Millicent had mentioned all those things casually. They would go to the theaters and the opera and ride about in motor cars. But Molly was glad she had kept her head and declined. "I have some work to do, Millicent," she said. "I appreciate your invitation, but I can't accept it." "You must," exclaimed Millicent, too accustomed to having her own way to take no for an answer. "Is it clothes?" she added. Somehow, she gave the impression of not being used to wealth. Molly hardly felt intimate enough with her to go into the subject of her own poverty and answered briefly: "Not entirely." Millicent was not famous for generosity and the basket of red roses sent to Molly on the night of the junior play had been her one outburst; but she was determined to have Molly go home with her at any cost. "Because," she continued, "if it's a question of clothes, I can arrange that perfectly. My dresses will fit you if they are lengthened and--well, there'll be plenty of clothes. Don't bother about that. Your yellow dress is good enough for anything----" "I should say it was," thought Molly, rather indignantly. "Good enough for the likes of you or anybody else." "I'll lend you my mink coat and turban," went on this munificent young person, "and I have a big black velvet hat that would look awfully well on you. Now, you must come, please. I want you to see my studio at the top of the house. To tell you the truth, I'm rather lonesome in New York. I don't know any girls well, because I've never stayed at one school long enough to make friends." "What's the reason of that?" asked Molly. "Oh, I always get tired or something," answered the other carelessly. "But say you'll come, do, please," she went on pathetically. Then, unable to stifle her grand airs, she said: "I doubt if you have such fine houses as ours in the south." "Oh, no," answered Molly, quickly, "I doubt if we have. Our homes are very old and simple. The only works of art are family portraits. We have no tapestry or statuary. The house I was born in," she went on half-smiling to herself, "was built by my great-grandfather. Most of the furniture came down from him, too. Some of it's quite decrepit now, but we keep it polished up. My earliest recollection is rubbing the mahogany. You would doubtless think our house very empty and plain. We have some old crimson damask curtains in the parlor, but the rest of the curtains are made of ten-cent dimity. There is no furnace. We depend on coal fires in the bedrooms and wood fires in the other rooms and we nearly freeze if there's a cold winter. We have no plumbing. Every member of the family has his own tub and there are six extra ones for company. A little colored boy named Sam brings us hot water every morning for our baths. He gets it from a big boiler attached to the kitchen stove, and when we are done bathing he has to carry it all down again. Rather a nuisance, isn't it? But Sam doesn't mind. Oh, I daresay you'd think our house was a kind of a hovel." Molly paused and looked at Millicent strangely. There was a hidden fire in her deep blue eyes. "As for me," she said, "no palace in all New York or anywhere else could be as beautiful to me as my home." Millicent looked uncomfortable. "Be it ever so homely, there's no face like one's own," cried Judy, who at that moment had come into the room and caught Molly's last words. "What's all this talk about home?" "I was just telling Millicent about the old-fashioned, whitewashed brick palace wherein I was born," answered Molly. "I'm sorry you won't accept my invitation," said Millicent, taking no notice of Judy whatever. "Perhaps, after you think about it awhile you'll change your mind." Her manner was heavy and patronizing, and implied without words: "After you have had time to consider the honor I am paying you and the advantages of visiting in my splendid home, you cannot fail to accept." "You are very kind, Millicent, but I shall not reconsider it," announced Molly coldly. "I have made up my mind to spend Christmas right here in the Quadrangle. I hope you'll have a beautiful time. Good-bye." They shook hands formally. "I'll try to see the best in her," she thought, "but I'd rather not see it at close hand. She grates on me." Judy waved an open letter with a dramatic gesture. "Oh, Molly, dearest, I'm glad you didn't accept. It's my own selfish pleasure that makes me glad, but I'm going to spend Christmas right here in the Quadrangle, too." Molly looked at her friend's eager, excited face in surprise. "Do you mean your mother and father are coming here?" "No, no. They're on the Pacific Coast, you know, and will be detained until spring. It's too far for me to take the trip just for the few days I could spend with them, so I'm going to stay here." A year ago Judy would have been in the depths of despair over a separation from her beloved parents at this holiday time. But whether she had gained poise by her recent sufferings or whether spending Christmas with her friend in the big empty Quadrangle appealed to her romantic nature, it would be difficult to tell. Through all the complexities of her nature her devotion to Molly was interwoven like a silver thread, and the shame and remorse she still felt in looking back on that unhappy evening when she had denounced her friend only seemed to draw the two girls more closely together. Molly gave her a joyous hug. "Oh, Judy, I am so happy. I never dreamed of such a blessing as this. Even Otoyo is going away this year and hardly half a dozen girls are left in the Quadrangle. I am truly glad I had the courage to decline Millicent's invitation. It was only for one instant I was tempted to go, but she ruined it by a patronizing speech." "What a singular little creature she is," observed Judy. "She has no charm, if she can beat on silver; and she's so awfully conscious of her wealth. I don't know how I could ever have admired her. I suppose I was lured in the beginning by her fine clothes and her grand way of talking." "She is very talented," Molly continued, "but, as you say, she lacks charm. Perhaps she would have been different if she had been poor and obliged to turn her gifts to some use. After all, I think we are happier than rich girls. We are not afraid to be ourselves. We wear old clothes and we have an object in view when we work, because we want to earn money." "Earn money," repeated Judy. "I only wish I could give papa the surprise of his life by earning a copper cent." Molly was silent. Her own earning capacity had not been great that winter. She had kept herself in pin money by tutoring, but lately she had made an alarming discovery. When she had first started to college, teaching had been the ultimate goal of her ambitions. She intended to be a teacher in a private school and perhaps later have a school of her own, as Nance wished to do. Now, as her horizon broadened and her tastes and perceptions began taking form and shape, she found herself drifting farther and farther away from her early ambition. Something was waking up in her mind that had been asleep. It was like a voice crying to be heard, still immensely far away and inarticulate, but growing clearer and more insistent all the time. It made her uneasy and unsettled. She yearned to express herself, but the power had not yet arrived. The two girls went down to the village that afternoon to see the last trainload of students pull out of Wellington station, and later to make some purchases at the general store. It was Christmas Eve and the streets were filled with shoppers from the country around Wellington. Molly was trying to recall the words of a poem she had heard ages back, the rhythm of which was beating in her head, and Judy was endeavoring to explain to herself why she felt neither homesick nor blue on this the first Christmas ever spent away from her parents. They paused to look in at the window of a florist who did a thriving business in Wellington. A motor car was waiting in front of the shop. "We must have some Christmas decorations, too," exclaimed Judy about to enter, when the way was blocked by a crowd of people coming out. "What pretty girls!" continued Judy in a whisper, looking admiringly at two young women who came first. The prettiest one, who had red hair not unlike Molly's and brown eyes, called over her shoulder: "Edwin, I shan't save you a seat beside me unless you're there to claim it." "I'll be there, Alice, never fear," answered Professor Green, hurrying after her with an armload of holly and cedar garlands. Molly stood rooted to the spot while the shoppers crowded into the car. "If I could only tell him how sorry I am for that cruel speech," she thought. With a sudden determination, she rushed toward the car, calling: "Professor!" The girl named Alice looked around quickly, but apparently she did not choose to see Molly, and as the car moved off she began laughing and talking in a very sprightly and vivacious manner. Molly sighed. The longer an apology is delayed the more trivial and insignificant it becomes. "He probably has forgotten all about it," she thought. "He seems happy enough with Alice, whoever she is. Perhaps what I said hurt me more than it did him, but, oh, I do wish I had seen him before he went away. It would have been different then, I'm sure." She followed Judy into the flower store. Mrs. McLean was there with Andy. "Why, here are two lassies left over!" cried the good woman. "What luck, mother!" said Andy. "Now we'll have some fun. We'll give a dinner and a dance, and Larry and Dodo will come over. We will, won't we, mother?" "What a coaxer you are, Andy. You're still a lad of ten and not nineteen, I'm sure." "Don't you let him persuade you to give parties when you're not of a mind to do it, Mrs. McLean," put in Judy. "I wouldn't miss the chance, my dear. I like it as much as he does. We'll have it to-morrow night and you'll come prepared to be as merry as can be and cheer up the doctor. He has been so busy of late he has forgotten how to enjoy himself." "It doesn't look as if we were going to spend such a quiet Christmas after all, Judy," laughed Molly, when Mrs. McLean and Andy had gone. Judy was engaged in selecting all the most branching and leafy boughs of holly she could find, while the florist looked on uneasily. That afternoon they spent an hour beautifying their yellow sitting room. And all the time Molly's mind was harking back to Christmas a year ago, when the Greens had busied themselves preparing such a delightful party for Otoyo and her. "And I said he was not a loyal friend," she said to herself. "Oh, if I could only unsay those words!" She sat down at her desk and seized a pen. "What are you going to do?" asked an inner voice. "I am going to write a note and tell him I'm sorry, and then I'm going over to the cloisters and slip it under his door. It will ease my mind, even if he doesn't get the note until he comes back. He'll know then that I couldn't go to sleep Christmas Eve until I had apologized." The note finished, she carefully addressed and sealed it. Judy was in her own room composing a joint letter to her mother and father, and did not see Molly when she slipped out of the room and hurried downstairs. Outside, the pale winter twilight still lingered and the sky was piled high with fleecy white clouds. "It's going to snow," thought Molly, as she hurried along the arcade and opened the little oak door leading into the cloisters. CHAPTER XV. A CHRISTMAS GHOST STORY THAT WAS NEVER TOLD. It was quite dark in the corridor whereon opened the cloister offices. All the teachers had gone away for the holidays and the place was as ghostly as a deserted monastery. "I can't say I'd like to be here alone on a dark night, if it is such a young cloister. It seems to have been born old like some children," Molly thought. She coughed and the sound reverberated in the arched ceiling and came back to her an empty echo. Pausing at Professor Green's door, she stooped to shove the note underneath, when, to her surprise, the door opened at her touch and swung lightly back. With an exclamation, Molly started back, leaving the note on the floor. Leaning against one of the deep silled windows, just where the fast fading light fell across his face, stood a tall, stoop-shouldered man. In the flashing glimpse Molly caught of him before she turned and fled, she noticed that he resembled an old gray eagle with a thin beak of a nose and a worn white face; and that his dark eyes were quite close together. The rest of him was lost in the black shadows of the room. Once out of the ghostly corridor and the heavy oak door shut between her and the strange visitor in the Professor's office, Molly paused and took a deep breath. "In the name of goodness," she cried, "what have I just seen? If he had stirred or blinked an eyelash or even appeared to breathe, I should at least have felt he was human." The big empty hall of the Quadrangle seemed a cheerful spot in comparison with the cloister corridor. It was warm and light and from the seniors' parlor came the sound of piano playing. But Molly never paused to look in and see what belated student was cheering herself with music. Only her own sitting room with its gay holiday decorations and Judy twanging the guitar could recall her to a world of realities. Before she reached the door she had made up her mind that it would be just as well not to tell the excitable and impressionable Judy anything about the apparition or whatever it was in the Professor's study. It was really an act of self-denial, because it would have been decidedly interesting to discuss the episode with Judy. "I would have told Nance," she thought. "She would have agreed with me, I am sure, that it couldn't have been a ghost because, of course, there are no such things. But if I tell Judy, I know perfectly well she will persuade me it was a ghost and we'll be frightened to death all night." Judy, still wearing her widow's weeds, was singing a doleful ballad when Molly hurried in, called "By the Bonnie Milldams o' Binnorie." Molly was fond of this ancient song, but she was in no mood to listen to it just then. "'The youngest stood upon a stane, The eldest cam' and pushed her in. Oh, sister, sister, reach your hand, And ye sall be heir to half my land; Oh, sister, sister, reach but your glove, And sweet William sall be your love.'" The guitar gave out a mournful twang. "Talk about impressionable people, I'm worse than she is," thought Molly. "I'll shriek aloud if she doesn't stop this minute." Just then the six o'clock bell boomed out and Molly did give a loud nervous exclamation. Judy dropped the guitar on the floor. The strings resounded with a deep protesting chord and then subsided into resigned quietude. "Molly, what is the matter? You're as pale as a ghost." Molly smiled at her own weakness. Having just made up her mind not to tell Judy, she was suddenly possessed with a fever to relate the entire incident from beginning to end. "If you'll promise to put on your red dress to-night by way of celebration, and to cheer me up, I'll tell you a thrilling story, Judy." "But I've made a vow and I can't break it." "Did the vow stipulate that you couldn't wear colors Christmas Eve?" "No, not exactly." "Well, then, get into your scarlet frock, because I'll never tell you if you wear that black one, and I'll put on some old gay-colored rag, too, and after supper I'll tell you a thrilling tale." "I'll put on the red dress," said Judy, "if you promise never to tell Nance, but I can't wait until after supper to hear the story." "You'll have to. It's a long tale and there won't be time to dress and tell it, too." "Well," consented Judy, "because it's Christmas Eve, the very time to tell thrilling tales if they are true, I'll agree." And obediently she attired herself in the scarlet dress, while Molly put on a blue blouse that, by a happy chance, matched the color of her eyes as perfectly as if they had been cut from the same bolt. "Did it really happen to me," she kept thinking, "or did I dream it after all?" There was no chance to tell Judy the story after supper, because the two girls were summoned to the parlor almost immediately to see three callers, Andy, Dodo Green and Lawrence Upton. During the visit Molly seized the opportunity to ask the younger Green where his brother was spending his Christmas. "Oh, he's making visits around the county," answered George Theodore carelessly. "He always has enough invitations for three, but he was never known to accept any before. I don't know what's got into the old boy this year. He's getting as giddy as a débutante, going to parties and rushing around in motors. I have had to make two trips over to Wellington, first to get his evening clothes because he forgot to pack them, and then for his pumps and dress shirts I forgot myself. When the old boy goes into anything, he always does it in good style. He used to be a kind of dude about ten years ago. But he's all the way to thirty now and he feels his age. Do you notice how bald he's getting? He'll be losing his teeth next." "I'm glad he's having such a good time," said Molly, disdaining the aspersions cast by George Theodore on his brother's age. "I hope he is well and happy," she added in her thoughts. "I am sure I don't begrudge him a jolly Christmas, considering what a jolly one he gave me last year. I am sorry I left the note, now. Like as not, he doesn't even remember what I said that day and when he reads the letter he won't know what I am talking about." At last the boys left. Judy was intensely relieved. She desired only one thing on earth: to hear Molly's ghost story. All her perceptions were on edge with curiosity, but she was determined to have all things in harmony for the telling of a Christmas Eve Ghost Story. So she restrained her inquisitiveness until they had slipped on dressing-gowns and were both comfortably installed in big chairs with a box of candy and a plate of salted almonds between them. "And now, begin," she said, sighing comfortably. But Molly had scarcely uttered three words when she was interrupted by the arrival of packages from the late train brought up by the faithful Murphy. Even Judy's unsatisfied curiosity regarding the tale could not hold out against these fascinating boxes, and the story waited while they untied the strings and eagerly tore off the paper wrappings. "I suppose we ought to wait until to-morrow morning, but since we're just two lonely little waifs, I think we might gratify ourselves this once, don't you, Molly dear?" asked Judy. "I certainly do," Molly agreed, "seeing as it doesn't matter to anybody whether we look at them now or in the morning." It was a long time before they settled down again to the story, and Molly had not advanced a paragraph when there came another tap at the door. Evidently the Quadrangle gates were to be kept open late that night or account of the arrival of holiday packages. This time it was a boy from the florist's, fairly laden with flower boxes. Andy had sent both the girls violets. "Very sweet and proper of him, I'm sure, in the absence of Nance," laughed Judy. Lawrence Upton had sent Molly a box of American beauties. "And he could ill afford it, the foolish boy," ejaculated Molly. Dodo had expended all his savings on a handsome Jerusalem cherry tree for Judy. There was another box for Molly. It contained violets and two cards--Miss Grace Green's and Professor Edwin Green's. Molly blushed crimson when she read the names. For the thousandth time she covered herself with reproaches. She sat down and gathered the bouquets into her lap. "Judy," she cried contritely, "what have I done to gain all these kind friends? I'm sure I don't deserve it. The dears!" But Judy was too much engaged with her own numerous gifts to contradict this self-depreciating statement. "I am really happy, Molly," she cried, "even without mamma and papa it's been a lovely Christmas Eve." With one of those divinations which sometimes comes to us like a voice from another land, it suddenly occurred to Molly that whatever it was in Professor Green's office, whether ghost or human, perhaps the Professor might not like to have it discussed, and she resolved not to tell Judy or anyone else what she had seen. "And then," she continued, "if he ever asks me whether I told, it will be a nice, comfortable feeling to say I haven't." At last, having put the flowers back in the boxes and restored some order to the room, Judy sat down and folded her hands. "And now, go on with the story." "My dear child, so much has happened since then and I'm so weary, I don't think I can make it the frightful tale I had intended." "Oh, it was all a joke?" asked Judy, whose enthusiasm had about spent itself in other outlets. "Oh, partly a joke. I went down to the cloisters to leave a Christmas note for Professor Green at his office and saw a ghostly looking figure there." "Is that all? Well, anybody might look like a phantom in that gloomy place. I've no doubt the ghostly figure took you for another." "I've no doubt it did," answered Molly, laughing, and with that they kissed and went to bed. Long after midnight Molly rose and slipped on her dressing-gown. Creeping out of her room, she flitted along the corridor, turned the corner and hurried up the other side of the Quadrangle. At the very end of this hall was a narrow passage with a window which commanded a view of the courtyard and the windows of the cloister studies. Softly raising the blind, she looked out. In one of the studies a dim light was burning. She counted windows. It was Professor Green's office, she was certain. While she looked the light went out. Back to her bed she flew with a feeling that somebody was chasing her. "There's one thing certain," she thought, drawing the covers over her head, "ghosts never need lights." CHAPTER XVI. MORE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AND A COASTING PARTY OF TWO. All the bells in Wellington were ringing when the girls awoke Christmas morning. The sweet-toned bell of the Chapel of St. Francis mingled its notes with the persistent appeal of the Roman Catholic bell across the way, while on the next street the bell of the Presbyterian Church sent out a calm doctrinal call for all repentant sinners to be on hand sharp for the ten o'clock service. And in this confusion of sound came the tinkle of sleigh bells like a note of pleasure in a religious symphony. "Merry Christmas!" cried Judy, running into the room with an armful of parcels done up with white tissue paper and tied with red ribbons. "Here are the presents Nance and the others left for you. 'My lady fair, arise, arise, arise!'" "Merry Christmas!" cried Molly, bounding out of bed and rushing to find the presents she had been commissioned to take care of for Judy. The two girls climbed under the covers and began to open their gifts. "Dear old Nance!" ejaculated Judy. "How well she knows my wants. She's given me an address book because she disapproved of my keeping addresses on old envelopes." [Illustration: "AND SHE'S GIVEN ME A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS," CRIED MOLLY.--_Page 213._] "And she's given me a pair of silk stockings," cried Molly, "because she knows my luxurious tastes run to such things." "Edith Williams is the class joker," remarked Judy, laughing. "She's sent me a novel by Black and she's written on the fly leaf, 'For the first six months the Merry Widow read only novels by Black.'" "Weren't they dears?" broke in Molly. "They knew we'd be lonely and they wanted to make us laugh Christmas morning. Look what Edith sent me." It was a small round basket of sweet grass, no doubt purchased at the village store, and inside on pink cotton was a pasteboard medal. Printed around the outer edge of the medal was the following announcement: "Awarded to Pallas Athene Brown for the Best General Average in Good Manners and Amiability by the Wellington High School." There was a hole punched in one end of the medal with a blue ribbon run through it. On one of Edith's cards in the box was written: "To be worn on great occasions." The two girls received other amusing presents. If their friends had hoped to cheer them on their lonely Christmas morning, they had succeeded wonderfully well. Judy especially was in the wildest spirits. It was a custom of hers to describe her feelings exactly as a chronic invalid recounts his sensations. "I'm all aglow with good cheer. I could dance and sing. It must be a sort of Christmas spirit in the air. I do adore to get presents. I think I have more curiosity in my nature than you, Molly. Why don't you open the rest of yours?" Molly was lost in admiration of a beautiful little copy of Maeterlinck's "_Pelléas et Mélisande_" sent to her by Mary Stewart. "Because I like to eat my cake slowly," she answered, "and get all the fine flavor without choking myself to death. Oh," she cried, taking the tissue paper off a small parcel, "how lovely of your mother, Judy, to send me this beautiful lace collar!" "It's just like the one she sent me," answered Judy, as pleased as a child over Molly's enthusiasm. "But do look in the other boxes. What's that square thing? If it were mine, I should be palpitating with curiosity." If Judy had guessed what the square box contained, she would not have been so eager to precipitate an embarrassing situation. "Very well, Mistress Judy, we'll find out immediately what's inside. Where did it come from, anyway?" "There's not the slightest inkling of who sent it," answered Judy, examining the address printed in a sort of script. "Whoever sent it knew how to do lettering, certainly. But the postmark is smeared." Molly cut the string and removed the brown paper wrapping. The article inside the box was folded in a quantity of tissue paper. "It has as many coverings as a royal Egyptian mummy," exclaimed Judy impatiently. It had indeed. After stripping off several layers of paper it was necessary to cut another string before the rest of the paper could be removed. At last, however, another china Martin Luther emerged from his tissue paper shell. The two girls gasped with surprise and consternation. "Will wonders never cease?" ejaculated Molly. "I'm sure it's just another joke the girls are playing on us," broke in Judy with some excitement. "Here's a card. What does it say?" On a pasteboard card, written in the same script as the address, was the following mystifying message: "Was it kind to put such temptation in the way of the weak?" "What does it mean, Judy?" asked Molly. "I seem to be groping in the dark." Judy shook her head. "You can search me," she said expressively. "Why don't you break a hole in him and see?" "No sooner said than done," answered Molly. "But I really feel like a butcher. This is the third time I've destroyed a pig." She cracked the bank on the head of her little iron bed, but only a silver quarter rolled out on the floor. The rest of the money was in bills, three five dollar bills, which had been compactly folded and pushed through the slit in the pig's back. "Fifteen dollars and a quarter!" ejaculated Molly. "That was just about what the original sum was, but I suppose in silver it was too heavy to come through the mails." She lay back on her pillows, her brows wrinkled into a puzzled frown. "It's a curious performance," she said, after a brief silence. "I don't understand." Judy at the foot of the bed, half buried in tissue paper and Christmas presents, glanced out of the window at the snowy landscape. There was a strange expression on her face and two little imps of laughter lurked in her wide gray eyes. Molly looked at her a moment, but Judy would not meet her gaze. "Julia Kean," broke out Molly, suddenly, "do you know whom you look like this moment? Mona Lisa. You have the same mysterious smile as if you knew a great deal more than you intended to tell. Now just turn around and look me in the eyes." Molly crawled from under the covers and put her hands on her friend's shoulders. "Who sent me that first Martin Luther with all the small change?" Judy's lips curled into an irresistible smile. There was something very mellowed and soft about her face, like an old portrait, the colors of which had deepened with the years. "You aren't angry with me, Molly, dearest?" she asked, laying her cheek against Molly's. "Angry? How could I be angry, you adorable child?" "You see it was just taking money out of one pocket to put it in the other, and it was the only way I could think of to make you take the yellow dress. You wouldn't accept it as a gift. Of course, I never dreamed the real thief would repent." The two friends looked into each other's eyes with loving confidence. "Dear old Judy!" cried Molly, "I don't know what I have done to deserve such a friend as you. And what an imagination you have! Who but you would ever have conceived such a notion? And to think, too, that I would never have known, if the real person who took the money hadn't had an attack of conscience." "It would certainly have remained a secret forever unless Nance had confessed it on her death bed," laughed Judy. "She's that close, I imagine her first confession would be her last one." "I'll wear the dress to-night, Judy, just to show you how much I appreciate the gift," announced Molly. Judy put on a broad lace collar that morning and a lavender velvet bow, by way of lightening her mourning. There was a good deal to do during the day, getting the rooms straightened and writing letters. All morning the snow fell so softly and quietly that the Quadrangle seemed to be isolated in a still white world of its own. Not even the campus houses could be seen through the thick curtain of flakes. Molly could picture to herself no more delightful occupation than to stay indoors all day and read one of her new Christmas books. Nothing could have been more cheerful than the little sitting room with its Christmas greens and vases of flowers. Curled up in one of the big chairs, Molly's mind wandered idly from the open pages of the book in her lap to the recent inexplicable happenings. Who was the mysterious visitor in the Professor's study? After all, it was none of her business, but she felt some natural curiosity about it. Who was the girl who had stolen the china pig? "I don't want to know," she admonished herself. Nevertheless, it was impossible not to make a few random conjectures. Judy, restlessly beating a tattoo on the window, was thinking the same thing. "Molly," she burst out, after a long silence, "I have an idea who that girl is. Have you?" "Yes, but I'd rather not mention her name. It's too dreadful. And you know how I feel about circumstantial evidence." "All I say is," announced Judy, "that it's a certain person who makes the loudest noise about losing her own things." "Well, she's repented," said Molly, "so let's try and forget it." There was another brief but eloquent silence. Judy pressed her face against the window pane. "I did think," she observed presently, "that those boys would come to take us out for a sleigh ride or a coast or something this afternoon. But we can't wait around here all day for them. It would be paying them too much of an honor. Why not go coasting ourselves? I'll get Edith's sled and we'll walk over to Round Head." "That would be fine," said Molly, with all the enthusiasm she could muster. Reluctantly she laid aside her book and began to dress for the walk. When two intimate associates are not mutually agreed, the more selfish one never dreams of the sacrifices of the other. Molly had no taste for battling with the snow, and when in half an hour they found themselves plunging through the drifts on their way to the steep coasting hill, she turned a wistful inward eye back toward the comforts of the yellow-walled sitting room. The Morris chair, the prized antique rug and the Japanese scroll with the snow-capped Fujiyama and the sky-blue waters called to her insistently. "Isn't this glorious, Molly?" ejaculated Judy, fired with the energy of her enthusiasms. "Dee-lightful," replied poor Molly, brushing the snow out of her eyes with admirable pretense at cheerfulness. However, the snowfall began to diminish and when they reached Round Head the storm had apparently spent itself. Molly felt the glow of exercise she really needed and she admired the splendid panorama of the snow-clad valley stretching before them. "It is beautiful," she admitted, "and what fun, Judy, to go whizzing down Round Head! It will be the longest coast I have ever taken in my life." Clambering up the side of the hill had not been as difficult as they had expected, because the wind had swept that part of it clear of drifts and the way was plain. When at last they reached the top, Molly was no longer sorry that Judy had dragged her from "The Idylls of the King" and the comforts of an easy chair. "You're not afraid, Molly?" asked the reckless Judy, looking with the glittering eye of anticipation down the long track of white over which they would presently be flying. "I don't see why I should be," answered Molly evasively. "Even if we fall off, it will be on a bed of snow as soft as a down comfort." "Come along, then," cried Judy, "we'll have the sensation of our lives. And we might as well make it a good one, because it's beginning to snow again and we'd better not try it a second time." Judy had coasted down Round Head before and knew just the spot on the hill where the Wellington girls were accustomed to start the long slide on bobs and sleds. Sitting behind Judy, Molly closed her eyes and the sled commenced its journey. For some moments it skimmed along at a reasonable speed, but as it gained in impetus, she had the sensation of riding on the tail of a comet. "Look out for the bump," called Judy with amazing calm and forethought, considering the circumstances. But the warning had no meaning for Molly, whose experience in coasting was of a very mild and unexciting character. The shock of the rise caused her to lose her hold, and the next thing she knew she was buried deep in a snow drift and Judy was whizzing on alone into the unknown. [Illustration: THE NEXT THING SHE KNEW SHE WAS BURIED DEEP IN A SNOW DRIFT, AND JUDY WAS WHIZZING ON ALONE.--_Page 224_] "I never did really enjoy coasting," thought Molly, climbing out of the drift and shaking herself vigorously like a wet dog. "It's all right if nothing happens, but something always does happen and then it's a regular nuisance." Already the tracks of the sled were covered by the fast falling snow and it was impossible to see just where the tumble had occurred on the hillside. "Judy," called Molly, hurrying down the hill; while at the same moment Judy was calling Molly as she hastened back. The two girls passed each other at no great distance apart, but they might have been as widely separated as the poles for all they could see or hear in the blinding snowstorm. After calling and searching in vain, Judy started back to Wellington, feeling sure that her friend had gone that way; and Molly, who was gifted with no bump of location whatever, blindly groping in the snowstorm turned in the opposite direction. CHAPTER XVII. THE WAYFARERS. Human beings have been variously compared by imaginative persons to pawns on a chessboard; storm-tossed boats on the sea of life; pilgrims on a weary way, and other things of no resemblance whatever to the foregoing. Molly, marching stoically along the lonely road under the impression that she was on her way to Wellington when she was really turned toward Exmoor, might have fitted into any of those comparisons rather more literally than was intended. She was certainly a storm-tossed pilgrim if not a boat; the way was decidedly weary and as pawn, pilgrim or ship, whichever you will, she was about to come in contact with another of life's pawns, pilgrims or ships, to the decided advantage of the one and amazement of the other. This new pawn, pilgrim or ship was now advancing down the road, and Molly, mindful of the fact that she was not getting anywhere when she felt sure that by this time she should at least have reached the lake, was not sorry to see a human being. The stranger looked decidedly like the pilgrim of romance. He wore an old black felt hat with a broad slouching brim and a long Spanish cape reaching below his knees; his staff was a rosewood cane with a silver knob. He was about to pass Molly without even glancing in her direction when she stopped him. "Would you mind telling me if it's very far from Wellington?" she asked. "I'm afraid I'm lost." "Do you imagine you are going to Wellington?" he demanded, looking up. Instantly Molly recognized him. He was the man she had seen the night before in Professor Green's study. "I did think so," she answered meekly. "I would advise you to go in the opposite direction, then," he said. "Exmoor lies that way." He pointed down the road with his stick. "How stupid of me!" exclaimed Molly. "I was coasting and tumbled off the sled. I was completely dazed, I suppose, when I crawled out of the drift." The two walked along in silence. Molly gave the man a covert glance. He was very distinguished looking and vaguely reminded her of someone. "You are one of the students of Wellington?" he asked presently. "Yes, sir," answered Molly respectfully. The stranger smiled. "You are from the south. I never heard a girl across the boundary line use 'sir.'" "I am," she answered briefly. "And from what part, may I ask?" "From Carmichael Station, Kentucky." The man stopped as if he had been struck a blow in the face. "Carmichael Station, Kentucky," he repeated in a half whisper. Drawing a leather wallet from his inside pocket, he took out a folded legal cap document and opened it. "Ahem. Not far to go," he said in a low voice, running down a list with one finger. "Your name----" "Brown." "Mildred Carmichael Brown, I presume." "No, Mary. My sister's named Mildred." The old man refolded the document, put it carefully back in the wallet, which he returned to his pocket. Then he resumed his walk, muttering to himself. "Strange! Strange!" Molly heard him say. "Here in a snowstorm, in the wilderness, on Christmas day, too, I should happen to meet--I can't get away from them," he cried angrily, waving his cane. "Victims, victims! Everywhere. They rise up and confront me when I'm sleeping or waking--like ghosts of the past----" His mutterings gradually became inarticulate as he wrapped his cape around him and stalked through the snow. "Hunted--hunted--hounded about----" he began again. Suddenly he stopped, took off his hat and held his face up to heaven as if he were about to address some unseen power. "I'm tired," he cried. "I've had enough of these wanderings; these eternal haunting visions. Let me have peace!" He shook his cane impotently at the overcast skies. It was then that Molly recognized him. On that very day but one, a year ago, had she not seen Judith Blount stand under a wintry sky and defy heaven in the same rebellious way? Judith's father had come back from South America and was hiding in the Professor's room at Wellington! And how like they were, the father and daughter; the same black eyes, too close together; the same handsome aquiline noses, and the same self-pitying, brooding natures. Evidently, Mr. Blount had suffered deeply. Molly thought he must be very poor. Looking at him closely, she noticed the shabby gentility of his appearance; the shiny seams of his Spanish cape which had been torn and patched in many places; his old thin shoes, split across the toes, and his worn, travel-stained hat. She wondered if he had any money. She suspected that he was very hungry and her soul was moved with pity for the poor, broken old man who had once been worth millions. "Mr. Blount," she began. "How did you know my name?" he cried, shivering all over like a whipped dog. "I didn't mention it, did I? I haven't told any one, have I? I came down here in disguise." He laughed feebly. "Disguised as a broken old man. I went to Edwin's rooms," he wandered on, forgetting that he had asked Molly a question. "You know where they are?" Molly nodded her head. She knew quite well that the Professor lodged in one of the former college houses built on the old campus, used long ago before the Quadrangle had been built flanking the new campus. "The housekeeper recognized me as a relation and I waited in his room some hours," went on the old man in a trembling voice. "And where did you spend the night?" "In the cloister study. I found the key on his desk. It was marked 'cloister study.'" "But where did you eat?" asked Molly gently. The melting sympathy in her eyes and voice encouraged the old man to pour out his woes. Evidently it was a great relief to him to talk after his miseries and hardships. "I've been living off apples," he said. "Very fine apples. There was a big basket of them on Edwin's study table." "But there's an inn in the village," she exclaimed. He smiled grimly. "I have come all the way from Caracas to Wellington," he said. "I was poor when I started; yes, miserably, wretchedly poor. I am an old man, old and broken. I want peace, do you understand? Peace." They had reached the lake and in fifteen minutes would arrive at the Quadrangle. Mr. Blount was leading the way, occasionally hitting the ground savagely with his cane. Molly thrust her hand into her blouse and drew out a chamois skin bag which hung by a silk tape around her neck. Since the pilfering had been going on at Wellington she carried what little money she had with her during the day and hid it under her pillow at night. Extracting ten dollars from the bag, she hurried to the old man's side and touched him on the shoulder. "Mr. Blount, I'm under great obligations to your cousin. He has been very kind to me--always--and I'd like you to--I'd----" It was difficult to know what to say. Was it not strange for her, a poor little school girl, to be offering money to a man who had so recently been a millionaire? "Won't you take this money?" she began again, resolutely. "I don't think anyone will recognize you at the inn. It's just a little country place and you will be quite comfortable there until I find Professor Green. I may get word to him to-night, or to-morrow at any rate." Mr. Blount eyed the money as a hungry dog eyes a bone. Evidently hunger and fatigue had got the better of his pride. He took the bill and touched it lovingly. Then he put it in his pocket. "You're a nice girl," he said. "I thank you." "Would you like to see George Green?" asked Molly timidly. "No, no, no!" he answered fiercely. "Not that young fool. I don't suppose Judith is here?" he added presently in a tremulous voice. "No, sir. She's in New York for the holidays." They shook hands and separated. Mr. Blount took the path down the other side of the lake across the links to the village and Molly followed the path on the college side. As she cut through the pine woods she heard a shout. "Molly Brown, where have you been? We have had a search for you!" cried Judy, rushing up, followed by the three boys. "I reckon I've been a good deal like the pig who thought he was going to Cork when he was really going to Dublin," laughed Molly. "If I hadn't asked the way, I suppose I'd have been almost to Exmoor by this time. I am a poor person to find my way about. My brother used to tell me to take the direction opposite to the one my instincts told me to take and then I'd be going right." "In other words, first make sure you're right and then take the other way," said Lawrence Upton, laughing. "You'd make a good explorer, Miss Molly," remarked Andy McLean. "You might discover the South Pole and think all the time it was the North Pole." "That would be of great benefit to humanity," answered Molly, "but you may be sure I'd stop and ask a policeman before I reached the equator." "It's your proper punishment for cutting church this morning," here put in George Green. "I don't know whether it was because it was a good excuse to go sleighing, but a lot of people were at the ten service. Even old Edwin came in the trail of Alice Fern." "What a pretty name!" said Molly. "It sounds so woodsy." "She's a cousin," George went on, "and a winner, too. They've got a jim-dandy place ten miles the other side of Wellington, Fern Grove. We spent last New Year's with them and had a cracker-jack time." "George Theodore Green!" ejaculated Judy, "I never heard so much slang. I wonder you are allowed inside Exmoor." "Oh, I cut it out there. I only use it when it's safe." "I regard that as a slight on present company," broke in Andy. "I think you'll just have to take a little dose of punishment for that, Dodo. Get busy, Larrie." There was a wild scramble in the snow, and finally Dodo, who had developed into a big, strapping fellow, stronger than either of his friends, intrenched himself behind a tree and began throwing snowballs with the unerring aim of the best pitcher on the Exmoor team. Molly hastened on to the Quadrangle, while Judy with true sportsman taste waited to see the fun. Molly went straight to the telephone booths in the basement corridor. By good fortune, the haughty being who presided at the switchboard was hovering about waiting for a long distance call from a "certain party" in New York. That she alone in all the world was concerned in this call and that she wished to have this corner of the globe entirely to herself for the full enjoyment of it were very evident facts when Molly asked for "Fern-16-Wellington." "I'm not working to-day," announced the operator shortly, arranging her huge Psyche knot at the mirror beside her desk. Molly looked into the girl's implacable face. No feminine appeal would melt that heart of stone, but perhaps the magic name of man might fix her. "Would you do it to oblige Professor Green? I have an important message for him." "I guess that's different," announced the owner of the Psyche knot, with a high nasal accent. "Why didn't you say so at first? I guess Professor Green is about the nicest gent'man around here." Sitting down at the switchboard, she slipped on the headpiece with a professional flourish. Then, with a hand-quicker-than-the-eye movement, she pushed several organ stops up and down, stuck the end of a green tube into a hole and remarked in a high pitched voice that had great projective powers: "Wellington Exchange? Hello! Yes, I know it's Christmas. On hand for a long distance, are you? Oh, you-u-u. Well, say, listen. To oblige a certain party--a very attractive gent'man--call up 'Fern-16-Wellington.'" Then there was a detached monologue about a certain party in you know where--same gent'man that was down Thanksgiving time. Suddenly, with professional alertness, the telephone girl stopped short. "Fern-16-Wellington? Here's your party. Booth 3," she added to Molly, in a voice so radically different that Molly had a confused feeling that the young person who operated the Wellington switchboard might be a creature of two personalities. She retired timidly to the booth. "Is this the residence of Miss Alice Fern?" she asked. "It is," came the voice of a woman from the other end. "I would like to speak to Professor Edwin Green." "He's very much engaged just now. Is it important?" "I think it is," hesitated Molly. "What name?" "Now what earthly difference does it make to her what my name is?" Molly reflected with some irritation. "Would you please tell him it's a message from the University?" "I'll tell him nothing until you tell me your name." Could this be Miss Alice Fern? Molly was fairly certain it was. Perhaps she also had two personalities. "It doesn't do any good to tell my name. I have nothing to do with the message. I'm only delivering it for someone else. But if you want to know, it's 'Brown.'" "Mrs. or Miss Brown?" Suddenly Molly heard the Professor's voice quite close to the telephone saying: "Alice, is that someone for me?" "Yes, an individual of the illuminating name of Brown wishes to speak to you. I don't see why they can't leave you alone for one day in the year." Molly smiled. Why was it that down deep in the unexplored caverns of her soul there lurked an infinitesimally tiny feeling of relief that Miss Alice Fern was plainly a vixen? "How do you do, Professor Green? This is Molly Brown." "How do you do? Is anything the matter?" answered the Professor in rather an anxious tone. "I wanted to tell you that Mr. Blount is here. Old Mr. Blount." The Professor seemed too surprised to answer for a moment. Or it might have been that Miss Alice Fern was lingering at his elbow and embarrassed him. "Where?" he asked. "He spent last night in the cloister study. Now, he's at the inn. He asked me to let you know. I met him on the road. He's very unhappy." "How did he happen to be in the study?" "He--he had no money." "And now he's at the inn? Has he seen anyone but you?" "No." Molly blushed hotly. "I'll come right over. Thank you very much." "Now, Edwin, what a nuisance!" broke in the voice of Miss Fern. "Good-bye. Thank you again. I really must, Alice. Very impor----" The receiver had been hung up and the connection lost. "Oh, these cousins!" Molly reflected with a laugh as she hurried up to her room. * * * * * There was a gay party at the McLeans' that night and one unexpected guest arrived just before dinner. It was Professor Green. They squeezed him in somehow at the end of the table with the doctor, and the two made merry together like school boys. Molly had never seen the Professor of English Literature in such joyous spirits. After dinner, when the dancing commenced, he sought her out and led her to a secluded sofa in the back hall. She began at once by asking about Mr. Blount, but the Professor was not listening. "That's one of the prettiest dresses I've seen you wear," he interrupted. "Yellow is not becoming to most people, but it is to you. Probably because it has the same golden quality that's in your hair." "I'm glad you like it," said Molly, turning red under his steady gaze. "I found your note on my study floor," he went on. "I was afraid you wouldn't remember what I was talking about, after all," she exclaimed. "But I had to write it. I have never really been happy since I said that cruel thing to you. I was so wretched the day afterward, and when I rushed to find you in your study, you were gone!" she broke off with a tearful glance into his eyes. The Professor beamed upon her. "So you were unhappy," he said, as if the statement was not entirely unpleasing. "Oh, yes. I know now that you were quite right to tell Miss Walker about that silly episode of the burying of the slipper." "But I never told her. I know the story, of course, and the explanation. The President told me herself." "But who did tell, then?" "That I can't say." It was now Molly's turn to beam on the Professor. "I am glad you didn't tell her," she exclaimed in tones of great relief. "You see, you didn't inform on Judith Blount that time, and I was hurt. I couldn't help from being. I was really awfully sore." "My dear child," said the Professor hurriedly, "promise hereafter to regard me as a faithful friend. Never doubt my sincerity again." "I promise," answered Molly, feeling intensely proud without knowing why. Then the talk drifted to Mr. Blount. "And you haven't mentioned meeting him?" he asked. "Not even to Miss Kean?" Molly shook her head. "You are a very unusual young woman, Miss Brown. It's important to keep Mr. Blount's presence here a secret. If word got out that he had come back, there would be a great hue and cry in the papers. I have him with me now at my rooms until Richard gets here. The family will be very grateful to you for your kindness to him." Lawrence Upton was coming down the hall to claim Molly for a dance. "Are you going back to the Ferns' to-morrow?" she asked hurriedly. "I think not," answered the Professor with the ghost of a smile. "I am detained here on business." The next morning Molly received a short note from Professor Green, inclosing a ten dollar bill. There was a postscript which said: "I've opened a barrel of greenings. Better come around and get some." CHAPTER XVIII. HEALING THE BLIND. "But, Madeleine, I never touched an iron in my life. I wouldn't know how to go about it," protested Judith Blount. "It's high time you learned then, child. It's a very useful piece of knowledge, I assure you. You may begin on handkerchiefs first. They are easy, just a flat surface, and it doesn't matter if you scorch one, especially as it's your own. Test the iron like this, see. Pick it up with the holder, wet your finger and touch the bottom. If it gives out a sizzly sound, it's fairly hot and may be used on something damp. It will surely scorch dry material. Always sprinkle. Rough-dry things can't be ironed decently unless they have been sprinkled and allowed to get damp through and through." Madeleine Petit's unceasing flow of conversation did not stop while Judith took her first lesson in ironing. "You see," continued Madeleine, "I've made quite a name for myself for doing up fine things and I really need an assistant, Judith. And, since you need the money, and I like you better than any girl in college, I want you to help me." Judith winced at the mention of poverty, but her face softened when Madeleine spoke of friendship. After all, was it not good to have a friend, a real tried and devoted friend who had nothing to gain but friendship in return? Yes, Madeleine did talk a great deal. We all have our faults. Judith's was a temper. She knew that. But Madeleine was good company, nevertheless, much better company than those false friends of Beta Phi days. She was charming and pretty and she had a heart of pure gold. Moreover, she was a lady, if she did talk so much. Judith loved Madeleine. For the first time in her life she felt the stirrings of a really deep affection for another girl. It had quickened her parched soul like the waters of a freshet flowing through a thirsty land. Madeleine had first gained the respect of the proud, discontented girl by being always good-naturedly firm, and now she had gained her love. Furthermore, Judith felt for the first time the pleasure of doing something for someone else. It was a matter of infinite secret joy to her that she had been able to help Madeleine with her studies. In a way she had constituted herself tutor to the little Southern girl; had criticized her themes; given her a boost in the dreaded French Literature and carried her over the blighting period of mid-year examinations. Madeleine had spent Christmas with the Blounts at a boarding house in New York and had given them a taste of Southern conversation, humor and anecdotes that had made that dreary time for them to blossom with new enjoyments. And now Judith was learning to iron. At first she handled the iron quite awkwardly, but in a few minutes she became interested and the pile of handkerchiefs rapidly decreased. "Of course, it isn't as if either one of us expects to have to iron handkerchiefs always," went on Madeleine, "but it doesn't hurt us to know how, just the same, and I have always found that doing common things well only made one do uncommon things better. Now, I intend to be a Professor of Mathematics. I don't know where nor how, but those are my intentions. There's no ironing of jabots connected with mathematics, but somehow I feel that ironing jabots well makes me more proficient in mathematics. "By the way, have you settled on anything to do yet? It's time you began to think about it, unless you decide to take a Post Grad. course and be with me next year. That would be perfectly grand, wouldn't it?" Madeleine's small pretty hands paused an instant in their busy fluttering over the garments she was sprinkling, and she smiled so sweetly upon Judith that the black-browed young woman felt moved beyond the power of speech and could only smile silently in reply. Oh, heavens, it was good to have a friend! Madeleine had come at a time when she most needed her; when the whole world was nothing but a black, hideous picture and life was a dreary waste. Not her mother, not Richard, not Cousin Edwin, could take the place of Madeleine. "You know I always said I wouldn't work for a living, Madeleine," she answered presently, gulping down these new, strange emotions. "My dear, we all say such things, but it's only talk. And, after all, it's better to work than to be an object of charity. Think of making your own money; having it come in every month--say a hundred dollars, or even more--earned by you? Why, it's glorious. It's better than running across a gold mine by accident or inheriting a fortune, because you have done it yourself. I intend to earn a great deal of money. I shall rise from being a teacher to having a splendid school of my own. It will be the most fashionable school in the South and all the finest families will send their daughters there. And what will you be in my school, Judith? Because you must commence now to work up to that eminence. Will you be part owner with me?" Judith laughed. "You're an absurd, adorable, sweet child," she said, and went on ironing busily. After all, life was not so desperately unpleasant. There was a knock on the door. Judith put down the iron hastily and retreated to the window. She had not yet reached the point where she was willing for others to see her engaged in this menial work. "Come in," called Madeleine, without stopping an instant. To Judith's relief, however, it was Mrs. O'Reilly. "A note for you, Miss Blount, and the man's waiting for an answer." Judith tore open the envelope impatiently. It was a bill of two years' running, amounting to nearly forty dollars, from the stationery and candy shop. On the bottom she was requested to remit at once. "Tell the man--anything, Mrs. O'Reilly. I can't see him. That's all." "Certainly, Miss," said the Irish woman with a good-natured smile. "These poor young college ladies was in hard luck just like the men sometimes," she thought as she turned away. Judith sat down and began to think. Richard was having a great struggle to keep her at college, her mother and himself at the boarding house, and her father in a sanitarium. It would really be unkind to burden him with that bill; but what was to be done? "Is it that old stationery man again?" asked Madeleine, who had inherited a profound contempt for dunning shopkeepers. "Yes, it is, and I don't know what to do." "Why don't you put an advertisement in the 'Commune'? You have no idea how it will bring in work. And then hang out a shingle, too. People have got to learn to recognize you as a wage-earning person before they come around and offer you things to do." "But what can I do? I don't know how to iron well enough to take in laundry, like you." A voice outside called: "Is this Miss Madeleine Petit's room?" "Come in. Can't you see the name on the door?" answered Madeleine. "There's only one Petit at Wellington and I'm the lady." Millicent Porter now entered. She looked smaller and more shriveled than ever in a beautiful mink coat and cap and a velvet dress of a rich shade of blue that breathed prosperity in every fold. "This is the region where signs are out asking for work, isn't it?" she asked in a pleasantly patronizing, unctious voice. "We don't ask for work. We announce that we do it and the work comes," replied Madeleine, eyeing the visitor with a kind of humorous pity. "Be that as it may," said Miss Porter, "I have some work I want done and I'm looking for a very competent and reliable person to do it." Judith winced at the word "reliable." "This isn't a servants' agency, you know, Miss Porter," answered the spunky Madeleine. "Those words are generally used when one engages a cook or a housemaid. What is the work like?" "I'm going to give an exhibition of my silver work at the George Washington Bazaar. I may sell some of it if I can get the price, and what I want is a skillful and re-- or rather clever----" Madeleine blinked both eyes rapidly at the substitution--"person to help me get it in order. Most of it is awfully tarnished and it will need a good deal of polishing." "How much will you pay a skillful, clever person?" demanded Madeleine, determined to drive a good bargain and shrewdly guessing the kind of person she had to deal with. "I'll pay ten dollars," answered Millicent glibly. "What are the pieces like?" "Oh, there are chains, necklaces, platters and bowls, and a lot of ivory things I have picked up in Europe that must be carefully washed." "We'll do the work for fifteen dollars," announced Madeleine. "No less." Judith could hardly preserve a grave countenance while this bargaining was going on between the rich Miss Porter and her funny little Southern friend. "I think that's too much," declared Millicent. "Not at all. The work requires care and, as you say, reliability. It might be stolen, you know." Madeleine snapped her eyes. "Very well, then," said Millicent in a resigned tone of voice. "It's a great deal to pay, but I suppose I can't do any better. I hear you do everything well, Miss Petit." "Miss Blount will do this," answered Madeleine. "If I do things well, she does them better. Now, where do you want them cleaned? Down here or up at your place?" "Oh, I would never let them out of my studio," cried Millicent. "She must come there, where she can be under my eye." "But----" objected Judith, and paused at a glance from Madeleine. It would be a crushing blow to her pride for her to go back to her old rooms and rub tarnished silver for this perfectly insufferable Millicent Porter. Yet fifteen dollars loomed up as quite a considerable sum, and, with five dollars added, could be paid to the stationery man on account. Did Judith realize in her secret soul that the bitter dose she was now swallowing was only a dose of the same medicine she had once forced others to swallow? "Very well, then," said Madeleine, "we'll give you as much of Friday and Saturday as will be necessary. We'll take a lunch up on Friday so that we won't have to come back for supper----" She waited a moment, wondering if Millicent would not invite them to supper at the Beta Phi. Hospitality was so much a part of her upbringing that it was impossible to conceive it lacking in others. "I thought Miss Blount was to do the work." "She will. I shall work under her as assistant rubber." So, the bargain was clinched and Millicent departed. "Disgusting little reptile!" cried Judith when the sounds of her footsteps died away in the hall and the door banged behind her. Could Judith forget that she herself had once belonged to that overbearing class? "Don't get all stirred up, Judith, it's bad for your digestion," ejaculated Madeleine. "That girl is nothing but a mere ripple on the surface. She's ridiculous, but there's no harm in her. I am really sorry for her, because she doesn't belong anywhere. She could never make a friend, and she will never know what it is to be really liked. She thinks she's a genius because she's learned how to beat out a few tawdry silver chains, and as soon as she finishes one she locks it up in a box and takes it out about once a decade to look it over. Why, she's just a poor, starved, little creature without a spark of generosity in her soul. What does she know about living and happiness? "You and I know how to live," Madeleine continued, flourishing her iron. "We're in the procession. We're moving on, learning and progressing. We're going up all the time. I tell you the highest peak in the Himalayas is not higher than my ambitions. And I intend to take you with me, Judith, and when we get to the top we'll look back and see poor, little Millicent Porter, shriveled to nothing at the bottom!" Judith gave a strange, hysterical laugh. Suddenly she flew across the room and embraced her friend. "You could make me do anything, Madeleine," she cried. "Scale the Himalayas or cut a tunnel through them." Taking her friend's small, charming face between her two hands, she looked her in the eyes: "Madeleine," she said, "did you know I used to be a blind girl? You have healed me. I am beginning to see things as they are." CHAPTER XIX. A WARNING. The girl who had been blind and could see and Madeleine of the unconquerable soul appeared in Millicent's sumptuous apartment promptly at three o'clock on Friday afternoon. They carried with them a suitcase containing the implements of their labor, taken chiefly from Madeleine's rag bag: some old stockings; several wornout undervests and polishing cloths made from antiquated flannel petticoats; also a bottle of ammonia and two boxes of silver polish. "Well, here we are," announced Madeleine, unconcernedly, when Millicent had opened her door to them. "I hope you have the things out and ready. Our time is valuable." Of no avail were Millicent's pompous and important airs. Madeleine insisted on treating her as a familiar and an equal. "I have put you in the den. You will be less disturbed and you can use the writing table to spread things on. Please be care----" "Have you made an inventory?" interrupted Madeleine. "No," faltered Millicent. Why was it that this poverty-stricken little person took all the wind out of her sails? "Make it please at once in duplicate. Keep one yourself and give us the other." "But----" began Millicent. "No, we will not touch a thing until the inventory is made. No 'competent, reliable' person would think of doing work like this without an inventory. We'll wait in the other room until you have made it." There was nothing to do but proceed with the inventory. It was plain that Madeleine knew the manner of person she was dealing with. While the two girls waited in the big sitting room, now a studio, Madeleine drew a book from her ulster pocket and began to study. The little Southerner was never idle one moment of her waking day and the other seven hours she put in sleeping very soundly. Judith began to look about her. The room was little changed from the old days, except that it was even richer in aspect. There were some splendid old altar pieces on the walls and a piece of beautiful old rose brocade hung between the studio and the den. But, after all, what did it come to? Was anyone really fond of Millicent with all her wealth? Why, Judith, poor and forgotten, had made a friend. She felt small tenderness toward the rest of the world, but she loved Madeleine. Molly Brown came into the room at this stage in Judith's reflections. "Why, hello, girls!" she exclaimed cordially, shaking hands with the silver-rubbers. "Where is Millicent?" "She is making an inventory of her valuables before we begin to clean them," replied Madeleine, smiling sweetly and blinking both eyes at once. "We insisted, because it would have been unprofessional not to have had one." "The idea!" said Molly. "No, it wouldn't. Besides, you're not professionals." "Yes, we are," insisted Madeleine. "Everything we do for money is professional work." "Oh, very well," laughed Molly, "and I suppose you'll polish them up so carefullee that some day you'll be admirals in the Queen's Navee." "Nothing less," said Madeleine. "It's my theory exactly." "Oh, Molly," called the voice of Millicent from the den, "please come and help me with this stupid thing. I can't seem to get it straight." And that was how Molly came to be admitted into Millicent's inner sanctum where she kept her most valued possessions under lock and key. The top of a heavy oak chest rested against the wall and inside was a perfect mine of silver articles, many of them Millicent's own work; there was also a quantity of small ivory figures collected by her in her travels. "I'll lift out the things and call their names and you can copy each one twice, like this: one silver necklace--grape-vine design." Molly sat down and began to make the list. They were nearly finished when Rosomond Chase's voice was heard in the next room. "Millicent, please come out for a moment. I want to see you on business." Molly, left alone, went on with the list, taking each article from the box and noting it carefully twice on the inventory. In the meantime Millicent and her friend were having a secret conference in the bedroom, while Madeleine and Judith silently waited in the studio. The two silver-rubbers were presently startled by the apparition of Molly standing in the doorway. She had the look of one fleeing before a storm, her face very pale and her eyes dilated with horror. She started to speak, but checked herself and closed the door behind her. Then, hurrying into the room, she said in a low, strained voice: "Madeleine, I would not advise you to do any work for Miss Porter." The two girls exchanged a long look. "Do you really mean that?" asked Madeleine. "I was never more in earnest in my life." "But, can't you explain?" demanded Judith Blount. Molly shook her head and rushed from the room. "Come on, Judith," said Madeleine, slipping on her ulster. "But, this is absurd!" objected Judith again. "Child," exclaimed her friend, "don't you know human nature well enough to understand that a girl like Molly Brown would never have given a piece of advice like that without knowing what she was talking about?" "She's jealous because she would like to earn the money herself." "Nonsense," said Madeleine. "She is not that kind. You know perfectly well that she is the most generous-hearted, unselfish girl in Wellington. She wouldn't injure a fly if she could help herself, and I think we had better take her advice." But Judith was stubborn. "We've come to do the work. Why go?" Having once committed herself to this menial labor, she wished to see it through. After all, whatever Molly had against Millicent Porter couldn't concern them, and in the end Madeleine reluctantly gave in. Presently Millicent and Rosomond came into the room. "What became of Molly Brown?" demanded Millicent suspiciously. "She couldn't wait," answered Madeleine briefly. "Was there anything the matter with her?" "She seemed in perfectly good health as far as I know, but you had better hurry up with the inventory, Miss Porter. We are losing time." Rosomond helped Millicent with the remainder of the list, and by four o'clock Madeleine and Judith were installed in the den hard at work. All afternoon and evening they toiled and the next morning they appeared soon after breakfast and started in again. "This is easier than cracking rock, and the pay is considerably better, but I am just as tired between the shoulders as a common laborer," Madeleine exclaimed, rubbing the last tray until she could see her own piquant little face reflected in its depths. "As for me, I feel as if I had been drawn and quartered," complained Judith. "It's worth more than fifteen dollars. We should have asked twenty." "I would have asked it, if I had thought she could have been induced to part with so much money, but I saw that fifteen was her limit." Judith laughed. "You're a regular little bargain driver," she said admiringly. "No, not always," answered Madeleine. "Only when I meet another one." "Well, I am glad we undertook it, and I am gladder still we have finished it," said Judith. They arranged the silver on half of the table, and the small army of carved ivory ornaments, for which Millicent seemed to have a passion, on the other half. Then, removing the loose gloves which had protected their hands, they put on their things and marched into the next room with expectant faces. For the first time in all her life Judith had earned a sum of money, and the humblest wage-earner was not more anxious for his week's pay than she was. "Will you please inspect the work, Miss Porter, and give us our money? We are tired and want to go home," said Madeleine. Millicent was propped up against some velvet cushions in the window seat. There was an expression of nervous worry on her thin sallow face, and around her on the floor lay the scattered bits of a note she had read, re-read, and torn into little pieces. She was in a very bad humor, and her warped nature was groping for something on which to vent its accumulated spleen. She rose from the window seat, swept grandly into the next room and glanced at the tableful of silver and ivory. "It looks fairly well," she said; for Millicent was one of those persons who grudged even her praise. "What was the amount I promised to pay?" "I dare say you haven't forgotten it so soon," answered the intrepid Madeleine. "Fifteen dollars." "Oh, was it so much? Will this evening do? I haven't that sum on hand just now. I'll have to go down to the bank." "A check will do, then," said Madeleine, sitting down in one of the carved chairs. "I never pay with checks. I only pay cash. I would prefer to draw out the money and pay you this evening." "Nonsense," exclaimed Madeleine. "Besides, you know very well that the bank closes on Saturdays at noon, and it's now nearly four o'clock." "So it does. Then you will have to wait until Monday." "We won't wait until Monday," ejaculated Madeleine. "We haven't been rubbing silver for our health. You'd better look around in your top drawer and see if you can't scrape fifteen dollars together, because I tell you plainly if you don't you'll regret it." "How regret it?" asked the other suspiciously. "I'm not obliged to pay it until Monday, and I won't," she added stubbornly. It was growing late. The girls were exhausted and hungry. They had eaten no lunch except crackers and cheese. At last Judith, utterly crushed with disappointment, drew Madeleine aside. "Suppose we leave her," she said. "I can't stand it any longer." Without another word they took their departure, leaving Millicent still in the window seat looking pensively out on the campus. They were hardly outside before she sprang to the door and locked it. Then she hastened to the den and began to pack feverishly and with trembling nervous hands. Wrapping each article of silver in tissue paper, she placed it in the chest on a bed of raw cotton. When the table was entirely cleared, she closed and locked the chest and, addressing a tag, wired it to the handle. Next she drew a trunk from the big closet and packed it with her best clothes. This done, she crept downstairs to the telephone and engaged Mr. Murphy to call that night for an express box and a trunk. The Beta Phi girls were all at a Saturday night dance at one of the other houses when Mr. Murphy called. Millicent explained to the matron that her rooms were too crowded and she was sending some of her things back to New York. As quietly as possible she drew her other two trunks from the closet, and by three in the morning the rooms were entirely dismantled and all drapery and pictures carefully packed away. These also she locked and tagged with the precision of one who intends to lose nothing, no matter what's to pay. One more task remained. This was performed in the privacy of the den behind closed doors. When it was done there stood on the table a square box addressed in artistic lettering to "Miss M. Brown, No. 5 Quadrangle." Placing her watch on her pillow, Millicent now rested for several hours without sleeping. At last, at seven o'clock, dressed for a journey, with suit case, umbrella and hand bag, she crept softly downstairs and plunged into the early morning mists. Not once did she glance back at the two gray towers as she hastened down to the station, and when the seven-thirty train for New York pulled in, she boarded it quickly and turned her face away from Wellington forever. CHAPTER XX. THE PARABLE OF THE SUN AND WIND. If Molly had been carrying a stick of dynamite she could not have held it more gingerly than the square box she was taking to President Walker on Monday morning. "That was the reason I never liked her," she thought, mentioning no names even in her own mind. "I wonder if it is true that she couldn't help it. It must be, when she was so rich. What could she want with Minerva's medals or Margaret's initialed ring? Both M's, though," she thought, half smiling. "Oh, Miss Brown," cried a voice behind her, and Madeleine Petit came tearing across the campus as fast as her little feet could carry her. "Is it true that Millicent Porter has run away from college?" "I'm afraid it is," answered Molly. "She owed us fifteen dollars," cried Madeleine tragically. "She promised to pay this morning, and I have just heard rumors that she has disappeared, bag and baggage." "You _did_ do the work for her?" asked Molly. "Yes, really, against my will. I knew you would never advise without having something to advise about. But Judith was determined, and the only reason I gave in was because she had never done any work before, and I thought it would be good for her to make a start. She was so happy over earning the money. It was really wonderful to see how she brightened up. And when we couldn't get a cent out of Miss Porter on Saturday afternoon, poor old Judith was so disappointed that she cried. Think of that." "What a shame," exclaimed Molly, appreciating Judith's feelings with entire sympathy. "I'm sure I should have cried if I had done all that hard work and then couldn't collect." "But what are we to do? Must we sit back quietly and let the rich trample the poor? Don't you think she is coming back?" "I think not," answered Molly. "Did you find out something those few minutes you were in the den?" Molly nodded her head. "Is she----" The two girls exchanged frightened glances. "And her father a millionaire, too! Well, I never," cried Madeleine. "I think I'll just drop him a letter," which she accordingly did that very day. But she never received an answer, and the debt still remains unpaid. In the meantime Molly was closeted with Miss Walker for ten minutes. "It's strange," said the President. "I just had a letter this morning from an old friend at the head of a private school warning me about this unfortunate girl who was a pupil there." But Molly was loath to discuss the matter, and still more loath to keep stolen property in her private possession. She placed the box on the President's desk and hastened away as soon as she politely could. That afternoon there appeared on the bulletin board the following unusual announcement: "All those who have lost property during the winter may possibly be able to obtain it by applying to the Secretary of the President." That the thief had been apprehended at last was of course understood. Putting two and two together, the Wellington girls concluded that Millicent Porter must have had some important reason for fleeing early in the morning without explanations, leaving two trunks and a debt of honor behind her. The trunks were afterwards expressed, according to directions left in her room. But, for the honor of Wellington, open conversation on the subject was not encouraged, and most of the talk was in whispers behind closed doors. A crowd of the girls from the Quadrangle, where most of the pilfering had been carried on, went together to claim their property on Monday evening. Those who had lost money returned disappointed. The box of restored goods contained none whatever. But the other articles were duly claimed and distributed, with the exception of one. "Does any one know to whom this belongs?" asked the secretary, placing a photograph in a beautiful silver frame on the top of the desk. "It must be yours, Nance," announced Edith Williams, with a teasing smile. "It is not," said Nance emphatically. The other girls, now gathered around the picture, began to laugh. Undoubtedly the small lanky boy in kilts in the photograph was Andy McLean. "Perhaps it is Mrs. McLean's," suggested some one. Margaret, examining the frame with the eye of an experienced detective, remarked in her usual authoritative tone: "The design on the frame is Japanese." "Otoyo," cried Judy, and the little Japanese, lingering near the door, crept timidly up and claimed the picture. Her face was a deep scarlet, as, with drooping head, she rushed from the room. "Bless the child's heart, who'd have thought she had a boy's picture," laughed Katherine Williams. That very night Otoyo returned the photograph to Mrs. McLean, and with many tears confessed that she had removed it from the drawer without so much as asking permission. "My sweet lass," exclaimed the doctor's wife, kissing her, "you shall have a good picture of Andy if you like, taken just lately. I am only too happy that you admire his picture enough to put it in that beautiful frame. I'm sure I think he's a braw lad, the handsomest in three kingdoms; but I am his mother, you know, and not accountable." Together the two women fitted the latest photograph of the callow youth into the frame. Otoyo presently bore it triumphantly back to her room and placed it on the mantel shelf where all the world could see it. That night she slept with an easy conscience and a thankful heart. Her one dishonest deed was wiped out forever. The untangling of one snarl in the skein of affairs generally leads to the untangling of many others. So it happened that Molly and Judy, by the turn which events had taken, were able to clear up a mystery that had puzzled them for months. "I feel, Judy," remarked Molly, one day, "that we ought to do something nice for Minerva Higgins, because of--you know what. We mentioned no names and never breathed it even to each other except vaguely Christmas day, you remember. But we did suspect her, and thinking is just as bad as talking when you think a thing like that, so cruel and horrible." Judy nodded her head thoughtfully. "But she will never know we are making reparation, Molly," she said. "It will have to be purely for our own private satisfaction." "Of course," replied Molly. "That is what I meant. We did her a wrong in our minds, and in our minds we must undo it." "And how, pray?" demanded Judy. "Well, let me see. Couldn't we ask her here some night with just the three of us, and make her fudge and be awfully sweet and interested?" "I suppose we could, if we made a superhuman mental and physical effort," answered Judy lazily. "And it would take both. Why not let well enough alone?" "But it isn't 'well enough,' Judy, and we've had an ugly thought about her for weeks." "Do you call those practical jokes she played on us last autumn pretty?" demanded Judy, who had no liking for Minerva. "No, but she has learned better now. Anyhow, Judy, I want to try an experiment. Do you remember the allegory of the sun and the wind and the man wrapped in his cloak? The wind made a wager with the sun that he could make the man take off his cloak, and he blew and blew with all his might, and the more he blew the closer the man wrapped his coat about him. Then the wind gave up and the sun came out and tried his method of just shining very brightly and cheerfully, and presently the man was so hot he took off his coat." Judy laughed. "Meaning, I suppose, that we have been trying the human gale method instead of the merry little sunshine way. All right, Molly, dearest, bring on your Minerva and I'll be as gentle as a May morning. But don't let the Gemini come, because we could never carry it through if they were present." It was agreed that the three friends, Molly, Nance and Judy, should entertain the vain little freshman at an exclusive party all to themselves. Other persons were advised to keep away. "Hands off," exclaimed Judy. "Stay away from our premises this evening, ladies, because we are going to try an experiment with explosives, and it might be dangerous." It was unfortunate that, on the very evening that Minerva Higgins had arranged to go to the three friends, somebody played a practical joke on her and she was in an extremely bad humor. Although she had regained her two medals, she was always losing things and crying her losses up and down the corridor. She usually found the articles mislaid in her own room, but she had a suspicious nature and was generally on the lookout for thefts. That afternoon she had rushed into the corridor crying: "My water pitcher has been stolen from me. I will not have people going into my room and taking my things." "As if anybody wanted her old water pitcher," remarked Margaret, in a tone of disgust. Edith Williams smiled mysteriously. Presently Minerva and the matron, much bored, passed the door. "Come on, let's go and see the fun," suggested Edith. "How do you know there will be any fun?" demanded Margaret. "There's likely to be." They strolled slowly up the corridor, and as they passed the door the matron was saying: "Really, Miss Higgins, I must request you not to raise any more false alarms like this. There is your water pitcher." She pointed to the chandelier where the pitcher had been hoisted on a piece of cord. A good many other girls had gathered about Minerva's door, and a ripple of laughter swept along the hall. "Edith, did you play that joke?" asked Margaret later. "Judy was a party to it, and Katherine and several others," answered Edith evasively. "We thought it high time to put an end to burglar alarms. Minerva Higgins has come to be a public nuisance." Margaret smiled. Her dignity would never allow her to enter into what she called "rowdy jokes." However, it did not mar her enjoyment of the story about them afterward. But it was an angry, sullen Minerva who presented herself at the door of No. 5, Quadrangle, that evening at eight o'clock. She had left off her medals and she had not worn the indigo blue. Judy was relieved at this, but Molly and Nance considered it a bad sign. The first half-hour of the reparation party dragged slowly. "We've piped for Minerva and she will not dance; we've mourned for her and she will not mourn. It's a hopeless case," Judy remarked in an aside to Nance. But Molly had formed a resolution and she was determined to carry it through. "Behind that Chinese wall of vanity, Minerva has a little soul hidden somewhere and I'm going to reach it to-night if I have to blast with dynamite," she thought. Nance was stirring fudge on the chafing dish and Judy was occupying herself strumming chords on the piano. Molly led Minerva to the divan and sat down beside her. "Are you glad you came to college, Minerva?" she asked, wondering what in the world to talk about. "No," answered the other emphatically. "I detest college. Except that the studies are higher, I think Mill Town High School is better run. I don't like college girls, either. They are all conceited snobs." "Perhaps you will like it better when you are a sophomore and have more liberty," suggested Molly. "The first year one can't look forward to much pleasure. But a freshman is always under inspection, you see. If she accepts the situation without complaining and is nice and obliging and modest, it's like so much treasure laid by for her the next year when she finds how popular she is with the other girls." "It's not like that in Mill Town. A freshman is just as good as anybody else," snapped Minerva. Judy, overhearing this statement, blinked at Nance, who smiled furtively and went on stirring fudge. Molly still persisted with the patience of one who looks for certain success. "The most interesting part of being a freshman," she continued, "is that a girl begins to find out about herself, and by the time she's a sophomore she knows what she really wants." "Oh, but I knew perfectly well what I wanted before I came," interrupted Minerva in a lofty tone, "I want to study the dead languages." "But there is something you want more than that," broke in Molly. "You want to be popular." Minerva gave her a suspicious glance, but Molly was beaming kindly upon her with all the warmth of her affectionate nature. "How do you know that?" she demanded in a somewhat softened tone. "It was not hard to guess. You said you were disappointed with the girls here because they seemed to be snobs. Now if you hadn't minded it very much, you never would have mentioned it. Don't you think the girls are just a little afraid of you? You see, they had heard you were the brightest girl in your school and when they saw all the medals and you talked to them on such deep subjects, they were scared off. They thought, perhaps, you wouldn't care for them because they didn't know enough. After all, people's feeling toward you is just a reflection of what you feel toward them. If you are interested and admire and love them, they are pretty sure to feel the same toward you. You see, I know you can be just as nice and human and everyday as the rest of us--" Molly laid her hand on Minerva's--"but the others haven't had a chance yet to find out." Minerva's stiff figure relaxed a little and she leaned against Molly confidingly. "I do want to be liked," she whispered. "All my life I've wanted it more than anything in the world. But even at Mill Town the girls were afraid of me, just as you say they are here. I might as well own up, as you have guessed it already." "But it's only a question of time now before you make lots of friends," said Molly, "You are so clever that you'll find out how to make them like you." "But how?" "Well," said Molly, "I think people who are sympathetic and who listen more than they talk generally have a good many friends. I'm afraid I've talked more than I listened this evening," she added, pinching Minerva's cheek. "But you've talked about me," answered Minerva. Suddenly her face turned very red and her eyes filled with tears. "I shall not wear the medals any more," she whispered unsteadily. "And--there is something I want to confess. I--I waited for you that night you were on the lake, and I sent an unsigned note to Miss Walker the next day to get even with you because you wouldn't let me go walking with you." Judy, at the piano, was singing a vociferous medley, and Nance was joining in. "That's all right," whispered Molly. "It was much better for her to know because we would have been misrepresented always unless someone had told her, and we couldn't exactly tell her ourselves. But I think it's awfully nice of you to confess, Minerva. Now, we shall be better friends than ever." The two girls kissed each other. The cloak of vanity had slipped off and the smartest-girl-in-Mill-Town-High-School became her real natural self. Until a quarter before ten the four girls laughed and talked pleasantly together, while the convivial fudge plate was passed from one to the other. But never once did Mill Town High School or comparative philology come into the conversation. When at last the evening was at an end and Minerva had departed, Nance and Judy led Molly gravely to the divan. "Now, tell us how you did it," they demanded in one voice. "I only told her the truth," answered Molly, "but I didn't put it so that it would hurt her. I said the reason why the girls were stand-offish was because they were afraid of her learning and her gold medals." "Marvelous, brilliant creature!" cried Judy, embracing her friend, while Nance laid a cheek against Molly's. "You are a perfect darling, Molly," she said. CHAPTER XXI. THE JUNIOR GAMBOL. "Hail, Wellington, beloved home! Hail, spot forever dear! We greet thy towers and cloisters gray, Thy meadows fresh in spring array; We greet thee, Wellington, to-day; Thy hills and dales; thy valleys green; Thy wood and lake--tranquil, serene; We greet thee far and near." Molly and Judy were responsible for the words of these stirring lines, which with three other verses were sung by the junior class to the air of "Beulah Land," the music having been adapted to the words rather than the words to the music. The entire junior class, a long, slender line of swaying white stretched across the campus, lifted its voice in praise of Wellington that May Day morning at the Junior Gambol. In the center waved the class flag of primrose and lavender. In the background was the gray pile of Wellington and in the front stretched the level close-cut lawn of the campus, fringed by the crowd of spectators. It was an impressive sight and when the fresh young voices united in the class song of "Hail, Wellington!", Miss Walker was moved to tears. "The dear children!" she exclaimed to Professor Green at her side, "really I feel all choked up over their devotion." Winding in and out in an intricate march, the class moved slowly across the campus until it reached the sophomores grouped together in one spot. Here they paused while the President of the juniors made a speech and presented the President of the sophomores with a small spade wreathed in smilax, a symbol of learning, or rather of the delving for learning which that class had in prospect in another year. Next the juniors approached the seniors and sang one of the Wellington songs, "Seniors, Farewell." Then the line broke up and moved to the center of the campus, where stood a May pole. An orchestra, stationed under one of the trees, began playing an old English country dance, and the juniors seized the streamers and tripped in and out with the graceful dignity suitable to their new, uplifted position of seniors about-to-be. Not one of the Wellington festivals could so stir her daughters of the present or the past, now grouped on the edge of the campus, as this Junior May-Day Gambol. "Perhaps it is so sad because it is so beautiful," Miss Pomeroy observed to Miss Bowles, teacher in Higher Mathematics, wiping her eyes furtively. But Miss Bowles, not being an ex-daughter of Wellington, and having a taste for more prosaic and practical pleasures, regarded the scene with only a polite and tolerant interest. "Who is to be the May Queen?" asked Mrs. McLean, standing in the same group with Miss Walker and Professor Green. As each succeeding year brought around the Junior Gambol the good woman hastened to view it with undiminished interest. "It would be difficult to say," answered Miss Walker. "In a class of such unusual individuality it will be very hard to select one who deserves it more than another." "It's a question of popularity more than intelligence," observed the Professor. "I think I might hazard a guess," he added in a lower tone, but his voice was drowned in a burst of music. The juniors were singing an old English glee song, "To the Cuckoo." "'Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove, Thou messenger of spring, Now heaven repairs thy rural seat And woods thy welcome ring.'" Many guesses were hazarded regarding the junior May Queen, not only among the crowds of spectators, but in the class itself. The votes for the Queen were cast by secret ballot in charge of a committee of three. Wellington traditions required that the name of the chosen one should be kept in entire secrecy until the clock in the tower struck noon on May Day. Then the junior donkey was led forth garlanded with flowers. He had officiated on this occasion now for ten years. This was the great moment when the identity of the most popular girl in the junior class was established for all time, and it was an important moment, because the one selected was generally chosen as Class President the next year. And now, as the tower clock boomed twelve deep strokes, there was a stirring among the spectators and a craning of necks. Three juniors appeared at the end of the campus, leading the aged donkey, who flicked his tail and walked gingerly over the turf. He wore a garland of daffodils and lilacs and moved sedately along, mindful of the importance of his position. The three girls were Nance Oldham, Caroline Brinton and Edith Williams. One of them carried a wreath of narcissus and the other two held the ribbon reins of the donkey. According to the time-honored rule, they approached their classmates with grave, still faces. It was really a solemn moment and the juniors waiting in an unbroken line never moved nor smiled. The spectators held their breath and for a moment Wellington was so still that every human thing in it might have been turned to stone. Why was it so exciting, this choosing of the May Queen? No one could tell, and yet it was always the same. Even Miss Bowles felt a lump rise in her throat. Many of the alumnæ shamelessly wept, and Professor Green, watching the three white figures move slowly in front of the line of juniors, wondered if no one else could hear the pounding of his pulses. Presently the committee came to a stop. The Professor thrust his hands into his pockets and drew a deep breath. Nance stepped forward and placed the wreath on somebody's head. The spectators could see that she was quite tall and slender, and that she shrank back with surprise and shyness as she was led forth and bidden to mount the donkey, which she did with perfect ease and grace, as one who has mounted horses all her life. "Who is it?" cried a dozen voices. "They look so much alike." Scores of opera glasses and field glasses were raised. "It's Molly Brown, of course," cried a girl. The Professor smiled happily. "Of course," he repeated, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. And now the ban of silence was lifted. The orchestra played; the audience cheered and the three classes gave their particular yells in turn, while the juniors, marching two by two, followed Molly Brown, riding the donkey, around the entire circuit of the campus. As for Molly Brown, she hung her head and blushed, looking neither to the right nor to the left. "The sweet lass, she might be a bride, she is so shy!" ejaculated Mrs. McLean as the procession moved slowly by. "Hurrah for Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky!" yelled a group of Exmoor students. "'Here's to Molly Brown, drink her down,'" sang the entire student body of Wellington. It was a thing that happened every year and there were those who had seen it thirty times or more, and still the spectacle was ever new. "I think I must be dreaming," Molly was saying to herself. "Of course, I might have known Nance and Judy would have voted for me and perhaps one or two others,--but so many--and what have I done to deserve it? I have hardly seen anything of Caroline Brinton and her crowd. 'Oh Lord, make me thankful for these and all thy mercies,'" she added, repeating the family grace, which somehow seemed appropriate to this stirring moment. After the triumphal march, Molly with the class officers, flanked by the rest of the class, held an informal reception on the lawn. This was followed by the Junior Lunch, quite an elaborate affair, served in the gymnasium, decorated for the occasion by the sophomores. Lawrence Upton was Molly's guest for the day. Many of the girls had asked Exmoor students, but Nance had been visited with a disappointment that was too amusing to be annoying. Otoyo Sen, on the sophomore committee for decorating the gymnasium, and therefore entitled to ask a guest, had not let the grass grow under her little feet one instant. The moment the committee had been selected, she sent off a formal, polite note to Andy McLean, 2nd, inviting him to be her guest. "Oh, Nance, that's one on you," cried Judy, when she heard this bit of news. "You always thought Andy was so much your property that no one would ever think of treading on your preserves. It's just like Japan, creeping quietly in and taking possession." "I suppose Andy will be hurt because I didn't get there first," replied Nance, laughing good-naturedly. "I suppose I shall have to ask Louis Allen, but I don't think it will do Andy any harm to know there are other fishes in the sea." "I guess it won't," answered Judy. "Nance is learning a thing or two," she added to herself. But all's fair in love and war, and there was no more charming figure on the campus that day than little Otoyo in a pink organdy and a large hat trimmed with pink roses. On her face was an expression of shy, discreet triumph as of one who has gained a victory by stratagem. The Junior Gambol came to an end at six that evening, and the tired students repaired to their rooms to rest and relax after eight hours of continuous entertaining. The eight friends of old Queen's days had gathered in No. 5 of the Quadrangle, where refreshments were being handed around, chiefly lemonade and hickory-nut cake. Eight limp young women in dressing-gowns draped themselves about the divans and in the arm chairs to discuss the joys of the day. Molly, at the window, was reading something written on a card tied to the stem of an exceedingly large yellow apple. It was Professor Edwin Green's card, and the inscription thereon read: "The first of the three golden apples was won to-day. Congratulations and best wishes." Untying the card, she slipped it into her portfolio. "Shall I divide it or eat it alone?" she asked herself, and, without waiting for the second voice to answer, she seized Judy's silver knife and divided the apple into eight sections, which she passed around the company. "Did this come from the Garden of Hesperides, Molly?" asked Edith Williams, always ready with her classic allusions. "I wouldn't be surprised if it did," answered Molly, smiling mysteriously. There was much to talk about that evening. It was the moment for reminiscences and they reviewed the past year with all its excitements and pleasures. When Millicent Porter had departed from Wellington in dishonorable flight, her place in the Shakespeareans had been immediately filled, and Judy Kean was the girl selected; which goes to show that after a good deal of suffering and when the edge is taken off the appetite, we generally get what we once earnestly desired. Judy was not excited over the honor paid her, but she acquitted herself creditably in the beautiful performance of "A Winter's Tale," which the society eventually produced. She sat on the floor now, leaning against Molly, whom, next to her father and mother, she loved best in all the world. Without realizing it herself, Judy's character had been wonderfully developed and strengthened by the events of that winter and she looked on the world with a new and broader vision. It was nearly bedtime; the night was warm and still and through the open windows came the sound of singing. The girls were silent for a while, too weary to make any more conversation. "And next year we'll be hoary old seniors," suddenly announced Judy, following up a train of thought. Several in the company sighed audibly. Already the thought of parting from each other and from their beloved Wellington cast a shadow before it. But this sorrowful last year was to be filled with interest and happy times, as you will see who read the next volume of this series, entitled "MOLLY BROWN'S SENIOR DAYS." * * * * * Transcriber's note: Besides some minor printer's errors the following corrections have been made: on page 265 and 269 "Madeleine" has been changed to "Millicent" (helped Millicent with the remainder) (leaving Millicent still in the window seat). Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. Additional: "Rosomond Chase" was called "Rosamond" in the first book of this series, "Molly Brown's Freshman Year." 
47966	----	[Illustration: The Yale quarter drove another forward pass to Armstrong who caught it cleanly and was off like the wind.--_Page 279_] FRANK ARMSTRONG AT COLLEGE By MATTHEW M. COLTON AUTHOR OF "Frank Armstrong's Vacation," "Frank Armstrong at Queens," "Frank Armstrong's Second Term," "Frank Armstrong, Captain of the Nine," "Frank Armstrong, Drop Kicker." [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1914, BY HURST & COMPANY MADE IN U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE FRESHMAN RUSH 5 II. A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE 18 III. THE CODFISH CREATES NEWS 35 IV. MAKING THE ELEVEN 49 V. FRANK LEARNS TO TACKLE THE DUMMY 65 VI. THE GREAT FRESHMAN BATTLE 79 VII. A WRECK AT THE HARBOR 95 VIII. FUN AT THE THEATER 110 IX. A JUMP IN BASEBALL AND THE RESULT 124 X. THE TRY-OUTS AT CAMBRIDGE 138 XI. A VOYAGE TO LONDON 149 XII. THE CODFISH LOSES HIMSELF 170 XIII. THE FLYING MACHINE TO THE RESCUE 187 XIV. PROGRESS AND A WRECK 201 XV. THE MATCH AT QUEEN'S CLUB 212 XVI. MAKING THE 'VARSITY NINE 229 XVII. THE SOUTHERN TRIP 241 XVIII. FOOTBALL IN JUNIOR YEAR 258 XIX. THE HARVARD-YALE GAME 273 XX. HOW ALL THINGS CAME OUT AT LAST 283 Frank Armstrong at College. CHAPTER I. THE FRESHMAN RUSH. It was the evening of a day in late September and a noticeable chill in the air hinted at the near approach of fall. Through the whole of that day and for several days previous to the opening of our story, incoming trains had deposited their burden of enthusiastic young humanity in the old town of New Haven. From mountain, shore, city, town and country came the throng of students like an army of youth, to take up the work of the college year at Yale, which opened her doors to them on the morrow. Men from all classes were in that motley throng which surged and billowed around the corner of College and Chapel streets, for this night was the night of "the rush," which tradition says shall be the first event of the college year. There were Seniors, in their new-found dignity of seniority; Juniors, nearer by a year to the coveted goal of a degree; Sophomores, who by the passage of time coupled with an adequate stand escaped from the ignominious position of the youngest class, and last, but not least, the Freshmen who, to-night, began their existence as a class. But the Freshmen kept themselves aloof from the upper class-men, perhaps for reasons of offense and defense for they were to be tried out later on, and did not want to be found lacking. Bronzed giants whose bulk proclaimed them to be at least "football material" shouldered their way through the crowd and the air was filled with the chatter and hum of many voices. Greetings between men who had been separated for the summer were heard on every side. "Hello, Dick. Mighty glad to see you!" "Glad to see you again. It's great to be back, eh?" and the speakers, with a hearty hand-grip would pass on and repeat the formulæ with little variation, to other friends. Suddenly the blare of a brass band cut through the chatter. Marshals sprang to the work of getting the parade in order, for a parade always precedes and has come to be part of "the rush." These men, conspicuous by their long-handled kerosene torches and the 'Varsity Y emblazoned on sweaters (for only men who have won the coveted letter are eligible for the position of marshals,) began to separate the groups. "Seniors, this way!" was the shout. "Juniors, this way!" "Sophomores, this way!" And, quickly following the command, the various groups, in the order named, dropped into line and, led by the marshals with torches swinging, went dancing down Chapel street to the compelling melody of a popular college marching song. "Freshmen, this way!" And to the shout, which was caught up and echoed up and down the line, the new-comers to the halls of Yale dropped in behind the Sophomores, feeling themselves, for the first time, a class instead of merely a huddled group without a bond of any kind. Dancing as merrily as their predecessors to the strains of the band, the Freshmen went swinging down the street imitating to the best of their ability the zigzag sweep of their elders. Hands of strangers touched for the first time and arms were thrown over strange shoulders and the feeling was good. In the middle of that swaying mass of Freshmen it does not take long to discover our three friends, Frank Armstrong, Jimmy Turner and last but not least the irrepressible Codfish, clad immaculately as usual. To-night he wore a delicate gray Norfolk suit with a vivid blue tie and socks to match, a tribute to the colors of the college he had adopted. "You are a brave one to appear in that Paris model," laughed Frank, who had arrayed himself in the oldest clothes he could find in anticipation of rough times before the evening was over. "Merely trying to uphold the reputation of the class and inject a little beauty into the occasion," returned the Codfish. "Look at our friend James. He has the ear-marks of a hobo!" Jimmy was far from being a beauty, it is true. "Safe and sane, sonny. Safe because the attentive Sophomores won't take a second look at me and sane because I need my good ones when I go calling," retorted Jimmy. "I think this Sophomore scare is pure bunkum," the Codfish suggested. "A fellow told me to-night that hazing at Yale has been given up. Someone was hurt a while ago in the merry pranks and the Faculty stopped it, eh?" He wasn't quite certain about it, and wanted verification. "You're safe," said Jimmy, "they never trouble the lady members of a class. Hello, what's the matter?" he went on as the parade came to a sudden halt at the corner of Church and Chapel streets. "Scrap, I guess," said Frank. "Bunch of town fellows trying to muss up the leaders. Always do that, they say. There they go across the street, and here we go!" as the band, which had stopped for a moment while a gang of young rowdies tried to cut the line of parade and were worsted in the attempt, began again and the merry zigzag went on. Around the central Green or square of the city tramped the jolly hundreds, occasionally giving voice to the chorus of a song the band was playing or a cheer in which the Freshmen joined as well as they were able, but in spite of their desire to be real Yale men, stumbling badly on the nine "Yales" at the end. Up Elm street, lined with hundreds of townsfolk glad to see the college once again in full swing, their faces lit up by the red fire and Roman candles in the hands of the marchers, swung the leaders. At High street the procession turned and entered the Campus. The gang of town boys and young men which had trailed the procession tried to force themselves into line, but were summarily thrown out, and without further molestation the marchers circled the Campus or college yard, and, opposite the Library, finally halted at a spot of green sward previously selected for the wrestling. The instant the leaders stopped there was a grand rush of the hundreds behind to gain a vantage point, and in a second the little circle the leaders had formed was squeezed together like paper. "Get back, get back," yelled the torch bearers, and emphasized their commands by pushing the lighted torches under the noses of those composing the living wall. Of course, there was only one thing to do and that was to go back with all haste. Pushing the ever-widening circle of spectators back with threatening fury, the marshals made a circle of sufficient capacity to carry on the wrestling bouts, which were the climax of "the rush." "Down!" howled the chief marshal, at which the front rank of that squeezed and straining wall squatted on the ground, but so great was the pressure of the hundreds behind that a score of the second row were shot clear over the heads of the first row and into the ring. "Out with the intruders," yelled a marshal, and the unfortunates were seized and thrown bodily into outer darkness over the heads of the first rows and were lost to view in the ruck. "Now I know why it is a good thing to put on your old duds," Frank gasped to Turner as they bored their way toward the center of activity. Our three friends had left the ranks of their class with many others when the head of the parade reached the Campus, and dashed over to a point where they were told the wrestling usually took place, on a chance that it would be in that spot this time. Their guess was right and for a moment they were actually within the coveted circle, but when the marshals made their onslaught on the crowd in order to expand the ring they were whirled into outer ranks and had only, after a desperate effort and "under a pressure of a hundred pounds to the square inch" as Turner expressed it, succeeded in digging their way back to the third or fourth tier in that circle of human faces. They were more fortunate than the hundreds who prowled around outside without a chance of a glimpse at the wrestling. "We've lost the Codfish," exclaimed Frank. "Oh, Gleason," he called, but there was no answering voice. "Lost in the shuffle," said Turner. "He was with us a minute ago but he'll turn up. He won't miss any tricks, don't you forget it." "He isn't much for this kind of a scramble game," returned Frank. "I thought he was holding back a bit when we struck in this last time, but----" "Sophomores, bring out your candidates," roared a big man who wore the football Y on his blue sweater. "Who is that whale of a man?" asked Frank. "That's Howard, the football captain," volunteered a boy just in front of them, who had overheard the question. The speaker held a notebook in his hand and they afterward learned he was a news-heeler getting a story for the _News_, the official college paper. "Freshmen?" inquired the heeler, looking our friends over. Frank nodded. "That fellow, yelling for a Freshman lightweight candidate, is the crew captain," went on the heeler; "and over there to his left is Dunnelly, the chap who kicked the goal against Princeton last year and saved us the game." The heeler pointed out the celebrities as they prowled around the ring, calling loudly for wrestling champions. "You see," explained the heeler, "there are wrestling bouts in the three weights,--light, middle and heavy, between the Sophomore and Freshmen for the class championship. Three bouts in each event." "O, you Freshmen, show your sand, trot out a candidate!" bawled one of the men within the ring. The crowd outside clamored for candidates from the Freshmen. "We want a Sophomore lightweight!" roared another, and the crowd took up the cry and repeated it. "Sophomore lightweight, Freshman lightweight, don't be quitters, come across with the champions!" "Sophomore lightweight, Sophomore lightweight!" "Freshman lightweight!" "Don't be quitters!" "Show your sand, Freshmen!" Suddenly there was a commotion on one side of the ring, and amid yells and the shaking of torches, the living wall opened and a slender, blond-haired youth stepped into the ring. "Who is he?" "What's his name?" "Sophomore or Freshman?" "Sophomore," said the boy. "Your name," demanded a marshal. "Ballard." "Your weight?" "One twenty-nine, stripped." "You'll do." Immediately two Juniors volunteered to second him, and fell to work stripping him to the waist, the traditional custom for the friendly combat. Meanwhile the calling for a Freshman lightweight went on without success, and the crowd was throwing red-hot taunts at the youngest class for shirking their duty. The Freshmen had pushed one of their number into the ring, but he proved to be over the required weight and was cast out without ceremony. A commotion on the outside of the ring started anew the calls for a Freshman lightweight, and the call was unexpectedly answered by the appearance of a young man in delicate light gray clothes with blue necktie and socks to match, who was passed unceremoniously over the hands of the crowd and deposited right-side-up on the green grass of the enclosure. Jimmy gasped. "The Codfish, or I'm a Hottentot!" "No one else, for sure. How did they get him?" exclaimed Frank. The Codfish was greeted by a rattling cheer, followed by much advice. "Well done, Freshman!" "Take off those pretty clothes!" "He certainly is a Yale man, look at that tie!" "Good work, Freshman, eat him up!" The referee, the Captain of the Yale Wrestling Team, strode over to the Codfish, and looked him up and down. "You are not a very promising specimen," he said. "Ever wrestle before?" "Never," said Gleason. "All I know about wrestling wouldn't hurt anyone." "What's your name and weight?" "Gleason, and I weigh one twenty-five." "Stripped or with those clothes on?" "Clothes and all," said the Codfish with a grin, and his eyes wandering around the sea of faces, chanced to light on his two friends, Armstrong and Turner. He waved an airy salute to them, and began with his seconds, two Seniors, to divest himself of his coat, shirt and undershirt. "He really means to wrestle," gasped Frank. "Can you beat it?" "He certainly has his nerve with him," returned Jimmy. "His middle name is nerve." The preliminaries over, Ballard and the Codfish faced each other in the flickering light of the torches, shook hands, and at the shrill scream of the referee's whistle, rushed at each other. Neither was versed in the art of wrestling, but both were about the same size. Down they went on the ground, Gleason underneath, the Sophomore struggling to pin the shoulders of the Freshman to the ground, which meant victory. But just at the moment when things looked bad for the under-dog, he slipped out of the hold, squirmed free and threw himself with all his force against the Sophomore, bearing him over sideways. The assault was so sudden that Ballard was taken unawares, and before he could gather himself, Gleason sprang on the prostrate boy and shoved his shoulder points on the grass. A resounding slap on the back by the referee testified to the success of the attack, and it was the Freshmen's turn to cheer, which they did right lustily. CHAPTER II. A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE. "First blood for the Freshman. Wow!!" Both principals were now in their corners being fanned with towels and put in shape for the second bout which was to follow immediately, for there were three in each event as the Codfish learned to his sorrow. His eyes wandered again to where Frank and Turner were wedged in the crowd, almost speechless at what they saw before them. "The Codfish of all creatures in the world to be wrestling for his class," laughed Jimmy. "We live and learn. He may be out for football yet." The subject under discussion just at this moment bent his head and whispered something to one of his seconds, then looked up and nodded in the direction of his friends agape on the other side of the circle. For a moment the gaze of the second rested on Armstrong and Turner. Then the whistle blew and the boys sprang again to the center of the ring. This time it was different. The Sophomore did not rush in so fearlessly. He circled round and round with arms outstretched and figure crouching. Then he sprang at the Freshman's leg and before the latter knew it he was on his back with his opponent squarely across his chest. "Fall for the Sophomore," announced the referee, slapping the victor on the shoulder. Sophomore yells rent the air. "A tie, a tie! Now bury the Freshman this time. Go to it." Again the seconds ministered to their men, and after a two-minutes' rest the boys went at it, but the Codfish, who was not noted for his physical prowess, went down after a brief tussle, and the lightweight event was awarded to the Sophomores amid yells by that class which echoed back from the buildings of the quadrangle. Gleason struggled into his clothes, and ducked through the living wall as fast as he could go, while the calls for the middleweight wrestlers were being yelled by the marshals. A husky young Sophomore quickly responded, but again the Freshmen were slow with their man. The big football captain, who had been in conference with some of his aides, walked across the ring. "You red-head, there," pointing to Turner, "come out here and defend the honor of your class. The Freshman who just wrestled says you're a good one." Frank and Jimmy looked at each other. "So that's the game the Codfish put up on me," said Jimmy. "Wait till I get at him. I'll dirty his clothes worse than they are now." "Come on, Freshman," said the Captain peremptorily. "I can't wrestle," said Jimmy. "Get out here and learn then. Come on," and the Captain reached a big hand over the heads of the squatters in the ring. Jimmy felt compelling hands pushing from behind, and with the eyes of everyone on him, there was nothing to do but go forward. A path was cleared for him and he stepped into the ring. "Good boy, Red. You've got to even this thing up." "Show us you have the goods!" yelled someone whose sympathies were with the Freshmen. The Freshman and Sophomore took their corners after the referee had satisfied himself that the pair would be well matched as to weight, and soon they were down to wrestling condition with bare backs and sock feet, because a wrestler is never allowed to wear anything that might in any way injure his opponent. "Does your friend know anything about the game?" inquired the news-heeler of Frank. "Not much, he did a little of it at school, but he is very strong," was Frank's reply. "Well, he'll need it. That fellow who is pitted against him is Francis who won the lightweight event for his class last year, and is one of the best men in his class at the wrestling game." When the Sophomore got to his feet, it was seen that he was a head taller than his opponent, but not so heavily built. His slender body was finely muscled, and his face wore a smile of confidence which said quite plainly what his opinion was of the outcome. "Middleweights--Sophomore Francis, weight 148; Freshman Turner, weight 154," bawled the announcer. Then the whistle shrilled and the boys sprang forward to shake hands. That preliminary over, they backed away from each other and circled around, sparring for an opening. Francis rushed, but Turner cleverly evaded him. Again he tried and was thrown off by Turner, the "spat" of the meeting bodies sounding sharp and clear in the night air. "Good boy, Turner. Don't let him get that grip on you," yelled a Senior as Turner eluded another bull-like rush which carried both the contestants in among the torches. It was Francis' method of wrestling to carry the fight fast and furious from the beginning. More skirmishing, and finally a savage rush, and Francis got a hold on Turner's leg, lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards. Both crashed to the ground. There was a twisting, squirming struggle with Turner at the bottom, but not downed yet for he managed to break away from Francis' hold and got to his hands and knees with Francis across his back. The picture at this point was one worthy of the brush of an artist. Riding in a clear sky, a round moon looked down through the branches of the big elms to where the boys fought it out on the grass, panting with their exertions. Most of the torches had by this time burned themselves out and lay smoking at the feet of the human circle. For a background to the picture hundreds of lights twinkled on in the dormitory windows facing the Campus, and in the dim light of the moon could be seen scores of people who had taken advantage of the Dwight Hall porch from whence they could get a distant view of the struggle. But the boys struggling on the ground and those crowded around the ring were not interested in the pictures. Back and forth the wrestlers went, the advantage first with one and then with the other. Francis could not get his famous holds on Turner for the latter, with extraordinary strength, either evaded or broke them before he was caught irrevocably. Time was up for the bout before either had scored a fall. "Keep him off, Turner," counseled one of his seconds, while he pummeled the wrestler's arm and shoulder muscles. "Tire him out in this next bout, and you will get him in the last one." "Don't let him get that half-Nelson on you or you are going sure as shooting," advised the man who fanned the panting Turner with a towel. "You've taken some of the confidence out of him already." Francis in his corner was getting the same kind of advice. "You'll get him this time," cheered his advisers. "Carry it right to him and don't let him get out of your grips." "He's strong," said Francis. "He nearly broke my arm, but I'll get him. Don't worry." But the confident smile had gone from his face. It was going to be a bitter struggle in which his skill was pretty nearly evened by the Freshman's unusual strength. "Ready," shouted the referee, and once again the boys sprang at each other. Francis was more cautious this time; Turner watchful and wary. Round and round they circled until Turner seeing what he thought was an opportunity rushed with such a tremendous drive that Francis, unable to escape, was borne off his feet. He managed to save himself from a bad position by driving Turner's head down, and mounting his back, rode half way round the ring like an old man of the mountains, while the crowd yelled and laughed. The laughter seemed to madden Jimmy. With a herculean effort he freed himself from Francis who dropped to the ground on hands and knees firmly braced. Using all his strength to turn him over without success, Jimmy relaxed his muscles, rested for a moment, and then putting every pound of energy into one supreme effort, picked his opponent up by the middle and threw him backwards over his head. Francis struck on his shoulder, rolled over on his back and lay still. He had been stunned by the fall. A little fanning brought Francis back to consciousness, but he had enough for that night, and the referee awarded the bout to Turner. A few moments of conference and the announcer cried: "Turner wins the middleweight bout for the Freshmen. The third bout will not be pulled off." The Freshman cheer that went up rattled the windows in Durfee Hall. As Turner was putting on his clothes, and while calls were going out for heavyweight candidates, a man wearing the 'Varsity Y stepped up to him. "Do you play football?" "Yes, a little," said Turner, rubbing tenderly a red welt across his right forearm, which had been raised by one of the Sophomore's love taps. "Report to me at the Field next Monday. I'm the Freshman football coach. Maybe I can use you." Turner thrilled. "So the old Codfish didn't get me in wrong after all. I'll forgive him," he thought to himself. Finished with his dressing, he was allowed to pass through the thinning wall of spectators, and was picked up by Frank who had wriggled from his position with difficulty. "Great stuff, Jimmy," cried Frank. "It was worth real money to see you in action!" "I don't deserve any credit for it," said Turner. "I happened to get a lucky lift on him. He knows more about the game than I'll ever learn. I hope I didn't hurt him." "Never fear, his pride was hurt more than his body," returned Frank. "I wonder where Hercules Gleason went to. He disappeared after his meteoric burst of wrestling form." "As I'm a sinner, there he is now," exclaimed Jimmy, pointing to a dejected figure leaning against the bole of a huge elm tree. The boys pranced up to him, and sure enough it was the Codfish, mussed and bedraggled. Great blotches of green grass stain ornamented his beautiful light gray trousers, and one knee peered out through a six-inch rent which had been made when his overzealous opponent dragged him along the ground in the second bout. His usually sleek hair was all awry and a zigzag scratch beautified the side of his face. "How did you like my début?" he asked weakly. "Great, but how in the name of Mike and the rest of the family did you come to get roped in?" "They noticed my special fitness for the job, I guess," murmured the Codfish, "and they threw me into the ring, and when I got there, what was there left but to take my medicine?" "Who was it that chucked you over our heads, and why didn't you follow us when we made a break?" demanded Frank. "O, you ducked off so fast that I lost track of you, and then while I was hunting around for you a bunch of fellows came along and asked me if I were a Freshman." "And you said no, of course," said Jimmy. "No, I said yes with the result as you saw it. I was lucky to escape with my life. How that Sophomore came to let me throw him is more than I can understand." "It was the blue socks that did it," declared Frank. "He simply couldn't withstand them." "Come on home," said the Codfish, groaning. "I'm a mess." "Not till this match is over," said Frank. "We've got to stick by the class. There's one for us I guess," as Freshmen yells betokened a fall for the candidate of the youngest class in the heavyweight match now going on desperately in the ring they had left. Five minutes more, and a great burst of cheering announced the end of the match with the Freshman candidate a winner. "That gives us the championship," shouted Frank, and the three friends grasped each other about the shoulders and whirled around in a wild dance, the Codfish favoring his lame knee as much as possible. Like magic the great crowd of students faded from the Campus and headed for York street. At the corner of High street and Elm the gang of town roughs, now augmented to a hundred or more, yelled defiance at the students, and occasionally fell upon some of them who were on the outskirts of the crowd. "Look out for your caps," came the warning, but it was not given soon enough to prevent some of the unwary from losing their headgear at the hands of the roughs who were out for the particular business that night of cap-snatching. Hot blows were struck, the whole body of students uniting against the common enemy. At every few steps a rough, backed by a half dozen of his pals, dashed into the students and for a moment there would be a whirlwind of fighting, ending generally in the attacking party beating a retreat with bloody noses but with the prized cap trophies. Keeping out of the fighting, the three friends moved slowly with the crowd in the direction of Pierson Hall on York street, where their rooms were located. Frank supported the crippled Codfish with an arm around his waist. Jimmy appointed himself as rear guard, keeping a wary lookout for attacks. Suddenly out of the crowd swooped two roughs and charged full at Frank and the Codfish, bowling them over like nine-pins. One of the roughs grabbed Gleason's cap, which he was unwise enough to wear, and with it a handful of his hair. This brought a blood-curdling yell from the victim of the assault, and drew the attention of the crowd. For the second time that night Jimmy went into action. A well-delivered punch knocked the cap-snatcher into the street, but before he could do more execution he was set on by a half dozen of the snatcher's friends who had followed closely on their companion's heels. Frank dropped the Codfish and sprang to Jimmy's assistance, and in a second a scrap of major proportions was in full swing. The boys put up a whirlwind argument with their fists, and were holding their own when through the mass came ploughing two officers of the law, the light flashing on their brass buttons. "Police, police, beat it!" yelled the roughs, and they fled precipitately, all excepting the two that Frank and Jimmy were pummeling with such exceeding vigor that they didn't have time to escape. Into the circle where the fight was going on strode the officers with clubs drawn. "Quit it and come with us," said one of the policemen. "We're going to put a stop to this street fighting. A night in the lock-up will take some of the spunk out of you fellows. Come on," and each grabbed an arm of Armstrong and Turner while the roughs who had started the trouble, with terrified looks, turned, dashed through the crowd, and made their escape. "They snatched my cap," said the Codfish. "So you were in it, too? You better come along with your friends," said one of the officers, reaching for Gleason's arm. "Why don't you take the roughs that started the muss?" remonstrated Frank. "No lip, young fellow," said the officer, scowling and shaking his club. Both policemen started forward, pushing their captors ahead of them, but the crowd blocked the way and began to hoot and yell. It looked like serious trouble for a minute when, shouldering through the crowd, came a giant of a man wearing the uniform of the University police. "What's the matter, boys?" he said in a soft tone. "These young fellows were fighting and we're going to jug them for a while." "No, I wouldn't do that, now," urged the soft voice. "Maybe they had a reason. Let me take charge of them. They're good boys." "They were defending themselves," said a man who stepped forward from the ring of spectators. "I saw the muss and these boys are not to blame." Turner recognized in the speaker the man who had asked him to report at the Field the next week, and his heart sank. It was a bad way to start his Yale career, he thought. "Let me take them in charge," urged the University officer, and reluctantly the City policemen released their holds on the offenders. "Well, see that they don't get into trouble again on the streets or you can't save them." "O, I'll take care of them," and then to Frank, "Come on, boys, let's go over to your room. I wouldn't have you fighting for the world. It isn't a good way to start, you know." "We simply couldn't help it," Turner burst out. "What would you do in such a case?" "O, I'd just naturally run," said the officer, and a laugh shook his huge bulk. "But if you couldn't run?" urged Turner. "Well, I'd just naturally have to fight, I s'pose," and he laughed again his good-natured laugh which had numberless times quieted turbulent spirits. "We'll forgive you this time. Now where do you live? I'll see you to your rooms. You've had enough fun for the night." "We live together at Pierson, just around the corner," said Frank. "Come on then," said the officer, and accompanied by a cheering crowd, the procession moved onward while the roughs, regaining some of their courage, followed at a safe distance and jeered. The boys gained their room without further trouble, and for an hour looked down on the seething mass on York street below where the classes pushed and struggled in good-natured fun. "Well, it's been some evening," said the Codfish reminiscently as he daubed arnica on his bruised knee. "Yes, Yale seems to be a lively little place," said Turner. "Hand me over that arnica when you have done with it. I have a few tender spots myself." "I'll have a lick at it when you are through with it, Jimmy," laughed Frank. "I lost a yard of skin in the last mêlée. I hope they don't have many nights like this. I wouldn't last." Sore and bruised the three crawled into their beds, but the sting of broken skin could not stifle the feeling of radiant happiness that was theirs because at last they were "Yale men," and a part of the great institution about which their dreams had so long centered. CHAPTER III. THE CODFISH CREATES NEWS. Golden October, slipping rapidly by, found our boys settled comfortably in their college life. The first week was a hard one for them all, but as time went on they adjusted themselves to their surroundings, began to make acquaintances and easily dropped into the daily routine of work and play. Frank and Jimmy had gone out for the Freshman football team, and the latter was now a recognized member of the squad with great hopes for the future. Frank had been unfortunate. On the third day of practice he twisted an ankle and had been obliged to sit on the side-lines watching his fellows boom along under instruction of the coach while he saw his chances gradually growing slimmer. To-day he had gone out again and after half an hour again wrenched the bad ankle. It would be another week at least before he could think of playing. "You are the best representation of Gloom I ever saw pulled off," said the Codfish that night as Frank hobbled into the room after dinner at Commons, and threw himself into a chair. "My jinx seem to be working overtime," returned Frank, "and my guardian angel is out visiting somewhere. Did you ever see such luck?" and he deposited the injured leg on the chair in front of him. "Bad judgment, my boy, bad judgment. You should have gone in for the less strenuous sport of rowing as I have," admonished the Codfish. "A lazy, sit-down job and one for which you are peculiarly fitted," broke in Jimmy Turner. "Ah, but my boy, if you can win your Y sitting down, isn't it better than to be mauled by bear-cats every day? I belong to the antisweat brigade." "The only Y you will ever get is the one you find in your soup," Jimmy flung at him. "Stranger things than that have happened, Mr. Turner." "Yes, blue moons, for instance." Codfish, fired by the general fever for something to do outside of the classroom, had indeed enlisted himself as a candidate for the coxswain of the crew, because, as he said, "You only had to sit still, pull ropes now and then and talk." He had been out as one of the coxswains and had shown some aptitude in spite of the fact that he knew nothing whatever about rowing. "I'm paralyzed with amazement," said Frank, looking the Codfish over quizzically, "that you ever got ginger enough into your system to even do sit-down work." "Well, you see it was this way," returned the crew squad-man, crossing one thin leg over the other. "I went down there to the boat house one day, merely to look on, to see----" "To see how the young idea was shooting, eh?" grunted Jimmy. "Precisely. And when the coaches saw me they were struck with my peculiar--ahem----!" "Unfitness!" "Wrong again, the phrase I was going to use was, 'peculiar fitness,' fitness, do you get it? for the job, and begged me to help them out." "And you helped?" "What could I do? Other things are claiming my attention but I could not see rowing go to the bad down there, so I accepted as gracefully as I could." "And now things are in a rotten state?" "For the second time, wrong and always wrong. They are improving daily. Of course, I'm not in the first boat yet, it would have created too much jealousy, but I have assurance from headquarters that I will be moved into the coveted position of cox of the Freshman crew as soon as it has been picked." "Heaven help the first Freshman crew then," groaned Jimmy. "Little do they realize the honor that is shortly to descend upon them," returned the Codfish, complacently. "I have some original ideas about steering a shell which will practically assure them of the race next June." "And they are?" "Why cast pearls before swine? The scheme will be revealed to you in due season," and the Codfish pulled a pad of paper toward him and began to scribble on it industriously. "You didn't know, perhaps, that I've decided to go out for the _News_, did you?" said the Codfish, scratching away with his head tilted on one side. "Aren't you a little late in the undertaking?" inquired Frank. "That is something of a job for even an intelligent man." "For an ordinary intellect, yes, but for me a mere bagatelle, or bag-of-shells, as the ancients have it." "Heeling the _News_ means hours and hours of shacking," said Frank. "Have you seen those pale ghosts of heelers flitting around by day and by night on bicycles?" "O, yes, that's the ordinary way, I know. I shall deal only in scoops, which, if you follow me, means a 'beat' on all the other fellows." "It's a difficult business, sonny." "On the contrary, a cinch. Watch your Uncle Dudley. Simply mind over matter. You boneheads wouldn't understand my reasoning processes if I explained, so why explain? But I say, when is David Powers expected in this burg?" "Arrives on the morning train from New York," said Frank. "Got in on the _Olympic_ last night from the other side. Began to think he was lost." "Good old Davey. And he's going to be in Pierson?" "Yes, right across the hall from us." "Good, I can use him in my _News_ ambitions. Now I guess I'll run across to the _News_ office and tell the editors I'm ready to start work." "I hope they kill you," Jimmy shot after him as the door banged. Half an hour later the Codfish was back in the room. "Well, what happened?" both boys demanded. "What do you suppose?" "They fired you out after one good look at you." "On the contrary, they welcomed me with open arms. Assignment Editor is a peach. He recognized my ability at once." "How?" "O, kind of naturally doped it out for himself. General bearing I have, I s'pose. Poor Freshman bunch heeling the _News_ now, he told me, and that makes my chances better." "O, you egotist, you blithering egotist," laughed Jimmy. "No, no, not egotism, just merely confidence. Now if I were on the Freshman football squad, I'd just simply know I was going to make the team, and that's all there'd be to it. I'd make it. Mind over matter, my boy, mind over matter, as I was telling you." "And when do you begin?" inquired Frank. "O, I'll knock off a little something in the morning. I've an hour after ten-thirty recitation. I asked the Assignment Editor to save me a column on the front page, in view of a scoop I contemplate. Hand me that paper, Turner," indicating the evening paper which lay on the floor at Jimmy's feet. Turner tossed it over to him, and Codfish at once buried himself in its columns. After ten minutes' reading, the Codfish slapped his knee with a resounding slap and gave evidence of excitement. "What's up, old top?" inquired Frank, looking up from his book. "Basis for a scoop first lick out of the box," was the answer. "And what?" "O, read it in the _News_ day after to-morrow," and the Codfish settled himself to lay out his plans. He had come across an item which suggested something in the way of a story which would attract the attention of the whole college. Nothing was seen of the Codfish the next day. He explained to his roommates that he had taken two cuts and had gone into the suburbs on an exploring expedition. He had hardly time to welcome David Powers who arrived in due season, and was properly installed among his belongings in the room across the hallway. But the following morning as with Frank and Jimmy he strolled across the Campus to Osborn Hall for the first recitation after Chapel, he proudly exhibited a copy of the _News_. On the first page in black type was emblazoned the head: EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERY. BONES OF PREHISTORIC ANIMAL UNEARTHED BY WORKMEN PRESENTED TO YALE MUSEUM. SAID TO BE MOST IMPORTANT FIND IN RECENT YEARS. Then followed a description of the bones which were represented to be those of a prehistoric horse of a species not before known to the paleontologists. The article ended with the information that the bones had been carefully preserved, and had been presented, or would shortly be presented, to the Yale Museum by the _News_ representative who had had a prominent part in their recovery. The Codfish puffed out his chest as Frank and Jimmy scanned the article. "What do you think of your humble roommate now, eh, what? Didn't I tell you to read it in the _News_?" "So that's what bit you the other night?" "Sure. The ordinary eye would have passed that item over without a thought, but I saw possibilities in it. You never saw so many bones," he added. "Fine bones, perfectly fine bones, just as good as any over in the Museum, and a lot whiter than most of them." "Yes, but who told you they belonged to the prehistoric horse?" "O, the foreman of the gang. He was a keen guy, I tell you, knew all about the game and got me so enthusiastic that I bought the whole bunch for ten dollars. They'll have a chance to mull over them up at the Museum in a day or two." "More likely they are the remains of some poor bossy," said Jimmy, "who laid down and died yesteryear." "You are the most disgusting pessimist I know," said the Codfish in high dudgeon. "Haven't they as good a chance to be old-fashioned bones as anything? Anyway I got the story in and a credit of five thousand words at least on the scoop. The fact that I bought them and presented them to the Museum should be worth another bunch of credit to me, but I'll work that up into a new story that will knock their eye out." "But Lord help you if you've put the _News_ in wrong," said Frank. "Tush, tush," was all that Codfish would say, "don't discourage the efforts of a budding genius." Several days later three expressmen might have been seen carrying most carefully a gigantic packing box labeled: RELICS--WITH CARE. and addressed to the Peabody Museum. Behind it marched the Codfish. "Round the back way," he commanded. "You can't get in the front way. Easy there. You're carrying the most important thing you ever handled." "It's darn'd heavy," grunted one of the men. "That's because it's so valuable," admonished the guardian of the box. "Don't drop it, on your life; it's a prehistoric horse." "Well, if it is, give me a historic one. He must be solid stone." "No, only solid bone, like your head. Easy there!" Stumbling and grunting the men carried the box as gingerly as they could around to the back of the Museum. The Codfish left his precious possession, and hunted around in the gloomy depths of the basement of the Museum among the giant bones of long extinct mammals which lined the corridors. "They must all be ossified here," he muttered to himself, but as he was about to give up the search for something living in that forbidding cavern, he came upon an apron-clad man who looked him over curiously. "Well," said he of the apron. "I'm looking for the bone man," said the Codfish somewhat abashed. "You're in the wrong museum, you want the dime kind." "No, I don't. I want the bone professor." "O, the bone professor, eh? Well, I'm the man," he said, while the suspicion of a smile crossed the pale features. "What's wanted?" "Got a bunch of bones out here for you, great stuff, too." "Whose bones?" "O, it's something that will interest you. I've presented them to the Museum." "You have, eh? That's kind of you. Didn't you think we had enough?" glancing around at the tiers of cases and the tons of uncased bones lying on the floor. "O, but you've got nothing like these. These are the whitest bones you ever saw, belonged to a prehistoric horse or something of that kind. Don't you read the _News_? Take a look at them. Where do you want them put?" The "bone professor" called a workman who, with a hatchet, soon had the cover of the packing case ripped off, exposing the great find of the Codfish. "This is a poor joke," said the professor, the danger light beginning to flash in his eye. "Take them out of this." "Why, aren't they good bones? Didn't they belong to a prehistoric horse?" "A prehistoric jackass, and you are a direct descendant," shouted the professor. "I won't have you or your bones around here. You've dug up a domestic animal cemetery somewhere. Off with them," and he turned on his heel and plunged into the basement without so much as another look at the discoverer of the prehistoric horse. "And to think that I paid ten dollars to get them here," reflected the Codfish. "Science can go hang in the future. Here," to the driver of the wagon, "take this blooming box of bones away somewhere and lose it forever." "It'll take five dollars to lose it right," said the driver, who with his two assistants, had hung around, grinning broadly at the discomfiture of the friend of science. "It's worth five to have it lost," said the Codfish as he went into his pocket for the necessary bill, "and if I ever see it or you again, beware of your life." "We'll take it to the soap factory, eh?" "No chance," said the Codfish gloomily. "The bones are not old enough for the Museum and too old for the factory. Eat them if you want to, only get rid of them somehow. I'm off," and he strode out to High street in a rage. But the Codfish had the newspaper man's sense, and that night wrote an article for his paper which explained that the find was only "semiprehistoric, and as such did not have the value that it was first supposed to have in spite of the authority of the first testimony." The Codfish did not know till later that his prehistoric stories netted him less than nothing, for he was docked ten thousand words by the _News_ board for handing in an article which contained so much misinformation. In such ways do the Fates trip up even unselfish friends of science. CHAPTER IV. MAKING THE ELEVEN. "I'd give good money, if I had it," quoth Turner, "to have to-morrow's game over and won." Half a dozen boys were gathered in the Pierson Hall rooms, and the talk was on the Exeter game which was to be played on the morrow. "Why so timid?" spoke up the Codfish, who was planning another assault on the _News_ columns. "This Exeter team is good, awfully good. Did you see what they did to Hotchkiss last week?" "Sure--16 to 0." "And what was our score against Hotchkiss?" "Nothing to 6." "Figuring at that rate it will be an interesting occasion for us to-morrow afternoon," said Frank Armstrong gloomily. "But then," more cheerfully, "you can never tell what will happen in football. If our friend James Turner could get away on one of his dashing runs, right early in the game, it might be a help." "I haven't been dashing much lately," said Turner. "My dashing has been chiefly on the ground." "The worm may turn," suggested Butcher Brown, a broad-shouldered and loosely built young chap who played a tackle position on the second Freshman eleven, and who lived on the same floor in Pierson, at the end of the corridor. "Speaking of worms," observed the Codfish, "did you notice the _News_ this morning?" "I saw it was printed as usual," said Frank. "Some good football news on the first page?" "Always thinking of football. Did you happen to look in the crew notices? Of course, you didn't." "What was it? Tell us. Have you been promoted?" "Promoted is the word," said the Codfish proudly. "I have the honor to announce to you, since you didn't read it for yourself, that I'm to guide the destinies of the third Freshman crew henceforth." "I'm glad I'm not on it, then," said Turner. "And," continued the Codfish undaunted by Turner's shot, "in about a week I'll land in the seat of the first eight. They are very fond of my style down there at the boathouse." "Your line of talk I suppose is so overpowering that the crew rows hard to get away from it." "Don't be sarcastic, Armstrong. It doesn't fit your particular style of beauty. You are peeved because you can't make the Freshman football team, and, of course, I don't blame you, but try not to be jealous of me." Frank laughed. "Go it, old bird," he said. "We're too fond of you to be jealous, but remember the old proverb: 'Pride goeth before a fall!'" "Watch me," said the Codfish. "Proverbs don't fit my case," and the Codfish busied himself over a pile of correspondence. "Why such industry?" inquired Turner, after a few minutes of silence broken only by the scratching of the Codfish's pen. "Read it in the _News_, my son. I'm going to have a red-hot scoop to-morrow." "Let us in on it." "Not on your life." "Has it anything to do with prehistoric horses?" "Nothing at all. Better than that. This one will make them all sit up and take notice. There ought to be about ten thousand words credit in this one. I can see the road clear to an editorship on that ancient and honorable sheet. When I get on the Board, I'll see to it that all football games are very carefully reported, and that your glaring mistakes are not brought out too prominently." "Thanks, very much," said Turner, laughing. "You're a confident little rooster. For a man who talks so much you get very little into that same _News_, it seems to me." "I'll bet you I can get a front page article to-morrow." "I'm not a betting man," said Turner. "Moreover I don't want to take your money." "Quitter," retorted the Codfish. "I'll bet you for fun, money or beans." "I haven't had any fun for the last three weeks. I have no money, and beans are scarce." "Then I'll show you, anyway. Read the _News_ in the morning," and grabbing a handful of manuscript the Codfish dashed out the door, slamming it vigorously behind him as was his habit. An hour later, just as the boys were about to turn in for the night, Jim, the University officer, pushed the door open and entered. "Hello, boys," said the officer, seating himself in a big armchair and puffing with the climb of three flights of stairs. "Do you have a fellow named Gleason rooming here, a _News_ heeler?" "Sure," said Frank, "that's the Codfish." "Yes, yes," said the officer. "Well, he's been pinched." "What, arrested?" "Sure thing. He's down at the lock-up now. Captain just telephoned me to see if I could locate his friends." "What was he up to?" "Riding a bicycle on the Chapel street sidewalk." "But he has no bicycle, it would be too much like work for him to ride one." "Well, he must have borrowed it then, because he was pulled in by one of the city men for breaking the ordinance against riding on the sidewalk." "The nut," ejaculated Turner. "He should have known better than that." "We've got to get him out of hock," said Frank. "I guess you will if he gets out to-night," returned the officer, laughing, "and it takes about fifty dollars bail to do it." The boys looked at each other, aghast. "Fifty dollars!" they said. "That's a lot of money." "Take up a collection," suggested the officer, "and I'll go down to the station with you. It has got to be cash. They won't accept checks for bail, you know." Frank and Jimmy brought forth their rolls, but when they had laid all their cash on the table they were still short a matter of twenty-five dollars. In this emergency David Powers was called upon across the hall, and he advanced the necessary funds. At the Police Headquarters they found the Codfish installed in the Captain's room, writing industriously. "Just in time," said the Captain. "I was just going to put him in the cooler. I think he ought to spend the night with us, anyway. Teach him a lesson." The Codfish continued his writing unconcernedly for a minute, sighed with satisfaction, folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. "When the formalities are complied with, I'll go along with you. Have you got the bail?" he said to Frank, who was gazing at him in amazement. The money was soon paid over, and the Codfish was released from the grip of the law with instructions to be on hand for the opening of the city court at nine o'clock the next morning. "You crazy nut," said Jimmy, on the way up to Pierson Hall. "How did you come to get pinched?" "Method in my madness, old top. Let's swing around to the _News_ office. I've got a couple of articles for them, two more scoops." "And what are they?" "O, read the _News_ in the morning," said the Codfish, joyfully. "You wouldn't understand the workings of the genius mind like this," tapping his forehead, "if I told you." The boys swung over to Elm street, and the Codfish handed in two articles at the _News_ office, and then went along with his friends. "It always gives me a feeling of deep exhaustion to see those heelers working so hard on that sheet." "Do they work hard?" inquired Frank. "Work hard! Great fishes of the vasty deep, they put in an amount of hours that ought to make you football fellows blush with shame, if you could blush. The ordinary news-heeler doesn't have time to eat his meals." "You don't cut out many, I notice," laughed Jimmy. "Yes, but I'm not the ordinary kind." "I've heard you say that before." "These other fellows chase little bits of things for news' sake, while I create news for my sake. Get the difference?" "Right--O," said Frank. "You created some the other day--some bone news." "'Still harping on my daughter,' as one William Shakespeare said some moons since? Can't you give that a rest and turn your mind to the present? Never worry about the dead past, is my motto. Even Napoleon made mistakes, to say nothing of Turner, eh Jimmy?" Reaching the Pierson room, the Codfish threw himself into a big chair and sighed luxuriously. "Great day's work. Although I started late on this competition I must be nearly up to the leader now, and a little more hustling will shoot me to the front." "What an ego!" exclaimed Frank. "But now in the privacy of our own room, will you kindly tell me, why, how and what for did you get yourself in the hands of the law to-night, whose bicycle was it you borrowed, and when are we going to get the money we advanced to release your worthless carcass from hock?" "My, what a lot of questions. Do you mean to tell me you haven't visioned my scheme, a bright young fellow like you? Pshaw, pshaw, Armstrong, I didn't think it of you." "Go ahead and elucidate, Sherlock Holmes!" "It seems hardly necessary, but it is said, and truly I now perceive, that brains and brawn are not kindred attributes of the genus football man. In a word, I got myself pinched, and thereby made news for the _News_. Savez?" "You got arrested on purpose to write up your own arrest?" "Sure thing, surest thing you ever knew. Made a pretty little story of it, touched on the brutality of the officer who hauled me into the station, and, incidentally, made a strong plea for the use of the city sidewalks by heelers on bicycles when the streets are as dusty as they are now, to say nothing of a little hit at the lack of courtesy accorded the Yale student by the ordinary, garden variety of policeman." "And this is what we provided good money for!" said Frank. Turner advanced threateningly upon the offender. "This is what we were dragged from our room in the dead hour of night for, this is the thing for which we deposited our good money! I hope they give you a thousand dollars and costs, and send you to jail for a year, to-morrow morning." "O, yes," continued the Codfish, not noticing Turner's outburst, "and I forgot, I wrote another little item suggesting that the Criminal Club, of which I am now a member in good standing, and which has fallen into decay, be rejuvenated and reëstablished in its glory of the olden days." "Well, you've had your trouble for nothing, old lunatic. The _News_ won't print anything like that." "If they don't, they don't know good news when they see it." "Costly news, I should say," grunted Frank. "Costly with our money. We want our money back and fifty per cent. interest for the wear and tear on our constitutions in this night air." "I'll pay it to you out of my dividends from the _News_ Board when I cash in." "Then we'll never get it," groaned Jimmy. "I'm going to bed. Codfish has absolutely gone nutty." "That's always said about geniuses by ordinary folks, old top. Time alone will prove who is the nutty gent," the Codfish shot after him as Turner went into his bedroom. The next morning the college was agog with excitement about the proposed flight of aeroplanes over Yale field some time during the afternoon while the football game was in progress. Details of the flight were given in the Yale _News_, the names and histories of the aviators and the types of machines to fly. It was further stated that one of the flyers would loop-the-loop in full view of the crowds in the stands. The Codfish was bursting with pride at the sensation he had sprung, for it was his story which had set the college talking. "It's knocking their eye out," he boasted. "Is it coming off?" inquired Frank incredulously. "Sure, it's coming off. It cost me a cool two hundred and fifty to get them here, and I've had a dickens of a time keeping it quiet." "So that's what you've been at these last three days, is it?" said Turner. "A week, my boy, you can't do big things like that in three days. This ought to give me a lead in the race. Eh, what?" "A race for your life, if it doesn't come off." "Always skeptical, no imagination, typical football type, slow to grasp an idea. If you had read the papers you would have seen that they're having a flying meet down at Bridgeport. With a little lubricant in the shape of cash, the rest was easy." A great crowd journeyed to Yale Field that afternoon, so great that it resembled in a measure the days of the big football games. With three events scheduled--a Freshman game, a 'Varsity game and a flying exhibition, all in one afternoon, thousands were drawn in the direction of the field, and the football manager chortled with joy as he saw the shekels going into his treasury. The games came and went, but no fliers hove in sight. The Freshmen were overwhelmed by the big Exeter team, and after that was over the 'Varsity proceeded to punch holes in their opponents. The spectators divided their attention between the field and the sky, but nothing came. The nearest thing to an aeroplane that appeared during the afternoon was a large hawk which floated up from the southwest, and volplaned down from the heights. For a moment it raised false hopes. The crowd reluctantly filed out of the big stands as darkness began to settle over the field and still no flying men put in their appearance. The Codfish was puzzled but not alarmed. Nothing could disturb his buoyant nature. He rode back to the city on a car loaded with people who indignantly proclaimed a fake by the Yale _News_ for the purpose of drawing a larger attendance for the game, but although he heard, the Codfish kept his own counsel. Arriving at his room he found a telegram from the manager of the meet at Bridgeport, notifying him that owing to a disagreement among the fliers, they would not be able to come to New Haven at all, and that his check would be returned next day. "Well, this lets me out," soliloquized the promoter of the flying meet. "I'll write this up, describe the disagreement in detail, and hand it in for Monday's paper. Great thought," he added aloud, "more credit for yours truly. We play them both ways and the middle, there's no chance to lose." Just then Frank and Jimmy came in. The game had not been one to enliven their spirits. They were caustic in their remarks to the Codfish. "You are certainly a bum flying meet promoter," said Frank. "With two such stories as you have pulled off in our conservative little _News_, you might as well die." "On the contrary, I've just begun a little story," as indeed he had, "which will explain the matter satisfactorily. Fliers are said to be uncertain birds anyway, and I guess they are. This story," he added, "will put me straight with the editors and the editors straight with the college. No harm done at all. Exhibition arranged, all in good faith, some aviator has the pip, no flight, telegram explains, I explain, more news at every turn, and there you are." "Yes, and there you are," said Turner scowling. "Your roommates get the blame for not letting you be locked up, as you should be." "O, I didn't see you scoring any touchdowns to-day. Come in," he yelled as a knock came on the door. A young Freshman heeler entered with a note which he handed to the promoter of the flying exhibition. "From the _News_," he added and went out. The Codfish took the letter and tore off the end of the envelope. "Big assignment I imagine, expected as much, they're beginning to see I'm onto my job." But as the Codfish read, a change came over his face. He went through the short note once and then again, while his roommates watched him curiously. "Well, what is it, an assignment, eh?" said Frank. "Something big?" "An assignment, yes," returned the Codfish weakly, "an assignment to quit. What do you think of this?" and he read aloud: "G. W. Gleason, Pierson Hall. Dear Sir:-- It is the unanimous opinion of the Board that you had better confine your activities to some other field of endeavor than the _News_. An imagination like yours is wasted on the ordinary business of publishing a college paper. We do not deal entirely in fiction. We respectfully suggest that you try the _Courant_, which will more nearly suit your peculiar type of genius. Very truly yours, JOHN P. MURRAY, Chairman." "Fired, by gosh," said the Codfish. "Fired it is," said Turner. "I knew your zeal would carry you over the falls." "Well, I had a good time going, anyway." "O, I say," said Frank, "what did they give you at City Court this morning?" "Five dollars and costs, not much for the experience. It was worth all the trouble. Experience is what I live for." "You funny duffer," said Frank, laughing. "Now pay up," and the Codfish did. "Well, there's one thing I still have left, my crew job. They can't shake me there." CHAPTER V. FRANK LEARNS TO TACKLE THE DUMMY. "How does that ankle feel?" inquired the Freshman coach of Frank Armstrong one afternoon at practice on the week following the Exeter game. "I see you stepping around quite lively on it." "I think it is good enough, sir," said Frank. It was far from a well ankle, but Frank was desperately anxious to get into the game from which he had been denied on account of his accident, and was willing to take a chance with it. He had felt that he was going to be overlooked entirely in spite of the fact that he had kept in training and had done as much as he could under the conditions. "Good enough then. Do you know the signals?" "Yes, sir." "Well, then take some practice now and later I want to try you at quarter on the Second. You played there on your prep. school team, eh?" "Yes, sir," said Frank, his heart jumping at the thought that he was to have his chance, after all. "All of you over to the 'Varsity field," commanded the coach. "The exhibition of tackling in that Exeter game was enough to make a strong man weep, not a half dozen clean ones in the whole game. I'll teach you to stop a man or kill you in the attempt," and Coach Howard, with a determined face, led his squad into the great wooden amphitheater where at one end below the goal line stood two tackling dummies, looking very much like gallows, each with the canvas-clad shape of a man dangling from a rope over a pit of sawdust and loam. There had been some tackling practice early in the season in which Frank had not participated on account of his injured ankle, so the experience for him to-day was to be a new one. "Now, this is the way, watch me carefully," said Howard. "Start from here," indicating a point about fifty feet from the dummy, "get under way quickly, increase your speed toward the end of the run, spring off one foot, not a dive, remember, strike the dummy with your shoulder just under the hips, and wrap your arms around the legs. This way," and suiting the action to the word, Howard, who was in football uniform, dashed at the swinging figure, struck it with a crash, carried it from its fastening on a clean, driving tackle. "Now line up and all take your turn," said the coach as he came back to the group. "Lead off, Bostwick." Bostwick was an old end from Andover, who had come down to Yale with a reputation already made, and who had been chosen captain of the team. After Bostwick ran a steady string of the Freshmen tackling the dummy, some cleanly, some awkwardly. A field assistant picked up the canvas-clad figure, and replaced it on the hook after each savage assault, ready for the next man, while the coach stood by, offering criticism and suggestion. "Too low, too low," he shouted to a candidate. "Your man would get away from that. Just what you did Saturday." Or to another, "Don't slow up; he won't bite you. Drive into him hard, and carry him right off his feet and keep a good grip with both hands, both hands," he yelled as one of the tacklers slapped one arm around the canvas legs. It was Frank's turn. He sprinted down the runway, sprang head-first at the swinging figure, hit it cleanly, and grasping it tightly with both arms, crashed down in the sawdust pit. "Wrong, wrong," cried Howard. "That was a diving tackle. Your team would be penalized for that; you've got to make that last step a long stride, not a jump, remember. Otherwise it was O. K." Frank picked himself out of the pit, and walked back limping a little. He had leaped with all his vigor from the injured leg, and winced with the pain of it. But he was not going to show it. On his second trial he did better, but was so anxious to favor the ankle that he slowed up and took a succession of little short steps just before he sprang, which drew the fire of the coach down upon him, and caused a smile to go around the waiting line. "Afraid of it?" queried the coach, sarcastically. "It isn't stuffed with anything harder than excelsior, and it won't bite you." Frank walked back to his place at the end of the line crestfallen, but determined to show a better result on his next trial. Several of the 'Varsity coaches had strolled over from the other tackling dummy, where some of the 'Varsity line men were being put through their paces, and all of them were on the lookout for likely material for future 'Varsity teams. But, try as he might, Frank could not satisfy the coach. Something was wrong with all his attempts. The coach did not know that the injured ankle was throbbing like a toothache. Frank was afraid to admit it for fear he would be relegated to the side-line for another period of waiting. So he blundered through his tackling at a great disadvantage. "That's enough," said the coach at last. "You are a sad bunch at this game, but we'll give you a daily dose of it and see if it helps any. Come back to the Freshman field for a scrimmage," and followed by his squad of pupils, he led the way. That afternoon was a nightmare for Frank. Favoring his ankle as much as he dared, he ran the Second team without snap or vigor, and although he got away on two quarterback runs for ten or fifteen yards each, and nearly got a field goal from a difficult angle, he was pulled out of his position and sent to the side-lines before the scrimmaging was finished, firmly convinced that he was not cut out for a quarterback. "This infernal ankle of mine," he grumbled to Jimmy Turner on their way back in the stuffy car to the city. "I couldn't do anything. My leg felt like a stick. I couldn't get out of my own way." "I don't think you made much of a hit with the coach this afternoon," admitted that individual. "I heard him say to one of the 'Varsity men, just as we were getting on the car, that you had some possibilities, but you were too much afraid of getting hurt." "He did, did he?" and Frank glared at Coach Howard who was sitting further up the car pointing out a play diagram to Madden, the quarter of the first team. "Thought I was a nice old lady! I'll show him something if this leg ever gets better," and he gritted his teeth in anticipation of the happy time to come when he could disprove the coach's suspicions. Handicapped by his bad ankle, and often in agony with the pain of it on the field, Frank continued, as the days went by, to fight an up-hill but losing fight. Turner was daily strengthening his position at left halfback, and was already looked upon as of possible 'Varsity caliber for the next year. While not very fast, he ran hard and low, and it took an uncommonly hard tackle to bring him to the ground. He also had that thing which pleases the coaches, an unfailing instinct for the ball. Wherever it was, Turner was not far away. On the Saturday of that week came the game with Pawling School. Frank sat on the side-lines with longing in his heart as he saw his teammates, for the first time in the season, play a game worthy of them. The first quarterback, Madden, ran his team with speed and judgment, and when the half was finished had driven the visitors down the field and scored two touchdowns on them. In the third quarter, Madden received a hard jolt in the stomach in a scrimmage, and Frank thrilled as he saw the coach walk down the side-line, looking for a substitute. He came on, passed Frank and selected a quarter named Barlow to take Madden's place, and who sat just beyond him. Barlow shed his sweater as he ran, and with a few words from the coach, sprang into Madden's place behind the center. Under his guidance another touchdown was added in the third quarter, and the teams changed sides for the last period of the game. Frank gave up hope, as the minutes flew by, for any chance at that game. Barlow was not doing so well now, but there was little time to play. The Pawling team had twice succeeded in stopping the Freshmen near the Pawling goal line, and the substitute quarter had fumbled a punt which for a moment threatened a touchdown against his team. Bostwick, the vigilant end, had recovered the ball at midfield, and saved the situation, but Coach Howard was evidently anxious. He had made many substitutions to give new men practice, and had thus weakened the team, while Pawling seemed to gather new strength. Down the side-line came Howard again. This time he stopped opposite Frank. "I'm going to send you in, Armstrong, to get a little practice. Hang onto the ball and keep your head. Steady that line up and look out for the forward pass. Hurry it up." But there was no need to tell Frank to hurry. He had torn off his sweater with the first hint of his opportunity, and was listening to the coach with body poised for the run onto the field. In his eagerness he had entirely forgotten about the ankle. With the coming of the new quarterback, the team took fresh life. Under his urgings, they began to mow down their opponents as they had in the first part of the game, and the crowd gathered along the side-lines expressed their appreciation of the brace the team was taking in joyous howls. A pretty forward pass, Turner to Bostwick, put the ball on Pawling's 15-yard line. Harrington, the big center, made a bad pass on the next play, but on a slice outside of tackle, Turner made five yards. The Pawling team braced, and cut the advance down on the next play to a single yard. Bostwick stepped back to Frank and whispered something to him. Then he called the whole team around him, and with arms over each other's shoulders, they conferred on the next play. Dropping apart quickly, the linemen sprang into position. "Look out for a fake," cried the Pawling quarter, dancing around in front of the goal posts. "A forward pass!" cried another of the backs. But it was neither a fake nor a forward pass. Armstrong ran quickly to a point ten yards behind his crouching line, coolly measured with his eye the distance from where he stood to the cross-bar, and a moment later, receiving the ball on a long, true pass from Harrington, dropped it to the ground, swung his toe against it as it rose, and sent it spinning directly between the posts. The kick was as pretty a one as could be desired, and its appreciation was testified to by jubilant yells and the skyward flight of sweaters and blankets along the side-lines. A kick-off at midfield which Turner ran back 30 yards, a single rush, and the whistle ended the game. "Why didn't you tell me you could do that?" said Coach Howard giving Armstrong a hearty slap on the back as he trotted over to the side-line to pick up the discarded sweater. "You put that over like a veteran!" "Didn't have a chance before," said Frank, grinning. "Guess you didn't. Well, I'll see to it that you get a chance after this." And then, as the throng of grimy players and the spectators straggled off to the cars, "I had pretty nearly come to the conclusion that you were too soft for the game of football." "My ankle isn't as good as it ought to be," said Frank, looking down. "I was afraid of doing more damage to it." "I'll take a look at that ankle in the gym," said Howard. "Maybe we can make a quarterback of you yet. I want you to come over to the Freshman training table after this." It was a joyful gathering in Pierson that night, with a full attendance, for little by little the Armstrong-Turner-Gleason-Powers combination began to have a following in the dormitory and in the class. Friends began to drop in to talk over matters of the moment as they passed to and from their rooms, and if they were the right kind they always had a welcome. The room became the central one for spreads and parties, when the fun raged until ten o'clock. "All over," Frank would shout. "Lights out." Both Turner and Armstrong believed in keeping strict training hours. On this particular night the Codfish was in his element. "Three cheers for our own little quarterback," he howled. "Sit down, you fish," shouted Turner. "You didn't even see the game." "O, but I have ears. All the little birds sang it as I was coming up from the boathouse this evening." "How's the Freshman crew coming on?" "I'm on the second now. You should have seen us scare the First boat this afternoon. Had a mile spin. Started up by the Quinnipiac bridge, and finished at Tomlinson, points you land-lubbers know nothing about." "And the Second was licked, of course?" "Only by a blade, my son. We gave them the race of their lives, fairly tore down the river, scared the oysters and all that sort of thing, to say nothing of the First Freshmen." "And when do they put you in the first shell?" "'Nother week, about, I guess. Wouldn't be right to the other fellow to advance me too fast." "Great stuff, Codfish," said Turner, laughing. "I think you have confidence enough to steer the 'Varsity crew over the course at New London right now." "Sure thing," said that worthy. "There's nothing to it. Mind over matter, as I hinted to you once before; kind of scientific attitude." The Codfish was busy untying a voluminous box which he had brought home with him. "For heaven's sake, what have you got there, a prehistoric horse?" inquired Turner. "No, my little halfback, it is a guitar," and having finished unwrapping the instrument, he swung it over his head. "I'm going out for the musical club stuff. I must have some activity, some life; can't get it with two grumps like you fellows, so I must go after it." "Jove," groaned Frank, "haven't we suffered enough with you and the piano without having a guitar?" The Codfish lay back on the window seat, strummed the untuned guitar, and began to hum: "When I was a student at Cadiz I played on the Spanish guitar--" "You'll be a student in Hades if you don't let up!" shouted Turner. "We can stand anything excepting the picture of you as a student at Cadiz. Please desist." "O, tush, old fellow, your soul is not attuned to music. What's the next line? I seem to disremember it----" "When I was a stoogent at Cadiz." strum, strum, strum, strum, "I played on the Spanish guitar." "Good night!" yelled Frank. "Come on, let's go to Poli's and hear some real music. We'll let the Codfish be 'a stoogent at Cadiz' all to himself." "S'matter?" said the musician reproachfully. "Well, if you must go, good night. I cannot frivol my time away at Poli's vaudeville when true art is stirring in my soul." "Let her stir then," said Frank. "We're off," and the door banged. CHAPTER VI. THE GREAT FRESHMAN BATTLE. The week of the Princeton game was a hard one for the Freshman team. Coach Howard, assisted by several members of the 'Varsity coaching staff, drove the team with all his might, but the results were not encouraging. Frank had been established as quarterback on the second team on the Monday following the Pawling game, and was making good there. He was now a substitute to Madden, and twice had been called over to the first eleven when Madden went out of the game temporarily. Away back in his head was the hope that he might still win out in the race for the quarterback position. But Madden had come to Yale with a big reputation justly earned at Hill School, and was a hard man to displace. When Frank's hopes were highest the crash came. Bostwick, the captain and end, threw out his knee in a fierce scrimmage, and was carried groaning to the side-lines. "The fifth end hurt this fall, confound the luck," said Howard as he stood looking down at the captain. "And no one to take your place that's worth a cent." "I'll be all right in a day or two," moaned Bostwick. "Stick some one in till I get a brace on this thing. I can play in the game Saturday." "Maybe you can and maybe you can't," said the coach. "Did you ever see such beastly luck, and we were just beginning to round into shape. Who am I going to put in there? There's half a dozen ends and none of them worth a tinker." He ran his eye over the squad which crowded around the injured captain. "Here, Armstrong," he called, "did you ever play end?" "A few times in prep. school, sir." "Well you can learn it, can't you?" said Howard petulantly. "Bostwick may pull through in time, and maybe he can't, and you are better than anything I have." "I'll do my best," said Frank, feeling his hopes for a place on the team slipping away, for he knew well that in the short time still left in the season his chances were small to learn that most difficult of line positions--end. "You are fast and about the only clean tackler I have on the squad," said Howard. "Get in and try it." Bostwick, having been temporarily fixed up and led limping away in the arms of two of the substitutes in the direction of the car, play was resumed with Armstrong in his new position. "Don't you let anyone get past you on the outside," commanded Howard. "And don't be drawn in, no matter what happens. If you can't break the interference, spill it so the defensive half can get the man with the ball. Come on, try it." Frank did try and tried hard. His ankle had improved, and under the punts he went down the field like a streak of lightning, missing but few tackles. But when the team was on the defensive, he showed the weakness of inexperience. "Outside of you that time," bawled the coach, and when the new end moved out further, the play went inside. Sometimes he stopped the interference and sometimes, digging desperately through the tangle of legs, he got the runner on a driving tackle, which earned for him a "Good boy, Armstrong," from Howard. But it was bitter hard work, and never in his life had the welcome "That's enough for to-day" found him so ready to quit. His body felt bruised and sore all over from the driving work of the afternoon and his legs were as heavy as lead, as in the gathering dusk he dragged himself to the waiting trolley car which was there to carry the team to the city. "You did well to-day, Armstrong, for a starter," said the coach kindly as he came through the car. "It's a hard dose I've given you." Frank smiled a wan smile as he loosened his shoe laces. "How heavy are you?" "Guess about a hundred and forty-one or two," said Frank, straightening up while the muscles of his back protested. "Too light, too light," said the coach, shaking his head. "If you had another ten or fifteen pounds on you, you'd do. But Bostwick may be able to get into the game by Friday," he added, and passed along to his seat. Walking over from the training table that night, Turner railed bitterly at Frank's luck. "You had a chance, a bare chance to get in at quarterback for a part of the game anyway, in spite of your bad start, and now you are dished, sure as shooting. The Captain will be O. K. It didn't look like a bad injury to his knee." "Can't be helped," said Frank. "We've got to take our medicine in this old game. That's part of the training at Yale, isn't it?" "It is, but it's not easy stuff to swallow." "Well, there's nothing to do but swallow it, and I'm going to be game, but it hurts. Bostwick may not make it, and I may get in against Princeton, after all." Turner shook his head. "I don't think there's a chance; you are only filling in. I can see the handwriting on the wall. He'll come back, and you will be his substitute. The only chance is that he may get hurt again, but I hope he won't for he is the best we've got on that side of the line." "I hope he comes back," said Frank fervently, "because with me in there I wouldn't give three cents for our chances." "Which are not any too good with the best we have." It proved to be as Jimmy said. Bostwick was put under heroic treatment in the baking oven for sprained and injured limbs, and to the great joy of all, Frank included, appeared on the field on Thursday. He was a little stiff because of the hampering action of the brace that Howard had devised for him, but went to his old place in the line while Frank was sent to the side-lines. The practice went well. "We still have a chance against the Tiger cubs," said the coach. "Only a signal drill for fifteen minutes to-morrow," he called out as the squad was leaving the field. "Get to bed early and don't worry yourselves to death. We're going to give them the time of their lives Saturday." The cheerfulness of the coach was largely assumed, for the Princeton cubs were coming up from Tigertown with a long string of victories to their credit. Only twice during the whole season had they been scored on, and one of these was a lucky drop-kick. The Yale Freshman team, on the contrary, had staggered through the season with a showing far from creditable, and the critics were all predicting a big score for the visitors. But in spite of the gloomy forecastings, the Yale Freshmen went into that game with a determination to do or die, and while they did not win, neither did the much-heralded Princeton cubs win. Frank watched from the side-lines the desperate battle up and down the gridiron. He saw his roommate giving the best that was in him in the struggle, and prayed fervently that Bostwick might last it out. Every man on the team was a hero that day, and when the final whistle blew, with Captain Bostwick still on his feet and playing a whirlwind game in spite of his injured knee, the score stood at a tie, nothing to nothing. Going in on the car the coach had nothing but praise for the team. "We didn't lick them, but it is a good start for Harvard next Saturday," he said. "We have a week left, and we'll give the Johnnies a run for their money, all right." "Armstrong," the coach added, as he dropped down beside him in the trolley car, "I'm sorry you didn't get in, but better luck next time." "O, that's all right," returned Frank. "I was mighty glad to see Bostwick go through, he showed his sand with that bad knee." "He certainly did, and he deserves a lot of credit. But I'm going to keep you at end just the same because I may need you." "All right, sir," said Frank, but he well knew it was the end of his ambitions for a place on the team excepting for an accident to the Captain, which he did not want to think about. Four days of practice the week after the Princeton contest brought the team to a condition of fitness which they had not before reached that year, and on Friday afternoon, escorted to the train by a hundred of their class, the team with substitutes, coaches, trainers and a goodly crowd of supporters, set out for Cambridge. As the 'Varsity was away, the Freshman game had the honor of being staged on the main gridiron. That game in the towering Stadium was one that hung long in Frank's memory. It was a game of desperate attack and defense. Three times in the first period the rushing red-legged players had the Blue team down inside the five-yard line, and three times they were stopped by the stone-wall defense. All through the first half the Yale team fought on the defensive, crumpling up before the fierce rushes of the Harvard players, but somehow stiffening as the goal line approached. So certain were the Harvard players of scoring a touchdown that they disdained to try for a goal from the field, and each time they were stopped by the men from New Haven they took the ball back with dogged determination, only to lose it again. "We have them now," said Howard as his men were being cared for between the halves. "Go after them. They've shot their bolt, and it's our turn." After the kick-off in the third quarter, Turner raised great hopes by running the ball back through the Harvard team, and, before he was tackled, laid it only twenty yards away from the Harvard goal line. A smash at center earned only two yards. "Armstrong, get ready, I'm going to send you in to try for a goal," said the coach, running down to where Frank was sitting, shivering with the excitement of the struggle that was going on out in the field. Frank slipped off his sweater, and made ready, but the chance he so longed for never came. Madden's signal was mixed somehow, and the man who was to take the ball wasn't where the quarter expected him to be. He started to run with the ball himself, but was upset by a savage tackle, and dropped the pigskin, which went bounding backward toward his own goal. Half a dozen players took a driving shot at the leather, but it eluded them as if it had been greased. Finally a lanky Harvard end wound his body around it at midfield. Yale's chance to score at that particular moment was lost. Frank gritted his teeth and slipped on his sweater again. The battle was once more taken up with renewed vigor. The advantage lay first with one team and then with the other, but never again did Yale have so good a chance to score. Again striking its stride, after a lot of futile punting, the Yale Freshmen got together and began to plough through their opponents. Turner was playing like a demon while the little Yale contingent matched yell for yell with the Harvard supporters on the other side of the field. Turner on two tries reeled off twenty-five yards, and put the ball just across the center of the field. A forward pass netted fifteen yards more, and again the coach began to look for a chance to score, not for a touchdown, for the attack had not shown itself capable of beating down that splendid defense, but by a drop-kick if the opportunity came. But again when hope was high in every heart came a sudden disastrous fumble, and again the red-legged end had the ball. "Take it away from them," howled the Yale crowd. "Throw 'em back." "Eat the Johnnies up." But that husky Harvard team was not a whit disturbed by the ferocious cries from the Yale side of the field. They settled down to business again, and slowly, but surely, worked the ball down toward the Blue goal line. The tired boys from New Haven fought on grimly in the fourth period, making the gains against them shorter and shorter as they were pushed back. Turner intercepted a forward pass which would have surely made a touchdown for Harvard, and for a time there was a respite for the Yale Freshmen for the fullback kicked the ball far down the field, only to have it caught and brought back past Bostwick, this time, for thirty yards. At it again went the two teams, Yale defending stubbornly, but vainly, against the powerful rushes of the Harvard backs, who, now that the end of the game was drawing near, threw their last bit of energy into the attack. Through center and tackle went the bull-like rushes of the backs. Bostwick's end was circled for fifteen yards, and he was laid out for a while, but revived soon after a little dabbing of the sponge on his face. "I want you to be ready, Armstrong," said the coach, hurrying up to Frank whose eyes were glued on the field, and whose heart was pumping with the excitement of the struggle. He was straining almost as hard as his mates out on the field, lunging his shoulder into the substitute who sat next to him, in the unconscious effort to help stop the Harvard rushes. "Touchdown, touchdown," sang out the Harvard Freshmen supporters. "We want a touchdown!" "Hold 'em!" "Hold 'em, Yale!" was the defiant cry from the opposite side of the field. "Show the Johnnies where you come from!" With the ball on the Yale ten-yard line it looked as if no power in the Yale team, at least, could stop the victorious march. Bostwick was again laid out, but was up on his feet after a minute of attention. "Good old Bostwick," cried Frank, stirred by the game fight his captain was making. "Long cheer for Bostwick!" and the dancing cheer leaders led a ringing yell for the fighting captain, which seemed to stiffen up the boys out on the field. They stopped the next Harvard rush without a yard of gain. Standing like heroes together, the Freshmen line did the impossible, repulsed the fierce assaults the Harvard team could give, and took the ball. "Y-a-a-y----" yelled the Yale stand, rising as one man. Hats and caps went into the air. The cheer leaders tried to get order, and give a cheer, but no one paid any attention to them. The crowd continued to yell like Comanches, as the lines settled themselves again. "Time must be nearly up," said a substitute. "It can't be," cried Frank, gritting his teeth in a frenzy. "They must have five minutes more to play. They've got to have it," and he drove his heels into the unoffending ground as if at that distance he could help in the charge that was to be delivered against the red host. "What's Madden going to do, rush it?" inquired a voice. "I hope not," said Howard. "A short kick would mean a free catch and a chance for a placement goal. Good boy," he shouted as Madden changed the signal, and the fullback, who had gone back behind the goal line, came running up again to the regular formation. "Put it through them!" "Smash it out, boys!" The signal came sharp and clear from the lips of the quarterback, high above the background of yells from the partisans. "Turner's ball," whispered Frank to himself. The pass was swift and true. Turner took the ball from Madden's hands at full speed. The play was intended to be a slice off tackle, a play that had gained a good deal of ground during the afternoon. But, alas for the best laid plans of men, mice and football players, he never reached his destination. The tired Yale line sagged and broke. Through gaping holes poured a stream of Crimson-jerseyed men. Two tacklers struck Turner, who was practically on his goal line, at the same time, and swept him backward like chaff. So swift and sudden had been the deluge that the halfback was carried off his feet and over the goal line before he had even a chance to yell "down." The crowd did not at once appreciate the significance of the matter, but a few, recognizing a safety for Harvard, set up a scattered cheer. A moment later the fateful information was flashed from the scoreboard, "Safety," and the Harvard stand delivered itself of a high-pitched yell. A moment later the referee's whistle blew, and the great game was over. A host of men swept from the stands and surrounded the victors, cheering and prancing about. With Bostwick at its head, trying hard not to limp, and with faces drawn and mud-stained, the beaten team walked wearily to the dressing rooms where they were joined by the substitutes. "You didn't win but I'm proud of you all," said Coach Howard, slapping the jaded players on the back as they came through the door. "You were up against a better team, fifty per cent. better." "Here, Bostwick," he added a minute later to the captain, who, sunk in gloom and with hanging head, was pulling off his wet football clothes, "cheer up. We can't always win. The main business is that you and your team played a magnificent up-hill game. I'm satisfied and Yale will be satisfied for you gave the best in you. That's always the test. You'll have another chance next year." CHAPTER VII. A WRECK AT THE HARBOR. The excitement of football had passed like most things in college and out of it. The 'Varsity had triumphed over Princeton, and tied with Harvard in a stirring, up-hill game, and now the students had settled down to the ordinary routine. While it was late in November, the fall had been such an open one that the crews, eager to get every day of practice possible, stuck to their work in the harbor. Codfish held manfully onto the job of coxswain in the Second Freshmen eight, the long-looked-for place on the First still eluding him. He was hopeful, however. "I'll get it before the rowing stops, and if not then, when it starts in the spring," he boasted to his roommates. "Watch me." This afternoon he was perched on the window seat, legs crossed, lolling back on the cushions, and tickling the guitar. "For the love of Mike," cried Frank from his room, where he had gone to nab an elusive French irregular or two, "isn't that 'stoogent from Cadiz' ever going to graduate?" "Why so peevish?" inquired the Codfish, keeping up his strumming and humming. "There are fourteen different keys, you know, Mr. Armstrong, and as you never know which one you're going to be caught in, I've got to be a Spanish student in every one of them. I only have ten more to fix in my retentive memory, so the agony will soon be through." "How many have you circumvented?" "Six to date. I'm going to tackle the minors to-night; plaintive little things, those minors, they get the heart-throb stuff." "Heavens!" said Frank. "Why don't you hire a hall somewhere out in Hampden? I'll go halves with you to get rid of you." "'Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,'" quoted the Codfish, "but not the football player." "Music did you say?" growled Frank. "No soul, no soul at all for the beautiful," sighed the guitar player. "Such music ought to move you to tears." "It does, bitter tears, very bitter tears. Please desist, stop and quit. I'm having trouble with this dose of Romance language. I wonder why they ever called them Romance languages?" "Give it up." Then, throwing down the guitar: "I say, Frank, chuck it and come down to the harbor. We are going to have a bit of a brush with the First Freshmen crew, and you've never seen your old pal hold the tiller ropes. Maybe I can get you into the launch. We go out at three. Where's Turner and David?" "David is probably grubbing on his Lit. stuff, and there's no use in trying to get him. Jimmy went over to Chapel street to get something, and ought to be back here in a minute. Here he comes now. I'll go if he does." Turner came into the room whistling a merry tune, threw himself on the couch and elevated his heels to the end of the desk in the national attitude. "Gee whiz, but it's a great day! Why don't you fellows get out? Not many more days like this between now and next May." "The Codfish has just invited us down to the harbor to see how well he can't steer a boat, and I said I'd go if you would. I've some French here, but there's no hope of doing it when this musical bug is doing his stunts." "I'm your man," said Turner, jumping up at once. "I know the coach and maybe we can get on the launch." "I'll attend to that," said the Codfish, majestically. "I haven't been knocking around that old boathouse two months for my health. You are my guests to-day." "Go it, old skate. So long as we get aboard we don't mind who does the trick." "Lead on, Macduff," quoted Frank, and like playful dogs newly unleashed, they broke for the street. Racing over to Chapel street, they caught a steamboat car at the York street corner, and, after a fifteen-minute ride, reached their destination. On the float was a scene of great activity. The crews of half a dozen boats were standing around waiting their turn to embark. Some carried oars in their hands, others were stretched at full length on the runways, taking in to the full the rays of the warming late fall sun. Most of them were stripped to the waist as in summer, for the day had an uncommon warmth. One crew had just landed, evidently from a smart row, for sweat glistened on their bare and brawny backs, as they unshipped their oars and at the word of their coxswain snapped their shell out of the water and turned it upside down over their heads in one splendid free sweep. They were just in time to see the 'Varsity go out, eight clean-limbed, stalwart young fellows, who carried their shell easily, with a quick and springy step, and with almost military precision. Without a word spoken, the long sweeps were quickly adjusted in the row-locks. At a word from the captain, the men stepped to their seats, bent and fastened their feet into the sandal-like attachments at the footboards. Then the boat was shoved off until the long sweeps were free to catch the water on both sides of the boat. "Row," snapped the coxswain, and eight blades cut the water like knives, sending up a little spurt of water in the front of each one of them. Like a machine the bodies swung back and forth, the blades dipped rhythmically, and in a minute the crew was but a dot in the waters of the lower river where the 'Varsity launch, the "Elihu Yale," waited. "By Jove," said Frank, admiration showing on his face, "that was about as pretty a thing as I can imagine." "Don't you wish you had gone out for the crew?" inquired Turner. "They don't twist your ankles and knees down here, or muscle-bruise you." "No, but they break your back and freeze you to death in the cold winds down here," said someone laughingly. "I just heard your friend's remark, and thought I'd enlighten you. Don't you remember me, Turner? We wrestled this fall one night, about a thousand years ago. Francis is my name." Both then recognized the wrestler whom Turner threw over his head the night of the rush. He extended a frank hand. "Coming down to look us over?" "Didn't know you rowed," said Turner, taking the proffered hand. "Yes, I'm trying it. Not much good, either, but maybe I can help to push some other fellow up a peg higher. That's all we scrubs are good for, you know." He said it without any heat, merely stating the fact. "We help to cultivate the flowers, but we can't pick them. It's a part of the Yale training. "Ta, ta, there's my call," and he dashed into the boathouse where his crew were preparing to take the shell out. Following the Second 'Varsity, came the First Freshmen crew, and then on the heels of the First came the Second, the Codfish busying himself with an air of great importance. Permission having been given Armstrong and Turner to watch the practice from the Freshman launch, which lay at the end of the float, they climbed in with alacrity. The launch preceded the two crews down to the bridge where it waited till the shell came up. "Take it easy, now," said the Freshman coach as the crews lined up alongside. "Keep your stroke to about twenty-six and pull it through. Ready? ROW!" Both crews dropped their blades in the water, pulled a long, slow stroke, and slipped rapidly up the river, the little launch darting first to one and then the other while the coach shot words of criticism at the oarsmen through a short megaphone. "Number Five, don't slump down on the catch!" "You're very short in the water, Number Two, finish it out and get your hands away quickly." "Don't buck your oar, Four, on the finish; sit up straight." "For heaven's sake," this to the Codfish. "Can't you keep that boat straight? What are you wabbling all over the river for?" "'Vast, 'vast," he yelled as the rowing grew ragged. "'Vast" is short for "Avast," the usual signal to stop rowing. When the crews came to rest on their oars, the coach shot a torrent of criticism at the men. No one escaped. "Exactly like football," said Frank grinning. "No one ever gets it quite right." "Only difference from football is," said Jimmy, "that the other fellow is getting the hot shot now. I guess I'll take mine on the field." "Me, too," said Frank. "It doesn't strike me as inspiring, this crew business." "And the Codfish isn't such a whirlwind as he tries to make us think," commented Turner. The coxswain was coming in for a fire of criticism from the coach with the megaphone. "Now try it again and watch yourselves--you get worse every day." "Doesn't it sound natural?" laughed Frank. "No more of that in ours for a year." The crews, stopping and starting, but always under a shower of advice from the coach, drove their way up to the upper bridge where they were ordered to turn around and line-up for the race down stream. After much dogged paddling by fours and high-pitched orders by the coxswains, for the boats were difficult to swing around in the swift running current, they finally got about and were sent off with a word from the coach who had previously ordered them to keep below twenty-eight to the minute. Down the river the boats flew, each crew striving with might and main. For a little time it was nip and tuck, but by degrees the First crew edged ahead, and half a mile from the start had a lead of three-quarters of a length and were rowing easily, while the winded Second was splashing along and dropping further back at every stroke. The Codfish was steering a serpentine course which further retarded his boat. When the crews drew up at the end of the mile, both badly pumped out from the sprint, the coxswain of the Second came in for a raking by the coach. "You wabbled down that course like a drunken man," he said hotly. "You ought to be on an oyster boat. What's the matter with you? Can't you see?" "Poor Gleason, he's getting his this afternoon," said Frank. For another hour the crews were kept on the jump and then, as the dusk was beginning to come down over the hills, the coach ordered them in. "Race it for the float," he commanded, "and look out for the sand bar by the bridge. It's low water. GO!" The Second was lying about a length ahead of the First boat when the order was given, and, seeing his opportunity, the Codfish shouted: "Now we've got them, beat 'em to it. Row, you terriers!" Throwing what science they had learned to the winds, the Second Freshman crew drove their oars into the water and, at a stroke far above what the coach wanted, tore off for the boathouse, the shell swaying and the water flying while the Codfish urged them on at the top of his voice. "Sock it through, you huskies, don't let them get you!" The First crew, not to be outdone, started after the Second. At first they kept the stroke down, but the coxswain, seeing his chance of overhauling the renegades in the short distance to go, called on his stroke to "hit it up," which that individual was nothing loath to do. "Cut them out before they get to the float," cried the coxswain of the First crew. Up went the stroke, and the race was on in earnest. The coaching launch had drifted down toward the bridge on the outgoing tide, before the coach saw what was in progress. He waved his arms, bawled through the megaphone, and gesticulated in an endeavor to stop the wild pace, but neither crew heard, nor wanted to stop if they had heard. This was not a race under instructions. It was only a private scrap and, as such, it stood, for the launch was too far off to overhaul the flying, splashing crews. Foot by foot the First crew gained on the Second, which now, with the stroke over forty to the minute, merely stabbed their oars in the water and jerked them out again, while the spray flew from each assault of the blades. The better trained First crew kept the stroke longer, and in coming to the float were only a few yards behind. Edging in, they crowded the Second from their course, and in order to avoid a collision, the luckless Codfish steered his crew widely to the left. He knew, but had forgotten in the excitement of the race, that a narrow sand bar almost awash at low tide, was just below the central pier of the drawbridge. "Look out there, Second crew," came the warning cry from the float now directly opposite the racing shells. The coxswain in the Second heard, but it was too late. Straight onto the sand bar, on which rippled less than an inch of water, ran the slender nose of the shell. The brake thus suddenly applied to the frail craft checked the speed, and when the boat stuck midway of the bar, with each end suspended above deep water, every oarsman was thrown from his seat. Immediately an ominous cracking was heard, and the front end began to sag with its load of more than five hundred pounds. "Jump," yelled the captain, who rowed the bow oar; but before any of the forward four could free themselves from their foot harness, the slender boat snapped squarely in the middle, where it rested on the bar, and both pieces, with their crews aboard, slipped off into deep water, filled and sank. For a moment it looked serious, but, fortunately, every member of the Second, with the exception of the Codfish, could swim. As they found themselves deeply immersed, they shook themselves free from their foot fastenings and struck out in the cold water for the float only a few rods distant, all excepting the Codfish. He kept his seat in the shell and held to the tiller ropes for dear life, while the current swept him down stream in the path of the oncoming launch. As the rear end of the broken shell swung across the bow of the launch, the coach reached down, grabbed the ill-fated coxswain by the back of his coat, and jerked him into the launch. Then with a boat-hook both ends of the ruined craft were captured, for both ends, released from their weight, now floated buoyantly, and were towed to the float. "I forgot about the sand bar," said the Codfish meekly, as he stood on the cockpit of the launch, the water running from him in streams. "And you forgot my instructions, too," said the coach, his eyes blazing at the luckless coxswain. "This will do for you. Pack up your duds and don't come down here again. If I see you around this float again, I'll chuck you overboard." The bedraggled oarsmen had all made the float in safety, and enjoyed the discomfort of their coxswain who in his zeal had inadvertently given them a cold bath. "How was I to remember the blooming sand bar?" complained the Codfish that night, radiant now in dry raiment. "We were winning. What's a sand bar in the glory of victory?" "Are you going down again," inquired Frank, "and take the chances of a ducking?" "Not on your tin-type," said the ex-coxswain. "The thing was beginning to pall on me. No diversity in the job, no spectators to urge you on as you have out at the field, nothing but work. I've resigned the job." "Another way for saying you're fired, eh?" said Turner, smiling at the imperturbable roommate. "Have it any way you want to, old sport. One thing," continued the Codfish, "even if I have lost the chance to shine in aquatics, I still have the Mandolin Club left. I'll put a dent in that by and by." And curling himself up on the couch, with the pillows properly arranged at his back, he struck into the Spanish Fandango, the newest addition to his not very extended répertoire. CHAPTER VIII. FUN AT THE THEATER. Up the gallery of the Hyperion Theater, the Freshman class went bouncing with a great clatter and stamping of feet. It was the night of the Glee Club concert, toward the end of January, which, in the days of Frank Armstrong's Freshman year, opened the festivities of Junior Promenade, the great social function of Yale. The Promenade has for generations been known as the "Junior Prom," but it is not strictly a Junior occasion. Seniors, and even Sophomores whose finances are not too low to permit the purchase of a ticket, may go, but in spite of the fact that many of these classes do go, the Prom is still largely a Junior affair. Around the Prom, or ball, which brings the social gaiety to a close, have grown in the course of years other entertainments for the fair guests and their chaperons, who gather in New Haven by the hundred from the length and breadth of the land. Of these the Glee Club concert was one where the Freshmen in those days, for it has all been changed since, were tolerated in the upper gallery of the theater. They could not sit in the pit or balcony of the house. Custom had allowed them certain rights and their "stunts" were looked forward to as a part of the entertainment. The Freshmen were not supposed to interfere with the concert itself but frequently did interfere in spite of the restraining influence of Junior guards who were scattered through the gallery. But the throwing of confetti, streamers and cards to the fair guests was tolerated and expected. Occasionally the Freshmen overdid the thing and not infrequently a "rough-house" of considerable proportions held sway. Frank's class was a lively one, as had been shown on several occasions during the fall and early winter. A number of the members had a faculty for getting into trouble on all occasions. Half a dozen of them had been only a few days before up before the Freshman Committee for attempting to break up a dance in one of the local halls of the city, which necessitated the rushing of a squad of police to the scene. Minor mischief was always being done. Rumors were rife that the Freshmen were going to perpetrate something new on the night of the Glee Club concert. Therefore the Junior guards were more than usually vigilant. "What's that you have under your coat?" demands a Junior as a tall Freshman appears on the landing of the stairs with the skirts of his raincoat bulging suspiciously. "Nothing but myself," backing away. "Come on, open up! What have you got?" "Nothing, I tell you," but the Junior lays violent hands on him and after a moment's search drags forth a squawking hen! She flaps herself free from the grip of her rescuer and creates a disturbance which brings scores up to the landing on the double quick. The hen is finally captured and carried out, squalling tremendously at the unaccustomed usage. Other Freshmen are captured with noise-making devices, living and mechanical, and thrown out bodily or the objectionable instruments of torture taken from them. But some have slipped past even the vigilant eyes of the guards, and are ready to carry out the Freshman part of the entertainment as classes before them have done. Inside the theater the gallery is jammed till it can hold no more. There is a babel of voices through which occasionally cuts the sharp Yale cheer, that the Freshmen now, with three months of practice, have learned to perfection. Cheers, howls and catcalls make that gallery a perfect bedlam. Over the gallery front, looking fearfully insecure in their high perch, hang scores of boys angling for the attention of the Juniors' young ladies with a long string to which is attached a card and perhaps a pencil. One side of the card bears a fond message to the fair guest below, and the other side is blank for the answer, which the Freshman above hopes to catch in his angling. And frequently he does. The Junior takes it all in good part. "O, lovely creature, will you be mine, will you let me hold your lily-white hand when I'm a Junior?" is the rather disconcerting message a young lady in one of the boxes pulls down after it has been dangled in front of her nose for a minute or two by Freshman hands in the top gallery. The Freshman above having established communication, waits impatiently for an answer. Presently it is written in the box below and is pulled up eagerly. "No, I don't like the color of your hair." "I'll dye it blue if that will help any," may be the next message. Fifty men are angling at a time and the lines sometimes get crossed. It is all great fun for the girls who enter into the spirit of the thing and are not disturbed, after the first shock, at the ardent messages that are swung in front of their faces. Of course, every one cannot angle for love messages in the pit because, although the front of the gallery resembles a grape-hung garden wall with the clustering heads, there are several hundreds behind the first row. They content themselves with throwing confetti and paper streamers into the pit and boxes until there is a jungle of it below, through which a late-comer must literally break his way. The floor itself is covered with confetti and cards whereon are printed in prose and verse amazing praises for the class in the upper gallery, recounting what that class will do when it becomes a Junior class two years later and shall have the position of honor. On this particular night everything went well in the gallery until the program was half over. Then trouble broke loose, for all legitimate means for attracting attention had been exhausted. At the moment the quartet was delivering itself of a touching melody and quiet was temporarily established even in the gallery. The tenor, striving for one of his highest notes, suddenly broke off with a violent sneeze. Some one in the gallery had thrown a tissue paper wad of snuff against the scenery behind the quartet. The paper broke and the snuff, light as feathers, permeated the air. The bass singer of the quartet immediately followed the tenor with a resounding bellow at which the audience, not knowing the cause, burst into roars of laughter. But soon they changed from laughing to sneezing, for handfuls of the snuff were now pitched over the gallery rail by the offenders, and the coughing and sneezing became general. No one was exempt. Dignified chaperons, pretty girls and their escorts joined in the chorus. The quartet retired in confusion, holding onto their noses. "Stop it, stop it!" "Get out, Freshmen," yelled the guards, but so thick was the press in the gallery that the guards were powerless to get at the offenders. To cap the climax, a Freshman emptied about a bushel of fine, powderlike confetti on the heads of the people below, while still another opened a pillow of fine down feathers which, dropping to the pit of the theater in a cloud, covered the gowns of the ladies. The feathers insinuated themselves down the necks of everyone. Having worked their last indignity, two score of the Freshmen tumbled down the gallery stairs like a hurricane, and broke pell-mell for the street with the guard after them. Some punches were delivered, but most of the Freshmen escaped, yelling, with whole skins. Then the Glee Club concert went on again and was not interrupted but once, when someone threw a small rubber ball from the gallery which struck the leader fairly on top of his head and bounced twenty feet into the air to the great amusement of the audience and the discomfort of the leader. "Some night!" observed the Codfish as the boys reached their room in safety. "I got hit three times in the overflow. Gee whiz, how those feathers stick!" "Were you the pillow man?" inquired Frank. "I was that same. Have you noticed the absence of two of our best cushions?" "My cushions," gasped Frank, "and where are the cases?" "When the storm burst I didn't have time to get them under cover. They go to the Hyperion management as a souvenir." "More likely to the Junior scouts," suggested Jimmy. "Thoughtful kid, my initials were on them," said Frank. "You could create trouble for someone if you were alone on a desert island." But no trouble did come out of the incident for the great dance itself coming on the next evening, as it did, overshadowed such minor things as the Freshman class and its doings. But the affair had one result. It was the last time that the Glee Club concert was ever held at the Hyperion. After that year it went to one of the University halls where Freshmen, fishing from the top gallery, tantalizing feathers and tormenting snuff were not known, and where the concert went its full length without disturbance of any kind. Frank Armstrong, while a frequent visitor at the swimming pool, had not gone out for the Freshman team. Football had claimed his attention in the fall when swimming practice first began, and although urged to join the Freshman team by classmates, who had seen him in the pool, he had declined. "I want to have a good big deposit in the education bank when baseball opens up," he used to say. "You're a blooming old grind," the Codfish would retort when Frank advanced his reasons for keeping the time free for studies. "You aren't doing as much as I am for the class." "But I'm doing as much as I can for the class and something for myself." "Selfish, selfish. Here's the Freshman swimming team staggering along----" "Floundering along, you mean." "Fishes flounder, and there's no fish on the team, human or otherwise. That's the reason they ought to have a good, able-bodied fish like yourself, scales and all, to help 'em out." But in spite of Frank's desire to keep away from swimming, other than as a pastime, and to keep in fair condition, he became drawn into it unintentionally. One day, sprinting down the length of the pool to overtake Jimmy, he attracted the attention of Max, the swimming instructor, who kept an eagle eye on the outlook for promising talent. "Where you learn to svim like dat?" inquired Max as Frank pulled himself out of the water at the end of the pool while Jimmy hung gasping with his exertions on the edge. "O, paddling around," returned Frank. "Pretty good paddlin', I guess. Vhat's your name?" "Armstrong." "Freshman?" "Yes." "Ever do any racing?" "A little." "Here, let's see if you can svim fifty yards fast." "O, but I'm not in training." "Don't make no difference about dat. Svim up one length and back again. I see your time. Come on, I tink you can svim fast." Frank, thus urged, took a racing dive, paddled easily to the other end of the pool, turned leisurely and came back to the starting point. "Umph!" grunted the swimming instructor. "Dirty-five seconds, dat's bad. You ought to do it five seconds bedder!" Frank grinned, thinking he was nicely out of the difficulty, for he argued with himself that in justice to his work he could not give the time necessary this year at least to go in for swimming. But he reckoned without Max who stood squinting at him. "Now," said the instructor, "vhen you've got your vind again I vant you to do dat over again. Und doan loaf along so much, move dose arms and legs a little bid faster." Jimmy laughed, for he knew Frank was trying to get out of swimming training. But Frank was fairly caught now, and there was nothing for him to do but to swim the distance again. He perched on the edge of the pool end, and balanced for the start as Burton had shown him. He took the water as cleanly as a knife and using a graceful but powerful crawl shot down to the further end, turned half under water and came back with a quickening gait until his hand touched the pool end where Max stood with his eyes glued on the watch. "Dirty seconds," said the instructor half to himself. And then to Frank. "Vhy didn't you dell me dat before? I vant you to come here effery day and svim. Dis Freshman bunch of mine ain't no good. You'll help? Who showed you how to svim like dat anyway?" "O, a fellow named Burton." "Who?" "Burton, one of your Yale captains." "O, Burton, hey? Are you de fellar Armstrong dat svam down at Travers Island last summer?" Frank nodded. "Py jiminy, vhy didn't you dell me dat before? Dat settles it. Now you got to come and help out this Freshman bunch." That was the end of Frank's resolution not to get mixed up in athletics until the baseball practice opened. Every day found him at the pool, and under the careful guidance of the instructor he improved steadily, and when the Freshman-Sophomore relay race came off he was selected as the man to swim the last relay for his class. This he did so well that, although starting with a handicap of ten feet, he beat out his opponent by the breadth of a hand, and won the event for the Freshmen. Frank might have been induced to continue in the swimming game, for the love of it, but in the last part of February the overpowering call for baseball candidates caught him, and he joined the uniformed crowd that daily haunted the cage in the rear of the Gymnasium; and through the afternoons, when recitations permitted, he took his share of batting, base-running, pitching, stopping grounders, and all that goes to the training of a Yale baseball player. He was at first enrolled among the candidates for pitcher, but as there seemed to be a great plenitude of pitchers, he was relegated to the outfield, but glad to be on the squad on any position. "What, our young Christy Mathewson out in the lots! Fie upon them!" exclaimed the Codfish when he heard. "Even Napoleon had to begin," returned Frank. "Maybe they'll back me off the field before long. College baseball isn't school baseball, you know." With the coming of warmer weather, the crocuses and chirp of the robin in late March, the baseball and track men forsook the cage for the open field, and there during the long afternoons the candidates were put through their paces by the different coaches. Coach Thomas, who had been appointed by the 'Varsity captain to drill the Freshman nine, was a believer in hard work and gave his pupils plenty of it to do. Naturally, men from the larger preparatory schools, who had come to Yale with a reputation made in their school, had the first call. When they made good they held their positions. Armstrong and Turner, coming as they did from a school not among the half dozen prominent ones in the country, had to show their merit by hard fighting. But the coach played no favorites and when a player showed merit in the practice he had due consideration. Turner and Armstrong, the former as catcher and the latter as pitcher, worked as a battery for some of the early practice. Frank's remarkable control stood him in good stead at first, but as the batters improved in their hitting of straight balls, Frank dropped behind in the race, and was now used only occasionally for batting practice. He was one of the half-dozen substitutes in the outfield. Turner fell into a more fortunate situation as catchers on the squad were scarce, and before two weeks of practice had elapsed, was in second place in the race for the position of backstop on the Freshman nine. CHAPTER IX. A JUMP IN BASEBALL AND THE RESULT. The fact that the Freshman diamond lies very close to the running track, and more particularly that the right field foul-line impinges on the back stretch of the track, by a peculiar circumstance had a very important influence on the college life of Frank Armstrong. And so do great things turn on small incidents. On a particular day in May, Freshman baseball practice was in full swing. Frank was still an humble outfielder with little hope of a promotion to the pitcher's box, for three men of more experience were ahead of him. Thomas, however, attracted by the bearing of Frank, had held him on the squad in spite of the fact that he was not an exceptional fielder. He was attentive to instructions and because of his willingness and earnestness to do whatever was told him to do, held his place as a substitute right fielder. "In these days," the coach told him, "no pitcher can get along without a good assortment of curves. Your straight ball is fine, but they get to it. You can curve the ball but you can't get it over the plate when you do curve it." "That's my trouble, but I'll learn if you'll show me," said Frank, "that is, I'll do my best to learn." But Thomas was not a pitcher and therefore could not show him just how to get that puzzling break to the ball which assured a pitcher of success with even a moderately good control. So Frank languished in the outfield much to the disgust of Turner and the Codfish who thought he was being done an injustice. A practice game was in progress between the First and Second nines, and the First nine was at bat. Frank was playing right field. Down along the first base line came a sizzling grounder just inside the base. An undercut to the ball caused it, when it struck the turf, to pull off into foul ground. At once the man on second shot for home. Frank started at the crack of the bat, while the batter set sail for first base with the evident intention of making second at least on the hit which seemed good for two easy bases. Frank, who was playing closer in than he should have been, went for the grounder with all his speed, but seeing no hope of intercepting it by ordinary means, leaped in the air to a point in the line of the rolling ball. His feet, as they struck the ground, formed a barrier which the ball struck and jumped into the air in easy reach of his hand. He recovered his balance, seized the ball and drove it like lightning to the plate, catching the runner. The catcher snapped the ball to second, completing the double. It was a pretty play and brought forth hand-clapping from the two score of bystanders who were watching the game. Now it chanced that the trainer of the track team, Johnny Black by name, was looking over his runners as they loped around the back stretch of the track. His eye for the moment was off his half-milers, and was attracted by Armstrong's leap for the rolling ball. He crossed the track to the Freshman outfield, searching for the mark of Frank's cleats when he left the ground. Having found the starting point, he searched carefully till he found the marks of his landing, which happened to be on a bit of ground bare of turf where the cleat marks showed plainly. A ball whizzed past his ear, but he paid no attention, and even the shout of the Freshman coach that he was in the field of play apparently had no effect upon him. He measured the distance of Armstrong's jump with his eye, then stepped it deliberately. "Hey, right-fielder," demanded Johnny, as Frank, the batting side having now been retired, trotted toward the plate, "what's your name?" "Armstrong," shouted that individual over his shoulder. "Come here, Armstrong," said the trainer in peremptory tones. Frank halted and went back to him. "You look to me like a jumper. What are you doing over here when you can jump 18 feet with baseball clothes on?" he demanded. "Trying to play ball the best I know how." "Any chance to make it?" said the trainer as he walked along toward the plate while the First team went to their places in the field. "Not very good looking now," returned Frank. "I'm sort of a seventeenth sub-pitcher and outfielder." "So! I want you over at the track for a day or two. You ought to jump a mile. Say, Thomas," this to the coach, "let me have Armstrong for a day or two. I'm in an awful hole for jumpers and he ought to make one or I miss my guess. If he doesn't turn out right, you can have him back again. If he does, you'll never get him!" "That's right, come and take my men away from me," grumbled Thomas. "But I can spare him just now as he is a pitcher and I've got three pretty good ones. Send him back here if he doesn't make good." "All the work I'll ask him to do in training for the jump, if he has the goods, won't prevent him from working with you if he wants to, but I want him first." "All right," said Thomas. "Armstrong, report to Black to-morrow afternoon, and when you have shown him how far you can't jump, come back here for what practice you can get." "All right, sir," returned Frank. "Two o'clock to-morrow at the track house. Bring a track suit with you and jumping shoes if you have them." "All right, I'll be there," said Frank but he did not relish the change. His heart was set on baseball, and it was a great disappointment to him to be pulled into the track work. But his motto was to do the best that was in him without question, which is the starting point for success in most things. The coming of the Freshman jumper did not create much interest on the track squad. His jumping did not please the trainer. "Your form is bad," Black told him. "In jumping, form is everything. You may get to twenty-one or twenty-two feet the way you are going, but that will be the end of it. You must get higher in the air at the take-off." Frank worked hard to master the new style. In school he had jumped naturally and without much coaching, but felt himself that he was not getting his greatest distance. He redoubled his efforts but could not lengthen out beyond nineteen feet or a little better. Then he began to fall below that even. "You're jumping like an old brindle cow," said Black one day. "Are your legs sore?" "My shins feel as if they would crack every time I land in the pit," said Frank, feeling the offending legs gingerly. "Why in thunder didn't you tell me that before? You can't work at the broad jump the same as you do at football or baseball. Lay off for a day or two and keep off your feet." The rest did Frank a world of good for when he returned to the jumping pit he cleared over twenty feet in his first trial, much to the trainer's delight. Thereafter he was watched with the closest attention by Black. In the spring games which came the last week in April he won third place in the handicap broad jump; and after a hard fight succeeded in beating out Warrington, the Freshman jumper who had done the best work up to that time. Two weeks later at the Princeton Freshman meet Frank won second place with a jump of 21 feet 5 inches, and first place in the Harvard Freshman games a week later, bettering his mark by three inches. Armstrong was ineligible, of course, for the 'Varsity meets with Princeton and Harvard, but kept at work perfecting his form and watching closely the work of Hotchkiss, the Junior, who was a consistent performer around 22 feet 6 inches, and who occasionally approached 23 feet. But as Frank daily increased his marks, the interest of Hotchkiss waned. The Intercollegiates came and went, and Hotchkiss maintained his position as Intercollegiate champion by winning the broad jump for Yale at 22 feet 10 inches. But Armstrong never ceased his efforts. A trip to Cambridge for the finals in the Intercollegiates showed him the styles used by the greatest collegiate jumpers, and after returning to New Haven he put his observations to such good effect that he cleared 22 feet 4 inches. "What's the use of keeping up that old grind at the track," said the Codfish one night. "Why don't you go over to the Freshman baseball squad? You may get a chance there yet." "I'm after something," returned Frank, "and it's coming so fast that I don't want to let go." "And that something?" "Don't laugh, it's Hotchkiss. He's been so blamed cocky that I'd give my shoes to lick his mark in the Intercollegiates just for personal satisfaction. I'm too late to do anything with the baseball squad now anyway." "Noble ambition," said the Codfish, "but what's the use? There's nothing more for the track men this spring." "Just the same I'm going to keep at it." "Go ahead then, jump your legs off, while Turner and I win the glory." Turner had by steady improvement worked himself into the position of first catcher on the Freshman team. The Codfish, leaving temporarily his ambition to break into the exclusive ranks of the Mandolin Club, had won the position of official scorer of the Freshman, a place which he filled with great credit. "Another sit-down job," said Turner laughing. "Trust the Codfish to get something easy." "Why not? I don't love violent exercise. If I hanker for the cool shade of the scorer's bench and can record the glorious deeds of our young catcher and ease up on him when he makes flub-dubs, who is to say me nay? But I'm a believer in hard work, just the same----" "For the other fellow," broke in Frank. "Sure, that's what gives Yale her prestige, doesn't it? If it becomes necessary for me to don the baseball suit to uphold the athletics of Yale, then I'll do it. Till then, with all you good workers around, I don't see any reason why I shouldn't take the shade." "Noble youth," said Frank. "We'll keep on in the sun and let you take the shade," and nothing either the Codfish or Turner could say changed Frank's determination to keep everlastingly at his jumping practice, uninteresting though it appeared to his roommates. "Now I know why you stuck to the jumping," said the Codfish one morning as he scanned the first page of the _News_. "Elucidate," said Frank. "Here it is right in our lively little daily. Oxford and Cambridge-Yale-Harvard meet arranged. Teams about evenly matched. Sail for England July 2nd, and a whole string of likely candidates in which I see your name." "O, but I'm a Freshman, and a Freshman can't compete in 'Varsity matches," said Frank, but his heart gave a bound just the same. "You won't be a Freshman after June 17th, you bonehead," returned the Codfish joyfully, "provided you don't flunk your examinations. You'll be a jolly Sophomore with all the blackness of Freshman year behind you." "But there's Hotchkiss. He's better than I am, and a Junior." "He'll be a Senior, don't you savez, but that will make mighty little difference if you can outjump him. They will take only the best, or I'm a galoot." "You generally are, Codfish, but I'll work my head off to make that team." "You've nearly worked it off already, and you've got to make that team. Pictures in the papers, details of your early life, moving stories about your many virtues, weeping relatives at the dock as the ship sails out of the bay and all that sort of thing. I can see it all now." Frank laughed at his enthusiastic friend. But his pulse quickened at the thought of the possibility of making the team which should represent America in this international contest. Turner, too, was wild with delight at the turn affairs had taken. "Now I wish I had been a jumper. We'll read the cable dispatches every day. You're bound to make it." "Don't count your chickens," said Frank, "till they are safely hatched. You forget that Hotchkiss is doing nearly 23 feet." Two days later a call in the _News_ brought all the first string track men together in the trophy room of the Gymnasium, and Frank Armstrong was among them. Captain Harrington read the challenge from the English Universities, and told them what was expected of them. "This is going to be a free field, and everyone will have his chance. The team will be the best that Harvard and Yale can get together. Practice will be held at the Field every day as usual, and the trials will be at Cambridge a week before we sail. Only first place counts in this meet with the Englishmen so it will not be necessary to take any but the best men in each event. I want you to give the best in you. We must give a good account of ourselves here at Yale." The captain got a rousing cheer at the end of his speech which was a long one for him, and the athletes clattered down the wide, marble steps in excited discussion of the coming event and Yale's possibilities. "Armstrong," said the trainer next day at the field, "you have a chance to make this team. I want you to go to it as hard as you know how." "I've been doing that for the last month." "Well, you've improved a lot in that time. You've got to beat Hotchkiss to win out. It's up to you." During the remainder of the college year Frank put every spare minute in the preparation for the final test for the team. Even in the trying time of examinations he managed to squeeze out half hours at the Field, and when it was not possible to get out there, he studied the theory of broad-jumping, searched the library for information on the subject and found little enough. At Commencement a famous jumper of former years took him in hand and gave him some advice which helped him greatly. Steadily, if slowly, he continued to improve his marks, until one hot morning he raced down the runway and cleared 22 feet 10 inches, much to the discomfort of Hotchkiss who, in spite of his experience, did not relish the fact that the Freshman was drawing nearer and nearer to equality with him. "Twenty-two feet ten inches," announced Black. "Hotchkiss, you've got to look out for your laurels. This Freshman will beat you out if you don't improve your jump." Hotchkiss scowled and tried harder than ever, but he seemed to have reached his limit, and was unable to surpass his distance in the Intercollegiates. That night Frank wrote to his mother: "Mother, I have a chance, only a chance, mind you, to make the team that is going to England to represent Yale and Harvard. If I win a place are you and dad willing to let me go?" And the answer came back on the next mail: "Yes." "That settles it," cried Frank, flourishing the letter above his head as he capered about the room. "I'll win out or die trying." The Codfish spoke up: "Perhaps you don't know that I'm going too." "For what?" inquired Frank. "To see that you keep in strict training and out of mischief." "You actually mean you would go across if I should make the team?" "Bettcher life," came the quick answer. "I've got to do something this summer, and I can't imagine anything better than to see the Johnny Bulls properly tanned." "Jimmy, how about you?" inquired Frank. "I'm not a bloated bondholder like the Codfish. It's work for mine this summer. But I'll read all the cablegrams and pray for you!" CHAPTER X. THE TRY-OUTS AT CAMBRIDGE. It was the day of the try-outs at Cambridge when the best that Harvard and Yale could muster were gathered to contest for a place on the team which should meet Oxford and Cambridge. "One week more and we will be on the briny," observed Gleason confidently to Frank. The speaker, Jimmy and David had all journeyed to the big Stadium to see their classmate compete for a place. "Gleason, if you talk like that much more, you'll hoodoo me. Don't forget that I'm a novice at this game. I've got about one chance in ten." "You'll come through all right," said David Powers. "I've noticed that you do pretty well under pressure." "As, for instance, football on the Yale Freshman team!--Go to, David, go to! I know what you fellows are trying to do. You're trying to keep up my sinking spirits. Much obliged." Frank was dressing for the trials along with the point-winners of the 'Varsity track team, but he felt strange and shy with the older and more seasoned athletes. He was the only Freshman who had been taken with the Yale squad, and his three friends, David, Jimmy and the Codfish, had made it a point to be with him. "I don't see any particular reason for anyone going over to represent us in the broad jump anyway," said Frank. "How's that?" inquired someone. "Didn't you see the morning papers? No? Well, Vare, that Oxford man, jumped 23 feet 5 in practice, and they think over there there's nothing but England to this coming meet. All the prophets have it settled." "I've heard of prophets slipping before now," said the Codfish gaily. "And Vare is a consistent jumper, better than 23 feet most of the time, from all I can learn," went on Frank. "Cambridge has a pretty good jumper, too, better than we have, but away behind Vare. So if the unexpected happens and I should win out, which doesn't look bright, I'd be nothing but an also-ran when it comes to the scratch over there." Out on the track where the contestants were now hurrying, a crowd of officials and friends were gathered along the straightaway and the various jumping pits. Halloby had already won his place in the high hurdles and was receiving the congratulations of his friends as he walked smilingly back to the track house. "Good boy, Halloby," came the greeting from all sides. A Yale man had been second. Both would be taken. Hotchkiss was at the jumping pit when Frank reached there, and was engaged in marking with the greatest care the length of his strides just before the "take" of the jump so that he would get the best results. Up and down the runway he went, measuring and pacing. He gave Armstrong a curt nod as he walked to the jumpers' bench to the right of the runway. Just as the quarter-mile ended, giving Harvard two men and Yale none in this event, the broad jumping contest was started with Hotchkiss leading off. On his first try, Hotchkiss overran the jumping block. McGregor, a Harvard man, cleared 21 feet 8 inches, another Harvard man 21 feet 6, and then it came Frank's turn. "Now, Armstrong," said the trainer as he walked down the runway toward the point where Frank had left his jersey as a starting mark. "Keep your head, get a breeze up in those last six strides and hit the block hard. Go ahead." Frank loped down the runway for perhaps fifty feet, speeding up toward the middle of the run. Then within six or eight strides of the block he burst into full speed, hit the block squarely, and shot into the air. It looked like a magnificent jump but when he struck in the soft sawdust and loam of the pit he could not hold the full distance, and fell backwards, breaking the ground a good three feet to the rear of where his heels first touched. Naturally, the jump was measured from the block to the point where his hand broke the ground. "Twenty feet four inches," sang out the judge of the event. "This Yale Freshman isn't such a wonder, after all," whispered a Harvard competitor to another sitting next him on the bench. "If he could have held his distance, it would have been a peach, though." "Your old fault, Armstrong," said Black coming over to him. "That jump was actually better than 23 feet. Now, try to stay up on your next." As the trainer spoke, Hotchkiss came rushing down the runway. He got a perfect take-off, rose in the air, turned halfway round in his flight, but held the distance he had made on the jump, which was a moment later announced to be 22 feet 10 inches. McGregor followed with a pretty jump of 22 feet 6, while his teammate did not better his first jump, which was not good enough even to be measured. Again it was Frank's turn, and so well did he heed the coaching of Black that the judge gave him credit for 22 feet 8 inches, the second best jump of the afternoon. Hotchkiss still held the lead, however, and swaggered a little as he walked around. The jumpers followed each other in rotation. Frank's next try was a failure, but on the following one, gathering all his energies for a supreme effort, he sailed into the air like a bird. "Twenty-two feet ten and three-fourths inches," called the judge, showing in his voice an awakening interest in the event. Hotchkiss, stung at the thought that the Freshman had beaten his best mark, showed very plainly in his preparations for his trials that he meant to wipe him out. He moved his marks a trifle, stepped the distance carefully, and then, seemingly satisfied, walked slowly to the end of the runway. "He's peeved," remarked Turner. "What difference does it make to him anyway, he's sure to be taken, isn't he?" inquired David. "Hotchkiss is one of those chaps who hate to be anything but first." "He has a head like a rhinocer-hoss," said the Codfish. As he spoke, Hotchkiss turned at the far end of the runway. Every eye was on him now, which was not at all displeasing to him. Down the runway he came like a race horse, his gaze fixed steadily on the take-off block where the supreme effort was to be made. But so great was his speed in his endeavor to eclipse all previous efforts that he struck the block badly, sprang in the air, lost his direction and landed partly in and partly out of the pit in an awkward straddle. Unable to keep his balance he fell over sideways on the hard ground and lay there groaning. In an instant a half score of bystanders had run to the aid of Hotchkiss. He was picked up and set upon his feet, half stunned, but when he attempted to take a step, he sank down groaning. The trainer sprang to the side of the injured jumper. "Where is it?" he demanded. "My ankle," moaned Hotchkiss. "I twisted it in some way. Here, let me try it again." But try as he might, he could not bear a particle of weight on the injured leg, and had to be carried to the Locker Building in the arms of two of his teammates. Immediately a buzz of excited conversation rose. "That hurts our chances in England, doesn't it?" inquired one of the officials. "Yes, it does. Hotchkiss was good enough to win over the Cambridge man in case anything should happen to the Oxford man, Vare. He didn't have a chance to beat Vare because Hotchkiss has never done as well as 23 feet, while Vare is a consistent performer at several inches better." "The broad jump is one of the events that we've got to count out, then, isn't it?" "It certainly is now," said the trainer. "If Armstrong had a year more of experience he'd give the Oxonian a good battle. Armstrong is a natural jumper, but has not perfected his form yet. It will take another year." When the excitement over the injury to Hotchkiss had passed, the trials continued and Armstrong created a ripple of interest when on his last trial he came within an inch of the coveted 23-foot mark. The result of the contest in the broad jump was that Armstrong, representing Yale, and McGregor, representing Harvard, were selected for the team. In all, twenty-six men were chosen that afternoon for the fourteen events to be contested in England, fourteen from Harvard and twelve from Yale. These men were the very flower of both teams. In the hammer and shot events only two from each college were selected since the best hammer throwers were also the best shot putters. To say that it was a jubilant quartet of boys who tumbled off the train at Milton, would be expressing it in weak terms. "Open up the cupboard," cried Frank after the home greetings were over. "You have four champion diners with you to-night." "A little soup, slice of mutton and toast for the athlete, Mrs. Armstrong. Frank isn't allowed to eat anything rich, you know, training table grub and all that." "You chase yourself around the block, Mr. Codfish. The training table has a rest for a solid week--apple dumplings, strawberry shortcake and all the fixings belong to me." "Seems as if you had earned it, son," said Mr. Armstrong. "Grand little muscles, Mr. Armstrong," said the loquacious Codfish. "Nice, hard and knotty, warranted pure steel, made in Germany--just feel them, best set in Yale--delivery of goods guaranteed----" The dinner gong cut the speaker's flow of language short, but at the table he kept the conversation moving at a lively pace. "Well, boys," said Mr. Armstrong, edging into the torrent of talk, "do you like Yale as well now as ever?" "Yale is great stuff," came the ready chorus. "It would be better if we didn't have so many studies," added the Codfish. "How's that?" "Well, a fellow just gets settled down to doing something like baseball or football or track athletics when the recitations break in. And the profs. get so peeved when a fellow isn't up to form that they have an unkind habit of flunking him." "And do you flunk, Mr. Gleason?" inquired Mrs. Armstrong. "Does he flunk! O, my!" laughed Jimmy. "I hold the record in the class," said the Codfish proudly. "Four in one day. Such a successful flunker that I have three conditions for next year." "Conditions, what are they?" "O, just little attachments that they sometimes put onto Freshmen," laughed Frank. "Have you any, Frank?" inquired his father. "In athletics a fellow has to keep up to the scratch, you know. If he doesn't, he can't go into athletics. The Codfish is the free-lance." "Yes, he's gone into everything," interjected Jimmy, "and so far hasn't won a battle." "O, but he will," said Mrs. Armstrong. "Thank you for your confidence," said that individual rising and making a sweeping bow. "'Familiarity breeds contempt,' so they say, and my familiar roommates fail to see the outcroppings of genius as clearly as you do. I've nearly won several battles already." And then Jimmy gave the history of the Codfish's unsuccessful onslaughts on the _News_, the Crew and the Mandolin Club to the amusement of the older members of the family. "The difficulty is," said the Codfish, "that the individual has no chance at college. It is all for the development of the average man, like Jimmy there, for instance. Genius is frowned upon. I could have revolutionized the _News_ if they'd given me a little longer chance at it." "Demoralized it, you mean," said Frank. "Mother, give me another piece of that shortcake. My, but it tastes good after so much training table." Training hours were broken that night, and for several nights to come, for the boys played with as much vigor as they worked. But Frank did not neglect his physical training. Swims at Seawall, where our friends foregathered for the first time several years before, rowing, and walks in the country, kept him in trim for the work which was to come. CHAPTER XI. A VOYAGE TO LONDON. Ten days after the trials at Cambridge, Frank, with the Codfish at his side, stood on the promenade deck of the great White Star liner _Olympic_, and waved good-by to his friends on the dock as the big boat moved slowly out into North River. "Bring back their scalps, you Indians," shouted someone. "Don't let the Johnny Bulls get your goats, you Yaleses!" "Show them how they do it in Yankeeland, Harvard!" To all of which the outgoing athletes, in a little group apart from the rest of the passengers, smiled and waved hands in acknowledgment. "Gee whiz," said the Codfish as the big ship slipped swiftly down the bay, "I never thought of it before, but what if I should be seasick?" "It doesn't make so much difference about you," said Frank heartlessly, "but what if _I_ should? That's the question!" Fortunately, the ocean was calm and none of the team suffered in the slightest from the dreaded sickness. With the first meal on the ship the athletes were seated together, and soon Yale and Harvard lines were forgotten. The men from the two universities fraternized with each other and the team was neither Harvard nor Yale, but an American team with only one object in view,--victory from their English cousins. Training regulations were established at once, and while the routine was not so strict as on land, the trainers saw to it that their athletes retired not later than 10:30 and that they were up at 7 in the morning for a jog around the decks before the passengers were about. The long decks of the _Olympic_ made a surprisingly good training ground. A training stunt which amused the passengers was dancing, not in the ordinary sense of the word, but "standstill sprinting" as the Codfish called it, on a cork mat, on which the runners got practically the same leg action as they would running on the open track. A large cork mat was spread on the boat deck, and relays of men, four at a time, pranced merrily, rested and pranced again. Then came a cold salt water shower and a rub-down. In the afternoon the dancing exercise would be repeated. Skipping the rope was another deck exercise which played a large part in keeping the men in good condition. "Where do you keep yourself nowadays?" said Frank one evening after dinner. He had noticed that Gleason disappeared for long periods during the day. "O, just sitting about and thinking. Can't think where you athletes are romping around. You make more noise than a bunch of magpies. I'm sick of athletic chatter, that so-and-so ought to do 10 seconds, and that Mr. Blinks of Harvard should win his half if he doesn't get too fast a pace in the first quarter, that Mr. Jenks of Yale is likely to pull a tendon, and so on and so on." "So you sneak off and improve your mind?" "Right-O, sonny. I'm doing that same." But the next day Frank discovered the cause of the Codfish's long absences. The Codfish did not have his meals at the athletes' table but at a table nearby. Adjoining the table where he sat, Fate, in the person of the steward's assistant, had placed Mr. and Mrs. Mortimore Hasbrouck, their daughter Marjorie and son William. Fate went a step farther than the location of the Hasbrouck family and undoubtedly had a hand in the business of seating Marjorie at this table where her bright face was in range of the Codfish's roving eyes. Now, Marjorie was fair to look upon as the Codfish admitted to himself when she made her appearance in the dining saloon the first night at sea. "But she's only a kid," he said to himself, "just fresh out of some boarding school if I dope that pin on her shoulder right." The Codfish looked and looked, but the eyes of Marjorie were on the athletes' table beyond him, and were not for him. Her gaze continually traveled over his head, and now and then he could hear the words "Harvard, Yale, track athletes----" for, of course, everyone knew that the teams were aboard even before the ship left the dock. "She doesn't know I belong to the party," thought the Codfish, gloomily, "or she wouldn't waste all her looks at the next table. I've got to fix that!" That night he made it a point to speak to Billie, while the latter hung on the outskirts of the crowd of athletes, and Billie was, of course, overjoyed to be spoken to by a college man, for he was only in his third year in prep. school, and considered a collegian a kind of demigod. "Are you one of the athletes?" inquired Billie. "I'm one of the Yale men," said the Codfish feeling his chest expand. Billie jumped to the conclusion that he was one of the competitors, and was duly elated at the fortunate acquaintance. "Gee whiz, I'm glad to know you. I'm going down to Yale myself next year if I get through my exams. Should have been there this year but flub-dubbed the exams. Dad says if I don't make it next year it's good-night for mine." "Stick to it, stick to it, my boy! A college life is a great thing,--training of the mind, associations, mental and physical development and all that sort of thing." As he talked he led the way up the deck in the direction of the Hasbrouck family chairs. The Codfish shot a look out of his eye and observed the object of his search, the fair Marjorie. But the expected didn't happen. Billie, glorying in the companionship of a Yale man and a member of the great team of athletes, led his new-found friend up and down the deck half a dozen times to let the full weight of its significance sink into the family. Getting impatient at last, and tired of the walking, the Codfish said: "Seems to me I've seen you and your sister before somewhere. Perhaps it was down at the game last fall." "Wish I had been there, but nothing doing! Just at that time I got into trouble at school and the Pater shut down on me. Beastly luck. But, say, Mr.-- Mr.----" "Gleason." "Mr. Gleason, won't you come and meet the family? Sis will be delighted to know a Yale man." Thus came the Codfish to the Hasbrouck family, where, being properly presented, he bowed low and with supreme dignity. When Marjorie offered him her hand he held it a trifle overtime and looked unspeakable things. "What is your specialty, Mr. Gleason?" inquired Mrs. Hasbrouck. "O, a little of everything," said the Codfish noncommittally. "O, isn't that lovely," cried Marjorie. "He does everything!" "Well, I try a few things," struggling to produce a modest smile and with indifferent success. "Tell us about Yale, Mr. Gleason," said Mrs. Hasbrouck. "I'm so sorry John isn't here because William is going down to Yale next year, I hope. I went to a game there years ago, a football game I think it was, in June----" "Baseball, I think," corrected Billie. "They don't play football in June." "Well, baseball then. I thought it a wonderful place." "O, it's a pretty good place," said Gleason, and then nothing loath to talk, particularly when Marjorie made the inquiries, he launched into a dazzling word picture of Yale and her glories. At the end of ten minutes he had made such progress with Marjorie that she readily accepted his invitation to take a promenade with him. From that moment the affairs of the Yale-Harvard track team, and even the more intimate concerns of his roommate began to decline from the zenith of his attentions. Marjorie was in the ascendency. It was on the second day out that Frank Armstrong, noticing the Codfish's absence, had asked him where he kept himself, and was not at all satisfied with the answer he got. "The Codfish sitting around, thinking! Never!" said Frank to himself. And shortly after, Frank had ocular demonstration as to the real trouble. He met Codfish and Marjorie, and the former was so much absorbed that he didn't even see his roommate. "By Jove!" cried Frank. "Wait till I see him!" When the Codfish turned up that night in the stateroom, Frank pounced upon him. "So you've been sitting around, thinking, have you?" "Sure thing, thinking what I'd do next. I say, Frank, she's a pippin. Billie's an awful bore, but his kid sister is a peach, believe me!" "I thought you were an out-and-out woman-hater." "I used to be in my younger days," said the Codfish, earnestly, "but this Marjorie girl has certainly got me going. Some eyes, boy, some eyes." "So, that's why you've been neglecting your poor roommate, is it? I thought you came over here to see that I had good attention and kept in training. I might be at almost anything, even enjoying a pipe in the smoking room with John Hasbrouck as far as you are concerned." "I guess you will be all right looking after yourself. Now in Marjorie's case--" he had reached the point already of calling her "Marjorie," and he lingered a little over the name--"in Marjorie's case, it is different. She needs a strong arm to lean on," and the Codfish stretched his legs out luxuriously. "And you are furnishing the arm?" "Precisely." "And how about her father and mother and even her brother? They have no protecting arms, I suppose?" "Frank, they don't understand her. She seems quite alone. This is in confidence, Frank,--she's going to go on the stage as soon as she's through school. She'd make a hit, I tell you! She has great ambition, that girl has!" "And what does her mother say about the stage?" "O, just laughs at her, has no conception of the depths of that girl's nature. I doped her out for myself soon as I saw her. Frank, old chap, I love her!" At this astounding piece of intelligence Frank howled with laughter. "All right, go ahead and laugh, but I tell you this is serious. Say, Frank, you wouldn't mind if I went on to Paris with the Hasbroucks, would you? You won't need me for anything. I'll get back to London for the meet maybe." "You'll get lost snooping around Paris all by yourself," said Frank as soon as he could regain the breath that Gleason's question had knocked out of him. "O, but I'll not be alone. I'll travel with the Hasbroucks. My heart tells me to go." "Very well then," said Frank. "If you have such an unreliable heart, there's nothing for it but to go I suppose. You may change your mind or your heart before we dock." "Never!" said the Codfish. "This is a deep and lasting feeling I have. It has changed the whole course of my life. I came onto this boat a mere boy, now I feel I'm a man with all the responsibilities of a man." Codfish's infatuation was too good a story to keep, and Frank took McGregor, the Harvard broad jumper, with whom he had struck up a friendship, into his confidence. "That friend of mine, Gleason, has a love attack and tells me he is going to desert and go on to Paris with the fair charmer. How are we going to head him off?" "Win his girl away from him," suggested McGregor. "But he doesn't give anyone a chance," said Frank, laughing. "He sticks around from morning till night. He certainly has a terrible case." "Get him up on the boat-deck for a game of shuffleboard," suggested McGregor, "and then we'll get someone to talk to Marjorie. When that fellow gets tired, we'll have someone else take up the relay and so on." "Great," said Frank. "Let's try." That afternoon, the Codfish, all unsuspecting, was led off for a try at the popular deck game, and in his absence one of the team, who was in the plot, contrived to get an introduction to Marjorie, took the vacant chair of her father, and began a lengthy conversation. When the Codfish, who had been detained at the game as long as possible, hurried back to his lady-love he found his place occupied. Back and forth he paced, casting longing looks in the direction of the Hasbrouck chairs, but Marjorie was deeply interested in the young man alongside of her, and did not even look in the Codfish's direction. After half an hour of agony, the Codfish observed with joy that his rival was preparing to leave, but just at that moment, up strolled another of the athletes to the coveted chair, and being asked to sit down, did so and continued the conversation, while plotter No. 1 went on his way. For two mortal hours the Codfish was held at bay, pacing the decks and railing at his luck while the relays continued. "How in the deuce did she come to know all these fellows?" growled the Codfish to himself. "Next time I'll not go playing shuffleboard and leaving her alone, so help me Bob!" When finally the Codfish thought his inning was about to come, Marjorie tripped gaily off with the last of her suitors, and after a promenade around the deck, disappeared somewhere below to Gleason's great distress of mind. That evening Marjorie was again carried off, this time by the Yale half-miler, and the only thing left for the Codfish was to occupy her vacant chair, which he did, and proceeded to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Hasbrouck, though his eyes followed Marjorie on her promenade up and down the deck. "Mighty attractive girl, that Miss Hasbrouck," said Frank that night as the boys were preparing to retire. "She's made a great hit with the team, did you notice it?" "Did I notice it?" cried the Codfish petulantly. "Yes, I noticed it. Where in the name of the Great Horn Spoon did she meet all those fellows?" "Mutual attraction, I s'pose," said Frank. "I saw you holding forth with her mother most of the evening. Charming lady, eh?" "O, yes, all right. Interested in philanthropy and all that sort of thing. Wanted me to help her raise something for the Widows and Orphans Fund for Sailors; subscription papers, and all that sort of thing." "And you're for it?" "O, yes, Marjorie's mother you see. Couldn't do anything else. I've got to stand in right with her mother." "Noble youth," said Frank. "First catch the mother and the daughter will come easy. Is that it?" "You have a glimmer of intelligence, Armstrong, a rare thing in your case." "We have him on the run," said McGregor the next morning at breakfast. "I suggest a round-robin letter to the young lady. How would this suit?" He hauled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Frank, who read it while a smile stole over his face. "Will she take it all right, do you think?" said Frank as he handed the letter back to the conspirator. "Sure thing. The Codfish cuts no figure now since she's had a taste of bigger game. I'll write it out and get everyone to sign it." "Go to it," said Frank. "We must save our little Codfish." That afternoon while Miss Hasbrouck was curled up in her deck chair with the Codfish in attendance, a deck steward handed a letter to her. A long list of signatures followed. "A wireless?" inquired the Codfish, much interested. "Too funny for anything," said the girl. "I wonder if I had better let you read it? It concerns you." "Me?" said the Codfish in astonishment, reaching out for the letter. "Promise not to get mad if I let you see it?" "Cross my heart, hope to die if I do." "All right, then, but remember your promise." She passed the letter over to him, and this is what he read: "Dear Miss Hasbrouck:-- "We have observed with growing anxiety the attention which one of our party has been paying to you. While we do not wish to alarm you, we feel you ought to know that this young man is afflicted with mental aberration. In other words, he is slightly off his head. As far as we know he has never had a dangerous spell, but you can never tell. Please pardon us for seeming to intrude, but we thought you ought to know." Then followed a long list of signatures of practically every man on either team. Gleason was just finishing the perusal of the note when McGregor pranced up to Miss Hasbrouck. "Take a walk around the deck?" he queried, and that young lady hastily jumped up without even excusing herself to the Codfish, and started off at a brisk pace with the young Harvard man. "Nutty, am I?" said the Codfish. "I'll show them," gritting his teeth, "I'll show them. They're trying to queer me," and then to Mrs. Hasbrouck who had just come up from her stateroom: "O, Mrs. Hasbrouck, I'm going to help you with that fund. Guess pretty nearly everyone of the two teams will subscribe to it." "That's very sweet of you, indeed. It is a noble thing to do to help such a good cause to provide for the widows and orphans of the sailors who go down in the great deep." "Sure thing," said the Codfish, enthusiastically. "All our fellows are very generous on such a thing as that. I never saw such a noble bunch of fellows as we have with us." Mrs. Hasbrouck beamed over her spectacles. "I think we ought to collect as much of the fund as we can to-day; only a little more of our sea voyage is left, you know." "'A bird in the hand is said to be worth two in the bushes!'" returned the Codfish. "I'll be back in a minute," he added. On the way down to the bulletin board in the companionway where were inscribed the signatures of those who were willing to help along the fund with contributions, he came upon Marjorie and McGregor, their heads together in deep conversation. Neither saw him or they pretended not to see him as he passed, and the fires of revenge burned the deeper in his heart. Five minutes later he was back at Mrs. Hasbrouck's chair. "The names of pretty nearly every one of our fellows are down under that subscription paper," he informed her. "I've made a copy of them all and the amounts opposite each name." "This is wonderful," said Mrs. Hasbrouck, enthusiastically as she ran through the list. "Mr. McGregor $25; Mr. Armstrong $25; Mr. Wallace $10; Mr. Burrows $10; why, this is really wonderful. You will certainly get your reward for your kindness. I'll call the steward's attention to this, and suggest that he ought to collect to-day, for to-morrow will be our last day on shipboard, you know." "Yes, I think he ought to get after them to-day. So much hurry and scurry on the last day that he might miss some of the contributions." A little later consternation was thrown into the "contributors" to the Widows and Orphans Fund. A very businesslike young steward armed with a list, began his collections. Two or three of the collegians paid up without protest for they supposed such collections were the regular thing, but when the collector reached McGregor, who was still holding the fort with Marjorie in the shade of one of the lifeboats, he met a refusal. "Twenty-five dollars for the Widows and Orphans Fund! I never heard of it before!" protested the "contributor." "There must be a mistake, sir," said the steward, "you must have forgotten, your name is one of those on the subscription paper in the companionway bulletin board." "My name on the paper? Quit your kidding." "O, but it is, sir. I made a careful copy myself, sir, of all the names, and I'm sure I'm right." "Then I must have done it in my sleep," exclaimed the puzzled McGregor. "Where is the bulletin board?" "I'll show you, sir," and the steward led the way to the saloon deck. Shortly they stood before the board in question. There were a number of notices on the board, but the steward pointed out the one in question. "There it is, sir, and there's your name," triumphantly. "We, the Undersigned, subscribe to the Widows and Orphans Fund the amount set after each of our names:" McGregor's jaw dropped as he read the notice. Then in amazement his eye traveled down the long list of signatures till it fell on his own. "It is sure enough my signature and no forgery. But when in the name of Mike did I do it?" He gazed in helpless wonder at Marjorie who had accompanied him to the companionway. "Seems to me I've seen that list before," said Miss Hasbrouck. "It looks like one that was attached to a letter I received to-day." McGregor stepped up to the board, scrutinized the subscription paper closely, then took out the thumb tacks which secured it to the board itself. "Look," he said, displaying the back of the paper. "The Codfish has put one over on us. This list has been very neatly pasted onto the bottom of the Widows and Orphans Fund subscription paper, and as both were written on ship's paper the deception was a clever one." "O, my, the wretch!" said Marjorie. "The young runt," quoth McGregor in high dudgeon, "wait till I get at him!" But he did not get at the Codfish just then for that individual kept himself out of sight until the next morning. The story went the rounds of the ship as might naturally be expected, and not a few of the team members, seeing that the Codfish had made a neat shift of the joke onto their own heads, paid up their alleged subscriptions so that the Fund was a gainer in the end. Sad to relate, however, the standing of the Codfish with the Hasbrouck family was gone, never to return. His best efforts next morning failed to draw even a look of recognition from Marjorie's bright eyes as she passed and repassed him during the deck promenade, tripping along gaily between two members of the team. Once he thought he caught the expression as she passed: "That horrid boy." From Mrs. Hasbrouck he could only draw a frigid nod. "And that's all the thanks I get for boosting the old fund," said the Codfish to himself. "Well, never mind, women are fickle. I'll have no more of them in my whole life," and he went his way whistling a merry tune. That afternoon as the ship was passing up Southampton Water the Codfish found Frank leaning on the rail watching the beautiful and ever-shifting panorama opening before him. "Say, Frank, I guess I'll not go on to Paris." "Changed your mind?" There was a hint of laughter in Frank's voice. "Yes, I think I ought to stick around for the practice and the games, don't you? Doesn't seem quite right to desert now." "Good boy," said Frank. "I think you'll find England more congenial than Paris. It wouldn't be right to leave us anyway." "That's what I think, too. I'll stick with the bunch." CHAPTER XII. THE CODFISH LOSES HIMSELF. The team with all its paraphernalia went through to London that night, and the next morning took train for Brighton about fifty miles south on the English Channel, where all were quartered at the Grand Hotel on the Esplanade facing the channel. Training quarters were established on the grounds of the Brighton Athletic Club which had been generously offered to the visitors by the Board of Governors. It was an eager lot of athletes that tumbled out of the tally-ho at the Club that morning, for the trainers insisted that the practice should begin at once, and the men themselves, cooped up as they had been for a week, were no less anxious to get to work than the trainers were to have them. Several scores of people, attracted to Brighton by the news that the Yale and Harvard teams would train there for the week previous to the match with Oxford and Cambridge, were in attendance when the Americans got into action. "A likely looking lot," was the English comment. After a light work-out, Armstrong and McGregor were called to the jumping pit. "Try a few," said Trainer Black, "but make it easy and be careful you don't twist your ankles. We're badly enough off as it is." After measuring out the runway and taking half a dozen practice runs, McGregor made a leap of something over 21 feet on his first try. Frank followed, but did not show anything impressive. Again he tried, but whether from the enforced idleness on the steamer or from physical condition, again fell far short of the jump he expected to make. "You're not getting any lift at all," said Black, coming up at that moment. "Shoot high in the air when you strike that take-off." Frank attempted to follow instructions, but his legs felt heavy and dead. He knew very well without information from the trainer that he failed to get his height. The more he jumped, the worse he got, but persisted until Trainer Black said: "That's enough, now. Jog around the track a couple of times and go in. You are off to-day but I guess it will be all right to-morrow." But the next day, while there was a little improvement in his distance, Frank was far behind his American performances. McGregor jumped consistently at 22 feet and a half. The strange ground did not seem to bother him in any way, while with Frank either the straight runway, the different conditions of air or the week of partial idleness on shipboard had played havoc with his skill. Naturally, he began to worry, and this had its effect in keeping him back. On the third day on English soil the whole team was taken up to London to the Queen's Club grounds so that the athletes might have an opportunity to try out the track. It proved to be a faster and better track than the one they were working on at Brighton and everyone was well pleased with the result of the day's work. Frank had improved a little on his jumps, but was still inches behind his Harvard mate. Several times he had succeeded in getting a good spring, but failed to hold the distance. It did not make him feel any happier to note that the English writers, after watching the performances of the two American jumpers, had counted them out of the contest entirely. "Vare," wrote one sporting critic, "will have no trouble in winning the broad jump for the American representatives are not in his class. It is unfortunate that their best jumper was unable to come across the water because of an accident in practice a few days before the Americans were to sail. But even with Hotchkiss, the injured Yale man, at his best he could not expect to measure up to the great Oxford jumper who has been doing 23 feet and over, consistently in practice, and has never yet been extended to his full limit to win in any event he has entered. With the broad jump a foregone conclusion for the Oxford-Cambridge team, the chances seem to favor the English athletes to carry off the meet." Frank laid down the paper. "So, they've written us off, have they? Perhaps we may fool them yet," and he ground his teeth together, resolving that if he were beaten out it would not be because he did not try. But the next day's practice on the Brighton track yielded no better results. As he was walking slowly down the runway with feelings of disgust at his poor showing, he was accosted by a tall stranger whom he had seen talking with the captain a few minutes before. "Do you mind if I give you a word of advice?" said the newcomer. "Certainly not. If you can show me how to get out about a foot further, I'll be the happiest jumper in the United Kingdom." The stranger smiled. "You are too anxious about this jumping business," he said, "and you're working too hard at it. You have plenty of speed and a good spring, but you don't get high enough at the take-off. Supposing we try a little experiment." "I'll try anything," said Frank, eagerly. "I used to jump a little myself," said the stranger, "and my trouble at first was very like what yours is now. I couldn't get up. So I tried an experiment which I'm going to try on you now." Stepping to the side of the track he picked up a high hurdle and placed it about four feet behind the jumping-block, in the pit itself. "Now," he continued, "I want you to clear the top of that hurdle by six inches or more. At your highest point of flight bring your shoulders and arms well forward, so you will hold all your distance when you strike. Try it." Frank went back the full length of the runway, started at an easy lope and gathering full speed fifty feet from the end of his run struck the block squarely, and sprang high into the air. He had the feeling that it was a good jump but was not prepared for what the measuring tape showed--22 feet, 8 inches. "That's better," said the tall stranger. "But I want you to go even higher than that. Clear the hurdle by a foot or more if you can. Get your greatest speed right at the take-off and _think_ high as well as go high." Again Frank rushed down the runway and leaped with all his power, clearing the hurdle by a foot or more. By this time half a dozen of the members of the team were gathered by the jumping pit. Recognizing a good jump, one of them seized the tape and measured: "Twenty-three feet, one-half inch," he sang out. "Well, maybe we have a chance for that jump yet. Good boy, Armstrong." Twice more the stranger sent Frank down the runway and each time the jumper rose to expectations. On the last jump the tape showed 23 feet, 1½ inches. "Now, we'll take the hurdle away, but you must _think_ it is there," continued the coach. "Have it in your mind as you come up to the block that you are going away above the imaginary mark. Jumping is a matter of brains as much as of legs. Try it without the hurdle." This time Frank almost equaled his former jump, and as the figures were announced, his teammates crowded around him, congratulating him. "That's the stuff, Armstrong," said Trainer Black. "You may throw a scare into these Englishmen if you keep up that gait." "Who is that man coaching me?" inquired Frank, a little later. "That, didn't you know? That's Princewell, an intercollegiate champion of ours a few years back, one of the best in the business in his day." "He certainly knew what was the matter with me," said Frank, almost beside himself with happiness. "I'd give a leg to beat Vare." "I don't expect that," said Black, "because Vare is a great jumper, one of the best in Great Britain. If you give him a good run for his money you will have done something we will all be proud of. We can win without the broad jump if our calculations are right." But alas for Frank's high hopes, the next day saw him below 23 feet again, and work as he might, he fell back steadily. Without the impetus given by Princewell, who had gone to London, he could not get within six inches of his best marks of the day before. Black finally ordered him to the clubhouse. "I don't want you to put on jumping shoes again before Saturday." Saturday was the day of the games. "But I need the practice," Frank remonstrated, "I'm just getting the knack." "Forget it," said the trainer, "and do as I tell you. I'll take the risk. You mustn't jump again before you go into your event. And I'd advise you to keep off your feet as much as you can. Rest, rest, man. That's the best thing you can do just now." Frank turned away heartbroken. "If I could only keep at it, I'd get the trick back. I had it yesterday and I've lost it to-day." "Keep off my feet," grumbled Frank that night to Gleason. "Rest and keep off my feet. I wonder if he intends to have me keep my bed." "O, you're too nervous, that's all. A little country air would be good for you. Say, by Jove, I've got an idea, rest, recreation, off your feet, on the job and all that." "Open up, my son." "It's this. Let's hire a motor and see some of this blooming country. I don't suppose they object to your exercising your eyes." "I'm with you if the captain hasn't any objection. We've been sticking pretty closely around here." "It's a monumental idea and worthy of a great brain like mine." The captain had no objection and was indeed glad of it since he felt it would take Frank's attention from the coming games. "And how about the motor? I'm not a bloated bondholder like you, but I'll go my halves." "Oh, run away. I've been aching to find an excuse to spend some money round here. I know where I can get a little pippin of a machine for ten shillings the hour. Ten shillings are $2.50 our money and cheap when it includes a dinky little chauffeur with a uniform. Watch me produce!" And away the Codfish dashed down the street. In twenty minutes he was back with a snappy little, high-powered runabout painted a flaming red color. "Couldn't get a blue one," he apologized. Frank hopped in alongside the driver, and the Codfish perched behind in the rumble seat. For two hours Frank forgot entirely about the Yale-Harvard-Oxford-Cambridge track meet, and his part in it. And those who have traveled in the beautiful lanes and highways of Sussex will understand his absorption. Again in the cool of the afternoon Gleason appeared for another "personally conducted" tour, this time to the west of Brighton, along the shore road. Eye-tired from watching the moving panorama of country and town, Frank Armstrong slept, free from the regular nightmare of broad-jumping competition in which he never could quite reach his best. The great day of the contest came around at last and found the American athletes pitched to a high degree of excitement. A final trial of the Queen's Club track had given some very satisfactory performances, which more than hinted at an American victory. Burrows, the Harvard sprinter, had run the hundred in nine and four-fifths seconds, and seemed sure of not only this event but of the two hundred and twenty as well. With these two secure, the American athletes had a clear lead in the race for victory. "This is the great day, boys," announced Trainer Black at the breakfast table. "Train leaves for London at 10:30. Games at two o'clock. Put all the stuff you need in your suit cases. They will go up on the train with us." "Do we lunch in London?" asked someone. "No, we have a bite on the train which gets to London at a little before twelve. It's a half-hour's ride in taxis from the station to the Queen's Club grounds. We won't get there much before half past twelve or a quarter to one. That'll give us plenty of time to dress and be ready for the Johnny Bulls by two o'clock." Frank finished his packing quickly, sent his suit case down to the hotel lobby, and began to fidget around. "I'm as nervous as a cat," he said to himself. "If they had only let me keep on working I'd have been a lot better off, but this waiting, waiting bothers me to death." "Oh, there, you little jumping jack," came the hail from the street, "come and take a ride, guaranteed last appearance before breaking the world's record." "Can't," said Frank. "Train leaves in less than two hours. Have you packed up?" "Packed up, no. The valet will do that. Who wants to pack suit cases a morning like this? Come on, you short-skate, come on and forget Queen's Club." "I'll go you for an hour," said Frank, "but that's the limit. I don't want to take any chances with a busted tire five miles from nowhere." "This machine is guaranteed bust-proof. You can trust the old reliable. It is even fool-proof." "I'd need that assurance with you around." "And you're coming?" "Yes, but only for an hour." "Don't worry, I'll have you back, hope to die if I don't." Away shot the little runabout on the Eastbourne road. As before, the chauffeur acted as guide and pointed out various objects of interest as they spun along the smooth road. "Just down there to the east about twenty miles the way we're heading is Hastings." "That's where William the Conqueror had his little scrap one day some moons ago, isn't it?" inquired the Codfish. "Yes, sir, he fought a bit of a fight there, and just over to the left there is the Duke of Buccleuch's estate. And down there in the field where you see that house in the trees I was born meself, sir." "Good for you," said the Codfish, "fine place to be born, nice open spaces; a very good piece of judgment. And the old folks still live down on the old New Hampshire farm?" "Yes, sir, they are living there now. I say, would you mind stopping at the door, sir? My mother's been ailing, and I'd like to see her a minute." "Dutiful and kind-hearted son, we'll be happy to stop for you. Better still, you give me the steering wheel and we'll drive on for a mile or two and pick you up on the way back." "Can you drive?" asked the chauffeur dubiously. "Can I drive? Can a duck float? I've driven a six-sixty Pierce Arrow through the White Mountains, but you wouldn't know what that means. Let's see," said the irrepressible Codfish, as he slipped into the driver's seat just vacated by the chauffeur and worked the shift lever as he spoke: "First speed inside ahead, second speed outside ahead, high, outside back. Reverse, inside back. I've got you, Steve. We'll be back here in fifteen minutes. Please be waiting at the church for we haven't too many spare minutes this morning." "Be careful, sir," called the chauffeur, "it's a heavy penalty driving without a license." "Same thing in our country, but we're hard to catch," the Codfish shouted back over his shoulder as, with motor speeding up, he dropped into high gear and fled up the road like a red shadow. "This is what we should have done long before this," quoth Gleason, "a chauffeur is a clog on conversation." "Yes, but he's handy to have along under certain conditions." The boys drove along in silence for five minutes, when Frank, with his mind on train time, said: "Better turn now, old man. We've been out nearly thirty minutes, and thirty more makes an hour, my time limit." "You're great on mathematics. Let's go up this road through the village there to our right and out back on the main road, pick up the gent who went to visit the old folks, and then I'll drop you in dear old Brighton in some few minutes. But first let us explore a little." "I'd rather we explored some other time," Frank remonstrated. But the Codfish was willful. He found a road leading to the left, circled the village and came back again to a highway. "Now, let's see, where did we leave that chap?" he mused. "Right along here some place by the willows, wasn't it?" Driving slowly, the boys scanned the roadside for their chauffeur, but no sight of him could they discover. "Well, it certainly was here somewhere, and if he hasn't the gumption to come back as per agreement, he can stay behind, eh, what?" "Gleason, this doesn't look like the road we came on," said Frank, in alarm. "Well, it's a good road, isn't it?" "But no road is good unless it leads to Brighton. Remember your promise. That train leaves at ten-thirty and it is five minutes of ten now. And, moreover, we're lost." "Lost, your eye! How can we be lost when I'm at the helm?" But, nevertheless, the puzzled look on the Codfish's face continued to grow deeper as the minutes passed away and nothing was seen of the chauffeur. "I say," he called to a passing farmer, "can you tell me if this is the road to Brighton?" "Naw. Second turn to the right and then keep straight ahead." "How far from here?" "'Bout five mile." "The country is saved. Now see the dust fly. Twenty minutes to do five miles. Oh, it's a cinch. That chauffeur can walk home. I'll settle." Fifteen minutes later the Codfish drew up at the outskirts of a small village. "Is this the way to Brighton?" he inquired of a passer-by. "This _is_ Breyting," with an accent on the "is." "What?" almost yelled the driver of the red car. "This _is_ Breyting, I tell you." "How do you spell it?" "B-r-e-y-t-i-n-g, Breyting." "Oh, Lord, we want B-r-i-g-h-t-o-n, Brighton, down by the sea, where all the piers and pebbles are." "Oh, why didn't you say so at first? Take the road to the left down about half a mile. It'll bring you down to the far end of the street that runs along the water." "How far is it?" asked Frank in a despairing voice. "'Bout twelve or thirteen miles." "And fifteen minutes to do it in. This is awful!" "Cheer up, cheer up," said the driver, making a great show of confidence which he didn't in the least feel. "We may do it yet." Opening the throttle the car fairly leaped along the road. "It's exceeding the speed limit, but in a good cause," said the Codfish. "Lord, I hope the tires stand up." He had hardly spoken the word when the right front shoe gave way with a loud bang. The car careened to the right sharply, crossed the shallow ditch with a lurch that nearly threw the boys out of their seats, and, finally, under control again, was steered back on to the road to fetch up with a violent jerk when the emergency brake was driven down hard. CHAPTER XIII. THE FLYING MACHINE TO THE RESCUE. "Well, I'm glad that's over," said the luckless Codfish, as he slipped from behind the steering wheel and hurried out in front to see what damage had been done. "Phew! we're lucky," he continued, "to be alive. If that shoe had gone and busted itself on the bridge half a mile back we would probably have been two bright little angels by now; gone and done for." "By the looks of things, I'm done for anyway," said Frank. "We are lost some miles from Brighton and," looking at his watch, "the train starts in just seven minutes." "Maybe they'll wait for you." "Royal mail trains never wait, and that carries the mail. It's twenty minutes' work to put that shoe on." "Shoe, nothing. I put no shoe on. We'll pick up some wayside garage and till that happens I'll drive on the rim. No damage is done on our flight up the bank. Here we go, halting but steady." Frank was silent. He was thinking of the effect his absence would have on his teammates. It hurt him to think that his captain would set his nonappearance down to carelessness, and so it had been in a way. He should not have gone so far. He should have insisted that Gleason keep away from the steering wheel. Perhaps the need for his presence would be desperate. His absence might mean, in some unaccountable way, the loss of the meet. These thoughts and many others pounded through his brain as the car limped along the road, but they all had the same refrain: "You've been a failure, you've been a failure." Rounding a turn in the road, Gleason caught sight of a garage sign, and in a minute drew up at the door. "Ten shillings to put that tire on and put it on quickly," said he. Two workmen from the garage sprang at the wheel, but they had scarcely begun work when a clock in a neighboring church tower boomed the half-hour. The boys looked at each other. "I know how you feel, Frank," said Gleason. "I was a double-barreled jackass to take you off this morning, and seventeen times a fool for getting lost." "I'm in very badly with everyone," said Frank, "but growling will not help matters. Maybe there'll be a later train which will get me there in time." "I've got you into this, Frank, and I'll get you out of it somehow, don't worry. There must be another train." With the new shoe on the front wheel and the garage men the richer by several shillings more than the Codfish promised, the red runabout was again headed for Brighton, this time at a more moderate pace. It was just eleven o'clock when the car drew up at the railroad station. Frank almost expected to see some of his teammates, but the platform and waiting-rooms were deserted. Inquiries at the ticket office brought the information that the next London train was at twelve-fifteen and did not reach London till one-fifty. "One-fifty," groaned Frank. "I might as well take the next ship back to America. I've lost out. I'm disgraced." Both boys were the picture of gloom. Suddenly Gleason's face lit with high resolve "Look here, Armstrong, I'll take you to London in this machine." "But it isn't ours, and you have no license to drive." "It's ours as long as we pay ten shillings an hour for it, license or no license." "You'd get lost again." "No, no, it's a straight road. I looked it up once. You follow the railroad. Look here," he added in great excitement, "the thing can be done without a grain of doubt. Here it is a little past eleven. We can certainly average twenty-five miles an hour. That means that we can be there a little after one. Fortunately, the Club is but a little ways out of our course, over in West Kensington." "I'm game for it," said Frank, "but just the same, I don't like the idea of your going off with a machine and no license. You'll get jugged for sure if anything goes wrong." "Nothing's going wrong. I got you into this trouble and I'm going to get you out somehow. Climb in and hold onto your headgear, we are only going to hit the high places." He shot away from the station and swung into the great north road, sign-marked "London," with the motor humming to the quickened pace. "Nothing to it, Frank," boasted the confident chauffeur. "This is the way they all should have come up, plenty of ozone and action, no stuffy cars. We may even beat them to the club if we have luck," and he pushed the gas lever a few notches higher, and neatly dodged a dog curled up in the sand of the road. Now that he was headed for London, even Frank's spirits rose. What seemed no chance half an hour ago had been transformed into a possibility. Well he knew that Gleason was exceeding the speed limit, but the time was so short a chance had to be taken with tires, road, police and everything else. The stake was worth it. One cannot race along the roads of south-east England and race very far. So the inevitable happened. Ten miles outside of Brighton, when Gleason was doing something better than forty miles an hour, he pretended not to hear a hail from the side of the road, and kept straight on, but he could not help hearing the sharp spatter of a motorcycle behind him a minute later, and instinctively knew it was the police. He slowed down till he was running at about fifteen miles an hour. The officer came alongside. He was plainly angry. "Why didn't you stop when I called to you?" demanded the officer. "Oh, did you call?" asked the Codfish innocently. "We are in a great hurry," explained Frank. "We have to be there by one o'clock or one-thirty at the latest." "Now maybe you will and maybe you won't. Turn that car around and come along with me." "Look here, this chap here," indicating Frank, "is in that track meet up at Queen's Club at two o'clock this afternoon. He lost his train by accident and I promised to get him there. Now, let us go through." "Can't be done. You Americans all try to tear through the country at break-neck speed. You can't do it here, I tell you. Let's see your license." The Codfish began fumbling in his pockets. "Great Scott! I haven't got the thing anywhere about my jeans, the chauffeur must have it, bad luck to him." "Another thing to explain to the magistrate. Come along now." The Codfish reluctantly tacked the car around and followed his guide to the little hamlet where the officer first hailed him from the roadside. To the disgust of the two American youths the magistrate could not be found, a piece of news imparted to them by the officer after a ten minutes' search around the little court building off the main street. "Well, now, let us go along," insisted the Codfish. "We've made our call, the magistrate isn't in. We've done our duty, now let's call it off. When you come to America I'll get you a job on the police force of Syracuse. Come on, be a good scout and let's be hitting the gravel. This fellow here with me has to jump in the track games at Queen's Club grounds, and it will be a great disappointment to his friends if he can't be there, to say nothing about his own feelings. Think how it would be if he were your own offspring and was jumping for the English to help lick the Yankees." His cross-fire on the officer might possibly have had some effect if affairs had not taken a new and sudden turn for the worse. As the Codfish was making his arguments, a messenger came up and handed the officer a note. He read it, looked over our friends who were still seated in the car and ran his eye over the car. "You're a pretty slick young fellow," he said, "but both of you will stay with us for a while. You are in pretty deep." "How so?" inquired Frank. "As if you didn't know! Perhaps you never heard of this," and he read the message he had just received: "Stop and hold two young men in red runabout Number 1664B. Stolen from chauffeur near Brighton, known to have started for London shortly after eleven o'clock." The message was signed by the Chief of Police of Brighton. "A lovely kettle of fish," commented Gleason. "Do you remember once of telling me that I could get into trouble in a desert island?" "I do and it's true." "It would be still true if I were alone in the middle of the Pacific. But there's one thing about this business which cheers me: you are now a member of the Criminal Club at Yale in good standing." "I'd rather be in good standing up at Queen's Club. Do you realize that the team is at London now and we are in the lock-up?" For the greater part of an hour Frank and Gleason were held in durance vile as automobile thieves, and as a secondary count, breaking the speed limit. But all things finally come to an end. The magistrate was found, and sat with great dignity on the case. One of his first acts was to fine Gleason the sum of five pounds for excessive speed and then to declare him still liable to the charge of theft. Fortunately for the Codfish and Frank, who momentarily expected to be thrown into the village jail, the chauffeur, who had been overcome with the desire to see his parents that morning and who had been the innocent cause of most of the trouble, appeared with the proprietor of the garage where the little red runabout had been obtained. Explanations soon followed. The garage proprietor verified all that the boys said about their being a part of the American team and followers, and his hand being properly greased with American dollars from the plethoric purse of Gleason, was perfectly willing that the car should go on to London, driven by his own chauffeur. "But remember," said the magistrate, "not over twenty miles an hour or you'll be brought in before you get to your journey's end." "At twenty miles an hour," said Frank, "it is no more good to us than an ox-cart. It is nearly one o'clock now and two hours on the road would bring us there too late. I guess it's too late all right," and he turned away, deeply moved by the thought that his hard work, the three thousand-mile trip across the water, the ambitions of himself and of his friends, all went for naught. Tears of chagrin came to his eyes. "Nothing on earth can save us now," acquiesced the Codfish. "O Lord, if I only had an aeroplane with about a hundred horse-power motor in it," he wailed. "Guess they could accommodate you down at Burtside," said the officer who, now the incident was closed, showed a friendly interest in the two young men. "What do you mean?" Frank burst out. "Oh, there's a flyin' school down at Burtside, 'bout half a mile from here. Perhaps they'd rent one to you young chaps for the afternoon." "Great Peter!" cried the Codfish, "let's try. Here's a chance. Here," to the returned chauffeur, "drive us down to that aeroplane place if you know where it is. I'm going to buy one." "Yes, sir," said the chauffeur, thinking that the young Americans had better be favored for they were very likely mad as March hares. How could they be otherwise, having first run away with his machine and then, being deprived of that, willing to buy an air craft to continue the journey. But he piloted the boys to Burtside which proved to be a flying school of some importance with biplanes and monoplanes in the hangars, and two or three beginners at the flying game, receiving instruction. The boys quickly explained their errand. They wanted to get to London in desperate haste, trains couldn't accomplish it, automobiles at the rate they let them run over English roads couldn't and there was no other way but the air. The director of the school was not sure whether it could be done or not. Money, Gleason told him, was no object, which played its part in the decision. By good fortune one of the aviators in the school was a young American who had been flying with great success in England for a year. He heard of the plight of his compatriots, and readily agreed to take Frank up. He would take one or the other, but not both. "I'm willing to pay $200 if you will take Frank Armstrong to the Queen's Club, or as near to that point as you can get, and I'll give you an equal amount not to take me." "You needn't be afraid," said Butler, "I have no machine that will carry more than one passenger. It will have to be only one of you." "That suits us both. Armstrong, here, wants to go and I don't, so we're all satisfied." "Have you ever been up?" inquired Butler of Frank. "Never, but I'm determined to get to London if I can, and I don't care how it is." "All right," said Butler. "We have no time to lose. I'll get out the big biplane." The plane was run out of the hangar, examined closely by the attendants, looked over in a cursory manner by the aviator himself. "Now," he said to Frank, "hop up here alongside of me, to the right. Take hold of that wooden support and put your feet on this wire. Don't look down or you may get dizzy. I'm going about five hundred feet high. Keep your eyes straight ahead and forget you're flying." "Good-by, old fellow," said the Codfish, half in fun and half in earnest, as Frank climbed to his precarious place alongside the aviator, and then to Butler, "Where do you come down?" "One can never tell in this business, but I will try to land in Hendon, which is only about three miles from the Club." "And how long will it take?" "Somewhere about thirty minutes if the wind aloft is as steady and strong as it seems to be down here." "Frank, that will get you to Hendon at one-forty-five, and a taxi will do the rest. I'll come as fast as I can in the motor, and if we don't get pinched again I may get to dear old London in time to see the finish." "All ready," sang out Butler. A half dozen attendants clung fast to the trail of the big biplane while another spun the propeller. The engine immediately sprang into noisy life, the roar of the exhaust drowning out all human speech in the neighborhood. Gleason saw the hands of the aviator drop off the steering-wheel in a downward sweeping signal which meant "let go," a signal instantly obeyed by the attendants, who dropped flat on the ground while the great tail of the birdlike monster swept over their heads with an ever increasing rush. For fifty or sixty feet the running gear of the machine kept on the ground, but, as the velocity increased and Butler elevated his plane, the machine gradually cleared the earth and soared aloft. The Codfish watched it as it rose and followed it in the vastness of the sky vault until there was but a mere dot against the fluffy clouds in the northern sky. CHAPTER XIV. PROGRESS AND A WRECK. We will leave Frank Armstrong shooting Londonward in the largest passenger-carrying biplane in the Burtside School for Aviators, seated on a mere chip of a seat, holding on with a death grip to the slender upright of seasoned spruce, and turn our attention back to the morning at Brighton. Contrary to what Gleason and Frank imagined as they sat in their disabled motor on the highway some miles outside of Brighton at the hour their train was scheduled to leave, they were not missed at first. In the hurry of leaving their temporary training quarters, the team managers and assistants had so much to do that they left the business of getting from the hotel to the station, a matter of only a few hundred yards, to the individuals themselves. No one happened to notice, as they left the hotel in straggling groups of three and four, that Armstrong was not with them. At the station half a dozen compartments on the London train having been reserved in advance, the athletes tumbled aboard without even a thought of luggage, taking it for granted, with the usual cheerful carelessness of traveling athletes, that everything would be all right. Each was concerned only for himself. It was not to be thought of for a moment that any member of either team would be so foolish as to get himself left behind. The ten-thirty on the London and Brighton was the vestibule and corridor type of train, not like the ordinary single compartment coach in common use on English and Continental railroads. It was therefore possible to pass from car to car and from compartment to compartment on this train much the same as on an American Pullman train, and visiting between team members shortly began. Trainer Black, going the rounds, discovered that Armstrong was missing. At first it was thought that he, with his companion Gleason, had accidentally gotten into a wrong compartment, but a hasty search from end to end of the train disclosed the fact that he was not aboard at all. "I don't remember having seen him after breakfast," said the Yale captain. "Could he have gone up to London on the train ahead of us by any chance?" "No," returned McGregor, "Armstrong is very conscientious and would not disobey orders which were explicit enough about this train." "I'll bet a hat," said Halloby, "that his rattle-headed friend, Codfish Gleason, took him out for a ride this morning, and that something went wrong with the power-plant, and they are sitting on the road somewhere waiting for someone to tow them home." And, as it proved, Hurdler Halloby wasn't so far out of the way, excepting that, instead of sitting on the road, they were at that moment falling with a loud report into the hands of the law. So, perhaps, it was well that no one on the American team knew their exact location. "Come to think of it," said another, "I saw the chap they call Codfish swing around to the hotel this morning in a red runabout and a little later saw the runabout going off up the street, but didn't notice who was in it. But I do know that all three seats were full." "That's enough," said Black. "Gleason thinks he is the sole and special guard of Armstrong's health and happiness, and hired that automobile for the purpose of keeping the jumper's mind occupied with something besides jumping. I agreed to it myself. Now we lose a man on account of it." "Thank goodness," broke in the captain, "we didn't have to depend on him for an event or we'd have been in a bad way. If he should get to the grounds in time after all, I'd feel like punishing him by not allowing him to jump," snapped the captain. "He's punished already," said Black. "Probably eating his heart out somewhere. He's the most conscientious fellow I ever saw. It's his fool friend, the Codfish, who got him into any trouble that he's in." "I'll telegraph him to come on the next train," said the captain. "Will not do much good, I guess, the next train wouldn't get him there in time. But don't worry, he'll be there at those games if he hasn't met with a serious accident, or I miss my guess badly, but as for his doing any good, it's another matter." "It's too bad," growled Captain Harrington. "The papers will throw the hot shot into us for being careless. It makes us all look like dummies, confound the luck!" "Don't worry about it, Captain. You have enough on your hands, and Vare is a certain winner anyway in Armstrong's event. You have your own troubles this afternoon in the quarter. So take it easy, and quit worrying about something that really doesn't matter a great deal as far as actual results go." "I'm going to telegraph, just the same," returned the captain, "to the Grand. They would probably go there when they found we had gone, eh?" "Go ahead, it will do no harm," admitted Black. So Harrington sent off a telegram from a station fifteen miles or so from London. A bit peremptory the telegram was, but it relieved the captain's feelings. This was the telegram: "Frank Armstrong, The Grand, Brighton. Come to London on next train, take taxi to Queen's Club immediately afterwards. Absolutely no excuse for missing team train." But this telegram, as we have seen, never reached the man for whom it was intended. At one o'clock taxicabs dropped the Yale-Harvard athletes, attendants, and trainers at the south gate of Queen's Club. Already several thousand people had gathered in the stands, and a steady stream was pouring in the gates, not with the impetuosity that distinguishes an American crowd, but interested withal in the games they were shortly to see. The majority of the crowd was, of course, English, but the Americans made a brave showing. They gathered together, apparently for mutual support, halfway down the track stretch and at once selected a cheer leader who was now working up enthusiasm by an occasional yell, simply to let the enemy know that young America would be heard from in more ways than one. A surprising number of Americans had come together for the event. Not all were Harvard and Yale men, although members of these two institutions predominated. Students and graduates from universities all over the United States might have been seen in the crowd. It was not a Harvard-Yale affair to them, it was America against England, and everyone from the far side of the Atlantic was there to lend a shout for his countrymen. College lines were forgotten. Along the track-side and in the grand stand speculation was rife as to the outcome of the games. Experts had figured out just how the various men were to finish, and the figures had been printed in the morning papers and in the noon editions. All admitted, however, that the match would be an extremely close one with the chances slightly in favor of the visitors. "Well," said one confident young man in the group of Americans, "we'll take the hundred, two-twenty and both the hurdles. I'd bet my last dollar on that. These Englishmen can't get their legs moving in a short distance." "Ah, yes, but then when it comes to the longer distance we can't keep our wind going. That's where they have us." "Oh, I don't know, there's Harrington, the Yale captain, who can certainly get away with the quarter. He's been doing under fifty seconds right along. He will give us the fifth event, and all we need to tie is one more, and to win, two more. Why, Dick, old fel, it's a cinch." "And what are the other two events, please, Sir Prophet?" "Shot for one, they can't beat old red-top McGinnis. These English chaps never learned how to put a shot anyway, and there's the high jump, certainly ours; it's like taking money from a baby." "Sounds like seven wins, the way you have it figured out." "It is seven places or my training as to what five and two make is all to the bad. I tell you it's a cinch. I'd put up all my spare cash on it, and walk home cheerfully if I lost out. But, pshaw! we can't lose!" Conversation was checked by the appearance of several athletes who had emerged from the Club locker-room doorway, and who were walking across the turfed stretch to the track. They were seen to be Americans, and a ringing shout went up from their supporters which brought smiles to the faces of the young athletes. The English spectators applauded the Americans with hand-clapping. By twos and threes the athletes made their appearance on the track before the hour set for the beginning of the games, for the day was bright and warm and the sun of more advantage to them than the shade and cool of the training quarters. It is not our purpose to narrate in detail the doings of the half hundred athletes who struggled for the honor of their colleges and country that afternoon nor how records fell and predictions of experts were set at naught, how the balance swung this way and that, how the mercurial American cheer-leader ruined the throats of his countrymen for the encouragement of the team striving desperately on field and track. We are more intimately concerned with Frank Armstrong whom we left a thousand feet more or less in the air, taking a last desperate chance to be in at the finish on the Queen's Club track. Frank afterwards said that he experienced no fear of any kind as the flying machine glided upward from the earth. At first there was the sensation of great speed, though the machine was comparatively close to the ground, but as the height increased that sensation diminished. Instead of the machine seeming to rise, the earth seemed to drop away leaving the machine stationary. Below, the country revealed itself like a map, with the highways and lanes standing out sharply. To the south he got the glint of the English Channel, and to the north was a great black smudge which he took to be London with its smoke from tens of thousands of chimneys. "Going higher," shouted Butler. "Bad currents down here." The words came faintly to Frank through the roaring of the wind and the sharp crackle of the engine exhaust. The plane plunged and rocked in an air billow. "Go ahead as far as you want to," shouted Frank, "but get me there." He had lost all sensation of fear and almost of interest in the flight. His mind was on Queen's Club. Steadily the machine climbed until the green of the trees and the grass all became as one, and the red tiles of the roofs showed only as a splash of color among the vast expanse of green. At the greater height of perhaps two thousand feet, where Butler found better currents, Frank thought the country below seemed more than ever like a map in one of his old school geographies. Twenty towns and cities lay within the range of his vision and, by turning his head slightly, he could distinguish, across the whole width of the Channel, the dim outlines of the shores of France. The motor of the big biplane, which had been running with the precision of a well-timed clock for the space of half an hour, began to give evidence of something wrong with its internals. It skipped, stuttered in its rhythm for a moment and then went on, only to repeat in a moment. The aviator, helpless in this emergency, merely jiggled his spark lever, but the stuttering of the motor continued, and then with a most disconcerting suddenness the motor stopped entirely. "We've got to come down," shouted Butler, "but I'll make our fall as long as possible. Hold tight." Frank needed no urging. He felt the death of the steady forward movement and the grip of gravity as the biplane began to drop with incredible swiftness toward the earth. But it was a drop which was controlled by the cool-headed Butler, and every foot of the drop took them nearer to their destination. Five hundred feet below, Frank saw a little patch of green field entirely free from trees or shrubbery, and to this he rightly guessed the aviator was heading. It looked like a golf course from that height, and, indeed, proved to be. Now they were directly over the haven which Butler had picked out, and it seemed in a fair way to pass it, when the flyer banked hard to the left, almost pivoted on his left wing, brought the machine around over the golf links again and, with a final swooping spiral came to earth with a shock sufficiently hard to snap off at the hub one of the wheels of the biplane's running gear. CHAPTER XV. THE MATCH AT QUEEN'S CLUB. "Sorry," said Butler, "I couldn't land you where I promised, but this motor has played hob with me. She's been acting badly for a week." A score of people came running up. "Hurt, hurt?" they cried. "Hurt? no!" said Frank, "only disappointed. We were heading for Hendon. How far is it to Queen's Club grounds?" "'Bout five miles," volunteered someone. "Is there a taxicab place about here anywhere?" inquired Frank. "I've got to get to Queen's Club on the double quick." He looked at his watch. It showed three minutes of two. The games were about to begin! "Butler, excuse me if I leave you," cried Frank. "Go to it, boy," said Butler, "and the Lord bless you." Heading in the direction of a taxicab stand, Frank started off on a sharp trot, but was doomed to disappointment as not a taxi was available at that moment, and the man in the little office wasn't hopeful that any would be back right away. "They may come any minute, and there may not be a blooming one for half an hour. If you'll take the 'bus on the next street, it will take you within half a mile of Queen's Club grounds." Scarcely waiting to hear the last words, Frank darted for the street mentioned, and, after a wait of five minutes, boarded an electric 'bus bound for West Kensington. Fortunately, he found a seat-mate who was well acquainted with what was going on at Queen's Club that day. "Going to see the games, I suppose," he said. From him Frank learned that a short cut could be made which would be of considerable help as a time-reducer. Fixing the direction in his mind, he sprang from the 'bus at the street indicated, and started on a run in the general direction of the Club. As he ran, the last instructions of Trainer Black came to his mind: "Take it easy till the games, and keep off your feet." He could not suppress a grim smile as he pounded along, running flat-footed to keep as much spring as possible in his toes if he ever reached the track and if he was in time when he did reach there. Always he kept an eye out for a taxi, but fate was against him and he saw none excepting those with fares seated therein, and whirling along on their own business. Losing his way, finding it again with the help of passers-by, and nearly but not quite despairing of there ever having been such a place in London as the Queen's Club, he was halted by a college yell, sharp and incisive, delivered comparatively near. Getting his bearings from the direction in which the yell came, he dashed through a short street and stood before the main gate of the Club. "Is it over?" he panted to the officer at the gate. "The meet--is it over?" "Who are you?" asked the officer, staring at the newcomer, whose eyes, fierce in their intensity, looked out from a face streaked with sweat and dirt. "I'm one of the competitors," gasped Frank. "Ho, ho!" laughed the officer, "you look it. Did you run all the way from New York?" "I _am one of the competitors_," said Frank, emphasizing every word, "and through an accident got left at Brighton. Please let me go to the training quarters of the American team." "Well, 'ere's a rum cove. Comes up 'ere and wants to get passed into the gymes for nothink." For a few minutes it looked as if, after all his trouble to get to the Club grounds, he was to be held up outside while his chance was lost. Finally, however, he induced the officer to send a messenger to the American quarters, and in half a minute he was snatched through the gate by an assistant trainer and stood in the presence of Captain Harrington, who was just going out for his quarter. The captain looked him over with cold, hard eyes. "You're a little late," he said. "We don't bring men across the Atlantic to have them late for the beginning of a track meet. You are no value to us. We will not need you." Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Harrington interrupted sharply with "I don't want to hear excuses," and passed on to the start of his event. Frank did not have the heart even to look at the race which was slated to go to the Americans through the superior ability of the Yale captain. Trainer Black looked up when he entered the building, but said nothing. Frank felt as if he had been thrown into outer darkness. He ground his teeth in impotent rage and dropped into a chair, listening in a half-hearted way to the little volley of spontaneous cheering which drifted through the window. "What's that?" cried Trainer Black, and dashed out the door. "Sounds like an English cheer!" An English cheer it was, and it announced the victory of a Cambridge "dark horse" who had run the Yale quarter-mile champion off his feet in the stretch. A minute later Harrington staggered into the room, and threw himself face downward on a table. "This loses us the meet," said a rubber in a whisper. "To think that Harrington should lose out, of all people. He loafed too much in the first part of the race and couldn't hold the sprint at the end. It was a foxy trick the Englishman worked, but a fair win enough." "Where's Armstrong, where's Armstrong?" came the excited call by Trainer Black. Frank stood up. "Here," he said simply. "Get into your clothes," Black shouted. "Why are you sitting there like a dummy? Here, some of you fellows help him. Patsy, rub his leg muscles a bit--Jack, help Patsy. Move lively!" Frank tore off his clothes, and in half a minute his leg muscles were being slapped and kneaded by the two rubbers as if their life depended on doing a quick and thorough job. "It's like this," said Black, coming over to the rubbing table. "Everything went about as scheduled until Harrington fell down in his quarter. That leaves us short an event we counted on." "Did we get the shot?" "No, confound it, that Rhodes scholar from Dakota beat our man out on the last try." "So the Englishmen have now two more than we calculated?" "Exactly, and there isn't a ghost of a chance of their losing the two-mile run unless their men choke." "And the broad-jump?" inquired Frank, weakly. "You've got to win that!" Black said it as if it was by no means an unusual request. "Win it?" gasped Frank. "What has Vare done?" "Took only three jumps the last of which was twenty-three feet, and hasn't jumped again. McGregor's been dragging his tries along, hoping that you would turn up, but he hasn't been able to do better than twenty-two six. Armstrong, if you can turn the trick on Vare it will give us the meet. You've got to do it!" he added vehemently. Frank rolled from the rubbing table, slipped into his scanty track suit, and, with the Yale manager, trotted quickly to the field. "I suppose you are in good shape," suggested the manager hopefully. "Were you resting and keeping off your feet?" In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Frank could hardly restrain a grin. "Keeping off my feet!" he thought. "If they knew what I've been through to get here! Guess I'm all right," he said aloud. McGregor greeted Frank enthusiastically. "Where in the name of Billy Patterson have you been?" and then, without waiting for an answer: "This Vare is a grasshopper. He has this event cinched, you and I are only ornaments, not real jumpers at all, and the Johnny Bulls have decided they've licked the Yankees for once in their lives--look! they're beginning to go!" Then to Frank: "For pity's sake, let out a link and make a good showing. I'm tied to the ground with a bag of lead in each heel." Frank did not need any urging. The complacent attitude of the Englishmen, who were beginning to file out in groups of three or four, their faces showing the satisfaction of sure victory, added to his determination. He had made a desperate struggle to be where he was now, and he was not going to let it end there. Measuring off the runway with more than ordinary care, Vare set his marks, and, after two or three practice runs, loped down the runway and made his first leap. "Twenty-two feet, four inches," sang out the measurer. Vare had walked to the jumping pit. A flicker of a smile crossed his face, he nodded cheerfully to his Cambridge jumping mate, and picking up his jersey swung it across his shoulder, and, without another look at the Americans, turned his face to the track house. "His Lordship Vare de Vare has published to the world that it's all over, Frank," said McGregor. "I'd give a good right leg if I could beat him, he's so mighty superior. But I've only got one more jump, and it's not in me. If you don't want to see my poor busted heart cluttering up this field, go after him." "It's now or never," said Frank to himself as he walked slowly down the runway. "What was it Princewell said--think high when you hit the take-off--think high---- I'll think a mile high if it will help!" In spite of the difficulties he had undergone in getting to the Club, he was keyed to such a state of nervous excitement that he felt as if he were walking on air. The hard incidents of the morning were forgotten, the thrilling ride in the air machine, the abrupt landing, the killing run through torrid streets, the frigid reception of his captain. Now, with his opportunity at hand he became cool and calculating. He had a splendid reserve of strength to call upon, and he would call it to the last ounce. Down the runway came Armstrong like a flash, first slowly, then with a great burst of speed. His eye was fixed on the take-off block, but his mind was on that four-foot hurdle supposed to be six feet out there in the pit. He struck the block perfectly and, with hands thrown high in the air and feet drawn up to clear the imaginary hurdle, he sailed up and forward, struck at last in the pit and held his full distance. With a shout McGregor, recognizing a good jump, sprang from the bench and ran forward to the jumping pit from which Frank was just stepping, brushing away the loam that clung to his ankles. "Twenty-three feet, even," the announcer bawled. Coming so unexpectedly, the announcement for a moment fell on deaf ears. Then, as the full significance became apparent, the Americans in the stand set up a piercing and spontaneous yell which startled and turned back the crowd already moving in larger and larger numbers in the direction of the gate. "Y-e-a-a-a--Armstrong!" yelled McGregor in a frenzy of delight, and fell upon that individual like a long lost brother, beat him upon the back and capered about like a man bereft of his senses. "It means that old Claude Vare de Vare, Lord of Creation and Elsewhere, has got to come back and do it over again! We have a chance! Oh, Armstrong, it means we have a chance!" Interest in the stand immediately became intense. People who were leaving returned to their seats. "A ripping jump!" commented an Englishman as he reseated himself, "but Vare will take his measure." Vare had been sent for, and was even now walking calmly across the track with an attitude which said plainly: "What's all this fuss about anyway? We'll settle this now once and for all." A ripple of applause and hand-clapping ran through the stands as Vare turned to face the pit at the far end of the runway, and glanced down the narrow way now hedged with faces. He was a champion of champions, and would show them how a champion jumped. But not that time, for his best effort fell under twenty-three feet. Surprised at his poor jump, he lost his composure and, against the advice of his friends, took a second jump without rest, and that, too, fell below his jump of twenty-three feet. The news that Armstrong had equaled Vare's best jump spread to the locker rooms of the two teams, and excitement ran high. What had seemed like an event lost for a certainty to the Americans, had in a moment been turned into a possibility. McGregor had taken his last jump without changing the situation in any way. Thereafter he devoted himself to encouraging Armstrong, whose magnificent leap had raised the hopes of the whole American contingent. "You have him now, Frank," McGregor whispered as, with arm over Frank's shoulder, the two walked down the runway. "He let himself get cold, and I'll bet he can't reach twenty-three feet again." But McGregor was mistaken. Vare, the champion, after he had had more life rubbed into his muscles, shot down the runway and cleared twenty-three feet, one inch and a half. A little scattering cheer from the Englishmen, and Vare sat down on the jumpers' bench, his face showing the relief he felt. "I'm all right now," he said to an anxious, inquiring teammate, "but I felt jolly well frozen those first two jumps, though." "The meet," bawled the announcer, facing the grand stand, "now stands six events for America and six for England, with the broad-jump still to be decided. Vare, of Oxford, has the longest jump to his credit--twenty-three feet, one and a half inches, which he made in breaking the tie created by Armstrong, of Yale, with a jump of twenty-three feet, which is _his_ best at present." At this moment Captain Harrington came onto the track in street clothes. He walked up to Frank: "Armstrong," he said, "Jack told me all about your troubles getting here. I want to tell you you made a game fight to correct the original mistake. I know you were personally not at fault. Here's my hand on it!" Frank took the proffered hand. His captain had taken him back into the fold, and his heart swelled almost to the bursting point with sudden joy. If Frank needed anything to make him unbeatable that afternoon, the thing had come to pass. "I'll try to justify your faith in me," was all he said, but his eyes shone with a new light. Coming down the runway with a surpassing rush of speed, he hit the take-off perfectly on his next trial, and soared into the air. Spectators, who saw him, said afterward that he seemed to take a step at the highest point of his flight, but it was only the first appearance of the famous "scissors hitch" used by other great jumpers before him, and which he had simply happened on, in his endeavor to get great distance. He struck squarely on his feet in almost a sitting posture, but his impetus carried him forward so powerfully that he pitched head-first into the soft loam of the pit. He held every inch of his great jump, however. For it was a great jump. That could be seen by anyone, and the officials and trackmen gathered around while a careful measurement was taken. The serene Vare was sufficiently stirred himself to crowd close to the pit. "What is it, what is it?" snapped Harrington who could hardly await the rather deliberate speech of the man at the end of the steel tape, who was taking his time to make certain. "Twenty-three feet, four inches!" The cheer of the small group of men on the track itself was taken as a good omen by the Americans in the stand, and these latter at once delivered themselves of a full-grown yell, which echoed back from the brick dwellings which surround the field. "Twenty-three feet, four inches!" came the announcement, bawled to all sides of the field through the megaphone, and again the American yells broke out. In the storm of cheering which Frank's great jump had elicited, Vare was seen to rise to his feet and walk slowly to the start of the runway. Two of his teammates went with him, and at each of his important marks he stopped and scrutinized them carefully as if he was not sure in his own mind that they were just right. Twice he tried the full runway from the start to the take-off block, making new marks for his guidance. And now, being quite ready, he made his first of the three tries allotted to him. On the first he cleared twenty-three feet, two inches, and on the second bettered this mark by half an inch. "Only an inch and a half behind you, Armstrong," said McGregor, in a nervous staccato, "but I'll eat my shoes, spikes and all, if he can equal that one of yours." "If he does," said Frank, "it's all over, I'm afraid. How I came to get that far out is more than I can understand. It's a dream, don't wake me!" Silence settled over the crowd as Vare faced the pit for his last trial. His face was drawn and white. Now he moves forward, crouching a little, with chin out and jaws tightly clenched. The loping run develops at half distance into a sweeping rush, the Englishman hits the take-off squarely, and leaps with every ounce of energy in his body--up, up, out, out, he goes, while the spectators at the track side hold their breaths. Now he has reached the full height of his jump, and is coming down. Will his drive carry him far enough to win? He is down in the pit, topped over by the impetus of his rush, but the jump is clean, and the measurers are at work. Carefully the tape is placed, carefully it is read, and then---- "Twenty-three feet, three and one-quarter inches," comes the announcement. The Americans go mad now indeed, for the meet is won, since the Oxford champion has failed to equal Armstrong's magnificent jump by three-quarters of an inch, not much, it is true, but enough to make the difference between victory and defeat. Just as the jubilation was at its height, a dusty, grimy youth, in what were once white flannels, rushed through the gate, and threw himself on Frank as the latter was being escorted like a young prince of the blood to the club house. "I knew you would do it, you old lobster," cried the newcomer, who was none other than Codfish Gleason. "Sorry I couldn't get in at the death, but I was arrested three times for moving too fast for these Johnnies, and paid a five-pound fine every time. I couldn't have gone much further for my money was running short." To say that Frank Armstrong was the hero of the occasion is to tell only a part of the truth. The youngest man on either team had achieved the greatest glory, and his teammates were not slow in acknowledging the fact. At the dinner that night in London, given to members of the four teams, Frank was called on to make a speech, and it was the shortest on record: "I did the best I could," after which he sat down covered with confusion, amid loud applause. The next day came the sight-seeing in London and some of the nearby towns, and then a generous and thankful management stood the expense of a trip for the American winners to Amsterdam, to Cologne, to Lausanne, where the song-birds of the party serenaded the girls' school there, and then to Paris, with many side trips. But, in spite of the beauties and wonders of the strange countries, Frank said afterward that the best sight of all was the shores of Long Island viewed from the deck of the homing Cunarder. CHAPTER XVI. MAKING THE 'VARSITY NINE. Frank Armstrong returned to college in the fall with a reputation. His remarkable jumping which won the deciding event of the meet at Queen's Club in London, and no less the picturesque manner in which he had made his way from Brighton that eventful day, had been spread widely in the newspapers, and no one within reach of the cable or telegraph but knew the details of the story. But the publicity and adulation in no way disturbed Frank's balance. He was much too level-headed for that, and went about his work the most unassuming of his classmates. "Nothing to make such a fuss about," he used to say. "I simply had to do it. That's all there is to it." The luck of the room drawings had landed our three friends in Connecticut Hall, that century and a half memorial to old Yale. "Comfortable and musty," was the Codfish's comment when he had heard the news. David Powers had drawn a room in Welch Hall directly opposite. It was David's secret ambition to win a position on the Literary Magazine, and to this end he had applied himself industriously in the Freshman year. He succeeded in getting several essays and a poem accepted by the august editors. He had tried himself out, and was now going after the coveted honor with high determination. Out on the football field the annual preparation for the great struggles with Harvard and Princeton was going on. James Turner and Frank Armstrong were enrolled as members of the squad, and took their daily medicine on the second eleven. Frank's lack of weight--he was still only about one hundred and fifty pounds--prevented him from competing on an even footing with ends twenty pounds heavier, with which the 'Varsity was well supplied that year. The quarterback position was so well filled that he despaired of winning his way there and the coaches, evidently of the same opinion, kept him where he had played on the Freshman team. Turner, on the other hand, had added weight and was in a fair way to win a place somewhere in the back field. Frank put in a great deal of time under the direction of the punting coach, and made good progress at that department of the game, but at drop-kicking he had little opportunity. "Drop-kicking isn't Yale's way of scoring," said Jimmy Turner one night when the day's work was being discussed in the Connecticut Hall room before a crackling fire of log-wood. "The coaches want a team that can carry the ball over the goal-line, not one that can boot it over the cross-bar." "I know it looks better to have the force drive the other fellow back across his own goal, but since these new rules went into effect it's mighty seldom you ever see it in a big game. But I'm not knocking. I'll keep at the drop-kicking and hope for a chance." But the chance for Frank did not come. In two of the smaller games he was called in the fourth quarter with a number of other substitutes, and when the team play was badly disorganized because so few regulars were in the line. He played at end in each case and was pulled back for the punting. Once with a good opportunity for a field goal on the opponent's twenty-yard line, a poor protection allowed a lineman to get through and block the ball--a thing which very nearly resulted in a touchdown against Yale, for a free end picked up the loose ball and was not brought down until he was well into Yale's territory. While Armstrong was not at all to blame, the general crowd saw only that his kick was blocked and considered him unsafe as a drop-kicker. Turner won his Y in the Princeton game when he was sent in to relieve Cummings, the right halfback, a few minutes before the final whistle, but Armstrong's chance didn't come. He sat through the four quarters and saw the Yale team win at the very end. A week later Armstrong was among the blanketed figures on the side-lines, who watched the struggle of Yale and Harvard up and down the gridiron, with hopes rising and falling as the tide turned one way or the other. At the very end of the game, with the score against Yale, a fumble in the Harvard back field gave Yale possession of the ball on Harvard's thirty-yard line. The Yale stand rose en masse and begged for a touchdown, but two assaults were stopped with scant advance. The coach ran down the line, looking among his substitutes. "Armstrong, get ready to go in," he said in a quiet, tense voice, but even as Frank jumped to his feet to obey the summons, the whistle blew and the game was over. "Another year coming," Frank said quietly as Jimmy, with arm across his roommate's shoulder, on their way from the field, protested against the hard luck. "You're pretty cheerful about it," commented Turner, "and you deserved the chance as much as I did." "If I had been good enough, I'd have gone in before. The coaches know what they are about. If I ever get enough weight on me, I'll have a better chance to make the eleven." "And then you'll not be able to jump twenty-three feet," said Turner; "for every compensation there's some setback. That's the way of life." The Codfish was bitter in his condemnation of the entire coaching system which did not discover Armstrong's "supreme merit." "The idea of not using you, Frank, when they had every chance in that last quarter. I call it a murdering shame! They might have pulled out the game." Frank laughed. "I recognize your talent as a musician and your loyalty as a friend and your virtue as a gentleman, but I still think the coaches knew their jobs, and that when they didn't send me in they had good and sufficient reason for it. I'm not kicking. Anyway, I have two more chances, so what's the use of crying?" The Codfish continued to growl about the "injustice" for several days, and then, like everyone else, forgot all about football and turned his attentions to the future. Before the fall Frank had taken occasional dips in the pool when not overtired by the work at the Field. Max, foreseeing a recruit for his swimmers, took pains to encourage him, and, later, at the suggestion of Captain Wilson of the swimming team, Frank became a member of the squad. After the close of the football season, being well up in his studies and glad of the opportunity to take up a form of athletics which appealed to him strongly, he went at the work with great earnestness. In the try-outs Armstrong won his right to a place on the team in the fifty and one hundred yards, having covered these distances in good time, and, when the intercollegiate meets came along, he did his share in point-winning for Yale. "Armstrong," said Captain Wilson one afternoon as the two were resting after a practice spin of one hundred and fifty yards, "did you ever try to swim a two-twenty?" "Used to go more than that distance in open water, but never in the tank. Why?" "Well, McGill, the Canadian university, is sending a team down here in February. They have two or three crackajacks up there and they are making a little southern trip. I've just wired them the date and I'd like to make as good a showing as possible." "We ought to be pretty good excepting in the two-twenty," said Frank. "And if you'll work for that distance we ought to be pretty good there, too. I'll take care of the hundred as well as I know how, and I'll let Hobbs swim the fifty." "And who swims the two-twenty for McGill?" "Hopkins, the Olympic champion." Frank gave a long whistle. "And so you want me to be the goat? All right, Mr. Captain, I'll do my best and lead the goat right up to the altar to be sacrificed by the Olympic champion. But to do it gracefully, I ought to have some coaching in that distance." "And you're going to get it. I've sent for Burton to come up and give us a little advice. He was one of our best men at the distance as well as at the hundred." "Yes, I know him. Taught me to swim." "Really! Well, that's fine. He has the knack of teaching, and can tell you the tricks of the furlong if anyone can." The McGill meet was only two weeks off, and Frank began his training in earnest. Twice a day he swam the furlong, first at a moderate gait and then quickening the stroke until he was traveling at good speed throughout the distance. Burton came up from New York and spent a portion of two days with him, and, before the coaching was over, Frank had the satisfaction of beating out his old teacher of the crawl stroke. "You're too good for me now," gasped Burton as he pulled himself out of the water at the end of the race. "I'll have to leave you to the tender mercies of Hopkins himself." The night of the meet finally came around, and the building was all too small to hold the hundreds who crowded to the pool doors. Every seat was sold long in advance and standing room was crowded almost to suffocation. The attraction was, of course, Hopkins, who had been taking the measure of every swimmer at his distance that he had met, and who was heralded as the greatest swimmer in the world over the furlong distance. After Wilson had won the hundred and Hobbs had lost the fifty-yard contest, Hopkins sauntered carelessly from the dressing room, clad in a black silk racing suit. He proved to be a tall and powerful young man, heavily muscled. Alongside of him, as the two stood perched on the pool end, Frank looked very slender, but there was a suggestion of concealed strength in the latter's well-rounded limbs and of vitality and staying power in the deep chest. "Two-twenty yards even!" sang out the referee. "Eight lengths and sixty feet. Hopkins, the Olympic champion on the left for McGill; Armstrong on the right for Yale. Ready! Get set! GO!" At the word, both bodies shot through the air and hit the water like one. The champion used a long, rather slow but powerful trudgeon which was peculiarly mixed with the crawl in the leg action; Armstrong used a quicker crawl, in which the legs were scarcely bent at the knee, but were thrashed rapidly in a very narrow angle. The crowd expected the champion to pull away at once, but when the two turned at the far end of the pool, they turned at exactly the same instant. Down to the starting point the swimmers came, moving with great speed, but still the Yale man stayed with his big opponent with grim determination, and even finished the fifty a fraction of a second in advance of his Canadian opponent, shooting away on the second fifty still in the lead. Twice more the swimmers covered the length of the tank without relative change in position. And now the crowd, with nearly half the race over, seeing that their representative was holding his own, rose to their feet and delivered a wild yell which echoed among the high girders of the place, and from that time they did not cease to yell at the game fight waged in the water below them. At the one hundred and fifty-yard mark, Armstrong, putting on a burst of speed, led his great rival by five or six feet. Hopkins, who had never changed his steady drive for a moment, now quickened his thresh perceptibly, and in another length of the tank had almost overhauled the Yale man who was kicking along with every pound of energy in his body. Armstrong still led, but as they approached the two hundred-yard mark, there was less than a yard separating them. "Armstrong! Armstrong! Armstrong!" yelled the crowd. But the boy who was causing all the excitement was not conscious of anything but a dull roaring in his head. The noise of the cheering came to him faintly, much more faintly than the splash, splash of Hopkins's arms just behind him, and, even as he looked out of the corner of a water-filled eye, the relentless Canadian drew up nearer and still nearer. "Sixty feet to go!" Frank heard in a dull sort of way the official's voice. Could he do it, that impossible distance? His throat was parched and his chest seemed bursting with the strain of the pumping heart. Could he live for sixty feet more? It was a thousand miles. Summoning every last ounce of will pressure, he drove ahead blindly, following mechanically the swimming lines on the pool bottom with no help from smarting eyes. Somewhere near was Hopkins, he could feel the swirl of water from his powerful arm drives, but whether Hopkins was ahead or behind he could not tell. His arms were like lead, his legs paralyzed. A great weariness settled upon him, a great and compelling burden which benumbed all the faculties of brain and body. About fifteen minutes later Frank found himself lying on a couch in the room of the 'Varsity swimming team, with several anxious faces looking down at him, among them that of Hopkins. "What's the matter?" he asked in a bewildered way. "Nothing, 'cepting you drowned yourself," said Captain Wilson, "dead as a door nail." "Did I finish?" he asked very weakly. "You certainly did, you finished the race and yourself at the same time. Two of us had to go to the bottom for you," said the Captain. "You sank like a stone." "That's where I went to sleep, then?" "I guess so, you had us scared, I tell you." "You gave me a great race, Armstrong," said Hopkins, "one of the hardest I ever had. It wasn't record time, but it was as fast as the two-twenty is generally done. I only won by a few inches, and mighty lucky to get it at that," admitted the Canadian generously. "If I made you work, I'm satisfied," said Frank weakly. "I hadn't a ghost of a chance to win, but I set out to make you work for your victory." "And you did," returned Hopkins laughing. CHAPTER XVII. THE SOUTHERN TRIP. "Congratulations to our noble little pitcher," cried the Codfish. "I see you are drafted for honors on the Southern trip." It was mid-March and the baseball work in the cage was over. The 'Varsity nine had been at work on the open field for nearly a week, and Frank Armstrong as well as Jimmy Turner were members of the squad. Frank had shown possibilities as a pitcher, while Turner was considered a substitute catcher in second or third place. The occasion for Gleason's congratulations was the announcement in the _News_ that not only Turner but Armstrong as well was among those selected to make the trip always taken to the South by the 'Varsity nine for practice at the time of the Easter vacation. Frank Quinton, a new graduate coach, who had taken charge of the baseball situation, had been attracted by Armstrong's earnestness and his peculiar ability to put the ball over the plate, and had undertaken with some success to teach him the art of curving the ball and at the same time retaining his control. Under the new coach's guidance the pitcher had done particularly well, and it was no surprise to anyone that he was included among the twenty players who were slated to make the trip. His chief competitors were Gilbert, a Junior, and Martin, a Senior, both more experienced in the box, but neither of first class quality. Appleton, the pitcher of the 'Varsity the year before, had graduated, and on these three named the hopes of the Yale team centered. "And is our old friend, the trouble maker, coming along with us?" inquired Turner. "Bettcher life," returned the Codfish. "Things might run too smoothly if I stayed at home." "You certainly can be depended upon to add a little dash of pepper wherever you are," said Frank laughing. "You have no cause to complain, old fel," retorted Gleason. "If I hadn't got you two thousand feet in the air last summer you could never have won your broad-jump, nor have had the chance to have your picture printed in the papers with the story of your sweet young life." "Perhaps all that excitement did help," said Frank, "but in the future we will take no more chances in an airship." "I'll promise you that much anyway," returned the Codfish, "but just the same I think a good deal of credit is due to your humble servant for that victory last July. Of course, I don't expect any credit for it from the unthinking public or my selfish roommates, but I have my own congratulations anyway." "And that's a lot," laughed Frank. "Do you go down with the team?" "Yes, all arranged, tickets, Pullman, boat, everything. I'm one of that noble band of 'heelers' who brave everything to be a supporter and lend a yell in the hostile country when most needed." "Bully for you, Codfish," cried Turner. "We may need you, but leave your automobile at home." The itinerary of the southern trip included Washington, where the tour opened with a game with Georgetown; Charlottesville, Va.; Richmond and Norfolk. At the latter place three games were to be played, then was to follow a boat trip up the Chesapeake Bay to Washington, where a second game was to be played with Georgetown. Everyone was looking forward to the delights of warm sun and spring breezes in the land of flowers, for the March winds on Yale field had been anything but conducive to good ball playing. But spring was reluctant even in the south, and warm days were few and far between. Yale lost the first game with Georgetown with Martin in the box, and fared no better with the University of Virginia nine when Gilbert, who was supposed to be the most effective of the Yale staff of pitchers, went down before the fusillade of hits. "You will start the game with the Norfolk League team to-morrow," said Coach Quinton to Armstrong as the players were leaving the dinner table at the hotel in Norfolk. "This will be one of the best games of the trip and I want to win it." "All right, sir," returned Frank. "I'll do my best." Frank won his game, but at heavy expense. For five innings he pitched great ball and kept the league hitters to two runs, while the Yale team, finding themselves, batted out seven runs by clean hitting and fast base-running. Then in the sixth Frank began to slow up and the Norfolk batters reached his delivery frequently, but runs were cut off by superb playing of the Yale infield. Every ball he pitched sent a sting through his muscles with a pain almost unbearable, but he kept on to the end of the inning. "What's the matter with you?" inquired the coach as he came to the bench. "Is your arm bothering you?" "Yes, something seems to be wrong with it. Hurts like thunder." Quinton knew only too well the symptoms. Armstrong had "thrown his arm out," a not uncommon thing in early spring baseball. His muscles, not sufficiently worked out, had been injured in the delivery of the speed ball he had been pitching. Martin finished the game and held it safely, but Frank pitched no more that trip nor during the season for the 'Varsity. For a time after returning to New Haven he was worked in the outfield, but even there was at a disadvantage because he could not shoot the ball on a long throw from the outfield. So he was displaced by a weaker hitter, and shortly after went over to the track squad where he was received with open arms by the trainer, who foresaw a certainty of added points in the coming track meets. And he was not disappointed, for Frank, now out of baseball because of his accident, gave his entire time to the perfection of the broad jump, and won first place at the Harvard and Princeton dual meets. He took second place to the great Moffatt who made the trip across the continent from the University of California, and set a mark at twenty-three feet nine inches, which even Frank's unusual skill failed to equal, although on three different trials he had improved on his jump at the Queen's Club in London. Armstrong was now rated as one of the best jumpers in any of the colleges. But his ambitions in the direction of baseball and football had failed to materialize through accidents of one sort or another. He was the kind of a boy, however, who was willing to do as well as it was possible the thing that was available without repining about the things impossible. During the stay at Norfolk the Codfish sustained his reputation as a friend of trouble. On the way down from Washington he had scraped acquaintance with a classmate named Chalmers, who had some acquaintances in Norfolk. The party was hardly established at the hotel when Gleason hunted up his friend Chalmers and suggested that they take a ride in one of the snappy looking motor cars that stood in front of the hotel for hire. Chalmers pleaded poverty. "Only four dollars an hour," said Gleason, "and we can look all over the town. Bully old place, all wistaria and pretty girls and happy darkies. Come on, don't be a tight wad!" "Four dollars an hour would break me. At that price I could ride about ten minutes. Let's walk," suggested Chalmers. "Oh, come on, let's show these southerners some speed. I have fifteen dollars in my inside pocket. There's a perfectly ripping blue car out front with a darky all fussed up to beat the band. It looks like a private rig and all that. One hour will do the trick, and I'll foot the bill." That argument moved Chalmers, whose finances were low. Together the boys located the blue motor car with its snappy driver, immediately after lunch, and tumbled into the tonneau. "Where do you-all want to go?" inquired the driver. "Oh, just show us around," said the Codfish, with a wave of the hand. "Show us all the flossy streets and the monuments, but I warn you now I don't climb any of them. Fire away." Thus admonished, the driver headed his machine in the direction of Ghent, threading the streets of the quaint old town while the boys lay back luxuriously on the cushions of the tonneau. "Gee whiz," said Chalmers, as the blue car rolled down Boissevain avenue, "there's Miss Smith or I'm an Injun." "Where, who and what?" inquired the Codfish, immediately alert. "Just coming down the steps of that white house over there." "Know her?" "Sure. Kid sister's roommate at school or something like that. Been at our house once. Promised Sis I'd look her up, but didn't expect to have time." "Gee, but she's a pippin," said the Codfish, enthusiastically. "Let's ask her to take a ride in our pretty blue car!" "And thereby kill two birds with one stone." "Which two?" "Keep my promise to Sis and do a humane act. She lives miles from here I know. Probably been calling." "Poor thing, we ought out of common courtesy ask her to ride home. I hate to see so pretty a girl walking with nothing better than a dog for company. Go ahead, be a gent; have a heart!" By this time the car had traveled a block or so beyond where they had passed Miss Smith, whose steps were bent in the opposite direction to that in which the boys were headed. Chalmers was finally convinced by the persuasive Codfish that the automobile should be offered to the young lady, and the driver was ordered to turn around. The pedestrian was soon overtaken, and, hat in hand, Chalmers sprang from the car and intercepted the young lady. "Miss Smith, I believe?" he said, advancing with a grin. "Oh, Mr. Chalmers, I'm so glad to see you. Your sister wrote me you were coming down, but I never thought you would remember me." "How could I ever forget?" said Chalmers, making his most elaborate, and what he considered fetching, bow. "This is my friend Mr. Gleason of Yale." "So glad to meet Mr. Gleason," chirped the young lady. "And you-all are down with the Yale team? Isn't that too lovely?" Neither of the boys could see just how it was "too lovely," but they took it for what it was worth. "Will you permit us to drive you home?" said the Codfish, waving his hand magnificently toward the blue motor car. "Chalmers says you live miles from here." "Oh, that would be too lovely," gurgled Miss Smith. "I just adore motoring, and it is such a nice day, too. I live only a mile from here, but it would be sweet to ride that far in your car." Miss Smith was escorted to the blue motor, and established in the middle of the rear seat while Chalmers and Gleason took seats on either side of her. The bull terrier, not nearly so much pleased with motoring as his mistress, spread himself over the floor and occasionally made frolicsome dashes at Gleason's Yale blue silk socks, a large expanse of which was showing. "Get out, you little beast," cried Gleason, alarmed for the welfare of his beautiful socks. "Chew Chalmers over there, he's much better chewing than I am." "O, don't mind him, Mr. Gleason, he just adores blue. I simply can't keep anything blue around the house. Always eats it up." "Well, he can't eat any of my blue stuff. He must be a Harvard dog; quit it, Fido," as the dog made another dash. A few minutes' drive brought them to Miss Smith's house. "O, I simply don't want to get out," she said. "Then why do you?" queried the Codfish. "It pains us to have you leave. We were just looking around, you know, and would like to have someone point out the sights of your gay and festive city." "That would be too lovely, and I'll be so glad if you'll take Cousin Mary." "Cousin Mary is on," said the Codfish. "Where does she live?" "O, just around the corner. She loves motoring, too, and we poor people down here can't have automobiles of our own." It was but a minute's trip to Cousin Mary's, and matters were facilitated by discovering the young lady in question standing in her doorway, hatted and gloved, with a camera in her hand. She was more than plump, she was decidedly fat and had red hair. The Codfish decided he wasn't for Cousin Mary. Introductions were quickly made and the call explained. Cousin Mary was willing to ride anywhere so long as it was in a motor. "Now where shall we go?" inquired the Codfish. "You tell us. This will be a personally conducted tour, you know." "O, it would be just too lovely to drive to Virginia Beach," gushed Miss Smith. Chalmers, who knew something of the geography of the territory, winced and tried to catch his companion's eye, but that individual failed to see the warning glance, and ordered--"Drive to Virginia Beach, James." "All right, sah," and the machine shot off for the Beach. Chalmers very generously took the seat alongside the driver, leaving the Codfish with the girls in the tonneau, which was a disposition highly satisfactory to the latter. But he took care to put Cousin Mary on the far side of the seat. As mile after mile was spun off, and still the destination was not reached, the Codfish began to wonder what the length of the drive might be, but his pride forbade him to ask. On and on went the car at an easy pace. They had been out nearly two hours from the hotel, and the Codfish began to make mental calculations. "Two hours, that makes eight dollars," he calculated, "another hour and a half back, that makes fourteen. That makes some little bill. I can readily see I'm busted already!" His conversation began to halt, but the lovely Miss Smith was concerned only in the beauties of the landscape which she pointed out to her companion on the seat, who was not so deeply interested as he might have been had things been different. At last the car drew up at the Beach. "How far do you call it down here, James?" inquired the Codfish, nonchalantly. He was still calculating. "I reckon about twenty-five miles," said the driver. "Kaint make much time on these here roads." "Yes, I noticed that," returned the Codfish dryly. The young ladies were overjoyed to be at the Beach. They walked on the sands and took photographs. "Cousin Mary just loves to take photographs," Miss Smith explained. Then the girls discovered they had a call to make--would Mr. Chalmers and Mr. Gleason mind? A very dear girl friend whom they hadn't seen for a whole month was at the Beach. Would they come? No, then they would only be gone a few minutes. It was "too lovely" to have such a chance to call. So the boys were left behind to wait impatiently. The minutes passed and then more minutes. "And there's that blooming motor sitting there at four dollars an hour," growled the Codfish. "Three hours and fifteen minutes gone already. I'm bankrupt now and twenty-five miles to go back. I'll be entirely insolvent by the time we turn up in Norfolk." Fifty minutes more passed and Miss Smith and Cousin Mary reappeared on the scene only to exhaust another reel of films photographing the car, the pavilion, a decrepit boat drawn up on the sands, and several sea views. "Cousin Mary is so artistic," explained Miss Smith. "You ought to see some of her sea views, they are just too sweet." "I've enough sea views to last me the rest of my natural life," muttered the Codfish under his breath. "I'm not much for sea views at four dollars an hour." When everything necessary and unnecessary that the girls could think of had been done, the motor was turned in the direction of Norfolk, and set off at, a leisurely pace much to the disgust of the Codfish. The longer the driver took to cover the distance, the more money he made. Time was money to him with a vengeance. On the outskirts of Norfolk, and just as dusk was beginning to settle, the rear shoe gave way with a loud explosion. "How long?" inquired the Codfish, laconically. "I reckon 'bout twenty minutes," replied the driver, at which Miss Smith set up a remonstrance. "We must be home. Mother will think something dreadful has happened. The trolley is only a few blocks from here. We can't wait that long for him to fix the old tire." "All right, then," said the Codfish. "We'll all go, and James, you see us at the hotel after you get fixed up again." He was glad of the opportunity to have the automobile white elephant off his hands, and saw a chance of getting to the hotel and preserving his dignity before the girls. He could get the money he needed as soon as he got back. But his luck was against him in the shape of the darky driver who was both obstinate and suspicious. "Kaint do dat, sah," the driver protested, "last time I do dat, I done get stung. We done been out five hours and a half, dat makes twenty-two dollars, not countin' little something you gwine to give James." "O, Mr. Gleason," cried Miss Smith. "I thought it was your own car." There was a note of reproach in her voice, and the speaker tossed her head. A ride in a hired car didn't seem so luxurious as in a private one. A hasty conference between the two boys resulted in the pooling of all their cash in hand, which amounted to just $16.25. This amount the Codfish offered the driver, who refused it and loudly argued for his rights before a gathering crowd. He would not let his passengers out of his sight, so it was finally arranged that Chalmers should see the young ladies home while he, the Codfish, held as a hostage, hung around for another half hour while the shoe was replaced. He reached the hotel late for dinner, where he borrowed sufficient money to pay the driver. Of course, the story got out, and the two participants never heard the last of it. It was even resurrected in the class day histories at the end of Senior year. CHAPTER XVIII. FOOTBALL IN JUNIOR YEAR. After college closed Frank Armstrong and Jimmy Turner joined a party of engineers and their assistants, whose work it was to survey a new railroad through the heart of New Brunswick, one of the Maritime provinces of Canada, and for two months they enjoyed the life of veritable savages in the open air. Following the pointing finger of the compass they burrowed through the tangled forests, sleeping sometimes rolled in blankets with a bunch of fragrant hemlock boughs for a pillow, and, only when the weather was bad, under the protecting service tents, several of which had been brought along for bad weather. Many nights, however, the tents were never set up at all, and the whole party of young men slept with only the stars for their roof. Frank made himself invaluable at river crossings, of which there were many, for bridges were few and far between. It was his duty to swim the barring river with the engineers' "chains" which he did with such success that he was nicknamed "the torpedo." Later he was followed by other members of the party on homemade catamarans. The life agreed with both the boys, and when the party finished its work and took train at the little station of Harcourt on the Intercolonial railroad, with clothing ragged from the rough caress of the tangled woods and shoes guiltless of blacking, they might well have been mistaken for young lumbermen instead of college students. Ten days later they were in football clothes on Yale field, obeying the call for early fall practice before college opened. Frank had put on ten pounds during the summer, and for the first time felt himself strong enough to withstand the punishing work of the game. He was hard as nails, in perfect condition and eager for any work the coach might set him at. Again he was placed at end in practice by Coach Hanley, and made such good progress that in the middle of the first game he was called in to play the position, where he acquitted himself with such credit that he earned a word of praise from Captain Baldwin. Through the long, hard grueling work of the fall he fought for his place, alternating between the 'Varsity and the second eleven, learning something every day under the tuition of this or that coach for the purpose of helping Yale turn out a winning team. Turner was firmly established at right halfback, and gave promise of becoming a great player. His irresistible smashes earned many yards for Yale in the minor games of the season, and it was a common prediction that he would be first choice for the place in the championship games. He succeeded not by any great speed but by his instinct for the opening his linemen made and his almost uncanny ability to keep his feet and burrow for a gain through the worst tangle of human bodies. It was Turner who was always given the ball down near the goal line to carry it across, and he rarely failed to accomplish his end. The uncertainty regarding who was to play right end was banished in the Brown game which preceded the Princeton game by one week. The game was a hard one, and neither side could score a touchdown. Frank was called in at right end to replace Saunders, and on the second line-up took a well delivered forward pass and scored with practically a free field. Twice again before the game was over he proved his ability in this particular play. His baseball helped him in the handling of the football, and his speed and elusiveness in an open field added to his chances. It was therefore no surprise to anyone in the college when he was slated to go in the first line-up against Princeton. "I'm putting you in, Armstrong," said Coach Hanley, "in spite of the fact that Saunders has had more experience. In other words, I'm taking a chance with you. Don't fall down. This Princeton team has a strong line and we've got to fox them with the forward pass. Keep cool, and use your head all the time." The instructions sounded easy enough, but when Frank took his place at right end on the day of the game, under the eyes of thirty thousand people, to say that he was nervous expressed only a small part of his feelings. While the big Yale center placed the ball at midfield for the kick-off he lived, like other high-strung players before him, what seemed a whole year of his lifetime. He was almost overcome by the sudden fear that he might not be able to do what was expected of him, and the barking cheers from the Yale side of the field added to his nervousness instead of encouraging him. Twice Biddle, the center, placed the ball, and twice the stiff breeze topped it over. Frank's heart was pounding, and he felt weak and ineffective, but at the shrill scream of the whistle, and as the ball rose in the air and soared off in the direction of Princeton's goal, his mind cleared like a flash. He regained his grip on himself, and sped off down the field like the wind, feeling a moment later the grim joy of shock and strain as his arms closed around the legs of the man with the ball, who came sweeping up the field, behind what seemed like a wall of interference. How he reached the runner, he never knew, but the fact that he had reached him seemed to give him the strength of ten men. Twice the Princeton backs were shot at his end. Once he got the runner, and the second time he spilled the interference, leaving Turner to take the man with the ball, which he did with a jolting tackle that jarred the Princeton man's very being. Up and down the field surged the tide of battle, while the stands under the urging of the cheer-leaders gave out on the one side or the other an almost steady roar of cheers. In spite of their volume they seemed strangely far away to the players whose energies were engaged entirely with the matter in hand. Once the new right end was drawn in, and a Princeton back slipped around him for fifteen yards. The sharp reprimand from the captain was not necessary for he was raging at himself, savage at being tricked. A moment later he was tricked again: the back made a feint at the end, went inside him and was stopped by Turner. "That's the place," yelled a Princeton coach, "put it there again!" It looked like a weak place indeed, and the Princeton quarter, after making his distance on the other side of the line, again shot his catapult at right end. This time Frank went through the interference, and tackled so viciously that there were hisses from a few in the Princeton stand. He was fighting mad, crazy to hurt and to be hurt. Again and again he hurled himself blindly against the Princeton onrush only to be borne backwards. Suddenly he realized what the matter was. The coach's words came to him: "Keep cool, play your game and keep your head working." It was like a dash of cold water, and he was immediately cool. He had a grip on himself in a moment, and he now smiled back into the mocking eyes of his opposing end where a moment before he had glared in hate. He had obtained the mastery over himself. Again the play swung around to his end, but this time he met it coolly and deliberately, and checked it without the gain of a foot, while the Yale stand announced its approval with a mighty and spontaneous shout. Time after time the Princeton attack at the right end was met and turned back, and Saunders, who had been told to get ready to replace Armstrong, sat down again at the motion of Coach Hanley, and wrapped his blankets around his shoulders. This much Frank saw out of the corner of his eye, and a thrill of satisfaction went through him. He had learned his lesson and was making good. It is not our intention to tell the story of Frank's baptism of fire, nor how the two evenly matched teams battled to a tie at the end of four desperately fought periods. Frank played through three of these periods, and although he played well and did all of his duty, he never had a clear chance at a forward pass. The ball was thrown either too far or not far enough on the half dozen tries at the pass, or the attempt to throw was spoiled by the eager Princeton forwards who crowded through the line. At the end of the third quarter he was taken out weak and staggering from his exertions, and Saunders went in. But the coach's "All right, Armstrong," was music to his ears as he came over to the side-line to be immediately wrapped in a big blanket by the trainer. That night, while the team was dressing in the Gymnasium, the coaches gave the men the benefit of some advice. "You fellows forgot most of the time," said Hanley, "that you were a team. You were playing every man for himself. You should have licked that Princeton team, and the only reason you didn't was that you were not a Yale team. We don't want brilliant individual stuff. One must help the other. If you get together before next Saturday we can beat Harvard. If you play as you did to-day, Harvard will lick you out of your boots, because she has a great team and it is together. You are just as good, but you are not together." It was straight talk, and it sank deep. Monday was a day of rest at the field, but on Tuesday the final preparation for Harvard began. Behind locked gates under the urgings of the half a score of coaches who had hurried to New Haven, the previous practice and even the Princeton game were like child's play. Armstrong was at right end, a position which he had fairly won, but Saunders on the Second eleven fought tooth and nail to displace him. It seemed to Frank that the Second eleven coaches had a particular grudge at his end, for he was called upon to stop more than his share of attacks. But he was able to do what was expected of him, backed up as he was by the sturdy and omnipresent Turner who withstood everything with a never-failing energy. Wednesday's practice, fiercer than the day before, if that could be, found Frank Armstrong still in possession of his place at right end, but it was with a sigh of relief that he heard the welcome "That's all," of Coach Hanley. He watched with interest the usual celebration of the Second eleven which marks the end of the year's practice. On Thursday the 'Varsity, with substitutes, a score of coaches and heelers, took the afternoon train to the north, and were quartered at a hotel just outside of Cambridge. A brief signal practice was held in the towering Stadium on Soldiers Field Friday, where the last instructions were given to the men. It would be too much to say, and not the truth, that the night was a peaceful one for most of the Yale eleven. Turner and Armstrong were quartered in separate beds in the same room. The former slept like a log, apparently free from all thoughts of the morrow. Frank, on the other hand, tossed and turned, got up in the night and sat at the window while his companion snored contentedly. In the early hours of the morning he finally dropped into a sleep which was disturbed by dreams of the Harvard runners slipping past just beyond his reach. How he got through the morning he never knew, but he did get through somehow, and finally found himself dressed for the fray and in the big 'bus with the rest of the eleven, headed for the Stadium. "There go the Yaleses!" sang out an urchin. "Dey won't look so nice as dat when de Harvards get through wit' dem," shouted his companion. Occasionally the 'bus passed Yale sympathizers, and then it got a cheer or: "Go to it, Yale, you're the boys who can do it!" From every direction throngs of people were heading toward the great concrete structure whose huge gray bulk seemed to fill the horizon. Already thousands swarmed in its arches, and even at this hour little black specks of human beings were seen outlined on its upper heights against the sky. Progress became slower as the 'bus neared the field, and it finally took the combined efforts of a squad of police to break the crowd sufficiently to let the Yale players through to the Locker Building within the shadow of the Stadium walls. The game was to be started at two o'clock, and at a quarter of that hour it would have been difficult to find a vacant place in all those towering tiers. Yale occupied the south and Harvard the north side of the field. The cheer-leaders were tuning up, as it were. Back and forth across the field were flung songs and cheers, and in this lull before the battle each applauded the other's efforts. Five minutes before the hour the Harvard captain, with his red-jerseyed and red-stockinged warriors at his heels, dashed through the gate at the northwest corner of the field. A great wave of crimson seemed to sweep the Harvard stand from end to end as the thirty thousand Harvard sympathizers rose to their feet, waving flags and red bandannas. A crackling cheer like musketry rolled across the field. While the Harvard cheer-leaders called for a cheer for the team, the Yale stand sat motionless. A minute later, however, it sprang into life as Captain Baldwin led his men onto the field through the same gate at a loping run. The Yale crowd was smaller, but what a noise it did make! After a few minutes of signal practice, the two captains with the officials met at the center of the field and tossed for choice of sides. The coin which was flipped in the air by the referee fell heads, which was the side Captain Randall of Harvard, had called, and he indicated with a sweep of his hand that he would take the west end of the field. What little wind was then blowing at his back was the only advantage he had. Both elevens quickly dropped into their places, the whistle shrilled and the game was on. That was a game which went down in history as one of the fiercest and hardest ever played between the two old rivals. It was clean and free from bad feeling which sometimes marks close games, but intense from the first line-up to the last. Harvard, after receiving the ball on the kick-off, cut loose a smashing attack through the line, reeling off the yards with terrible, tremendous force, a force that Yale did not seem to be able to meet successfully. Down over the white lines went the Harvard machine, plays timed to perfection and gaining wherever they struck, not much, but enough in three tries to carry them the necessary yards for a first down. A perfect roar of cheers boiled up from the Harvard side of the field while Yale seemed paralyzed. Only after the ball had been pushed well into Yale territory did her cheer-leaders begin to get something like a cheer of volume. But Yale was learning, and before Harvard had progressed to the danger zone the advance was stopped, and Yale took the ball, an act that was approved by a mighty cheer. Turner bored through for eight yards on the first play, and followed it up with enough to make a first down, but there the advance stopped. Porter, the Yale fullback, who was doing the punting, was hurried by the rush of the Harvard forwards, and his kick almost blocked. It traveled diagonally across the field for a bare fifteen-yards gain, and was Harvard's ball. "Now stop 'em right here! Take it away," commanded Captain Baldwin. "You can do it!" But Harvard was not to be stopped just then. Playing like red demons, they fought their way foot by foot into Yale's territory, and threatened the Yale goal. Turner and Armstrong were on the bottom of every heap when the play came at their side, but the best they could do was to keep the gains down. They could not entirely stop them. But the gallant Yale line rallied less than ten yards from their goal, and again checked the crimson attack. So determined were the Harvard team to make a touchdown that they scorned to try a field goal, and depended on a forward pass to make the necessary distance. Armstrong, alert for just such a move, intercepted the ball and again it was Yale's. Yale's rushing attack was stopped short and Porter was sent back to punt. "Block it! block it! block it!" yelled the Harvard partisans but although the red line tried desperately to do this, Porter succeeded in getting his kick off, but the ball went high, was held back by the wind which at that moment was blowing a stiff breeze, and it dropped into the Harvard quarter's hands a bare twenty yards back of his line of scrimmage. A groan went up from the Yale hosts as Harvard, for the third time, took up the march down the field. CHAPTER XIX. THE HARVARD-YALE GAME. Yale's defense stiffened and made her opponent's going become harder. With five yards to go for a first down, the Harvard quarter and his right end executed a neat forward pass which put the ball on Yale's twelve-yard line directly opposite the posts, and one smash at right tackle put it three yards nearer the goal line. "Touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!" begged the Harvard stand. "Hold 'em, hold 'em, hold 'em!" pleaded Yale, but the pleading was of no avail, for that splendid Harvard team, working like a well-oiled piece of machinery, drove on and over their opponents till the ball lay only three yards away from the goal. A touchdown seemed inevitable. Captain Baldwin drew his men together in a little group and exhorted them to such good purpose that the next charge was stopped dead in its tracks. Again the lines faced each other, again came the crash of body meeting body. The Harvard back with the ball tucked under his arm shot off to the left, slipped inside his own tackle and was clear of the first line of defense. But as he straightened up from his running crouching position, Turner met him with a bull-like rush, picked him clear off his feet and threw him with such violence that the ball flew from his grasp and bounced crazily along the ground in the direction of the goal. Man after man took a diving shot at it as it rolled until the turf was covered with sprawling figures. Finally the ball disappeared beneath a mass of bodies which the referee slowly dug apart and found--Frank Armstrong wrapped around the ball in a loving embrace! "Yale's ball," was the silent announcement of the scoreboard, but never was an announcement before or since greeted with such a yell. From that moment the tide of battle turned. Porter got off a long, low twisting punt which caught the Harvard backfield man napping. He made a desperate effort to reach it, but although he got his hands on the ball he could not hold it, and was swept away by a blue avalanche. When the smoke cleared away, Captain Baldwin was lying on the ball on Harvard's forty-yard line. Before the teams could line up again, the whistle blew to end the quarter and the teams changed ends of the field. Three minutes later the game was on again, this time with Yale the aggressor and Harvard on the defensive. Conditions of the first quarter were reversed and now it was Yale, the team fighting like one man, who was pushing her opponents steadily down the field. Held at the thirty-yard line with three yards to go for a first down, the Yale quarter sent a pretty forward pass to Armstrong who made a beautiful catch and was not downed till he was run out of bounds at the fifteen-yard line. Pandemonium reigned among the Yale hosts, and the cheer-leaders tried vainly to get a unison cheer. The crowd would not look but kept their eyes glued on the play. Now it was Yale's turn to call for a touchdown, and the tiered thousands did it right lustily, but unfortunately, for their hopes, a bad pass on the next play lost five yards and Turner was stopped on the next attempt. "Armstrong back!" cried the quarter. Frank left his place at end and took up his position fifteen yards back of the line of scrimmage, measuring carefully the distance to the goal posts, thirty-five yards away, while the crowd waited in breathless silence. The lines crouched tense and ready. The ball shot back from Biddle on a long pass to Frank but it came so low that he had almost to pick it from the ground. Quick as a flash he straightened up, dropped the ball to the ground, and drove his toe against it as it rose again. Away it spun on its course, while the eyes of forty thousand people strained after its flight. But luck was against Yale that day. The ball, traveling straight and true, had not been given quite enough power. It struck the cross-bar, bounced high in the air and fell back into the playing field where a Harvard back pounced upon it. Harvard punted on the kick-out over forty-five yards and after several exchanges without result, the half ended and the tired players tramped slowly off to the Locker House to be told by the coaches why they had not done their work just right. Fifteen minutes later the game was on again, but not with its first fierceness. No human beings could continue the pace set in that first half, and the play settled into a punting duel between Porter and his opponent, with neither team able to gain much by straight rushing. Both tried forward passes but with a few exceptions they failed for one reason or another. The quarter passed without either team threatening the other's goal, and predictions were beginning to be made that barring accidents the game would be a tie. Five minutes after the fourth period began, a fumbled punt by the Yale quarter and a recovery by an alert Harvard end shifted the battle with jarring suddenness into Yale territory, with Yale on the defensive. Again the Harvard machine began to work with its first smoothness and down, down they drove the ball in spite of a desperate defense. Held at the ten-yard line, the Harvard quarter, who in the early season had been heralded as a great drop-kicker but who had shown nothing of his ability in late games, dropped back ten or twelve yards behind his line and put the ball between the posts with neatness and dispatch. When the tumult, which the field goal had brought to pass in the Harvard stands, quieted down again Yale set out to win back the points lost. But it seemed like a hopeless task, for Harvard, with victory in sight met every effort, and stopped it. Time was flying, and many of the Harvard people, feeling assured of Harvard's victory, were filing out of the stands. Yale supporters stayed on, hoping against hope, for only five minutes were left to play. Suddenly the Yale quarter changed his tactics. Catching the Harvard backs in a favorable position for the play, he snapped a forward pass to Armstrong who caught it and made the middle of the field on a dodging run, where he was brought down from behind. The gain brought hope back to drooping Yale spirits, and a cheer rattled across the field. Immediately on the heels of this successful pass, which drew out the Harvard defense, he sent Turner into the line and added another eight yards. The tide of Harvard departure was suddenly checked by this hostile demonstration, and seeing that the defense did not close up, the heady little quarter tried Turner again with such effect that it was a first down. The Yale stands were cheering like mad, at this unlooked-for burst of speed when the team was supposed to be beaten. The captain himself, with Turner clearing the way, lunged forward five yards and added two more a moment later. Again the Harvard defense crept in and the Yale quarter, seeing his opportunity, drove another forward pass to Armstrong who caught it cleanly and was off like the wind. He sidestepped the tackle by the opposing end, ran obliquely toward the side-line, stopped and let the rush of tacklers pass him, slipped out of what seemed an impossible position, and with a clear field, with the exception of one man, cut straight for the goal line with friend and foe thundering behind. Straight at the tackler, who waited with outstretched arms, he ran. The muscles, which had been crying for rest a moment before, were now like steel. Now he was within two steps of the Harvard back. He appeared to be running straight to certain disaster, but as the Harvard tackler lunged forward, Frank swung his body to one side, brought his forearm down with all his force on the outstretched arm nearest him, and was past. The momentary check, however, brought a fleet Harvard end up to him, who, unwilling to take a chance at the Yale man's flying legs, sprang full upon his back. The force carried Frank off his feet, staggering headlong. Even with the burden on his back he managed to fall head-first toward the goal line, where he was instantly pinned to the ground by two tacklers with such force that he lay stunned. He required the services of the trainer with sponge and water bottle before the play could be resumed. The ball lay exactly ten yards from the goal and in the face of the known defensive strength of Harvard, it seemed an impossible task to put it over from there. Captain Baldwin took the ball two yards on the first try and then the red-headed Turner, like a maddened bull, drove through for four yards in a whirling mass of red and blue-legged players. Again Turner was called upon and when the pile untangled, he had laid the ball within two yards of the coveted white line which to cross meant glorious victory. Captain Baldwin drew his men back for a conference while the stands stopped their cheering long enough to speculate whether he would attempt a goal from the field or risk defeat on an attempt to carry the ball across for a touchdown. Doubts were soon set at rest for the Yale team sprang back into regular formation and crouched for the signal. You might have heard a pin drop in that vast crowd, so still they were as the two lines crouched, with swaying arms and tense bodies. Snappily came the signal, sounding high, clear and shrill in that amazing quiet, followed by the crash of meeting lines. Turner with his head down between his mighty shoulders, drove like a catapult into the struggling mass on the heels of his captain. There was a moment of squirming and grinding, then the whole mass fell in a sort of pyramid which refused to untangle itself even at the orders of the referee, and he was obliged to pull and dig to get at the bottom. And what he found at the bottom was Turner, bruised and bleeding, but joyfully happy with the ball hugged to his breast and across the goal line by four inches! It was of no account that the kick-out (for the touchdown had been made well toward the corner of the field) was bungled. Yale had scored a touchdown and the lead. Two minutes afterward the whistle ended the game, and the wildest sort of celebration began. Every member of the Yale team was seized, protesting, and carried by the half-crazed students in a whirling march around the field. Hats were thrown over the goal posts by the hundreds, the owners entirely indifferent as to whether they ever got their headgear back again. Many students went back to New Haven that night minus their hats, but little did it matter as Yale had won a glorious battle in the face of what seemed certain defeat. And the names of Turner and Armstrong were on every tongue. That night Turner was elected captain and Frank cast his vote for his old friend although he himself had been nominated as a candidate. CHAPTER XX. HOW ALL THINGS CAME OUT AT LAST. When the spring of Junior year came around, Frank Armstrong enrolled himself in the baseball squad. The rest of nearly a year had apparently completely cured his arm, and he became at once one of the leading candidates for pitcher. Coach Quinton had engaged the services of a professional pitcher from one of the big leagues for the early practice, and from this man Frank learned much about the art of pitching. Quinton was careful, however, not to work him in cold weather, fearing a return of the trouble in his pitching arm. The result of this careful handling was that he rounded into form in mid-season, and was the mainstay of the nine in the box. Turner was the receiving end of the battery, and together they became the terror of opposing nines. At the end of a season which was only partly successful, with a victory from Princeton and a defeat by Harvard, the latter caused by Yale's inability to hit the ball with men on bases, Frank Armstrong was unanimously elected captain for Senior year. "I think the way you two fellows are hogging the Ys and captaincies around here is disgraceful," complained the Codfish one night. "Armstrong ought to be ashamed. Turner is bad enough with football and baseball, but Armstrong is nothing short of a Y trust, with three different kinds of them. Why aren't you modest like I am?" Frank laughed. "Some are born Ys," paraphrased the Codfish, "some achieve Ys and some have Ys thrust upon them." "You ought to be put out for that," said Frank. "But I say, how would you like to score for us next year?" "To cover up your errors, eh?" "No, just to keep you quiet." "In that case, I'm on, but you need look for no favors in the scoring from me. I'm an impartial gink. No friends when I'm on the job. Do I get a southern trip?" "Sure, you do. But you must keep away from hired automobiles." "Forget it," said the Codfish, who didn't like to be reminded of the Norfolk experience. Frank and Jimmy spent their summer together at Seawall, and renewed old acquaintances. Many hours the two boys spent together going over plans for their teams, while with swimming and rowing they kept themselves in the pink of physical condition. "My ambition is to win both the Princeton and Harvard series," Frank said one evening as they sat on the veranda of the Armstrong cottage, their eyes wandering over the Bay with its twinkling lights. "And that's the reason I'm going to ask you to let me out of football work this fall." "I don't like it at all, Frank," returned the football captain. "I need you. You've had the experience and I, too, have ambitions." "Yes, but look at that bunch of Freshman material from last year's Freshman eleven. It would make a whole 'Varsity team in itself--Squires, Thompson, Williams, Weatherly and the rest. Great Scott, I wouldn't be in it with that bunch. You know you don't need me. I've got a lot of material to whip into shape, and with both of us out of the nine, Quinton wouldn't be pleased. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go out and work with my own team, and if you have to have me, I'll go over and take my medicine. But if you don't need me, then I'll keep on with my own work." That was the arrangement the captains made between themselves, and although it was something of a sacrifice, Captain Turner, fortunately well supplied with end material, went through his season with flying colors, ending with two glorious victories over Yale's dearest foes, and writing his name, in the doing of it, large on Yale's page of football history. When the spring of Senior year rolled around, it found Frank making progress with the team he hoped would be called a championship nine. The Easter trip was an unqualified success, with only one defeat recorded, and that by the Norfolk Leaguers. All the college games were won handily, and the nine returned to New Haven with a prestige for clever all-around play. Through the season of preliminary home games, the nine acquitted itself well. Besides himself, Captain Armstrong had two pitchers, a man named Read and of only ordinary ability, and another, Whittaker, a big, raw-boned westerner, who was a tower of strength in the box. On the latter Frank depended as his substitute in the championship series with Princeton and Harvard, for the games, owing to a combination of circumstances, ran so closely together that no one man could possibly pitch them all. Four days before the first championship game, evidence was handed to the captain which made him doubt the amateur standing of Whittaker. The testimony was that Whittaker had played professional ball in a western town. The captain and coach called the pitcher over to the former's room for an explanation. The westerner admitted at once that he had pitched ball for money for three seasons before coming to Yale, but since he had used the money to defray his expenses it was not plain to him that he was not eligible. "I'm mighty sorry," said Frank, "but you can't pitch any more for Yale. In any interpretation of the rules you are a professional, and not eligible for an amateur nine." "Yes, but no one knows it at Princeton or Harvard, do they?" "True, but that makes no difference. I say again, 'I'm mighty sorry but you can't pitch for Yale,'" and while he said it, his heart sank for he well knew that Read would never be able to stem the tide of a championship match, and besides Read there was no one but himself. To make matters worse he had recently felt a twinge in his pitching arm when delivering certain curves. It might be a recurrence of the old trouble! "That about settles us," said Frank after Whittaker had taken his departure, a sentiment which was echoed by the college men when it became known that Whittaker was ineligible. "We'll pitch Read in the first Princeton game and take a chance," was Quinton's advice. "It will be the second game that's the teaser." Fortune favored Captain Armstrong, for Princeton very kindly played away off-form, and allowed Yale to get such a lead in the early part of the game that even though Read began to weaken toward the end and was hit hard, Yale kept her lead without difficulty. Captain Armstrong played in right field, and was ready to go in at a moment's notice, but fortunately there was no need for it. Read, the second string man, had come through with credit, but the Princeton batters had given sufficient evidence in the last inning or two what would be likely to happen to him if he faced them again. "It seems to be up to you, Captain," said Quinton, "to clean this up at Princeton next Saturday. If you do, our chances are better for the Harvard series, for there will be a little time for rest. If you don't win, then there has to be a tie in New York, and that runs us right on top of the first Harvard game in Cambridge." "I've been thinking it over," said Frank, "and you're dead right. That game at Princeton must be taken, and I'm going to take it if I can. You put that down in the book." The college, well knowing the state of the pitching staff, but with great confidence in the hard-hitting and fast-fielding team and its captain, backed it loyally, and sent a thousand men to Princeton to cheer. The game was an exciting one from start to finish, with a great deal of hitting on both sides. Captain Armstrong, who was in the box, pitched wonderful ball throughout, and kept hits well scattered. But it was noticed that he used very little but a straight ball, his effectiveness being due to a continual change of pace which baffled the Princeton batters. Now and then in a critical moment, he put over a curve, but curves were the exception. Coach Quinton watching narrowly from the bench, knew the significance of the captain's action. It was the old trouble. Every man played his position like a veteran that day, and in spite of the strange ground and the boundless enthusiasm of the Princeton thousands back for Commencement celebration, Frank, before the sun went down, had accomplished half, at least, of his dearest ambition, a double championship for Yale, by beating Princeton with a margin of two runs. The night before the team left for Cambridge to play the first game of the Harvard series, there was a long conference in the captain's room as to the best way of disposing of Yale's forces. "I want to pitch Read in that first game," said Frank. "The chances are against us there anyway, and it would be better, I think, to let my arm rest for the second game in New Haven." "You might start the game," suggested Coach Quinton, "or be ready to jump in if Read shows signs of blowing up, but it will depend on how you feel that day." "I know how I'll feel," Frank replied, "and I know how this old wing of mine feels now. I know that if I pitch in Cambridge, that's the end of me. I can't throw a ball hard enough now to break a pane of glass, and I'll be lucky to be able to stay in the game at all." Quinton tilted back in the chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, then, Read it will be for the game on Thursday, and he'll have to go through it, win or lose," he announced. "You will play in right field and lob them in if they come in your direction." "I'd be glad to sit on the bench if you think Barrows could come through with a hit or two. He's a better fielder than I am. I want the strongest nine we can get in there on Thursday," said Frank. "Not on your life," said Quinton with determination. "With one arm you are better than Barrows with three. He can't hit anything." And so it was settled that the captain should play in the field and that Read should go into the box. It was the best thing to do under the circumstances. For three innings, Read held the Harvard batters hitless, and hope began to grow in the team and in the hearts of the team's supporters that he would last to the end. Turner's home run drive with a man on base put Yale in the lead with two runs, in the second inning. But in the fourth, Read, in trying to get a ball over the inside corner of the plate, hit a batter, and in the endeavor to retrieve his error by catching the man napping off first base, threw wild to the first baseman. The result was that before the ball was recovered the runner was perched, grinning, on third base. The double error unsteadied Read, who in his endeavor to strike out the next two batters who were both good waiters, passed them both. The bases were filled with none out. Then came Harvard's hard-hitting catcher with a three-base hit which drove in three runs. That ended Read's efficiency. In the same inning he was hit for a single and two doubles in succession. The net result of this slaughter, coupled with a base on balls and two infield errors, gave Harvard six runs before the side was retired. Yale added a run in the fifth, but Harvard, now hitting like demons, and with Read at their mercy, slammed the ball for three more runs. Yale continued to play with dogged determination against overpowering odds, striving to hold down the score as low as it might be. The fielders worked faithfully, but Read was now being hit at will and many of the balls went safely. "Let me go in and try to stop this," Frank suggested, as he came to the bench in the eighth inning. "No use now," said Quinton. "It's Harvard's day and the game is gone. Stay where you are and we'll take this back again next Tuesday." In the eighth and ninth, Read steadied down, but then it was too late, in spite of a dogged up-hill fight by Yale. The final score stood 14 to 5. Read had no appetite that night at the training table. "Never mind it, old fellow," said Frank, laying his hand on Read's shoulder. "That happens to the best of them once in a while; forget it; we'll get them next Tuesday. They had all the breaks of luck, anyway. It was their day." "Yes, they had me; I was the best man on they had; I'm disgusted with myself," and the big pitcher hung his head. "Forget it," said Frank, and nothing more was said; but in spite of the assumed cheerfulness it was a quiet lot of ball-players who took the train for New Haven. During the next four days, the captain's arm was a subject for the careful attention of the trainers, who rubbed and kneaded the strained member at every possible opportunity. Nearly every known remedy was tried, for well everyone knew that on Armstrong depended the next game--the great Commencement game--which drew back thousands of graduates. The worried coach spent most of his time with Captain Armstrong, and when he had exhausted his own knowledge of arm treatments, went to old Yale ball-players who were flocking back to give what assistance they could in the crucial game. The newspapers deprecated Yale's chances, but the college was behind its team to a man. "Armstrong has a glass arm," wrote the sporting writers in the daily prints. "Little hope for the Bull-dog; Harvard expects to clean up on Tuesday." "We may fool 'em yet," said Frank, as he threw down a paper he had been reading, "eh, Turner? This old wing feels better to-night and I'm dying to get a chance at them." "And we are with you," said Turner. "I want to get away from the memory of the fourteen to five business up at Cambridge." The great day came. Although the game was not called till three o'clock, the big wooden stands at the Field were filled an hour before that time. The spectators had gathered early to watch the antics of the returning uniformed classes of graduates, whose parade behind a score of bands is always one of the features of the day. Joyfully the long line of the parade wound around the field, the younger graduates capering to the ringing music of the bands, the older ones more sedate and garbed more soberly. Gradually the classes were ushered to their seats and half an hour before the game the grounds were cleared. Harvard had a fast and snappy practice. When Armstrong led his men on to the diamond for the Yale practice, the cheer-leaders led the packed thousands in a tremendous ovation. "They seem to be with us, anyway," said Frank, who was standing with Coach Quinton by the home plate. "You can bet everything you own, they are," returned Quinton, "and we must give them what they are looking for--a victory." "I'd give my arm to do it," said Frank. And he meant it. All the preliminaries over, there was a hush as the captains at the plate with the two umpires talked over ground rules. It was Harvard first to bat, and as the Yale team trotted to their positions in the field and the captain took up his place in the box, a roar swept the stands, while the cheer-leaders bawled through their megaphones: "Make more noise, you fellows, we can't hear you." That was a game long to be remembered. The very first of the red-stockinged batters met squarely the first ball Captain Armstrong delivered, and drove it between left and center for three bases. "Same old story," sang out the Harvard cheer-leader. "Give them a cheer; we'll make a dozen the first inning." But he was mistaken. The next two batters, the strongest of the team, fell before Frank's shoots, and the third put up a foul fly which Turner captured close to the stand. This gave the Yale men a chance to let loose some enthusiasm. In Yale's half of the inning, a single and an error put two men on bases with one out. But the necessary hits were not forthcoming, and although the men reached third and second, the side was retired before a runner crossed the plate. Nip and tuck, the teams played for five innings with no runs scored on either side. Armstrong was pitching brilliant ball. No one in the stands and but few on the team itself, knew the price he was paying. Slow and fast he mixed them up, with an occasional curve which sent twinges of pain from finger tips to shoulder. In tight places, he steadied his team and was always the Captain, inspiring and resourceful. Coach Quinton well knew what Frank was going through. "Can you stick it out?" he said, when the game was more than half over. "I don't know. I'm pitching and praying at the same time," was the answer. The break came in the sixth, and it was in Harvard's favor. With one out, Kingston, the big Harvard first baseman, hit a liner to the pitcher's box, which Frank partly blocked with his gloved hand. The ball bounded to the left and fell dead twenty feet behind him, and before the second baseman, who had come in with all possible speed, could field it, Kingston had crossed first base. The next man up singled over second. With two on, Captain Armstrong tightened up and struck out the following batter, while the stands roared their approval; but the next man hit a low liner to left field, which scored Kingston. Frank was pitching now slowly and deliberately. His arm was numb, but somehow he got over the third strike on the last man and saved more runs. Yale fought hard to win the run back and got a man to third, but a stinging liner to short-stop was perfectly handled and the side was out. Nothing happened in the eighth for either side, and Harvard began the ninth, one run to the good, steady and confident. Armstrong was pitching now on nerve alone. His arm, subjected to a hard strain through the preceding eight innings, was what the newspapers had called "glass," but the brain that directed it was cool and calculating. Fortunately for him, the first man fouled out to the third baseman on the second ball pitched, but the second batter caught one of the Yale pitcher's slow lobs and made a safe hit. The third bunted down the third base line and was also safe. It was now or never, and gathering up his fast waning forces, Frank struck out the next man, while the shooting pains in his arm brought the cold sweat out on his forehead. Confidently the last Harvard batter faced him, swinging his bat. Frank tried a curve which went outside the plate. A foul followed, and then a strike. Twice he threw high to tease the batter, and then with all the vigor he had left, he snapped over a straight ball, close to the knees. The batter swiped desperately at it. "You're out," came the sharp tones of the umpire; and as the batter threw his bat wickedly towards the bench, the Yale stands rose _en masse_ and yelled their approval. "We've got to win it now," commanded Captain Armstrong at the bench. "It's our last chance. I can't pitch another ball." At that command the team galvanized into action. The first man up bunted the ball of the hitherto invincible pitcher down the first base line, and was safe. Then came the reliable Turner, gritting his teeth and pawing the ground at the plate. Twice he let the ball pass on strikes, and then the Harvard man pitched one to his liking--a swift, straight ball at about the shoulder. Turner met it with all the force of his vigorous young body, well towards the end of the bat, full and square. The ball started low, like a well-hit golf ball from the tee, rising as it traveled. Out and up it went, while the runner on first, after one look, scudded for home. Just what became of that ball, no one ever knew. It was never found. Some say it struck an automobile on the far side of the outfield fence, and some even say it continued its flight on down to the river. But it did not matter. It was a clean home-run, Turner following his galloping teammate more leisurely, trotting across the plate with the winning run. Down from the stands poured the thousands. They dashed on the field and swept up Captain Armstrong and his gallant warriors. Then when the first transports of joy were over, the classes broke into the zigzag step, arms on shoulders, to the crash of a score of bands. And no one thought the outburst extravagant, for Yale had won. Four days later, after almost superhuman efforts to improve Captain Armstrong's arm, Yale again met Harvard on neutral grounds and again won, thus clinching the championship. Thus was Frank Armstrong's hope of a double championship realized. His name is still pointed to by admiring aspirants for pitching honors in the old college, and his skill and pluck are part of the traditions of baseball. There is little left to tell of our story. The day after Captain Armstrong's great baseball victory at New Haven he joined in the imposing exercises of Commencement day. With others of the Senior class, he marched in solemn academic procession through the historic Campus and city common, and later took his degree from the hands of the President of the college on the broad platform of Woolsey Hall, crowded with black-robed dignitaries. Undergraduate life was a thing of the past, and as our three friends walked slowly back to their room to begin packing for their departure, there was little joy in their bearing. Even the irrepressible Codfish was temporarily subdued. "Well, was it worth it, eh, Frank?" said Turner as he began throwing things into his trunk. "Was it worth it? Why, Jimmy, it is worth half a man's life to be here four years." "My sentiments, too," broke in the Codfish. "And mine," said a deep voice at the door. It was David Powers, one of the big forces in the undergraduate world, who had won his way to prominence in literary work while his friends were climbing athletic heights. "Let's pledge ourselves, then, to old Yale," said Frank, and the four boys grasped hands. "We may never meet like this again, fellows, but let us not forget that wonderful old line---- "'For God, for country and for Yale.'" THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. pg. 112, "de-demands" => "demands" (demands a Junior) pg. 166, "campanionway" => "companionway" (in the companionway) pg. 243, "Charlotteville" => "Charlottesville" (Charlottesville, Va.) 
6487	----	THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP AND OTHER STORIES BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR TO BELINDA CONTENTS THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP THE PROVING OF JERRY MCTURKLE, THE BAND THE TRIUMPH OF "CURLY" PATSY HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT PEMBERTON'S FLUKE THE SEVENTH TUTOR A RACE WITH THE WATERS A COLLEGE SANTA CLAUS THE TRIPLE PLAY THE DUB THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP I Hilltop School closed its fall term with just ninety-five students; it opened again two weeks later, on the third of January, with ninety-six; and thereby hangs this tale. Kenneth Garwood had been booked for Hilltop in the autumn, but circumstances had interfered with the family's plans. Instead he journeyed to Moritzville on the afternoon of the day preceding the commencement of the new term, a very cold and blustery January afternoon, during much of which he sat curled tightly into a corner of his seat in the poorly heated day coach, which was the best the train afforded, and wondered why the Connecticut Valley was so much colder than Cleveland, Ohio. He had taken an early train from New York, and all the way to Moritzville had sought with natural eagerness for sight of his future schoolmates. But he had been unsuccessful. When Hilltop returns to school it takes the mid-afternoon express which reaches Moritzville just in time for dinner, whereas Kenneth reached the school before it was dark, and at a quarter of five was in undisputed possession, for the time being, of Number 12, Lower House. "We are putting you," the principal had said, "with Joseph Brewster, a boy of about your own age and a member of your class. He is one of our nicest boys, one of whom we are very proud. You will, I am certain, become good friends. Mr. Whipple here will show you to your room. Supper is at six. Afterwards, say at eight o'clock, I should like you to see me again here at the office. If there is anything you want you will find the matron's room at the end of the lower hall. Er--will you take him in charge, Mr. Whipple?" On the way across the campus, between banks of purple-shadowed snow and under leafless elms which creaked and groaned dismally in the wind, Kenneth reached the firm conclusion that there were two persons at Hilltop whom he was going to dislike cordially. One was the model Joseph Brewster, and the other was Mr. Whipple. The instructor was young, scarcely more than twenty-three, tall, sallow, near-sighted and taciturn. He wore an unchanging smile on his thin face and spoke in a soft, silky voice that made Kenneth want to trip him into one of the snow banks. Lower House, so called to distinguish it from the other dormitory, Upper House, which stood a hundred yards higher on the hill, looked very uninviting. Its windows frowned dark and inhospitable and no light shone from the hall as they entered. Mr. Whipple paused and searched unsuccessfully for a match. "I fear I have left my match box in my study," he said at length. "Just a moment, please, Garwood, and I will--" "Here's a match, sir," interrupted Kenneth. "Ah!" Mr. Whipple accepted the match and rubbed it carefully under the banister rail. "Thank you," he added as a tiny pale flame appeared at the tip of the side bracket. "I trust that the possession of matches, my boy, does not indicate a taste for tobacco on your part?" he continued, smiling deprecatingly. Kenneth took up his suit case again. "I trust not, sir," he said. Mr. Whipple blinked behind his glasses. "Smoking is, of course, prohibited at Hilltop." "I think it is at most schools," Kenneth replied gravely. "Oh, undoubtedly! I am to understand, then, that you are not even in the least addicted to the habit?" "Well, sir, it isn't likely you'll ever catch me at it," said Kenneth imperturbably. The instructor flushed angrily. "I hope not," he said in a silky voice, "I sincerely hope not, Garwood--for your sake!" He started up the stairs and Kenneth followed, smiling wickedly. He hadn't made a very good beginning, he told himself, but Mr. Whipple irritated him intensely. After the instructor had closed the door softly and taken his departure, Kenneth sat down in an easy-chair and indulged in regrets. "I wish I hadn't been so fresh," he muttered ruefully. "It doesn't do a fellow any good to get the teachers down on him. Not that I'm scared of that old boy, though! Dr. Randall isn't so bad, but if the rest of the teachers are like Whipple I don't want to stay. Well, dad said I needn't stay after this term if I don't like it. Guess I can stand three months, even of Whipple! I hope Brewster isn't quite as bad. Maybe, though, they'll give me another room if I kick. Don't see why I can't have a room by myself, anyhow. I guess I'll get dad to write and ask for it. Only maybe a chap in moderate circumstances like me isn't supposed to have a room all to himself." He chuckled softly and looked about him. Number 12 consisted of a small study and a good-sized sleeping room opening off. The study was well furnished, even if the carpet was worn bare in spots and the green-topped table was a mass of ink blots. There were two comfortable armchairs and two straight-backed chairs, the aforementioned table, two bookcases, one on each side of the window, a wicker wastebasket and two or three pictures. Also there was an inviting window seat heaped with faded cushions. On the whole, Kenneth decided, the study, seen in the soft radiance of the droplight, had a nice "homey" look. He crossed over and examined the bedroom, drawing aside the faded brown chenille curtain to let in the light. There wasn't much to see--two iron beds, two chiffoniers, two chairs, a trunk bearing the initials "J. A. B." and a washstand. The floor was bare save for three rugs, one beside each bed and one in front of the washstand. The two windows had white muslin curtains and a couple of uninteresting pictures hung on the walls. He dropped the curtain at the door, placed his suit case on a chair and opened it. For the next few minutes he was busy distributing its contents. To do this it was necessary to light the gas in the bedroom and as it flared up, its light was reflected from the gleaming backs of a set of silver brushes which he had placed a moment before on the top of the chiffonier. He paused for a moment and eyed them doubtfully. "Gee!" he muttered. "I can't have those out. I'll have to buy some brushes." He gathered them up and tumbled them back into his suit case. Finally, with everything put away, he took off coat and vest, collar and, cuffs, and proceeded to wash up. And while he is doing it let us have a good look at him. He was fourteen years of age, but he looked older. Not that he was large for his age; it was rather the expression of his face that added that mythical year or so. He looked at once self-reliant and reserved. At first glance one might have thought him conceited, in which case one would have done him an injustice. Kenneth had traveled a good deal and had seen more of the world than has the average boy of his age, and this had naturally left its impress on his countenance. I can't honestly say that he was handsome, and I don't think you will be disappointed to hear it. But he was good-looking, with nice, quiet gray eyes, an aquiline nose, a fairly broad mouth whose smiles meant more for being infrequent, and a firm, rather pointed chin of the sort which is popularly supposed to, and in Kenneth's case really did, denote firmness of character. His hair was brown and quite guiltless of curl. His body was well set up and he carried himself with a little backward thrust of the head and shoulders which might have seemed arrogant, but wasn't, any more than was his steady, level manner of looking at one. Presently, having donned his clothes once more, he picked up a book from the study table, pulled one of the chairs toward the light and set himself comfortably therein, stretching his legs out and letting his elbows sink into the padded leather arms. And so he sat when, after twenty minutes or so, there were sounds outside the building plainly denoting the arrival of students, sounds followed by steps on the stairs, shouts, laughter, happy greetings, the thumping of bags, the clinking of keys. And so he sat when the door of Number 12 was suddenly thrown wide open and a merry face, flushed with the cold, looked amazedly upon him from between the high, shaggy, upturned collar of a voluminous dark gray ulster and the soft visor of a rakishly tilted cap. II And while Kenneth looked back, he felt his prejudices melting away. Surely one couldn't dislike for very long such a jolly, mischievous-looking youth as this! Of Kenneth's own age was the newcomer, a little heavier, yellow-haired and blue-eyed, at once impetuous and good-humored. But at this moment the good-humor was not greatly in evidence. Merriment gave place to surprise, surprise to resentment on the boy's countenance. "Hello!" he challenged. Kenneth laid the book face down on his knee and smiled politely. "How do you do?" he responded. The newcomer dragged a big valise into the room and closed the door behind him, never for an instant taking his gaze off Kenneth. Then, apparently concluding that the figure in the armchair was real flesh and blood and not a creature of the imagination, he tossed his cap to the table, revealing a rumpled mass of golden yellow hair, and looked belligerently at the intruder. "Say, you've got the wrong room, I guess," he announced. "Here's where they put me," answered Kenneth gravely. "Well, you can't stay here," was the inhospitable response. "This is my room." Kenneth merely looked respectfully interested. Joe Brewster slid out of his ulster, frowning angrily. "You're a new boy, aren't you!" he demanded. "About an hour and a half old," said Kenneth. Somehow the reply seemed to annoy Joe. He clenched his hands and stepped toward the other truculently. "Well, you go and see the matron; she'll find a room for you; there are lots of rooms, I guess. Anyway, I'm not going to have you butting in here." "You must be Joseph Brewster," said Kenneth. The other boy growled assent. "The fact is, Brewster, they put me in here with you because you are such a fine character. Dr. Whatshisname said you were the pride of the school, or something like that. I guess they thought association with you would benefit me." Joe gave a roar and a rush. Over went the armchair, over went Kenneth, over went Joe, and for a minute nothing was heard in Number 12 but the sound of panting and gasping and muttered words, and the colliding of feet and bodies with floor and furniture. The attack had been somewhat unexpected and as a result, for the first moments of the battle, Kenneth occupied the uncomfortable and inglorious position of the under dog. He strove only to escape punishment, avoiding offensive tactics altogether. It was hard work, however, for Brewster pummeled like a good one, his seraphic face aflame with the light of battle and his yellow hair seeming to stand about his head like a golden oriflamb. And while Kenneth hugged his adversary to him, ducking his head away from the incessant jabs of a very industrious fist, he realized that he had made a mistake in his estimation of his future roommate. He was going to like him; he was quite sure he was; providing, of course that said roommate left enough of him! And then, seeing, or rather feeling his chance, he toppled Joe Brewster over his shoulder and in a trice the tables were turned. Now it was Kenneth who was on top, and it took him but a moment to seize Joe's wrists in a very firm grasp, a grasp which, in spite of all efforts, Joe found it impossible to escape. Kenneth, perched upon his stomach--uneasily, you may be sure, since Joe heaved and tossed like a boat in a tempest--offered terms. "Had enough?" he asked. "No," growled Joe. "Then you'll stay here until you have," answered Kenneth. "You and I are going to be roommates, so we might as well get used to each other now as later, eh? How any fellow with a face like a little pink angel can use his fists the way you can, gets me!" Kenneth was almost unseated at this juncture, but managed to hold his place. Panting from the effects of the struggle, he went on: "Seems to me Dr. Randall must be mistaken in you, Brewster. You don't strike me at all as a model of deportment. Seems to me he and you fixed up a pretty lively welcome for me, eh?" The anger faded out of Joe's face and a smile trembled at the corners of his mouth. "Let me up," he said quietly. "Behave?" "Yep." "All right," said Kenneth. But before he could struggle to his feet there was a peremptory knock on the door, followed instantly by the appearance of a third person on the scene, a dark-haired, sallow, tall youth of fifteen who viewed the scene with surprise. "What's up?" he asked. Kenneth sprang to his feet and gave his hand to Joe. About them spread devastation. "I was showing him a new tackle," explained Kenneth easily. Joe, somewhat red of face, shot him a look of gratitude. "Oh," said the new arrival, "and who the dickens are you, kid?" "My name's Garwood. I just came to-day. I'm to room with Brewster." "Is that right?" asked the other, turning to Joe. Joe nodded. "So he says, Graft. I think it's mighty mean, though. They let me have a room to myself all fall, and now, just when I'm getting used to it, what do they do? Why, they dump this chap in here. It isn't as though there weren't plenty of other rooms!" "Why don't you kick to the doctor?" asked Grafton Hyde. "Oh, it wouldn't do any good, I suppose," said Joe. Grafton Hyde sat down and viewed Kenneth with frank curiosity. "Where are you from?" he demanded. "Cleveland, Ohio." "Any relation to John Garwood, the railroad man?" "Ye-es, some," said Kenneth. Grafton snorted. "Huh! I dare say! Most everyone tries to claim relationship with a millionaire. Bet you, he doesn't know you're alive!" "Well," answered Kenneth with some confusion, "maybe not, but--but I think he's related to our family, just the same." "You do, eh?" responded Grafton sarcastically. "Well, I wouldn't try very hard to claim relationship if I were you. I guess if the honest truth were known there aren't very many fellows who would want to be in John Garwood's shoes, for all his money." "Why?" asked Kenneth. "Because he's no good. Look at the way he treated his employees in that last strike! Some of 'em nearly starved to death!" "That's a--that isn't so!" answered Kenneth hotly. "It was all newspaper lies." "Newspapers don't lie," said Grafton sententiously. "They lied then, like anything," was the reply. "Well, everyone knows what John Garwood is," said Grafton carelessly. "I've heard my father tell about him time and again. He used to know him years ago." Kenneth opened his lips, thought better of it and kept silence. "Ever hear of my father?" asked Grafton with a little swagger. "What's his name?" asked Kenneth. "Peter Hyde," answered the other importantly. "Oh, yes! He's a big politician in Chicago, isn't he?" "No, he isn't!" replied Grafton angrily. "He's Peter Hyde, the lumber magnate." "Oh!" said Kenneth. "What--what's a lumber magnet?" "_Magnate_, not magnet!" growled Grafton. "It's time you came to school if you don't know English. Where have you been going?" "I beg pardon?" "What school have you been to? My, you're a dummy!" "I haven't been to any school this year. Last year I went to the grammar school at home." "Then this is your first boarding school, eh?" "Yes; and I hope I'll like it. The catalogue said it was a very fine school. I trust I shall profit from my connection with it." Grafton stared bewilderedly, but the new junior's face was as innocent as a cherub's. Joe Brewster stared, too, for a moment; then a smile flickered around his mouth and he bent his head, finding interest in a bleeding knuckle. "Well, I came over to talk about the team, Joe," Grafton said after a moment. "I didn't know you had company." "Didn't know it myself," muttered Joe. Kenneth picked up his book again and went back to his reading. But he was not so deeply immersed but that he caught now and then fragments of the conversation, from which he gathered that both Joe and Hyde were members of the Lower House Basket Ball Team, that Hyde held a very excellent opinion of his own abilities as a player, that Upper House was going to have a very strong team and that if Lower didn't find a fellow who could throw goals from fouls better than Simms could it was all up with them. Suddenly Kenneth laid down his book again. "I say, you fellows, couldn't I try for that team?" he asked. "Oh, yes, you can _try_," laughed Grafton. "Ever play any?" "A little. We had a team at the grammar school. I played right guard." "You did, eh? That's where I play," said Grafton. "Maybe you'd like my place?" "Don't you want it?" asked Kenneth innocently. "Don't I want it! Well, you'll have to work pretty hard to get it!" "I will," said Kenneth very simply. Grafton stared doubtfully. "Candidates are called for four o'clock tomorrow afternoon," said Joe. "You'd better come along. You're pretty light, but Jim Marble will give you a try all right." "Thanks," answered Kenneth. "But would practice be likely to interfere with my studies?" "Say, kid, you're' a wonder!" sneered Grafton as he got up to go. "I never saw anything so freshly green in my life! You're going to have a real nice time here at Hilltop; I can see that. Well, see you later, Joe. Come up to-night; I want to show you some new snowshoes I brought back. Farewell, Garwood. By the way, what's your first name?" "Kenneth." "Hey?" "Kenneth; K, e, n, n, e--" "Say, that's a peach!" laughed Grafton. "Well, bring little Kenneth with you, Joe; I've got some picture books." "Thank you," said the new junior gratefully. "Oh, don't mention it!" And Grafton went out chuckling. As the door closed behind him, Joe Brewster sank into a chair and thrust out his legs, hands in pockets, while a radiant grin slowly overspread his angelic countenance. "Well," he said finally, "you're the first fellow that ever bluffed Graft! And the way he took it!" Kenneth smiled modestly under the admiring regard of his roommate. "Gee!" cried Joe, glancing at his watch. "It's after six. Come on to supper. Maybe if we hurry they'll give you a place at our table." Kenneth picked up his cap and followed his new friend down the stairs. On the way he asked: "Is that chap Hyde a particular friend of yours?" "N-no," answered Joe, "not exactly. We're on the team together, and he isn't such a bad sort. Only--he's the richest fellow in school and he can't forget it!" "I don't like him," said Kenneth decidedly. Hilltop School stands on the top of a hill overlooking the Connecticut Valley, a cluster of half a dozen ivy-draped buildings of which only one, the new gymnasium, looks less than a hundred years old. Seventy-six feet by forty it is, built of red sandstone with freestone trimming; a fine, aristocratic-looking structure which lends quite an air to the old campus. In the basement there is a roomy baseball cage, a bowling alley, lockers, and baths. In the main hall, one end of which terminates in a fair-sized stage, are gymnastic apparatus of all kinds. It was here that Kenneth found himself at four o'clock the next day. His trunk had arrived and he had dug out his old basket-ball costume, a red sleeveless shirt, white knee pants, and canvas shoes. He wore them now as he sat, a lithe, graceful figure, on the edge of the stage. There were nearly thirty other fellows on the floor amusing themselves in various ways while they waited for the captain to arrive. Several of them Kenneth already knew well enough to speak to and many others he knew by name. For Joe had made himself Kenneth's guide and mentor, had shown him all there was to be seen, had introduced him to a number of the fellows and pointed out others and had initiated him into many of the school manners and methods. This morning Kenneth had made his appearance in various class rooms and had met various teachers, among them Mr. Whipple, who, Kenneth discovered, was instructor in English. The fellows seemed a friendly lot and he was already growing to like Hilltop. Naturally enough, Kenneth found himself the object of much interest. He was a new boy, the only new one in school. At Hilltop the athletic rivalry was principally internal, between dormitory and dormitory. To be sure the baseball and football teams played other schools, but nevertheless the contests which wrought the fellows up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm were those in which the Blue of Upper House and the Crimson of Lower met in battle. Each dormitory had its own football, baseball, hockey, tennis, track, basket ball, and debating, team, and rivalry was always intense. Hence the arrival of a new boy in Lower House meant a good deal to both camps. And most fellows liked what they saw of Kenneth, even while regretting that he wasn't old enough and big enough for football material. Kenneth bore the scrutiny without embarrassment, but nevertheless he was glad when Joe joined him where he sat on the edge of the stage. "Jim hasn't come yet," said Joe, examining a big black-and-blue spot on his left knee. "I guess there won't be time for much practice today, because Upper has the floor at five. They're going to have a dandy team this year; a whole bunch of big fellows. But they had a big heavy team year before last and we beat them the first two games." "Don't you play any outside schools?" "No, the faculty won't let us. Perfect rot, isn't it? They let us play outsiders at football and baseball and all that, but they won't let us take on even the grammar school for basket ball. Randy says the game is too rough and we might get injured. Bough! I'd like to know what he calls football!" "I don't understand about the classes here," said Kenneth. "I heard that big chap over there say he couldn't play because he was 'advanced' or something. What's that!" "Advanced senior," answered Joe. "You see, there's the preparatory class, the junior class, the middle class and the senior class. Then if a fellow wants to fit for college, he does another year in the senior class and in order to distinguish him from the fourth-year fellows they call him an advanced senior. See? There are five in school this year. Faculty won't let them play basket ball or football because they're supposed to be too big and might hurt some of us little chaps. Huh! Hello, there's Jim. I've got to see him a minute." And Joe slipped off the stage and scurried across to where a boy of about sixteen, a tall, athletic-looking youth with reddish-brown hair was crossing the floor with a ball under each arm. Joe stopped him and said a few words and presently they both walked over to where Kenneth sat. Joe introduced the captain and the new candidate. "Joe says you've played the game," said Jim inquiringly in a pleasant voice as he shook hands. Kenneth was somewhat awed by him and replied quite modestly: "Yes, but I don't suppose I can play with you fellows. Still, I'd like to try." "That's right. How are you on throwing baskets?" "Well, I used to be pretty fair last year." "Good enough. If you can throw goals well, you'll stand a good show of making the team as a substitute. You'd better get out there with the others and warm up." III Kenneth's first week at Hilltop passed busily and happily. There had been no more talk on Joe's part about getting rid of his roommate. The two had become fast friends. Kenneth grew to like Joe better each day; and it hadn't taken him long to discover that it was because of Joe's ability to squirm out of scrapes or to avoid detection altogether rather than to irreproachable conduct that Dr. Randall looked upon him as a model student. Basket-ball practice for both the Upper and Lower House teams took place every week-day afternoon. Kenneth had erred, if at all, on the side of modesty when speaking of his basket-ball ability. To be sure, he was light in weight for a team where the members' ages averaged almost sixteen years, but he made up for that in speed, while his prowess at shooting baskets from the floor or from fouls was so remarkable that after a few practice games had been played all Lower House was discussing him with eager amazement and Upper House was sitting up and taking notice. At the end of the first week Kenneth secured a place on the second team at right guard, and Grafton Hyde, whose place in a similar position on the first team was his more by reason of his size and weight than because of real ability, began to work his hardest. The closer Kenneth pressed him for his place the more Grafton's dislike of the younger boy became evident. As there was the length of the floor between their positions in the practice games the two had few opportunities to "mix it up," but once or twice they got into a scrimmage together and on those occasions the fur flew. Grafton was a hard, rough player and he didn't handle Kenneth with gloves. On the other hand, Kenneth asked no favors nor gave any. Naturally Grafton's superior size and strength gave him the advantage, and after the second of these "mix-ups," during which the other players and the few spectators looked on gleefully and the referee blew his whistle until he was purple in the face, Kenneth limped down to the dressing room with a badly bruised knee, a factor which kept him out of the game for the next two days and caused Grafton to throw sarcastic asides in the direction of the bench against which Kenneth's heels beat a disconsolate tattoo. Four days before the first game with Upper House--the championship shield went to the team winning two games out of three--Lower House held an enthusiastic meeting at which songs and cheers were practiced and at which the forty odd fellows in attendance pledged themselves for various sums of money to defray the cost of new suits and paraphernalia for both the basket ball and hockey teams. "How much do you give?" whispered Kenneth. "Five dollars," answered Joe, his pencil poised above the little slip of paper. Kenneth stared. "But--isn't that a good bit?" he asked incredulously. "It seems so when you only get twenty dollars a month allowance," answered Joe ruefully. "But every fellow gives what he thinks he ought to, you know; Graft usually gives ten dollars, but lots of the fellows can only give fifty cents." "I see," murmured Kenneth. "'What he thinks he ought to give, eh? That's easy." The following afternoon Upper and Lower Houses turned out _en masse_ to see the first of the hockey series and stood ankle-deep in the new snow while Upper proceeded to administer a generous trouncing to her rival. "Eat 'em up, Upper! Eat 'em up, Upper!" gleefully shouted the supporters of the blue-stockinged players along the opposite barrier. "Oh, forget it!" growled Joe, pulling the collar of his red sweater higher about his neck and turning a disgusted back to the rink. "That's 14 to 3, isn't it? Well, it must be pretty near over, that's one comfort! Hello, here comes Whipple. Gee, but he makes me tired! Always trying to mix with the fellows. I wonder if he was born with that ugly smile of his. He's coming this way," Joe groaned. "He thinks I'm such a nice little boy and says he hopes my heart is of gold to match my hair! Wouldn't that peev you?" "Ah, Brewster," greeted Mr. Whipple, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, "how goes it today?" He accorded Kenneth a curt nod. "Going bad," growled Joe. "Well, well, we must take the bad with the good," said the instructor sweetly. "Even defeat has its lesson, you know. Now--" But Kenneth didn't hear the rest. Grafton Hyde was beside him with a slip of paper in his hand. "Say, Garwood," said Grafton loudly enough to be heard by the audience near by, "I wish you'd tell me about this. It's your subscription slip. These figures look like a one and two naughts, but I guess you meant ten dollars instead of one, didn't you?" "No," answered Kenneth calmly. "Oh! But--only a dollar?" inquired Grafton incredulously. The fellows nearest at hand who had been either watching the game or delighting in Joe's discomforture turned their attention to Grafton and the new junior. "Exactly," answered Kenneth. "The figures are perfectly plain, aren't they?" Grafton shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Oh, all right," he said. "Only a dollar seemed rather little, and I wanted to be sure--" "Didn't anyone else give a dollar?" demanded Kenneth. "We don't make public the amounts received," answered Grafton with much dignity. Kenneth smiled sarcastically. "What are you doing now?" he asked. "I merely asked--" "And I answered. That's enough, isn't it?" "Yes, but let me tell you that we don't take to stingy fellows in Lower House. You'd better get moved to Upper, Garwood; that's where you belong. You're a fresh kid, and I guess we don't have to have your subscription anyway." He tore the slip up contemptuously and tossed the pieces to the snow. Kenneth colored. "Just as you like," he answered. "I subscribed what I thought proper and you've refused to accept it. You haven't worried me." But a glance over the faces of the little throng showed that public sentiment was against him. Well, that couldn't be helped now. He turned his back and gave his attention to the game. But the incident was not yet closed. Mr. Whipple's smooth voice sounded in its most conciliatory tones: "We all know your generosity, Hyde. Let us hope that by next year Garwood will have learned from you the spirit of giving." Kenneth swung around and faced the instructor. "May I ask, sir, how much you gave?" "Me? Why--ah--I think the teachers are not required--I should say expected to--ah--contribute," answered Mr. Whipple agitatedly. "I guess they aren't forbidden to," answered Kenneth. "And I don't believe you've got any right to criticise the size of my subscription until you've given something yourself." Mr. Whipple's smile grew tremulous and almost flickered out. "I'm sure that the boys of the Lower House know that I am always ready and eager to aid in any way," he replied with angry dignity, "If they will allow me to contribute--" He paused and viewed the circle smilingly. The idea tickled all hands hugely. "Yes, sir!" "Thank you, sir!" "About five dollars, Mr. Whipple!" Mr. Whipple's smile grew strained and uneasy. He had not expected acceptance of his offer. "Yes, yes, perhaps it is best to keep the donations confined to the student body," he said. "Perhaps at another time you'll allow--" "Right now, sir!" cried Joe. "Give us a couple of dollars, sir!" The demand could not be disregarded. Shouts of approval arose on every hand. On the ice, Wason of the Upper House team had hurt his knee and time had been called; and the waiting players flocked to the barrier to see what was up. Mr. Whipple looked questioningly at Grafton and found that youth regarding him expectantly. With a sigh which was quickly stifled he drew forth his pocketbook and selected a two dollar note from the little roll it contained. He handed it to Grafton who accepted it carelessly. "Thanks," said Grafton. "I'll send you a receipt, sir." "Oh, that is not necessary," replied Mr. Whipple. Now that the thing was past mending he made the best of it. His smile had returned in all its serenity. "And now, Garwood," he said, "as I have complied with your requirements, allow me to say that your conduct has not been--ah--up to Hilltop standards. Let me suggest that you cultivate generosity." Kenneth, who had kept his back turned since his last words, swung around with an angry retort on his lips. But Joe's hand pulled him back. "Shut up, chum!" whispered Joe. "Let him go." Kenneth, swallowed, his anger and Mr. Whipple, with a smiling nod, followed by a quick malevolent glance at Joe, turned away from the group of grinning faces. Chuckles and quiet snickers followed him. There was joy in the ranks of the enemy. Only Kenneth showed no satisfaction over the instructor's discomfiture for he realized that the latter would hold him partly accountable for it. Presently, the game having come to an end with the score 18 to 7 in Upper's favor, he and Joe went back together up the hill. "I wish," said Joe, with a frown, "you hadn't made that fuss about the subscription. Fellows will think you're stingy, I'm afraid." "Well, they'll have to think so then," responded Kenneth defiantly. "Anyhow, Hyde had no business pitching into me about it like that in public." "No, that's so," Joe acknowledged. "He hadn't. I guess he's got it in for you good and hard. But don't you be worried." "I'm not," answered Kenneth. And he didn't look to be. "I'm going to see Jim Marble before Graft gets at him with a lot of yarns about you," Joe continued. "Thanks," said Kenneth. "I wish you would. I don't want to lose all show for the team." "You bet you don't! You're getting on finely, too, aren't you? I don't see how you work those long throws of yours. Graft says it's just your fool luck," Joe chuckled. "I asked him why he didn't cultivate a little luck himself! He's been playing like a baby so far; sloppy's no name for it!" "Think Marble notices it?" "Of course he notices it! Jim doesn't miss a thing. Why?" "Nothing, only--well, I've made up my mind to beat Grafton out; and I'm going to do it!" Two days later there was deeper gloom than ever in Lower House. Upper had won the first basket ball game! And the score, 14 to 6, didn't offer ground for comfort. There was no good reason to suppose that the next game, coming a week later, would result very differently. Individually three at least of the five players had done brilliant work, Marble at center. Joe at left forward and Collier at left guard having won applause time and again. But Upper had far excelled in team work, especially on offense, and Lower's much-heralded speed hadn't shown up. On the defense, all things considered, Lower had done fairly well, although most of the honor belonged to Collier at left guard, Grafton Hyde having played a slow, blundering game in which he had apparently sought to substitute roughness for science. More than half of the fouls called on the Red had been made by Grafton. And, even though Upper had no very certain basket thrower, still she couldn't have helped making a fair share of those goals from fouls. Kenneth hadn't gone on until the last minute of play, and he had not distinguished himself. In fact his one play had been a failure. He had taken Grafton's place at right guard. Carl Jones, Upper's big center, stole the ball in the middle of the floor and succeeded in getting quite away from the field. Kenneth saw the danger and gave chase, but his lack of weight was against him. Jones brushed him aside, almost under the basket, and, while Kenneth went rolling over out of bounds, tossed the easiest sort of a goal. But Kenneth's lack of success on that occasion caused him to work harder than ever in practice, and, on the following Thursday the long-expected happened. Grafton Hyde went to the second team and Kenneth took his place at right guard on the first. IV Grafton could scarcely believe it at first. When he discovered that Jim Marble really meant that he was to go to the second team his anger almost got the better of him, and the glance he turned from Jim to Kenneth held nothing of affection. But he took his place at right guard on the second and, although with ill grace, played the position while practice lasted. Kenneth took pains to keep away from him, since there was no telling what tricks he might be up to. The first team put it all over the second that day and Jim Marble was smiling when time was called and the panting players tumbled downstairs to the showers. On Friday practice was short. After it was over Kenneth stopped at the library on his way back to Lower House. When he opened the door of Number 12 he found Joe with his books spread out, studying. "Hello, where have you been?" asked Joe. "Graft was in here a minute ago looking for you. Said if you came in before dinner to ask you to go up to his room a minute. Of course," said Joe, grinning, "he may intend to throw you out of the window or give you poison, but he talked sweetly enough. Still, maybe you'd better stay away; perhaps he's just looking for a chance to quarrel." Kenneth thought a minute. Then he turned toward the door. "Going?" asked Joe. "Yes." "Well, if you're not back by six I'll head a rescue party." Grafton Hyde roomed by himself on the third floor. His two rooms, on the corner of the building, were somewhat elaborately furnished, as befitted the apartments of "the richest fellow in school." He had chosen the third floor because he was under surveillance less strict than were the first and second floor boys. The teacher on the third floor was Mr. Whipple and, as his rooms were at the other end of the hall and as he paid little attention at best to his charges, Grafton did about as he pleased. To-night there was no light shining through the transom when Kenneth reached Number 21 and he decided that Grafton was out. But he would make sure and so knocked at the door. To his surprise he was told to come in. As he opened the door a chill draft swept by him, a draft at once redolent of snow and of cigarette smoke. The room was in complete darkness, but a form was outlined against one of the windows, the lower sash of which was fully raised, and a tiny red spark glowed there. Kenneth paused on the threshold. "Who is it?" asked Grafton's voice. "Garwood," was the reply. "Joe said you wanted me to look you up." The spark suddenly dropped out of sight, evidently tossed through the open window. "Oh," said Grafton with a trace of embarrassment. "Er--wait a moment and I'll light up." "Don't bother," said Kenneth. "I can't stay but a minute. I just thought I'd see what you wanted." "Well, you'll find a chair there by the table," said Grafton, sinking back on the window seat. "Much obliged to you for coming up." There was a silence during which Kenneth found the chair and Grafton pulled down the window. Then, "Look here, Garwood," said Grafton, "you've got my place on the team, I don't say you didn't get it fair and square, because you did. But I want it. You know me pretty well and I guess you know I generally get what I want. You're a pretty good sort, and you're a friend of Joe's, and I like Joe, but I might make it mighty uncomfortable for you if I wanted to, which I don't. I'll tell you what I'll do, Garwood. You get yourself back on the second team and I'll make it right with you. If you need a little money--" "Is that all?" asked Kenneth, rising. "Hold on! Don't get waxy! Wait till I explain. I'll give you twenty-five dollars, Garwood. You can do a whole lot with twenty-five dollars. And that's a mighty generous offer. All you've got to do is to play off for a couple of days. Tomorrow you could be kind of sick and not able to play. No one would think anything about it, and you can bet I wouldn't breathe a word of it. What do you say?" "I say you're a confounded cad!" cried Kenneth hotly. "Oh, you do, eh? I haven't offered enough, I suppose!" sneered Grafton. "I might have known that a fellow who would only give a dollar to the teams would be a hard bargainer! Well, I'm not stingy; I'll call it thirty. Now, what do you say?" "When you get your place back it'll be by some other means than buying it," said Kenneth contemptuously. He turned toward the door. "You haven't got enough money to buy everything, you see; and--" There was a sharp knock on the door. "If you say anything about this," whispered Grafton hoarsely, "I'll--I'll-- Come in!" "Who is here?" asked Mr. Whipple's voice as the door swung open. "I, sir, and Garwood," answered Grafton. "Ah! Garwood! And which one of you, may I ask, has been smoking cigarettes?" There was a moment's silence. Then, "Nobody in here, sir," answered Grafton. "That will do, Hyde. Don't attempt to shield him," said Mr. Whipple coldly. "Light the gas, please." Grafton slid off the window seat and groped toward where Kenneth was standing. "Yes, sir," he said, "as soon as I can find a match." He brushed heavily against Kenneth. "I beg your pardon, Garwood. I'm all turned around. Where--? Oh, here they are." A match flared and Grafton lighted the droplight. Mr. Whipple turned to Kenneth, a triumphant smile on his thin features. "Well, what have you to say?" he asked. "About what, sir!" inquired Kenneth. "About smoking. You deny it, then." "Yes." "Ah! And what about this!" Mr. Whipple opened his hand and displayed a portion of a cigarette with charred end. "You should be more careful where you throw them, Garwood. This came from the window just as I was passing below." "It's not mine," was the answer. "Oh, then it was you, Hyde?" Grafton smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "If you can find any cigarettes in my room, sir, you--" "Pshaw! What's the use in pretending?" interrupted the instructor, viewing Kenneth balefully. "I fancy I know where to look for cigarettes, eh, Garwood? You have no objection to emptying your pockets for me?" "None at all, Mr. Whipple." "Then, may I suggest that you do so?" Kenneth dove into one pocket and brought out a handkerchief and a small piece of pencil, into the other and-- "Ah!" said Mr. Whipple triumphantly. In Kenneth's hand lay a piece of folded paper, a skate strap and--a box of cigarettes! He stared at the latter bewilderedly for a moment. Then he glanced sharply at Grafton. That youth regarded him commiseratingly and slowly shook his head. "I'll take those, if you please," said Mr. Whipple. Kenneth handed them over. "I never saw them before," he said simply. "Oh, of course not," jeered the instructor. "And the room rank with cigarette smoke! That's a pretty tall story, I think, Garwood. You told me once that I would never catch you smoking cigarettes. You see you were a trifle mistaken. You may go to your room." "I wasn't smoking cigarettes," protested Kenneth. "I never saw that box before in my life. If Hyde won't tell, I will. I came up here and found him--" He stopped. What was the use? Telling on another fellow was mean work, and, besides, Mr. Whipple wouldn't believe him. He had no proof to offer and all the evidence was against him. He turned to the door. On the threshold he looked back at Grafton. "You sneak!" he said softly. Then, with the angry tears blinding his eyes, he hurried down to his room to unburden his heart to Joe Brewster. Joe was wildly indignant and was all for dashing upstairs and "knocking the spots out of Graft!" But Kenneth refused his consent to such a procedure. "I'll tell them the truth when they call me up," he said. "If they don't believe me they needn't." Well, they didn't. Kenneth refused to incriminate Grafton and as all the evidence was strongly against him he was held guilty. The verdict was "suspension" as soon as Kenneth's parents could be communicated with. Grafton denied having smoked with Kenneth and got off with a lecture for permitting an infraction of the rules in his study. Joe stormed and sputtered, but as Kenneth had bound him to secrecy he could do no more. That night Upper and Lower met in the second basket-ball game and Grafton Hyde played right guard on the Lower House team. Fate was kind to the Beds. Knox, Upper's crack right forward, was out of the game with a twisted ankle and when the last whistle blew the score board declared Lower House the winner by a score of 12 to 9. And Lower House tramped through the snow, around and around the campus, and made night hideous with songs and cheers until threatened by the faculty with dire punishment if they did not at once retire to their rooms. And up in Number 12 Kenneth, feeling terribly out of it all, heard and was glad of the victory. Sunday afternoon he spent in packing his trunk, for, in spite of Joe's pleadings, he was determined not to return to Hilltop when his term of suspension was over. He expected to hear from his father in the morning, in which case he would take the noon train to New York on the first stage of his journey. That night they sat up late, since it was to be their last evening together, and Joe was very miserable. He begged Kenneth to go to Dr. Randall and tell just what had occurred. But Kenneth shook his head. "He wouldn't believe me if I did," he said. "And, anyhow, what's the use of staying while Whipple's here? He'd get me fired sooner or later. No, the best way to do is to quit now. I'm sorry, Joe; you and I were getting on together pretty well, weren't we?" "Yes," answered Joe sadly. And then he became reminiscent and asked whether Kenneth remembered the way they kicked the furniture around that first evening and how Kenneth had joshed Grafton Hyde. When they at last went to bed Kenneth found himself unable to sleep. Eleven o'clock struck on the town clock. From across the room came Joe's regular breathing and Kenneth, punching his pillow into a new shape, envied him. For a half hour longer he tossed and turned, and then slumber came to him, yet so fitfully that he was wide awake and out of bed the instant that that first shrill cry of "_Fire!_" sounded in the corridor. V Kenneth's first act after hearing the alarm was to awake Joe, This he did by the simple expedient of yanking the bedclothes away from him and yelling "Fire!" at the top of his lungs. Then, stumbling over the chairs, he groped his way to the hall door and opened it. The corridor was already filled with excitement and confusion. Of the eighteen boys who roomed on that floor fully half were in evidence, standing dazedly about in pyjamas or night shirts and shouting useless questions and absurd answers. Simms, who lived at the far end of the corridor, emerged from his room dragging a steamer trunk after him. Instantly the scantily clad youths dashed into their rooms intent on rescuing their belongings. Joe joined Kenneth at the door. "Where's the fire?" he gasped. "I don't know," answered Kenneth, "but I can smell it. Get something on; I'm going to. Has anyone given the alarm?" he asked, as Simms hurried back toward his study. "Yes! No! I don't know! Everything's on fire upstairs! You'd better get your things out!" "Somebody ought to give the alarm," said Kenneth. "Who's seen Mr. Bronson?" But none had time to answer him. Kenneth scooted down the hall and thumped at the instructor's door. There was no answer and Kenneth unceremoniously shoved it open. The study was in darkness. "_Mr. Bronson!_" he cried. "_Mr. Bronson!_" There was no reply, and Kenneth recollected that very frequently Mr. Bronson spent Sunday night at his home. He hurried back to his own room and found Joe throwing their belongings out of the windows. At that moment the bell on School Hall began to clang wildly and a second afterwards the alarm was taken up by the fire bell in the village, a mile away. Kenneth pulled on his trousers and shoes, looked for a coat only to find that Joe had thrown all the coats out of the windows, and went back to the corridor. All up and down it boys were staggering along with trunks and bags, while from the western end the smoke was volleying forth from Number 19 in great billowy clouds. From the floor above raced fellows with suit cases and small trunks, shouting and laughing in the excitement of the moment. One of the older boys, Harris by name, came galloping upstairs with a fire extinguisher, followed by a crowd of partly dressed fellows from Upper House. But the smoke which filled the end of the corridor drove them back and the stream from the extinguisher wasted itself against the fast yellowing plaster of the wall. The building was rapidly becoming uninhabitable and, calling Joe from the study, where he was vainly trying to get the study table through the casement, Kenneth made for the stairs. The light at the far end of the corridor shone red and murky through the dense clouds of smoke. "All out of the building!" cried a voice from below, and the half dozen adventurous spirits remaining in the second floor corridor started down the stairs. "Do you know how it began?" asked Joe of a boy beside him. "Yes," was the reply. "King, in 19, was reading in bed with a lamp he has, and he went to sleep and upset it somehow. He got burned, they say." "Serves him right," muttered some one. Kenneth glanced around and found Grafton Hyde beside him. "Hello," said Kenneth. "Hello," answered Grafton. "Did you save anything?" "Yes, I guess so," Kenneth replied. "Did you?" For the moment animosities were forgotten, wiped out of existence by the calamity. "Not much," said Grafton. "But I don't care. I tried to get my trunk down but the smoke was fierce and the end of the building was all in flames. So I lit out." The lower hall was crowded with boys. Dr. Randall, tall and gaunt in a red flowered dressing gown, and several of the instructors were doing their best to clear the building. "All out, boys!" called the doctor. "It isn't safe here now! The firemen will be here in a minute and you'll only be in the way! I want you all to go over to Upper House!" "Hello!" said Kenneth. "What's the matter with you, Jasper?" Jasper Hendricks, the youngest boy in school, was crouched in a dim corner of the hall, sobbing and shaking as though his heart was broken. "What's up?" asked Grafton. "Don't know. Here's young Jasper crying like a good one. What's the trouble, Jasper? Did you get hurt?" But the boy apparently didn't even hear them. "Lost his things, probably," suggested Grafton, "and feels it. Never mind, kid? you'll get some more." "I want every boy out of the building!" cried the doctor. But his voice was almost drowned in the babel of cries and shouts and laughter. "Come on, Jasper," said Kenneth, trying to raise him to his feet. "We've got to get out." For the first time he caught a glimpse of the boy's face. It was white and drawn and horror stricken. "What's the matter?" cried Kenneth in alarm. Young Hendrick's lips moved but Kenneth could not distinguish the whispered words. "Eh? What's that? Speak louder! You're all right now! Don't be scared! What is it?" And Kenneth bent his head as the younger boy clung to him convulsively. "_Mister Whipple!_" Kenneth barely caught the whispered words. "Mr. Whipple," he muttered. "What does he mean?" He pulled the lad's body around so that he could see his face in the smoke-dimmed light. "What about him, Jasper? He's safe, isn't he?" The white face shook from side to side. "What does he say?" cried Grafton. "Whipple? Isn't he down? Where is he?" "He must be--!" Kenneth paused, his own face paling, and looked fearsomely toward the stairs down which the gray-brown smoke was floating wraithlike. Then his eyes met Grafton's and he read his own horror reflected there. "Jasper's room is next to Mr. Whipple's," said Grafton hoarsely. "He must have seen something! _Jasper, is Mr. Whipple up there now?"_ The lad's head nodded weakly. Then he broke again into great dry sobs that shook him from head to foot. Kenneth seized him beneath the shoulders and dragged him a few yards nearer the door. There he put him down. "Don't cry, Jasper," he whispered kindly. "It's all right; we'll save him!" For an instant he looked about him. Through the doors the boys were pushing their way outward, protesting, laughing, excitedly. Of the faculty Dr. Randall alone was in sight. One other instant Kenneth hesitated. Then with a bound he was halfway up the first flight. "Who's that going up there?" cried the doctor. "Here, come back instantly!" But Kenneth did not hear, or, hearing, paid no heed. He was at the second floor, the evil-smelling smoke thick about him, blinding his eyes and smarting his throat. Above him was a strange lurid glare and the roaring of the flames. For a moment his heart failed him and he leaned weak and panting against the banister. Then a voice sounded in his ears. "It's no use, Garwood," cried Grafton. "We can't get up there." "We'll try," was the answer. Bending low, his sleeve over his mouth, Kenneth rushed the next flight. Grafton was at his heels. At the top Kenneth crouched against the last step and squinted painfully down the corridor in the direction of Mr. Whipple's room and the flames. The heat was stifling and the smoke rolled toward them in great red waves. Grafton, choking, coughing, crouched at Kenneth's side. "We can't reach him," he muttered. "The fire has cut him off." It seemed true. Mr. Whipple's room was at the far end and between his door and the stairway the flames were rioting wildly, licking up the woodwork and playing over the lathes from which the plaster was crumbling away. Kenneth's heart sank and for an instant he thought he was going to faint. Everything grew black before him and his head settled down on his outstretched arm. Then Grafton was shaking him by the shoulder and his senses returned. "Come on!" cried Grafton. "Let's get out of this while we can! We'll be burned alive in a minute!" There was panic in his voice and he tugged nervously at Kenneth's arm. At that moment a great expanse of plaster fell from the ceiling some thirty feet away and the flames glared luridly through the corridor, making everything for a brief moment as light as day. From below came calls, but Kenneth did not hear them. "Look!" he cried, seizing Grafton's arm. "_On the floor! Do you see?_" "Yes," shouted Grafton. "It's Mr. Whipple! Can we get him?" "I'm going to try," was the calm reply. "Will you come with me?" For a moment the two boys looked into each other's eyes, squinting painfully in the acrid smoke. The flames crackled and roared in their ears. The strained, terror-stricken look passed from Grafton's face. His eyes lighted and he even smiled a little. "Come on," he said simply. "Wait!" Kenneth leaned down so that his face was against the spindles and took a deep breath. There was a current of clearer air arising from the well and, although it smarted in his lungs, it gave him relief. Grafton followed his example. Then, for they realized that there was no time to lose, with one accord they rushed, stooping, down the corridor into the face of the flames. Mr. Whipple lay stretched face downward on the floor where he had fallen when overcome by the smoke and, as is more than likely, his terror. He was in his night clothes and one hand grasped a small satchel. Behind him the floor was afire scarcely a yard away. The thirty feet from the stairs to where he lay seemed as many yards to the rescuers, and the heat grew fiercer at every step. But they gained the goal, fighting for breath, bending their heads against the savage onslaughts of the flames, and seized the instructor's arms. Whether he was alive there was no time to ascertain. There was time for nothing save to strive to drag him toward the stairway. With tightly closed eyes, from which the smarting tears rolled down their faces, and sobbing breaths, they struggled back. But if it had been hard going it was trebly hard returning. The instructor was not a large man nor a heavy one, but now he seemed to weigh tons. Their feet slipped on the plaster-sprinkled boards and their hearts hammered in their throats. Ten feet they made; and then, as though angry at being deprived of their prey, the flames burst with a sudden roar through the melting partition a few feet behind them and strove to conquer them with a scorching breath. Kenneth staggered to his knees under its fury and Grafton gave a cry of anguish and despair. But the fiery wave receded and they struggled desperately on, fighting now for their own lives as well as for that of the instructor. Ten feet more and the worst was passed. A frenzied rush for the stairway and safety was in sight. Half falling, half stumbling, they went down the first few steps to the landing at the turn, Mr. Whipple's inert body thumping along between them. There, with faces held close to the boards, they lay drinking in grateful breaths of the smoke-poisoned air, which, after what they had been inhaling, was fresh and sweet. Then, above the booming of the fire, voices reached them, hoarse, anxious voices, and white faces peered up at them through the smoke from the corridor below. "All right!" called Kenneth, but, to his surprise, his words were only hoarse whispers. Struggling to his knees, he seized Mr. Whipple's arm and strove to go on. But Grafton offered no assistance. He lay motionless where he had thrown himself on the landing. "Come on!" croaked Kenneth impatiently, and tugged at his double burden. Then the crimson light went suddenly out and he subsided limply against the banisters just as the rescuers dashed up to them. When Kenneth came to a few minutes later he was being carried across the campus. Near at hand a fire engine throbbed and roared, sending showers of sparks into the winter darkness. Behind him a red glare threw long moving shadows across the grass. In his ears were shouts and commands and a shrill whistling. Then he lost consciousness again. VI Kenneth lay in bed in Dr. Randall's spare chamber. His left hand was bandaged and a wet cloth lay across his closed eyes. A window was open and the lowered shade billowed softly up and down, letting into the darkened room quick splashes of sunlight. From without came the cheerful patter of melting snow upon the sill. Kenneth had had his breakfast--how long ago he could not say, since he had slept since then--and had learned all the exciting news; that Lower House was so badly burned that there was no question of repairing it; that Mr. Whipple had been sent to the hospital at Lynnminster, seriously but not dangerously hurt; that Grafton Hyde had received no damage and was about this forenoon wearing a strangely blank expression due to the loss of his eyebrows; and that King, to whose disregard of the rules the fire had been due, had, previous rumors to the contrary, escaped unharmed. Kenneth's informant had been the school doctor, who had also imparted the information that Kenneth's injuries were trifling, a couple of scorched fingers and a pair of badly inflamed eyes, but that nevertheless he would kindly spend the day in bed, "as heroes are scarce these days and must be well looked after when found." There came a soft tapping at the door and Kenneth peeked eagerly out from under the bandage as Grafton Hyde entered and tiptoed across the floor. Kenneth looked for a moment and grinned; then he chuckled; then he threw an arm across his face and gave way to laughter unrestrained. Grafton laughed, too, though somewhat ruefully. "Don't I look like a fool?" he asked. Kenneth regained his composure with a gasp. "I--I didn't mean to be rude," he said contritely, "but--" "Oh, I don't mind," answered Grafton. "Besides, I'll bet you're the same way." "Me?" Kenneth looked startled and passed a finger questioningly across his eyebrows. "There's nothing here!" he gasped. Off came the bandage. "How do I look?" A smile started at Grafton's lips and slowly overspread his face. Kenneth smiled back. "We must be a pair of freaks," he said, chuckling. "Do they ever grow back again?" "Yes, in no time," answered Grafton. "Besides, Joe says that all you have to do is to take a pencil and rub it over and no one can tell. I'm going to try it." He sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling!" he asked. "All right. Kind of tired, though. How about you?" "Fine." There was a silence during which he played nervously with a shoe strap. At last: "I say, Garwood," he blurted, "it's--it's all right about--about that, you know. I told President Randall." "You needn't have," muttered Kenneth. "I wanted to! And I'm sorry. It was a sneaky thing that I did to you. I--I don't know why I cared so much about staying on the team; I don't now." "Did he--was he mad about it?" "Wasn't he! I am to be suspended for a month." "I'm sorry," said Kenneth honestly. "It--it was decent of you to tell." "Decent nothing! It was decent of you not to blow on me the other day. Why didn't you?" he asked curiously. "Oh, I don't know," answered Kenneth embarrassedly. "I--I didn't like to, I suppose. When are you going?" "This afternoon. That's why I came to see you now, I wanted to--to tell you that I was sorry about it and see if you wouldn't be friends." "That's all right," said Kenneth. "I--I'm glad you came." Had they been older they would have shaken hands. As it was they merely avoided looking at each other and maintained an embarrassed silence for a moment. It amounted to the same thing. The silence was broken by a knock on the door. "Come!" called Kenneth. "Look at the heroes having a convention," said Joe gayly as he crossed the floor. "The Society of the Singed Cats! Well, how are you feeling, chum?" "Fine and dandy," answered Kenneth. "Good! Say, we had lots of fun last night! They bunked us in with the Upper House fellows, and maybe there wasn't a circus! Every time we see King we ask him if it's hot enough for him! I wouldn't be surprised if he folded his pyjamas like the Arabs--that's all he saved, you know--and as silently stole away. We've sure got him worried!" He paused and looked inquiringly from Kenneth to Grafton. "Did Graft tell you?" he asked. Kenneth nodded. "I always told you he wasn't a bad sort, didn't I? Don't you care, Graft; we'll keep a place warm for you, and a month is just a nice vacation. Wouldn't mind it myself! Say, are you going to be fit to play in Saturday's game, Kenneth?" "I don't know. Will they let me?" "Why not? They haven't anything against you now, have they? How about your blessed eyes?" "Oh, they'll be all right, I guess. But I wish--Graft was going to play." "Oh, I don't care," declared that youth stoutly. "Go in and give 'em fits, Kenneth. And--one of you fellows might write me about the game," he added wistfully. "We'll do it," said Joe. "We'll write a full account and send diagrams of the broken heads of the Uppers. Only thing I'm afraid of," he added soberly, "is that now that Kenneth hasn't any eyebrows they may take his head for the ball!" Kenneth was up the next day feeling as fit as ever, but when the subject of returning to basketball practice was broached to the doctor, Kenneth met with disappointment. "I can't allow it," said the doctor kindly but firmly. "I'm sorry, but you know we're responsible for you while you're here, my boy, and I think you'd better keep away from violent exercise for a week or two. No, no more basket ball this year." The verdict brought gloom to Lower House, or, as Upper facetiously called them now, the Homeless Ones. For with Grafton gone and Kenneth out of the game the team's plight was desperate. But there was no help for it, and so Jim Marble went to work to patch up the team as best he might, putting Simms back at guard and placing Niles, a substitute, at right forward. The Homeless Ones were quartered wherever space could be found for them. Joe and Kenneth were so fortunate as to get together again in an improvised bedroom, which had previously been a disused recitation room, at the top of School Hall. Most of the Lower House residents had saved their principal effects and those who had lost their clothing were reimbursed by the school. Friday morning two announcements of much interest were made. "On Monday next," said the doctor, "we receive a new member into the Faculty, Mr. George Howell Fair. Mr. Fair, who is a graduate of Princeton, will take the place left vacant by the resignation of Mr. Whipple, who was so unfortunately injured in the recent disaster. Mr. Fair will take up Mr. Whipple's work where that gentleman left off." There was a stir throughout chapel, and murmurs of satisfaction. The doctor picked up another slip of paper, cast his eyes over it and cleared his throat. "You will also be pleased to learn," he said, "that in our time of tribulation generous friends have come to our assistance. We have lost one of our buildings, but money has already been provided for the erection of a new and far more suitable one. I have received from Mr. John Garwood, of Cleveland, and Mr. Peter L. Hyde, of Chicago, a draft for the sum of one hundred thousand dollars for the erection of a large dormitory capable of housing the entire student body. The generous gift seems to me especially, singularly appropriate, coming as it does from the fathers of those two students who recently so bravely distinguished themselves. With this thought in mind the Faculty has already decided that the new dormitory when completed shall be known as Garwood-Hyde Hall." Well, Kenneth's secret was out! I hope and believe that his fellows held him in no higher esteem because they found out that he was the son of one of the country's wealthiest men. But true it is that for the next few days he was the object of violent interest not altogether unmixed with awe. But Joe had to have everything explained, and as the shortest means to that result Kenneth produced a letter which he had received from his father the day before and gave it to Joe to read. Only portions of it interest us, however. "The newspaper account" (ran the letter) "says that neither of you sustained serious injuries. I trust that it is so. But I think I had better satisfy myself on that point, and so you may look for me at the school on Saturday next. Your mother is anxious to have you come home, but I tell her that a little thing like pulling a professor out of the fire isn't likely to feaze a Garwood! "Now, another thing. You recollect that when you decided to go to Hilltop we talked it over and thought it best to keep dark the fact that you were my son. You wanted to stand on your own merits, and I wanted you to. Then, too, we feared that Hyde's boy, because of the misunderstanding between Peter Hyde and myself, might try to make it uncomfortable for you. That alarm seems now to have been groundless, since surely a boy who could do what he did--and join you in doing it--wouldn't be likely to pick on another. But that's of no consequence now, as it happens. "Quite by accident I met Peter here the day after the papers published the story of your little stunt. Well, he was so tickled about it that we shook hands and had a 'touching reconciliation,' quite like what you see in the plays. We talked about 'those worthless kids' of ours and it ended up with his coming home to dinner with me. So you see you did more than save a professor's life; you brought about a renewal of an old friendship. After dinner we got to talking it over and decided the least we could do was to replace that building. So I've sent your principal a draft by this mail which will cover the cost of a good new hall. I'm giving half and Peter's giving half. I hope you and young Hyde will be good friends, just as his father and I are going to be hereafter. You may expect me Saturday." "Now," cried Joe triumphantly when he had finished reading, "now I understand about those brushes!" "What brushes?" asked Kenneth. "Why, the night of the fire I threw your suit case out of the window, and when I went down to get it, it had bust open and was full of swell silver-backed things. I thought at first I'd got some one else's bag, but I found I hadn't. And I wondered why you hadn't had those brushes out." "Oh," laughed Kenneth, "I thought they looked a bit too giddy!" VII It was Saturday night and the gymnasium was crowded. The Faculty was there to a man, and with them, the honored guest of the evening, sat Mr. John Garwood, trying hard to make out what all the fuss was about and looking more often toward a bench at the side of the hall than toward the struggling players. On the bench, one of several red-shirted players, sat Kenneth. He was forbidden to enter the game, but there was nothing to prevent his wearing his uniform once more and sitting with the substitutes. But the fellows with him were not all subs. One was Simms, weary and panting, nursing a twisted ankle which a moment before had put him out of the game. And Upper House had suffered, too, for across the floor Carl Jones was viewing the last of the contest from the inglorious vantage of the side line. Upper and Lower were still shouting hoarsely and singing doggedly. On the scoreboard the legend ran: Upper House 11--Lower House 11. No wonder every fellow's heart was in his throat! It had been a contest to stir the most sluggish blood. In spite of the absence of Grafton and Kenneth, Lower had played a hard, fast game, and had she made a decent per cent of her tries at goal would have been the winner at this moment. But Jim Marble had missed almost every goal from foul, and Collier, who had tried his hand, had been scarcely more successful. And now the score was tied and it seemed ages agone since the timekeepers had announced one minute to play. The ball hovered in the middle of the floor, passed from side to side. Then Hurd of Upper secured it, and, with a shout to Knox, sped, dribbling, down the side line. But a red-shirted youth sprang in front of him and the two went to the floor together, while the ball bounded into the ready hands of Jim Marble. "Oh, good work, Joe!" shouted Kenneth, as Joe sprang to his feet and dived again into the play. Jim, taking long and desperate chances, tried for a basket from near the center of the floor and missed by a bare six inches. A groan went up from the supporters of the Red, while Upper House sighed its relief. Then there was a mix-up under Upper's goal and the whistle shrilled. "Double foul!" called the referee. A sudden stillness fell over the hall. Not a few of the players sank to the floor where they stood, while Knox picked up the ball and advanced to the line. Kenneth, watching with his heart in his throat, had a vague impression of Jim Marble bending across the rail in consultation with one of the Faculty. Then the ball rose gently from Knox's hands, arched in its flight and came down square on the rim of the basket. For a moment it poised there while hearts stood still. Then it toppled gently over the side to the floor. Knox had missed! Lower House set up a frantic chorus of triumph. If only Marble or Collier could succeed where Knox had failed! But neither Jim nor the left guard was going to try, it seemed. For over at the Red's bench a lithe form was peeling off his sweater, and in a moment the cry swept the hall: "Garwood's going to throw! Garwood! Garwood!" "It's all right," Jim had whispered. "I asked the doc. Do your best. If you make it we win, Garwood!" Kenneth, his pulses far from calm, walked out on the floor and picked up the ball. The shouting died away and the sudden stillness seemed appalling. He toed the black streak across the boards and measured the distance to the basket. Then, his legs astraddle, his knees slightly bent, he swung the ball once--twice-- There was a moment of suspense, and then-- Then pandemonium broke loose! The ball dropped to the floor unheeded, but above it the tattered meshes of the netting swayed where it had struck them going through! It was the cleanest kind of a basket, and it won the game and the series and the Shield for Lower House! Kenneth, fighting off the howling fellows who would have perched him on their shoulders, caught a glimpse of his father's amused face, and broke for the stairway. THE PROVING OF JERRY "I'm awfully sorry," said Ned Gaynor earnestly, "but it isn't as though you had been blackballed, Jerry." "I don't see what difference it makes," replied Gerald Hutton disconsolately. "I don't get taken in, do I?" "No, but when a fellow's name is 'postponed' he can try again any time. If he's blackballed, he's a goner until next year." "Oh, well, I don't want to join the old Lyceum, anyhow," said his roommate with a scowl. "Yes, you do," responded Ned, "and I want you to. And I'm going to bring your name up again just as soon as I think there's a chance of getting you elected." "When will that be?" asked Jerry dubiously. Ned hesitated. "I don't just know, Jerry," he answered finally. "You see, it's like this; the Lyceum is the only society we have here at Winthrop, and it's small, only thirty members, you know, while there are over seventy fellows in school this year. So of course there are lots of chaps who want to get in. And when it comes to selecting members the society naturally tries to get the best." "Which means I'm not one of the best," said Jerry with a grin. "No, it doesn't," replied his roommate. "It just means that you aren't very well known yet; you haven't proved yourself." "Shucks! I've been here ever since school opened in September, and I know almost every fellow here to speak to." "Well, but that isn't quite what I mean," replied Ned. "You--you haven't proved yourself." "What do you mean by 'proved myself'?" asked Jerry. "Well, you haven't done anything to--to show what you are. I can't explain very well, but--" "What the dickens do you want me to do? Burn down Academy Hall or chuck one of the Faculty in the river?" inquired Jerry sarcastically. "Oh, you know what I mean," answered Ned a trifle impatiently. "Sooner or later a fellow does something worth while, like getting a scholarship or making the Eleven or the Baseball Team. Then he's proved himself. You've been here only half a year, and, of course, yon haven't made yourself known." "I've done my best," replied Jerry disconsolately. "I worked like a slave for two weeks trying to get on the Football Team, and I almost broke my neck learning to skate well enough so I'd have a show for the Hockey Team." "Maybe you'll make the Nine," said Ned hopefully. "I guess if you do that there won't be any trouble about the Lyceum." "I'll never get on the Nine while Herb Welch is captain," said Jerry with a shake of his head. "He doesn't care for me much." "Well, I guess that's so," answered Ned thoughtfully. "The fact is, Jerry, it was Herb who objected to your election to the Lyceum." "I guessed as much," Jerry replied dryly. "I knew he'd keep me out if he could. Just as he will keep me off the Nine." "Oh, come now, Herb isn't that bad. He's sort of rough and bossy, but he's straight, Jerry. He was very decent at the election. He simply said--" "I don't want to hear what he said," interrupted Jerry peevishly. "He's a big bully. He's hated me ever since I interfered the time he was ducking young Gordon. Gordon couldn't swim, and he was so scared that his face was as white as that block of paper." "Well, it was pretty cheeky for a Sophomore to lay down the law to a Senior, you know," said Ned. "And it was pretty mean of a Senior to haze a Freshman, wasn't it?" Jerry demanded. "Anyhow, I spoiled his fun for him." "And got ducked yourself," laughed the other. "That was all right. I could swim and wasn't afraid. I was better able to take it than young Gordon was. Ever since then Welch has had it in for me. I dare say that if I went and licked his boots he'd let me into the Lyceum and give me a fair show for the Nine, but I'm not going to do it. I can play baseball, and I'd like to make the team, but if it depends on my toadying to Welch, why, I'll stay off, that's all." "Oh, come now, it isn't as bad as that," responded Ned. "Don't you bother. I'll get you elected before Class Day, Jerry. Grab your skates and come on down to the river." "Skates!" exclaimed Jerry. "Why, you can't skate to-day. The ice is all breaking up. Look at it!" From the dormitory window the river was visible for a quarter of a mile as it curved slowly to the south between Winthrop Academy and the town bridge. It was late February, and for two days the mercury had lingered around fifty degrees. Along the nearest shore the ice still held, but in midstream and across by the Peterboro side the river, swollen by melting snow and ice, flowed in a turbid, ice-strewn torrent. For a while at noon the sun had shone, but now, at four o'clock, the clouds had gathered and the moist air coming in at the open window of the room suggested rain. "There's plenty of ice along this bank," answered Ned cheerfully, "and as it may be the last chance I'll get to skate I'm going to make the most of it. I promised Tom Thurber and Herb Welch I'd meet them at four. I must get a move on." He closed the book before him and arose from the study table. "You'd better come along, Jerry." But Jerry shook his head, staring moodily out over the dreary prospect of wet campus and slushy road. A mile away the little town of Peterboro lay straggling along the river, the chimneys of its three or four factories spouting thick black smoke into the heavy air. Jerry was disappointed. It meant a good deal to win election to the Lyceum, and, in spite of what he had told Ned, he had all along entertained a sneaking idea that he would make it, Welch or no Welch. He wondered whether Ned couldn't have got him in if he had tried real hard. Ned and he were very good friends, even though they had never met until they had been roomed together in the fall, but Jerry was a new boy still, while Ned was a Junior and had known Herb Welch three years. "I suppose," he thought, "Ned didn't want to offend Welch. Much he cares whether I'm elected or not!" "Coming?" asked Ned, pausing at the door. Jerry shook his head. "No, I guess not. I think I'll walk over to town and get some things." "Well, buy me half a dozen blue books, will you?" asked Ned eagerly. He tossed a coin across and Jerry caught it deftly and dropped it into his pocket with a nod. Ned slammed the door behind him and went clattering downstairs. Jerry watched him emerge below, jump a miniature rivulet flowing beside the board walk and disappear around the corner of the dormitory. Then he got into his sweater, put his cap on, and in turn descended the stairs. It was a good twenty-minutes walk to the village. By keeping along the river path to the bridge he might have saved something in time and distance, but the river path was ankle-deep in slush and mud, while the road, although longer, gave firmer foothold. When he reached the old wooden bridge he paused and watched the water rushing under between the stone pillars. He had never seen the stream so high. The surface appeared scarcely eight feet beneath the floor of the bridge. Huge cakes of ice, broken loose upstream, went tearing by, grinding against each other and hurling themselves at the worn stones. And between the fragments of ice the surface was almost covered with a layer of slush. Jerry flattened himself against the wooden railing while a team of sweating horses, tugging a great load of hay, went creaking by him. Then he followed it across and turned to the right at the end of the bridge into the main street of the town. His purchases didn't take him long, and soon he was back at the bridge again. Upstream, on the Academy side of the river, he could see the skaters. Apparently half the school had decided to seize this last chance for indulging in the sport, for the long and narrow strip of ice remaining was quite black with figures. At the end of the bridge Jerry decided to take the river path, for a glance at his shoes and stockings convinced him that it was no longer necessary to consider them; they were already as wet and muddy as it was possible for them to be. He felt rather more cheerful after his tramp, and told himself that if there was time he would run up to the room, leave his purchases, get his skates, and join the group on the ice. By the time he had covered half the distance between bridge and Academy he could distinguish several of the skaters. There was Morris, with his blue sweater, and the tall fellow was, of course, Jim Kennedy; and there was Burns, and young Gordon; Gordon, even if he couldn't swim, was a dandy skater. "Only," thought Jerry, "if he got into the river it would be a bad outlook for him." He had left the bridge a full quarter of a mile behind when a sudden commotion among the skaters attracted his attention. There was a scurrying together and the skating stopped. Jerry paused and watched intently, but for a moment saw nothing to account for the actions of the fellows. They were lined up along the edge of the ice in little groups. Then several of them turned and skated frantically toward the bank. Jerry's first thought now was that some one had fallen into the water, that the ice had given way, as it was quite likely to do in its present half-rotten state, and he looked anxiously for young Gordon's slight figure. He couldn't see him, but that signified little, since the fellows were packed together and the light was failing. But in another instant Jerry saw that his surmise was wrong. For suddenly a single figure came into view, a figure huddled on hands and knees a full fifty feet away from his companions. For an instant Jerry couldn't understand. Then the huddled figure was swept farther away toward the opposite shore and a clear expanse of angry river showed between it and those on the ice. One of the fellows had ventured too far, the ice had broken away, and now he was being borne swiftly down the stream! Already the current had swept him away from all hope of assistance from his companions, for up there the channel ran close to the Peterboro shore. The fragment of ice to which he clung seemed to be fairly large, perhaps ten feet long by half that in width, but Jerry knew that the chance of its remaining unbroken for long was very slim. If the fellows had gone for a boat they might have saved themselves the effort, for no boat could be managed in that seething mass of broken ice. And a rope would be quite as useless, since the current would keep the boy along the farther shore and no one on earth could throw a coil of rope half the distance. Jerry had already broken into a run, but now he pulled himself up and glanced behind him toward the bridge. He could be of no more use up there than were the fellows grouped helplessly at the edge of the ice. If the boy was to be rescued it must be downstream somewhere, always supposing the cake of ice hung together and that he managed to retain his place on it. Jerry thought rapidly with fast-beating heart. Already the boy on the ice had covered half the distance to where Jerry stood, and the fellows up there where the accident had happened were leaving the ice, frantically freeing themselves from their skates and running down the path. Jerry turned and ran back the way he had come. If he could reach the bridge first there might be a chance! His feet slipped in the ice and slush of the path and it was slow going. Once he fell flat on his face, but was up again in a twinkling, wet and bruised. A glance over his shoulder told him that the pitching, whirling slag of ice with its human burden was gaining on him. If only he had started before! he thought. But he ran on, sliding and tripping, his breath coming hard and his heart pounding agonizedly against his ribs. He was almost there now; only another hundred yards or so remained between him and the end of the bridge. He prayed for strength to keep on as he glanced again over his shoulder. The boy had thrown himself face down on the ice and Jerry saw with a sinking heart that already the cake had diminished in size. If it struck one of the stone pillars of the bridge it would go to pieces without a doubt, and it would be a hard task for the strongest swimmer to battle his way clear of that rushing current. With his breath almost failing him, Jerry reached the bridge and ran out upon it. He was none too soon. Close to the farther shore the jagged fragment still held together as it dipped and turned, glancing from the jutting points of the shore ice and grinding between its fellows in the ugly green torrent. Face down lay the boy, limp, his hands outthrown beside him. Under the bridge the river rushed with a loud rushing sound, swift and relentless. Jerry ran with aching limbs to the third span, toward which the current was bearing the helpless, huddled figure. In the brief moment of time left him Jerry noted two things. One was that those in the van of the straggling line hurrying toward him along the river path were but a couple of hundred yards distant. The other was that his left shoulder was aching dully. He must, he thought, have struck on it when he fell. Then his gaze was on the motionless form sweeping toward him, and he was leaning over the wooden rail, his hands at his mouth. "Stand up!" he cried with all his might. But there was no answering movement from the boy. Jerry's heart sank, but once more he shouted, putting, as it seemed to him, every remaining bit of breath into his call: "_Stand up and I'll save you_!" The head raised and a white face gazed up at him as the narrowing current seized the ice fragment. With a gasp of surprise Jerry looked down into the horror-stricken eyes of Herbert Welch! Then he had thrown himself down on the floor of the bridge, his head and shoulders over the water. "_Stand up_!" he called again. And Welch staggered weakly to his knees, the ice beneath him tilting perilously. Jerry's hands stretched down over the rushing water. "_Catch hold!_" he cried. A momentary return of hope and courage came to Welch, and as his treacherous craft shot, crushing and grinding, into the maelstrom, he found his feet for a moment, and threw his arms above his head, his fingers clutching hungrily at the empty air. Then a corner of the ice fragment struck against the left-hand pillar and he lost his balance. But in that brief moment Jerry's left hand had grasped one of Welch's wrists, and now the latter hung between bridge and water, swinging slowly and limply. Then Jerry's right hand found a hold below his left, and he set his teeth and closed his eyes, praying, as he had done before on the river path, for strength and endurance. The strain was terrible. He felt the blood rushing to his head and throbbing there mightily. His left shoulder hurt worse every moment. But he could hold on a moment longer. Surely the others would be here in just a second. He thought he heard cries, but the roar of the water beneath and the throbbing in his head made it uncertain. Then he heard a voice. It was Herb Welch speaking. "Let me go, Hutton," said Welch quietly. "You can't hold me here." Jerry tried to answer, but the pressure against his chest was too severe. His left hand began to slip from Welch's wrist; the fingers wouldn't hold; there was a strange numbness from hand to shoulder. With a smothered groan he tried to tighten his clasp again. Then help came. Eager hands took his burden, and he felt himself being pulled back from the edge. He glanced up once and had a glimpse of somber twilight sky and Ned's brown eyes.... When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a couch in a cottage at the edge of the village. There were several figures about him, and one was Ned's. He smiled and tried to rise, but was glad to lay back again and look curiously at his bandaged shoulder. "It's only a busted collarbone," said Ned. "Doctor says it will be all right in two or three weeks. We're going to take you back in a minute. The carriage is coming now." "That's nice," said Jerry drowsily. "How's Welch?" "Not hurt a bit. He walked home. And say, Jerry," Ned went on, dropping his voice, "it's all right about the Lyceum. Herb says he's going to bring your name up himself at the next meeting. You--you proved yourself to-day, old chum!" McTURKLE, THE BAND We had had hard luck at Harvard all that fall. First Phinney, our 208-pound left guard, dislocated his shoulder in the Indian game; then Hobb, full back, got a swat on the head that sent him to the Infirmary for two weeks; then Jones, our best half, hurt his leg. Those were the principal troubles, but there were lots of smaller ones besides. Every team that came to Cambridge did something to us; if they didn't beat us they scored; if they didn't score they laid up one or two of our men just to show that there was no hard feeling. Then Penn rubbed it into us good and hard--which wasn't the way it was written--and about half the college began writing letters to the _Crimson_. To make matters look worse, Yale had the best team she had had in several years; in fact, since the Gordon Browne aggregation. And our chance of winning from her was about one in one hundred. But we were a daffy lot that fall, and every time fate smote us we grinned harder and hitched up the enthusiasm another peg. On the Thursday before the game we had our fourth mass meeting in the Union. The captain, very much embarrassed, assured us that every man on the team was ready to do his level best and lay down his life for the honor of the Crimson--a fact which we knew before, but which we applauded wildly. Then the trainer told us that every "mon on the tame" was in the best physical condition, something which we seriously doubted, but which we also applauded wildly. Then the head coach informed us that it was a great sight to see the college get together in this way and that if we stood loyally behind the team on Saturday the team would do its part and fight to the last breath--or ditch, I forget which. We applauded _that_ more wildly. Then the captain of the Nine got up, brushed the perspiration from his marble brow, and started the singing. The University Band, eleven strong, got together after a fashion and we pretty near lifted the roof. After that we cheered and sung some more and the enthusiasm kept on bubbling up. Finally, a lot of us in the back of the room yelled in unison: "We--want--another--meeting--to-morrow-night!" "So-do-we!" yelled the others. And we kept that up until the leader told us we could have it. And presently we stood up and sang "Fair Harvard"--or as much as we knew of it--and broke up. In the morning the _Crimson_ contained a notice which said that there would be no meeting that night. But we didn't believe it, because the meeting had been agreed upon. At least, a good many of us didn't. Some did, though, I guess, for at eight the room wasn't more than half full. We sat there and waited a while and did a little singing and cheering. But no one got on the platform to talk to us, and the band didn't show up. So about a quarter to nine we moseyed outside. But we were still full of enthusiasm, and we wanted to work it off. So we stood around, about eight hundred of us, and informed the world at large that we wanted the band. No one seemed to care. But, of course, every minute the crowd got bigger, just as it always will if you get out and yell something. After a bit we decided to do without the band, and so we formed in fours and marched over to the yard, singing and cheering like mad. After we'd marched around twice we had depopulated the buildings. Fellows put their heads out of windows, had a look, yelled enthusiastically, turned the gas up high, and tumbled downstairs and into line. By a quarter past nine we had easily two thousand fellows in the procession. And when you get that many together something simply _has_ to happen. "What we need," said Bud, "is a band." "But we can't get one," answered Withey. "Then let's get part of a band." "Where?" "McTurkle," answered Bud, with a grin. "A-a-aye!" we yelled. "McTurkle! We want McTurkle!" So we left the gang yelling themselves hoarse in front of the university and scooted over to our dormitory. McTurkle was in. He was sitting at his table with a green drop light casting a wan glow over his classic features. The table was piled high with all sorts of books, and you could just hear McTurkle's wheels go round. When we walked in he slipped the glasses from his nose by wriggling his eyebrows and turned around and looked at us blinking. McTurkle was a funny genius. He was forever grinding. When he wasn't grinding he was causing strange, painful sounds to emanate from his room. For a good while we had puzzled over those sounds. Then, finally, one fateful night, we had descended upon McTurkle in force and learned the truth. McTurkle performed on the French horn. A French horn is an instrument which is wound up in a knot like a morning-glory vine, and the notes have such a hard time getting out that they get all balled up and confused and are never the same afterwards. I'm not musical, and don't pretend to be, but I'll bet a hat that the man who invented the French horn was the same chap who invented French verbs. Well, we made McTurkle take a solemn oath never to practice after seven o'clock, because it was simply impossible to remember anything with those sounds sobbing along the entry. He was frightfully apologetic and promised at once. When we went in Bud winked at us to leave the negotiations in his hands. We did so, drawing up in a semicircle behind him and looking very grave. "McTurkle," said Bud, "we have come to you on behalf of the university." McTurkle blinked harder than ever and looked a bit scared. "Out there"--Bud waved his hand toward the window--"out there our college--your college--the college we all love awaits you." McTurkle gasped and tried to find his glasses, which were hanging over the back of his chair at the end of a black cord which he wore around his neck. "McTurkle," continued Bud, tensely, "as you know, we are on the eve of a great conflict. Tomorrow the pick of our athletic young manhood does battle with the brawny horde of Yale. Defeat looms ominous above--upon the horizon, but the unconquerable spirit of Harvard arises triumphant and--er--flaps its flaming pinions!" "A-a-aye!" murmured Withey. McTurkle found his glasses, fixed them on his lean nose, and regarded Bud with genuine alarm. "Not for a moment do we acknowledge defeat, sir! Not until the pall of evening settles over the trampled field of battle shall we abandon hope. The university stands firm and undismayed behind her loyal warriors. Listen, McTurkey--McTurkle, I mean!" Bud held up a hand imperiously and we all listened, McTurkle with his mouth wide open and his near-sighted eyes fixed in fascination upon the speaker's face. From outside came a long, impatient wail from two thousand throats: "We-want-to-go-to-the-Stadium!" "What of that, McTurkle!" demanded Bud, sternly. "The spirit of Harvard speaks! Her sons demand to be led to the scene of the conflict that with mighty voices they may--er--consecrate the field to victory!" "But--but--what is it you wish me to do?" stammered the dazed McTurkle, visibly affected. "To lead them!" thundered Bud. "Lead them?" cried McTurkle. "Who? Me? Me--ah--lead?" "Ah! You, McTurkle! You, with your French horn!" "You--you want me to play it?" "We do. The college calls for you. Your duty, McTurkle, your duty to that college, to your fellows, summons you. Listen, McTurkle, to the voice of Duty and Patriotism!" Apparently McTurkle's manner of listening was to hold his mouth open. He held it open now, wide open. Also his eyes. At last he said: "But--but--I'm afraid I don't know any of the--ah--the college airs." "What of that! It is your leadership we want; that and the inspiring strains of your dulcet horn. Play what you will, McTurkle, only play. Remember that the success of the team may depend upon you! That to-night it is our duty and pleasure to show the team that the whole college is behind them, eager and loyal in its support!" Never before in three years of college life had any one ever wanted McTurkle to do anything. And now the knowledge that the whole university demanded his aid, his leadership, was too much for McTurkle. His face glowed; he leaped to his feet; a Greek lexicon crashed to the floor; McTurkle was transformed. "I'll go!" he said, with majestic simplicity. We cheered. McTurkle feverishly wrested his French horn from its green bag, settled his glasses upon his aquiline nose, turned up the collar of his plaid lounging coat, and strode to the door. We followed in triumph. Over in front of the university they had cheered every one and everything, and now they were forming again into line of march. "On to Soldier's Field!" they cried. We hurried across to the head of the procession, McTurkle's long legs making us work hard to keep up with him. Arrived, Bud waved an arm for silence. "Fellows!" he shouted. "Fellows!" And when silence had fallen about us he swept his hand dramatically toward McTurkle. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the band!" "A-a-a-aye!" they cheered. "Band! band!" "Where's the band?" called those further down the line, and the news traveled fast until from far down by Thayer came wild paeans of delight. "Where'd they get it? ... Where is it? ... We want 'On Soldier's Field'! ... We want 'Veritas'! ... Strike up! Move on, there! ... 'Ray for the band! ... A-a-a-aye! Band! band!" Up at the head of the line we were all laughing and shouting for fair. McTurkle, beaming delightedly through his glasses, his head held back inspiritingly and the folds of his plaid jacket waving in the November wind, placed the French horn to his lips, took a mighty breath and--the procession moved forward to the strains of "Annie Laurie!" Now, I've heard since then that the French horn has a compass of only four octaves and is principally useful as an orchestral adjunct; that, in short, its ability is limited and its use as a solo instrument slight. All I can say is that the person who said that doesn't know a French horn; anyway, he doesn't know McTurkle's French horn. Four octaves be blowed! McTurkle went fourteen, or I'll eat my hat! Why, the way he put that thing through its paces was a caution! And as for--er--variations and such!--well, you ought to have heard him, that's all I've got to say! Out into the avenue we turned, through the Square and down Boylston Street. The line was so long that the cars were held up for ten minutes, and Bud was for circling back and holding them up ten minutes more. And all the while McTurkle, thin, gaunt, but impressive, marched at the head and informed us startlingly and with convincing emphasis that for Bonnie Annie Laurie he'd lay him down and dee. And we took up the refrain, and hurled it back to the gray November sky. Further along they were singing, "Hard luck for poor old Eli," and still further down the line they were informing the dark front of the post office that the sun would set in Crimson as the sun had set before. And way, way back they were cheering like Sam Hill. Oh, that was a glorious night! Talk about enthusiasm! We had it and to burn. We exuded it at every step. Enthusiasm was a drug on the market. Down by the river McTurkle gave Annie Laurie her final death blow and started in on the overture to "Martha." That carried us as far as the Locker Building, and we marched on to Soldiers' Field to the inspiriting strains of a selection from "Traviata." McTurkle told me what they were afterwards; that's how I know. Around the gridiron we marched once, the band still clinging to "Traviata" and the fellows singing whatever pleased them, generally "Up the Street." Then we had a snake dance, a wonder of a snake dance! The band got lost in the shuffle, but later on we found him standing serene and undismayed under the shadow of the west stand spouting "Auld Lang Syne" till you couldn't see. Then Bud climbed up on to the edge of the Stadium and we did some more cheering, and when he called for "a regular cheer for the band" the way we hit it up was a caution. Back in the Square, Bud led us over in front of the "Coop," mainly, I guess, so we would stop the cars for a while. We had some more cheering then, and then Bud leaped up on the steps and announced "Speech by McTurkle!" Nobody except a few of us knew who McTurkle was, but everyone cheered gloriously. We conducted McTurkle gently but firmly up the steps, and when the crowd got a good look at him they simply went crazy. McTurkle was deeply affected. So was the crowd. "Speech! speech!" they yelled. "Spe-e-eech!" McTurkle, embarrassed but courageous, his voice faint and tremulous with emotion, spoke. "Gentlemen," he began. "Apologize! ... Take it back! ... Who is he? ... It's the band! ... 'Ray for the band! ... Go on! Say it!" "Fellows," prompted Bud. "Fellows," repeated McTurkle. Deafening applause. "I wish to thank you for this--ah--this flattering evidence of--shall I say esteem?" "Don't say it if it hurts you, old man," some one advised. "What's he talking about?" asked another. "I appreciate the honor you have done me," continued McTurkle, warming to his work. "And it has been a pleasure, a great pleasure, as well as a privilege, to lead you this evening in your interesting--ah--exercises." "A-a-a-aye!" yelled the audience. "There is to be, I understand," said McTurkle, "a game to-morrow, a contest between this college and--ah--Yale." Laughter and deafening applause. "While lack of opportunity has kept me from a personal participation in your games and sports, yet I am heartily in sympathy with them. Physical exercise is, I am convinced, of great benefit. In conclusion let me say that I trust that in tomorrow's game of baseball--" "Football, you blamed fool!" whispered Bud, hoarsely. "Ah--I should say football--the mantle of victory will fall upon the shoulders of our--ah--representatives. I thank you." McTurkle bowed with gentle dignity. "What's his name?" cried a chap below. "McTurkle," answered Bud. "Wha-a-at?" "McTurkle!" "Cheer for McTurkey!" demanded the questioner. "A-a-aye!" cried the throng. Bud leaped to the top step. "Regular cheer, fellows, for McTurkle!" he cried. And it came. "Har-_vard!_ Har-_vard!_ Har-_vard!_ Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! The Turkey! The Turkey! The Turkey!" Then we went home. I suppose this isn't much of a story, especially as there is no climax; and I've taken enough English to know that there ought to be some sort of a climax somewhere. Maybe, though, what happened next day will serve for one. I got halfway over to the field and found I had forgotten my ticket, and had to go back to the room for it. McTurkle's door was ajar and through it came those awful sounds. I kicked it open and stuck my head in. "Hello," I said. "Do you know what time it is? You'll be late." McTurkle took the French horn from his face and wiped the mouthpiece gently with a silk handkerchief. "Late?" he asked. "Yes, for the game. You're going, of course, McTurkle?" He shook his head, beaming affably through his glasses. "No, no, I'm not going to attend the--ah--game." He waved a hand toward the book-covered table. "I shall be quite busy this afternoon, quite busy. But you have my--my best wishes. May the--ah--the mantle of victory fall upon the shoulders--" Well, we got licked that day. But, say, honest now, it wasn't McTurkle's fault, was it? THE TRIUMPH OF "CURLY" "Curly" sat with head in hands, elbows on desk, and eyes fixed unseeingly on the half-opened door. The afternoon sunlight made golden shafts across the rows of empty seats. The windows were open, and with the sunlight came the songs of birds, the incessant hum of insects, and occasionally a quick, rattling cheer. On the playground, under the bluest of blue skies, with a fresh, clover-perfumed breeze fanning their dripping brows, the boys of Willard's School were playing the third and deciding game of baseball with the nine of Durham Academy. But Curly neither heard the cheering nor had thought for the contest. Curly's real name was Isaac Newton Stone. He had taken the "A.M." degree the preceding June at a Western university, and had entered his name in the long list of those wishing to be teachers. As the summer had advanced his hope had waned. September found him without a position. During the fall and early winter he waited with what philosophy he could summon, and had studied doggedly, having in view the attainment of a Ph. D. Then, in February, an unforeseen vacancy at Willard's School had given him his place as instructor in Greek and German. It is a matter of principle at Willard's to haze new teachers. No exception was made in the case of Isaac Newton Stone, A. M. He was twenty-three years old, but looked several years younger. He was small, slight and wiry, with pale blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose and a fresh pink-and-white complexion. His hair was of an indeterminate shade between brown and sand-color, and it curled closely over his head like a baby's. Three days after his advent at Willard's he had become universally known as Curly. Former teachers at Willard's, with experience to guide them, had tolerated the hazing process, if not with enjoyment, at least with apparent good humor. But Curly, a novice, thought he saw his authority endangered, his dignity assailed. The ringleaders in the affair, five in number, were placed upon probation in exactly two seconds. The class gasped. Such a thing had never happened before. The hazing died a violent death, and Curly sprang into sudden fame as a tyrant. The role of iron-heeled despot was least of all suited to Curly or desired by him, but having momentarily adopted it, he had to continue it. He dared not take the frown from his face for a moment; intimidation was his only course. Meanwhile the faculty viewed events with dissatisfaction. Once or twice Curly's punishments were not upheld. In May he was informed that unless he could maintain discipline without such severity the faculty would be forced to the painful necessity of asking his resignation. His election, the principal explained kindly, had been in the nature of an experiment, and unsuccessful experiments must of course be terminated. The experiment was unsuccessful. It was June now, and class day was but two weeks distant. This morning there had been trouble in the German class, and as a result, two students had been placed on probation. The fact that one of them, Rogers, was the best pitcher in school, and that the loss of his services would in all likelihood mean the defeat of Willard's nine in this decisive game was most unfortunate. To be sure, Rogers had merited his punishment, but the school failed to consider that, and indignation ran high. Curly himself, seated in the silent class room, acknowledged failure at last. He looked at his watch. It was quarter past three. With a sigh he drew paper toward him, dipped pen in ink and began to write. The letter was brief, yet it took him nearly ten minutes. When at last it was finished, lacking only the signature, he read it over. He had made no attempt at explanation or extenuation, but had thanked the faculty for their kindness and patience, regretted their disappointment, and begged them to accept his resignation. He subscribed himself "Respectfully yours, Isaac Newton Stone," sealed the letter and addressed it to the principal. This done, he gathered his books, took up his hat and stepped from the platform. Footsteps sounded in the echoing corridor, and a flushed, perspiring face peered into the room. Then a boy of sixteen hurried up the aisle. "Mr. Stone, sir," he cried, "will you help us? It's the beginning of the sixth inning, and the score's eight to six in our favor. They've knocked Willings out of the box, sir, and we haven't anyone else. Apthorpe's cousin says you can pitch, and--and we want to know if you won't play for us, sir?" He ended with a gasp for breath. "But--I don't quite understand!" "Why, sir, we held 'em down until the fifth, and then they made six runs. Maybe they've scored some more. If you could only come right away!" "But who said I could pitch, Turner?" "Tom Apthorpe's cousin, sir; he's down for Sunday." "But how did he know?" "Why, sir, he knew you at college, and--" "What's his name?" "Harris, sir. He said--" "Jack Harris!" The instructor's eyes lighted. He tossed the books on the desk. "Run back and tell them I'll come as soon as I leave this note at Dr. Willard's." There came a cheer from the playground. It was not a Willard cheer. Turner listened dismayed. "Couldn't you come now, sir?" he begged. "It may be too late. They're batting like anything. Couldn't you leave the note afterwards, sir!" "Well, may be I could," said Curly. He dropped it into his pocket, put on his hat and strode down the aisle. "Come on, Turner!" he cried. Along the terrace of the playground, under the elms, were gathered the spectators--the boys of both schools and their friends. At the foot of the terrace, just back of first base, a striped awning warded off the sunlight from a little group of professors and their families. On the field the blue-stockinged players of Willard's were scattered about, and on a bench behind third base a row of boys wearing the red of Durham Academy awaited their turns at bat. This much Curly saw as he crossed the terrace. Then a tall, broad-shouldered man came toward him with a pleasant smile and outstretched hand. Curly recognized Harris, and sprang down the steps to meet him. At college they had been hardly more than acquaintances, yet to-day they met almost like fast friends. "I never thought to find you in this part of the world, Stone," said Harris. "I'm awfully glad to see you again. You're badly needed. Tom Apthorpe, my cousin, was bewailing the fact that he hadn't anyone to pitch. I saw that Durham was playing her professor of mathematics on first base, and asked him if there wasn't anyone in the faculty who could take Willings's place. Willings is used up, as you can see. Tom said there was no one unless "--Harris paused and grinned--"unless it was Curly. He didn't know whether you could play or not. Inquiries elicited the astounding fact that 'Curly' was none other than Newt Stone, pitcher and star batsman on our old class nine. I told him to hurry up and get you out. And so, for goodness' sake, Stone, get into the box and strike out some of those boys from Durham! The score's eight to eight now, and if they get that man on second in they'll have a good grip on the game and championship." "I'm afraid I'm all out of practice," objected Curly. "I haven't handled a ball for two years, but I'll do what I can. I wish you'd come round to my room afterwards and have a talk, if you've nothing better to do." Time had been called, and Apthorpe, who was both captain and catcher, ran across to them. "It's good of you, Mr. Stone," he said, wiping the perspiration from his face. "I don't think we fellows have much right to ask you to help us out, but if you'll do it for the school, sir, everyone will be mighty glad." "For the school!" Curly wondered rather bitterly what the school had done for him that he should come to her rescue. But he only answered gravely: "I'll do what I can, Apthorpe." He threw aside his coat and waistcoat and tightened his belt. Then he walked across the diamond and picked the ball from the ground. On the terrace bank a boy armed with a blue and white flag jumped to his feet, and amidst a ripple of clapping from the audience above, called for "three times three for Curl--for Mr. Stone!" There was a burst of laughter, but the cheer that followed was hearty. The batsman stepped out of the box and Curly delivered half a dozen balls to Apthorpe to get his hand in. Then the two met and agreed on a few simple signals, the umpire called, "Play!" and the game went on again. It was the first half of the sixth inning; the score was eight to eight; there was one man out, a runner on second, and Durham's left fielder at bat. Curly looked over the field, glanced carelessly at the runner, turned, and sent a swift, straight ball over the plate. Durham's players were eager for just that sort, and the batsman made a long, clean hit into the outfield between first and second. When the new pitcher got the ball again the man on second had gone to third, and Durham's left fielder was jumping about on first. Durham's next man up was her catcher. Curly strove to wipe out the intervening two years and to imagine himself back at college, pitching for his class in the final championship game. But alas! his arm was stiff and muscle-bound, and creaked in the socket every time he threw. There was a wild pitch that was just saved from being a passed ball by a brilliant stop of Apthorpe's; then the batsman hit an infield fly and was caught out. "Two gone, fellows!" shouted the captain. The runner on first took second unmolested, and the Durham coaches yelled themselves hoarse. But Curly was not to be rattled in that way; and besides, the stiffness was wearing out of his arm. He set his lips together and pitched the ball. "Strike!" cried the umpire. Willard's cheered vociferously. Then came a ball. Then another strike. Then the batter swung with all his might at a slow, curving ball--and missed it. "Striker's out!" called the umpire. Willard's rose as one man and cheered to the echo. In the tent the principal and his associates forgot their dignity for an instant, and added their shouts to the general acclaim. The new pitcher, his eyes sparkling, retired to the bench. The fielders, as they joined him, shot curious and admiring glances toward him. Harris leaned over the bench and talked with him about the incidents of old college games. And the boys near by listened, while the curly-haired instructor grew before their eyes into an athletic hero. The last of the sixth inning ended without a score. Pretty as it was to watch, the first of the seventh would make tame history. Not a Durham player reached first base. One--two--three was the way they struck out. Curly's arm worked now like a well-lubricated piece of machinery, and the outshoots and incurves and drops which he sent with varying speed into Apthorpe's hands puzzled the enemy to distraction. Nor was the second half of the inning much more exciting. To be sure, Apthorpe put a fly where the Durham right fielder could not reach it, and so got to first base, and Riding advanced him by a neat sacrifice; but he had no chance to score. Durham's best hitter was Mansfield, the instructor, who played first base. Just when or how the peculiar custom of recruiting baseball and football players from the faculty originated at Willard's and Durham is not known; but it was a privilege that each enjoyed and made use of whenever possible. This year, for almost the first time, Willard's team had been, until to-day, composed entirely of students. On the other hand, Mansfield had been playing with Durham all spring, and to his excellent fielding and hitting was largely due the fact that she had won the second of the three games. He was a player of much experience, and in the eighth inning, when he came to bat, he made a three-base hit. The little knot of Durhamites shrieked joyfully and waved their cherry-and-white banners. Curly faced the next batsman, tried him with a "drop," at which he promptly struck and failed to hit, and then gave his attention to Mansfield on third. Curly watched him out of the corner of his eye and pitched again. The umpire called another strike. Apthorpe threw back the ball to the pitcher; Curly dropped it, recovered it, and threw swiftly to third base. Large bodies move slowly. Mansfield was caught a yard from the base. He retired in chagrin, while Willard's cheered ecstatically. Then the batsman struck out on a slow drop ball. The third man made a leisurely hit and was thrown out at first. During the next half inning Curly held his court on the players' bench. Little by little timidity wore away, and the boys gave voice to their enthusiasm. They wished they had known he was such a ball player early in the spring. Next year he would play on the team, would he not? Curly remembered the letter in his pocket and sighed. Again Willard's failed to get a man over the plate, although at one time there was a player on third. The ninth inning began with the score still eight to eight. The spectators suggested ten innings, and fell to recalling former long-drawn contests. Curly had found his pace, as Harris put it. His white shirt was stained with the dust of battle; his shoes were gray and scuffed; his curly locks were damp and clung to his forehead; but his blue eyes were bright, and as he poised the ball in air, balancing himself before the throw, he no longer looked ridiculous. Harris, observing him from the bench, rendered ungrudging admiration. "Good old 'Newt' Stone!" he muttered. "It's the little chaps, after all, who have the pluck!" But pluck alone would not have succeeded in shutting Durham out in that inning. Science was necessary, and science Curly had. He had not forgotten the old knack of "sizing up" the batsman. He found, in fact, that he had forgotten nothing. Durham made the supreme effort of the contest in that first half of the ninth inning. It might be the last chance to score. The first man struck out as ingloriously as his predecessors; but the second batsman, after knocking innumerable fouls, made a slow bunt and reached his base. At that Durham's supporters found encouragement, and her cheers rose once more. Then fate threw a sop to the wearers of the cherry and white. The third man up was struck on the elbow with the ball, and trotted gleefully to first, the player ahead going to second. But Curly caught the runner on first napping, and the next batsman struck out. The blue-stockinged players came in from the field. "Stone at bat!" called the scorer. "Brown on deck!" "A run would do it, sir," said Apthorpe, eagerly. "One of those old-fashioned home runs, Newt," laughed Harris. Curly walked to the plate, and stood there, swinging the bat back of his shoulder in a way that suggested discretion to the wearied Durham pitcher. From the bank came encouraging cheers for "Mr. Stone." He made no offer at the first ball, which was out of reach. Then came a strike. The spectators fidgeted in their seats; the field was almost quiet. Then bat and ball met with a sharp crack, and Curly sped toward first. Across that base he sped, swung in a quick curve, and made for second. The center fielder had picked up the ball and was about to throw it in. It was a narrow chance, but when Curly scrambled to his feet after his slide, the umpire dropped his hand. Curly was safe. From the bank and along the base line came loud cheers for Willard's. But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted a sacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner. Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like a shot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third. Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back and forth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two balls in his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at an outshoot. The result--he swung through empty air--appeared to unnerve him. He struck again at the next ball, and again missed. But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher. Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised to go on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop the ball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it. Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons and his legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line. Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about him were cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from the plate he launched himself through space, with arms outstretched. The dust was in his eyes and nostrils. He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of the ball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swinging arm, and---- "Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire. At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels into the earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page. Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game and championship. Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked into the arms of Harris. "The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. As he went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaim proudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!" Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flaunting bravely in the face of defeat. Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In their possession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would be inscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a glass case in the trophy room. Curly and Harris sat together in the former's study. Supper was over. Curly held a sealed and addressed letter in his hands, which he turned over and over undecidedly. "Then--if you were in my place--under the circumstances--you--you wouldn't hand this in?" he asked. "Let me have it, please," said Harris, with decision. He tore the letter across, and tossed the pieces into the waste basket. "That's the only thing to do with that," he said. And in the successful two years of teaching since then Curly has come to feel that Harris was quite right. PATSY He made his first appearance one afternoon a week or so before the Fall Handicap Meeting. Mosher, Fosgill, Alien, Ronimus, and several more of us were down at the end of the field putting the shot. Fosgill, who was scratch man that year, had just done an even forty feet and the shot had trickled away toward the cinder path. Whereupon a small bit of humanity appeared from somewhere, picked up the sixteen pounds of lead with much difficulty, and staggered back to the circle with it. "Hello, kid," said Fosgill; "that's pretty heavy for you, isn't it?" "Naw," was the superb reply; "that ain't nothin'!" We laughed, and the youngster grinned around at us in a companionable way that won us on the spot. "What's your name?" asked Ronimus. "Patsy." "Patsy what?" "Burns." "How old are you?" "'Leven." "You're a Frenchman, aren't yon?" "Naw." "You're not?" Ronimus pretended intense surprise. "He's a Dutchman, aren't you, Patsy?" said Mosher. "Naw." "What are you then?" "Mucker," answered Patsy with a grin. For the rest of that day and for many days afterwards Patsy honored us with his presence. After each put he ambled forth, lifted the metal ball from the ground with two dirty little hands, snuggled it against the front of his dirty little shirt, and labored back with it. At the end of the week Patsy had become official helper. He was a diminutive wisp of humanity, a starved, slender elf with a freckled face, wizened and peaked, which at times looked a thousand years old. It reminded you of the face of one of those preternaturally aged monkeys that sit motionless in a dark corner of the cage, oppressed with the sins and sorrows of a hundred centuries. And yet it mustn't be supposed that Patsy was either a pessimist or a misanthrope. Patsy's gray Irish eye could sparkle merrily and his thin little Irish mouth usually wore a whimsical smile. It was as though he realized that life was but a hollow mockery and yet had bravely resolved to pretend otherwise, that we, young and innocent, might still preserve our cherished illusions. We made a good deal of Patsy. We pretended that he was very, very old and sophisticated--not a difficult task--and deferred to his judgment on all occasions. But in spite of this Patsy never became "fresh." To be sure, he speedily began calling Fosgill "Bull," but I don't think he meant the slightest disrespect; everyone called the big fellow "Bull," and it is quite possible that Patsy believed it to be a title of honor. He was attentive to all of us, but his heart was Fosgill's. He used to wait outside the Locker Building until we came out after dressing and then walk beside Fosgill until he reached the Square. Then Patsy would say: "Good night, Bull." And Fosgill would answer gravely: "Good night, Patsy." And Patsy would disappear. But the evening of the Handicaps we took him back to the boarding house with us, and he sat beside Fosgill and ate ravenously of everything placed before him. We learned Patsy's life story that evening. He went to school--generally. He lived with Brian. Brian was his brother, eighteen years old, and a man of business; Brian drove for Connors, the teamster. Patsy wasn't sure that he had ever had a mother, but he was absolutely certain about his father. He still had vivid recollections of the night they broke down the door and put the handcuffs on father after father had laid out the lieutenant with a chair. Patsy didn't know just what father had done, but he had an idea it was something regarding the disappearance of numerous suits of clothes from a tailor's shop. Patsy was going into business himself just as soon as they let him stop school; he was going to sell papers. He had tried several times to wean himself from education, but each time they haled him back to the schoolhouse. Patsy thought the thing was terribly wrong. When the snow covered the field we saw Patsy only occasionally. In the spring we got to work early. We believed we had a good show to win the Dual that year and a fighting chance at the Intercollegiate. We were strong on the sprints and distances, fair at the jumps and hurdles, and rather weak at the weights. We had a good man in Fosgill at the shot put, but that's about all. Along in May we had it doped out that if we could get first in the shot put we could win out by a point or two. But there wasn't anything certain about it, for our opponent was strong on second, near-"second," and third-place men. Patsy appeared with the first warm day, looking thinner and littler and older than ever. That first day the assistant manager was holding the tape for us, and it occurred to him to pick up the shot and toss it back. But he did it only once. The next time Patsy was astraddle of that sixteen-pound lump and was looking the assistant manager sternly in the eye. "I'm doin' this," said Patsy. After that he did it and no one disputed his right. When the gates were closed and fellows had to show their H. A. A. tickets to get in, Patsy was admitted without question. When all the other youngsters for miles around were gluing their faces to the iron fence watching the baseball games, Patsy's allegiance never faltered. He was somewhere around Fosgill, regarding that hero with worshiping gaze. It was in May, I think, that Patsy made his Great Resolution. He confided it to us on the steps of the Locker Building when we were waiting for one of the crowd. "I've decided not to go into business," said Patsy. "What are you going to do?" asked Billy Allen. "I'm going to college," replied Patsy easily. "I'm goin' to be a shot putter." "Good for you, kid!" said Billy. "What college you going to?" Billy winked at us and we watched eagerly while Patsy's countenance took on its expression of lofty contempt. "Huh!" said Patsy. That was all, but that eloquent monosyllable consigned all other colleges than ours to the nethermost regions. "But you'll have to go to school a long time, Patsy," said I, "if you expect to get into college." "Yep, I know. It's tough, but I guess I can do it. Was--was it hard for you?" I was forced to acknowledge that it had been. "An' you ain't much of a shot putter, either," said Patsy reflectively. Fosgill had done forty-two, eight and a half that afternoon and we were feeling pretty hopeful and good-natured after dinner. Some, one mentioned Patsy, and Mosher spoke up: "Say, fellows, let's see that that little cuss does get into college. What do you say?" "I'll go you!" cried Fosgill. "He's an all-right kid, is Patsy, and he deserves something better than spending his life on the streets. We'll adopt him." "Sure thing," said Allen. "But we'll have our hands full. And what's to happen when we leave college?" "We'll get some one to look after him We'll have a talk with Brother Brian about it. But, say, Bull, imagine Patsy putting the shot!" We laughed at that--which we wouldn't have done if Patsy had been there. "Well, I guess he won't make much of a show at athletics," said I, "but if we keep him off the streets we'll be doing a whole lot. And I like Patsy." We all did. And before we left the table that night we had the thing mapped out. Patsy was to be cared for and looked after. He was to finish grammar school, go to Latin school, and then to Harvard. And there were to be funds where they'd do good. Yes, we had it all fixed up for Patsy and we'd have done it just as planned if Patsy hadn't gone and spoiled it all. And it happened like this: When the Dual Meet came along in June we were all to the good. We couldn't see how we were to lose first in anything except the quarter, the high hurdles, the hammer throw and the broad jump. And we had enough seconds and thirds in sight to make good. If Bull Fosgill could beat Tanner with the shot we were it. That's the way we had the situation sized up, but of course things don't happen just as expected; they seldom do in athletics. Some of the firsts we had claimed went glimmering and we took in seconds and thirds where we hadn't expected them. But the final result was just about what we had figured it, and along toward five o'clock the meet depended on the outcome of one event, and that event was the shot put. To be sure, they were still fussing with the pole vault, but we were certain of first and third places and so could discount that. By some freak of fortune I had managed to qualify with a put of thirty-eight, one and a half. There were four of us in the finals, Fosgill, Tanner and Burt of the enemy, and I. Of course Patsy was there, and he worked like a Trojan. You could see, though, that it went against the grain with him to fetch for our opponents; Patsy had a good deal of the primeval left in him. And it's safe to say that no one there was more interested. I don't think he doubted for a moment that Fosgill would win, and I fancy he thought me pretty cheeky for aspiring so far as the final round. Fosgill was ahead with forty-one, ten and a half, Tanner had done three inches under that, and Burt and I were fighting along for third place, doing around thirty-eight, six. It was pretty close work, and even the officials were excited. We had finished one round when the accident occurred. Tanner was in the circle. Fosgill was down near the end of the tape and Patsy was close behind him. Tanner hopped across the circle, overstepped--fouling the put--and sent the shot away at a tangent. Fosgill had turned his head to speak to the measurer and never saw his danger. Tanner let out a shout of warning, and others echoed it. But it was Patsy who acted. He threw himself like a little catapult at Fosgill and sent him staggering across the turf. Then Patsy and the shot went down together. It was all beastly sudden and nasty. When we bent over that poor little kid he was sort of greenish-white and I'll never forget the way his freckles stood out. The shot had struck him on the breast and Patsy's weak little bones had just crushed in. Well, we did all we could; put him in a carriage at the gate and rushed him to the hospital. He was still breathing, but the doctor said he never knew anything after the shot struck him--not until evening. Well, we were all frightfully cut up, and Tanner sat down on the ground and nearly fainted. Fosgill kept saying "Poor little Patsy! Poor little kid!" half aloud and walking around in circles. He wanted to go to the hospital with him, but we told him he could do no good, and we each still had two puts. After a while we got our nerve back after a fashion, and went on, but, thunder! not one of us was worth a hang. I did thirty-six and thirty-seven, eleven, and won third place at that. Neither Fosgill nor Tanner equaled his first records and the event went to Bull at the ridiculous figures of forty-one, ten and a half. We got the meet by four and a half points. It was almost six o'clock by that time, and Fosgill and I and three others piled into Alien's auto and raced up to the hospital. They had just taken Patsy off the operating table and put him to bed. The doctor told us that the examination showed that there was nothing to be done; the heart had been injured and was liable to stop work any moment. Fosgill got the doctor to promise to call him up on the 'phone if Patsy showed any signs of consciousness. And he left orders that everything possible was to be done. Tanner had begged us to look after the kid and let him pay everything, but though we promised, we hadn't any idea of doing it; Patsy was our kid. We went back to training table, but we were a low-spirited lot. And just when we were finishing dinner the call came from the hospital. We made a record trip in Billy's machine and when we tiptoed into the accident ward the nurse smiled at us. And so did Patsy. He was a pathetic-looking little wisp as he lay there with the bedclothes lifted away from his body, but he smiled and moved his head a bit on the pillow. Fosgill sat down at the head of the cot and leaned over, his mouth all atremble. "Hello, Bull!" whispered Patsy. "Hello, Patsy!" answered Fosgill, trying to smile. "Did you--beat him?" "Yes, Patsy." "I knew--you would. I told--him so." He glanced at me: "Did you--beat--that--other chap?" I nodded and Patsy looked at me with a new respect. "Good--for you," he whispered. "Are you--does it hurt much, Patsy?" asked Fosgill. "No, not much." "That's good. We'll have you out before long." Patsy grinned. "Shut up!" he whispered. "You can't--fool me, Bull. I'm--a goner." Fosgill muttered something and Patsy's eyes brightened. "Bull," he whispered, "do you--think I--had a mother--like--other kids?" "I know you did, Patsy." "That's good," sighed the kid happily. "I guess--may be--I'll see her--where--I'm goin'." "You saved my life, Patsy," muttered Fosgill, "and there isn't a thing I can do for you. I wish--oh, it's a shame, kid!" "Huh! I'm glad--Bull. I'd--'a' done most anything--for you, Bull. You've been good--to me; so's the--others." He closed his eyes wearily for a moment. Then, "Do you think," he asked slowly, "I could--have learned--to put--the shot, Bull--some day?" "Yes," answered Fosgill sturdily. "You had the making of a great shot putter, Patsy. You'd have made a record for yourself, I'll bet!" "Are you--kiddin'--me, Bull?" "No, Patsy. I'll leave it to the others. Isn't it so, fellows?" We nodded vehemently, and Patsy closed his eyes with a smile of ineffable content on his little face. Presently the eyes flickered open again. "Anyhow," he said quite strongly and with an approach to his old air of self-importance, "anyhow--I guess I won--for Harvard--to-day. Huh?" "Yes, you did, Patsy," answered Fosgill. "We've got you to thank for it, dear little kid." Patsy smiled. Then: "Good-by--Bull," he said very softly. His eyes half closed. We waited in silence while the moments crept by, but Patsy didn't speak again. HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT Tom Collins read again the inscription on the directory at the foot of the stairs: Room 36 _City Editor and Reporters_ glanced again toward the elevator, again drew his letter of introduction from his pocket, and--again retreated to the doorway. Once more his heart had failed him. The result of the impending interview with the city editor of the Washington Evening World meant so much to him that he feared to meet it. Another failure and--what? Surely not starvation. To a youth of nineteen, normally healthy and hopeful, the idea of starvation in a great city, surrounded by thousands of human beings, seems preposterous. And yet when the few coins yet remaining in his pocket were gone he would be absolutely at the end of his resources; unless--unless fortune favored him in the next few minutes. He had tried every newspaper office in the city with disheartening results; every office save this one. He reread, perhaps for the twentieth time, the letter he held, then placed it back in its envelope with a sigh. The words sounded so empty and perfunctory, the _World_ was such a big paper, his own ignorance was so great, and--and he was discouraged. However-- He thrust the letter back into his pocket, jammed his cap resolutely onto his head, and strode determinedly to the elevator. "City editor," he announced gruffly. Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Some dozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of these Tom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged in cutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily large shears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly and pointed to a far corner of the room. "That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses." Tom thanked him and went on. The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued his writing, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparently about thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, and rushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he were writing the death sentence of his worst enemy. "Well?" Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom's heart sank within him. "What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and his eyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice and laid the letter on the desk. "Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside. "Ever done newspaper work?" he asked. "No, sir," Tom replied. "Then what do you want to begin for?" "To make a living." "Oh," sneered the editor, "thought perhaps you wanted to elevate the press. You're a college graduate, of course?" "I went to college for a year and a half, sir; I had to leave then." The editor's face brightened. "Did they throw you out?" "No, I--I had no money left; my father died very suddenly, and--and so I had to leave." "Too bad; if you'd been fired there might have been some hope for you." Tom tried to detect a smile somewhere on the frowning face; there was none. "So you think you can do newspaper reporting, do you?" "Yes, sir." "Of course you do! I never found a college boy yet that wasn't plumb sure he could start right in on fifteen minutes' notice and beat Horace Greeley or old man Dana. It's so easy!" "I don't think that," answered Tom, "but I think I could do reporting-- after a day or two. I'm ignorant as to the exact duties of a reporter, but I can learn, and I can write English." "But can you find out what other reporters can't? Can you interview the last new senator in town and make him tell you what he wouldn't have printed for a year's salary? Can you do that?" Tom hesitated; but he was gaining courage, and the other's gibes were slowly arousing his resentment. "If those things can be done by other fellows, I can do them." "Well, you've got confidence," acknowledged the editor, grudgingly. "But we don't break new men in here on the _World_; we wait until they have learned somewhere else, then we offer them a better salary; those are our methods. You go to work on the _Despatch_ or the _Star_, or somewhere, and when you prove that you can do as good work as three or four men on our staff you'll hear from us." The city editor went back to his pencil. Plainly the interview was at an end. Tom turned away. "Good day, sir," he muttered. There was a lump in his throat and his hand, seeking refuge in his pocket, closed on the half dozen coins. He turned suddenly and faced the city editor again. "Look here," he said doggedly, "I've got a right to better treatment than you have given me. I handed you a letter of introduction that ought to have a little weight, and--and even if it hasn't, it entitles me to common courtesy from you. I'm not a beggar asking for alms. All I want is a chance to show that I can do your work decently. I don't even ask any pay, I--I--" Tom's words died away. After all, what was the use? He had his answer and there could be no benefit gained from prolonging the interview. But the city editor was looking at him curiously now. "Here, hold on there," he commanded, and when Tom again faced him: "If you'd brought me a letter from Queen Victoria or the Angel Gabriel you'd have gotten the same treatment. I talk to an average of ten men like you every day of my life; young chaps who don't know what a newspaper's run for; who don't care, either. They think reporting or editing is a nice easy way to make a living, and so they come here expecting to fall into a position. They don't get it. But when a fellow shows sense I give him a chance. And I'll give you one. Hold on," he continued as Tom opened his mouth to thank him, "I'm not offering you a place; I'm not even giving you a fair deal." He paused and took a card from a drawer, scowling more than ever. "Write your name there and send it up to Senator August at the Hotel Torrence. If he sees you, interview him on the decision of last night's conference; find out whether they agreed on a nominee. You read the papers? Then you'll know what we're after. Now there's your chance, just a bare fighting chance; do you want it?" The card held the single line "For _The Washington Evening World."_ Tom put it in his pocket. "I know how desperate the chance is, sir, and I'll take it. And--and thank you." "All right. And remember that the last edition goes to press at five o'clock," he added grimly. As Tom passed out the youth by the railing had stopped cutting up newspapers and was writing as though his very life depended upon it. When he reached the street Tom remembered that he might have used the elevator. "Senator August left ten minutes ago," said the hotel clerk affably as he caught sight of the inscription on the card which Tom Collins held. "A new reporter," he added to himself. "Left?" echoed Tom in dismay. "Where has he gone?" "New York, I think. Went to the depot for the 2.20." Tom glanced at the clock. Another moment and he was boarding a passing car. He had six minutes to catch the 2.20. His chances of success were slim. For that matter, thought Tom, the whole undertaking was the merest forlorn hope; not even the fighting chance that the city editor of the _World_ had called it. For supposing that he found Senator August and got speech with him, was it likely that he would tell an inexperienced chap like Tom what the best reporters in Washington had failed to worm out of him? The Democratic National Convention to nominate a candidate for the presidency was but a month away. On the preceding evening, in a little room in the Hotel Torrence, Senator August, representing the sentiment of the Eastern democracy, and Senator Goodman, possessing full power to act for his party in the great West, had met to decide on a Democratic nominee. Dissension threatened. The East favored a man of moderate views on the subject of currency reform; the West and the greater portion of the South stood unanimous for a politician whose success in the coming battle would presage the most radical of measures. Final disagreement between the Democrats of East and West meant certain victory for the Republican Party. And to-day all the country was asking: Have the leaders agreed on a nominee; if so, which one? Senator Groodman, as uncommunicative as a statue, was already speeding back to the far West; and Senator August, equally silent, was on his way home. The newspapers were hysterical in their demands for information; all day the wires leading to Washington had borne message after message imploring news, but only baseless rumors had sped back. And Tom Collins, knowing all this, realized the hopelessness of his task. At the depot he left the car at a jump and dashed into the station. A train on the further track was already crawling from the shed. There was no time for inquiries. He ran for it and swung himself onto the platform of the Pullman. A porter was just closing the vestibule door. "Is Senator August on board?" gasped Tom. The porter didn't know. But he assured Tom that that was the train for New York and so the latter entered the Pullman. The car held seven men and an elderly lady. Tom's idea of a senator was a big man dressed in a black frock coat, a black string tie and a tall silk hat. But there was no one in sight attired in such fashion and Tom paused at a loss. Perhaps it was chance that led him halfway down the aisle and caused him to question a military, middle-aged gentleman who wore a quiet suit of gray tweeds and was deep in a magazine. The face that looked up was shrewd but kindly, albeit it frowned a little at the interruption. "I am Senator August," was the unexpected reply. "Oh!" exclaimed Tom blankly. Then he pushed aside a small valise on the opposite seat and took its place. The frown on the senator's face grew. "Reporter?" he asked laconically. "Yes," answered Tom. "I'm from the Washington _World._ I just missed you at the hotel so I took the liberty of following you to the train." Tom thought that sounded pretty well and paused to see what impression it had created. The result was disappointing. "Well?" asked the senator coldly. "The _World_ would like to know what decision was reached at last night's conference, senator." "I don't doubt it," answered the senator dryly. "Look here," he continued with asperity, "I've refused to talk to at least two dozen reporters and correspondents to-day. The results of last night's conference will be made public by Senator Goodman and myself at the proper time and place; and not until then. And that is all that I can tell you." "But--" began Tom. "Understand me, please; I will say nothing more on the subject." "Will you give me some idea as to when the proper time will be?" asked Tom respectfully. "No, I can't do that either. Perhaps to-morrow; perhaps not for several days." "Are you going to New York, sir?" "I am on my way to my home in Massachusetts." "Thank you. Have you any objection to my accompanying you on the same train?" Senator August opened his eyes a little. "Is that necessary? The announcement will be made to the Associated Press and, unless I am mistaken, the _World_ is a member of it." "Very true, sir, but I was assigned to get the result of the conference and I've got to do it--that is, if I can." "Very well, I have no objection to your traveling on the same train with me, just as long as you don't bother me. Will that do?" "Yes, sir, thank you. I am sorry that I have troubled you." "You're what?" asked the other. "Sorry to have troubled you, sir." "Hm; you're the first one to-day that has expressed such a feeling. You must be new at the business." "I am," answered Tom. "I've been a reporter only half an hour. In fact I'm not certain that I am one at all." "How's that?" asked the senator, turning his magazine face down on the seat beside him. And Tom told him. Told about his three weeks of dreary search for a position, of his interview with the city editor of the _Evening World_, and of the forlorn hope upon which he was entered. And when he had finished his story, Senator August was no longer frowning; the boy's tale had interested him. "Well, he did put you up against a hard task; doesn't seem to me to have been quite fair. He knew that every reporter had failed and he must have known that you would fail as well. Seems to have been merely a neat way of getting rid of you. What do you think?" Tom hesitated a moment. "I don't think it was quite that. And, anyhow, I knew what I was doing, and so it was fair enough, I guess." "But surely you had no idea of success?" "I ought not to have," answered Tom hesitatingly, "but I'm afraid I did." The senator looked out of the window and was silent for a moment while the express sped on through the afternoon sunlight. When he turned his face toward Tom again he was smiling. "Well, you appear to have pluck, my lad, and that is pretty certain to land you somewhere in the end even if you miss it this time. I'm very sorry that I am obliged to be the means of destroying your chance with the _World_; but I have no choice in the matter, I----" "Tickets, please." Blank dismay overspread Tom's countenance as he looked up at the conductor. "I--I haven't any." "Where do you want to go?" Tom put his hand into his pocket and brought out all his money; less than two dollars. He held it out to the gaze of the conductor. "How far can I go for that?" he asked. "Is that all you have?" asked the senator. Tom nodded. "All right conductor; we'll arrange this; come around again later, will you?" The conductor went on. Tom stared helplessly at his few coins and Senator August looked smilingly at Tom. "How about following me home?" he asked. "I--I'd forgotten," stammered Tom. "Well, never mind. I'll loan you enough to reach the first stop and to return to Washington. Nonsense," he continued, as Tom began a weak objection, "I haven't offered to give it to you; you may repay it some day." He pressed a bill into the boy's hand. "At Blankville Junction you can get a train back before long, I guess. Never mind that cold-blooded editor on the _World_; try the other papers again; keep at it; that's what I did; and it pays in the end. Hello, are we stopping here?" The train had slowed down and now it paused for an instant beside a little box of a station. Then it started on again and a train man appeared at the far end of the car holding a buff envelope in his hand. "Senator August in this car?" he asked. The telegram was delivered and its recipient, excusing himself to the sad-hearted youth on the opposite seat, read the contents hurriedly. Then he glanced queerly at Tom, while a little smile stole out from under the ends of his grizzled mustache. "You are lucky," he said. Tom looked a question, and the senator thrust the message into his hands. "Read that," he said; "it is from my secretary in Washington." He pressed the electric button between the windows and waited impatiently for the porter. Tom was staring hard at the yellow sheet before him; he reread it slowly, carefully, that there might be no mistake. It was as follows: "_Senator Harrison M. August, "On train 36, Waverly, Md._ "Following telegram just received: 'Chicago, 8, 1.45 P.M. Have just learned reliable source Republican managers using our silence regarding conference to advance W's candidacy in Middle West and have published report that we have agreed on compromise candidate. If report goes undenied many votes will be lost, especially in Iowa and Wisconsin. Advise immediate publication of our statement to press. Answer Auditorium, Chicago. Goodman.' Have advised Goodman of delay in reaching you. "_Billings_." "Do you understand what that means?" asked Senator August. Tom could only nod; he was too astounded to speak. The senator handed a message to the porter. "Get that off as soon as we reach Baltimore and bring me a receipt for it." Then he turned again to Tom and thrust the pad of Western Union message blanks toward him. "We reach Blankville Junction in eight minutes. Write what I dictate to you as fast as you can. You know shorthand? All the better." The senator leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he began to speak, rapidly but distinctly, and Tom's pencil flew over the pages, while the train sped on toward the junction. The hands of the office clock pointed to twenty minutes after five when Tom reached the _World_ building. There was no hesitancy now; he pushed open the little gate and hurried toward the city editor, who had already placed his hat on his head and was bundling up some papers to carry home. He met Tom's advance with a frown. "Well?" he asked coldly. For answer Tom placed a little package of copy before him. "What's this?" he demanded. But there was no necessity for reply for he was already reading the sheets. Halfway through he paused and lifted a tube to his mouth. "Brown? Say, Joe, get a plate ready for an extra in a hurry; about half a column of stuff going right up." Then he turned again to his reading. At the end he gathered the copy together and placed it on his desk. "Where'd you get this?" "On the New York express." "What station?" "I left the train at Blankville Junction." The city editor dated the copy with a big black pencil, ran three strokes the length of each sheet, wrote a very long and startling head over it and thrust it into the hands of a waiting boy. "Copy-cutter," he said. And as the boy sped off the editor turned to Tom. "How'd you do it?" he asked, frowning tremendously. But the city editor's frowns no longer struck terror into Tom's heart, and he told the story briefly, while his hearer puffed rapidly at his pipe. Only once was he interrupted. "Hold on there," said the editor. "Are you certain he said he'd not give out the statement again until he reached New York?" "Quite certain," was the reply. Something almost resembling pleasure appeared on the city editor's face. "He'll not get there until 8.30; too late for the evening papers. The biggest beat of the year, by George!" For a moment the glasses and the frown were lost in a cloud of smoke. Then "Go on," he commanded. Tom finished his story in a few words; told how he had found a train already waiting at the Junction, how he had written out his copy on the way back to Washington; and how, had it not been for a long delay just outside the city, he would have reached the office in time for the regular edition. And when he had finished he waited for a word of commendation. But none came. Instead, the city editor nodded his head once or twice, thoughtfully, frowningly, and said: "Well, you needn't wait around any longer; there's nothing else to be done." Tom arose, looking blankly at the speaker. Had he failed after all! Surely he was not being turned away? But the city editor's next words dispelled all doubt. "We go to work on this paper at eight o'clock, Mr. Collins; and by eight I mean eight, and not ten minutes past. I can't have any man working for me who cannot be prompt. You understand?" As Tom clattered happily downstairs a deep reverberation that shook the building from top to bottom told him that the presses were already printing the result of his first assignment. PEMBERTON'S FLUKE For an hour and a half Yale and Princeton had been battling on the gridiron; for an hour and a half the struggling lines had advanced and retreated from goal line to goal line; for an hour and a half the ball had gone arching up against the blue November sky, had been carried in short, desperate plunges or brilliant runs to and fro over the trampled white lines of Yale Field; for an hour and a half twenty-five thousand persons had watched the varying fortunes of the contest with fast-beating hearts, had waved their flags, sang their songs and shouted their cheers; and now, with the last half drawing toward its close, the score board still proclaimed: "Yale, 0; Opponents, 0." Pemberton had found the contest exciting, breathlessly so at moments, but disappointing. Being a freshman, as well as a 'varsity substitute of a week's standing, he was intensely patriotic, and the thought of a tie game was unbearable; to a youth of his enthusiasm a tie was virtually a defeat for the Blue; and a defeat for the Blue was something tragic, inconceivable! Pemberton was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, round-faced chap of eighteen; in height, five feet nine; in weight, one hundred and sixty-eight; neither large nor heavy, but speedy as they make them, a bundle of nerves, endowed with a fanatical enthusiasm and a kind of brilliant, dashing recklessness that often wins where larger courage fails. At Exeter he hadn't gone in for football until his senior year; the Physical Director couldn't see the thing from Pemberton's viewpoint; physical directors are narrow-minded souls; Pemberton will tell you so any day. With three years of lost time to make up, Pemberton had put his whole mind into football with the result that he had made the team in time to play for five short, mad minutes against Andover. This fall he had distinguished himself on the Freshmen Eleven, and the game with the Harvard youngsters, if it hadn't resulted in a victory for Yale, had, at least, made the reputation of Pemberton, left half back. In that somewhat one-sided contest he had shown such dash and pluck, had eeled himself through the Crimson's line, or shot like a small streak of lightning around the ends so frequently that he had been called to the 'varsity bench. And on the 'varsity bench, one, and quite the smallest one, of a long line of substitutes, he had sat since the beginning of the Princeton game, with an excellent chance of staying there until the whistle blew. He wasn't a fellow to accept inactivity with gracefulness. That "they also serve who only stand and wait," he was willing to accept as true; but that wasn't the kind of serving he hankered for; Pemberton's ideal of usefulness was getting busy and doing things--and doing them hard. On opposite sides of the field rival bands were blaring out two-steps, the strains leaking now and then through the deep, thundering cheers. Down on Yale's thirty-five-yard line Princeton was hammering at right guard for short gains, edging nearer and nearer the goal, and thousands of eyes fixed themselves expectantly on Princeton's left half back, dreading or hoping to see him fall back for a kick. On the thirty yards Yale's line braced and held. Princeton tried a run outside of left tackle and got a yard. The ball was directly in front of goal. "Sturgis is a dub if he doesn't try it now," said the big fellow on Pemberton's left. "But he couldn't do it from the forty-yard line, could he?" asked Pemberton. "Search me; but from what he's done so far to-day I guess he could kick a goal from the other end of the field. Nothing doing, though; they're trying right guard again. There goes Crocker." Yale's line gave at the center and a Princeton tackle fell through for two yards. The Princeton cheers rang out redoubled in intensity, sharp, entreating, only to be met with the defiant slogan of Yale. Pemberton shuffled his scarred brown leather shoes uneasily and gnawed harder at his knuckles. Princeton was playing desperately, fighting for the twenty-yard line. A play that looked like a tandem at right guard resolved itself into a plunge at left tackle and gave them their distance. The Yale stands held staring, troubled faces. The Princeton stands were on their feet, shouting, waving, swaying excitedly; score cards were sailing and fluttering through the air; pandemonium reigned over there. Pemberton scowled fiercely across. His left-hand neighbor whistled a tune softly. Princeton piled her backs through again for a yard. "Oh, thunder!" muttered Pemberton. The other nodded sympathetically. "Here's where Old Nassau scores," he said. A last desperate plunge carried the little army of the Orange and Black over the coveted mark. The left half walked back; there were cries, entreaties, commands; the cheering died away and gave place to the intense silence of suspense; Pemberton could hear the little Princeton quarter back's signals quite plainly. Then, after a moment of breathless delay, the ball sped back, was caught breast high by the left half, was dropped on the instant and shot forward from his foot, and went rising toward the goal. The Yale forwards broke through, leaping with upstretched hands into the path of the ball, yet never reaching it. The field was a confusion of writhing, struggling bodies, but the ball was sailing straight and true, turning lazily on its shorter axis, over the cross bar. Over on the Princeton side of the field hats were in flight, slicing up and down and back and forth across the face of the long slope of yellow and black; flags were gyrating crazily; the space between seats and barrier was filled with a leaping, howling mass of humanity, and all the while the cheers crashed and hurtled through the air. Well, Princeton had something to cheer for; even Pemberton grudgingly acknowledged that. "Have we time to score?" he asked despondently. His neighbor turned, stretching out his long, blue-stockinged legs. "There's about five or six minutes left, I guess," he answered. "We've got _time_ to score, but will we?" Pemberton didn't think they would. Life seemed very cruel just then. "Hello," continued the other, "Webster's coming out! I guess here's where your Uncle Tom gets a whack at Old Nassau--maybe." He sat up and watched the head coach alertly. The next moment Pemberton was peeling off his sweater for him. Princeton ran Yale's kick-off back to her forty yards. The Blue's right guard was taken out, white and wretched, after the first scrimmage. Princeton started at her battering again, content now to make only sufficient gains to keep the ball. But with a yard to gain on the third down a canvas clad streak broke through and nailed her tackle behind the line. Pemberton, shouting ecstatically, saw that the streak was his erstwhile neighbor, and was proud of the acquaintance. Then Yale, with the ball once more in possession, started to wake things up. Past the forty yards again she went, throwing tackles and full back at every point in the Tiger's line for short gains, and showing no preference. But, all said, it was slow work and unpromising with the score board announcing five minutes to play. The Yale supporters, however, found cause for rejoicing, and cheered gloriously until there was a fumble and the Blue lost four yards on the recovery. Time was called and the trainers and water carriers trotted on the field. The head coach and an assistant came toward the bench, talking earnestly, the former's sharp eyes darting hither and thither searchingly. Pemberton watched, with his heart fluttering up into his throat. The head coach's gaze fixed itself upon him, passed on up the line, came back to him and stayed. Pemberton dropped his eyes. It isn't good form to stare Fate in the face. Was it a second later or an age that his name was called?" "Go in at left half; tell Haker to come out. And--er--Pemberton, here's a pretty good chance to show what you can do." Pemberton peeled off his white jersey with the faded "E" and raced into the field. Haker looked down uncomprehendingly at him from the superior height of six feet when he delivered his message. Pemberton repeated it. Haker shoved him aside, mumbling impatient words through swollen lips. It was only when he saw the head coach beckoning him from the side line that he yielded and took himself off with a parting insult to Pemberton: "All right, Kid." Pemberton's eyes blazed and his fists clenched. Kid! Well, he'd show Haker and everyone else whether he was a kid! Then he looked at the score board with sinking heart. Only four minutes left! Four minutes! But he took heart; after all, four minutes was two hundred and forty seconds, and if they'd only give him the ball! He had run a mile in 4:34 1-5! Suddenly the whistle blew and the players staggered to their places. It was second down now, with nine yards to gain. The tandem formed on the left, and Pemberton ranged himself behind the big tackle disapprovingly. Where was the use, he asked himself, of wasting a down by plunging at the line? What had they put him in there for if not to take the ball? Then the signal came and the next moment he was in the maelstrom. When the dust of battle lifted, the ball was just one yard nearer the Princeton goal. Princeton expected Yale to kick, for it was the third down and there was still eight yards wanted, and so the Princeton right half trotted tentatively to join the quarter. Yale placed a tackle, full back and left half behind her tackle guard hole on the left. Her right half fell back about six yards to a position behind quarter. It might mean a kick or a tandem, or a run around left end; Princeton's right half hesitated and edged back toward his line. Pemberton, puzzled, awaited the signal. Of course the ball was his, but why was he placed so far away from it? The only play from just this formation that he was acquainted with was one in which he merely performed the inglorious part of interference. However, maybe the quarter knew his business, though deep down in his soul he doubted it. Now, for an understanding of the remarkable events which followed, it is necessary to take the reader into the confidence of the Yale quarter back. Despite Pemberton's misgivings he really did know his business, which was to get that pigskin over the Tiger's goal line in the next four minutes, taking any risk to do it. And the present play was a risk. As planned it was this: at the snapping of the ball the head of the tandem, the tackle, was to plunge straight through the line between tackle and guard as though leading a direct attack at that point; full back and left half were to turn sharply to the left before reaching the line and clear out a hole between end and tackle; right half back, standing well behind the quarter, was to receive the ball on a toss and follow the interference; quarter was to stop tacklers coming around the right end of his line; in short, it was a play apparently aimed at the left center of Yale's line, but in reality going through at the left end. But the Yale quarter had reckoned without Pemberton. The play started beautifully. The ball was snapped back into quarter's waiting hands, tackle plunged madly ahead into the Princeton's defenses, the quarter swung around back to the line, ready for the toss to the right half, who was on his toes, waiting to dash across to where the hole was being torn open for him. And then something went wrong! A figure sped across toward the right end of the line between quarter and right half just as the ball left the former's hands. The ball disappeared from sight; and so, in a measure, did Pemberton. His excited brain had confused the 'varsity with the freshman signals. Starting on the supposition that he was to receive the ball, the numbers had somehow conveyed to him the idea that the play was around right end. The fact that he was to be practically unprovided with interference did not bother him; if he had had time to consider the matter he would probably have decided that they knew his ability and were not going to insult him by offering assistance. But Pemberton wasn't one to be worried over details. What was wanted was a touchdown, or, failing that, a good long gain. So, with the rest of the back field plunging toward the left, Pemberton started on his own hook toward the right. He was glad the quarter tossed the ball so exactly; otherwise he would have had to slow down. As it was he was going like an express train by the time he swept around the Princeton line outside of end. Pemberton could not only run like the wind, but could start like a shot from a rifle. That he got clean away before the opponents had found the location of the ball was partly due to this fact and partly to the fact that Yale's backs were messing around in a peculiarly aimless manner which, to the Princeton players, suggested a delayed pass or some equally heinous piece of underhand work. So Princeton piled through Yale's line to solve the difficulty, thinking little of the absurd youth who had shot around her left end without interference. From Princeton's center to her right end everything was confusion. It was a glorious struggle, but futile. For the ball was snuggled in Pemberton's right elbow, and Pemberton was down near the thirty yards sprinting for goal. In front of him was the Princeton quarter back; behind him, racing madly, came a Princeton half. To his left was a long, dark bank splotched and mottled with blue; from it thundered down a ceaseless cataract of sound that held as a motif entreaty and encouragement. Pemberton saw the waving flags from the corner of his eyes; and the chaos of cheers and shouts drowned the thumping of his heart and the _pat, pat_ of his feet on the trampled turf. Pemberton was enjoying himself immensely, and was grateful in a patronizing way for the coach's confidence in him. Then the quarter back engaged his attention. He glanced back. The foremost of the pursuers--for now the whole field was racing after him--was still a good ten yards behind. Pemberton was relieved. The twenty-yard line, dim and scattered, passed under his feet, and the Princeton quarter was in his path, white and determined, with fingers curved like talons in anticipation of his prey. Pemberton increased his speed by just that little that is always possible, feinted to the left, dug his shoes sharply in the turf and went by to the right, escaping the quarter's diving tackle by the length of a finger. The quarter dug his face in the ground, scrambled somehow to his feet, and took up the chase. But now he was second in pursuit, for the half back had passed him and was pressing Pemberton closely. If the latter had been content to make straight for the nearest point of the goal line the result would never have been in doubt; but Pemberton was not one to be satisfied with bread when there was cake in sight. Nothing would do but the very center of the goal line, and for that he was headed, running straight at top speed. There the pursuing half back found his advantage, for he held a course nearer the center of the field. It was a pretty race, but agonizing to the friends of Yale and Princeton alike. At the ten-yard line the flying Yale man was a yard to the good; at the five-yard line the Princeton. player had him by the thighs and was dragging like a ton of lead. Pemberton's fighting spirit came to his rescue. Did that idiot whose arms were slipping down around his legs think that he was going to be stopped here on the threshold of success? Did he know he was trying to hold _Pemberton_? Gosh! He'd show him! Every stride now was like pushing his knees into a stone wall; one, two, three, four, and still the line was three yards away. And now the tackler's arms had slipped down about his knees, holding them together as though with a vise. For an instant Pemberton fought on--a foot, half a foot--then further progress was impossible and he crashed over on his face, midway between the goal posts, the ball held at arms' length, his knuckles digging into the last streak of lime. Some one thumped down on to his head and strove to pull the ball back. But he locked his joints and strained forward until somewhere behind him a whistle shrilled. Then he rolled over on his back, closed his eyes and fought for breath. Few could have missed that goal; certainly not Yale's quarter back. Once more the ball went over the exact center of the goal line, but this time above the cross bar; and wherever one or more Yale men were gathered together there was rejoicing loud and continued. For the figures on the score board told a different story: Yale, 6; Opponents, 5. A few minutes later, in the car that was to take them back to town, Pemberton allowed the head coach to shake him by the hand, and strove to bear his honors becomingly. Congratulations roared in his ears like a torrent until he was moved to an expression of modest disclaim: "Oh, it wasn't anything much," said Pemberton. "I ought not to have allowed that Princeton chap to get near me. But the fact is"--he addressed the head coach confidentially--"the fact is, you see, I didn't quite understand that signal." THE SEVENTH TUTOR "I'm being perfectly honest with you," said dad. "I tell you frankly that I don't expect you to succeed, Mr. Wigg----" "Twigg," corrected the chap in the basket chair. "Pardon me; Twigg. The boy is simply unmanageable, especially where study is concerned. He--but, there, perhaps it will be best if I don't prejudice you too much. You'll have a free hand; I shan't interfere between you. The last tutor came to me every day with the story of his troubles. I paid him to keep them to himself; I don't want to hear them. I simply hand the boy over to you and say: 'Here he is; make a gentleman of him if you can, and incidentally get him ready for college. Punish him whenever you see fit. Take any method in doing it you like, so long as you don't forget you're a gentleman; brutality I won't stand.'" I wished I could see the chap's face; but I couldn't; just his feet. He wore low patent leathers. "If at the end of one month," dad went on, "you have managed to get the upper hand, we'll continue the arrangement. If you have failed I shall have no further need of you. In the meanwhile, until then, you're a member of the family, free to come and go as you like. See that you're comfortable. That's all, I guess. Want to try it?" "Yes," said the chap. I didn't like the way he said it, though; it sounded so kind of certain. All the others had been a bit nervous when dad got to that point. "Very well," dad answered. "We'll call it settled. As--er--as a--sidelight on Raymond's code of honor, Mr. Twigg--you said Twigg?--I'll mention that for the last few minutes he has been listening to our conversation from behind the hall door. You may come out now, Raymond." I went out, grinning. It was all well enough for dad to talk about "the last few minutes," but I was sure he hadn't known I was there until I kicked the door after the chap said "yes" like that. The chap got out of his chair and looked at me as though they hadn't been talking about me for half an hour. "Raymond, this is Mr. John Twigg, your new tutor," said dad. "Thought it was about time for another," I said. Twigg held out his hand, and so I shook with him. He shook different from the others; sort of as though he had bones and things inside his fingers instead of cotton wool. "Glad to see you," he said. "Hope we'll get on together." "Oh, I'll get on," said I; "but I don't know about you." "That'll do, Raymond," said dad angrily. "I don't expect you to act like a gentleman; but you might at least be less of a cad." "I ain't a cad!" I muttered. "What else are you when you listen behind doors to things you're not expected to hear? When you talk like a gutter snipe and act--" "You're a liar!" I shouted. "Liar! Liar! Liar!" Dad's face got purple like it always does when he's mad, and his hands shook. For a moment I thought he was going to jump for me; he never has, no matter how mad he gets. Then he leaned back again in his chair and turned to Twigg with a beast of a sneer on his face. "You see?" he asked, with a shrug. "Nice, sweet-tempered, clean-tongued youth, isn't he? Want to call it off?" I looked scowlingly at Twigg. He was leaning back, hands in pockets, looking at me through half-closed eyes as though I was a side show at a circus. I stared back at him defiantly. "Have a look," I jeered. He raised a finger and scratched the side of his nose without taking his eyes off me, just as though he was a doctor trying to decide what nasty stuff to give me. After a bit I dropped my eyes; I tried not to, but they got to blinking. "No," said Twigg. "If you don't mind I'll walk back to the station and telegraph for my trunk." "Sit still," said dad, "and I'll get the cart around. Or you can write your message and I'll have Forbes send it." "Thanks," said Twigg, "I'd like the walk." He turned to me. "Want to go along?" I grinned at him. "No, I don't want to go along," I said mockingly. He didn't seem to notice. "Luncheon is at--?" "Two o'clock," said dad. Dad went into the house, and Twigg put a gray felt hat on his head and strode off down the drive. I sat on the porch rail and watched him. He looked about five feet eight inches, and was broad across the shoulders. He had a good walk. I slouched when I walked. After he was out of sight I rather wished I'd gone along. There wasn't anything particular to do at home, and I could have told him about the other tutors; there's some things that dad doesn't know. I found Twigg kept a diary. He went to the city on the Wednesday afternoon after he came, and I rubbered around to see what I could find. The diary was in his table drawer. It was awful dull rot until I got to the last page or two. The day before he'd written a lot about me. This was it; I copied it: "June 1st. "Fourth day at Braemere. First desire to throw it up and acknowledge defeat quite gone. Am determined to see it through. I think I can win. At all events the thing won't lack interest. Can't flatter myself that I've made much headway. R. is like a rhinoceros. Can't find a vulnerable spot anywhere. He seems morally calloused. I say seems because I can scarcely believe that a boy of sixteen can really be as absolutely unmoral as he appears. Perhaps, eventually, I will find an Achilles' heel. "Mr. Dale stands by his agreement. He never offers to interfere. So much the better. Mr. D.'s attitude toward R. is humorous as well as lamentable. He views the boy as though he were entirely irresponsible for his being. It is plain that he sees no connection between the boy's extraordinary character and his own; yet they are alike in many particulars; one could almost express my meaning by saying that R. is his father in an uncultivated state. Mr. D. ascribes the boy's faults to the other side of the house; he is convinced that the ungovernable temper and lack of moral sense are unfortunate inheritances from the late Mrs. D. Probably this is true in a measure. R. was the only child. The mother died at his birth. Mr. D, returned to this country when R. was four years old, and purchased this estate. Here the boy has grown up practically neglected. During twelve years Mr. D. has been out of the country the better part of eight. The boy has been left to the care of servants. For the past three years he has been in the hands of tutors, whose periods of service ran from one week to three months. I am the seventh in line to attempt the work. "Physically R. is in good shape. He is fond of outdoor life; likes horses, dogs and animals generally; rides well; shoots and fishes. Mentally he is decidedly above normal, but quite untrained. Hates study. Would grade about third year in Latin school. I shall begin at the bottom with him. It's going to be a hard pull, but I'm going to win out." I was going to empty the ink bottle over the pages; but I knew if I did he'd hide the book or lock it up, and I wanted to see what else he'd write. So I put it back in the drawer. I was sure I'd have him done to a turn in a month. But it was going to take longer than with the other fools, though. "That'll do," said Twigg. "You haven't studied a lick, have you?" "Not a lick," I answered. "When do you think of beginning?" he asked. "Not going to begin at all." "Oh, poppycock, my boy." He tossed down the Latin book and yawned. "Don't you want to go to college?" "No; not if I've got to study all that darned stuff." "What kind of stuff?" "Darned stuff, I said. You heard me, didn't you?" "Yes; but I thought perhaps I'd mistaken. Well, we'll try this again to-morrow. How about mathematics?" I winked. "Not prepared? German ditto, I presume?" "I haven't studied at all, I tell you." "Well, we know where to begin to-morrow, don't we? Is there any decent fishing around here?" "Find out," I muttered. "Oh, well, I didn't suppose there was," he answered. "It's an out-of-the-way spot up here, anyway." "That's a lie! There's as good trout and pickerel fishing here as there is anywhere in the State, if you know the proper place to look for it." "Maybe; maybe there are lions and tigers if you know where to look for them. But I'll believe it when I see them." He yawned again and looked out the window and drummed on the desk. After a bit I said: "You city fellows think you know it all, don't you? If you want fishing I'll take you where you'll get it." "I'm not particular about it," he said. "I know about what that sort of fishing is; sit on a bank or stand up to your waist in water all day, and catch two little old four-ounce trout and a sunfish." I jumped up. "I guess I know more about this place than you do," I cried angrily. "You come with me and I'll show you fish." "Too sunny, isn't it?" he asked. "Not for where I mean." "Got an extra rod?" "Yes; you can take my split bamboo--if you won't go and bust it." "All right; if I break it I'll buy you another. Fish from the bank, do you? or shall I put boots on?" "Boots. Got any?" "Yes. I'll go up and put them on. Take those books off with you, please. You won't have time for studying before night." "I won't then, either," I said. "Well, anyhow, we won't leave them here. Let's keep the shop looking ship-shape. By the way, it's a bit late, isn't it? How about lunch?" "Take some grub with us. I'll tell Annie to put some up. I'll meet you on the steps in ten minutes." "All right; I'll be there. Er--Raymond!" "Huh?" said I. "You've forgotten the books." "Oh, let 'em wait." "All right." He sat down at the desk again. "Ain't you going fishing?" I asked. "No. I think not," he answered. "Somehow, while those books are here I feel that we ought to stay at home and study. I dare say the fish will be there to-morrow as well as to-day, eh?" "Oh, all right," I said sulkily. "Only you can't make me study, you know." I sat down and put my hands in my pockets. I looked at him out of the corners of my eyes. He didn't seem to have heard me. "Let's see," he said after a moment. "How many lines were we to have in this?" "I don't remember," I growled. Then I jumped up and grabbed the books. "You make me sick," I said. "I'm going fishing." I took the books out and slammed the door as hard as it would slam. The day after we went fishing, and got fourteen trout, I had early breakfast and rode Little Nell over to Harrisbridge and played pool with Nate Golden, whose dad has the livery stable, all morning. We had dinner at the inn, and when I got back it was nearly three o'clock. Tommy, the stable boy, told me as I rode in that Twigg had left word he wanted to see me when I got back. Well, I didn't want to see him. So I went in the kitchen way and up the back stairs to my room. When I opened the door there was Twigg, sitting in the rocker with the books all spread out on the center table. "Hello," he said. "I'm making myself at home, you see. We're a bit late with lessons, Raymond, so I thought we might have them up here; then we won't interfere with your father's writing." "I don't know 'em," I said. "I'm afraid you haven't studied them. Never mind; when you get your boots off we'll go over them together. Here, hold them up. There's no use bothering with jacks when you've got some one to pull them off for you." I let him do it. He sort of takes you by surprise sometimes and you don't know just what to say or do. Afterwards I threw myself onto the bed and lighted a cigarette. Twigg looked at me and raised his eyebrows. "Don't smoke while lessons are going on, please," he said. "Will if I like," I said. "I'm afraid I can't have that." "Well, if you don't like it you can lump it." But just the same I kept a sharp eye on him. "Well, you're the host up here," he answered calmly. "I suppose I must consider that." Then what did he do but take out that reeking briar pipe of his, ram it full of nasty strong tobacco and begin to smoke! "One thing at a time, eh? We'll have a quiet smoke first and lessons afterwards. Tell me what you've been doing." "None of your darned business," I said warmly. "I suppose it isn't." He took up a book, one of Marryat's, crossed his legs and began to read. Gee! how that old pipe smelled! I laid on the bed and watched him blowing big gray clouds out under the corner of his mustache. When I'd smoked three cigarettes he looked over at me. "Ready?" he asked. "No, I'm not ready." "Let me know when you are," he said. Then he filled the pipe again and went on reading. After a bit I crawled off the bed. My head felt funny, and I was almost choking with the smoke. He laid down the book and looked up at me. "Shall we begin?" he asked. "I don't care what you do," I growled. "I'm going outdoors." "Not yet," said he. He got up and locked the door and put the key in his pocket. "You forget the lesson." "You let me out, darn you!" I yelled. "I'm not going to study. You can keep me here all night and I won't study. You see if I do!" "Don't be silly," he said, just as though he were talking to a kid. "You and I are going over those lessons if it takes to-night and to-morrow and the rest of the week. When you're ready to begin let me know; I shan't ask you again." And then he went back to that book. After a while it began to get darkish. I went back to the bed and tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I could have killed Twigg; but there wasn't any way to do it. He kept on reading and smoking. About six o'clock he said: "This is quite a yarn, isn't it? Somehow I never seemed to find time for Marryat when I was a boy. You've read this, of course?" "Yes," I muttered. "Like it?" "Yes." "What's your favorite book?" "I dunno; Froissart, I guess." "Yes, that's a good one. Ever read 'Treasure Island'?" "No; who's it by?" "Stevenson; know him at all?" "Did he write 'Tower of London' and those things?" "No, he didn't. He wrote 'Kidnapped' and 'The Black Arrow' and 'David Balfour,' and a lot of other bully ones." "'Kidnapped'?" I said. "I'd like to read that. It sounds fine." "I'll get it for you, if you like." "You needn't; if I want it I can get it myself, I guess." "Certainly." About seven I began to get awfully hungry. Twigg lighted the gas and filled his pipe again. It made me feel sick and funny inside just to see him do it. "You stop smoking that smelly thing in my room," I said. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he said. "Just remember, however, that it was I who objected to smoking in the first place." He put his pipe down. There was a knock at the door and Annie asked if we were there. "Yes, all right," Twigg said. "Please tell Mr. Dale that Raymond and I are going to do some studying before dinner, and ask him not to wait." "It's a lie!" I yelled. "He's locked me in. You tell my father he's locked me in, and won't let me have any dinner. Do you hear, Annie?" "Yes, Mr. Raymond." It sounded as though she was giggling. "You might leave some cold meat and a pitcher of milk on the sideboard, Annie; enough for two," said Twigg. "If we get through by nine we'll look for it." "Very well, sir," she answered. "You--you think you're smart, don't you?" I sobbed. "I'll--I'll get even for this, you bet!" I don't care! I was hungry, and the wretched old tobacco smoke made me feel funny. You'd have cried, too. He made believe he didn't hear me. "You're just a big, ugly bully! If I was bigger I'd smash your face! Do you hear me?" "Yes, my boy, and----" "I'm not your boy! I hate you, you--you----" "And let me remind you that you're wasting time." He took out his watch. "It's now a quarter after seven. If we're not through up here by nine, there'll be no dinner for either of us." "Glad of it! Hope you'll starve to death. I'm--I'm not hungry. I had dinner at Harrisbridge with Nate Golden." "Who's Nate Golden?" he asked. "None of your business. If he was here I'd get him to lick you!" "Lucky for me he isn't here, eh?" Then he went back to reading. I got hungrier and hungrier and had little pains inside me. I put a pillow over my head so he wouldn't hear me crying. Then, after a long while I got up and went to the table and took up a book. He didn't pay any attention. I went back and sat on the bed for a minute. Then I took up the book again and threw it down so it would make a noise. He looked around. "Ah, Raymond," he said, "all ready? Suppose we start with the Latin!" There wasn't any use not studying, because he didn't play fair. No man has any right to starve you. So I studied some every day after that. Old Gabbett, the chap I had before Twigg, used to shrug his shoulders when I wouldn't study, and tell me I was a good-for-nothing and would live to be hung. Then he'd go off to his room and let me alone. Browning, the chap before old Gab, used to get jolly mad and throw books at me, and swear to beat the band. I used to swear back and call him Sissy. He was a Sissy; he was about nineteen and didn't have any mustache or muscle, and he couldn't do a thing except study and play patience. It was rather good fun, though, getting him mad; it was mighty easy, too. But Twigg was different from any of them. When he wasn't putting it onto me he wasn't such a bad sort--for a tutor. Anyhow, he wasn't a Sissy. He could catch fish and ride fine, and he could beat me at target shooting with a .32 rifle. He told me one day that he was stroke on his crew for two years. I guess that's where he got his big shoulders and muscles. You ought to see his muscles. We went in swimming one day and I saw them. I'll bet he was the strongest chap up our way. After he had been there a couple of weeks he went to the city again; and I read his diary. But there wasn't anything in it about me except one thing which he had written on June 15th. It said: "R.'s propensity for eavesdropping and similar ungentlemanly actions renders it unadvisable to write anything here that I do not want read by others. Were it not for the aforesaid propensity and one or two lesser faults I could like the boy immensely. I have hopes, however, that when he realizes how contemptible and petty these things are he will cease doing them. He told me once that his favorite book was Froissart. I wonder if he thinks Froissart was ever guilty of listening behind doors, spying into others' diaries and swearing like a tough?" Wonder how he knew? * * * * * Two days after he went to town I met him going out of the house with some golf sticks. I went along with him to the meadow and watched him hitting the little white ball. After a bit he let me try it. It wasn't easy, though, you bet! But when I'd sort of got the hang of it I could hit them right well. He said I did bully and if I liked I could help him lay out a nine-hole course the next afternoon and we'd have some games. So we did. We paced off the distances between the holes and put up sticks with bits of white cloth on them. The housekeeper gave us an old sheet. And the next day we played a game. Of course he beat me. But he said I would make a good player if I tried hard and kept at it. After that we used to play almost every day, if it wasn't too hot. Only if I didn't have my lessons good he wouldn't play. One day I got behind the stone wall--we called it Stoney Bunker--and couldn't get out, and said "darn." And Twigg picked up the balls and started back to the house. "Golf's a gentleman's game, Raymond," he said. "We'll wait until yon get your temper back." That made me mad and I swore some more. And there wasn't any more golf for nearly a week. He won't get mad, too; that's what makes it so beastly. It got pretty hot the last of the month and there wasn't much to do except lay around and read. We had lessons before breakfast sometimes while it was nice and cool on the veranda; and in the forenoon we went swimming. One day he asked if I wanted him to read to me. I said he could if he liked. I wanted him to, but I didn't want him to know it. So we sat on the lawn and he read "Kidnapped," the book he'd spoken about. It was a Scotch story and simply great. After that when the afternoons were too hot for golf or riding he'd read. I forgot to say that dad went away about the middle of the month and stayed a week, I guess. "Hello," said Twigg, "where are you going?" "Oh, just for a ride," I said. He was on the porch and so I pulled Little Nell up alongside the rail. "All right; wait a minute, and I'll go along. Do you mind?" "She doesn't like to stand," I muttered. "She won't have to long." He grabbed the railing and vaulted over onto the drive, and I saw that he had his riding breeches and boots on. "All right," I said. "I'll wait here." He nodded and went over to the stables. When he was out of sight I jammed Little Nell with the spurs and tore down the drive lickety-cut. I was going over to Harrisbridge to see Nate Golden, but I didn't want to tell Twigg because he was so cranky; always trying to keep me at home. It was Sunday morning, and kind of cloudy and sultry. When I got to the road I turned Nell to the right before I remembered that I'd be in sight of the house for a quarter of a mile. But I wasn't going to turn back then, so I made for the beginning of the woods as fast as Nell could make it. I knew it would take Twigg two or three minutes to saddle Sultan, and by that time I could be out of reach. But Twigg is always doing things you don't expect him to. When I got to the edge of the woods I looked toward the house and what did I see but Twigg on Sultan trying to head me off by riding across the meadow. Just as I looked Sultan took the panel fence with a rush, got over finely and came thundering across the turf. "All right," I said to myself. "If it's a race you're after you can have it with me now!" Through the woods the road is a bit soft and spongy in places and so I pulled Nell down a little. Then came a long hill; and by the time I was on top of that I could hear Sultan rushing along behind. I gave Nell her head then, for it was a good, solid road and straight as a die for over a mile. She hadn't been out of the stall for two days, and maybe she didn't tear things up! Pretty soon I looked back. There was Twigg and Sultan just coming up over the hill. They'd gained some. I touched Nell with the spur and she laid back her ears and just flew! That mile didn't last long, I tell you. When I got to the Fork I switched off to the left toward Harrisbridge; it was dusty, and I was pretty sure Twigg wouldn't know which way I'd gone. The road wound sharp to the left and I'd be out of sight before Twigg reached the Fork. Two or three minutes later I pulled up a bit and listened. I couldn't hear a sound. I chuckled and let Nell come down to a trot, thinking, of course, Twigg had kept the right-hand road and was humping it away toward Evan's Mills. Then I got to thinking about it and somehow I kind of wished I hadn't been so darned smart. It seemed sort of mean because I'd said I'd wait for him and I hadn't. You see, Twigg had such fool ideas on some things, like keeping his word to you and all that. I had half a mind to turn around and go back and look for him. But just then I heard a crashing in the brush on the left and looked back and there was Twigg and Sultan trotting through the woods toward the road. He'd cut the corner on me! I made believe I didn't see him, and pretty soon he rode up to the stone wall and jumped Sultan over into the road almost beside me. "Well," he said, smiling, "you gave me quite a run!" "Yes; but I knew Nell could beat that beast and so I slowed down." "That's all right, then. I thought at first you were trying to give me the slip, but I knew you'd said you'd wait and so I concluded you wanted some fun." "Yes," I said. "This is the Harrisbridge road, isn't it?" he asked. "It goes to lots of places." "Harrisbridge among them?" "Yes." "Then we can keep on, eh? We might call on that friend of yours; what's his name? Nate something?" "Nate Golden," I muttered. "That's it. I suppose he'd be at home?" "He doesn't like swells," I said. "Am I a swell?" "Yes, you are." "And he wouldn't like me?" "No." "Why?" "Oh, just because he wouldn't; that's why. I'm going back now." "Very well; Harrisbridge some other day, Raymond." We turned the nags and walked them back toward the country road. Nell was puffing hard and Sultan was in a lather; he was a bit soft. Pretty soon Twigg said: "I'm going in to town to-morrow, Raymond; want to come along?" "Yes," I said. Dad never would let me go to the city more than once in six months. "Good enough; glad to have you. I'm going to run out to college in the afternoon to get some things from my trunk. Ever been out there?" I shook my head. "Maybe it'll interest you," he said. "I suppose you'll go there when you're ready, eh?" "Might as well go to one as another, I guess," said I. "Perhaps; but I'd like you to go to mine," he answered, kind of gravely. "I think it's a little better than the others, you see." "I suppose you won't be there," I said, flicking Nell's ear with my crop. "I'm not so sure," he said. "I'm trying for an instructorship. I get my Ph. D. next year. Then I want to go to Germany for a year to study. You're helping to pay for that," he said with a smile. "I am?" "Yes; the money I get for your tutoring is to go for that." "Oh," I said. "Then--then you're coming back to college?" "If they'll have me." "Hope they won't," I said. But I didn't. The next Wednesday we had lessons after breakfast, because it was a good deal cooler. Twigg said I had studied first rate, and if I liked we'd have a go at golf. So we did. I beat him one up and two to play. I thought at first he was just letting me win, but he wasn't. He didn't seem to be thinking of golf and looked sort of sober all the way round. When we'd finished he said: "Raymond, I don't think I'll have an opportunity to use my clubs again this summer, and so, if you'd like me to, I'll leave them here. I dare say you could get some fun out of them. You could get a good deal of practice that would help you a lot later on." "Leave them?" I asked. "I--I didn't know you were going away." "You forget that my month's up to-morrow," he answered quietly. "I was to have a month in which to see what I could do. If by the end of that time I had managed to get you in control I was to stay on. That was the agreement with your father." "Oh," I muttered. We were sitting under the big maple tree on the lawn. I had an iron putter and was digging a hole in the turf. "Yes," he continued, "to-morrow ends the present arrangement. I wish very much that I could go to Mr. Dale and tell him that I had won. But I can't. I haven't won, Raymond. I have gained ground, but the victory is still a long way off." "You--you've done better than the others," I muttered. "Have I? Well, I'm glad of that; that's something, isn't it? No man likes to acknowledge utter defeat; I'm certain I don't." I dug away with the putter for a minute. Then I said: "If I asked dad to let you stay, don't you think he would?" "Perhaps; but I wouldn't want to." "Oh, if you want to go away, all right," I grumbled. "I meant that I wouldn't care to remain just because of a whim of yours. If I believed that by staying I could accomplish something; if I thought that you wanted me to stay, knowing that it meant hard study--much harder than any you've been doing--and cheerful obedience; in short, Raymond, if I knew that I could honestly earn my salary, I'd stay." He took out his pipe and filled it. I shoved the earth back into the hole in the turf. Nobody said anything for a while. "I don't mind study--much," I said presently. "It hasn't been hard yet," he answered. "And I don't mind doing what you tell me to. You're--you're not like Simpkins, Browning, and Gabbett." "I haven't pulled on the curb yet," he said. I started a new hole. "There'd be no more Harrisbridge and Nate Golden," he said, after a bit, watching the smoke from his pipe. I stopped digging. "No more cigarettes; pipes are better." "Huh," I muttered. "No more swearing; there'd be a fine for swearing." "I--I wouldn't care," I said. "Sure?" "Sure!" I looked over at him. He was kind of smiling at me through the smoke. I tried to grin back, but my face got the twitches and there was a lump in my throat. "You--you just stay here," I muttered. A RACE WITH THE WATERS Roy Milford pulled the brim of his faded sombrero further over his blue eyes and urged Scamp into a trot, though it was broiling hot. Roy had left the town two miles behind, and three more miles stretched between him and home. From the cantle of his saddle hung the two paper parcels which, with the mail in his pocket, explained his errand. Not a breath of air stirred the dusty leaves of the cottonwoods along the road. Roy was barely fourteen years old; but his six years in Colorado had taught him what such weather foretold, and there were plenty of other signs of the approaching storm. In the uncultivated fields the little mounds before the prairie dog holes were untenanted; the silver poplars, weather wise, were displaying the under sides of their gleaming leaves; the birds were silent; and the still, oppressive air was charged with electricity. But, most unmistakable sign of all, over the flat purple peaks of the Mesa Grande, hung a long bank of sullen, blackish clouds. There was the storm, already marshaling its forces. Roy was certain that, after the month of rainless weather just passed, the coming deluge would be something to wonder at. Where the road crossed the railroad track Roy touched his buckskin pony with the quirt and loped westward until he reached a rail gate leading into an uncultivated field. Here he leaped nimbly out of the saddle, threw open the gate, sent Scamp through with a pat on the shoulder, closed the bars again, remounted, and trotted over the sun-cracked adobe. Two hundred yards away a fringe of greasewood bushes marked what, at this distance, appeared to be a water course. Such, in a way, it was. But Roy had never seen more water in it than he could have jumped across. It was a narrow arroyo or gully, varying in width from twelve to twenty feet, and averaging fifteen feet in depth. It ran almost due north and south for a distance of five miles, through a bare, level prairie tenanted only by roving cattle and horses--if one excepts rabbits, prairie dogs, rattlesnakes, owls, lizards, and scorpions. There was no vegetation except grease-wood, cactus, and sagebrush. In heavy rains or during sudden meltings of the snow back on the mountains, each of several small gullies bore its share of water to the junction at the beginning; of the arroyo, from whence it sped, tumbling and churning through the miniature gorge, southward to the river. To Roy, who loved adventure, the arroyo was ever a source of pleasure, with its twilit depths and firm sandy bed. He knew every inch of it. Many were the imaginary adventures he had gone through in its winding depths, now as a painted Arapahoe on the warpath, now as a county sheriff on the trail of murderous desperadoes, again as a mighty hunter searching the sandy floor for the tracks of bears and mountain lions. He had found strange things in the arroyo--rose-quartz arrow heads, notched like saws; an old, rusted Colt's revolver, bearing the date 1858, and a picture of the holding up of a stagecoach engraved around the chamber; queer, tiny shells of some long gone fresh-water snail; bits of yellow pottery, their edges worn smooth and round by the water; to say nothing of birds' nests, villages of ugly water-white scorpions; and lizards, from the tiny ones that change their color, chameleonlike, to "racers" well over a foot long. From end to end of the arroyo there were but two places where it was possible to enter or leave. Both of these had been made by cattle crossing from side to side. One was just back of Roy's home and the other was nearly two miles south. It was toward the latter that Roy was heading his horse. He thought with pleasure of the comparative comfort awaiting him in the shaded depths. Brushing the perspiration out of his eyes, he glanced northward. Even as he looked the summits of the peaks were blurred from sight by a dark gray veil of rain. Above, all was blackness save when for an instant a wide, white sheet of lightning blazed above the mesa, and was followed a moment later by the first tremendous roar of thunder. Scamp pricked up his drooping ears and mended his pace. "We are going to get good and wet before we get home," muttered Roy. "Come on, Scamp!" They reached the edge of the arroyo and the little pony, lurching from side to side, clambered carefully down the narrow path to the bottom. Once there, Roy used his quirt again, and the horse broke into a gallop that carried them fast over the sandy bed. On both sides the walls of adobe and yellow clay rose as straight as though of masonry. Along the brink grew stunted bushes of greasewood and of sage. Here and there the tap root of a greasewood was half exposed for its entire length, just as it had been left by the falling earth. Many of these yellow-brown roots, tough as hempen rope, descended quite to the bottom of the arroyo, for the greasewood perseveres astonishingly in its search for moisture. As Scamp hurried along the brown and gray lizards darted across his path, and the mother scorpions, taking the air at the entrances of their holes, scuttled out of sight. Roy took off his hat and let the little draught of air that blew through the chasm dry the perspiration on face and hair. Presently the sunlight above gave way to a sullen, silent shadow. The air grew strangely quiet; even the lizards no longer moved. Roy gazed straight upward into the slowly rolling depths of a dark cloud, and heartily wished himself at home. He had seen many a storm; but the one that was approaching now made him almost afraid. The little twigs of greasewood shivered and bent, and a cool breath fanned his cheek. There came a great drop, splashing against his bare brown hand; then another; then many, each leaving a spot of moisture on the dry sand as big as a silver dollar. Roy put his sombrero on and drew the string tightly back of his head. He buttoned his blue-flannel shirt at the throat, patted Scamp encouragingly on his reeking neck, and rode on. For the last ten minutes the thunder had been roaring at intervals, drawing nearer and nearer, and now it crashed directly overhead with a mighty sound that shook the earth and sent Scamp bounding out of his path in terror. Then down came the rain. It was as though a million buckets had been emptied upon him; it fell in livid, hissing sheets and walls, taking strange shapes, like pillars and columns that came from a dim nowhere and rushed past him into the gray void behind. He was drenched ere he could have turned in his saddle; his eyes were filled with rain, it ran dripping from his soaking hat brim and coursed down his arms and chest and back. For a moment even Scamp, experienced cow pony that he was, plunged and snorted loudly, until Roy's voice shouted encouragement. Then he raced forward again. But almost at once his gait shortened; the bed of the arroyo was running with water and the softened sand made heavy going. Roy could scarcely distinguish the walls on either side; but he knew that when the storm had broken the path leading up out of the arroyo was about a half mile ahead of him. As suddenly as it had begun the deluge lessened. The walls, running with mud, were crumbling and falling here and there in miniature landslides. Scamp was plunging badly in the soft ground, and so Roy slowed him down to a trot. He could not, he told himself grimly, get one speck wetter. There was little use in hurrying. With sudden recollection of his bundles, Roy glanced back. Only a wisp of wet brown paper sticking to the cantle remained; the water had soaked the wrappings--baking powder, flavoring extract, dried fruit, and all the rest of it, had utterly disappeared. But Roy's regrets were cut short by Scamp. That animal suddenly stopped short, pricked his ears forward, and showed every symptom of terror. Roy, wondering, urged him onward. But two steps beyond the horse again stopped and strove to turn. Roy quieted him and, peering forward up the gully, through the driving mist of rain, tried to account for the animal's fright. Was it a bear? he wondered. He knew that there were some in the foothills, and it was quite possible that one had taken shelter here in the arroyo. Then, as he looked, a roaring sound, which the boy had mistaken for the beat of the rain, rose and grew in volume until it drowned the hissing of the storm and filled the arroyo. Around a bend of the gully only a few yards ahead came a wave of turbid, yellow water, bearing above it a great rolling bank of white froth. For an instant Roy gazed. Then, heart in mouth, he swung Scamp on his haunches and tore madly back the way he had come. He knew on the instant what had happened. There had been a cloud-burst on the mesa or among the foothills, and all the little gullies had emptied their water into the mouth of the arroyo. He knew also that if the flood caught him there between those prisonlike walls he would be drowned like a rat. The nearest place of refuge was a mile and a half away! After the first moment of wild terror he grew calm. On his courage and coolness rested his chance for life. He crouched far over the saddle horn and lashed Scamp with the dripping quirt. Urging was unnecessary, for it seemed the horse knew that Death was rushing along behind them. He raced as Roy had never seen him run before. The walls rushed by, dim and misty. In a minute Boy gathered courage to glance back over his shoulder. His heart sank--only a yard or two behind them rushed the foam-topped wave. Here and there the sides of the arroyo melted in the flood and toppled downward, yards at a time, sending the yellow water high in air, but making no sound above its roaring. Behind the first wave, perhaps a half hundred feet to the rear, came a second, showing no froth on its crest, but higher and mightier. And farther back the arroyo seemed filled almost to the tops of the banks with the rushing waters. Roy used the quirt ruthlessly, searching the banks as they sped by in the forlorn hope of finding some place that would offer a means of egress, yet knowing well as he did so that the nearest way out was still a full mile distant. He wondered what death by drowning was like. Somewhere he had read that it was painless and quick; but that was in a story. Then he wondered what his mother would do without him to fetch the water from the cistern back of the kitchen, and feed the chickens and look after the hives. He wondered, too, if they would ever find his body--and Scamp's! The thought that poor, gallant old Scamp must die too struck him as the hardest thing of all. He loved Scamp as he loved none else save father and mother; they had had their little disagreements, when Scamp refused to come to the halter in the corral and had to be roped, but they always made up, with petting and sugar beets from Roy and remorseful whinnies and lipping of the boy's cheek from Scamp. And now Scamp must be drowned! It was difficult going now, for the turbid stream reached above the horse's knees; but the animal was mad with fright, and he plunged desperately onward. Roy looked up toward the gray skies, through a world of gleaming rain, and said both the prayers he knew. After that he felt better, somehow, and when the second wave caught them, almost bearing Scamp from his sturdy feet, he looked calmly about him, searching the uncertain shadows which he knew were the walls of the chasm. He had made up his mind to give Scamp a chance for life. He tossed aside his quirt, patted the wet neck of the plunging animal and whispered a choking "Good-by." Then, as the flood swept the horse from his feet and swung him sideways against one wall, Roy kicked his feet from the stirrups and sprang blindly toward the bank, clutching in space. He struck against the soggy earth and, still clutching with his hands, sank downward inch by inch, his crooked fingers bringing the moist clay with them and his feet finding no lodgment. The water swept him outward then, tearing at his writhing legs. Just as his last clutch failed him his other hand encountered something that was not bare, crumbling earth, and held it desperately. The flood buffeted him and tossed the lower half of his body to and fro like a straw. The muddy water splashed into his face, blinding, choking him. But the object within his grasp remained firm. For a moment he swung there, gasping, with closed eyes. Then he blinked the water from his lids and looked. His left hand was clutching the thick tap root of a greasewood. In an instant he seized it with his other hand as well, and looked about him. Scamp was no longer in sight. The water was rising rapidly. The noise was terrific. All about him the walls, undermined by the flood, were slipping down in wet, crumbling masses. He wondered if the root would hold him, and prayed that it might. Then the water came up to his breast, and he knew that if he were to save himself he must manage somehow to crawl upward. Perhaps--perhaps he might even climb quite out of the chasm! If only the earth and the root would hold! Taking a deep breath he clutched the tap root a foot higher and tried his weight upon it. It held like a rope. He pulled himself a foot higher from the waters. Once more, and then he found that he had command of his legs and could dig his feet into the unstable clay. Then, inch by inch, scarce daring to hope, he pulled himself up, up until he was free of the flood and between him and the ground above only a scant yard remained. Below him the rushing torrents roared, as though angry at his escape, and tossed horrid yellow spray upon him. Once more he took fresh grip of the slippery root, watching anxiously the low bush at the edge of the bank. Each moment he thought to see it give toward him and send him tossing back into the water. But still it held. At last, hours and hours it seemed since he had first begun his journey, his hand clutched the edge of the bank, but the earth came away in wet handfuls at every clutch. At length his fingers encountered a sprawling root or branch, he knew not which, just beyond his sight; and, digging his toes into the wall in a final despairing effort, he scrambled over the brink and rolled fainting to the rain-soaked ground. How long he lay there he never knew. But presently a tremor of the earth roused him. Stumbling to his feet, he rushed away from the arroyo just as the bank, for yards behind him, disappeared. After that he struggled onward through the driving rain until he sank exhausted to the ground, burying his head in his arms. They found him there, hours afterwards, fast asleep, his wet clothes steaming in the hot afternoon sunlight. They put him into the wagon of the nearest rancher and jolted him home, his head in his father's lap and the great horse blankets thrown over him, making him dream that he was a loaf of bread in his mother's oven. "When Scamp came in, wet and almost dead, we feared you were gone." They were sitting about the supper table. Roy had told his story to a wondering audience, and now, with his plate well filled with mother's best watermelon preserve and citron cake, he was supremely contented, if somewhat tired and sobered. His father continued, his rugged face working as he recalled the anxiety of the day: "I can't see how that broncho ever got out of there alive; can you, boys? And to think," he added wonderingly, "that it was the root of a pesky greasewood bush that saved your life! Boy, I don't reckon I'll ever have the heart again to grub one of 'em up!" A COLLEGE SANTA CLAUSE Satherwaite, '02, threw his overcoat across the broad mahogany table, regardless of the silver and cut-glass furnishings, shook the melting snowflakes from his cap and tossed it atop the coat, half kicked, half shoved a big leathern armchair up to the wide fireplace, dropped himself into it, and stared moodily at the flames. Satherwaite was troubled. In fact, he assured himself, drawing his handsome features into a generous scowl, that he was, on this Christmas eve, the most depressed and bored person in the length and breadth of New England. Satherwaite was not used to being depressed, and boredom was a state usually far remote from his experience; consequently, he took it worse. With something between a groan and a growl, he drew a crumpled telegram from his pocket. The telegram was at the bottom of it all. He read it again: E. SATHERWAITE, Randolph Hall, Cambridge. Advise your not coming. Aunt Louise very ill. Merry Christmas. PHIL. "' Merry Christmas!'" growled Satherwaite, throwing the offending sheet of buff paper into the flames. "Looks like it, doesn't it? Confound Phil's Aunt Louise, anyway! What business has she getting sick at Christmas time? Not, of course, that I wish the old lady any harm, but it--it--well, it's wretched luck." When at college, Phil was the occupant of the bedroom that lay in darkness beyond the half-opened door to the right. He lived, when at home, in a big, rambling house in the Berkshires, a house from the windows of which one could see into three states and overlook a wonderful expanse of wooded hill and sloping meadow; a house which held, besides Phil, and Phil's father and mother and Aunt Louise and a younger brother, Phil's sister. Satherwaite growled again, more savagely, at the thought of Phil's sister; not, be it understood, at that extremely attractive young lady, but at the fate which was keeping her from his sight. Satherwaite had promised his roommate to spend Christmas with him, thereby bringing upon himself pained remonstrances from his own family, remonstrances which, Satherwaite acknowledged, were quite justifiable. His bags stood beside the door. He had spent the early afternoon very pleasurably in packing them, carefully weighing the respective merits of a primrose waistcoat and a blue-flannel one, as weapons wherewith to impress the heart of Phil's sister. And now--! He kicked forth his feet, and brought brass tongs and shovel clattering on the hearth. It relieved his exasperation. The fatal telegram had reached him at five o'clock, as he was on the point of donning his coat. From five to six, he had remained in a torpor of disappointment, continually wondering whether Phil's sister would care. At six, his own boarding house being closed for the recess, he had trudged through the snow to a restaurant in the square, and had dined miserably on lukewarm turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes. And now it was nearly eight, and he did not even care to smoke. His one chance of reaching his own home that night had passed, and there was nothing for it but to get through the interminable evening somehow, and catch an early train in the morning. The theaters in town offered no attraction. As for his club, he had stopped in on his way from dinner, and had fussed with an evening paper, until the untenanted expanse of darkly furnished apartments and the unaccustomed stillness had driven him forth again. He drew his long legs under him, and arose, crossing the room and drawing aside the deep-toned hangings before the window. It was still snowing. Across the avenue, a flood of mellow light from a butcher's shop was thrown out over the snowy sidewalk. Its windows were garlanded with Christmas greens and hung with pathetic looking turkeys and geese. Belated shoppers passed out, their arms piled high with bundles. A car swept by, its drone muffled by the snow. The spirit of Christmas was in the very air. Satherwaite's depression increased and, of a sudden, inaction became intolerable. He would go and see somebody, anybody, and make them talk to him; but, when he had his coat in his hands, he realized that even this comfort was denied him. He had friends in town, nice folk who would be glad to see him any other time, but into whose family gatherings he could no more force himself to-night than he could steal. As for the men he knew in college, they had all gone to their homes or to those of somebody else. Staring disconsolately about the study, it suddenly struck him that the room looked disgustingly slovenly and unkempt. Phil was such an untidy beggar! He would fix things up a bit. If he did it carefully and methodically, no doubt he could consume a good hour and a half that way. It would then be half past nine. Possibly, if he tried hard, he could use up another hour bathing and getting ready for bed. As a first step, he removed his coat from the table, and laid it carefully across the foot of the leather couch. Then he placed his damp cap on one end of the mantel. The next object to meet his gaze was a well-worn notebook. It was not his own, and it did not look like Phil's. The mystery was solved when he opened it and read, "H.G. Doyle--College House," on the fly leaf. He remembered then. He had borrowed it from Doyle almost a week before, at a lecture. He had copied some of the notes, and had forgotten to return the book. It was very careless of him; he would return it as soon as--Then he recollected having seen Doyle at noon that day, coming from one of the cheaper boarding houses. It was probable that Doyle was spending recess at college. Just the thing--he would call on Doyle! It was not until he was halfway downstairs that he remembered the book. He went back for it, two steps at a time. Out in the street, with the fluffy flakes against his face, he felt better. After all, there was no use in getting grouchy over his disappointment; Phil would keep; and so would Phil's sister, at least until Easter; or, better yet, he would get Phil to take him home with him over Sunday some time. He was passing the shops now, and stopped before a jeweler's window, his eye caught by a rather jolly-looking paper knife in gun metal. He had made his purchases for Christmas and had already dispatched them, but the paper knife looked attractive and, if there was no one to give it to, he could keep it himself. So he passed into the shop, and purchased it. "Put it into a box, will you?" he requested. "I may want to send it away." Out on the avenue again, his thoughts reverted to his prospective host. The visit had elements of humor. He had known Doyle at preparatory school, and since then, at college, had maintained the acquaintance in a casual way. He liked Doyle, always had, just as any man must like an honest, earnest, gentlemanly fellow, whether their paths run parallel or cross only at rare intervals. He and Doyle were not at all in the same coterie, Satherwaite's friends were the richest, and sometimes the laziest, men in college; Doyle's were--well, presumably men who, like himself, had only enough money to scrape through from September to June, who studied hard for degrees, whose viewpoint of university life must, of necessity, be widely separated from Satherwaite's. As for visiting Doyle, Satherwaite could not remember ever having been in his room but once, and that was long ago, in their Freshman year. Satherwaite had to climb two flights of steep and very narrow stairs, and when he stood at Doyle's door, he thought he must have made a mistake. From within came the sounds of very unstudious revelry, laughter, a snatch of song, voices raised in good-natured argument. Satherwaite referred again to the fly leaf of the notebook; there was no error. He knocked and, in obedience to a cheery "Come in!" entered. He found himself in a small study, shabbily furnished, but cheerful and homelike by reason of the leaping flames in the grate and the blue haze of tobacco smoke that almost hid its farther wall. About the room sat six men, their pipes held questioningly away from their mouths and their eyes fixed wonderingly, half resentfully, upon the intruder. But what caught and held Satherwaite's gaze was a tiny Christmas tree, scarcely three feet high, which adorned the center of the desk. Its branches held toy candles, as yet unlighted, and were festooned with strings of crimson cranberries and colored popcorn, while here and there a small package dangled amidst the greenery. "How are you, Satherwaite?" Doyle, tall, lank and near-sighted, arose and moved forward, with outstretched hand. He was plainly embarrassed, as was every other occupant of the study, Satherwaite included. The laughter and talk had subsided. Doyle's guests politely removed their gaze from the newcomer, and returned their pipes to their lips. But the newcomer was intruding, and knew it, and he was consequently embarrassed. Embarrassment, like boredom, was a novel sensation to him, and he speedily decided that he did not fancy it. He held out Doyle's book. "I brought this back, old man. I don't know how I came to forget it. I'm awfully sorry, you know; it was so very decent of you to lend it to me. Awfully sorry, really." Doyle murmured that it didn't matter, not a particle; and wouldn't Satherwaite sit down? No, Satherwaite couldn't stop. He heard the youth in the faded cricket-blazer tell the man next to him, in a stage aside, that this was "Satherwaite, '02, an awful swell, you know." Satherwaite again declared that he could not remain. Doyle said he was sorry; they were just having a little--a sort of a Christmas-eve party, you know. He blushed while he explained, and wondered whether Satherwaite thought them a lot of idiots, or simply a parcel of sentimental kids. Probably Satherwaite knew some of the fellows? he went on. Satherwaite studied the assemblage, and replied that he thought not, though he remembered having seen several of them at lectures and things. Doyle made no move toward introducing his friends to Satherwaite, and, to relieve the momentary silence that followed, observed that he supposed it was getting colder. Satherwaite replied, absently, that he hadn't noticed, but that it was still snowing. The youth in the cricket-blazer fidgeted in his chair. Satherwaite was thinking. Of course, he was not wanted there; he realized that. Yet, he was of half a mind to stay. The thought of his empty room dismayed him. The cheer and comfort before him appealed to him forcibly. And, more than all, he was possessed of a desire to vindicate himself to this circle of narrow-minded critics. Great Scott! just because he had some money and went with some other fellows who also had money, he was to be promptly labeled "snob," and treated with polite tolerance only. By Jove, he would stay, if only to punish them for their narrowness! "You're sure I shan't be intruding, Doyle?" he asked. Doyle gasped in amazement. Satherwaite removed his coat. A shiver of consternation passed through the room. Then the host found his tongue. "Glad to have you. Nothing much doing. Few friends, Quiet evening. Let me take your coat." Introductions followed. The man in the cricket-blazer turned out to be Doak, '03, the man who had won the Jonas Greeve scholarship; a small youth with eaglelike countenance was Somers, he who had debated so brilliantly against Princeton; a much-bewhiskered man was Ailworth, of the Law School; Kranch and Smith, both members of Satherwaite's class, completed the party. Satherwaite shook hands with those within reach, and looked for a chair. Instantly everyone was on his feet; there was a confused chorus of "Take this, won't you?" Satherwaite accepted a straight-backed chair with part of its cane seat missing, after a decent amount of protest; then a heavy, discouraging silence fell. Satherwaite looked around the circle. Everyone save Ailworth and Doyle was staring blankly at the fire. Ailworth dropped his eyes gravely; Doyle broke out explosively with: "Do you smoke, Satherwaite?" "Yes, but I'm afraid--" he searched his pockets perfunctorily--"I haven't my pipe with me." His cigarette case met his searching fingers, but somehow cigarettes did not seem appropriate. "I'm sorry," said Doyle, "but I'm afraid I haven't an extra one. Any of you fellows got a pipe that's not working?" Murmured regrets followed. Doak, who sat next to Satherwaite, put a hand in his coat pocket, and viewed the intruder doubtingly from around the corners of his glasses. "It doesn't matter a bit," remarked Satherwaite heartily. "I've got a sort of a pipe here," said Doak, "if you're not overparticular what you smoke." Satherwaite received the pipe gravely. It was a blackened briar, whose bowl was burned halfway down on one side, from being lighted over the gas, and whose mouthpiece, gnawed away in long usage, had been reshaped with a knife. Satherwaite examined it with interest, rubbing the bowl gently on his knee. He knew, without seeing, that Doak was eying him with mingled defiance and apology, and wondering in what manner a man who was used to meerschaums and gold-mounted briars would take the proffer of his worn-out favorite; and he knew, too, that all the others were watching. He placed the stem between his lips, and drew on it once or twice, with satisfaction. "It seems a jolly old pipe," he said; "I fancy you must be rather fond of it. Has anyone got any 'baccy?" Five pouches were tendered instantly. Satherwaite filled his pipe carefully. He had won the first trick, he told himself, and the thought was pleasurable. The conversation had started up again, but it was yet perfunctory, and Satherwaite realized that he was still an outsider. Doyle gave him the opportunity he wanted. "Isn't it something new for you to stay here through recess?" he asked. Then Satherwaite told about Phil's Aunt Louise and the telegram; about his dismal dinner at the restaurant and the subsequent flight from the tomblike silence of the club; how he had decided, in desperation, to clean up his study, and how he had come across Doyle's notebook. He told it rather well; he had a reputation for that sort of thing, and to-night he did his best. He pictured himself to his audience on the verge of suicide from melancholia, and assured them that this fate had been averted only through his dislike of being found lifeless amid such untidy surroundings. He decked the narrative with touches of drollery, and was rewarded with the grins that overspread the faces of his hearers. Ailworth nodded appreciatingly, now and then, and Doak even slapped his knee once and giggled aloud. Satherwaite left out all mention of Phil's sister, naturally, and ended with: "And so, when I saw you fellows having such a Christian, comfortable sort of a time, I simply couldn't break away again. I knew I was risking getting myself heartily disliked, and really I wouldn't blame you if you arose _en masse_ and kicked me out. But I am desperate. Give me some tobacco from time to time, and just let me sit here and listen to you; it will, be a kindly act to a homeless orphan." "Shut up!" said Doyle heartily; "we're glad to have you, of course." The others concurred. "We--we're going to light up the tree after a bit. We do it every year, you know. It's kind of--of Christmassy when you don't get home for the holidays, you see. We give one another little presents and--and have rather a bit of fun out of it. Only--" he hesitated doubtfully--"only I'm afraid it may bore you awfully." "Bore me!" cried Satherwaite; "why, man alive, I should think it would be the jolliest sort of a thing. It's just like being kids again." He turned and observed the tiny tree with interest. "And do you mean that you all give one another presents, and keep it secret, and--and all that?" "Yes; just little things, you know," answered Doak deprecatingly. "It's the nearest thing to a real Christmas that I've known for seven years," said Ailworth gravely. Satherwaite observed him wonderingly. "By Jove!" he murmured; "seven years! Do you know, I'm glad now I am going home, instead of to Sterner's for Christmas. A fellow ought to be with his own folks, don't you think?" Everybody said yes heartily and there was a moment of silence in the room. Presently Kranch, whose home was in Michigan, began speaking reminiscently of the Christmases he had spent when a lad in the pine woods. He made the others feel the cold and the magnitude of the pictures he drew, and, for a space, Satherwaite was transported to a little lumber town in a clearing, and stood by excitedly, while a small boy in jeans drew woolen mittens--wonderful ones of red and gray--from out a Christmas stocking. And Somers told of a Christmas he had once spent in a Quebec village; and Ailworth followed him with an account of Christmas morning in a Maine-coast fishing town. Satherwaite was silent. He had no Christmases of his own to tell about; they would have been sorry, indeed, after the others; Christmases in a big Philadelphia house, rather staid and stupid days, as he remembered them now, days lacking in any delightful element of uncertainty, but filled with wonderful presents so numerous that the novelty had worn away from them ere bedtime. He felt that, somehow, he had been cheated out of a pleasure which should have been his. The tobacco pouches went from hand to hand. Christmas-giving had already begun; and Satherwaite, to avoid disappointing his new friends, had to smoke many more pipes than was good for him. Suddenly they found themselves in darkness, save for the firelight. Doyle had arisen stealthily and turned out the gas. Then, one by one, the tiny candles flickered and flared bluely into flame. Some one pulled the shades from before the two windows, and the room was hushed. Outside they could see the flakes falling silently, steadily, between them and the electric lights that shone across the avenue. It was a beautiful, cold, still world of blue mists. A gong clanged softly, and a car, well-nigh untenanted, slid by beneath them, its windows, frosted halfway up, flooding the snow with mellow light. Some one beside Satherwaite murmured gently: "Good old Christmas!" The spell was broken, Satherwaite sighed--why, he hardly knew--and turned away from the window. The tree was brilliantly lighted now, and the strings of cranberries caught the beams ruddily. Doak stirred the fire, and Doyle, turning from a whispered consultation with some of the others, approached Satherwaite. "Would you mind playing Santa Claus--give out the presents, you know; we always do it that way?" Satherwaite would be delighted; and, better to impersonate that famous old gentleman, he turned up the collar of his jacket, and put each hand up the opposite sleeve, looking as benignant as possible the while. "That's fine!" cried Smith; "but hold on, you need a cap!" He seized one from the window seat, a worn thing of yellowish-brown otter, and drew it down over Satherwaite's ears. The crowd applauded merrily. "Dear little boys and girls," began Satherwaite in a quavering voice. "No girls!" cried Doak. "I want the cranberries!" cried Smith; "I love cranberries." "I get the popcorn, then!" That was the sedate Ailworth. "You'll be beastly sick," said Doak, grinning jovially through his glasses. Satherwaite untied the first package from its twig. It bore the inscription, "For Little Willie Kranch." Everyone gathered around while the recipient undid the wrappings, and laid bare a penwiper adorned with a tiny crimson football. Doak explained to Satherwaite that Kranch had played football just once, on a scrub team, and had heroically carried the ball down a long field, and placed it triumphantly under his own goal posts. This accounted for the laughter that ensued. "Sammy Doak" received a notebook marked "Mathematics 3a." The point of this allusion was lost to Satherwaite, for Doak was too busy laughing to explain it. And so it went, and the room was in a constant roar of mirth. Doyle was conferring excitedly with Ailworth across the room. By and by, he stole forward, and, detaching one of the packages from the tree, erased and wrote on it with great secrecy. Then he tied it back again, and retired to the hearth, grinning expectantly, until his own name was called, and he was shoved forward to receive a rubber pen-holder. Presently, Satherwaite, working around the Christmas tree, detached a package, and frowned over the address. "Fellows, this looks like--like Satherwaite, but--" he viewed the assemblage in embarrassment--"but I fancy it's a mistake." "Not a bit," cried Doyle; "that's just my writing." "Open it!" cried the others, thronging up to him. Satherwaite obeyed, wondering. Within the wrappers was a pocket memorandum book, a simple thing of cheap red leather. Some one laughed uncertainly. Satherwaite, very red, ran his finger over the edges of the leaves, examined it long, as though he had never seen anything like it before, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. "I--I--" he began. "Chop it off!" cried some one joyously. "I'm awfully much obliged to--to whoever--" "It's from the gang," said Doyle. "With a Merry Christmas," said Ailworth. "Thank you--gang," said Satherwaite. The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were crowding about Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket and, writing on it hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it from the tree, when the others turned again. "Little Harry Doyle," he read gravely. Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself. "Open it up, old man!" When he saw the gun-metal paper knife, he glanced quickly at Satherwaite. He was very red in the face. Satherwaite smiled back imperturbably. The knife went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic admiration. "But, I say, old man, who gave--?" began Smith. "I'm awfully much obliged, Satherwaite," said Doyle, "but, really, I couldn't think of taking--" "Chop it off!" echoed Satherwaite. "Look here, Doyle, it isn't the sort of thing I'd give you from choice; it's a useless sort of toy, but I just happened to have it with me; bought it in the square on the way to give to some one, I didn't know who, and so, if you don't mind, I wish you'd accept it, you know. It'll do to put on the table or--open cans with. If you'd rather not take it, why, chuck it out of the window!" "It isn't that," cried Doyle; "it's only that it's much too fine----" "Oh, no, it isn't," said Satherwaite. "Now, then, where's 'Little Alfie Ailworth'?" Small candy canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more around the hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery enjoyingly. Smith insisted upon having the cranberries, and wore them around his neck. The popcorn was distributed equally, and the next day, in the parlor car, Satherwaite drew his from a pocket together with his handkerchief. Some one struck up a song, and Doyle remembered that Satherwaite had been in the Glee Club. There was an instant clamor for a song, and Satherwaite, consenting, looked about the room. "Haven't any thump box," said Smith. "Can't you go it alone?" Satherwaite thought he could, and did. He had a rich tenor voice, and he sang all the songs he knew. When it could be done, by hook or by crook, the others joined in the chorus; not too loudly, for it was getting late and proctors have sharp ears. When the last refrain had been repeated for the third time, and silence reigned for the moment, they heard the bell in the near-by tower. They counted its strokes; eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve. "Merry Christmas, all!" cried Smith. In the clamor that ensued, Satherwaite secured his coat and hat. He shook hands all around. Smith insisted upon sharing the cranberries with him, and so looped a string gracefully about his neck. When Satherwaite backed out the door he still held Doak's pet pipe clenched between his teeth, and Doak, knowing it, said not a word. "Hope you'll come back and see us," called Doyle. "That's right, old man, don't forget us!" shouted Ailworth. And Satherwaite, promising again and again not to, stumbled his way down the dark stairs. Outside, he glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes. Then he grinned, and, scooping a handful of snow, sent it fairly against the glass. Instantly, the windows banged up, and six heads thrust themselves out. "Good night! Merry Christmas, old man! Happy New Year!" Something smashed softly against Satherwaite's cheek. He looked back. They were gathering snow from the ledges and throwing snowballs after him. "Good shot!" he called. "Merry Christmas!" The sound of their cries and laughter followed him far down the avenue. THE TRIPLE PLAY "If they hadn't gone and made Don captain last year," said Satterlee, 2d, plaintively. "That's where the trouble is." "How do you mean?" asked Tom Pierson, looking up in a puzzled way from the hole he was digging in the turf in front of the school hall. "Why," answered Satterlee, 2d, with a fine air of wisdom, "I mean that it doesn't do for a fellow to have his brother captain. Don's been so afraid of showing me favoritism all spring that he hasn't given me even a fair chance. When I came out for the nine in March and tried for second he was worried to death. "Look here, Kid," he said, "there's no use your wanting to play on second because there's Henen and Talbot after it." "Well, how do you know I can't play second as well as they?" says I. He was--was horrified. That's it; a fellow can't understand how a member of his own family can do anything as well as some one else. See what I mean?" Tom Pierson nodded doubtfully. "'You try for a place in the outfield,' said Don. 'But I don't want to play in the outfield.' I told him. But it didn't make any difference. 'There's three fellows for every infield position.' said Don, 'and I'm not going to have the fellows accuse me of boosting my kid brother over their heads.' Well, so I did as he said. Of course I didn't have any show. There was Williams and Beeton and 'Chick' Meyer who could do a heap better than I could. They'd played in the outfield ail their lives and I'd always been at second--except one year that I caught when I was a kid. Well, maybe next year I'll have a better show, for a whole lot of this year's team graduate to-morrow. Wish I did." "I don't," said Tom. "I like it here. I think Willard's the best school in the country." "So do I, of course," answered Satterlee, 2d. "But don't you want to get up to college?" "I'm in no hurry; you see, there's math; I'm not doing so badly at it now since Bailey has been helping me, but I don't believe I could pass the college exam in it." "You and 'Old Crusty' seem awfully thick these days," mused the other. "Wish he'd be as easy on me as he is on you. You were fishing together yesterday, weren't you?" Tom nodded. "Sixteen trout," he said promptly. "Wish I'd been along," sighed Satterlee, 2d. "All I caught was flies during practice. Then when they played the second I sat on the bench as usual and looked on." "But Don will put you in this afternoon, won't he?" "I dare say he will; for the last inning maybe. What good's that? Nothing ever happens to a chap in center field. And when a fellow's folks come to visit him he naturally wants to--to show off a bit." Tom nodded sympathetically. "Hard lines," he said. "But why don't you ask your brother to give you a fair show; put you in the sixth or something like that?" "Because I won't. He doesn't think I can play baseball. I don't care. Only I hope--I hope we get beaten!" "No, you don't." "How do you know?" asked the other morosely. "Because you couldn't," Tom replied. "Is 'Curly' going to pitch?" "No, Durham's agreed not to play any of her faculty. Willings is going to pitch. I'll bet"--his face lost some of its gloom--"I'll bet it will be a dandy game!" "Who's going to win?" asked Tom anxiously. "You can search me!" answered Satterlee, 2d, cheerfully. "Durham's lost only two games this season, one to St. Eustace and one to us. And we've lost only the first game with Durham. There you are, Tommy; you can figure it out for yourself. But we won last year and it's safe to say Durham's going to work like thunder to win this. What time is it?" "Twenty minutes to twelve," answered Tom. "Gee! I've got to find Don and go over to the station to meet the folks. Want to come along? Dad and the mater would like to meet you; you see I've said a good deal about you in my letters." "Won't I be in the way?" "Not a bit. In fact--" Satterlee, 2d, hesitated and grinned--"in fact, it would make it more comfortable if you would come along. You see, Tom, Don and I aren't very chummy just now; I--I gave him a piece of my mind last night; and he threw the hairbrush at me." He rubbed the side of his head reflectively. Tom laughed and sprang to his feet. "All right," he said. "I'll go, if just to keep you two from fighting. We'll have to hurry, though; you don't want to forget that dinner's half an hour earlier to-day." "Guess you never knew me to forget dinner time, did you?" asked Satterlee, 2d, with a laugh. Three hours later the two boys sat nursing their knees on the terrace above the playground. Behind them in camp chairs sat Mr. and Mrs. Satterlee. To right and left stretched a line of spectators, the boys of Willard's and of Durham surrounded by their friends and relatives. Tomorrow was graduation day at the school and mothers and fathers and sisters and elder brothers--many of the latter "old boys"--were present in numbers. At the foot of the terrace, near first base, a red and white striped awning had been erected and from beneath its shade the principal, Doctor Willard, together with the members of the faculty and their guests, sat and watched the deciding game of the series. The red of Willard's was predominant, but here and there a dash of blue, the color of the rival academy, was to be seen. On a bench over near third base a line of blue-stockinged players awaited their turns at bat, for it was the last half of the third inning and Willard's was in the field. Behind the spectators arose the ivy-draped front of the school hall and above them a row of elms cast grateful shade. Before them, a quarter of a mile distant, the broad bosom of the river flashed and sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. But few had eyes for that, for Durham had two men on bases with two out and one of her heavy hitters was at bat. Thus far there had been no scoring and now there was a breathless silence as Willings put the first ball over the plate. "Strike!" droned the umpire, and a little knot of boys on the bank waved red banners and cheered delightedly. Then ball and bat came together and the runner was speeding toward first. But the hit had been weak and long before he reached the bag the ball was snuggling in Donald Satterlee's mitten, and up on the terrace the Willardians breathed their relief. The nines changed sides. "That's Fearing, our catcher, going to bat, sir," said Satterlee, 2d, looking around at his father. Mr. Satterlee nodded and transferred his wandering attention to the youth in question. Mr. Satterlee knew very little about the game and was finding it difficult to display the proper amount of interest. Mrs. Satterlee, however, smiled enthusiastically at everything and everybody and succeeded in conveying the impression that she was breathlessly interested in events. "Er--is he going to hit the ball?" asked Mr. Satterlee in a heroic endeavor to rise to the requirements of the occasion. "He's going to try," answered his youngest son with a smile. "But he isn't going to succeed, I guess," he muttered a minute later. For the catcher had two strikes called on him and was still at the plate. Then all doubt was removed. He tossed aside his bat and turned back to the bench. "And who is that boy?" asked Mrs. Satterlee. "That's Cook," answered Tom. "He plays over there, you know; he's shortstop." "Of course," murmured the lady. "I knew I had seen him." Cook reached first, more by good luck than good playing, and the Willard supporters found their voices again. Then came Brown, third base-man, and was thrown out at first after having advanced Cook to second. "Here comes Don," announced his younger brother with a trace of envy in his tones. "I do hope he'll hit the ball!" cried his mother. "Oh, he'll hit it all right," answered Satterlee, 2d, "only maybe he won't hit it hard enough." Nor did he. Durham's third baseman gathered in the short fly that the batsman sent up and so ended the inning. "Something's going to happen now, I'll bet," said Tom. "Carpenter's up." "He didn't do much last time," objected Satterlee, 2d, "even if he is such a wonder. Willings struck him out dead easy." Carpenter, who played third base for the visitors, was a tall, light-haired youth with a reputation for batting prowess. In the first game of the series between the two schools Carpenter's hitting had been the deciding feature. Three one-baggers, a two-bagger, and a home-run had been credited to him when the game was over, and it was the home-run, smashed out with a man on third in the eighth inning, which had defeated Willard's. In the second game, played a fortnight ago, Carpenter had been noticeably out of form, which fact had not a little to do with Willard's victory. To-day the long-limbed gentleman, despite his retirement on the occasion of his first meeting with Willings, was in fine fettle, and scarcely had Satterlee, 2d, concluded his remark when there was a sharp _crack_ and the white sphere was skimming second baseman's head. It was a clean, well-placed hit, and even the wearers of the blue had to applaud a little. Carpenter's long legs twinkled around the bases and he was safe at third before the ball had returned to the infield. Then things began to happen. As though the spell had been broken by the third baseman's three-bagger, the following Durhamites found the ball, man after man, and ere the inning was at an end, the score book told a different tale. On Durham's page stood four tallies; Willard's was still empty. And Willard's supporters began to look uneasy. Then there was no more scoring until the sixth inning, when a single by Donald Satterlee brought in Cook who had been taking big risks on second and who reached the plate a fraction of a second ahead of the ball. Willard's got the bases full that inning and for a time it seemed that they would tie the score, but Beeton popped a fly into shortstop's hands and their hopes were dashed. Durham started their half of the sixth with Carpenter up and that dependable youth slammed out a two-base hit at once. The flaunters of the red groaned dismally. Then the Durham pitcher fouled out and the next man advanced Carpenter but was put out at first. Willard's breathed easier and took hope. Over on third base Carpenter was poised, ready to speed home as fast as his long legs would carry him. Willings, who had so far pitched a remarkable game, suddenly went "into the air." Perhaps it was the coaching back of third, perhaps it was Carpenter's disconcerting rushes and hand-clapping. At all events, the Durham first baseman, who was a cool-headed youth, waited politely and patiently and so won the privilege of trotting to first on four balls. Fearing, Willard's catcher, walked down to Willings, and the two held a whispered conversation. They didn't lay any plots, for all Fearing wanted to do was to steady the pitcher. Then came a strike on the next batsman, and the Willardians cheered hopefully. Two balls followed, and Carpenter danced about delightedly at third and the two coaches hurled taunting words at the pitcher. The man on first was taking a long lead, pretty certain that Willings would not dare to throw lest Carpenter score. But Willings believed in doing the unexpected. Unfortunately, although he turned like a flash and shot the ball to Satterlee, the throw was wide. The captain touched it with his outstretched fingers but it went by. The runner sped toward second and Carpenter raced home. But Beeton, right-fielder, had been wide-awake. As Willings turned he ran in to back up Satterlee, found the ball on a low bounce and, on the run, sent it to the plate so swiftly that Fearing was able to catch Carpenter a yard away from it. The Durham third baseman picked himself up, muttering his opinion of the proceedings and looking very cross. But what he said wasn't distinguishable, for up on the terrace the red flags were waving wildly and the boys of Willard's were shouting themselves hoarse. When, in the beginning of the seventh inning, Durham took the field and Willings went to bat, Captain Don Satterlee came up the bank and threw himself on the grass by his father's side. He looked rather worried and very warm. "Well, my boy," said Mr. Satterlee, "I guess you're in for a licking this time, eh?" "I'm afraid so," was the morose reply. "We can't seem to find their pitcher for a cent." He turned to his brother. "I'll put you in for the ninth, if you like," he said. "Oh, don't trouble yourself," answered the other. "You've got along without me so far and I guess you can finish." "Well, you needn't be so huffy," answered the elder. "You can play or not, just as you like. But you don't have to be ugly about it." "I'm not," muttered Satterlee, 2d. "Sounds mighty like it. Want to play?" The other hesitated, swallowed once or twice and kicked the turf with his heel. "Of course he wants to play, Don," said Tom Pierson. "Give him a chance, like a good chap." "Well, I've offered him a chance, haven't I?" asked Don ungraciously. "I guess it doesn't make much difference who plays this game." He scowled at Willings who had been thrown out easily at first and was now discouragedly walking back to the bench. "You can take Williams's place when the ninth begins," he added, turning to his brother. The latter nodded silently. A slightly built, sandy-haired man, with bright blue eyes and a look of authority, approached the group and Don, with a muttered apology, joined him. "That's our coach," explained Tom to Mrs. Satterlee. "He's instructor in Greek and German, and he's a peach! The fellows call him 'Curly' on account of his hair. He pitched for us last year and he won the game, too! I guess he and Don are trying to find some way out of the hole they're in. If anyone can do it he can, can't he?" Thus appealed to, Satterlee, 2d, came out of his reverie. "Yes, I guess so. I wish he was pitching, that's all I wish! I'll bet Carpenter wouldn't make any more of those hits of his!" Willard's third out came and once more the teams changed places. The sun was getting low and the shadows on the terrace were lengthening. Durham started out with a batting streak and almost before anyone knew it the bases were full with but one out. Then, just when things were at their gloomiest, a short hit to second baseman resulted in a double play, and once more Willard's found cause for delight and acclaim. The eighth inning opened with Don Satterlee at bat. Luck seemed for a moment to have made up its mind to favor the home team. An in-shoot caught the batsman on the thigh and he limped to first. Meyer--"Chick" Meyer, as Tom triumphantly explained--sent him to second and gained first for himself, owing to an error. Then came an out. Beeton followed with a scratch hit just back of shortstop and the bases were full. Up on the terrace the cheering was continuous. Williams was struck out. Then came Willings with a short hit past third and Don scored. And the bases were still full. But the next man flied out to left fielder and the cheering died away. But 2 to 4 was better than 1 to 4, and the supporters of the home team derived what comfort they could from the fact. In the last of the eighth, the doughty Carpenter started things going by taking first on balls. It was apparent that "Willings had given it to him" rather than risk a long hit. The next man was less fortunate and was thrown out after a neat sacrifice which put Carpenter on second. Then a pop-fly was muffed by Willings and there were men on first and second. But after that Willings, as though to atone for an inexcusable error, settled down to work and struck out the next two Durhamites, and the red flags were suddenly crazy. Satterlee, 2d, peeled off his sweater and trotted down to the bench. The ninth inning opened inauspiciously for the home nine. Willard's shortstop fell victim to the rival pitcher's curves and third baseman took his place. With two strikes called on him he found something he liked and let go at it. When the tumult was over he was sitting on second base. Don Satterlee stepped up to the plate and the cheerers demanded a home-run. But the best the red's captain could do was a clean drive into right field that was good for one base for himself and a tally for the man on second. That made the score 3 to 4. It seemed that at last fortune was to favor the red. The cheering went on and on. Meyer sent the captain to second but was thrown out at first. Another tally would tie the score, but the players who were coming to bat were the weakest hitters, and Willard's hopes began to dwindle. But one can never tell what will happen in baseball, and when Fearing lined out a swift ball over second baseman's head and Don Satterlee romped home, the wearers of the red shrieked in mingled delight and surprise. The score was tied. But there was more to come. Beeton waited, refusing all sorts of tempting bait, and during that waiting Fearing stole second. With three balls and two strikes called on him, Beeton let the next one go by, and---- "Four balls!" decided the umpire. Satterlee, 2d, felt rather limp when he faced the pitcher. His heart was pounding somewhere up near his mouth and it made him feel uncomfortable. Down on second Fearing was watching him anxiously. On first Beeton was dancing back and forth, while behind him Brother Don coaching hoarsely and throwing doubtful glances in the direction of the plate. "He thinks I can't hit," thought Satterlee, 2d, bitterly. "He's telling himself that if he'd left Williams in we might have tallied again." Satterlee, 2d, smarting under his brother's contempt, felt his nerves steady and when the second delivery came he was able to judge it and let it go by. That made a ball and a strike. Then came another ball. They had told him to wait for a good one, and he was going to do it. And presently the good one came. The pitcher had put himself in a hole; there were three balls against him and only one strike. So now he sent a swift straight one for a corner of the plate and Satterlee, 2d, watched it come and then swung to meet it. And in another moment he was streaking for his base, while out back of shortstop the left fielder was running in as fast as he might. And while he ran Fearing and Beeton were flying around the bases. The ball came to earth, was gathered up on its first bound and sped toward the plate. But it reached the catcher too late, for Fearing and Beeton had tallied. And down at second a small youth was picking himself out of the dust. But Satterlee never got any farther, for the next man struck out. No one seemed to care, however, except Satterlee, for the score had changed to 6-4, and the 6 was Willard's! But there was still a half inning to play and Durham had not lost hope. Her center fielder opened up with a hit and a moment later stole second. Then came a mishap. Willings struck the batsman and, although Fearing claimed that the batsman had not tried to avoid the ball, he was given his base. Things looked bad. There on second and first were Durham runners and here, stepping up to the plate with his bat grasped firmly in his hands, was Carpenter, and there was none out. A two-base hit would surely tie the score, while one of the home-runs of which Carpenter was believed to be capable--such a one as he made in the first game of the series--would send Willard's into mourning. The terrace was almost deserted, for the spectators were lined along the path to first base and beyond. Don was crying encouragement to his players, but from the way in which he moved restively about it could be seen that he was far from easy in his mind. As for Satterlee, 2d--well, he was out in center field, hoping for a chance to aid in warding off the defeat that seemed inevitable, but fearing that his usefulness was over. Willings turned and motioned the fielders back, and in obedience Satterlee, 2d, crept farther out toward the edge of the field. But presently, when a ball had been delivered to the batsman, Satterlee, 2d, quite unconsciously, moved eagerly, anxiously in again, step by step. Then came a strike and Carpenter tapped the plate with the end of his bat and waited calmly. Another ball. Then a second strike. And for a brief moment Willard's shouted hoarsely. And then---- Then there was a sharp sound of bat meeting ball and Carpenter was on his way to first. The ball was a low fly to short center field and it was evident that it would land just a little way back of second base. Neither Carpenter nor the runners on first and second dreamed for a moment that it could be caught. The latter players raced for home as fast as their legs would take them. Meanwhile in from center sped Satterlee, 2d. He could run hard when he tried and that's what he did now. He was almost too late--but not quite. His hands found the ball a bare six inches above the turf. Coming fast as he was he had crossed second base before he could pull himself up. From all sides came wild shouts, instructions, commands, entreaties, a confused medley of sounds. But Satterlee, 2d, needed no coaching. The runner from second had crossed the plate and the one from first was rounding third at a desperate pace, head down and arms and legs twinkling through the dust of his flight. Now each turned and raced frantically back, dismay written on their perspiring faces. But Satterlee, 2d, like an immovable Fate, stood in the path. The runner from first slowed down indecisively, feinted to the left and tried to slip by on the other side. But the small youth with the ball was ready for him and had tagged him before he had passed. Then Satterlee, 2d, stepped nimbly to second base, tapped it with his foot a moment before the other runner hurled himself upon it, tossed the ball nonchalantly toward the pitcher's box and walked toward the bench. The game was over. But he never reached the bench that day. On the way around the field he caught once a fleeting vision of Brother Don's red, grinning countenance beaming commendation, and once a glimpse of the smiling faces of his father and mother. He strove to wave a hand toward the latter, but as it almost cost him his position on the shoulders of the shrieking fellows beneath, he gave it up. Social amenities might wait; at present he was tasting the joys of a victorious Caesar. THE DUB "BRIGGS, Bayard Newlyn, Hammondsport, Ill., I L, H 24." That's the way the catalogue put it. Mostly, though, he was called "Bi" Briggs. He was six feet and one inch tall and weighed one hundred and ninety-four pounds, and was built by an all-wise Providence to play guard. Graduate coaches used to get together on the side line and figure out what we'd do to Yale if we had eleven men like Bi. Then after they'd watched Bi play a while they'd want to kick him. He got started all wrong, Bi did. He came to college from a Western university and entered the junior class. That was his first mistake. A fellow can't butt in at the beginning of the third year and expect to trot even with fellows who have been there two years. It takes a chap one year to get shaken down and another year to get set up. By the time Bi was writing his "life" he had just about learned the rules. His second mistake was in joining the first society that saw his name in the catalogue. It was a poor frat, and it queered Bi right away. I guess he made other mistakes, too, but those were enough. In his junior year Bi was let alone. He was taking about every course any of us had ever heard of--and several we hadn't--and had no time for football. We got licked for keeps that fall, and after the _Crimson_ and the _Bulletin_ and the _Graduates' Magazine_ and the newspapers had shown us just what ailed our system of coaching, we started to reorganize things. We hadn't reorganized for two years, and it was about time. The new coach was a chap who hadn't made the Varsity when he was in college, but who was supposed to have football down to a fine point; to hear the fellows tell about the new coach made you feel real sorry for Walter Camp. Well, he started in by kidnaping every man in college who weighed over a hundred and sixty-five. Bi didn't escape. Bi had played one year in the freshwater college at left tackle and knew a touchdown from a nose-guard, and that was about all. Bi was for refusing to have anything to do with football at first; said he was head-over-ears in study and hadn't the time. But they told him all about his Duty to his College and Every Man into the Breach, and he relented. Bi was terribly good-natured. That was the main trouble with him. The fellows who did football for the papers fell in love with him on the spot. He was a good-looker, with sort of curly brown hair, nice eyes, a romantic nose, and cheeks like a pair of twenty-four-dollar American Beauties, and his pictures looked fine and dandy in the papers. "Bayard Briggs, Harvard's new candidate for guard, of whom the coaches expect great things." That's the way they put it. And they weren't far wrong. The coaches did expect great things from Bi; so did the rest of us. When they took Bi from the second and put him in at right guard on the Varsity we all approved. But there was trouble right away. Bi didn't seem to fit. They swapped him over to left guard, then they tried him at right tackle, then at right guard again. Then they placed him gently but firmly back on the second. And Bi was quite happy and contented and disinterested during it all. _He_ didn't mind when six coaches gathered about him and demanded to know what was the matter with him. He just shook his head and assured them good-naturedly that he didn't know; and intimated by his manner that he didn't care. When he came back to the second he seemed rather glad; I think he felt as though he had got back home after a hard trip. He stayed right with us all the rest of the season. I think the trouble was that Bi never got it fully into his fool head that it wasn't just fun--like puss-in-the-corner or blind-man's-buff. If you talked to him about Retrieving Last Year's Overwhelming Defeat he'd smile pleasantly and come back with some silly remark about Political Economy or Government or other poppycock. I fancy Bi's father had told him that he was coming to college to study, and Bi believed him. Of course, he didn't go to New Haven with us, He didn't have time. I wished afterwards that I hadn't had time myself. Yale trimmed us 23 to 6. The papers threshed it all out again, and all the old grads who weren't too weak to hold pens wrote to the _Bulletin_ and explained where the trouble lay. It looked for a while like another reorganization, but Cooper, the new captain, was different. He didn't get hysterical. Along about Christmas time, after everyone had got tired of guessing, he announced his new coach. His name was Hecker, and he had graduated so far back that the _Crimson_ had to look up its old files to find out who he was. He had played right half two years, it seemed, but hadn't made any special hit, and Yale had won each year. The _Herald_ said he was a successful lawyer in Tonawanda, New York. He didn't show up for spring practice; couldn't leave his work, Cooper explained. Bi didn't come out either. He couldn't leave _his_ work. At the end of the year he graduated _summa cum laude_, or something like that, and the _Crimson_ said he was coming back to the Law School and would be eligible for the team. Just as though it mattered. We showed up a week before college began and had practice twice a day. At the end of that week we knew a whole lot about Hecker. He was about thirty-six, kind of thin, wore glasses, and was a terror for work. When we crawled back to showers after practice we'd call him every name we could think of. And half an hour later, if we met him crossing the Square, we'd be haughty and stuck-up for a week if he remembered our names. He was a little bit of all right, was Hecker. He was one of the quiet kind. He'd always say "please," and if you didn't please mighty quick you'd be sitting on the bench all nicely snuggled up in a blanket before you knew what had struck you. That's the sort of Indian Hecker was, and we loved him. Ten days after college opened we had one hundred and twenty men on the field. If Hecker heard of a likely chap and thought well of his looks, it was all up with Mr. Chap. He was out on the gridiron biting holes in the sod before he knew it. That's what happened to Bi. One day Bi wasn't there and the next day he was. We had two or three weeding-outs, and it got along toward the middle of October, and Bi was still with us. We were shy on plunging halfs that fall and so I got my chance at last. I had to fight hard, though, for I was up against Murray, last year's first sub. Then a provisional Varsity was formed and the Second Team began doing business with Bi at right guard again. The left guard on the Varsity was Bannen--"Slugger" Bannen. He didn't weigh within seven pounds of Bi, but he had springs inside of him and could get the jump on a flea. He was called "Slugger" because he looked like a prizefighter, but he was a gentle, harmless chap, and one of the Earnest Workers in the Christian Association. He could stick his fist through an oak panel same as you or I would put our fingers through a sheet of paper. And he did pretty much as he pleased with Bi. I'll bet, though, that Bi could have walked all over "Slugger" if he'd really tried. But he was like an automobile and didn't know his own strength. We disposed of the usual ruck of small teams, and by the first of November it was mighty plain that we had the best Eleven in years. But we didn't talk that way, and the general impression was that we had another one of the Beaten But Not Humiliated sort. A week before we went to Philadelphia I had a streak of good luck and squeezed Murray out for keeps. Penn had a dandy team that year and we had to work like anything to bring the ball home. It was nip and tuck to the end of the first half, neither side scoring. Then we went back and began kicking, and Cooper had the better of the other chap ten yards on a punt. Finally we got down to their twenty yards, and Saunders and I pulled in eight more of it. Then we took our tackles back and hammered out the only score. But that didn't send our stock up much, because folks didn't know how good Penn was. But the Eli's coaches who saw the game weren't fooled a little bit; only, as we hadn't played anything but the common or garden variety of football, they didn't get much to help them. We went back to Cambridge and began to learn the higher branches. We were coming fast now, so fast that Hecker got scary and laid half the team off for a day at a time. And that's how Bi got his chance again, and threw it away just as he had last year. He played hard, but--oh, I don't know. Some fellow wrote once that unless you had football instinct you'd never make a real top-notcher. I think maybe that's so. Maybe Bi didn't have football instinct. Though I'll bet if some one had hammered it into his head that it was business and not a parlor entertainment, he'd have buckled down and done something. It wasn't that he was afraid of punishment; he'd take any amount and come back smiling. I came out of the Locker Building late that evening and Hecker and Cooper were just ahead of me. "What's the matter with this man"--Hecker glanced at his notebook--"this man Briggs?" he asked. "Briggs?" answered Cooper. "He's a dub; that's all--just a dub." That described him pretty well, I thought. By dub we didn't mean just a man who couldn't play the game; we meant a man who knew how to play and wouldn't; a chap who couldn't be made to understand. Bi was a dub of the first water. We didn't have much trouble with Dartmouth that year. It was before she got sassy and rude. Then there were two weeks of hard practice before the Yale game. We had a new set of signals to learn and about half a dozen new plays. The weather got nice and cold and Hecker made the most of it. We didn't have time to feel chilly. One week went by, and then--it was a Sunday morning, I remember--it came out that Corson, the Varsity right guard, had been protested by Yale. It seemed that Corson had won a prize of two dollars and fifty cents about five years before for throwing the hammer at a picnic back in Pennsylvania. Well, there was a big shindy and the athletic committee got busy and considered his case. But Hecker didn't wait for the committee to get through considering. He just turned Corson out and put in Blake, the first sub. On Tuesday the committee declared Corson ineligible and Blake sprained his knee in practice! With Corson and Blake both out of it, Hecker was up against it. He tried shifting "Slugger" Bannen over to right and putting the full back at left. Jordan, the Yale left guard, was the best in the world, and we needed a man that could stand up against him. But "Slugger" was simply at sea on the right side of center and so had to be put back again. After that the only thing in sight that looked the least bit like a right guard was Bayard Newlyn Briggs. They took Bi and put him on the Varsity, and forty-'leven coaches stood over his defenseless form and hammered football into him for eight solid hours on Wednesday and Thursday. And Bi took it all like a little woolly lamb, without a bleat. But it just made you sick to think what was going to happen to Bi when Jordan got to work on him! We had our last practice Thursday, and that night we went to the Union and heard speeches and listened to the new songs. Pretty poor they were too; but that's got nothing to do with the story. Friday we mooned around until afternoon and then had a few minutes of signal practice indoors. Bi looked a little bit worried, I thought. Maybe it was just beginning to dawn on Me that it wasn't all a lark. What happened next morning I learned afterwards from Bi. Hecker sent for him to come to his room, put him in a nice easy-chair, and then sat down in front of him. And he talked. "I've sent for you, Mr. Briggs," began Hecker in his quiet way, "because it has occurred to me that you don't altogether understand what we are going to do this afternoon." Bi looked surprised. "Play Yale, sir?" "Incidentally; yes. But we are going to do more than play her; we are going to beat her to a standstill; we are going to give her a drubbing that she will look back upon for several years with painful emotion. It isn't often that we have an opportunity to beat Yale, and I propose to make the best of this one. So kindly disabuse your mind of the idea that we are merely going out to play a nice, exhilarating game of football. We are going to simply wipe up the earth with Yale!" "Indeed?" murmured Bi politely. "Quite so," answered the coach dryly, "I suppose you know that your presence on the team is a sheer accident? If you don't, allow me to tell you candidly that if there had been anyone else in the college to put in Corson's place, we would never have called on you, Mr. Briggs." He let that soak in a minute. Then: "Have you ever heard of this man Jordan who will play opposite you to-day?" he asked. "Yes, sir; a very good player, I understand." "A good player! My dear fellow, he's the best guard on a college team in twenty years. And you are going to play opposite him. Understand that?" "Er--certainly," answered Bi, getting a bit uneasy. "What are you going to do about it?" "Do? Why, I shall do the best I can, Mr. Hecker. I don't suppose I am any match for Jordan, but I shall try----" "Stop that! Don't you dare talk to me of doing the best you can!" said the coach, shaking a finger under Bi's nose--"for all the world," as Bi told me afterwards, "as though he was trying to make me mad!" "'Best you can' be hanged! You've got to do better than you can, a hundred per cent better than you can, ever did, or ever will again! That's what you've got to do! You've got to fight from the first whistle to the last without a let-up! You've got to remember every instant that if you don't, we are going to be beaten! You've got to make Jordan look like a base imitation before the first half is over! That's what you've got to do, my boy!" "But it isn't fair!" protested Bi. "You know yourself that Jordan can outplay me, sir!" "I know it? I know nothing of the sort. Look at yourself! Look at your weight and your build! Look at those arms and legs of yours! Look at those muscles! And you dare to sit there, like a squeaking kid, and tell me that Jordan can outplay you! What have you got your strength for? What have we pounded football into you for?" Over went his chair and he was shaking his finger within an inch of Bi's face, his eyes blazing behind his glasses. "Shall I tell you what's the matter with you, Briggs? Shall I tell you why we wouldn't have chosen you if there had been anyone else? Because you're a coward--a rank, measly coward, sir!" Bi's face went white and he got up slowly out of his chair. "That will do, sir," he said softly, like a tiger-puss purring. "You've done what no one else has ever done, Mr. Hecker. You've called me a coward. You're in authority and I have no redress--now. But after to-day--" He stopped and laughed unpleasantly. "I'll see you again, sir." "Heroics!" sneered the coach. "They don't impress me, sir. I've said you're a coward, and I stand by it. I repeat it. You are a coward, Briggs, an arrant coward." Bi gripped his hands and tried to keep the tears back. "Coward, am I? What are you, I'd like to know? What are you when you take advantage of your position to throw insults at me? If you weren't the head coach, I'd--I'd----" "What would you do?" sneered Hecker. "I'd kill you!" blazed Bi. "And I'll do it yet, you--you----" "Tut, tut! That's enough, Briggs. You can't impose on me that way. I haven't watched you play football all the fall to be taken in now by your melodrama. But after to-day you will find me quite at your service, Mr.--Coward. And meanwhile we'll call this interview off, if you please. The door, Mr. Briggs!" Bi seized his hat from the table and faced Hecker. He was smiling now, smiling with a white, set, ugly face. "Perhaps I am wrong," he said softly with a little laugh. "I think I am. Either that or you are lying. For if you are really willing to meet me after to-day's game you are no coward, sir." Then he went out. We lined up at two o'clock. There was a huge crowd and a band. I didn't mind the crowd, but that band got me worried so, that I couldn't do a thing the first ten minutes. It's funny how a little thing like that will queer your game. One fellow I knew once was off his game the whole first half because some idiot was flying a kite over the field advertising some one's pills. We had the ball and began hammering at the Yale line and kept it up until we had reached her fifteen yards. Then she got together and stopped us; held us for downs in spite of all we could do. Then she kicked and we started it all over again. It wasn't exciting football to watch, maybe, but it was the real thing with us. We had to work--Lord, how we had to work! And how we did work, too! We made good the next time, but it took us fifteen minutes to get back down the field. Cooper himself went over for that first touchdown. Maybe the crowd didn't shout! Talk about noise! I'd never heard any before! It was so unexpected, you see, for almost everyone had thought Yale was going to do her usual stunt and rip us to pieces. But in that first half she was on the defensive every moment. Seven times she had the ball in that first thirty-five minutes, but she could no more keep it than she could fly. Altogether she gained eighteen yards in that half. It was one-sided, if you like, but it was no picnic. It was hammer and tongs from first to last--man's work and lots of it. We didn't rely on tricks, but went at her center and guards and just wore them down. And when that first half was over--11-0 was the score--the glory of one Jordan was as a last season's straw hat. A new star blazed in the football firmament; and it was in the constellation of Harvard and its name was Bi Briggs. What I'm telling you is history, and you needn't take my word alone for it. I never really saw a man play guard before that day--and I'd watched lots of fellows try. Bi was a cyclone. To see him charge into Jordan--and get the jump on him every time--was alone worth the price of admission. And as for blocking, he was a stone wall, and that's all there is to it. Never once did the Elis get through him. He held the line on his side as stiff as a poker until quarter had got the ball away, and then he mixed things up with the redoubtable Jordan, and you could almost see the fur fly! Play? O my! He was simply great! And the rest of us, watching when we had a chance, just felt our eyes popping out. And all the time he smiled; smiled when he went charging through the blue line, smiled when he took Toppan on his shoulder and hurled him over the mix-up for six yards, smiled when we pulled him out of a pile-up looking like a badly butchered beef, and still smiled when we trotted of the field in a chaos of sound. But that smile wasn't pretty. I guess he was thinking most of the time of Hecker; and maybe sometimes he got Hecker and Jordan mixed up. When we came back for the second half we weren't yet out of the woods, and we knew it. We knew that Yale would forget that she was bruised and battered and tired and would play harder than ever. And she did. And for just about ten minutes I wouldn't have bet a copper on the game. Yale had us on the run and plugged away until we were digging our toes into our twelve-yard line. Then we held her. After that, although she still played the game as though she didn't know she was beaten, she was never dangerous. We scored twice more in that half. When there was still ten minutes of play the whistle blew, and Jordan, white, groggy, and weepy about the eyes, was dragged off the field. Bi had sure used him rough, but I'm not pretending Jordan hadn't come back at him. Bi's face was something fierce. The blood had dried in flakes under his nose, one eye was out of commission, and his lip was bleeding where his tooth had gone through it. But he still smiled. When we trotted off for the last time the score board said: "Harvard, 22; Opponents, 0." And those blurry white figures up there paid for all the hard work of the year. It was past seven when we assembled for dinner. About all the old players for twenty years back were there and it sounded like a sewing circle. Bi was one of the last to come in. He pushed his way through the crowd about the door, shaking off the fellows' hands, and strode across to where Hecker was standing. Hecker saw him coming, but he only watched calmly. Bi stopped in front of him, that same sort of ugly smile on his face. "We've broken training, sir?" he asked quietly. "Yes," answered the coach. Then Bi's hand swung around and that slap was heard all over the room. There was a moment of dead silence; then half a dozen of us grabbed Bi. We thought he'd gone crazy, but he didn't try to shake us off. He just stood there and looked at Hecker. The coach never raised a hand and never changed his expression--only one cheek was as red as the big flag at the end of the room. He held up his hand and we quieted down. "Gentlemen," he said, "Mr. Briggs was quite within his rights. Please do not interfere with him." We let Bi go. "The incident demands explanation," continued the coach. "As you all know, we were left in a hole by the loss of Corson and Blake, and the only man who seemed at all possible was Mr. Briggs. But Mr. Briggs, playing as he had been playing all year, would have been no match for Jordan of Yale. We tried every means we could think of to wake Mr. Briggs up. He had, I felt certain, the ability to play football--winning football--but we couldn't get it out of him. As a last resort I tried questionable means. I asked Mr. Briggs to call on me this morning. I told him we must win to-day, and that in order to do so he would have to play better than he'd been doing. He told me that he would do his best, but that he knew himself no match for Jordan. That spirit wouldn't have done, gentlemen, and I tried to change it. I told Mr. Briggs that he was a coward, something I knew to be false. I insulted him over and again until only my authority as head coach kept him from trying to kill me. He told me he would do so when we had broken training and I promised to give him satisfaction. What I did is, I am well aware, open to criticism. But our necessity was great and I stand ready to accept any consequences. At least the result of today's contest in a measure vindicates my method. You who saw Mr. Briggs play will, I am sure, find excuses for me. As for the gentleman himself, it remains with him to say whether he will accept my apology for what passed this morning, taking into consideration the strait in which we were placed and the results as shown, or whether he will demand other satisfaction." Half a hundred surprised, curious faces turned toward Bi, who, during Hecker's statement, had looked at first contemptuous, then bewildered, and finally comprehending. For about ten seconds the room was as still as a graveyard. Then Bi stepped up with outstretched hand like a little man, and for the second time that day we went crazy! Bi was hailed as the greatest guard of the year, and they put him on the All-American team, but I don't think Bi cared a button. Anyhow, when they tried to get him to come out for the eleven the next fall he absolutely refused, and nothing anyone could say would budge him. He said he was too busy. THE END 
23127	----	Julian Home, by Dean Frederick Farrar. ________________________________________________________________________ In this book Farrar, who for the first part of his career was a British Public School master and headmaster, writes of the lives of a group of clever young men during their three years studies at Camford University, (transparently Cambridge). Some of them work hard and do well, gaining College scholarships and fellowships, while others do little work and become enmeshed in gambling, drinking, and other still worse vices. Some miserable tricks are played by the bad and idle men in attempts to bring down the good and hard working ones, most of which nearly end in disaster, but by various tricks of fortune a balance is in the end restored, and the book comes to a satisfactory conclusion. You will enjoy this book if you do not let yourself be put off by Farrar's habit of inserting Greek, Latin, French and German tags just to show how very sap he is. ________________________________________________________________________ JULIAN HOME, BY DEAN FREDERICK FARRAR. CHAPTER ONE. SPEECH-DAY AT HARTON. "A little bench of heedless bishops there, And here a chancellor in embryo." _Shenstone_. It was Speech-day at Harton. From an early hour handsome equipages had been dashing down the street, and depositing their occupants at the masters' houses. The perpetual rolling of wheels distracted the attention every moment, and curiosity was keenly on the alert to catch a glimpse of the various magnates whose arrival was expected. At the Queen's Head stood a large array of carriages, and the streets were thronged with gay groups of pedestrians, and full of bustle and liveliness. The visitors--chiefly parents and relatives of the Harton boys--occupied the morning in seeing the school and village, and it was a pretty sight to observe mothers and sisters as they wandered with delighted interest through the scenes so proudly pointed out to them by their young escort. Some of them were strolling over the cricket-field, or through the pleasant path down to the bathing-place. Many lingered in the beautiful chapel, on whose painted windows the sunlight streamed, making them flame like jewellery, and flinging their fair shadows of blue, and scarlet, and crimson, on the delicate carving of the pillars on either side. But, on the whole, the boys were most proud of showing their friends the old school-room, on whose rude panels many a name may be deciphered, carved there by the boyish hand of poets, orators, and statesmen, who in the zenith of their fame still looked back with fond remembrance on the home of their earlier days, and some of whom were then testifying by their presence the undying interest which they took in their old school. The pleasant morning wore away, and the time for the Speeches drew on. The room was thronged with a distinguished company, and presented a brilliant and animated appearance. In the centre was a table loaded with prize-books, and all round it sat the secular and episcopal dignitaries for whom seats had been reserved, while the chair was occupied by a young Prince of the royal house. On the other side was a slightly elevated platform, on which were seated the monitors who were to take part in the day's proceedings, and behind it, under the gallery set apart for old Hartonians, crowded a number of gentlemen and boys who could find no room elsewhere. "Now, papa," said a young lady sitting opposite the monitors, "I've been asking Walter here which is the cleverest of those boys." "Ahem! _young men_ you mean," interrupted her elder sister. "No, no," said Walter positively, "call them boys; to call them young men is all bosh; we shall have `young gentlemen' next, which is awful twaddle." "Well, which of those boys on the platform is the cleverest--the greatest swell _he_ calls it? Now you profess to be a physiognomist, papa, so just see if you can guess." "I'm to look out for some future Byron or Peel among them; eh, Walter?" "Yes." The old gentleman put on his spectacles, and deliberately looked round the row of monitors, who were awaiting the Headmaster's signal to begin the speeches. "Well, haven't you done yet, papa? What an age you are. Walter says you ought to tell at a glance." "Patience, my dear, patience. I'll tell you in a minute." "There," he said, after a moment's pause, "that boy seated last but one on the bench nearest us has more genius than any of them, I should say." He pointed to one of the youngest-looking of the monitors, who would also have been the most striking in personal appearance had not the almost hectic rose-colour of his cheeks, and the quiet shining of his blue eyes, under the soft hair that hung over his forehead, given a look of greater delicacy than was desirable in a boyish face. "Wrong, wrong, wrong," chuckled Walter and his sister. "Try again." "I'm very rarely wrong, you little rogue, in spite of you; but I'll look again. No, there can be no doubt about it. Several of those faces show talent, but one only has a look of genius, and that is the face of the boy I pointed out before. What is his name?" "Oh, that's Home. He's clever enough in his way, but the fellow you ought to have picked out is the monitor I fag for--Bruce, the head of the school." "Well, show me your hero." "There he sits, right in the middle of them, opposite us. There, that's he just going to speak now." He pointed to a tall, handsome fellow, with a look of infinite self-confidence, who at that moment made a low bow to the assembly, and then began to recite with much force a splendid burst of oratory from one of Burke's great speeches; which he did with the air of one who had no doubt that Burke himself might have studied with benefit the scorn which he flung into his invective and the Olympian grace with which he waved his arm. A burst of applause followed the conclusion of his recitation, during which Bruce took his seat with a look of unconcealed delight and triumph. "There, papa--what do you think of that? Wasn't I right now?" said the young Hartonian, whose name was Walter Thornley. But the old gentleman's only answer was a quiet smile, and he had not joined in the general clapping. "Is Home to take any part in the speeches?" he inquired. "Oh, yes! He's got some part or other in one of the Shakespeare scenes; but he won't do it half as well as Bruce." "I observe he's got several of the prizes." "Yes, that's true. He's a fellow that grinds, you know, and so he can't help getting some. But Bruce, now, never opens a book, and yet he's swept off no end of a lot, as you'll see." "Humph! Walter, I don't much believe in your boys that `never open a book,' and, as far as I can observe, the phrase must be taken with very considerable latitude; I still believe that the boy who `grinds,' as you call it, is the abler boy of the two." "Yes, Walter," said his brother, an old Hartonian, "whenever a fellow, who has got a prize, tells you he won it without opening a book, set him down as a shallow puppy, and don't believe him." By this time four of the monitors were standing up to recite a scene from the Merchant of Venice, and Home among them; his part was a very slight one, and although there was nothing remarkable in his way of acting, yet he had evidently studied with intelligence his author's meaning, and his modest self-possession attracted favourable regards. But, a few minutes after, he had to recite alone a passage of Tennyson's Morte d'Arthur, and then he appeared to greater advantage. Standing in a perfectly natural attitude, he began in low clear tones, enunciating every line with a distinctness that instantly won attention, and at last warming with his theme he modulated his voice with the requirements of the verse, and used gestures so graceful, yet so unaffected, that when with musical emphasis he spoke the last lines,-- "Long stood Sir Bedivere Resolving many memories, till the hull Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away,--" he seemed entirely absorbed in the subject, and for half a minute stood as if unconscious, until the deep murmur of applause startled his meditations, and he sat down as naturally as he had risen. "Well done, old Home," said Walter; while Mr Thornley nodded rapidly two or three times, and murmured after him,-- "And on the mere the wailing died away." "Really, I think Julian did that admirably, did he not?" said a young and lovely girl to her mother, as Home sat down. "By jingo," whispered Walter, "I believe these people just by us are Home's people." "People!" said his sister; "what do you mean by his people?" "Oh, _you_ know, Mary; you girls are always shamming you don't understand plain English. I mean his _people_." Mary smiled, and looked at the strangers. "Yes, no doubt of it," she said, "that young lady has just the same features as Mr Home, only softened a little; more refined they could not be. And they've been hearing all your rude remarks, Walter, no doubt." The boy was right, for when the speeches were over, they saw Home offer his arm to the two ladies and lead them out into the courtyard, where everybody was waiting, under the large awning, to hear the lions of the day cheered as they came down the school steps. Bruce was leading the cheers; he seemed to know everybody and everybody to know him, and as group after group passed him, he was bowing and smiling repeatedly while he listened to the congratulations which were lavished upon him from all sides. Among the last his own family came out, and when he gave his arm to his mother and descended the school steps, one of the other monitors suddenly cried-- "Three cheers for the Head of the school." The boys cordially echoed the cheers, and taking off his hat, Bruce stood still with a flush of exultation on his handsome face, in an attitude peculiar to him whenever he was undergoing an ovation. "Pose plastique; King Bruce snuffing up the incense of flattery!" muttered a school Thersites, standing by. "Green-minded scoundrel," was the reply; "that's because he beat you to fits in the Latin verse." "How very popular he seems to be, Julian," said Miss Home to her brother, as they stood rather apart from the fashionable crowd. "Very popular, and, on the whole, he deserves his popularity; how capitally he recited to-day," and Julian looked at him and sighed. "And now, mother, will you come to lunch?" he said; "you're invited to my tutor's, you know." They went and took a hasty lunch, heartily enjoying the simple and general good-humour which was the order of the day; and finding that there was still an hour before the train started which was to convey them home, Julian took them up to the old churchyard, and while they enjoyed the only breath of air which made the tall elms murmur in the burning day, he showed them the beautiful scene spread out at their feet, and the distant towers of Elton and Saint George. Field after field, filled with yellowing harvests or grazing herds, stretched away to the horizon, and nothing on earth could be fairer than that soft sleep of the golden sunshine on the green and flowery meadowland, while overhead only a few silvery cloudlets variegated with their fleecy lustre the expanse of blue, rippling down to the horizon like curves of white foam at the edges of a summer sea. "No wonder a poet loved this view," said Mrs Home. "By the bye, Julian, which is the tomb he used to lie upon?" "There, just behind us; that one with the fragments broken off by stupid picturesque tourists, with the name of Peachey on it." "And so Byron really used, as a boy, to rest under these elms, and look at this lovely view!" said his sister. "Yes, Violet. I wonder how much he'd have given, in after-life, to be a boy again," said Julian thoughtfully; "and have a fresh start--a rejuvenescence, beginning after a summer hour spent on Peachey's tomb;" and Julian sighed again. "My dear Julian," said Violet, gaily rallying him, "what a boy you are! What business have you to sigh here of all places, and now of all times? That's the second time in the course of an hour that I've heard you. Imagine a Harton monitor sighing twice on Speech-day! You must be tired of us." "Did I sigh? Abominably rude of me. I really didn't mean it," said Julian; and shaking off the influences which had slightly depressed him for the moment, he began to laugh and joke with the utmost mirth until it became time to meet the train. He accompanied his mother and sister to the station, bade them an affectionate farewell, and then walked slowly back, for the beauty of the summer evening made him loiter on the way. "Poor Julian!" said Violet to her mother when the train started; "he lets the sense of responsibility weigh on him too much, I'm afraid." But Julian was thinking that the next time he came to the station would probably be at the end of term, when his schoolboy days would be over. He leaned against a gate, and looked long at the green quiet hill, with its tall spire and embosoming trees, till he fell into a reverie. A slap on the back awoke him, and turning round, he saw the genial, good-humoured face of one of his fellow-monitors, Hugh Lillyston. "Well, Julian, dreaming as usual--castle-building, and all that sort of thing, eh?" "No; I was thinking how soon one will have to bid good-bye to dear old Harton. How well the chapel looks from here, doesn't it?--and the church towering above it." "The chapel being like a fair daughter seated at her mother's feet, as your poetical tutor remarked the other day. Well, Julian, I'm glad we shall leave together, anyhow. Come and have some tea." Julian went to his friend's room. The fag brought the tea and toast, and they spent a merry evening, chatting over the speeches, and the way in which the day had gone off. At lock-up, Julian went to write some letters, and then feeling the melancholy thought of future days stealing over him, he plunged into a book of poems till it was bed-time, being disturbed a good deal, however, by the noisy mirth which resounded long after forbidden hours from Bruce's study overhead. Bruce was also to leave Harton in a month, and they were going up together to Saint Werner's College, Camford. But the difference was, that Bruce went up wealthy and popular; Julian, whose retiring disposition and refined tastes won him far fewer though truer friends, was going up as a sizar, with no prospect of remaining at the University unless he won himself the means of doing so by his own success. It was this thought that had made him sigh. CHAPTER TWO. JULIAN HOME. "O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys; they are as gentle As zephyrs blowing beneath the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as fierce, Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine, And makes him bow to the vale." _Cymbeline, Act 4, scene 2_. It was but recently, (as will be explained hereafter), that the circumstances had arisen which had rendered it necessary for Julian Home to enter Saint Werner's as a sizar and since that necessity had arisen, he had been far from happy. A peculiar sensitiveness had been from childhood the distinctive feature of his character. It rendered him doubly amenable to every emotion of pleasure and pain, and gave birth to a self-conscious spirit, which made his nature appear weaker, when a boy, than it really was. While he was at Harton, this self-consciousness made him keenly, almost tremblingly, alive to the opinions of others about himself. His self-depreciation arose from real humility, and there was in his heart so deep a fountain of love towards all his fellows, and so sympathising an admiration of all their good or brilliant qualities, that he was far too apt to suffer himself to be tormented by the indifference or dislike of those who were far his inferiors. It was strange that such a boy should have had enemies, but he was sadly aware that in that light some regarded him. Had it been possible to conciliate them without any compromise in his line of action, he would have done so at any cost; but as their enmity arose from that vehement moral indignation which Julian both felt and expressed against the iniquities which he despised and disapproved, he knew that all union with them was out of his power. As a general rule, the best boys are by no means the most popular. It was the great delight of Julian's detractors to compare him unfavourably with their hero, Bruce. Bruce, as a fair scholar and a good cricketer, with no very marked line of his own--as a fine-looking fellow, anxious to keep on good terms with everybody, and with an apparently hearty "well met" for all the world--cut against the grain of no one's predilections, and had the voice of popular favour always on his side. While ambition made him work tolerably hard, as far as he could do so without attracting observation, the line he took was to disparage industry, and ally himself with the merely cricketing set, with some of whom he might be seen strolling arm-in-arm, in loud conversation, at every possible opportunity. Julian, on the other hand, though a fair cricketer, soon grew weary of the "shop" about that game, which for three months formed the main staple of conversation among the boys; and while his countenance was too expressive to conceal this fact, he in his turn found himself unable to enlist more than a few in any interest for those intellectual pursuits which were the chief joy of his own life. "Home, I've been watching you for the last half-hour," said Bruce, one day at dinner, "and you haven't opened your lips." "I've had nothing to say." "Why not?" "Because, since we came in, not one word has been said about any human subject but cricket, cricket, cricket; it's been the same for the last two months; and as I haven't been playing this morning--" "Well, no one wants you to talk," interrupted Brogten, one of the eleven, Julian's especial foe. "I say, Bruce, did you see--" "I was only going to add," said Julian, with perfect good-humour, heedless of the interruption, "that I couldn't discuss a game I didn't see." "Nobody asked you, sir, she said," retorted Brogten rudely; "if it had been some sentimental humbug, I dare say you'd have mooned about it long enough." "Better, at any rate, than some of your low stories, Brogten," said Lillyston, firing up on his friend's behalf. "I don't know. I like something manly." "Vice and manliness being identical, then, according to your notions?" said Lillyston. Brogten muttered an angry reply, in which the only audible words were "confound" and "milksops." "Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame; Known by thy _bleating_, Ignorance thy name," thought Julian; but he did not condescend to make any further answer. "I hate that kind of fellow," said Brogten, loud enough for the friends to hear, as they rose from the table; "fellows who think themselves everybody's superiors, and walk with their noses in the air." "I wonder that you will still be talking, Brogten; nobody marks you," said Lillyston, treating with the profoundest indifference a stupid calumny. But poisoned arrows like these quivered long and rankled painfully in Julian's heart. Yet no sensible boy would have given Julian's reputation in exchange for that of Bruce; for in all except the mean and coarse minority, Julian excited either affection or esteem, and he had the rare inestimable treasure of some real and noble-hearted friends; while Bruce was too vain, too shallow, and too fickle to inspire any higher feeling than a mere transient admiration. Latterly it had become known to the boys that Julian was going up to Saint Werner's as a sizar, and being ignorant of the reasons which decided him, they had been much surprised. But the little clique of his enemies made this an additional subject of annoyance, and there were not wanting those who had the amazing bad taste to repeat to him some of their speeches. There are some who seem to think that a man must rather enjoy hearing all the low tittle-tattle of envious backbiters. "I knew he must be some tailor's son or other," remarked Brogten. "I say, Bruce, we shall have to cut him at Saint Werner's," observed an exquisite young exclusive. Such things--the mere lispings of malicious folly--Julian could not help hearing; and they galled him so much that he determined to have a talk on the subject with his tutor, who was a Saint Werner's man. It was his tutor's custom to devote the hour before lock-up on every half-holiday to seeing any of his pupils who cared to come and visit him; but as on the rich summer evenings few were to be tempted from the joyous sounds of the cricket-field, Julian found him sitting alone in his study, reading. "Ha, Julian!" he exclaimed, rising at once, with a frank and cordial greeting. "Here's a triumph! A boy actually enticed from bats and balls to pay me a visit!" Julian smiled. "The fact is, sir," he said, "I've come to ask you about something. But am I disturbing you? If so, I'll go and `pursue vagrant pieces of leather again,' as Mr Stokes says when he wants to dismiss us to cricket." "Not in the least. I rather enjoy being disturbed during this hour. But what do you say to a turn in the open air? One can talk so much better walking than sitting down on opposite sides of a fireplace with no fire in it." Julian readily assented, and Mr Carden took his arm as they bent their way down to the cricket-field. There they stopped involuntarily for a time, to gaze at the house match which was going on, and the master entered with the utmost vivacity into the keen yet harmless "chaff" which was being interchanged between the partisans of the rival houses. "What a charming place this field is," he said, "on a summer evening, while the sunset lets fall upon it the last innocuous arrows of its golden sheaf. When I am wearied to death with work or vexation--which, alas! is too often--I always run down here, and it gives me a fresh lease of life." Julian smiled at his tutor's metaphorical style of speech, which he knew was in him the natural expressions of a glowing and poetic heart, that saw no reason to be ashamed of its own warm feelings and changeful fancies; and Mr Carden, wrapped in the scene before him, and the sensations it excited, murmured to himself some of his favourite lines-- "Alas that one Should use the days of summer but to live, And breathe but as the needful element The strange superfluous glory of the air Nor rather stand in awe apart, beside The untouched time, and murmuring o'er and o'er In awe and wonder, `These are summer days!'" "Shall we stroll across the fields, sir, before lock-up?" said Julian, as a triumphant shout proclaimed that the game was over, and the Parkites had defeated the Grovians. "Yes, do. By the bye, what was it that you had to ask me about?" "Oh, sir, I don't think I've told you before; but I'm going up to Saint Werner's as a sub-sizar." Mr Carden looked surprised. "Indeed! Is that necessary?" "Yes, sir; it's a choice between that and not going at all. And what I wanted to ask you was, whether it will subject me to much annoyance or contempt; because, if so--" "_Contempt_, my dear fellow!" said Mr Carden quickly. "Yes," he added, after a pause, "the contempt of the contemptible--certainly of no one else." "But do you think that any Harton fellows will cut me?" "Unquestionably not; at least, if any of them do, it will be such a proof of their own absolute worthlessness, that you will be well rid of such acquaintances." Julian seemed but little reassured by this summary way of viewing the matter. "But I hope," he said, "that no one, (even if they don't cut me), will regard my society as a matter of mere tolerance, or try an air of condescension." "Look here, Julian," said the master; "a sub-sizar means merely a poor scholar, for whom the college has set apart certain means of assistance. From this body have come some of the most distinguished men whom Saint Werner's has ever produced; and many of the Fellows, (indeed quite a disproportionate number), began their college career in this manner. Now tell me--should you care the snap of a finger for the opinion or the acquaintance of a man who could be such an ineffable fool as to drop intercourse with you because you are merely less rich than he? Don't you remember those grand old words, Julian-- "Lives there for honest poverty, Who hangs his head and a' that? The coward slave we pass him by, And dare be poor for a' that." "And yet, sir, half the distinctions of modern society rest upon accidents of this kind." "True, true! quite true; but what is the use of education if it does not teach us to look on man as man, and judge by a nobler and more real standard than the superficial distinctions of society? But answer my question." "Well, sir, I confess that I should think very lightly of the man who treated me in that way; still I should be _annoyed_ very much by his conduct." "I really think, Julian," replied Mr Carden, "that the necessity which compels you to go up as a sizar will be good for you in _many_ ways. Poverty, self-denial, the bearing of the yoke in youth, are the highest forms of discipline for a brave and godly manhood. The hero and the prophet are rarely found in soft clothing or kingly houses; they are never chosen from the palaces of Mammon or the gardens of Belial." They talked a little longer on the subject, and Mr Carden pointed out how, at the universities more than anywhere, the aristocracy of intellect and character are almost solely recognised, and those patents of nobility honoured which come direct from God. "After a single term, Julian, depend upon it you will smile at the sensitiveness which now makes you shrink from entering on this position. At least, I assume that even by that time your name will be honourably known, as it will be if you work hard. You must never forget that `Virtus vera nobilitas' is the noble motto of your own college." "Well, I _will_ work at any rate," said Julian; "indeed I _must_." "But may I ask why you have determined on going up as sizar?" "Oh yes, sir. I am far too grateful for all your many kindnesses to me, not to tell you freely of my circumstances." And so, as they walked on that beautiful summer evening over the green fields, Julian, happy in the quiet sympathising attention of one who was not only a master, but a true, earnest, and affectionate friend, told him some of the facts to which we shall allude in the retrospect of the next chapter. CHAPTER THREE. A RETROSPECT. "Give me the man that is not Passion's slave, And I will wear him in my own heart's core, Yea, in my heart of hearts." _Shakespeare_. Julian's father was Rector of Ildown, a beautiful village on the Devonshire coast. As younger son, his private means were very small, and the more so as his family had lost in various unfortunate speculations a large portion of the wealth which had once been the inheritance of his ancient and honourable house. Mr Home regretted this but little; contentment of mind and simplicity of tastes were to him a far deeper source of happiness than the advantages of fortune. Immediately after his university career he had taken holy orders, and devoted to the genial duties of his profession all the energies of a vigorous intellect and a generous heart. During his first curacy he was happy enough to be placed in the diocese of a bishop, whose least merit was the rare conscientiousness with which he distributed the patronage at his disposal. Whenever a living was vacant, the Bishop of Elford used deliberately to pass in mental review all the clergy under his jurisdiction, and single out from amongst them the ablest and the best. He was never influenced by the spirit of nepotism; he was never deceived by shallow declaimers, or ignorant bigots, who had thrust themselves into the notoriety of a noisy and orthodox reputation. The ordinary Honourable and Reverend, whose only distinction was his title or his wealth, had to look for preferment elsewhere; but often would some curate, haply sighing at the thought that obscurity and poverty were his lot for this life, and meekly bearing both for the honour of his Master's work, be made deservedly happy by at last attaining the rewards he had never sought. Few, indeed, were the dioceses in which the clergy worked in a more hopeful spirit, in the certainty that the good bishop never suffered merit to pass unrecognised; and for talent and industry, no body of rectors could be compared to those whom Bishop Morris had chosen from the most deserving of the curates who were under his pastoral care. Mr Home, after five years' hard work, had been promoted by the bishop to a small living, where he soon succeeded in winning the warmest affection of all his parishioners, and among others, of his squire and church-warden, the Earl of Raynes, who, from a feeling of sincere gratitude, procured for him, on the first opportunity, the rectory of Ildown. Here, at the age of thirty, he settled down, with every intention of making it his home for life; and here he shortly after wooed and won the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, whose only dower was the beauty of a countenance which but dimly reflected the inner beauty of her heart. Very tranquil was their wedded life; very perfect was the peacefulness of their home. Under her hands the rectory garden became a many-coloured Eden, and the eye could rest delightedly on its lawns and flower-beds, even amid that glorious environment of woods and cliffs, free moors and open sea, which gave to the vicinity of Ildown such a nameless charm. But the beauty without was surpassed by the rarer sunshine of the life within and when children were born to them--when little steps began to patter along the hall, and young faces to shine beside the fire, and little strains of silvery laughter to ring through every room--there was a happiness in that bright family, for the sake of which an emperor might have been content to abdicate his throne. Oh that the river of human life could flow on for ever with such sparkling waters, and its margin be embroidered for ever with flowers like these. Julian was their eldest son, and it added to the intensity of each parent's love for him to find that he seemed to have inherited the best qualities of them both. Their next child was Violet, and then, after two years' interval, came Cyril and Frank. The four children were educated at home, without even the assistance of tutor or governess, until Julian was thirteen years old; and during all that time scarcely one domestic sorrow occurred to chequer the unclouded serenity of their peace. Even without the esteem and respect of all their neighbours, rich and poor, the love of parents and children, brothers and sister, was enough for each heart there. But the day of separation must come at last, however long we may delay it, and after Julian's thirteenth birthday it was decided that he must go to school. In making this determination, his father knew what he was about. He knew that in sending his son among a multitude of boys he was exposing him to a world of temptation, and placing him amid many dangers. Yet he never hesitated about it, and when his wife spoke with trembling anxiety of the things which she had heard and read about school-life, he calmly replied that without danger there can be no courage, and without temptation no real virtue or tried strength. "Poor Julian," said Mrs Home, "but won't he be bullied dreadfully?" "No, dear; the days of those atrocities about which you read in books are gone by for ever. At no respectable school, except under very rare and peculiar circumstances, are boys exposed to any worse difficulties in the way of cruelty than they can very easily prevent or overcome." "But then those dreadful moral temptations," pleaded the mother. "They are very serious, love. But is it not better that our boy should learn, by their means, (as thousands do), to substitute the manliness of self-restraint for the innocence of ignorance--even on the very false supposition that such an innocence can be preserved? And remember that he does not escape these temptations by avoiding them; from the little I have seen, it is my sincere conviction that for after-life, (even in this aspect alone, without alluding to the innumerable other arguments which _must_ be considered), the education of a public school is a far sounder preparation than the shelter of home. I cannot persuade our neighbour Mrs Hazlet of this, but I should tremble to bring up Julian with no wider experience than she allows to her boy." So Julian went to Harton, and, after a time, thoroughly enjoyed his life there, and was unharmed by the trials which must come to every schoolboy; so that when he came back for his first holidays, the mother saw with joy and pride that her jewel was not flawed, and remained undimmed in lustre. Who knows how much had been contributed to that glad result by the daily and nightly prayer which ever ascended for him from his parents' lips, "Lead him not into temptation, but deliver him from evil." For when he first went to school, Julian was all the more dangerously circumstanced, from the fact that he was an attractive and engaging boy. With his bright eyes, beaming with innocence and trustfulness, the healthy glow of his clear and ingenuous countenance, and the noble look and manners which were the fruit of a noble mind, he could never be one of those who pass unknown and unnoticed in the common throng. And since to these advantages of personal appearance he superadded a quick intelligence, and no little activity and liveliness, he was sure to meet with flattery and observation. But there was something in Julian's nature which, by God's grace, seemed to secure him from evil, as though he were surrounded by an atmosphere impermeable to base and wicked hearts. He passed through school-life not only unscathed by, but almost ignorant of, the sins into which others fell; and the account which his contemporaries might have given of their schoolboy days was widely different from his own. He was one of those of whom the grace of God took early hold, and in whom "reason and religion ran together like warp and woof," to form the web of a wise and holy life. Such happy natures--such excellent hearts there are; though they are few and far between. To Hugh Lillyston Julian owed no little of his happiness. They had been in the same forms together since Julian came, and the friendship between them was never broken. When Lillyston first saw the new boy, he longed to speak to him at once, but respected him too much to thrust himself rudely into his acquaintance. During the first day or two they exchanged only a few shy words; for Julian, too, was pleased and taken with Lillyston's manly, honest look. But both had wisely determined to let their knowledge of each other grow up naturally and gradually, without any first-sight vows of eternal friendship, generally destined to be broken in the following week. Lillyston had observed, not without disgust, that two thoroughly bad fellows were beginning to notice the newcomer, and determined at all hazards to tell Julian his opinion of them. So one day as they left the school-room together, he said-- "Do you know Brant and Jeffrey?" "Yes; a little," answered Julian. "Did you know them before you came, or anything?" "No; but they _will_ wait for me every now and then at the door of the fourth-form room when I'm coming out and I'm sure I don't want them, but one doesn't wish to seem uncivil, and I don't know how to get rid of them." "H'm! well, I wouldn't see too much of them if I were you." "No? but why?" "Well, never mind--only I thought I'd tell you;" and Lillyston, half-ashamed at having taken this step, and half-afraid that Julian might misconstrue it, ran away. Julian, who was little pleased with the coarse adulation of Brant and Jeffrey, took his friend's advice, and from that time he and Lillyston became more and more closely united. They were constantly together, and never tired of each other's society; and at last, when their tutor, observing and thoroughly approving of the friendship, put them both in the same room, the school began in fun to call them Achilles and Patroclus, Damon and Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, David and Jonathan, Theseus and Pirithous, and as many other names of _paria amicorum_ as they could remember. Yet there was many a Harton boy who would have said, "Utinam in tali amicitia tertius ascriberer!" for each friend communicated to the other something at least of his own excellences. Lillyston instructed Julian in the mysteries of fives, racquets, football, and cricket, until he became an adept at them all; and Julian, in return, gave Lillyston very efficient help in work, and inspired him with intellectual tastes for which he felt no little gratitude in after days. The desire of getting his remove with Julian worked so much with him that he began to rise many places in the examinations; and while Julian was generally among the first few, Lillyston managed to be placed, at any rate, far above the ranks of the undistinguished herd. So, form by form, Lillyston and Julian Home mounted up the school side by side, and illustrated the noblest and holiest uses of friendship by adding to each other's happiness and advantage in every way. I am glad to dwell on such a picture, knowing, O holy Friendship, how awfully a schoolboy can sometimes _desecrate_ thy name! Three years had passed, and they were now no longer little boys, but in the upper fifth form together, and Julian was in his sixteenth year. It was one March morning, when, shortly after they entered the school-room, the school "Custos" came in and handed to the master a letter-- "It's for Mister Home, sir, by telegraph." The master called Julian, (whose heart beat quick when he heard his name), and said to him-- "Perhaps you had better take it out of the room, Home, before you read it, as it may contain something important." With a grateful look for this considerate kindness, Julian took the hint, and leaving the room, tore open the message, which was from his mother-- "Dear Julian--Come home _instantly_; your father is most dangerously ill. I cannot add more." The boys heard a cry, and the master made a sign to Lillyston, who had already started to his feet. Springing out of the unclosed door, he found Julian half-fainting; for his home affections were the very mainsprings of his life. He read the message, helped Julian down-stairs, flung a little cold water over his face, and then led him to their own study, where he immediately began, without a word, to pack up for him such things as he thought he would require. Lillyston made all the necessary arrangements, and did not leave his friend until he had seen him into the railway carriage, and pressed his hand with a silent farewell. He watched the train till it was out of sight. Then first did Julian's anguish find vent in tears. Passionately he longed at least to _know_ the worst, and would have given anything to speed the progress of the train, far too slow for his impatient misery. He was tormented by remembering the unusually solemn look and tone with which his father had parted from him a month before, and by the presentiment which at that moment had flashed across him with uncontrollable vividness, that they should never meet again. At last, at last they reached Ildown late in the evening, just as the flushed glare of crimson told the death-struggle of an angry sunset with the dull and heavy clouds. The station was a mile from the town, and it was a raw, gusty, foggy evening. There was no conveyance at the station, but leaving with the porter a hasty direction about his luggage, Julian flew along the road heedless of observation, reached the cliff, and at length stood before the rectory door. He was wet, hungry, and exhausted, for since morning he had tasted nothing, and his run had spattered him with mud from head to heel. It was too dark to judge what had happened from the appearance of the house, and half-frantic as he was with fear and eagerness, he had yet not dared to give a loud summons at the door, lest he should disturb his father's slumber or excite his nerves. Ah! Julian, you need not restrain your impetuous dread from that cause now-- The door opened very quietly, and in reply to Julian's incoherent question, the good old servant only shook her head, and turned away to brush off with her apron the tears which she vainly struggled to repress. But the boy burst into the study where he knew that the rest would be, and in another moment his arm was round his mother's neck, while Cyril and Violet and little Frank drew close and wept silently beside them both. But still Julian knew not or would not know the full truth, and at last he drew up courage to ask the question which had been so long trembling on his lips-- "Is there no hope, mother, no hope?" "Don't you know then, my boy? Your father is--" "Not _dead_," said Julian, in a hollow voice. "Oh, mother, mother, mother." His head drooped on her shoulder the news fell on him like a horrible blow, and, stunned as he was with weariness and anxiety, all sense and life flowed from him for a time. The necessity for action and the consolation of others are God's blessed remedies to lull, during the first intolerable moments, the poignancy of bereavement. Mrs Home had to soothe her children, and to see that they took needful food and rest; and she watched by the bedside of her younger boys till the silken swathe of a soft boyish sleep fell on their eyes, red and swollen with many tears. Then she saw Violet to bed, and at last sat down alone with her eldest son, who by a great prayerful effort aroused himself at last to a sense of his position. He took her hand in his, and said in a low whisper, "Mother, let me see him?" "Not now, dearest Julian; wait till to-morrow, for our sakes." "What was the cause of death, mother?" "Disease of the heart;" and once more the widow's strength seemed likely to give way. But this time it was Julian's turn to whisper, "God's will be done." Next morning Mrs Home, with Julian and Violet, entered the room of death. Flowers were scattered on the bed, and on that face, calm as marble yet soft as life, the happy wondering smile had not yet even died away. And there Julian received from his mother a slip of paper, on which his father's dying hand had traced the last messages of undying love and when they had left him there alone, he opened and read these words, written with weak and wavering pen-- "My own dearest boy, in this world we shall never meet again. But I die happy, Julian, for my trust is in God, who cares for the widow and the fatherless. And you, Julian, will take my place with Violet, Cyril, and dear Frankie--I need say nothing of a mother to such a son. God bless you, my own boy. Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you. Your dying father, "Henry Home." The last part was almost illegible, but Julian bent reverently over his father's corpse, and it seemed that the smile brightened on those dead lips as he bowed his young head in prayer. Reader, for many reasons we must not linger there. But I had to tell you of that death and of those dying words which Julian knew by heart through life, and which he kept always with him as the amulet against temptation. He never forgot them; and oh! how often in the hours of trial did it seem as if that dying message was whispered in his ear, "Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you." The concluding arrangements were soon made. The family left the rectory, but continued to reside at Ildown, a spot which they loved, and where they were known and loved. Mr Home had insured his life for a sum, not large indeed, but sufficient to save them from absolute penury, and had besides laid by sufficient to continue Julian's education. It was determined that he should return to Harton, and there try for the Newry scholarship in time. If he should be successful in getting this, there would be no further difficulty in his going to college, for it was expected that a wealthy aunt of his would assist him. His guardians, however, were kind enough to determine that, even in case of his failing to obtain the Newry, they would provide for his university expenses, although they did not conceal from him the great importance of his earnestly studying with a view to gain this pecuniary aid. Cyril was sent to Marlby, and Frank, who was but ten years old, remained for the present at Ildown grammar school. After the funeral Julian returned to Harton with a sadder and wiser heart. Though never an idle boy, he had not as yet realised the necessity of throwing himself fully into the studies of the place, but had rather given the reins to his fancy, and luxuriated in the gorgeous day-dreams of poetry and romance. Henceforward, he became a most earnest and diligent student, and day by day felt that his intellectual powers grew stronger and more developed by this healthier nourishment. At the end of that quarter he gained his first head-remove, and Mr Carden rejoiced heartily in the success of his favourite pupil. "Why, Julian, you will beat us all if you go on at this rate," said he, after reading over the trial verses which Julian asked him to criticise after the examination. "You always showed taste, but here we have vigour too; and for a wonder, you haven't made any mistakes." "I'm afraid I shall be `stumped' in the Greek `Iambi,' sir, as Mr Clarke calls them." "Ah! well, you must take pains. You've improved, though, since you had to translate Milton's-- "Smoothing the raven down Of darkness, till it smiled; "when, you remember, I gave you a literal version of your `Iambi,' which meant `pounding a pea-green fog.' Eh?" "Oh, yes," said Julian, "I remember too that I rendered `the moon-beams' by `the moon's rafters.'" "Never mind," said Mr Carden, laughing, "improve in them as much as you have in Latin verse, and we shall see you Newry scholar yet." A thrill of joy went through the boy's heart as he heard these words. CHAPTER FOUR. HOW JULIAN LOST A FORTUNE. "Most like a step-dame or a dowager Long withering out a young man's revenue." _Shakespeare_. I must not chronicle Julian's school-life, much as I should have to tell about him, and strong as the temptation is, but another event happened during his stay at Harton which affected so materially his future years that I must proceed to narrate it now. Julian's father had a sister much older than himself, who many years before had married a baronet-farmer, Sir Thomas Vinsear of Lonstead Abbey. It was certainly not a love match on the lady's side, for the baronet was twenty years her senior, and his tastes in no respect resembled hers. But she was already of "a certain age," and despairing of a lover, accepted the good old country squire, and was located for the rest of her life as mistress of Lonstead Abbey. As long as he lived all was well; Lady Vinsear, like a sensible wife, conformed herself to all his wishes and peculiarities, and won in no slight degree his gratitude and affection. But he did not long survive his marriage, and after a few years the lady found herself alone and childless in the solitary grandeur of her husband's home. Her brother Henry, the Rector of Ildown, had always been her special favourite, and she looked to his frequent visits to enliven her loneliness. But she was piqued by his having married without consulting her, and behaved so uncourteously to Mrs Home, that for a long time the intercourse between them was broken. One day, however, shortly before his death, she had written to announce an intended visit, and in due time her carriage stood before the rectory door. It so happened that it was Julian's holiday-time, and he was at home. Changed as the old lady had become by years and disappointment, and the ennui of an aimless widowhood, little relieved by the unceasing attendance of a confidante, yet Lady Vinsear's childless and withered heart seemed to be touched to life again when she gazed on her brother's beautiful and modest boy. Courteous without subservience, and attentive without servility, Julian, by his graceful and unselfish demeanour, won her complete affection, and she dropped to the family no ambiguous hints, that, for Julian's sake, she should renew her intercourse with them, and make him her heir. Circumstanced as he was, Mr Home could not but rejoice in this determination, and the more so from his proud consciousness that not even the vilest detractor could charge him with having courted his rich sister's favour by open or secret arts. From Julian he would have concealed Lady Vinsear's intention, but she had herself made him tolerably aware of it, after a fit of violent spleen against Miss Sprong, her confidante, who, seeing how the wind lay, had tried to drop little malicious hints against the favourite nephew, until the old lady had cut them short, by a peremptory order that Miss Sprong should leave the room. That little rebuff the lady never forgot and never forgave, and, under the guise of admiration, she nursed her enmity against the unconscious Julian until due opportunity should have occurred to give it vent. Every now and then, Julian, when wearied with study, would be tempted to think in his secret heart, "What does it matter my working so hard, when I shall be master of Lonstead Abbey some day?" And then perhaps would follow a rather inconsistent fit of idleness, till Mr Carden, or some other master, applied the spur again. "I can't make you out, Julian," said Lillyston; "sometimes you grind away for a month like--like beans, and then you're as idle again for a week as the dog that laid his head against a wall to bark." "Well, shall I tell you, Hugh?" answered Julian, who had often felt that it would be a relief to put his friend in possession of the secret. And he told Lillyston that he was the acknowledged heir of his aunt's property. "Oh, well then," said Lillyston, "I don't see why I should work either, seeing as how Lillyston Court will probably come to me some day. I say, Julian, I vote we both try for lag next trials. It'd save lots of grind." All this was brought out very archly, and instantly recalled to Julian's mind the many arguments which he had used to his friend, especially since his father's death, to prove that, under any circumstances, diligence was a duty which secured its own reward; indeed, he used to maintain that, even on selfish grounds it was best, for in the long run the idlest boys, with their punishments and extras, got far the most work to do--to say nothing of the lassitude that usurps the realm of neglected duty, and that disgraceful ignorance which is the nemesis of wasted time. He burst out laughing. "You have me on the hip, Hugh, and I give in. In proof whereof, here goes the novel I'm reading; and I'll at once set to work on my next set of verses;" whereon Julian pitched his green novel to the top of an inaccessible cupboard, got down his Elegiacs for the next day, and had no immediate recurrence of what Lillyston christened the "pudding theory of work." It was during his last year at Harton that Lady Vinsear, in consequence of one of her sudden whims, wrote to invite him to Lonstead, with both his brothers; for she never took any notice of either Violet or Mrs Home. The time she mentioned was ten days before the Harton holidays began. So that Frank and Cyril, (who came back from Marlby just in time), had to go alone, rather to their disgust; Julian, however, promising to join them directly after he returned from school. The wilful old lady, urged on by the confidante, took considerable umbrage at this, and wrote that "she was quite sure the Doctor would not have put any obstacles in the way of Julian's coming had he been informed of _her_ wishes. And as for trials, (the Harton word for examination), which Julian had pleaded in excuse, he had better take care that, in attending to the imaginary trials of Harton, he didn't increase his own real trials." This sentence made Julian laugh immoderately, both from his aunt's notion of the universal autocracy of _her_ will, and from her obvious bewilderment at the technical word "Trials," which had betrayed her unconsciously into a pun, which, of all things, she abhorred. However, he wrote back politely--explained what he meant by "Trials"--begged to be excused for a neglect of her wishes, which was inevitable--and reiterated his promise of joining his brothers, as early as was feasible, under her hospitable roof. It was not without inward misgiving that Cyril and Frank found themselves deposited in the hall of their glum old aunt's large and lonely house, the very size and emptiness of which had tended not a little to increase the poor lady's vapours. However, they were naturally graceful and well-bred, so that, in spite of the patronising empire assumed over them by the vulgar and half-educated Miss Sprong-- which Cyril especially was very much inclined to resent--the first day or two passed by with tolerable equanimity. But this dull routine soon proved unendurable to the two lively boys. They found it impossible to sit still the whole evening, looking over sacred prints; and this was the only amusement which Miss Sprong suggested to Lady Vinsear for them. Of late the dowager had taken what she considered to be a religious turn; but unhappily the supposed religion was as different from real piety as light from darkness, and consisted mainly in making herself and all around her miserable by a semi-ascetic puritanism of observances, and a style of conversation fit to drive her little nephews into a lunatic asylum. Though they both felt a species of terror at their ungracious aunt, and the ever-detonating Miss Sprong, the long-pent spirit of fun at times grew too strong in them, and they would call down sharp rebukes by romping in the drawing-room, so as to disturb the two ladies while they read to each other, for hours together, the charming treatises of their favourite moderate divine. The boys were seated on two stools, in the silence of despair, and at last Cyril, who had been twirling his thumbs for half an hour, and listening to a dissertation on Armageddon, gave a yawn so portentous and prolonged that Frank suddenly exploded in a little burst of laughter, which was at once checked, when Miss Sprong observed-- "I think it would be profitable if your ladyship,"--Miss Sprong never omitted the title--"would set your nephews some of Watts' hymns to learn." The nephews protested with one voice and much rebellion, but at last their irate aunt quenched the unseemly levity, and they were fairly set to work at Dr Watts--Frank getting for his share "The little busy bee." But instead of learning it, they got together, and Cyril began drawing pictures of cruet-stands and other impieties, whereby Frank was kept in fits of laughter, and when called up to say his hymn, knew nothing at all about it. Cyril sat by him, and when Frank had exhausted his stock of acquirements by saying, in a tone of disgust-- "How doth the little busy bee--" Cyril suggested-- "Delight to bark and bite." "Oh, yes-- "How doth the little busy bee Delight to bark and bite-- "How _does_ it go on, Cyril?" said Frank. "To gather honey all the day, And eat it all the night," whispered the audacious brother, conjuring into memory the schoolboy version of that celebrated poem. Frank, who was far too much engrossed in his own difficulties to think of what he was saying, artlessly repeated the words, and opened his large eyes in amazement, when he was greeted by a shout of laughter from Cyril, and a little shriek of indignation from Miss Sprong, which combined sounds started Lady Vinsear from the doze into which she had fallen, and ended in the summary ejectment of the young offenders. The next day, to their own great relief and delight, they were sent home in disgrace; and knowing that their mother would not be angry with them for a piece of childish gaiety under such trying circumstances, they were surprised and pained to see how grave she and Violet looked when they told their story. But Mrs Home's thoughts had reverted to Julian, and she knew Miss Sprong too well not to be aware that she had designs on Lady Vinsear's property, and would excite against Julian any ill-will she could. That her fears were not unfounded was proved by the fact that, in the middle of trial-week, Julian received an altogether intolerable epistle from Miss Sprong, written, she said, "at the express request and dictation of his esteemed aunt," calling him to account for this little incident in a way that, (to use Lillyston's expression), instantly "put him on his hind legs." He read a part of this letter to Lillyston, and, with his own comments, it ran thus:-- "Lady Vinsear desires me to say," (Hem! I doubt that very much), "that the rudeness of those two little boys, to say nothing of their great immorality and impiety," (I say, that's coming it too strong, or rather too _Sprong_), "is such as to reflect great discredit on the influences to which they have been _lately_--" "By Jove! this is too bad," said Julian, passionately; "when she adds innuendoes against my mother to her other malice--I won't stand it," and, without reading farther, he tossed the letter into the fire, watching with vindictive eyes its complete consumption-- "There goes the squire--revered, illustrious spark! And there--no less illustrious--goes the clerk!" he said, as he watched the little red streams flickering out of the black paper ashes. "And now for the answer! Bother the woman for plaguing me, (for I know it's none of my aunt's handiwork), in the middle of trial-week." "I say, Julian, don't be too fiery in your answer, you know, for you really ought to appease the poor old lady. Only think of that impudent little brother of yours! I must make the young rogue's acquaintance some day." But Julian had seized a sheet of note-paper, and wrote to his aunt, not condescending to notice even by a message her obnoxious amanuensis:-- "My Dear Aunt--I cannot believe that the letter I received to-day really emanated from you, at least not in the language in which it was couched. "I have neither time nor inclination," (`Hoity, toity, how grand we are!') "to attend to the foolish trifle to which your amanuensis," (`Meaning me!' screamed the irrepressible Sprong), "alludes; but I am quite sure that, on reflection, you will not be inclined to judge too hardly a mere piece of fun and thoughtless liveliness; for that Frankie meant to be rude, I don't for a moment believe. I shall only add, that if I were not convinced that _you_ can never have sanctioned the expressions which the lady," (Julian had first written `person,' but altered it afterwards), "who wrote for you presumed to apply to my brothers, and above all, to my mother, I should have good reason to be offended; but feeling sure that they are not attributable to you, I pass them over with indifference. I am obliged to write in great haste, so here I must conclude. "Believe me, my dear Aunt, your affectionate nephew, "Julian Home." Lady Vinsear was secretly pleased with the spirit which this letter showed, and was not sorry for the snubbing which it gave to her lady-companion; but she determined to exercise a little tyranny, and fancied that Julian would be too much frightened to resent it. Accustomed to the legacy-hunting spirit of many parasites, the old lady thought that Julian would be like the rest, and hoped to enjoy the sight of him reduced to submission and obedience, in the hopes of future advantage; not that she would exult in his humiliation, but she was glad of any pretext to bring the noble boy before her as a suppliant for her favour. Accordingly, setting aside her first and better impulses, she wrote back a sharp reply, abusing Cyril and Frank in round and severe terms, and adding some bitter innuendoes about the poverty of the family, and their supposed expectations at her decease. Miss Sprong lent all the venom of her malicious ingenuity to this precious performance, which fortunately did not reach Julian until trials were nearly over. Tired with excitement and hard work, the boy could ill endure these galling allusions, and wrote back a short and fiery reply:-- "My Dear Aunt--If any one has persuaded you that I am eager to purchase your good-will at any sacrifice, and that in consideration of `supposed advantages' hereafter to be derived from you--I shall be willing to endure unkindly language or groundless insinuations about my other relatives--then they have very seriously misled you as to my real character. This is really the only reply of which your letter admits. I shall always be ready, as in duty bound, to bestow on you such respect and affection as our relationship demands and your own kindness may elicit, but I would scorn to win your favour at the expense of a subservience at once ungenerous and unjust. "Believe me to remain, your affectionate nephew, "Julian Home." This letter decided the matter. Lady Vinsear wrote back, that as he obviously cared nothing about her, and did not even treat her with ordinary deference, she had that day altered her will. Poor old lady! Julian's angry letter cost her many a pang; and that night, as she sat in her bedroom by her lonely hearth, and thought over her dead brother and this gallant high-souled boy of his, the tears coursed each other down her furrowed cheeks, and she could get no rest. At last she had taken her desk, and, with trembling hands, written:-- "Dearest Julian--Forgive an old woman's whim, and come to me and comfort my old age. All I have is yours, Julian; and I love you, though I wrote to you so bitterly.--Your loving aunt, "Caroline Vinsear." But when morning came, Sprong resumed her ascendency, and by raking up and blowing the cooled embers of her patroness' wrath, succeeded once more in fanning them to the old red heat, after which she poured vinegar upon them, and they exploded in the pungent fumes of the note which told our hero that he was not to hope, for the future, to be one day owner of a handsome fortune. Of course, at first he was a little downcast; and in talking to Lillyston, compared himself to Gautier sans avoir, and "Wilfred the disinherited." "Never mind, Julian; it matters very little to _you_," said Lillyston proudly. "Anyhow I must have no more fits of idleness," answered Julian. And indeed the only pain it caused him arose from the now necessary decision that he must go to Saint Werner's College _as a sizar_, or not at all. But for all that he went home with a light heart, and had once more gained the proud distinction of head-remove--one for which, at that time, I very much doubt whether he would have exchanged the prospect of a rich inheritance. And the misfortune proved an advantage to Cyril too, as we shall see. "So here's the little rogue who has lost me a thousand a year," said Julian laughingly, when he got home, and took Cyril on his knee by the fireside after dinner. The next moment he was very sorry he had said it, for Cyril hung his head, and seemed quite disconcerted; but his brother laughed away his sorrow, as he thought, and no further allusion to the subject was made. But that night, as Julian looked into his brother's bedroom before he went to bed, he found Cyril crying, and his pillow wet with tears. "Cyril, what's the matter, my boy?--you're not ill, are you?" Cyril sat up, his eyes still swimming, and threw his arms round his brother's neck. "I've ruined you, Julian," he said. "My dear child, what nonsense! Nay, my foolish little fellow," answered Julian, "this is really a mistake of yours. Aunt Vinsear was angry with me for my letters,--not with you. Don't cry so, Cyril, for I really don't care a rush about it; but I shall care if it vexes you. But shall I tell you why you ought to know of it, Cyril?" "Why?" "Because, my boy, it affects you too. You know, Cyril, that we are very poor now. Well, you see we shall have to support ourselves hereafter, and mother and Violet depend on us so you must work hard, Cyril, will you? and don't be idle at Marlby, as I'm afraid you have been. Eh, my boy?" The boy promised faithfully, and performed the promise well in after days; but that night Julian did not leave him until he was fast asleep. We shall tell only one more scene of Julian's Harton life, and that very briefly. It is a glorious summer afternoon; four o'clock bell is just over, and it is expected that in a few minutes the examiner, (an old Hartonian and senior classic), will read out the list which shall give the result of many weeks' hard work. The Newry scholarship is to be announced at the same time: Bruce and Home are the favourite names. A crowd of boys throng round the steps, but Julian is not among them; he is leaning over the rails of the churchyard, under the elm-trees by Peachey's tomb, filled with a trembling and almost sickening anxiety. Bruce, confident of victory, is playing racquets, just below the schoolyard. The Examiner suddenly appears from the speech-room door. There is a breathless silence while he reads the list, and then announces, in an emphatic voice-- "The Newry scholarship is adjudged to Julian Home!" Off darts Lillyston, bounds up the hill into the churchyard, and has informed the happy Julian of his good fortune long before the "three cheers for Mr Burton," and "three cheers for Home," have died away. CHAPTER FIVE. SAINT WERNER'S. "So soon the boy a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran." Rogers' _Human Life_. The last day at Harton came; the last chapel-service in that fair school fabric; the last sermon, "Arise, let us go hence;" the last look at the churchyard and the fourth-form room; the last "Speecher," and delivering up of the monitor's keys; the last farewells to Mr Carden and the other masters, and the Doctor, and their schoolfellows and fags; and then with swelling hearts Julian and Lillyston got into the special train, thronged with its laughing and noisy passengers, and during the twenty minutes which were occupied by their transit to London, were filled with the melancholy thought that the days of boyhood were over for ever. "Good-bye, Frank," said Julian--"To-morrow, to fresh fields and pastures new." "Good-bye, Julian. We must meet next at Saint Werner's." "Mind you write meanwhile." "All right. You shall hear in a week. Good-bye." And Lillyston nodded from the cab window his last farewell to Julian Home, the Harton boy. But if there were partings, what glorious meetings there were too, during those twenty-four hours. Ah! they must be felt, not written of: but I am sure that no family felt a keener joy that day, than Julian's mother, and sister, and brothers, when they saw him again, and learnt with pride that he had won a scholarship of 100 pounds a year; even Will and Mary, the faithful servants, seemed, when they heard it, to look up to their young master with even more honour than before. Bruce spent the first part of his holidays in shooting, and the latter weeks in all the gaieties of a wealthy London family. He was naturally self-indulgent, and as no one urged him to make good use of his time, he devoted it to every possible amusement which riches could procure. Both he and his parents had a boundless belief in his natural abilities, and these, he thought, would be quite sufficient to gain him such honours as should be a graceful addition to the public reputation which he intended to win. A week or two before the Camford term commenced, he engaged some splendid lodgings, the most expensive which he heard of, and, turning out the furniture which was usually let with them, gave an almost unlimited order to a fashionable upholsterer to see them fitted out with due luxury and taste. When he came up as a freshman, which he deferred doing until the last possible moment, he was himself amazed to see how literally his orders had been obeyed. The rooms were refulgent with splendour: glossy tables, velvet-cushioned chairs, Turkey carpets, rich curtains, and an abundance of mirrors, made them, as the tradesman remarked "fit for a lord;" and Bruce took possession, with no little pride and self-satisfaction at finding himself his own master in so brilliant an abode. Meanwhile, the holidays had passed by with Julian very differently, but very happily. Without tiring himself, or harassing his attention by study, he made a rule of devoting to work some portion, at least, of every day. Long strolls with his mother and sister in the bright summer evenings, bathes and boating excursions with Cyril and Frank, and happy, lonely rambles on the beach, kept him in health and spirits, and he looked forward with eager ambition to the arena which he was so soon to enter. "The Harton boys have gone back by this time, haven't they?" asked Violet, as she sat with her mother and brother on the lawn one afternoon. "Don't you wish you were there again with them, Julian?" "No," said Julian, "I wouldn't exchange Saint Werner's man even for Harton boy." "How soon shall you have to go up to Saint Werner's?" said Mrs Home. "On October 15th; in about a fortnight's time. I mean to go up a day or two beforehand to get settled. You and Violet must come with me, mother." "But is that usual? Won't you get laughed at as though you were coming up under female escort?" asked Violet. "Pooh! you don't suppose I care for that," said Julian, "even supposing it were likely to be true; besides--" He said no more, but his proud look at his sister's face seemed to imply that he expected rather to be envied than laughed at. Accordingly, they went up together, and, as the train drew nearer and nearer to Camford, all three grew silent and thoughtful. They were rightly conscious that on the years to be spent in college life depended no small part of Julian's future happiness and prosperity. Three years at least would be spent there; years wealthy with all blessing, or prolific of evil and regret. It was night when they arrived, and in the dimly-lighted streets there was not enough visible to gratify Julian's eager curiosity. The omnibus was crowded with undergraduates, who were chiefly freshmen, but apparently anxious to seem very much at home. At the station, the piles of luggage seemed interminable, and Mrs Home and Violet were not sorry to escape from the unusual confusion to the quiet of their hotel. Next morning, directly after an impatient breakfast, Julian started to call on his tutor. "Which is the way to Saint Werner's College?" he asked of the waiter. "Straight along, sir," was the reply, and off he started down King's Parade. In his hurry to make the first acquaintance with his new college, Julian hardly stopped to admire the smooth green quadrangle and lofty turrets of King Henry's College, or Saint Mary's, or the Senate House and Library, but strode on to the gate of Saint Werner's. Entering, he gazed eagerly at the famous great court, with its chapel, hall, fountain, and Master's lodge; and then made his way through the cloisters of Warwick's Court to his tutor's rooms. On entering, he found himself in a room, luxuriously furnished, and full of books. In a large armchair before the fire sat a clergyman, whom Julian at once conjectured to be Mr Grayson, the tutor on whose "side" he was entered. He was a tall, grave-looking man, of about forty, and rose to greet his pupil with a formal bow. "How do you do, Mr --? I did not quite catch the name." "Home, sir," said Julian, advancing to shake hands in a cordial and confiding manner; but the tutor contented himself with a very cold shake, and seemed at a loss how to proceed. Julian was burning with curiosity and eagerness. He longed to ask a hundred questions; at such a moment--a moment when he first felt how completely he had passed over the boundary which divides boyhood from manhood, he yearned for a word of advice, of encouragement, of sympathy. He expected, at least, something which should resemble a welcome, or a direction what to do. Nothing of the kind, however, came. While Julian was awaiting some remark, the tutor shuffled, hemmed, and looked ill at ease, as though at a loss how to begin the conversation. At last Julian, in despair, asked, "Whereabouts are my rooms, sir?" "Oh, the porter will show you; you'll find no difficulty about them," said the tutor. "Have you anything further to ask me, Mr Home?" he inquired, after another little pause. "Nothing whatever, sir," said Julian, a little indignantly, for he began to feel much like what a volcano may be supposed to do when its crater is filled with snow. "Have you anything to tell me, sir?" "No, Mr Home. I hope you'll--that is--I hope--good morning," he said, as Julian, to relieve him from an unprofitable commonplace, backed towards the door, and made a formal bow. "Humph," thought Julian. "What an icicle; not much good to be got out of that quarter. An intolerably cold reception. It's odd, too, for the man must have heard all about me from Mr Carden." As we shall have very little to do with Mr Grayson, we may here allow him a cordial word of apology. What was to Julian the commencement of an epoch, was, be it remembered, to the tutor a commonplace and almost everyday event. The whole of that week he had been occupied in receiving visits from "the early fathers," who came up in charge of their sons, and all of whom seemed to expect that he would show the liveliest and tenderest interest in their respective prodigies. Other freshmen had visited him unaccompanied, and some of them seemed rather inclined to patronise him than otherwise. He was a shy man, and always had a painful suspicion at heart that people were laughing at him. Having lived the life of a student, he had never acquired the polished ease of a man of the world, and had a nervous dread of strangers. His manners were but an icy shield of self-defence against ridicule, and they suited his somewhat sensitive dignity. He persuaded himself, too, that the "men" on his side were "men" in years and discretion as well as name, and that they must stand or fall unaided, since the years of boyish discipline and school constraint were gone by. It never occurred to him that a word spoken in due season might be of incalculable benefit to many of his charge. Being a man of slow sensibilities, he could not sympathise with the enthusiastic temperament of youths like Julian, nor did he ever single out one of his pupils either for partiality or dislike. Yet he was thoroughly kind-hearted, and many remembered his good deeds with generous gratitude. Nor was he wholly wrong in his theory that a tutor often does as much harm by meddling interference as he does by distance and neglect. When a boy goes to college, eager, quick, impetuous, rejoicing as a giant to run his course, he is generally filled with noble resolutions and elevating thoughts. There is a touch of flame and of romance in his disposition; he feels himself to be the member of a brotherhood, and longs to be a distinguished and worthy one; he is anxious for all that is grand and right, and yearns for a little sympathy to support his determination and enliven his hopes. Some there may be so dull and sensual, so swallowed up in selfishness and conceit, so chill to every generous sentiment, and callous to every stirring impulse, that they experience none of this; their sole aim is, on the one hand to succeed, or on the other, to amuse and gratify themselves, to cultivate all their animal propensities, and drown in the mud-honey of premature independence the last relics of their childish aspirations. With men like this, to dress showily, to drive tandem and give champagne breakfasts, comes as a matter of course; while their supremest delight is to wander back to their old school, in fawn-coloured dittos, and with a cigar in their mouths, to show their superiority to all sense of decency and good taste. But these are the rare exceptions. However much they may conceal their own emotions, however dead and cynical, and contemptible they may grow in after days, there are few men of ordinary uprightness who do not feel a thrill of genuine enthusiasm when they first enter the walls of their college, and who will not own it without a blush. Now Julian was an enthusiast by nature and temperament; all the sentiments which we have been describing he felt with more than ordinary intensity. It gave a grandeur to his hopes, and a distinct sense of ennobling pleasure to remember that he was treading the courts which generations of the good and wise had trodden before him, and holding in his hand the torch which they had handed down to him. _Their_ memory still lingered there, and he trusted that _his_ name too might in after days be not wholly unremembered. At least he would strive, with a godlike energy, to fail in no duty, and to leave no effort unfulfilled. If he viewed his coming life too much in its poetical aspect, at least his glowing aspirations and golden dreams were tempered with a deep humility and a childlike faith. After fuming a little at the icy reception which his tutor had given him, he walked up and down the court, thinking of his position, and his intentions--of the past, the present, and the future--until proud tears glistened in his eyes. It was clear to him that now he would have to stand alone amid life's trials, and alone face life's temptations. And he was ready for the struggle. With God's help he would not miss the meaning of his life, but take the tide of opportunity while it was at the flood. Before rejoining his mother, he determined to call on one of the junior fellows, the only one with whom he had any acquaintance, the Reverend N Admer. He only knew him from a casual introduction; but Mr Admer had asked him to call, on his arrival at Saint Werner's, and Julian hoped both to get some information from him to dissipate the painful feeling of strangeness and novelty, and also partially to do away with the effect of Mr Grayson's coldness. Although it was now past ten in the morning, he found Mr Admer only just beginning breakfast, and looking tired and lazy. He was received with a patronising and supercilious tone, and the Fellow not only went on with his breakfast, but occasionally glanced at a newspaper while he talked. Not that Mr Admer at all meant to be unkind or rude, but he hated enthusiasm in every shape; he did not believe in it, and it wearied him--hence freshmen during their first few days were his profound abhorrence. After a few commonplace remarks, Julian ventured on a question or two as to the purchases which he would immediately require, the hours of lecture and hall, and the thousand-and-one trifles of which a newcomer is necessarily ignorant. Mr Admer seemed to think this a great bore, and answered languidly enough, advising Julian not to be "more fresh" than he could help. It requires very small self-denial to make a person at home by supplying him with a little information; but small as the effort would have been, it was greater than the Reverend N Admer could afford to make, and his answers were so little encouraging that Julian, making ample allowance for the ennuye condition of the young Fellow, relapsed into silence. "And what do you think of Saint Werner's?" asked Mr Admer, taking the initiative, with a yawn. Julian's face lighted up. "Think of it! I feel uncommonly proud already of being a Saint Werner's man." "Genius loci, and all that sort of thing, eh?" The sneering way in which this was said left room for no reply, so Mr Admer continued. "Ah you'll soon find all that sort of twaddle wear off." "I hope not," said Julian. "Of course you intend to be senior classic, or senior wrangler, or something of that sort?" "I expect simply nothing; but if I were inclined to soar, one might have a still higher ambition than that." "Oh, I see; an embryo Newton,--all that sort of thing." "I didn't mean quite `all that sort of thing,' since you seem fond of the phrase," said Julian, "but really I think my aspirations, whatever they are, would only tire you. Good morning." "Good morning," said Mr Admer, nodding. "We don't shake hands up here. I shall come and call on you soon." "The later the better," thought Julian, as he descended the narrow stairs. "Good heavens! is that a fair specimen of a don, I wonder. If so, I shall certainly confine my acquaintance to the undergraduates." No, Julian, not a fair specimen of a don altogether, but in some of his aspects a fair specimen of a certain class of university men, who profess to admire nothing, hope for nothing, love nothing; who think warmth of heart a folly, and sentiment a crime; who would not display an interest in any thing more important than a boat-race or a game of bowls, to save their lives; who are very fond of the phrase, "all that sort of nonsense," to express everything that rises above the dead level of their own dead mediocrity in intelligence and life. If you would not grovel in spirit; if you would not lose every tear that sparkles, and every sigh that burns; if you would not ossify the very power of passion; if you would not turn your soul into a mass of shapeless lead, avoid those despicable cynics, who never leave their discussion of the merits of beer, or the powers of stroke oars, unless it be to carp at acknowledged eminence, and jeer at genuine emotion. How often in such company have I seen men relapse into stupid silence, because, if they ventured on any expression of lively interest, one of the throng, amid the scornful indifference of the rest, would give the only acknowledgment of his remark, by taking the pipe out of his mouth, to give vent to a low guttural laugh. After this it was lucky for Julian that he had brought his mother and sister with him, and that a moment after leaving Mr Admer he caught sight of Hugh Lillyston. With a joyful expression of surprise, they grasped each other's hands, and interchanged so friendly a greeting that Julian in an instant had scattered to the winds the gloomy impression which was beginning to creep over him. "How long have you been here, Hugh?" "I came yesterday." "Have you seen your rooms yet?" "No; I am just going to look for them." "Well, come along; I know where they are." "But stop," said Julian, "I must go to the Eagle first for my people. They'll be expecting me." "Really. So Mrs Home's here?" asked Lillyston. "Yes, and my sister. If you've nothing to do, come and be introduced." "How immensely jolly. I wish _my_ mother and sister had taken the trouble to come with me, I know." They went to the hotel, and Lillyston was able to gratify the curiosity he had long felt to see his friend's relations. "Whom do you think I've brought back with me, mother? guess," said Julian, as he entered the room beaming with pleasure. "Here, Hugh, come along. My mother--my sister--Mr Lillyston." "What! is this the Mr Lillyston of whom we've heard so much?" asked Mrs Home, with a cordial shake of the hand, while Violet looked up with a quick glance of curiosity and pleasure. "No other," said Hugh, laughing; "and really I feel as if I were an old friend already." "You are so, I assure you," said Mrs Home, "and I hope we shall often meet now." Lillyston hoped the same, as he looked at Violet. It was arranged that they should all four go at once to Julian's rooms, and help in the grand operation of unpacking. The rooms were very pleasant attics in the great court, looking out on the Fellows' bowling-green, and the Iscam flowing beyond it. The furniture, most of which Julian was going to take from the previous possessor, was neat and comfortable, and when the book shelves began to glitter with his Harton prizes and gift-books, Julian was delighted beyond measure with the appearance of his new home. For some hours the unpacking continued vigorously, only interrupted by an excursion for lunch to the hotel, since Julian had as yet purchased no plates and received no commons. On their return they found an old lady in the room-- "A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood;" who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, informed Julian that she was to be his bedmaker, and asked him whether he intended "to tea" in his rooms that evening. (The verb "to tea" is the property of bedmakers, and, with beautiful elasticity, it even admits of a perfect tense--as "have you tea'd?") "By all means," said Julian; "lay the table for four this evening at eight o'clock, and get me some bread and butter. You'll stay, Hugh, won't you?" "I should like to, very much. But won't it be your last evening with your mother and Miss Home?" "Yes; but never mind that." Lillyston shook his head, and bidding the ladies a warm good-bye, left them to enjoy with Julian his first quiet evening in Saint Werner's, Camford. "I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet. I shall want your advice." "Well, let me see," said Violet. "The water-colour likenesses of Cyril and Frankie ought to go here, one on each side of Mr Vere; at least, I suppose, you mean to put Mr Vere in the place of honour?" "Oh, certainly," said Julian; "every time I look on that noble face, so full of strength and love, and so marked with those `divine hieroglyphics of sorrow,' I shall learn fresh lessons of endurance and wisdom." "People will certainly call you a heretic, if you do," laughed Violet. "People!" said Julian scornfully. "Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise. "Let them yelp." Mr Vere was an eminent clergyman, who had been an intimate friend of Mr Home before his death. Julian had only heard him preach, and met him occasionally; but he had read some of his works, and had received from him so much sympathising kindness and intellectual aid, that he regarded him with a love and reverence little short of devotion--as a man distinguished above all others for his gentleness, his eloquence, his honesty, his learning, and his love. This likeness had belonged to Mr Home, and Julian had asked leave to carry it with him whenever he should go to the University. "Yes, the place of honour for Mr Vere." "And where shall we hang this?" said Julian, taking up a photograph of Van Dyck's great painting of Jacob's Dream: the Hebrew boy is sleeping on the ground, and his long, dark curls, falling off his forehead, mingle with the rich foliage of the surrounding plants, fanned by the waving of mysterious wings; a cherub is lightly raising the embroidered cap that partially shades his face, and at his feet, blessing him with uplifted hand, stands a majestic angel, on whose flowing robes of white gleams a celestial radiance from the vista, alight with heavenly faces, that opens over his head. A happy and holy slumber seems to breathe from the lad's countenance, and yet you can tell that the light of dreams has dawned under his "closed eyelids," and that the inward eye has caught full sight of that Beatific Epiphany. "We must hang this in your bedroom, Julian," said Mrs Home. "I shall love to think of you lying under the outstretched hand of this heavenly watcher." So they hung it there, and the task was over, and they spent a happy happy evening together. Next morning Julian accompanied them to the train, and walked back to the matriculation examination. CHAPTER SIX. RENCONTRES. "A boy--no better--with his rosy cheeks Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, And conscious step of purity and pride." Wordsworth's _Prelude_. A public school man is by no means lonely when he first enters the university. He finds many of his old school-fellows accompanying him, and many who have gone up before him, and he feels united to them all by a bond of fellowship, which at once creates for him a circle of friends. Had Julian merely kept up his Harton acquaintances, he would have known as many Camford men as were at all necessary for the purposes of society. But although with most or all of the Hartonians Julian remained on pleasant and friendly terms, there were others whom he saw quite as much, and whose society he enjoyed all the more thoroughly because their previous associations and experiences were different from his own. And on looking back in aftertimes, what a delight it was to remember the noble hearts which, during those years of college life, had always beaten in unison with his own. Few enjoyments were more keen than that social equality and unconventional intercourse common among all undergraduates, which might at any time ripen into an earnest and invaluable friendship, or merely stop at the stage of an agreeable acquaintanceship. A great, and not the least useful portion of University education consisted in the intimate knowledge of character and the many-sided sympathies which were thus insensibly acquired. During the first few weeks of college life, of course, a good deal of time was spent in receiving and returning the visits of acquaintances, old and new. Of the latter, there was one with whom Julian and Lillyston were equally charmed, and who soon became their constant companion. His name was Kennedy, and Julian first got to know him by sitting next him in lecture-room. His lively remarks, his keen and vivid sense of the ludicrous, the quick yet kindly notice he took of men's peculiarities, his ardent appreciation of the books which occupied their time, and the pleasant, rapid way in which he would dash off a caricature, soon attracted notice, and he rapidly became popular, both among undergraduates and dons. He was known, too, by the warm eulogy of his fellow-Marlbeians, who were never tired of singing his praises among themselves. "Splendid!" whispered he to Julian warmly, after Julian had just finished construing a difficult clause in the Agamemnon, which he had done with a spirit and fire which even kindled a spark of admiration in the cold breast of Mr Grayson. "Splendidly done, Home! I say, how very reserved you are. Here have I been longing to know you for the last ten days, and we have hardly got beyond a nod to each other yet. Do come in to tea at my rooms to-night at eight. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine--Owen of Roslyn school." "With pleasure," said Julian. "That dark-haired fellow is Owen, is it not? I hear he's going to do great things!" "Oh yes! booked for a Fellow and a double-first; so you ought to know him, you know." "Silence, gentlemen," said Mr Grayson, turning his stony gaze on Kennedy, whose bright face instantly assumed a demure expression of deep attention, while the light of laughter which still danced in his eyes might have betrayed to a careful observer the fact that the notes on which he appeared to be so assiduously occupied mainly consisted of replications of Mr Grayson's placid physiognomy and Roman nose. "I've brought an umbra with me, Kennedy, in the person of Mr Lillyston, who sits next to me at lectures, and wanted to be introduced to you," said Owen, as he came in to Kennedy's room that evening. "I'm delighted," said Kennedy. "Mr Lillyston, let me introduce you to Mr Home." "We hardly need an introduction, Hugh, at this time of day; do we?" said Julian, laughing; and the four were soon as much at home as it was possible for men to be. There was no lack of conversation. I think the rooms of a Camford undergraduate are about the last place where conversation ever flags; and when men like Kennedy, Owen, Julian, and Lillyston meet, it is perhaps more genuinely earnest and interesting than in any other time or place. The next day, as Kennedy was sitting in Julian's rooms, glancing over the Aeschylus with him, in strutted Hazlet, whom we have incidentally mentioned as having been the son of a widow lady living at Ildown. He had come up to Camford straight from home, and as he had only received a home-education everything was strangely bewildering to him, and Julian was almost the only friend he knew. Nor was he likely to attract many friends; his manner was strangely self-confident, and his language dictatorial and dogmatic. In his mother's house he had long been the centre of religious tea-parties, before which he was often called upon to read and even to expound the Scriptures. "At the tip of his subduing tongue" were a number of fantastic phrases, originally misapplied, and long since worn bare of meaning, and the test of his orthodoxy was the universality with which he could reiterate proofs of heresy against every man of genius, honesty, and depth--who loved truth better than he loved the oracles of the prevalent idols. Hazlet practised the duty of Christian charity by dealing indiscriminate condemnation against all except those who belonged to his own exclusive and somewhat ignorant school of religious intolerance. His face was the reflex of his mind; his lank black hair stuck down in stiff dry straightness over a contracted forehead and an ill-shaped head; his spectacles gave additional glassiness to a lack-lustre eye, and the manner in which he carried his chin in the air seemed like an acted representation of "I am holier than thou." Far be it from me to hold up to ridicule any body of earnest and honest men, to whatever party they may belong. I am writing of Hazlet, not of those who hold the same opinions as he did. That man must have been unfortunate in life who has not many friends, and friends whom he holds in deep affection, among the adherents of opinions most entirely antagonistic to his own. Hazlet's repulsiveness was due to a very mistaken education, developing a very foolish idiosyncrasy, and especially to the pernicious system of encouraging sentiments and expressions which in a boy's mind _could_ not be other than sickly exotics. He had to be taught his own hypocrisy by the painful progress of events, and, above all, he had to learn that religious shibboleths may be no proof of sanctification, and that religious intolerance is usually the hybrid offspring of ignorance and conceit. In many essential matters he held the truth,--but he held it in unrighteousness. It may be imagined that Hazlet was no favourite companion of Julian Home. But Julian loved and honoured to the utmost of his power the good points of all; he had a deep and real veneration for humanity, and rarely allowed himself an unkind expression, or a look which indicated ennui, even to those associates by whose presence he was most unspeakably bored. Hazlet mistook his courteous manner for a deferential agreement, and was, too often, in Julian's presence more than usually insufferable in his Pharisaical tendencies. "Good heavens!" said Kennedy, who saw Hazlet coming across the court. "Who's this, Home? He looks as if he had been just presiding at three conventicles and a meeting at Philadelphus Hall. Surely he can't be coming here." "Oh, yes," said Julian, "that's a compatriot of mine named Hazlet; a very good fellow, I believe, though rather obtrusive perhaps." "Good morning, Home," said Hazlet, in a measured and sanctified tone, as he entered the room and sat down. Kennedy glanced impatiently at the Aeschylus. "Ah! I see you're engaged on that heathen poet. It often strikes me, Home, that we may be wrong after all in spending so much time on these works of men, who, as Saint Paul tells us, were `wholly given to idolatry.' I have just come from a most refreshing meeting at--" "I say, Home," cut in Kennedy hastily, "shall I go? I suppose you won't do over any more of the Agamemnon this morning." "I don't know," said Julian; "perhaps Hazlet will join us in our construe." "No, I think not," said Hazlet, with a compassionate sigh. "I have looked at it; but some of it appeared to me so pagan in its sentiments that I contented myself with praying that I might not be put on. But you haven't told me what you think about what I was saying." "Botheration," said Kennedy; "so your theory is that Christianity was intended to put an extinguisher over the light of heaven-born genius, and that the power and passion and wisdom of Aeschylus came from himself or the devil, and not from God? Surely, without any further argument on such an absurd proposition, it ought to be sufficient for you that this kind of learning forms a part of your immediate duty." "I find other duties more paramount--now prayer, for instance, and talk with sound friends." "Phew!!!" whistled Kennedy, thoroughly disgusted at language which was as new to him as it was distasteful; and, to relieve his feelings, he abandoned the conversation to Julian, and began to turn over the books on the table. Julian, however, seemed quite disinclined to enter into the question, and after a pause, Hazlet, gracefully waiving his little triumph, asked him with a peculiar unction-- "And how goes it, my dear Home, with your immortal soul?" "My soul!" said Julian carelessly. "Oh! it's all right." Hazlet then began to look at Julian's pictures. "Ah," he observed with a deep sigh, "I'm sorry to see that you have the portrait of so unsound, so dangerous a man as Mr Vere." "We'll drop that topic, please, Hazlet," said Julian, "as we're not likely to agree upon it." "Have you ever read one word that Mr Vere ever wrote?" asked Kennedy. "Well, yes; at least no, not exactly: but still one may judge, you know; besides, I've seen extracts of his works." "Extracts!" answered Kennedy scornfully; "extracts which often attribute to him the very sentiments which he is opposing. But it isn't worth arguing with one of your school, who have the dishonesty to condemn writers whom you are incapable of understanding, on the faith of extracts which they haven't even read." The wrathful purpling of Hazlet's sallow countenance portended an explosion of orthodox spleen, but Julian gently interposed in time to save the devoted Kennedy from a few unmeasured anathemas. "Hush!" he said, "none of the odium theologicum, please, lest the mighty shade of Aeschylus smile at you in scorn. Do drop the subject, Hazlet." "Very well, if you like, Home; but I must deliver my conscience, you know. But really, Julian, you are not very Christian in your other pictures." This was too much even for Julian's politeness, and he joined in the shout of laughter with which Kennedy greeted this appeal. "Fools make a mock at sin," said Hazlet austerely. "I trust that you will both be brought to a better state of mind. Good morning!" Kennedy flung himself into an armchair, and after finishing his laugh, exclaimed, "My dear Home, where did you pick up that intolerable hypocrite?" "Hush, Kennedy, hush! Don't call him a hypocrite. His mode of religion may be very offensive to us, and yet it may be sincere." "Faugh! the idea of asking you, `How's your soul?' It reminds me of a friend of mine who was suddenly asked by a minister in a train `if he didn't feel an aching void?' `An aching void? Where?' said Jones, in a tone of alarm, for he was an unimaginative person. `Within, sir, within!' said the stranger. Jones felt anxiously to find whether one of his ribs was accidentally protruding, but finding them all safe, set down the minister for a lunatic, and moved to the further end of the carriage." Julian smiled; he was more accustomed to this kind of phraseology than his friend, and knew that outrageous as it was to good taste under the circumstances, it yet might spring from a sincere and honourable motive, or at best must be regarded as the natural result of innate vulgarity and mistaken training. "Surely at best," continued Kennedy, "it's a most unwarrantable impertinence for a fellow like that to want to dabble his ignorant and coarse hand in the hallowed secrets of the microcosm. Not to one's nearest and dearest friend, not to one's mother or brother would one babble promiscuously on such awful themes; and to have the soul's sublime and eternal emotions, its sacred and unspoken communings, lugged out into farcical prominence by such conversational cant as that, is to dry up the very fountain of true religion, and put a premium on the successful grin of an offensive hypocrisy." Kennedy seemed quite agitated, and as usual found relief in striding up and down the room. His religious feelings were deep and real--none the less so for being hidden--and Hazlet's language and manner had given him a rude shock. "Another hour in that fellow's company would make me an infidel," he exclaimed with quivering lip. "Pray for me, indeed, with some of his `sound and congenial friends.' Faugh! `sound!' how does he dare to judge whether his superiors are `sound' or not? and why must he borrow a metaphor from Stilton cheeses when he's talking of religious convictions." "Why really, Kennedy," said Julian, "to see the contempt written in your face, one would think you were an archangel looking at a black beetle, as a learned judge once observed. If you won't regard Hazlet as a man and a brother, at least remember that he's a vertebrate animal." But Kennedy was not to be joked out of his indignation, so Julian continued. "I wish you knew more of Lillyston. At one time, I should have been nearly as much bothered by Hazlet as you, but Lillyston's kind, genial good-humour with every one, and the genuine respectful sympathy which he shows even for things he can least understand, have made me much happier than I should have been. Now, _he_ might have done Hazlet some good, whereas your opposition, my dear fellow, will only make him more rampant than ever. Ah, here Lillyston comes." "What an honest open face," said Kennedy. "Like the soul which looks through it, _sans peur et sans reproche_," said Julian warmly. "Rather a contrast to the last comer," murmured Kennedy, as he picked up his cap and gown to walk to the lecture-room. "There, don't think of Hazlet any more," said Julian. "`He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small, For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.' "A capital good motto that; isn't it, Hugh?" "I must love Hazlet as one of the very small things, then," said the incorrigible Kennedy as he left the room with the other two. Hazlet was put on to construe during the lecture, and if anything could have shaken the brazen tower of his self-confidence, it would have been the egregious display of incapacity which followed; but Hazlet rather piqued himself on his indifference to the poor blind heathen poets, on whose names he usually dealt reprobation broadcast. "Like lions that die of an ass's kick," those wronged great souls lay prostrate before Hazlet's wrathful heels. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE SCORN OF SCORN. "And not a man, for being simply man, Hath any honour, but honour for those honours That are without him--as place, riches, favour, Prizes of accident as oft as merit." _Shakespeare_. Very different in all respects were Julian's rencontres with others of his old schoolfellows. There were some, indeed, among them who had left Harton while they were still in low forms, and some whose tastes and pursuits were so entirely different from his own, that it was hardly likely that he should maintain any other intercourse with them than such as was demanded by a slight acquaintance. But of Bruce, at any rate, it might have been expected that he would see rather more than proved to be the case. Bruce, as having been head of the school during the period when Julian was a monitor, had been thrown daily into his company, and, as inmates of the same house, they had acted together in the thousand little scenes which diversify the bright and free monotony of a schoolboy's life. But the first fortnight passed by, and Bruce had not called on Julian, and as they were on different "sides," they had not chanced to meet, either in lecture-room or elsewhere. Julian, not knowing whether his position as sizar would make any difference in Bruce's estimation of him, had naturally left him to take the initiative in calling; while Bruce, on the other hand, always a little jealous of his brilliant contemporary, and not too anxious to be familiar with a sizar, pretended to himself that it was as much Julian's place as his to be first in calling. Hence it was that, for the first fortnight, the two did not happen to come across each other. Meanwhile Bruce also had made many fresh acquaintances. His reputation for immense wealth and considerable talent--his dashing easy manner--his handsome person and elaborate style of dress, attracted notice, and very soon threw him into the circle of all the young fashionables of Saint Werner's. His style of life cannot be better described than by saying that he affected the fine gentleman. Hardly a day had passed during which he had not been at some large breakfast or wine-party, or formed one of a select little body of supping aristocrats. He did very little work, and pretended to do none, (for Bruce was a first-rate specimen of the never-open-a-book genus), although at unexpected hours he took care to get up the lecture-room subjects sufficiently well to make a display when he was put on. Even in this he was unsuccessful, for scholarship cannot be acquired _per saltum_, and Mr Serjeant, the lecturer on his side, looked on him with profound contempt as a puppy who was all the more offensive from pretending to some knowledge. He told him that he might distinguish himself by hard steady work, but would never do so without infinitely more pains than he took the trouble to apply. His quiet and caustic strictures, and the easy sarcasm with which he would allow Bruce to flourish his way through a passage, and then go through it himself, pointing out how utterly Bruce had "hopped with airy and fastidious levity" above all the nicer shades of meaning, and slurred over his ignorance of a difficulty by some piece of sonorous nonsense, made him peculiarly the object of the young man's disgust. But though Mr Serjeant wounded his vanity, the irony of "a musty old don," as Bruce contemptuously called him, was amply atoned for by the compliments of the fast young admirers whom Bruce soon gathered round him, and some of whom were always to be found after hall-time sipping his claret or lounging in his gorgeous rooms. To them Bruce's genius was incontestably proved by the faultless evenness with which he parted his hair behind, the dapperness of his boots, and the merit of his spotless shirts. Sir Rollo Bruce, Vyvyan's father, was a man of no particular family, who had been knighted on a deputation, and contrived to glitter in the most splendid circles of London society. His magnificent entertainments, his exquisite appointments, his apparently fabulous resources, were a sufficient passport into the saloons of dukes; and, although ostensibly Sir Rollo had nothing to live on but his salary as the chairman of a bank, nobody who had the entree of his house cared particularly to inquire into the sources of his wealth. Vyvyan imitated his father in his expensive tastes, and cultivated, with vulgar assiduity, the society of the noblemen at his college. In a short time he knew them all, and all of them had been at his rooms except a young Lord De Vayne, of whom we shall hear more hereafter, and whose retiring manners made him shrink with dislike from Bruce's fawning familiarity. The sizars at Saint Werner's do not dine at the same hour as the rest of the undergraduates, but the hour after, and their dinner consists of the dishes which have previously figured on the Fellows' table. It seems to me that the time may come when the authorities of that royal foundation will see reason to regret so unnecessary an arrangement, the relic of a long, obsolete, and always undesirable system. Many of Saint Werner's most distinguished alumni have themselves sat at the sizars' table, and if any of them were blessed or cursed with sensitive dispositions, they will not be dead to the justice of these remarks. The sizars are, by birth and education, invariably, so far as I know, the sons of gentlemen, and perhaps most often of clergymen whose means prevent them from bearing unassisted the heavy burden of University expenses. After a short time many of these sizars become scholars, and eventually a large number of them win for themselves the honours of a fellowship. Why put on these young students a gratuitous indignity? Why subject them to the unpleasant remarks which some are quite coarse enough to make on the subject? The authorities of Saint Werner's are full of real courtesy and kindness, and that the arrangement is not intended as an indignity I am well aware; it is, as I have said, the accidental fragment of an obsolete period--a period when scholars dined on "a penny piece of beef," and slept two or three in a room at the foot of the Fellows' beds. All honour to Saint Werner's; all honour to the great, and the wise, and the learned, and the noble whom she has sent forth into all lands; all honour to the bravery and the truthfulness of her sons; all honour to the profound scholars, and able teachers, and eloquent orators who preside at her councils; she is a Queen of colleges, and may wield her sceptre with a strong hand and a proud. But are there not some among her subjects who are deaf to the sounds of calm advice?--some who are so blind as to love her faults and prop up her abuses?--some who daub her walls with the untempered mortar of their blind prejudice, and treat every one as an enemy who would aid in removing here and there a bent pillar, and here and there a crumbling stone? (These words were written some time ago. I trust that since then all causes of offence, if they ever existed, have long been forgiven and forgotten.) And now let all defenders of present institutions, however bad they may be--let all violent supporters of their old mumpsimus against any new sumpsimus whatever, listen to a conversation among some undergraduates. It may convince them, or it may not--I cannot tell; but I know that it had a powerful influence on me. Bruce was standing in the Butteries, where he had just been joined by Lord Fitzurse and Sir John D'Acres, who by virtue of their titles-- certainly not by any other virtue--sat among reverend Professors and learned Doctors at the high table, far removed from the herd of common undergraduates. With the three were _Mr_. Boodle and _Mr_. Tulk, (the "Mister" is given them in the college-lists out of respect for the long purses which have purchased them, the privilege of fellow-commoners or ballantiogennaioi), who enjoyed the same enviable distinction and happy privilege. By the screens were four or five sizars; a few more were scattered about in the passage waiting, whilst the servants hurriedly placed the dishes on the table set apart for them; and Julian was chatting to Lillyston, who chanced at the moment to have been passing by. "Who is that table for?" asked D'Acres, pointing through the open door of the hall. "Oh, that's for the sizars," tittered the feeble-minded Boodle, who tittered at everything. "S-s-sizars!" stammered Lord Fitzurse. "What's that mean? Are they v-v-very big f-f-fellows?" "Ha! ha! ha!" said Bruce. "No; they're sons of gyps and that kind of thing, who feed on the semese fragments of the high table." "They must be g-g-ghouls!" said his lordship, shudderingly. "Hush," said D'Acres, who was a thorough gentleman, "some of the sizars may be here;" and he dropped Bruce's arm. "Pooh! they'll feel flattered," said Bruce carelessly, as D'Acres walked off. "Indeed!" said Julian, striding indignantly forward, for the conversation was so loud that he had heard every word of it. "Flattered to be the butt for the insolence of puppyism and every fool who is coarse enough to insult them publicly." "Who the d-d-d-deuce are you?" said Lord Fitzurse, "for you're coming it r-r-rather strong." "Who is he?" said Lillyston, breaking in, "your equal, sir, in birth, as he is your superior in intellect, and in every moral quality. Gentlemen," he continued, "let me warn you not to have the impertinence to talk in this way again." "Warn us!" said Bruce, trying to hide under bravado his crestfallen temper; "why, what'll you do if we choose to continue?" "Make a few counter-remarks to begin with, Bruce, on parasites and parvenus, tuft-hunting freshmen, and the tenth transmitters of a foolish face," retorted Lillyston, glowing with honest indignation. "And turn you out of the butteries by the shoulders," said a strong undergraduate, who had chanced to be a witness of the scene. "A somewhat boyish proceeding, perhaps, but exactly suited to some capacities." Bruce and his friends, seeing that they were beginning to have the worst of it, thought it about time to swagger off, and for the future learnt to confine their remarks to a more exclusive circle. There had been another silent spectator of the scene in the person of Lord De Vayne. He was a young viscount whose estate bordered on the grounds of Lonstead Abbey, and he had known Julian since both of them were little boys. He had been entirely educated at home with an excellent tutor, who had filled his mind with all wise and generous sentiments; but his widowed mother lived in such complete seclusion that he had rarely entered the society of any of his own age, and was consequently timid and bashful. Meeting sometimes with Julian, he had conceived a warm admiration for his genius and character, and at one time had earnestly wished to join him at Harton. But his mother was so distressed at the proposition that he at once abandoned it, while he eagerly looked forward to the time when he should meet his friend at Saint Werner's, on the books of which college he had entered his name partly for this very reason. He had not been an undergraduate many days before he called on Julian, who had received him indeed very kindly, but who seemed rather shy of being much in his company for fear of the remarks which he had not yet learnt entirely to disregard. This was a great source of vexation to De Vayne, though the reason of it was partly explained after the remarks which he had just overheard. "Home," he whispered, "I wish you'd come into my rooms after hall, I should so much like to have a talk. Do," he said, as he saw that Julian hesitated, "I assure you I have felt quite lonely here." Accordingly, after hall, Julian strolled into Warwick's Court, and found his way to Lord De Vayne's rooms. "I am so glad to see you, Julian, at last. As I have told you," he said, with a glistening eye, "I have been very lonely. I have never left home before, and have made no friend here as yet;" and he heaved a deep sigh. Julian felt his heart full of friendliness for the gentle boy whose total inexperience made him seem younger than he really was. He glanced round the rooms; they were richly furnished, but full of memorials of home, that gave them a melancholy aspect. Over the fireplace was a water-colour likeness of his lady-mother in her widow's weeds, and on the opposite side of the room another picture of a beautiful young child--De Vayne's only brother, who had died in infancy. The handsomely-bound books on the shelves had been transferred from their well-known places in the library of Uther Hall, and the regal antlers which were fastened over the door had once graced the dining-room. Thousands would have envied Lord De Vayne's position; but he had caught the shadow of his mother's sadness, his relations were few, at Saint Werner's as yet he had found none to lean upon, and he felt unhappy and alone. "I was so ashamed, Julian," he said, "so utterly and unspeakably ashamed to hear the rudeness of these men as we came out of hall. I'm afraid you must have felt deeply hurt." "Yes, for the moment; but I'm sorry that I took even a moment's notice of it. Why should one be ruffled because others are unfeeling and impertinent; it is their misfortune, not ours." "But why did you come up as a sizar, Julian? Surely with Lonstead Abbey as your inheritance--" "No," said Julian with a smile; "I am lord of my leisure, and no land beside." "Really! I had always looked on you as a future neighbour and helper." He was too delicate to make any inquiries on the subject, but while a bright airy vision rose for an instant before Julian's fancy, and then died away, his friend said, with ingenuous embarrassment: "You know, Home, I am very rich. In truth, I have far more money than I know what to do with. It only troubles me. I wish--" "Oh, dear no!" said Julian hastily; "I got the Newry scholarship, you know, at Harton, and I really need no assistance whatever." "I hope I haven't offended you; how unlucky I am," said De Vayne blushing. "Not a whit, De Vayne; I know your kind heart." "Well, do let me see something of you. Won't you come a walk sometimes, or let me come in of an evening when you're taking tea, and not at work?" "Do," said Julian, and they agreed to meet at his rooms on the following Sunday evening. Sunday at Camford was a happy day for Julian Home. It was a day of perfect leisure and rest; the time not spent at church or in the society of others, he generally occupied in taking a longer walk than usual, or in the luxuries of solemn and quiet thought. But the greatest enjoyment was to revel freely in books, and devote himself unrestrained to the gorgeous scenes of poetry, or the passionate pages of eloquent men; on that day he drank deeply of pure streams that refreshed him for his weekly work; nor did he forget some hour of commune, in the secrecy of his chamber and the silence of his heart, with that God and Father in whom alone he trusted, and to whom alone he looked for deliverance from difficulty, and guidance under temptation. Of all hours his happiest and strongest were those in which he was alone--alone except for a heavenly presence, sitting at the feet of a Friend, and looking face to face upon himself. He had been reading Wordsworth since hall-time, when the ringing of the chapel-bell summoned him to put on his surplice, and walk quietly down to chapel. As there was plenty of time, he took a stroll or two across the court before going in. While doing so, he met De Vayne, and in his company suddenly found himself vis-a-vis with his old enemy Brogten. "Hm!" whispered Brogten to his companion; "the sizars are getting on. A sizar and a viscount arm-in-arm!" Julian only heard enough of this sentence to be aware that it was highly insolent; and the flush on De Vayne's cheek showed that he too had caught something of its meaning. "Never mind that boor's rudeness," he said. "I feel more than honoured to be in the sizar's company. How admirably quiet you are, Julian, under such conduct!" "I try to be; not always with success, though," he answered, as his breast swelled, and his lip quivered with indignation "Scorn!--to be scorned by one that I scorn: Is that a matter to make me fret? Is that a matter to cause regret? Stop! let's come into chapel." They went into chapel together. De Vayne walked into the noblemen's seats, and Julian, hot and angry, and with the words, "Scorn!--to be scorned by one that I scorn," still ringing in his ears, strode up the whole length of the chapel to the obscure corner set apart--is it not very needlessly set apart?--for the sizars' use. Saint Werner's chapel on a Sunday evening is a moving sight. Five hundred men in surplices thronging the chapel from end to end--the very flower of English youth, in manly beauty, in strength, in race, in courage, in mind--all kneeling side by side, bound together in a common bond of union by the grand historic associations of that noble place-- all mingling their voices together with the trebles of the choir and the thunder-music of the organ. This is a spectacle not often equalled; and to take a share in it, as one for whose sake in part it has been established, is a privilege not to be forgotten. The music, the devotion, the spirit of the place, smoothed the swelling thoughts of Julian's troubled heart. "Are we not all brethren? Hath not one Father begotten us?" Such began to be the burden of his thoughts, rather than the old "Scorn!--to be scorned by one that I scorn." And when the glorious tones of the anthem ceased, and the calm steady voice of the chaplain was heard alone, uttering in the sudden hush the grand overture to the noble prayer-- "_O Lord, our heavenly Father, high and mighty, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the only Ruler of princes, who dost from thy throne behold all the dwellers upon earth_." Then the last demon of wrath was exorcised, and Julian thought to himself-- "No; from henceforth I scorn no one, and am indifferent alike to the proud man's scorn and the base man's sneer." The two incidents that we have narrated made Julian fear that his position as a sizar would be one of continual annoyance. He afterwards gratefully acknowledged that in such a supposition he was quite mistaken. Never again while he remained a sizar did he hear the slightest unkind allusions to the circumstance, and but for the external regulations imposed by the college, he might even have forgotten the fact. Those regulations, especially the hall arrangements, were indeed sufficiently disagreeable at times. It could not be pleasant to dine in a hall which had just been left by hundreds of men, and to make the meal amid the prospect of slovenly servants employed in the emptying of wine-glasses and the ligurrition of dishes, sometimes even in passages of coquetry or noisy civilities, on the interchange of which the presence of these undergraduates seemed to impose but little check. These things may be better now, and in spite of them Julian felt hearty reason to be grateful for the real kindness of the Saint Werner's authorities. In other respects he found that the fact of his being a sizar made no sort of difference in his position; he found that the majority of men either knew or cared nothing about it, and sought his society on terms of the most unquestioned equality, for the sake of the pleasure which his company afforded them, and the thoughts which it enabled them to ventilate or interchange. CHAPTER EIGHT. STUDY AND IDLENESS. "Then what golden hours were for us, While we sate together there! How the white vests of the chorus Seemed to wave up a live air. How the cothurns trod majestic, Down the deep iambic lines, And the rolling anapaestic Curled like vapour over shrines!" _E Barrett Browning_. The incentives which lead young men to work are as various as the influences which tend to make them idle. One toils on, however hopelessly, from a sense of duty, from a desire to please his parents, and satisfy the requirements of the place; another because he has been well trained into habits of work, and has a notion of educating the mind; a third because he has set his heart on a fellowship; a fourth, because he is intensely ambitious, and looks on a good degree as the stepping-stone to literary or political honours. The fewest perhaps pursue learning for her own sake, and study out of a simple eagerness to know what _may_ be known, as the best means of cultivating their intellectual powers for the attainment of at least a personal solution of those great problems, the existence of which they have already begun to realise. But of this rare class was Julian Home. He studied with an ardour and a passion, before which difficulties vanished, and in consequence of which, he seemed to progress not the less surely, because it was with great strides. For the first time in his life, Julian found himself entirely alone in the great wide realm of literature--alone, to wander at his own will, almost without a guide. And joyously did that brave young spirit pursue its way--now resting in some fragrant glen, and by some fountain mirror, where the boughs which bent over him were bright with blossom, and rich with fruit--now plunging into some deep thicket, where at every step he had to push aside the heavy branches and tangled weeds--and now climbing with toilful progress some steep and rocky hill, on whose summit, hardly attained, he could rest at last, and gaze back over perils surmounted, and precipices passed, and mark the thunder rolling over the valleys, or gaze on kingdoms full of peace and beauty, slumbering in the broad sunshine beneath his feet. Julian read for the sake of knowledge, and because he intensely enjoyed the great authors, whose thoughts he studied. He had read parts of Homer, parts of Thucydides, parts of Tacitus, parts of the tragedians, at school, but now he had it in his power to study a great author entire, and as a whole. Never before did he fully appreciate the "thunderous lilt" of Greek epic, the touching and voluptuous tenderness of Latin elegy, the regal pomp of history, the gorgeous and philosophic mystery of the old dramatic fables. Never before had he learnt to gaze on "the bright countenance of truth, in the mild and dewy air of delightful studies." Those who decry classical education, do so from inexperience of its real character and value, and can hardly conceive the sense of strength and freedom which a young and ingenuous intellect acquires in all literature, and in all thought, by the laborious and successful endeavour to enter into that noble heritage which has been left us by the wisdom of bygone generations. Those hours were the happiest of Julian's life; often would he be beguiled by his studies into the "wee small" hours of night; and in the grand old company of eloquent men, and profound philosophers, he would forget everything in the sense of intellectual advance. Then first he began to understand Milton's noble exclamation-- "How charming is divine philosophy! Not harsh and rugged as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns." He studied accurately, yet with appreciation; sometimes the two ways of study are not combined, and while one man will be content with a cold and barren estimate of _ge_'s and _pon_'s derived from wading through the unutterable tedium of interminable German notes, of which the last always contradicted all the rest; another will content himself with eviscerating the general meaning of a passage, without any attempt to feel the finer pulses of emotion, or discriminate the nicer shades of thought. Eschewing commentators as much as he could, Julian would first carefully go over a long passage, solely with a view to the clear comprehension of the author's language, and would then re-read the whole for the purpose of enjoying and appreciating the thoughts which the words enshrined; and finally, when he had finished a book or a poem, would run through it again as a whole, with all the glow and enthusiasm of a perfect comprehension. Sometimes Kennedy, or Owen, or Lord De Vayne, would read with him. This was always in lighter and easier authors, read chiefly for practice, and for the sake of the poetry or the story, which lent them their attraction. It was necessary to pursue in solitude all the severer paths of study; but he found these evenings, spent at once in society and yet over books, full both of profit and enjoyment. Lillyston, although not a first-rate classic, often formed one of the party; Owen and Julian contributed the requisite scholarship and the accurate knowledge, while Lillyston and De Vayne would often throw out some literary illustration or historical parallel, and Kennedy gave life and brightness to them all, by the flow and sparkle of his gaiety and wit. But it must be admitted that Kennedy was the least studious element in the party, and was too often the cause of digressions, and conversations which led them to abandon altogether the immediate object of their evening's work. Kennedy had a tendency to idleness, which was developed by the freedom with which he plunged into society of all kinds. His company was so agreeable, and his bright young face was so happy an addition to all parties, that he was in a round of constant engagements--breakfast parties, wines, supper parties, and dinners--that encroached _far_ too much on the hours of work. At school the perpetual examinations kept alive an emulous spirit, which counteracted his fondness for mental vagrancy; but at college the examinations--at least those of any importance--are few and far between; and he always flattered himself that he meant soon to make up for lost time, for three years looks an immense period to a young man at the entrance of his university career. It was nearly as necessary, (even in a pecuniary point of view), for him as for Julian to make the best use of his time; for although he was an only son, he was not destined to inherit a fortune sufficient for his support. "Just look at these cards," he said to Julian one day; "there is not one of them which hasn't an invitation scribbled on it. These engagements really leave one no time for work. What a bore it is! How do you manage to escape them?" "Well--first, I haven't such a large acquaintance as you; that makes a great deal of difference. But, besides, I make a point of leaving breakfast parties at ten, and wines at chapel-time--so that I really don't find them any serious hindrance. No hindrance, I mean, in comparison with the delight and profit of the society itself." "I wish I could make the same resolution," said Kennedy; "but the fact is, I find company so thoroughly amusing, that I'm always tempted to stay." "But why not decline sometimes?" "I don't know--it looks uncivil. Here, which of these shall I cut?" he said, tossing three or four notes and cards to Julian. "This for one," said Julian, as he read the first:-- "Dear Kennedy--Come to supper and cards at ten. Bruce wants to be introduced to you. Yours, "`C Brogten.'" "Yes, I think I shall. I don't like that fellow Brogten, who is always thrusting himself in my way," said Kennedy. "Heigh ho!" and Kennedy leant his head on his arm, and fell into a reverie, thinking that after all his three years at college might be over almost before he was aware of how much time he lost. "I hope you don't play cards much," said Julian. "Why? I hear Hazlet has been denouncing them in hall with unctuous fervour, and I do think it was that which led me to join in a game which was instantly proposed by some of the men who sat near." "I don't say that there's anything diabolical," said Julian, smiling, "in paint and pasteboard, or that I should have the least objection to play them myself if I wanted amusement, but I think them--except very occasionally, and in moderation--a waste of time; and if you play for money I don't think it does you any good." "Well, I've never played for money yet. By the bye, do you know Bruce? He has the character and manner of a very gentlemanly fellow." "Yes, I know him," said Julian, who made a point of holding his tongue about a man when he had nothing favourable to say. "Oh, ay, I forgot; of course; he's a Hartonian. But didn't you think him gentlemanly?" "He has an easy manner, and is accustomed to good society, which is usually all that is intended by the word," said Julian. "I think I must go just this one evening. I like to see a variety of men; one learns something from it." Kennedy went. The supper took place in Brogten's rooms, and the party then adjourned to Bruce's, where they immediately began a game at whist for half-a-crown points, and then "unlimited loo." Kennedy was induced to play "just to see what it was like." As the game proceeded he became more and more excited; the others were accustomed to the thing, and concealed their eagerness; but Kennedy, who was younger and more inexperienced than any of them, threw himself into the game, and drank heedlessly of the wine that freely circulated. Surely if guardian spirits attend the footsteps of youth, one angel must have wept that evening "tears such as angels weep" to see him with his flushed face and sparkling eyes, eagerly seizing the sums he won, or, with clenched hand and contracted brow, anxiously awaiting the result of some adverse turn in the chances of the game. I remember once to have accidentally entered a scene like this in going to borrow something from a neighbour's room; and I shall never forget the almost tiger-like eagerness and haggard anxiety depicted on the countenances of the men who were playing for sums far too extravagant for an undergraduate's purse. How Kennedy got home he never knew, but next morning he awoke headachy and feverish, and the first thing he saw on his table was a slip of paper on which was written, "Kennedy _admonished_ by the senior Dean for being out after twelve o'clock." The notice annoyed and ashamed him. He lay in bed till late, was absent from lecture, and got up to an unrelished breakfast, at which he was disturbed by the entrance of Bruce, to congratulate him on his winnings of the evening before. While Bruce was talking to him, Lillyston also strolled in on his way from lecture to ask what had kept Kennedy away. He was surprised to see the pale and weary look on his face, and catching sight of Bruce seated in the armchair by the fire, he merely made some commonplace remarks and left the room. But he met Julian in the court, and told him that Kennedy didn't seem to be well. "I'm not surprised," said Julian; "he supped with Brogten, and then went to play cards with Bruce, and I hear that Bruce's card parties are not very steady proceedings." "Can't we manage to keep him out of that set, Julian? It will be the ruin of his reading." "Ay, and worse, Hugh. But what can one say? It will hardly do to read homilies to one's fellow undergraduates." "You might at least give him a hint." "I will. I suppose he'll come and do some Euripides to-night." He did come, and when they had read some three hundred lines, and the rest were separating, he proposed to Julian a turn in the great court. The stars were crowding in their bright myriads, and the clear silvery moonlight bathed the court, except where the hall and chapel flung fantastic and mysterious shadows across the green smooth-mown lawns of the quadrangle. The soft light, the cool exhilarating night air were provocative of thought, and they walked up and down for a time in silence. Many thoughts were evidently working in Kennedy's mind, and they did not all seem to be bright or beautiful as the thoughts of youth should be. Julian's brain was busy, too; and as they paced up and down, arm in arm, the many-coloured images of hope and fancy were flitting thick and fast across his vision. He was thinking of his own future and of Kennedy's, whom he was beginning to love as a brother, and for whose moral weakness he sometimes feared. "Julian," said Kennedy, suddenly breaking the silence; "were you ever seized by an uncontrollable, unaccountable, irresistible presentiment of coming evil,--a feeling as if a sudden gulf of blackness and horror yawned before you--a dreadful _something_ haunting you, you knew not what, but only knew that it was there?" "I have had presentiments, certainly; though hardly of the kind you describe." "Well, Julian, I have such a presentiment now, overshadowing me with the sense of guilt, of which I was never guilty; as though it were the shadow of some crime committed in a previous state of existence, forgotten yet unforgotten, incurred yet unavenged." "Probably the mere result of a headache this morning, and the night air now," said Julian, smiling at the energetic description, yet pained by the intensity of Kennedy's tone of voice. "Hush, Julian! I hate all that stupid materialism. Depend upon it, some evil thing is over me. I wonder whether crimes of the future can throw their crimson shadow back over the past. My life, thank God, has been an innocent one, yet now I feel like the guiltiest thing alive." "One oughtn't to yield to such feelings, or to be the victim of a heated imagination, Kennedy. In my own case at least, half the feelings I have fancied to be presentiments have turned out false in the end-- presentiments, I mean, which have been suggested, as perhaps this has, by passing circumstances." "God grant this may be false," said Kennedy, "but something makes me feel uneasy." "It will be a lying prophet, if you so determine, Kennedy. The only enemy who has real power to hurt us is ourselves. Why should you be agitated by an idle forecast of uncertain calamity? Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you." "Don't be surprised," continued Julian, "if you've heard me say the same words before; they were my father's dying bequest to his eldest son." "Be brave, and honest, and pure--" repeated Kennedy; "yes, you _must_ be right, Julian. Look what a glorious sky, and what numberless `patines of bright gold.'" Julian looked up, and at that moment a meteor shot across the heaven, plunging as though from the galaxy into the darkness, and after the white and dazzling lustre of the trail had disappeared, seeming to leave behind the glory of it a deeper gloom. It gave too true a type of many a young man's destiny. Kennedy said nothing, but although it is not the Camford custom to shake hands, he shook Julian's hand that night with one of those warm and loving grasps, which are not soon forgotten. And each walked slowly back to his own room. CHAPTER NINE. THE BOAT-RACE. "And caught once more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars Between the willows." _In Memoriam_. The banks of "silvery-winding Iscam" were thronged with men; between the hours of two and four the sculls were to be tried for, and some 800 of the thousand undergraduates poured out of their colleges by twos and threes to watch the result from the banks on each side. The first and second guns had been fired, and the scullers in their boats, each some ten yards apart from the other, are anxiously waiting the firing of the third, which is the signal for starting. That strong splendid-looking young man, whose arms are bared to the shoulder, and "the muscles all a-ripple on his back," is almost quivering with anxious expectation. The very instant the sound of the gun reaches his ear, those oar-blades will flash like lightning into the water, and "smite the sounding furrows" with marvellous regularity and speed. He is the favourite, and there are some heavy bets on his success; Bruce and Brogten and Lord Fitzurse will be richer or poorer by some twenty pounds each from the result of this quarter of an hour. The three are standing together on the towing-path opposite that little inn where the river suddenly makes a wide bend, and where, if the rush of men were not certain to sweep them forward, they might see a very considerable piece of the race. But directly the signal is given, and the boats start, everybody will run impetuously at full speed along the banks to keep up with the boats, and cheer on their own men, and it will be necessary for our trio to make the best possible use of their legs, before the living cataract pours down upon them. Indeed, they would not have been on the towing-path at all, but among the rather questionable occupants of the grass plot before the inn on the other side of the river, were it not for their desire to run along with the boats, and inspirit the rowers on whom they have betted. But what is this? A great odious slow-trailing barge looms into sight, nearly as broad as the river itself, black as the ferrugineous ferryboat of Charon, and slowly dragged down the stream by two stout cart horses, beside which a young bargee is plodding along in stolid independence. "Hi! hi! you clodhopper there, stop that infernal barge," shouted Bruce at the top of his voice, knowing that if the barge once passed the winning posts, the race would be utterly spoilt. "St-t-t-topp there, you cl-l-lown, w-w-will you," stuttered Fitzurse more incoherent than usual, with indignation. The young bargee either didn't hear these apostrophes, or didn't choose to attend to them, when they were urged in that kind of way; and besides this, as the men were entirely concealed from his view by the curve of the river, he wasn't aware of the coming race, and therefore saw no reason to obey such imperious mandates. "Confound the grimy idiot; doesn't he hear?" said Bruce, turning red and pale with excitement as he thought of the money he had at stake, and remembered that the skiff on which all his hopes lay was first in order, and would therefore be most likely to suffer by any momentary confusion. "Come, Brogten, let's stop him somehow before it's too late." "Let's cut the scoundrel's ropes," said Brogten between his teeth; and at once the three darted forward at full speed, at the very instant that the sharp crack of the final signal-gun was heard. It so happened that Julian and Lillyston had started rather late for the races, and had come up with the barge just as it had first neglected the summons of Bruce and Fitzurse. "Come, bargee," said Lillyston good-humouredly, "out of the way with the barge as quick as ever you can; there's a boat-race, and you'll spoil the fun." "Oh, it's a race, be it?" said the man, as he instantly helped Lillyston to back the horses. "If them young jackanapes had only toald me, 'stead of blusterin' that way--" His speech was interrupted by Bruce, who, with his friends, had instantly sprung at the ropes, and cut them in half a dozen places, while the great heavy horses, frightened out of their propriety, turned tail and bolted away at a terrifically heavy trot. "You big hulking blackguard," roared Brogten, who had been the first to use his knife, "why the devil didn't you move when we told you? What business have louts like you to come blundering up the river, and spoil our races?" And Fitzurse, confident in superior numbers, gave emphasis to the question by knocking off the man's cap. The bargee was a strongly-built, stupid, healthy-looking young man, of some twenty-three years old, who, from being slow of passion was all the more terrible when aroused. Not finding any vent for his anger in words, he suddenly seized Bruce, (who of the three stood nearest him), by the collar of his boating jersey, shook him as he might have done a baby, and almost before he was aware, pitched him into the river. Instantly swinging round, he gave Lord Fitzurse a butt with his elbow, which sent his lordship tottering into the ditch on the other side, and while his wrath was still blazing, received in one eye a blow from Brogten's strong fist, which for an instant made him reel. But it was only for an instant, and then he repaid Brogten with a cuff which felled him to the ground. Brogten was mad with fury. At that moment the men were running round the corner, at the bend of the Iscam, in full career, and hundreds on both sides of the river must have seen him sprawl before the man's blow. He sprang to his feet, and, blind with rage, lifted the clasp-knife with which he had cut the ropes. A second more, and it would have been buried to the handle in the right arm which, quick as lightning, the bargee raised to shield his face, when Brogten's arm was seized from behind by Lillyston, who wrested the knife from him, and pitched it into the river. Brogten turned round, still unconscious what he was about. Julian stood nearest him, and he thought it was Julian who had disarmed him. Old hatred was suddenly joined to outrageous passion, and clenching his fist, he struck Julian in the face. Julian started back just in time to evade the full force of the blow, and fearing a second attack, suddenly tripped his aggressor as he once more rushed towards him. But now the full tide of men had reached the spot; the barge had drifted helplessly lengthwise across the stream, and an angry circle closed round the chief actors in the scene we have described, while a hundred hasty voices demanded what was the row, and what the bargee meant by "stopping the race in that stupid way?" Meanwhile Bruce, wet and muddy, was declaiming on one side, and Fitzurse, bruised and dirty, on the other, was stammering his uncomprehended oaths; while a dozen men were holding Brogten, who, foiled a second time, and now in a dreadfully ungovernable passion, was struggling with the men who held him, and vowing murder against Julian and the bargee. It was no time for deliberation, nor are excited, hasty, and disappointed boys the most impartial of jurors. Julian and Lillyston were rapidly explaining the true state of the case to the few who were calm enough to listen; but all that appeared to most of the bystanders was, that a bargee had spoiled the event of the day, and assaulted two or three undergraduates. A cry arose to duck the fellow in the muddiest angle of the Iscam, and twenty hands were laid on his shoulder, to drag him off to his fate. But a sense of injustice, joined to strength and passion, are all but irresistible when their opponents are but half in earnest; and violently exerting his formidable muscles, the man shook himself free with a determination, agility, and pluck which, by a visible logic, showed the men how cruel and cowardly it was to punish him before they knew anything of the rights of the case. Lillyston's voice, too, began to be loudly heard, and several dons among the crowd exerted themselves to restore order out of the hubbub. There is nothing like a touch of manliness. A feeble, and fussy, and finicking little proctor, who happened to be on the bank, was pompously endeavouring to assert his dignity, and make himself attended to. He was just beginning to get indignant at the laughing contempt with which his impotent efforts were received, and was asking men for their names and colleges, in a futile sort of way, when a tall and stately tutor in the crowd raised his voice above the uproar, and said, "Silence, gentlemen, if you please, for a moment." He was recognised and respected, and the men made room for him into the centre of the throng. "Now, my man, just tell us what's the matter." The man was beginning to tell them how wantonly his ropes had been cut, and he himself insulted, when Bruce broke in, "That's a lie, you beggar; we asked you to move, and you wouldn't. I'll have you in prison yet, my fine fellow, you'll see." "And if I don't make you pay for they ropes, you young pink-and-white monkey, my name ain't Jem--that's all." "Did anybody see what really took place?" asked the don, cutting short the altercation. "Yes, I did," said Lillyston instantly; "the fellow was civil enough, and began to back his horses the moment I told him there was a race, when these gentlemen ran up, abused him, struck him, and cut the ropes." "Ay, it's all very fine for you gentlefolk," said the man with bitter scorn, "to take away a poor man's living for your pleasure. How do you think I'm to pay for them ropes? Am I to take the bread out of the children's mouths, let alone being kicked and speered at? Hang you all, I ain't afeard o' none o' you; come on, the whole lot o' you to one. I ain't afeard--not I," he said again, glaring round like a bull at bay, and stripping an arm of iron strength. "I never cut your ropes, you brute," said Bruce, between his teeth, "though you wouldn't move when we asked you civilly." "What's _that_, then?" said the man, pointing to a bit of rope two inches long which Bruce still held dangling in his hand. "I'm afraid you forget the facts, Bruce, in your excitement," said Lillyston, very sternly. "Facts or not, I'll have you up for assault," said Bruce affectedly, wringing the mud out of his wet sleeve. "Have me up for assault," mimicked the man, trying to mince his broad rough accents into Bruce's delicate tones; and he condescended to add no more, but turned round to catch his horses, which had trotted through the open gate of a neighbouring field, and were now quietly grazing. "I hope, gentleman," said Brogten, bluntly, "that you're not going to believe that blackguard's word against ours." "You forget, sir," said Mr Norton, the tall don, "that what the blackguard, (as you are pleased to call him), said is confirmed by a gentleman here." "And impugned by three gentlemen," said Bruce, who felt how thoroughly he was in disgrace. "Do you mean to deny, Bruce, that you swore at the man first, and then cut his ropes, when he was already stopping his barge?" asked Lillyston. "I mean to say he wouldn't move when we told him." "I appeal to Home," said Lillyston; "didn't the man instantly stop when he understood why we wanted him to do so?" "Yes," said Julian, who, still dizzy with Brogten's blow, was standing a little apart, "I am bound to say that the man was entirely in the right." "I am inclined to think so," said Mr Norton, with scorn in his eye; and so saying, he took the little proctor's arm, and strode away, while the crowd of undergraduates also broke up, and streamed off in twos and threes. "Do you mean to pay that fellow for his rope, Bruce?" asked Lillyston; "if not, _I do_." "Pay!" said Brogten, with an explosion of oaths; "I'll _pay_ you and your sizar friend there for this, depend upon it." "We're not afraid," said Lillyston, quietly. Julian only answered the threat by a bow, and the two walked off to the bargee, who, in despair and anger, was knotting together the cut pieces of his rope. Lillyston slipped a sovereign into his hand, and told him how sorry he was for what had happened. "Thank you, sir," said the man, humbly; "it's a hard thing for a poor chap to be treated as I've been; but _you're_ a rale gentleman." "Well, do me one favour, then. Promise not to say a word to, or take any notice of, those three fellows as they pass you." The man promised; but there was no need to have done so, for furious as Brogten was, he and his companions were too crestfallen to take any notice of the bargee in passing, except by contemptuous looks, which he returned with interest. On the whole, it struck them that they would not make a particularly creditable display in hall that evening, and therefore they partook instead of a sumptuous repast in the rooms of Lord Fitzurse, who made up for the dirt which they had been eating by the splendour of his entertainment. "I'll be even yet with that fellow Home," muttered Brogten, as they were parting. "He's not w-w-worth it," said the host. "He's one of the g-g-ghouls; eh, Bruce--ha! ha! ha!" CHAPTER TEN. CONTRASTS. "And here was Labour his own bond slave; Hope That never set the pains against the prize; Idleness halting with his weary clog, And poor misguided Shame and witless Fear And simple Pleasure foraging for Death." Wordsworth. _The Prelude_. Although Julian did not immediately feel, and had not particular reason to dread, the results of Brogten's displeasure, yet it was very annoying to be on the same stair-case with him. It was a constant reminder that there was one person, and he near at hand, who regarded him as an enemy. For a time, indeed, Brogten tried a few practical jokes on his neighbour and quondam school-fellow, which gratified for the moment his desire for revenge. Thus he would empty the little jug of milk which stood every day before Julian's door into the great earthenware pitcher of water which was usually to be found in the same position or he would make a surreptitious entry into his rooms, and amuse himself by upturning chairs and tables, turning pictures with their faces to the wall, and doing sometimes considerable damage and mischief. Once Julian, on preparing to get into bed, found a neat little garden laid out for his reception, between the sheets--flower-beds and gravel walks, all complete. This course of petty annoyance he bore, though not without a great struggle, in dignified and contemptuous silence. He looked Brogten firmly in the face, whenever they chanced to meet, and never gave him the triumph of perceiving that his small arts of vexation had taken the slightest effect. He merely smiled when the hot-headed Kennedy suggested retaliation, and would not allow Lillyston to try the effect of remonstrance. It was not long before Brogten became thoroughly ashamed that his malice should be tried and despised, and he would have proceeded to more overt acts of hatred had he not been one day informed by Lillyston that the Hartonians generally had heard of his proceedings, and that if he continued them he would be universally cut. For, indeed, such practical jokes as Brogten attempted are now almost unknown at Camford, and every man's room is considered sacred in his absence. But although he desisted from this kind of malice, it was not long before Brogten was generally shunned by his former schoolfellows. He developed into such a thorough blackguard that, had it not been for his merits as an oarsman and a cricketer, even the countenance of Bruce and Lord Fitzurse would have been insufficient to prevent him from being deserted by all the undergraduates of Saint Werner's, except that small and wretched class who take refuge from vacuity in the society of cads, dog-fanciers, and grooms. Yet Brogten's Harton education, idle as he had been, sufficed to make him see that he was sinking lower and lower, not only in the world's estimation, but in his own. Unable to make the mental effort which the least approach to study would have required, he suffered his few intellectual faculties to grow more and more gross and stolid, and spent his mornings in smoking, drinking beer, or lounging in the rooms of some one as idle and discontented as himself. It was sad to see the change which even in his first term came over his face; it was not the change from boyhood to youth which gave a manlier beauty to the almost feminine delicacy of Julian's features, but it was a look in which effrontery supplied the place of self-dependence, and coarseness was the substitute for strength. Beer in the morning, and brandy in the evening, cards, and low company, and vice, made him sink into a degradation from which he was only redeemed by the still lingering ambition to excel in athletic sports, and by the manly exercises which rescued him for a time from such dissipation as would have incapacitated him from shining in the boat or in the field. Lillyston was a singular contrast with Brogten; originally they were about equal in ability, position, and strength. They had entered school in the same form, and, until Julian came, they had generally been placed near each other in the quarterly examinations. Both of them were strong and active, and without being clever or brilliant they were both possessed of respectable powers of mind. Both of them had been in the Harton eleven, and now each of them was already in the second boat of their respective clubs; but with all these similarities Lillyston was beginning to be one of the men most liked and respected among all the best sets of his own year, and was reading for honours with a fair chance of ultimate success, while Brogten was looked on as a low and stupid fellow, whose company was discreditable, and whose doings were a disgrace to his old school. The two presented much the same contrast as was also visible between Julian and Bruce. While Julian and Lillyston had mutually influenced each other for good, while they had been growing up together in warm and honourable friendship, thinking whatsoever things are pure and true and of good report, the other two had only fostered each other's vanity, and rather encouraged than checked each other's failings. At school they were always exchanging the grossest flattery, and the lessons and tendencies which each had derived from the other's society were lessons of weakness and sin alone. And now Bruce was looked on at Saint Werner's as a vain, empty fellow, living on a reputation for cleverness which he had never justified,--low, dressy, and extravagant, despised by the reading men, (whose society he affected to avoid), for his weakness and want of resolution; by the real athletes for his deficiency in strength and pluck, and by the aristocrats, (whose rooms he most frequented), for the ill-concealed obscurity of his father's origin, and the ill-understood source of his wealth. Since he first astonished the men of his year by the brilliancy of his entertainments and the gorgeousness of his rooms, he had steadily declined in general estimation among all whose regard was most really valuable, and he would have found few among his immense acquaintance who cared as much for _him_ as they did for his good dinners and recherche wines. Julian, on the other hand, who knew far fewer men, could count among his new and old companions some real friends--friends who would cling to him in adversity as well as in prosperity, and who loved him for his own sake, whether his fortunes were in sunshine or in cloud. First among these newly-acquired friends he counted the names of Owen and Kennedy, among the old ones of Lillyston and De Vayne. But, besides these, he had been sought out by all the most distinguished men among the Saint Werner's undergraduates, while Mr Admer, who improved immensely on acquaintance, had introduced him to some of the most genial and least exclusive dons. Even Mr Grayson used to address him with something approaching to warmth, and so high was his general reputation, that he had no difficulty in making the acquaintance of every man of his college, whom he in the least cared to see or know. Brogten was one of those who perceived these contrasts, and the bitter intense malice with which they filled him was one of the evil feelings which helped to drag him down from following out his occasional resolutions for better things. Strange that a few weeks could produce such differences but so it was. At the end of those few weeks Bruce went back to take part in his mother's splendid theatricals and routs, with a consciousness of neglected opportunities and wasted times even if his conscience laid no worse sins to his charge. Brogten went back, cursing himself and all around him, with the violent self-accusations of a reprobate obstinacy, a man in vice, though hardly more than a boy in years. Kennedy went back happy on the whole, happy above all in the certainty that he had made in Julian one noble friend. Lillyston went back happy, well-pleased with the sense of duty done, and the prime of life well and innocently enjoyed. And Julian went back in the same train with De Vayne, happy too, with a mind strengthened and expanded, with knowledge deepened and widened, with an honourable ambition opening before him, and friends and a fair position already won. All these results had sprung from those few and swiftly-gliding weeks. The Christmas time passed very pleasantly for the Homes. They had few relations, and Lady Vinsear had dropped all intercourse with them, but they were happy in themselves. Violet, too, had the pleasure of forming an acquaintance with Kennedy's sister Eva, who, with her aunt, happened to be paying a short visit to a family in the neighbourhood. Frank and Cyril were at home for their holidays, and the house and garden at Ildown rang all day long with their merry voices and incessant games. Old Christmas observances were not yet obsolete in Ildown, and Yule logs and royal feasts were the order of the day. The bright, clear, frosty air--the sparkling sea and freshening wind--a lovely country, a united and cheerful family, and the delights of moderate study, made the weeks speed by in pure enjoyment. With his mother, his brothers, and Violet, Julian felt the need of no other society, but he corresponded with Kennedy and other college friends, and saw a great deal of Lord De Vayne, who continually rode over to pass the Sunday with them at Ildown, and sometimes persuaded all the Homes to come and spend the day with him and his mother in the beautiful but lonely grounds of Other Hall. Whenever they accepted the invitation, the young and pensive viscount seemed another man. He would join in the boys' mirth with the most joyous alacrity, and talked to Violet with such vivacity that none who saw him would believe what a shade of melancholy usually hung over his mind. His life had been spent in seclusion, and he had never yet seen any to whom his heart turned with such affection as he felt for Julian and Violet. His mother observed it, and often thought that if she saw in Violet Home the future Lady De Vayne, a source of happiness was laid up for her only son, which would fulfil, and more than fulfil, her fondest prayers. It never occurred to her to think that he would do better to choose a bride among the noblest and wealthiest houses of England, rather than in the orphan family of a poor and unknown clergyman. What she sought for him was goodness and usefulness, not grandeur or riches; a lonely and sorrowful life had taught her at how slight a value rank and wealth are to be reckoned in any high or true estimate of the meaning of human life; nor did it add greatly to her desire for such a match that Violet, with her bright hair, and soft eyes, and graceful figure--with her sweet musical voice, and the rippling silver of her laugh, and the rich imagery which filled her fancy--might well have fulfilled the ideal of a poet's dream. But Violet was still very young, and none of Lady De Vayne's hopes had ever for an instant crossed her mind. Julian was at this time, and had been for some months, intensely occupied with the thought and desire of winning the Clerkland scholarship, a university scholarship of 60 pounds a year, open to general competition among all the undergraduates of less than one year's standing. This scholarship was the favourite success of Camford life. It stamped at once a man's position as one of the most prominent scholars of his year, and as the names of many remarkable men were found in the list of those who had already obtained it, it gave a strong prestige of future distinction and success. Julian had a peculiar reason for longing to gain it, because, with his Harton scholarship, it would not only enable him at once to enter his name as a pensioner, instead of a sizar, at Saint Werner's, but even make him independent of all help from his family and guardians. There would have been reasons sufficient to account for his passionate desire for this particular distinction, even independently of his natural wish to justify the general opinion of his abilities, and the eager ambition caused by the formidable numbers of the other competitors. In short, at this time, to obtain the Clerkland scholarship was the most prominent personal desire in Julian's heart, and could some genius have suddenly offered him the fulfilment of any one wish, this would undoubtedly have been the first to spring to his lips. He looked with emulation, almost with envy, on those who had won it before him; he almost knew by heart the list of Clerkland scholars; and when he returned to Camford, constantly discussed the chances of success in favour of the different candidates. Do not blame him; his motives were all high and blameless, although he at length turned over this thought so often in his mind as to recur to it with almost selfish iteration, and to regard success in this particular struggle as the one thing wanting to complete, or even to create his happiness. He could not refrain from mentioning it at home, although, for the sake of preventing disappointment, he generally avoided dwelling on any of his school or college struggles. Deprecating his own abilities, it made him doubly anxious to find that not only did his Saint Werner's contemporaries regard him as the favourite candidate, and bet upon him in the sporting circles, (although Brogten furiously took the largest odds against him), but, what was worse, his own family, always proud of him, seemed to regard his triumph as certain. Thus circumstanced, and most fondly avoiding every possibility of causing pain or disappointment to that thrice-loved circle, of which he regarded himself as the natural protector and head, he was more than ever determined to do his very utmost to prevent failure, and give them the lasting pride and pleasure which they would all receive by seeing his name in the public papers as Clerkland scholar. "Come, Julian, and let's have a row or a sail," said Cyril one morning to him, as he sat at work. "Frank and I have nothing to do to-day." "Not to-day, Cyril, my boy. I really must do some work; you know De Vayne made me ride with him yesterday, and I've done very little the last day or two." "I wish I liked work as you do, Julian." "It isn't only that I like work, (though I do)," said Julian; "but you know a good deal depends on it." "Oh! I know!" said Cyril; "you mean the Clerkland scholarship; but never mind, Julian, Lord De Vayne told me you were sure of that." "Did he?" said Julian, a little anxiously; "then for goodness' sake, don't believe him. It's very kind of him to say so--but he's quite mistaken." "Ah, you always say so beforehand, you know. You used to say that about the Harton scholarship, Julian, and yet you see? Do come." "Well, I'll come," said Julian, smiling a little sadly. "But, Cyril, don't, pray, say anything of that kind to mother or to Violet, for if I should fail it would make me doubly sad." Cyril, thanking Julian, and still laughingly prophesying success, ran out to tell Frank; and, when he had gone, Julian stamped his foot passionately on the ground, and said half-aloud, "I _will_ get this Clerkland, I _will_ get it, I _must_ get it." He paused a moment, and then, raising his eyes and hands to heaven, prayed that "God would do for him that which was best for his highest welfare;" but even as he prayed, he secretly determined that obtaining the Clerkland scholarship was, and must necessarily be, the best piece of worldly prosperity that could possibly happen to him. CHAPTER ELEVEN. SCREWED IN. Reader, if the latter part of the preceding chapter has been dull to you, it is because you have never entered into the devouring ambition which, in a matter of this kind, actuates a young man's heart when he is aiming at his first grand distinction--an ambition which, if selfishly encouraged, becomes dangerous both to health and peace, and works powerfully, perhaps by a merciful provision, to the defeat of its own darling hope. As long as Julian had been at home, a thousand objects helped to divert his thoughts from their one cherished desire; but when he returned to Camford, finding the Clerkland a frequent subject of discussion among the men, even in hall, and constantly meeting others who were as absorbed in the thought of the approaching examination as himself, he once more fell into the vortex, and thought comparatively of little else. As yet he had had no means of measuring himself with others, except so far as the lecture-room enabled him to judge of the abilities of some few in his own college. Under these circumstances all conjecture must have seemed to be idle; but somehow or other at Camford, by a sort of intuition, the exact place a man will ultimately take is often prophesied from the first with wonderful accuracy. Saint Werner's, being by far the largest college at Camford, supplied the majority of the candidates, and Julian, Owen, and Kennedy were all three mentioned as likely to be first; but the rival ranks of Saint Margaret's boasted their champions also, and almost every small college nursed some prodigy of its own, for which it vehemently predicted an easy and indisputable success. Owen was the competitor whom Julian most really feared; educated at Roslyn, a comparatively small school, his scholarship was not so ready and polished as that acquired by the training of Marlby and Harton, but, on the other hand, he had improved greatly in the short time he had been at Saint Werner's, and besides his sound knowledge he had a strong-headed common sense, and a clearness and steadiness of purpose, more valuable than a quick fancy and refined taste. In composition, and in all the lighter and more graceful requirements of a classical examination, Julian had an undoubted superiority, but Owen was his equal, if not his master, in the power of unravelling intricacies and understanding logic; and, besides this, Owen was a better mathematician, and, although classics had considerable preponderance, yet one mathematical paper always formed part of the Clerkland examination. Kennedy who, if he had properly employed his time, would have been no mean rival to either of them, had unfortunately been so idle, and continued to be so gay and idle even for the weeks immediately preceding the examination, that they all felt his chance to be gone. He acknowledged the fact himself, with something between a laugh and sigh, and only threatening to catch them both up in the classical tripos, he resigned all hope for himself, and threw all his wishes into the scale of Julian's endeavours. And although Owen was liked and respected, there was no doubt that Julian was regarded throughout the University as the popular candidate; the Hartonians especially, who had carried off the prize for several years, were confident that he would win them another victory. As the time drew near, Julian became more and more feverish with eagerness, and his friends feared that he would hinder, by over reading, his real probability of success. Kennedy felt this most strongly, but being himself engaged in the competition, was afraid that any attempt to divert Julian's thoughts would not have a disinterested look. Lillyston and De Vayne, unrestrained by such motives, did all they could to take him from his books, and amuse him by turning his attention to other subjects; but with such strong reasons for exertion, and so much depending on success or failure, the Clerkland scholarship continued ever the prominent subject of Julian's thoughts. At last the long looked for week arrived. After chapel, on the Sunday morning, De Vayne invited himself to breakfast with Julian, and continued in his company the greater part of the day, going with him to the University sermon. He entirely forbade Julian even to allude more than once to the coming examination, and managed in the evening to get him to come to his rooms, where, with some other Hartonians and Kennedy, they spent a very pleasant evening. "Good-night," he said to Julian, as he strolled with him to his stair-case across the starlight court; "don't stay up to-night. In quietness and confidence shall be your strength." The examination was to last a week, and Julian rose for it refreshed and cheerful on Monday morning. The papers suited him excellently, and his hopes rose higher and higher as he felt that in each paper he had done to the utmost of his knowledge and ability. He had not been able to afford a private tutor during the term, with whom he might have discussed the papers, but he sent his Iambics and Latin verse to Mr Carden at Harton, who wrote back a most favourable and encouraging judgment of them, and seemed to regard Julian's success as certain. Julian had implicit confidence in his opinion, for Mr Carden entered very warmly into all his hopes and wishes, and kept up with him an affectionate correspondence, which had helped him out of many intellectual difficulties, and lessened the force of many a temptation. The papers usually lasted from nine till twelve in the morning, and from two to four in the afternoon. It was on the Friday morning, when only three more papers remained, that Julian found Mr Carden's kind and hopeful letter lying on his breakfast-table at eight o'clock; he read it with a glow of pleasure, because he knew that he could rely thoroughly on the accuracy and truth of his old tutor's judgment, and as he read and re-read it, his hopes rose higher and higher. Finishing breakfast, he began to build castles in the air, and to imagine to himself the delight it would be to write and tell the Doctor and Mr Carden of this new leaf to the Harton laurels. Never before had he a more reasonable ground for favourable expectation, and he began almost to run over in his mind the sort of letter he would write, and the kind of things he would say. Leaning over his window-sill, he enjoyed the cool feeling of the early spring breeze on his brow and hair, and then, finding by his watch that it was time to start, he took his cap and gown, and prepared to sally out to the senate-house. It was the custom of the gyp, when he had laid breakfast, and put the kettle on the fire, to go away and "sport the oak," (_i e_, shut the outer door), so as to prevent any one from coming into the rooms until their owner was awake and dressed. Julian therefore was not surprised to see his door "sported," but was surprised to find that, when he lifted the latch, the door did not open to his touch. He pushed it with some force, and then kicked it with his foot to see if some stone or coal had not caught against it, but the door still remained obstinately closed; he put his shoulder against it, fancying that some heavy weight like the coal-box or water-pitcher might have been placed outside,--but all in vain; the thick door did not even stir, and then there flashed upon Julian the bitter truth that he had been screwed in. He understood now the stifled titter which he fancied he had heard after one of his most violent efforts to get out. In one instant, before he had time to think, a fit of blind, passionate, uncontrollable fury had clouded and overpowered Julian's whole mind. Almost unconscious of what he was doing, he kicked the door with all his might, and beat on it savagely with his clenched fists until his knuckles streamed with blood; he forgot everything but the one burning determination to get out at all hazards, and to wreak on Brogten, whom he felt to be the author of his calamity, some desperate and terrible revenge. But the thick oak door, screwed evidently with much care; and in many places, resisted all his efforts, and no one came to help him from outside. The gyp, who was usually about, happened to have gone on an errand; the stair-case was one of the most secluded in the college; the Fellow who was Julian's nearest neighbour had "gone down" for a few days, and it was improbable that any one ever heard him except Brogten, to whom, he thought, every sound of his angry violence would be perfect music. All was useless, and Julian, as he strode up and down the room, clenched his hands, and bit his lips in passionate excitement. Suddenly it struck him that he would escape by the window; but looking out for the purpose, he found that, when he had jumped on the sloping roof below him, he was still thirty feet above the ground, which, in that place, was not the turf of the bowling-green, but a hard gravel road. Giving up the attempt in despair he sat down, and covered his face with his hands; but instantly the picture of the senate-house, with the sixty candidates who were trying for the scholarship, all writing at some new paper--while he was thus cut off, (as he thought), from the long-desired accomplishment of all his hopes--rose before his eyes, and springing up once more he seized the poker, and raising it over his shoulder like a hammer, brought down the heavy iron knob with a crash on the oaken panels. He struck again and again, but, by a shower of fierce blows, could only succeed in covering the door with deep round dents. Finally he seized the heaviest chair in the room, and dashed it savagely with one heavy drive against the unyielding oak; a second blow shivered the chair to splinters, and Julian, a compulsory prisoner at that excited moment, flung himself on the sofa, furious and weary, with something that sounded like a fierce imprecation. Full twenty minutes had been occupied by his futile and frantic efforts, and for a few moments longer he sat still in a stupor of grief and rage. Meanwhile, several of the other competitors for the Clerkland had noticed his absence in the senate-house, and Owen and Kennedy kept directing anxious glances to the door, and dreading that he was ill. At last half an hour had elapsed, and Kennedy, unable any longer to endure the suspense, went up to the examiner and said-- "One of the candidates is absent, sir. Would you allow me to go and inquire the reason?" "Who is it?" asked the examiner. "Home, sir." "Indeed. But I am afraid I cannot allow you to leave the senate-house; the rules, you know, on this subject are necessarily very strict." "Then, sir, I will merely show up what I have written, for I am sure there must be some unusual reason for Home's absence." "Oh, no, Mr Kennedy, pray don't do so," said the examiner, who knew how well Kennedy had been doing; "I will send the University marshal to inquire for Mr Home; it is a very unusual compliment to pay him, but I think it may be as well to do so." It so happened that, as the marshal crossed the court to Julian's rooms, Lillyston and De Vayne, who were strolling towards the grounds, caught sight of him, and went with much curiosity to inquire the object of his errand. "Home not in the senate-house," said Lillyston, on hearing the marshal's answer. "Good heavens, what can be the matter?" and without waiting to hear more, he darted to Julian's door, and called his name. "What do you want?" said Julian in a fretful and angry voice. "Why are you sported? And why aren't you in for the Clerkland?" "Can't you see, then?" "What! So you are screwed in," said Lillyston in deep surprise; "wait three minutes, Julian, three minutes, and I will let you out." He sprang down-stairs, four steps at a time, borrowed a screwdriver at the porter's lodge, was back in a moment, and then with quick and skilful hand he drew out, one after another, the screws which had been driven deep into the door. Julian lifted the latch inside, and Lillyston saw with surprise and pain his scared and wild glance. Julian said not a word, but rushed past his friend, and burst furiously into Brogten's room. Fortunately Brogten was not in, for the moment he heard steps approaching, he had purposely gone out; but Lillyston followed Julian, and said-- "Come, this is folly, Julian; you have not a moment to lose. You will be already nearly an hour late, and remember that the Clerkland may depend upon it." He suffered himself to be led, but as he walked he was still silent, and seemed as though he were trying to gulp down some hard knot that rose in his throat. His expression was something totally different from anything that Lillyston had ever observed in him, even from a boy, and his feet seemed to waver under him as he walked. De Vayne joined them in the court, and was quite startled to see Julian looking so ill. He saw that it was no time to trouble him with idle inquiries, and merely pressed him to come into his rooms and take some wine before going to do the paper. Julian silently complied. The kind-hearted young viscount took out a bottle of wine, of which Julian swallowed off a tumblerful, and then, without speaking a word, strode off to the senate-house, which he reached pale and agitated, attracting, as he entered, the notice and commiseration of all present. The examiner, with a kind word of encouragement, and an inquiry as to the cause of his delay, which Julian left unanswered, promised to allow him in the evening as much additional time for doing the paper as he had already lost. Julian bowed, and walked to his place. And now that he was seated, with the paper before him, he found himself in a condition to do nothing. His mind was in a tumult of wrath and sorrow. Bitter sorrow that his hopes should be shattered; fiery wrath that any one should have treated him with such malignant cruelty. His brain swam giddily, and his head throbbed with violent pain. His hands were still raw and bleeding with his efforts to burst open the door; and the consciousness that his whole appearance was wild, and that several eyes were upon him, unnerved him so completely, that he was quite unable to collect or control his scattered senses. He made but little progress. The clock of Saint Mary's told the passing hours, and at twelve Julian found himself with nothing written except a few half-finished and incoherent sentences which he was ashamed to show up. Dashing the nib of his pen on the desk, he split it to pieces; and then, tearing up his papers, was hurrying out, when the voice of the examiner suddenly recalled him. "You have not shown me up any papers, Mr Home." "No, sir," he answered sullenly. "Indeed! But why?" "I have not done any, sir." "Really. I am sorry for that. It is a serious matter, for you have been doing remarkably well, and--Are you not feeling well?" "No, sir, not exactly." "Hum! Well, it is a great pity; a _great_ pity; a _very_ great pity. However--" There seemed to be no more to say, and as Julian's mind was in too turbulent a state to allow of his being communicative, he did not trust himself to make any remark, and left the room. Kennedy, who came up with him as he went out, asked what was the matter; but as he only answered with an impatient gesture, and evidently seemed to wish to be alone, Kennedy left him and went to inquire of Lillyston what had happened, while Julian hastened to the solitude of his own room, and breaking with his poker one of the outer hinges of his door, to secure himself from a second imprisonment, flung himself on a chair, and pressed his hands to his burning forehead. In his bitterness of soul he half determined to abandon all further attempt to gain the Clerkland, and dwelt, with galling recurrence, on the anguish of defeated aims. But the sound of the clock striking the hour of examination started him into sudden effort, and almost mechanically he seized his cap and gown, and went out without food and unrefreshed. Although he endeavoured, with all his might, to shake off all thought of the morning's insult and misfortune, he only partially succeeded, and when he folded up his papers, he felt that the fire and energy which had shone so conspicuously during the earlier days of the examination, and had imparted such strength and brilliancy to his efforts, were utterly extinguished, and had left him wandering and weak. When the time was over, he went to De Vayne's rooms, and said abruptly-- "De Vayne, will you lend me your riding-whip?" "Certainly," said De Vayne, starting up to meet him. "Are you going to have a ride? I wish you would ride my horse; I'll hire another, and come with you." "No; I don't want a ride." "What do you want the whip for, then?" said De Vayne uneasily. "Nothing. Let me go; it must be time for you to go to hall." "I'm not going to dine in hall to-day," said De Vayne. "Dining at the high table, with none but dons to talk to, is dull work for an undergraduate. Stop! you shall dine with me here, Julian. I know you won't care to go to hall to-day. Nay, you shall," he said, putting his back against the door; "I shall be as dull as night without you." He made Julian stay, for it happened that at that moment his gyp brought up dinner, and Julian, hungry and weary, was tempted to sit down. De Vayne, who only too well divined his reason for borrowing the whip, was delighted at having succeeded in detaining him, for he knew that the only time when Julian would be likely to meet Brogten was immediately after hall. Wiling away the time with exquisite tact--talking to him without pressing him to talk much in reply--turning his thoughts to indifferent subjects, until he had succeeded in arousing his interest--the young viscount detained his guest till evening, and then persuaded him to have tea. Lord De Vayne played well on the piano, and knowing Julian's passion for music, was rewarded for his unselfish efforts by complete success in rousing his attention. He played some of the finest passages of a recent and beautiful oratorio, until Julian almost forgot his troubles, and was ready to talk with more freedom and in a kindlier mood. "You surely won't want the whip now," said De Vayne in some dismay, as Julian picked it up on saying good-night. "Yes, I shall," answered Julian. "Good-night!" CHAPTER TWELVE. A GUST OF THE SOUL. "Once more will the wronger, at this last of all. Dare to say `I did wrong,' rising in his fall?" Browning. The story of Brogten's practical joke, and the circumstances which made it so unusually disgraceful, spread with lightning-like rapidity through Saint Werner's College; and when he swaggered into hall with his usual self-confident air, he was surprised to find himself met with cold and even with frowning looks. Snatches of conversation which went on around him soon showed him the reason of the general disapprobation; and when he learnt how violently the current of popular opinion was beginning to set against him, and how unfavourable a view was taken of his conduct, he began seriously to regret that he had given the reins to his malice. "I shouldn't wonder now if Home were to lose the Clerkland; he was _sure_ of it before this morning," said one. "What a cursed shame!" echoed another. "I never in my life heard a more blackguard trick. That fellow Brogten has lost the Hartonians the scholarship; lucky if he hasn't lost it to Saint Werner's too. Perhaps that Benedict man will get it." "I say, Kennedy," said a third, "if I were you or Lillyston, or any other of Home's particular friends, I'd duck Brogten." "Let's wait till we see whether Home _does_ lose the scholarship first," said Lillyston. "_If_ he does, Brogten deserves anything; but I have strong hopes yet." "I know Home," said Kennedy, "and he would never forgive such an interference, or I declare I should be inclined to do it." "I should like to see you do it," thundered Brogten, from a farther end of the table. "I have just given my reasons for not seeing fit to do it," said Kennedy, with a curl of the lip. "By the bye, Mr Brogten," he continued sarcastically, "I hope that you don't, after this, expect to be paid any of the _bets_ you have made against Home's getting the Clerkland?" "There's my betting-book," replied Brogten, flinging it at Kennedy, whom it struck in the face, and who took no further notice of the insult than to pick up the book, and throw it into the great brazier, full of glowing charcoal, which stands in the centre of Saint Werner's hall. "Don't do that, confound you!" cried Brogten, springing up. "Do you think there are no bets in it but those about the Clerkland?" "Keep your missiles to yourself, then," said Kennedy, while Brogten burnt his fingers in the vain attempt to rescue his book. "I hope you've at least hedged, or behaved as judiciously in the case of your other bets as in those about the Clerkland," suggested one of his sporting friends. This last sneer and insinuation was too much, and it galled the proud man to the quick to hear the laugh of scorn which followed it. He turned round, seized his cap, and flinging at Kennedy a look of intense and concentrated hatred, left the hall, and rushed up to his rooms. To do Brogten justice, he had never intended for a moment to affect Julian's chance of ultimate success, when he enjoyed the mean satisfaction of screwing up his door. He had regarded him with indeed dislike, which received a tinge of deeper intensity from the envy, and even admiration, with which it was largely mingled. But although he had calculated that his trick might be more telling and offensive if done at this particular opportunity, and although he had quite sufficient grudge against his former school-fellow to wish him a deep annoyance, yet he would never have dreamed of wilfully thwarting his most cherished aims, or materially affecting his prospects and position. So vile a malice would have been intolerable to any one, and the thought of it was thoroughly intolerable to Brogten, in whom all gleams of honourable feeling were by no means extinguished, however dormant they might seem. It had never entered into his thoughts to anticipate the violent consequences which his act had produced; and when told of Julian's passion and suffering, he had felt such real remorse that he had even half intended to wait for him as he went to hall, and there, (in a quasi-public manner, since some men were sure to be standing about on the hall steps), to endure the mortification of expressing his regret to the man whom he had chosen to treat as his enemy. But when he found himself cut and jeered at--when he was even met by the suggestion that he had intended basely to serve his own pecuniary interests at Julian's expense--a method of swindling which he had never for one instant contemplated--all his softer and better feelings vanished at once, and created a brutal hardness in his heart, which now once more he was striving in solitude to mollify or remove. And he succeeded so far that, while brooding savagely over the venomous shafts of sarcasm and ridicule with which Kennedy had wounded him, he gradually softened his feelings towards Julian, by transferring them in tenfold virulence against Julian's nearest friend. Home and he had been school-fellows after all, and Julian had never done him any wrong; on the contrary, he liked the boy; he remembered distinctly how the first seeds of ill-will against him had been sown, by the reserve with which Julian, as a school-fellow, had received his advances. Without being rude and uncivil, he had yet managed to hold aloof from him, and as Brogten was in some repute at Harton, when Home came, and was moreover an Hartonian of much longer standing, his sensitive pride had been stung by the fact that the "new fellow," whose pleasant face and manners had attracted his notice, did not at once and gratefully embrace his proffered friendship. Circumstances had tended to widen the breach between them, but secretly he liked Home still, and would have gladly been his friend. "And, after all," he thought, "Home has never once retaliated any injury which I have undoubtedly done him; he has never done me any harm. Even in the affair at the boats, he only did what was quite justifiable, and I was far more in the wrong than he was when I struck him. And now they all say I shall have prevented him from getting this confounded Clerkland. And I know how he longed for it, and how much all his hopes and wishes were fixed upon it. Upon my word, when I come to think of it, it was a very blackguard thing of me to do, and I wish I had been at the bottom of the sea before I did it. I think--yes--I think I'll go and see Home, and ask his pardon; yes, upon my word I need his forgiveness, and would give a good deal to get it. He's a grand fellow after all. I wish he'd take me as a friend. I should be infinitely better for it; and I _will_ be better, too." And as he thus reasoned with himself, Brogten began to yearn for better things, and for Julian's friendship as a means of helping him to higher aims; and he remembered the lines-- "I would we were boys as of old, In the field, by the fold; His outrage. God's patience, man's scorn, Were so easily borne." So his thoughts ran on, but when it occurred to him that no such humiliation on his part would perhaps go very far to mend the general disgust with which he had been greeted, he began to waver again. "What business had they to assume that I meant the worst? I may be a bad fellow, but," (and a mental oath followed), "I'm not a black-leg after all. That fellow Kennedy--curse him!--I'll be even with him yet. I swear that he shall rue it. I'll be a very fiend in the vengeance I take--curse him, curse him!" And stamping his heel furiously on the floor, he swallowed some raw brandy, and began to pace up and down his room. The conflict of his thoughts lasted, almost without intermission, till evening. Finally, however, his heart softened towards Julian, as he ran over in his mind all the circumstances of the day. Cheating his conscience with the fancy that he was conquering his feelings of revenge and hate, while he was only displacing them with others of a deeper dye, he at last determined to go up at once to Julian's room, ask his pardon openly, honestly, and unreservedly, confess his past unworthy malice, and obtain, if possible, at least, Julian's forgiveness, perhaps even his friendship, in return for so great a victory over himself. It _was_ a victory over himself, and no slight one. For at least five years he had been nursing into dislike an inward feeling of respect for his enemy, and now to humble himself so completely before him, required a struggle of which he had hardly supposed himself capable, and of which he was secretly a little proud. It inspired him with better hopes for the future, and gave him a pledge of combating successfully other vicious propensities which had gained an ascendency over him. Hesitatingly he went up to Julian's rooms; he saw the broken door, and it made him waver. All was silence inside, but still he hoped that Julian was in, because he felt sure that he should never persuade his natural pride to consent to such a sacrifice again. But yet, _what should he say_? He had been thinking of a thousand set forms of apology, but they all vanished, as, with beating heart, he knocked, a little loudly, at the door. Julian, too, had been brooding on the events of the day, and fanning every now and then into fierce bursts of flame the dying embers of his morning's indignation. He took the worst view, and had every reason to take the worst view, of Brogten's intentions. He had received at his hands many wrongs, and an incivility as unvarying as it was undeserved. Of course he could not tell that this rudeness was but the cover of a real desire for cordiality between them, and now he fully believed that Brogten had intentionally, deliberately, and with malice prepense, formed a deep laid scheme to dash from his lips the cup of happiness as he was in the very act of tasting it. The success which had seemed in his very grasp would have removed the poverty, which had been one of the severest trials, not to himself only, but to those whom he most dearly loved; it was the thing--the _one_ thing--of which he had thought, and for which he had prayed. "And now it was wrenched from him," so he thought, "by this mean and dastardly villain." He had determined to horse-whip Brogten, at all hazards, though he knew that Brogten was far stronger than himself. De Vayne's manoeuvre had disconcerted his intention, for he could not carry it out in cold blood; but even now he felt by no means sure that he was right to take passively an insult which, if unresented, might, he thought, be repeated, some other time, and which, if frequently repeated would render college life wholly intolerable. All this was floating through his mind, when there came a loud--he took it for an insolent--knock at the door, and his enemy stood before him. His enemy stood before him, humbled and remorseful, with the words of apology on his lips, and his heart full of such emotions as might have enabled Julian to convert him from an enemy into a lasting and grateful friend. But when he saw him, in one instant furious, unreasoning, headlong anger had again seized Julian's mind--the more easily because he had already yielded to it once. Without stopping to hear a word-- without catching the gentler tone of Brogten's rough voice--without noticing his downcast expression of countenance--Julian sprang up, assumed that Brogten had come to ridicule or even insult him, glared at him, clenched his teeth, and then seizing De Vayne's riding-whip, laid it without mercy about Brogten's shoulders. During the first few blows, Brogten was disarmed by intense surprise. Of all receptions, this was the only one which it had never occurred to him to contemplate. He had imagined Julian bitter, sarcastic, cold; he had prepared himself for a torrent of passionate and overwhelming invective; he had thought how to behave if Julian remained silent, or rejected with simple contempt his stammered apology; but to be horse-whipped by one so much weaker than himself--by one whom he remembered to have pitied and patronised when he came to Harton, a delicate rosy-cheeked boy--this he had certainly never thought of. Julian had almost expended his rage in half a dozen wild blows before Brogten was startled from his surprise into a consciousness of his position. But when he did realise it all the demon took possession of his heart. He seized Julian by the collar, wrenched the whip out of his hand, and raised the silver knob at the end of the handle. What fearful hurt Julian might have received from so heavy a weapon in so powerful a hand, or how far Brogten's fury might have transported him, none can tell; but at that very moment he heard a step on the stairs, which arrested his violence, and the moment after Lillyston entered. "What!" said Lillyston indignantly, as he caught the almost diabolical expression of Brogten's face. "Not content with doing your best to ruin Home, you are using personal violence to one not so strong as yourself. Come, sir, you have felt what I can do before. Drop that whip, or take the consequences." "Stop, Hugh," said Julian sullenly; "I horse-whipped him first." "You!" said Lillyston. "Yes," answered Brogten slowly, while his voice shook with passion; "yes, he did horse-whip me, and I took it. Note that, you Lillyston, and don't think I'm afraid of _you_. And as for you, Home, listen to me. I came here solely to tell you that though I screwed you in, I never dreamt that such results would follow. I never dreamt--so help me, God!--of doing more than causing you ten minutes' annoyance; and now, when I was told how it had hindered you in the examination, I was heartily sorry and ashamed of what I had done, and,"--he began to speak lower and faster, as the remembrance of a better mood came over him--"and I came here, Home, to ask your forgiveness. _Yes; I to beg pardon of you, and humbly and honestly too_. And now you see how you have received me. Yes," he continued fiercely; "no word between us from henceforth. You have horse-whipped me, sir, and I, who never took a blow from man yet without returning it, have taken your horse-whipping. Take your whip," he said, flinging it to the end of the room; "and after that never dare to say that all accounts are not squared between us." Lillyston made room for him to pass. With a lowering countenance he turned from them, and they continued silent till they had heard his last heavy footfall as he went down the echoing stairs. Lillyston sat on the sofa, and Julian kept his eyes fixed on the floor. There seemed nothing to talk about, so Lillyston merely said, "Good-night, Julian. I came to advise you to go to bed early, and so get a good night's rest, that you may be _yourself_ to-morrow. You have not been yourself to-day. Good-night." But a worse evil had happened to Julian that day than hindrance in his career of ambition and hope. He had lost a golden opportunity for an act of Christian forgiveness which might have had the noblest influence on the life of an erring human soul. He had lost a golden opportunity of doing lasting good, and that, too, to one who hated him. Alas, it is too seldom that we have power in life to raise up them that fall! Julian felt bitterly, he felt even with poignancy, Brogten's closing words; but it was too late now to offer the forgiveness which would have been invaluable to his persecutor, and would have had a healing effect on his own troubled thoughts so short a time before. All this gave deeper vexation to Julian's heart as he went moodily to bed. And Brogten? He sat sullenly over his fire till the last spark died from its ashes, and his lamp flickered out, and he shivered with cold. "It is of no use to conquer myself," he thought; "it is of no use to do better or be better if this comes of it. Horse-whipped, and by him!" But, as he had said, he no longer grieved over Julian's injury. _That_ was wiped off by the horse-whipping, and he had now made himself understand that his inward respect for Home was deeper than the long superficial quarrel that had existed between them. It was against Kennedy that the current of his anger now swept this ever-growing temptation for revenge. His craving, often yielded to, became terrible in its virulence, and from this day forward there was in Brogten's character a marked change for the worse. He ever watched for his opportunity, certain that it would come in time; and this encouragement of one bad passion opened the floodgates for a hundred more. And so on this evening he went on selling himself more and more completely to the devil, till the anger within him burned with a red heat, and as he went to bed the last words he muttered to himself were, "That fellow Kennedy shall rue it; curse him, he shall rue it to his dying day." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE CLERKLAND SCHOLARSHIP. How different our smaller trials look, when they are seen from the distance of a quiet and refreshful rest. Utterly wearied, Julian slept deeply, and when the servant awoke him next morning, he determined that as the errors of yesterday were irreparable, he would at least save the chances of to-day. He rose at once, and read during breakfast the letter from home, which came to him from one of his family nearly every day. This morning it was from Violet, and he could see well how anxiously they were awaiting the result of his present examination, and yet how sure they were that he would succeed. Unwilling to trouble them by the painful circumstances of the day before, he determined not to write home again until the decision was made known. This morning's paper was to be the last, and Julian applied to it the utmost vigour of his powers. After the first few moments, he had utterly banished every sorrowful reflection, and when the clock struck twelve, he felt that once more he had done himself justice. He answered with a smiling assent, the examiner's expressed hope, that his health was better than it had been the day before, and joining Owen as he left the senate-house, found, on comparing notes, that he had done the paper at least as well as his dreaded but friendly rival. His spirits rose, and his hopes revived in full. Shaking off examination reminiscences, he proposed to De Vayne, Kennedy, and Lillyston a bathe in the Iscam, and then a long run across the country. They started at once, laughing and talking incessantly on every subject, except the Clerkland, which was tabooed. Ten minutes' run brought them to a green bend of the Iscam, where a bathing-shed had been built, and after enjoying the bathe as only the first bathe in a season can be enjoyed, they struck off over the fields towards some neighbouring villages, which De Vayne had often wanted to visit, because their old churches contained some quaint specimens of early architecture. On the way they passed through Barton Wood, and there found some fine specimens of herb Paris, with large bright purple berries resting on its topmost trifoliations, one of which Julian eagerly seized, saying that his sister had long wanted one for her collection of dried plants. "I suppose you want the one you have gathered, De Vayne, for some botanist," said Lillyston. "No--yes--at least I meant it for a lady, too; but it's of no use now," he said stammering. "For a lady--of no use _now_," said Kennedy laughing; "what do you mean?" "Oh, never mind," said Julian, as he noticed De Vayne's blush, and divined that he had meant the plant for Violet, but without knowing how much he was vexed by losing the opportunity of doing something for her. They had a beautiful walk; De Vayne made little sketches of the windows and gargoyles of the village churches, and they all returned in the evening to a dinner which Lillyston had ordered in his own rooms, and which gave the rest an agreeable surprise when they got in. "Julian," whispered De Vayne as they went away, "would you mind my sending that herb Paris to Vi--I beg pardon, to Miss Home, to your sister." "Oh dear, yes, if you like," said Julian carelessly, surprised at the earnestness of his manner about such a trifle. "It's only, you know, because Miss Home had heard that they were to be found near Camford, and asked me to get her one for her herbarium." "Oh, very well, send it by all means. I shouldn't like you to break a promise." "Thank you," said De Vayne; "and I suppose that Miss Home wouldn't mind my sending it in a letter." "Certainly not," said Julian, laughing; "I've no doubt she'll be highly flattered. Here's the plant. Good-night." "What could he have meant," thought he, "by making such a fuss about the trifolium, and by blushing so when Kennedy chaffed him? He surely can't have fallen in love with my dear little Vi." Now he thought of it, many indications seemed to show that such was really the case, and Julian contemplated the thought with singular pleasure. It did him good by diverting his attention from all harassing topics, and knowing that Violet was well worthy of Lord De Vayne, and could make him truly happy, while his high character and cultivated intellect rendered him well suited for her, he hoped in his secret heart that some day might see them united. But Lord De Vayne, full of delight, took the plant, dressed it carefully, cut it to the size of an envelope, and then with a thrill of exquisite emotion sat down to write his letter to Violet Home. "Dear Violet," he wrote, after having chosen a good sheet of note-paper and a first-rate pen, "you remember that I promised to find you a--" "Dear Violet--no, that won't quite do," he said, as he read over what he had written, "at least not yet. How pretty it looks! What a charming name it is! I wish I might leave it, it does look so happy. I wonder whether it would do to call her Violet? No, I suppose not; at least not yet--not yet!" and the young viscount let his fancy wander away to Other Hall, and there by the grand old fireplace in the drawing-room he placed in imagination a slight graceful figure with soft fair hair, and a smile that lighted up an angel face,--and by her side he sat down, and let his thoughts wander through a vista of golden years. Waking from his reverie, he found that his letter would be too late for the post, so he deferred it till Monday, and then wrote-- "Dear Miss Home--I enclose you a specimen of the herb Paris, which I promised to procure for you, if I could find one in Barton Wood. Julian was the actual discoverer, but has kindly allowed me to send it in fulfilment of my promise; he is quite well, and we are all hoping that you may hear in a day or two that he has got the Clerkland scholarship. With kindest remembrances to Mrs Home and your brothers, I remain, dear Miss Home, very truly yours, De Vayne." Little did Violet dream that this commonplace note had given its author such deep pleasure, and that before he despatched it he had kissed it a thousand times for her sake, and because it was destined for her hand. De Vayne would not have added the allusion to the Clerkland, but that rumours were already gaining ground in Julian's favour. The universal brilliancy of his earlier papers had already attracted considerable attention, and from mysterious hints at the high table, De Vayne began to gather almost with certainty that Julian was the successful candidate. Similar reports from various quarters were rife among the undergraduates, and were supposed to be traceable to competent authorities. Wednesday evening came, and next morning the result was to be made known. As certainty approached, and suspense was nearly terminated, Julian awaited his fate with sickening, almost with trembling anxiety. At nine o'clock he knew that the paper on which was written the name of the Clerkland scholar would be affixed to the senate-house door, but he did not venture to go and read it. He knew that, if he were successful, a hundred men would be eager to rush up to his rooms with the joyful intelligence; if unsuccessful, he still trusted that he had one or two friends sufficiently sincere to put an end to his painful anxiety by telling him the news. Nine o'clock struck. Oh, for the sound of some footstep on the stairs! Many must know the result by this time. Julian's hopes were still high, and he could not fail to hear of the numerous and seemingly authoritative reports which had ascribed success to him. He pressed his hands hard together, as he prayed that what was most for his welfare might be granted to him, and thought what boundless delight success would bring with it. What a joy it would be, above all, to write home, and gladden their hearts by the news of his triumph. Every moment his suspense made him more feverish, and now the clock struck a quarter past nine, and he feared that in this case no news must be bad news. He leaned out of the window, and at this moment Mr Grayson strolled across the bowling-green. Then he heard another don, who was following him, call out-- "I say, do you know that the Clerkland is out?" "Is it?" said Mr Grayson, with unusual show of interest. "Yes. Who do you think has got it?" "A Saint Werner's man, I hope." "Yes." "Well, who is it?" What was the answer--Owen or Home?--at that distance the names sounded _exactly alike_. "Oh, then, I am very sorry for--" Again Julian _could_ not, with his utmost effort, catch the name with certainty; and, unable any longer to endure this state of doubt, he seized his cap and gown, when the sound of a slow footstep stopped him. But it was Brogten's step, and Julian heard him pass into his own room. A moment of breathless silence, and then another step, or rather the steps of two men; he detected by the sound that they were Lillyston and De Vayne. In one moment he would know the--Was it the best or the worst? He stood with his hand on the handle of the door; but it seemed as if they would never get to the top of the stairs. Why on earth were they so slow? "Well," said Julian, as they came in sight, "is the Clerkland out?" He knew it was, but would not ask them the result. "Yes," they both said; and Lillyston added, in a sorrowful tone of voice, "I am sorry for you, Julian, but Owen has got it." Julian grew very pale, and for one second reeled as if he would faint. Lord De Vayne caught him as he staggered, and added eagerly, "But you are most honourably mentioned, Julian, `proxime accessit,' and an allusion to your illness during one paper." "Nothing, nothing," muttered Julian; "please leave me by myself." They were unwilling to leave him, and both lingered, but he entreated them to go, and respecting his desire for solitude they left him alone. Julian found relief in a burst of passionate tears. He flung himself on the ground and cursed his birth, and his hard fate, and above all he cursed Brogten, who, as was clear, had been the cause, the sole cause, as Julian obstinately said, of his heavy misfortune. "Here I am," he murmured, "a sizar, an orphan, poor, without relations, with others depending on me, with my own way to make in the world, and now he has lost me the one thing I longed for, the one thing which would have made me happy," and as Julian kept brooding on this, on the loss of reputation, of help, of hope, his eyes grew red and swollen, and his temples throbbed with pain. He was far from strong, and the shock of news that shattered all his hopes, and dashed rudely to the ground his long, long cherished desires, came more heavily upon him, because his constitution, naturally delicate, had suffered much during the last week from study and over anxiety. The necessity of writing home haunted him,--to his mother and sister, whose pride in him was so great, and who hoped so much for the honours which they thought him so sure to win,--to his brothers who had seen his diligence, and who would be deeply sorry to know that it had been in vain; to them at least he would be forced to announce the humiliating intelligence of defeat. He might leave his other friends to learn it from accidental sources, but oh, the bitterness of being obliged to announce it for himself, to those to whose disappointment he was most painfully alive, and oh, the intolerable plague of receiving letters of commiseration. He could not do anything, he could not read, or write, or even think, except of the one blow which had thus laid him prostrate. He leaned over his window-sill, and stared stupidly at the great stone bears carved on the portals of Saint Margaret's; his eyes wandered listlessly over the smooth turf of the Fellows' bowling-green, and the trim parterres full of crocus and anemone and violet which fringed it; he watched the boats skim past him on the winding gleams of the Iscam, and shoot among the water-lilies by the bridge and then he stared upwards at the sun, trying to think of nothing until his eyes watered, and then the sight of a don in the garden below made him shrink back, to avoid observation, into his own room. Some of the Saint Werner's men would be coming soon to condole with him. What a nuisance it would be! He got up and sported the door. This action recalled in all their intensity his bitterest and angriest feelings, and he flung the door open again, and threw himself full length on the sofa, until a sort of painful stupor came over him, and he became unconscious of how the time went by. At length a slight sound awoke him, and he saw De Vayne standing by him. De Vayne was so gentle in heart and manner, so full of sympathy and kindness, that of all others he was the one whom at that moment Julian could best endure to see. "I am afraid," he said, "that you will think me very foolish, De Vayne. But to me everything almost depended on this scholarship, and you can hardly tell how absolutely it had engrossed my hopes." "It is very natural that you should feel it, Julian. But I came to ask if you would like me to save you the trouble of writing home to-day. I could say more, you know, than you could," he added with a pleasant smile, "of the splendid manner in which you acquitted yourself, of which I have heard a great deal that I will tell you some day." "Thanks, De Vayne. I should be really and truly grateful if you would. They will expect to hear by to-morrow, and I know that if I write now, I shall be saying something bitter and hasty." "Very well, I will. Are you inclined for a stroll now?" "No, thank you," said Julian, unwilling to encounter the many eyes which he knew would look on him with curiosity to see how he bore his loss. "Good morning then; I shall come again soon." "Do, I shall like to see _you_," said Julian; and De Vayne went away, thinking with some happiness, that if he had won Julian's affection, that would be something towards helping him to win Violet's too. Julian had no intention that any strange eye should see how much he had felt his disappointment, so when Mr Admer came to see him, he gave no sign of vexation, and they talked indifferently for a few minutes, till Mr Admer said-- "Well, Home, I'm sorry you haven't got this scholarship. Not that it makes the least difference, you know, really. No sensible man would have thought one atom the better of you for getting it, and even your reputation stands just as high as before. "Ah, I see you take it to heart rather; all very natural, but when you're my age you'll think less of these things. There are higher successes in the world than these small University affairs." "But they aren't small to me," said Julian. "Not to men up here," said Mr Admer. "`They think the rustic cackle of their body The murmur of the world.'" "Perhaps, after all, if you had got it, it would only have helped to make you as fussy, as foolish, and as self-important as Jones, and Brown, and Robinson, who, because they are dons, think themselves the most important people in England, when really they are only conspicuous for empty-headedness and conceit; or as the senior Wrangler, who entering the theatre at the same moment as the queen, bowed graciously on all sides in acknowledgment of the acclamations. As it is, Home, you are a man who ought to do something in the world." Julian could not help smiling at Mr Admer's usual style, and would have found some relief in arguing with him, had not Hazlet entered, whose very appearance put Mr Admer to a precipitate flight. There could not have been any human being less likely to give Julian any effectual consolation at such a moment, and he could not help sighing as Mr Admer left him to his persecutor. "Fugit improbus ac me sub cultro linquit," he said appealingly, secure in Hazlet's ignorance of the Latin tongue; but Mr Admer only shook his head significantly, and disappeared. With his black shining hair brushed down in unusual lankiness over his receding forehead, and with an expression of sleek resignation unusually sanctimonious, Hazlet sat down, and gave a half groan. "I am sorry," he said, "dear Julian--" "Home, if you please, Hazlet," interrupted Julian. Hazlet was a little taken aback, but he said-- "Well, dear Home--" "Home _only_, if you please," said Julian still more abruptly. "Ah! I see you are in a rebellious--excuse me, dear--I mean Home,--a rebellious spirit. I feared it would be so when I saw that godless young clergyman with you." Julian relieved his disgust by an expression of impatience. "I have no doubt, dear Ju--, I mean Home--I have no doubt," he continued, with a gusto infinitely annoying, "that you needed this rod. I am afraid that you are as yet unconverted; that you have as yet no saving, no vital sense of Christianity. Some sin, perhaps, needs correction; some--" "Confound your intolerable impudence and cant!" said Julian, starting from his seat, aroused by his hypocritical prate into unwonted intolerance; and he suddenly observed, by the cowering attitude which Hazlet assumed, that the worthy youth was afraid of receiving at his head the water-bottle, on which Julian's hand was resting. Julian thought it best to avoid the temptation, and hoping Hazlet would take the hint, he said, "Forgive my rudeness, Hazlet, but I am very tired and annoyed just now; in fact, I am hardly in a condition to talk with, as you see, and you are really _quite_ incapable of saying anything to help me." But Hazlet had come prepared to say his say, and did not attempt to move. "Ah," he said, with a sigh which seemed to express satisfaction--(some people always sigh when they thank God)--"I am afraid you are unprepared for the consolations of religion." "Of such a religion as yours, most certainly," interrupted Julian, with haughty vehemence. "The natural man, you see--" He stopped as he saw Julian's hand fidgeting towards the water-bottle. "Ah! well, you will have still to sit at the sizars' table, and dine on the Fellows' leavings; perhaps it might inscrutably be good for you to bear the yoke--" Had the fellow come to insult him? Was he there on purpose to gratify his malice at another's misfortune, under the pretext of pious reflections? Half-a-dozen times Julian had thought so, and thought so correctly. Hazlet's very little and very ignorant mind had been fed into self-complacency by the cheering belief that he and his friends formed a select party whose future welfare was secure, while "the world" was very wicked, and destined to everlasting burning; and in proportion to his gross conceit, was he nettled with the evident manner in which Julian, though without any rudeness, avoided his company even at Ildown, where he reigned with undisputed sway among his own admiring circle of _gynaikazia_. (Excuse the word, gentle reader; it is Saint Paul's--not mine.) Hazlet had come there, though in the depth of his hypocrisy he hardly knew it himself, to enjoy a little triumph over Julian's pride, and to pour a little vinegar, in the guise of a good Samaritan, on wounds which he knew to be bleeding still. In saying the last sentence, in which he cut Julian to the very quick, Hazlet had seemed to his victim's excited imagination to be actually smacking his lips with undisguised delight. "Ah, you will have still to dine at the sizars' table on the Fellows' leavings." Julian knew that the form of the sentence made it most maliciously and odiously false;-- and that this hypocritical son of Belial should address him at such a moment in such a way was so revolting to his own generous spirit, that he could endure it no longer. "What did you say?" he asked sharply. "Of course, my dear Ju--, Home, I mean--poverty is no disgrace to you, you know. Some of the sizars are pious men, I have no doubt, and I dare say the Fellows leave--" "I swear this is too much," said Julian, using the only oath that ever in all his life-time crossed his lips. "You canting and mean--Pshaw! you are beneath my abuse. _Sizar_ indeed! there, take that, and begone." He had meant to empty the tumbler in his face, but his hand shook with passion, and the glass flew out of it, and after cutting the top of Hazlet's head, fell broken on the floor. With a howl of dismay Hazlet fled to his own rooms, where, having satisfied himself that the cut had done little other harm than leaving some red streaks upon his damp and lanky hair, he put over it some strips of plaster as large as he conveniently could, and then with a lugubrious expression went to hall, and gratified his malice by buzzing and babbling among his fellows all sorts of lies and exaggerations about Julian's conduct and state of mind. When Kennedy came in, however, he put an abrupt end to Hazlet's calumnies by handling his own tumbler with so significant a glance, that Hazlet assumed a look of terror, and, amid shouts of laughter, retired with all speed out of reach of the danger. Lillyston, always a firm and faithful friend, was grieved to the soul to hear of Julian's condition; for, without believing half that Hazlet said, it was at least clear that Julian had shown some violence, and, if Hazlet was to be trusted, "had sworn at him in a manner perfectly awful." What had come over Julian of late? Since that fit of uncontrollable and lasting passion which had overpowered him when he was screwed in, he did not seem to have recovered that noble moral strength and equilibrium which was usually conspicuous in his character. The restlessness which had prevented him from doing the paper, the half sullen silence through the day, the horse-whipping of Brogten, the second outburst of unchecked feeling at the loss of the scholarship, and finally, this treatment of Hazlet, caused Lillyston a deep regret that his friend should have strayed so widely from his usual calm and manly course. It was as if one staggering blow had loosened all the joints of his moral armour, and left room for successive wounds. He determined to go and see him before chapel, and, if possible, get him to come and spend the evening quietly with him; he was only prevented from going at once by supposing that Julian would be dining by himself to avoid meeting any one in hall, and he did not wish to disturb him at his lonely meal. Julian's head was aching with mortification, passion, and fatigue; it seemed as if he had but one thought to which he could turn, and that this was a thought of weariness and pain. He dwelt much less on his own defeat than on the disappointment which he knew it would cause to Violet and his young brothers. He knew well that Mrs Home would bear it with equanimity, because she regarded all the events of life, however painful, with the same quiet resignation, and trusted ever in the gentle dealing and loving purposes of His hand who guides them all. Poor Julian longed to be able to regard it in this light too, but he had suffered the angry part of his nature to gain the victory, and his human reason was now being torn by his lion heart. Unable to endure the notion of going to hall, which would be a painful reminder that the opportunity to which he had long looked for emancipation from his sizarship had passed by, he determined to take some wine, in the hope that it would support him till the evening. He could not of course afford to give wine parties, but he always kept a few bottles in his rooms for medicinal purposes, or to offer to any stranger who might come to visit him. Taking out a decanter, he sat down in his armchair, and drank a glass or two. The wine exhilarated him; as he had scarcely tasted anything all day, it got rapidly into his head, and in a few minutes his thoughts seemed in a tumult of delirious emotion. Pride and passion triumphed over every other feeling; after all, what was the scholarship to him? Tush! he looked for better things in life than scholarships. He would discard the petty successes of pedantry, and would seek a loftier greatness. He had been a fool to trouble himself about such trifles. And as these arrogant mists clouded his fancy, he broke out into irregular snatches of unmeaning song. It was a saint's-day evening, and consequently chapel was at a quarter past six instead of six, and the undergraduates wore surplices in chapel instead of their ordinary gowns. On saints'-days there is always a choral service at Saint Werner's College, and the excellence of the choir generally attracted a large congregation. To Julian, who was fond of music, these saint's-day services had a peculiar interest; and now while his brain was swimming with the fumes of wine, he determined to go to chapel, and imagined to himself the pleasure he should feel in striding haughtily through the throng of men up the long aisle to the sizar's seat, to show by his look and manner that his courage was undaunted, and that his self-confidence rose superior to defeat. Although the chapel-bell had not yet begun to ring, he put out his cap and surplice, and sat down to drink more wine. Just as the clock struck six, Lillyston knocked at Julian's door. "Aha! old fellow," said Julian, "you are just in time to have a glass of wine before chapel." "No, thank you," said Lillyston coldly, sick at heart to see a fresh proof of his friend's unworthy excitement, but without realising as yet his true condition. "Tush! you think I care about that trumpery Clerkland? Not I! Won't you have some wine?--no? well, I shall, and then I'm going to chapel." His flushed countenance, and excited manner, joined to the harsh tones of his generally pleasant and musical voice, produced on Lillyston's mind a feeling of deep pain and shame, and when with unsteady hand, Julian endeavoured to pour out for himself a fresh glass, and in doing so spilt the wine in great streams over the table, Lillyston saw that he was in an utterly unfit state to go to chapel, and that the attempt to do so would certainly draw upon him exposure and disgrace. "Julian," he said gently; "you are not in a condition to go to chapel; you must not think of it." "What do you mean?" said Julian with a stupid stare. "I mean," he replied slowly, "that the wine has got into your head." A laugh, half hysterical, half defiant, was the only answer, and Julian began to put on his surplice, wrong side out. "Julian, I beg of you to stay here as you would avoid ruin." "Pooh! I am not a child, as you seem to think. You are--Yes, you are a fool, Lillyston." Pained to the very heart, Lillyston wavered for a moment, but a glance at Julian decided him. Five years of happy uninterrupted friendship, five years during which he had regarded his friend's stainless character with ever-growing pride and affection, determined him at all hazards to save him from the effects of this temporary possession. Firmly, but quietly, he planted his back against the door, and said-- "Dear Julian, I beseech you not to go." The tone of voice, the mention of his own name recalled Julian for a moment, but the sound of the chapel-bell renewed his determination, and he answered, "Nonsense. Come, make room." "You _shall not go_, Julian." "But I will," shouted he angrily; "how dare you prevent me; stand aside." Lillyston did not stir, and rendered furious by opposition, Julian grappled with him. It required all Lillyston's strength to retain his position against this wild assault, but he managed to do so without inflicting any hurt; and when Julian paused, Lillyston noticed with a sense of relief that the chapel-bell had ceased to ring. "I WILL go," said Julian, madly renewing the struggle. But with all his efforts he could not stir Lillyston from the door, and only succeeded in tearing his surplice from the neck downwards. He paused, and, baffled of his intention, glared at his opponent. "The clock has now struck," said Lillyston calmly, "and the doors will be shut. You are too late to get in." Julian stamped impatiently on the floor, and prepared to close with Lillyston again, but now Lillyston stepped from the door, and as he slowly went out, turned round and said-- "Julian, do you call this being brave or strong? Can you let one disappointment unman you so utterly?" "Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you." The words flashed into light from the folded pages of Julian's memory, and with them the dim image of a dead face, and the dying echo of a father's voice. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. MR CARDEN. "Pol pudere quam pigere proestat totidem literis." Plautus _Trinum_, Two, 2. Who has not felt, who does not know, that one sin yielded to, that one passion uncontrolled, too often brings with it a train of other sins, and betrays the drawbridge of the citadel to a thousand enemies beside? It had been so with Julian Home, and in proportion to the true strength and beauty of his character, was the poignancy of his bitterness when he awoke the next morning, and calmly reviewed the few last excited, prayerless, and unworthy days. Surely after so many proofs of weakness, surely after emotions and acts so violently inadequate to the circumstances which had caused them, his best friends must despise him as utterly as he despised himself. He arose that morning strong out of weakness. He determined that he would be checked no longer by unavailing regrets, and that his repentance should be open and manly, as his prostration had been conspicuous. Fortified by the humiliating experience of his own want of strength he sought for help in resolute determination and earnest prayer. After breakfast, his first step was to call on Owen, and congratulate him with hearty and unaffected simplicity on his success--a success which Owen generously acknowledged to be due solely to Julian's misfortune. It was much more difficult to call on Hazlet, but this, too, Julian felt to be his duty; and distasteful as it was, he would not shrink from performing it. Hazlet received him with a ludicrous air of offended dignity, and was barely overcome into a tone of magnanimous forgiveness by Julian's frank apology. On the whole, Julian decided that it would be best not to call on Brogten, lest, by so doing, he should seem to be reminding him of the consequences of his enmity under the appearance of expressing a regret. It only remained therefore to see Lillyston, and to this visit Julian looked with unmitigated joy. "Forgive me, Hugh," he said, as he entered the room; "from this time forward I shall owe you a new debt of gratitude; you have saved me from I know not what disgrace." Lillyston was delighted to see him look like his old self once more. The thunder-cloud which had been hanging on his brow was dissipated, and the sullen expression had wholly passed. "Don't talk of debt, Julian," he said; "between friends, you know, there are no obligations--they are merged in the friendship itself." "I am amazed at my own intolerable folly, Hugh. I hope this is the last time that I shall yield to such storms of passion. I have much to be ashamed of." "Well, Julian," said Lillyston, changing the subject, "you mustn't think any more of this Clerkland, for potentially you got it, as everybody acknowledges; _dynamei_ you were successful, if not _ezgo_." "I don't _mean_ to let it discourage me," said Julian, "though the potential is mightily different from the actual." Nor _did_ he suffer it to discourage him, or weaken his endeavours. His life soon began to flow once more in its usual, even, and quiet course. It did not take him long to discover that it was possible to live happily without the Clerkland, and he wondered in himself at the intensity of the desire to obtain it, which he had suffered to overpower him. He felt no touch of envy towards Owen, whose friendship he began to value more and more, and who voluntarily told him, from information that he had derived from the examiners themselves, that the decision had long hung in a doubtful scale. In fact, the scholarship would have been divided between both of them but for one of the examiners, who hardly appreciated Julian's merits. It was so well understood that Julian must have been the successful candidate but for the one fatal paper on Monday morning, that he rather gained than lost in reputation from the result of the competition. It was a few days after these events that Julian received from Mr Carden a pressing invitation to spend a Sunday with him at Harton. Glad of a change, he easily obtained an exeat, and went down on the Saturday morning. Even the half-year since he had left had made a perceptible change in the old place. There were many new faces, and many old ones had disappeared, so that, already, he began to feel himself half a stranger among the familiar scenes. But alike from boys and masters he received a kindly greeting, and Mr Carden entertained him with a pleasant and genial hospitality. The only thing which pained him was the obvious change for the worse in Mr Carden's health. He wore a sadder expression than of old, and though he made no remark about his health, yet every now and then his face seemed to be suddenly contracted by a throb of pain. On the Monday morning, when it was necessary for Julian to return to Camford, Mr Carden called him into his study after breakfast, and asked him to choose any book he liked, as a farewell present, from the shelves. "But why a _farewell_ present, Mr Carden?" asked Julian, laughing. "Aren't you ever going to ask me to Harton again?" "No," said Mr Carden with a sad smile, "never again. "I resign my mastership at the end of this term," he continued, in answer to Julian's inquiring look; "my health is so uncertain that I feel unequal any longer to these most arduous, most responsible duties. Perhaps, too," he added, "I may be a little disappointed in the result of my labours; but, at any rate, though as yet few are aware of it, this is my last month at Harton--so choose one of my books, Julian, as a farewell present." Julian expressed his real sorrow at Mr Carden's failing health. "If you go away," he said, "it will seem as if the chief tie which bound me to dear old Harton was suddenly snapped." He chose as his memento a small volume of sermons which Mr Carden had published in former days, and asked him to write his name on the title-page. "Yes," said the master, "you shall have that book if you like; but I mean you to have also a more substantial memorial of my library. Here, Julian, this book I always destined to be yours some day; you may as well have it now." He took down from the shelves a richly bound copy of Coleridge's works, in ten volumes, which Julian knew to be the one book of his library which he most deeply prized. His marginal comments enriched almost every page, and Julian was ashamed to take what he knew that the owner so highly valued. "But I thought you told me once that you were thinking of publishing a biography of Coleridge, and an edition of his writings," said Julian. "Surely, sir, you will want these manuscript notes, won't you?" "Ah, Julian! that is one of the many plans which have floated through my mind unfulfilled. My life, I fear, will have been an incomplete one. Thank God that there is no such thing as a necessary man--_il n'y a point d'hommes necessaires_; others will be found to do a thousandfold better the work which I had purposed to do." And then he murmured half to himself-- "Till, in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, Death came suddenly, and took them where men never see the sun." His eyes filled with tears. "No," he said, "take the book, Julian. If it does you all the good it has done me, it will have been more useful than I could ever have made it. And when you hang on the eloquent and earnest words of the great poet philosopher, mingle his teachings with some few memories of me; it will be like a drop of myrrh, perhaps, in the cup, but I should like," he added, with faltering voice, "to leave at least _one_ to think of me with affection." He turned away as his old pupil grasped his hand; and Julian, as he went back in the train to Camford, could not help a feeling of real pity that one so generous and upright in heart and life should be destined to so lonely and sorrowful a lot. As he had said, he resigned his Harton mastership at the end of the term, and sailed to Madeira for his health. He begged Julian to continue his correspondence with him, and to tell him all about his old Harton and Camford friends. During Easter week, while Julian was at Ildown, he received from him a letter to the following effect:-- "Dear Julian--I was not mistaken in hinting, while you were at Harton, that we should never meet again. I am on my death-bed; and, in all probability, the rapid decline which is now wasting my powers, and which, while I write, shakes me with painful fits of coughing, will have terminated my life before this letter reaches your hands. "I leave life, I hope, with simple resignation; and although I have left undone much which I hoped to have accomplished, yet I die trusting in God. My friends in this world have been few, and my fortune have not been bright, yet happiness has largely preponderated even in _my_ destiny, and I look on the death which is approaching as the commencement, not as the end, of true existence. "But I did not write to you, dear Julian, to tell you of the frame of mind in which death finds me. I wrote to bid you farewell, and to tell you of something which concerns you--I mean my intention, recently adopted, of leaving you my small private fortune, and the added earnings which my labours have procured. Together, they amount only to ten thousand pounds, but I hope that they may be of real service to you. Had you still been the heir to your aunt's property, perhaps even if you had got the Clerkland, I should have disposed of this money in some other way; but as these events have been ordered otherwise, and as I have no relations of my own who need the legacy, nor any friend in whose welfare I take deeper interest than in yours, it gives me a gleam of real satisfaction to be able to place at your disposal this little sum. "Good-bye, my dear Julian. When these words meet your eye, I expect to be in that state where even your prayers can benefit me no more. But I know your affectionate and grateful heart, and I know that you will sometimes recur with a thought of kindness to the memory of your affectionate friend, Henry Carden." The next mail brought the news of Mr Carden's death. It caused many a sorrowing heart both at Harton and at Camford. Mr Carden was a man whose impetuous and enthusiastic disposition had caused him to commit many serious errors in life, and these had been a barrier to the success which must otherwise have rewarded his energy and talent. But even among those who were envious of his ability, and offended by his eccentricities, they were few who did not do justice to the rectitude of his motives, and none who did not admit the warmth of his affections. There were more to mourn over his untimely death than there had been to forgive the mistakes he made, and by wise and friendly counsel to raise him to that height which he might easily have obtained. And among the crowd who had known him, and the many who honoured him, there were some who loved him with no ordinary love, and who were not too proud to admit the obligation of a permanent gratitude. It was one of the great happinesses of Mr Carden's life that of this number was Julian Home. With a clear 300 pounds a year of his own, it was of course unnecessary for Julian to return to Saint Werner's as a sizar, and he at once wrote to his tutor to beg that his name might be removed from the list. There was one respect in which he found this a very material addition to his comfort and happiness. As the sizars dined an hour later than the other men, and at a separate table, he had been by this means cut off from the society of many of his friends in hall, where men have more opportunities of meeting and becoming intimate than anywhere else. It was no slight addition to his happiness to sit perpetually with the group of friends he valued most. "I've got a magnificent plan for the Long, Julian," said Kennedy to him one day, as they left the hall. "My father is going to Switzerland for three months, with my sister Eva and me. Eva goes under the wing of an aunt of mine, Mrs Dudley, whom I think you met at Ildown once. Won't, you come with us?" The proposal was very tempting, the more so as Julian had never been abroad. He mentioned it in his next letter home, and asked if it would be possible for any of them to accompany him, without which he gave up all intention of making the tour. In reply, Mrs Home proposed that Violet should go, (if Mrs Dudley would kindly chaperon her), because the trip would be of great advantage to her in many ways; and that Cyril should go, as a reward for his industry and success at Marlby. "As for Frankie and me," she continued, "we will stay at home to take care of Ildown in your absence. Frank is too young to enjoy travelling, and I have but little desire for it; we two will stay behind, and I daresay we shall be very happy, especially if you write us long accounts of all your proceedings." So this most delightful plan was definitely adopted, and all concerned were full of the happiest anticipations. Kennedy and Julian looked forward to it with the utmost eagerness; Violet, who had already grown fond of Mrs Dudley and Eva, was charmed at the prospect, and Cyril, with all a boy's eagerness for novelty, was well-nigh wild with joy. But as yet six weeks were to elapse before the Long commenced. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. KENNEDY'S DISHONOUR. "I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine, to fix me to the place. That way he used, ... Alas! one hour's disgrace!" Robert Browning. _Childe Roland_. "I am very doubtful, after all, Julian, whether I shall be one of the Switzerland party," said Kennedy, with a sigh, as he and Julian were walking round the Saint Werner's gardens one bright evening of the May term. The limes and chestnuts were unfolding their tender sprays of spring-tide emerald, the willows shivered as their green buds made ripples in the water, and the soft light of sunset streamed over towers and colleges, giving a rich glow to the broad windows of the library, and bathing in its rosy tinge the white plumage of the swans upon the river. The friends were returning from a walk, during which they had thoroughly enjoyed the blue and golden weather. Up to this time Kennedy had seemed to be in the highest spirits, and Julian was astonished at the melancholy tone in which the words were spoken. "Doubtful? Why?" said Julian, quickly. "Because my father has made it conditional on my getting a first class in the May examination." "But, my dear fellow, there is not the ghost of a doubt of your doing that." "I don't feel so sure." "Why, there are often thirty in the first class in the freshman's year; and just as if _you_ wouldn't be among them!" "All very well; I know that anybody can do it who works, but I am ashamed to say that I haven't read one of the books yet." "Haven't you, really? Well then, for goodness' sake, lose no more time." "But there's only a fortnight to the examination." "My dear Kennedy, what _have_ you been doing to be so idle?" "Somehow or other the time manages to slip away. Heigh ho!" said Kennedy, "my first year at college nearly over, and nothing done-- nothing done! How quickly the time has gone!" "Yes," said Julian; "_ptezugas gaz epoomaduas phezai Kampes bzadutezoi ta poteemena syllabein_, "as Theocritus prettily observes." Seized with the strong determination not only to pass the examination, but even to excel in it, Kennedy devoted the next fortnight to unremitted study for the first time since he had been an undergraduate. But the more he read the more painfully he became aware of his own deficiencies, and the more bitterly he deplored the waste of time. He seemed to be toiling in vain after the opportunities he had lost. He knew that the examination, though limited in subjects, was searching in character, and he found it impossible to acquire, by a sudden impulse, what he should have learned by continuous diligence. As the time drew nearer, he grew more and more nervous. He had set his heart on the Swiss tour, and it now seemed to him painfully probable that he would fail in fulfilling the condition which his father had exacted, and without which he well knew that Mr Kennedy would insist on his spending the vacation either at Camford or at home. Of the three main subjects for examination he had succeeded by desperate effort, aided by natural ability, in very quickly mastering two sufficiently well to secure a creditable result; but the third subject, the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, remained nearly untouched, and Kennedy was too good and accurate a scholar not to be aware that the most careful and elaborate study was indispensable to an even tolerable understanding of that masterpiece of Grecian tragedy. Besides this, he had a hatred of slovenly and superficial work, and he therefore determined to leave the Aeschylus untouched, while, at the same time, he was quite conscious that if he did so, all chance of distinction, and even all chance of a first class were out of the question. With some shame he reflected over this proof, that, for all purposes of study, a third of his academical life had been utterly and wholly lost. As he had decided on giving up the Aeschylus, it became more imperative to make sure of the Tacitus and Demosthenes, and he therefore went to Mr Grayson's rooms to get a library order which should entitle him to take from the Saint Werner's library any books that would be most likely to give him effectual help. At the moment of his arrival, Mr Grayson was engaged, and he was shown into another room until he should be ready. This room was the tutor's library, and like many of the rooms in Camford, it opened into an inner and smaller study, the door of which was partly open. Kennedy sat down, and after a few minutes, as there seemed to be no signs that he would be summoned immediately, he began to grow very restless. He tried some of the books on the table, but they were all unspeakably dull; he looked at the pictures on the wall, but they were most of them the likenesses of Camford celebrities which he already knew by heart; he looked out of the window, but the court was empty, and there was nothing to see. Reflecting that the only thing which can really induce ennui in a sensible man, is to be kept waiting when he is very busy for an _indefinite_ period, which may terminate at any moment, and may last for almost any length of time, Kennedy, vexed at the interruption of his work, chose the most comfortable armchair in the room, and settled himself in it with a yawn. At this moment, as ill fate would have it, his eye caught sight of a book lying on Mr Grayson's reading-desk. Lazily rising to see what it was, he found it to be an Aeschylus, and turned over the leaves with a feeling of listless indifference. Between two of the leaves lay a written paper, and suddenly, after reading two or three lines, he observed it to be a manuscript copy of the much-dreaded Agamemnon paper for the May examination. Temptation had surprised him with sudden and unexpected violence. He little knew that on this idle weary moment rested the destiny of many years. As when in a hostile country one has laid aside his armour, and from unregarded ambush the enemy leaps on him, and, though he be strong and noble, stabs him with a festering wound, so this temptation to a base act sprang on poor Kennedy when he was unarmed and unprepared. In the gaieties of life, and the brightnesses of hope, and the securities of unbroken enjoyment, he had long been trusting in himself only, in his own high principle, his own generous impulses, his own unstained honour. But these were never sufficient for any human being yet, and they snapped in an instant under this unhappy boy. The only honourable thing to do, the thing which at another moment Kennedy might have done, and which any man would have done, whose right instincts and high character had the reliable support of higher principles than mere personal self-confidence and pride, would have been to shut the book instantly, inform Mr Grayson that he had accidentally read one of the questions, and beg him to change it before the examination. This Kennedy knew well; it flashed before him in an instant as the only proper course but at the same instant he passionately obliterated the suggestion from his mind, fiercely stifled the impulse to do right, choked the rebukes of honour and principle, and blindly willed to save his reputation as a scholar, and his chance of enjoyment for the vacation by reading through the entire number of the questions. This mental struggle did not last an instant, for the emotions of the spirit belong only to eternity, and the guilt of human actions is not commensurate with the length of time they occupy. But in the intense wish to see what the examination would be like, and to secure his first class, Kennedy repressed altogether by one blow the moral element of his being, and concentrated his whole intellect on the paper before him. To read it through was the work of a minute; when it was read through, it was too late to wish the act undone, and without suffering himself to dwell, or even to recur in thought to the nature of his proceedings, Kennedy deliberately read through the whole paper a second time. But this imperious effort of the will was not exercised without visible effects. Absorbed as he was in seizing every prominent subject in the questions, his forehead contracted, his hand shook, his knees trembled, and his heart palpitated with violence. He observed nothing; he did not notice the shadow that chequered the sunlight streaming from the door of the inner room; he did not hear the light step which passed over the carpet; he did not feel the breath of a man who stood behind him, looked over his shoulder, watched his eager determination to secure the unfair advantage, smiled at his agitation, and then slipped back again into the inner room, unnoticed as before. It was done. Not a question but was printed indelibly on Kennedy's memory. Quickly, fearfully, he shut the book, and glided back to the armchair, in the vain attempt to look and feel at ease. At ease! No, now the tumult broke. Now Kennedy hated himself; called himself mean, vile, contemptible, a reptile, a cheat. Now his insulted honour began to vindicate its rights, and his trampled sense of truth to spring up with a menacing bound, and his conscience to speak out calmly and clearly the language of self-condemnation and contempt. Good heavens! how could he have sunk so low; fancy if Julian had seen him, or could know his meanness. Fancy if _anybody_ had seen him. Hazlet, or Fitzurse, or Brogten himself, could hardly have been guilty of a more dishonourable act. You miserable souls, that do not know what honour is, or what torments rend a truly noble heart, if ever it be led to commit an act which to your seared consciences and muddy intelligence appears a trivial sin, or even no sin at all; you, the mean men to whom an offence like this is so common, that, unless it were discovered, it would not trouble your recollections with a feather's weight of remorse,--for you, I scorn to write, and I scorn from my inmost being the sneer with which you will regard the agony that Kennedy suffered from his fall. But to the high and the generous, who have erred and have bewailed their error in secret,--to them I appeal to imagine the anguish of self-reproach, the bitterness of humiliation, which stung him in those few moments after his first dishonour. It is the lofty tower that falls with the heaviest crash; it is the stately soul that suffers the deepest abasement; it is the white scutcheon on which the dark stain seems to wear its darkest hue. He had not sat there for many minutes--though to him they seemed like hours--when a step on the stairs told him that his tutor's visitor had departed, and the gyp blandly entering, observed-- "Now, sir, Mr Grayson can see you." "Oh! very well," said Kennedy, rising and assuming, with a painful effort, his most indifferent look and tone. "Pardon me, Mr Kennedy, my turn first; I have been waiting longest," said a harsh voice behind him, that sounded mockingly to his excited ear. He turned sharply round, and with a low bow and a curl on the protruding lip, and a little guttural laugh, Brogten came from the inner room, and passed before him into Mr Grayson's presence. If a thunderbolt had suddenly fallen before Kennedy's feet and cloven its sulphurous passage into the abyss, he could hardly have been more startled or more alarmed. Without a word he sat down half stupefied. Was any one else in the inner room? For very shame he dare not look. Had Brogten seen him? If so, would he at once tell Mr Grayson? What would be done in that case? Dare he deny the fact? Passionately he spurned the hateful suggestion. Would Brogten tell all the Saint Werner's men? Brogten of all others, whom he had publicly insulted and branded with dishonour! Ah me, there is no anguish so keen, so _deadly_, as the anguish of awakened shame! With unspeakable anxiety Kennedy awaited Brogten's departure. Why should he be so long? Surely he must be telling Mr Grayson. At last the heavy step was heard, the door opened, and the gyp once more announced that Mr Grayson was disengaged. Pale and almost breathless, Kennedy went into the room. "Good morning, Mr Kennedy." "Good morning, sir." He quite expected that Mr Grayson was about at once to address him on the subject of the paper, and, expecting this, totally forgot the purpose for which he had come. The tutor's cold eye was upon him, and after a pause he said-- "Well, Mr Kennedy?" "Well, sir?" he replied, with a start. "Do you want anything?" "Oh, I came for--Really, sir, I must beg your pardon, but I have forgotten what it was." "To look at an examination-paper," were the words which, in his embarrassment, sprang to his lips, but he checked them just in time. "Really, Mr Kennedy, you appear to be strangely absent this morning," said Mr Grayson, in a tone the reverse of encouraging. "Oh, I remember now," he replied, desperately; "it was a library order I wanted." Mr Grayson wrote him the order. Kennedy took it, and, without even shaking the cold hand which the tutor proffered, hurried out of the room, relieved at least by the conviction that Brogten, if he had seen him look at the paper, had not, as yet at any rate, revealed it to the examiner. "After all," he reflected, "he was hardly likely to do that. But had he told the men?" Kennedy did not go to the library; he could not bear to meet anybody, and hastened to bury himself in his own rooms. His walk, usually so erect and gay as he went across the court--the tune he used to hum so merrily in the sunshine--and the bright open glance of recognition with which he passed his acquaintances and friends, were gone to-day. He shuffled silently along the cloisters with downcast eyes. Hall-time would be the time to know whether Brogten had seen him and betrayed him. And if he had seen him, surely there could be no doubt he would tell of him. What a sweet revenge it would be for that malicious heart! How completely it would turn the tables on Kennedy for the day when he had sarcastically alluded to Brogten's bets! How amply it would fulfil the promise of which that parting scowl of hatred had been full. He went to hall rather late on purpose; and instead of sitting in his usual place near Julian, he chose a vacant place at another table. Half a minute sufficed to show him that there was no difference in his reception; the same frequent nods and smiles from all sides still gave him the frank greeting of which, as a popular man, he was always sure. He looked round for Brogten, but could make nothing of his face; it simply wore a somewhat slight smile when their eyes met, and Kennedy's fell. Kennedy began to convince himself that Brogten could _not_ have seen what he had done in Mr Grayson's room. The thought rolled away a great load--a heavy, intolerable load from his heart. It was not that with him, as with so many thousands, the fear of discovery constituted the sense of sin, but young as he was, and high as his character had stood hitherto in man's estimation, he prayed for any chastisement rather than that of detection, any stroke in preference to open shame. This was the one thing which he felt he could not bear. Even now, as conscience strongly suggested, he might make, by private confession to his tutor, or at any rate by not using the knowledge he had thus acquired, the only reparation which was still in his power. But it was a hard thing for conscience to ask--too hard for poor Kennedy's weakness. Much of the paper, as he saw at once, he could very easily have answered from his previous general knowledge and scholarship; so easily, that he now felt convinced that he might have done quite enough of it to secure his first class. His sin then had been useless, quite useless, worse than useless to him. Was he obliged also to make it positively injurious? was he to put himself in a _worse_ position than if he had never committed it? After all the punishment which the sin had brought with it, was he also to lose, in consequence of it, the very advantage, the very enjoyment, for the sake of which he had harboured the temptation? It was too much--too much to expect. The night before the Aeschylus examination he began to read up the general information on the subject, and he intended to do it quite as if he were unaware of what the actual questions were to be. But it was the merest self-deception. Each question was branded in fiery letters on his recollection, and he found that, as he read, he was skipping involuntarily every topic which he knew had not been touched on in Mr Grayson's paper. Oh, the sense of hypocrisy with which he eagerly seized the paper next morning, and read it over as though unaware of its contents. Julian could not help observing that, during the last few days, Kennedy's spirits had suffered a change. His old mirth came only in fitful bursts, and he was often moody and silent; but Julian attributed it to anxiety for the result of the examination, and doubt whether he should be allowed by his father to make one of the long-anticipated party in the foreign tour. Kennedy dared not admit any one into his confidence, but the last evening, before they went down, he turned the conversation, as he sat at tea in Owen's room, to the topic of character, and the faults of great men, and the aberrations of the good. "Tell me, Owen," he said, "as you're a philosopher--tell me what difference the faults of good men make in our estimate of them?" "In our real estimate," said Owen, "I fancy we often adopt, half unconsciously, the maxim, that `the king can do no wrong'--that the true hero is all heroic." "Yes," said Kennedy; "but when some one calls your attention to the fact of their failings, and _makes_ you look at them--what then?" "Why, in nine cases out of ten the faults are grossly exaggerated and misrepresented, and I should try to prove that such is the fact; and for the rest,--why, no man is perfect." "You shirk the question, though," said Lillyston; "for you have to make very tremendous allowance indeed for some of the very best of men." As, for instance? "As, for instance, king David." "Oh, don't take Scripture instances," said Suton, an excellent fellow whom they all liked, though he took very different views of things from their own. "Why not, in heaven's name?" said Kennedy; "if they suit, they are good because so thoroughly familiar." "Yes, but somehow one judges them differently." "I daresay you do,--in fact I know you do; but you've no business to. I maintain that even according to Moses, king David deserved a felon's death. Murder and adultery were crimes every bit as heinous then as they are now. Yet David, this most _human_ of heroes, was the man after God's own heart. Solve me the problem." "Practically," said Lillyston; "I believe one follows a genuine instinct in _determining not_ to look at the spots, however wide or dark they are, upon the sun." "And in accepting theoretically old Strabo's grand dictum, _ouch oion agathon genesthai poieeteen mee pzotezon geneethenta anoza agathon_. Eh?" "As Coleridge was so fond of doing," said Julian. "Ay, he needed the theory," said Suton. "Hush!" said Julian, "I can't stand any such Philadelphus hints about Coleridge. By the bye, Owen, you might have quoted a still more apt illustration from Seneca, who criticises Livy for saying `Vir ingenii magni magis quam boni' with the remark, `Non potest illud separari; aut _et_ bonum erit aut _nec_ magnum.'" Mr Admer, who was one of the circle, chuckled inwardly at the discussion. "I was once," he said, "at a party where a lady sang one of Byron's Hebrew melodies. At the close of it a young clergyman sighed deeply, and with an air of intense self-satisfaction, observed, `Ah! I was wondering where poor Byron is now!' What should you have all said to that?" "Detesting Byron's personal character, I should have said that the very wonder was a piece of idle and meddling presumption," said Owen. "And I should have answered that the Judge will do right," said Suton reverently. "Or if he wanted a text, `Who art thou that judgest another?'" said Lillyston contemptuously. "And I," said Julian, should have said,-- "Let feeble hands iniquitously just, Rake up the relics of the sinful dust, Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot heal, And Malice brand what Mercy would conceal;-- It matters not!" "And I," said Kennedy, "should have been vehemently inclined to tweak the man's nose." "But what did _you_ say, Mr Admer?" asked Lillyston. "I answered a fool according to his folly. I threw up my eyes and said, `Ah, where, indeed! What a good thing it is that you and I, sir, are not as that publican.'" "I should think he skewered you with a glance, didn't he?" said Kennedy. "No, he was going to _bore_ me with an argument, which I declined." "But you've all cut the question: tell me now, supposing you had known king David, should you have thought worse of him, should you have been cool to him--in a word, should you have _cut_ him after his fall?" "I think not--I mean, I shouldn't have _cut_ him," said Owen. "And yet you would have treated so any ordinary friend." "Not necessarily. But remember that the two best things happened to David which could possibly happen to a man who has committed a crime." "Namely?" "Speedy detection," said Lillyston. "And prompt punishment," added Julian; "but for these there's no knowing what would have become of him." Unsatisfactory as the discussion had been, yet those words rang hauntingly in Kennedy's ears; he could not forget them. During all those first days of happy travel they were with him; with him as they strolled down the gay and lighted Boulevards of Paris; with him beside the quaint fountains of Berne; and the green rushing of the Rhine at Basle; with him amid the scent of pine-cones, and under the dark green umbrage of forest boughs; with him when he caught his first glimpse of the everlasting mountains, and plunged into the clear brightness of the sapphire lake--the thought of speedy detection and prompt punishment. It was no small pleasure to partake in Violet's happiness, and mark the ever fresh delight that lent such a bright look to Cyril's face; but before Kennedy in the midst of enjoyment, the memory of a dishonourable act started like a spectre, and threw a sudden shadow on his brow. He felt its presence when he saw the sun rise from Rigi; it stood by him amid the wreathing mists of Pilatus; it even checked his enthusiasm as they gazed together on the unequalled glories spread beneath the green summit of Monterone, and as their graceful boat made ripples on the moonlit waves of Orta and Lugans. In a word, the conviction of weakness was the only alloying influence to the pleasure of his tour, the one absinthe-drop that lent bitterness to the honeyed wine. It was not only the consciousness of the wrong act and its possible results, but horror at the instability of moral principle which it showed, and a deep fear lest the same weakness should prove a snare and a ruin to him in the course of future life. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A DAY OF WONDER. "Flowers are lovely. Love is flowerlike, Friendship is a sheltering tree; O the joys that came down showerlike With virtue, truth, and liberty, When I was young."--Coleridge. "To-morrow, then, we are all to ascend the Schilthorn," said Mr Kennedy, as he bade good-night to the merry party assembled in the salle a manger of the chalet inn at Murrem. "Or as high as we ladies can get," said Mrs Dudley. "Oh, we'll get you up, aunt," said Kennedy; "if Julian and my father and I can't get you and Miss Home and Eva up, we're not worth much." "To say nothing of _me_" said Cyril, putting his arms akimbo, with a look of immense importance. "Breakfast, then, at five to-morrow morning, young people," said Mr Kennedy, retiring; and full of happy anticipations they went off to bed. Punctually at five they were all seated round the breakfast-table, eagerly discussing the prospects of the day. "I say, _did_ any of you see the first sunbeam tip the Jungfrau this morning?" said Kennedy. "It looked like--like--what did it look like, Miss Home?" "Like the golden rim of a crown of pearls," said Violet, smiling. "And did you see the morning star, shining above the orange-coloured line of morning light, over the hills behind us, Eva? What did that remind you of?" "Oh, I can't _invent_ poetic similes," answered Eva. "I must take refuge in Wordsworth's-- "`Sweet as a star when only one Is shining in the sky.'" "Yes," said Julian; "or Browning's-- "`One star--the chrysolite!'" "Hum!" said Cyril, who had been standing impatiently at the door during the colloquy; "when you young ladies and people have done poetising, etcetera, the guide's quite ready." "Come along, then; we're soon equipped," said Violet, adjusting at the looking-glass her pretty straw hat, with its drooping feather, and the blue veil tied round it. "I say, Miss Kennedy--bother take it though, I can't always be saying Miss Kennedy--it's too long. I shall call you Eva--may I?" said Cyril. "By all means, if you like." "Well, then, Eva, the guide _is_ such a rum fellow; he looks like a revived mummy out of--out of Palmyra," said he, blundering a little in his geography. "Mummy or no," said Julian, "he'll carry all our provisions and plaids to-day up to the top, which is more than most of your A Cs would do." "A C--what does that mean?" asked Violet. "One sees it constantly in the visitors' books." "Don't you know, Vi?" said Cyril. "It stands for athletic climber." "Alpine Club, you little monkey," said Kennedy, throwing a fir-cone at him. "_You'll_ be qualified for the Alpine Club, Miss Home, before the day's over, I've no doubt." "No," said Julian, "they want 13,000 feet, I believe, and the Schilthorn is only 9,000." "Nearly three times higher than Snowdon; only fancy!" said Cyril. Meanwhile the party had started with fair weather, and in high spirits. The guide, with the gentlemen's plaids strapped together, led the way cheerily, occasionally talking his vile patois with Julian and Mr Kennedy, or laughing heartily at Cyril's "bad language"--for Cyril, not being strong in German, exercised a delightful ingenuity in making a very few words go a very long way. Kennedy walked generally with Eva and Violet, while Julian often joined them, and Cyril, always with some new scheme in hand, or some new fancy darting through his brain, ran chattering, from one group to another, plucking bilberries and wild strawberries in handfuls, and trying the merits of his alpenstock as a leaping-pole. The light of morning flowed down in an ever-broadening river, and peak after peak flashed first into rose, then into crimson, and then into golden light, as the sun fell on their fields of snow; high overhead rose Alp after Alp of snow-white and luminous cloud, but the flowing curves of the hills themselves stood unveiled, with their crests cut clearly on the pale, divine, lustrous blue of heaven, and our happy band of travellers gazed untired on that glorious panorama of glistering heights from the towering cones of the Eiger and the Moench to the crowding precipices of the Ebenen-fluen and the Silberhorn. Deep below them, in the valley, "like handfuls of pearl in a goblet of emerald," the quiet chalets clustered over their pastures of vivid grass, and gave that touch of human interest which alone was wanting to complete the loveliness of the scene. Every step brought them some new object to gaze upon with loving admiration; now the gaunt spurs of some noble pine that had thrust his gnarled roots into the crevices of rock to look down in safety on the torrent roaring far below him, and now the track of a chamois, or the bright black eyes of some little marmot peering from his burrow on the side of a sunny bank, and whistling a quick alarm to his comrades at their play. "What an extraordinary howl," said Cyril, laughing, as the guide whooped back a sort of jodel in answer to a salute from the other side of the valley. "It's very harmonious--is it not?" said Violet. "Yes, that's one of the varieties of the Ranz des Vaches," said Kennedy. "And why do they shout at each other in that way?" "Because the mountains are lonely, Cyril, and the shepherds don't see human faces too often; so men begin to feel like brothers, and are glad to greet each other in these silent hills." "Did you hear how the mountain echoed back his cry?" said Eva; "it sounded like a band of elves mocking at him." "Yes, you'll hear something finer directly; the guide told me he was going to borrow an alpen-horn at one of these chalets, and then you'll discover for the first time what echo can do." In a few minutes the guide appeared with the horn, and blew. Heavens! what a melody of replications! How in the hollows of the hills every harsh tone died away, and all the softer notes flowed to and fro in tenderest music, and fainted in distant reverberations more and more exquisite, more and more exquisitely low. Can it be a mere echo of those rude blasts? It seemed as though some choir of spirits had caught each tone as it came from the peasant's horn, and had deified it there among the clouds, and had repeated it over and over with divinest variations, to show man how crabbed were the sounds which he produced, and yet how ravishing they might one day become, when to the symphony of silver strings they rang out amid the seraph harps and choral harmonies of heaven. All the party stood still in rapturous attention, and even Cyril forgot for ten minutes his frolicsome and noisy mirth. Reader, have you ever seen an Alpine pasture in warm July at early morning? If not, you can hardly conceive the glorious carpet over which the feet of the wanderer in Switzerland press during summer tours. Around them as they passed the soft mosses glowed with gold and crimson, and the edges of the lady's-mantle shimmered with such diamonds and pearls as never adorned a lady's mantle yet. Everywhere the grass was vivid with a many-coloured tissue of dew-dropped flowers: pale crocuses, and the bright crimson-lake carnation, and monk's-hood, and crane's-bill, and aster alpinus, and the lovely myosotis, and thousands of yellow and purple flowers, nameless or lovelier than their names, were the tapestry on which they trod; and it was interwoven through warp and woof with the blue gleam of a myriad harebells. At last they came to the cold region of those delicate nurslings of the hills, the gentianellas and gentians. Kennedy, who had been keenly on the look out, was the first of the party to find the true Alpine gentian, and instantly recognising it, ran with it to Violet and his sister. "There," he said, "the first Alpine gentian you ever saw. Did you ever know real blue in a flower before? Doesn't it actually seem to shed a blue radiation round it?" "How perfectly beautiful!" said Violet; "see, Eva, how intense blue and green seem to be shot into each other, or to play together like the waters of a shoaling sea." "Shall I take a root or two?" said Kennedy. "Not the slightest use," said Julian; "they only grow at certain elevations, and would be dead before you got down." "Isn't it strange, Violet, that Nature should fling such a tender and exquisite gem so high up among these awful hills, where so few eyes see them?" "Just look," said Julian, "how the moss and the grass seem to be illuminated with them, as though the heavens were golden, and stars in it were of blue." While they talked, Cyril dashed past them with all the ardour of a young entomologist in full chase of a little mountain-ringlet, which he soon caught and pinned on the top of his straw hat. In a few minutes more he had added a great fritillery to his collection, and it gave him no trouble to pick out the finest of the superb lazy-flying Apollos, which quickly shared the same fate. "Here's another for you, Cyril," said Eva, pointing to a gorgeous peacock-butterfly which had settled amicably by a bee on the pink-and-downy coronet of a great thistle. "Oh, I don't want that; one can get it any day in England; here though, look at this lovely burnet-moth," he cried, as the blue-and-red-winged little creature settled on the same thistle-head. "What a shame to disturb that beautiful Psyche," said Julian, as Cyril dashed his cap over the prey, and the peacock fluttered off; "it was enjoying itself so intensely in the sunshine, opening and shutting its wings in unmitigated contentment." But Cyril had secured his moth without heeding the remark, and was now twenty yards ahead. A sudden roar of sound stopped him, and he waited to ask the rest, "if they had heard the thunder?" "It wasn't thunder, but the rush of an avalanche," said Kennedy; "there, you may see it still on the side of the Jungfrau." "What, those little white streaks, which look like a mountain torrent?" "Yes." "And can those threads of snow make all that row?" "You must remember that the threads of snow are five miles off, and are perhaps thousands of tons in weight." By this time they had reached the part of the mountain where the climb became really toilsome, and they settled down into the steady pace, which the Swiss guides always adopt because they know that it is the quickest in the long run. And at this point Mr Kennedy and Mrs Dudley left them, preferring, like sensible old people, to stroll back in quiet, and avoid an exertion which they found too fatiguing. They knew that they could safely entrust the party to the care of Julian and the guide. The ladies often needed help, and there seemed to be something very pleasant to Kennedy in the light touch of Violet's hand, for he lent her his arm or his alpenstock oftener than was absolutely required. They only stopped once more to quench their thirst at a streamlet which was rushing impetuously down the rocks, and a little below them foamed over the precipice into a white and noisy cataract. "I never noticed water before falling from such a height," said Julian; "it looks exactly like a succession of white comets plunging through the sky in a crowd." "Or a throng of white-sheeted ghosts hurrying deliriously through the one too-narrow entrance of the lower world," said Kennedy. "Doesn't it remind one of Schiller's line-- "`Und es wallet und liedet und brauset und Pikcht?'" "I admire the rainbow most, which over-arches the fall, and plays into light, or dies away as the sunbeams touch the foam," said Violet. "Doesn't it remind you of Al-Sirat's arch, Miss Home?" asked Kennedy. "Haven't the pleasure of that gentleman's acquaintance," observed Cyril. "Nor I," said Kennedy; "but Al-Sirat's arch is the bridge--narrow as the edge of a razor, or the thread of an attenuated spider--which is supposed to span the fiery abyss, over which the good _skate_ into Paradise, while the bad topple over it. Don't you remember Byron's lines about it in the Giaour? "`Yea, _Soul_, and should our prophet say That form was nought but breathing clay, By Alla! I would answer nay; Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood, That topples o'er the fiery flood, With Paradise within my view, And all its Houris beckoning through.' "Pretty nearly the only lines of Byron I know." Somehow Kennedy was looking at Violet while he repeated the lines. A few minutes more brought them on to the great field of snow, through which they toiled along laboriously, treading as much as possible in the footsteps of the guide. "This isn't a glacier, is it?" asked Cyril. "Oh dear, no! If it were, you wouldn't find it such easy walking, for it would be full of hidden crevasses, and we should have to march much more carefully, occasionally poking our feet through the snow that lightly covers a fathomless depth." "Yes, you must have read in Murray that eerie story of the guide that actually tumbled, though not very deep, into the centre of the glacier, and found his way back to light down the bed of a sub-glacial torrent, with no worse result than a broken arm." "There is a still eerier story, though, of two brothers," said Kennedy, "of whom one fell into a crevasse, and was caught on a ledge some fifty feet down, where he could be actually seen and heard." "Did he ever get out?" asked Violet. "Yes; the guide went back four hours' walk, and brought ropes and assistance just before dark, and meanwhile the other brother waited anxiously by the side of the crevasse, talking, and letting down brandy and other things to keep the poor fellow alive. He did escape, but not without considerable risk of being frozen to death." Beguiling the way with talk, they at last got over the tedious climb, and reached the summit. Eva and Violet were very tired, but the difficult and eager air of the icy mountain-top was exhilarating as new wine, and the provisions they had brought with them reinvigorated them completely. To hungry and thirsty climbers black bread and _vin ordinaire_ taste like nectar and ambrosia. The day was cloudless, the view unspeakably magnificent, and Cyril's high spirits were contagious. They lingered long before they began the descent, and laughingly pooh-poohed the guide's repeated suggestion that it was getting late. "I bet you Kennedy has been writing poetry," said Cyril; "do make him read it, Julian." "Hear, hear!" said all in chorus, and Julian with playful force possessed himself of the pocket-book, while Kennedy, only asseverating that the verses were addressed to nobody in particular, fled from the sound of his own lyrics, which Julian proceeded to read. "Rose-opals of the sunlit hills Are flashing round my lonely way, And cataracts dash the rushing rills To plumes of glimmering spray. But mountain-streams and sunny gleams Are not so dear to me, As dawning of the golden love My spirit feels for thee! "Their diamond crowns and giant forms, The lordly hills upraise; Nor rushing winds nor shattering storms Can shake their solid base: Though Europe rests beneath their crests, And empires sleep secure, Less firm their bases than my love, Their snow less brightly pure." "There, rubbish enough," said Kennedy, returning and snatching away the pocket-book before Julian could read another verse. "`Like coffee made without trouble, drunk without regret,' as the Monday Oracle, with its usual exquisite urbanity, observed of a recent poet." "Of course addressed quite to an imaginary object, Eddy," said Eva, while Violet looked towards the hills, and hoped that the glow which covered her fair face might be taken for a reflection of the faint tinge that already began to fall over the distant ridges of pale snow. "We really must come away," said Julian; "it'll be sunset very soon, and then we shall have to climb down nearly in the dark." So they left the ridge, and while Kennedy and Cyril, amid shouts of laughter, glissaded gallantly over the slopes of snow, Julian and the guide conducted the girls by a method less rapid, but more secure. Arrived at the rocks, Cyril went forward with the guide, Julian followed with Eva, and Kennedy with Violet led up the rear. Why did they linger so long? Violet was tired, no doubt, but could she not have walked as fast as Eva, or was Kennedy's arm less stout than Julian's? She lingered, it seemed, with something of a conscious pleasure, now to pluck a flower or a fern, now to look at some yellow lichens on the purple crags; and once, when Julian looked back, the two were some way behind the rest of the party. They were standing on a rock gazing on the fading splendour of the mountains in front of them, while the light wind that had risen during the sunset, flung back his hair from his forehead, and played with one golden tress which had strayed down Violet's neck. He shouted to them to make haste, and they waved their hands to him with a gay salute. Thinking that they would soon overtake him, he pressed forward with Eva, and did not look back again. While Kennedy walked on with Violet in silence more sweet than speech, they fell into a dreamy mood, and wandered on half-oblivious of things around them, while deeper and deeper the shades of twilight began to cast their gloom over the hills. "Look, Violet, I mean Miss Home; the moon is in crescent, and we shall have a pleasant night to walk in; won't it be delightful?" "Yes," she murmured; but neither of them observed that the clouds were gathering thick and fast, and obscured all except a few struggling glimpses of scattered stars. They came to a sort of stile formed by two logs of wood laid across the gap in a stone wall, and Kennedy vaulting over it, gave her his hand. "Surely," she said, stopping timidly for a moment, "we did not pass over this in coming, did we?" Kennedy looked back. "No," he said, "I don't remember it; but no doubt it has been put up merely for the night to prevent the cattle from going astray." They went forward, but a deeper and deeper misgiving filled Violet's mind that they had chosen a wrong road. "I think," she said with a fluttered voice, "that the path looks much narrower than it did this morning. Do you see the others?" They both strained their eyes through the gloom, now rendered more thick than ever by the dark driving clouds, but they could see no trace of their companions, and though they listened intently, not the faintest sound of voices reached their eager ears. They spoke no word, but a few steps farther brought them to a towering rock around the base of which the path turned, and then seemed to cease abruptly in a mass of loose shale. It was too clear now. They had lost their road and turned, whilst they were indulging those golden fancies, into a mere cattle-path worn by the numerous herds of goats and oxen, the music of whose jangling bells still came to them now and then in low sweet snatches from the pastures of the valley and hill. What was to be done? They were alone amid the all but unbroken silence, and the eternal solitudes of the now terrible mountain. The darkness began to brood heavily above them; no one was in sight, and when Kennedy shouted there was no answer, but only an idle echo of his voice. Sheets of mist were sweeping round them, and at length the gusts of wind drove into their faces cold swirls of plashing rain. "Oh, Mr Kennedy, what can we do? Do shout again." Once more Kennedy sent his voice ringing through the mist and darkness, and once more there was no answer, except that to their now excited senses it seemed as if a scream of mocking laughter was carried back to them upon the wind. And clinging tightly to his arm, as he wrapped her in his plaid to shelter her from the wet, she again cried, "Oh, Edward, what must we do?" Even in that fearful situation--alone on the mountain, in the storm,--he felt within him a thrill of strength and pleasure that she called him Edward, and that she clung so confidingly upon his arm. "Dare you stay here, Violet," he asked, "while I run forward and try to catch some glimpse of a light?" "Oh, I dare not, I dare not," she cried; "you might miss your way in coming back to me, and I should be alone." He saw that she loved him; he had read the secret of her heart, and he was happy. Passionately he drew her towards him, and on her soft fragrant cheek--on which the pallor of dread had not yet extinguished the glow which had been kindled by the mountain wind--he printed a lover's kiss; but in maidenly reserve she drew back, and was afraid to have revealed her secret, and once more she said, "Oh, Mr Kennedy, we shall die if we stay here unsheltered in this storm." As though to confirm her words, the thunder began to growl, and while the sounds of it were beaten back with long loud hollow buffetings from the rocks on every side, the blue and winged flash of lightning glittered before their eyes, cleaving a rift with dazzling and vivid intensity amid the purple gloom. "Stay here but one instant, Violet--Miss Home,"--he said; "I will climb this rock to see if any light is near, and will be with you again in a moment." He bounded actively up the rock, reckless of danger, and gazed from the summit into the night. For a second, another flash of lightning half blinded him with its lurid glare, but when he was again accustomed to the darkness, he saw a dull glimmer in the distance, and supposing it to come from the hotel, sprang down the rock again to Violet's side. "This way," he said, "dear Violet; I see a light, and from the direction of it I think it must be from our hotel. Keep up courage, and we shall soon reach it." Dangerous as it was to hurry over the wet and slippery shale, and down the steep sides of the rugged hill, Kennedy half drew, half-carried her along with swift steps towards the place from which the dim light still seemed to allure them by its wavering and uncertain flicker. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. A NIGHT OF TERROR. "For the strength of the hills we bless Thee, Our God, our Father's God; Thou hast made our spirits mighty, By the touch of the mountain sod!" Hemans. "Here you all are, then," said the cheerful voice of Mr Kennedy, as Julian, Eva, and Cyril, followed by the guide, entered the little Murrem Inn. "Here are three of us," answered Julian; "haven't Edward and Violet arrived? Not having seen them for the last half-hour, I fancied they must have got before us by some short cut." "No, they've not come yet. Fortunately for you, Eva, Aunt Dudley is very tired and has gone to bed," he said laughing, "otherwise you would have got a scolding for not taking better care of Violet." "Oh, then, they must be close behind somewhere for certain," said Julian; "they could not have missed the path--it lay straight before us the whole way." "Well, I hope they'll be in soon, for it begins to look lowering. I've ordered tea for you; make haste and come down to it. You're ready for tea, Cyril, I have no doubt." "_Rather_!" said Cyril, reviving; for fatigue had made him very quiet during the last half-hour. And, indeed, the tempting-looking display on the table, the bright teapot, and substantial meal, and amber-coloured honey, would have allured a more fastidious appetite. They ran up-stairs to make themselves comfortable before having tea and retiring to bed, and on re-entering the warm and glowing room, their first question was, "Have they come?" "No," said Mr Kennedy, anxiously, and even the boy's face grew grave and thoughtful as Julian rose from the tea-table and said, "I must go and search for them." He seized his straw hat, put on his boots again, and ran out, calling on the guide to accompany him. They took out with them a lighted torch, but it was instantly extinguished by the streaming rain. Julian and the guide shouted at the top of their voices, but heard no sound in reply; and the darkness was now so intense, that it was madness to proceed farther amid that howling storm. They ran back to the inn, where the rest sat round the table, pale and trembling with excessive fear. In reply to their hasty questions, Julian could only shake his head sorrowfully. "The guide says that in all probability they must have been overtaken by the storm, and have run to some chalet for refuge. If so, they will be safe and well-treated till the morning." "You children had better go to bed," said Mr Kennedy to Eva and Cyril, who reluctantly obeyed. "You cannot be of any help, and directly the storm begins to abate, Julian and I will go and find the others." "Oh, papa," sobbed Eva; "poor Eddy and Violet! What will become of them? Perhaps they have been struck by the lightning." "They are in God's hand, dearest," he said, tenderly kissing her tearful face, "as we all are. In His hand they are as safe as we." "In God's hand, dear Eva," said Julian, as he bade her good-night. "Go to sleep, and no doubt they will be here safe before you awake." "I shall not sleep, Julian," she whispered; "I shall go and pray for their safety. Dear, dear Eddy and Violet." Cyril lingered in the room. "Do let me stay up with you, Julian. I couldn't sleep--indeed, I couldn't; and I might be of some use when morning comes, and when you go to look for them. Do let me stay, Julian." Julian could not resist his brother's wish, though Mr Kennedy thought it best that the boy should go to bed. So they compromised matters by getting him to lie down on the sofa, while they sat up, and stared out of the windows silently into the rain. How wearily the time goes by when you dread a danger which no action can avert. Meanwhile the objects of their anxiety had hurried up to the light, and found that it came from the ragged windows of an old tumble-down tenement, built of pine-boards which the sun had dried and charred, until they looked black and stained and forbidding. Going up the rotten wooden steps to the door, and looking through the broken windows, Kennedy saw two men seated, smoking, with a flaring tallow candle between them. "Must we go in there?" asked Violet; and Kennedy observed how her arm and the tones of her voice were trembling with agitation. "Isn't it better than staying out in this dreadful storm?" said Kennedy. "The Swiss are an honest people, and I daresay these are herdsmen who will gladly give us food and shelter." Their voices had roused the inmates of the chalet, and both the men jumped up from their seats, while a large and fierce mastiff also shook himself from sleep, and gave a low deep growl. Kennedy knocked at the door. A gruff voice bade him enter; and as he stepped over the threshold, the dog flew at him with an angry bark. Violet uttered a cry of fear, and Kennedy struck the dog a furious blow with the knobbed end of his alpenstock, which for the moment stunned the animal, while it drew down on the heads of the tired and fainting travellers a volley of brutal German oaths. "Can you give us shelter?" said Kennedy, who spoke German with tolerable fluency. "We have lost our way, and cannot stay out in this storm." The man snarled an affirmative, and Violet observed with a shudder that he was an ill-looking, one-eyed fellow, with villainy stamped legibly on every feature. The other peasant looked merely stolid and dirty, and seemed to be little better than a cretin, as he sat heavily in his place without offering to stir. "Can't you give us some food, or at any rate some milk?--we have been to the top of the Schilthorn, and are very tired." The man brought out a huge coarse wooden bowl of goat's milk, and some sour bread; and feeling in real need of food, they tried to eat and drink. While doing so, Kennedy noticed that Violet gave a perceptible start and looking up, observed the one eye of their grim entertainer intently fixed on the gold watch-chain which hung over his silk jersey. He stared the man full in the face, finished his meal, and then asked for a candle to show the lady to her room. "No light but this," said the Cyclops, as Kennedy mentally named him. "Then you must lend me this." And taking it without more ado, he went first to the cupboard from which the milk had been produced, where seeing another dip, he coolly took it, lighted it, and pushed open the creaking door which opened on the close, damp closet which the man had indicated as the only place where Violet could sleep. This room opened on another rather larger; and here, putting the candle on the floor, for the room, (if room it could be called), was destitute of all furniture, he spread his plaid on the ground over some straw, and said-- "Try to sleep here, Miss Home, till morning. I will keep watch in the outer room." He shut the door, went back to the two men, looked full at them both, and leaving them their candle, returned to the closet, where, fastening the door with his invaluable alpenstock, he sat on the ground by the entrance of Violet's room. He heard her murmuring words of prayer, and knew well that she could not sleep in such a situation; but he himself determined to sit in perfect silence, to keep watch, and to commend himself and her, whom he now knew that he loved more than himself, in inward supplication to the merciful protection of their God and Father. He felt a conviction that they had fallen into bad hands. The man's anger had first been stirred by the severe wound which Kennedy had in self-defence inflicted on the dog, and now there was too much reason to dread that his cupidity had been excited by the sight of the gold chain, and by Violet's ornaments, which gave promise that he might by this accident gain a wealthy prize. After an interval of silence, during which he perceived that they listened at his door, and were deceived by his measured breathing into a notion that he was asleep, he noticed that they put out the candle, and continued to whisper in low thick voices. He was very very weary, his head nodded many times, and more than once he was afraid that sleep would overcome him, especially as he dared not stir or change his position; but the thought of Violet's danger, and the blaze of the lightning mingled with the yell of the wind kept him watchful, and he spent the interminable moments in thinking how to act when the attack came. At last, about an hour and a half after he had retired, he heard the men stir, and with a thrill of horror he detected the sound of guns being loaded. Violet's candle was yet burning, as he perceived by the faint light under her door, so he wrote on a leaf of his pocket-book in the dark, "Don't be afraid, Violet, whatever you may hear; trust in God," and noiselessly pushed it under the crevice of the door into her room. The muffled footsteps approached, but he never varied the sound of his regular breathing. At last came a push at the door, followed by silence, and then the whisper, "he has fastened it." Still he did not stir, till he observed that they were both close against the door, and were preparing to force it open. Then guided by a swift instinctive resolution, he determined to trust to the effects of an unexpected alarm. Noiselessly moving his alpenstock, he suddenly and with all his force, dashed the door open, shouted aloud, and with his utmost violence swung round the heavy iron spike. A flash, the report of a gun, and a yell of anguish instantly followed; and as Violet in terror and excitement threw open her door, the light which streamed from it showed Kennedy in a moment that the foremost villain, startled by the sudden opposition, had accidentally fired off his gun, of which the whole contents had lodged themselves in the shoulder of his comrade. This second man had also armed himself with a chamois-gun, which slipped out of his hands as he fell wounded to the ground. Springing forward Kennedy wrenched it out of his relaxing grasp, and presented it full at the head of the other, who, half-stunned with the blow he had received from the heavy iron-shod point of the ashen alpenstock, was crouching for concealment in the corner of the chalet. "Violet," he said, "all is now safe. These wretches are disarmed; if you like to take shelter here till the morning, I can secure you from any further attack. If you stir but an inch," he continued, addressing the unwounded man, "I will shoot you dead. Lay down your gun." The man's one eye glared with rage and hatred, but Kennedy still held the loaded gun at his head, and he was forced sullenly to obey. Kennedy put his foot upon the gun, and was in perplexity what to do next, fearing that the wounded murderer, who was moaning heavily, might nevertheless spring at him from behind, and also momentarily dreading an attack from the mastiff, who kept up a sullen growl. "Let us leave this dreadful place," said Violet, who, pale but undaunted at the horrors of the scene, had taken refuge by Kennedy's side. "Dare you pick up and carry the gun?" he asked. "It would be dangerous to leave it in their hands." Violet picked it up, where it lay under his feet, and then glided rapidly out of the chalet, while Kennedy slowly followed, never once taking his eye from his crouching antagonist. Before he stepped into the open air, he said to the men, "If I hear but one footstep in pursuit of us, I will shoot one of you dead." "Oh, what a relief to be on the mountain-turf once more!" said Violet in a low and broken whisper, as she grasped Kennedy's arm, and he cautiously led her down a rude path, which was faintly marked a few hundred yards from the lonely cottage where they had been. "Are we safe now, do you think?" "Yes, quite safe, Violet, I trust. They will not dare pursue me, now that their guns are gone, and I have this loaded one in my hand." "Dear brave Mr Kennedy. How shall I ever thank you enough for having saved my life so nobly? If you had not been so strong and watchful, we should both have now been killed." "I would die a thousand deaths," he whispered, "to save you from the least harm, Violet. But you are tired, you must rest here till the dawn. Sit under this rock, dearest, and cover yourself with my plaid. I will keep watch still." She sat down wearily, and her head sank upon the rock. The storm was over: the thunder was still muttering like a baffled enemy in the distance, but the wind after its late fury was sobbing gently and fitfully like a repentant child. The rock gave her shelter, and after her fatigue and agitation she was sleeping peacefully, while Kennedy bowed down his head, and thanked God for the merciful protection which He had extended to them. He had not been seated long when his eye caught the light of torches, being waved at a distance in the direction of the hotel. In an instant, he felt sure that Julian was come out to search for them, and gently awakening Violet, he told her with a thrill of joy that help was at hand. The torches drew nearer the place where they were seated, and he raised a joyous shout. As yet they were too far off to hear him, but suddenly it occurred to him to fire his gun. The flash and echoing report attracted their notice; the torches grew rapidly nearer; he could almost see the dark figures of those who carried them; and now in answer to his second shout came the hurried sound of familiar voices, and in five minutes more Julian and his father had grasped him by the hands, and Cyril had flung his arms round Violet's neck. And now at last Kennedy gave way to his emotion, and his highly-wrought feelings found relief in a burst of passionate tears. It was no time for questionings. Julian passed his arm round his sister's waist, and, aided by Mr Kennedy, half-carried her to their hotel. Kennedy leaned heavily on the guide's arm; the honest landlord, who accompanied the searching party, carried the plaid, the alpenstock, and one of the guns, and Cyril, impressed by the strange scene, carried the other gun, full of wondering conjecture what Kennedy could have been doing with it, and from whence it could have come. And when Violet reached Eva's room, in which she slept, she could only say, as they sat locked in a long embrace:-- "Dearest Eva, it is only through Edward that my life has been saved." Eva had never before heard Violet call her brother by his name, and she was glad at heart. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE ALPEN-GLUHEN. "And, last of all, Love, like an Alpine harebell, hung with tears, By some cold morning glacier." The Princess. Violet's fluttered nerves and wearied frame rendered it necessary for the party of English travellers to stay for a few days at Murrem, and afterwards it was decided that they should all go down to Grindelwald, and spend there the remainder of the time which they had set apart for the Swiss tour. The landlord of the Jungfrau treated them with the utmost consideration, and amused Kennedy by paying him as much deference as if he had been Tell or Arnold himself. Leaving in his hands all endeavours to discover the two scoundrels, who had entirely decamped, Kennedy gave him one of the guns, while he carried with him the other to keep as a trophy in his rooms at Camford. There are few sights more pleasant than that of two families bound together by the ties of friendship and affection, and living together as though they were all brothers and sisters of a common home. For long years afterwards the Homes and the Kennedys looked back on those days at Grindelwald as among the happiest of their lives, and, indeed, they glided by like a dream of unbroken pleasure. How is it that there can be such a thing as ennui, or that people ever can be at a loss what to do? In the morning they took short excursions to the glaciers or the roots of the great mountains, and Cyril made adventurous expeditions with his fishing-rod to the mountain-streams. And at evening they sat in the long twilight in the balcony of their room, while Eva and Violet sang them sweet, simple English songs, which rang so softly through the air, that the crowd of guides and porters which always hang about a Swiss hotel used to gather in the streets to listen, and the English visitors collected in the garden to catch the familiar tones. Julian and Kennedy always gave some hours every day to their books, and Cyril, though he could be persuaded to do little else, spent some of his unemployed time on his much-abused holiday task for the ensuing quarter at Marlby. And when the candles were lit, the girls would sketch or work, and Julian or Kennedy would read or translate to them aloud. Sometimes they spent what Mr Kennedy used to call "an evening with the immortals," and taking some volume of the poets, would each choose a favourite passage to read aloud in turn. This was Mr Kennedy's great delight, and he got quite enthusiastic when the well-remembered lines came back to him with fresh beauty, borne on the pleasant voices of Eva, Julian, or Cyril, like an old jewel when new facets are cut on its lustrous surface. "Stop there; that's an immortal, lad--an immortal," he would say to Cyril, when the boy seemed to be passing over some flower of poetic thought without sufficient admiration; and then he would repeat the passage from memory with such just emphasis, that on these evenings all felt that they were laying up precious thoughts for happy future hours. "Now, Mrs Dudley, and you young ladies, we're going to translate you part of a Greek novel to-night," said Julian. "A Greek novel!" said Cyril, with a touch of incredulous suspicion. "Those old creatures didn't write novels, did they?" "Only the best novel that ever was written, Cyril." "What's it called?" "The Odyssey." "Oh, what a chouse! You don't mean to call that a novel, do you?" "Well, let the ladies decide." So he read to them how Ulysses returned in the guise of a beggar, after twenty years of war and wandering to his own palace-door, and saw the haughty suitors revelling in his halls; and how, as he reached the door, Argus, the hunting-dog, now old and neglected, and full of fleas, recollected him, when all had forgotten him, and fawned upon him, and licked his hand and died; and how the suitors insulted him, and one of them threw a foot-stool at him, which by one quick move he avoided, and said nothing, and another flung a shin-bone at his head, which he caught in his hand, and said nothing, but only smiled grimly in his heart--ever so little, a grim, sardonic smile and how the old nurse recognised him by the scar of the boar's tusk on his leg, but he quickly repressed the exclamation of wonderment which sprang to her lips; and how he sat, ragged but princely, by the fire in his hall, and the red light flickered over him, and he spake to the suitors words of solemn warning; and how, when Agelaus warned them, a strange foreboding seized their souls, and they looked at each other with great eyes, and smiled with alien lips, and burst into quenchless laughter, though their eyes were filled with tears; and how Ulysses drew his own mighty bow, which not one of them could use, and how he handled it, and twanged the string till it sang like a swallow in his ear, and sent the arrow flying with a whiz through the twelve iron rings of the line of axes; and then, lastly, how, like to a god, he leapt on his own threshold with a shout, and gathered his rags about him, and aided by the young Telemachus and the divine Swineherd, sent hurtling into the band of wine-stained rioters the swift arrows of inevitable death. Pleased with the tale, which the girls decided, in spite of Cyril's veto, to be a genuine novel, they asked for a new Greek romance, and Julian read to them from Herodotus about the rise and fall of empires, and "Strange stories of the deaths of kings." One of his stories was the famous one of Croesus, and the irony of his fate, and the warning words of Solon, all of which, rendered into quaint rich English, struck Cyril so much, that, mingling up the tale with reminiscences of Longfellow's "Blind Bartimeus," he produced, with much modesty at the breakfast-table next morning, the following very creditable boyish imitation:-- "Speak Grecia's wisest, thou, 'tis said, Full deeply in Life's page hast read, And many a clime hath known my tread; Tis pantoon olbiotatos? "The monarch raised his eager eye, Gazed on the sage exultingly, And slow came forth the calm reply Tellos ho Atheenaios. "Upon his funeral pyre he lay Crownless, his sceptre passed away, The shade of Solon seem to say, oudeis toon zoontoon holbios. "How little thought that Grecian sage Those words should live from aye to aye, Tis pantoon olbiotatos? Tellos ho Atheenaios, oudeis toon zoontoon holbios." [Note. These verses were really written by a boy of fourteen.] In a manner such as this the summer hours glided happily away. But all things, happy or mournful, must come to an end, lest we should forget God in our prosperity, or curse Him in our despair. Too quickly for all their wishes their last Sunday in Switzerland had come. Most of them had spent the day in thoughtful retirement or quiet occupations, and both morning and evening they assembled together in their pleasant sitting-room for matins and evensong. Their thoughts were full of the coming separation, and it gave a deep interest to these last services; for the Homes, unwilling to leave their mother and Frank so long alone at Ildown, were to start for England on the following day, and the Kennedys intended to visit Chamounix for two weeks more. On the Sunday evening they strolled down to the glacier to look once again, for the last time, into its crevices, and wonder at its fairy caverns, fringed with icicles, like rows of silver daggers, and ceiled with translucent sapphire, beneath whose blue fretwork the stray sunbeams lost their way amid ice-blocks of luminous green, and pillars of lapis-lazuli and crystal. They sat on a huge boulder of granite, which some avalanche had torn down, and tumbled from the mountain's side, and there enjoyed the icy wind which tempered the warm evening air, as it swept over the leaping waves of the glacier stream. "What a mixture of terror and beauty these monstrous glaciers are," said Julian; "crawling down the valleys, and shearing away the solid rocks before them like gigantic ploughshares." "Yes," said Eva. "When you look up at the tumbled pinnacles of those seracs, does it not seem as if Summer had rent in anger with some great ice-axe the huge enemy whom she could not quite destroy?" "And see," said Mr Kennedy, "how Nature gets out of these terrible heaps of shattered ice both use and beauty; and since she must leave them as the eternal fountains of her rivers, see how she tinges them with her loveliest blue." They talked on until it was time to return, but Violet and Kennedy still lingered, sitting on the vast boulder, under pretence of seeing the sunset. "Well, don't get lost again, that's all," said Cyril sagely. "Oh no, we shall be back very soon," answered Violet, but she felt instinctively that the "very soon" in time might measure an eternity of emotion. Need we say that Kennedy and Violet had, since that night of wild adventure, loved each other, hour by hour, with deeper affection? He was young, and brave, and light-hearted, and of a pleasant countenance; and she was a young, and confiding, and graceful, and lovely girl, and they were drawn to one another with a love which absorbed all other thoughts, and overpowered all other considerations; and it was unspeakable happiness for each to know how lovely were all their acts, and how dear were all their words in the other's eyes. And now that the time was come to declare the love in words, and ratify it by a plighted troth, there was something in the act so solemn as almost to disturb their dream of a lover's paradise. They sat silent on the rock until the sun had set behind the peaks of snow, and their eyes were filled with idle yet delicious tears. Ripples of luminous sunshine, and banks of primrose-coloured cloud still lingered on the path which the sun had traversed, and, when even these began to fade, there stole along the hill crests above them a film of tender colour, flinging a veil of the softest carnation over their cold grey rocks, and untrodden fields of perpetual snow. "Look, Violet, at that rose-colour on the hills; does it not seem as it rests on those chill ledges, as though Nature had said that her last act to-day should be a triumph of glory, and her last thought a thought of love?" Violet murmured an assent. "Oh, Violet," he continued, "you know that I love you, and I know that you love me;--is it not so, Violet?" He hardly heard the "Yes," which came half like a sigh from her lips. "Violet, dear Violet, we part to-morrow; let me hear you say `Yes' more clearly still." "You know I love you, Edward--did you not save my life?" "I know you love me," he repeated slowly, "but, oh Violet, I am not worthy of you--I am not all you think me." There passed over his fair forehead the expression of humiliation and pain which she had seen there with wonder once or twice before. "You are good and noble, Edward," she answered; "I see you to be good and noble, or I could not love you as I do." "No," he said, "alas! not good, not noble, Violet--in no wise worthy of one so pure, and bright, and beautiful as you are." He bent his face over her hand, and his warm tears fell fast upon it. "But," he continued, "I will strive to be so hereafter, Violet, for your sweet sake. Oh, can you take me as I am? Will you make me good and noble, Violet, as Julian is? Can you let the sunshine of your life fall on the shadow of mine?" She did not understand his passion as he raised to her his face, not bright and laughing as it generally was, but stained with the traces of many tears; she only knew that he had won her whole heart, and for one moment she let her hand rest in the curls of the head which he had bent once more. "Oh, Violet," he said, looking up again, "I can be anything if you love me." In an instant the cloud had passed away from his face, and the old sunshine brightened his blue eyes. For one instant their eyes met with that lustrous and dewy love-gleam that only lovers know, but during that instant it seemed as if their souls had flowed together into a common fount. With a happy look she suffered him to take her hand, and draw off from her finger a sapphire ring; this he put on his own finger, while on hers he replaced it by the gold-set ruby, his mother's gift, which he usually wore. The crescent moon had risen as they walked home, and they found the rest of the party seated in the hotel garden, under her soft silver light; but nobody seemed to be much in a mood for talking, until that little monkey Cyril, who observed everything, exclaimed-- "Why, Julian, do look; Violet has got Kennedy's ring on, and--well, I declare if he hasn't got hers." "Let us all come up-stairs," said Kennedy hastily and then, before them all, he drew Violet to his side, and said-- "Julian, Violet and I are betrothed to each other." "As I thought," said Julian with a smile, as a rush of sudden emotion made his eyes glisten, and he warmly grasped Kennedy's hand. "And as I hoped, Julian," said Mr Kennedy, as he turned away to wipe his spectacles, which somehow had grown dim. The moonlight streamed over them as the two stood there together, young, happy, hopeful, beautiful, and while Cyril held Kennedy's hand, Eva and Violet exchanged a sister's kiss. And Julian looked on with a glow of happiness--happiness that had one drawback only--a passing shadow of sorrow for the possible feelings of De Vayne. CHAPTER NINETEEN. ONLY A BLUSH. "Erubuit! salva res est!"--Plautus. Back from the glistening snow-fields, where every separate crystal flashes with a separate gleam of light--back from the Alpine pastures, embroidered with their tissue of innumerable flowers, over which, like winged flowers, the butterflies flutter continually--back from the sunlit silver mantle of the everlasting hills, and the thunder of the avalanche, and the wild leap of the hissing cataract--back to the cold grey flats and ancient towers of Camford, and the lazy windings of the muddy Iscam, and the strife and struggle of a university career. Kennedy arrived at Camford at mid-day, and as but few men had yet come up, he beguiled the time by going out to make the usual formal call on his tutor. As he passed the door of the room where temptation had brought on him so many heavy hours, he could hardly repress an involuntary shudder; but on the whole, he was in high spirits, and Mr Grayson received him with something almost approaching to cordiality. "You did very well in the examination, Mr Kennedy; very well indeed. With diligence you might have been head of your year--as it was, you were in the first ten." "Was Owen head of the year, sir?" "No, Home was head; his brilliant composition, and thorough knowledge of the books, brought him to the top. Either he or Owen were first in all the papers except one." "Which was that, sir?" "The Aeschylus paper, in which you were first, Mr Kennedy; you did it remarkably accurately. If you had seen the paper, you could hardly have done it better." "Indeed! Would you give me a library order, sir?" said Kennedy, rising abruptly, to change the subject. Mr Grayson was offended at this sudden change of subject, and, silently writing the order, bade Kennedy a cold "good morning." All that Kennedy hoped was that he would not tell others as well as himself, the odious fact of his success. The thought damped his spirits, but he shook it off. The novelty of returning as a junior soph, the pleasure of meeting the familiar faces once more, the consciousness of that bright change of existence, which, during the past vacation, had bound the golden thread of Violet's destiny with his, filled him with inward exultation. And then there was real delight in the warmth with which he was greeted by all alike. He found himself, very unexpectedly, a hero in the general estimation. The romantic adventure on the Schilthorn had been rumoured about among the numerous English visitors to the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, until it had reached the editor of a local paper, and so had flowed through _Galignani_ into the general stream of the English journals. True, the names had been suppressed, but all the Saint Werner's men knew who was intended by "Mr K dash y," and as he entered the hall there was a murmur of applause. He was greeted on all sides with eager questions. "I say, Mr K dash y," said one, "did the fellow whom you shot die of his wound?" "It was rather a chouse to shoot a cretin, though," said another, in chaff. "I _didn't_ shoot him," said Kennedy. "No, you very leerily managed to make the other fellow shoot him. Preserve me from my friends, must have been his secret reflections." "Have you kept the guns, Kennedy? You must let me have a look after hall." While this kind of talk was going on, Brogten, who was nearly opposite to Kennedy, sat silent, and watched him. He did not join in the remarks about the night adventure in Switzerland, but when there was a slight pause in the fire of questions, he turned the conversation to the subject of the May examination. "Those are not your only triumphs, Kennedy, it appears. You seem to have been doing uncommonly well in the examination, too." "Oh aye, you were in the first ten," said Suton; "Mr Grayson told me so." "Who was first?" asked Lillyston. "Oh, Home of course; except in one paper, and Kennedy was first in that." "I believe that was the Aeschylus paper," said Brogten, throwing the slightest unusual emphasis into his tone; "you were first in that, weren't you, Kennedy?" The men were surprised to hear Brogten address him with such careless familiarity, knowing the old quarrel that existed between them; and they were still more surprised to hear Brogten interest himself about a topic usually so indifferent to him as the result of an examination. It seemed particularly strange that he should give himself any trouble to inquire about the present list, because he himself had been _posted_, in company with Hazlet and Lord Fitzurse, _i e_, their names had been written up below the eighth class, as "_unworthy to be classed_." "Was I?" said Kennedy in the most careless tone he could assume. "Yes--really, didn't you know it? You did it so well that Grayson said, you _couldn't have done the paper better if you had seen it beforehand_." "I say, Kennedy, you _must_ have come out swell, then," said D'Acres, "for Grayson said just the same thing to me." "How very odd," said Brogten, affectedly. "You _didn't_ see the papers beforehand, Kennedy--did you?" The last few moments had been torture to Kennedy; he had moved uneasily; the bright look of gratified triumph, which the allusions to his courage had called forth, had gone out the moment the examination was mentioned, and it was only by a painful and violent exercise of the will that he was able to keep back the blood which had begun to rush towards his cheeks. In the endeavour to check or suppress the blush, he had grown ashy pale; but now that Brogten's dark and cruel eye was upon him--now that the protruding underlip curled with a sneer that left no more room to doubt that he _was_ master of Kennedy's guilty secret--the effort was useless, and spite of will, the burning crimson of an uncontrollable shame burst and flashed over Kennedy's usually clear and open face. It was no ordinary blush--no common passage of colour over the cheeks. Over face, and neck, and brow the guilty blood seemed to be crowding tumultuously, and when it had filled every vein and fibre till it swelled, then the rich scarlet seemed to linger there as though it would never die away again, and if for an instant it began to fade, then the hidden thought sent new waves of hot agony in fresh pulses to supply its place. And all the while the conscious victim made matters worse by his attempts to seem unconcerned, until his forehead was wet with heavy perspiration. By that time the men had turned to other topics, and were talking about Bruce's laziness, and the utter manner in which he must have fallen off for his name to appear, as it had done, in the second class; and, in course of time, Kennedy's face was as pale and cold as it before had burned and glowed. And all this while, though he would not look--though he looked at his plate, and at the busts over his head, and the long portraits of Saint Werner's worthies on the walls, and on this side and on that--Kennedy knew full well that Brogten's eye had been on him from beginning to end, and that Brogten was enjoying, with devilish malignity, the sense of power which he had gained from the knowledge of another's sin. The thought was intolerable to him, and, finishing his dinner with hasty gulps, he left the hall. "Brogten, how rude you were to Kennedy," said Lillyston. "Was I?" said Brogten, in a tone of sarcasm and defiance. "No wonder he blushed at your coarse insinuations." "No wonder," said Brogten, in the same tone; "am I the only person who makes coarse insinuations, as you call them?" "It is just like you to do so." "Is it? Oh well, I shall have to make some more, perhaps, before I have done." "Well, you'd better look out what you say to Kennedy, at any rate. He is a fiery subject." "Thank you, I will." This wrangling was very unprofitable, and Lillyston gladly dropped it, not however without feeling somewhat puzzled at the air which Brogten assumed. That night Kennedy was sitting miserably in his room alone; he had refused all invitations, and had asked nobody to take tea with him. He was just making tea for himself, when Brogten came to see him. "May I stay to tea?" he asked, in mock humility. "If you like," said Kennedy. He stayed to tea, and talked about all kinds of subjects rather than the one which was prominent in the thoughts of both. He told Kennedy old Harton stories, and asked him about Marlby; he turned the subject to Home, and really interested Kennedy by telling him what kind of a boy Julian had been, and what inseparable friends he had always been with Lillyston, and how admirably he had recited on speech-day, and how stainless his whole life had been, and how vice and temptation seemed to skulk away at his very look. "You are reconciled to him, then," said Kennedy in surprise. "Oh, yes. At heart, I always respected him. He wasn't a fellow to take the worst view of one's character, you know, or to make nasty innuendoes--" He stopped, and eyed Kennedy as a parrot eyes a finger put into his cage, which he _could_ peck if he would. "He wasn't, you know, a kind of fellow who would force you to leave the table by sneering at you in hall--" He still continued to eye Kennedy, but in vain, for Kennedy kept his moody glance on the table and was silent, and would not look at him or speak to him. Brogten could not help being struck with his appearance as he sat there motionless,--the noble and perfectly formed head, the well-cut features, the cheek a little pale now, so boyishly smooth and round, the latent powers of fire and sarcasm and strength in the bright eye and beautiful lip. It was a base source of triumph that made Brogten exult in the knowledge that this youth was in his power; that he held for a time at least the strings of his happiness or misery; that at any time by a word in any public place he could bring on his fine features that hue of shame; that for his own purposes he could at any time ruin his reputation, and put an end to his popularity. Not that he intended to do so. He had the power, but unless provoked, he did not wish or mean to use it. It was far more luxurious to keep it to himself, and use it as occasion might serve. Everybody's secret is nobody's secret, and it was enough for Brogten to enjoy privately the triumph he had longed for, and which accident had put into his hands. "Come, come, Kennedy," he said, "this is nonsense; we understand each other. I saw you coolly read over the whole examination-paper, you know, which wasn't the most honourable thing in the world to do--" He paused and half relented as he saw a solitary tear on Kennedy's cheek, which was indignantly brushed away almost as soon as it had started. "Come," he said, "cheer up, man. I'm not going to tell of you; neither Grayson nor any of the men shall know it, and at present not a soul has a suspicion of such a thing except ourselves. Come--I've had my triumph over you, for your sharp words in hall last term, before all the men, and that's all I wanted. Don't let's be enemies any longer. Good-night." But Kennedy sat there passively, and when Brogten had gone away whistling "The Rat-catcher's Daughter," he leant his head upon his hand, and his thoughts wandered away to Violet Home. O holy, ennobling, purifying love! He felt that if he had known Violet before, he should not now have been in Brogten's power. He fancied that the secret had oozed out; he fancied that men eyed him sometimes with strange glances; he pictured to himself the degradation he should feel if Julian, or De Vayne, or Lillyston ever knew of what weakness he was capable. This one error rode like a night-mare on his breast. But none of his gloomy presentiments on the score of detection were fulfilled. Except to Bruce, and that under pledge of secrecy, Brogten never betrayed what he knew, and the only immediate way in which he exercised the influence which his knowledge gave him, was by claiming with Kennedy a tone of familiarity, and asking him to card parties, suppers, and idle riots of all kinds, in which Bruce and Fitzurse were frequent visitors. CHAPTER TWENTY. BRUCE THE TEMPTER. "Oui autrefois; mais nous avons change tout cela."--Moliere. Bruce was disgusted with his second class in the Saint Werner's May examination. He had quite flattered himself that he could not fail to be among the somewhat large number who annually obtained the pleasant and easy distinction of a first. He had not been nearly so idle as men supposed, although he had managed to waste a large amount of time; and if he could have foreseen that his name would only appear in the Second class, he would have endeavoured to be lower still, so as to make it appear that he had not condescended to give a thought to the subject. As it was, he hoped that if he got a first, men would remark, "Clever fellow that Bruce! Never opened a book, and yet got a first class;" whereas now he knew that the general judgment would be, "Bruce can't be half such a swell as one fancied. He's only taken a second." His vanity was wounded, and he determined to throw up reading altogether. "What good would it do him to grind? His father was rolling in money, and of course he should cut a very good figure in London when he had left Camford, which was a mere place for crammers and crammed, etcetera." So Bruce became more and more confirmed as a trifler and an idler, and he suffered that terrible ennui, which dogs the shadow of wasted time. Associating habitually with men who were his inferiors in ability, and whose tastes were lower than his own, the vacuity of mind and lassitude of body, which at times crept over him, were the natural assistants of every temptation to extravagance, frivolity, and sin. An accidental conversation gave a mischievous turn to his idle propensities. Coming into hall one evening, he found himself seated next to Suton, and observing from the goose on the table, and the audit ale which was circling in the loving cup that it was a feast, he turned to his neighbour, and asked:-- "Is it a saint's-day to-day?" "Yes," said Suton, "and the most memorable of them all--All Saints' Day." "Oh, really," said Bruce with an expression of half contemptuous interest, "then I suppose chapel's at a quarter past six, and we shall have one of those long winded choral services." "Don't you like them?" "Like them? I should think not! Since one's forced to do a certain amount of chapels, the shorter they are the better." "Of course, if you regard it in the light of `doing' so many chapels, you won't find it pleasant." "Do you mean to tell me now," said Bruce, turning round and looking full at Suton, "that you regard chapels as anything but an unmitigated nuisance?" "Most certainly I do mean to tell you so, if you ask me." "Ah! I see--a Sim!" said Bruce, with the slightest possible shrug of the shoulders. "I don't know what you mean by a `Sim,' Mr Bruce," said Suton, slightly colouring; "but whether a Sim or not, I at least expect to be treated as a gentleman." "Oh, I beg pardon," said Bruce; "but I couldn't help recognising the usual style of--" "Of cant, I suppose you would say. Thank you. You must find it a cold faith to disbelieve in all sincerity." "Well, I don't know. At any rate, I don't believe that all your saints put together were really a bit better than their neighbours; so I can't get up an annual enthusiasm in their honour. All men are really alike at the bottom." "Nero's belief," said Owen, who had overheard the conversation. "It doesn't matter whether it was Nero's or Neri's or Neander's," answered Bruce; "experience proves it to be true." Suton had finished dinner, and as he did not relish Bruce's off-hand and patronising manner, he left the discussion in Owen's hand. But between Owen and Bruce there was an implacable dissimilarity, and neither of them cared to pursue the subject. Bruce, who went to wine with D'Acres, repeated there the subject of the conversation, and found that most of his audience affected to agree with him. In fact, he had himself set the fashion of a semi-professed infidelity; and amid his most intimate associates there were many to adopt with readiness a theory which saved them from the trouble and expense of a scrupulous conscience. With Bruce this infidelity was rather the decay of faith than the growth of positive disbelief. He had dipped with a kind of wilful curiosity into Strauss's Life of Jesus, and other books of a similar description, together with such portions of current literature as were most clever in sneering at Christianity, or most undisguised in rejecting it. Such reading--harmless, or even desirable, as it might have been to a strong mind sincere in its search for truth, and furnished with that calm capacity for impartial thought which is the best antidote against error--was fatal to one whose superficial knowledge and irregular life gave him already a powerful bias towards getting rid of everything which stood in the way of his tendencies and pursuits. Bruce was not in earnest in the desire for knowledge and wisdom: he grasped with avidity at a popular objection, or a sceptical argument, without desiring to understand or master the principles which rendered them nugatory; and he was ignorant and untaught enough to fancy that the very foundations of religion were shaken if he could attack the authenticity of some Jewish miracle, or impugn the genuineness of some Old Testament book. When all belief was shaken down in his shallow and somewhat feeble understanding, the structure of his moral convictions was but a baseless fabric. Error in itself is not fatal to the inner sense of right; but Bruce's error was not honest doubt, it was wilful self-deception, blindness of heart, first deliberately induced, then penally permitted. In Bruce's character there was not only the _error in intellectu_, but also the _pertinacia in voluntate_. All sense of honour, all delicacy of principle, all perception of sin and righteousness, all the landmarks of right and wrong, were obliterated in the muddy inundation of flippant irreverence and ignorant disbelief. "For when we in our viciousness grow hard, O, misery on't! the wise gods seal our eyes: In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us Adore our errors, laugh at us while we strut To our confusion." "I'm sometimes half inclined to agree with what you were saying about would-be saints," said Brogten, as they left D'Acres' wine-party. "What fun it would be to try the experiment of a saint's peccability on some living subject," said Bruce. "Rather! Suppose you try on that fellow Hazlet?" "Oh, you mean the lank party who snuffles the responses with such oleaginous sanctimony. Well, I bet you 2 to 1 in ponies that I have him roaring drunk before a month's over." "I won't take the bet," said Brogten, "because I believe you'll succeed." "I'll t-t-take it for the fun," said Fitzurse. "Done, then!" said Bruce. So Bruce, _pour passer le temps_, deliberately undertook the corruption of a human soul. That soul might have been low enough already; for Hazlet was, as we have seen, mean-hearted and malicious, and in him, although unknown to himself, the garb of the Pharisee but concealed the breast of the hypocrite. But yet Hazlet _was_ free, and if Bruce had not undertaken the devil's work, might have been free to his life's end, from all gross forms of transgression--from all the more flagrant and open delinquencies that lay waste the inner sanctities of a fallen human soul. He was an easy subject for Bruce's machinations, and those machinations were conceived and carried on with consummate and characteristic cleverness. Bruce did not spread his net in the sight of the bird, but set to work with wariness and caution. He determined to try the arts of fascination, not of force. The thought of the desperate wickedness involved in his attempt either never crossed his mind, or, if it did, was rejected as the feeble suggestion of an over-scrupulous conscience. Bruce pretended at least to fancy that the basis of all men's characters was identical, and that, as they only differed in external manifestations, it made very little difference whether Hazlet became "fast" or continued "slow." "Fast" and "slow" were the mild euphemisms with which Bruce expressed the slight distinction between a vicious and a virtuous life. At hall--the grand place for rencontres--he managed to get a seat next to his victim, and began at once to treat him with that appearance of easy and well-bred familiarity which he had learnt in London circles. He threw a gentle expression of interest into his face and voice, he listened with deference to Hazlet's remarks, he addressed several questions to him, thanked him politely for all his information, and then adroitly introduced some delicate compliments on the agreeableness of Hazlet's society. His bait took completely; Hazlet, whom most men snubbed, was quite flustered with gratified vanity at the condescending notice of so unexceptionable a man of fashion as the handsome and noted Vyvyan Bruce. "At last," thought Hazlet, "men are beginning to appreciate my intellectual powers." After continuing this process for some days, until Hazlet was unalterably convinced that he must be a vastly agreeable and attractive person, Bruce asked him to come to breakfast, and invited Brogten and Fitzurse to meet him. He calculated justly that Hazlet, accustomed only to the very quiet neighbourhood of a country village, would be duly impressed with the presence and acquaintance of a live lord; and he instructed both his guests in the manner in which they should treat the subject of their experiment. Hazlet thought he had never enjoyed a breakfast party so much. There was a delicious spice of worldliness in the topics of conversation which was quite refreshing to him, accustomed as he was to the somewhat droning moralisms of his "congenial friends." Nothing which could deeply shock his prejudices was ever alluded to, but the discussions which were introduced came to him with all the charm of novelty and awakened curiosity. Hazlet never could endure being a silent or inactive listener while a conversation was going forward. No matter how complete his ignorance of the subject, he generally managed to hazard some remarks. Bruce talked a good deal about actors and theatres, and Hazlet had never seen a theatre in his life. He did not like, however, to confess this fact, and, after a little hesitation, began to talk as if he were an habitue. The dramatic criticisms, which he occasionally saw in the papers, furnished him with just materials enough to amuse Bruce and the others at his assumption of "savoir vivre," and to furnish a laugh at his expense the moment he was gone; but of this he was blissfully unconscious, and he rather plumed himself on his knowledge of the world. He had yet to learn the lesson that consistency alone can secure respect. He had indeed ventured at first to remark, "Don't you think the stage a little--just a little--objectionable?" "Objectionable," said Bruce, with a bland smile; "oh, my dear fellow, what can you mean? Why, the stage is a mirror of the world, and to show virtue her own image is one of its main objects." "Yes," said Hazlet, "I am inclined to think so. I should like to see a theatre, I confess." He had let slip unintentionally the implied admission that he had never been to a theatre; but when Fitzurse asked in astonishment, "What, have you never been to a theatre?" he merely replied, "Well, I can hardly say I have; at least not for a long time." "Oh, then we must all run down to London some night very soon," said Bruce, "and we'll go together to the Regent." "But I've no friend in London, except--except a clergyman or two, who perhaps might object, you know." "Oh, never mind the clergymen," said Bruce; "you shall all come and stay with me at Vyvyan House." Here was a triumph!--to go to the celebrated Vyvyan House, and that in company with a lord, and to be a partaker of Bruce's hospitality! Of course it would be very rude and wrong to refuse so eligible an invitation. How pleasant it would be to remark casually at hall-time, "I'm just going to run down for the Sunday to Vyvyan House with Bruce and Lord Fitzurse!" "Let me see," said Bruce, "to-day's Monday; supposing you come to wine with me on Thursday, and then we'll see if we can't manage to get to London from Saturday to Monday." "Thursday--I'm afraid I've an engagement on Thursday to--" "To what?" asked Bruce. The more Hazlet coloured and hung back, the more Bruce, in his agreeable way, pressed to know, till at last Hazlet, unable to escape such genial importunity, reluctantly confessed that it was to a prayer-meeting in a friend's rooms. "Oh," said Bruce, with the least little laugh, "tea and hassocks, eh?" He said no more, but the little, scornful laugh, and the few scornful words had done their work more effectually than a volume of ridicule. It need not be added that Hazlet came, not to the prayer-meeting, but to the wine-party. Cards were introduced in the evening, and one of the players was Kennedy. Kennedy played often now, but he certainly did feel a qualm of intense and irrepressible disgust as, with great surprise, he found himself _vis a vis_ with the spectacled visage of Jedediah Hazlet. "But how shall I get my exeat to go to London?" said Hazlet. "Oh, say a particular friend has invited you to spend the Sunday with him. Say you want to hear Starfish preach." Mr Norton, Hazlet's tutor, who did not expect him to fall into mischief, and thought that very likely Mr Starfish's eloquence might be the operating attraction, granted him the exeat without any difficulty, and on Saturday Hazlet was reclining in a first-class carriage, with Bruce, Brogten, and Fitzurse, on his way to Vyvyan House. A change was observable in his dress. Bruce had hinted to him that his usual garb might look a little formal and odd at a theatre, and had persuaded him to come to his own egregious Camford tailor, Mr Fitfop, who, as a particular favour to his customer Bruce, produced with suspicious celerity the cut-away coat and mauve-coloured pegtops, in which unwonted splendour Hazlet was now arrayed. It was a pity that his ears were so obturated with vanity as not to have heard the shrieks of half-stifled laughter created by his first public appearance in this fashionable guise, which only required to be completed by the death's-head pin with which Bruce presented him, (and which therefore he was obliged to wear), to make it perfect. The sumptuous and voluptuous richness of all the appointments in Vyvyan House introduced Hazlet to a new world. Sir Rollo and Lady Bruce were not in town, so that the four young men had the house entirely to themselves, and Bruce ordered about the servants with royal energy. Soon after their arrival they sat down to a choice dinner, and Bruce took care, although the champagne had been abundant at dinner, to pass pretty freely, at dessert, the best claret and amontillado of his father's cellars. Hazlet was not slow to follow the example which the others set him; he helped himself plentifully to everything, and after dinner, lolling in an easy attitude, copied from Fitzurse, he even ventured to exhibit his very recently acquired accomplishment of smoking a weed. Very soon he imagined that he had quite made an impression on the most fashionable members of the Saint Werner's world. They went to the Regent, and between the acts, Bruce, who knew everything, introduced them behind the scenes. Hazlet, rather amazed at his own boldness, but in reality entirely ignorant which way to turn, necessarily followed his guides, and, exultant with the influence of mellow wine, imitated the others, and tried to look and feel at home. Within a month of Bruce's manipulation this excellent and gifted young man, this truly gracious light in the youthful band of confessors, was seated, talking to a fascinating young _danseuse_ who wore a gossamer dress, behind the scenes of a petty London theatre. Bruce looked on with a smile, and hummed to himself-- "Jene Tanzerinn Fliegt, mit leichtem Sinn Und noch leichtern Kleide Durch den Saal der Freude Wie ein Zephyr bin, _etcetera_." The head of Jedediah Hazlet was somewhat confused, when, after the play and an oyster supper in the cider cellars, it sank deep into the reposeful down of a spare chamber in the gay Sir Rollo Bruce's London house. The next morning was Sunday. They none of them got up till twelve to a languid breakfast, and then read novels. Hazlet, who was rather shocked at this, did indeed faintly suggest going to church. "Oh yes," said Bruce, looking up with a smile from his Balzac, "we'll do that, or some other equally harmless amusement." The dinner hour, however, coincided with the time of evening service, so that it was impossible to go then, and finally they spent the evening in what they all agreed to call "a perfectly quiet game at cards." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. ONE OF THE SIMPLE ONES. "I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh, Choicest cates, and the flagon's best spilth." Robert Browning. "Faugh," said Bruce, on his return to Camford, "that fellow Hazlet isn't worth making an experiment upon--_in corpore vili_ truly; but the creature is so wicked at heart, that even his cherished traditions crumble at a touch. He's no game; he doesn't even run cunning." "Then I hope you'll p-p-pay me my p-p-p-ponies," said Fitzurse. "By no means; only I shall cut things short; he isn't worth playing; I shall haul him in at once." Accordingly, Hazlet was invited once more to one of Bruce's parties-- this time to a supper. It was one of the regular, reckless, uproarious affairs--D'Acres, Boodle, Tulk, Brogten, Fitzurse, were all there, and the elite of the fast fellow-commoners, and sporting men besides. Bruce had privately entreated them all not to snub Hazlet, as he wanted to have some fun. The supper was soon despatched, and the wine circled plentifully. It was followed by a game of cards, during which the punch-bowl stood in the centre of the table, rich, smoking, and crowned with a concoction of unprecedented strength. Hazlet was quite in his glory. When they had plied him sufficiently--which Bruce took care to do by repeatedly replenishing his cup on the sly, so that he might fancy himself to have taken much less than was really the case--they all drank his health with the usual honours: "For he's a jolly good fe-el-low. For he's a jolly good fe-el-low, For he's a jolly good fe-el-l-ow-- Which nobody can deny, Which nobody can deny; For he's a jolly good fe-el-low," etcetera. And so on, _ad infinitum_, followed by "Hip! hip! hip! hurrah! hurrah!! hurrah!!!" and then the general rattling of plates on the table, and breaking of wine-glass stems with knives of "boys who crashed the glass and beat the floor." Hazlet was quite in the seventh heaven of exaltation, and made a feeble attempt at replying to the honour in a speech; but he was in so very oblivious and generally foolish a condition, that, being chiefly accustomed to Philadelphus oratory, he began to address them as "My Christian Friends;" and this produced such shouts of boisterous laughter, that he sat down with his purpose unaccomplished. Before the evening was over, Bruce, in the opinion of all present, including Fitzurse himself, had fairly won his bet. "I shan't mind p-p-paying a bit," said the excellent young nobleman; "it's been such r-r-rare f-f-fun." Rare fun indeed! The miserable Hazlet, swilled with unwonted draughts, lay brutally comatose in a chair. His head rolled from side to side, his body and arms hung helpless and disjointed, his eyelids dropped--he was completely unconscious, and more than fulfilled the conditions of being "roaring drunk!" Now for some jolly amusement--the opportunity's too good to be lost! What exhilaration there is on seeing a human soul imbruted and grovelling hopelessly in the dirt or rather to have a body before you, _without_ a soul for the time being--a coarse animal mass, swinish as those whom the wand of Circe smote, but with the human intelligence quenched besides, and the charactery of reason wiped away. Here, some ochre and lamp-black, quick! There--plaster it well about the whiskers and eyelids, and put a few patches on the hair! Magnificent!--he looks like a Choctaw in his war-paint, after drinking fire-water. Screams of irrepressible laughter--almost as ghastly, (if the cause of them be considered), as those that might have sounded round a witch's cauldron over diabolical orgies--accompanied the whole proceeding. So loud were they that all the men on the stair-case heard them, and fully expected the immediate apparition of some bulldog, dean, or proctor. It was nobody's affair, however, but Bruce's, and he must do as he liked. Suton, who "kept" near Bruce, was one of those whom the uproar puzzled and disturbed, as he sat down with sober pleasure to his evening's work. His window was opposite Bruce's, and across the narrow road he heard distinctly most of what was said. The perpetual and noisy repetition of Hazlet's name perplexed him extremely, and at last he could have no doubt that they were making Hazlet drunk, and then painting him; nor was it less clear that many of them were themselves half intoxicated. It had of course been impossible for Suton and others of similar character to avoid noticing the eccentricities of dress, and manner which had been the outward indications of Hazlet's recent course. When a man who has been accustomed to dress in black, and wear tail coats in the morning, suddenly comes out in gorgeous apparel, and begins to talk about cards, betting and theatres, his associates must be very blind, if they do not observe that his theories are undergoing a tolerably complete revolution. Suton saw with regret mingled with pity, Hazlet's contemptible weakness, and he had once or twice endeavoured to give him a hint of the ridicule which his metamorphosis occasioned; but Hazlet had met his remarks with such silly arrogance, nay, with such a patronising assumption of superiority, that he determined to leave him to his own experiences. This did not prevent Suton from feeling a strong and righteous indignation against the iniquity of those who were inveigling another to his ruin, and he felt convinced that, as at this moment Hazlet was being unfairly treated, it was his duty in some way to interfere. He got up quietly, and walked over to Bruce's rooms. His knock produced instant silence, followed by a general scuffle as the men endeavoured to conceal the worst signs of their recent outrage. When Suton opened the door, he was greeted with a groan of derision. "Confound you," said Bruce, "I thought it must be the senior proctor at the very least." Without noticing his remark, Suton quietly said, "I see, Bruce, that you have been treating Hazlet in a very unwarrantable way; he is clearly not in a fit condition to be trifled with any more; you must help me to take him home." "Ha! ha! rather a good joke. I shall merely shove him into the street, if I do anything. What business has he to make a beast of himself in my rooms?" "What business have you to do the devil's work, and tempt others to sin? You will have a terrible reckoning for it, even if no dangerous consequences ensue," said Suton sternly. "C-c-c-cant!" said Fitzurse. "Yes--what you call cant, Fitzurse. You shall hear some more, and tremble, sir, while you hear it," replied Suton, turning towards him, and raising his hand with a powerful but natural gesture; "it is this `Woe unto him that giveth his neighbour drink, that putteth thy bottle to him, and makest him drunken also--_thou art filled with shame for glory_.'" "Bruce," said D'Acres, the least flushed of the party, "I really think we ought to take the fellow home. Just look at him." Bruce looked, and was really alarmed at the grotesque yet ghastly expression of that striped and sodden face, with the straight black hair, and the head lolling and rolling on the shoulder. Without a word, he took Hazlet by one arm, while Suton held the other, and D'Acres carried the legs, and as quickly as they could they hurried along with their lifeless burden to the gates of Saint Werner's. It was long past the usual hour for locking up, and the porter took down the names of all four as they entered. A large bribe which D'Acres offered was firmly, yet respectfully refused, and they knew that next day they would be called to account. Having put Hazlet to bed they separated; Suton bade the others a stiff "Good-night;" and D'Acres as he left Bruce, said, "Bruce, we have been doing a very blackguard thing." "Speak for yourself," said Bruce. "Good," said D'Acres, "and allow me to add that I have entered your rooms for the last time." Next morning Suton spoke privately to the porter, and told him that it would be best for many reasons not to report what had taken place the night before, beyond the bare fact of their having come into college late at night. The man knew Suton thoroughly and respected him; he knew him to be a man of genuine piety, and the most regular habits, and consented, though not without difficulty, to omit all mention of Hazlet's state. All four had of course to pay the usual gate fine, and D'Acres and Bruce were besides "admonished" by the senior Dean, but Suton and Hazlet were not even sent for. The Dean knew Suton well, and felt that his character was a sufficient guarantee that he had not been in any mischief; Hazlet had been irregular lately, but the Dean considered him a very steady man, and overlooked for the present this breach of rules. Of course all Saint Werner's laughed over the story of Hazlet's escapade. He did not know how to avoid the storm of ridicule which his folly had stirred up. He had already begun to drop his "congenial friends" for the more brilliant society to which Bruce had introduced him, and so far from admitting that he felt any compunction, he professed to regard the whole matter merely as "an amusing lark." Bruce and the others hardly condescended to apologise, and at first Hazlet, who found it impossible at once to remove all traces of the paint, and who for a day or two felt thoroughly unwell, made a half-resolve to resent their coolness. But now, deserted by his former associates, and laughed at by the majority of men, he found the society of his tempters indispensable for his comfort, and even cringed to them for the notice which at first they felt inclined to withdraw. "Wasn't that trick on Hazlet a disgraceful affair, Kennedy?" said Julian, a few days after. "Some one told me you were at the supper party; surely it can't be true." "I was for about an hour," said Kennedy, blushing, "but I had left before this took place." "May I say it, Kennedy?--a friend's, a _brother's_ privilege, you know-- but it surprises me that you care to tolerate such company as that." "Believe me, Julian, I don't enjoy it." "Then why do you frequent it?" Kennedy sighed deeply and was silent for a time; then he said-- "Not e'en the dearest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh." "True," said Julian; for he had long observed that some heavy weight lay on Kennedy's mind, and with deep sorrow noticed that their intercourse was less cordial, less frequent, less intimate than before. Not that he loved Kennedy, or that Kennedy loved him less than of old, for, on the contrary, Kennedy yearned more than ever for the full cherished unreserve of their old friendship; but, alas there was not, there could not be complete confidence between them, and where there is not confidence, the pleasure of friendship grows dim and pale. And, besides this, new tastes were growing up in Edward Kennedy, and, by slow and fatal degrees, were developing into passions. Hazlet had come to Camford not so much innocent as ignorant. He had never learnt to restrain and control the strong tendencies which, in the quiet shades of Ildown, had been sheltered from temptation. A few months before he would have heard with unmitigated horror the delinquencies which he now committed without a scruple, and defended without a blush. None are so precipitate in the career of sin and folly as backsliders; none so unchecked in the downward course as those to whom the mystery of iniquity is suddenly displayed when they have had none of the gradual training whereby men are armed to resist its seductions. Who does not know from personal observation that the cycle of sins is bound together by a thousand invisible filaments, and that myriads of unknown connections unite them to one another? Hazlet, when he had once "forsaken the guide of his youth, and forgotten the covenant of his God," did not stop short at one or two temptations, and yield only to some favourite vice. With a rapidity as amazing as it was disastrous, he developed in the course of two or three months into one of the most shameless and dissipated of the worst Saint Werner's set. There was something characteristic in the way in which he frothed out his own shame, boasting of his infamous liberty with an arrogance which resembled his former conceit in spiritual superiority. Julian, who now saw less of him than ever, had no opportunity of speaking to him as to his course of life; but at last an incident happened which persuaded him that further silence would be a culpable neglect of his duty to his neighbour. Montagu, of Roslyn School, came up to Camford to spend a Sunday with Owen, and Owen asked Julian and Lillyston to meet him. They liked each other very much, and Julian rapidly began to regard Montagu as a real friend. In order to see as much of each other as possible, they all agreed to take a four-oar on the Saturday morning, and row to Elnham; at Elnham they dined, and spent two pleasant hours in visiting the beautiful cathedral, so that they did not get back to Camford till eleven at night. Their way from the boats to Saint Werner's lay through a bad part of the town, and they walked quickly, Owen and Montagu being a little way in front. A few gas-lights were burning at long intervals in the narrow lane through which they had to pass, and as they walked under one of them they observed a group of four standing half in shadow. One of them Julian instantly recognised as the very vilest of the Saint Werner "fast men;" another was Hazlet; there could be no doubt as to the company in which he was. For one second, Julian turned back to look in sheer astonishment,--he could hardly believe the testimony of his own eyes. The figure which he took to be Hazlet hastily retreated, and Julian half-persuaded himself that he was mistaken. "Did you see who that was?" asked Lillyston sadly. "Yes," said Julian; "one of the simple ones; `but he knoweth not that the dead are there, and that her guests are in the depths of hell.'" "You must speak to him, Julian." "I will." As Hazlet was out when he called, Julian wrote on his card, "Dear H, will you come to tea at 8? Yours ever, J Home." At 8 o'clock accordingly Hazlet was seated, as he had not been for a very long time, by Julian's fireside. Julian's conversation interested him, and he could not help feeling a little humbled at the unworthiness which prevented him from more frequently enjoying it. It was not till after tea, when they had pulled their chairs to the fire, that Julian said, "Hazlet, I was sorry to see you in bad company last night." "Me!" said Hazlet, feigning surprise. "You!" Hazlet saw that all attempt at concealment was useless. "For God's sake, don't tell my mother, or any of the Ildown people," he said, turning pale. "Is it likely I should? Yet my doing so would be the very least harm that could happen to you, Hazlet, if you adopt these courses. I had rather see you afraid of the sin than of the detection." Hazlet stammered out in self-defence one of those commonplaces which he had heard but too often in the society of those who "put evil for good and good for evil." Julian very quietly tore the miserable sophism to shreds, and said, "There is but one way to describe these vices, Hazlet,--they are deadly, bitter, ruinous." "Oh, they are very common. Lots of men--" "Tush!" said Julian; "their commonness, if indeed it be so, does not diminish their deadliness. Not to put the question on the religious ground at all, I fully agree with Carlyle that, on the mere consideration of expedience and physical fact, nothing can be more fatal, more calamitous than `to burn away in mad waste the divine aromas and celestial elements from our existence; to change our holy of holies into a place of riot; to make the soul itself hard, impious, barren.'" Hazlet, ashamed and bewildered, confused his present position with old reminiscences, and muttered some balderdash about Carlyle "not being sound." "Carlyle not sound?" said Julian; "good heavens! You can still retain the wretched babblements of your sectarianism while your courses are what they are!" He was inclined to drop the conversation in sheer disgust, but Hazlet's pride was now aroused, and he began to bluster about the impertinence of interference on Julian's part, and his right to do what he chose. "Certainly," said Julian, sternly, "the choice lies with yourself. Run, if you will, as a bird to the snare of the fowler, till a dart strike you through. But if you are dead and indifferent to your own miserable soul, think that in this sin you cannot sin alone; think that you are dragging down to the nethermost abyss others besides yourself. Remember the wretched victims of your infamous passions, and tremble while you desecrate and deface for ever God's image stamped on a fair human soul. Think of those whom your vileness dooms to a life of loathliness, a death of shame and anguish, perhaps an eternity of horrible despair. Learn something of the days they are forced to spend, that they may pander to the worst instincts of your degraded nature; days of squalor and drunkenness, disease and dirt; gin at morning, noon, and night; eating infection, horrible madness, and sudden death at the end. Can you ever hope for salvation and the light of God's presence, while the cry of the souls of which you have been _the murderer_--yes, do not disguise it, the _murderer_, the cruel, willing, pitiless murderer--is ringing upwards from the depths of hell?" "What do you mean by the murderer?" said Hazlet, with an attempt at misconception. "I mean this, Hazlet; setting aside all considerations which affect your mere personal ruin--not mentioning the atrophy of spiritual life and the clinging sense of degradation which is involved in such a course as yours--I want you to see if you will be honest, that the fault is yet more deadly, because you involve _other_ souls and _other_ lives in your own destruction. Is it not a reminiscence sufficient to kill any man's hope, that but for his own brutality some who are now perhaps raving in the asylum might have been clasping their own children to their happy breasts, and wearing in unpolluted innocence the rose of matronly honour? Oh, Hazlet, I have heard you talk about missionary societies, and seen your name in subscription lists, but believe me you could not, by myriads of such conventional charities, cancel the direct and awful quota which you are now contributing to the aggregate of the world's misery and shame." It took a great deal to abash a mind like Hazlet's. He said that he was going to be a clergyman, and that it was necessary for him to see something of life, or he would never acquire the requisite experience. "Loathly experience!" said Julian with crushing scorn. "And do you ever hope, Hazlet, by centuries of preaching such as yours, to repair one millionth part of the damage done by your bad passions to a single fellow-creature? Such a hateful excuse is verily to carry the Urim with its oracular gems into the very sty of sensuality, and to debase your religion into `a procuress to the lords of hell.' I have done; but let me say, Hazlet, that your self-justification is, if possible, more repulsive than your sin." He pushed back his chair from the fire, and turned away, as Hazlet, with some incoherent sentences about "no business of his," left the room, and slammed the door behind him. What are words but weak motions of vibrating air? Julian's words passed by the warped nature of Hazlet like the idle wind, and left no more trace upon him than the snow-flake when it has melted into the purpling sea. As the weeks went on, his ill-regulated passions grew more and more free from the control of reason or manliness, and he sank downwards, downwards, downwards, into the most shameful abysses of an idle, and evil, and dissipated life. And the germ of that ruin was planted by the hand of the clever, and gay, and handsome Vyvyan Bruce. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. DE VAYNE'S TEMPTATION. "And felt how awful goodness is, and virtue In her own shape how lovely." Milton's _Paradise Lost_. Shall I confess it? Pitiable and melancholy as was Hazlet's course, I liked him so little as to feel for him far less than I otherwise should have done. His worst error never caused me half the pain of Kennedy's most venial fault. Must I then tell a sad tale of Kennedy too--my brave, bright, beautiful, light-hearted Kennedy, whom I always loved so well? May I not throw over the story of his college days the rosy colourings of romance and fancy, the warm sunshine of prosperity and hope? I wish I might. But I am writing of Camford--not of a divine Utopia or a sunken Atalantis. Bruce, so far from being troubled by his own evil deeds, was proud of a success which supported a pet theory of his infidel opinions. He made no sort of secret of it, and laughed openly at the fool whom he had selected for his victim. "But after all," said Brogten, who had plenty of common sense, "your triumph was very slight." "How do you mean? I chose the most obtrusively religious man in Saint Werner's, and, in the course of a very short time, I had him, of his own will, roaring drunk." "And what's the inference?" "That what men call religion is half cant, half the accident of circumstances." "Pardon me, you're out in your conclusion; it only shows that Hazlet was a hypocrite, or at the best a weak, vain, ignorant fellow. The very obtrusiveness and uncharitableness of his religion proved its unreality. Now I could name dozens of men who would see you dead on the floor rather than do as you have taught Hazlet to do--men, in fact, with whom you simply _daren't_ try the experiment." "_Daren't_! why not?" "Why, simply because they breathe such a higher and better atmosphere than either you or I, that you would be abashed by their mere presence." "Pooh! I don't believe it," said Bruce, with an uneasy laugh; "mention any such man." "Well, Suton for instance, or Lord De Vayne." "Suton is an unpleasant fellow, and I shouldn't choose to try him, because he's a bore. But I bet you what you like that I make De Vayne drunk before a month's over." "Done! I bet you twenty pounds you don't." Disgusting that the young, and pure-hearted, and amiable De Vayne should be made the butt of the machinations of such men as Bruce and Brogten! But so it was. So it was; I could not invent facts like these. They never could float across my imagination, or if they did, I should reject them as the monstrous chimeras of a heated brain. I can conceive a man's private wickedness,--the wickedness which he confines within his own heart, and only brings to bear upon others so far as is demanded by his own fancied interests; I can imagine, too, an open and willing partnership in villainy, where hand joins in hand, and face answereth to face. But that any knowing the plague of their own hearts, should deliberately endeavour to lead others into sin, coolly and deliberately, without even the blinding mist of passion to hide the path which they are treading,--this, if I had not known that it was so, I could not have conceived. The murderer who, atom by atom, continues the slow poisoning of a perishing body for many months, and dies amid the yell of a people's execration,--in sober earnest, before God, I believe he is less guilty than he who, drop by drop, pours into the soul of another the curdling venom of moral pollution, than he who feeds into full-sized fury the dormant monsters of another's evil heart. Surely the devil must welcome a human tempter with open arms. Of course Bruce had to proceed with Lord De Vayne in a manner totally different from that which he had applied to Jedediah Hazlet. He felt himself that the task was far more difficult and delicate, especially as it was by no means easy to get access to De Vayne's company at all. Julian, Lillyston, Kennedy, and a few others, formed the circle of his only friends, and although he was constantly with _them_, he was rarely to be found in other society. But this was a difficulty which a man with so large an acquaintance as Bruce could easily surmount, and for the rest he trusted to the conviction which he had adopted, that there was no such thing as sincere godliness, and that men only differed in proportion to the weakness or intensity of the temptations which happened to assail them. So Bruce managed, without any apparent manoeuvring, to see more of De Vayne at various men's rooms, and he generally made a point of sitting next to him when he could. He had naturally a most insinuating address and a suppleness of manner which enabled him to adapt himself with facility to the tastes and temperaments of the men among whom he was thrown. There were few who could make themselves more pleasant and plausible when it suited them than Vyvyan Bruce. De Vayne soon got over the shrinking with which he had at first regarded him, and no longer shunned the acquaintance of which he seemed desirous. It was not until this stage that Bruce made any serious attempt to take some steps towards winning his wager. He asked De Vayne to a dessert, and took care that the wines should be of an insidious strength. But the young nobleman's abstemiousness wholly defeated and baffled him, as he rarely took more than a single glass. "You pass the wine, De Vayne; don't do that." "Thank you, I've had enough." "Come, come; allow me," said Bruce, filling his glass for him. De Vayne drank it out of politeness, and Bruce repeated the same process soon after. "Come, De Vayne, no heel-taps," he said playfully, as he filled his glass for him. "Thank you, I'd really rather not have any more." "Why, you must have been lending your ears to-- "`Those budge doctors of the Stoic fur, Praising the lean and sallow abstinence;' "You take nothing. I shall abuse my wine-merchant." "You certainly seem as anxious as Comus that I should drink, Bruce," said De Vayne, smiling; "but really I _mean_ that I wish for no more." Bruce saw that he had overstepped the bounds of politeness, and also made a mistake by going a little too far. He pressed De Vayne no longer, and the conversation passed to other subjects. "Anything in the papers to-day?" asked Brogten. "Yes, another case of wife-beating and wife-murder. What a dreadful increase of those crimes there has been lately," said De Vayne. "Another proof," said Bruce, "of the gross absurdity of the marriage-theory." De Vayne opened his eyes wide in astonishment. Knowing very little of Bruce, he was not aware that this was a very favourite style of remark with him,--indeed, a not uncommon style with other clever young undergraduates. He delighted to startle men by something new, and dazzle them with a semblance of insight and reasoning. "The gross absurdity of the marriage-theory," thought De Vayne to himself; "I wonder what on earth he can mean?" Fancying he must have misheard, he said nothing; but Bruce, disappointed that his remark had fallen flat, (for the others were too much used to the kind of thing to take any notice of it), continued-- "How curious it is that the _whole_ of the arguments should be against marriage, and yet that it should continue to be an institution. You never find a person to defend it." "`_At quis vituperavit_?' as the man remarked, on hearing of a defence of Hercules," said De Vayne. "I should have thought that marriage, like the Bible, `needed no apology.'" "My dear fellow, it surely is an absurdity on the face of it? See how badly it succeeds." Without choosing to enter on that question, De Vayne quietly remarked, "You ask why marriage exists. Don't you believe that it was originally appointed by divine providence, and afterwards sanctioned by divine lips?" "Oh, if you come to that kind of ground, you know, and abandon the aspect of the question from the side of pure reason, you've so many preliminaries to prove; _e g_, the genuineness and authenticity of the Pentateuch and the Gospels; the credibility of the narrators; the possibility of their being deceived; the--" "In fact," said De Vayne, "the evidences of Christianity. Well, I trust that I have studied them, and that they satisfy alike my reason and my conscience." "Ah, yes! Well, it's no good entering on those questions, you know. I shouldn't like to shock your convictions, as I should have to do if I discussed with you. It's just as well after all--even in the nineteenth century--not to expose the exotic flower of men's belief to the rude winds of fair criticism. Picciola! it might be blighted, poor thing, which would be a pity. Perhaps one does more harm than good by exposing antiquated errors." And with a complacent shrug of the shoulders, and a slight smile of self-admiration, Bruce leant back in his armchair. This was Bruce's usual way, and he found it the most successful. There were a great many minds on whom it created the impression of immense cleverness. "That kind of thing, you know, it's all exploded now," he would say among the circle of his admirers, and he would give a little wave of the hand, which was vastly effective--as if he "could an if he would" puff away the whole system of Christianity with quite a little breath of objection, but refrained from such tyrannous use of a giant's strength. "It's all very well, you know, for parsons--though, by the way, not half of the cleverest believe what they preach--but really for men of the world, and thinkers, and acute reasoners"--(oh, how agreeable it was to the Tulks and Boodles to be included in such a category)--"why, after such books as Frederic of Suabia `De Tribus Impostoribus,' and Strauss' `Leben Jesu,' and De Wette, and Feuerbach, and Van Bohlen, and Nork, one can't be expected, you know, to believe such a mass of traditionary rubbish." (Bruce always professed acquaintance with German writers, and generally quoted the titles of their books in the original; it sounded so much better; not that he had read one of them, of course.) And they _did_ think him _so_ clever when he talked in this way. Only think how wise he must be to know such profound truths! But so far from Bruce's hardly-concealed contempt for the things which Christians hold sacred producing any effect on Lord De Vayne, he regarded it with a silent pity. "I hate," thought he, "when Vice can bolt her arguments, and Virtue has no tongue to check her pride." The annoying impertinence, so frequent in argument, which leads a man to speak as though, from the vantage-ground of great intellectual superiority to his opponent, the graceful affectation of dropping an argument out of respect for prejudices which the arguer despises, or an incapacity which the arguer implies--this merely personal consideration did not ruffle for a moment the gentle spirit of De Vayne. But that a young man--conceited, shallow, and ignorant--should profess to settle with a word the controversies which had agitated the profoundest reasons, and to settle with a sneer, the mysteries before which the mightiest thinkers had veiled their eyes in reverence and awe; that he should profess to set aside Christianity as a childish fable not worthy a wise man's acceptance, and triumph over it as a defeated and deserted cause; this indeed filled De Vayne's mind with sorrow and disgust. So far from being impressed or dazzled by Bruce's would-be cleverness, he sincerely grieved over his impudence and folly. "Thank you, Bruce," he said, after a slight pause, and with some dignity, "thank you for your kind consideration of my mental inferiority, and for the pitying regard which you throw, from beside your nectar, on my delicate and trembling superstitions. But don't think, Bruce, that I admit your--may I call it?--impertinent assumption that all thinking men have thrown Christianity aside as an exploded error. Some shadow of proof, some fragment of reason, would be more satisfactory treatment of a truth which has regenerated the world, than foolish assertion or insolent contempt. Good-night." There was something in the manner of De Vayne's reproof which effectually quelled Bruce, while it galled him; yet, at the same time, it was delivered with such quiet good taste, that to resent it was impossible. He saw, too, not without vexation, that it had told powerfully on the little knot of auditors. The wine-party soon broke up, for Bruce could neither give new life to the conversation, nor recover his chagrin. "So-ho!" said Brogten, when they were left alone, "I shall win my bet." "Hanged if you shall," said Bruce, with an oath of vexation. In fact, not only was he determined not to be foiled in proving his wisdom and power of reading men's characters, but he was wholly unable to afford any payment of the bet. Bruce could get unlimited credit for goods, on the reputation of his father's wealth, but money-dealers were very sharp-eyed people, and he found it much less easy to get his promissory-notes cashed. It was a matter of etiquette to pay at once "debts of honour," and his impetuous disposition led him to take bets so freely that his ready money was generally drained away very soon after his return. Not long before he had written to his father for a fresh supply, but, to his great surprise, the letter had only produced an angry and even indignant reproof. "Vyvyan," (his father had written-- not even `dear Vyvyan'), "I allow you 500 pounds a year, a sum totally out of proportion with your wants, and yet you are so shamefully extravagant as to write without a blush to ask me for more. Don't presume to do it again on pain of my heavy displeasure." This letter had so amazed him that he did not even answer it, nor, in spite of his mother's earnest, urgent, and almost heart-rending entreaties, post by post, would he even condescend to write home for many weeks. It was the natural result of the way in which at home they had pampered his vanity, and never checked his faults. But, for these reasons, it was wholly out of Bruce's power to pay Brogten the bet, if he failed in trying to shake the temperance of De Vayne. He saw at once that he had mistaken his subject; he took De Vayne for a man whose goodness and humility would make him pliant to all designs. A dark thought entered Bruce's mind. He went alone into a druggist's shop, and said, with a languid air, "I have been suffering very much from sleeplessness lately, Mr Brent; I want you to give me a little laudanum." "Very well, sir. You must be careful how you use it." "Oh, of course. How many drops would make one drowsy, now?" "Four or five, sir, I should think." "Well, you must give me one of those little bottles full. I want to have some by me, to save trouble." The chemist filled the bottle, and then said, "I'm afraid I'm out of my poison labels, sir. I'll just write a little ticket and tie it on." "All right;" and putting it in his pocket, Bruce strolled away. But how to see De Vayne again? He thought over their common acquaintances, and at last fixed on Kennedy as the likeliest man on whom he could depend to secure another meeting. Yet he hardly liked to suggest that Kennedy should give a wine-party, and ask De Vayne and himself; so that he was rather puzzled. "I say, Brogten, how is it that we are always asking Kennedy to our rooms, and he so very seldom asks us?" "I suppose because he isn't over-partial to our company." "Why not?" said Bruce, who considered himself very fascinating, and quite a person whose society was to be courted; "and if so, why does he come to our rooms?" Brogten might, perhaps, have thrown light on the subject had he chosen. "Well," he said, "I'll give him a hint." "Do; and get him to ask De Vayne." Brogten did so; Kennedy assented to asking Bruce, though he listened to Brogten's hints, (which he instantly understood), with a sullenness which but a short time before had no existence, not even a prototype, in his bright and genial character. But when it came to asking De Vayne, he simply replied to Brogten's suggestion flatly: "I will not." "Won't you? but why?" "Why? because I suspect you and that fellow Bruce of wishing to treat him as you treated Hazlet." "I've no designs against him whatever." "Well, I won't ask him,--that's flat." "Whew-ew-ew-ew-ew!" Brogten began to whistle, and Kennedy relieved his feelings by digging the poker into the fire. And then there was a pause. "I want you to ask De Vayne." "And I tell you I won't ask him." "Whew-w-w-w!" Another long whistle, during which Kennedy mashed and battered the black lumps that smouldered in the grate. "Whew-ew-ew-ew! Oh, very well." Brogten left the room. At hall that day, Brogten took care to sit near Kennedy again, and the old scene was nearly re-enacted. He turned the conversation to the Christmas examination. "I suppose you'll be very high again, Kennedy." "No," said he, curtly. "I've not read, and you know that as well as I do." "Oh, but you hadn't read much last time, and you may do some particular paper very well, you know. I wish there was an Aeschylus paper; you might be first, you know, again." Kennedy flung down his knife and fork with a curse, and left the hall. Men began to see clearly that there must have been some mystery attached to the Aeschylus paper, known to Brogten and Kennedy, and very discomfiting to the latter. But as _Kennedy_ was concerned, they did not suspect the truth. Brogten went straight from hall to Kennedy's rooms. He found the door sported, but knew as well as possible that Kennedy was in. He hammered and thumped at the door a long time with sundry imprecations, but Kennedy, moodily resolute, heard all the noise inside, and would not stir. Then Brogten took out a card and wrote on the back, "I think you'll ask De Vayne," and dropped it into the letter-box. That evening he found in his own letter-box a slip of paper. "De Vayne is coming to wine with me to-morrow. Come, and the foul fiend take you. _I have filled my decanters half-full of water_, and won't bring out more than one bottle. E K." Brogten read the note and chuckled,--partly with the thought of Kennedy, partly of Bruce, partly of De Vayne. Yet the chuckle ended in a very heavy sigh. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. KENNEDY'S WINE-PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. "Et je n'ai moi Par la sang Dieu! Ni foi, ni loi, Ni jeu, ni lieu, Ni roi, ni Dieu." Victor Hugo, _Notre Dame de Paris_. "Nay, that's certain but yet the pity of it, Iago!--O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!" Othello, Act 4, Scene 1. "Are you going to Kennedy's, Julian?" asked De Vayne. "No." "I wish he'd asked you." Julian a little wondered why he had not, but remembered, with a sigh, that there was _something_, he knew not what, between him and Kennedy. Yet Kennedy was engaged to Violet! The thought carried him back to the beautiful memories of Grindelwald and Murrem,--perhaps of Eva Kennedy: I will not say. As De Vayne glanced round at the men assembled at Kennedy's rooms, he felt a little vexation, and half wished he had not come. Why on earth did Kennedy see so much of these Bruces and Brogtens when he was so thoroughly unlike them? But De Vayne consoled himself with the reflection that the evening could not fail to be pleasant, as Kennedy was there; for he liked Kennedy both for Julian's sake and for his own. Happily for him he did not know as yet that Kennedy was affianced to Violet Home. Kennedy sat at the end of the table with a gloomy cloud on his brow. "Here, De Vayne," he said; "I'm so really glad to see you at last. Sit by me--here's a chair." De Vayne took the proffered seat, and Bruce immediately seated himself at his left hand. At first, as the wine was passed round, there seemed likely to be but little conversation, but suddenly some one started the subject of a "_cause celebre_" which was then filling the papers, and Kennedy began at once to discuss it with some interest with De Vayne, who sat nearly facing him, almost with his back turned to Bruce, who did not seem particularly anxious to attract De Vayne's attention. "What execrable wash," said Brogten, emptying his glass. De Vayne, surprised and disgusted at the rudeness of the remark, turned hastily round, and, while Bruce as hastily withdrew his hand, raised the wine-glass to his lips. "Stop, stop, De Vayne," said Bruce eagerly; "there's a fly in your glass." "I see no fly," said De Vayne, glancing at it, and immediately draining it, with the intention of saying something to smooth Kennedy's feelings, which he supposed would have been hurt by Brogten's want of common politeness. "I think it very--" Why did his words fail, and what was the reason of that scared look with which he regarded the blank faces of the other undergraduates? And what is the meaning of that gasp, and the rapid dropping of the head upon the breast, and the deadly pallor that suddenly put out the fair colour in his cheeks? There was no fly--but, good heavens! was there death in the glass? The whole party leapt up from their places, and gathered round him. "What is the matter, De Vayne?" said Kennedy tenderly, as he knelt down and supported the young man in his arms. But there was no answer. "Here D'Acres, or somebody, for heaven's sake fetch a doctor; he must have been seized with a fit." "_What have you been doing, Bruce_?" thundered Brogten. "Bruce doing!" said Kennedy wildly, as he sprang to his feet. "By the God above us, if I thought this was any of your devilish machinations, I would strike you to the earth!" "Doing? I?" stammered Bruce. "What do you mean?" He trembled in every limb, and his face was as pale as that of his victim; yet, though perhaps De Vayne's life depended on it, the young wretch would not say what he had done. He had meant but to put four or five drops into his glass, but De Vayne had turned round suddenly and startled him in the very act, and in the hurried agitation of the moment, his hand had slipped, and he had poured in all the contents of the bottle, with barely time to hurry it empty into his pocket, or to prevent the consequences of what he had done, when De Vayne lifted the glass to his lips. The men all stood round De Vayne and Kennedy in a helpless crowd, and Kennedy said, "Here, fetch a doctor, somebody, and let all go except D'Acres; so many are only in the way." The little group dispersed, and two of them ran off to find a doctor; but Bruce stood there still with open mouth, and a countenance as pale in its horror as that of the fainting viscount. He was anxious to tell the truth about the matter in order to avert worse consequences, and yet he dared not--the words died away upon his lips. "Don't stand like that, Bruce," said Brogten indignantly, "the least you can do is to make yourself useful. Go and get the key of De Vayne's rooms from the porter's lodge. Stop, though! it will probably be in his pocket. Yes, here it is. Run and unlock his door, while we carry him to bed." Bruce took the key with trembling hand, and shook so violently with nervous agitation that he could hardly make his way across the court. The others carried De Vayne to his bedroom as quickly as they could, and anxiously awaited the doctor's arrival. The livid face, with the dry foam upon the lips, filled them with alarm, but they had not any conception what to do, and fancied that De Vayne was in a fit. It took Dr Masham a very short time to see that his patient was suffering from the influence of some poison, and when he discovered this, he cleared the room, and at once applied the proper remedies. But time had been lost already, and he was the less able to set to work at first from his complete ignorance of what had happened. He sat up all night with his patient, but was more than doubtful whether it was not too late to save his life. The news that De Vayne had been seized with a fit at Kennedy's rooms soon changed into a darker rumour. Men had not forgotten the affair of Hazlet, and they suspected that some foul play had been practised on one whom all who knew him loved, and whom all, though personally unacquainted with him, heartily respected. That this was really the fact soon ceased to be a secret; but who was guilty, and what had been the manner or motives of the crime remained unknown, and this uncertainty left room for the wildest surmises. The dons were not slow to hear of what had happened, and they regarded the matter in so serious a light, that they summoned a Seniority for its immediate investigation. Kennedy was obviously the first person of whom to make inquiries, and he told them exactly what had occurred, viz, that De Vayne after drinking a single glass of wine, fell back in his chair in the condition wherein he still continued. "Was anything the matter with the wine, Mr Kennedy?" asked Mr Norton, who, as one of the tutors, had a seat on the board. "Nothing, sir; it was the same which we were all drinking." "And without any bad effects?" "Yes, sir." "But, Mr Kennedy, there seems strong reason to believe that some one drugged Lord De Vayne's wine. Were you privy to any such plan?" "No, sir--not exactly," said Kennedy slowly, and with hesitation. "Really, sir," said the Master of Saint Werner's, "such an answer is grossly to your discredit. Favour us by being more explicit; what do you mean by `not exactly'?" Kennedy's passionate and fiery pride, which had recently increased with the troubles and self-reprobation of his life, could ill brook such questioning as this, and he answered haughtily: "I was not aware that anything of _this_ kind was intended." "Anything of _this_ kind; you _did_ then expect something to take place?" "I thought I had taken sufficient precautions against it." "Against _it_; against _what_?" asked Mr Norton. Kennedy looked up at his questioner, as though he read in his face the decision as to whether he should speak or not. He would hardly have answered the Master or any of the others, but Mr Norton was his friend, and there was something so manly and noble about his look and character, that Kennedy was encouraged to proceed, and he said slowly: "I suspected, sir, that there was some intention of attempting to make De Vayne drunk." "You suspected that," said Mr Norton with astonishment and scorn, "and yet you lent _your_ rooms for such a purpose. I am ashamed of you, Kennedy; heartily, and utterly ashamed." Kennedy's spirit was roused by this bitter and public apostrophe. "I lent my rooms for no such purpose; on the contrary, if it existed, I did my best to defeat it." "What made you suspect it?" asked Dr Rhodes, the Master. "Because a similar attempt was practised on another." "At which it seems that you were present?" "I was not." Kennedy was too fiercely angry to answer in more words than were absolutely required. "I am sorry to say, Mr Kennedy, you have not cleared yourself from the great disgrace of giving an invitation, though you supposed that it would be made the opportunity for perpetrating an infamous piece of mischief. Can you throw no more light on the subject?" "None." "Will you bring the decanter out of which Lord De Vayne drank?" said one of the seniors after a pause, and with an intense belief in the acuteness of the suggestion. "I don't see what good it will do, but I will order my gyp to carry it here if you wish." "Do so, sir. And let me add," said the Master, "that a little more respectfulness of manner would be becoming in your present position." Kennedy's lip curled, and without answer he left the room to fetch the wine, grimly chuckling at the effect which the mixture would produce on Mr Norton's fastidious taste. When he reached his rooms, he stumbled against the table in his hurry, and upset a little glass dish which held his pencils, one of which rolled away under the fender. In lifting the fender to pick it up, a piece of paper caught his eye, which the bedmaker in cleaning the room had swept out of sight in the morning. He looked at it, and saw in legible characters, "Laudanum, Poison." It was the label which had been loosely tied on Bruce's phial, and which had slipped off as he hurried it into his pocket. He read it, and as the horrid truth flashed across his mind, stood for a moment stupefied and dumb. His plan was instantly formed. Instead of returning to the conclave of Seniors he ran straight off to the chemist's, which was close by Saint Werner's. "Do you know anything of this label?" he said, thrusting it into the chemist's hands. "Yes," said the man, after looking at it for a moment; "it is the label of a bottle of laudanum which I sold yesterday morning to Mr Bruce of Saint Werner's." Without a word, Kennedy snatched it from him, and rushed back to the Seniority, who were already beginning to wonder at his long absence. He threw down the piece of paper before. Mr Norton, who handed it to the Master. "I found that, sir, on the floor of my room." "And you know nothing of it?" "Yes. It belongs to a bottle purchased yesterday by Bruce." Amazement and horror seemed to struggle in the minds of the old clergymen and lecturers as they sat at the table. "We must send instantly for this young man," said Mr Norton; and in ten minutes Bruce entered, pale indeed, but in a faultless costume, with a bow of easy grace, and a smile of polite recognition towards such of the board as he personally knew. He was totally unaware of what had been going on during Kennedy's cross-examination. "Mr Bruce," said Mr Norton, to whom they all seemed gladly to resign the task of discovering the truth, "do you know anything of the cause of Lord De Vayne's sudden attack of illness last night?" "I, sir? Certainly not." "He sat next to you, did he not?" "He did, I believe. Yes. I can't be quite sure--but I think he did." "You know he did as well as I do," said Kennedy. "Mr Kennedy, let me request you to be silent. Mr Bruce, had you any designs against Lord De Vayne?" "Designs, sir? Excuse me, but I am at a loss to understand your meaning." "You had no intention then of making him drunk?" "Really, sir, you astonish me by such coarse imputations. Is it you," he said, turning angrily to Kennedy, "who have been saying such things of me?" Kennedy deigned no reply. "I should think the testimony of a man who doesn't scruple secretly to read examination-papers before they are set, ought not to stand for much." Brogten, as we have already mentioned, had revealed to him the secret of Kennedy's dishonour. This remark fell quite dead: Kennedy sat unmoved, and Mr Norton replied-- "Pray don't introduce your personal altercations here, Mr Bruce, on irrelevant topics. Mr Bruce," he continued, suddenly giving him the label, "have you ever seen that before?" With a cry of agony, Bruce saw the paper, and struck his forehead with his hand. The sudden blow of shameful detection with all its train of consequences utterly unmanned him, and falling on his knees, he cried incoherently-- "Oh! I did it, I did it. I didn't mean to; my hand slipped: indeed, indeed it did. For God's sake forgive me, and let this not be known. I will give you thousands to hush it up--" A general exclamation of indignation and disgust stopped his prayers, and the Master gave orders that he should be removed and watched. He was dragged away, tearing his hair and sobbing like a child. Kennedy, too, was ordered to retire. It took the Seniors but a short time to deliberate, and then Bruce was summoned. He would have spoken, but the Master sternly ordered him to be silent, and said to him: "Vyvyan Bruce, you are convicted by your own confession, extorted after deliberate falsehood, of having wished to drug the wine of a fellow-student for the purpose of entrapping him into a sin, to which you would otherwise have failed to tempt him. What fearful results may follow from your wickedness we cannot yet know, and you may have to answer for this crime before another tribunal. Be that as it may, it is hardly necessary to tell you that your time as a student at Saint Werner's has ended. You are expelled, and I now proceed to erase your name from the books." (Here the Master ran his pen two or three times through Bruce's signature in the college register). "Your rooms must be finally vacated to-morrow. You need say nothing in self-defence, and may go." As Bruce seemed determined to plead his own cause, they ordered the attendant to remove him immediately. Kennedy was then sent for, and they could not help pitying him, for he was a favourite with them all. "Mr Kennedy," said the senior Dean, "the Master desires me to admonish you for your very culpable connivance--for I have no other name for it-- in the great folly and wickedness of which Bruce has been convicted--" "I did _not_ connive," said Kennedy. "Silence, sir!" "But I will _not_ keep silence; you accuse me falsely." "We shall be obliged to take further measures, Mr Kennedy, if you behave in this refractory way." "I don't care what measures you take. I cannot listen in silence to an accusation which I loathe--of a crime of which I am wholly innocent." "Why, sir, you confessed that you suspected some unfair design." "But not this design. Proceed, sir; I will not interrupt you again; but let me say that I am totally indifferent to any blame which you throw on me for a brutality of which the whole responsibility rests on others." The thread of the Dean's oration was quite broken by Kennedy's impetuous interruption, and he merely added--"Well, Mr Kennedy, I am sorry to see you so little penitent for the position in which you have placed yourself. You have disappointed the expectation of all your friends, and however you may brazen it out, your character has contracted a stain." "You can say so, sir, if you choose," said Kennedy; and he left the room with a formal bow. A few days after, Mr Grayson asked him to what Bruce had alluded in his insinuation about an examination-paper. "He alludes, sir, to an event which happened some time ago." Further questions were useless; nevertheless Kennedy saw that his tutor's suspicions were not only aroused, but that they had taken the true direction. Mr Grayson despised him, and in Saint Werner's he had lost caste. That evening Bruce vanished from Camford, with the regrets of few except his tailors and his duns. To this day he has not paid his college debts or discharged the bill for the gorgeous furniture of his rooms. But we shall hear of him again. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. DE VAYNE'S CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS. "He that for love hath undergone The worst that can befall, Is happier thousandfold than one Who never loved at all. "A grace within his soul hath reigned, Which nothing else can bring; Thank God for all that I have gained By that high suffering." Moncton Manes. For many days Lord De Vayne seemed to be hovering between life and death. The depression of his spirits weighed upon his frame, and greatly retarded his recovery. That he, unconscious as he was of ever having made an enemy--good and gentle to all--with no desire but to love his neighbour as himself, and to devote such talents and such opportunities as had been vouchsafed him to God's glory and man's benefit;--that _he_ should have been made the subject of a disgraceful wager, and the butt of an infamous experiment; that in endeavouring to carry out this nefarious plan, any one should have been so wickedly reckless, so criminally thoughtless;--this knowledge lay on his imagination with a depression as of coming death. De Vayne had been but little in Saint Werner's society, and had rarely seen any but his few chosen friends; and that such a calamity should have happened in the rooms and at the table of one of those friends,--that Kennedy, whom he so much loved and admired, should be suspected of being privy to it;-- this fact was one which made De Vayne's heart sink within him with anguish and horror, and a weariness of life. And in those troubled waters of painful thought floated the broken gleams of a golden phantasy, the rainbow-coloured memories of a secret love. They came like a light upon the darkened waves, yet a light too feeble to dissipate the under gloom. Like the phosphorescent flashes in the sea at midnight, which the lonely voyager, watching with interest as they glow in the white wake of the keel, guesses that they may be the heralds of a storm,--so these bright reminiscences of happier days only gave a weird beauty to the tumult of the sick boy's mind; and the mother, as she sat by him night and day during the crisis of his suffering, listened with a deeper anxiety for future trouble to the delirious revelations of his love. For Lady De Vayne had come from Other Hall to nurse her sick son. She slept on a sofa in his sitting-room, and nursed him with such tenderness as only a mother can. There was no immediate possibility of removing him; deep, unbroken quiet was his only chance of life. The silence of his sick-room was undisturbed save by the softest whispers and the lightest footfalls, and the very undergraduates hushed their voices, and checked their hasty steps as they passed in the echoing cloisters underneath, and remembered that the flame of life was flickering low in the golden vase. De Vayne was much beloved, and nothing could exceed the delicacy of the attention shown him. Choice conservatory flowers were left almost daily at his door, and men procured rare and rich fruits from home or from London, not because De Vayne needed any such luxuries, which were easily at his command, but that they might show him their sympathy and distress. Several ladies more or less connected with Saint Werner's offered their services to Lady De Vayne, but she would not leave her son, in whose welfare and recovery her whole thoughts were absorbed. And so, gloomily for the son and mother, the Christmas holidays came on, and Saint Werner's was deserted. Scarcely even a stray undergraduate lingered in the courts, and the chapel was closed; no sound of choir or organ came sweetly across the lawns at morning or evening; the ceaseless melancholy plash of the great fountain was almost the only sound that broke the stillness. Julian, Lillyston, and Owen had all gone down for the holidays, full of grief at the thought of leaving their friend in such a precarious state, but as yet not permitted to see or serve him. Lady De Vayne promised to write to Julian regular accounts of Arthur's health, and told him how often her son spoke of him, both in his wanderings, and in his clearer moments. It was touching to see the stately and beautiful lady walking alone at evening about the deserted college, to gain a breath of the keen winter air, while her son had sunk for a few moments to fitful rest. She was pale with long watchings and deep anxiety, and in her whole countenance, and in her deep and often uplifted eyes, was that look of prayerfulness and holy communion with an unseen world which they acquire whose abode has long been in the house of mourning, and removed from the follies and frivolities of life. Well-loved grounds of Saint Werner's by the quiet waves of the sedgy Iscam, with smooth green grass sloping down to the edge, and trim quaint gardens, and long avenues of chestnut and ancient limes! Though winter had long whirled away the last red and golden leaf, there was pleasure in the air of quiet and repose, which is always to be found in those memory-hallowed walks; and while Lady De Vayne could pace among them in solitude, she needed no other change, nor any rest from thinking over her sick son. She was surprised one evening, very soon after the men had gone down, to see an undergraduate slowly approaching her down the long and silent avenue. He was tall and well made, and his face would have been a pleasant one, but for the deep look of sadness which clouded it. He hesitated and took off his cap as she came near, and returning his salute, she would have passed him, but he stopped her and said: "Lady De Vayne." Full of surprise she looked at him, and with his eyes fixed on the ground he continued, "You do not know my name; if I tell you, I fear you will hate me, because I fear you will have heard calumnies about me. But may I speak to you?" "You are not Mr Bruce?" she said with a slight shudder. "No; my name is Edward Kennedy. Ah, madam! do not look at me so reproachfully, I cannot endure it. Believe me, I would have died--I would indeed--rather than that this should have happened to Lord De Vayne." "Nay, Mr Kennedy, I cannot believe that you were more than thoughtless. I have very often heard Julian Home speak of you, and I cannot believe that his chosen friend could be so vile as some reports would make you." "They are false as calumny itself," he said passionately. "Oh, Lady De Vayne, none could have honoured and loved your son more than I did; I cannot explain to you the long story of my exculpation, but I implore you to believe my innocence." "I forgive you, Mr Kennedy," she said, touched with pity, "if there be anything to forgive; and so will Arthur. A more forgiving spirit than his never filled any one I think. Excuse me, it is time for me to return to him." "But will you not let me see him, and help you in nursing him? It was for this purpose alone that I stayed here when all the others went. Let me at least be near him, that I may feel myself to be making such poor reparation as my heedlessness requires." She could hardly resist his earnest entreaty, and besides, she was won by compassion for his evident distress. "You may come, Mr Kennedy, as often as you like; whenever Arthur is capable of seeing you, you shall visit his sick-room." "Thank you," he said, and she perceived the tremble of deep emotion in his voice. He came the next morning, and she allowed him to see De Vayne. He entered noiselessly, and gazed for a moment as he stood at the door on the pale wasted face, looking still paler in contrast with the long dark hair that flowed over the pillow. He was awake, but there was no consciousness in his dark dreamy eyes. As De Vayne murmured to himself in low sentences, Kennedy heard repeatedly the name of Violet, and once of Violet Home. He sat still as death, and soon gathered from the young lord's broken words, his love, his deep love for Julian's sister. And when Kennedy first recognised this fact, which had hitherto been quite unknown to him, for a moment a flood of jealousy and bitter envy filled his heart. What if Violet should give up her troth in favour of a wealthier, perhaps worthier lover? What if her family should think his own poor claims no barrier to the hope that Violet should one day wear a coronet? The image of Julian and Violet rose in his fancy, and with one more pang of self-reproach, he grew ashamed of his unworthy suspicions. Yet the thought that De Vayne, too, had fixed his affections on Violet filled him with uneasiness and foreboding, and he determined, on some future occasion, to save pain to all parties, by getting Julian to break to De Vayne the secret of his sister's betrothal. For several days he came to the sick-room, and a woman could hardly have been more thoughtful and tender than he was to his friend. It was on about the fourth evening that De Vayne awoke to complete consciousness. He became aware that some one besides his mother was seated in the room, and without asking he seemed slowly to recognise that it was Kennedy. "Is that Kennedy?" he asked, in a weak voice. "It is I," said Kennedy, but the patient did not answer, and seemed restless and uneasy and complained of cold. When Kennedy went, De Vayne whispered to his mother, "Mother, I am very weak and foolish, but it troubles me somehow to see Kennedy sitting there; it shocks my nerves, and fills me with images of something dreadful happening. I had rather not see him, mother, till I am well." "Very well, Arthur. Don't talk so much, love; I alone will nurse you. Soon I hope you will be able to return to Other." "And leave this dreadful place," he said, "for ever." "Hush, my boy; try to sleep again." He soon slept, and then Lady De Vayne wrote to Kennedy a short note, in which she explained as kindly and considerately as she could, that Arthur was not yet strong enough to allow of any more visits to his sick-room. "He shuns me," thought Kennedy, with a sigh, and packing up some books and clothes, he prepared to go home. Of course he was to spend part of the vacation at Ildown. Violet wondered that he did not come at once; she was not exactly jealous of him, but she thought that he might have been more eager for her company than he seemed to be, and she would have liked it better had he come earlier. Poor Kennedy! his very self-denials turned against him for the sole reason why he kept away from Ildown was, that he feared to disturb the freedom of Frank and Cyril by the presence of a stranger all the time of their holidays, and he hesitated to intrude on the united happiness which always characterised the Ildown circle. Eva, too, was invited, and the brother and sister arrived at Ildown by a late train, and drove to the house. What a glowing welcome they received! Julian introduced them to Mrs Home, and Kennedy kissed affectionately the hand of his future mother. Frank and Cyril had gone to bed, but Frank was so determined to see Violet's lover that night, that he made Julian bring him into their bedroom, and he was more than satisfied with the first glimpse. "And where is Violet?" asked Kennedy, in a matter-of-fact tone, for he well knew that she would not choose to meet him in the presence of others. "In her own little room," said Julian, smiling; "I will show you the way." He led Kennedy up-stairs, and left him at the door; he well knew that her heart would be fluttering as much as his. A light knock at the door, and a moment after they saw each other again. She sat on the sofa, and the firelight flickered on the amethyst--his gift--which she wore on her white neck; and her bright eyes danced with tears and laughter, and her bosom heaved and fell as he clasped her to his breast and printed a long, long kiss upon her cheek. In silence, more exquisite than speech, they gazed on each other; and as though her beauty were reflected on his own face, all trace of sorrow and shame fled like a cloud from his forehead; and who would not have said, looking upon the pair, that he was worthy of her, as she of him? "My own Violet," he said, "you are beautiful as a vision to-night." "Hush, flatterer!" and she placed her little hand upon his mouth:--no wonder that he seized and kissed it. "And what a thrice-charming dress." "Ah, I _meant_ you to admire it," she said, laughing. "`And thinking, _this_ will please him best, She takes a ribbon or a rose,'" he whispered to her. "Come," she replied, "no ill-omened words, Edward. You know the sad context of those lines." "No! no sadness to-night, my own Violet, my beautiful, beautiful Violet; you quite dazzle me, my child. I really can't sit by your side; come, let me sit on your foot-stool here, and look up in your face." "Silly boy," she said, "come along, we shall keep them all waiting for supper." While poor De Vayne languished on the bed of sickness, his sufferings were almost the only shadow which chequered the brightness of those weeks at Ildown. In the morning, Julian and Kennedy worked steadily; the afternoon and evening they devoted to amusement and social life. The Kennedys soon became great favourites among the Ildown people, and went out to many cheery Christmas parties; but they enjoyed more the quiet evenings at home when they all sat and talked after dinner round the dining-room fire, and while the two boys played at chess, and Violet and Eva worked or sketched, Julian and Kennedy would read aloud to them in turns. How often those evenings recurred to all their memories in future days. Soon after the Kennedys had come, Julian received from Camford the Christmas college-list. He had again won a first class, but Kennedy's name, much to his vexation, appeared only in the third. "How is it that Edward is only in the third class?" asked Violet of Julian--for, of course, she had seen the list. "He is very clever--is he not?" "Very; one of the cleverest fellows in Saint Werner's." "Then is he idle?" "I'm afraid so, Vi. You must get him to work more." So when he was seated by her on the sofa in her little boudoir, she said, "You must work more, Edward, at Camford, to please me." "Ah, do not talk to me of Camford," he said, with a heavy sigh. "Let me enjoy unbroken happiness for a time, and leave the bitter future to itself." "Bitter, Edward? but why bitter? Julian always seems to me so happy at Camford." "Yes, _Julian_ is, and so are all who deserve to be." "Then you must be happy too, Edward." His only answer was a sigh. "Ah, Violet, pray talk to me of anything but Camford." The visit came to an end, as all things, whether happy or unhappy, must; and Julian rejoiced that confidence seemed restored between him and Kennedy once more. Of course, he told Violet none of the follies which had cost poor Kennedy the loss both of popularity and self-respect. Soon afterwards Lord De Vayne was brought back to Other Hall, and Violet and Julian were invited, with their mother, to stay there till the Camford term commenced. The boys had returned to school, so that they all acceded to Lady De Vayne's earnest request that they would come. It was astonishing how rapidly the young viscount recovered when once Violet had come to Other Hall. Her presence seemed to fill him with fresh life, and he soon began to get down-stairs, and even to venture on a short walk in the park. His constitution had suffered a serious and permanent injury, but he was pronounced convalescent before the Homes finished their visit. The last evening before their departure, he was seated with Violet on a rustic seat on the terrace, looking at the sun as it set behind the distant elms of the park, and at the deer as they grazed in lovely groups on the rich undulating slopes that swept down from the slight eminence on which his house was built. He felt that the time had come to speak his love. "Violet," he said, as he looked earnestly at her, and took her hand, "you have, doubtless, seen that I love you. Can you ever return my love? I am ready to live and die for you, and to give you my whole affection." His voice was still low and weak through illness, and he could hardly speak the sentences which were to win for him a decision of his fate. Violet was taken by surprise; she had known Lord De Vayne so long and so intimately, and their stations were so different, that the thought of his loving her had never entered her head. She regarded him familiarly as her brother's friend. "Dear De Vayne," she said, "I shall always love you as a friend, as a brother. But did you not know that I have been for some months engaged?" "Engaged?" he said, turning very pale. "I am betrothed," she answered, "to Edward Kennedy. Nay, Arthur, dear Arthur," she continued, as he nearly fainted at her feet, "you must not suffer this disappointment to overcome you. Love me still as a sister; regard me as though I were married already, and let us enjoy a happy friendship for many years." He was too weak to bear up, too weak to talk; only the tears coursed each other fast down his cheeks as he murmured, "Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Violet." "Forgive you," she said kindly; "nay, you honour me too much. Marry one of your own high rank, and not the orphan of a poor clergyman. I am sure you will not yield to this sorrow, and suffer it to make you ill. Bear up, Arthur, for your mother's sake--for _my_ sake; and let us be as if these words had never passed between us." She lent him her arm as he walked faintly to his room, and as he turned round and stooped to kiss her hand, she felt it wet with many tears. They went home next day, and soon after received a note from Lady De Vayne, informing them that Arthur was worse, and that they intended removing for some time to a seat of his in Scotland; after which they meant to travel on the Continent for another year, if his health permitted it. "But," she said, "I fear he has had a relapse, and his state is very precarious. Dear friends, think of us sometimes, and let us hope to meet again in happier days." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. MEMORY THE BOOK OF GOD. "At Trompyngtoun, nat fer fra Cantebrigg, Ther goth a brook, and over that a brigge, Upon the whiche brook then stant a melle; _And this is verray sothe that I you telle_." Chaucer, _The Reeve's Tale_. There is little which admits of external record in Julian's life at this period of his university career. It was the usual uneventful, quiet life of a studious Camford undergraduate. Happy it was beyond any other time, except perhaps a few vernal days of boyhood, but it was unmarked by any incidents. He read, and rowed, and went to lectures, and worked at classics, mathematics, and philosophy, and dropped in sometimes to a debate or a private-business squabble at the Union, and played racquets, fives, and football, and talked eagerly in hall and men's rooms over the exciting topics of the day, and occasionally went to wine or to breakfast with a don, and, (absorbed in some grand old poet or historian), lingered by his lamp over the lettered page from chapel-time till the grey dawn, when he would retire to pure and refreshful sleep, humming a tune out of very cheerfulness. Happy days, happy friendships, happy study, happy recreation, happy exemption from the cares of life! The bright visions of a scholar, the bright hilarity of a youth, the bright acquaintanceship with many united by a brotherly bond within those grey walls, were so many mingled influences that ran together "like warp and woof" in the web of a singularly enviable life. And every day he felt that he was knowing more, and acquiring a strength and power which should fit him hereafter for the more toilsome business and sterner struggles of common life. Well may old Cowley exclaim-- "O pulerae sine luxes aedes, vitaeque decore Splendida paupertas ingenuusque pudor!" All the reading men of his year were now anxiously occupied in working for the Saint Werner's scholarships. They were the blue ribbon of the place. In value they were not much more than 50 pounds a year, but as the scholars had an honourable distinctive seat both in hall and chapel, and as from _their_ ranks alone the Fellows were selected, all the most intelligent and earnest men used their best efforts to obtain them on the earliest possible occasion. At the scholars' table were generally to be found the most distinguished among the alumni of Saint Werner's. Julian still moved chiefly among his old friends, although he had a large acquaintance, and by no means confined himself to the society of particular classes. But De Vayne's illness made a sad gap in the circle of his most intimate associates, and he was not yet sufficiently recovered to attempt a correspondence. Among the dons, Julian began to like Mr Admer more and more, and found that his cynicism of manner was but the result of disappointed ambition and unsteady aims, while his heart was sound and right. Kennedy, as well as Julian, had always hoped to gain a scholarship at his first trial, but now, with only one term left him to read in, his chance seemed to fade away to nothing. Poor fellow, he had returned with the strongest possible intention of working, and of abandoning at once and for ever all objectionable acquaintances and all dangerous ways. Hourly the sweet face of Violet looked in upon his silent thoughts, and filled him with shame as he thought of lost opportunities and wasted hours. "Kennedy," said Mr Admer, "how can you be so intolerably idle? I saw some of your Christmas papers, and they were wholly unworthy of your abilities." "I know it well. But what could you expect? The Pindar I had read once over with a crib; the morality I had not looked at; the mathematics I did not touch." "But what excuse have you? I really feel quite angry with you. You are wholly throwing away everything. What have you to show for your time and money? Only think, my dear fellow, that an opportunity like this comes only once in life, and soon your college days will be over with nothing to remember." "True, too true." "Well, I am glad that you see and own it. I began to fear that you were one of that contemptible would-be fine gentleman class that affects forsooth to despise work as a thing unworthy of their eminence." "No, Mr Admer," said Kennedy, "my idleness springs from very different causes." "And then these Brogtens and people, whom you are so often seen with; which of them do you think understands you, or can teach you anything worth knowing? and which of them do you think you will ever care to look back to as acquaintances in after days?" "Not one of them. I hate the whole set." "And then, my dear Kennedy--for I speak to you out of real good-will--I would say it with the utmost delicacy, but you must know that your name has suffered from the company you frequent." "Can I not see it to be so?" he answered moodily; "no need to tell me that, when I read it in the faces of nearly every man I see. The men have not yet forgiven me De Vayne's absence, though really and truly that sin does not lie at my door. Except Julian and Lillyston there is hardly a man I respect, who does not look at me with averted eyes. Of course Grayson and the dons detest me to a man; but I don't care for them." "Then, you mysterious fellow, seeing all this so clearly, why do you suffer it to be so?" Kennedy only shook his head; already there had begun to creep over him a feeling of despair; already it seemed to him as though the gate of heaven were a lion-haunted portal guarded by a fiery sword. For he had soon found that his intense resolutions to do right met with formidable checks. There are two stern facts--facts which it does us all good to remember--which generally lie in the path of repentance, and look like crouching lions to the remorseful soul. First, the fact that we become so entangled by habit and circumstance, so enslaved by association and custom, that the very atmosphere around us seems to have become impregnated with a poison which we cannot cease to breathe; secondly, the fact that "_in the physical world there is no forgiveness of sins_;" to abandon our evil courses is not to escape the punishment of them, and although we may have relinquished them wholly in the present, we cannot escape the consequences of the past. Remission of sin is _not_ the remission of their results. The very monsters we dread, and the dread of which terrifies us into the consideration of our ways, glare upon us out of the future darkness, as large, as terrible, as irresistible, whether we approach them on the road to ruin, or whether we seem to fly from them through the hardly attained and narrow wicket of genuine repentance. Both these difficulties acted with their full force on the mind of Kennedy. His error was its own punishment, and its heaviest punishment. The hours he had lost were lost so utterly, that he could never hope to recover them; the undesirable acquaintances he had formed were so far ripe as to render it no light task to abandon them; and above all, the fleck on his character, the connection of his name with the outrage on De Vayne, had injured his reputation in a manner which he never hoped, by future endeavours, to obviate or remove. For instance, there was at once an objection to his dropping the society of the set to which Bruce and Brogten had introduced him. He owed them money, which at present he could not pay; his undischarged "debts of honour" hung like a millstone round his neck. To pay these seemed a necessary preliminary even to the possibility of commencing a new career. But how to get the money? ah me! new temptations seemed springing up around like the crop of armed men from the furrows sown with the dragon's teeth. There was but one way which suggested itself to his mind, by which he would be able at once to deliver himself in part by meeting the most exigent demands. Let me hurry over the struggle which it cost him, but finally he adopted it. It was this. Mr Kennedy was most liberal in allowing his son everything which could possibly further his university studies, and the most important item in his quarterly expenses was the charge for private tuition. This sum was always paid by Kennedy himself, and it amounted at least to seven pounds a term. Now, what if he should not only ask his father to allow him this term a classical and a mathematical tutor, but also request permission to read double with them both _i e_, to go for an hour _every day_ instead of every other day? This would at once procure him from his father the sum of twenty-eight pounds, and by means of this he could, with great economy, clear off all the most pressing of those pecuniary obligations which bound him to company, which he longed to shun, and exposed him to dangers which he had learnt to fear. Of course he would be obliged to forego all assistance from private tutors, and simply to appropriate the money, without his father's knowledge, to other ends. In a high point of view, it was simple embezzlement; it was little better than a form of swindling. But in this gross and repulsive shape, it never suggested itself to poor Kennedy's imagination. Somehow one's own sins never look so bad in our eyes as the same sins when committed by another. He argued that he would really be applying the money as his father intended, viz, to such purposes as should most advance the objects of his university career. He was committing a sin to save himself from temptation. The near approach of the scholarship examination, and Kennedy's failure at Christmas, made his father all the more ready to give him every possible advantage that money could procure. Ignorant of the fact that to "read double" with a tutor was almost a thing unprecedented at Camford, and that to do so, _both_ in classics and mathematics, was a thing wholly unknown, and indeed practically impossible, Mr Kennedy was only delighted at Edward's letter, as conveying a proof of his extreme and laudable eagerness to recover lost ground, and do his best. He very readily wrote the cheque for the sum required, and praised his son liberally for these indications of effort. How those praises cut Kennedy to the heart. But he at once spent the money in the way which he had devised, and added thereby a new load of mental bitterness to the heavy weight which already oppressed him. The sum thus appropriated greatly lightened, although it did not remove, the pecuniary obligations which he had contracted at cards or in other ways to his set of "fast" companions; but it was at the cost of his peace of mind. Externally he profited by the transaction. He was enabled in great measure, without the charge of meanness, to drop the most undesirable of his acquaintances, and awaking eagerly to the hope of at once redeeming his reputation and lessening his difficulties by gaining a scholarship, he began, for the first time since he had entered Saint Werner's, to work steadily with all his might. He seemed to be living two lives in one, and often asked himself whether there was in his character some deeply-rooted hypocrisy. With Julian and Owen, and the men who resembled them, he could talk nobly of all that was honourable, and he powerfully upheld a chivalrous ideal of duty and virtue. And as his face lighted up, and the thoughts flowed in the full stream of eloquent language in reprobation of some mean act, or in glowing eulogium of some recorded heroism for the performance of what was right, who would have fancied, who would have believed, that Kennedy's own life had failed so egregiously in the commonest requirements of steadfastness and honesty? None rejoiced more in the outward change of life than Julian Home; for Violet's sake now, as well as for Kennedy's, he felt a keen and brotherly interest in the progress and estimation of his friend. Once more they were to be found together as often as they had been in their freshman's year, and it was Julian's countenance and affection that tended more than anything else to repair Kennedy's damaged popularity, and remove the tarnish attaching to his name. One evening they were taking the usual two-hours' constitutional--which is often the poor substitute for exercise in the case of reading men-- and discussing together the chances of the coming scholarship examination, when they found themselves near a place called Gower's Mill, and heard a sudden cry for help. Pressing forwards they saw a boat floating upside down, and whirling about tumultuously in the racing and rain-swollen eddies of the mill-dam. A floating straw hat was already being sucked in by the gurgling rush of water that roared under the mighty circumference of the wheel, and for a moment they saw nothing more. But as they ran up, a black spot emerged from the stream, only a few yards from the mill, and they saw a man, evidently in the last stage of exhaustion, struggling feebly in the white and boiling waves. The position was agonising. The man's utmost efforts only served to keep him stationary, and it was clear, from the frantic violence of his exertion, that he could not last an instant longer. Indeed, as they reached the bank, he began to sink and disappear--disappear as it seemed to the certainty of a most horrid death. In one instant--without considering the danger and apparent hopelessness of the attempt, without looking at the wild force of the water, and the grinding roll of the big wheel, without even waiting to fling off their coats--Julian and Kennedy, actuated by the strong instinct to save a fellow-creature's life, had both plunged into the mill-dam, and at the same moment struck out for the sinking figure. It was not till then that they felt their terrific danger; in the swirl of those spumy and hissing waves it was all but impossible for them to make head against the current, and they felt it carry them nearer and nearer to the black, dripping mass, one blow of which would stun them, and one revolution of it mangle them with horrible mutilation. They reached the drowning wretch, and each seizing him by the arm, shouted for assistance, and buffeted gallantly with the headstrong stream. The senseless burden which they supported clogged their efforts, and as they felt themselves gradually swept nearer, nearer, nearer to destruction, the passionate desire of self-preservation woke in both of them in all its wild agony;--yet they would not attempt to preserve themselves by letting go the man to save whose life they had so terribly endangered their own. Meanwhile their repeated shouts and those of the swimmer, which had first attracted their own attention, had aroused the miller, who instantly, on hearing them, ran down with a rope to the water's side. He threw it skilfully; with a wild clutch Kennedy caught it, and in another moment, as from the very jaws of death, when they were almost touching the fatal wheel, they were drawn to shore, still carrying, or rather dragging, with them their insensible companion. After a word of hurried thanks to the miller for saving their lives, they began to turn their whole attention to the half-drowned man, and to apply the well-known remedies for restoring extinct animation. "Good heavens," said Julian, "it is Brogten!" "Brogten?" said Kennedy; he looked on the face, and whispered half-aloud, "Thank God!" They carried him into the mill, put him between the blankets in a warm bed, chafed his numb limbs, and sent off for the nearest doctor. Very soon he began to revive, and recovered his consciousness; immediately this was the case, Julian and Kennedy ran home as quickly as they could to change their wet clothes. The next day the doctor ordered Brogten to lie in bed till after mid-day, and then allowed him, now thoroughly well and rested, to walk home to Saint Werner's. He had not yet learnt the names of his deliverers. He reached the college in the evening, and after changing his boating dress, his first care was to try and learn to whom he was indebted for his life. Almost the first man he met told him that the men who had risked their safety for his were Home and Kennedy. Home and Kennedy! Home, to whom he had caused the bitterest disappointment and done the most malicious injury which had ever happened to him in his life; Kennedy, whom he had tried but too successfully to corrupt and ruin, tempt from duty, and push from his good name! Deeply, very deeply, was Brogten humiliated; he felt that his enemies had indeed heaped coals of fire upon his head. He determined, as his first duty, to go and thank them both--Kennedy first, as the one against whom he had most wilfully sinned. He found Kennedy sitting down to tea, and Julian, Owen, and Suton were with him. "Kennedy," he said, "I have come to thank you and Home for a very gallant deed; I need not say how much I feel indebted to you for the risk you ran in saving my life." Genuine tears rushed into his dark eyes as he spoke, and cordially grasped the hands which, without a word, they proffered. Community of danger, consciousness of obligation, blotted out all evil memories; and to have stood side by side together on the very brink of the precipice of death was a bond of union which could not be ignored or set aside. That night, in spite of bygones, the feeling of those three young men for each other was of the kindliest cast. "Won't you stay to tea, Brogten?" said Kennedy. He looked round, as though uncertain whether the others would like his company, but as they all seconded Kennedy's request, he gladly stayed. It was the first evening that he had regularly spent in the society of reading men, and he was both delighted and surprised at the rare pleasure he received from the vigour and liveliness of their conversation. These were the men whom he had despised as slow, yet what a contrast between their way of talking and the inanities of Fitzurse or the shallow flippancy of Bruce. As he sat there and listened, his very face became softer in its lines from the expression of a real and intelligent interest, and they all thought that he was a better fellow, on closer acquaintance, than they had been accustomed to suppose. Ah me! how often one remains unaware of the good side of those whom we dislike. Oh, those Camford conversations--how impetuous, how interesting, how thoroughly hearty and unconventional they were! How utterly presumption and ignorance were scouted in them, and how completely they were free from the least shadow of insincerity or ennui. If I could but transfer to my page a true and vivid picture of one such evening, spent in the society of Saint Werner's friends--if I could write down but one such conversation, and at all express its vivacity, its quick flashes of thought and logic, its real desire for truth and knowledge, its friendly fearlessness, its felicitous illustrations, its unpremeditated wit, such a record, taken fresh from the life, would be worth all that I shall ever write. But youth flies, and as she flies all the bright colours fade from the wings of thought, and the bloom vanishes from the earnest eloquence of speech. Yet, as I write, let me call to mind, if but for a moment, the remembrance of those happy evenings, when we would meet to read Shakespeare or the Poets in each other's rooms, and pleasant sympathies and pleasant differences of opinion freely discussed, called into genial life, friendships which we once hoped and believed would never have grown cold. Let the image of that bright social circle, picturesquely scattered in armchairs round the winter fire, rise up before my fancy once more, and let me recall what can never be again. Of the honoured and well-loved few who one night recorded their names and thoughts in one precious little book, two are dead though it is but five years back; C E B---is dead; and R H P---is dead; C E B---the chivalrous and gallant-hearted, the champion of the past, the "Tory whom Liberals loved;" and R H P---, the honest and noble, the eloquent speaker, and the brave actor, and the fearless thinker--he, too, is dead, nobly volunteering in works of danger and difficulty during the Indian Mutiny; but L---, and B---, and M---, and others are living yet, and to them I consecrate this page _they_ will forgive the digression, and for their sakes I will venture to let it pass. We are scattered now, and our friendship is a silent one, but yet I know that to them, at least, changed or unchanged, my words will recall the fading memory of glorious days. The conversation, (but do not suppose that I shall attempt, after what I have said, to reproduce it), happened to turn that evening on the phenomena of memory. It started thus:--They had been discussing some subject of the day, when Owen observed to Julian-- "Why, how grave you look, Julian." "Do I? I was thinking of something odd. While you were talking-- without the faintest apparent reason that I can discover, (and I was trying to hit upon one when you spoke)--a fact started up in my mind, which had no connection whatever with the subject, and yet which forced itself quite strongly and obtrusively on my notice." "Just as one catches sight suddenly of some stray bit of seaweed floating in a great world of waters, which seems to have no business there," said Kennedy. "Yes. But there _must_ have been _some_ reason for my thinking of it just then." "The law of association, depend upon it," said Owen, "even if the connecting links were so subtle and swiftly moved that you failed to detect their presence." "Are you of the Materialist school, Owen, about memory?" said Julian, "_i e_, do you go with Hobbes and Condillac, and make it a decaying sense or a transformed sensation?" "Not a bit; I believe it to be a spiritual faculty, entirely independent of mere physical organisation." "Wo-ho!" said Kennedy; "the physiologists will join issue with you there. How for instance do you account for such stories as that of the groom, who, getting a kick on a particular part of the head from a vicious horse, suffered no harm except in forgetting everything which had happened _up to that time_?" "It isn't a bit conclusive. I don't say that the conscious exercise of memory mayn't be temporarily dependent on organisation, but I do believe that every fact ever imprinted on the memory, however long it may be latent, is of its very nature imperishable." "Yes," said Suton. "Memory is the book of God. Did you see that story of the shipwreck the other day? One of the survivors, while floating alone on the dark midnight sea, suddenly heard a voice saying to him distinctly, `Johnny, did you eat sister's grapes?' It was the revived memory of a long-forgotten childish theft. What have the Pineal-Gland-olaters to say to that?" "What a profound touch that was of Themistocles," said Kennedy, "who rejected the offer of a Memoria Technicha, with the aspiration that some one could _teach him to forget_. Lethe is the grandest of rivers after all." "I can illustrate what you are saying," said Brogten, "and I believe it to be true that _nothing can be utterly forgotten_. Yesterday when you saw me I had sunk twice, and when you rescued me I was insensible. Strange things happened to my memory then!" "Tell us," said all of them eagerly. "Well, I believe it's an old story, but I'll tell you. When the first agony of fear, and the sort of gulp of asphyxia was over, I felt as if I was sinking into a pleasant sleep, surrounded by the light of green fields--" "Because the veins of the eye were bloodshot, and green is the complementary colour," interpolated Kennedy, whereat Owen gave a little incredulous guffaw; and Brogten continued-- "Well, _then_, it was that all my past life flashed before me, from the least forgotten venial fault of infancy to the worst passion of youth,-- only they came to me clear and vivid, in _retrograde_ order. The lies I told when I was a little boy, the wicked words I spoke, the cruel things I did, the first taint that polluted my mind, the faces of school-fellows whom I had irreparably injured, the stolen waters of manhood--all were dashed into my remorseful recollection; they started up like buried, menacing ghosts, without, or even against my will. I felt convinced that they were _indestructible_." "That strain I heard was of a higher mood!" thought the auditors, for it was quite a new thing to hear Brogten talk like this, and in such a solemn, manly, sober voice. "Fancy," said Kennedy, sighing, "_an everlasting memory_!" The others went away, but Brogten still lingered in Kennedy's rooms, and, rising, took him by the hand. They both remembered another scene in these rooms, when they two were together,--the torturer and the tortured; but it was different now. "The worst thing that haunted me, Kennedy, when you were saving my life, was the thought of my wickedness to you. I fear it can never be repaired; yet believe me, that from this day forth I have vowed before God to turn over a new leaf, and my whole effort will be to do all for you that ever may be in my power! Do you forgive me?" "As I hope to be forgiven," he replied. Yet it was part of Brogten's punishment in after days to remember that _his_ hand had set the stone moving on the steep hill-side, which afterwards he had no power to stay. It would not come back to him for a wish, but leapt, and rushed, and bounded forward, splintering and splintered by the obstacles in its course, till at last--Could it be saved from being dashed to shivers among the smooth rocks of the valley and the brook? CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. HAZLET'S VISION. "And ride on his breast, and trouble his rest In the shape of his deadliest sin." Anon. Before the scholarship, came the Little-go, so called in the language of men, but known to the gods as the Previous Examination. As it is an examination which all must pass, the standard required is of course very low, and the subjects are merely Paley's Evidences, a little Greek Testament, some easy classic, Scripture History, and a sprinkling of arithmetic and algebra. The reading men simply regard it as a nuisance, interrupting their reading and wasting their time, _i e_, until the wisdom of maturer years shows them its necessity and use. But to the idle and the stupid, the name Little-go is fraught with terror. It begins to loom upon them from the commencement of their second year, and all their efforts must be concentrated to avoid the disgrace and hindrance of a pluck. There are regular tutors to cram Poll men for this necessary ordeal, and the processes applied to introduce the smallest possible modicum of information into the heads of the victims, the surgical operations necessary to inculcate into them the simplest facts, would, if narrated, form a curious chapter in morbid psychology. I suggest this merely as a pregnant hint for the future historian of Camford; personally I am only acquainted by report with the system resorted to. Hazlet began to be in a fright about the Little-go from the very commencement of his second October. His mother well knew that the examination was approaching, and thought it quite impossible that her ingenuous and right-minded son could fall a victim to the malice of examiners. Hazlet was not so sure of this himself, and as the days had passed by when he could speak of the classics with a holy indignation against their vices and idolatry, he was wrought up by dread of the coming papers into a high state of nervous excitement. I will not betray the mistakes he made, or dish up in this place the "crambe repetita" of those Little-go anecdotes, which at this period of the year awaken the laughter of combination-rooms, and dissipate the dulness of Camford life. Suffice it to say that Hazlet displayed an ignorance at once egregious and astounding; the ingenious perversity of his mistakes, the fatuous absurdity of his confusions, would be inconceivable to any who do not know by experience the extraordinary combinations of ignorance and conceit. The examiners were very lenient and forbearing, but Hazlet was plucked; plucked too in Scripture History, which astonished everybody, until it became known that he had attributed John the Baptist's death to his having "danced with Herodias's daughter"--traced a connection between the Old and New Testaments in the fact of Saint Peter's having cut off the ear of Malachi the last of the prophets--and stated that the substance of Saint Paul's sermon at Athens, was "crying vehemently about the space of two hours, Great is Diana of the Ephesians!" It is a sad pity that such ludicrous associations should centre round the word "pluck." It is anything but a laughing matter to those who undergo the process; they have tried hard and worked diligently perhaps to pass the examination, and if they fail they see before them another long period of weary and dissatisfied effort, with the same probability of failure again and again repeated: for until the barrier of the Little-go is passed they can advance no further, and must simply stay at Camford until in some way or other they can succeed in getting up the requisite minimum of information. I have seen a strong man in the senate-house turn as white as a sheet, when a paper which he was unable to answer was placed before him. I fancy I see him now, and distinctly remember my strong feeling of compassion for his distress, and my earnest hope that he would not be "floored." There was a general laugh in Saint Werner's when it was announced that Hazlet was plucked; and in Scripture History too! His follies and inconsistencies had unhappily made him a butt, but men little knew how heavily the misfortune would weigh upon him. He happened at this time to be living on the same stair-case with Lillyston, and Lillyston, who was in the rooms below him, was quite amazed at the sounds which he heard proceeding from his rooms. For a long time there was a series of boo-hoos, long, loud, and wailing as of some animal in distress, and then there was an uproar as of some one running violently about, and throwing the furniture out of his way. Lillyston was just on the point of going to see what was the matter when the breathless bedmaker appeared at the door, and said--"Oh, Mr Lillyston, sir, do go and look at Mr Hazlet, sir; he's took very bad, he is." "Took very bad--how do you mean?" "Why, sir, it's the Little-go, sir, as done it. He's plucked, sir, and it's upset him like. So, when I asked him if he'd a-tea'd, and if I should take away the things, he begins a banging his chairs about, you see, sir, quite uncomfortable." Lillyston immediately ran up-stairs. The violent fit seemed to have subsided, for Hazlet, peering out of a corner, with wandering, spectacled eyes, quite cowered when he saw him. Lillyston was shocked at the spectacle he presented. Hazlet was but half dressed, his hands kept up an uneasy and vague motion, his face was blank, and his whole appearance resembled that of an idiot. "Why, Hazlet, my man, what's the matter with you?" said Lillyston, cheerily. Hazlet trembled, and muttered something about a dog. It happened that just before coming back from the senate-house, a large Newfoundland had run against him, and his excited imagination had mingled this most recent impression with the vagaries of a temporary madness. "The dog, my dear fellow; why, there's no dog here." Hazlet only cowered farther into the corner. "Here, won't you have some tea?" said Lillyston; "I'll make it for you. Come and help me." He began to busy himself about setting the tea-things, and cutting the bread, while he occupied Hazlet in pouring out the water and attending to the kettle. Hazlet started violently every now and then, and looked with a terrified side-glance at Lillyston, as though apprehensive of some wrong. At last Lillyston got him to sit down quietly, and gave him a cup of tea and some bread. He ate it in silence, except that every now and then he uttered a sort of wail, and looked up at Lillyston. The look didn't seem to satisfy him, for, after a few minutes, he seized his knife, and said, "I shall cut off your whiskers." What put the grotesque fancy into his head, Lillyston did not know; probably some faint reminiscence of having been forced to shave after the trick which Bruce had played on him by painting his face with lamp-black and ochre. Lillyston decidedly declined the proposition, and they both started up from their seats--Hazlet brandishing his knife with determined purpose, and looking at his companion with a strange savage glare under his spectacles. After darting round the room once or twice to escape his attack, Lillyston managed with wonderful skill to clutch the wrist of Hazlet's right hand, and, being very strong, he held him with the grasp of a vice, while with his left hand he forced the knife out of his clutch, and dropped it on the floor. He held him tight for a minute or two, although Hazlet struggled so fiercely that it was no easy task, and then quietly forced him into a chair, and spoke to him in a firm authoritative voice-- "No mischief, Hazlet; we shan't allow it. Now listen to me: you must go to bed." The tone of voice and the strength of will which characterised Lillyston's proceedings, awed Hazlet into submission. He cried a little, and then suffered Lillyston to see him into his rooms, and to put him into a fair way towards going to bed. Taking the precaution to remove his razor, Lillyston locked the door upon him, and determined at once to get medical advice. The doctor, however, could give very little help; it was, he said, a short fit of temporary madness, for which quiet and change of air were the only effectual remedies. He did not anticipate that there would be any other outbreak of violence, or anything more than a partial imbecility. "Do come and help me to manage Hazlet," said Lillyston to Julian next morning; "his head has been turned by being plucked for the Little-go, and he's as mad as Hercules Furens." Julian went, and they stayed in Hazlet's room till he had quietly breakfasted. He then appeared to be so calm that Lillyston agreed to leave Julian there for the morning, and to take the charge of Hazlet for the afternoon and evening. It seemed absolutely necessary that someone should take charge of him, and they thought it best to divide the labour. Julian sorely felt the loss of time. He had a great deal to get through before the all-important scholarship examination, and the loss of every available hour fretted him, for since he had failed in the Clerkland, he was doubly anxious to gain a Saint Werner's scholarship at his first time of trial. Still he never wavered for a moment in the determination to fulfil the duty of taking care of his Ildown acquaintance, and he spent the whole tedious morning in trying to amuse him. Hazlet's ceaseless allusions to "the dog," and the feeble terror which it seemed to cause him, made it necessary to talk to him incessantly, and to turn his attention, as far as possible, to other things. He had to be managed like a very wilful and stupid child, and when one of the five hours which Julian had to spend with him was finished, he was worn out with anxiety and fatigue. It is a dreadful thing to be alone in charge of a human being--a being in human shape, who is, either by accident or constitution, incapable alike of responsibility and thought. Hazlet had been able to play draughts pretty well, so Julian got out a board and challenged him to a game, but instead of playing, Hazlet only scrabbled on the board, and pushed the pieces about in a meaningless confusion, while every now and then the sullen glare came into his eye which showed Julian the necessity of being on his guard if self-defence should be needed. Then Julian tried to get him to draw, and showing him a picture, sketched a few strokes of outline, and said-- "Now, Hazlet, finish copying this picture for me." Hazlet took the pencil between his unsteady fingers, and let it make futile scratches on the paper, and, when Julian repeated his words, wrote down in a slow painful hand-- "Finish copying pict-ure pict-." What was to be done in such a case as this? Julian suggested a turn in the grounds, but Hazlet betrayed such dread at the thought of leaving his rooms, and encountering "the dog," that Julian was afraid, if he persisted, of driving him into a fit. Just as the dilemma was becoming seriously unpleasant, Brogten came up to the rooms, and begged Julian to intrust Hazlet to his charge. "_Your_ time is valuable, Home--particularly just now. Mine is all but worthless. At any rate I have no _special_ work as you have, and I can take care of poor Hazlet very well." "Oh, no," said Julian; "I mustn't shrink from the duty I have undertaken, and besides you'll find it very dull and unpleasant work." "Never mind that. I once had an idiot brother--dead now--and I understand well how to manage any one in a case like this. Besides, Hazlet is one of the many I have injured. Let me stay." "I really am afraid you won't like it." "Nonsense, Home; I won't give in, depend upon it. I am quite in earnest, and am besides most anxious that you should get a scholarship this time. Don't refuse me the privilege of helping you." Julian could refuse no longer, and went back to his rooms with perfect confidence that Brogten would do his work willingly and well. He looked in about mid-day to see how things were going on, and found that, after thoroughly succeeding in amusing his patient, Brogten had persuaded him to go to sleep, in the conviction that by the time he awoke he would be nearly well. Nor was he mistaken. The next day Hazlet was sufficiently recovered to go home for the Easter vacation. It was a very bitter and humiliating trial to him; but misfortune, however frequently it causes reformation, is not invariably successful in changing a man's heart and life. Hazlet came back after the Easter vacation with recovered health, but damaged constitution, and in no respect either better or wiser for the misfortune he had undergone. One peculiarity of his recent attack was a strong nervous excitability, which was induced by very slight causes, and Hazlet had not long returned to Saint Werner's when the dissipation of his life began once more to tell perniciously upon his state of health. It must not be imagined that because he was the easiest possible victim of temptation, he suffered no upbraidings of a terrified and remorseful conscience. Many a time they overwhelmed him with agony and a dread of the future, mingling with his slavish terrors of a material Gehenna, and stirring up his turbid thoughts until they drove him to the verge of madness. But the inward chimera of riotous passions was too fierce for the weak human reason, and while he hated himself he continued still to sin. Late one night he was returning to his rooms from the foul haunts of squalid dissipation and living death, when the thought of his own intolerable condition pressed on him with a heavier than usual weight. It was a very cloudy night, and he had long exceeded the usual college hours. The wind tossed about his clothes, and dashed in his face a keen impalpable sleet, while nothing dispelled the darkness except the occasional gleam of a lamp struggling fitfully with the driving mist. Hazlet reached Saint Werner's wet and miserable; in returning he had lost his way, and wandered into the most disreputable and poverty-stricken streets, the very homes of thievery and dirt, where he seriously feared for his personal safety. By the time he got to the college gates he was drenched through and through, and while his body shivered with the cold air, the condition of his mind was agitated and terrified, and the sudden blaze of light that fell on him from the large college lamp, as the gates opened, dazzled his unaccustomed eyes. Hastily running across the court to his own rooms, he groped his way-- giddy and crapulous--giddy and crapulous--up the dark and narrow stair-case, and after some fumbling with his key opened the door. Lillyston, who was just going to bed after a long evening of hard work, heard his footstep on the stairs, and thought with sorrow that he had not mended his old bad ways. He heard him open the door, and then a long wild shriek, followed by the sound of some one falling, rang through the buildings. In an instant, Lillyston had darted up-stairs, and the other men who "kept" on the stair-case, jumped out of bed hastily, thrust on their slippers, and also ran out to see what was the matter. As Lillyston reached the threshold of Hazlet's rooms, he stumbled against something, and stooping down found that it was the senseless body of Hazlet himself stretched at full length upon the floor. He looked up, but saw nothing to explain the mystery; the rooms were in darkness, except that a dull, blue flame, flickering over the black and red relics of the fire, threw fantastic gleams across the furniture and ceiling, and gave an odd, wild appearance to the cap and gown that hung beside the door. Lillyston was filled with surprise, and lit the candle on the table. Lifting Hazlet on the sofa, he carefully looked at him to see if he was correct in his first surmise, that the unhappy man had swallowed poison, or committed suicide in some other way. But there was no trace of anything of the kind, and Hazlet merely appeared to have fainted and fallen suddenly. Aided by Noel, one of those who had been alarmed by that piercing shriek, Lillyston took the proper means to revive Hazlet from his fainting fit, and put him to bed. He rapidly recovered his consciousness, but earnestly begged them not to press him on the subject of his alarm, respecting which he was unable or unwilling to give them any information. The next morning he was very ill; excitement and anxiety brought on a brain fever, which kept him for many weary weeks in his sick-room, and from which he had not fully recovered until after a long stay at Ildown. As he lost, in consequence of this attack, the whole of the ensuing term, he was obliged to degrade, as it is called, _i e_ to place his name on the list of the year below; and he did not return to Camford till the following October, where his somewhat insignificant individuality had been almost forgotten. Let us anticipate a little to throw light on what we have narrated. When Hazlet _did_ come back to undergraduate life, he at once sought the alienated friends from whom he had been separated ever since the disastrous period of his acquaintanceship with Bruce. He came back to them penitent and humble, with those convictions now existing in his mind in their reality and genuineness, which before he had only simulated so successfully as to deceive himself. I will not say that he did not continue ignorant and bigoted, but he was no longer conceited and malicious. I will not say that he never showed himself dogmatic and ill-informed, but he was no longer obtrusive and uncharitable. His life was better than his dogmas, and the sincerity of his good intentions counteracted and nullified the ill effects of a narrow and unwholesome creed. There were no farther inconsistencies in his conduct, and he showed firmly, yet modestly, the line he meant to follow, and the side he meant to take. As his conscience had become scrupulous, and his life irreproachable, it mattered comparatively little that his intellectual character was tainted with fanaticism and gloom. I would not be mistaken to mean that he found his penitence easy, or that he was, like Saint Paul, transformed as it were by a lightning flash--"a fusile Christian." I say, there were--after his two sicknesses and long suffering, and experiences bitter as wormwood--there were, I say, no more _outward_ inconsistencies in his life; but I do not say that _within_ there were no fierce, fearful struggles, so wearisome at times that it almost seemed better to yield than to feel the continued anguish of such mighty temptations. All this the man must always go through who has warmed in his bosom the viper whose poisoned fang has sent infection into his blood. But through God's grace Hazlet was victorious: and as, when the civilisation of some infant colony is advancing on the confines of a desert, the wild beasts retire before it, until they become rare, and their howling is only heard in the lonely night, and then even that sign of their fury is but a strange occurrence, until it is heard no more; so in Hazlet, the many-headed monsters, which breed in the slime of a fallen human heart, were one by one slain or driven backwards by watchfulness, and shame, and prayer. Julian and Lillyston had never shunned his society, either when he breathed the odour of sanctity, or when he sank into the slough of wretchlessness. Both of them were sufficiently conscious of the heart's weakness to prevent them from the cold and melancholy presumption which leads weak and sinful men to desert and denounce those whom the good spirits have not yet deserted, and whom the good God has not finally condemned. As long as he sought their society, they were always open to his company, however distasteful; and the advice they gave him was tendered in simple good-will--not as though from the haughty vantage-ground of a superior excellence. Even when Hazlet was at the worst--when to be seen with him, after the publicity of his vices, involved something like a slur on a man's fair name--even in these his worst days neither Julian nor Lillyston would have refused, had he so desired it, to walk with him under the lime-tree avenue, or up and down the cloisters of Warwick's Court. But they naturally met him more often when his manner of life was changed for the better, and were both glad to see that he had found the jewel which adversity possessed. It happened that he was with them one evening when the conversation turned on supernatural appearances, the possibility of which was maintained by Julian and Owen, while Lillyston in his genial way was pooh-poohing them altogether. Hazlet alone sat silent, but at last he said-- "I have never yet mentioned to any living soul what once happened to me, but I will do so now. Lillyston, you remember the night when I aroused you with a scream?" "Well!" said Lillyston. "That night I was returning in all the bitterness of remorse from places where, but for God's blessing, I might have perished utterly"--and Hazlet shuddered--"when from out of the storm and darkness I reached my room door. You know that a beam ran right across my ceiling. When I threw open the door to enter, I saw on that beam as clearly as I now see you--no, _more clearly, far_ more clearly than I now see you, for your presence makes no special impression on me, and this was burnt into my very brain--I saw there written in letters of fire-- "`AND THIS IS HELL.' "Struck dumb with horror, I stared at it; there could be no doubt about it, the letters burned and glared and reddened before my very eyes, and seemed to wave like the northern lights, and bicker into angrier flame as I looked at them. They fascinated me as I stood there dumb and stupefied, when suddenly I saw the dark and massive form of a hand, over which hung the skirt of a black robe, moving slowly away from the last letter. What more I _might_ have seen I cannot tell;--it was then that I fell and fainted, and my shriek startled all the men on the stair-case." Hazlet told his story with such deep solemnity, and such hollow pauses of emotion, that the listeners sat silent for a while. "But yet," said Lillyston, "if you come to analyse this, it resolves itself into nothing. You were confessedly agitated, and almost hysterical that night; your body was unstrung; you were wet through, and it was doubtless the sudden passage from the darkness outside to the dim and uncertain glimmer of your own room, which acted so powerfully on your excited imagination, as to project your inward thoughts into a shape which you mistook for an external appearance. I remember noticing the aspect of your rooms myself that evening; the mysterious shadows, and the mingled effects of dull red firelight with black objects, together with the rustle of the red curtain in front of your window which you had left open, and the weird waving of your black gown in the draught, made such an impression even on me merely in consequence of the alarm your shriek had excited, that I could have fancied _anything_ myself, if I wasn't pretty strong-headed, and rather prosaic. As it was, I did half fancy an unknown Presence in the room." "Yes, but you say _inward_ thoughts," replied Hazlet eagerly. "Now these _weren't_ my inward thoughts; on the contrary they flashed on me like a revelation, and the strange word, `And,' (for I read distinctly, `_And_ this is--') was to me like an awful copula connecting time and eternity for ever. I had always thought of quite another, quite a different hell; but this showed me for the first time that the state of sinfulness is _the_ hell of sin. It was only the other day that I came across those lines of Milton--oh, how true they are-- "Which way I fly is hell, _myself am hell_, And in the lowest deep a lower deep Still gaping to devour me opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven." "It was the truth conveyed in those lines which I then first discovered, and discovered, it seems to me, from without. I know very very little-- I am shamefully ignorant, but I do think that the vision of that night taught me more than a thousand volumes of scholastic theology. And let me say too," he continued humbly, "that by it I was plucked like a brand from the burning; by it my conversion was brought about." None of the others were in a mood to criticise the phraseology of Hazlet's religious convictions, and he clearly desired that the subject of his own immediate experiences, as being one full of awfulness for him, might be dropped. "Apropos of your argument, I care very little, Hugh," said Julian, "whether you make supernatural appearances objective or subjective. I mean I don't care whether you regard the appearance as a mere deception of the eye, wrought by the disordered workings of the brain, or as the actual presence of a supernatural phenomenon. The result, the effect, the _reality_ of the appearance is just the same in either case. Whether the end is produced by an illusion of the senses, or an appeal to them, the end _is_ produced, and the senses _are_ impressed by something which is not in the ordinary course of human events, just as powerfully as if the ghost had flesh and blood, or the voice were a veritable pulsation of articulated air. The only thing that annoys me is a contemptuous and supercilious denial of the _facts_." "I hold with you, Julian," said Owen. "Take for instance the innumerable recorded instances where intimation has been given of a friend's or relative's death by the simultaneous appearance of his image to some one far absent, and unconscious even of his illness. There are four ways of treating such stories--the first is to deny their truth, which is, to say the least, not only grossly uncharitable, but an absurd and impertinent caprice adopted in order to reject unpleasant evidence; the second is to account for them by an optical delusion, accidentally synchronising with the event, which seems to me a most monstrous ignoring of the law of chances; a third is to account for them by the existence of some exquisite faculty, (existing in different degrees of intensity, and in some people not existing at all), whereby physical impressions are invisibly conveyed by some mysterious sympathy of organisation a faculty of which it seems to me there are the most abundant traces, however much it may be sneered and jeered at by those shallow philosophers who believe nothing but what they can grasp with both hands: and a fourth is to suppose that spirits can, of their own will, or by superior permission, make themselves sometimes visible to human eyes." "Or," said Julian, "so affect the senses _as to produce the impression_ that they are present to human eyes." "And to show you, Lillyston," said Owen, "how little I fear any natural explanations, and how much I think them beside the point, I'll tell you what happened to me only the other night, and which yet does not make me at all inclined to rationalise Hazlet's story. I had just put out the candle in my bedroom, when over my head I saw a handwriting on the wall in characters of light. I started out of bed, and for a moment fancied that I could read the words, and that somebody had been playing me a trick with phosphorus. But the next minute, I saw how it was; the moonlight was shining in through the little muslin folds of the lower blind, and as the folds were very symmetrical, the chequered reflection on the wall looked exactly like a series of words." "Well, now, that would have made a capital ghost story," said Lillyston, "if you had been a little more imaginative and nervous. And still more if the illusion had only been partially optical, and partly the result of excited feelings." "It matters nothing to me," said Hazlet, rising, "whether the characters I saw were written by the finger of a man's hand, or limned by spirits on the sensorium of the brain. All I know is that--thank God--_they were there_." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. JULIAN AND KENNEDY. "But there where I have garnered up my heart, Where either I must live, or bear no life; The fountain from the which my current runs Or else dries up; to be discarded thence! Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim! Aye there, look grim as hell!" Othello, Act 4, scene 2. Saint Werner's clock, with "its male and female voice," has just told the university that it is nine o'clock. A little crowd of Saint Wernerians is standing before the chapel door, and even the grass of the lawn in front of it is hardly sacred to-day from common feet. The throng composed of undergraduates, dons, bedmakers, and gyps, is broken into knots of people, who are chatting together according to their several kinds; but they are so quiet and expectant that the very pigeons hardly notice them, but flutter about and coo and peck up the scattered bread-crumbs, just as if nobody was there. If you look attentively round the court, you will see, too, that many of the windows are open, and you may detect faces half concealed among the window curtains. Clearly everybody is on the look out for something, though it is yet vacation time, and only a small section of the men are up. The door opens, and out sail the Seniors, more than ever conscious of pride and power; they stream away in silk gowns, carrying on their faces the smile of knowledge even into their isolation, where no one can see it. For some reason or other they always meet in chapel, or, for all I know, it may be in the ante-chapel, to elect the Saint Werner's scholars. And now the much talked of, much thought of, anxiously expected list, which is to make so many happy or miserable, is to be announced. On that little bit of paper, which the chapel-clerk holds in his hands as he stands on the chapel steps, are the names which everybody has been longing to conjecture. He comes out and reads. There are nine scholarships vacant, of which five will be given to the Third-year men, and four to Julian's year. The five Third-year men are read first, and as each name is announced, off darts some messenger from the crowd to carry the happy intelligence to some expectant senior soph. The heads of listeners lean farther and farther out of the window, for the clerk speaks so loud as to make his voice heard right across the court; and the wires of the telegraph are instantly put into requisition to flash the news to many homes, which it will fill either with rejoicing or with sorrow. And now for the four Second-year scholars, who have gained the honour of a scholarship their first time of trial, and whose success excites a still keener interest. They are read out in the accidental order of the first entering of their names in the college books. Silence! the Second-year scholars are--DUDLEY CHARLES OWEN, (for the names are always read out at full length, Christian names and all); JULIAN HOME; ALBERT HENRY SUTON; and it is a very astonishing fact, but the fourth is Hugh James Lillyston. Who would have believed it? Everybody expected Owen and Home to get scholarships their first time, and Suton was considered fairly safe of one; but that Kennedy should _not_ have got one, and that Lillyston should, were facts perfectly amazing to all who heard them. Saint Werner's was full of surprise. But after all they might have expected it; Kennedy had been grossly idle, and Lillyston, who had been exceedingly industrious, was not only well-grounded at Harton in classics, but had recently developed a real and promising proficiency in mathematics; and it was this knowledge, joined to great good fortune in the examination, which had won for him the much-envied success. But not Kennedy? No. This result was enough most seriously to damp the intense delight which Julian otherwise felt in his own success, and that of his three friends. Julian, half-expecting that he would be successful, had come up with Owen early in the day, and received the news from the porter as he entered the college. Kennedy and Lillyston were not yet arrived, and Julian went to meet the coach from Roysley, hoping to see one of them at least for he was almost as anxious to break the disappointment gently to Kennedy, as he was to be the first to bear to his oldest school friend the surprising and delightful news of his success. They were _both_ in the coach, and Julian was quite puzzled how to meet them. His vexation and delight alternated so rapidly as he looked from one to the other, that he felt exceedingly awkward, and would very much have preferred seeing either of them alone. Lillyston was incredulous; he insisted that there must be some mistake, until he actually saw the list with his own eyes. It was quite by accident, and not with any view of being sworn in as a scholar the next morning, that he had returned to Saint Werner's on that day at all. Kennedy bore the bitter, but not unexpected disappointment with silent stoicism, and showed an unaffected joy at the happy result which had crowned the honest exertions of his best-loved friends. He bore it in stoical silence, until he reached his own rooms; and then, do not blame him--my poor Kennedy--if he bowed his head upon his hands, and cried like a little child. There are times when the bravest man feels quite like a boy--feels as if he were unchanged since the day when he sorrowed for boyish trespasses, and was chidden for boyish faults. Kennedy was very young, and he was eating the fruits of folly and idleness in painful failure and hope deferred. In public he never showed the faintest signs of vexation, but in the loneliness of his closet do not blame him if he wept--for Violet's sake as well as for his own. So once more he was separated from Julian and Lillyston in hall and chapel, for they now sat at the scholars' table and in the scholars' seats. He was beginning to get over his feeling of sorrow when he received a letter, which did not need the coronet on the seal to show him that his correspondent was De Vayne. He opened it with eagerness and curiosity, and read-- "_Eaglestower, April_ 30, 18--, _Argyllshire_. "My Dear Kennedy--How long it is since we saw or heard of each other! I am getting well now, slowly but surely, and as I am amusing my leisure by reviving my old correspondence with my friends, let me write to you whom I reckon and shall ever reckon among that honoured number. "I am afraid that you consider me to have been slightly alienated from you by the sad scene which your rooms witnessed when last we met in health, and by the connection into which your name was dragged, by popular rumour, with that unhappy affair. If such a thought has ever troubled you, let me pray that you will banish it. I have long since been sure that you would have been ready to suffer any calamity rather than expose me to the foreseen possibility of such an outrage. "No, believe me, dear Kennedy, I am as much now as I always have been since I knew you, your sincere and affectionate friend. Nor will I conceal how deep an interest another circumstance has given me in your welfare. You perhaps did not know that I too loved your affianced Violet; how long, how deeply I can never utter to any living soul. I did not know that you had won her affections, and the information that such was the case, came on me like the death-knell of all my cherished hopes. But I have schooled myself now to the calm contemplation of my failure, and I can rejoice without envy in the knowledge, that in you she has won a lover richly endowed with all the qualities on which future happiness can depend. "I write to you partly to say good-bye. In a fortnight I am going abroad, and shall not return until I feel that I have conquered a hopeless passion, and regained a shattered health. Farewell to dear Old Camford! I little thought that my career there would terminate as it did, but I trust in the full persuasion that God worketh all things for good to them who love Him. "Once more good-bye. When I return, I hope that I shall see leaning on your arm, a fair, a divine young bride.--Ever affectionately yours, De Vayne." Kennedy had written home to announce that his name was _not_ to be found in the list of Saint Werner's scholars. The information had disgusted his father exceedingly. Mr Kennedy, himself an old Wernerian, loved that royal foundation with an unchanging regard, and ever since that day Edward had been playing in his hall a pretty boy, he determined that he should be a Saint Werner's scholar at his first trial. He knew his son's abilities, and felt convinced that there must be some radical fault in his Camford life to produce such a disastrous series of failures and disgraces. Unable to gain any real information on the subject from Edward's letters, he determined to write up at once, and ask the classical and mathematical tutors the points in which his son was most deficient, and the reason of his continued want of success. The classical tutor, Mr Dalton, wrote back that Kennedy's failure was due solely to idleness; that his abilities were acknowledged to be brilliant, but that at Camford as everywhere else, the notion of success without industry, was a chimera invented by boastfulness and conceit. "Le Genie c'est la Patience." "You seem, however," continued Mr Dalton, "to be under the mistaken impression that your son read with me last term, and even `read double.' This is not the case, as he has ceased to read with me since the end of the Christmas term: I was sorry that he did so; for if economy was an object, I would gladly, merely for the sake of the interest I take in him, have afforded gratuitous assistance to so clever and promising a pupil." The letter of Mr Baer, the mathematical tutor, was precisely to the same effect. "I can only speak," he said, "from what I observed of your son previous to last Christmas; since then I have not had the pleasure of numbering him among my pupils." When Mr Dalton's letter came, Mr Kennedy was exceedingly perplexed to understand what it meant, and assumed that there must be some unaccountable mistake. He simply could not believe that his son could have asked him for the money on false pretences. But when Mr Baer's letter confirmed the fact that Kennedy had not been reading with a tutor either in classics or mathematics during the previous quarter, it seemed impossible for any one any longer to shut his eyes to the truth. When the real state of the case forced itself on Mr Kennedy's conviction, his affliction was so deep that no language can adequately describe what he suffered. In a few days his countenance became sensibly older-looking, and his hair more grey. His favourite and only surviving son had proved unworthy and base. Not only had he wasted time in frivolous company, but clearly he must have sunk very low to be guilty of a crime so heinous in itself, and so peculiarly wounding to a father's heart, as the one which it was plain that he had committed. At first Mr Kennedy could not trust himself to write, lest the anger and indignation which usurped the place of sorrow should lead him into a violence which might produce irreparable harm. Meanwhile, he bore in silence the blows which had fallen. Not even to his daughter Eva did he reveal the overwhelming secret of her brother's shame, but brooded in loneliness over the fair promise of the past, blighted utterly in the disgrace of the present. Often when he had looked at his young son, and seen how glorious and how happy his life might be, he had determined to shelter him from all evil, and endow him with means and opportunities for every success. He had looked to him as a pride and stay in declining manhood, and a comfort in old age. Edward Kennedy had been "a child whom every eye that looked on loved," and now he was--; Mr Kennedy _could_ not apply to him the only name which at once sprang up to his lips. He wrote-- "Dear Edward,--When I tell you that it costs me an _effort_, a _strong_ effort to call you `dear,' you may judge of the depth of my anger. I cannot trust myself, nor will I condescend to say much to you. Suffice it for you to know that your shameful transactions are detected, and that I am now aware of the means, the treacherous dishonest means you have adopted to procure money, which, since I give you an ample and liberal allowance, can only be wanted to pander to vice, idleness, and I know not what other forms of sin. "I tell you that I do not know what to say; if you can act as you have acted, you must be quite deaf to expostulation, and dead to shame. You have done all you can to cover me and yourself with dishonour, and to bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. "Oh Edward, Edward! if I could have foreseen this in the days when you were yet a young and innocent and happy boy, I would have chosen rather that you should die. "It must be a long time before you see my face again. I will not see you in the coming holidays, and I at once reduce your allowance to half of what it was. I cannot, and will not supply money to be wasted in extravagance and folly, nor shall I again be deceived into granting it to you on false pretences--Your indignant, deeply-sorrowing father, T. KENNEDY." Kennedy read the letter, and re-read it, and laid it down on the table beside his untouched breakfast. There was but one expression in his face, and that was misery, and in his soul no other feeling than that of hopeless shame. He did not, and could not write to his father. What was to be said? He must bear his burden--the _burden of detection and of punishment_-- alone. And the thought of Violet added keener poignancy to all his grief. For Kennedy could not but observe that her letters were not so fondly, passionately loving as they once had been, and he knew that the fault was his, because his own letters reflected, like a broken mirror, the troubled images of his wandering heart. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. KENNEDY'S DESPAIR. "When all the blandishments from life are gone, The coward slinks to death;--the brave live on!" Of all the sicknesses that can happen to the human soul, the deadliest and the most incurable is the feeling of despair--and this was the malady which now infected every vein of Kennedy's moral and intellectual life. Could he but have conquered his pride so far as to take but one person into his confidence, all might have been well. But Violet--could he ever tell Violet of sins which her noble heart must render so inconceivable as almost to make it impossible for her to sympathise with one who committed them? And Eva; could he ever wound the tender affection of his sweet sister, by revealing to her the disgrace of the brother whom, from her childhood, she had idolised? He sometimes thought that he would confess to Julian or Lillyston; but his courage failed him when the time came, and he fed on his own heart in solitude, avoiding the society of men. The sore burden of a self-reproaching spirit wore him down. He had fallen so often now, and swerved so often from the path of temperance, rectitude, and honour, that he began to regard himself as a hopeless reprobate--as one who had been weighed and found wanting--tested of God, and deliberately set aside. And so step by step the devil thrust him into desperation, and strove thereby to clinch the hopelessness of his estate. With wild fierce passion, Kennedy flung himself into sins he had never known before; angrily he laid waste the beauty and glory of the vineyard whose hedge had been broken down; a little entrance to the sanctuary had been opened to evil thoughts, and they, when once admitted, soon flung back wider and wider the golden gates, till the revelling band of worse wickednesses rushed in and defiled the altar, and trampled on the virgin floors, and defaced the cedarn walls with images of idolatry and picturings of sin. Because he had sunk into the slough of despond, he would be heedless of the mud that gathered on his garments. Was he not ruined already? Could anything much worse befall him than had befallen him already? No; he would sin on now and take his fill. It was a short period of his life; but in no other period did he suffer so much, or shake more fatally the foundations of all future happiness. It was emphatically a sin against his own soul, and as such it affected his very look. Those blue laughing eyes were clouded over, and the bloom died away from his cheeks, and the ingenuous beauty from his countenance, as the light of the Shechinah grew pale and dim in the inmost sanctuary. Kennedy was not mastered by impulse, but driven by despair. Nor did he take any precaution to shield himself from punishment--the punishment of outward circumstance and natural consequence--as his moral abasement proceeded. His acquaintances shunned him, his friends dropped away from him, and the guiltiness of the present received a tinge of deeper horror from the gloom of the future. All that could be done, Julian did. He warned, he expostulated, he reminded of purer and happier--of pure and happy days. But he did not know the bitter fountain of despondency whence flowed those naphthaline streams of passion. At last he said-- "Kennedy, I have not often spoken to you of my dear sister; it is time to speak of her now. Your conduct proves to me that you do not and cannot love her." Kennedy listened in silence; his face bowed down upon his hands. "You _could_ not go on as you are doing if you loved her, for love allows no meaner, no unhallowed fires to pollute her vestal flame. Your love must be a pretence--a thing of the past. It was only possible, Kennedy, when you were worthier than now you are." He groaned deeply, but still said nothing. "Kennedy," continued Julian, "I have loved you as a friend, as a brother; I love you still most earnestly, and you must not be too much pained at what I say; but I have come to a determination which I must tell you, and by which I must abide. Your engagement with Violet must cease." "Does SHE say so?" he asked in a hollow voice. "No, she does not know, Kennedy, what I know of you; but she will trust my deep affection, and know that I act solely for her good. The blow may almost kill her, but better that she should die than that her life should be ever connected--oh, that you should have driven me to say it-- with one so stained as yours!" "Aye!" said Kennedy bitterly, "stab hard, for the knife is in your hand. Fling dust on those who are down already--it is the world's way. I see through it all, Julian Home; you would gladly get rid of me, that Violet may wear a coronet. No comparison between a penniless and ruined undergraduate, and a handsome, rich young viscount." "Unjust! ungenerous!" answered Julian, with indignation; "you have poisoned your own true heart, Kennedy, or you would not utter the lie which you must disbelieve. Edward Kennedy, I will not attempt to rebut your unworthy suspicions; you know neither my character nor Violet's, or you would not have dared to utter them. No--it is clearer to me than ever that you are no fit suitor for my sister. Passion and weakness have dragged you very low. I trust and pray that you may recover yourself again." A sudden rush of tears came to his eyes as he turned away to leave his earliest and best-loved college friend. But Kennedy stopped him, and said wildly-- "Stop, Julian Home, you shall hear me speak. I can hardly believe that you do this of your own responsibility--without Violet's--nay, nay, I must not call her so--without your sister's consent. And if this be so, hear me. Tell her that I scorn the heart which would thus fling away its plighted love: tell her that she has committed a great sin in thus rejecting me: tell her that _she_ is now responsible for all my future,--that whatever errors I may fall into, whatever sins I may commit, whatever disgrace or ruin I may incur, _she_ is the author of them. Tell her that if I ever live to do ungenerous acts, or ever yield to bursts of foolish passion, the acts are hers, not mine; _she_ will have caused them; my life lies at her feet. Tell her this before it is too late. What? you still wish to hurry away? Go, then." He almost pushed Julian out, and banged the door after him. Amazed at this paroxysm of wrath and madness, Julian went down-stairs with a slow step and a heavy, heavy heart; above all, he dreaded the necessity of breaking to Violet the heart-rending intelligence of his decision, and the circumstances which caused it. He trembled to do it, for he knew not how crushing the weight might prove. At last he determined to write to his mother, and to beg her to bear for him the pain of telling that which her womanly tact and maternal sympathy might make less overwhelming to be borne. But Kennedy, after Julian's words, rushed out of his rooms, and it was night. He left the college, and wandered into the fields--he knew not whither, nor with what intent. His brain was on fire. The last gleam that lent brightness to his life had been extinguished; the friend whom he loved best had cast him off; his name was sullied; his love rejected. It was not _thought_ which kept him in a tumult, but only a physical consciousness of dreadful, irremediable calamity; and but for the wind which blew so coldly and savagely in his face, and the rain that soaked his clothes and cooled the fever of his forehead, he feared that he might go mad. He did not return to the college till long past midnight; and the old porter, as he got out of bed to open the gate, could not help saying to him in a tone of reproach-- "Oh, Mr Kennedy, sir--excuse me, sir--but these are bad ways." The words were lost upon him: he went up to his room, and threw himself, without taking off his clothes, upon his bed. No sleep came to him, and in the morning--damp, weary, and feverish as he had been--his look was inexpressibly pitiable and haggard. The imperious demands of health forced him to take some notice of his condition; and he was about to put on clean clothes, and take some warm tea about ten in the morning, when the Master's servant came to tell him that the Seniority desired his presence. He at once knew that it must be for his irregularity of the previous night, which, in the agitation of other thoughts, had not occurred to him before. He remembered, too, that the Senior Dean had only recently threatened him that, in consequence of his late misdoings, the next offence would be visited with summary and final punishment. Kennedy received rather hard treatment at the hand of the Senior Dean, who was a very worthy and excellent man, but so firm and punctilious that he could neither conceive nor tolerate the existence of beings less precise in their nature than himself. Kind and well-intentioned, he was utterly unfit for the guidance of young men, because he was totally deficient in those invaluable qualities--sympathy and tact. He had early taken a dislike to Kennedy, in consequence of some very harmless frivolities of his freshman's year. Kennedy, in his frolicsome and happy moods, had, in ways, childish, perhaps, but completely harmless, offended the sensitive dignity of the college official, and these trivial eccentricities the Dean regarded as heinous faults--the symptoms of a reckless and irreverent character. There was one particular transaction which gave him more than usual offence, in which Kennedy, hearing a very absurd story at a don's party, while the Dean was present, parodied it with such exquisite humour and such complete command of countenance, that all the other men, in spite of the official presence, had indecorously broken into fits of laughter. It is a great pity when rulers and teachers take such terrible fright at little outbreaks of mere animal and boyish spirits. The Dean was inclined therefore from the first to take the most serious view of Kennedy's proceedings, even when they were not as questionable as recently they had been. Instead of trying to enter into a young man's feelings and temptations with consideration and forbearance, the Dean regarded them from a moral watchtower of unapproachable altitude, and hence to him the errors which he was sometimes obliged to punish were not regarded as human failings, but as monstrous and inexplicable phenomena. He could not in the least understand Kennedy; he only looked at him as a wild, and objectionable, and irregular young man; while Kennedy reciprocated his pity by a hardly-concealed contempt. So, as Kennedy took cap and gown, and walked across the court to the combination-room, he became pretty well aware that a very heavy sentence was hanging over his head. He cared little for it; nothing that Saint Werner's or its authorities could do, would wound him half so deeply as what he was already suffering, or cause the iron to rankle more painfully in his soul. He felt as a man who is in a dream. He stood before them with a look of utter vacancy and listlessness, the result partly of physical weariness, partly of complete indifference. He was aware that the Dean, undisturbed this time, was haranguing him to his heart's content, but he had very little notion of what he was saying. At last his ear caught the question-- "Have you any explanation to offer of your conduct, Mr Kennedy?" He betrayed how little he had been attending by the reply-- "What conduct, sir?" The Dean ruffled his plumage, and said with asperity-- "Your conduct last night, sir." "I was wandering in the fields, sir." "Wandering in the fields!" In the Dean's formal and regular mind such a proceeding was wholly unintelligible; fancy a sensible member of a college wandering in the fields on a wet stormy night past twelve o'clock! "Really, Mr Kennedy, you must excuse us, but we can hardy accept so fantastic an explanation; we can hardly believe that you had no ulterior designs." Kennedy was bothered and fretful; he was not thinking of Deans or Seniors just then; his thoughts were reverting to his father's implacable anger, and to Julian's forbidding him to hope for the love of Violet Home. Weary of the talking, and careless of explaining anything to them, and with a short return of his old contempt, he wished to cut short the discussion, and merely said-- "I can't help what you accept or what you believe." The Seniors had a little discussion among themselves, in which the opinion of Mr Norton appeared to be over-borne by the majority of votes, and then the Senior Dean said shortly-- "Mr Kennedy, we have come to the decision that it is undesirable for you to remain at Saint Werner's at present, until you have mended your ways, and taken a different view of the duties and responsibilities of college life. You are rusticated for a year. You must leave to-morrow." Kennedy bowed and left the room. He, too, had been coming to a decision, and one that rendered all minor ones a matter of no consequence to him. During all the wet, and feverish, and sleepless night he had been determining what to do, and the event of this morning confirmed him still further. He was rusticated for a year; where could he go? Not to his father and his home, where every eye would look on him as a disgraced and characterless man; not to any of his relations or friends, who would regard him perhaps as a shame and burden;--no, there was but one home for him, and that was the long home, undisturbed beneath the covering of the grave. The burden and mystery of life lay heavily on him--its lasting calamities and vanishing joys, its trials and disappointments. He would try whether, in a new state of life, the same distorted individuality was a necessary possession. Would it be necessary there also to live two lives in one, to have a soul, within whose precincts curse wrestled with blessing, good with evil, and life with death? As life went with him then, he would rather escape from it even into annihilation; he groaned under it, and in spite of all he had heard or read, he had no fear whatever of the after-death. If he had _any_ feeling about _that_, it was a feeling of curiosity alone. He could not wholly condemn himself: he felt that however much evil might have mastered him good was the truest and most distinctive element of his being. He loved it even when he abandoned it, and yielded himself to sin. He could not believe that for these frailties, he would be driven into an existence of unmitigated pain. He had no fear, no shadow of fear of the state of death, for he forgot that he would carry himself, his unchanged being--Conscience, Habit and Memory--into the other world. What he dreaded was the spasm of dying-- the convulsion that was to snap the thousand silver strings in the harp of life. This he shuddered at, but he consoled himself that it would be over in a moment. He took no food that day, but wrote to his father, to Eva, to Julian, Violet, and De Vayne. He told them his purpose, and prayed their forgiveness for all the wrongs he had done them. And then there seemed no more to do. With weak unsteady steps he paced his room, and looked at the old Swiss chamois-gun above the door. He took it down and handled it. It was a coarse clumsy weapon, and he could not trust it to effect his purpose. Shunning observation, he walked by back streets and passages until he came to a gunsmith's shop, where he bought a large pistol, under pretence of wanting it for the purposes of travel. He carried it home himself, but instead of returning straight to his rooms, he was tempted to stroll for a last time about the grounds. The delightful softness of the darkening air on that spring evening, and the cheerful gleam of lamps leaping up here and there between the trees, and flickering on the quiet river, enticed him up the glorious old entwined avenue into the shadow of the great oaks beyond, until he found himself leaning between the weeping willows over the bridge of Merham Hall, looking on the still grey poetic towers, and the three motionless reposing swans, and the gloaming of the west. And so, still thinking, thinking, thinking, he slowly wandered home. As he had determined to commit suicide that night, it mattered little to him at what hour it was done, and opening the first book on the table, he tried to kill time until it grew later and darker. The book happened to be a Bible, and conscious how much it jarred with his present frame of mind, and his guilty purpose, he threw it down again; _but not until his eye had caught the words_:-- "AND HE SAW THE ANGEL OF THE LORD STANDING IN THE WAY." The verse haunted him against his will, till he half shuddered at the dim light which the moon made, as it struggled through the curtains only partially drawn, into the quaint old room. He would delay no longer, and loaded the pistol with a dreadful charge, which should not fail of carrying death. Some fancy seized him to put out the lights, and then with a violent throbbing at the heart, and a wild prayer for God's mercy at that terrible hour, he took the pistol in his hand. At that very instant,--when there was hardly the motion of a hair's breadth between him and fate,--what was it that startled his attention, and caused his hand to drop, and fixed him there with open mouth and wild gaze, and caused him to shiver like the leaves of the acacia in a summer wind? Right before him,--half hidden by the window curtains, and half drawing them back,--clear and distinct he saw the spirit of his dead mother with uplifted finger and sad reproachful eyes fixed upon her son. The countenance so sorrowfully beautiful, the long bright gleaming of the white robe, the tresses floating down over the shoulders like a golden veil, for one instant he saw them, not dim and shadowy like the fading outlines of a dream, but with all the marked full character of living vision. "Oh mother, mother!" he whispered, as he stretched out his hands, and sank trembling upon his knees, and bowed his head; but as he raised his head again, there was nothing there; only the glimmer of lamps about the court, and the pale moonlight streaming through the curtains, partly drawn, into the quaint old room. Unable to trust himself with the murderous weapon in his hand even for a moment, yet swept from his evil purpose by the violent reflux of new and better thoughts, he fired the pistol into the air. The barrel, enormously overloaded, burst in the discharge, and uttering a cry, he fell fainting, with his right hand shattered, to the ground. His cry and the loud report of the explosion raised the alarm, and as the men rushed up and forced open the door of his room, they found him weltering in his blood upon the floor. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. EVA ENTERS THE CHAPEL. "I took it for a faery vision Of some bright creatures of the element, That in the colours of the rainbow live And play i' the plighted clouds; I was awe-struck, And, as I passed, I worshipped." Comus. The long, long illness that followed, and the weary time which it took to heal the mutilated hand, proved the greatest blessings that could have befallen the weak and erring heart of Edward Kennedy. They spared him the necessity of that heart-rending meeting with those whom he best loved, the dread of which had been the most powerful incitement to urge upon him the thought of suicide. They gave him time to look before and after--they relieved the painful tension of his overwrought mind--they calmed him with the necessity for quiet thought and deep rest after the anguish and turmoil of the bygone months. When he awoke to consciousness, Eva was sitting by his bedside in the sick-room. Slowly the well-remembered objects and the beloved face broke upon his recollection, but at first he could remember nothing more, nor connect the strange present with the excited past. Still more slowly--as when one breaks the azure sleep of some unruffled mountain mere by the skimming of a stone, and for a long time the clear images of blue sky, and wreathing cloud, and green mountain-top, are shaken and confused on the tremulous and twinkling wave, but unite together into the old picture when the water has recovered its glassy smoothness--so still more slowly did Kennedy's troubled memory reflect the incidents, (alas! unbeautiful and threatening incidents), of the preceding days. They came back to him as he lay there quite still; and then he groaned. "Hush! dearest Edward," said Eva, who had watched his face, and guessed from its expressive workings the progress of his thoughts; "hush, we are with you, and all is going on well. Your hand is healing." He found that his right hand was tightly and firmly bandaged, and kept still by a splint. "Was it much hurt? Shall I recover the use of it?" "Yes, almost certainly, Dr Leesby says. I will tell papa that you are awake." "Is he very, very angry?" asked poor Kennedy. "He has forgiven all, dear," she said, kissing his forehead. "It was all very dreadful,"--and a cold shiver ran over her--"but none of us will ever allude to it again. Banish it from your thoughts, Eddy; we will leave Camford as soon as you can be moved." She went to fetch her father, and as he came in and leant fondly over his son's sick-bed, and grasped warmly his unwounded hand, tears of afflicting memory coursed each other fast down the old man's cheeks. He had been hard, too hard upon Edward; perhaps his severity had driven him of late into such bad courses, and to the brink of such an awful and disgraceful end; perhaps if he had been kinder, gentler, more sympathising for this first offence, he might have been saved the anguish of driving his poor boy to lower and wilder depths of sin and sorrow. It was all over now; and amid the apparent wreck of all his hopes, even after the death-blows which recent events had dealt to his old pride in his noble child, he yet regarded him as he lay there-- wounded and in such a way--with all the pity of a Christian's forgiveness, with all the fondness of a father's love. "Oh, father, I have suffered unspeakably. If God ever raises me to health and strength again, I vow with all my heart to serve Him as I have never done before." "Yes, Edward, I trust and believe it; think no more of the past; let the dead bury their dead. The golden present is before you, and you will have two friends who never desert the brave man--your Maker and yourself." A silence followed, and then Eva said, "I have just seen Dr Leesby, Eddy, and he says that if you are now quite yourself, and the light-headedness has ceased, you may be moved on Monday." "And to-day is?--I have lost all count of time." "To-day is Saturday. Won't it be charming, dear, to find ourselves once more at home; quietly at home, with no one but ourselves, and our own love to make us happy." "And what am I to do, Eva?" "Hush, Eddy; sufficient for the day--" "Does she know, Eva? Do you ever hear from her now?" "Yes, often--but do not think too much of those things just yet." "And Julian?" "He has often come to ask after you," she said blushing, "but he is afraid to see you, lest it should do you harm just now." "Perhaps he is right. We are not all enemies, then?" "Enemies with Julian and Violet? _Oh no_." Though the engagement of Kennedy with Violet had been broken off by the common desire of Julian and Mr Kennedy, the two families still continued their affectionate intercourse, and bewailed the sad necessity which drove them to a step so painful, yet so unavoidably required by the welfare of all concerned. And from the first they hoped that all might yet be well, while some among them began to fancy that if Kennedy and Violet should ever be united, it would not be the only close bond between hearts already full of mutual affection. So Julian still came daily during Kennedy's illness to see Eva and Mr Kennedy, and to inquire after the sufferer's health. And sometimes he took them for a walk in the grounds or the immediate neighbourhood of Camford, a place which they had never visited before, and which to them was full of interest. Eva had often heard of the glories of Saint Werner's chapel, and on the Sunday she asked Julian if it would be possible for her to go with her father to the evening service there. "Oh yes," said Julian; "certainly. I will get one of the Fellows to take you in. It is a remarkable sight, and I think you ought to go." The Sunday evening came, and Julian escorted them to the ante-chapel, and showed them the various sculptures and memorials of mighty names. They then waited by the door till some Fellow whom Julian knew should pass into the chapel to escort them to a vacant place in the Fellows' seats. Saint Werner's Chapel consists of a single aisle, along the floor of which are placed rows of benches for the undergraduates; raised above these to a height of three steps are the long seats appropriated to the scholars and the Bachelors of Arts; and again, two steps above these are the seats of the Fellows and Masters of Arts, together with room for such casual strangers as may chance to be admitted. In the centre of these long rows, on either side, are the places for the choristers, men and boys, and the lofty thrones whence the Deans "look down with sleepless eyes upon the world." By the door on either side are the red-curtained and velvet-cushioned seats of the Master and Vice-master, beyond whom sit the noblemen and fellow-commoners. By the lectern and reading-desk is a step of black and white marble, which extends to the altar, on which are two candlesticks of massive silver; and over them some beautiful carved oaken work covers a great painting, flanked on either side by old gilded pictures of the Saviour and the Madonna. Imagine this space all lighted from wall to wall by wax candles, and at the end by large lamps which shed a brighter and softer light, and imagine it filled, if you can, by five hundred men in snowy surplices, and you have a faint fancy of the scene which broke on the eyes of Mr Kennedy and Eva, as they passed between the statues of the ante-chapel, and under the pealing organ into the inner sanctuary of Saint Werner's chapel. "Could they behold-- Who, less insensible than sodden clay In a sea river's bed at ebb of tide-- Could have beheld with undelighted heart So many happy youths, so wide and fair A congregation in its budding-time Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once So many divers samples from the growth Of life's sweet season--could have seen unmoved That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers, Decking the matron temples of a place, So famous through the world?" It was Mr Norton whom Julian caught hold of as an escort for his friends into the chapel. I well remember, (who that saw it does not?) that entrance. It was rather late; the organ was playing a grand overture, the men were all in their seats, and the service just going to begin, when Eva entered leaning on Mr Norton's arm, and followed by her father and Julian. Many of the Saint Werner's men had seen her walking in the grounds the last day or two, and as Kennedy's sister a peculiar interest attached to her just then. But she needed no such accidental source of interest to attract the liveliest attention of such keen and warm enthusiasts for beauty as the Camford undergraduates. Ladies are comparatively rare apparitions in that semi-monastic body of scholars; and ladies both young and lovely are rare indeed. So as Eva entered, so young and so fair, the bright and graceful and beautiful Eva--with that exquisite rose-tinge which the air of Orton-on-the-Sea had given her, and the folded softness of the tresses which flowed down beside her perfect face, and the light of beaming eyes seen like jewels under her long eyelashes as she bent her glance upon the ground--as Eva entered, I say, leaning on Mr Norton's arm, and touched, with the floating of her pale silk dress, the surplices of the Saint Werner's men as they sat on either side down the narrow passage, it was no wonder that every single eye from that of the Senior Dean [Pace Decani dixerim!] to that of the little chorister boy was turned upon her for an instant, as she passed up to the only vacant seats, and Mr Norton caused room to be made for her beside the tutor's cushion by the chaplain's desk. She was happily unconscious of the admiration, and the perfect simplicity of her sweet girlish unconsciousness added a fresh charm to the whole grace of her manner and appearance. Only by the slightest possible blush did she show her sense of her unusual position as the cynosure for the admiring gaze of five hundred English youths; and that too though the dark and handsome countenance of Mr Norton glowed visibly with a brighter colour, (as though he were conscious of the thought respecting him, which darted across many an undergraduate's mind), and even the face of Julian, as he walked to the scholars' seats among the familiar ranks of his compeers, was flushed with the crimson of a sensitiveness which he would fain have hidden. And I cannot help it, if even during the noble service--even amid the sound "Of solemn psalms and silver litanies," the eyes of many men wandered towards a sweet face, and gazed upon it as they might have gazed upon a flower, and if the thoughts of many men were absorbed unwontedly in other emotions than those of prayer; nor can I help it if Julian was one of those whose eyes and thoughts were so employed. What an evening star she was! And how her very presence filled all hearts with a livelier sense of happiness and hope, and sweet pure yearnings for wedded calm and bridal love! But she--innocent young Eva--little knew of the sensation she had caused by the rare beauty of her blossoming womanhood. _Her_ whole heart was in the act of worship, except when it wandered for a moment to her poor sick Eddy, whom they had left alone, or for another moment to one whom she could not but see before her in the scholars' seats. She did not know that men were looking at her, as she raised her clear warbling voice amid the silvery trebles of the choir, and uttered with all the expressiveness of genuine emotion those strains of poetry and passion which thrilled from the heart to the harp of the warrior-prophet and poet-king. And never did truer prayers come from a woman's lips than those which her heart offered as her head was bowed that night. The service was over, and the congregation streamed out. That evening the ante-chapel was fuller than usual of men, who stayed nominally to hear the organ; but besides those musical souls, who always linger to hear the voluntary, or to talk in little groups, there were others who, on that pretence, waited to catch another glimpse--a last glimpse of eyes whose deep and lovely colour had flowed into their souls. They were disappointed though, for Eva dropped her veil. With a graceful bow to Mr Norton, which he returned with courteous dignity, she took Julian's proffered arm, and walked out into the court, her father following. A proud man was Julian that evening, and the subject of kindly envy to not a few. But that little incident--the many eyes that had seen his treasure-- determined Julian to take the step which he had long decided upon in his secret heart. He was half-jealous of the open, unconcealed admiration which Eva had excited, and it made him fear lest another should approach the object of his love, and occupy a place in the heart which he had not even demanded as his own. He was positively in a hurry. What if some undergraduate should get an introduction to Eva--some gay and handsome Adonis--and should suddenly carry away her heart? So when Mr Kennedy went into the sick-room to read to Edward the lessons for the day, and Julian stayed with Eva in the sitting-room, he drew his chair beside hers, and they began to talk about Saint Werner's. "Do you think you shall ever be a Fellow, Julian? I should so like you to be?" "And if I am, I shall hope very soon to exchange it for a happier fellowship, Eva." She wouldn't see what he meant, so he said, "Eva, shall I read to you?" "Yes," she said, "I should like it so much; I used to enjoy so much the poetry we read at Grindelwald." He took down Coleridge's poems from the shelf, and read-- "All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, Are all but ministers of love, And feed his sacred flame." He went on, watching her colour change with the musical variations of his voice, until he came to the verse-- "I told her how he pined,--and ah The deep, the low, the pleading tone In which I sang another's love Interpreted my own." He saw her breast heaving with agitation, and throwing away the book, he bent down beside her, and looked up into her deep eyes, and said, "Oh, Eva, what need of concealment? You have read it long ago, have you not? I love you, Eva, love you so passionately--you cannot tell the depth of my love. Do you return it, Eva?" he said as he gained possession of her hand. She had won him then--the dream of her latter life. This was the noble Julian kneeling at her side. She trembled for very joy, and whispered--"Oh, Julian, Julian, do you not see that I loved you from the first day we met?" She regretted the speech the next moment, as though it had been wanting in maidenly reserve, but it was the first warm natural utterance of her heart; and Julian sprang up in an ecstasy of joy, and as she rose he claimed as his due a lover's kiss. She blushed crimson, but suffered him to sit down beside her; and they sat, hardly knowing anything but the great fact that they loved each other, till Mr Kennedy's voice had ceased in the adjoining room, and he came in. "Oh, there you are," he said. "Edward is sinking to sleep. How good of you to be so quiet!" They rose up, and Julian led her to him with her hand in his, and his arm supporting her. "Mr Kennedy," he said, "I am going to ask you for the most priceless jewel you possess." "What? Is it indeed so? Ah, you wicked Julian, do not rob me of Eva yet. She is too young; and now that Edward seems likely to be ill so long--ah, me! I am bereaved of my children. Well, well, I suppose it must be so. Come here, darling, to the old father you are going to desert; I daresay Julian won't grudge me one kiss." He kissed her tenderly, and she clung about his neck as she whispered, "But it will not be yet for a long long time, papa." "What youth calls long, my Eva; but not long for those who are walking into the shadow down the hill." O happy, happy lovers! how gloriously that night did the stars shine out for you in the deep, unfathomable galaxies of heaven, and the dew fall, and the moon dawn into a sky yet flushed with the long-unfading purple of the fading day! Yet there was sadness mixed with their happiness as they heard, until they parted, the plaintive murmurs of Kennedy's fitful sleep, and thought of all the sufferings of their brother, and how nearly, how very nearly, he had been hurried from the midst of them by self-inflicted death. CHAPTER THIRTY. REPENTANCE. "This world will not believe a man repents, And this wise world of ours is mainly right For seldom does a man repent, and use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and nature wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh." Tennyson's _Idylls_. Beautiful Orton-on-the-Sea! Who that has been there does not long to return there again and again, and gaze on the green and purple of its broad bay, and its one little islet, and the golden sands that stretch along its winding shore, and its glens clothed with fir trees and musical with the voice of many rills? It was there that Kennedy had lived from childhood, and it was there that he now returned to spend at home the year of his rustication. They arrived at home on the Monday evening, and from that time forward Kennedy rapidly gained health and strength, and was able to move about again, though his hand healed but slowly, and it took months to enable him to use it without pain. On that little islet of the bay was Kennedy's favourite haunt. It was a place where the top of a low cliff was sheltered by a clump of trees which formed a natural bower, from whence he would gaze untired for hours on the rising and falling of the tide. A little orphan cousin whom Mr Kennedy had adopted, used to row him over to this retirement, and while the boy stayed in their little boat, and fished, or hunted for seabirds' nests in the undisturbed creeks and inlets, Kennedy with some volume of the poets in his hand, would rest under the waving branches, and gaze upon the glancing waves. And at times, when, like a great glowing globe, the sun sank, after the fiery heat of some burning summer day, into the crimsoned waters, and filled the earth, and the heavens, and the sea with silent splendours, a deep feeling of solemnity, such as he had never before experienced, would steal over Kennedy's mind. He could not but remember, that, but for God's special grace thwarting the nearly-accomplished purpose of his sin, the eyes which were filled with such indescribable visions of glory, would have been closed in death, and the brow on which the sea-wind was beating in such cool and refreshful perfume would have been crumbling under the clammy sod. Surely it must be for some great thing that his life had been saved: it was his own no longer; it must be devoted to mighty purposes of love and toil. Kennedy began to long for some work of danger and suffering as his portion upon earth: he longed ambitiously for the wanderings of the apostle and the crown of the martyr. The good deeds of a conventional piety, the quiet routine of a commonplace benevolence seemed no meet or adequate employment for his highly-wrought mind. No, he would sail to another world; there he would join a new colony in clearing away the primeval depths of some virgin forest, and tilling the glebes of a rich and untried soil; and, living among them, he would make that place a centre for wide evangelisation-- the home of religious enthusiasms and equal laws; or he would go as a missionary to the savage and the cannibal, and, sailing from reef to reef, where the coral-islands of the Pacific mirror in the deep waters of their calm lagoon the reed-huts of the savage, and the feathery coronal of tropic trees, he would devote his life to reclaiming from ignorance and barbarism the waste places of a degraded humanity. Such were the visions and purposes that floated through his mind--partly the fantastic fancies of dreamy hours, partly the unconscious desire to fly from a land which reminded him too painfully of vanished hopes, and from a scene which had been the witness of his error and disgrace. Perhaps, most of all, he was influenced by the desire to escape from a house which constantly recalled the image of a lost love--a lost love that he never hoped to regain; for Kennedy thought--though but little had been said about it--that Violet had deliberately and finally rejected him in scorn for the courses he had followed. But he wished, before he quite made up his mind as to his future career, to see Violet once more, and bid her a last farewell. Not daring to write and announce his intention lest she should refuse to meet him again, and unwilling to trust his secret to any of her family, he determined to see her by surprise, and enjoy for one last hour the unspeakable happiness of sitting by her side. "Father," he said, "I am well now, or nearly well will you let me go on a little journey?" "A journey?--where? We will all go together, Edward, if you want any change of air and scene." He shook his head. "You can guess," he said, "where I wish to go for the last time." "But do you think you can travel alone, Eddy, with your poor wounded hand?" asked Eva. "Oh yes; the splints keep it safe, and I shall only be two days or so away." They suffered him to fulfil his whim, although they felt that if he saw Violet, the meeting could hardly fail to be full of pain. It was deep in autumn when he started, and arriving at Ildown, took up his abode in the little village inn. He kept himself as free from observation as he could, and begged the landlady, who recognised him, not to mention his arrival to any one. She had seen him on his former visit, and remembered favourably his genial good-humour and affable bearing. He told her frankly that he had come to say good-bye to Miss Home, whom he might not see again; but he did not wish to go to the house--could the landlady tell him anything about their movements? "Why, yes; I do happen to know," she said, "and I suppose there can't be no harm in telling you, for I heard Master Cyril say as how they were all a-going a-gipseying to-morrow in the wood near the King's Oak." "And when do you think they will start?" "Oh, they'll start at ten, sir, in the morning, for I'm a-going to lend 'em my little trap to carry the perwisions in, and that." This would suit Kennedy capitally, and musing on the meeting of the morrow, he sank into a doze in the armchair. A whispering awoke him, and he was far from reassured by overhearing the following colloquy:-- "Who be that in the parlour?" asked a rustic. "Oh, that's the young gentleman as wer' Miss Violet's sweetheart," said the barmaid confidentially; "nobody don't know of it, but I heard the Missus a-saying so." "Why bean't he at the house then?" "Oh, ye know, he ain't her sweetheart no longer; there's been a muddle somehow, and they do say as how he shot hisself, but he don't seem to be shot much now, to look at 'im. He's as likely and proper a young gentleman as I've seen for a long time." Taking his candle wearily, Kennedy listened to no more of the conversation, and went to bed. His bedroom window looked towards the pleasant house and garden of Mrs Home, and he did not lie down till he had seen the light extinguished in the embowered window of Violet's room. Next morning he got up betimes, and after dressing himself with the utmost pain and difficulty, for he did not like to ask for the assistance which he always had at home since his illness, he went down to breakfast. Hardly touching the dainties which the hospitable old landlady had provided, he strolled off to the wood, almost before Ildown was a-stir, and sat down in a place, not far from the King's Oak, in a green hollow, where he was sheltered from sight by the broad tree trunks, and the tall and graceful ferns. He had not long to wait, and the time so spent would have been happy if agitation had not prevented him from enjoying the glories of the scene. Nowhere was "the gorgeous and melancholy beauty of the sunlit autumnal landscape more bounteously displayed." The grand old trees all round him were burning themselves away in many-coloured flames, and the green leaves that still lingered amid the rich hues of beautiful decay, suggested, in their contrasting harmony with their withered brethren, many a deep moral to the thoughtful mind: and everything that the thoughts could shape received a deeper emphasis from the unbroken silence of the wood. The occupation of his mind made the time pass quickly, and it seemed but a few minutes when he saw the Homes approaching the King's Oak. The boys laid on the greensward the materials for the picnic, and then, while Violet and Mrs Home seated themselves on a fallen trunk and took out their work, Julian read to them, and Cyril and Frank walked through the wood in search of exercise and amusement. As they passed near the spot where Kennedy was seated, they caught sight of a squirrel's nest, and Frank was instantly on the alert to reach the spoil. While he was scrambling with difficulty up the tall fir, Cyril stayed at the foot, and Kennedy determined to call him. Cyril had grown into a tall handsome boy of seventeen, and Kennedy knew that he could be trusted to help him, for he had won the boy's affection thoroughly when they were together in Switzerland. "Cyril!" The sound of a voice in that quiet place, out of earshot of his friends, startled Cyril, and he turned hastily round. "Who's there?" "Edward Kennedy. Come here, Cyril, and let me speak to you; Frank does not notice us." "Edward--you here?" said Cyril. "Why don't you come and see mother?"-- he was going to say Violet, but he checked himself. "I want to see, not Mrs Home, but Violet," said Kennedy; "you know our engagement is broken off, Cyril; I have only come to say farewell, before I leave England, perhaps for ever. Call Violet here alone." Cyril, who had heard of Kennedy's wild ways at college, and of the dreadful story that had raised against him the suspicion of intended suicide, hesitated a moment, as though he were half-afraid or unwilling to fulfil the commission. But Kennedy said to him sorrowfully--"You need not fear, Cyril, that you will be doing wrong. Tell Frank first, and then you can stay near, while I speak for a few minutes to your sister." Cyril called down his brother from the tree, and told him that Kennedy was there. "Stay here, Frankie, while I fetch Violet; Edward wants to bid her good-bye." He ran off, and said--"Come here, Vi; Frank and I have something to show you." "Is it anything very particular?" said Violet, "for I shall disturb Julian's reading if I go away." "Yes, something very particular." "Won't you tell me what?" "Why, a squirrel's nest for one thing, which Frank has found. Do come." "You imperious boys, at home for your holidays!" she said, smiling; "Punch hasn't half cured you of your tyranny to us poor sisters." She rose to follow him, and when they had gone a few steps, he said-- "Vi, Edward Kennedy is in that little dell there, behind the trees; he has come, he says, to bid you good-bye." The sudden announcement startled her, but she only leaned on Cyril's shoulder, and walked on, while he almost heard the beating of her heart. "We will stay here, Violet; you see him there." Cyril pointed to a tree, against whose trunk Kennedy was leaning, with his eyes bent upon the ground, looking at the red splashes on the withered leaves, and the golden buds embroidered on "elf-needled mat of moss." Hearing the sound of footsteps he raised his head, and a moment after he was by Violet's side. Taking her hand without a word, while her bosom shook with deep sobs as she saw his pale face and maimed hand, he led her to the gnarled and serpentine roots of a great oak, and seated her there, while he sat lowly at her feet upon the red ground, "With beddings of the pining umbrage tinged." How was it that she did not shrink from him? How was it that she seemed content to rest close beside him, and suffered her hand to rest upon his shoulder as he stooped? Did she love him still after all? Had Julian deceived him with the assertion of her acquiescence in the termination of their engagement? A strange rush of new hope filled his heart. He would test the true state of her affections. "I have come," he said, in that tone of voice which was so dear to her remembrance--"I have come, Violet, to bid you farewell for ever. Since you have rejected me, I have neither heart nor hope, and I shall leave England as soon as I may go." The tears were falling fast from her blue eyes. "Oh, Edward," she said, "why do you bid me farewell? Do you not think that I love you still?" "Still, Violet? You love _me_, the ruined, dishonourable, disgraced-- the--" She would not hear the dreadful word, but laid her finger on his lip. "Oh, hush, Edward! Those words are not for you. You may have sinned; they tell me you _have_ sinned. But have you not repented too, Edward? Have the lessons of sickness and anguish taught you nothing? I am sure they have. I could not wed one who was living an evil life, but now I see your true self once more." "Then you love me still?" The words were uttered in astonishment, and the emotions of unexpected joy almost overpowered him. "I never ceased to love you, Edward. Do you think that I am one to trifle with your heart, or to use it as a plaything for me to triumph by? Never, never. Had you died, or worse still, had you continued in sinful ways, I could not even then have ceased to love you, though we might have been separated until death. But now I read other things in your face, Edward, and I will be yours--your betrothed--again. Come, let us join the rest. There is not one of us but will welcome you with joy." "Nay, nay, let us stay here for a moment," he cried, as she rose up; "let me realise the joyful sensation which your words have given me; let me sit here, Violet, a few moments at your feet, and feel the touch of your hand in mine, and look at your face, that I may recover strength again." They sat there in silence, and the thoughts of both recurred to that other scene where they had sat on the great boulder under the shadow of the Alps, and watched the rose-film steal over their white summits on the golden summer eve. It was the same love that still filled their souls--the same love, but more sober, more quiet, more like the love of maturer years, less like the passionate love of boy and girl. It was more of an autumnal love than of old; and if the departing summer had flung new hues over the forest and the glen, they were the duller hues that recalled to mind the greater glory of the past. It was round a dying year that Autumn was "folding his jewelled arms." Yet they were happy--very happy, and they felt that, come what might, nothing on earth could part them now. When Kennedy had grown more calm, Violet called for Cyril, and bade him break the fact of Edward's presence to her mother and Julian. The boy bounded off to do her bidding, and in a few moments Kennedy was seated among the Homes as one of them. They received him with no simulated affection; Frank and Cyril helped to take away all awkwardness from the meeting by their high spirits, and when they all sat down on the velvet mosses to their rural meal, every one of them had banished the painful hauntings of the past. Of course Kennedy accompanied them home; they drove back in the quiet evening, and Kennedy sat by Violet's side. He stayed at Ildown till Julian returned to Saint Werner's, and, as was natural, he revolved in his mind continually his future course. At last he determined to talk it over with Violet, and told her of all his heroic longings for a life of toil and endeavour, if need were, even of banishment and death--all the high thoughts that had filled his heart as he sat alone in the island by Orton-on-the-Sea. "Let us wait," she said, "Edward. God will decide all this for us in time, and if duty seems to call you to the hard life of missionary or colonist, I am ready to go with you." "But don't you feel yourself, Violet, a kind of commonplace-ness about English life; a silver-slippered religion, a pettiness that does not satisfy, a sense of comfort incompatible with the strong desire to do the work which others will not do in the neglected corners of the vineyard?" "No," she answered, smiling, "I am content:-- "`The trivial round, the common task Should furnish all we ought to ask; Room to deny ourselves--a road To bring us daily nearer God.'" "True," he said; "well, I must try not to carry ambition into my religion." "Of course you return to Saint Werner's next autumn?" He mused long. "Ah, Violet, you cannot conceive how awful to my imagination that place has grown. And to return after rustication, and live among men who will regard me with galling curiosity, and dons who will look at me sideways with suspicion--can I ever bear it?" "Why not, Edward? They cannot affect _you_ by their opinion. I heard you say the other day that your heart was becoming an island, and the waters round it broadening every day. If the island itself be beautiful and happy, it need not reck of the outer world." "You are right, Violet. I will return if need be, and bear all meekly which I have deserved to bear. The one sorrow will be gone," he said, as he drew her nearer to his side, "that drove me into--Yes, you are right. I will go away home to-morrow, when Julian starts, and begin from the very first day to read with all my might. Hitherto I have had only the bitter lessons of Camford; let us see if I cannot gain some of her honours too." CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. BRUCE IN TROUBLE. "Nuda nec arva placent, umbrasque negantia molles, Nec dudum vetiti me laris augit amor." Milton. Bruce, when expelled from Saint Werner's, thought very little of his disgrace. It hardly ruffled the calm stream of his self-complacency, and, for some reasons, he was rather glad that it had happened. He did not like Camford; he had never taken to reading, and being thus debarred from all intellectual pleasures, he had grown thoroughly tired of late breakfasts, boating on the muddy Iscam, noisy wines, and interminable whist parties. Moreover, he had made far less sensation at Camford than he had expected. Somehow or other he had a dim consciousness that men saw through him; that his cleverness did not conceal his superficiality, nor his easy manners blind men's eyes to his ungenerous and selfish heart. Even his late phase of popular scepticism was less successful at Camford than it would have been at places of less steady diligence and less sound acquirements. In fact, Bruce imagined that he was by no mean appreciated. The sphere was too narrow for him; he was quite sure that in the arena of London society and political life he was qualified to play a far more conspicuous part. Nor did he believe that Sir Rollo Bruce would care for his expulsion any more than he did himself; he fancied that his father was quite above the middle-class prejudices of respect and reverence for pedantry and pedagogues, and was too much a man of the world to be disturbed by a slight contretemps like this. He wrote home a careless note to mention the fact that his Saint Werner's career was ended, and attributed this result to a mere escapade at a wine-party, which had been distorted by rumour, and exaggerated by malice into a serious offence. So when Vyvyan gaily entered his father's house, he felt rather light-hearted than otherwise. He expected that very likely some party would be going on, and quite looked forward to an agreeable dance. When he arrived, however, Vyvyan House was quite silent; a dim light came from a single window, but that was all. "Sir Rollo and my mother not at home, I suppose," he said to the plushed and powdered footman. "Yes, sir, they're in the library." He entered; they were sitting on opposite sides of the fire, with a single lamp between them. They were not doing anything, and Lady Bruce appeared to have been crying; but neither of them took any notice of his entrance beyond turning their heads. "How do you do?" he said, advancing gracefully; but not a little surprised at so silent and moody a greeting. "How do you do?" was his father's cold reply. "Dear me--I quite expected to find a party going on, but you seem quite gloomy. Is anything the matter?" "Matter, sir!" exclaimed Sir Rollo, starting up vehemently from his chair, and angrily pacing the room. "Matter! Upon my word, Vyvyan, your impudence is sublime." "You surprise me. What have I done?" "Done!" retorted his father, with intense scorn. "You have been expelled from College; you have wasted your whole opportunities of education; you have thrown away the boundless sums which I have spent in your interest; you have lived the life of a puppy and a fool, and now you come back in the uttermost disgrace, with your name involved in I know not what infamy, and are as cool about it as if you returned to announce a triumph." Not deigning a word more, Sir Rollo turned indignantly on his heel and left Bruce as much astounded by so unexpected a reception as if he had suddenly trodden on a snake. He relapsed into uncommon sheepishness, and hardly knew how to address his mother, who sat sobbing in her armchair. "My dear mother," he said at last, "what can be the matter that I am met by such tornados as my welcome on returning?" "Don't ask me, Vyvyan. Your father is naturally angry at your expulsion, and you have grieved us both. But, dear Vyvyan, do not put on such an impertinent and indifferent manner; it annoys Sir Rollo exceedingly. Do submit yourself, my dear boy, and he will soon recover his usual suavity." "But I never saw him like this before." "No; these violent fits of temper have only come over him of late, and I am afraid that there must be some cause for them of which I am unaware." Bruce sat silent and unhappy. Expelled from college, and insulted, (as he called it), at home, he felt truly alone and miserable. He went up to his own room, supped there, and coming down next morning to the awkward meeting with his parents, spoke a few words of regret about his position. Sir Rollo barely listened to them, breakfasted in silence, and immediately afterwards set out for his office. He did not return till late in the evening, and continued for some time to spend the days in this manner, seeing next to nothing of his wife and son, but sternly forbidding any festivities or balls. One morning he called Vyvyan into his study before starting. Bruce laid aside his novel, yawned, and followed. "Pray, sir, do you intend to spend _all_ your time in reading novels?" said Sir Rollo. "There's nothing else for me to do that I see." "Very well. If you suppose that you are going to spend your days in idleness, you are mistaken. I give you a week to choose some occupation that will not involve me in further outlay." Bruce took out his embroidered pocket-handkerchief, redolent with scent, and blew his nose affectedly. On doing so, an unopened envelope dropped on the floor, out of his pocket; picking it up, he glanced at it, tore it across, and flung it into the fire. Sir Rollo immediately picked up the pieces with the tongs and opened it. "I see that this is a bill, and I shall proceed to look at it." "Yes, if you like," said Bruce, in an indifferent tone--"it's from a dun." It was a tailor's bill which had been sent after him, and it amounted to 150 pounds. "And you suppose," said his father, "that I am going to pay these debts for you?" "I suppose so, certainly--some day. Let the dogs wait." Sir Rollo seemed on the point of a great burst of wrath; his lips positively quivered and his eye flashed with passion. He seemed, however, to control himself,--darted at his son a look of wrath and scorn, and left the room. A note that evening informed Lady Bruce that business detained him from home, and that he might not return for some days. A week after Bruce received a letter with foreign post-marks, to the following effect:-- DEAR VYVYAN--By the time you receive this, I shall be on the Continent, far beyond the reach of the law. "I have been living for the last ten years on the money I embezzled from the company whose affairs I managed. The fraud cannot fail of being detected almost immediately. "I feel acutely the position in which I am forced to leave your mother. I do _not_ pity _you_ in the least. I gave you the amplest opportunity to save yourself from this ruin, if you had not been a fool. You cared for nothing and for nobody but yourself. You never worked hard, though you knew it to be my wish; you assumed an air of spurious independence, and affected the fine gentleman. Your conceit and idleness will be their own punishment. You have made your own bed; now you will have to lie in it. "ROLLO BRUCE." The truth was soon known to the world. Numberless executions were put into Vyvyan House. Every available fragment of property was seized by Sir Rollo's creditors; and as Lady Bruce's private fortune had long been spent, she and her son were left all but penniless. The gay and gilded friends of their summer hours were the first to desert them, and Sir Rollo's wickedness had created such a gust of indignation, that few came forward to lend his family the slightest assistance. When Bruce found himself in this most distressing position--when he sat with his mother in shame and retirement in obscure lodgings, which had been taken for them by one of their former servants, and with no immediate means of livelihood--then first the folly of his past career revealed itself to his mind in its full proportions. Lady Bruce's health was dreadfully affected by the mental anguish through which she had passed, and it became a positive necessity that Bruce should work with his head or hands to earn their daily bread. He found no difficulty in procuring a temporary post in a lawyer's office as a clerk. The drudgery was terrible. Daily, from nine in the morning to six in the evening, he found himself chained to the desk, and obliged to go through the dullest and most mechanical routine, the only respite being half an hour in the middle of the day, which he spent in dining at an eating-house. Nursed on the lap of luxury, habituated to the choicest viands, and accustomed to find every whim fulfilled, this kind of life was intolerable to him. The steaming recesses of a squalid eating-house gave him a sensation of loathing and sickness, and the want of exercise made him look haggard and wan. In vain he appealed to men who had called themselves his father's friends; he found to his cost that the son of a detected swindler has no friends, and more especially if his own life have been tainted with suspicion or dishonour. Poor Bruce was driven to the very verge of despair. He applied for a situation in a bank, but he was informed that it could not be granted him unless he could obtain a certificate of good character from his college, which, of course, was out of the question. He tried writing for the press, but his shallow intellectual resources soon ran dry. The pittance he could thus earn did not remunerate him for the toil and wasted health, and even this pittance was too often cruelly held back. He made applications in answer to all sorts of advertisements, but one after another the replies were unfavourable, until his whole heart died within him. No intelligence could be obtained of his father's hiding-place, and before a year had elapsed since Sir Rollo's bankruptcy and felony had been made known, Lady Bruce died at her son's lodgings, worn out with misery and shame. This climax of the young man's misfortunes awoke at last the long dormant sympathy in his favour. An effort was made by his few remaining and unalienated friends to provide for him the means of emigration, which seemed the only course likely to give him once more a fair start in life. But to pay his passage, and provide him with the means of settling in New Zealand required a considerable sum, and Bruce had to suffer for weeks the agonies of hope deferred. And when he glanced over his past life, he found nothing to help him. He could not look back with any comfort; the past was haunted by the phantoms of regret. His violent and wilful infancy, his proud, passionate boyhood, his wandering and wicked youth, afforded him few green spots whereon the eye of retrospect could rest with calm. As the wayworn traveller who on some bright day sat down by the fringed bank of clear fountain or silver lake, and while he leant to look into its waters, was suddenly dazzled into madness by the flashing upwards upon him, from the unknown depths, of some startling image; so Bruce, as he rested by the dusty wayside of life, and gazed into the dark abysses of recollection, was startled and horrified, with a more fearful nympholepsy, by the crowding images and sullen glare of unforgotten and half-forgotten sins. But in dwelling on his past life, Bruce bethought him that he might still find friends at school; and not long after his mother's funeral, he determined to call on his old masters, and get such pecuniary aid as he could from them and his schoolboy friends. To come to such a resolution was the very bitterness of humiliation; but Bruce was now all eagerness to escape from England, and recommence a new life in other lands. He took a third class ticket to Harton, and when he arrived there, was so overcome with shame that he well-nigh determined to return by the next train, and leave the town unvisited, at whatever cost; but on inquiry he found that the next train would not start for some hours, and meanwhile he fully expected to be seen and recognised by those whom he had known before. And yet it was not easy, in that stooping figure, with the pale cheek and dimmed eye, to recognise the bright and audacious Vyvyan Bruce, who had been captain of Harton barely three years before. Poverty, ruin, disappointment, confinement, guilt, and sorrow had done their work with marvellous quickness. Nerving himself to the effort, he turned his face towards Harton, and walked slowly up the hill. The reminiscences which the walk recalled were not happy--rather, far from happy. It was not because formerly when he was a flattered, and rich, and handsome, and popular Harton boy, all the prospects of his life had looked as bright as now they seemed full of gloom; it was not that then both his parents were living, and now one was dead, the other disgraced; it was not that then he was full of health and vigour, and now was feeble and wearied; it was not that then he seemed to have many friends, and now he hardly knew of one; no, it was none of these things that affected him most deeply as he caught sight of the well-known chapel, and strolled up the familiar hill; but it was the thought, the bitter thought, the cursed thought that there, as at Camford, _the voice of his brother's blood was crying against htm from the ground_. By the time he reached the school buildings, it happened to be just one o'clock, and from the various school-rooms, the boys were pouring out in gay and noisy throngs. The faces were new to him for the most part, and at first he began to fancy that he should recognise no one. But at last he observed a boy looking hard at him, who at length came up and shook him warmly by the hand. "How do you do, Bruce? Ah, I see you don't remember me; true, I was only in the Shell when you left, but you ought at least to remember your old fags." The change of countenance between fifteen and eighteen is however very great, and it was not without an effort that Bruce recalled in the tall strong fellow who was talking to him his quondam fag, little Walter Thornley, now in his turn captain of the eleven, and Head of the school, whose admiration of Bruce we have already recorded in the first chapter of this eventful history. "Where are you off to now?" said Thornley. "To the Doctor's." "Well, you'll come and see me afterwards?" Bruce promised and then walked to see the Doctor, and his old tutor. To both he opened his piteous tale, and both of them gave him the most generous and liberal assistance; they promised also to procure him such other aid as might lie in their power. A little lighter in heart, he went to pay his visit to Thornley, whom he found occupying his old rooms. As Bruce recrossed the familiar threshold, the contrasts of past and present were almost too much for him, and he found it difficult to restrain his tears. He stayed but a short time, and then returned to London to his poor and lonely lodgings. Walter Thornley heard his story from the tutor, and besides getting a large subscription for him among his own friends, wrote to ask if Julian could procure for the emigrant any assistance in Camford. Julian received the letter about the middle of the October term in his third year, and it ran thus:-- "DEAR HOME--Beyond knowing by rumour that I am head of the school, you will, I suppose, hardly remember a boy who was so low in the school as I was when you were monitor. But though you will perhaps have forgotten me, I have not forgotten you, or the many kinds acts I experienced from you and Lillyston when I was a little new fellow. Remembering these, I am emboldened to write, and ask if you or any of the old Hartonians are willing to assist poor Bruce to settle in New Zealand, now that he has no chance of succeeding well in England? I am sure that _you_ personally will be glad of any opportunity to help an old school-fellow in his distress and difficulty, for report tells me that Julian Home is as kind-hearted and generous as he was when he won the Newry scholarship at Harton.--Believe me to be, my dear Home, yours very truly,--WALTER THORNLEY." Julian had almost forgotten the very existence of Thornley when this letter recalled him to his mind; but it was one of the pleasures of Julian's life constantly to receive letters of this kind from former school-fellows, thanking him for past kindnesses of which he was wholly unconscious from the simple and natural manner in which they had been done. It need hardly be said that he at once complied with the request which the letter contained, and that, (next to De Vayne's), his own was the largest contribution towards the handsome sum which the Hartonians and other Saint Werner's men cheerfully subscribed to assist their former comrade in his hour of need. To avoid all unnecessary wounding of Bruce's feelings, the money thus collected was transmitted to the Doctor to be placed at Bruce's disposal. It completed the sum requisite for his outfit, and there was no longer any obstacle in the way of his immediate departure from England. He at once booked his passage by an emigrant ship, and sailed from England. The day after his departure, Julian received from him the following letter:-- "Dear Julian--Although you are one of those who would `do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame,' I am not ignorant of the debt of gratitude which I owe to you for providing me with the means of recovering my fortunes, and beginning life afresh in another hemisphere. "Our lots in life, since at Harton we ran a neck and neck race, have been widely different, and while the happy months have been rolling for _you_ on silver wheels, and the happy hours speeding by you with white feet, to me Time has been:-- "`A maniac scattering dust, And Life a Fury slinging flame.' "How much I have gone through in the last year--the accumulated agony of remorse, bereavement, and ruin--no human soul can tell. No wonder my bark was wrecked after such mad and careless navigation; but, thank God, the blow of the tempest that staggered and shattered it, and drove it on the reefs, has not sunk it utterly, and now, like a waif or stray, it is being carried to be refitted across a thousand leagues of sea. "I am not the Bruce you knew, but a wiser, sadder, and better man. I have not yet lost all hope. The old book of my life was so smutched and begrimed--torn, dogs-eared, and scrawled over--that it was scarcely worth while to turn over a new leaf. I have rather began a new volume altogether, and trust, by God's blessing, that when `Finis' comes to be written in it, some few of the pages will bear re-perusal. "`De Vayne!' how that name haunts me; how full it is of horror--De Vayne and Hazlet; and yet I hear that both have contributed to my help. It gives me new life to know that human hearts can be so full of forgiveness and of love. "Starting almost for another world--without fortune, without friends, with nothing but head and heart, the wreck of what I was--I sometimes feel so sad that I could wish myself out of the world altogether. Forgive me, then, for once more bringing before you a name which you can only connect with the most unpleasant and sombre thoughts, and pray for me that my efforts, (this time they are genuine and sincere), to improve my life, my talents, and my fortune, may be crowned with success. "We sail in an hour or sooner, for I hear them weighing anchor now. Good-bye. Accept my warmest thanks for all your kindnesses, and my wishes, (ah! that they were worthier!) for your happiness in life, and believe me, my dear Julian, your sincere and grateful friend-- "Vyvyan Bruce. "_P S_--I am positively alone; not one soul is here even to bid me good-bye. Eheu! jam serus vitam ingemo relictam!" Julian read the letter many times; he was touched by its delicate and eloquent sorrow--its fine and chastened thoughtfulness. He was no longer in a mood to work, but closed his books, and watched the faces in the fire. One thought filled him with joy and thankfulness; it was the thought that, though of his friends and acquaintances so many had gone wrong, yet God was leading them back again, by rough and thorny roads it might be, but still by sure roads to the right path once more. Hazlet, Bruce, Brogten--above all, his friend and brother Kennedy--were returning to the fold they had deserted, were learning that for him who has sinned and suffered, REPENTANCE IS THE WORK OF LIFE. And as these thoughts floated through Julian's mind, the words of an old prayer came back upon his lips--"That it may please Thee to strengthen such as do stand; and to _comfort and help the weak-hearted, and to raise up them that fall_; and finally, to beat down Satan under our feet." CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. A QUIET PROSPECT. "Patet omnibus veritas; nondum est prorsus occupata." Seneca, Epistolae 33. Julian's third year at Camford was by no means the happiest period of his life there, because the sad absence of Kennedy and De Vayne made a gap in his circle of friends which could not easily be filled up; but this was the _annus mirabilis_ of his university career. He gained prize after prize; he was always first class in the college examinations; he won the chancellor's medals for Latin and English verse, and, indeed, almost divided with Owen the honours of the place. To crown all, he gained the Ireford University scholarship, which Owen had won the year before. Of all the men of his year, he was the most honoured and respected; he wore the weight both of his honours and his learning "lightly like a flower," and there was a graceful humility, joined with his self-dependence, which won every heart, and prevented that jealousy which sometimes accompanies success. The most important event in his intellectual progress was the attention which he began to turn at this time to biblical and theological studies. He was thankful in later years that he had deferred such inquiries to a time when he was capacitated for them by a calm and sound judgment, and a solid basis of linguistic and historical knowledge. He had always looked forward to holy orders, and regarding the life of a clergyman as his appointed work, he considered that an honest, a critical, and an impartial study of the Bible was his first duty. In setting about it, he came to it as a little child; all he sought for was the simple truth, uncrushed by human traditions, unmingled with human dogmas, untrammelled by human interpretations, unadulterated by human systems. He found that he had a vast amount to unlearn, and saw clearly that if he fearlessly pursued his inquiries they would lead him so far from the belief of popular ignorance, as very probably to bar all worldly success in the sacred profession which he had chosen. But he knew that the profession _was_ sacred, and, fearless by nature, he determined to seek for truth and truth only, honestly following the prayerful conclusions of his clearest and most deliberate judgment. Even in these early days the freedom and honesty of his research drew on him slight sibilations of those whose religion was shallow and sectarian; in after years they were destined to bring on him open and positive persecution. Not that Julian was ever in the least degree obtrusive in stating his beliefs when they widely and materially differed from the expressed opinions of the majority; except, indeed, in the cases when such opinions appeared to him dishonest or dangerous. He was scrupulously careful not to wound the conscience of those who would have been unable to understand the ground of his arguments, even when they could not resist their logical statement; and in whom long custom was so inveterate that the weed of system could not be torn out of their hearts without endangering the flower of belief. With men like Hazlet--I mean the reformed and now sincere Hazlet--he either confined himself wholly to subjects on which differences were impossible, or, if questioned, stated his views with caution and consideration. It was only with the noisy and violent upholders of long-grounded error--error which they were too feeble to maintain except by mean invective or ignorant declamation--that Julian used the keen edge of his sarcasm, or the weighty sword of his moral indignation. He was not the man to bow down before the fool's-cap of tyrannous and blatant ignorance. If he could have chosen one utterance from the holy Scriptures, which to him was more precious in its full meaning than another, it was that promise, rich with inexhaustible blessing, "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." Perhaps there is no greater want in this age than a full, fair, _fearless_ religio clerici; the men who _could_ write it, dare not; and the men who dare write it, cannot. They say the age is not ripe for it; and if they mean that it would cause violent offence to the potent rulers of fashionable religious dogmatism, they are right. But I wander from my theme, and meddle with the subjects which this is not the place to touch upon. The close of Julian's undergraduate life was as honourable as its promise had been. He obtained a brilliant first class, and was bracketed with Owen as the best classic of his year. Lillyston also distinguished himself, and all three determined to read for Fellowships, which, before a year was over, they had the honour to obtain. Meanwhile a circumstance had happened which changed the course of Kennedy's intentions. After his conversation with Violet, he had often thought of his plans for the future, and written to her about them. Reconciled to the plan, of returning to Camford after the year of his rustication, he was now trying to settle his future profession. His way seemed by no means clear; he had never thought of being a clergyman, and now, more than ever, deemed himself unfitted for such a life. The long tedious delay of the bar to a man without any special interest; the sickness of hope deferred during the prime years of life the weariness of a distasteful study, and the heavy trial of dusky chambers in a city to a man who loved the sea and the country with a passionate love, deterred him from choosing the law. He had no liking for the army, except in time of war; the life of the officers whom he knew was not altogether to his mind, and he was neither inclined to gaiety nor fond of an occupation which offered so many temptations to listlessness and indolence. There was no immediate necessity to decide finally, because in any case he meant to take his degree, and looked forward with some hope, after his year of unswerving diligence in the retirement of Orton, to honours in the Tripos and the pleasant aid of a Saint Werner's Fellowship as the crown of his career. But on the whole, he began to think that he might be both useful and successful as a physician. He had a deep reverence for this earthly tabernacle of the immortal soul, and a hallowed and reverend curiosity about that "harp of a thousand strings," which, if it be untuned by sickness, mars every other melody of life. Violet entered into all his views, and they determined to leave the matter thus until Kennedy should have donned his B A gown. But about this period that public step was taken of throwing open to competition the Indian civil service appointments, which has been of such enormous advantage to the "middle-classes" of England by offering to them, as the reward of industry, the opportunity of a new and honourable profession, and which seems likely to be prolific of good results to the future of our Empire in the East. Directly Kennedy saw the announcement of the examination, he grasped with avidity the chance of a provision for life which it afforded, and easily obtained the assent both of his own and of Julian's family to offer himself as a candidate. Of course they contemplated with sorrow the prospect of so long a separation as the plan involved, but they saw that he himself was strongly desirous to win their approval of his proposition, and of course his wishes were Violet's too. So Kennedy went in for the civil service examination, and acquitted himself so admirably that his name headed the list of successful competitors, and he was told that he must prepare himself to leave England in a year for the post to which they appointed him. This happened about the time that Julian took his degree, and before the year was over Julian had been elected a Fellow, and the living of Elstan was offered to him. Being of small value--200 pounds a year--it had been rejected by all the Fellows of older standing, and had "come down" to Julian, who, to the surprise of his friends, left Camford and accepted it without hesitation. "My dear fellow," said Mr Admer, "how in the world can you be so insane as to bury yourself alive, at the age of twenty-two, in so obscure a place as the vicarage of Elstan?" "Oh, Elstan is a charming place," said Julian; "I visited it before accepting it, and found it to be one of those dear little English villages in the greenest fields of Wiltshire. The house is a very pretty one, and the parish is in perfect order. My predecessor was an excellent man: his population, of one thousand souls, were perhaps as well attended to as any in all England." "Yes, yes," said Mr Admer, impatiently, "I know all that; but who will ever hear of you again if you go and become what Sydney Smith calls `a kind of holy vegetable' in the cabbage-gardens of a Wiltshire hamlet?" "Why, what would you have me do, Mr Admer?" "Oh, I don't know; stay up here, edit a Greek play, or one of the epistles; bestir yourself for some rising university member in a contested election; set yourself to get a bishopric or a deanery; you could easily do it if you tried. I'll give you a receipt for it any day you like. Or go to some London church; with such sermons as you could preach you might have London at your heels in no time, and as you would superadd learning to effectiveness, your fortune would be made." Julian was sorry to hear him talk like this; it was the language of a disappointed and half-believing man. "I don't care for such aims," he said. "A _mere_ popular preacher I would not be, and as for preferment it doesn't depend much on me, but for the most part on purely accidental causes. All I care for at present is to be useful and happy. Obscurity is no trial to me; neither success nor failure can make me different from what I am." "Well then, at least, write a book or something to keep yourself in men's memory." "I don't feel inclined. There are too many books in the world, and I have nothing particular to say. Besides, the annoyance and spite to which an author subjects himself are endless--to hear ignorant and often malicious criticisms, to see his views misrepresented, his motives calumniated, and his name aspersed. No, for the present, I prefer the peace and the dignity of silence." "What on earth will you find to do, then, if you have no ambition?" "Nay, I don't want you to think that I'm so virtuous or so phlegmatic as to have no ambition. I _have_ a passionate ambition, whether known or unknown, so to live as to lead on the coming golden age, and prepare the next generation to be truer and wiser than ours. If it be my destiny never to be called to a wider sphere of work than Elstan, I shall be content to do it there." "And how will you occupy your time?" asked Mr Admer, who had long loved Julian too well even to smile at what were to himself mere unintelligible enthusiasms. "Oh, no fear on that score. My profession will give me plenty of work; besides, what is the use of education, if it be not to render it _impossible_ for a man to know the meaning of the word ennui? Put me alone in the waiting-room of some little wayside station to wait three hours for a train, and I should still be perfectly happy, even if there were no such thing as a book to be got for miles." "Well, well, if you must vanish to Elstan, do. At any rate, remember your old Camford friends, and let us hear of you sometimes? I suppose you'll keep on your Fellowship at least for a year?" "Insidious questioner!" said Julian; "no, I hope to be married very soon. You shall come down and see love in a cottage." "Aha, I see it all now," said Mr Admer, with a sigh. "Nay, you mustn't sigh. I expect to be congratulated, not pitied," said Julian, gaily. "A wife will sweeten all the cares and sorrows of life, and instead of withering away my prime in selfish isolation, and spending these still half-youthful years in loneliness, and without a real home, I shall feel myself complete in the materials of happiness. After all, ambition such as yours is a loveless bride." So Julian accepted Elstan, and Lillyston went with him to London to help him in selecting furniture for the vicarage which was so soon to receive a bride. "Are you really going to venture on matrimony with only 200 pounds a year?" asked Lillyston. "I have some more of my own, you know, Hugh; Mr Carden's legacy, you remember; but even if I hadn't, I would still marry even on a hundred a year if I wished and the lady consented." "And repent at leisure." "Not a bit of it. If I were a man to whom lavender-coloured kid gloves and unlimited eau-de-cologne were necessaries of life, it might be folly to think of it. But if a man be brave, and manly, and fearless of convention, let him marry by all means, and not make his life bitter and his love cold by long delay." "But how about his children?" "Well, it may be fanaticism, but I believe that God never sends a soul into the world without providing ample means for its sustenance. Of course, such an assertion will set the tongues of our would-be philosophers waggling in scornful cachinnation; but, in spite of that, I do believe that if a man have faith, and a strong heart, and common sense, he may depend upon it his children will not starve. Some of the very happiest people I know are to be found among the large families of country clergymen. Besides, very often the children succeed in life, and improve their father's position. I haven't the shadow of a doubt that I am doing the right thing. I only wish, Hugh, that you would follow my example." "Perhaps I shall, some day," said Lillyston. "And meanwhile you will be my bridegroom's man, will you not?" "Joyfully--if it be only to see Miss Kennedy's face again." "And do you know that Kennedy is to be married to Violet the same day?" "Is he? happy fellow! As for me, I am going to resign my fellowship, and to make myself useful at Lillyston Court. When is the wedding to be?" "_Both_ weddings, you mean, Hugh. On the tenth of next June at Orton-on-the-Sea--the loveliest spot in the world, I think." So in due time Julian packed up all his books and prizes, and bade farewell to his friends, and turned his back on Camford. It is as impossible to leave one's college without emotion as it is to enter it, and the tears often started to Julian's eyes as the train whirled him off to Elstan. He had cause, if any man ever had, to look back to Camford with regret and love. His course had been singularly successful, singularly happy. He had entered Saint Werner's as a sizar, he left it as a Fellow, and not "With academic laurels unbestowed." He had grown in calmness, in strength, in wisdom; he had learnt many practical lessons of life; he had gained new friends, without losing the old. He had learnt to honour all men, and to be fearless for the truth. His mind had become a well-managed instrument, which he could apply to all purposes of discovery, research, and thought; he was wiser, better, braver, nearer the light. In a word, he had learnt the great purpose of life--sympathy and love to further man's interest--faith and prayer to live ever for God's glory. And not a few of these lessons he owed to his college, to its directing influence, its ennobling associations, its studies--all bent towards that which is permanent and eternal, not to the transitory and superficial. To the latest day of his life, the name of Saint Werner's remained to Julian Home an incentive to all that is noble and manly in human effort. He felt the same duty with regard to it as the generous scion of an illustrious house feels towards the ancient name which he has inherited, and the noble lineage whence he has sprung. The few months which were to elapse before his marriage, Julian spent in preparing the vicarage for his young betrothed, and he stored it with everything which could delight a simple yet refined and educated taste. There was an indefinable charm about it--the charm of home. You felt on entering it that its owner destined it as the place around which his fondest affections were to centre, and his work in life was to be done. Julian had not the restless mind which sighs for continual change; happy in himself and his own resources, and the honest endeavour to do good, the glory of the green fields, the changes of the varying year supplied him with a wealth of beauty which was sufficient for all his needs, and when--after some long day's work amid the cottages, reading to the sick at their lonely bedsides, listening to the prattle of the children in the infant schools, talking to the labourers as they rested at their work--he refreshed himself by a gallop across the free fresh downs, or a quiet stroll under the rosy apple-blossoms of his orchard or garden, Julian might have said with more truth than most men can, that he was a happy and a contented man. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. FAREWELL. "Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously swells!" Edgar Poe. Merrily, merrily, rang out the sweet bells of Orton-on-the-Sea; more merrily than they ever rang before; so merrily that it seemed as if they would concentrate into every single clash and clang of their joyous peal a tumult of inexpressible happiness greater than they would ever be able to enjoy again. If you look up at the belfry, you will see them swing and dance in a very delirium of ecstasy, such as made everybody laugh while he listened, and chased away the possibility of sorrow, and thrilled the very atmosphere with an impression of hilarity and triumph. All Orton is a-stir. Mr Kennedy is the squire of the parish, and the villagers may well love him as they do. The son and daughter of the squire are not often married on the same day; and besides the double wedding with its promise of an evening banquet, and dance on the hall lawn to all the people of Orton, Eva and Edward are known well to every cottager, and loved as well as known. The hall is quite full, and the village inn is quite full, and all the neighbouring gentry who are invited, are hospitably entertaining such members of the two families as can find room nowhere else. Never had Orton seen such grand doings; the very stables and coach-houses are insufficient to receive the multitude of carriages. Several Saint Wernerians are invited; and, (as both Julian and Kennedy prefer to be alone on that morning), Lillyston, who has visited the place before, is lionising them in the neighbourhood, and with Willie, Kennedy's orphan cousin, rows them over to the little islet in the bay. As they come back, the hour for the wedding approaches, and Lillyston says to Owen--"How I wish De Vayne were here!" "But he is in Florence, is he not?" says Owen. They have hardly spoken when a carriage with a coronet on the panels dashes up to the Lion Inn; a young man alights, hands out a lady, and enters the inn. "Surely that must be De Vayne himself," says Suton running forward. Meanwhile the young man, after taking the lady into a private room, asks if he may see Mr Home or Mr Kennedy, and is showed up to the parlour in which they are sitting. "De Vayne!" they both exclaim in surprise. "Yes, Julian!" he answered cheerily; "I only returned from Florence two days ago, heard of your marriage from the Ildown people, and determined to come with my mother a self-invited guest." "Don't fear for my feelings," he continued, turning to Kennedy. "Nothing is so useless or dangerous as to nurse a hopeless love, like the flame burning in the hearts of the banqueters, at the feast of Eblis. No, Kennedy, I love Violet, but only as a sister now, and you must not be afraid if I claim one kiss after the marriage from the bride. You shall have the same privilege some day soon." "Your coming is the completion of my happiness," said Kennedy, cordially shaking his hand. "I will run and tell Violet at once, lest she should be alarmed by seeing you." "Yes, and to show her why we may continue to have communion as friends, tell her that there is a gentle Florentine girl, with dark eyes, and dark hair, and a sweet voice, who, as my mother will bear witness, has promised in a year's time to leave her Casa d'oro for Other Hall," he said smiling. They took him down to see the others, who rejoiced to see him nearly as much as they did, and the time sped on for the wedding to be performed. The carriages had already started to convey the bridegrooms and their friends to church, when another carriage drove rapidly along the street, carrying another most unexpected guest. It had been arranged that Cyril and Frank should come down to Orton on the morning of the ceremony, as there was a difficulty in finding room for them. It was very late, and they were beginning to be afraid that the boys had missed a train, and would not arrive till after the ceremony, when they made their triumphant entry into Orton in a carriage by the side of--Lady Vinsear! Only imagine! Being left almost alone at Ildown while the others had gone to Orton to make arrangements for the marriage, Cyril had audaciously proposed to his brother that, as it was through them that Lady Vinsear's wrath had been kindled against Julian, they should go over and see whether the old lady would admit them into her presence or in any way suffer herself to be pacified. The proposal was quite a sudden one, and the thought had only come into Cyril's head because he had nothing else to do. But he had no sooner thought of it than he determined to carry it out. He felt certain that Lady Vinsear could not be so totally unlike his late father as to have become wholly ill-natured and implacable, and he was sure that no harm could result from his visit even if no good were done. So the boys drove over in a pony-chaise to Lonstead Abbey, and knocking at the door, asked if Lady Vinsear was at home. "Yes," said the old servant, opening his eyes in astonishment at the apparition of the two boys, whom he had only seen as children four years before. "Then, ask if she will see Mr Cyril and Master Frank Home. Stop, though; is Miss Sprong at home?" "Oh, no, Master Cyril; bless you, Miss Sprong, sir, has gone and married Farmer Jones this year gone." "Has she indeed? Oh, then, take my message, please, James." They had come at the right moment. In the large drawing-room of Lonstead Abbey, Lady Vinsear was sitting with no companion but the orphan girl of a villager, to whom she gave a home, and who was amusing herself with a picture-book on a low stool by the fire; for though it was summer, the fire was lighted to give cheerfulness to the room. When Miss Sprong married a neighbouring farmer, Lady Vinsear had given her a handsome dowry, and refused ever to see her again, being in fact heartily tired of her malice and sycophancy, and above all, resenting the new breach which she had caused between herself and her brother's family. Ever since her quarrel with Julian, Lady Vinsear had bitterly regretted the violence which had cut off from her that natural affection to which she had looked as the stay of her declining years. She had grown sadder as she grew older, and the loneliness of her life weighed heavily on her heart, yet in her obstinate pride she made an unutterable resolve never to take the initiative in restoring Julian to her favour. And as she sat there by the fire, longing in her secret soul for the society and love of some young hearts of her own kith and kin, she glanced away from the uninteresting little girl whom she had taken as a protegee to the likeness of Julian's bright and thoughtful boyish features, (which still, in spite of Miss Sprong, had retained a place over the mantel-piece), and remembered the foolish little incident which had led to her rejection of him as her heir. The tears started to her eyes as she thought of it, and wished with all her heart that the two gay and merry boys whose frolic had caused the _fracas_ were with her once more. How much she should now enjoy the pleasant sound of their young voices, and how gladly she would join in their unrestrained and innocent laughter. So when the bewildered James asked in his never-varying voice, "whether Master Cyril and Frank Home might see her," Lady Vinsear fancied that she was seeing in a dream the fulfilment of her unexpressed wishes, and rubbed her eyes to see if she could really be wide awake. "What's all this, James?--are you James, or am I in a dream?" "James, your ladyship." "And do you really mean to tell me that my nephews are outside?" "Yes, please your ladyship." "Well, then, don't keep them there a minute longer, James. Run along, Annie," she said to the little girl, "it is time for you to be in bed." Annie had hardly retired, when--a little shyly--the boys entered, uncertain of their reception. But Lady Vinsear started from her seat, and embraced them with the utmost affection. "My dear Cyril," she said, kissing him again; "how tall and handsome you have grown; and Frankie, too, you are the image of Julian when he was your age." The boys were amazed at the heartiness with which she welcomed them, as though nothing had happened, and after she had given them a capital supper, she said to them, "Now, boys, I see you are rather puzzled at me. Never mind that; don't think of what has happened. We mean all to be friends now. And now tell me all about Julian." They found, however, that Lady Vinsear knew a good deal about his college career from her neighbour Lord De Vayne, who had kept her acquainted with all his successes and honours up to the period when De Vayne left Other Hall. Since then she had not been able to gain much information about him, and had not heard the news either of his fellowship, his approaching marriage, or his acceptance of a college living. She listened eagerly to the intelligence, and finally asked if he knew of their visit. "No," said Cyril, laughing; "neither he nor any of them. Now, Aunt Vinsear, you really must do me a favour. You know Vi is to be married at Orton on the same day as Julian; won't you come with us to the wedding, and surprise them all? If you were to start by an early train, and take the carriage with you, we should drive up in time for the ceremony, and it would be such a happy joke for all concerned." The old lady was delighted with the plan. Meeting on such an occasion, when the minds of all were so much occupied, would avert the necessity of anything approaching to a scene, which of all things she most dreaded. She felt a flood of new interests, occupations, and hopes; she made the boys stay with her until the appointed day, and looked forward to Cyril's triumph with a delight which made her happier than she had been for many a long year. And thus it was that Cyril and Frank drove into the town in gallant style, accompanied by Lady Vinsear! They stopped at the door of the Lion, and hearing that Julian had started, got white favours placed at the horses' heads, and dashed on to the church. The brides had not arrived, but they were expected every moment; and Mr Vere, (who had most kindly come to perform the ceremony), was putting on his surplice in the vestry, while Julian and Kennedy, with Owen, Lillyston, and De Vayne, were strolling up and down a pretty, retired laurel walk behind the church. Hearing where they were, the boys, accompanied by their aunt, boldly invaded their privacy, and reached the end of the walk just as the gentlemen were approaching to enter the church. "Good gracious! Lady Vinsear!" said De Vayne. "Hush, hush!" she said. "Come here, Julian, and kiss your old aunt, and welcome her on your wedding-day, and don't think of bygones. I am proud to see you, my boy;" and he felt a tear on his cheek as the old lady drew down his head to kiss him. "And now," she said, "don't tell any of the rest that I have come till after the marriage. I hear the sound of wheels. Put me in some pew near the altar, Julian, that I may have a good long look at your bride, and Violet's bridegroom." They had just time to fulfil her wish when the carriages drove up, and the bridal procession formed, and, followed by their bride's-maids, Violet and Eva passed up the aisle, in all their loveliness, with wreaths of myrtle and orange-flower round their fair foreheads, and long, graceful veils, and simple ornaments of pearl. Beautiful to see! A bride always looks beautiful, but these two were radiant and exquisite in their loveliness. Which was the fairest? I cannot tell. Most men would have given the golden apple to Eva, with the sweet, tender grace that played about her young features, almost infantile in their delicacy, and with those bright, beaming, laughter-loving eyes, of which the light could not be hid though she bent her face downwards to hide the bridal blush that tinged it; but yet they would have doubted about the decision when they turned from her to the full flower of Violet's beauty, and gazed on her perfect face, so enchanting in its meekness, and on that one tress of golden hair that played upon her neck. De Vayne, as he looked on the perfect scene, took out a piece of paper, and wrote on it Spenser's lines:-- "Behold, while she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks And blesses her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheeks And the pure snow with golden vermeil stain, Like crimson dyed in grain." He handed the lines to Lillyston and Owen, and they saw from the happy smile upon his face that no touch of regret or envy marred his present meditations. Has life any pleasure--any deep, unspoken happiness--comparable to that which fills a young's man whole soul when he stands beside the altar with such a bride as Violet or Eva was?--when he thinks that the fair, blushing girl, whose white hand trembles in his own, is to be the star of his home, the mother of his children, the sunbeam shining steadily on all his life? Verily he who hath experienced such a joy has found a jewel richer: "Than twenty seas though all their sands were pearl, Their waters crystal, and their rocks pure gold." The service was over, and in those few moments, four young souls had passed over the marble threshold of married life. Violet felt that the presence of De Vayne removed the only alloy to that deep happiness that spoke in the eloquent lustre of her eye, and she told him so as he bent to kiss her hand, and as Lady De Vayne clasped her to her heart with an affectionate embrace. All the people of the village awaited them at the porch, and as they passed along the path, the village children, lining the way, and standing heedless on the green mounds that covered the crumbling relics of mortality, scattered under their happy feet a thousand flowers. One passing thought, perhaps, about the lesson which those green mounds told, flitted through the minds of the bridal party as they left the trodden blossoms to wither on the churchyard path, but if so, it was but as the shadow of a summer cloud, and it vanished, as with a sudden clash the bells rang out again, thrilling the tremulous air with their enthusiasm of happy auguries, and the sailor boys of Orton gave cheer on cheer while brides and bridegrooms entered their carriages, and drove from under the umbrage of the churchyard yews to the elms and oaks and lime-tree avenues of the hall. Oh that happy day! The wedding breakfast had been laid in a large tent on the lawn, whence you could catch bright glimpses of the blue sea, and the islet, and the passing ships, while on all sides around it the garden glowed a paradise of blossom, and the fragrance of sweet flowers floated to them through the golden air. Rich fruits and gorgeous bouquets covered the table, and the whole tent was gay with wreaths and anadems. And then, what ringing laughter, what merry jests, what earnest happy talk! Let us not linger there too long, and from this scene I bid avaunt to the coarse cynical reader; who is too strong-minded to believe in love. Only let the _gentle_ reader fancy for himself how beautiful were the few words with which Mr Vere proposed the health of the brides, and how long they remembered his earnest wish, that though the truest love is often that which has been sanctified by sorrow, yet that they might be spared the sorrow, and enjoy the truest love. And he will fancy how admirably Julian and Kennedy replied--Julian in words of poetic feeling and thoughtful power, Kennedy with quick flashes of picturesque expression, both with the eloquence of sincere and deep emotion; and how gracefully De Vayne proposed the health of the bridesmaids, for whom Cyril and Lillyston replied. Then, too quickly, came the hour of separation; the old shoe was flung after the carriages, the bridal couples departed for a tour among the lakes, and the villagers danced and feasted till twilight on the lawn. Six weeks are over since the marriage day, and there, in Southampton harbour, lies the _Valleyfield_, which is to convey Kennedy and Violet to Calcutta. They have just spoken the last, long, lingering farewell to Eva and Julian, who are standing in deep tearful silence on the pier, and are watching the little boat which is conveying their only brother and only sister to the ship. The boat is but a few moments in reaching the _Valleyfield_, and, when they are on board, the vessel weighs anchor, and ruffles her white plumage, and flings her pennons to the breeze, and begins to dash the blue water into foam about her prow. Violet and her husband are standing at the stern, and as long as the vessel is in sight they wave their hands in token of farewell. It is but a short time, and then the _Valleyfield_ grows into a mere dot on the horizon, and Eva and Julian, heedless of the crowds around them, do not check the tears as they flow, and speak to each other in voices broken by sorrow as they slowly turn away. That evening Violet and Kennedy knelt side by side in their little cabin to join in common prayer, and Julian led his Eva over the threshold of their quiet and holy home. And their path thenceforth was "as the shining light, shining more and more to the perfect day." THE END. 
6858	----	Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY Copyright, 1914 [Illustration: The Door Was Cautiously Opened to Mrs. Elwood.] CONTENTS I. Overton Claims Her Own II. The Unforseen III. Mrs. Elwood to the Rescue IV. The Belated Freshman V. The Anarchist Chooses Her Roommate VI. Elfreda Makes a Rash Promise VII. Girls and Their Ideals VIII. The Invitation IX. Anticipation X. An Offended Freshman XI. The Finger of Suspicion XII. The Summons XIII. Grace Holds Court XIV. Grace Makes a Resolution XV. The Quality of Mercy XVI. A Disgruntled Reformer XVII. Making Other Girls Happy XVIII. Mrs. Gray's Christmas Children XIX. Arline's Plan XX. A Welcome Guest XXI. A Gift to Semper Fidelis XXII. Campus Confidences XXIII. A Fault Confessed XXIV. Conclusion LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Door Was Cautiously Opened to Mrs. Elwood. "It Is My Theme." Each Girl Carried an Unwieldy Bundle. The Two Boxes Contained Elfreda's New Suit and Hat. Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College CHAPTER I OVERTON CLAIMS HER OWN "Oh, there goes Grace Harlowe! Grace! Grace! Wait a minute!" A curly-haired little girl hastily deposited her suit case, golf bag, two magazines and a box of candy on the nearest bench and ran toward a quartette of girls who had just left the train that stood puffing noisily in front of the station at Overton. The tall, gray-eyed young woman in blue turned at the call, and, running back, met the other half way. "Why, Arline!" she exclaimed. "I didn't see you when I got off the train." The two girls exchanged affectionate greetings; then Arline was passed on to Miriam Nesbit, Anne Pierson and J. Elfreda Briggs, who, with Grace Harlowe, had come back to Overton College to begin their second year's course of study. Those who have followed the fortunes of Grace Harlowe and her friends through their four years of high school life are familiar with what happened during "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School," the story of her freshman year. "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School" gave a faithful account of the doings of Grace and her three friends, Nora O'Malley, Anne Pierson and Jessica Bright, during their sophomore days. "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School" and "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School" told of her third and fourth years in Oakdale High School and of how completely Grace lived up to the high standard of honor she had set for herself. After their graduation from high school the four devoted chums spent a summer in Europe; then came the inevitable separation. Nora and Jessica had elected to go to an eastern conservatory of music, while Anne and Grace had chosen Overton College. Miriam Nesbit, a member of the Phi Sigma Tau, had also decided for Overton, and what befell the three friends as Overton College freshmen has been narrated in "Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College." Now September had rolled around again and the station platform of the town of Overton was dotted with groups of students laden with suit cases, golf bags and the paraphernalia belonging peculiarly to the college girl. Overton College was about to claim its own. The joyous greetings called out by happy voices testified to the fact that the next best thing to leaving college to go home was leaving home to come back to college. "Where is Ruth?" was Grace's first question as she surveyed Arline with smiling, affectionate eyes. "She'll be here directly," answered Arline. "She is looking after the trunks. She is the most indefatigable little laborer I ever saw. From the time we began to get ready to come back to Overton she refused positively to allow me to lift my finger. She is always hunting something to do. She says she has acquired the work habit so strongly that she can't break herself of it, and I believe her," finished Arline with a sigh of resignation. "Here she comes now." An instant later the demure young woman seen approaching was surrounded by laughing girls. "Stop working and speak to your little friends," laughed Miriam Nesbit. "We've just heard bad reports of you." "I know what you've heard!" exclaimed Ruth, her plain little face alight with happiness. "Arline has been grumbling. You haven't any idea what a fault-finding person she is. She lectures me all the time." "For working," added Arline. "Ruth will have work enough and to spare this year. Can you blame me for trying to make her take life easy for a few days?" "Blame you?" repeated Elfreda. "I would have lectured her night and day, and tied her up to keep her from work, if necessary." "Now you see just how much sympathy these worthy sophomores have for you," declared Arline. "Do you know whether 19-- is all here yet?" asked Anne. "I don't know a single thing more about it than do you girls," returned Arline. "Suppose we go directly to our houses, and then meet at Vinton's for dinner to-night. I don't yearn for a Morton House dinner. The meals there won't be strictly up to the mark for another week yet. When the house is full again, the standard of Morton House cooking will rise in a day, but until then--let us thank our stars for Vinton's. Are you going to take the automobile bus? We shall save time." "We might as well ride," replied Grace, looking inquiringly at her friends. "My luggage is heavy and the sooner I arrive at Wayne Hall the better pleased I shall be." "Are you to have the same rooms as last year?" asked Ruth Denton. "I suppose so, unless something unforeseen has happened." "Will there be any vacancies at your house this year?" inquired Arline. "Four, I believe," replied Anne Pierson. "Were you thinking of changing? We'd be glad to have you with us." "I'd love to come, but Morton House is like home to me. Mrs. Kane calls me the Morton House Mascot, and declares her house would go to rack and ruin without me. She only says that in fun, of course." "I think you'd make an ideal mascot for the sophomore basketball team this year," laughed Grace. "Will you accept the honor?" "With both hands," declared Arline. "Now, we had better start, or we'll never get back to Vinton's. Ruth, you have my permission to walk with Anne as far as your corner. It's five o'clock now. Shall we agree to meet at Vinton's at half-past six? That will give us an hour and a half to get the soot off our faces, and if the expressman should experience a change of heart and deliver our trunks we might possibly appear in fresh gowns. The possibility is very remote, however. I know, because I had to wait four days for mine last year. It was sent to the wrong house, and traveled gaily about the campus, stopping for a brief season at three different houses before it landed on Morton House steps. I hung out of the window for a whole morning watching for it. Then, when it did come, I fairly had to fly downstairs and out on the front porch to claim it, or they would have hustled it off again." "That's why I appointed myself chief trunk tender," said Ruth slyly. "That trunk story is not new to me. This time your trunk will be waiting on the front porch for you, Arline." "If it is, then I'll forgive you your other sins," retorted Arline. "That is, if you promise to come and room with me. Isn't she provoking, girls? I have a whole room to myself and she won't come. Father wishes her to be with me, too." "I'd love to be with Arline," returned Ruth bravely, "but I can't afford it, and I can't accept help from any one. I must work out my own problem in my own way. You understand, don't you?" She looked appealingly from one to the other of her friends, who nodded sympathetically. "She's a courageous Ruth, isn't she?" smiled Arline, patting Ruth on the shoulder. At Ruth's corner they said good-bye to her. Then hailing a bus the five girls climbed into it. "So far we haven't seen any of our old friends," remarked Grace as they drove along Maple Avenue. "I suppose they haven't arrived yet. We are here early this year." "I'd rather be early than late," rejoined Miriam. "Last year we were late. Don't you remember? There were dozens of girls at the station when we arrived. Arline and Ruth are the first real friends we have seen so far. Where are Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton, Emma Dean and Gertrude Wells, not to mention Virginia Gaines?" "If I'm not mistaken," said Elfreda slowly, her brows drawing together in an ominous frown, "there are two people just ahead of us whom we have reason to remember." Almost at the moment of her declaration the girls had espied two young women loitering along the walk ahead of them whose very backs were too familiar to be mistaken. "It's Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton, isn't it?" asked Anne. Grace nodded. They were now too close to the young women for further speech. A moment more and the bus containing the five girls had passed the loitering pair. Neither side had made the slightest sign of recognition. A sudden silence fell upon the little company in the bus. "It is too bad to begin one's sophomore year by cutting two Overton girls, isn't it?" said Grace, in a rueful tone. "Overton girls!" sniffed Elfreda. "I consider neither Miss Wicks nor Miss Hampton real Overton girls." "They should be by this time," reminded Miriam Nesbit mischievously. "They have been here a year longer than we have." "Years don't count," retorted Elfreda. "It's having the true Overton spirit that counts. You girls understand what I mean, even if Miriam tries to pretend she doesn't." "Of course we understand, Elfreda," soothed Anne. "Miriam was merely trying to tease you." "Don't you suppose I know that?" returned Elfreda. "I know, too, that you don't wish me to say anything against those two girls. All right, I won't, but I warn you, I'll keep on thinking uncomplimentary things about them. Last June, after that ghost party, I promised Grace I would never try to get even with Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton, but I didn't promise to like them, and if they attempt to interfere with me this year, they'll be sorry." "Oh, there's the campus!" exclaimed Arline as, turning into College Street, the long green slope, broken at intervals by magnificent old trees, burst upon their view. "Hello, Overton Hall!" she cried, waving her hand to that stately building. "Doesn't the campus look like green plush, though! I love every inch of it, don't you?" She looked at her companions and, seeing the light from her face reflected on theirs, needed no verbal answer to her question. A moment later she signaled to the driver to stop the bus. "I shall have to leave you here," she said. "I'll see you at Vinton's at six-thirty." Grace handed out her luggage to her, saying: "You have so much to carry, Arline. Shall I help you?" "Mercy, no," laughed Arline. "'Every woman her own porter,' is my motto." Opening her suit case she stuffed the candy and magazines into it, snapping it shut with a triumphant click. Then with it in one hand, her golf bag in the other, she set off across the campus at a swinging pace. "She's little, but she has plenty of independence and energy," laughed Miriam. "Hurrah, girls, there's Wayne Hall just ahead of us." It was only a short ride from the spot where Arline had left them to Wayne Hall. Grace sprang from the bus almost before it stopped, and ran up the stone walk, her three friends following. Before she had time to ring the door bell, however, the door opened and Emma Dean rushed out to greet them. "Welcome to old Wayne," she cried, shaking hands all around. "I heard Mrs. Elwood say this morning you would be here late this afternoon. I've been over to Morton House, consoling a homesick cousin who is sure she is going to hate college. I've been out since before luncheon. Had it at Martell's with my dolorous, misanthropic relative. I tried to get her in here, but everything was taken. We are to have four freshmen, you know." "I knew there were four places last June, but am rather surprised that no sophomores applied for rooms. Have you seen the new girls?" Emma shook her head. "They hadn't arrived when I left this morning. I don't know whether they are here now or not. I'm to have one of them. Virginia Gaines has gone to Livingstone Hall. She has a friend there. Two of the new girls will have her room. Florence Ransom will have to take the fourth." "Where's Mrs. Elwood?" asked Miriam. "She went over to see her sister this afternoon. She's likely to return at any minute," answered Emma. "Do you think we ought to wait for her?" Grace asked anxiously. "Hardly," said Anne, picking up her bag, which she had deposited on the floor. "Come on, I'll lead the way," volunteered Elfreda, starting up the stairs. "Won't Mrs. Elwood be surprised when she comes home? She'll find us not only here, but settled," laughed Grace. But it was Grace rather than Mrs. Elwood who was destined to receive the surprise. CHAPTER II THE UNFORESEEN Following Elfreda, the girls ran upstairs as fast as their weight of bags and suit cases would permit. Miriam pushed open her door, which stood slightly ajar, with the end of her suit case. "Any one at home?" she inquired saucily as she stepped inside. "Looks like the same old room," remarked Elfreda. "No, it isn't, either. We have a new chair. We needed it, too. You may sit in it occasionally, if you're good, Miriam." "Thank you," replied Miriam. "For that gracious permission you shall have one piece of candy out of a five-pound box I have in my trunk." "Not even that," declared Elfreda positively. "I said good-bye to candy last July. I've lost ten pounds since I went home from school, and I'm going to haunt the gymnasium every spare moment that I have. I hope I shall lose ten more; then I'll be down to one hundred and forty pounds and--" Elfreda stopped. "And what?" queried Miriam. "I can make the basketball team," finished Elfreda. "What is going on in the hall, I wonder?" Stepping to the door she called, "What's the matter, Grace? Can't you get into your room?" "Evidently not," laughed Grace. "It is locked. I suppose Mrs. Elwood locked it to prevent the new girls from straying in and taking possession." "H-m-m!" ejaculated Elfreda, walking over to the door and examining the keyhole. "Your supposition is all wrong, Grace. The door is locked from the inside. The key is in it." "Then what--" began Grace. "Yes, what?" quizzed Elfreda dryly. "'There was a door to which I had no key,'" quoted Miriam, as she joined the group. "Don't tease, Miriam," returned Grace, "even through the medium of Omar Khayyam. The key is a reality, but there is some one on the other side of that door who doesn't belong there. Whether she is not aware that she is a trespasser I do not know. However, we shall soon learn." Grace rapped determinedly on one of the upper panels of the door. "I'll help you," volunteered Elfreda. "And I," agreed Anne. "My services are needed, too," said Miriam Nesbit. Four fists pounded energetically on the door. There was an exclamation, the sound of hasty steps, the turning of a key in the lock, and the door was flung open. Facing them stood a young woman no taller than Anne, whose heavy eyebrows met in a straight line, and who looked ready for battle at the first word. "Will you kindly explain the reason for this tumult?" she asked in a freezing voice. "We were rather noisy," admitted Grace, "but we did not understand why the door should be locked from the inside." "Is it necessary that you should know?" asked the black-browed girl severely. Grace's clear-cut face flushed. "I think we are talking at cross purposes," she said quietly. "The room you are using belongs to my friend Anne Pierson and to me. During our freshman year it was ours, and when we left here last June it was with the understanding that we should have it again on our return to Overton." "I know nothing of any such arrangement," returned the other girl crossly. "The room pleases me, consequently I shall retain it. Kindly refrain from disturbing me further." With this significant remark the door was slammed in the faces of the astonished girls. A second later the click of the key in the lock told them that force alone could effect an entrance to the room. "Open that door at once," stormed Elfreda, beating an angry tattoo on the panel with her clenched fist. From the other side of the door came no sound. "Never mind, Elfreda," said Grace, fighting down her anger. "Mrs. Elwood will be here soon. There is some misunderstanding about the rooms. I am sure of it." "See here, Grace Harlowe, you are not going to give up your room to that beetle-browed anarchist, are you?" demanded Elfreda wrathfully. A peal of laughter went up from three young throats. "You are the funniest girl I ever knew, J. Elfreda Briggs," remarked Miriam Nesbit between laughs. "That new girl looks exactly like an anarchist--that is, like pictures of them I've seen in the newspapers." "That's why I thought of it, too," grinned Elfreda. "I once saw a picture of an anarchist who blew up a public building and he might have been this young person's brother. She looks exactly like him." "Stop talking about anarchists and talk about rooms," said Anne. "I must find some place to put my luggage. Besides, time is flying. Remember, we are to be at Vinton's at half-past six." "I should say time _was_ flying!" exclaimed Grace, casting a hurried glance at her watch. "It's ten minutes to six now. It will take us fifteen minutes to walk to Vinton's. That leaves twenty-five minutes in which to get ready." "There is no hope that the trunks will arrive in time for us to dress," said Miriam positively. "Come into our room and we'll wash the dust from our hands and faces and do our hair over again." "All right," agreed Grace, casting a longing glance at the closed door. "We'll have to put our bags in your room, too. I don't wish to leave them in the hall for unwary students to stumble over." "Bring them along," returned Miriam. "No one shall accuse us of inhospitality." "I wish Mrs. Elwood were here." Grace looked worried. "We mustn't stay at Vinton's later than half-past seven o'clock. There are so many little things to be attended to, as well as the important question of our room." Arriving at Vinton's at exactly half-past six o'clock, they found Arline Thayer and Ruth Denton waiting for them at a table on which were covers laid for six. "We've been waiting for ages!" exclaimed Arline. "But you said half-past six, and it is only one minute past that now," reminded Grace, showing Arline her watch. "Of course, you are on time," laughed the little girl. "I should have explained that I'm hungry. That is why I speak in ages instead of minutes." "Your explanation is accepted," proclaimed Elfreda, screwing her face into a startling resemblance to a fussy instructor in freshman trigonometry and using his exact words. The ready laughter proclaimed instant recognition of the unfortunate professor. "You can look like any one you choose, can't you, Elfreda?" said Arline admiringly. "I think your imitations of people are wonderful." "Nothing very startling about them," remarked the stout girl lightly. "I'd give all my ability to make faces to be able to sing even 'America' through once and keep on the key. I can't sing and never could. When I was a little girl in school the teachers never would let me sing with the rest of the children, because I led them all off the key. It was very nice at the beginning of the term, and I sang with the other children anywhere from once to half a dozen times, never longer than that. I had the strongest voice in the room and whatever note I sang the rest of the children sang. It was dreadful," finished Elfreda reminiscently. "It must have been," agreed Miriam Nesbit. "Can you remember how you looked when you were little, Elfreda?" "I don't have to tax my brain to remember," answered Elfreda. "Ma has photographs of me at every age from six months up to date. To satisfy your curiosity, however," her face hardened until it took on the stony expression of the new student who had locked Grace out of her room, "I will state that--" "The Anarchist! the Anarchist!" exclaimed Ruth and Miriam together. "What are you two talking about?" asked Ruth Denton. "About the Anarchist," teased Miriam. "Wait until you see her." "You have seen her," laughed Grace. "Elfreda just imitated her to perfection." Thereupon Grace related their recent unpleasant experience to Arline and Ruth. "What are you going to do about it?" asked Arline. "We will see Mrs. Elwood as soon as we return to Wayne Hall, and ask her to gently, but firmly, request the Anarchist to move elsewhere." "Why do you call her the Anarchist?" asked Arline. "Elfreda, please repeat your imitation," requested Miriam, her black eyes sparkling with fun. Elfreda complied obediently. "You understand now, don't you?" laughed Grace. "I should be very stupid if I didn't," declared Arline. "Of course she's dark, with eyebrows an inch wide. You can't expect me to give an imitation of anything like that," apologized Elfreda. "I think I should recognize her on sight," smiled Ruth Denton. "We are miles off our original subject," remarked Grace. "Elfreda hasn't told us how she looked as a child." "All right. I'll tell you now," volunteered J. Elfreda graciously. "I had round, staring blue eyes and a fat face. I wore my hair down my back in curls--that is, when it was done up on curlers the night before--and it was almost tow color. I had red cheeks and was ashamed of them, and my stocky, square-shouldered figure was anything but sylphlike. I was not beautiful, but I was very well satisfied with myself, and to call me 'Fatty' was to offer me deadly insult. That is about as much as I can remember," finished the stout girl. "Really, Elfreda, while you were describing yourself I could fairly see you," smiled Arline. "Now it's your turn," reminded Elfreda. "I imagine you were a cunning little girl." Arline flushed at the implied compliment. "Father used to call me 'Daffydowndilly,'" she began. "My hair was much lighter than it is now, but it has always been curly. I am afraid I used to be very vain, for I loved to stand and smile at myself in the mirror simply because I liked my yellow curls and was fascinated with my own smile. No one told me I was vain, for Mother died when I was a baby, and even my governess laughed to see me worship my own reflection. When I was twelve years old, Father engaged a governess who was different from the others. She was a widow and had to support herself. She was highly educated and one of the sweetest women I have ever known. When she took charge of me I was a vain, stupid little tyrant, but she soon made me over. She remained with me until I entered a prep school, then an uncle whom she had never seen died and left her some money. She's coming to Overton to see me some day. Overton is her Alma Mater, too." "You are next, Grace," nodded Ruth. "There isn't much to tell about me," began Grace. "I was the tomboy of Oakdale. I loved to climb trees and play baseball and marbles. I was thin as a lath and like live wire. My face was rather thin, too, and I remember I cried a whole afternoon because a little girl at school called me 'saucer-eyes.' There wasn't a suspicion of curl in my hair, and I wore it in two braids. I never thought much about myself, because I was always too busy. I was forever falling in with suspicious looking characters and bringing them home to be fed. Mother used to throw up her hands in despair at the acquaintances I made. Then, too, I had a propensity for bestowing my personal possessions on those who, in my opinion, needed them. Mother and I were not always of the same opinion. I wore my everyday coat to church for a whole winter as a punishment for having given away my best one without consulting her. With me it was a case of act first and think afterward. I don't believe I was particularly mischievous, but I had a habit of diving into things that kept Mother in a state of constant apprehension. Father used to laugh at my pranks and tell Mother not to worry about me. He used to declare that no matter into what I plunged I would land right side up with care. I was never at the head of my classes in school, but I was never at the foot of them. I was what one might call a happy medium. My little-girl life was a very happy one, and full to the brim with all sorts of pleasant happenings." "I never heard you say so much about yourself before, Grace," observed Elfreda. "I'm usually too much interested in other people's affairs to think of my own," laughed Grace. "I have never heard Anne say much about her childhood, either. She must have had all sorts of interesting experiences." "Mine was more exciting than pleasant," returned Anne. "Practically speaking, I was brought up in the theatre and knew a great deal more about things theatrical than I did about dolls and childish games. I was a solemn looking little thing and wore my hair bobbed and tied up with a ribbon. I never cried about the things that most children cry over, but I would stand in the wings and weep by the hour over the pathetic parts of the different plays we put on. Father was a character man in a stock company. We lived in New York City and I used to frequently go to the theatre with him. My father wished me to become a professional, but my mother was opposed to it. When I was sixteen I played in a company for a short time. Then mother and sister and I went to Oakdale to live, and the nicest part of my life began. There I met Grace and Miriam and two other girls who are among my dearest friends. Nothing very exciting has ever happened to me, and even though I have appeared before the public I haven't as much to tell as the rest of you have." "But countless things must have happened to you in the theatre," persisted Arline, looking curiously at Anne. "Not so many as you might imagine," replied Anne. Then she said quickly, "Miriam must have been an interesting little girl." "I was a very haughty young person," answered Miriam. "In the Oakdale Grammar School I was known as the Princess. Do you remember that, Grace?" Grace nodded. "Miriam used to order the girls in her room about as though they were her subjects," she declared. "She had two long black braids of hair and her cheeks were always pink. She was the tallest girl in her room and the teachers used to say she was the prettiest." "I was a regular tyrant," went on Miriam. "I had a frightful temper. I was a snob, too, and looked upon girls whose parents were poor with the utmost contempt." "Miriam Nesbit, you can't be describing yourself!" exclaimed Arline incredulously. "Ask Grace if I am not giving an accurate description of the Miriam Nesbit of those days," challenged Miriam. "It isn't fair to ask me," fenced Grace. "You always invited me to your parties." "There, you can draw your own conclusions," retorted Miriam triumphantly. "I don't object to telling about my past shortcomings as I have at last outgrown a few of my disagreeable traits." "Were you and Grace friends then?" asked Arline. "We played together and went to each other's houses, but we were never very chummy," explained Grace. "We were both too headstrong and too fond of our own way to be close friends. It was after we entered high school that we began to find out that we liked each other, wasn't it, Miriam?" "Yes," returned Miriam, looking affectionately at her friend. In two sentences Grace had effectually bridged a yawning gap in Miriam's early high school days of which the latter was heartily ashamed. "Every one has told a tale but Ruth," declared Elfreda. "Now, Ruth, what have you to say for yourself?" "Not much," said Ruth, shaking her head. "So far, my life has been too gray to warrant recording. That is, up to the time I came to Overton," she added, smiling gratefully on the little circle. "My freshman year was a very happy one, thanks to you girls." "But when you were a child you must have had a few good times that stand out in your memory," persisted Elfreda. Ruth's face took on a hunted expression. Her mouth set in hard lines. "No," she said shortly. "There was nothing worth remembering. Perhaps I'll tell you some day, but not now. Please don't think me hateful and disobliging, but I don't wish to talk of myself." Arline Thayer eyed Ruth with displeasure. "I don't see why you should say that, Ruth. We have all talked of ourselves," she said coldly. Ruth flushed deeply. She felt the note of censure in Arline's voice. "I think we had better go," announced Grace, consulting her watch. "It is now half-past seven. We ought to be at Wayne Hall by eight o'clock. You know the Herculean labor I have before me." "Herculean labor is a good name for our coming task," chuckled Anne. "The Anarchist will make Wayne Hall resound with her vengeful cries when she is thrust out of the room with all her possessions." Jesting light-heartedly over the coming encounter, the diners strolled out of Vinton's and down College Street in the direction of the campus. Arline was the first to leave them. Her good night to the four girls from Wayne Hall was cordial in the extreme, but to Ruth she was almost distant. A little later on they said good night to Ruth, who looked ready to cry. "Cheer up," comforted Grace, who was walking with Ruth. "Arline will be all right to-morrow." "I hope so," responded Ruth mournfully. "I did not mean to make her angry, only there are some things of which I cannot speak to any one." "I understand," rejoined Grace, wondering what Ruth's secret cross was. "Good night, Ruth." Elfreda, Miriam and Anne bade Ruth goodnight in turn. "Now, for the tug of war," declared Elfreda as they hurried up the steps of Wayne Hall. "On to the battlefield and down with the Anarchist!" CHAPTER III MRS. ELWOOD TO THE RESCUE As Grace approached the curtained archway that divided the living-room from the hall she could not help wishing that she might have settled the affair without Mrs. Elwood's assistance. She was not afraid to approach Mrs. Elwood, who was the soul of good nature, but Grace disliked the idea of the scene that she felt sure would follow. The young woman now occupying the room that she and Anne had re-engaged for their sophomore year would contest their right to occupy it. Mrs. Elwood would be obliged to set her foot down firmly. It would all be extremely disagreeable. Grace reflected. Then the memory of the Anarchist's glaring incivility returned, and without further hesitation Grace walked into the living-room, followed by her companions. Mrs. Elwood, who was sitting in her favorite chair reading a magazine, looked up absently, then, staring incredulously at the newcomers, trotted across the room, both hands outstretched in welcome. "Why, Miss Harlowe and Miss Nesbit, I had given you up for to-night. Here are Miss Pierson and Miss Briggs, too. I'm so glad to see you. When did you arrive? I thought there was no train from the north before nine o'clock." "Didn't Miss Dean tell you we had arrived?" asked Grace, as Mrs. Elwood shook hands in turn with each girl. "I haven't seen Miss Dean. She went out before I came home," replied Mrs. Elwood. "Wait until we catch the faithless Emma," threatened Anne. "She promised to be our herald. We arrived here at a little after five o'clock. We did not stay here long, for Miss Thayer, of Morton House, invited us to dinner at Vinton's." "How do you like the way I fixed your room this year?" asked Mrs. Elwood. "We haven't been in it yet," answered Grace. "That is, we went only as far as the door." "Oh, then you must see it at once," said Mrs. Elwood briskly. "I have had it repapered. There is a new rug on the floor, too, and I have put a new Morris chair in and taken out one of the cane-seated chairs." "No wonder the Anarchist refuses to vacate," muttered Elfreda. "What did you say, my dear?" remarked Mrs. Elwood amiably. "Oh, I was just talking nonsense," averred Elfreda solemnly. "I won't keep you girls out of your rooms any longer. I know you must be tired from your long journey. Come upstairs at once." Mrs. Elwood had already crossed the room and was out in the hall, her foot on the first step of the stairs. The girls exchanged glances. There was a half smothered chuckle from Elfreda, then Grace hurried after their good-natured landlady. "Wait a minute, Mrs. Elwood," began Grace, "I have something to tell you before you go upstairs. This afternoon, when we arrived, we went directly to our rooms. The door of our room was locked, however. We knocked repeatedly, and it was at last opened by a young woman who said the room was hers and refused to allow us to enter it." During this brief recital Mrs. Elwood looked first amazed, then incredulous. Her final expression was one of lively displeasure, and with the exclamation, "I might have known it!" she marched upstairs with the air of a grenadier, the girls filing in her wake. Pausing before the door she listened intently. The sound of some one moving within could be heard distinctly. Mrs. Elwood rapped sharply on the door. The footsteps halted; after a few seconds the sound began again. "She thinks we have come back," whispered Elfreda. "So we have," smiled Grace, "with reinforcements." Her smile was reflected on the faces of her friends. Mrs. Elwood, however, did not smile. Two red spots burned high on her cheeks, her little blue eyes snapped. Again she knocked, this time accompanying the action with: "Open this door, instantly. Mrs. Elwood wishes to speak with you." "Do not imagine that you can gain entrance to this room through any such pretense," announced a contemptuous voice from the other side of the door. "I believe I stated that I did not wish to be disturbed." "And I state that you must open the door," commanded Mrs. Elwood. "You are not addressing one of the students. This is Mrs. Elwood." A grating of the key in the lock followed, then the door was cautiously opened far enough to allow a scowling head to be thrust out. The instant the Anarchist's narrowed eyes rested on Mrs. Elwood her belligerent manner changed. She swung the door wide, remarking in cold apology; "Pray, pardon me, Mrs. Elwood. I believed that a number of rude, ill-bred young women whom I had the misfortune to encounter earlier in the day were renewing their attempts to annoy me." "There are no such young women at Wayne Hall," retorted Mrs. Elwood, who was thoroughly angry. "The majority of the young women here were with me last year, and not one of them answers your description. Really, Miss Atkins, you must know that you are trespassing. This room belongs to Miss Harlowe and Miss Pierson. It was theirs last year and they arranged with me last June to occupy it again during their sophomore year. How you happened to be here is more than I can say. I believe I gave you the room at the end of the hall." "The room to which you assigned me did not meet with my approval," was the calm reply. "I prefer this room." "You can't have it," returned Mrs. Elwood decisively. "But I insist upon remaining where I am," persisted the intruder. "If necessary, I will allow Miss Harlowe or her roommate to occupy the other half of the room." "I have told you that you can not have the room," exclaimed Mrs. Elwood, eyeing her obstinate antagonist with growing disfavor. "If you do not wish to take the room at the end of the hall, then I have nothing else in the house to offer you. No doubt you can find board to suit you in some other house." "I wish to stay here," returned the Anarchist stubbornly. "Let Miss Harlowe have the room at the end of the hall." Sheer exasperation held Mrs. Elwood silent for a moment. The Anarchist peered defiantly at her from under her bushy eyebrows. She made no move toward vacating the room of which she had so coolly taken possession. "We'll go for our bags and suit cases, Mrs. Elwood," suggested Grace wickedly. "We left them in Miriam's room." "Very well," returned the intrepid landlady. "Your room will be ready for you when you return." "That is what I call a stroke of genius on your part, Grace," remarked Miriam, as they entered her room. "Mrs. Elwood can deal with the Anarchist more summarily without an audience." "It must be very humiliating for that Miss Atkins," mused Anne, "but it's her own fault." "Of course it's her own fault," emphasized Elfreda. "She doesn't appear to know when the pleasure of her company is requested elsewhere." "Shall we go now?" asked Anne, lifting her heavy suit case preparatory to moving. "Not yet," counseled Grace. "We must give her time enough to get out of sight before we appear." Elfreda boldly took up her station at the door and reported faithfully the enemy's movements. After a twenty minutes' wait, the stout girl closed the door with a bang, exclaiming triumphantly: "She's gone! She just paraded down the hall carrying her goods and chattels. Mrs. Elwood stalked behind carrying a hat box. She looked like an avenging angel. Hurry up, now, and move in before the Anarchist changes her mind and comes back to take possession all over again." Grace and Anne lost no time in taking Elfreda's advice. Five minutes later they were back in their old room. "Stay here a while, girls," invited Grace. Miriam and Elfreda had assisted their friends with their luggage. "How nice your room looks," praised Miriam. "I like that wall paper. It is so dainty. Your favorite blue, too, Grace. I wonder if Mrs. Elwood knew that blue was your color?" "I suppose so," returned Grace. "Two-thirds of my clothes are blue, you know. I must run downstairs and thank her for championing our cause. I won't be gone five minutes." "We must go," declared Miriam. "We are going to begin unpacking to-night." Running lightly down the stairs, Grace thrust her head between the portieres that separated the living-room from the hall. Mrs. Elwood sat reading her magazine as placidly as though nothing had happened within the last hour to disturb her equanimity. "Thank you ever so much, Mrs. Elwood," said Grace gratefully, walking up to the dignified matron and shyly offering her hand. "Nonsense, child!" was the reply. "You have nothing for which to thank me. You don't suppose I would allow a new boarder to infringe upon the rights of my old girls, do you?" "No," admitted Grace. "I'm sorry that things had to happen that way," she added regretfully. "Don't you worry about it any more, Miss Harlowe," comforted the older woman. "It's nothing you are to blame for. You had the first right to the room. I gave this girl Miss Gaines's old room. Her roommate is to be a freshman, too. She hasn't arrived yet. Miss Atkins decided to pick out her own room, I imagine. Evidently she took a fancy to yours. As soon as you girls had gone, she gave me one awful look, gathered up her belongings, and went to the other room without another word. I picked up two or three things she dropped and carried them down for her. I wouldn't be sorry if she went to some other house to board. She looks like a trouble maker." Grace was of the same opinion, but did not say so. Always eager to excuse other people's shortcomings, she found it hard to account for the feeling of strong dislike that had risen within her during her first encounter with the young woman Elfreda had laughingly named the Anarchist. She had hoped that the four freshmen at Wayne Hall would be girls whom it would be a pleasure to know. She had looked forward to meeting these newcomers and to assisting them in whatever way she could best give help. Now at least one of her castles in the air had been built in vain. "Perhaps we may like Miss Atkins after we know her better," she said, trying hard to keep the doubt she felt out of her voice. Mrs. Elwood shook her head. "I hope she will improve on acquaintance, but I doubt it. It isn't my principle, my dear, to speak slightingly of any student in my house, but I am certain that this is not the last time I shall have to lay down the law of Wayne Hall to Miss Atkins." At this plain speaking Grace flushed but said nothing. She understood that Mrs. Elwood's words had been spoken in confidence. "I'm so glad to see you again, Mrs. Elwood," she smiled, bent on changing the subject. "And I to see you, my dear," was the hearty response. "I have missed my Oakdale girls this summer." After a few moments' conversation Grace said good night and went slowly upstairs. In spite of her satisfaction at being back at Overton she could not repress a sigh of regret over the recent unpleasantness. "The unforeseen always happens," she reflected, pausing for a moment on the top step. "I hope the Anarchist will 'stay put' this time." She laughed softly at the idea of the Anarchist standing stiff and stationary in her new room. Then the ridiculous side of the encounter dawning on her, she sat down on the stairs and gave way to sudden silent laughter. "What did Mrs. Elwood say?" asked Anne as Grace entered the room. "I am afraid Mrs. Elwood is not, and never will be, an admirer of the Anarchist," said Grace. "Seriously speaking, she is half inclined to ask her to leave Wayne Hall. She believes she will have further trouble with her. Perhaps we should have waited. We might have tried, later, to gain possession of our room," added Grace doubtfully. Anne shook her head. "We would be waiting still, if we had attempted to settle matters without Mrs. Elwood." "But it seems too bad to begin one's sophomore year so unpleasantly. All summer I had been planning how helpful I would try to be to entering freshmen, and this is the way my splendid visions have materialized." Grace eyed Anne rather dejectedly. "Never mind," soothed Anne. "By to-morrow this little unpleasantness will have completely blown over. Perhaps the Anarchist," Anne smiled over the title Elfreda had bestowed upon the disturbing freshman, "will discover that she can make friends more quickly by being pleasant. She may reform over night. Stranger things have happened." "But nothing of that sort will happen in her case," declared Grace. "You said just a moment ago if it hadn't been for Mrs. Elwood we would still be out in the hall clamoring for a room, didn't you!" "I did," smiled Anne. "That was equivalent to accusing the Anarchist of stubbornness, wasn't it?" "It was." "Very well. If she is half as stubborn as I believe her to be, she won't be different to-night, to-morrow or for a long time afterward." CHAPTER IV THE BELATED FRESHMAN "The first thing I shall do this morning after breakfast is to unpack," announced Grace Harlowe with decision, as she gave her hair a last pat preparatory to going downstairs to breakfast. "Last year I was so excited over what studies I intended to take and meeting new girls that I unpacked by fits and starts. It was weeks before I knew where to find things. But I've reformed, now. I'm going to put every last article in place before I set foot outside Wayne Hall. Do you wish the chiffonier or the bureau this year, Anne, for your things?" "The chiffonier, I think," replied Anne, after due reflection. "I haven't as much to stow away as you have. It will do nicely for me." "There goes the breakfast bell!" exclaimed Grace. "Come along, Anne, I'm hungry. Besides, I'd like the same seat at the table that I had last year." Outside their door they were joined by Miriam and Elfreda, and the four friends stopped to talk before going downstairs. "Were you haunted by nightmares in which glowering Anarchists pranced about?" asked Miriam, her eyes twinkling. "No," replied Grace. "I slept too soundly even to dream." "I dreamed that I went into the registrar's office to get my chapel card," began Elfreda impressively. "When she handed it to me it was three times larger than the others. On it in big red letters was printed, 'The Anarchist, Her Card.' I thought I handed it back to her and tried to explain that I wasn't an anarchist because I had neither bushy eyebrows nor a scowl. She just sat and glared at me, saying over and over, 'Look in your mirror, look in your mirror,' until I grew so angry I threw the card at her. It hit her and she fell backward. That frightened me, although it seemed so strange that a little, light piece of pasteboard could strike with such force. I tried to lift her, but she grew heavier and heavier. Then--" "Yes, 'then,'" interposed Miriam, "I awoke in time to save myself from landing on the floor with a thump. Elfreda mistook me for the registrar. She was walking in her sleep." "Of course I didn't mean to," apologized Elfreda, "You know that, don't you, Miriam? I can't help walking in my sleep. I've done it ever since I was a little girl." "I forgive you, but you must promise not to dream," laughed Miriam. "Otherwise I am likely to find myself out the window or being dropped gently downstairs while you dream gaily on, regardless of what happens to your long-suffering roommate." As they entered the dining room several girls already seated at the table welcomed them with joyful salutations. It was at least ten minutes before any one settled down to breakfast. Grace observed with secret relief that Miss Atkins was not at the table. The three freshmen who were to fill the last available places in Wayne Hall had not yet arrived. During breakfast a ceaseless stream of merry chatter flowed on. Everyone wished to tell her neighbor about her vacation, of what she intended to take during the fall term, or of how impossible it was to get hold of her trunk. Then there was the usual amount of wondering as to why the four freshmen hadn't appeared. "One of them is here--that is, she's in the house," remarked Elfreda laconically. "She is!" exclaimed Emma Dean, opening her eyes. "I didn't see her yesterday." "You were consoling your homesick cousin, so how could you know what went on here?" reminded Grace. It had been decided that nothing should be said regarding the events of the previous day. "So I was," said Emma. "She made me think of Longfellow's 'Rainy Day.' She looked so 'dark and dreary.'" "What a unique comparison," chirped a wide-awake sophomore. "That will be so appropriate for the freshman grind book." "It is our turn this year," exulted Elfreda. "I shall be on the lookout for good material, too. I know one freshman who will be a candidate for honors." "Who?" inquired Emma Dean curiously. Grace looked appealingly at the stout girl. A slight shake of the head reassured her. Elfreda abandoned her intention of mentioning names, and parried Emma's question so cleverly that the latter became interested in something else and forgot that she had asked it. The instant she had finished her breakfast, Grace reannounced her intention of unpacking her trunk and rose to leave the table. Anne followed her, a curious smile on her face. The majority of the girls rose from the table at the same time, or immediately after, and went their various ways. "Now," declared Grace energetically, "I am going to begin my labor." "What did you say you were going to do?" asked Anne innocently. "Unpack my trunk. I--why--I--haven't any trunk to unpack!" exclaimed Grace in bewilderment. Then catching sight of Anne's mirthful face, she sprang forward, caught Anne by the shoulders and shook her playfully. "Anne Pierson, you bad child, you heard me make all my plans for unpacking, yet you wouldn't remind me that my trunk was still at the station." "I couldn't resist keeping still and allowing you to plan," confessed Anne. "What a joke that would be for the grind book!" "Yes, wouldn't it though?" agreed Grace sarcastically. "However, we are not freshmen, and as my roommate I strictly forbid you to publish my stupidity broadcast. Having the unpacking fever in my veins, I shall console myself with unpacking my bag and suit case. I'll keep on wishing for my trunk and perhaps it will come." Grace walked to the window. She leaned out, peering anxiously down the road. Then, with a cry of delight, she exclaimed: "Come here, Anne." Anne walked obediently to the window. "'Tell me, Sister Anne, do you see anything?'" quoted Grace. "You are saved, Fatima," returned Anne dramatically. "It is an express wagon." Grace darted out of her door and down the stairs, meeting the expressman on the veranda, her trunk on his shoulder. Anne, having notified Elfreda and Miriam that the trunks had arrived, went downstairs to look after hers. "Now I can carry out my plan, after all," declared Grace, with great satisfaction. "'He who laughs last, laughs best,' you know," she added slyly. "Before unpacking, first find your trunk," retorted Anne. "Thank goodness, we don't have to think about entrance examinations this year," said Grace, as she knelt before her trunk, fitting the key to the lock. "Yes, it does make considerable difference," returned Anne. "We shall have more time to ourselves. Besides, we won't have to worry our heads off the first week about whether we survived or perished." The sound of an automobile horn caused Grace to run to the window. "It's the bus!" she cried. "Three strange girls are getting out of it. Evidently our freshmen have arrived. That tall girl looks interesting. One of them is as stout as Elfreda. The little girl is cunning. I think I like her the best of the three. Oh dear!" she exclaimed ruefully, hastily drawing back from the window, "she looked straight up and saw me standing here. What will she think of me?" "You shouldn't be so curious," teased Anne. "I know it," admitted Grace. "I'm not over curious as a rule. I hope the tall girl is to room with the Anarchist. She looks capable of keeping her in order." "That task will, no doubt, be handed over to you," said Anne, who had been making rapid progress in unpacking, while Grace had been occupied in looking over the newcomers. "You'd better get your unpacking done, so that you'll be ready for it--the task, I mean." Grace sat down before her trunk with a little impatient sigh. For the space of an hour the two girls worked rapidly, almost in silence. Both trunks had been emptied and the greater part of their contents stored away when the sound of an angry, protesting voice outside the door caused them to look at each other wonderingly. "What can have happened?" asked Anne. Even as Anne spoke a never-to-be-forgotten voice said impressively, "What you prefer is immaterial to me, I prefer to room alone." The emphatic closing of a door followed. There was a sound of hurrying footsteps on the stairs, then all was still. CHAPTER V THE ANARCHIST CHOOSES HER ROOMMATE "It's the Anarchist, of course," said Anne, turning to Grace. "I wonder who she left roomless in the hall this time," speculated Grace. "Shall we go and see?" "Do you think we had better?" hesitated Anne. "Yes," returned Grace boldly. "To a certain extent we are responsible for the welfare of the freshmen." Opening the door, she looked up and down the hall. Then, with a sudden air of resolution, she walked downstairs. On the oak seat in the hall, looking disconsolately about her, sat the "cunning" freshman that Grace had admired. At sight of Grace she sprang toward the sophomore with an eager, "Won't you please tell me where I can find Mrs. Elwood?" "I believe she has gone to market," replied Grace. "She usually goes at this time every morning. Can I help you in any way?" "No-o," replied the other girl doubtfully. "I wished to see Mrs. Elwood, because--" Her lip quivered. A big tear rolled down her cheek. "Oh, I hate college," she muttered in a choking voice. "I wish I hadn't come here. I'd go back to the station and take the next train west, if I hadn't promised my brother that I'd stay. I hate the east and everything in it. I know I'm going to be unhappy here." With the smile that few people could resist, Grace sat down on the seat beside the tearful little stranger. "I think I know what is troubling you," she said gently. "I could not help overhearing Miss Atkins a few moments ago. I also heard you running downstairs, so I came down, too, to ask you if there was anything I could do for you." "You are very kind," faltered the stranger. "I must wait to see Mrs. Elwood, but will you tell me your name, please?" "Oh, I beg your pardon for not introducing myself," responded Grace contritely. "I am Grace Harlowe of the sophomore class." "My name is Mildred Taylor," responded the newcomer. "I came from the station in the bus a few minutes ago. There were two other freshmen with me. They seem to be more fortunate than I. The maid showed us to our rooms. I supposed, of course, that I would have to room with another girl, but I didn't think--" she paused. "I know," sympathized Grace. "I heard what was said to you; at least a part of it. Won't you come upstairs to our room and meet my roommate, Miss Pierson?" "It is very thoughtful in you to take so much trouble for me," replied the freshman gratefully. "That is part of our plan here at Overton," laughed Grace. "When I was a lonely, bewildered freshman, several of the upper class girls made it their business to look out for my comfort. Now it is my turn to pass that kindness along." "What a nice way to look at things!" exclaimed Mildred Taylor. "If I thought the rest of the girls in the college were going to be like you, I'd be ready to love Overton." "Oh, you will love Overton," was Grace's quick reply. "You can't help yourself." Anne received the forlorn newcomer with a sweet courtesy that quite charmed her. "We are in the midst of our unpacking," she explained. "Our trunks came only a little while ago. Won't you take off your hat and coat?" "Anne, I will leave Miss Taylor in your care," declared Grace. "Please excuse me, I'll be back directly," she nodded encouragingly to their guest. At the door of Miriam's room Grace knocked softly, then in answer to the impatient, "Come in," entered to find Elfreda standing in the midst of an extended circle formed by her possessions. "Isn't this enough to discourage the most valiant heart?" she declared, with a comprehensive sweep of her arm over the scattered contents of her trunk. "But I am going to clear everything away. I promised Miriam that my half of the room should be kept 'decently and in order' all year. It is one of my sophomore obligations." Grace listened in amusement to the stout girl's earnest assertion. "I haven't finished unpacking either," she said. "I came for advice. The freshman who was to occupy the other half of Miss Atkins's room has arrived, and Miss Atkins won't let her into the room. I just brought her upstairs to my room. "Last night I talked with Mrs. Elwood. She isn't particularly anxious to have Miss Atkins in the house. When Miss Taylor, that is the name of the freshman who just came, tells her about what happened she will ask Miss Atkins to leave Wayne Hall. This girl has brought with her to Overton the worst possible spirit in which to begin her freshman year. Of course, we don't know whether she is rich or poor, or whether her success or failure in college means anything to any one besides herself. We can not know under what circumstances she has been brought up. Perhaps she has some one at home who is straining every nerve to send her to college. Perhaps there is a father, mother, sister or brother who has made untold sacrifices to give her a college education. Perhaps there has been no lack of money, only a desire on the part of parents or a guardian to get rid of her by sending her off to school. I believe we ought to try to help this girl in spite of her rudeness to us. Will you go with me to her room? I want to talk to her. We may find her in a better humor than she was in last night. While Anne entertains Miss Taylor you and I will venture into the domain of the Anarchist." "I'll go," agreed Elfreda, secretly flattered because Grace had chosen her. Grace led the way down the hall to the end room. A sulky voice responded to her knock, and throwing open the door the two girls stepped inside. The belligerent freshman sat bolt upright in a Morris chair, forbidding and implacable. "How do you do?" said Grace politely. "I hope we are not intruding." The young woman merely scowled by way of answer. "I wonder how I'd better begin," pondered Grace, looking squarely into the hostile eyes. Elfreda stood calmly surveying the scowling girl. "You might ask us to sit down," she observed impertinently. The young woman glanced at the stout girl with an expression of angry amazement. Elfreda's rudeness was equal to her own. "I beg your pardon," she said satirically. "Won't you be seated?" "Oh, no, I just wanted to hear you say it," flung back Elfreda. Ignoring this retort, Miss Atkins turned to Grace. "What do you wish?" she asked with cold precision. "I am sorry to be obliged to tell you that if you do not allow Miss Taylor to occupy her half of the room, you are likely to be asked to leave Wayne Hall," said Grace gravely. "Mrs. Elwood was displeased over what happened last night, and I know that when she learns of what has happened to-day she will not overlook it. We do not wish to see you leave Wayne Hall, and besides, the various college houses are filling fast. You might have difficulty in securing a desirable room elsewhere." "Is there any reason why I should not occupy this room alone?" "None whatever, if you arranged for a single beforehand," interposed Elfreda shrewdly. "If you did, I can't see why Mrs. Elwood consented to take Miss Taylor." "I did not arrange for a single room," was the stiff response. "Then you haven't any case, have you?" queried Elfreda cheerfully. "Now, see here. I am going to tell you a few things. You are beginning all wrong. It is just what I did last year, and I had a pretty disagreeable time, you may rest assured. The best thing you can do is to tell Miss Taylor to come and claim her half of the room before anything happens to you. If you leave Wayne Hall, sooner or later the whole college will hear of it and it won't help you to be popular, either. It is easy enough to do as you please regardless of whether or not it pleases others, but you are bound to pay for the privilege. If you don't believe me, just wait and see." A flush mounted to the defiant stranger's cheeks. "Public opinion is usually a matter of small importance to me," she said, but her tone of lofty indifference was not convincing. "There is, however, a certain amount of wisdom in what you have just said. I should not care to appear ridiculous in the eyes of the really important students at Overton. You may inform Miss Taylor that I have altered my decision. I shall raise no further objections to her as a roommate." With a pompous gesture of dismissal this self-centered young woman rose and walked majestically to the window. Turning her back squarely upon Grace and Elfreda, she appeared to be deeply absorbed in watching what went on in the street, and, divided between vexation and laughter, the two girls left the room. Elfreda hurried back to her unpacking and Grace to her own room. "It is all right, Miss Taylor. Your roommate is prepared to receive you," Grace announced. "I shall be glad to have some place I can call all my own," sighed the little girl, "but I know I shall never like her," she added resentfully. "On the contrary, you may learn to like her very much," returned Grace. "Now I'll help you with your things." Picking up Miss Taylor's heavy suit case, Grace escorted her to the door of the end room. "How did it happen?" greeted Anne, when five minutes later Grace returned alone, smiling and triumphant. "Don't ask me," laughed Grace. "Ask Elfreda. She wrought the miracle." "What did she do?" asked Anne. "She won the day, or rather the half of the room, by plain speaking." Grace recounted to Anne what had taken place in the belligerent young woman's room. "She made more impression on the Anarchist in five minutes than I could have made in a week," finished Grace. "Elfreda has a remarkable personality," was Anne's thoughtful answer. "Her very frankness makes an impression where diplomacy counts for little. However, I am not surprised that history repeated itself so soon. I hope this is the last time we shall be obliged to thwart the Anarchist and administer justice to the oppressed. "I don't envy Miss Taylor," said Anne. "I wish every girl in college had as nice a roommate as I have." "Beware of flatterers," laughed Grace. "And also of Anarchists," added Anne. "But of the two," smiled Grace, "I prefer flatterers, especially if they happen to occupy the other half of my room." CHAPTER VI ELFREDA MAKES A RASH PROMISE "How does it feel to be a senior, Mabel?" questioned Miriam Nesbit, glancing smilingly over where Mabel Ashe, gowned smartly in white, her brown eyes dancing with interest in what went on about her, sat eating her dessert, and obligingly trying to answer half a dozen questions at once. The seven other girls at the table looked expectantly at the pretty senior, who was their hostess at a dinner given by her at Martell's that Saturday evening. "Oh, just the same as it did last year," she replied lightly. "I feel vastly older and a shade more responsible. To tell you the truth, I hate to think about it. I don't know how I am ever going to get along without Overton. I think I shall have to disguise myself and come back next year as a freshman; then I could do the whole four years over again." "The question is, What are we going to do next year without you?" remarked Grace mournfully. "Let us forget all about it," advised Mabel. "I refuse to have any weeps at my dinner. You may shed your tears in private, but not here." "What are you going to do when you finish college?" asked Miriam Nesbit. "You girls will laugh when I tell you," replied Mabel solemnly, "but really and truly there is only one thing I care to do. I have warned Father that I intend to be self-supporting, but I haven't dared to tell him how I propose to earn my living." "What are you going to do? Tell us, Mabel. We won't tell." "Frances knows already. She thinks it would be fine, don't you, Frances?" Frances nodded emphatically. "I hope to become a newspaper woman," solemnly announced Mabel. "A newspaper woman!" cried Constance Fuller. "Why, I think that would be dreadful!" "I don't," stoutly averred Mabel. "I'd love to be a reporter and go poking into all sorts of places. After a while I'd be sent out to write up murder trials and political happenings and, oh, lots of big stories." Mabel beamed on her amazed audience. "I never would have believed it of you, but I'm sure you could do it," predicted Leona Rowe confidently. "Good for you!" cried Mabel, leaning across the table to shake hands with Leona. "I have one loyal supporter at least." Mabel's declaration having brought to the minds of the little company the fact that sooner or later the choice of an after-college occupation would be necessary, a brisk discussion began as to what each girl intended to do. Aside from Anne, who had fully determined to stick to her profession, and Constance, who was specializing in English, with the intention of one day returning to Overton as an instructor, no one at the table had a very definite idea of her future usefulness. "We seem to be a rather purposeless lot," remarked Miriam Nesbit. "The trouble with most of us is that we are not obliged to think about earning our own living after we leave college. We look forward to being ornaments in our own particular social set, but nothing more. I'm not sure, yet, what I am going to do with my education. I intend to put it to some practical use, though." "So am I," agreed Grace. "We'll just have to keep on doing our best and find ourselves." "I suppose that is the real purpose of going to college," said Anne thoughtfully. "I think we are all growing too serious," laughed Mabel. "By the way, Grace," she went on, "who is that curious looking little freshman with the perpetual scowl that lives at Wayne Hall!" The four Wayne Hall girls exchanged significant glances. "Stop exchanging eye messages and tell me," ordered Mabel. "Her name is Atkins," returned Grace briefly. Then a peculiar look in her eyes caused Mabel to say hastily, "I just wondered who she was," and changed the subject. As they left Martell's, walking two by two, Mabel fell into step with Grace. Slipping her arm through that of the Oakdale girl, she said in a low tone, "Come over to see me to-morrow evening. I have something to say to you. I almost said it before the girls; then I caught your warning look in time. Come to dinner to-morrow night and stay all evening. I promise faithfully to make you study." "I have a theme to do," replied Grace dubiously. "Do you think there would be any prospect of my getting it done?" "Oceans of it," assured Mabel glibly. "I'll be as still as a mouse while you do it. If you need a subject perhaps I can furnish the inspiration. As long as I intend to become a newspaper woman I might as well begin to sprout a few ideas." "All right, I'll come," laughed Grace. "Did I tell you I was taking chemistry this year? I find it very absorbing." "I liked it, too," agreed Mabel. "I am more interested in psychology, though I like my essay and short story work best of all. I'm going in for interpretative reading, too. All that sort of thing will help me in my work when I leave here." "I wish I knew what I wanted to do," sighed Grace. "I'd love to begin to plan about it now." "It will dawn upon you suddenly some day," prophesied Mabel, "and you will wonder why you never thought of it before." The diners strolled along together as far as the campus. There, Constance Fuller, Mabel, Frances and Helen Burton left the quartette from Wayne Hall. "It's early yet," said Elfreda, consulting her watch. "What time is it, Elfreda?" asked Grace. "Half-past eight," answered the stout girl. "We have plenty of time to study. I, for one, need it. My subjects are all frightfully hard. I tried to pick out easy ones, but did you ever notice that the schedule is so arranged that you can't possibly pick out two easy subjects and recite them both in the same term? One always conflicts with the other." "Long experience, crafty faculty," laughed Miriam. "They know our weaknesses and how to deal with them." "The last time we were out to dinner in a body we talked about the past. This time it was the future," remarked Elfreda. "That reminds me, what has become of Arline and Ruth? I haven't seen either of them this week except at a distance." "Arline and Ruth haven't been on friendly terms since the night of Arline's dinner at Vinton's," Grace remarked soberly. "It isn't Ruth's fault. She is heartbroken over the estrangement. This is the first difference she and Arline have ever had." "Such a ridiculous thing to quarrel over," sniffed Elfreda. "I could see that night that Arline was cross because Ruth didn't want to talk about herself." "I hope they will be friends again before the reception," said Grace. "It would be awkward for all of us if they are not." "Oh, dear," sighed Anne, sitting down on the top step of the veranda. "I'm too lazy to look at my books to-night." The four girls had reached Wayne Hall and the beauty of the autumn night made them reluctant to go into the house, where an evening of hard study awaited them. "I'd like to stay out here for hours and look at the stars." "And have stiff neck and a cold of the fond, clinging type, to-morrow," jeered Elfreda. "How disgustingly practical you are, Elfreda!" exclaimed Miriam. "I'm only warning her," persisted Elfreda. "It doesn't seem as though we'd been back at Overton for three weeks, does it?" asked Grace. "It seems longer than that to me," said Miriam Nesbit. "The freshman dance happened ages ago, according to my reckoning, and nothing, absolutely nothing, has happened since." "Never mind, it won't be long until the sophomore reception," comforted Grace. "I never suspected that you had such a rabid craving for excitement, Miriam." "The freshman dance was a tame affair," averred Miriam. "I think our class was more interesting in its infancy than is this year's class." "I think so, too," agreed Grace. "Still, we don't know what genius lies hidden in the bosoms of 19--'s freshmen." "This year we shall be the hostesses," exulted Elfreda. "Who are you girls going to invite?" "I'll ask Miss Taylor," volunteered Anne. "I'll ask Miss Wilton," said Miriam. "That's two from Wayne Hall," counted Anne. "There are two freshmen left." "One of us could invite that nice tall girl, Miss Evans," planned Grace. "That leaves only one girl uninvited." She hesitated. Her three friends read the meaning of the hesitation. Elfreda sprang loyally into the breach. "I'll ask Miss Atkins," she declared stoutly. "You notice, don't you, that I am not addressing her by her pet name? I'll conduct her to the reception and back, if she'll accept my manly arm, and buy her flowers into the bargain. So go ahead and invite Miss Evans, Grace." "J. Elfreda Briggs, you can never manage that Miss Atkins," protested Miriam. "In the first place, she won't accept you as an escort, and if she should happen to do so, it will be a sorry evening for you." "I'll take the risk," replied Elfreda confidently. "I managed her once before, didn't I? You girls go ahead and invite the others. Leave Miss Atkins to me. I'll escort her in triumph to the reception, or perish gallantly in the attempt." "Do you really believe she will accept your invitation, Elfreda?" asked Grace doubtfully. "I can tell you better after I have asked her," was Elfreda's flippant retort. "I have an idea that she will feel dreadfully hurt if no one asks her to go." "Hurt!" exclaimed three voices in unison. "Yes, hurt," repeated Elfreda. "The Anarchist isn't half so savage as she pretends to be. That blood-thirsty manner of hers isn't real. She puts it on to hide something else." "But what is it she wishes to hide?" asked Miriam. "Your deductions are quite beyond us." "If I knew I'd tell you. I don't pretend to understand her, but I can see that she isn't as fierce as she seems. Time and I will solve the riddle, and when we do you'll be the first to hear of it." CHAPTER VII GIRLS AND THEIR IDEALS Directly after her last class the next day, Grace hurried to her room to change her gown. She looked forward with eager pleasure to her evening with Mabel Ashe. She was deeply attached to the pretty senior, who was the best-liked girl in college, and Grace could not help feeling a trifle proud of Mabel's frank enjoyment of her society. Anne, knowing Grace was to be away, had accepted an invitation to go down to Ruth Denton's little room, help her cook supper, and spend the evening with her. "Oh, dear," sighed Grace, as she tried vainly to reach the two hooks of her dark blue charmeuse gown that seemed only a sixteenth of an inch out of reach, "I wish Anne were here. I can touch these two hooks with the ends of my fingers but I can't fasten them. I'll have to ask Mabel to hook me up when I get to Holland House." Giving up in disgust, Grace slipped into her long, blue serge coat, carefully adjusted her new fall hat that she had just received from home, and catching up her gloves ran downstairs. Mabel Ashe's graceful, welcoming figure leaning over the baluster waiting for her was the first thing that attracted her attention as she stepped inside the hall at Holland House. "Come right up," invited Mabel. "We'll have a little while together before dinner. Did you bring your notebook?" "Yes," replied Grace. "Remember, you are to help me choose a subject for my theme. You volunteered, you know." "Not until after dinner, though, if you don't mind. Sit down here and be comfy. This is my pet chair, but I insist on letting you have it because you are company." She gently pushed Grace into a roomy leather-covered armchair. Seating herself opposite Grace, Mabel fixed her brown eyes almost gravely on her. "Now, Grace," she said earnestly, "please tell me about this Miss Atkins of Wayne Hall." "There isn't much to tell," replied Grace. "Did you ever see her?" "Once." "We had a little trouble with her our very first day back," continued Grace. "She took possession of our room and refused to give it up. Then when Mrs. Elwood came to our rescue, she went to the room that had been assigned to her like a lamb. She felt anything but lamblike toward me, you may believe, and when later Mrs. Elwood brought up her new roommate, she refused to allow her to enter." "Refused to allow her to enter," repeated Mabel wonderingly. "What sort of girl is she, Grace?" "I don't know," answered Grace doubtfully. "She is an enigma. She speaks the most precise English, with absolutely no trace of slang. But she looks as though the whole world were her natural enemy. Elfreda named her the Anarchist. I am rather ashamed to say we call her that behind her back." Mabel smiled slightly, then asked, "What did the girl do--the one she wouldn't room with, I mean?" "She went downstairs to wait for Mrs. Elwood. The reason I know all about it is because I happened to hear her tell Miss Taylor, that's the freshman's name, that she would have to go elsewhere. I knew Mrs. Elwood was out, so I went down to see if there were anything I could do for her, and she told me all about it. I knew Mrs. Elwood would be out of patience with Miss Atkins and ask her to leave Wayne Hall." Grace paused. "What happened next?" asked Mabel interestedly. "I told Miss Taylor I would try to fix things for her. I went upstairs and plotted with Elfreda. Then she and I bearded the dragon in her den. After I had finished telling her that it would be better to take little Miss Taylor without further bickering, Elfreda rose to the occasion and gave her a much-needed lecture. She is very shrewd, I think. She evidently realized she had gone too far. She objected to Miss Taylor because it is her nature to object to everything. When she saw that we had taken up the cudgels in Miss Taylor's behalf, and that she was likely to get into hot water, she decided to accept her as a roommate without further opposition. That's the whole story." "She must be eccentric and very disagreeable," commented Mabel. "What made you go to such pains to save her from the wrath of Mrs. Elwood?" "I suppose I felt sorry for her," confessed Grace. "She is beginning her freshman year in the worst possible spirit. But as I said to the girls not long ago, we do not know what lies back of her disagreeable manner. Why are you so interested in hearing about her, Mabel?" "She is making herself the subject of considerable censure among the juniors and seniors by snubbing the girls of her own class and calmly announcing that she wishes to make only powerful and influential friends in college," returned Mabel. "You know, of course, the attitude of the old students toward freshmen. This Miss Atkins is either laboring under the impression that she is an exception to tradition, or else she has no sense of the fitness of things. At first, I am sorry to say, a few of the seniors looked upon her as a joke, but the reaction has set in, and, like Humpty Dumpty, she is going to take a great fall. When she does, all the king's horses and all the king's men won't be of any assistance to her in getting her back from where she tumbled. I don't believe she realizes that she is making herself ridiculous. "I was at Vinton's last Saturday afternoon. Jessie Meredith invited another senior and me to luncheon there. Imagine our surprise when a prim, precise little figure marched up to our table and seated herself as calmly as though she were the president of the senior class. There is room for four at those tables, you know, and we had not reserved ours. Still, there were plenty of other tables at which she might have seated herself. It was rather embarrassing for all of us, but it was worse when she tried to break into the conversation. She insisted on expounding her views on whatever we discussed. We were compelled to cut short our luncheon and flee to Martell's for our dessert. We escaped at the moment the waitress was serving her luncheon, so she couldn't very well rise and pursue us. If I had been alone, I might have stayed, but Jessie was disgusted, and I was Jessie's guest." Grace had listened to Mabel's recital with troubled eyes. "I never before knew a girl quite like Miss Atkins," she said slowly. "What is it you wish me to do for her, Mabel?" "Wise young sophomore," laughed Mabel. "How did you guess it?" "You are not given to footless gossip," replied Grace quietly. "Besides, I live at Wayne Hall." "Cleverer and cleverer," commented the senior, in mock admiration. "This is my idea. I had hoped that, being in the same house with her, you might be able to guide her gently along the beaten trail made by girls like you. However, after what you have told me, I am afraid you are not the one to do it." "I haven't a particle of influence with her," said Grace soberly. "You must know that from what I have already told you." "Yes, I do know it," answered Mabel. "Is there any one at Wayne Hall who would be likely to have the right kind of influence?" "No-o-o." Grace shook her head doubtfully. Then she suddenly brightened. "There is one person who might help her. Elfreda is going to invite her to the sophomore reception. She doesn't wish to do it, I know, although she hasn't said so. Please don't think me conceited, but Elfreda would do anything for me. She fancies herself under obligation to me on account of what happened last year," Grace added in an embarrassed tone. "Grace Harlowe!" exclaimed Mabel delightedly, "I believe we have solved our problem. J. Elfreda is the very one to make Miss Atkins wake up to what is expected from her at Overton. Will you talk with her about it, and ask her if she is willing to try?" "I'll tell her to-night," promised Grace. "I'm sure she'll try. She is not afraid to tackle Miss Atkins, either, or she wouldn't have invited her to the reception." "Then that's settled for the time being at least," declared Mabel jubilantly. "Just in time for dinner, too. There goes the bell." After dinner more conversation followed. It was eight o'clock before Grace remembered her theme. "What shall I write about?" she demanded. "You promised to supply the inspiration." "So I will," returned Mabel cheerfully. "Why don't you write about--" She paused, frowning slightly. "After all my vaunted promises I'm not able to suggest anything on the spur of the moment," she confessed laughingly. "Why don't you take some incident in your own life or that of your friends and write a story about it?" she proposed after a moment's silence. "I don't believe I could ever write a story," confessed Grace. "I think I'll write a little discussion about girls and their ideals." "That sounds interesting," commended Mabel. "Go ahead with it. You may sit at this table, if you like." Grace seated herself, nibbled at the end of her fountain pen reflectively, then began to write. Mabel busied herself with her own work. At last Grace shoved aside the closely written sheets of paper. "It's done," she cried, in a triumphant voice. "Now we can talk." "May I read it?" asked Mabel. "Of course, if you wish to," laughed Grace. "It isn't worth the trouble, though." Mabel picked up the theme and began to read. Grace rose, and strolling over to the bookcase fell to examining the various bindings. Her friend's flattering comment, "It's splendid, Grace. I had no idea you could write so well," caused her to look up in surprise from the book she held in her hand. "I don't think it is very remarkable," she contradicted. "It hasn't a shred of literary style." "It's convincing," argued Mabel. "That is because I felt strongly on my subject. When it comes to anything that lies near my heart I am always convincing. Father says I put up the most convincing argument of any one he knows," smiled Grace. "He always declares he is wax in my hands. I hope you will make me a visit and meet my father and mother, Mabel," she added. "I surely will," promised Mabel. "We must correspond after I leave college. I wish you could go home with me for one of the holiday vacations. Can't you manage it?" "I am afraid not this year," returned Grace doubtfully. "Father and Mother wouldn't object, but they miss me so during the year that I feel as though my holidays belonged to them. I am an only child, you know." "So am I," returned Mabel. "I am also extremely popular with my father. If I can tear myself away from him to make you a visit, surely you ought to be equally public spirited." "I'll think it over," laughed Grace. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed a moment later, glancing at the little French clock on the chiffonier, "I must go. It is twenty minutes to ten. How the time has slipped away." "Thank you," bowed Mabel. "Such appreciation of my society is gratifying in the extreme. I'll invite you again." "See that you do," retorted Grace. "Have you any engagement for Saturday afternoon? If you haven't, then suppose we have luncheon at Vinton's; then go for a long walk. We can stay out all afternoon, stop at the tea shop for supper and come home on the street car, or walk in, if we choose. We might ask Frances and Anne to join us. Miriam and Elfreda are going out for a ride. Miriam has a horse here this year. She had her choice between a horse and a runabout and she took the horse. The moment Elfreda found out she had one, she wrote home about it. Now she has a riding horse, too." "I had my own pet mount, Elixir, here during my freshman and sophomore years. The latter part of my second year I didn't take him out enough to exercise him. So I ordered him sent home. He is a beauty. Jet black with a three-cornered white spot in the middle of his forehead. He's an Arabian, and Father paid an extravagant price for him. He shakes hands and does ever so many tricks that I taught him. When you go home with me, you shall see him." "I'd love to have a riding horse," confessed Grace, "but Father can't afford it. I've never asked him, but I know he can't. We have no car either." "Make me a visit and you can ride Elixir every day," bribed Mabel. "I'd love that!" exclaimed Grace fervently as she slipped into her coat and settled her hat firmly on her fluffy hair. "Good night, Mabel. Come and see me soon. Don't forget our Saturday walk." "I'll go to the door with you," announced Mabel. "No, I won't forget our walk. I'll tell Frances about it to-morrow, before she has a chance to make any other plans. She is a popular young person, and elusive in the matter of dates." "There are others," retorted Grace, with a significant glance at her friend. "So there are," agreed Mabel innocently. On the way home Grace wondered if there were any way in which she might help Laura Atkins. True to her promise, she went at once to interview Elfreda on the subject of the eccentric freshman. She found Miriam and the stout girl busily engaged in trying to put together a puzzle that Elfreda had unearthed in the toy department of one of the Overton stores that afternoon. Puzzles were the delight of Elfreda's heart. But, once put together, they immediately ceased to be of interest. "This is a wonder!" she exclaimed at sight of Grace. "It is worth having. Neither Miriam nor I can put it together." "I have a harder one for you to tackle," smiled Grace. Then she recounted her conversation with Mabel Ashe. "You have altogether too much faith in my powers of persuasion," grumbled Elfreda, secretly pleased, nevertheless. "But that is much better than if we had no faith at all," reminded Grace. CHAPTER VIII THE INVITATION The next morning Grace made a startling discovery. It was directly after breakfast that she made it. Having fifteen minutes to spare before going to her first recitation, she decided to reread her theme. What one wrote always read differently after one had slept over it. What seemed clever at night might be very commonplace when read in the cold light of the morning. Grace reached for the book in which she had placed her theme. It was not there. Going down on her knees, she looked first under the table, then under the chiffonier, then turned over the books on the table, then, darting to the closet, searched the pockets of her long coat. "Where can it be?" she cried despairingly. "I am sure I had it when I came into the hall last night. I couldn't have lost it on my way across the campus. I'll run down and ask Anne. Perhaps she picked it up and put it away for me." Grace hurried downstairs as fast as her feet would carry her. To her low inquiry in Anne's ear she received a disappointing answer. Anne, who was just finishing her breakfast, replied that she had not even seen the theme. She rose at once to accompany Grace upstairs. The two girls searched in every nook and corner of the room. "I wanted to hand it in this morning," lamented Grace. "Now I'll have to write it all over again. I don't believe I can remember much of it, either. I'll have to explain to Miss Duncan, too, and ask her to give me until to-morrow to write it." "Perhaps it will be found yet," comforted Anne. "No danger of it, unless I lost it in the street. Then there's only one chance in a thousand of its turning up," declared Grace gloomily. "I don't see how I happened to be so careless." "When must it be handed in?" questioned Anne. "This morning," answered Grace dolefully. "I'll have to rewrite it to-night and from memory, too." "Why don't you choose another subject?" was Anne's advice. "No." Grace shook her head positively. "I can do better with the old one. I'm not going to bother about asking if any one has found it. My name was on it. If I made a fuss over it some one might say it was only an excuse, that I hadn't really lost it, but just wished to gain time. I hope Miss Duncan won't think that." "No one in this house would say so," contradicted Anne loyally. "But suppose Alberta Wicks or Mary Hampton heard of it? They might circulate that rumor. I hate to seem so suspicious, but an ounce of prevention, you know. I will write it over and say nothing further about it." Having made up her mind on the subject Grace promptly dismissed it from her thoughts. Miss Duncan did look rather suspiciously at Grace as she related her misfortune. Grace's gray eyes met hers so fairly and truthfully, however, that she was forced to believe the young woman's statement. She gave the desired respite rather ungraciously and Grace took her place in class, relieved to think she had got off so easily. That night she rewrote the theme. It did not give her as much trouble as she had anticipated. She laid down her fountain pen with alacrity when it was finished and carefully blotted the last sheet. "Now I can begin to think about the reception," she announced. "What are you going to wear, Anne?" "My new pink gown," said Anne promptly. "As long as I was extravagant enough to indulge in a new evening dress I might as well wear it. The sophomore reception is really the most important affair of the year, to us, at least." "I'm delighted to have an opportunity to show off my pale blue chiffon frock," laughed Grace. "I've been in ecstasies over it ever since it was made. Have you seen that white gown of Elfreda's? It's perfectly stunning. I stopped in her room for a minute last night. She was trying it on. It's the prettiest gown she's had since she came here. Ask her to show it to you." "I'm going over there now," said Anne. "I'll be back in a minute." It was precisely four minutes later when Anne poked her head in Grace's door. "Come on into Miriam's room, Grace," she called. "She has just made chocolate. She has some lovely little cakes and sandwiches, too. And Elfreda has something to tell us." Grace rose from her chair, lay down the notebook she had been running through, and hastily followed Anne. "Have a cushion," laughed Miriam hospitably, throwing a fat sofa pillow at Grace, who caught it dextrously, patted it into shape and, placing it on the floor, sat down on it Turk fashion. Elfreda poured another cup of chocolate, then seated herself on the floor beside Grace. "Pass Grace the sandwiches, Anne," she ordered. "We made these ourselves. We bought the stuff at that new delicatessen place on High Street." "They are delicious," commented Grace, between bites. "I'm hungry to-night. I didn't like the dinner very well." "Neither did we," responded Miriam. "After dinner we went out for a walk to see what we could find, and we brought back what you see spread before you." "I shall pay a visit to the delicatessen shop," announced Grace. "To-morrow night you must come to my room for a spread." "I'll come to your room with pleasure," retorted Elfreda, "but not to eat. One spread a week is my limit. Now for my news. The Anarchist has accepted my invitation to the reception." "Really!" exclaimed Grace. "Do tell us about it, Elfreda." "I delivered my invitation after dinner to-night," began Elfreda. "I waited and waited, thinking some one else might invite her. I am not yearning for the honor, you know. I went to her door and knocked. Her roommate, Miss Taylor, opened it. The Anarchist sat over in one corner of the room, studying like mad. By the way, I understand she is a dig and stands high in her classes." "Is she?" asked Anne, opening her eyes. "Then that is one thing she has in her favor. Perhaps we shall discover other good qualities in her that we've overlooked." "Perhaps," echoed Miriam dryly. "Mustn't interrupt me," drawled Elfreda. "I may become peevish and refuse to talk." "All right," smiled Grace. "We accept the warning. Continue, my dear Miss Briggs." Elfreda grinned cheerfully. "I inquired with deferential politeness if Miss Atkins were busy. Then the Anarchist looked up from her book, glared like a lion, straightened her eyebrows and said in that awful voice she owns, 'Did you wish to speak to me?'" Elfreda unconsciously imitated the belligerent freshman. Her audience giggled appreciatively. "I replied in my most impressive English that I did wish to do that very thing," continued Elfreda. "Then I inquired tactfully if I was too late with my invitation to the sophomore dance. Without giving her time to answer I put in my application for the position of escort. Then"--Elfreda paused, a slight flush rose to her round face, "then she looked me in the eye and told me a deliberate untruth. She said she had refused one invitation because she had not been interested in the reception, but that she had changed her mind. She thanked me and said she would be pleased to go. I bowed myself out without further ado, but Miss Taylor gave me the queerest look as I went. Her face was as red as fire. It was she who told me that the Anarchist had not been invited. She was afraid I might think she hadn't told the truth, but I knew better. Now, don't ever tell any one what I have said." "I'm sorry she didn't tell the truth," said Grace disapprovingly. "Why couldn't she say that she had not been invited?" "False pride," commented Miriam. "She evidently isn't so indifferent to the opinion of others as she would have us believe." "She is a strange girl," mused Anne. "Perhaps she is not altogether to blame for her odd ways." "'Odd' is a good name for them," jeered Elfreda. "I wouldn't call it 'odd,' I'd use a stronger word than that. It's contemptible. I'm sorry I asked her to go to the reception." "Then recall your invitation and tell her your reason for doing so," advised Miriam Nesbit bluntly. "Don't take her to the reception in that spirit. You will make yourself and her equally unhappy." "Hear the sage lay down the law," retorted Elfreda impudently. "She's right, though, only I won't withdraw my invitation at this late date. I'll try to give the Anarchist the most exciting time of her young life, but if she balks please don't blame me. You can lead an Anarchist to a reception, you know, but you can't make her dance unless she happens to feel like dancing. Still, I am going to do my best, and no sophomore can do more." "That sounds like the Elfreda Briggs I heard talking last night," said Grace, smiling her approval of the stout girl's words. "So it does," agreed Elfreda. "Hereafter I'll try to be more consistent. As for the Anarchist, she shall reap the benefit of my vow. I hope she knows how to dance. If she doesn't I shall have to constitute myself a committee of one to furnish amusement for her. If on the fatal night you see me, my arm firmly linked in that of her majesty, parading solemnly about the gymnasium with a fixed smile, and an air of gayety that I am a long way from feeling, don't you dare to laugh at me." "We won't laugh at you, then, even though we can't help laughing at you now," said Grace. "We shall be only too glad to do anything we can to help you entertain her." "I know that. Maybe you can help and maybe you can't. But if she doesn't enjoy herself it won't be my fault." CHAPTER IX ANTICIPATIONS The day of the sophomore reception was a busy one for the members of the sophomore class. To them, it was the event of the year, and the desire to make this dance outshine all its predecessors was paramount in almost every sophomore breast. Of course, there were the digs, who never thought of festivities, but spent all their time in study. No one counted on their help. The greater part of the class, however, was properly enthusiastic over the music, decorations, gowns and dance cards. Grace and Miriam, who were on the decorating committee, had spent the greater part of their day in the gymnasium. Under the skilful direction of the committee the big room blossomed out in strange and gorgeous array. There were the masses of evergreen so convenient for hiding unsightly gymnasium apparatus, which made the gymnasium a veritable forest green. Strings of Japanese lanterns added to the effect, while the freshmen and sophomore colors impartially wound the gallery railing and were draped and festooned wherever there was the slightest chance for display. The sophomores had put forth their best efforts in behalf of their freshman sisters. When it came to sofa cushions and draperies they had surrendered their most highly treasured possessions for the good of the cause. "I think we may congratulate ourselves," commented Gertrude Wells as she stood beside Miriam Nesbit, surveying their almost completed task. "Look at my hands! I have scratched and bruised them handling those evergreens. My dress is a sight, too," she added, pointing first to the green stains that decorated her white linen gown, then significantly to a three-cornered tear near the bottom of the skirt. "I don't care. It will be out of style by next summer, at any rate." "I'm not much better off," declared Miriam. "You can't be a working woman and keep up a bandbox appearance, you know." "I should say not," laughed Arline Thayer, who had come up in time to hear Miriam's last remark. "Does any one know the time?" asked Grace, standing back a little to view the effect of the bunting she had been winding about a post. "I can't see the gym. clock from here. It is so swathed in green boughs and decorations that its poor round face is almost hidden, and I'm really too tired to go close enough to find out." "It's five minutes past four o'clock," informed Gertrude, glancing at the tiny watch pinned to her waist. "Good gracious!" exclaimed Arline Thayer, "I can't stay here another minute. I have a hundred things to do before to-night." "Where's Ruth?" asked Grace. "I haven't seen either of you lately except at an aggravating distance." Arline's baby face hardened. "I haven't seen Ruth for over two weeks," she said stiffly. "You haven't!" exclaimed Grace, who, stooping to tie her shoe, had not noticed Arline's changed expression. As she straightened up her surprised gray eyes met Arline's defiant blue ones. Like a flash she remembered. "Then you don't know who she has invited to the reception?" "No," responded Arline shortly. "I don't know anything about it." Grace was about to say something further when, overtaken by sudden thought, she turned her face away to hide the smile that hovered about her lips. Meanwhile, Gertrude Wells had engaged Arline in conversation, and Ruth's name was not mentioned again. "This is positively my last appearance this afternoon as a decorator," declared Emma Dean. "I'm going home to beautify myself for the great moment when I shall stand in line with my sophomore sisters to greet the infant freshmen." "I'm going home, too, but without bursting into language," drawled J. Elfreda Briggs. "I pounded my thumb with a hammer, scratched my nose on an obstinate hemlock bough, and lost a bran span new pair of scissors. I think it is high time to leave this place. I'm not on the reception committee, 'tis true, but I have weighty matters to consider and am on the verge of a perilous undertaking." She uttered the last words in an all too familiar undertone, shooting a mischievous glance at her friends which caused Grace, Anne and Miriam to laugh outright. "What are you girls laughing at?" demanded Gertrude Wells. "Elfreda is so funny," explained Grace enigmatically. Then, fearing to offend Gertrude, she said hastily, "What she said was extremely laughable to us, because she was imitating some one we know." The knot of girls separated soon after, going their separate ways. Anne, Grace, Miriam, Elfreda and Emma Dean turned their faces toward Wayne Hall. "I wonder if Ruth is going?" remarked Grace, who walked behind Anne. "I thought we'd see her this afternoon." "I noticed how sharply Arline answered you," said Anne significantly. "Poor Ruth, I haven't a minute to spare or I'd run down there. We must go to-morrow afternoon, Anne. We'll take Ruth to Vinton's for dinner and, oh, Anne! let's invite Arline and make them be friends!" "Splendid!" admired Anne. "I'll take charge of Ruth and you can look out for Arline." "If you don't hurry, you'll be ready for the reception some time to-morrow," called Elfreda derisively. The two quickened their steps. The three girls ahead looked back, then mischievously began running toward Wayne Hall. "We can catch them, Anne," exulted Grace. "You mean you can," laughed Anne. "Run ahead and surprise them." Grace was off like the wind. Although the three girls ran well they were no match for the lithe, slender young woman who ran like a hunted deer. She soon passed her friends and running on to the hall sat down on the steps with no apparent traces of exhaustion to wait for them. "Let me see, what track team did you say you belonged to?" quizzed Elfreda, with open admiration. "If I could run like that I'd be happy. Where did you learn to run?" "Back in Oakdale, where I was the prize tomboy of the school," laughed Grace. "Have you seen to your flowers for your freshman? I ordered pink roses for Miss Evans. Anne chose violets for Miss Taylor, didn't you, Anne?" "I ordered violets for Miss Wilton, too," said Miriam. "I tried to get snap dragons," giggled Elfreda, "but it's rather late in the season for them. Instead, the Anarchist will flourish a nosegay of blood-red roses. I can't imagine her parading around the gym. bedecked with violets." "Elfreda, you are anything but a chivalrous escort," commented Anne. "I am at least sincere," returned Elfreda, with an affected simper. "I hope those flowers haven't loitered along the way. I must call on my fair lady and see if she has received hers. I'm beginning to feel excited. I'm going to eat my dinner post haste. I want to get dressed and practice my bow before the mirror ere I enter the sacred precincts of her majesty's boudoir. Then I shall sweep into her domicile, arrayed in all my glory. She will be so overcome at sight of me and my splendor that she will follow me down to the carriage like a lamb. I ask you, ladies, after seeing me in that new white silk gown of mine, what Anarchist could resist me?" "Of whom did Elfreda remind you just then, Grace?" asked Miriam. "Hippy," laughed Grace. "She looked exactly like him." "Never saw him," stated Elfreda laconically. "But you gave a fine imitation of him just the same!" exclaimed Grace. CHAPTER X AN OFFENDED FRESHMAN At dinner that night excitement reigned. Every girl in the house was going to the reception. To dispose of one's dinner and hurry to one's room to begin the all important task of dressing was the order of procedure, and Mrs. Elwood's flock rose from the table almost in a body and made a concerted rush for the stairs. "She got them," Elfreda informed the others as they stopped for a moment in the hall. "I went to the door to ask her. She even thanked me for them." "Wonderful," smiled Miriam. "Come on now. Remember, time flies and that your new white frock is a dream." An hour later Elfreda stood before the mirror viewing herself with great satisfaction. "It certainly is some class," she declared. "There I go again. I haven't used slang for a week. But circumstances alter cases, you know. Just pretend you didn't hear it, will you? I think I'll wear my violets at my girdle. I don't look very stout in this rig, do I? You look like a princess, Miriam. You're a regular howling beauty in that corn-colored frock. Where are my gloves and my cloak? Oh, here they are, just where I put them. Now, I must go for her highness. Br--r--" Elfreda shivered, giggled, then gathering up her cloak and gloves switched out the door. Miriam smiled to herself as she went about gathering up her own effects, then fastening the cluster of yellow rosebuds to the waist of her gown she hurried out into the hall in time to encounter Grace and Anne. "We are fortunate in that our ladies live under the same roof with us," laughed Anne. "It certainly saves carriage hire," returned Grace. "Here comes Elfreda and Miss Atkins. What on earth is she wearing?" "I think I'll go for my freshman," said Miriam, her voice quivering suspiciously. By the time Elfreda and the Anarchist had reached the head of the stairs, the three girls had fled precipitately, unable to control their mirth. Elfreda's face was set in a solemn expression that defied laughter. As for the Anarchist herself, she might easily have posed as a statue of vengeance. Her eyebrows were drawn into a ferocious scowl. She walked down the stairs with the air of an Indian chief about to tomahawk a victim. Her white silk gown, which was well cut and in keeping with the occasion, contrasted oddly with her threatening demeanor, which was enhanced by a feather hair ornament that stood up belligerently at one side of her head. "If she wouldn't wear that feather thing she'd be all right," muttered Grace in Anne's ear. "She looks like Hiawatha. She has made up her mind to be nice with Elfreda. She's wearing her flowers. I wonder if I'd better ask her to dance to-night. Shall you ask her, Anne?" "I think so," reflected Anne. "I can't lead very well, but perhaps she can." "I don't believe I'll ask her," said Grace slowly. "Humiliating one's self needlessly is just as bad as having too much pride." "Hurry," called Miriam, who was already on the stairs. "The carriages are here." It was a ridiculously short drive to the gymnasium, but, a fine rain having set in, carriages for one's freshmen guests were a matter of necessity. Elfreda and her charge occupied seats in the same carriage with Anne and Mildred Taylor, who, in a gown of pink chiffon over pink silk, looked, according to Elfreda, "too sweet to live." "How are you getting along with Miss Atkins?" asked Grace an hour later, running up and waylaying Elfreda, who was slowly making her way across the gymnasium toward the corner of the room where the big punch bowl of lemonade stood. "Don't ask me!" returned Elfreda savagely. "I managed to fill her dance card and supposed everything was lovely. She dances fairly well. If she'd only keep quiet, smile and dance calmly along. But, no, she must talk!" Elfreda's round face settled into lines of disgust. "She says such outrageously personal things to her partners. I know of three different girls she has offended so far. What will become of her before the evening is over?" she inquired gloomily. "She told me I was too stout to dance well, but I didn't mind that. Stout or not, she will be lucky to have even me to dance with at the rate she's going. Let's drown our mortification in lemonade." "Poor Elfreda," sympathized Grace. "I wish I could help you, but, honestly, I feel as though it would be hardly fair to myself to make further advances in that direction." "Don't do it," advised Elfreda, quickly, handing Grace a cup of fruit lemonade. "I'll manage to steer her through this dance. But next time some one else may do the inviting. The two classes make a good showing, don't they?" "Beautiful," commented Grace. "The gymnasium looks prettier than it did last year. That sounds conceited, doesn't it?" "It's true, though," averred Elfreda stoutly. "Doesn't Miriam look stunning to-night? I think she is the handsomest dark girl I ever saw, don't you?" "With one exception," smiled Grace. "Show me the exception, then," challenged Elfreda. "I will some fine day," promised Grace. "She's in Italy now." "You mean the girl you speak of as Eleanor?" asked Elfreda curiously. Grace nodded. "She is one of my dearest friends and belongs to our sorority at home. At one time she was my bitterest enemy," she continued reminiscently. "She was so self-willed and domineering that none of us could endure her. She entered the junior class in high school when Miriam, Anne and I did. For a year and a half she made life miserable for all of us, then something happened and she turned out gloriously. I'll tell you all about it some other time." "Was she worse than the Anarchist?" asked Elfreda sceptically. "There is no comparison," replied Grace promptly. "Still, the Anarchist may have possibilities of which we know nothing." "I wish she would give a demonstration of them to-night then," muttered Elfreda. "I suppose I'll have to get busy and look her up. It is dangerous to leave her to her own devices. She may have offended half the company by this time." Elfreda strolled off in search of her troublesome charge. Grace crossed the gymnasium, her keen eyes darting from the floor, where groups of daintily gowned girls stood exchanging gay badinage, and resting after the last waltz, to the chairs and divans placed at intervals against the walls that were for the most part unoccupied. Everyone seemed to be dancing. Grace remembered with a start that she had seen nothing of Ruth Denton. She had waved to Arline across the room on entering the gymnasium, and had not caught a glimpse of her since. "I must find Ruth," she reflected, "and tell her about to-morrow. Perhaps Anne has told her. She promised she would." Espying Mildred Taylor, Grace remembered with sudden contrition that she had not asked the little freshman to dance. "I suppose she hasn't a single dance left," murmured Grace regretfully. "At any rate, I'll ask her now." Approaching Mildred she said in her frank, straightforward fashion, "I'm so sorry I overlooked you, Miss Taylor. I intended asking you to dance first of all." The "cute" little freshman turned her head away from Grace's apologetic gray eyes. "It doesn't matter," she answered in a queer, strained voice. "My card was full long ago." "I hope you are not hurt or offended at my seeming neglect," insisted Grace anxiously. "Not in the least," was the almost curt rejoinder. "I do not think I shall stay much longer. I have a headache." "I'm so sorry," said Grace sympathetically. "Can I do anything for you?" Mildred Taylor did not answer. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them angrily away, saying with a petulance entirely foreign to her, "Please don't trouble yourself about me." "Very well," replied Grace, in proud surprise. "Shall I tell Miss Pierson that you are ill?" "No," muttered Mildred. Grace walked away, puzzled and self-accusing. "I hurt her feelings by not asking her to dance," was the thought that sprang instantly to her mind. Then she suddenly recollected that she had not yet found Ruth. A little later she discovered her in earnest conversation with Gertrude Wells at the extreme end of the room. "Dance this with me, Ruth," called Grace, as she neared her friend. Ruth glanced at her card. "I have this one free," she said. A moment later they were gliding over the smooth floor to the inspiriting strains of a popular two step. Long before the end of the dance they stopped to rest and talk. "I suppose we ought to devote ourselves strictly to the freshmen," said Grace. "They all appear to be dancing, though. Where have you been keeping yourself, Ruth?" "I've been busy," replied Ruth evasively. "Will you be too busy to have dinner with us at Vinton's to-morrow night?" persisted Grace. "No-o-o," said Ruth slowly. "At what time?" "Half-past six," returned Grace. "We'll meet you there. I must leave you now to look after Miss Evans. I brought her here to-night." It was late when the notes of the last waltz sounded, and still later when the gay participants left the gymnasium in twos, threes and little crowds trooping down the broad stone steps to where they were to take their carriages. The rain was now falling heavily, and to walk even across the campus was out of the question. Every public automobile and carriage in Overton had been pressed into service, and many who had braved the fine rain early in the evening and walked were obliged to negotiate with the drivers for a return of their vehicles. The carriages to Wayne Hall carried six girls instead of four, and the merry conversation that was kept up during the short drive showed plainly that the evening had been a success. Even the Anarchist indulged in an occasional stiff remark with a view toward being gracious. When Elfreda humorously bowed her to her door and wished her an elaborate good night, an actual gleam of fun appeared in her stormy eyes, and forgetting her dignity she replied almost cordially that she had enjoyed her evening. "I am surprised to think she did after the way she made remarks about people," commented Elfreda to Miriam, who was busily engaged in unhooking the stout girl's gown and listening in amusement to Elfreda's recital. "She has as much tact as a guinea hen. You know how tactful they are?" In the meantime Anne and Grace were discussing the night's festivity in their own room. Grace had slipped into a kimono and stood brushing her long hair before the mirror. Suddenly she paused, her brush suspended in the air. "Anne," she said so abruptly that Anne looked at her in surprise, "did you notice anything peculiar about Miss Taylor? You were her escort, you know." "No," responded Anne, knitting her brows in an effort to remember. "I can't say that I noticed anything." "Then I am right," decided Grace. "She is angry with me because in some way I missed asking her to dance." "She said nothing to me," was Anne's quick reply. "She is offended, I know she is," said Grace. "I'm sorry, of course. I didn't pass her by intentionally. I didn't know she was so sensitive. I think I'll ask her to go to Vinton's for luncheon on Saturday." But when Grace delivered her invitation at the breakfast table the next morning it was curtly refused. Mildred Taylor's attitude, if anything, was a shade more hostile than it had been the night before. From her manner, it was evident that the little freshman, whom Grace had hastened to befriend on that first doleful morning when she found her roomless and in tears on the big oak seat in the hall, had quite forgotten all she owed to the girl she now appeared to be trying to avoid. Finding her efforts at friendliness repulsed, Grace proudly resolved to make no more overtures toward the sulking freshman. She had done everything in her power to make amends for what had been an unintentional oversight on her part, and her self respect demanded that she should allow the matter to drop. She decided that if, later on, Mildred showed a disposition to be friendly, she would meet her half way, but, until that time came, she would take no notice of her or seek further to ascertain the cause of her grievance. CHAPTER XI THE FINGER OF SUSPICION That very morning as Grace was about to leave Miss Duncan's class room she heard her name called in severe tones. Turning quickly, she met the teacher's blue eyes fixed suspiciously upon her. "Did you wish to speak to me, Miss Duncan?" Grace asked. "Yes," answered Miss Duncan shortly. She continued to look steadily at Grace without speaking. Grace waited courteously for the teacher's next words. She wondered a little why Miss Duncan had detained her. "Miss Harlowe," began the teacher impressively, "I have always entertained a high opinion of you as an honor girl. Your record during your freshman year seemed to indicate plainly that you had a very clear conception of what constitutes an Overton girl's standard of honor. Within the past week, however, something has happened that forces me to admit that I am deeply disappointed in you." Miss Duncan paused. Grace's expressive face paled a trifle. A look of wonder mingled with hurt pride leaped into her gray eyes. "I don't understand you, Miss Duncan," she said quietly. "What have I done to disappoint you?" Miss Duncan picked up a number of closely written sheets of folded paper and handed them to Grace, who unfolded them, staring almost stupidly at the sheet that lay on top. A wave of crimson flooded her recently pale cheeks. "Why--what--where did you get this?" she stammered. "It is my theme." [Illustration: "It Is My Theme."] "You mean it is the original from which you copied yours," put in Miss Duncan dryly. "Is that your hand-writing?" "No," replied Grace, in a puzzled tone. "Is this your writing?" questioned Miss Duncan, suddenly producing another theme from the drawer of her desk. "Yes," was Grace's prompt answer. "I handed it in to you instead of putting it in the collection box. You remember I told you I had lost the first one I wrote and asked for more time." "I remember perfectly," was the significant answer. "Is this theme," pointing to the one Grace still held, "the one you say you lost?" "The one I say I lost," repeated Grace, a glint of resentment darkening her eyes. "What do you mean, Miss Duncan?" Her bold question caused the instructor's lips to tighten. "You have not answered my question, Miss Harlowe," she said icily. "No, this is not my theme," answered Grace; "that is, it is not in my hand-writing. I do not recognize the writing." Grace ceased speaking and stared at the theme in sudden consternation. "Some one found my theme and copied it." Her voice sank almost to a whisper. A flush of shame for the unknown culprit dyed her cheeks anew. "It would be better, perhaps," interrupted the teacher sarcastically, "if you admitted the truth of the affair at once, Miss Harlowe." "There is nothing to admit," responded Grace steadily, "except that I lost my theme on the evening I wrote it. When I found it was gone I came to you at once and asked for another day's time. That same night I rewrote it as well as I could from memory and handed it to you the following day." An ominous silence ensued. Then Miss Duncan said stiffly: "Miss Harlowe, the young woman who wrote the theme you have in your hand dropped it into the collection box of another section during the very evening you would have me believe you were writing it. It was brought to me early the next morning." "How do you know that it was dropped into the box the evening before?" flung back Grace, forgetting for an instant to whom she was speaking. "Your question is hardly respectful, Miss Harlowe," returned Miss Duncan, coldly reproving. "I will answer it, however, by saying that I sent for the young woman and questioned her regarding the time she placed her theme in the box, without letting her know my motive in doing so. Her frank answer completely assured me that she was speaking the truth. At the same time she explained that she had been late with her theme on account of mislaying it. She had written it two days before and placed it in her desk. Then it had mysteriously vanished and suddenly reappeared in the same pigeonhole in her desk in which she had placed it. She assured me that directly she found it she took it to the box. Your theme is so suspiciously similar to hers that it is hardly possible to believe it to be merely a coincidence. In the face of the circumstances it looks as though you were the real offender." Grace regarded Miss Duncan with mute reproach. She could not at once trust herself to speak. "Have you anything to say to me, Miss Harlowe?" was the stern question. "Only, that what I have previously said to you is the truth," answered Grace, fighting down her desire to cry. Then, seized with a sudden idea, she said in a tone of subdued excitement, "Will you allow me to look at that theme again, Miss Duncan?" Miss Duncan picked up the theme from the desk where Grace had laid it and handed it to her. A strip of paper had been pasted over the name in the upper left hand corner. Grace scanned each closely written page attentively. "This is my theme," she declared finally, "and I have thought of a way to prove that I wrote it. I did not steal it from another girl. I would not be so contemptible." "I shall be very glad to have conclusive proof that you did not," commented Miss Duncan rather sarcastically. "Appearances are not in your favor, Miss Harlowe." "I am sorry that you doubt my word, Miss Duncan," said Grace with gentle dignity, "because I am going to prove to you how utterly wrong you have been in suspecting me of such contemptible conduct. I wrote this theme in the room of a member of the senior class. She read it after I had written it. I feel sure that she can identify this as mine because when I rewrote it I could not remember a word of the original ending which she had particularly commended. I did the best I could with it, but it wasn't in the least like the other," Grace ended earnestly. "Will you tell me the name of the young woman in whose room you wrote your theme?" asked Miss Duncan, her stern face relaxing a little. "It was Miss Ashe," returned Grace frankly. Miss Duncan raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I should say you had strong evidence in your favor, Miss Harlowe." "Will you ask Miss Ashe to come to your room after your last class to-day, Miss Duncan?" she asked eagerly. "I should like to show her the theme without explaining anything to her at first. I give you my word of honor I will say nothing about it to her in the meantime." Then, realizing that her word of honor was at present being seriously questioned, Grace blushed painfully. Miss Duncan, understanding the blush, said less severely, "Very well, Miss Harlowe." She scrutinized Grace's fine, sensitive face for a moment, then added, "You may come at the same time if you wish." Grace brightened, then shook her head positively. "Please let me come to see you to-morrow morning instead." She wished to give Miss Duncan perfect freedom to ask Mabel any questions she might find necessary to ask. "To-morrow morning, then," acquiesced Miss Duncan graciously. Grace turned to leave the room. At the door she hesitated, then walking back to the desk she said almost imploringly: "Please don't punish the other girl now, Miss Duncan. I do not know who she is, but I am sure she must have found my theme and copied it on the spur of the moment. I can't believe that she did it deliberately. If she did, then being found out by you will be lesson enough for her." "I have not as yet exonerated you from this charge, Miss Harlowe," declared Miss Duncan stiffly, her brief graciousness vanishing like magic. "If the other girl is to blame, then she must suffer for her fault. Until I have seen Miss Ashe I shall say nothing. After that I can not promise." Grace bowed and left the class room, her feeling toward the unknown plagiarist entirely one of pity. She had vindicated herself at the expense of exposing some one else without intent to do more than assert her own innocence, and she now wondered sadly if there were not some way in which she might persuade Miss Duncan to change her mind. On her way from Miss Duncan's class room that morning Grace found herself walking directly behind Emma Dean. She was sauntering across the campus, her near-sighted eyes fixed on a small, hurrying figure just ahead of her. "Hello, Grace," was Emma's affable salutation as she turned at the touch of Grace's hand on her shoulder. "I was watching Miss Taylor. What a disappointment that girl is. The first week or two after her arrival at Wayne Hall I thought her delightful, but she has turned out to be anything but agreeable. She barely nodded to me this morning. I believe she is developing snobbish tendencies, which is a great mistake. Deliver me from snobs! We have very few of them at Overton, thank goodness." But Grace could not help thinking that somewhere in the college community lived a girl who possessed a fault far greater than that of being a snob. CHAPTER XII THE SUMMONS The prospective dinner at Vinton's at which Ruth Denton and Arline Thayer were to be guests of honor drove the unpleasant incident of the morning from Grace's mind for the time being. She had determined to keep her interview with Miss Duncan a secret from her friends. If it had involved only herself, she might possibly have told Anne of it, but since it concerned some one else, Grace's fine sense of honor forbade her making even Anne her confidant in the matter. She could not help speculating a little concerning the identity of the other girl. She had not the remotest idea as to who she might be. Whoever she was, she could not have realized what a dishonorable thing she had done, was Grace's charitable reflection. She wondered what Mabel would think when Miss Duncan asked her to identify the theme as the one Grace had written during that evening in Holland House. "I'm going to stop thinking of it for the rest of the day," declared Grace half aloud, as she dressed for dinner late that afternoon. She started guiltily, glancing quickly to where Anne sat mending a tiny tear in her white silk blouse. Anne, who was fully occupied with her mending, made no comment. She was so used to Grace's habit of thinking aloud that she had no idle curiosity regarding her friend's thoughts. Whatever Grace wished her to know she would hear in due season. "Miriam and Elfreda are not going with us, you know," said Grace as they were about to leave their room. "I didn't know it," commented Anne. "Why did they change their minds?" "Miriam thinks you and I can do more toward restoring peace without her and Elfreda. She suspects that Ruth will satisfy Arline's curiosity and at the same time appease her wrath by telling what she refused to tell that other night, provided there are not too many listeners." "What a wise girl Miriam is!" exclaimed Anne admiringly. "I never thought of that." "Nor I," admitted Grace, "until she mentioned it. Then I saw the wisdom of it." "Where are we to meet Ruth and Arline?" asked Anne. "Suppose both of them arrive at Vinton's before we do?" "I thought of that, too," chuckled Grace, "so Arline is to come here, and Ruth is to wait for us at Vinton's. They can't possibly meet until we are there to manage matters. Arline ought to be here by this time. Shall we go downstairs and wait for her?" "There's the door bell now," said Anne. "That must be Arline." Her supposition proved correct. Just as they reached the foot of the stairs the maid admitted the fluffy-haired little girl. "Hello!" she called merrily. "I'm strictly on time, you see." "So are we," smiled Anne. "Shall we start at once?" "Yes, indeed," emphasized Arline. "I'm starved. I wasn't prepared in Greek to-day, and rushed through my luncheon in order to snatch a few minutes' study before class. I had my trouble for my pains, too. The bell rang before it was my turn to recite. Wasn't that fortunate?" "I should say so," agreed Grace. "If it had been I, Professor Martin would have called on me first. You were born lucky, Daffydowndilly." "I don't think so," replied Arline gloomily. "I have all kinds of miserable, unpleasant things to bother me." Anne and Grace exchanged significant glances behind the little girl's back. There was a chance for the success of their scheme. Arline was evidently unhappy over her cavalier treatment of Ruth. During the short walk to Vinton's all mention of Ruth's name was tacitly avoided. Arline chattered volubly about the reception. She had not enjoyed herself particularly. She had taken a freshman by the name of Violet Darby, who lived on the top floor of Morton House. She was considered the freshman beauty. "Oh, I remember her!" exclaimed Grace. "Gertrude Wells introduced me to her. I asked for a dance, but her card was full to overflowing. She is beautiful. She has such wonderful golden hair, and her brown eyes are in such striking contrast to her hair and fair complexion. She is awfully popular, I suppose." "Yes, the Morton House girls are all rushing her. I was surprised to think she accepted my invitation," returned Arline. "I don't think that was so very surprising," declared Grace bluntly. "Arline Thayer is also a Morton House favorite." "Violet is the reigning favorite just at present," rejoined Arline. "It's her fatal beauty. She is a very nice girl, though. Not a bit snobbish or conceited. Everyone in the house likes her. You must become better acquainted with her." "Here we are at Vinton's," announced Grace. "I ordered one of the alcove tables reserved for us." As they made their way to the alcove a girl rose from her seat in the shadow to greet them. It was Ruth, and as Arline caught sight of her her baby face grew dark. "How dared you?" she asked accusingly, turning toward Grace. "You know we are not friends. I don't wish to see her. I'm going straight home. I suppose she planned all this. She has tried to make up with me, but I shall never again be friends with her." "Please listen to me, Arline," began Grace, taking the angry little girl by the arm and pulling her gently toward the alcove. Ruth had risen from the table, a look of mingled pain and bewilderment on her face. "I didn't know Arline was to be here," she said tremulously. "Please tell her I didn't know it." She turned appealing eyes toward Grace. "Suppose we sit down at our table and talk over this matter," suggested Grace, in her most casual manner. Her calm gray eyes rested first on Ruth, then traveled to Arline, who hesitated briefly, then with an angry shrug of her shoulders seated herself in the nearest chair. Grace motioned Anne and Ruth to their chairs, then seating herself she said gently: "Now, children, suppose we clear up some of these doubts and misunderstanding by holding court? I am going to be the prosecuting attorney. Anne can be the counsel for the defense. Arline can borrow her first, then Ruth can have her. When all the evidence is in I shall appoint myself as judge and jury. It means a great deal of work for me, but the law must take its course. I, therefore, summon you both into court." CHAPTER XIII GRACE HOLDS COURT In spite of her displeasure, Arline giggled faintly at Grace's impromptu session of court. Ruth's sad little face brightened, while Anne listened to her friend with open admiration. She could have conceived of no surer way to settle the difference that had made them so unhappy. "You must remember," Grace said solemnly, "that there can be no dinner until the court has disposed of its first case. This is a murder trial, therefore the chief object of the court is to find the murderer of one friendship, done to death in cruel fashion. I wish I had Emma Dean's glasses to make me look more imposing. I wonder what kind of voice a prosecuting attorney would have. Dearly beloved," went on Grace impressively, "they don't say that in court, I know, but then I'm going to be different from most prosecuting attorneys." "There isn't the least doubt of that," interposed Anne slyly. "Silence," commanded Grace severely. "I shall have you arrested for contempt of court. Then there won't be any counsel for the defense. The first witness, that's you, Arline, will please take the stand. You needn't really move, you know. We will take a few things for granted. Sit up straight and be as dignified as possible. Fold your hands on the table. That's right. Now, state where and when you first met the defendant. Ruth can be the defendant until I question her. Then you'll have to play the part." "Over a year ago, at Morton House," stated Arline obediently. "What was your opinion of the defendant?" "I liked her better than any other girl I had ever met," confessed Arline. "Defendant number two, what did you think of Arline Thayer?" quizzed Grace, eyeing Ruth expectantly. "I liked her as much as she liked me," replied Ruth promptly. "When did your first disagreement occur?" probed Grace, turning from Ruth to Arline. "Here, at this very table," returned Arline in a low tone. "Whose fault was it?" inquired Grace wickedly. "Mine!" exclaimed Ruth and Arline simultaneously. "Thank you," returned Grace soberly. "Such spontaneity on the part of the defendants is very refreshing. It also simplifies the case and saves the court considerable trouble. There is hope that the court will be dismissed in time for dinner. As prosecuting attorney I will now deliver my charge. I shall have to deliver it sitting down or attract too much attention to the case. Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence. You think, no doubt, that murder has been done. This is not so. The friendship between Defendant Number One," Grace bowed to Arline, "and Defendant Number Two," she made a second bow to Ruth, "received a blow on the head which rendered it unconscious for some time. It had no intention of dying, but both prisoners treated it with extreme cruelty, not allowing it to hold up its poor crippled head. I ask you, Gentlemen of the jury, to consider well what shall be the penalty for assaulting and battering friendship with intent to kill. Gentlemen of the jury, are you ready for the question?" "We are," Grace answered for the jury in a deep voice that elicited little shrieks of laughter from her companions. "What shall be the fate of these malefactors?" demanded Grace in her prosecuting attorney voice, after the jury had rendered a verdict of guilty. "Be deliberate in your decision, but don't be all night about it." "They shall be made to shake hands across the table or suffer the full penalty of the law," stated the judge. "What is the full penalty of the law?" "No dinner," was the prompt answer. "Counsel for the defense, have you anything to say? I should have asked you before sentence was pronounced, but it doesn't matter. The prosecuting attorney always tries to fix things to suit himself, no matter what any one else thinks." "The counsel for the defense is a mere blot on the landscape in this trial," jeered Anne. "How did you guess it?" beamed the prosecuting attorney. "Prisoners, the sentence will be executed at once. Shake hands." Ruth's hand was stretched across the table to meet Arline's. "I'm awfully sorry, Ruth," said Arline, her voice trembling slightly. "I should never have asked you to tell what you wished to keep secret." "And I shouldn't have been so silly as to refuse to tell," declared Ruth bravely. "I'm going to tell you now, and you mustn't stop me. I was brought up in an orphan asylum. That's why I didn't care to tell you about myself that evening." "You poor, precious dear!" exclaimed Arline. "How can I ever forgive myself for being so horrid? Won't you forgive me, Ruth? I never supposed it was anything like that. I was angry because you called me your best friend, but wouldn't trust me. I'm so sorry. I'll never speak of it again to you." Arline looked appealingly at Ruth, her blue eyes misty. "But I want you to think of it. I had made up my mind to tell you. Then you passed me on the campus without speaking, and somehow I didn't dare come near you after that." "I've been perfectly horrid, I know," admitted Arline contritely. "I've been so used to having my own way that I try to bend everyone I know to it." "I don't mind telling you girls about myself now. At first I was ashamed of my poverty," confessed Ruth. "After I went to Arline's beautiful home I hated to say anything about it to any one. Then Arline grew angry with me. I realized afterward that I had been foolish not to tell her my story. There isn't much to tell. I was picked up in a railroad wreck on a westbound train when I was four years old. I can just remember getting into the train with my mother. She was burned to death in the wreck, but by some miracle I was saved. I knew my name, Ruth Irving Denton, my age, and around my neck mother had tied a little packet containing some money, a letter and a gold watch. A woman who lived near where the wreck occurred took charge of me, and as no one came for me, in time I was sent to a home. I lived there until I was fourteen. The matron was good to us, and considering we were all homeless waifs we fared very well." "And the letter?" asked Grace. "It was from my father to my mother, giving all the directions for our journey west. With it had been enclosed a money order for four hundred dollars, which my mother had evidently cashed. I still have the letter. "Then a man and his wife took me. They were good to me and sent me to school. I studied hard and finished high school when I was seventeen. Then I won a scholarship of one hundred dollars a year. I was determined to go to college, but the people with whom I lived thought differently. So I left them a year ago last fall and came to Overton, resolving to make my own way. They were so angry with me for leaving them they would have nothing further to do with me. So you see I had not a friend in the world until I met you girls." "But you have me now," comforted Arline, patting Ruth's hand. "I'll never be so silly again. Poor little girl!" "And you have Anne and me," added Grace. "Don't forget Miriam and Elfreda, either." "I am rich in friends now," said Ruth softly. "Perhaps your father isn't really dead, Ruth!" exclaimed Grace. "He must be," said Ruth sadly. "I have only one thing that belonged to him, a heavy gold watch with his full name, 'Arthur Northrup Denton,' engraved on the inside of the back case. It is a valuable watch, but I have always declared I would starve rather than part with it." "Perhaps it may help you to find him some day," suggested Grace thoughtfully. "Don't you know the name of the town in Nevada where he first lived?" asked Anne. "He went to Humboldt, and from there into the mountains," replied Ruth. "Since that time all trace of him has been lost. I never knew my own story until on the day I became fourteen years of age. Then the matron told me. It was at the time that I was getting ready to go to live with the man and his wife of whom I have spoken. After that it seemed as though the whole world changed for me. I didn't mind being poor, nor having to work, for I had the glorious thought that perhaps my father was still alive and that some time I should see him again. I wrote several letters to him, sending them to Humboldt, but they always came back to me. "After a while I gave up all hope and stopped writing. I couldn't bear to think of having more letters come back unclaimed. I tried to forget that I had even dreamed of seeing my father again, and began to put my whole mind on going to college. Now I am so thankful that I persevered and won the scholarship. There were times when I was very unhappy over leaving the only home I had ever known, outside the orphanage. Still I could not rid myself of the conviction that I had taken a step in the right direction. Later, when I met you girls, I was sure of it. Even though I didn't find my father, I found true and loyal friends who have crowded more pleasure and happiness into one short year than I ever had in all my life before." "I'll lend you half of my father, Ruth," offered Arline generously. "He is almost as fond of you as he is of me. You remember he said so." "Weren't you green with jealousy when he admitted it?" teased Anne. "Not a bit of it," protested Arline stoutly. "I only wish Ruth were my sister." "I'd like to be the one to find Ruth's father," mused Grace. Anne smiled. "Even college can't uproot Grace's sleuthing tendencies. She has an absolute genius for ferreting out mysteries." "No, I haven't," contradicted Grace. "If I had--" she stopped. She had been on the point of remarking that she would have known who had stolen and used her theme. "If you had what?" asked Arline curiously. "If I had the genius of which Arline prattles, I'd be at the head of the New York Detective Bureau," finished Grace. And Anne alone knew that Grace had purposely substituted this flippant answer to conceal her real thought. CHAPTER XIV GRACE MAKES A RESOLUTION "What do you think has happened?" demanded J. Elfreda Briggs, bursting into the room where Anne and Grace were busily making up for lost time. They had lingered at Vinton's until after eight o'clock. Then the thought of to-morrow with its eternal round of classes had driven them home, reluctantly enough, to where their books awaited them. It was almost nine o'clock before they had actually settled themselves, and Elfreda's sudden, tempestuous entrance caused Anne to lay down her Horace with an air of patient resignation. "We might as well begin saying 'unprepared' now, and grow accustomed to the sound of our own voices," she announced. "I think so, too," agreed Grace. "Well, Elfreda, why this thusness? What has happened? Have you been elected to the Pi Beta Gamma, or did you get an unusually large check from home?" "Catch the P. B. Gammas troubling themselves about me," scoffed Elfreda. "As for a check, I've written for it, but so far I've seen no signs of it. When I do lay hands on it we'll celebrate the event with feasting and merrymaking." "Then I can't guess," sighed Grace. "You'd better tell us." "Well," began Elfreda, her eyes twinkling, "I have a dinner invitation for to-morrow night at Martell's." "That is nothing startling," scoffed Anne. "We've just come from Vinton's." "But the rest of my news is remarkable," persisted the stout girl. "I am invited to dine"--Elfreda paused, then finished impressively--"with the Anarchist." "You don't mean it!" Grace looked her surprise. "Of course I mean it," retorted Elfreda. "I wouldn't say so if I didn't. She delivered her invitation on the way over to chapel this morning. I'd give you an imitation of the way she did it if I hadn't accepted." Grace shot a quick, approving glance toward Elfreda which the latter saw and interpreted correctly. "I wouldn't have thought about that last year, would I, Grace?" she asked shyly. Grace laughed rather confusedly. "How did you guess so much? The way you stumble upon things is positively uncanny." "Observation, my dear, observation," returned Elfreda patronizingly. "One can learn almost everything about everybody if one keeps one's eyes open." "You seem to carry out your own theory," admitted Grace smilingly. "Have you finished your work for to-night?" "Years ago," declared Elfreda extravagantly. "Miriam hasn't, at least she was still studying when I left the room. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make some fudge. Mrs. Elwood will let me have some milk and we have the rest of the stuff in our room. I'll send Miriam in here. Then I can have the whole room to myself. When it's done, I'll call you." With a joyful skip that fairly jarred the furniture in the room Elfreda bounded through the doorway and vanished. Two minutes later Miriam appeared, an amused look on her dark face, several books tucked under one arm. "Driven from home," she declaimed, posing on the threshold, her free hand appealingly extended. "Will no one help me?" "I will." Grace reached forth her hand, dragging Miriam into the room. "Hurry through your lessons and we'll have a spread. I'm sorry you weren't with us to-night, but Anne and I weren't sure as to just how successfully our plan would work. Everything went smoothly, though." Grace related briefly what had taken place at the dinner. "I am glad Ruth and Arline settled their differences," commented Miriam. "We all knew that Arline was at fault. She is such a dear little thing, one hesitates to say so." "She was very sweet to-night," interposed Anne. "She asked Ruth's forgiveness and took the blame for their little coolness on her own shoulders." "I don't wish to cause dissension in this happy band, but we really must stop talking and study," warned Grace. "I haven't made a satisfactory recitation this week, and I vote for reform." "All right, my dear Miss Harlowe," flung back Miriam. "'Work, for the Night is Coming.'" "You mean going," giggled Anne. After this interchange of flippant remarks silence reigned, broken only by the sound of turning leaves or an occasional sigh over the appalling length of a lesson. The three girls were fully absorbed in their work when Elfreda poked her head in the room to announce that the fudge was made. "I've a bottle of cunning little pickles, and a box of cheese wafers. I made some tea, too. Hurry, or it will be half-past ten before we have time to eat a single thing." "I can't possibly finish studying my Latin to-night," sighed Miriam. "Every day the lessons seem to get longer. Miss Arthur hasn't a spark of compassion." "Don't stop to grumble," commanded Elfreda. "Come along." The half-past ten o'clock bell rang before the fudge was half gone. In fact, it was after eleven before the quartette prepared for sleep. During the evening all thought of the troublesome theme had left Grace's mind. It was not until after she had turned out the light and gone to bed that it came back to her with such disagreeable force that for the time being all idea of sleep fled. For the first time since her entrance into Overton College she had incurred the displeasure of one in authority over her, and through no fault of her own. As Grace lay staring into the darkness the recollection of that bitter time during her junior year at high school, when Miss Thompson had accused her of shielding the girl who had destroyed the principal's personal papers, came back, vivid and complete. Eleanor Savelli, now numbered among her dearest friends and a member of the Phi Sigma Tau, had been the transgressor, and Grace had refused to voice her suspicions. It had all come right in the end, although Miss Thompson's displeasure had been hard to bear. Perhaps this affair would end happily, too. Suppose the other girl had chosen the same subject? Grace gave vent to a soft exclamation of impatience at her own supposition. She wished she dared believe that it were so, but common sense told her that she could not hope to deceive herself by any such delusion. "Who could the girl be?" Grace asked herself over and over. Surely, no one of her intimate friends. Nor any girl at Wayne Hall, either. Whoever was guilty would be severely punished, perhaps sent home. Overton prided itself on its honor. Its children must be above reproach at all times. Mabel's evidence would clear her. But what of the other girl? "Whoever she is," speculated Grace, "by this time she is probably sorry for what she did. I suppose she is frightened, too. I'm going to make Miss Duncan let her off this once, and if I can find out who she is, I'm going to stand by her so faithfully that she'll never again care to do a dishonest thing as long as she lives." It was a long time before Grace fell asleep that night. Her perturbed state of mind over the stolen theme had served to make her wakeful, and her thoughts flitted from one subject to another, as she lay waiting for the sleep that refused to come, always returning, however, to that of the unlucky theme. When, at last, it came, it brought disturbing dreams, in which she figured as the transgressor. The theme did not belong to her, but to J. Elfreda Briggs. She had stolen it from the pocket of Elfreda's brown serge coat, and Miss Duncan had seen her take it. During the morning exercises in the chapel, Miss Duncan had mounted the steps of the platform, and, standing beside Dr. Morton, had shouted forth her guilt to the whole college, while she had endeavored to creep out of the chapel unnoticed. CHAPTER XV THE QUALITY OF MERCY The next morning Grace felt singularly dispirited as she went down to breakfast. It had been raining, and the dreary outlook caused the gloomy lines, "The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year," to run through her head with maddening persistency. "What's the matter, Grace?" inquired Emma Dean. "That chief-mourner expression of yours is doubly depressing on a day like this. Did you eat too much fudge last night, or have you been conditioned in math?" "You are a wild guesser, Emma," returned Grace, smiling faintly. "My troubles are of an entirely different nature. But how did you know we made fudge last night, and why didn't you come in and have some?" "I never go where I am not invited," was the significant retort. "Nonsense!" declared Grace. "You are always welcome, and you know it. The spread was in Miriam's room, but you know who your friends are, don't you?" "Don't worry, I'm not offended," Emma assured Grace good-humoredly. "I came in just before the ten-thirty bell last night and heard sounds of revelry as I passed by." "There's plenty of fudge on our table," put in Miriam Nesbit. "Help yourself to it whenever the spirit moves you." "Where is Mildred Taylor this morning?" asked Irene Evans, glancing toward Mildred's vacant place. "Miss Taylor is ill this morning," answered a prim voice from the end of the table. With one accord all eyes were turned in the direction of the voice. The Anarchist had actually spoken at the table! It was unbelievable. What followed was even more surprising. The Anarchist swept the table with a defiant look, then said, with startling distinctness, "If she has not fully recovered by to-night I shall send for a physician. In the meantime I shall remain with her to care for her." "That is very kind in you, I am sure," ventured Emma Dean. Surprise had tied the tongues of the others. "Not in the least," contradicted the Anarchist coldly. "As her roommate, common humanity demands that I assume a certain amount of responsibility for her welfare." "Oh, yes, of course," agreed Emma hastily. "Please let us know when we may run in to see her. Excuse me, everybody. I must run upstairs and study a little before going to chapel." Several freshmen followed her lead and filed decorously out the door with preternaturally solemn faces that broke into smiles the moment the door closed behind them. The Anarchist, however, went on eating her breakfast, quite unaware that she had created the slightest ripple of amusement. When Elfreda rose to leave the dining room the strange young woman rose, too, and walked sedately out of the room in the stout girl's wake. "Elfreda has evidently made a conquest," remarked Miriam to Grace. "See how tamely the haughty Anarchist follows at her heels." "It's astonishing, but splendid, I think," said Grace decidedly. "Isn't it strange how much influence for good one girl can have over another? For some reason or other Elfreda knows just how to bring the best in Miss Atkins to the surface. Shall we run up and see Miss Taylor for a moment?" "You go this morning, Grace," urged Miriam. "I'll stop and see her at noon. I haven't the time just now." "I'll go with you," volunteered Anne. Grace knocked gently on the slightly opened door, then, receiving no answer, opened it softly. She paused irresolutely on the threshold, Anne peering over her shoulder. Laura Atkins had left the room, but Mildred Taylor, fully dressed, sat at the window looking listlessly out. If she heard Grace's light knock she paid no attention to it. It was not until Grace said rather diffidently, "We heard you were ill and thought we'd come in to see you," that the girl at the window turned toward Grace. Her piquant little face was drawn and pale, and her eyes looked suspiciously red. She eyed Grace almost sulkily, then said slowly, "It was kind of you to come, but I shall be all right to-morrow." Under Grace's serious glance her eyes fell, then, to her visitors' amazement, she burst into tears. Grace crossed the room. Her arm slid across the sobbing freshman's shoulders in silent sympathy. "Can't you tell me what troubles you?" she asked softly. Mildred shook off the comforting arm with a muttered: "Let me alone. I can't tell you, of all persons. Go away." "Why can't you tell me?" persisted Grace gently. "Because I can't. Won't you please go. I don't wish to talk to any one," wailed Mildred. Grace walked toward the door, her eyes on the weeping girl. Anne, who had kept strictly in the background during the little scene, stepped out into the hall, Grace following. "That was hardly my idea of a cordial reception," was Anne's dry comment as they entered their own room. "That young woman has something on her mind," declared Grace. "Her illness is not physical. It is mental. Either some one has torn her feelings to shreds or else she has done something she is ashamed of and remorse has overtaken her." "Unless she has had bad news from home or has been conditioned," suggested Anne. "I don't believe it's either," said Grace, shaking her head. "I believe this is something different. Of late she has been acting strangely. Ever since the reception she has avoided me. Anne Pierson, do you see the time? We'll be late for chapel!" gasped Grace in consternation. With one accord the two friends gathered up their wraps, putting them on as they ran. After chapel Grace left Anne at the door of Science Hall and went on to Overton Hall. She wished to see Miss Duncan before her first class recited, and learn the latest developments of her case. Until chapel exercises were over, Grace had refused to allow her mind to dwell on her trouble, but now, as she climbed slowly up the broad stairway to Miss Duncan's class room, the whole unhappy affair rose before her. Miss Duncan was sitting at her desk as Grace entered. She looked at her watch, smiled frankly at Grace and said in her usual businesslike way, "I can give you only ten minutes, Miss Harlowe." The teacher's friendly tone made Grace's heart leap. She recognized the fact that Miss Duncan no longer looked upon her with suspicion. "Your innocence was clearly proven by Miss Ashe," said Miss Duncan in her blunt fashion, coming at once to the point. "I recognize your claim to the authorship of the theme. The other young woman was the real plagiarist. It was a contemptible trick and not in keeping with Overton standards." "What will happen to this other girl, Miss Duncan?" asked Grace apprehensively, her eyes fixed on Miss Duncan. "What do you think she deserves?" inquired Miss Duncan quizzically. "A chance to redeem herself," was the prompt reply. "No one except you knows who she is. I don't wish to know her identity, and I am sure Miss Ashe doesn't. Couldn't you send for the girl and tell her that it would be a secret between just you two. That you were willing to forget it had happened if she were willing to start all over again and build her college foundation fairly and squarely. It wouldn't be of any benefit to her to place her fault before the dean. No doubt she would be dismissed, and that dismissal might spoil her whole life." "You are an eloquent pleader, Miss Harlowe," returned Miss Duncan. "As this is strictly an affair of one of my classes, I consider that I am at liberty to do as I think best about placing this matter before the dean. If I did see fit to do so I hardly think it would mean dismissal, particularly if I took you with me to plead the cause of the offender. Come to me this afternoon after my last class and I will give you my answer." Grace left the class room far more cheerfully than she had entered. Her own vindication had not impressed her half so deeply as Miss Duncan's apparently lenient attitude toward the girl who had been false to herself and to Overton. CHAPTER XVI A DISGRUNTLED REFORMER Grace was not disappointed. Miss Duncan graciously agreed to let the culprit off with a severe reprimand. Grace ran joyfully down the campus to Holland House. She wished to tell Mabel Ashe the good news. "Horrid little copy-cat! She doesn't deserve it," was Mabel's unsympathetic comment as Grace related what had passed between Miss Duncan and herself. "You know who she is, don't you, Grace?" Grace shook her head. "I haven't the slightest idea," she said soberly. "I can't believe it was any one at Wayne Hall. You don't suspect any one, do you?" "No," returned Mabel. "I haven't become very well acquainted with the freshmen this year, so far. I suppose you did right in not exposing this girl. I don't know whether I should be quite as charitable as you. If you hadn't had a witness who saw you write the theme, you would now be under a cloud. What I can't forget is the fact that she went so far as to try to make Miss Duncan believe that you really copied it. Miss Duncan said she insisted that the theme had disappeared from her room. Think how foolish she must have felt when Miss Duncan confronted her with the truth yesterday afternoon and made her confess!" "Oh, Mabel!" Grace's distressed tone caused the pretty senior to rise and stand in front of Grace's chair. "What's the matter, Gracie," she said, taking Grace's hands in hers. Grace raised her gray eyes to meet the inquiring brown ones bent on her. "I'm so sorry," she said sadly, "but the girl who took my theme does live in Wayne Hall." "How do you know?" asked Mabel quickly. "From what you said," returned Grace. "If she accused me of taking her theme from her room, isn't it highly probable that her room is in Wayne Hall? I wouldn't be likely to go into one of the campus houses to steal a theme, would I? I must have dropped it in the hall or on the stairs that night, and she must have come into the house directly after I did and picked it up. I don't like to believe that one of our girls did it," Grace concluded sorrowfully, "but I am afraid it's true." "Some day you'll stumble upon the guilty girl when you least expect to find her," prophesied Mabel. "Now forget her, and tell me what you and your chums are going to do over Thanksgiving. I am going to a dance on Thanksgiving night with a Willston man. His fraternity is giving it." "I don't know any college men in this part of the world," sighed Grace regretfully, "therefore I never have any invitations to man dances." "Wait until my cousin comes up here. He is a Columbia man and you will like him immensely. I know a number of the Willston men, too. Why don't you go with me to the football game Thanksgiving Day? You are not going away, are you? It is only a four days' vacation, you know." "No, we haven't any particular place to go. Last year we spent our Thanksgiving vacation with the Southards in New York. You knew about that." "You lucky things," laughed Mabel. "I envy you your friendship with Everett Southard and his sister." "Some day you must meet them," planned Grace. "They are delightful people. Mr. Southard is appearing in Shakespearian roles in the large cities this season, and Miss Southard is in Florida visiting friends. If they were in New York they would insist on our going to them for the holidays. I must run away now. It is almost dinner time and I promised to hook up Elfreda's new gown. Miriam went over to Morton House with Gertrude Wells, and won't return until late, and Elfreda is going to dine with the Anarchist." "Really!" exclaimed Mabel. "Elfreda seems to be coming to the front this year, doesn't she!" "She is turning out splendidly," said Grace warmly. "She stands high in every one of her classes, and she is so ridiculously funny that we would feel lost without her. She says things in the same droll way that a young man we know in Oakdale does. But I mustn't stay another minute. Good-bye, Mabel, I'll see you in a day or two." Grace darted across the campus and ran rapidly in the direction of Wayne Hall. She loved to run and her fleetness of foot had served her well on more than one occasion. Only that day she had complained to Miriam that it had been years since she had indulged in a good run. Miriam had laughingly accused her of still being a tomboy, and had proposed that they take a long tramp on Saturday. "You can run up and down the road to your heart's content when we get far enough away from Overton so that no one will see you and think you have suddenly gone crazy," Miriam had declared good-naturedly. Bounding up the steps two at a time, Grace reached the front door of Wayne Hall without drawing a laboring breath. "I'm certainly in good condition," she laughed to herself, inhaling deeply and inflating her chest. "I hope I'll be chosen to play on the team this year." She rang a third time before the door was opened by Emma Dean, who grumbled at her repeated ringing and then announced that she had rung six times that afternoon before any one had condescended to let her in. "Have you seen Elfreda?" flung back Grace on her way upstairs. "You'd better hurry," called Emma after her. "I heard her growling to herself as I passed her door." "I began to think you were never coming," greeted Elfreda, as Grace burst into the room, her eyes bright and her cheeks becomingly flushed from her recent run across the campus. "Why didn't you ask some one else to hook you up?" retorted Grace mischievously, throwing down her gloves and beginning on the top hook. "Because I wanted you to see how nice I looked in this new frock," replied the stout girl. "If I had not stipulated that you were to perform this extremely important service for me, you would have in all probability absented yourself from my immediate vicinity, unmindful of the rare exhibition of youth and beauty that was being prepared for you in my room." "If I had closed my eyes I could have sworn it was Miss Atkins," laughed Grace. "Even she herself couldn't fail to recognize that impersonation. It's ridiculously funny, Elfreda, but I wish you wouldn't do it." As Grace and Elfreda were standing with their backs directly away from the door neither girl saw the tense little figure that stood rigid, one hand on the door casing, listening with eyebrows drawn fiercely together. An instant later it had vanished. Grace, after triumphantly placing the last hook in its eye, began helping Elfreda find her handkerchief and gloves. "Now you have everything you need," she declared, holding up the stout girl's coat. "Do you wait here for your dinner partner or does she call for you?" "She is coming in here for me," answered Elfreda. "I wish she would hurry along. I haven't had even a cracker to eat since luncheon and I'm famished." "I think I'll go if you don't mind. I'm hungry, too. I must see if Anne has come in yet. Miss Atkins will be here in a moment. Good-bye. I hope you will have a nice time. I am so glad she invited you." Grace crossed the hall to her own room. Anne was rearranging her hair preparatory to going down to dinner. "I think I'll do my hair over again," decided Grace. "That run across the campus shook most of my hairpins loose. It will be at least ten minutes before the bell rings, so I shall have plenty of time." But her hair proved refractory and the clang of the dinner bell found her tucking in a last unruly lock. "I'm going on downstairs, Grace," called Anne from the doorway. "All right," answered Grace. As she passed Elfreda's room she heard her name uttered in a sibilant whisper. Wheeling at the sound, Grace stepped to the stout girl's door. Elfreda drew her in and, closing the door, said nervously: "What do you suppose has happened? I waited and waited for the An--Miss Atkins and she didn't appear, so I went down to her room and found the door closed. I knocked at least a dozen times, until my knuckles ached, but not a sound came from within. Then I came back to my room and waited. She hasn't materialized yet. I went down to her door just now and knocked again, but, nothing doing." In her agitation Elfreda dropped into slang. "That is strange," agreed Grace. "Do you suppose she has been taken suddenly ill?" "Search me," declared Elfreda wearily. "She ought to be called the Riddle. She is past solution, isn't she? I'm hungry, and if she doesn't appear within the next five minutes I'm going to put on my old brown serge dress and go down to dinner. I'm not used to being invited out to dine and then deserted before I've even had a chance to look at the bill of fare." "Never mind," comforted Grace. "I'll ask you to dinner at Martell's next week and won't desert you either. Wait a minute. I will go down to the dining room and see if by any chance she could be there. Then I'll come upstairs and let you know. If she isn't there you had better change your gown and go downstairs with me." "She isn't there," reported Grace, five minutes later. "Miss Taylor is, but her roommate is missing." "'Parted at the altar,'" quoted Elfreda dramatically. "Will you please unhook me?" For the second time that night Grace busied herself with the troublesome hooks and eyes. Elfreda jerked off the new gown. Her temper was rising. "This is what comes of cultivating freaks," she muttered, lapsing into her old rudeness. "I might have known she'd do something. Catch me on any more reform committees!" "The way of the reformer is hard," soothed Grace, as she picked up the gown Elfreda had thrown in a heap on the floor, and folding it, laid it across the foot of the stout girl's couch. Elfreda, who was reaching into the closet for her brown serge dress, wheeled about, regarding Grace solemnly. "Too hard for me," she declared. "Hereafter, the Anarchist can attend to her own reformation. The Briggs Helping Hand Society has disbanded." CHAPTER XVII MAKING OTHER GIRLS HAPPY The Thanksgiving holiday was welcomed with acclamation by the students of Overton College, who, with a few exceptions, ate their Thanksgiving dinners at their various campus houses and boarding places. During the four days tables at Martell's and Vinton's were in demand and a continuous succession of dinners and luncheons made serious inroads in the monthly allowances of the hospitable entertainers. The month of December dragged discouragingly, however, and when the time really did arrive to pack and be off for the Christmas holidays the latent energy that suddenly developed for packing trunks and making calls caused the faculty to sigh with regret that it had not been used in the pursuit of knowledge. Nothing of any event had happened at Wayne Hall. Since the evening when Elfreda had waited in vain for Laura Atkins, whose invitation to dinner she had accepted, this peculiar young woman had offered neither apology nor explanation for her inexplicable behavior. In fact, the next morning she had completely ignored Elfreda, who, feeling herself to be the aggrieved one, had made no attempt to discover what had prompted this glaring disregard of etiquette on the part of the eccentric freshman. For a week afterward Elfreda discussed and rediscussed the mystery with Grace, Anne and Miriam. Then she gave up in disgust and turned her attention to basketball. She had lost considerable weight and was now a member of the scrub team. Her greatest ambition was to make the real team in her junior year, and with that intent she sturdily refused to eat sweet things, took long walks and daily haunted the gymnasium, going through the various forms of exercises she had elected to take with commendable persistency. Grace had never sought to discover the identity of the freshman who had stolen her theme. She felt reasonably certain that the same roof covered them both, but she never allowed herself to reach the point of laying the finger of suspicion on any one in particular. That she had been vindicated of the charge was quite enough for her, but she could not resist wondering occasionally what had prompted the deed, and whether the other girl had turned over a new leaf. One other thing troubled Grace not a little. Mildred Taylor had become extremely intimate with Mary Hampton and Alberta Wicks. Both young women were frequent guests for dinner at Wayne Hall, and Mildred spent her spare time almost entirely in their society. As the two juniors were extremely unpopular with the Wayne Hall girls a peculiar constraint invariably fell upon the table when either young woman was Mildred's guest for the evening. "One has to weigh one's words before speaking when Alberta Wicks or Mary Hampton are here," Emma Dean had declared significantly to Irene Evans, and this seemed to be the prevalent opinion among the students who lived at Wayne Hall. Mildred's attitude toward Grace had not changed. In manner she was more distant than ever, and except for a slight bow when chance brought her face to face with Grace, she gave no other evidence of having been more than the merest acquaintance. Her dislike for her roommate had to all appearances disappeared, and Laura Atkins was now seen occasionally in company with Mildred and her two mischievous junior friends. Such was the situation when the longed-for Christmas vacation arrived. Grace Harlowe's thoughts were not on her own perplexities as she walked toward Wayne Hall after finishing her last round of calls. A new problem had arisen, and as she swung along through the crisp winter air she was deep in thought. It was peculiar Christmas weather. A light snow had fallen, but through the patches of white lying softly on the campus the grass still showed spots of green. It had been an unusually long, warm fall, and to Grace, whose winters had been spent much farther north, the mildness of December had seemed marvelous. "There!" she exclaimed, stopping in the middle of the walk to consult a small leather book, and drawing a pencil through the last item, "I can go home in peace. I have every single thing done, even to notifying the expressman to come for my trunk." A sudden trill sounded down the street behind her. Turning her head, Grace saw Arline Thayer bearing down upon her. "I thought I'd never make you hear me," panted the little girl. "Ruth is going home with me after all." "I thought she would," laughed Grace. "She assured me last night that she wouldn't think of imposing upon you, but I know your powers of persuasion. You have given Ruth a great deal of happiness, Arline, and I am sure she appreciates it, too." Arline shook her curly head. "I don't deserve any credit. I am nice with her because I like her. I am consulting my own selfish pleasure, you see, and that doesn't count. If I didn't care for Ruth I am afraid I wouldn't bother my head about helping her to have good times." "You are frank, at least," smiled Grace. "Seriously speaking, I am really very selfish," admitted Arline. "I never think of doing good for unselfish reasons. I don't find any particular interest in being nice with girls who do not appeal to me. That sounds terribly cold-blooded, doesn't it? They say an only child is always selfish, you know. Oh, forgive me, Grace; I forgot you were an 'only child.' Goodness knows you are not selfish." "Yes, I am," contradicted Grace. "This is my second year at Overton and in all the time I've been here I have thought about nothing but myself and my friends and my good times. This afternoon when I started out to make calls I met Miss Barlow, a little freshman who lives in a boarding house down on Beech Street. We were going in the same direction and I thoughtlessly asked if she were going home for Christmas. A second afterward I was sorry. Her face fell, then she brightened a little and said, 'No.' She and seven other girls who lived in the same house were going to have a Christmas tree. For three days they had been busy decorating it. They had just finished. She asked, almost timidly, if I would like to see it. Of course I said 'Yes,' and we started for her boarding house. It is away down at the other end of Overton, and the most cheerless looking old barn of a house. The inside of the house is almost as cheerless as the outside, too. They had set up their tree in the parlor, and it was the only bright spot in the room. "The tree was trimmed with popcorn and tinsel. There were funny little ornaments of colored paper, too, that they had made themselves. The presents were underneath the tree, a few forlorn looking little packages that made me feel like crying. I couldn't truthfully say that the tree was lovely, but I did tell Miss Barlow that I thought they had done splendidly and that I was sorry I hadn't known her better before, because I should have liked to help them with their tree. "Then she said she had always wanted to know me, but I had so many friends among the influential girls at Overton she had thought I wouldn't care to know her. You can imagine how conscience stricken I felt. At home I was the friend of every girl in high school, and to think that I have been developing snobbish traits without realizing it!" "Couldn't we do something nice for them before we go?" asked Arline generously. "It is only three o 'clock. Why not start a movement among the girls we know and send them a box? We can make the girls contribute, but we won't tell a soul who it's for. We will ask for money or presents--whatever they care to give," she went on eagerly. "What do you think of it? Do you suppose they would be offended?" "I think it is the greatest thing out!" exclaimed Grace enthusiastically. "How can they be offended if we send the things anonymously?" "They can't," chuckled Arline gleefully. "Now we had better separate. I'll do Morton House, Livingstone Hall and Wellington House. You can do Wayne Hall, Holland House and those two boarding houses on the corner below you. A lot of freshmen and sophomores live there. I'll come over to your house with my loot to-night, directly after dinner. Good-bye until then." At seven o'clock that night Arline set down a heavy suit case and rang the bell at Wayne Hall. Grace, who had been watching for her from one of the living-room windows, hastened to open the door. "Thank goodness," sighed the little fluffy-haired girl. "I thought I would never be able to drag this suit case across the campus. It is crammed with things. I've been busier than all the busy bees that ever buzzed," she continued happily, following Grace into the living room. "You can't begin to think how nice every one has been. About half of this stuff in the suit case is candy. One girl at Morton House had ten boxes given her. Of course, she couldn't eat it all, so she put in five." Arline did not volunteer the further information that she was the "girl" and that the candy was mostly from Willston men, with whom she was extremely popular. "Another girl gave me two pairs of gloves. She had half a dozen pairs sent from home. She's going to New York for Christmas, so her home presents were sent to her here. Ever so many girls who had bought presents to take home gave me something from their store. I caught them just as they were finishing their packing. But, best of all," added Arline triumphantly, sinking into a chair and opening her brown suede handbag, "I have money--fifty dollars! That will help some, won't it?" She gave a little, gleeful chuckle. "I should say so," gasped Grace. "I didn't do quite as well, although I have a whole table full of presents. Come on up and see them. None of us have put in our money contribution yet." "How much have you?" asked Arline curiously. "So far only twenty-five dollars," replied Grace. "The girls in the boarding houses are not overburdened with money. I collected half of it from the Holland House girls. Miriam has promised me five dollars and I will put in five. That makes thirty-five dollars. I haven't asked Elfreda yet. She went out on a last shopping tour early this afternoon and hasn't come home yet. I suppose she went to Vinton's for dinner. Anne hasn't given me her money yet." "Did you ask Miss Atkins?" was Arline's sudden inquiry. She was seized with a recollection of what transpired earlier in the fall. Grace shook her head. "I couldn't. She hasn't spoken to me since the beginning of the term." "Shall I run up and ask her?" proposed Arline. "She is quite cordial to me in that queer, stiff way of hers." "It is only fair to give her a chance to contribute if she wishes," said Grace slowly. "I should say you might better ask her than leave her out." "I'll go now, while I feel in the humor," declared Arline. "You might ask Miss Taylor, too. She is Miss Atkins's roommate. She has been rather distant with me, so I haven't approached her on the subject." Arline danced off on her errand with joyful little skips of anticipation. It was not long before she returned, a pleased smile on her baby face. "What do you think!" she whispered, gleefully. "She gave me ten dollars! She was lovely, too, and didn't scowl at all. I wished her a Merry Christmas, and she asked me to take luncheon or dinner with her some time after Christmas. Miss Taylor wasn't there." Grace was on the point of replying humorously that she hoped Arline would not share Elfreda's fate when the hour to dine came round. She checked herself in time, however. She had no right to betray Elfreda's confidence even to Arline. "That was generous in her," she said warmly. "Would you like to come upstairs with me now, Arline, while I collect my share of the contributions? Miriam and Elfreda will soon be here and I will ask Anne for her money." Arline obediently followed Grace upstairs to her room. Grace lighted the gas. As she did so she espied an envelope lying on the rug near the door. Crossing to where it lay, Grace picked it up. It bore no superscription. She turned it over, then finding it unsealed pulled back the flap and peered into it. With an exclamation of wonder she drew forth a crisp ten dollar bill. "Who do you suppose left it there?" she gasped in amazement. "I thought Anne was here. She must have gone out." "Look in the envelope. Perhaps there is a card, too," suggested Arline hopefully. Grace peered into it a second time. Close to the inner surface of the envelope lay a tiny strip of paper. She held it up triumphantly for Arline's inspection. "Is there any writing on it?" demanded Arline. Grace scanned the strip of paper earnestly, turned it over and found the faint lead-pencil inscription: "From a friend." "Who can it be?" pondered Arline. "Do you recognize the hand-writing?" "No." Grace looked puzzled. "It is a welcome gift. Just think, Arline, we have one hundred dollars. Your fifty, and Miss Atkins's ten makes sixty, and this makes seventy. The twenty-five dollars I have and twenty dollars more from the four of us makes one hundred and fifteen dollars. That will mean a great deal to those girls. I only wish it were more." "If I had known sooner I would not have been so extravagant in buying my Christmas presents," declared Arline regretfully. "There isn't time to write Father for money. I don't like to telegraph. I've been positively reckless with money this month. When I go home I'm going to have a talk with Father. Oh, Grace Harlowe, I've a perfectly lovely idea," she continued, joyfully clasping her two small hands about Grace's arm, "but I am not going to say a word until I come back to Overton." "Then I won't ask questions," smiled Grace. "Come, now, help me with these packages. It is eight o'clock and we haven't made a start yet. We had better wrap the presents in two large packages. I will ask Mrs. Elwood for some wrapping paper, and we'll bring the suit case up here." It was almost nine o'clock when Grace and Arline descended the steps of Wayne Hall with mystery written on their faces. Each girl carried an unwieldy bundle. In the center of Grace's bundle, securely wrapped in fold after fold of tissue paper, was a little box. It contained one hundred and fifteen dollars in bills. Wrapped about the bills was the following note addressed to Esther Barlow, the freshman Grace had encountered that afternoon: "Merry Christmas to yourself and your seven freshmen friends. Santa Claus." [Illustration: Each Girl Carried an Unwieldy Bundle.] "How can we manage to deliver this stuff without being seen?" demanded Arline. "My arms ache already, and we haven't walked a block." Grace set down her bundle on a convenient horse block and paused to consider. Arline dropped hers beside it with a sigh of relief. "I know what we can do," said Grace reflectively. "We can get Mr. Symes to go with us. He is that old man who does errands and takes messages for ever so many of the girls. We will go with him as far as the corner, then he can carry the things to the door and give them to the woman who owns the boarding house. He lives just around the corner from here. You stay here and watch the bundles and I will see if I can find him." Grace found Mr. Symes at home and quite willing to carry out the final detail of the Christmas plan. The old man was duly sworn to secrecy and entered into the spirit of his errand almost as heartily as did Arline and Grace. At the chosen corner the girls halted, repeated their final instructions, and drawing back into the shadow, left him to deliver the two bulky packages, his wrinkled face wreathed in smiles. He smiled even more broadly on his return to the watchers, as Grace slipped a crisp green note into his hand and wished him a Merry Christmas. "Now we ought to do a little celebrating on our own account," she proposed. "Suppose we pay a visit to Vinton's. It isn't too cold for ices." "That is just what I was thinking," agreed Arline. An hour later Arline and Grace said good-bye on the corner below Wayne Hall. "I won't see you in the morning at the station, Grace," said Arline regretfully. "My train leaves a whole hour later than yours. I hope you will have a perfectly lovely Christmas. I hope eight other girls will, too. Don't you?" "You're a dear little Daffydowndilly," smiled Grace as she kissed Arline's upturned face. "I am sure they will, and they have you to thank for their pleasure, though they will never know it." CHAPTER XVIII MRS. GRAY'S CHRISTMAS CHILDREN "If this isn't like old times, then nothing ever will be!" exclaimed David Nesbit, beaming on Anne Pierson, who was busy pouring tea for the "Eight Originals" in Mrs. Gray's comfortable library. "Old times!" exclaimed Hippy Wingate, accepting his teacup with a flourish that threatened to send its contents into the lap of Nora O'Malley, who sat beside him on the big leather davenport. "It takes me back to the days when I had only to lift my hand and say, 'Table, prepare thyself,' and some one of these fair damsels immediately invited me to a banquet. Gone are the days when I waxed fat and prosperous. Now I am thin and pale, a victim of adversity." "I think you look stouter than ever," declared Nora cruelly. "You say you have lost ten pounds, but--" she shrugged her shoulders significantly. "Cruel, cruel," moaned Hippy. "It is sad to see such calloused inhumanity in one so young. Pass me the cakes, Anne, the chocolate covered ones. They, at least, will afford me sweet consolation." "I object," interposed Reddy Brooks. "Don't give him that plate. Hand him one or two, Anne. I like the looks of those cakes, too." "Man, do you mean to insinuate that I am not what I seem?" demanded Hippy, glaring belligerently at Reddy. "No, I am stating plainly that you are exactly what you seem. That's why I am looking out for my share of the cakes." "Always prompted by selfish motives," deplored Hippy. "How thankful I am that the sweet blossom of unselfishness blooms freely in my heart. It is true that I would eat all the cakes on that plate, but from a purely unselfish motive." "Let's hear the motive," jeered Tom Gray. "I would eat them all," replied Hippy gently, favoring the company with one of his famously wide smiles, "to save you, my beloved friends, from indigestion. It is better that I should bear your suffering." "Thank you," retorted David Nesbit dryly, helping himself to the coveted cakes and passing the plate over Hippy's head to Mrs. Gray, "I prefer to do my own suffering." "Oh, as you like," returned Hippy airily. "I have always been fonder of Mrs. Gray than I can say." He sidled ingratiatingly toward where Mrs. Gray sat, her cheeks pink with the excitement of having her Christmas children with her. From the time Grace, Miriam and Anne stepped off the train into the waiting arms of their dear ones, their vacation had been a season of continued rejoicing. Mrs. Gray, who, Tom gravely declared, would celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday next April, was tireless in her efforts to make their brief stay in Oakdale a happy one. On Christmas night she had gathered them in and given them a dinner and a tree. She had also given a luncheon in honor of Anne and a large party on New Year's night. It was now the evening after New Year's and the morning train would take the boys back to college. Grace, Miriam and Anne would leave a day later for Overton. Nora and Jessica were to remain in Oakdale until the following week. It seemed only natural that they should spend their last evening together at the home of their old friend. Outside the "Eight Originals," Miriam had been the only one invited to this last intimate gathering. "Now, Hippy, stick to the truth," commanded Mrs. Gray, shaking her finger at him, but handing him the plate at the same time. Hippy swooped down upon it with a gurgle of delight. "It's the truth. I swear it," he declared, holding up one fat hand in which he clutched a cake. "What made you give him the plate, Aunt Rose?" asked Tom reproachfully. "Bless you, child, there are plenty of cakes. Let Hippy have as many as he can eat." "Vindicated," chuckled Hippy, between cakes, "and given full possession besides." "I wouldn't be so greedy," sniffed Nora O'Malley. "I'm so glad. I dislike greedy little girls," retorted Hippy patronizingly. "Stop squabbling," interposed Grace. "Here we are on the eve of separation and yet you two are bickering as energetically as when you first caught sight of each other two weeks ago. Did you ever agree on any subject?" "Let me see," said Hippy. "Did we, Nora?" "Never," replied Nora emphatically. "Then, let's begin now," suggested Hippy hopefully. "If you will agree always to agree with me I will agree--" "Thank you, but I can't imagine myself as ever being so foolish," interrupted Nora loftily. "She spoke the truth," said Hippy sadly. "We never can agree. It is better that we should part. Will you think of me, when I am gone? That is the burning question. Will you, won't you, can you, can't you remember me?" He beamed sentimentally on Nora, who beamed on him in return, at the same time making almost imperceptible signs to Grace to capture the plate of cakes, of which Hippy was still in possession. In his efforts to be impressive, Hippy had, for the moment, forgotten the cakes. But he was not to be caught napping. The instant Grace made a sly movement toward the plate it was whisked from under her fingers. "Naughty, naughty, mustn't touch!" he exclaimed, eyeing Grace reprovingly. "Let him alone, girls, and come over here," broke in David Nesbit. "He only does these things to make himself the center of attraction. He wants all the attention." "Ha," jeered Hippy exultantly. "David thinks that crushing remark will fill me with such overwhelming shame that I shall drop the cakes and retire to a distant corner. He little knows what manner of man I am. I will defend my rights until not a vestige of doubt remains as to who is who in Oakdale." "There is not a vestige of doubt in my mind as to what will happen in about ten seconds if certain people don't mend their ways," threatened Reddy, rising from his chair, determination in his eye. "Take the cakes, Grace," entreated Hippy, hastily shoving the plate into Grace's hand. "Nora, protect me. Don't let him get me. Please, mister, I haven't any cakes. I gave them all to a poor, miserable beggar who--" "Here, Reddy, you may have them," broke in Grace decisively. "It is bad enough to have an unpleasant duty thrust upon one, but to be called names!" "I never did, never," protested Hippy. "It was a mere figure of speech. Didn't you ever hear of one?" "Not that kind, and you can't have the cakes, again," said Jessica firmly. "Give them to me, Grace." "Jessica always helps Reddy," grumbled Hippy. "Now, if Nora would only stand up for me, we could manage this whole organization with one hand. She is such a splendid fighter--" "I'll never speak to you again, Hippy Wingate," declared Nora, turning her back on him with a final air of dismissal. "Gently, gently!" exclaimed Hippy, raising his hand in expostulation. "I was about to say that you, Nora, are a splendid fighter"--he paused significantly--"for the right. What can be more noble than to fight for the right? Now, aren't you sorry you repudiated me? If you will say so immediately I will overlook the other remark. But you must be quick. Time and I won't wait a minute. Remember, I'm going away to-morrow." "Good-bye," retorted Nora indifferently. "I'll see you again some day." "'Forsaken, forsaken, forsaken am I,'" wailed Hippy, hopelessly out of tune. "Now, see what you've done," commented David Nesbit disgustedly. "I'm truly sorry," apologized Nora. "Hippy, if you will stop singing, I'll forgive you and allow you to sit beside me." She patted the davenport invitingly. "I thought you would," grinned Hippy, seating himself triumphantly beside her. "I always gain my point by singing that song. It appeals to people. It is so pathetic. They would give worlds to--" "Have you stop it," supplemented Tom Gray. "Yes," declared Hippy. "No, I don't mean 'yes' at all. Tom Gray is an unfeeling monster. I refuse to say another word. I have subsided. Now, may I have some more tea?" Anne filled the stout young man's cup and handed it to him with a smile. "What are you going to be when you grow up, Hippy?" she asked mischievously. "A brakeman," replied Hippy promptly. "I always did like to ride on trains. That's why I am spending four years in college." "Don't waste your breath on him, Anne," advised Nora. "He won't tell any one what he intends to do. I've asked him a hundred times. He knows, too. He really isn't as foolish as he looks." "I'm going to try for a position in the Department of Forestry at Washington after I get through college," announced Tom Gray. "I'm going into business with my father," declared Reddy. "I don't know yet what my work will be," said David Nesbit reflectively. "All you children will be famous one of these days," predicted Mrs. Gray sagely. She had been listening delightedly to the merry voices of the young people. To her, as well as to his young friends, Hippy was a never-failing source of amusement. "To choose a profession is easier for boys than for girls," declared Grace. "I haven't the slightest idea what I shall do after my college days are over. Most boys enter college with their minds made up as to what their future work is going to be, but very few girls decide until the last minute." "Girls whose parents can afford to send them to college don't have to decide, as a rule," said Nora wisely, "but almost every young man thinks about it from the first, no matter how much money his father is worth." "That is true, my dear," nodded Mrs. Gray. "Yet I am sure my girls as well as my boys will astonish the world some day. In fact, Anne has already proved her mettle. Nora hopes to become a great singer, Jessica a pianiste and Grace and Miriam--" "Are still floundering helplessly, trying to discover their respective vocations," supplemented Grace. "Yes, Mrs. Gray," smiled Miriam, "our future careers are shrouded in mystery." "Time enough yet," said Mrs. Gray cheerily. "Going to college doesn't necessitate adopting a profession, you know. Perhaps when your college days are over you will find your vocation very near home." "Perhaps," assented Grace doubtfully, "only I'd like to 'do noble deeds, not dream them all day long,'" she quoted laughingly. "'And so make life, death and the vast forever One grand sweet song,'" finished Anne softly. "That is what I shall do when I am a brakeman," declared Hippy confidently. "You mean you will make life miserable for every one who comes within a mile of you," jeered Reddy Brooks. "Reddy, how can you thus ruthlessly belittle my tenderest hope, my fondest ambitions? What do you know about my future career as a brakeman? I intend to be touchingly faithful to my duty, kind and considerate to the public. In time the world will hear of me and I shall be honored and revered." "Which you never would be at home," put in David sarcastically. "What great man is ever appreciated in his own country?" questioned Hippy gently. Even Reddy was obliged to smile at this retort. "Let the future take care of itself," said Tom Gray lazily. "The night is yet young. Let us do stunts. Grace and Miriam must do their Spanish dance for us. Then it will be Nora's and Jessica's turn. Hippy can sing, nothing sentimental, though. David, Reddy, Hippy and I will then enact for you a stirring drama of metropolitan life entitled 'Oakdale's Great Mystery,' with the eminent actor, Theophilus Hippopotamus Wingate as the 'Mystery.' Let the show begin. We will have the Spanish dance first." "Come on, Miriam," laughed Grace. "We had better be obliging. Then we shall be admitted to the rest of the performance." The impromptu "show" that followed was a repetition of the "stunts" for which the various members of the little circle were famous and which were always performed for Mrs. Gray's pleasure. "Oakdale's Great Mystery," of which Hippy calmly admitted the authorship, proved to be a ridiculous travesty on a melodrama which the boys had seen the previous winter. Hippy as the much-vaunted Mystery, with a handkerchief mask, a sweeping red portiere cloak, and an ultra-mysterious shuffle was received with shrieks of laughter by the audience. The dramatic manner in which, after a series of humorous complications, the Mystery was run to earth and unmasked by "Deadlock Jones, the King of Detectives," was portrayed by David with "startling realism" and elicited loud applause. "That is the funniest farce you boys have ever given," laughed Mrs. Gray, as Hippy removed his mask with a loud sigh of relief and wiped his perspiring forehead with it. "You will be a playwright some day, Hippy." "I'd rather be a brakeman," persisted Hippy with his Cheshire cat grin. It was half-past ten o'clock when the last good night had been said and the young people were on their way home. As the Nesbit residence was so near Mrs. Gray's home, Miriam was escorted to her door by a merry body guard. At Putnam Square the little company halted for a moment before separating, Nora, Jessica, Hippy and Reddy going in one direction, Grace, Anne, Tom and David in the other. "Are you coming down to the train to-morrow morning to see us off?" asked David Nesbit, his question including the four girls. "Of course," replied Grace. "Don't we always see you off on the train whenever you go back to school before we do?" "Then we'll reserve our sad farewells until the morn," beamed Hippy. "Sad farewells!" exclaimed Nora scornfully. "I never yet saw you look sad over saying good-bye to us. You always smile at the last minute as though you were going to a picnic." "'Tis only to hide my sorrow, my child," returned Hippy lugubriously. "Would'st have the whole town look upon my tears and jeer, 'cry baby'?" "That's a very good excuse," sniffed Nora. "Not an excuse," corrected Hippy, "but a cloak to hide my real feelings." "That will do, Hippopotamus," cut in David decisively. "We don't wish to hear the whys and wherefores of your feelings. If we stayed to listen to them we would be here on this very spot when our train leaves to-morrow morning." "Wait until we come back for Easter, Hippy, then if you begin the first day you're home you'll finish before we go back to college," suggested Grace. "That's a good idea," declared Hippy joyfully. "I shall remember it, and look forward to the Easter vacation." "I shan't come home for Easter, then," decided Nora mercilessly. "Then I shan't look forward to anything," replied Hippy with such earnestness that even scornful Nora forgot to retort sharply. "We all hope to be together again at Easter," said Grace, looking affectionately from one to the other of the little group. "Remember, every one, your good resolution about letters." "We'll talk about that in the morning," laughed Reddy, who abhorred letter writing. "You mean you'll forget about it," said Jessica significantly. "We all have our faults," mourned Hippy. "Now, as for myself--" "Take him away, Nora," begged David. "I will," agreed Nora. "Come on, Hippy. Reddy, you and Jessica help me tear him away from this corner." "How can you tear me away now? At the precise moment when I had begun to enjoy myself, too?" reproached Hippy. "This is only the beginning," was Reddy's threatening answer. "We are going to leave you stranded on the next corner. Then you can go on enjoying yourself alone." "Try it," dared Hippy. "If you do I shall lift up my voice and tell everyone in this block how unfeeling and hard-hearted some persons are. I shall mention names in my most stentorian tones and the public will rush forth from their houses to hear the truth about you. Ah, here is the corner! Now, leave me at your peril." "His mind is wandering," said Reddy sadly. "He imagines he is still 'Oakdale's Great Mystery.' We had better lead him home. I'll take his left arm, and Nora----" "Will take my right," interrupted Hippy. "Reddy, you may attend to your own affairs, and keep your distance from my left arm. Jessica, please look after Reddy. His mind is wandering. In fact, it always has wandered. Crazy is as crazy does, you know." "Yes, we know," flung back David significantly. "Do you?" asked Hippy in apparent innocence. "I was so afraid you didn't. To lose one's mind is a dreadful affliction, but not to know that one is crazy is even worse. I am so relieved, David, Grace, Tom, and all of you, that at last you know the truth concerning yourselves. It is indeed a sad----" A moment later the loquacious Hippy was hustled down the street by three determined young people, while the other four turned their steps in the opposite direction. CHAPTER XIX ARLINE'S PLAN "It was beautiful to be at home, but it is nice to be here, too. If it wasn't for mid year exams, I could be happy," sighed Grace Harlowe, as she rearranged three new sofa pillows she had brought from home, the gifts of Oakdale friends. Grace and Anne had invited Arline Thayer and Ruth Denton to dinner, and Miriam and Elfreda had dropped in for a brief chat before the dinner bell rang. "We'll all survive even mid year," predicted Miriam confidently. "We had a perfectly lovely time in New York, didn't we, Arline?" asked Ruth Denton, looking at the little curly-haired girl with fond eyes. Arline nodded. "I wish our vacation had been two weeks longer," she remarked wistfully. "I just begin to get acquainted with Father, when it is time to go back to college again. Have you seen many of the girls?" "Only the Morton House girls and you," answered Arline. "This is the first call I've made outside the house. Are all the Wayne Hall girls here?" "Miss Taylor hasn't come back yet," said Elfreda. "Do you girls happen to know where she spent her vacation?" "No," said Grace. "I didn't see her before I left. When first she came to Wayne Hall she seemed to like me. At the sophomore reception I hurt her feelings, unintentionally you may be sure. I am afraid she has never forgiven me, for since then she has avoided me." "She must have very sensitive feelings," remarked Elfreda bluntly. "What did you do to hurt them?" "I missed asking her to dance," explained Grace. "I didn't see her until late that evening, and when I apologized and asked to see her card she refused, saying coldly that my forgetting to ask her to dance was of no consequence. Since then she has hardly spoken to me." "Why didn't you tell me that before?" asked Elfreda quickly. "That accounts for certain things." "Don't be mysterious, Elfreda," put in Miriam. "Tell us what you mean by 'certain things'?" "You girls know that on several occasions before Christmas Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton were invited here to dinner. Who invited them? Miss Taylor. So Alberta Wicks retaliated by taking Miss Taylor home with her for the holidays." "Really?" asked Miriam, in surprise. "Who told you?" "They went home on the same train with Emma Dean," returned Elfreda. "She sat two seats behind them. Has any one seen the Anarchist?" No one answered. "Why don't we change the subject and talk about something pleasant," complained Arline Thayer. "Do you remember saying to me the night before we went home that you had thought of a lovely plan?" reminded Grace. "Yes," returned Arline. "I am glad you reminded me of it while we are all here. Just before I went home for my vacation the idea popped into my head that we ought to organize some kind of society for helping these girls who come to Overton with little or no money and who depend on the work they find to do here to help them through college." "Like me," put in Ruth slyly. "Don't interrupt me," retorted Arline, smiling at Ruth. "When I went home I had a talk with Father, and he has promised to give me five hundred dollars with which to start a fund. Now, what I propose to do is to organize a little society of our own with this same object in view. There is one society of that kind here at Overton, but it is always so besieged with requests for help that I don't imagine it more than keeps its head above water. There is room for another, at any rate. I don't see why we can't be the girls to organize it." Arline looked questioningly about the circle of interested faces. "I think it would be splendid," said Miriam emphatically. "I know my mother would contribute toward it." "So would Pa and Ma," declared Elfreda. "Suppose we all write home to-night." "What do you think of it, Grace and Anne?" asked Arline. "So far neither of you has said a word." "Neither has Ruth made any remarks," replied Anne. "Why don't you ask her? I think she has something to say on the subject." All eyes were immediately turned on Ruth, who flushed, looked almost distressed, then said slowly, "Could the girls who asked for help borrow the money and return it as soon as they were able?" "Of course," responded Arline. "Don't be afraid that you are going to have charity thrust upon you, Ruth." "That would be the only basis on which we could establish a society of that kind," commented Miriam. "An Overton girl would hesitate to make use of the money except as a loan." "What would we call ourselves?" asked Elfreda abruptly. "We can decide on a name later," said Arline. "The thing to decide now is, shall we or shall we not form this society? Answer yes or no?" "Yes," was the chorus. "Don't you think," said Grace after a slight deliberation, "that it would be nicer if we could finance this society ourselves, instead of asking our fathers and mothers for money? It isn't any particular effort for most of us to write home for money. How much better it would be if we could say that we had earned the money ourselves, or saved it from our allowances." "But what about my five hundred dollars?" questioned Arline plaintively. "As the originator of this scheme I claim the privilege of putting in as much capital as I please. I am going to be the exception that proves the rule. Besides, Father has already promised me the money. Take the five hundred dollars for the basis of our fund, then we will pledge ourselves hereafter to earn or contribute whatever money we put into it." "What do you say to that, girls?" asked Grace. "I think Arline ought to be allowed to give the five hundred dollars if she wishes," said Miriam. "It is her money and her plan. Besides, we need the money!" "I think so, too," echoed Elfreda. "We might call the society the 'Arline Thayer Club.'" "If you dare--" began Arline. "Save your breath, my child, I didn't mean that seriously," drawled Elfreda. "However, we had better begin our society here, to-night. There are six of us. Shall we add to our number or let well enough alone?" "I'd like to have Gertrude Wells in it," said Arline. "Shall we make it strictly a sophomore affair?" "I think it would be better," replied Grace. "Then let us ask Emma Dean, Elizabeth Wade, Marian Cummings and Elsie Wilton," pursued Arline. "Seven, eight, nine, ten," counted Anne. "Let us make it a dozen," suggested Miriam. "Then who shall the other two members be?" "Why not ask the Emerson Twins?" suggested Arline. "They would be good material, and they are both splendid on committees. Julia Emerson nearly worked her head off for the sophomore reception last fall." "Very well, we will ask them," agreed Grace. "In case any one of the girls we have named but haven't yet interviewed should not wish to belong to our society we can propose some one else to take her place. In the meantime you must each be thinking of a name for our little club. We can meet in the library after the last class to-morrow afternoon, and go from there to Vinton's to talk it over. Arline, you must tell Gertrude Wells, Elizabeth Wade and Marian Cummings. We can easily see the others." "The dinner bell! Thank goodness!" exclaimed Elfreda fervently. "I am almost starved. I hope dinner will be better than last night's offering. Everything we had to eat was warranted to fatten one." "Never mind, Elfreda," consoled Arline. "Think how nice it will be when you make the team. That will be a reward worth having." "Yes, if I make it," grumbled the stout girl. "We will go on with our new plan after dinner," said Grace. Then as an afterthought she added: "Don't say anything about it at the table. Suppose we keep it a secret until our society is in running order?" "Hello, children," greeted Emma Dean, as they entered the dining room that night. "Has the board of directors been holding a meeting? I see you are all here." Several girls already seated at the table looked up smilingly as the six girls slipped into their places. Laura Atkins returned Arline's friendly nod with a cold bow. She did not appear to see the others. During the progress of the meal she said little, keeping up a pretense of indifference as to what went on around her. Nevertheless her eyes strayed more than once toward the end of the table where Elfreda was entertaining the girls sitting nearest to her with a ludicrous account of what had happened to her on her way back to Overton. Miriam accidentally intercepted one of these straying glances. In it she fancied she read reproach. A quick flush rose to Laura Atkins's cheeks. Drawing down her eyebrows she scowled defiantly at Miriam, then turned her head away, and went on with her dinner. After dinner the discussion of the proposed club was renewed with energy. Emma Dean's innocent allusion at dinner to the meeting of the board of directors had brought smiles to the faces of the six girls. After they had again gathered in Grace's room, Elfreda was despatched to Emma's room with orders to bring her to the council, no matter what her engagements or obligations might be. "I knew something was going to happen," was Emma's calm announcement as she followed Elfreda into the room. "To quote my esteemed friend, Miss Briggs, 'I could see' it in your eyes at dinner. I have a theme to write, a dressmaker to see, and four letters to answer, but, still, I am here." "We can readily understand how deeply it must have grieved you to shun the dressmaker, put off writing your theme, and tear yourself away from your correspondence," sympathized Miriam Nesbit, her eyes twinkling. "Then, as long as you understand it, we won't say anything more about it," was Emma's hasty reply. "I move that we avoid personalities and proceed to business." CHAPTER XX A WELCOME GUEST The meeting in the library the next day, followed by a social session at Vinton's, resulted in the enthusiastic organization of the society proposed by Grace. As had been suggested, every girl had brought with her a slip of paper on which was written the name she had selected for the society. Arline collected the names and read each one in turn to the assembled girls. "Which one do you like best?" she asked, looking from one to another of her friends. "The first one," said Miriam Nesbit. "So do I," echoed half a dozen voices. "'Semper Fidelis,'" repeated Grace musingly. "I like the sound of that, too. Who proposed that name?" "I did," admitted Emma Dean. "I thought it might stand for our motto as well. It means 'always faithful,' you know. That applies to us, doesn't it?" "Of course we shall be always faithful to our cause," declared Grace. "All those in favor of the name Semper Fidelis, please manifest it by holding up their right hands." Twelve right hands were raised simultaneously. "That settles it," stated Grace. "From now on we are the Semper Fidelis girls. Let us lose no time in leaving the sacred precincts of the library for Vinton's. We can make more noise there." After the second sundae all around had been disposed of the society settled down to business. It was decided that the club should be a purely social affair. Arline was chosen for president, Grace for vice-president and Gertrude Wells as secretary and treasurer. There was to be no special day set aside for meetings. A meeting might be called at any time at the united request of three members. The sole object of the club was to extend a helping hand to the young women who were making praiseworthy efforts to put themselves through college. The foremost duty of the society would be to ascertain the names of these girls and offer them pecuniary assistance. Arline had written her father for the promised check for five hundred dollars, which would be deposited in the bank in Gertrude Wells's name as soon as it arrived. "I might as well tell you now that I wrote and asked Pa for a check in spite of what Grace said," confessed Elfreda rather sheepishly. "I might as well confess that I mentioned the club idea to Mother," said Miriam. "I didn't ask her for a check, but I wouldn't be astonished if she sent one in her next letter." "You two girls are traitors to the cause," laughed Grace. "Perhaps you will be disappointed." "I won't," asserted Elfreda boldly. "Pa might as well help us as any one else. I told him so, too." "The important question is what can we do to earn money for our cause?" asked Grace. "We might give a play," said Miriam Nesbit. "Anne can star in it. I should like to have the Overton girls see her at her best." "I don't wish to be seen 'at my best,'" protested Anne. "I want the other girls to have a chance, too. Why not give a vaudeville show? Grace and Miriam can dance. Elfreda can give imitations. There are plenty of things we can do. We will advertise the show in all the campus houses, and each one of us must pledge ourselves to sell a certain number of tickets. I think we would be allowed to use Music Hall for the show, and if we could sell tickets enough to fill it, even comfortably, it would mean quite a sum of money for our treasury. We might charge fifty cents for admittance, or, if you think that is too much, we might put the price down to twenty-five cents." "I think we had better charge fifty cents," said Elfreda shrewdly. "It will be as easy for those who come to pay fifty cents as to pay twenty-five. We might as well have the other quarter as Vinton's or Martell's." "Elfreda, you are a brilliant and valuable addition to this society," commended Arline. "I agree with you. We are likely to reap almost as many half dollars as quarters." "We might give an act from one of Shakespeare's plays," remarked Gertrude Wells doubtfully. "Still, I think it would be more fun to have just stunts. Those of us who know any ought to be willing to come forward and do them. We can ask some of the upper class girls to help. Beatrice Alden sings; so does Frances Marlton. Mabel Ashe can do almost any kind of fancy dancing. There is plenty of talent in college. The junior glee club will sing for us, I am sure. "We can make it a regular vaudeville entertainment, and have posters announcing each number. We can have two girls, costumed as pages, to bring out and remove the posters announcing the numbers." "That's a good idea," approved Arline. "I can sing baby and little-girl songs and dance a little. I might sing one to fill in." "You are engaged to sing one the first time you come to see me," laughed Grace. "Here is talent of which we never dreamed. I knew you could sing, but you never before confessed to being a real song and dance artist." "We shall have all 'headliners in our show,' as the billboard advertisements beautifully put it," commented Miriam. "I wish Eleanor were here, don't you, Grace? Then Anne could recite 'Enoch Arden.'" "Who is Eleanor, and why can't Anne recite 'Enoch Arden' without her?" were Elsie Wilton's curious inquiries. "The 'Eleanor' we speak of is in Italy, studying music, or was the last time we heard from her. She used to live in Oakdale and is one of our dearest friends. She arranged music to be played during Anne's recital of 'Enoch Arden.' They gave it at a concert at home and it was a tremendous success." "I wish she were to be here to our show, then," said Arline plaintively. "We would feature her. What's her other name?" "Savelli," replied Grace quickly. "Eleanor Savelli, the famous Italian pianiste," announced Arline, bowing to an imaginary audience. "Her name is the same as that of Savelli, the great virtuoso, isn't it?" "He is her father," said Grace simply. A little murmur of astonishment went up. "Oh, if she had only come to Overton instead of going to Italy!" sighed Elizabeth Wade. "I heard Savelli play at a concert three years ago. I shall never forget him." "We were awfully disappointed," interposed Miriam. "Eleanor's father was to tour America this winter, but changed his mind. There was talk of a spring tour, but we haven't heard from Eleanor for over a month, so we don't know whether there is any possibility of his sailing for America. If he did come to this country, Eleanor would be sure to accompany him. She has promised us that." "There is no use in wishing for the impossible, children," said Emma Dean briskly, rising from the table and beginning to put on her coat. "There is also no use in being late for dinner. In spite of this bounteous repast," she indicated the empty sundae glasses, "I yearn for Mrs. Elwood's simple but infinitely more satisfying fare. It's almost six o'clock. Those that are going with me, hurry up." "We must have another meeting within the next two or three days," declared Grace. "Can all of you girls come to our room next Friday evening? In the meantime we will arrange a programme which will be brought before the club for approval at our next meeting. Don't any of you fail to be there." As the Wayne Hall girls flocked in the front door that night, Mrs. Elwood met them with: "Miss Harlowe, there is a young lady in the living room, waiting for you. She's been there almost an hour." "For me?" inquired Grace in surprise. "I'll go in at once." An instant later the girls heard a delighted little cry of "Eleanor, you dear thing!" Then Grace sprang to the door, exclaiming: "Girls, girls! come in here at once. You can never guess who is here!" At the cry of "Eleanor," Miriam and Anne, who were half way upstairs, ran down again and into the living room. They were followed by Elfreda, who paused on the stairs, then turned and went slowly up to her room. "Last year I wouldn't have known enough to go on about my business," she muttered as she walked stolidly into her room and sat down on the end of the couch. Ten minutes later Miriam burst into the room with: "Come downstairs, Elfreda. Don't you want to meet Eleanor? You know you have said so ever so many times. She's very anxious to meet you." "Of course I want to meet her," returned Elfreda with a short, embarrassed laugh. "This room is the place for me, though, until you are ready to introduce me. Are you sure you want me to go downstairs?" "You funny girl," laughed Miriam. "Of course we want you. We have just been telling Eleanor about you. She hasn't time to come upstairs now, for her father is waiting for her at the 'Tourraine.' He is going back to New York City to-night. He has a concert to-morrow. Grace, Anne and I are going to dine with them. I'm sorry I can't take you along, but perhaps he will come again to Overton. Eleanor is going to stay a week longer if we can coax her to remain. She is traveling with her father. We must hurry downstairs, for Eleanor is to meet her father at half-past six o'clock, and it is a quarter-past now." Elfreda shook hands with Eleanor almost timidly. She was deeply impressed with the latter's exquisite beauty. "So this is Elfreda," smiled Eleanor, patting the stout girl's hand. "I have learned to know you through the letters my friends have written me. I feel as though you were an old friend." "It's awfully nice in you to say so," murmured Elfreda, her eyes shining with pleasure. "Won't you go with us to the 'Tourraine'?" asked Eleanor sweetly. "I would like to have you meet my father." "Thank you," almost gasped Elfreda. "I'd love to meet him, but I think--" "Never mind thinking," interrupted Eleanor, gayly. "Just hurry into your wraps and come along. We'll wait for you." "That's sweet in you, Eleanor," said Grace in a low tone as Elfreda ran upstairs. "She was wild to go with us. She has worshipped you ever since we showed her your picture. She has heard your father play, too, and considers him the greatest violinist living." "I suspected she wished to be included in the invitation," smiled Eleanor. "I imagine I am going to like her very much." Guido Savelli had engaged a private dining room at the "Tourraine" for his young guests. He welcomed them with true Latin enthusiasm, and to see him seated at the head of the table one would never have suspected him to be the moody, temperamental genius whose playing had made him famous in two continents. When the time came to leave the hotel for the train he was escorted to the station by an admiring bodyguard of five young women. "Remember, you have promised to visit Overton again before you leave New York," reminded Grace as he walked down the station platform between Grace and Eleanor. "He will," declared Eleanor. "I shall make him come back to Overton for me. Good-bye, Father. Take care of yourself. Remember to go for your walk every day, won't you? He's the nicest father," she said softly as the little group turned to leave the station after the train had gone. "Now take me to your house and let us have an old-fashioned gossip. I have so much to tell you, and I want to hear about Overton." A happy party gathered in Grace's room that night for an old-time talk about Oakdale. Elfreda was the only outsider present. For her benefit the story of the stolen class money and its timely recovery by Grace and Eleanor, as related in "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School," was retold, as well as many other eventful happenings of their high school life. At a quarter to ten o'clock the four girls escorted Eleanor to the "Tourraine," returning just inside the half-past ten o'clock limit. "Well, what do you think of Eleanor, Elfreda?" asked Grace, stopping for a moment outside the room shared by Miriam and Elfreda before going to her own. "Don't ask me," rejoined Elfreda fervently. "I can't thank you girls enough for the good time I've had to-night. But I want to say that if there is anything I can do for any of you, just count on J. Elfreda Briggs to do it." "It isn't necessary for you to tell us that, Elfreda," said Anne. "We know that you are true blue, and so does Eleanor." "Does she really like me?" asked Elfreda eagerly. "She likes you very much," interposed Grace. "She said so." "Then I'm going to give a luncheon for her to-morrow afternoon at Vinton's," declared Elfreda with shining eyes. "I wanted to suggest it, to-night, but I was afraid she might not care to come." "Couldn't you 'see' that she liked you?" teased Miriam. "No, I couldn't. There are lots of things I can't 'see.' One of them is why you girls ever went to so much trouble to make me 'see.' Good night." Casting one glance of love and loyalty toward her friends, Elfreda vanished into her room, and wise Miriam took care not to enter the room until the stout girl's moment of self-communion had passed. CHAPTER XXI A GIFT TO SEMPER FIDELIS When the news was whispered about through Overton College that the attractive young woman who was frequently seen in company with Grace Harlowe and her friends was the daughter of Guido Savelli, the renowned virtuoso, it created a wide ripple of excitement among the four classes. Curious juniors and dignified seniors grew interested, and Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton, who were Eleanor's sworn cavaliers, were besieged with requests for introductions. Far from being spoiled by so much adulation, Eleanor laughingly attributed it to her father's genius, and flouted the idea that her own delightful personality had made her a reigning favorite during her stay in Overton. It took Grace some time to recover from the surprise occasioned by Eleanor's unexpected arrival. During the month in which she had received no letter from Eleanor, Guido Savelli had reconsidered his decision not to appear in America and instead of canceling his contract had sailed at the eleventh hour to fulfill it, taking Eleanor with him. "You arrived just in time for our show!" exclaimed Grace gleefully to Eleanor. The two girls sat opposite each other at the library table in the living room at Wayne Hall, making up the programme for the vaudeville performance which was to be held in Music Hall, on the following Friday evening. "Oh, Eleanor, don't you think you can go home with me for Easter? Never mind if 'Heartsease' is closed. You can have just as much fun at our house. We have only one more week here, you know, and your father's concert tour doesn't end for another month," pleaded Grace. "I think I can arrange it," reflected Eleanor. "It is only that Father misses me so. In some ways he is like an overgrown child. All great musicians are like that, I believe." "It is a pity to take you away from him," admitted Grace, "but we would like to have you with us. Besides, Tom Gray is going to bring Donald Earle to Oakdale with him for the Easter. Donald will be so disappointed if he doesn't see you, Eleanor." "I'd like to see him, too," returned Eleanor frankly. "He is one of the nicest young men I know. Father is coming down here for our show, unless something unforeseen happens. I shall coax him to play. I imagine he will be willing. He will play if you ask him, Grace." "I wish we might feature him on the bulletin board," reflected Grace, with a managerial eye to business, "but he wouldn't like that. We could have him for a surprise, though." "I'll tell you what I will do," volunteered Eleanor. "I will telephone to his hotel in New York and ask him. If he says yes, we can go ahead and count on him to furnish Overton with a surprise." "Oh, Eleanor, could you, would you do it?" asked Grace, a note of excitement in her voice. "I'll telephone at once," nodded Eleanor, rising. "Suppose we go over to the 'Tourraine' to do it." Within the next hour Eleanor and Grace had talked with Guido Savelli. It had taken very little coaxing to secure his promise to play at Overton on Friday night, as he gave his last performance in New York on Thursday evening, and was free until the following Monday, when he would appear in Boston. "It seems almost providential, doesn't it?" asked Eleanor, as she hung up the receiver. "He could not have come here at any other time." "I'm so happy over it I could hurrah," declared Grace jubilantly. "I knew Father would not refuse us," smiled Eleanor. "Now hadn't we better hurry home and make up the rest of the programme?" By eight o'clock Friday evening every available foot of space in Music Hall was crowded with Overton students. The front rows of the hall had been reserved for the faculty, who were quite in sympathy with the idea of the new club. In order to obtain permission to use this hall, Grace had gone to the dean with the story of the organization of Semper Fidelis and its purpose. The dean had sympathized heartily with the movement, and had at once laid the matter before the president of the college, who willingly gave the desired permission. As the Semper Fidelis Club was composed entirely of sophomores, twelve young women of the sophomore class had been detailed as ushers and ticket takers. The majority of the club members were down on the programme, therefore these duties had been turned over to their classmates. Grace, besides appearing in the Spanish dance with Miriam, had taken upon herself the duties of stage manager. The two smallest sophomores in the class, dressed as pages, had been chosen to place the posters announcing the various numbers on the standards at each side of the stage. These posters had been designed and painted by Beatrice Alden and Frances Marlton, who, with Mabel Ashe, Constance Fuller and several other public-spirited seniors, had generously offered their services. As both Beatrice and Frances possessed considerable skill with the brush they turned out extremely decorative posters, which were afterward sold to various admiring students for souvenirs of the club's first entertainment. "I am so tired," declared Grace to Eleanor as they stood at one side of the stage while the Glee Club, composed of juniors and seniors, arranged themselves preparatory to filing on to the stage. "Everything seems to be going beautifully though. Not a single performer has disappointed us. How pretty the Glee Club girls look to-night." "Lovely," agreed Eleanor. "The audience is out in its best bib and tucker, too. Nearly every girl in the house is in evening dress." "Consider the occasion," laughed Grace. "Our show would not have amounted to much if it had not been for you and your distinguished father. Anne could not have recited 'Enoch Arden,' without your accompaniment, and the crowning glory of having the great Savelli play would have been missing. It reminds me of our concert, Eleanor," she added softly. Eleanor's blue eyes met Grace's gray ones with ineffable tenderness. "The concert that brought me my father," she murmured. "It seems ages since that night, Grace. I can't realize that I have ever been away from Father." "It does seem a long time since our senior year in high school," agreed Grace musingly. "Good gracious, Eleanor, the Glee Club are waiting for the signal to go on while we stand here reminiscing!" Grace hurried to the wing where one of the pages stood patiently holding the Glee Club poster, and signaled to the page on the opposite side. An instant later the singers had filed on the stage for their opening song. As the show progressed the audience became more enthusiastic and clamored loudly for encores. Elfreda's imitations provoked continuous laughter, and dainty Arline Thayer, looking not more than seven years old, was a delightful success from her first babyish lisp. Her song of the goblin man who stole little children to work for him in his underground cellar, with its catchy chorus of "Run away, you little children," was immediately adopted by Overton, and when later it was noised about that Ruth had written the words while Arline had composed the music, both girls were later rushed by the Dramatic Club and made members, an honor to which unassuming Ruth had some difficulty in becoming accustomed. Anne's "Enoch Arden," to Eleanor's piano accompaniment, met with an ovation. Guido Savelli had been purposely placed last on the programme. "No one will care for anything else after he plays. The audience will have the memory of his music to take away with them," Grace had said wisely. Knowing the musician's horror of being lionized, Grace had confided the secret to no one except Miriam, Anne, Mabel Ashe and Elfreda, who, in company with her and Eleanor, had met him at the train and dined with him at the "Tourraine." It had been arranged that at half-past nine o'clock Anne and Elfreda should go for him and escort him to Music Hall. At precisely ten minutes past ten o'clock he was escorted through the side entrance to the hall by his two smiling guides, and into the little room just off the stage that did duty for a green room. Eleanor's quick exclamation of, "You have plenty of time, Father, there are two more numbers before yours," caused the various performers to open their eyes, and when Eleanor turned to those in the room, saying sweetly, "Girls, this is my father. He is going to play for us," astonishment looked out from every face. In order that the surprise might be complete, Grace had purposely withheld until the last moment the posters bearing Guido Savelli's name. When the two pages placed them up on their respective standards, a positive sigh of astonishment went up from the audience that changed to vociferous applause as Eleanor appeared and took her place at the piano. A second later the great Savelli walked on the stage, violin in hand. Eleanor, having frequently accompanied him on the piano in private, had begged to be allowed for once to accompany him in public. As the delighted audience listened to the music of the man whose playing had won for him the homage of two continents, they realized that they had been granted an unusual privilege. "How did he happen to stray into Overton?" "I supposed great artists like him never condescended to play outside of the large cities," were the whispered comments. One stately old gentleman in particular, who had been the guest of the president at dinner, and who sat beside him during the performance, grew enthusiastically curious, asking all sorts of questions. Who had planned and managed the entertainment? What was the object of the "Semper Fidelis Club"? How long had it been in existence? Who had been on familiar enough terms with Savelli to induce him to play at the "show"? The president answered his questions with becoming patience, promising to introduce him to Grace Harlowe and Arline Thayer, who, he stated, had been responsible for the organization of the club. Later, the curious old gentleman was presented to Grace and Arline, who answered his flow of inquiries so courteously and with such apparent good will that he left the hall, smiling to himself as though he had gained possession of some wonderful bit of information. The vaudeville show netted the Semper Fidelis Club two hundred dollars, which Arline deposited in the bank the following morning. "'Every little bit helps'" chuckled Arline as she opened the bank book and pointed to the new entry. She and Grace were on their way from the bank. "I should say it did," returned Grace warmly. "I only wish we could always make money as easily and pleasantly as we made that two hundred dollars." "It was lots of fun, wasn't it?" declared Arline happily. "When we come back next fall as juniors we can give another show and add to our fund. We won't have time this year. We are all going home next week and after Easter it will be too late in the year to bother with entertainments." "We might give a carnival in the gymnasium next fall," suggested Grace. "We had a bazaar at home and made over five hundred dollars. If we gave it early in the fall we would have as much as a thousand dollars on hand to lend where it was needed. I imagine we can find plenty of places for it." "We can be thinking about it through the summer," planned Arline. That night when Grace reached Wayne Hall she found a letter bearing her address in the bulletin board at the foot of the stairs. After glancing curiously at the superscription, Grace tore it open and read: "To MISS GRACE HARLOWE, "Wayne Hall, "Overton. "MY DEAR MISS HARLOWE: "I am enclosing a check made payable to you, which I should like you to accept in behalf of the Semper Fidelis Club. I am greatly interested in your association and wish to say that at this time each year as long as the club exists I pledge myself to contribute the same amount of money. Trusting that the club will continue to thrive and prosper, "Yours very truly, "THOMAS REDFIELD." Grace lay down the letter and stared at the check with incredulous eyes. It was for one thousand dollars. It took but an instant to dart down the hall to Miriam's room, where Anne had just gone to borrow Miriam's Thesaurus. "Look, look!" cried Grace, holding the check before Anne's astonished eyes. Miriam rose from her chair and peered over Anne's shoulder. "Three cheers for Mr. Redfield!" she exclaimed. Three cheers for the fairy godfather of Semper Fidelis! CHAPTER XXII CAMPUS CONFIDENCES After the Easter vacation there seemed very little left of the college year. Spring overtook the Overton girls unawares, and golf, tennis, Saturday afternoon picnics and walking tours crowded even basketball off their schedule. It was delightful just to stroll about the fast-greening campus arm in arm with one's best friend under the smiling blue of an April sky. It was ideal weather for planning for the future, but it was anything but conducive to study. "It's a good thing we work like mad in the winter," grumbled Elfreda Briggs, giving her Horace a vindictive little shove that sent it sliding to the floor. "I can't remember anything now, except that the grass is green, the sky is blue--" "Sugar is sweet, and so are you," supplemented Miriam Nesbit slyly. "That wasn't what I was going to say at all," retorted Elfreda reprovingly. "Then I beg your pardon," returned Miriam, with mock contrition. "What were you going to say?" "Nothing much," grinned Elfreda, "except that I was weighed to-day and I've lost five pounds. I am down to one hundred and forty-five pounds now. If I can lose five pounds more this summer I shall be in fine condition for basketball next fall." "You did splendid work on the sub team this year," replied Miriam warmly. "I am sure that you will make the regular team next fall." "The upper class girls say they have very little time for basketball," mused Elfreda. "All kinds of other stunts crowd it out. I'm not going to be like that, though. I love to play and I shall manage to find time for it." "Where is Grace to-night?" asked Elfreda. "I didn't see her at dinner." "She had a dinner engagement with Mabel Ashe." "Vinton's?" asked Elfreda. Miriam nodded. "Grace is lucky," sighed Elfreda. "She is always being invited to something or other. Her dinner partners always materialize, too," she added ruefully. "Which is more than can be said of some of yours," laughed Miriam. "Strange you never found out about that, isn't it?" It was Elfreda's turn to nod. "I have often thought I would go to Miss Atkins and ask her why she left me to languish dinnerless in my room after inviting me to eat, drink and be merry," mused Elfreda. "I hate to go home with the mystery unsolved. I believe I will go ask her now," she declared, with sudden energy. "I know she's alone, for the Enigma isn't there to-night." Elfreda had recently bestowed this title upon Mildred Taylor on account of her inexplicable attitude toward Grace. "I have been disappointed in little Miss Taylor," remarked Miriam slowly. "I was so sure that she would prove another Arline Thayer. She had the same fascinating little ways and at first she seemed so genuinely frank and straightforward." "I wonder what made her change so suddenly," said Elfreda, walking to the door, "and toward Grace, especially. She doesn't speak to Grace when she meets her. She is an Enigma and no mistake. Now for our friend the Anarchist. If I don't come back within a reasonable length of time you will know that I have been annihilated." Ten minutes went by, then ten more. At the end of half an hour Miriam wondered slightly at her roommate's continued absence. Just before time for the dinner bell to ring, Elfreda burst into the room with: "Miriam, will you help me to dress? I am invited to dinner and this time I am going. The An--Miss Atkins has forgiven me, peace has been restored and we are going out to dine, arm in arm." Elfreda pranced jubilantly about the room, then flinging open the door of the wardrobe brought forth two large boxes that had come by express the day before, one of them containing her new spring hat, the other a smart suit of natural pongee. [Illustration: The Two Boxes Contained Elfreda's New Suit and Hat.] "Stop hurrying for a minute and give me a true and faithful account of this miracle," demanded Miriam. "I had begun to think the worst had happened. What did you say first, and what did she say?" "The door of her room stood partly open and I knocked on it, then marched in without an invitation," replied Elfreda. "She was so surprised she forgot to be angry, and before she had time to remember that she didn't like me I surprised her still further by asking her to tell me why she had refused to speak to me for so long. Before she knew it she had stammered something about Grace and I calling her names and making fun of her behind her back when she had asked me in all good faith to have dinner with her at Vinton's. She declared she had heard us. "The instant she said that I remembered that I had mimicked her that night while dressing and that Grace had laughed, but had said in the same breath, that it wasn't fair. So I asked her point blank if that was what she meant, and she said 'yes,' only she hadn't waited long enough to hear what Grace had said about unfairness. She had come to the door just in time to hear me mimic her, and had rushed back to her room angry and hurt. Then I explained to her that I had a bad trick of imitating even my friends, and that I had offended more than one person by my thoughtlessness. I was really dreadfully sorry and asked her to forgive me. She had half a mind not to do it, then she relented, smiled a little and actually offered me her hand. Of course, after that I stayed a few minutes to talk things over with her and she proposed going to dinner. She is changed. In just what way I can't explain, except that she is more gentle and not quite so prim. Will you look in the top drawer of the chiffonier and see if I put my gold beads in that green box? You know the one I mean." Miriam obediently opened the drawer and taking the beads from the box deftly fastened them about Elfreda's neck. "Grace will be glad to hear of this," she remarked. "May I tell her and Anne?" "Yes," returned Elfreda, "but please don't tell any one else." Pinning on her new hat she hurried off to keep her long-delayed engagement with the now thoroughly pacified Anarchist. When the dinner bell rang, Miriam suddenly remembered that of the four friends she was the only stay-at-home that night. Anne had gone to take supper and spend the evening with Ruth Denton. As she took her seat at the table she noted that Emma Dean's and Mildred Taylor's places were also vacant. "Where is everyone to-night?" asked Irene Evans, who sat opposite Miriam. "Grace, Anne and Elfreda were all invited out this evening," answered Miriam. "I don't know anything about Miss Dean and Miss Taylor." "Emma is spending the evening with her cousin, that other Miss Dean of Ralston House," replied Irene. "Miss Taylor," she shrugged her shoulders slightly, "is with Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton, I suppose." "I don't think I shall overstudy to-night," announced Miriam, a little later, as she rose from the table. "I'm going for a walk. Want to go with me?" "I'm sorry," replied Irene regretfully, "but I've a frightfully hard chemistry lesson ahead of me to-night." It had been an unusually balmy April and now that the moon was at the full, the Overton girls took advantage of the fine nights to walk up and down College Street or the campus. Sure of finding some one she knew, Miriam slipped on her sweater, and, disdaining a hat, strolled down the street toward the campus. Exchanging numerous greetings with students, she wandered aimlessly across the campus toward a seat built against a tree where she and Grace had had more than one quiet session. As she neared the seat, which was somewhat in the shadow, she gave a little startled exclamation. A girl was crouching at the darkest end of the seat, her face hidden in her hands. Turning away, Miriam was about to recross the campus when the utter despondency of the girl's attitude caused her to go back. Stopping directly in front of the bowed figure, she said gently, "Can I help you?" The girl rose, and without answering was about to hurry away, when Miriam, after one swift glance at her face, ran after her, exclaiming, "Wait a moment, Miss Taylor!" Mildred Taylor stopped and eyed Miriam defiantly. Despite her expression of bravado, she looked as though she had been crying. "What do you want?" she asked in a low voice. "To talk with you," said Miriam boldly, stepping forward and slipping her arm through Mildred's. "Shall we sit down here and begin? All my friends have deserted me to-night. There were ever so many vacant places at the dinner table. I noticed you were away, too." "I--I--have--haven't had any dinner," faltered Mildred. Then, staring disconsolately at her companion for an instant, she dropped her head on her arm and gave way to violent sobbing. "I am so miserable," she wailed. Miriam sat silent, touched by Mildred's distress, yet undecided what to do. Things were evidently going badly with the "cute" little girl. "She has done something she is sorry for," was Miriam's reflection. After a slight deliberation she said gently, "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Miss Taylor?" Mildred raised her head, regarding Miriam with troubled, hopeless eyes. Miriam took one of the little girl's hands in hers. "Do not be afraid to tell me," she said earnestly. "I am your friend." "You wouldn't be if you knew what a miserable, contemptible coward I am," muttered Mildred. "I can't tell you anything. Please go away." Her head dropped to her arm again. Miriam, still holding her other hand, patted it comfortingly. "No one is infallible, Miss Taylor. I once felt just as you do to-night. Only I am quite sure that my fault was much graver than yours can possibly be." Mildred raised her head with a jerk. She looked at Miriam incredulously. "I don't think _you_ ever did anything very contemptible," she said sceptically. "Let me tell you about it," replied Miriam soberly. "Then you can judge for yourself. The person whom I wronged has long since forgiven me, but I can never quite forgive myself or forget. It was during my first year in high school that I began behaving very badly toward a new girl in the freshman class, of whom I was jealous. I was the star pupil of the class until she came, then she proved herself my equal if not my superior in class standing, and I tried in every way to discredit her in the eyes of her teachers and her friends. At the end of the freshman year, a sum of money was offered as a prize to the freshman who averaged highest in her final examinations. Feeling sure that this other girl would win it, I managed, with the help of some one as dishonest as myself, to gain possession of the examination questions, but before I had finished with them, I was obliged to drop them in a hurry, to escape discovery by the principal. By the merest chance the girl I disliked happened along just in time to be suspected of tampering with the papers. But she had friends who fought loyally for her and cleared her of the suspicion. "She won the prize. Nothing was ever said to me about it, but I knew that the principal and at least four girls in school knew what I had done. When I entered the sophomore class in the fall I felt a positive hatred for this girl and for her friends. I did all sorts of cruel, despicable things that year, and succeeded in dividing my class into two factions who opposed each other at every point. "Toward the last of the year I grew tired of being so disagreeable. My conscience began to trouble me seriously. Then, one day, the two girls I despised did me a great service, and my enmity toward them died out forever. "I can't begin to tell you how differently I felt after I had acknowledged my fault and been forgiven. Those girls are my dearest friends now. You know them, too." "You--you don't mean Miss Harlowe and Miss Pierson?" asked Mildred in a low tone, her eyes fixed upon Miriam. Miriam nodded. "Grace and Anne are the most charitable girls I ever knew," she said softly, "If they were not they would never have forgiven me. Anne was the girl who won the prize. Grace was one of the friends who stood by her. If you feel that you have done some one an injustice, you will not be happy until you have righted matters. If the person refuses to forgive you, you at least will have done your part." "I can't go to the--the--person and tell her," faltered Mildred. "I should die of humiliation." "But you don't wish to go away from Overton carrying this burden with you," persisted Miriam. "It will weigh heavily upon you when you come back next fall--" "I'm not coming back next fall," mumbled Mildred. "I shall never again be happy at Overton." "Brace up, and square things with the other girl, and you'll feel differently," retorted Miriam. "If it were any one else besides Miss Harlowe," began Mildred. "Oh, I am so sorry you told me her name!" exclaimed Miriam regretfully. "Now that I know it is Grace, however, I shall redouble my advice about going to her. You need have no fear that she will not forgive you. Grace never holds grudges." "I can't do it," declared Mildred tremulously, "I am afraid." Miriam looked at her companion rather doubtfully. "I think Grace is the person with whom to talk this matter over," she declared. "Suppose we go over to Wayne Hall now? She went to dinner at Vinton's with Mabel Ashe, but she must be at the hall by this time." "Oh, I can't," gasped Mildred nervously, "Yes, yes, I will if you will come with me while I tell her." "I think it would be better for you to go to her by yourself," said Miriam dubiously. "I can't do it," protested Mildred miserably. "Please, please come with me." "Then, let us go now," returned Miriam decisively. "We may catch Grace at home and alone." During the walk across the campus the two girls exchanged no words. Mildred was trying to summon all her courage in order to make the dreaded confession. Miriam was thinking of the day that belonged to the long ago when she had confessed her fault, and, joining hands with Anne Pierson and Grace Harlowe, had sworn eternal friendship. She felt only the deepest sympathy for the unhappy little girl at her side, for having been through a similar experience she understood clearly the struggle that was going on in Mildred's mind. Twice the little freshman stopped short, declaring she could not and would not go on, and each time, with infinite patience, Miriam buoyed and restored to firmness her shaking resolution. "You do not know Grace Harlowe," Miriam said as they neared Wayne Hall, "or you would not be afraid to go to her and tell her what you have just told me. She is neither revengeful nor unforgiving, and I am sure that she will be only too glad to help you begin all over again." "But not here at Overton," quavered Mildred. "You can decide that later," Miriam said kindly, as they entered the house. But she smiled to herself, for she felt reasonably sure that Mildred would come back to Overton for her sophomore year. CHAPTER XXIII A FAULT CONFESSED Grace came home from Vinton's with the firm intention of putting in a full evening of study. "It is only half-past eight," she exulted. "I'll have plenty of time for everything. I suppose Anne won't be home until the last minute's grace." As she passed through the hall to the stairs she poked her head inquisitively into the living room. Three or four girls sat at the library table industriously engaged in writing. Grace turned away without disturbing them, and went quietly up the stairs. As she walked down the hall to her own room she noticed that Miriam's room was dark. "I wonder where the girls are!" Grace exclaimed. "I didn't know they were to be away to-night, too. Perhaps they have gone for a walk." Grace lighted the gas in her own room and, hanging up her hat, sat down in the Morris chair, beside the table on which lay her books piled ready for work. "If no one bothers me for the next hour and the girls obligingly stay away, the rest will be easy," she smiled to herself as she worked at her French. At five minutes of ten she closed her text book on chemistry with a triumphant bang. "Nothing left to do now but my theme and that can wait until to-morrow night. I think I'll read until the girls come in." Grace reached for her book, which lay on the table conveniently near her, opened it at the place she had marked and began to read. She had not read more than two or three pages when, through the half opened door, came the sound of voices. Grace's gray eyes opened in surprise as Miriam Nesbit walked into the room followed by Mildred Taylor. "I thought you would be here," greeted Miriam. Grace rose and walked toward Mildred. Without the slightest show of hesitation she held out her hand. "I am glad to see you, Mildred. Why haven't you come in before?" she asked frankly. Mildred looked from Miriam to Grace. "I can't tell you why!" she exclaimed in a choked, frightened voice. "I thought I could, but I can't." She began to cry softly. Grace sprang to her side, and, placing her arm about the little girl's waist, said soothingly, "Don't cry, and don't tell us anything you don't wish to tell. I am so glad you came at all. The early part of the year I thought we were going to be friends. I am sorry I hurt your feelings on the night of the sophomore reception. I told you so then, but I am afraid you thought I didn't mean what I said." "It wasn't that," quavered Mildred, wiping her eyes. "It was--it was--I had no business to take it. It was stealing!" Miriam looked sharply at Mildred's distressed face, as though trying to gain some inkling of what was to come. Grace's expression was one of anxious concern. Neither girl spoke. "I might as well tell you, Grace," went on Mildred in a low, shamed voice. "I am the person who stole your theme. I found it at the foot of the stairs. I did not look at the name written on it until I was in my own room. I ought to have given it to you at once, but I stopped to read it. It was so clever I wished I had written it. Themes are my weak point, and Miss Duncan had criticised my work so severely that I was feeling blue and discouraged. Then came the temptation to take your theme, copy it, and hand it in as my own. You had lost it, so you would never know what became of it. You could write another theme as easily as you had written that. It did occur to me that you might be able to rewrite that particular theme from memory. So I changed the title of your theme, copied it that night and changed the ending a little and took particular pains to hand it in early the next morning, so that if any suspicion were aroused it would not fall on me, but on you. It was thoroughly contemptible in me, and after I handed in the theme I felt like a criminal. When Miss Duncan sent for me, I grew frightened and instead of owning to what I had done I told more lies and tried to make it appear that you were the real offender. At first she believed me, but afterward she didn't, and made me admit that I had lied. When she told me about promising you that she would give me another chance and that you neither knew nor cared to know my name, I could hardly believe it. Since that time I've never dared to speak to you. I have been so dreadfully ashamed." Her voice broke. "Don't think about it ever again," comforted Grace. "Everyone is likely to make mistakes. I think you have suffered enough for yours. I am sure you would never do any such thing again." Mildred shook her head vigorously. "Never," she declared sadly. Miriam, who had listened to the little girl's confession, an inscrutable expression on her dark face, said practically, "Was there anything besides what you have told us that made you unhappy to-night?" "Why--why," stammered Mildred. "Yes, there was. How did you know?" "I didn't know," declared Miriam dryly. "I just wondered." "It was something that made me unhappy, yet glad, too," said Mildred, her face flushing. "I thought I hated Grace and said horrid things about her to two other girls I know, who are not her friends. To-night I was with them at Martell's, and I quarreled with them about you girls. Ever since I heard Savelli play at your entertainment I have felt differently about everything. His music brought me to my real self and made me realize how small and mean and contemptible I was. I discovered that it was not you but myself I hated, and when these girls began to say things about you, all of a sudden I found myself standing up for you as staunchly as ever I could. Then we quarreled and I got up from the table and almost ran out of Martell's. "I walked and walked until I was all tired out. Then I sat down on that seat by the tree where Miriam found me. In defending you, Grace, I found myself. I saw clearly that my college life was all wrong. The mean things I had done stared me in the face. The theme was the worst of all. No wonder I cried. Now that I've told you everything I am happier than I have been since last fall. Next year I am going to start all over again in some other college where no one knows me." "Besides yourself, there are only three who know, Miriam, Miss Duncan and I," said Grace slowly. "When Miss Duncan sent for me about the theme I told myself then that, although I had no desire to know the name of the other girl, if ever I should learn her identity I would try to be the best friend she ever had. I am ready to keep my word, Mildred, if you are ready to come back to Overton next year and help me keep it." Mildred glanced timidly from Grace to Miriam. "I'd love to come back," she faltered, "only I'm afraid you girls would never believe in me again." "My friends did," reminded Miriam softly, extending her hand to Mildred. "I believe in you now." "Of course we will believe in you," declared Grace cheerfully. "Come back next fall and give us a chance to show you that we trust you." "I will," answered Mildred with solemn resolution, "but you shall give me the chance to show you that your trust is not misplaced. Good night," she put out her hand again rather uncertainly. Grace's hand went quickly out to meet it, holding it in a warm, friendly clasp, and Mildred went to her room a changed girl. "How did you happen to be her confessor, Miriam?" asked Grace wonderingly, after the freshman had gone. Miriam related the evening's happenings. "I never even suspected her," said Grace. "I believed her to be angry with me for overlooking her at the reception. I always tried not to think of any particular girl as being guilty of taking my theme. It has turned out beautifully, hasn't it?" "Yes," nodded Miriam. "As a matter of fact everything generally does turn out well in the end if one has the patience to wait." CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION "Two more days, then good-bye to Overton," mourned Elfreda Briggs sadly. The stout girl was seated on the floor, the contents of her trunk spread broadcast about her. "Elfreda would like to stay here and study all summer," remarked Miriam slyly to Anne, who was watching Elfreda's movements with amused eyes. "Oh, no, I wouldn't," retorted Elfreda good-naturedly. "I am as anxious to go home as the rest of you, but I'm sorry to leave here, too. What's the use in explaining?" she grumbled, catching sight of her friends' laughing faces. "You girls know what I mean, only you will tease me." "Never mind, we won't tease It any more," said Miriam soothingly. "There is only one thing you can do to convince me that you are in earnest," stipulated Elfreda. "Name it," laughed Anne. "Invite me to a banquet, and have cakes and lemonade," was the calm request. "I thought you were strongly opposed to sweet things," commented Anne. "Not at the sad, sorrowful end of the sophomore year," returned Elfreda, impressively. "Besides, lemonade isn't fattening." "And it will be such splendid exercise for you to make it," added Miriam mischievously. Elfreda looked disapprovingly at Miriam, then a broad smile illuminated her round face. "So nice of you to think about the exercise," she beamed affectedly. "Lead me to the lemons." Miriam rose, took Elfreda by the arm, and leading her to the closet, pointed upward to the shelf. Elfreda grasped the paper bag with a giggle. Then Miriam led her calmly out again, just in time to encounter Grace, Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton, who, in passing down the hall, had heard voices, and could not resist stopping for a moment. "What is going on here?" asked Mabel curiously. "Why is J. Elfreda in leading strings?" "She is taking exercise," replied Miriam gravely. "J. Elfreda, explain to the lady." "This exercise is compulsory," grinned Elfreda. "No exercise, no lemonade. Of course, you will stay and have some." "Of course," agreed Mabel. "I may not have a chance for a very long time to drink lemonade again with the Wayne Hallites." "You mustn't say that," remonstrated Grace. "Remember, you are going to visit me at Oakdale. Elfreda is going to visit Miriam. Can't you can arrange to come, too, Frances?" "I'm sorry," declared Frances, shaking her head, "but we are going to sail for Europe within a week after I reach home. I shall have to say good-bye in earnest on Thursday. But I'll write you, and make you a visit some time." "How comfortingly definite. I'll see you again during the next hundred years," jeered Mabel. "You know I don't mean that," reproached Frances. "I do intend before the end, This happy couple shall meet again," chanted Elfreda as she peered into the lemonade pitcher. "Precisely," laughed Frances. "Did you play 'Needle's eye' when you were a little girl, Elfreda?" "Yes, and 'London Bridge' and 'King William was King James's son,' too. I always loved to play, but was hardly ever chosen because I was so fat and ungainly. I remember once, though, when I went to a children's party in a pale blue silk dress that made me look like a young mountain. I thought myself superlatively beautiful, however, and the rest of the little girls were so impressed that I was a great social triumph, and made up for the times when I had been passed by," concluded Elfreda humorously. "Your adventures are worthy of recording and publishing," said Anne lightly. "Write a book and call it 'The Astonishing Adventures of Elfreda'." The stout girl eyed Anne reflectively, the lemon squeezer poised in one hand. "That's a good idea," she said coolly. "I'll do it when I come back next fall. Now I'm not going to say another word until I finish this lemonade, so don't speak to me." When she left the room for ice water, Mabel Ashe observed warmly, "She is a credit to 19--, isn't she?" "Yes," returned Grace. "They are beginning to find it out, too." "Your sophomore days have been peaceful, compared with last year," remarked Frances Marlton. "Certain girls have kept strictly in the background." "We have not been obliged to resort to ghost parties this year," reminded Mabel Ashe. "It requires ghosts to lay ghosts, you know." Grace could have remarked with truth that certain ghosts had not been laid as effectually as she desired, but wisely keeping her own counsel she was about to essay a change of subject when the return of Elfreda with the lemonade served her purpose. "'How can I bear to leave thee?'" quoted Mabel sentimentally, as she and Frances reluctantly rose to go half an hour later. "I hope you feel properly flattered. Graduates' attentions are at a premium this week. They ought to be, too, when one stops to think that it takes four years to reach that dizzy height of popularity. Four long years of slavish toil, my children. Observe my careworn air, my rapidly graying locks, my deeply-lined countenance." "Yes, observe them," grinned Elfreda. "You look younger than Anne, and she looks like a mere chee--ild. Don't forget that you are going to send us pictures of you in your cap and gown, will you?" she added, looking affectionately at the two pretty seniors, whose help and kindly interest had meant much to her individually. "We will see you to the door," laughed Grace, slipping her arm through Mabel's. "Did you ever find the girl?" asked Mabel in a low tone. "You know the one I mean. I have often wondered about her." "Yes," replied Grace in the same guarded tones. "I can't tell even you her name, but everything has been explained." Mabel pressed Grace's arm in silent understanding. "Good-bye," she said, "we shall see you again before we leave Overton." "You had better come into our room and finish the lemonade," declared Miriam, as they watched their guests go down the walk. "But I haven't begun my packing yet, and I have so many things to do and so many girls to see that I ought not waste a minute." "Time spent with us is never wasted," reminded Elfreda significantly. "Quite true," responded Grace gaily. "I am sorry I had to be reminded. To prove my sorrow I will help you with your packing, when I ought to be doing my own." "Come on, then," challenged Elfreda. She ran lightly up the stairs, her three friends at her heels. "I'll pour the lemonade while you and Grace pack," volunteered Miriam. "I choose to do nothing," said Anne lazily. "I am going to work all summer. I need a little rest now." "You won't know where you are to be for the summer until Mr. Forest writes, will you?" asked Miriam. "The Originals will be lonesome without you, Anne," mourned Grace. "You must be sure to visit me. That is, unless you are too far west." "I am going to have a visitor of my own," announced Elfreda proudly. "You can never guess who it is." "I know," laughed Anne, after a moment's reflection. "It is the Anar--Miss Atkins, I mean." "Who told you?" demanded Elfreda. "It is true, though. She is coming to Fairview the last two weeks in July, and I am going to give her the time of her life. Just think, girls, she has never had any girl friends until she came here. Her mother died when she was a baby, and a prim old aunt kept house for them. Her father is Professor Archibald Atkins, that Natural Scientist who went to Africa and was held captive by a tribe of savages for two years. "Living with the heathen didn't improve him, for when he came home he behaved so queerly that people thought him crazy. Then the aunt, who was the professor's sister, died, and poor Laura had to live alone with her father in a great big country house. Finally, she grew so tired of it she asked him to send her to college. She had always had a tutor, so she was ready for the entrance examinations, but she had never associated with other girls and didn't know much about them. I can't feel sorry enough for calling her names and imitating her. We had a long talk at Martell's the other night and I am going to be her knight errant from now on." "You found the rainbow side of your sophomore year in helping some one else, didn't you, Elfreda?" "I don't know what you are talking about," rejoined Elfreda bluntly. "I know you don't," laughed Grace. "It was nothing much. Last year at this time Anne and I were lamenting because we couldn't be freshmen all over again, and Anne said that being a sophomore was sure to have its rainbow side." "It has been the nicest year of my life," said Elfreda earnestly. "If being a junior is any nicer than being a sophomore--well--you will have to show me. There, I've ended by using slang. But I've found my rainbow side in another way, too." "Name it," challenged Miriam mischievously. "By losing twenty pounds," announced Elfreda, with proud triumph. "I weigh one hundred and forty pounds now, and next fall you will see me on the team, or it won't be my fault." "I hope I shall have time for basketball," said Grace. "There will be so many other things. Remember, girls, if during vacation you think of any good plan for the Semper Fidelis Club to make money, make a note of it. Just because we have money in our treasury, we mustn't become lazy. We will find plenty of uses for every cent we can earn. There are dozens of girls struggling through Overton who need help." "You never told us to what girls you and Arline played Santa Claus last winter, Grace," said Elfreda reproachfully. "And I never will," laughed Grace, "and Arline won't tell, either." "I know something, too," declared Elfreda, "but I'm not as stingy as Grace. I know who poked that envelope with the ten dollars in it under Grace's door." "Who?" came simultaneously from the three girls. "Mildred Taylor," replied Elfreda. "I saw her do it. I was just coming down the hall that night as she slipped it under the door and ran away. I never told any one, because I could see she didn't want any one to know she did it." "Elfreda always sees more than appears on the surface," commented Miriam mischievously. "Elfreda's energy has inspired me to go to my room and begin my own packing," declared Anne, rising. "I'll go with you," volunteered Grace. "I think Elfreda can be trusted to finish her packing by herself." "I think I'll accomplish more, at any rate," declared Elfreda pointedly. "It is half over, Anne, dear," said Grace, almost wistfully, as they strolled down the hall, school girl fashion, their arms about each other's waists. "Our life at Overton, you mean?" asked Anne. Grace nodded. "I was sure I should never like college as well as high school, but I've found it even nicer." "And we are going to like being juniors best of all," predicted Anne. How completely the truth of Anne's prediction was proven will be found in "Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College." THE END. 
53548	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 53548-h.htm or 53548-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53548/53548-h/53548-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53548/53548-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/jeancabotatashto00scotiala Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text in small capitals has been replaced by regular uppercase text. [Illustration: "WELL, I NEVER, A FRESHMAN ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH!"--_Page 23_.] JEAN CABOT AT ASHTON by GERTRUDE FISHER SCOTT Illustrated by Arthur O. Scott [Illustration] Boston Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. Published, August, 1912 Copyright, 1912, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. All rights reserved JEAN CABOT AT ASHTON Norwood Press Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood Mass. U. S. A. Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. THE DAY BEFORE 1 II. HOW IT LOOKED ON WEDNESDAY 14 III. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 31 IV. THE FRESHMAN RECEPTION 49 V. INITIATION 78 VI. THE HARVARD-YALE GAME 102 VII. THE THANKSGIVING HOLIDAYS 126 VIII. THE CORAL BEADS 154 IX. THE CHAFING-DISH PARTY 167 X. THE COSTUME PARTY 189 XI. MIDYEAR'S 206 XII. BEFORE THE FRESHMAN-SOPHOMORE GAME 224 XIII. THE GAME 246 XIV. THE BANQUET 261 XV. MR. CABOT'S VISIT 280 XVI. PRIZE-SPEAKING 298 XVII. THE TENNIS TOURNAMENT 321 XVIII. CLASS DAY 339 Illustrations "Well, I never, a freshman, asleep at the switch!" (Page 23) _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "Why, what are you doing here? We've been looking for you all over college" 90 "I don't know yet, Jean, but a man can do anything if he's educated" 152 "Somebody open the south window, quick!" 178 With a quick movement she threw it over the shoulder of her antagonist 258 Natalie went after the last two games in whirlwind fashion 328 Jean Cabot at Ashton CHAPTER I THE DAY BEFORE "Now, Tom dear, don't you do another single thing for me; I'm sure I shall be all right, and Cousin Anna will meet me at the train in Boston and then everything will be smooth sailing. You'll miss your train if you wait another moment and blame me for it ever after, so good-by; I'll write you as soon as I'm comfortably settled with Elizabeth Frances Fairfax, in 45 Merton Hall." "Well, so long, little sister; let me know if there's anything I can do for you and we'll spend Thanksgiving together surely at Aunt Sarah's, and may be, if you're very good, I'll come up and take you to the Harvard-Yale the week before. You wouldn't mind going with that good-looking room-mate of mine if I could persuade Connie Huntington to accompany me, would you? It's only a few hours' run up to Boston, but here are some chocolates and magazines in case you tire of the scenery. Be game, little girl, and above every thing else, _make good_." With these words Thomas Cabot swung off the train just in time to catch a near-by accommodation train to convey him to Littleton Center, where he was to join a merry house-party of young people. Jean quietly arose from her seat and watched from the car window until her brother had entirely disappeared from view, and then somewhat reluctantly turned and resumed her former seat. Brother and sister had come from Los Angeles to New York together, he to enter upon his senior year at Yale and she to become a freshman at Ashton College. Jean was the only daughter and youngest child of a family of six. The four older brothers had been educated in the West and were determined that the two youngest children should see something of the life and culture of the East. Mrs. Cabot had died when Jean was six, and although she had had governesses and accommodating aunts and cousins galore to consider her welfare, still most of her life had been spent in the company of her father and brothers, and when they decided that she should go East to Ashton, a small college of about five hundred strong, within twenty-five miles of Boston, she had never for one moment doubted the wisdom of their choice, and acquiesced as willingly as though Brother Will had said, "Jean, go get your racket for a set of tennis." From Los Angeles to New York, Tom and she had kept up a continuous conversation on the "do's and don'ts" of college life, and at the end of the journey Jean felt that she had a great advantage over the other green freshmen, for she had been too carefully coached by her brother to make any serious errors. Then, too, Cousin Anna Maitlandt, a graduate of Ashton 1911, was to meet her at Boston and take her out to college to see that she made a good beginning amid the strange new surroundings. Now Tom was gone, and for the first time that she could remember, Jean was alone, face to face with the first big thing in her life. She tried to read, but thoughts of home would persist in rushing in upon her, and between the lines danced little pictures of life away out in California. She wondered why she had come to college. Was it simply to please her father and brothers or did she mean to make a success of it for her own sake? She was fond of books and of study, but fond of so many other things as well. What would there be in college to take the place of her horseback rides over the ranch with the boys, her evenings with her father in his den, her tennis, her weeks in camp in the mountains, her whole free outdoor life? She knew little of girls and cared less, for up to this time they had played a small part in her life. To be sure, she had known them at St. Margaret's, her fitting school, but she had spent as little time as possible there in order to be at the call of the boys when they needed her, and you may be sure some one of the five needed her most of the time. She was their true confidante and they told her their little business worries and successes, their love affairs, and their hopes and ambitions, for each felt that his secret was safe with her. In spite of her tender years and lack of real experience she seemed to be able to advise where many an older person would have failed. And now she was leaving them all behind and was wondering what they could do without her. The more she thought, the more the longing came over her to give it all up and go back to those she loved best. Before she realized it two great tears were rolling down her cheeks and as she was about to wipe them away a tall, handsome girl stood before her, smiling down at her. "Isn't this Jean Cabot?" she asked, giving her hand a cordial shake. "May I sit down here and talk a little? You're going to Ashton College, aren't you? So am I. My name is Allison, Marguerite Allison, 1914. Of course you're wondering how I knew it was you. Well, I was sitting in the last chair of this car and saw your brother as he bade you good-by. I met Tom last year at the Yale Prom and I am sure he is going now to a house-party at Littleton Center. I've just come from there and know all about it. I was terribly disappointed not to stay over the week-end, but I'm on the House Committee and just have to be back to-morrow. You know Student Government just makes you do things. Belle Thurston, an old Ashton girl, who is giving the house-party, told me she expected Tom this evening, but he was stopping off in New York long enough to get his sister Jean started for her year at Ashton. So that's how I knew it was you. But tell me, dear, where are you going to live?" By this time Jean's tears had dried and she had regained her usual composure and quite firmly replied, "Oh, Miss Allison, I'm so glad to know you; I was just beginning to get homesick, but you've saved my life. I'm to live in Merton, 45, with Elizabeth Frances Fairfax. I got my assignment just the day before we started." "Merton; why, that's my house. Isn't it grand? 'Forty-five' is fourth floor and mine is 27, second floor. As for Elizabeth Frances Fairfax, she's probably another freshman from Massachusetts; name sounds like one of those good old New England families. Massachusetts girls are all right in spite of their strict old Puritan ancestors. I'm from Cherokee, Iowa, but I haven't been home all summer. Really I haven't any home to go to, for my father is interested in mines and is down in Mexico most of the time. I stay with my aunt when I'm in Cherokee, but this summer I've been visiting some of the college girls in New York State and ended up at Littleton Center. And you've come all the way from Los Angeles? I thought I'd come some distance, but it's nothing in comparison with your trip. Most of the girls at college are Easterners, but I'm sure you'll like them after you get used to their ways. "What studies are you going to take? Can I help you with your program? Come right into 27 as soon as we land and I'll fix things up for you. Speaking of Massachusetts girls, you'll fall in love with my room-mate, Natalie Lawton, just the minute you see her. She's from Boston; lived there all her short life, not fifteen minutes' walk from the Boston Public Library and Copley Square. Excuse me, of course you don't know anything about Boston yet, but you will before you've been a month at Ashton. Miss Emerson, she's college president, you know, thinks there's no place on the whole earth quite like Boston, and it's her especial delight to impress upon freshmen the advantages of being so near to this wonderful city. The first time you hear her say, 'Now, girls, remember the great advantages offered to you by being in such close proximity to Boston,' you will think it rather significant, but by the time you've heard it 576 times it will begin to grow a little monotonous. "Why, Miss Cabot, we're actually passing through Hyde Park, and we'll be in the South Station in a few minutes. Hasn't the time gone quickly? How many trunks have you and where are your checks? Let's be getting our things together. I left my luggage up in the other end of the car, so I'll go up and collect it and be back in a minute." "Oh, thank you, Miss Allison, but my cousin, Miss Anna Maitlandt, has promised to meet me at the train and I am sure she will help me with my trunks." "What! Anna Maitlandt, 1911, your cousin! Why, she lived in East Hall her senior year when I was a freshman. I haven't seen her for perfect ages, but she was my crush freshman year. How good it will seem to see her again! And to think she's your cousin! How small the world is after all! Here we are--follow me and I'll keep my eye open for Anna." The long express train was crowded, but the two girls were quickly out upon the platform and well up the track before a word was said. Marguerite was well in the lead, when all at once Jean saw her drop her bags and vigorously seize a rather petite girl, trim in her immaculate white linen suit. By the time their greetings were over, Jean had arrived on the scene and found herself as effusively greeted. "So this is little Jean! Well, I never should have known you. Why, you're as big as Tom, and look more like a senior than a green freshie! No hazing you, my lady. Oh, what a prize for Ashton Athletic Association! What is your specialty, Jean, tennis, basket-ball or rowing? You'll make all three without half trying. "Now, where are your trunk checks? We'll send the trunks out to Ashton at once to have them waiting for us when we arrive. I'm going to take you girls up town with me for dinner and a good talk, and Jean must go out home with me for the night. To-morrow will be plenty early enough for her to arrive. What say'st thou, Peggy?" "Oh, Nan, you're a perfect dear to invite me, but really I can't accept. You see I'm due out at Merton for a meeting of the House Committee to-night. I stayed down at Littleton Center till the last minute and now I've got to hustle back, for we've loads of work to plan out. Drop into 27 to-morrow as soon as you arrive and make it your headquarters until Jean's room is settled. Come down to the Inn for lunch with me at noon. All of the old girls will be there and it will be a good opportunity to introduce Jean to them. You know there's nothing like knowing the right girls at the start. "By the way, did you know that Bess McNeil was married last week? Oh, I'm just brim-full of news to tell you, but it will have to wait till later, for I must leave you now or I'll never catch the 5:09. So glad to have met you, Nan; seems like old times, and I think your cousin is a perfect dear. So long till to-morrow," and with this she dashed across the station to a waiting taxicab which would convey her and her bags across the city to the North Station. Jean's trunks were soon re-checked and the two girls left the station and took an uptown electric. Before long they alighted and entered a quiet hotel where a good dinner was quickly served. Since Jean's arrival the two girls had talked a steady stream, but the conversation had centered almost entirely upon the families and home life of the two. Now, however, it changed to the more important subject of college. Anna did most of the talking, for it took a long time to answer Jean's many questions. How much there was to be said. In fact, Anna might have sat there all night discoursing on the joys and sorrows of a college girl's life if a sweet-sounding clock had not reminded her that in a very few moments the last suburban train departed for Framington. Quickly she paid her bill and they were on their way again. Although it was rather late when they arrived home, they found Mr. and Mrs. Maitlandt waiting for them. After a most cordial greeting, Mrs. Maitlandt suggested that they all retire, as it had been a hard day for Jean and she must be fresh and rested for her first day at college. After the good-nights had been said, Jean found herself alone in her room a little bewildered in her new surroundings. Her poor body and head ached as she had never known them to do before. To be sure, everybody had been so good to her, but now they had all left her and for the first time since she had left home she was alone. Quickly undressing she put out her electric light and went over to the window. It was a bright, starry night and as she gazed out upon its splendor a wave of homesickness swept over her and she sobbed, "Oh, father and the boys, why did I leave you? I wish I'd never promised to go to college." CHAPTER II HOW IT LOOKED ON WEDNESDAY Bright and early Wednesday morning, Jean was up and dressed, for the two girls had planned an early start in order to reach Ashton before noon. Mr. Maitlandt, whose business took him into Boston every day, accompanied them to the South Station and saw them safely on a North Bound elevated. They easily caught the 10:17 train for Ashton and in twelve minutes had arrived at the little station, where they found "confusion worse confounded." Girls and trunks everywhere, irate and tired expressmen trying to settle difficulties, small boys by the dozens begging to carry suit-cases, wagons piled high with trunks and packing-boxes. They waded through the crowd and, as Anna spied Mr. Chapin, the express agent, she hastened up to where he stood and said, "Good morning, Mr. Chapin. Of course you remember me, Anna Maitlandt. No, I'm not back for post graduate; I have only come out for a few days to see that my cousin gets started properly as a freshman. Here are her trunk checks and when you have time will you please see that they are taken up to Merton, 45. Any time to-day will do, but of course we should like them as soon as possible. Thank you." And he was off again before she could say more had she wished to do so. Just then they heard, "Why, Nan Maitlandt, what on earth are you doing out here to-day?" and a tall girl darted round a pile of trunks. "I've brought my young sister Bess to college and we're having a terrible time. Only one of her trunks has come, and not a thing in it that she really wants. We've been arguing with old Chapie for an hour, but it doesn't do one bit of good." "Nell, how like old times it seems. You always were in some kind of trouble all our four years and it wouldn't be you if something wasn't wrong. How many times do you suppose you lost one of your trunks, or books, or hats, or themes, or tennis rackets? But you always found them sooner or later and I'm confident your sister's trunk will turn up all right. I want you to know my cousin, Jean Cabot, from Los Angeles. She and your sister will be in the same class. Jean is to live in Merton. Where is Bess assigned?" "Poor child, she didn't make the campus this year and is to room first semester at Mrs. McAllister's, but I hope second half she will get in East or Wellington, for you know so many drop out at midyear's that there's always a chance. How long will you be here? Can't you come down to the Cottage with your cousin?" "Thanks, Nell, but I expect to be very busy and I'm only here for a few days. You know I begin hospital work at the Massachusetts General the first of October and I need every minute at home. But I'll try to see you somewhere if it's only for a few minutes. I want to hear all about yourself and the other girls." It took but a few moments to leave the little station and its confusion behind them and Jean said, "Why, Anna, are we the last ones to arrive? Everybody seems to be at the station." "No, child, they're mostly freshmen. The upper-class girls won't arrive until to-night or early in the morning. You know to-morrow is registration day and classes won't meet until Friday and Saturday. Now look straight ahead of you up the hill and you will get your first view of the campus. Let me tell you some of the buildings even if you don't remember them all. That tower is the chapel; the trees hide the building itself, but we shall see it better as we climb the hill. The white building is the new library, not quite finished as yet; to the right is East, next to that College Hall; opposite is Wellington; those dark-red buildings are the laboratories and away over beyond is Merton. We will walk slowly up Faculty Row and get a closer view. The rest of the dormitories are on the other side of the hill. Don't you love the hill already? Aren't the trees wonderful? The leaves are just beginning to turn and soon will be at their best. Wait till you see the ivy on the chapel in its brilliant autumn coloring. Before long you'll be racking your poor brain to sing its praises, for every one in Lit. I has to write a sonnet on the glory of the ivy on the chapel tower. Miss Whiting, 'prof' in Lit. I, is daffy on the subject and you'll find her any time in the fall lingering in the shadows of the tower and rhapsodizing on its beauty. "Here's 'Prexy's' house. Isn't it dear? It was finished only last year and modeled after a little English house in Stratford-on-Avon where Miss Emerson spent several summers. Miss Thurston, the dean, lives there with her. Be sure you get on the right side of Miss Thurston, freshman year, Jean, and then you'll be safe for the other three." "Other three! Why, Anna Maitlandt, I've only come to college for this one year. Nothing on earth could make me stay any longer. I've made up my mind on that subject, and when a Cabot once makes up his mind he never changes it. I'll do the best I can this year, but when June comes you can be sure I'll start for home on the very first train and stay there the rest of my life." "Oh, Jean, college hasn't begun yet. Wait till midyear's and I'll wager by that time you'll be the most enthusiastic freshman on the hill, with room-mate chosen and plans all made for sophomore year. College life grows on you, and once it has made a start you can't stop it. I'm not going to give you a bit of advice now, but just before I leave I've a word or two for you. "Here we are at old Merton. We have talked so much I forgot to point out the other buildings. How do you like the looks of your new home? I tried four of the dormitories and liked this the best of them all and Mrs. Thompson is a gem of a matron. Let's go right in and see her now." Mrs. Thompson's rooms were on the first floor opposite the parlors and reading-room. She was a large, cheery woman who welcomed the girls in a way that made them feel at home instantly. "We haven't begun our regular meals yet for so few of the girls are here, but I should be pleased to have you both lunch with me in my sitting-room." "Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, but we have promised to go down to the Inn. Has Miss Fairfax, who is to be Miss Cabot's room-mate, arrived yet?" "No; we received word this morning that owing to sickness in her family she may be delayed several days. So if you like, Miss Maitlandt, you may be Miss Cabot's room-mate until the real one arrives." "Thanks; it will be quite like old days to be rooming again in Merton. We'll go up directly, Jean," and they darted up the stairs. "Let's stop in Peggy's room on second for a minute." Stopping before 27, Anna gave a vigorous knock and receiving no response opened the door and entered the room, followed by Jean. Evidently both of the occupants had arrived, for the room was in perfect order and presented a most attractive appearance. Anna walked over to one of the desks and found a note addressed to herself. Opening it she read aloud: "DEAR NAN: Natalie and I couldn't resist the call of the game and we're up on the courts for a set of tennis. Meet us at the Inn at one o'clock sharp. Hastily, PEG." "Those two are fiends at tennis and Natalie won the college championship last year and she was only a sophomore. Generally it goes to a senior; in fact, Natalie is the first under-class girl to win the honor. Wait till she's up against you, Jean. Oh, I have it, there's something for you to work for. Why not be the first and only Ashton freshman to win the Tennis Championship? You can do it if you try. Why, Tom says you are the speediest girl player he ever saw, and for a fellow to admit that a girl can play tennis means more than anything else I know of. "Well, what do you think of their rooms? The bedroom is just off at this side. Evidently their enthusiasm waned when they finished the study, for clothes are piled mountain high on their beds. It isn't fair to criticize first day, though, so let's up to fourth." As they walked slowly up the stairs, Jean said a little hesitatingly, "Why, cousin, our rooms will never look like that unless my room-mate has all those pretty things. I haven't any pictures except father's and the boys' and they had pictures everywhere. And I haven't any flags or tea-table or chafing-dish or pillows or anything attractive." "Never mind that, Jean; it's easy enough to get such things. We'll put the necessary things in order and then make a list of the other things you want, and a trip in town to-morrow will purchase them all. Most girls are not as fortunate as you in the matter of money, for I know you can have anything money will buy. So don't worry about it at all. Take my word for it, don't have too much in your room. The simpler the arrangement, the better. First-year girls are apt to fill every inch of space with pictures and souvenirs that senior year they would be ashamed to own. You can always tell an upper-class girl's room at first glance. You notice for yourself and see what it is that makes a room attractive to you, and I think in the end you will agree with me. "Why, 45 is locked and we haven't the key. You wait a minute here and I'll run down and see Mrs. Thompson. Sit down on the suit-cases and I'll be back before you can count ten." But it was a good ten minutes before Anna returned, for she evidently had some difficulty in finding the matron. For about five minutes Jean sat alone and thought of everything but college, then she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, for excitement had tired her a bit. Suddenly a loud laugh aroused her and she heard, "Well, I never, a freshman asleep at the switch! What's the matter, stranger, can I help you?" "No, thank you; I'm waiting for some one to come and unlock my door. We couldn't find the key. My cousin has gone to find Mrs. Thompson." "Well, in the meantime, come right over into my room. I'm to live just opposite. My name's Remington, Midge, or, more properly speaking, Marjorie Remington, 1915. Of course I'm a sophomore and your hated enemy, but that needn't make any difference yet. Leave your bags right there. Now sit down wherever you can find room. Looks pretty bad round here, doesn't it, but you see I only arrived this morning. I've a single this year. Couldn't stand another room-mate. Nearly died last year with the three I had. First girl flunked out at Thanksgiving, second's mother died and she left at midyear's, and the rest of the time I had the greasiest grind in the class to live with. I never studied and she always wanted to, so there was trouble from the start. How are you on the study question?" Before Jean could answer she heard Anna hurrying up the hall and she excused herself quickly. The door of 45 was soon opened and the room indeed presented a desolate appearance. To be sure, it was clean and large and had plenty of windows, but the pieces of furniture were merely stacked up in the center in one huge pile. Jean simply gasped "Oh!" but before she could finish, Anna said, "Put everything down in the corner and come over here and see the view." Indeed, from the southeast corner window there was a wonderful view of the surrounding country, and as here and there Anna pointed out interesting places, Jean's attention was drawn from the bareness and unattractiveness of the room to the beauty of the landscape. "Now we'll not do a thing here until after lunch and then we'll work like Trojans and get the place livable. How's your appetite? I'm nearly starved. It's almost one o'clock, so we'll have to hustle to meet the girls on time." When they arrived at the Inn they found it thronged with girls, but Marguerite was waiting for them and said that she had reserved a table and that Natalie was waiting inside. They entered the dining-room and were immediately seated in an extreme corner near a large window. Introductions were soon over and Jean thought Natalie the most attractive girl she had yet seen. She was her exact opposite in every way, small, dark, with large dancing brown eyes and an abundance of wavy brown hair. Her face and arms were brown as berries and just now, when violent exercise had flushed her cheeks, the heightened color came and went as she talked. Immediately she and Jean found a common subject of conversation in tennis and Jean talked as she had not done before with any one. Girls came up to their table with pleasant words of greeting and passed on and before Jean was quite aware of it lunch was over and they were on their way back to Merton. Natalie and Jean walked together and soon Jean was telling her all about the ranch and her early life there. When they reached the dormitory the two juniors insisted upon going up to 45 to help put things in order. "You know we juniors are your staunchest friends, even-year classes against the odd years," said Natalie. So up the stairs went the four and took possession of 45. They first chose the bedroom furniture and placed it in the small adjoining room. There were two white beds, two chiffoniers and two small chairs. To tell the truth, the room could hardly have held any more, and it required some care to place this amount so that there was any walking space. "We can't make up the beds until your trunks are unpacked, so let's tackle the study," said Peggy. Out in the other room there was one large study-table, two small book-cases, two desks, a large couch, and two comfortable rockers. Just as they were moving some of these into place there was a knock at the door, and Joe, the colored janitor, announced the arrival of Jean's trunks. These he put in the middle of the room and unstrapped them. "What! Three trunks? Aren't you the lucky girl to have enough to put in them? It's all I can do to fill one," said Peggy Allison, whose love of clothes was her greatest failing. "Father insisted upon Aunt Molly's superintending my wardrobe, and all summer long I've done nothing but try on clothes until I don't care whether I ever see any more or not. That largest trunk has the few things I brought for my room." From the top of the trunk she lifted one box very carefully and showed the three girls the pictures of "her family" as she called the five. Surely they were splendid examples of American manhood, and one could not blame any girl for being loath to leave them. "Sometime soon I'm coming up to visit you, Miss Cabot, and I want you to tell me all about your family and especially this member of it," and Peggy held up the picture of the second son, Nelson Cabot, a somewhat serious-looking fellow. "Oh, Nels? Why, he's coming east on business in the winter and he has promised to spend a week in Boston and give me the time of my young life, as he says. Of course he'll come out here, and then you can see him and judge for yourself. We all call him our 'serious brother,' but he's got fun in him just the same when he gets started. "Now let's make out a list of the things you really think I need for my room. I'll do my share before my room-mate appears and she'll find such a comfortable room that she'll be glad I arrived first. Now I want a tea-table and 'fixings' like yours, Peggy, and a chafing-dish, some ferns, rugs, curtains, pictures, a couch-cover, chairs"--and the girls added one thing and another to the list until it was a very long one. Jean detested shopping, and Anna made a most welcome promise to help her out with the difficulties the following afternoon. The two juniors were to be busy in the evening, so, left to themselves, Jean and Anna enjoyed a long walk after supper. As they returned across the campus, lights twinkled in the windows of the dormitories, happy voices and the occasional burst of music floated out on the still evening air. Once Anna stood perfectly still for several moments and then exclaimed almost to herself, "Oh, how I love it all! How I wish I were just beginning college! Oh, Ashton, how much you have done for me!" Then with scarcely a word they approached old Merton and climbed slowly to 45. "I told you, Jean, that before I left I was going to give you a little advice. It's only this, Go slowly, choose the best of everything, make the best of everything and love old Ashton better than anything else in the world." CHAPTER III FIRST IMPRESSIONS Jean awoke with a start and sat straight up in bed. "Don't be alarmed, Jean," said Anna; "it isn't a fire; just the rising bell which rings every morning at ten minutes before seven. There's another one at seven and the breakfast bell at half-past. Of course no one needs forty minutes to dress for breakfast, and before long you will be able to do it in five, or ten at the most. Meals are served promptly here and Mrs. Thompson is very particular about having every one on time. So if you do oversleep I warn you that you'll get no breakfast unless you keep a good supply of food in your room. And there's danger in that, too, for mice fairly haunt these rooms, especially the closets and behind the radiators, for that's a favorite dumping place for crumbs. I remember the winter that our room seemed to be a regular gathering-place for them, and once when I had one of the girls from home out here over night we had a merry chase with five from under our beds before we could get any sleep. One morning not long after that my room-mate found one in her bed when she was making it up. She never knew whether it had been there all night or not, but she very carefully examined her bed ever after that before she got into it. "Well, suppose we arise and take plenty of time to dress this morning and make our best appearance at the breakfast table. You know first impressions are often lasting and as most of the girls here are upper-class girls I want them to see you at your best. Of course, dear, you always look well; you can't help it any more than you can help breathing, but this is a special occasion. Wear one of those good-looking white linens I saw you hang up in the closet last night. I must say I admire your Aunt Molly's choice of materials and dressmaker, judging from the clothes I've seen so far. You must open the other trunk and show me your best gowns before I depart. And by the way, Jean, that must be to-night. We'll start in town early and have a good afternoon of it and I'll leave you at the North Station on the right train for Ashton. You won't mind the short ride out here alone, will you? I'd love to stay the rest of the week, but you know how little time I have left to finish my preparations for the hospital, and I wouldn't be found deficient for anything. "Of course you take a cold bath every morning; any one could tell that just to look at you. Well, hustle into the bath-room now, for I just heard some one leave it. When you're finished, please draw the water for me." As the two girls entered the long dining-room they found most of the seats at table occupied, for they were a bit late in spite of their thirty minutes. However, Mrs. Thompson was always lenient first mornings and greeted them with a pleasant smile. "You will sit at the end of the second table, Miss Cabot, and your cousin may sit beside you this morning, as Miss White, who will have that seat permanently, has not yet arrived." "Oh, I had hoped that would be my room-mate's seat. Where will she sit?" "Why, of course you didn't know that Miss Fairfax is to wait on table here and so will not have a regular table seat." At these words Jean's expression changed and she looked so astonished that Anna said softly, "You know, dear, some of the girls who haven't much money pay their board by waiting on table. Lots of girls do it, and it's perfectly all right. Some of the best girls I ever knew worked their way through college." Jean said nothing, but she was bitterly disappointed. Why couldn't her room-mate have been Miss Remington or some one equally attractive? She was already beginning to wish that she'd been fortunate enough to draw a single room. If Nan Maitlandt had wished to have her cousin make a favorable impression on the other girls in Merton she certainly succeeded in doing so. Jean was tall and broad-shouldered, with a splendidly developed figure, a perfect picture of health and strength. She had masses of yellow hair which she wore this morning coiled in thick braids round her well-shaped head. Her eyes were dark and her skin, naturally fair, was now somewhat tanned from her out-of-door life. She wore a severe white linen dress with a turned down collar and a bow of black which set off her style of beauty to perfection. She carried herself well and with head held high in the air she had entered the room almost unconscious of its occupants. The girls stared for a moment and then whispered comments on her beauty and wondered who she could be. Mrs. Thompson soon went the rounds of the tables introducing the new girls until at length everybody knew everybody else. There were about a hundred girls seated at the three long tables and only here and there appeared a vacant seat. At Jean's table there were five freshmen besides herself, and much to her satisfaction she soon discovered her acquaintance of the day before, Miss Remington, half way down the other side of the table. Peggy Allison and her room-mate were at the first table at the opposite end from Jean, but they waved her a hearty welcome, even at that distance. She looked at the girls around her laughing and talking and seeming so perfectly at home and she had to admit to herself that they were a happy lot and if so many girls found college such good fun there ought to be something in it for her. Most of the conversation at her end of the table seemed to be on summer vacations and proposed studies for the coming year. Just beyond Nan sat a freshman named Miss Samson, who after some deliberation found the courage to lean forward a little and ask Jean if she had decided what studies to take. Jean answered cordially in the negative and added that her cousin was to help her choose them later on. She was conditioned in French, so she supposed she'd have to take that, although she hated it thoroughly. After breakfast the girls collected here and there about the reading-room and halls in little groups. Miss Remington came up at once to where Jean was standing and talked casually about her room and trunks and then asked her how long her cousin would remain with her. Upon hearing that she was to leave that evening she promised to spend the night with Jean, so she wouldn't get lonesome. Jean was delighted, for to herself she admitted that Marjorie appealed much more to her than any of the other girls she had met, excepting, perhaps, Natalie Lawton. She hoped they were going to be good friends even if they were not in the same class. Registration was to be at ten o'clock and Nan suggested that they go up to 45 and talk over studies before Jean made out her programme. She had arranged some tennis with Peggy and Natalie at ten-thirty and then after lunch they would take the first train for Boston. Nan had been a good, all-around girl in college, but had maintained a high standard in her studies and was anxious to have Jean do the same, but she was discovering that Jean cared very little for her books. Every freshman was required to take English and mathematics and had the choice of the other subjects. As Jean had been conditioned in French her cousin suggested that she begin at once to remove the condition. By satisfactorily completing a course in French at the end of the year this could be done. Jean agreed to this and then after much discussion she decided to add German, oratory and music to the list, with gymnasium work twice a week. Mathematics and German were to come Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings; French and English, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings; oratory once a week on a day to be announced later; "gym" two hours each on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and music two hours a week when she could arrange it with the instructor. "That looks like a pretty stiff programme to me, Nan," said Jean; "I don't see any time in the week for anything but studying. A girl can't study all the time, you know. I want to do other things, too." "You will find plenty of time for other things, dear, for this isn't a very hard programme. You will find any number of girls taking more than you have. You'll have every Saturday afternoon free, and generally the girls go in town to the theater that day. Boston always has all the best plays and music and there are Wednesday matinées, too. I don't advise cutting recitations, but once in a while when there's something worth while it won't do any harm. Then, Friday afternoon is Symphony rehearsal, which you must hear once in a while. The faculty very often advise the girls to attend certain performances and are very willing to chaperon them. Speaking of the faculty, I think you are going to enjoy all of yours, for I had them all with the exception of Miss Whittemore, the gym instructor, who is new this year, and I can vouch for them. My advice is to work hard at the beginning of the year, get the principles of the study and a good foundation and the second half-year will come easy. Don't let things slide, for it's awfully hard to make up a lot of work in a short time. If you must cut classes or chapel, cut consistently. To-morrow morning you will meet some of the instructors and have lessons assigned for next week. Things will hardly be in running order before a week, so you can take your own time for a few days. Now we'll start for the office and get registration off our hands. Is your programme written out carefully; ready to pass in to the clerk? Let's stop for the other freshmen on our way downstairs so we can all go together." Nan and her six charges hurried up the hill as the college clock rang out its ten strokes. The office was crowded and each girl had to pass in single file before the registrar. It took some time for Jean to reach the desk and when at length it was her turn to sign her name to the great book and pass her programme to the waiting clerk she gave a sigh of relief. Now she was a freshman and the year had actually begun, and there was no turning back. Hurriedly the six girls were shown over College Hall and Nan pointed out the mathematics room and then the French room and so on until they all knew where to go on the following days. In one of the rooms on the third floor they met Miss Whiting, and as Nan had always enjoyed her courses in spite of some rather marked peculiarities, she was glad to stop and talk with her and have her know her charges. They talked a few moments, long enough to have her ask the girls if they had yet seen the ivy on the chapel tower. Nan had to admit that as yet they had not, pleading as her excuse that she wished them to see the chapel for the first time the following day at chapel exercises. Remembering her tennis appointment, Nan invited the other freshmen to accompany Jean and herself to the courts, but as they had their rooms to settle and letters to write they returned to the hall. Soon the two reached the courts and found plenty of girls enjoying the game. They had time for two sets in which Jean showed her skill and she and Nan easily defeated their opponents, causing Peggy to exclaim, "You see, Nat, it's as I said, you'll have to work hard for championship next year." The afternoon passed all too quickly for Jean. Nan knew just what stores to shop in and just what to buy and before she realized it the long list had been bought and ordered to be sent out to Merton. They had time for tea in a quiet little English tea room which Nan often frequented, and here she told Jean some of her own plans for the future and how she had decided to take up hospital work. Her conversation revealed quite another girl from the light-hearted one of the last two days, and Jean found herself admiring her cousin more than ever. "You must come in to see me whenever I have time off and you can arrange it. I shall feel the greatest interest in your life at college, for in a way I feel responsible for it. There are many things I might have told you, but I am going to let you meet problems and solve them by yourself. Now we must start for the station or we'll miss the train." When they reached the station Nan said that she knew they would find friends on the train, but Jean pleaded to be left alone, for she wanted to think things over by herself. Nan stayed until the train pulled out of sight and then gayly started homeward, saying to herself, "I'll bet on Jean every time. She'll have no end of trouble, but she'll come out all right in the end." When the train drew into the Ashton Station Jean alighted with the others and as she stepped off the train she found Marjorie Remington waiting for her. "I thought you'd be out on this train, so I came down to meet you." So saying, she put her arm through Jean's in a friendly manner and they started up the hill. "Supper isn't for half an hour yet; let's take a walk and see the sunset from the hill. I never stay in the 'dorm' when there's any possible excuse for being out of doors. Thank goodness there's no lessons until next week. Have you promised to do anything Saturday afternoon?" "No," said Jean. "Well, I want you to spend it with me then in town. I'll get tickets for 'The Spring Maid'; everybody's wild about it. Are you fond of the theater?" "Yes, but I've never been very often except once in a while with father or one of my brothers. We live some distance out of the city and it's pretty hard getting home after the theater." "Oh, I'm just crazy over it, and never miss a Saturday afternoon if I can help it." "I'm going to ask Mrs. Thompson if I can change seats with Miss White and sit next to you at table. I've no use for the girls who sit on either side of me and I'd much rather sit beside you. Let's go to supper now, this walk has made me hungry as a bear. Wait a minute in the hall while I speak to Mrs. Thompson about changing." When Marjorie returned she looked anything but pleased and exclaimed, "Just like her, says she has assigned the seats and doesn't want to change them even for one meal. Well, I sha'n't tell her that we're going to room together to-night, for I suppose she'd put her foot down on that, too. She's certainly the crankiest individual I ever ran up against." As the two girls entered the dining-room, arm in arm, several of the older girls smiled and looked knowingly at each other. Peggy Allison seemed a bit worried, as she whispered to Natalie, "Midge Remington's up to her old game again, always appropriating the best-looking girl in the place. We'd better look out or we'll lose this Jean Cabot." After supper, one of the girls went over to the piano and began playing a dreamy waltz. The chairs were moved to one side and several of the girls began to dance. Natalie came up to Jean and asked her for the waltz. "You'll have to lead, Miss Cabot, you're so tall. Why, it will be almost as good as dancing with a man, you're so big and strong." "I don't know how to lead, Miss Lawton. I never have danced with girls before." "Well, I'll show you over here at one side. You'll have to content yourself here dancing with girls, for we only have men on state occasions, which are few and far between." And the two left the others for a little lesson in leading. It did not take Jean long to learn, and soon they were swinging over the floor with the others. "Why, Miss Lawton," exclaimed Jean as the music stopped, "I wouldn't have believed it could be such fun to dance with girls and lead. Won't she play some more music?" "Yes, we generally dance half an hour after supper every evening and the girls take turns playing. Will you play for us some times? Nan says you play beautifully. In Merton we believe in making every girl do all she can for the good of the rest. If I don't see you again while you're dancing I want to invite you down to 27 Saturday evening to meet some of my friends and a few of the freshmen. I hope your room-mate will have arrived by that time; if so, please invite her for me, although I shall try to see her myself. Thanks for this splendid dance." And she hastened on to another freshman. Jean had plenty of opportunities to dance and at the last dance Marjorie Remington came up to her and said, "Now for my turn. I've been waiting patiently all the evening. You seem to be in great demand." After the dance was finished the two girls went up to Marjorie's room; several of the other girls dropped in and made themselves comfortable in the rather close quarters. "Have some chocolates, girls," said Marjorie as she passed them a large five-pound Huyler's box. "Wasn't it good of Jack to leave this with me at the train?" Everybody but Jean seemed to know who Jack was, but she asked no questions and the conversation changed from one subject to another. Suddenly there came a knock at the door. As Marjorie opened it the girls saw Mrs. Thompson standing in the hall with a shy, timid girl behind her. "Is Miss Cabot in your room, Miss Remington? I saw you go up the stairs together. I should like her to meet her room-mate, Miss Fairfax, who has just arrived." Jean left the room and the merry group assembled there and went somewhat reluctantly into 45. Introductions were soon over and Mrs. Thompson left the two girls together. Jean soon learned that it was Elizabeth's brother who had been ill with typhoid fever, but his condition was so much improved that she was no longer needed at home. She was very tired, for it had been five long weeks that she had helped to care for him, but she felt she must leave for college as soon as possible in order not to miss any more than was absolutely necessary. Could she go to bed at once, she asked, and leave all her unpacking until the next day? Jean helped her as best she could and before long she was sound asleep in the little white bed and Jean stole softly back into Marjorie's room. The girls had left and she found Marjorie propped up on the couch writing a letter. "Come right in. I'm only writing to Jack to thank him for the chocolates. Well, isn't it a shame to have our plans for to-night spoiled? What do you think of your room-mate? Isn't she awful? Worse than any of mine. Did you notice her hat? Where do you suppose she hails from? Hard luck for you, that's all I've got to say. Well, make yourself at home in my room any time you want to, whether I'm here or not." "Yes, she is a disappointment, but perhaps things will look different in the morning. Good night, I guess I'm tired, too," and Jean left the room and was soon sleeping quietly in the other white bed in 45. CHAPTER IV THE FRESHMAN RECEPTION Although Elizabeth was as careful as possible, her moving to and fro between the two rooms awakened Jean, who, after wishing her good-morning, offered to arise and help unpack. "No, Miss Cabot," replied Elizabeth, "it's only five o'clock; please don't think of getting up yet. I am used to rising early, for I've been up every morning all summer at five. I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Can't you get to sleep again? You know I'm to wait on table this year and Mrs. Thompson wishes me to be in the dining-room at seven to help in setting the table. I thought I would unpack my trunk and suit-case before breakfast, for there will be so much for me to do to-day I probably won't have another opportunity. If you will tell me where to put things I can get right at work now. Would you mind if I called you by your first name, it seems so strange to say 'Miss' to the girl I'm to live with all the year? My name is Elizabeth." Instantly Jean arose and put on a white silk kimona, splashed with great pink roses, slipped her feet into some dainty pink silk quilted slippers and then led the way into the study, where she sat down in the only empty chair. "Why, of course I want you to call me by my first name, Elizabeth; it's Jean. How do you like the arrangement of the rooms so far? My cousin and two of the juniors helped me with it. It looks very bare, but we bought a lot of things in town yesterday and as soon as they are sent out we can finish settling. That is your desk and bookcase and here is your clothes closet. I borrowed one or two of your hooks, for I couldn't seem to find room enough in my own closet. I'll take the dresses down now and put them back in the trunk." "Oh, please don't, Jean; all my dresses together won't fill the hooks on one side of the closet. You're welcome to this whole side." "Thank you. Now you can put your pictures and banners anywhere you choose. We want to make our room as attractive as possible so our friends will be glad to come and see us." "I'm afraid I haven't many attractive things for the room. I didn't know much about college girls' rooms, and besides if I had known I couldn't have brought them. Father is only a country doctor and could hardly afford to send me to college at all. It will be a struggle to go through the four years, but I mean to do it if hard work counts. "I've never known a real mother, for two years after mother's death my father married again when I was six and Brother four. Since then we've had a home and that's about all as far as a mother's concerned. Father is away most of the time and doesn't know all that happens during his absence, but we know and never can forget. Fathers don't seem to understand children very well. Perhaps Brother and I have been more to each other than most brothers and sisters, for we had to make up for all that we missed in others. That's the hardest thing for me in coming to Ashton--to leave Brother at home sick with the fever. He means to go to college, too, sometime, and after two years here I hope to be able to teach at home and help him with his education. I don't know why I'm telling you all this, for I guess it doesn't interest you at all." "Yes, it does, Elizabeth, for my mother is dead, too, and I have five brothers and the best father in all the world, and I'm here to please them, but you can believe I'm going back to them after one year of it." "What! You could go four years and graduate if you wanted to, and instead you're only going freshman year? Why, I'd give everything in the world if I could go through the four years. I've thought of asking permission to take extra work this year and next, and then if anything should happen that I could come back a third year I could do the four years' work in three and graduate. I want a college diploma so much I'll do anything to get it. But if it's a question of Brother's giving up a year or of my doing so, it will not be he, for it seems as though he were always the one to make the sacrifice. "Have you decided what you are to take this year? There are so many things I want to take I hardly know what to choose. Tell me your programme. Wouldn't it be fine if we had the same courses, then we could study together?" "I'm going to take as little as I can, for I hate studying. I think my cousin Nan has made me out too stiff a programme and I'll have to drop something before I flunk out. I want to keep up my music, anyway, and practising does take a lot of time. Besides, I have English and mathematics and German and French and of course oratory and gym, because they're snap courses." "I shall take Latin instead of your French, but the other subjects are what I want, too. In place of your music I'd like some history, for that's my favorite study. I've read everything I could lay my hands on in the history line and never could get half enough. I've longed for the college library with its rows upon rows of books. If ever I'm missing, be sure to look for me in the library. Do you suppose my being a day late will make any difference with my work?" "No, child, for all we did yesterday was to register and pass in our programmes. You sent them word that you were delayed at home by sickness in the family and won't be fined, but ordinarily when we fail to register on time we are fined five dollars. To-day we are to go to the classes which usually meet on Friday. I have mathematics at nine and German at ten, and probably you will be in the same divisions. It's mighty hard to think of studying these glorious days. How I'd enjoy a twenty-mile horseback ride over the hills this morning! I wonder where I could hire a horse and if any of the other girls ride." "Why! you wouldn't cut your recitations the very first day, would you, Jean?" "No, I suppose not, but I'd like to mighty well. Don't be surprised at anything I ever do. Sometimes I fear I can't stand this living by rules and regulations. I've always done just what I wanted to and when I wanted to, and I shall probably forget to ask permission to do things, especially of other girls. I'm not so sure that I approve of student government." "Why, it seems to me the fairest way, and I'm sure you will like it after you become used to it. Now that I've finished unpacking I think I'll just write a few lines to Brother, for he'll be waiting very impatiently for my first letter. Can't you go to sleep again?" "No, I think I'll write letters, too. I haven't had a minute before, and I promised Tom and father faithfully that I'd write to them." And soon the two girls were writing as though their life depended upon it, and did not stop until the rising bell sounded. Elizabeth was as startled as Jean had been on the previous morning, but it did not take long to explain it to her. Soon she started downstairs for her duties in the dining-room, but hesitated a little and said, "Jean, may I go to chapel with you this morning?" "Yes, we freshmen in the house agreed last night to go together; our seats are to be in the right aisle directly back of the sophs. They say ours is the largest entering class on record, so some of us may have to sit in the annex. Let's go by a quarter-past eight, anyway, so as to be in the main chapel. After chapel exercises I'll take you to the office and help you with your registration." When the seven freshmen from Merton walked up to chapel, six of them felt very green indeed, but Jean held her head high and displayed her usual composure. But when they took their places with the other three classes and at a given signal rose while the hundred or so seniors in cap and gown marched slowly down the center aisle to their seats on the left, Jean felt for the first time the insignificance of a freshman and wondered just how it would seem to be a senior. Miss Emerson welcomed the incoming class in such a way that Jean felt drawn to her at once. She was not at all what she had pictured a college president to be, and there was something so sweet and lovable about her that Jean thought she came nearer to the mother she had always pictured to herself than anybody else she had ever seen. Most of the faculty seats were occupied, and Jean noticed that many of the professors were young and good-looking in spite of their degrees and reputed knowledge. After chapel Jean and Elizabeth hastened to the registrar's office and Elizabeth was enrolled as a freshman. Just as they were leaving the building two seniors in cap and gown stopped them and one of them said, "This is Miss Cabot and her room-mate, Miss Fairfax, is it not? I am Miss Wright and this is Miss Farnsworth. We would like to invite you to be our special guests at the senior reception to the freshmen and faculty on a week from Monday evening in the Gym. You live in Merton, I believe? We will call for you there at about half-past eight." The two freshmen were glad to accept the invitation, and after a few general remarks about recitations the seniors hurried away. "Jean, did you notice the little star-shaped pins both of those seniors wore on their shirtwaists? What are they for?" "I suppose they must be their society pins. Societies are like fraternities in the men's colleges. They are secret organizations, and about twenty-five girls belong to each one. I don't know much about them except what Tom told me." "Oh," said Elizabeth, "I should like to join one, wouldn't you?" "I guess it isn't for us to say, Elizabeth. You see, the girls are very particular whom they ask, and only a few are chosen from each class." "Oh, you'll be chosen, Jean; you needn't worry about that." "I'm not so sure about it. I suppose it will soon be time for mathematics. O dear, how I dread it! Your division doesn't meet to-day, does it? You ought to be thankful for that. I'm going upstairs now to see where Room 21 is. Good-by; see you later." At the top of the stairs she met Marjorie Remington, who stopped her. "Oh, Miss Cabot, have you received your invitation to the freshman reception yet?" "Yes, Miss Wright and Miss Farnsworth just stopped Elizabeth and me downstairs and invited us to go with them." "Oh, you should feel much honored, for they are two of the most popular girls in the senior class, and Miss Wright is class president. But I think the reception is an awful bore, just standing around and meeting a lot of girls and faculty you don't care anything about, and dancing in between times. Still a freshman makes a big mistake to cut it, and I advise you to go. "What's your first recitation--can I take you to the class room? There's the bell now. But wait a minute. Here comes a girl I want you to meet. It's Lill Spalding, sophomore basket-ball captain and one of the nicest girls in North Hall. I've invited her in town with us to-morrow." The three girls became so interested in their plans for the following day that Mathematics I. was almost forgotten, and when Marjorie remembered she was to show Jean the room it was fully five minutes after the hour. Stopping before a door marked "21" Marjorie said, "Here it is, and Miss Hooper is in charge. Oh, she's fierce; I pity you. I had Miss Baldwin, who's a regular cinch. I'll meet you here at the end of the hour if you like." As Jean entered the room Miss Hooper was just reading the class list and she heard "Miss Cabot" ring out distinctly in the stillness of the large room. "Here," said Jean, and she sank into the only vacant chair in the front row directly in front of the desk. Miss Hooper paused, looked up quickly from her class book and said sharply, "Five minutes late. A very bad beginning, Miss Cabot; remember hereafter, please, that this class meets promptly at nine o'clock." It was on Jean's tongue to say that she had lost her way, but something restrained her. Miss Hooper explained that the work of the year would be divided into three parts, algebra the first third of the year, geometry the second, and trigonometry the last. The class were to use Wells's College Algebra, which they could buy at the college book-store. The first lesson would be the problems on page 47. "And now, class, let us spend the rest of the hour reviewing a little. Miss Cabot, you may explain what is meant by the 'binomial theorem.'" Poor Jean tried to collect her scattered senses enough to answer the question. She remembered there was such a thing as this binomial theorem, but what it was she could not have told had her life depended upon it. After waiting as long as she dared she answered in a low voice, "I do not know." Miss Hooper looked annoyed and repeated the question to Miss Caldow, next on the list, who, to Jean's disgust, jumped on her feet and recited glibly and entirely to Miss Hooper's satisfaction. "Very well done, Miss Caldow. I see no reason why the entire class should not be perfectly familiar with the theorem. No one can expect to do any kind of work in advanced algebra unless she has a thorough foundation in the elementary work. Miss Cabot, you will please look up the binomial theorem and be prepared to recite it at the next meeting of the class." Jean thought the hour would never end, but when at last the class was excused she rushed from the room almost into the arms of Marjorie Remington who was waiting for her just outside the door. "Well, honey, how did Mathematics I. go?" "Terribly. I never want to see Miss Hooper again and I'll not take her old mathematics course another day. I don't know anything about algebra, and she pounced on me first one to explain the binomial theorem, and because I didn't know it she insulted me before the whole class." "Just like her. Isn't she the most sarcastic person you ever knew? She can say more hateful things in fifteen minutes than any one I know. Why don't you drop mathematics and take something else in its place? You can take it up again next year." "Next year, indeed; thank goodness I'll be far away from Ashton College by that time! One year's enough for me. But tell me, can I really drop mathematics?" "Sure you can. I dropped Latin the first day last year and I'm just beginning it again, but I doubt if I ever pass it. All you've got to do is to go down to the office and give some reasonable excuse for dropping mathematics and offer something else in its place. They don't care when you take the required subjects as long as you finish them before senior year." "But what can I take instead of mathematics?" "Miss Cushing has a fine course in philosophy first half-year, and psychology second half. It's a lecture course, only her exams are stiff, but if you read up in her book in the library you'll get by all right. If you're only going to be here one year you don't care much for making records, do you?" "No. Leave that to my room-mate, she's out for real study and nothing else. Aren't we the great combination? But still there's something about her I like; and I pity her, too, for she's had a hard time all her life. I nearly forgot, I have a German recitation now, so I'll have to leave the mathematics proposition until later." German was delightful, as Fräulein Weimer in her broken English explained the work of the year and then talked to the class in German, telling them stories and quoting poems. Jean felt a little calmer as she left the room, but with the memory of her first recitation still burning in her mind she hurried to the office. She explained to the secretary that she felt so poorly prepared in mathematics that she wished to leave that work until another year and take philosophy in its place. She understood that mathematics, although a required subject, could be taken any one of the first three years. She was given permission to do as she wished, and hastened to Miss Cushing's room to make further arrangements. In the hall she met Miss Hooper, who stopped her and said, "Am I right in understanding that Miss Anna Maitlandt is your cousin? Do tell me where she is and what she is going to do this year. I have wanted to know very much, but have not heard from her all summer." "Yes," replied Jean, "Miss Maitlandt is my cousin and she was out here on Wednesday and Thursday, but was obliged to return to Framington early because she is to enter the Massachusetts General Hospital the first of October to begin a three-years' training course. She was abroad all summer and only returned last week, so she has a great deal to do in a short time." "Oh, I am so sorry not to have seen her, for I always enjoyed her so much. What does she mean by burying herself in a hospital? She's altogether too brilliant for that." Just then some one came up to ask Miss Hooper a question and as she excused herself Jean passed on, muttering to herself, "Horrid old thing! I suppose she wants to impress upon me how brilliant my cousin was here. Wait till she misses me in mathematics on Monday and perhaps she'll realize she can't make her cutting, sarcastic remarks to every freshman in college." The days were full and happy ones, and Monday night arrived with the annual freshman reception. After supper Marjorie Remington went upstairs with Jean and offered to help her dress. "What shall I wear, Marjorie?" said Jean. "All your dresses are such perfect dreams I don't know which one I like the best. But let me have another look at them. Dangerous business, though, letting me see them, for I may be tempted to borrow some of them one of these days. Now, after all, I think this figured chiffon is the best for to-night, it's so different from anything I have ever seen. I'm crazy to see you in it." It did not take long for Jean to do her hair and get into the chiffon dress. It was a peculiar chiffon, a light pink background shot with black and pink roses made up over a soft pink silk lining. The dress was low and showed off to advantage Jean's firm white throat and neck, and the sleeves came just above her elbows. The skirt reached only to her ankles and her stockings and slippers were of a delicate pink. Around her neck on a narrow band of black velvet was a small diamond star which sparkled with wonderful brilliancy. "There, will I do?" and she danced over gayly to Marjorie, who lay on the couch as though exhausted after her labors. "Do? Why you are the most wonderful creature I've ever seen! You'll take everybody by storm. Wait till Jack sees you. I'm going to make him invite us out to his frat's first dance. You see, Jack's at Harvard and knows all the big men in his class. I have the best times in the world whenever I can get out there for anything. The only trouble is it's such awful hard work getting off the hill for the night. One of my aunts lives in Newton and she's perfectly willing to chaperon me or let me stay at her house all night, but she travels so much of the time that she's always away when I want her most. I hate taking one of the faculty with me, for they're such awful sticks. I don't see any need of chaperons anyway, but they'd make an awful fuss out here if a girl went anywhere without them." Just then the door opened and a cheery voice began, "Have you started dressing yet?" but when the eyes of the speaker fell on the vision of loveliness before her she stopped short and just gazed. Miss Remington arose, saying, "I guess it's time for me to go, I'm not needed any longer. Hope you'll have a good time, Miss Cabot," and she brushed by Elizabeth and banged the door after her. "Oh, Jean, have I interrupted you? I didn't mean to. Miss Remington seems to have taken a violent dislike to me. What have I done to her?" "Nothing, Elizabeth; she doesn't mean anything, but she's rather brusque at times, I guess." "How beautiful you look, Jean, but I can't go with you. I haven't anything except my graduation dress and you'll be ashamed of me in that." "Nonsense, child; let me help you dress. You'll be too sweet for words in that dainty white muslin I saw hanging in your closet. Let me do your hair low and tuck this rose at one side; it will bring out the color in your cheeks. And I've a coral pink sash I'm going to drape around your waist and with those coral pink beads father gave me just before I started you'll be a symphony in white and pink." Indeed she did look sweet in her simple white gown and excitement made her big eyes sparkle more than was their wont. "Do you know, Jean, I've never been to a real big reception like this before. I can't dance, but I shall enjoy just sitting and watching the others. Sometime I hope to learn if I ever have the time. It's only eight now, we have half an hour before the girls will come for us. Let's read over some German. I haven't quite finished the assignment." "Not to-night, Elizabeth. I'm not in the mood for studying. Perhaps I'll get up early in the morning and read over a little with you. I made a good recitation to-day and that ought to do for a while. I'm going over in Marjorie's room; you can call me when the girls arrive." Elizabeth sat down at her desk to study alone, a little disappointed in Jean, for she knew she had been playing tennis all the afternoon and had made no preparation for the next day. After she had read about three pages a maid announced the arrival of their escorts, so she called Jean and the two girls hastened down the stairs. It did not take long to reach the Gymnasium, which was ablaze with lights. As they entered the main hall they paused to survey the scene of beauty before them. The massive building was transformed into a vast autumn out-of-doors, for golden rod and purple asters and bright-colored leaves were everywhere. The orchestra was concealed at one end of the hall, and played softly as the seniors introduced their guests to each other and to the faculty. Jean and Elizabeth were given dance-orders, but Elizabeth timidly said, "I don't dance, Miss Farnsworth." "That doesn't make a particle of difference, dear; lots of the girls don't, and perhaps you'd like to keep the dance-order as a souvenir for your memorabilia, for of course you will have one; all freshmen do. You will have partners just the same for all the dances and get acquainted just as quickly as though you were on the floor dancing. You must learn to dance as soon as possible, though, for it means so many good times here. Now let us meet the faculty." Jean felt a little dismayed at the thought of meeting Miss Hooper, but she soon found herself shaking hands with her and heard her say, "Later in the evening, Miss Cabot, I hope I may have the pleasure of eating an ice with you in the faculty alcove. Can you spare me a few moments?" Jean answered that she would be very pleased to, although she felt she was in for an explanation of her non-appearance in the mathematics class, and dreaded it. Every member of the faculty seemed to be particularly interested in every freshman who was introduced to her and had something pleasant to say to them all. They seemed to have entirely forgotten their mannerisms and the severity of the class rooms. Jean looked long and earnestly at Miss Emerson and wished she might stand and talk to her indefinitely, but the long line of waiting freshmen pushed her quickly along, and she determined to find time later in the evening to ask her a few questions. Before long the dancing began and Jean found herself passed on from one girl to another; some who danced well and some who did not; some who did nothing but ask questions; some who persisted in telling their whole family history in five minutes; some tall, some short, some handsome, some homely, but all college girls filled with the spirit of good fellowship. Once or twice she rushed over to where Elizabeth was sitting with whom she had deposited her gloves, fan, handkerchief and dance-order, and usually found her silently listening to the pearls of wisdom which fell from the lips of the senior sitting beside her. About half-past ten Elizabeth said to her, "Jean, I have just been talking with Miss Hooper and she wishes to know if you will look for her in the faculty alcove after the next dance." Jean was tempted to ignore the invitation and all through the next two-step turned the matter over and over in her mind and was so absorbed that her partner wondered what the other girls had found so attractive in this good-looking freshman who apparently could not talk. However, when the music stopped Jean said very casually, "Will you please tell me where the faculty alcove is?" and on being shown she very slowly approached the corner. The dim lights revealed Miss Hooper among a pile of cushions. She wondered how she could ever talk to her and what she should say. When Miss Hooper perceived her she called out, "Oh, Miss Cabot, come right in. I have been waiting for you and hoping Miss Fairfax would not forget to deliver my message. Make yourself comfortable here while we enjoy these delicious ices. First, I want to talk to you about your charming cousin. We were interrupted the other day before you had told me half I wanted to know." Just then every light in the Gymnasium went out and left the place in total darkness and a strong chorus burst into song. "Oh, you green freshmen, green freshmen, green freshmen; Oh, you green freshmen, come list to our song. We're going to haze you, to haze you, to haze you; We're going to haze you before very long." Over and over again they sang the lines, louder and louder each time. Red-fire burned outside the building and groups of girls with their hands joined danced wildly around the red lights. "It's the sophomores," said Miss Hooper; "every year they try to break up the freshman reception. It has become a tradition, but one I believe should be abolished," and she slipped out into the main hall. The seniors found it was impossible to turn on the electricity, but hurried here and there and borrowed enough lanterns from obliging janitors to light the Gymnasium dimly. The music continued and the girls danced as though nothing had happened and thought it all the more fun to disappoint the sophs, who imagined the dance would be given up when the lights gave out. Partners had claimed Jean, and the dreaded interview with Miss Hooper ended almost where it had begun. At length the dancing stopped and after the good nights had been said Jean and Elizabeth and the two seniors wended their way homeward. "What a mean thing it was to break up your reception," said Elizabeth to Miss Farnsworth. "Oh, it wasn't wholly unexpected," she replied; "there is always great rivalry between the two lower classes and one never can tell when it will break out. You'll find this is only the beginning. Be on the watch, but take everything that's done in good spirit, for you must remember you'll be sophs next year and can pay it all back on the next entering class." Soon they reached Merton Hall and found other freshmen saying good night to their escorts. Soon the great outer door was closed and the weary freshmen started upstairs. When Elizabeth and Jean reached 45 they found the door locked and on it a piece of paper which they tore down and carried over to the hall light to read. These words met their astonished gaze: "Oh, you green freshmen, green freshmen, green freshmen, Oh, you green freshmen, pray don't try your door. We'll give you a mattress, a mattress, a mattress, We'll give you a mattress, to sleep on the floor." "Well, I must say I think this is carrying things altogether too far," said Jean indignantly. "Who ever heard of sleeping on the hall floor?" By this time the other freshmen had joined them, reporting similar experiences at their rooms. One girl came down from the fifth floor, whispering, "Isn't this the limit! In front of my door is a double mattress spread on the floor with a blanket or two over it. Come upstairs, all of you and let's make ourselves as comfortable as we can and to-morrow we'll begin to plan our revenge on the sophs." Jean was the most reluctant to go, and as she followed the others down the hall she cast one look over at 47 and said, "And to think she pretended to be my friend!" Then an idea seemed to come to her and she said, "Wait a minute girls; of course some of the seniors are up, so we can put our good clothes in their rooms and borrow some kimonas. But even if they want us to sleep in their rooms let's not accept their invitations. Let's drag that mattress down from fifth and put in front of some soph's room, say Marjorie Remington's, as close as possible to the door and give her a big surprise when she tries to walk out to-morrow morning." The girls laughed at the thought of the joke and hurried to the rooms of the seniors to tell them what the sophs had done and to ask them for help in carrying out Jean's bright suggestions. Before long they had carried down everything the sophs had left them on fifth floor to 47 and worked so carefully that no one heard them. Then the seven girls lay down on the mattress very near together to be sure, and were soon asleep forgetting the cares of their little world. CHAPTER V INITIATION It did not take very long for Jean and Elizabeth to find out a great deal about the secret societies at Ashton, much to the satisfaction of one and the keen disappointment of the other. There were five in all, the Beta Mu, the Kappa Alpha, the Sigma Delta, the Phi Beta, and the Gamma Chi. Each had from twenty to twenty-five members, chosen from the four classes; each had its club room and its society pin, which was always in evidence on the left side of the girls' waists. The first days of college the society was in the background as college came first and then class, but as matters became adjusted and the girls settled down to the routine of regular life, this factor came into evidence. It was pretty generally conceded that the two most desirable societies were the Gamma Chi and the Sigma Delta, and both were eager to obtain Jean Cabot as one of their members. However, the membership of the two was entirely different; to the former belonged Peggy Allison, Natalie Lawton, Dorothy Wright and Frances Farnsworth, girls with a serious purpose in college but still finding time for plenty of fun; to the latter belonged Midge Remington, Lill Spalding, Lena Jameson and Gerry Fairbanks, girls with plenty of money and clothes and a desire for athletic honors and good times foremost, with scholastic efforts in the background. Rushing had begun early, and although at first Jean had not realized why so many girls had been so kind to her, it flashed over her all of a sudden that it had all been with the purpose of finally winning her to their particular society. Nothing definite had been said, and she had not been invited to join one or the other but she felt that it was only a matter of time. She had been to walk, to drive, to the theater, to lunch, rowing on the lake; had played tennis with the best players college afforded, had been to "hoodangs," first in one girl's room and then in another's, to tea at the Inn, home for week-ends with the girls who lived near by--one pleasant thing after another until she began to tire of so much attention and decided to accept no more invitations until she had had a breathing spell. One thing had troubled her at first, but she soon became used to the fact that Elizabeth had not been invited to many of the good times and often watched her depart with a look upon her face which seemed to say, "Why does she have everything and I nothing?" One Saturday towards the end of October both girls had been invited down to Peggy Allison's room to a Gamma Chi "hoodang" or rushing-party. It was one of the few invitations in which Elizabeth was included and she had counted on it for many days. At noon she said to Jean, "What time shall we go to Miss Allison's room to-night?" "Oh, I'm sorry Elizabeth, but you'll have to go with one of the other girls for I've promised to walk with Marjorie and Lill Spalding to Tramp's Rock this afternoon and have tea at the Inn on our return. I'll be back about eight or thereabouts and go directly to Peggy's room so I'll see you there surely. What are you going to do this afternoon?" "I don't know now, I had hoped that you and I could do something; we haven't had a single Saturday afternoon together yet. Isn't the college library open Saturday afternoons and evenings? Perhaps I'll go over and read a little while the last part of the afternoon." Jean and her friends enjoyed every minute of the afternoon and just before they were ready to start back home Marjorie said to Lill, "I'm going to take Jean round the other side of the Rock for a few moments; you can sit and gaze at the clouds until we come back again if you want to." After they had walked a few moments Marjorie said, "Jean, I've been appointed a committee of one to invite you to become a member of Sigma Delta society. We have some of the best girls in college among our members as you have had an opportunity to see for yourself. You know what our girls have done in athletics and in social activities and we want you to be one of us. Here is a bow of blue ribbon and if you decide to become a member of Sigma Delt you will wear this ribbon Monday to chapel and to all your recitations during the day. Then all the other girls will see what you have chosen and from then on you will be ours and they will let you alone. I'm pretty sure you've made up your mind already, but I can't ask you to commit yourself until Monday. Now we'll go back for Lill and then start for the Inn." It was considerably after eight when Jean knocked upon Peggy Allison's door and at the pleasant "Come in" entered the room and found herself the last arrival, for some twenty upper-class girls with ten or twelve freshmen were packed closely in the room and the one adjoining which had been loaned by an accommodating sophomore. "Why, where's your room-mate, Miss Cabot?" sang out one of the girls. "Oh, isn't she here? She said she was coming, but I haven't seen her since dinner for I was away all the afternoon and had supper at the Inn. Didn't she wait on table? I'll run upstairs and see if she's forgotten to come. That hardly seems possible, though, for she has been counting on this so long." When Jean returned she reported that Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen, although her hat and coat were on the couch where they had evidently been thrown in haste and her white party dress still hung in the closet in its accustomed place. "I'm going downstairs to ask Mrs. Thompson if she knows whether Elizabeth was at supper, or excused for some reason." But Mrs. Thompson said that she had been at supper as usual and she knew nothing further of her whereabouts. Next, Jean hastened to the register in the reading-room and found no record of Elizabeth's leaving the dormitory. Perhaps Mary Boynton, the general proctor of Merton for student government, would have some explanation for her, so she hurried to 34, but Miss Boynton knew nothing about the girl and in despair she returned to 27. "Oh, hasn't she come yet? I've been everywhere I can think of and nobody knows anything about her. Where can she be?" "Now, Jean, calm yourself," said Natalie, "perhaps she's visiting some of the girls in another house and has forgotten all about us. We'll wait until nine o'clock and then if she hasn't put in an appearance we'll organize a searching-party. Come, girls, pass those candies to Jean before they're all eaten up. Can't you see she's waiting for them?" But Jean didn't seem to enjoy the candies or the other things which circulated round about her. She seemed, somehow, above the happiness of the occasion to see the disappointed look on Elizabeth's face when at noon she had told her she could not go to the party with her, and above the voices of the others she seemed to hear Elizabeth's trembling voice saying that she would spend the half-holiday in the library. It had seemed so ridiculous to Jean then to think of spending unnecessary time in the library among dry old books. But perhaps Elizabeth had gone to the library; they could ask the librarian. It seemed to Jean as though nine o'clock would never strike, every step in the hall must be Elizabeth's but still she did not come and at last Jean burst out, "Girls, I'm sorry to break up your little party but I can't stand it another minute. I've just got to do something. Will two or three of you come with me while I get Mary Boynton and Mrs. Thompson and with them we can go to all the dormitories and ask if she is in any of the girls' rooms? It doesn't seem probable, for she has hardly any friends outside of Merton, but I think it's the best thing to do. Each of us can take a dormitory and report at College Hall. I'll go to Wellington, Peggy can take East, Natalie, West, Miss Boynton, North, and Emily Sanderson, South. Mrs. Thompson can wait at College Hall so in case any of you girls here at Merton see Elizabeth or hear anything about her you can tell her. I'm going down now for Mrs. Thompson; and, Natalie, will you get Mary Boynton? Don't stop to change your gowns, for we mustn't lose a minute's time. Put on your sweaters and let's start at once." It was after ten o'clock when the little group finally met again at College Hall and the matter began to look so serious that the girls hardly knew what to do. Although they had searched the dormitories very carefully not a trace could they find of the missing girl. Finally Jean said, "Where does Miss Clarkson, the librarian, live?" "Somewhere off the hill, Jean," answered Peggy. "We could find out from some of the faculty." "No," said Jean, "if she isn't on the hill it won't do any good to try to find her. I wanted to ask her if she remembered seeing Elizabeth in the library to-day. I wonder how we could get into the library? What time does it close on Saturdays?" Mary Boynton replied that Saturday evening was the only one of the week when it was open. She thought this was until half-past eight, and suggested that probably if they could find the janitor he would let them into the building. "But why should you think Elizabeth is in the library? Wouldn't she go out with the others when it closed?" asked Mary. "Yes, I should think so," said Jean, "but there's nowhere else to look and if she isn't there I give up the search. I'm going to run over to Miss Emerson's a moment to ask her how we can get into the library. You people start in that direction and I'll be with you in a few moments." Jean fairly tore over the campus and gave Miss Emerson's bell a vigorous pressing. There were no lights at the front of the house but after a little while Miss Emerson herself appeared at the door. "Why! good evening, Miss Cabot, what can I do for you so late at night? Come right into my study for it's a little chilly here. My maid has retired but I was looking over an address I am to give next week in Chicago." "Oh, no, thank you, Miss Emerson, I can't sit down. My room-mate, Elizabeth Fairfax, is missing and we have looked everywhere for her but can't find her. I want to look in the library before we give up the search for the last time I saw her, this noon, she told me that she might go down to the library to read. How can I get into the library to-night?" "Now, my dear child, do calm yourself. It is rather late to disturb the janitor but I will take my keys and go with you and probably we can find the night-watchman and he will assist us. Just step into the hall while I get my coat and hat." It seemed an interminable time to Jean before Miss Emerson returned, but at last they started out. Miss Emerson talked constantly on subjects entirely foreign to the matter of the lost girl, and Jean wondered how she could possibly think of such trivial things, much less talk about them. When they reached the little group in front of the library Miss Emerson was the only calm one among them and she quietly wished each one a good-evening and then started up the library steps. With a small electric bulb which she held in her hand she easily fitted the key into the lock and opened the great outer doors. Then it was an easy matter to spring open the inner doors and press the electric button which flooded the foyer with brilliant light. Calling the girls to her she said, "We will take different sections of the building to explore, and if one of us discovers Miss Fairfax we will let the others know." Each girl then took an alcove and began the search. Jean went straight to the alcoves belonging to the history department. Here she called softly, "Oh, Elizabeth, are you there?" but no response came, and she went away down into the last alcove calling again and again softly, "Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth." At last she heard the sleepy reply, "What is it, Jean? Here I am." And Jean switched on another light and saw her room-mate lying on the floor with her head on a great book apparently as comfortable as she would have been in her own bed in Merton. Jean went out into the main corridor and shouted, "Oh, girls--Miss Emerson--come here! I've found her." And then returning to Elizabeth she said, "Why, what are you doing here? We've been looking for you all over college, and I've been nearly frightened to death about you." When Elizabeth saw Miss Emerson and Mrs. Thompson and all the girls, she looked anxiously from one to the other and said, "Oh, I am very sorry to have caused so much trouble, I didn't think I was of enough account ever to be missed by any one, least of all by you, Jean." "Oh, Elizabeth, how can you say that?" said Jean as she helped her to arise. "Now sit down here on this chair and tell us how you happened to be here. You didn't do it on purpose did you, Elizabeth, because I--" [Illustration: "WHY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? WE'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU ALL OVER COLLEGE."--_Page 90_.] But Elizabeth interrupted her with, "Oh, Jean, thank you so much for wanting to find me! It's worth all the rest. I don't see how it could have happened--unless when I get to reading history I forget everything else in the world. About four o'clock I went into the history alcove and took down a volume on Queen Elizabeth's reign and began to read. When I was about half way through the third chapter, Betty Winship, who went down with me, told me it was a quarter of six. I knew I was due at Merton at six but I had reached the most interesting account of Elizabeth's education. I slipped a corner of my handkerchief into the book and put it carefully back on the shelf, deciding to go back after supper and just finish the chapter before I got ready for Peggy's party. "I hurried back as soon as I had eaten my supper and began reading again about Elizabeth. I suppose I must have forgotten everything else in the world, for the first thing I knew every light in the building went out. I called as loud as I could but no one answered me, and for a moment I was frightened. It was so dark I could not find the electric light switches and the windows were too high even to hope to reach. I made up my mind there was nothing to do but stay here until morning when perhaps I could hail a passer-by." "But Elizabeth, didn't you know it was Saturday night and the library wouldn't be opened again till Monday morning?" said Jean. "Just think what might have happened if you couldn't have found some one to open the door. You'd have almost starved in there alone. I guess very few of the girls ever go by the library on Sundays. Isn't it lucky we came here to-night?" "I didn't think about that. I forgot it was Saturday and thought of course it would open early the next morning. I was tired and as I could find nothing else for a pillow I took the book in my lap and laid my head on that. Of course floors aren't the softest beds in the world, but I must have fallen asleep, for I don't remember anything else until I heard Jean calling to me. I'm so sorry to have caused so much worry and trouble. I didn't dream any one would ever miss me," and the tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Miss Emerson put her arm around Elizabeth and led her out into the foyer, followed by the rest of the little procession. "Miss Cabot," she said, "will you please put off the lights and after we are all out, close the door; it locks itself. Thank you very much." Soon Elizabeth had regained her usual good spirits and walked up the Row with Mary Boynton and Peggy Allison, followed by the others, with Jean and Miss Emerson in the rear. "Thank you so much, Miss Emerson, for coming with me and helping us to-night," said Jean, but Miss Emerson replied, "I think it is you who ought to be thanked. Without your good work Miss Fairfax would have remained all night in the library and doubtless would have caught a severe cold, to say nothing of a nervous shock. She does not look very strong, but what an interesting little room-mate she must be!" Jean was thankful that they reached Miss Emerson's house just then in time to save her the humiliation of having to reply that as yet she really hadn't had much time to find out anything interesting about her room-mate. It did not take long to reach Merton and disperse for the night. As they were going upstairs Peggy Allison said, "Oh, Jean, after you have taken Elizabeth upstairs would you mind coming down in my room for just a moment?" Jean replied that she would, although she was so tired that it seemed as though she could not wait another moment to get into bed. She threw her things on the couch, stumbled over her waste-basket, groped her way down the stairs and knocked timidly at Peggy's door. "Come in, Jean," said Peggy. "Sit down just for a moment. It's too bad our party wasn't the success we hoped it would be but I want to tell you that I think what you have done was splendid. We never would have found her if it hadn't been for you. But there's something else I want to tell you to-night. I had intended to earlier in the evening but really I couldn't find an opportunity until now. We, that is, the Gamma Chis, want you to become one of our members. Monday is pledging day and here is a bow of green ribbon; if you decide to join us you will wear this little bow pinned on the left side of your shirt-waist and that will show the other girls that you belong to us. Wear it to chapel in the morning and to recitations all day. You will not be the only girl with a bow of colored ribbon on, for every society will have invited girls to do the same as I have you. You know our girls; you've met them all, and by this time know whether you like us or not. I've wanted you for one of our members since the first day I saw you on the train at New York, but I realize others have desired you, too. We do have good times together, and you won't make a mistake if you join Gamma Chi. I'll be watching to see you enter chapel Monday morning and I hope we win. There, I won't keep you another minute to-night. Good night, dear. Remember, whichever way you choose, it can't make a particle of difference in our friendship. We can always be good friends even if we're not sisters. Can you see your way upstairs? The lights have been out for hours." When Jean reached her room she switched on the light and walked over to her somewhat disordered desk. She swept the books and papers off and placed the two bows of ribbon, the green and the blue, side by side on the cleared space and contemplated them for a moment. Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door and she found Marjorie Remington just outside. "Let me in for just a moment," whispered Marjorie; "put out your lights for it's late. Tell me what all this excitement's about. I didn't get back from Lill's room till almost ten and every one was talking about Elizabeth's being lost and all you people out hunting for her. Where did you find her?" Jean related the incident as briefly as possible, and when she had finished Marjorie said, "And you did all that for that insignificant little freshman? I thought you never bothered your head about her except for German translations? You're easy, that's all I've got to say. I'm dead for sleep, so good night," and she stole quietly back to her room. As Jean went over to her desk and put on the lights again she looked at the two bows on the desk and smiled down at them without saying a word. Monday morning Jean arose before Elizabeth and went out to the desk to do a little studying before breakfast. She had been translating her French for about a half-hour when two telegrams were brought to her room. Frightened, she tore open the envelopes and read first, "Is it to be cousin or sister? "ANNA MAITLANDT." And then, "I bet on the 'Wearing of the Green.' "THOMAS CABOT." She smiled as she read them a second time, and then wondered how Tom and Anna had ever guessed. Jean purposely avoided Elizabeth that morning and hurried to chapel alone. When she took her usual seat she felt as if every eye was upon her. She tried not to look conscious, but she felt that she failed in the attempt. It took only a moment to see that she wore the bow of green, and joy reigned among the Gamma Chis and sorrow among the Sigma Delts. It was about two weeks after Pledging Monday that Jean was told to be ready on Wednesday, November twelfth, for her initiation into Gamma Chi. At half-past eight she reported at Peggy Allison's room where she was blindfolded and wrapped in a long black cape. It seemed to her that she was led miles and miles by a guard on either side who spoke never a word. Finally they reached what appeared to be a subterranean passage which led into a cold, damp cave. Jean was commanded to fall upon her knees and raise her right hand and swear by all the sacred spirits of the past to be true forever to Gamma Chi. Then there arose a most dismal wail from the spirits of the past, and Jean in fear and trembling promised all that was asked of her. "Will you wear for evermore the insignia of Gamma Chi?" said a sepulchral voice. "I will," said poor Jean. "Then stretch forth thy good right arm that we may bare it to the elbow. Here let us imprint our emblem," and Jean shuddered as the red-hot brand traced out the figures on her arm. She wondered why she did not scream out, and although she had never fainted in her life she felt at this moment as though she were about to fall to the floor. Just then the handkerchief was torn from her eyes, a hearty laugh came from the girls and Jean found herself in the cellar of the dormitory which the girls had borrowed for the occasion. She looked down at her bared arm and then at Peggy, who stood before her with a pointed piece of ice still in her hands. "You're a brick, Jean. It's no fun trying to haze you; why didn't you scream or do something exciting? Well, you have been so good about this part that we'll take you up to society rooms without any more delay." When they reached the rooms which were on the upper floor of a private residence a little distance from the college buildings they found all the girls chatting merrily and laughing over the evening's adventures. Soon, however, they proceeded to serious matters, and the five freshmen and one sophomore were initiated into the noble society of Gamma Chi. As it was then, and still is, a secret society, it would not be fitting to divulge the mysteries which were revealed to the wondering six. Suffice it to say that in due time the serious business ended, the eating began, and such quantities of food as those thirty girls consumed! At length, however, they were satisfied and arose and forming a circle they joined hands and sang: "Oh, here's to Gamma Chi, Gamma Chi; Oh, here's to Gamma Chi, Gamma Chi; Oh, here's to Gamma Chi. We'll be loyal till we die; Drink it down, drink it down to Gamma Chi, Chi, Chi!" And then the president, Florence Farnsworth, took the bunch of American Beauty roses which stood in the center of the table and gave one rose to each of the new members and pinned a glittering gold star upon the left side of their waists, saying as she did so, "Just above your hearts, girls; always loyal to Gamma Chi. Now, three cheers for our six new members." After these were given, it was all over and the girls departed to their different dormitories. As Jean had expected, she found Elizabeth had gone to bed and to sleep, but not before first putting Jean's kimona and slippers on the couch so that she might make herself comfortable as soon as she arrived. Jean put her beautiful rose in a long, thin vase she had recently purchased in town and then placed it on Elizabeth's desk. She wished that there might have been one more freshman initiated that evening. She saw how impossible it was just then, but it was something to work for by herself. She was just beginning to see something of the real Elizabeth of whom the other girls had not the slightest suspicion. Just before she retired Jean went to her desk and filled out a telegram blank which she found there: "To MISS ANNA MAITLANDT, Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston, Massachusetts: "From now on it is to be sister and cousin. "JEAN." CHAPTER VI THE HARVARD-YALE GAME "Oh, Elizabeth, it's come, it's come!" and Jean danced into the room and frantically waved several sheets of paper in her hands. "What's come?" said Elizabeth, as she looked up from her history. "My letter from Tom, and the invitation to the Harvard-Yale game. You see, I've been wondering all the fall if I was to go, or whether Tom would find other fellows' sisters more attractive and forget all about me. Don't you know that little verse: "All good boys love their sisters; So good I have grown, That I love other boys' sisters 'Most as well as my own." As it is, though, I am going with Tom's room-mate and Tom is going to take Connie Huntington. You haven't met her, have you? She's a California girl, in at the Conservatory, and an awfully good friend of Tom's. "I mean to have her out here as soon as there's something worth while to take her to. The game comes the Saturday before Thanksgiving, November 23d, and it's only five days off. Tom says I'm to meet the other three in town Saturday morning and we'll have lunch early and then start for the game; afterwards we'll have dinner at the Touraine, and go to the theater. Won't that be glorious? Oh, I'm so anxious to see Tom! I wonder if he'll think I've changed any since September. Then he encloses a letter from Aunt Sarah, telling him her plans to give us a good time on our visit with her over the Thanksgiving holidays. You know, she lives in New York City winters and has more money than she knows what to do with." "But, Jean," said her room-mate, "you four aren't going to dinner and to the theater alone on Saturday, are you? And how are you going to get back to the hall after the theater?" "Oh, I shall have to get permission from Mary Boynton to be away for the day, and I shall come back after the theater in Mrs. Nutter's machine. Mrs. Nutter is an aunt of Constance Huntington's, who lives in Boston, and has promised to chaperon the party. I'm going in to see Midge Remington a few minutes, for she's been telling everybody for weeks that she was going to the game with Jack Goodrich, who's a senior at Harvard. She'll know all about everything and tell me just what to do." But Marjorie was not at home, or at least did not answer to the knock on her door. She had never forgiven Jean for joining Gamma Chi, and had been rather cool to her ever since although she did not openly show her hostility. Jean hurried on to Mary Boynton's room to gain the desired permission to attend the game at Cambridge. When she entered Miss Boynton's room, that young lady and her room-mate, Ethel Lillibridge, were having afternoon tea with Miss Hooper. Mary insisted upon Jean's joining them and drawing another chair up to the cozy tea-table poured out a cup of tea and passed her the heaped-up plate of sandwiches. "How pleasant," said Miss Hooper. "I was intending to call on you, Miss Cabot, after I left here. I seldom get over to Merton, and when I do I enjoy the girls here so much that I usually spend the afternoon in one room instead of making several calls so perhaps I shouldn't have seen you after all. How are you enjoying the year? I believe I haven't seen you except at a distance since the freshman reception when the sophomores left us in the dark so unceremoniously. Of course, like the rest of us, you are very busy all the time." "Oh, I hope I'm not intruding upon your tea-party," said Jean. "I came to see Miss Boynton on business, but I can postpone it until another day." "Now, Jean, wait until we have finished our tea and then if Miss Hooper will excuse us for a moment we can transact our little business in the other room and come back for some more tea." About five o'clock, after Jean and Mary had discussed the game and permission had been given her to attend, Jean arose to leave the room. Miss Hooper excused herself, and the two started down the corridor together. "I think this is a splendid afternoon to walk, Miss Cabot, I wonder if you would care to stroll down to the Willows with me before supper," said Miss Hooper. "I haven't been down there since college opened, and it has always been one of my favorite walks." Jean had planned to spend the hour before supper on her French, but she felt that she could not refuse Miss Hooper's invitation. The day had been clear and crisp and the setting sun dropped its mantle of brilliant color upon all the world. Twilight was creeping on apace as they entered the Willows, so called because of the great weeping willows which grew thickly on both sides of the road for a half mile or so below the post-office. "When the snow is on the ground and it's moonlight, I want you to come down here with me some evening," said Miss Hooper, "and see the beauty of the willows in winter. I haven't a particle of poetry in my soul, but if I did have I am sure I should find inspiration here. What a wonderful thing it is to have talent and give so much that is beautiful to the world! I cannot play or sing, but music has always been a passion with me. Mary Boynton told me how well you play and how much you enjoy music. I am glad that we have that taste in common. I have two tickets for the Symphony concerts in Boston this winter and I should like to take you with me the Saturday evening after our Thanksgiving holidays if you would like to go." "Indeed I should like to go, Miss Hooper, and I thank you very much for the invitation. Music is my favorite study and I intend to devote all my time to it next year." "What! do you mean that you are going to be a special?" "No, Miss Hooper, I do not intend to return to Ashton another year. I shall study music in Los Angeles, and in a year or two perhaps study in Germany." "Oh, you're not coming back to college? Are you serious about it? I hope you have not fully made up your mind to it, for we want you here." "Yes, Miss Hooper, from the very first I have only intended staying this one year." "Perhaps we can make you change your mind before June. I think we had better turn back now for it must be almost six o'clock. I could walk on for miles and miles here and forget time completely. Do you know where I live, Miss Cabot? It's Wellington, first floor. I have been matron there for ten years, and every year I am determined to give it up and live out of a dormitory, but still I stay on. There's something very fascinating to me in living with the girls and coming to know them so intimately. Do you spend the Thanksgiving recess away?" "Yes, my brother, who is in Yale, and I are going to an aunt's in New York. I'm to go over Wednesday noon and stay until Sunday night. It seems as though I couldn't wait for the time to come. Do you go away?" "No, I haven't many relatives in this part of the country, so I shall be here. Miss Emerson always invites the faculty and girls, who have no other place, to her house to eat turkey with her." The conversation changed from one subject to another and when they parted at Merton, Jean wondered why no reference had ever been made to her dropping mathematics without an explanation to Miss Hooper. She was beginning to think she had been a little hasty in her judgment of her and she almost wished she had not given up the subject so quickly. The days went by on leaden feet until Saturday the twenty-third. Jean awoke that morning early for excitement would not let her sleep. She looked over at Elizabeth's bed and found she was awake, too, so she quickly jumped from bed and ran to the window and raised the shade. "Oh, goody," she cried, "it's going to be a fine day! I was afraid last night it would rain, for the moon had a ring around it, and that's a sure sign of storm. I'm going to get ready for the game before breakfast so I can go to Chapel and first recitation. I don't need to start in until 10.23 for I'm not to meet the others until eleven at the Touraine. Wasn't it lucky I chose a blue hat and suit this fall? It isn't a real Yale blue, but it is near enough to show where my sympathies are. Do you think I'd better take my fur coat? I suppose one can't tell about the weather these days, and it's better to be on the safe side." Jean talked continually as she dressed and answered her own questions, for Elizabeth seemed unusually silent. When she finished dressing she looked to Elizabeth for approval. "What, aren't you up yet? What's the matter this morning?" "I don't know, Jean. When I went to bed last night I had a slight headache and this morning it's so bad I can't lift my head from the pillow. I don't understand it, for I never have headaches." "Too much studying, dear. You know you were reading very late last night. Well, you stay right in bed all the morning. I'll bring up your breakfast to you and sign off for you at the office. Where do you keep your apron? I'm going to do your work this morning in the dining-room." "Why, Jean Cabot, of course you're not! The idea of your thinking of such a thing. I'll be better if I get up, and I'm sure I shall be all right when I get at work." "No, you stay right where you are and let me do as I said. There, it's seven now; good-by for a little while; please go to sleep again," and Jean shut the door before Elizabeth could protest further. Every girl in the dining-room was so astonished that she could hardly eat when she saw Jean Cabot with a dainty white apron over her new blue suit, waiting on the middle table at breakfast. She hurried here and there and supplied their wants as though she had done it every morning of the year instead of for the first time in her life. Questions were on everybody's lips, but her only answer was, "Oh, Elizabeth overslept and I'm helping out." Just as she had finished her own breakfast she was called out into the hall to sign for an express package which had just arrived for her. When she opened it she found an enormous bunch of violets with a card bearing the name, Frederick Manning Thornton. She buried her face in the heart of the bouquet and breathed deeply of the fragrance, then she held them up against her dress, exclaiming, "A perfect match, nothing could be better," and she hastened upstairs to put them in water until it was time to start. After she had placed them in a vase she thought she would show them to Elizabeth. She knocked lightly on the door to see if she were asleep, and a cheery little "Come in" made her open the door. "See what I've brought to you," said Jean before she knew what she was saying. "Let me draw the table up to the bed and put the violets where you can see them. Now I'm going down for your breakfast." "Why, Jean, where did these violets come from?" "Oh, from an unknown admirer of yours who does not wish his name revealed. Now, what would you like for your breakfast?" "Jean, I know these flowers were intended for you to wear to the game and I shall not let you leave them here. What has possessed you this morning? You're not at all like yourself." "It's just that I'm nearly beside myself because I'm going to see Tom, blessed Tom! I guess if you were miles and miles away from your family you'd be beside yourself at the prospect of seeing your only brother in the East. I'm going to bring him out here to-morrow, so you must get better before then." "Truly, I'm better now, Jean, and I'm sure when you return to-night you'll find me all well again. But I shall insist upon your wearing your violets." "No, Elizabeth, they're for you, to remind you of me when I'm gone." "I don't need these to remind me of you, Jean; there are so many other reminders everywhere." Mrs. Thompson insisted upon taking up Elizabeth's breakfast to her and Jean hurried to Chapel, for it was late. Just outside Merton she met Marjorie Remington and Lill Spalding on their way in town. "Why don't you come in with us, Jean; we're going to cut all day. Come along and be a sport." "No, I'm not going to cut any more than's absolutely necessary. I don't need to go in until the 10.23," said Jean. "Oh, very well. Seems to me you're getting awfully conscientious all of a sudden," and as she hurried away Marjorie proceeded to tell Lill of the incident of the breakfast table. Jean slipped into Chapel a little late and then went into the philosophy class. At length it was ended and she was on her way to Merton. She had time for a look into Elizabeth's room and found her more comfortable, although still in bed. When she reached the station it was thronged with girls going to the game, and until the train arrived they all talked excitedly about their seats and escorts. Most of the girls were to be the guests of Harvard men and of course would sit on the Harvard side, but a few, like herself, had brothers or cousins at Yale. She discovered another freshman, Jessica Goddard, attired in blue, and she ran up and greeted her with, "Good, Jess, you're Yale, I know! Come and sit with me and tell me all about the Yale players. I know almost nothing about them and Brother will be sure to expect me to be well informed." The twelve minutes passed rapidly and before Jean had heard half enough they were out of the train and a part of the vast throng at the North Station. They had taken only a few steps before Jean heard her name called several times and turning she saw Tom and his room-mate and Constance Huntington running up the platform back of her. "How did you get by us, Jean?" said Tom. "We stood right by the gate and didn't see anything of you until Connie spied you walking up the platform. We were looking for a girl with a bunch of violets and you haven't any." "Well, I'll tell you about those later on," said Jean, "but now please introduce me to your room-mate so I can thank him for sending them to me." Introductions followed and Jean apologized for not wearing the violets. "My room-mate was ill and I left them with her," she said. "In that case," replied young Mr. Thornton, "you certainly deserve another bunch as soon as we can locate a florist's shop." "Why, Tom, how did you happen to be here at the station? You told me in your telegram to be at the Touraine." "Mrs. Nutter kindly offered us her automobile for the morning, so we decided to come down here and surprise you. She is in the machine just outside the station, so perhaps we'd better hustle out there. We are going to ride around the city till lunch-time. The game's at two, so we won't have any time for sight-seeing after lunch." After they had taken their places in the machine they were whirled away into the crowded thoroughfare. Lunch was hastily eaten and at one o'clock they were on their way to Cambridge. Thousands of automobiles raced along Massachusetts Avenue; cabs and hansoms, electric cars, everything was taxed to its utmost as it sped on to the game. Mrs. Nutter tried to point out places of interest, but no one seemed to care much for anything but the game. When they reached the Stadium they found both sides of the street lined with automobiles, so Mrs. Nutter had her chauffeur leave them at the main entrance and then take the car up the long line till space could be found to park it. It took a long time for the little party to reach their seats, for the surging crowd ahead of them demanded attention, but each and all jostled along without a shade of impatience. Jean thought she had seen numberless girls at college, but now it seemed as if all the girls together would not have filled a single section. Where could they all have come from? At last they were seated in a section which the boys declared couldn't be better and they had a good half-hour to view the crowds and the players before the game began. Tom and his room-mate recognized fellows all around them, for almost every one in Yale had come to the game and they took great pleasure in pointing out the celebrities. "See, there's Tad Bronson, two rows below us, captain of next year's baseball team. Isn't that girl with him a peach? They say they're engaged. She came all the way from Chicago for the game." "There's Prexy down in the front row, and that man just rising is Prof. Hamilton. He flunks more men in college than all of the rest of the profs together." "See, here comes our fellows, Tubbie Spencer in the lead. Wait till you see how he can play. What's the matter? Why don't we give them a cheer? Well, here's Billy Knowlton, cheer leader for this section; he'll start 'em up," and in a moment the most deafening noise that Jean had ever heard rose from the Yale side. Cheer followed cheer, and songs were occasionally intermingled. Jean found herself joining in as excitedly as the boys and in a little while knew all the Yale players and most of the Harvard ones. Promptly at two o'clock the referee blew his whistle and the two elevens lined up for the first kick-off. From then until ten minutes after four there was not a dull moment. The ball was back and forth over the field, first on Harvard's ground and then on Yale's. The playing was more even than it had been for years and at the end of the second half the score was 6-5 in favor of Harvard. Jean was so disappointed she could hardly keep back the tears that had started to her eyes, and she cried out, "I think it's a downright shame! To think you should be beaten at my first Harvard-Yale, Mr. Thornton! I just hate Harvard." "Yes, it is hard luck, and my greatest regret is that I can't look forward to next year to see Yale trim them. That's the worst of being a senior; everything you do this year is for the last time. I envy you being a freshman with four good years ahead of you. They're the best years of your life, take my word for it. I'd give a good deal if I were beginning it all over again. Of course I shall always try to go to the big games, but it will never be the same as when you're an undergraduate. See the fellows down there forming the procession. They'll march up and down the Stadium several times and throw their hats up over the goals. No one ever expects to get his own hat back, but it's all part of the game. They'd better celebrate to-day, for they may not have another chance again." The little party stood and watched the long procession of undergraduates take possession of the great Stadium as they marched up and down, across and around the field. When they reached either goal every hat was off and tossed up over the cross-bar and caught again by the nearest man as it came down. After fifteen or twenty minutes of this the procession passed out of the gate, the leaders carrying the victorious eleven upon their backs, and soon they were lost from sight, although their shouting and singing could be heard long after. It was almost dark when Mrs. Nutter and her guests took their places in the automobile. They had been obliged to wait a long time for the machine, as there were so many others ahead of them. However, they made up for lost time by tearing with the highest speed toward Boston. As they were crossing Harvard Bridge Jean begged them to stop a moment, for the three bridges spanning the Charles seemed to be but parallel lines of bright lights which in the darkness presented a most novel appearance. She saw the lighted dome of the State House for the first time and exclaimed upon its height and brilliancy. "I wish I had to cross Harvard Bridge every night, it is so beautiful here," she said as they started off again. A table had been reserved for them at the Touraine and they found themselves among a merry throng of young people, most of them the supporters of the crimson and jubilant over their victory. Here and there were Yale men and their guests and the men and girls circulated from one table to another renewing acquaintances. It was a little late when they arrived at the theater and the play had already begun. The house had been bought up by the Yale men and decorations of blue were everywhere. The singers had touches of blue in their costumes and sang the good old Yale songs, and at the end of the second act threw hundreds of rolls of blue confetti out over the audience. No one pretended to know anything about the comic opera itself, for there was so much Yale music introduced, so many jokes about the football players and the game, so much applause and singing on the part of those in the audience that the real plot, if there could be said to be one, was almost lost sight of. As the boys wished to take the midnight express out of Boston, Tom suggested that they leave before the last act was quite over. The party were to see Jean safely landed at Ashton and then motor back to Boston. Jean was disappointed that Tom could not stay over Sunday, for she had promised herself the pleasure of taking him to Vespers and introducing him to her friends. He promised her that pleasure later in the year and reminded her that they were to have five days together the next week. The two talked over trains and plans for meeting in New York and the others became very quiet, for the day had been a long one in spite of its many pleasures, and they were content to make themselves as comfortable as possible in the machine and let the others do the talking. It was after eleven when they drew up in front of Merton, and Jean and Tom alighted. Good-nights were said and promises made for future reunions, and as Jean stepped into the hall Tom sang out, "Good-by till Wednesday. I'll meet you in the Grand Central at four. If I'm not at the train you sit down by the Inquiry Office and wait till I come. The trains are apt to be crowded at holiday time and one can't tell when they will arrive. So long; hope you'll find your room-mate better. Give her my bestest," and he hastened back to the others and they were off and away before Jean had reached 45. Although she entered the room very quietly Elizabeth heard her and called her into the bedroom, which she entered, asking, "How do you feel, Elizabeth?" "Oh, ever so much better, Jean. I shall be all right in the morning. My headache has gone entirely. I got up this afternoon, but didn't go out of the room. So many of the girls were away that I wasn't really needed in the dining-room. Was everything as nice as you expected?" "Yes, Elizabeth, I think it has been the happiest day this year so far. There's so much to tell you it can be our main topic of conversation for the rest of the term. However, I'm not going to begin until to-morrow, for I'm so tired I can't see straight. I'll just put out the lights in the other room and then I'm ready for bed." "Oh, Jean, I forgot to tell you that there are two notes for you on your desk. Some one brought them this afternoon and I left them where you could find them as soon as you came in." "Thank you," said Jean, and she dragged her weary feet out into the other room. She went straight to her desk and turned on the little desk light, which revealed two envelopes bearing the college seal. "They look suspicious," she said to herself. "Faculty notes; I recognize the writing on one of them. Well, I won't open them to-night. I've had a perfect day and these would spoil it all. I'll wait till morning before I read them," and she left them exactly where Elizabeth had placed them, and putting out the lights was soon in bed. She awoke very early next morning, almost before it was light, for in spite of her weariness she could not seem to sleep. Something had disturbed her usual placid slumber, but she could not just remember what it was. Then it came over her that something unpleasant waited for her on her desk. She crept softly into the other room and sat down at the desk and slowly opened the notes. The first one was from Mlle. Franchant; a warning in French with the suggestion that the subject be dropped at Christmas if there was not a decided improvement. The second was from the Office informing her that she had overcut in Chapel and also in gymnasium classes and asking her to report at the Dean's Office Monday at half-past eleven o'clock. How long she stared at the messages before her she did not know, but when she could no longer see them for the blinding tears she dropped her head on her arms upon the desk and sobbed, "I do care, I do care!" And when some time after Elizabeth came out into the room she found her still there. She did not try to comfort her, but left her to fight it out with herself. CHAPTER VII THE THANKSGIVING HOLIDAYS Jean was on her knees bending over her steamer trunk. On either side of her were huge piles of clothes and she was having great difficulty in choosing what to take with her. It was Tuesday just after supper, and Jean had decided to devote the evening to her packing, for she was to start at noon the next day. Marjorie Remington had offered to help her pack and although Jean felt that she had done it more to see her clothes and hear what she was going to do in New York than to render her any real assistance she had not declined her offer. She did not wish to incur Marjorie's ill-will any more than was necessary, for already several little things had been said and done which hurt Jean more than she was willing to admit. And not only against Jean had Marjorie made her unkind remarks but against Elizabeth as well, and Jean felt that Marjorie availed herself of every opportunity to prejudice her against her room-mate. Marjorie had been exceedingly careless of her own behavior of late, and after the Harvard-Yale game had stayed in town all night at her aunt's without first gaining permission to do so. She was severely reprimanded for this and warned that a second offense would not be tolerated. And, although no one knew it, she had received two faculty warnings, but had made up her mind to ignore them. A little after eight o'clock she hurried into Jean's room exclaiming, "Sorry, Jean, but I can't help you pack after all, Jack's just come out to call. I hadn't the least idea he would come to-night, but he's such an uncertain quantity I never can tell what he's going to do next. However, he's so good-looking and such a dear I can forgive him for 'most everything. Hope you'll have a gay time in the big city. Wish I were going over, too, but I've decided to go to my aunt's. You see, Jack isn't going home, either, for he only has the day and he's promised to give me one good time if I'll stay in Boston. Here comes that pious room-mate of yours. Positively, she gets on my nerves more every day. I don't believe she's half as innocent as she pretends to be, either, and I wouldn't trust all my perfectly good things to her the way you do. Good-by," and as she left the room Elizabeth entered. "Oh, Jean, please let me help you with your packing. When do you ever expect to wear all these clothes? There's enough for a month instead of a few days. I've never seen half of these before." "No, some of them haven't been out of my trunk before. I've been saving them for this visit, as I expect to be on the go every minute I'm away and I'll need plenty of good-looking things. Would you take this chiffon, or does it look too soiled?" Before Elizabeth could answer there came a knock at the door and a telegram was handed to Jean. When she opened it she could hardly believe her eyes. It was from Tom and said: "Visit postponed. Aunt Sarah very sick. Stay at college. "TOM." She did not say a word, but passed the telegram over to Elizabeth to read and then sank helplessly down on the floor beside her trunk. When astonishment had given place to anger, she burst out, "Did you ever hear of anything like that? Why did Aunt Sarah take Thanksgiving of all times in the year to be sick? To think I've been waiting all this time to go on and visit her and see Tom and have the time of my life and then have to give it all up and stay here with the rest of lonely freshmen! Pleasant prospect, isn't it?" "Oh, Jean, I'm very sorry it's happened. Of course it's a disappointment. But there will be a lot of the other girls here, and you're all invited down to Miss Emerson's for dinner. It won't be like New York with your own people, but I'm sure she will do everything she can to make the day a pleasant one for you. I almost hate to ask you, but would you rather go home with me to Newburgh than stay here at college? I haven't very much to offer you in the way of good times, but I should love to have you see my home and know my people if you won't mind putting up with all our inconveniences. I can show you real old New England country life in the winter, for they have snow there already, and it's been good skating, too. There are hardly any young people, and what there are will not be at all like those you have always known. You won't need any of those fine clothes you had planned to take to New York, but you can put a few waists and a thick dress and sweater into your suit-case and come along without any more preparations. It's very cold up there, so you want to take plenty of warm clothes. I have planned to start from the North Station at four o'clock, but we won't reach home until late in the evening, as we have to drive a good seven miles. There is no station at Newburgh, but we leave the train at Wilton Junction and probably Brother will meet us there to drive us home in the sleigh. Don't decide to-night, Jean; think it over and tell me in the morning. I think I'll go to bed early to-night. How good it seems not to have any lessons to prepare! Before I go, can I help you put away your clothes?" "Yes, if you will, Elizabeth, and I sha'n't wait until to-morrow to accept your invitation. I am terribly disappointed not to go to my aunt's, but I think it will be splendid to go home with you. I've never been sleighing or skating in my life, and all I know about it is what I've read in books. Thank you so much for wanting me to go with you. Will you put this box in on my dresser if you're going into the bedroom?" The two girls worked rapidly together, and soon had cleared away the piles of clothes Jean had deposited upon the floor. They felt so in the mood for cleaning that they dusted and put to rights both rooms so that they might look presentable during their absence. As Jean was dusting her dresser she opened the box which she had asked Elizabeth to place there and after examining its contents carefully she said, "Elizabeth, have you seen anything of my coral beads? They aren't here with my other things, and I'm sure I had them in the box. I wore them this afternoon to Bertha Merrill's tea and I thought I put them in here when I changed my dress. Perhaps they're mixed up with some of the things we put in the trunk. I think I'll look around a little to-night, for they must be somewhere in the room." Both girls searched everywhere they knew of, but they could find no trace of the beads. "It's the strangest thing I ever heard of," said Jean. "We can't do much until after vacation, for every one will go away to-morrow. I'll put a notice on our bulletin board and report the loss to--who's the proctor on our floor this week?" "Grace Hooper," said Elizabeth. "Well, I'll run down to her room a minute and tell her about it and then I'll be ready to turn in." When she returned she told Elizabeth that Grace Hooper and Mary Boynton thought it best to say or do nothing about the loss of the beads until college began again Monday morning. Perhaps by that time the beads would have been found and they would be saved the unpleasant duty of investigation. When the two girls stepped into the train at the North Station the next day they found it crowded to the utmost with happy travelers returning home for the holidays. There did not seem to be any seats together, so they stood their suit-cases at one end of the car and perched upon them to wait until some of the passengers should alight at the first station. Several of the college girls they knew were homeward bound on the same train and joined them, using their bulging cases as seats. It began to snow lightly soon after the train started, and as they went farther north they found evidences of recent snow storms, and when they reached Wilton Junction they found it piled up in great drifts round the station. As they alighted from the train they looked in vain for "Brother Dick" or Dr. Fairfax. "Don't be alarmed, Jean, I never know when any one will meet me. You see, doctors are likely to be called out any time miles and miles, and when you've got only one horse on the place you get used to waiting. Let's go into the station and keep warm, and for excitement we can get weighed or read the time-tables on the wall." Huddled round a great old-fashioned stove in the center of the room were a dozen or so people waiting for belated trains. They forgot the cold or disappointment at missing their train when they saw the two girls. It was not often they had such a good-looking stranger as Jean Cabot to gaze upon. She did make a picture there in her dingy surroundings with her long fur coat and little fur turban with two iridescent quills stuck jauntily through the front. The blackness of the fur as it rested against her hair intensified its golden hue and the fair whiteness of her skin. From one corner where he apparently had been dozing arose a long-legged, lackadaisical-looking fellow, who strolled up to where the two girls were standing. "Why, how d'ye do, Miss Fairfax. Home for the holidays?" was his greeting, and all the time he was stealing glances at Jean. Elizabeth coolly replied to his question and introduced him to Jean. He hardly had time for more than a few casual remarks before Elizabeth heard some sleigh-bells and going to the door saw her father outside in his little low sleigh. "May I call on you before you return to college?" asked the young man as he carried their heavy suit-cases to the waiting sleigh. "Why, yes, if you care to," replied Elizabeth as she and Jean stepped up to the sleigh. "Father, I've brought my room-mate, Jean Cabot, home with me for the holidays. She expected to go to New York to visit her aunt, but at the last moment she had to give it up, as her aunt was sick. I know you are always glad to welcome one more, so I invited her up here." "Very glad to know you, Jean. Hope you'll excuse my not getting out to help you," said Dr. Fairfax, "but I'm so bundled up I don't believe I could ever get back again if I once got out. It's been a terribly cold day up our way, and I drove ten miles the other side of our hill before I came down for you. I've been over to Judge Morton's, Elizabeth, to see his mother. She's a pretty sick woman, and I almost doubt if I can pull her through this time." "Oh, that accounts for Franklin Morton's being at Wilton Junction. What a contemptible snob that fellow is! I've seen him hundreds of times driving through the village, and have known him ever since he first spent his summers at Gorham, but he's never spoken five words to me until to-night when he saw the prospect of meeting Jean. Did you hear him ask if he might call on us? I imagine him in our little farmhouse! Well, I guess we needn't borrow trouble, for he would never come, especially as his grandmother is very sick. "Now, Father, what about Dick? I hoped he would come down with you to the station." "Lucky he didn't now, isn't it, Jean, for how could we four have ridden home in this little sleigh? Pretty tight squeeze as it is. To tell you the truth, dear, I'm a little worried about Richard's case, for he doesn't seem to get his strength back as I wish he would. Typhoid does pull any one down so, it's a hard fight to get back again. He's been a wonderfully patient boy through it all, but I think sometimes he gets discouraged about himself, although he never says anything to us. I don't know what he would do without your letters, girl. I verily believe he knows them all by heart, and he talks about your friends there as though they were his own. He'll feel right at home with this young lady here, for next to you, Elizabeth, Jean has been of most interest to him, and he's wondered so many times if he could ever see her. "Here, Jean, is where we begin to climb our hill at the top of which is our little village. I think now that it has stopped snowing the moon will soon appear, and if it does you will see one of the finest winter pictures I know of. I ride for miles and miles around this whole country, but I know of no more beautiful views than this hill affords us in winter as well as in summer. "See, there's the moon peeping behind that cloud now." Slowly the old horse pulled his heavy load up the long hill, and before the ascent was half made the full moon was shining brightly, shedding its beauty over the snow-covered country. Gaunt trees threw long black shadows across the tiny thread of a road, while here and there were deserted buildings almost hidden from view by the great drifts of snow. There was hardly a sound but the tinkle of their own sleigh-bells and the crunching of the runners on the snow. Peace and quiet and beauty were everywhere, as far as the eye could reach. Jean could hardly believe her eyes. Here was something she had read about but never seen, and the wonder of it threw its spell over her. Indeed, all three became gradually silent, apparently engrossed with their own thoughts, the doctor wondering how his aged patient was rallying under the treatment he had suggested, Elizabeth, deeply troubled by her father's words about her brother, and Jean lost in contemplation of the strange and wonderful scene before her. Jean was the first to break the silence. "Oh, Elizabeth, how I wish Miss Hooper were riding with us to-night! About two weeks ago when I was walking with her through the Willows she said she wanted me to go there with her again when there was snow on the ground and a moon, for it is so beautiful. But I am sure nothing could be as wonderful as this hill to-night. I wish I could give her a good description of its beauty." "Why don't you write to her while you are here and tell her about it? I know she would appreciate it, for she told me she was to stay at Ashton over the holidays." "I think I will write to her to-night and tell her all about this wonderful ride. It seems now as if I could ride on forever, but I see lights over there, so we must be approaching the village. Why, it seems as though we were on top of the world up here!" "We'll be home in half an hour, Jean; our house is right over there," and Elizabeth pointed to a little group of lighted houses at her right. It did not take long to reach the rambling old farmhouse where Fairfaxes had lived for the last hundred and fifty years. The front door was opened as the sleigh turned into the yard and a fresh young voice rang out: "Welcome home, Sister! Hurry up and come in, for I am tired of waiting for you. I thought you'd never get here." The doctor warned the owner of the voice not to stand longer in the cold, and so he disappeared from view. It did not take the girls long to get into the house and reach the blazing fire in the huge fireplace. Mrs. Fairfax greeted them cordially and then brother and sister were in each others' arms. Then in a moment Elizabeth introduced Jean, and after one look at her Richard burst out, "You're just as I thought you'd be. Wishes do come true. All the afternoon I've been wishing you'd come up here on our hilltop with Sister to visit us instead of going to New York to visit your aunt. Now take off your things and let's have supper." When the doctor came into the living-room it was the signal to repair to the dining-room, where a steaming supper awaited them. Jean thought she had never tasted anything as good in all her life, and as the cold ride had whetted her ordinarily good appetite she did justice to everything Mrs. Fairfax had prepared. As often as she dared she stole glances at Richard Fairfax and she thought she had never before seen such an attractive although pathetic face. It was deathly white, with almost perfect features, but one could never forget the eyes. They were deep-set and dark and brilliant, but when he spoke or was interested when some one else was speaking they fairly seemed to flash fire. The conversation at table was general, and when they arose Dick suggested that they sit round the fireplace in the living-room and he would draw the couch up and lie upon it, for he was much more comfortable there than in the hard, stiff-backed chairs. Mrs. Fairfax and Elizabeth went into the kitchen to wash the dishes and make the last preparations for the morrow's dinner, while Jean and Richard and Dr. Fairfax made themselves comfortable before the blazing wood fire. "Let's not have a light at first, Father," said Richard; "I love the firelight best and I think Jean will, too, after she sees how nice it is. Now, Father, will you please recite us your poem about the firelight?" In his pleasing, deep-toned voice Dr. Fairfax gave the simple two-versed poem he had written on the firelight, and when he finished Dick pleaded, "Oh, don't stop, Father, please give us all my favorites, it's just the night for poetry." And one poem followed another until the doctor insisted that it was some one else's turn. "Now, Jean," said Richard, "won't you give us something you have learned at college?" "Oh, I can't. I don't know any poems. I've never learned them." "What, never learned poetry? Don't you love it? Why, I think there's nothing in all the world to compare with it. I spend hours and hours reading my favorite poets until I know their best poems by heart. I wish I could write myself. I mean to some day if--" but his voice broke and Dr. Fairfax said, "Perhaps, Jean, before you go, Richard will let you read some of his own poems. He's a little particular who hears them, but possibly you can persuade him to let you read them. I've got to go out to the barn now to lock up for the night, so I'll leave you here together a little while. I fear it's been a hard day for Jean and Elizabeth, so we mustn't keep them up too late. But doesn't it seem good, Dickie-boy, to have them here? It's really living again." Left to themselves the two talked together, mostly about Jean's life in California. Just as she was in the midst of a description of a camping trip in the mountains Elizabeth hurried into the room. "What are you two talking about so excitedly? Don't you want the lamp lighted now and some more wood put on the fire? It's almost out. I came in to ask Jean if she would like to go out into the kitchen to see the turkeys and the other preparations, but you're having such a good time I hate to disturb you." "Oh, I can finish this another time, Elizabeth; I'd like to go with you." When Jean saw the size of the turkeys and the quantities of other things piled up on the tables she exclaimed, "Why such an amount of food? We'll never eat that in a week." "Wait till you see all there are to eat it and you won't think this is too much. I'll wager there won't be anything worth eating left over by Friday. I think I'm about ready for bed, Jean. How about you?" "Quite ready, thank you. Is it late? I've lost all track of time." "Yes, it's nearly twelve o'clock. It will be very cold up in our room, although I've lighted a fire in the stove, so I think we'd better take up these freestones to keep our feet warm. Let's go in and say good-night to father and Dick." When the lights were out and Jean was thinking over the events of the day she could not but admit to herself that she had come into the midst of a family life wholly unknown to her before. She recognized a depth and earnestness that were lacking in most of the families with whom she was acquainted. Although she saw evidences of the lack of this world's goods, there was a certain refinement and culture and an appreciation of the things that make life worth while. She began to realize a little the absence of purpose in her own life, and she saw for the first time what she might do with all that was hers to use. Thanksgiving morning was not as cold as the preceding ones and gave promise of a pleasant day. The family arose early in spite of the late hour of their retiring, and at breakfast Dr. Fairfax suggested that they all attend the Thanksgiving service in the Congregational Church. "By the way, Elizabeth," he said, "Mrs. Walton wants to know if you will play the organ to-day. She hurt her wrist yesterday and won't be able to play for several weeks. She would like to have you sing a solo, too, if you can get some one to play for you." Elizabeth blushed a little and Jean said, "Why, Elizabeth, I never knew you could play and sing. Why haven't you said something about it at college?" "There were always so many others who did things better than I that I didn't think any one wanted me. I only play and sing a little, but it helps out here where there are so few to do anything. Will you play my accompaniment if I sing this morning?" "I have never played on an organ in my life, Elizabeth." "But there is a piano, too, which we use in the Sunday school, and you can play that." "Why, yes, if you'd like to have me, but we'd better practise together before the service begins." "Yes, let's go into the other room now and run over one or two selections." At ten o'clock the five took their places in the big double-seated sleigh and started for the church, a half-mile down the road. Many a sleigh heavily loaded with old and young passed them, and it did not take long for some one to discover Elizabeth and welcome her home. "Why," said Jean, "you know everybody, Elizabeth." "Yes, it isn't hard in a little town like this, especially when one's father is the only doctor. I've driven with him ever since I can remember." They stopped before a severe white church on slightly elevated ground. Dr. Fairfax helped the others to alight and then drove the horse around to the sheds in back of the church. Elizabeth and Jean went immediately to the choir loft, where they were welcomed by the few singers that had already arrived. It seemed to Jean as though most of them were Elizabeth's cousins, of one degree or another, and she began to believe that everybody in town was related to everybody else. When the congregation began to take their places, Jean took a seat in the audience near the upright piano, which occupied most of the space to the right of the pulpit. The church was old and severe in every line, evidently built in the early days when worship did not demand comfortable surroundings. The pews were high and narrow, with faded red cushions and stools. By a quarter of eleven every pew was filled and the old white-haired preacher began the service. Jean watched Elizabeth at the organ and marveled at the melody she seemed to be getting out of the wheezy old instrument, which was pumped intermittently by a rosy-cheeked youngster whose mind may have been more on the feast awaiting him at home than on the hymns of praise. When it came Elizabeth's turn to sing, she left the organ and stood in the center of the choir-loft and waited for Jean to strike the opening chords on the piano. Although Jean was a skilled performer on the piano it must be confessed that she trembled a little as she began to play, but when Elizabeth's sweet voice broke into song it gave her confidence, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Elizabeth to be singing and she to be playing in the little village church at Newburgh. She never remembered much that the old preacher said in his eloquent sermon, for during it all she seemed to be in somewhat of a haze, but afterward she summed it up in three thoughts: the blessedness of home; the joy of the home-coming; and the satisfaction of the parents in knowing that their children have found life worth while and are making something out of it. There was a general handshaking after the benediction, and before she left Jean thought she knew every person in the church. It did not take her long to see how interested every one was in Elizabeth, and how glad they were to have her with them again. She had a pleasant greeting for them all, and never forgot to ask about the ones left at home. As they drew up into the Fairfax yard again they found sleighs, single and double, already there and more following them. "You see, Jean, it's our turn this year to have the relatives at our house," said Dr. Fairfax. "Ours is a pretty big family, and we're counting on twenty or thereabouts to-day. Everybody helps and 'many hands make light work,' you know. You must feel that you're one of the family to-day, Jean, for we're always glad of one more." There were twenty-six to sit down to the Thanksgiving dinner, nineteen at the large table and seven children at a little one placed in the kitchen. Jean decided that she had never before seen such quantities of food, for in addition to the preparations Mrs. Fairfax had made, every one of the guests had contributed what he thought to be his share. There were turkeys and chickens, vegetables of all kinds, puddings, pies, cakes, fruit, nuts, and candy passed and repassed until all declared they could eat no more. After dinner there were games and music and the children went outdoors to slide. About six o'clock Mrs. Fairfax suggested supper, but she could find no one inclined to eat except the children, who came in hungry again after their vigorous exercise. Some of the families having a long distance to ride felt obliged to leave at seven, and from then until ten o'clock there was a general departure. When the last sleigh drove out of the yard Elizabeth dropped into her father's old armchair with, "Oh, I'm tired, but wasn't it splendid?" The next two days were filled with happy experiences for Jean. She coasted on a neighboring hill, drove over to "Aunty" Wilbur's for a "left over" Thanksgiving dinner, went down to Cousin Mary Fairfax's to a candy-pull, and helped Elizabeth in her household duties. She fairly reveled in the outdoor life and the beauty of the hilltop, and declared that for the first time since she had left California was she really living. Before she realized it, Saturday night came and the visit was almost at an end. After supper, Jean and Dick found themselves alone again before the fireplace and Dick asked that she finish her story of the camp in the mountains which had been interrupted Wednesday evening. When she finished the narrative, she timidly asked Dick if he would read her some of his poems. "No, I'll not read them to you, but I'll recite them to you if you care to have me." In his sweet, low voice, very similar to his father's, he recited one after another of his poems, short little things, to be sure, but full of feeling and the promise of what was to come later on. "Splendid," said Jean, when he had finished; "I know you're going to make something of this gift, aren't you?" "Yes, if I ever have an opportunity. I want to study and have the best education it's possible to get. Since I've had the fever I've wondered if I shall ever get to college. I'm not nearly as strong as I used to be, and sometimes it seems as if I never would be again, but I must live, I must amount to something. I've got too much to live for to give up now." "What do you intend to do with your education, Richard?" "I don't know yet, Jean, but a man can do anything if he's educated. Then the whole world's open to him, but when he's not it closes its heavy gates to him and he can beat against them in vain. What are you fitting yourself for, Jean?" [Illustration: "I DON'T KNOW YET, JEAN, BUT A MAN CAN DO ANYTHING IF HE'S EDUCATED."--_Page 152_.] "Why, Dick, I'm almost ashamed to tell you. I've never thought anything about the real purpose of college. I came to Ashton because my father and brothers thought it the best place for me to go. I'm only going to be there one year, and after that I think I'll study music. So far this year I've amounted to nothing; I haven't done any studying and received two faculty warnings. That's pretty serious, you know, but I'm going back Monday morning with the firm determination to do something. You and Elizabeth are an inspiration to me and I'm not going to waste any longer the opportunities that are waiting for me. And don't you get discouraged and worried about not going to college. You're going, I know you are, and next year, too. I've made up my mind to that, and in the meantime I shall need lots of encouragement as an inspiration from you on your hilltop. You'll never know all that this visit has meant to me, and I thank you all for taking me right into your family. This is a secret for us alone, Dick. Please don't say anything about it to the others, for maybe they wouldn't understand, but here's my hand on it, Dick. You've my promise that from now on I'll make something more of myself." CHAPTER VIII THE CORAL BEADS Monday morning at half-past eleven o'clock Jean reported at the office in answer to the summons she had received. The clerk, Miss Stetson, led her into the dean's private office and there she found Miss Thurston awaiting her. As yet Jean had met her only in a social way and she felt a little ashamed at the thought of what brought her there. "Good morning, Miss Cabot. Take this chair here by the window. I have a little matter to talk over with you. I find you have cut Chapel ten times since the opening of college, which is altogether too many times. Do you realize that only thirteen cuts are allowed for the whole first semester? Chapel-cutting is a very serious offense here and I hope I shall not have to speak to you about it again. And then in the matter of gymnasium, Miss Matthews reports an utter lack of interest on your part in the classes and frequent absences. Gymnasium is required work and should be completed satisfactorily freshman year. I'm afraid, Miss Cabot, that you are not taking college seriously enough." "I agree with you, Miss Thurston; I have not taken it seriously enough in the past, but from now on I intend to go at things differently. I do not think you will ever need to call me here again. I'm sure I shall never be an honor pupil, but I mean to do the best that's in me. It will be hard work, for I have practically all the work of the past three months to make up besides a condition in French to remove." "Yes, it will be hard, Miss Cabot, but I have the confidence that you can do it if you've made up your mind to it. That's all for to-day, thank you." As Jean left the office she started off in the direction of the library. There were some references in English literature which she wanted to look up as soon as possible. To tell the truth, it was the first time she had been to the library except the evening she had rescued Elizabeth from spending the night there, and she knew nothing about the system. However, she found Natalie Lawton in the magazine room and told her what she wanted. "Why, Jean, aren't you getting rather studious all of a sudden? Come right over here into the English department. You can take any of the books down to read here, or if you want to take books home for a week's use ask the librarian for a card and have the book charged. I always prefer to do my hard studying in my room, for there are so many girls down here talking and walking round that I can't ever get my mind on what I'm reading. After you get your books I want to talk to you a minute about basket-ball. When you're ready, come out to the desk and I'll help you." After Jean found the two books she needed and had obtained permission to keep them a week she and Natalie left the building and strolled slowly up to Merton. "I wonder if you've ever thought about athletics at college, Jean. I think you ought to make something, sure. It's up to you to choose what appeals most to you and try for all you're worth to make it. Every girl ought to do something for her college and her class, and it's only the exceptional girl that can do more than one thing well. Some make the glee club, some basket-ball, some the crew, some the track team, and some tennis. I've been thinking it over lately and I've decided that you're just the sort for basket-ball. If you don't make the college team perhaps you can make the 1915 team, and its really more fun to make that than the other, for the freshman-sophomore basket-ball game is the biggest thing of the year. Basket-ball practice begins this week and I want to see you out Wednesday afternoon. Next to tennis, basket-ball is the very best sport I know of. You've got to try for tennis, too, in the spring, but that's a long way off. Will you go out for basket-ball?" "Yes, Natalie, if I have the time, but I've got to devote myself a little more to study from now on, so don't expect me to practise very often. I'll make an awful try, for I've always wanted to be able to play basket-ball. I've never been in a game in my life, so of course I couldn't hope to make anything." "Lots of girls make the teams who have never played till they came here. It's good hard practice does it. To change the subject, what kind of a time did you have in New York?" "I didn't go. Tuesday night I got a telegram from Tom saying my aunt was sick and our visit was all off." "But you didn't stay at college, did you?" "No; I went home with Elizabeth and had a perfectly wonderful time. I've never been in the country before, and of course there was something new for me to do all the time. And she has the nicest family I've ever met. None of us here at college half appreciate Elizabeth. I have discovered lots of things about her that I never would have dreamed of, and I think you other girls will, too, as you come to know her. Are you going right in to supper or will you come up to my room while I brush up a bit?" "I think I'll just stop a minute in Clare Anderson's room to help her a little on her algebra. She asked me this noon if I'd go in before supper. Poor little thing, she's having a terrible struggle with it and I pity her from the bottom of my heart. You ought to thank your lucky stars that you're not taking mathematics. Here we are at her room. See you later," and the two girls parted on the second floor. After supper it was Jean's turn to play for the dancing, so Marjorie Remington did not have an opportunity to talk to her, although she had tried to ever since dinner. The minute Jean arose from the piano Marjorie hurried up to her and asked her to come up to her room for a few moments. "I hear you didn't go to New York after all, Jean, but to your room-mate's instead," said Midge, after they were comfortably seated in 47. "What possessed you to spend five perfectly good days with that stick? You knew I was going to be in Boston at my aunt's and would love to have you with me. I should think you would have thought of that and come and told me. I never enjoyed myself more in all my life. Jack certainly outdid himself to give me a good time. "What on earth could you find to do up in the country with Elizabeth? I think I'd prefer staying in my room here for a vacation to having to visit with such a little, insignificant goody-good as she is." Jean had listened as long as she could, and she stood up and started for the door, saying, "Marjorie, Elizabeth is my room-mate and I love her dearly and shall not stay here a minute longer to hear you abuse her. Unless you are willing to show her some respect I do not care for your friendship," and she walked out into the hall. "Jean, pardon me," said Marjorie, hastening after her, "I didn't realize you two were such great friends. When did all this happen? Must have been rather sudden. By the way, have you found your coral beads?" "Why, Marjorie, how did you know I'd lost them?" "Oh, I heard all about it. A little bird told me," said Marjorie, as she shut the door into her room. When Jean entered her own room she found Elizabeth waiting for her. She was sitting at her desk and held in one hand Jean's coral beads. "Oh, Jean, what do you think! I've found your coral beads, but in the queerest place. I just went to my desk to get my fountain pen which I keep in the little drawer at the right, and there were the beads. How do you suppose they got there? Some one must have put them there, but you don't believe I did it, do you?" "No, indeed, Elizabeth. You'd be the last person in the world to put them there." Without another word Jean turned and almost ran up to Grace Hooper's room and fortunately found her alone. "Gracie, did you tell any one besides Mary Boynton about my losing my beads?" "No, Jean; don't you know we decided it was best to say nothing about it. Have you found them?" "Yes, they were only misplaced, so please don't say anything more about it to anybody. I'm glad now that I didn't put up a notice on the bulletin board; it would have caused so much talk. Good-by. I can't stop; I've a lot of studying to do," and she hurried on to Mary Boynton's room, where she found Mary and her room-mate hard at their lessons for the next day. "Please excuse me, Ethel, if I take Mary out in the hall to whisper to her a moment." When they shut the door behind them Jean began excitedly, "Mary Boynton, did you tell any one besides Grace Hooper about my losing my coral beads? I've found them again; they were only misplaced, and I'm sorry I bothered you about them. Did you tell any of the girls?" "No, Jean; to tell you the honest truth, I haven't thought about the matter since Tuesday night. You were coming to me Monday morning if you didn't find them, and when you didn't appear I decided you'd found them." "Well, please don't say or think anything more about the matter. Sorry to have taken you from your studying. Did you have a pleasant vacation?" "Yes; I went home with Ethel. Come up and see us when you can stay longer. Good night." Jean hastened down the corridor and up the stairs and along fourth floor until she came to Marjorie Remington's room. She hesitated a moment at the door and then hearing no voices she knocked. Marjorie appeared and looked a little surprised to see Jean back so soon, but she motioned her to a comfortable rocker and offered her a plate of fudge which looked as if it had just been made. Jean refused the chair and the candy and stood perfectly still in the center of the room, without saying a word. Marjorie, to relieve the situation, said, "I'm glad you've come back, Jean. Can't you sit down and talk to me? I'm awfully lonesome to-night." "No; I can only stay a moment, Marjorie. I came in to tell you that I've found my coral beads and to ask you why you put them in Elizabeth's desk." "Why, Jean, what do you mean? What have I got to do with your coral beads? I don't understand what you're talking about." "Well, if you will not answer my first question, will you tell me who told you I had lost my beads?" "I did tell you it was a little bird," answered Marjorie, laughingly. "This is no time for joking, Marjorie. I ask you once more to explain it to me." "And if I refuse?" "Well, if you refuse I shall give you my explanation." "Very well, your explanation then." "For some reason all the year you have disliked my room-mate and have tried to make her uncomfortable on every possible occasion. Lately you seem to have had the same feeling towards me. When you were talking to me last Tuesday evening as I was packing, you must have taken my coral beads when I went into the bedroom to get my opera coat, and sometime later, probably on Sunday, before we arrived home, you put them in Elizabeth's desk to point suspicion towards her. Fortunately I have come to know Elizabeth so much better these last few days than all the rest of the term that I am sure stealing is the very last thing she would resort to. It is true that she is poor and has none of the things that you and I have, in abundance, but she is honest and conscientious, and kind to every one with whom she comes in contact. No one knows what I have just told you but ourselves, and I ask you now to tell me why you did such a thing. You may be perfectly sure that I never shall say anything about it if you will promise never to do such a thing again." "Well, Jean, you're a regular old Sherlock Holmes. There isn't very much for me to say now. It's pretty much as you've said. I did take the beads and put them in Elizabeth's desk because I wanted you to believe she stole them. I've never liked her from the first time I saw her. I was provoked that she broke up our plans for the first night at college by coming in late. I'm jealous, horribly jealous, and I didn't want her to be your friend. I was disappointed because you didn't join Gamma Delt. I've wanted you all along for my best friend, and I saw I was gradually losing you. I haven't many friends and I couldn't stand yours. That's all. What do you think of me now?" Jean answered very slowly, "I'm very sorry, Marjorie. I had hoped from the first that we might be good friends. You were kind to me and seemed like a girl after my own heart. We still can be friends, I hope, but you must not injure me or any of my friends. We'll forget this incident and begin over again if you say so." "All right, Jean. Thank you for your kindness. I'm afraid I don't deserve it. You see what a nasty disposition I've got, but I'll try to conquer it in the future. Now won't you stay a while? I want to tell you about my good times in Boston." "No; not to-night, Marjorie; I'm going to study, but some other time I'll be glad to hear all about it. Good night." And then Jean opened her own door and said to Elizabeth, "Now, dear, I'm ready for the German lesson." CHAPTER IX THE CHAFING-DISH PARTY "Elizabeth, have the girls announced the date of the French play?" "Yes, I think it's December eighteenth, the Wednesday night before college closes. Of course you're going?" "Yes, and I've been thinking I'd invite Constance Huntington out for the play and have a rabbit afterward. I haven't made anything but fudge in my chafing-dish since I bought it, and it's about time I did. We could have ten or twelve of the girls in after the play and get permission to stay up a little later than usual. I think I'll write Connie to-day and invite her out. Would you mind sleeping with Anne Cockran that night so Connie could have your bed?" "Why, of course not, Jean; I'd be glad to do it and anything else I can to help you. Who's in the play?" "I don't know many of them, but Peggy Allison is to be a man and Alice Cunningham's got the star girl's part. They say she's a wonder when it comes to acting. Then Bess Atherton and Joe Knight and Fliss White and Mary Brownell are in it, but I don't know the rest very well. None of the girls from my division are in the club, for you have to be at least a soph, to be eligible and then only a small proportion of the upper-class girls make it, for you have to get high rank in French. Oh dear, I'd never make it if I studied a hundred years. I can't seem to get it through this stupid old head of mine, and as for talking it and acting it too--why, it's simply beyond my comprehension." Jean wrote her letter to Constance and soon received word that she would be delighted to accept the invitation and would be out early in the afternoon, but she would have to take the first train back in the morning as she had a lesson at noon. The morning of the eighteenth was dull and cloudy, and before noon it was snowing hard and had every appearance of a bad storm. Jean stood at the window after dinner and watched the whirling snowflakes. "She won't come, I know she won't come, if it snows like this, and after I've gone and made all those elaborate preparations I call it a mean shame. Lucky I went down to the Square yesterday and bought the food, for I shouldn't enjoy lugging things home to-day in this storm. Well, if she doesn't come we'll celebrate just the same. I hope it won't be so deep by night that we can't get up to the gym. I think I'll do my packing now, for I sha'n't have much more time before the train starts unless I sit up to-night after the girls go. You tell your people, Elizabeth, that I'm very much obliged for their dandy invitation for the holidays, but I simply can't postpone my New York visit again. But there are other vacations coming, and I'll be pretty glad to go home with you then. Here's a box I want you to put into your suit-case, but it's not to be opened until Christmas morning, and this letter's for Dick, but it's so valuable I won't trust it to Uncle Sam and I want you to put it in his stocking, or if he's too old to hang up his stocking you can put it under his plate at breakfast. I wonder when my box from home will arrive. Father wrote me he had sent it. We always hang up our stockings at home Christmas Eve and then have a big Christmas tree at night. It's the first time I've ever missed it, and unless I'm having an awfully good time in New York, I'll be pretty homesick." Jean worked hard at her packing and after she had finished she went downstairs to do a little practising. The piano was so arranged that she had a good view of Faculty Row and it must be confessed that she kept her eyes there as much as on her music. At last she saw Constance battling against the wind and the snow and she ran to the door to greet her. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Constance! I was afraid you couldn't get over here. Are the cars on time, or did you come by train?" "I went across the city on the Elevated and took the train out. It isn't deep enough yet to affect the trains, but it will be soon if it keeps up like this. The wind is so strong it's beginning to drift. By morning I may not be able to get back or you to go to New York. I thought I'd never get up the Row; as it is, my feet are soaked. Let me borrow your slippers and some dry stockings and I'll be all right. I'm crazy to see your room, Jean. Those snapshots you sent are mighty attractive, but I know the original's lots better." "Fine," said Constance after she had stepped into 45. "It's so simple, not packed brimful with the useless trifles one generally sees in college girls' rooms. You can find your way around in these rooms all right. You ought to see the box I live in. Positively we have to move some of our furniture out into the hall at night before we can get undressed and into bed. You don't mind if I look around, do you? I love new things. What a splendid picture of Tom! He didn't give me one; guess I'll have to remind him of it. What's this picture of an old farmhouse on your desk?" "That's my room-mate's home in Newburgh. You know I spent the Thanksgiving holidays there and quite fell in love with the place." "With the place or somebody on the place? Come, Jean, 'fess up'; don't keep any secrets from me." "Well, both, Connie; they're the nicest family I've met in the East. Here, put on these stockings and slippers and dry your feet on the radiator or you'll catch your death-o'-cold. Then we'll go downstairs and see some of the girls. I've invited a few up here after the play, but I promised one or two who are very anxious to meet you that I'd take you in to see them before supper. I hope you'll like the girls out here. I think they're a mighty jolly lot. My room-mate is studying algebra in one of the freshman rooms, but she'll be back before long. She's quiet, but there's ever so much to her." Presently they started down to Peggy Allison's room and found she and Natalie had made tea for them and had sandwiches, nuts and candy. "You'll spoil our appetites for supper, Peggy, with all this glorious feed." "Just as well, Jean," said Peggy; "it's Wednesday night and we always have beans. I think baked beans on Saturdays and Wednesdays, too, is the limit." "Well," said Natalie, "let's not go down for supper. We can stay here and eat all we want to. I don't believe Peg will eat anything, she's so excited. She's been rehearsing all the afternoon, and all the morning she worked on the scenery. She's got a stunning costume and make-up. Wait till you see her and you'll say she's the handsomest cavalier you've ever set eyes on, and fall in love with her on the spot. Isn't it a shame it's storming so hard? I don't believe half of the guests will come, but perhaps Mlle. Franchant will let them repeat it after vacation. It's a shame after everybody has worked so hard." "Thanks for your invitation for supper, Nat, but I think Constance and I had better go downstairs, for I want her to see our dining-room and the girls. Why, there's the bell this minute and we intended to go into some of the other rooms. Good luck to you, Peggy; I know you'll be the bright and shining star. Oh, where is your seat, Natalie? Ours are in 'G.' We freshmen in the house got some together. Don't forget you two are coming up to our room after the play. I've got permission for us to stay up till eleven o'clock, so if the play is late, hustle down as soon as you can." The play was held in the gymnasium, and by eight o'clock it was crowded to the doors in spite of the storm. The girls were greatly disappointed that they could not wear their best-looking gowns, but it was dangerous to risk them in the drifting snow, so most of them wore light waists with their dark skirts. The French play always was considered one of the events of the year and anticipated by the whole college. This year the play presented was "Andromaque," and given wonderfully well. Of course the most interesting parts were those where the girls took the parts of men. As the masculine element were not invited to attend the performance, the girls felt free to dress as fancy prompted them and, as Natalie had said, "did make perfectly stunning men." All the girls did well, and unless one were prejudiced, one had to admit that one girl did no better than another. There was so much applause and encoring that it was nearly ten before the last act began. For some time Jean had been getting nervous and every little while whispered to Constance, "If they don't finish soon we won't have any time for the rabbit. Usually we can't have company in our rooms after ten, but to-night is a special occasion and the girls can stay till eleven. An hour isn't very long for a party." "This is great, Jean," said Constance; "I don't understand one word of French, but I think it's stacks of fun to watch them. It's the first time I've ever seen girls play men's parts. Never mind if we don't have time for the rabbit; it isn't the best thing in the world to be eating at eleven o'clock at night, you know." "Well," said Jean, "I shall be disappointed if we don't make it. I've been wanting some for ages. Oh, I know this must be the end. Wasn't it splendid? Now I feel lots better that it's over. Come on, girls! Hustle up; you've all got to help me. Don't get lost in the snowdrifts, for it wouldn't be any fun to-night to have to hunt you up." The six freshmen and Constance went down to the Hall together and up into 45; a little later came Marjorie Remington and Sallie Lawrence and Grace Hooper and Natalie Lawton. "Where's Peggy?" asked Jean. "She'll be here in a moment; she stopped to wash off a little of the paint and get into some decent clothes." "Oh," said Grace Hooper, "why didn't she come the way she was? Wasn't she perfectly adorable? I'd be only too glad to let her make love to me. I'm going to try for the French club next year." "Now, Grace," said Jean, "make yourself useful as well as ornamental. Please beat this egg. You'll have to use a fork; it's the nearest thing to an egg-beater I can find. Marjorie, will you put the crackers on the plates? Sallie, cut up the cheese, will you?" and she gave everybody something to do. By the time the work was all distributed, Peggy burst into the room crying, "_J'ai faim, j'ai faim, mes chères enfants._ Oh, I forgot, I mustn't make so much noise; it's after ten and some of the girls are trying to get to sleep, but I'm so tickled the old French play is over at last that I could shout for joy. Wasn't it awful there where I forgot? I knew I should, for I did at every rehearsal. Here, Jean, what is there for me to do?" "Nothing, Miss Star Actress, or should I say Mr. Star Actor; you have entertained us so well all the evening that we'll let you continue to do so until we've something to eat. Oh, dear, I haven't a bit of alcohol; I knew I'd forget something. Who's got some to spare? Midge, you're the nearest, please skip over to your room and get some." When Marjorie returned with a huge bottle, Jean filled the lamp of her chafing-dish, not noticing that she was spilling some drops of the alcohol on the papers she had left on the table after undoing the numerous packages. She put the ingredients into the dish and they lighted the lamp. All went well for a moment or two and she kept stirring the melted butter and cheese. Now that their work was done the girls felt freer to talk and left Jean to herself. She went over to her closet to take out a box of chocolates which she had hidden there and then circulated them among the girls. When she returned to the table she saw that some of the alcohol which she had dropped on the platter was burning. Thinking it would do no harm she let it burn until it blazed up and caught the papers near by that had been wet with the drops of alcohol. In a moment they were all ablaze and the girls were so frightened that they stood still without knowing what to do. Danger threatened Merton and perhaps all Ashton, and something must be done at once. Quick as a flash Jean pushed the burning papers onto the platter and took hold of it firmly with both hands. "Somebody open the south window, quick!" she cried. For a second no one seemed to know just which was the south window or whether there was any window in the room. Then Elizabeth ran to the window and opened it wide and Jean in a flash was in front of it and threw the blazing platter and its contents down into the snow below. [Illustration: "SOMEBODY OPEN THE SOUTH WINDOW, QUICK!"--_Page 178_.] As soon as the danger was over the girls realized what Jean had done. "How could you do it, Jean? How did you think of it? Oh, look at your hands and face; you've burned them!" they all cried. "No; I haven't. Not badly; just one thumb and it doesn't hurt much. I guess I've singed my eyebrows and a little of my front hair, but the rabbit is spoiled. Isn't it a shame? But I'm not going to let that perfectly good chafing-dish stay down in the snow and get buried up and stay there all vacation. I'm going to put on my rubber boots and a short skirt and sweater and go down and get it. I don't want any of you to come with me. I know how to unbolt the door, and no one will ever know anything about it if you'll keep it to yourselves. Here, Elizabeth, pass the sandwiches and olives and other eats. I'm determined, though, that you shall have a rabbit and I've got enough stuff here to make another even if there's only enough for one cracker apiece; that's better than nothing." "But," protested Peggy, "you won't have time; it's almost quarter of eleven now, and you know we must get back to our rooms at eleven surely or we'll never get permission again." "Well, girls," said Jean, "I shall make that rabbit to-night if I'm expelled to-morrow. You must go, I suppose, at eleven, but we two can stay up as long as we please in our own room if we're not disturbing any one else. Constance and I will eat all we can to-night, and I'll see that the rest of you get yours to-morrow. Cold rabbit is as good as hot; some like it better, particularly if it's thick and leathery. Aren't these rubber boots grand? I never thought when I bought them last month that I should dedicate them hunting for lost chafing-dishes and rabbits in snowdrifts. Well, here goes, switch the light over to the south window and watch me discover the North Pole, or the chafing-dish. Just wet this handkerchief first, will you, Nat, so I can wind it round my throbbing thumb. How's that for alliteration, freshies; wouldn't that please Miss Whiting?" After winding the wet handkerchief around her thumb she put on some heavy gloves and was ready to start. The corridors were dark, for all the lights had been put out at half-past ten. She groped her way along the banisters and managed somehow to reach the lower hallway. It seemed as though every step had made the long stairs creak and protest against what she was doing, and she was sure when she hit against a hall chair that she would awaken Mrs. Thompson. She waited a few moments and listened, but apparently Mrs. Thompson was sleeping peacefully, little dreaming of what was happening just outside her sacred domain. She finally located the great bolt and in a moment had the door open. She moved over the door-mat to prevent the doors closing, for if the wind should blow them together again she would not be able to open them unless one of the girls came down and helped her. Out on the steps her courage failed her for a moment, for the snow was whirled in every direction by the terrific wind, but she stepped down into it and instantly was up to her knees. She decided to give it up and return to the girls, but she hated to be defeated in anything, so attempted it again. She could hardly walk, but had to scuff along, making her own path. It was a long way down the east side of the dormitory and then round the corner to the south side. The light from 45 shone brightly and guided her to the spot where she expected to find the chafing-dish. At last she reached it and saw the tray sticking up in one place and not far from it the standard and a little farther the two dishes and cover. She gathered them in her arms and started back, after waving to the girls in the upper windows. After she had gone two or three steps she realized that she hadn't found the alcohol lamp, and as that was a very important item, she put the other parts down again and began to hunt for the lost one. It was nowhere to be found and had probably fallen out when she threw the burning mass from the window, and being the smallest part and the lightest had undoubtedly gone the greatest distance, and being the hottest as well, it probably sank down deep in the snow. She was about to give up when her fingers groping around on the surface found what she wanted so badly. Now that she had it all she returned the same way she had come, but it was easier now because she had only to retrace her footsteps. Still, it was no easy task and took some little time. Just as she reached the stone steps she heard the campus clock ring out eleven strokes. She entered the door and closed it as cautiously as possible and put the mat in its proper place. Then she groped her way up the three flights of stairs and was soon in 45, breathless but triumphant. "Here it is, girls, and some of the cheese is still in the dish; have some?" "Jean, you're a hero," said Peggy, "but we mustn't stay another minute; it's already struck eleven. Sorry to have missed the rabbit, but the other things were delicious and your adventure such a novelty in the way of entertainment. Don't do it again, for it's rather dangerous unless one has your nerve. Good night. Tell us the rest of the story in the morning." "All right, but 'Mum's the word,' girls," said Jean, as she followed them to the door. "At our first reunion after vacation I'll tell you all about the hairbreadth escapes I had in the mad pursuit of the rabbit. Isn't that a thrilling subject for my next English theme? Quietly, now; don't make any noise; don't anybody stub her toe or trip on the stairs." "And now," said Jean, as she came back into the room, "I'm going to finish that rabbit if I don't get a particle of sleep to-night. You can retire gracefully, if you so desire, to Elizabeth's bed and I'll stick to my post of duty till the rabbit dies." "No," said Constance, "I'm not a bit sleepy; I'd rather watch you, but first can't I put something on those burns?" "No, thanks, Connie, they aren't half bad, and if I keep something wet on my thumb it will be all right." Into the chafing-dish went all of the remaining ingredients, few to be sure, but enough to half fill the dish. There was no egg but Jean decided to risk it without. She stirred and stirred, but it refused to thicken, and as the college clock struck twelve she decided it never would. "Well, we can put a little in these saucers and eat it with a spoon and perhaps by morning what we leave in the dish will thicken enough to spread on crackers. I mean that every girl shall have a souvenir of the great and glorious occasion." They put a little in the saucers and broke in some cracker. Constance took a mouthful and exclaimed, "Oh, Jean, the mustard! How much did you put in?" "Why, just what the rule said, of course." "It must be a funny rule, for it's so awfully hot you never can eat it." "Well, I should say so," said Jean, after a taste. "Let's hope it will cool off by morning. Anyway, I've done what I said I should; it's made and we've eaten some. Now let's go to bed at once. I shall leave all the dishes and cleaning up until morning. Fortunately I have two spare hours before train time and my trunk is all packed. Isn't this room a mess? Let's retire gracefully to our downy couches and forget what we've left behind. Do you think my eyebrows, or rather what there is left of them, look badly?" "No one would ever know what had happened unless you told them. I think you got out of it mighty easily. It's a wonder you weren't burned badly, or the curtains didn't catch and start a fire. What a terrible night to have been burned out. Ough! I don't like the idea at all. Are you sure everything is all right out in the study?" "Why, of course, you big silly. Now calm yourself and get into bed, and we'll talk it over in the morning." The first thing Jean did after the rising bell awoke her from a sound sleep was to go out into the study and look into the chafing-dish. Yes, the rabbit had hardened and looked anything but attractive. She took two crackers and put the rabbit between them, making a somewhat bulky sandwich in its proportions but nevertheless edible. With Constance's assistance she made twelve of them and wrapped each one in some tissue paper and tied them with narrow white ribbon. Slipping on her kimona and bed shoes she put the packages into a small basket and hastened out in the hall and stopped at the room of each of her guests of the evening before. To each girl she presented a neat package and wishes for a Merry Christmas. Constance and she were a little late at the breakfast table but took their places without a smile or look at any of the twelve girls who were awaiting their arrival. Unless one had looked very carefully one would not have perceived that Jean's right thumb was carefully done up in a white bandage. Aside from this there was no indication of the incidents of the previous evening. Breakfast talk centered on the excellence of the French play the night before and the acting of Peggy Allison. Just before breakfast was over Mary Boynton arose and announced two important notices before the departure of the girls for the Christmas holidays. "The Merton House Entertainment Committee have planned a costume party for January thirteenth, to be limited to the girls of the dormitory. Every girl is expected to be in costume. For further particulars apply to Helena Burrage, Florence Goodnow, and Mabel Addison. "The proctors for the two weeks beginning January sixth, have been appointed as follows: first floor, Lena Hutchinson; second floor, Rebecca Chapin; third floor, Mary Andrews; fourth floor, Jean Cabot; fifth floor, Sarah Dillon. They will meet for a few moments after breakfast in the reading-room." Then the girls filed out and hurried upstairs for last preparations. The proctors consulted together a few moments and were given instructions as to their duties and then were dismissed. Jean and Constance decided to go to Chapel and clean up afterwards. It took till nearly ten before the last dish was washed and wiped, and Constance had to hurry for the train. "You must be sure to visit me after vacation, but I'll promise you no such exciting times as you gave me. My best to Tom. Thanks for your hospitality," she said as she boarded the train. Jean watched until the train was out of sight and then went up to ten o'clock recitation. At twelve she boarded a crowded train and left Ashton and its problems behind her. CHAPTER X THE COSTUME PARTY The Christmas holidays passed all too quickly and were crowded to the utmost with good times. It was with a little reluctance that Jean took the noon train from New York on Wednesday, January eighth, for Boston. Tom went with her to the station and saw her safely aboard. There were many of the college girls on the train and as she went through the Pullman looking for her chair she heard Marjorie Remington calling her. "Here's a vacant chair beside me, Jean. Come over and sit down in it, even if it isn't yours, and if any one comes in later to claim it you can move over into your own. I want to hear about your good times, and I've got just stacks to tell you." The girls kept up a spirited conversation all the way to Boston and one incident followed another in rapid succession until Marjorie said, "Before we reach Boston I want to tell you a secret, Jean, but first you must promise me not to tell a soul at college." Jean promised faithfully, and Marjorie continued, "Jack and I are engaged. Here's my ring, but I don't dare wear it openly yet, so I shall put it on a chain and wear it around my neck under my dress where no one can see it. You see, father and mother don't quite approve of Jack and wouldn't allow me to announce my engagement, especially while I'm in college, but we couldn't wait any longer and Jack gave me the ring Christmas in a box of candy, so no one suspected. Isn't it a beautiful diamond? You know, Jack has plenty of money in his own name, but father doesn't always approve of the way he spends it. We haven't made any plans yet, but I think we'll be married in the fall. Jack graduates in June, and I surely am not coming back to Ashton another year. I almost fear I'll flunk out at midyear's, but I'm going to dig hard from now on, for I want to be in the East until June and if I should flunk it would be home for me and no Jack. "To think you haven't met him yet! Well, you will to-day, for he's going to meet me at the train if he possibly can. He had to go back earlier than I, for Harvard began last week. I think I'll stay in town for an early dinner, but I'll be out before eight. I suppose you're looking forward with joy to your duties as proctor of fourth floor. I don't envy you your honor; I suppose it will be thrust upon me soon, for it must be getting pretty near my turn. Well, I sha'n't bother you, for it's study for mine every minute till midyear's. The costume party is the only dissipation that I can allow myself. I made the dandiest costume at home, but I can't tell you what it is. Did you make one?" "No, I haven't had time even to think about one, but I'll fix up something myself, or hire a costume in town. Like you, I'm going to study as hard as I can so I sha'n't have time for anything else. I'm awfully surprised to hear you're engaged. Do you think it's just right to keep it from your father and mother? I should think you'd want them to know about it first. I should if it were I." "But I shouldn't dare tell them now. I'm hoping they'll feel all right about it later. We're almost in Boston now. I do hope nothing will keep Jack from meeting me." Marjorie was not to be disappointed, for Jack was at the station to meet her, and she proudly introduced him to Jean. He invited her to accompany them up town for dinner, but she declined and left them at the Elevated. When she arrived at Merton she found Elizabeth had not come, but she knew the last train from Wilton Junction reached Boston about eight and she felt sure Elizabeth would take that one. She was not mistaken, and about half-past eight Elizabeth arrived, very tired from her hard trip. After she had removed her hat and coat, she said, "Has Marjorie Remington returned yet, Jean?" "I don't know, Elizabeth. I came on with her from New York, but I left her in Boston and she said she was coming out after an early dinner. Why do you ask?" "I came out from Boston with a girl I thought was she, but she was with some fellow I never have seen out here. They were walking up the Row very slowly and as I passed them they were talking together very earnestly. From what I heard I could not believe it was Marjorie in spite of the fact that it looked so much like her." "Probably it was Jack Goodrich from Harvard. He lives in Detroit and he and Marjorie have always been good friends. Now tell me about your vacation." They began an exchange of experiences but were interrupted every few minutes by girls coming in to welcome them back. Nearly every one ended with, "Did you make your costume for Monday night?" It was late when Jean and Elizabeth found themselves alone without fear of further interruption. "Jean," said Elizabeth, "I want to thank you for what you did for us all at Christmas, and most of all for Brother's gift. He has written you, too, but I must tell you all that it means to me, for I feel as though it were benefiting me as much as him. To think that he can go to college next year! I can hardly believe it now, although I have thought and talked of little else all the vacation. How could you be so generous?" "Oh, let's not talk about it, Elizabeth. You know I have more spending money than I know how to use, and father helped some because I wrote him all about Dick and his patience and courage and talent. You can finish your course, too, perhaps, and Dick be in college at the same time. So let's not ever say anything more about it." The costume party was to be held in the dining-room, reading-room, and hall of Merton, and all the afternoon the girls strung Japanese lanterns and brought down furniture from rooms above to make as many cozy corners as space allowed. Supper was to be a little early, and after it was over the tables and chairs were to be moved out and the floors waxed. The electric lights were covered with red paper to dim their brightness, and the piano was moved out into the center of the living-room so that the music could be heard better in all the rooms. By eight o'clock most of the girls were downstairs, and in their costumes and masks presented an attractive appearance. Half of the girls wore men's costumes of all periods, and there were kings and queens, clowns and French dolls, Quakers and follies, peasant maids from many countries, shepherds and shepherdesses, Topsies, Marguerites and priests, nuns and dancing maids were present, and others too numerous to mention. A local pianist had been hired, and she was the only one in the room not in costume. Even Mrs. Thompson was somewhere in the merry throng. There was first a grand march to be followed by dancing until ten o'clock, when the unmasking was to take place and light refreshments served. Gradually, little groups of girls thought they recognized each other and surmised the identity of certain others. Jean and Elizabeth and Sallie Lawrence were resting after a strenuous Virginia Reel. "Who is that couple who have danced together all the evening, the tall monk and the demure sister of charity? Probably she thinks it's her duty to confess to him for her worldly dissipation. The sister of charity looks like Marjorie Remington, but who can the monk be? Marjorie doesn't generally remain so faithful to one partner," said Sallie. "It is Marjorie," said Jean; "I can tell her walk anywhere and I'm sure those are her pumps. She told me she bought them in Detroit this last vacation. I'm sure I can't imagine who her partner is. The tallest girl I know is Mary Stickney. It must be she, but isn't it queer Marjorie should care to dance so often with her? Probably she thinks it's more picturesque to dance with a monk. I remember asking Mary this afternoon if she was going to-night and she said she didn't believe so, but if she did she'd have to get up something very simple at the last moment. That monk's costume is surely the simplest one here." After several of the girls had asked the charming sister of charity to dance and she had shaken her pretty head and persisted in dancing with the monk, all the others began to wonder a bit and talk among themselves. "Who is the monk?" was on everybody's tongue, and it was pretty generally conceded to be Mary Stickney. Just before ten the monk and his fair partner slowly left the main room for a lemonade table at the end of the hall. Most of the others were dancing, but Jean, very tired with the excitement of the evening, had slipped alone into a little cozy corner just beyond the lemonade table. She did not intend to watch or to listen, but she could not help herself. When the two dancers were left to themselves, she heard Marjorie Remington say, "Hasn't it been splendid, Jack? Not a soul ever would suspect, for you certainly took every precaution. But I think you'd better go now, for it's almost time to unmask. Take off your robe and mask in the outer hall and you'll find your cap and coat and shoes in my suit-case there in the right-hand corner. You'll not meet any one, for everybody in the house is at the dance and it's too late for outsiders to be coming in. Still, be cautious. Let me know how you get back to Cambridge, and come out as soon as you can. Good night, dear. Don't let anything happen to you." And the black-robed priest disappeared from view and the demure little sister of charity sat down a few minutes in the dimly-lighted hall to rest. Jean did not leave the cozy corner until she was sure Marjorie had joined the dancers. She leaned back against the pillows, faint with astonishment and dismay. What should she do? One idea after another rushed through her brain and confused her more and more. She must act quickly, or it would be too late. Stealing into the outer hall she found the black robe and mask Jack had left there and she put them on over her Old Mother Hubbard costume. She knew she was not as tall as Jack was, but still there was not such a great difference and it was worth the risk. Slowly wending her way back into the main room, she found the sister of charity just about to dance with a Little Boy Blue. She put her arm round Marjorie and drew her away before Little Boy Blue realized what was happening. Marjorie herself was so astonished she could say nothing at first, but after a moment whispered, "Jack, how careless; you must go. We're going to unmask after this dance and if you're found here I'll be expelled to-morrow." But the monk answered never a word, but danced as smoothly and gently as though he had heard nothing. Again Marjorie whispered, "Oh, Jack, you must go! Don't wait another minute or I'm lost." Just then the music stopped and some one cried, "Masks off!" and there was a general pulling off of masks amid peals of laughter. As Marjorie gazed into Jean's face a look of terror settled over her own as she gasped "You!" but Jean said quietly, "We'll talk about it later up in your room. Don't leave until the others do," and she hurried away. There were many surprises at the unmasking, but the greatest was Jean's. Several of the girls, among them Elizabeth and Sallie, declared they had recognized her earlier in the evening in another costume, but she refused to answer except as she whispered in Elizabeth's ear, "Don't ask too many questions. Trust me; it's all right." Then the refreshments were served and still there was time for a few more dances. Jean went to the piano and offered to play so that the pianist might dance a little. Really, Jean needed to think and be away from the girls. She hardly knew what she was playing, so absorbed was she with the thought of what Marjorie had done and what she as proctor of fourth floor must do before very long. Such a thing could not be passed by unnoticed, and still what a terrible thing it would be to have Marjorie expelled through her. She had heard of people sacrificing duty for friendship, and she wondered what she would do when it came time to decide. Once the room seemed to grow black and she thought she would fall off the stool, but by a supreme effort she shook off the approaching faintness and finished the waltz she was playing. Then she arose and left the piano and walked over to Mrs. Thompson. "I think I will be excused, if you please, Mrs. Thompson. I feel a little tired. It's been a splendid party. Good night." Elizabeth was watching her and noticed her pallor and swaying body. "What is the matter, Jean? What has happened? This isn't a bit like you. Can I help you?" "No, Elizabeth; I shall be all right as soon as I get upstairs. Please don't leave until the others do." Then she crept up the stairs and when she entered her own room she closed the door and locked it. She quickly tore off the two costumes, leaving the black one on the couch where Elizabeth would be sure to see it; then she threw the Old Mother Hubbard dress into a trunk which was in her closet, closed the lid, and locked it. Putting on her kimona she sat down to think and wait for the girls to come upstairs. When Elizabeth entered the room, Jean was more like herself and talked gayly about the girls' costumes. "I'll go out in the corridor and put out the lights, and I've got a message to deliver to one of the girls, so don't wait up for me." She put out all the lights on fourth floor and then walked slowly up and down the corridor three or four times before knocking softly at Marjorie's door. Without waiting for her to reply, Jean entered the room and closed the door gently after her. "Marjorie, remember I come here to-night as proctor as well as friend. What you have done is awful. I can hardly think about it calmly. How did you dare think of such a thing? You've broken every rule of our house, you've deceived every girl here and Mrs. Thompson as well, you've committed an offense worthy of expulsion, you've disgraced yourself and all the rest of us. Now what's to be done? I'm the only girl who knows what has happened, although others were mystified at my being the monk and the Mother Hubbard, too. That will be forgotten in a day or two, but what you have done is of more serious import. You wonder why I dressed up in Jack's costume? I was tired of dancing and went out into the cozy corner beyond the lemonade table to rest a little. Before I had been there long you and Jack came and I could not help overhearing your conversation. After he had gone I knew you would go back to the other rooms alone and every one would wonder where your constant attendant had gone. Questions would be asked and you would have to give some sort of an explanation. The idea came to me to put on Jack's costume for the remainder of the evening and save you from a difficult position. Now I have given you an explanation of my conduct and I ask for one of yours." "There isn't one, Jean; except that when I told Jack about the party he suggested that he come out, too, dressed as a monk. He planned everything so well that I thought there was no danger and it was a lark. I was tired of dancing with girls and I longed for a dance with a real man, and you know Jack dances divinely. I guess Ashton is no place for me, after all, and you might as well have it out to-morrow and get me expelled. I don't mind leaving college, but I hate to go home and have Jack so far away. It's a long time till June, and I'll be awfully lonesome out there without him." "No, Marjorie; I don't want you publicly expelled. I'm sorrier for you than I've ever been for any one in all my life. I wish I were not proctor to-night, and I'd say nothing about it. As it is I shall not report you unless you refuse to comply with my plans. You are to leave college to-morrow. You'll say you were called home unexpectedly. I'll leave the reason to you, but I must see you on the train for Detroit and see the telegram you send home to your father to meet you. Jack is to know nothing about it until you write him from Detroit. You can pack what clothes you need and I will see that the other things are sent on at your request. You say that you never have cared for college, but I am sure you prefer to leave it honorably rather than in disgrace. Will you think it over to-night and let me know your decision in the morning? If you do not come down to breakfast I shall know you have decided to do as I suggest, and I promise you, under those conditions I shall never say a word to any one about the affair. I hope you'll do the right thing. Good night." Before noon the next day all Merton was talking about Marjorie Remington's sudden call home. Lill Spalding and Jean helped her pack and went in town with her to see her take the late afternoon train for Detroit. At night the excitement had somewhat subsided, for Marjorie's friends had been few and the others were little concerned with her affairs. There were much more serious matters pending, for midyear's examinations were only three weeks away and the midnight oil was already beginning to be burned. CHAPTER XI MIDYEAR'S The next three weeks the girls in Merton did study, as did most of the other girls. All the classes were having reviews and the whole college had settled down to good hard work. Social life had practically stopped, except for an occasional spread or tea, and society meetings on Monday nights were about the only diversions. When she felt she could afford the time Jean had gone to basket-ball practice, for she secretly longed to make the freshman team, but openly she said nothing about it. She knew everything depended upon the midyear marks, and although there had been a decided improvement in her work since Thanksgiving, still she knew it looked a little doubtful in French and German. However, she was confident that by June she would be doing at least passing work. About a week before the examinations began, Jean went over to Wellington one evening to study psychology with Lois Underwood, who was in her division. As it happened, several of the Wellington girls were in the same division and Lois called them in to the "quiz," as she called their evening's work. The girls really worked hard until about nine o'clock and had covered considerable ground when they began talking about hypnotism, a favorite subject of Miss Washburn, the psychology instructor. "I think Miss Washburn's positively daffy on the subject," said Jean; "I don't believe there's anything in it at all. She'll be sure, though, to ask us something about it in the exam. I suppose if we want to pass the course we'll have to agree with her whether we believe in it or not." "But I do believe in it," said Lois Underwood. "Bess and I have been reading up a lot on the subject and we have been experimenting on each other and find we can do lots of the things the books tell about. It's easy enough if you just make up your mind to it." The other girls laughed and scoffed at this, and declared Bess and Lois were getting daffy over the subject, too. "Well, all right, girls," said Lois, "if you don't believe it, I'll let Bess hypnotize me. You've all got to keep perfectly quiet and not laugh if she doesn't succeed at first, for we can't always tell what will be the result." "As I said before," Jean replied, "I don't believe there's anything in it, but I'm perfectly willing to be convinced." The girls shut their books and awaited the exhibition. Bess Johnson arose from her chair and looked steadily into Lois Underwood's eyes as she sat upright on her couch. "Put your mind upon sleep, Lois; sweet, gentle sleep. You're going to sleep for a little while." She stepped up close to her and began rubbing her forehead and temples, saying all the time, "You're beginning to feel sleepy, you know you will sleep, you can't help it. Now you're asleep, asleep, asleep." And at these words Lois fell over on the couch in a deep sleep. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, our fair victim is peacefully sleeping, and those of you who doubt the fact are at liberty to examine the sleeping beauty as carefully as you please. As a first test I will prick her arm with this needle and if she does not move or cry out you may draw your own conclusions." She pricked her arm with the needle, but not a movement was made or a sound heard and the girls looked at each other in astonishment. They spoke to her and shook her and pinched her and pulled her hair, but it was in vain, there was no evidence of life. "It is wonderful," said Jean; "I am forced to admit that there's something in it after all. Does every one else believe?" The rest of the girls declared they did, and then Jean suggested that Bess awaken her. "Very well, girls; it's perfectly simple," and she went up to the couch and began rubbing Lois's forehead and temples, saying firmly, "You are about to awaken, fair one; open thine eyes. Now you are awaking, you know you cannot help it. You are coming to life again, awaken." But Lois did not seem to open her eyes and did not move. She lay as rigid as when she first went into the sleep. Bess worked over her as hard as she knew how, but could not awaken her. Again and again she shook her until it seemed as though she must open her eyes if there was any life in her. "Oh, girls, what shall I do? I can't get her to wake up. It's never been like this before. Suppose she never comes out of it. I'll be a murderer. Oh, I promise you if she ever does wake up that I'll never try to hypnotize any one again!" "Hadn't we better call in the doctor or some of the older girls?" said Jean. "No, not yet; I'm afraid to. What would they say to me? And if I put her to sleep, I'm the only one that can awaken her. Don't you know that other people have no influence over them?" and she began again to work over her. It was no use, and now the other girls began to get as frightened as Bess, but there seemed nothing to do but to wait. At last the 9.45 warning bell rang and the girls knew they must leave, especially those who lived in other houses. With tears in her eyes Bess said good-night to the girls and begged them to say nothing about the matter, assuring them that she knew in time she could awaken Lois. After the door closed on the last girl, Bess returned to the sleeping girl on the couch. She was breathing deeply and so Bess did not despair of her life. She sat beside her and called and called to her to awaken. The moments flew by and the terrified girl felt that she must control herself before she could hope to control another. She must make a supreme effort to undo the harm she had done. She left the couch and walked slowly up and down the room, saying to herself, "Be calm; it must come out all right; she will awaken." After perhaps half an hour she sat down again on the couch and looked Lois hard in the face. Then she rubbed her forehead and temples exactly as she had done when she sent her into the stupor, and almost screamed, "You must awaken; you must awaken, Lois, or I shall go mad." There was not a sign of awakening, and heartsick and discouraged Bess sank upon her knees almost exhausted. She prayed softly to her Father in Heaven for help in this awful moment, and then for the last time whispered, "Oh, Lois, Lois, awaken!" and she saw her eyelids begin to move very slightly and then gradually open. "Oh, Lois, you're really awake again; you're awake again. I'm so thankful!" "'Thankful,' Bess, why, what do you mean? What are you doing on your knees by my couch?" "Nothing, Lois, except praying that you'd wake up. Don't you remember anything about to-night?" "No; all I know is that I'm very, very tired and I feel as though I could sleep a week. What happened?" "Why, to-night to prove to the girls that there was such a thing as hypnotism, I put you to sleep and I couldn't make you wake up. I've been frightened almost to death ever since and I'll never, never try to hypnotize anybody again as long as I live. I wish I'd never heard anything about the subject. But you're all right now, and that's all I care about. I've had the most awful experience of my life. Look and see if my hair has turned white. We'd better go to bed now, but I must let the other girls know the first thing in the morning, for they were all as frightened as I." When the psychology class met next morning it was a pretty sober little group that had studied together the night before, and two of them, at least, were a trifle pale. Miss Washburn could not understand what had fallen over the class, for it was generally very lively and at times troublesome. As luck would have it, after she had finished her lecture she called on Bess Johnson to talk on the subject of hypnotism. To the astonishment of the class (excepting, of course, her companions of the night before), who were accustomed to Bess' brilliant recitations, they heard her say, "I know nothing about it," and she turned as pale as though she had seen her father's ghost, and the question was passed on to Gertrude Jackson, next on the list, who discussed it at some length, until the bell rang and the class was dismissed. From psychology Jean went into her English class and took her usual seat in the extreme left-hand corner near the open door. It was theme day, and Miss Whiting was to read some examples of what she considered good and bad themes. Jean listened in vain for one of hers among the good ones, for she had tried hard and was beginning to enjoy her English work. But among the themes Miss Whiting considered poor because of their faulty construction and poor English she recognized two of her recent attempts. She was hurt, and the tears sprang to her eyes to think of Miss Whiting's reading two of her themes before the entire class, as though one wouldn't have been enough! Of course everybody would know they were hers, although she overlooked the fact that no names were mentioned with the criticisms. She felt her face turning scarlet and tears rolling down her cheeks. She couldn't stay there to hear more of her awful themes read and she didn't dare ask Miss Whiting to be excused. She gave one glance at the open door and her mind was made up. Knowing Miss Whiting was very near-sighted, she stole very quietly out of the room before Miss Whiting or hardly any of the girls were aware of it. No sooner out than she regretted her childish action and she wished she were back in the room. She wandered over to the library, determined to wait until the recitation was over and then go to Miss Whiting and apologize. After the class was dismissed and just as Miss Whiting was gathering up the papers on her desk, Jean walked up to her, smiling sweetly. "I've come to offer you an apology, Miss Whiting. I purposely left your class last hour in the midst of your reading. I felt so badly when you read two of my miserable little themes that I thought I couldn't stand it a moment longer, and as my seat is near the door I took French leave when you were not looking in my direction. It was a very silly thing to do, and I realized it the moment I was out of the room. I'm very sorry and hope you will accept my apology." "Why, certainly, Miss Cabot. How very thoughtful of you to come and tell me, for unless you had I should have known nothing about it. Let us sit down a moment and talk over your work. This will be a good time for conference, if you can spare the time." "Yes, indeed," said Jean, as she sat down in the chair beside Miss Whiting. "Let me see, Miss Cabot, do you care for the subject of English? It seems to me I had got the impression that you did not. Just lately, though, I have noticed a slight change for the better, in your theme work. You seem to be grasping things as though you wouldn't let go. I hope you won't. Things about you are beginning to interest you, and you're describing them excellently. However, your constructions are faulty, but that is a common fault in freshman work, and I read your theme because it furnished criticism applicable to so many other papers. You must not take criticism so to heart, for it is given always with the hope of helping others. I thank you again for coming to tell me what you did. Shall we walk down together? I go as far as Miss Thatcher's." When Jean entered the dining-room one of the freshmen called out, "Were you ill in English, Jean?" "Yes, temporarily indisposed, but I'm better now, thank you," and smiling, she took her seat. When the examination lists were posted, Jean found she had psychology and German on Tuesday, French and English on Wednesday, and music on Thursday. Each examination was to last from two to three hours and was to cover all the work of the first semester. The only one she did not dread was music, and she trembled most at thought of French and German. Monday she crammed and crammed on her German verbs and vocabularies, and at supper declared she would not take another look at them, for she had planned to spend the entire evening reading over psychology notes. When Elizabeth came upstairs after supper, she said she was going to spend the night in Mabel Livingston's room, so they could study mathematics together. Mabel's room-mate was away from college that night, so Elizabeth could have her bed. She collected her books and kissed Jean good-night, warning her not to sit up all night to study. "After you go, Elizabeth, I'm going to lock the door and I won't open it if people knock all night," she called out to Elizabeth as she left the room. She propped herself up on the couch and drew up the table with her drop-light upon it, and opened her psychology note-book to begin reading her notes. How small her writing looked and how many pages there were to be read! Soon the lines and words began to run together, and all unbeknown to her the note-book slipped to the floor but landed so softly that she did not hear it at all. The next thing she knew she was sitting up on the couch staring first at the burning light on the table and then at the bright sunshine pouring into the window and then at the open note-book on the floor, and finally at herself fully clothed as though ready for recitation. She looked at her watch and found it had stopped, but she listened for sounds around her and she heard girls talking and walking about as though it were the middle of the day. "What has happened?" she asked herself. "Am I another Rip Van Winkle?" She jumped up, unlocked the door and ran into the next room. "What time is it, Ann?" she asked. "Ten minutes past eight, Jean. Where were you at breakfast?" "Well, if this isn't the greatest joke you ever heard about. I haven't had any breakfast. I lay down on my couch last night right after supper to study for my psychology exam and the next thing I know it's ten minutes past eight and I've been asleep all that time and haven't done a bit of studying. I've had these clothes on since yesterday morning and haven't combed my hair yet, but I've got to go to Chapel, for I don't dare cut and my exam comes the first thing afterward, and I haven't looked at it. What shall I do? If she'll only ask me something I know, which is little enough, I admit, I'm saved. Seems to me I dreamed she asked us to write fully on the subject of memory and give illustrations. I'll just look over the headings on that subject," and she sat down where she was and opened her note-book and read strenuously until the chapel bell rang. She smiled to herself as she walked into Miss Washburn's room and saw the blue books on the desks. "To think I've studied just ten minutes for a three-hour exam!" she said to herself. But when she took up the printed list of questions and read the very first, "Outline, develop fully, and give illustrations of the subject of memory," she smiled still more and said, "Well, if I hadn't fallen asleep just when I did, I'd never have dreamed we'd have that question. As it is, I'm all prepared and it's the only thing I know anything about," and she wrote over two hours and felt confident that she had passed in a good paper. The German examination which followed was much harder, and it seemed as though every time she tried to think of the parts of an irregular German verb the corresponding French word popped into her head. Right ahead of her sat Anne Cockran, writing away at such a rapid rate that Jean felt sure she knew the correct answer to every question and she wished once or twice that she could get a glimpse of her paper. Once she leaned forward a little and as she did so her glance fell on Olive Windman, who was sitting a little ahead of her to the right. Jean saw her take a little paper covered with very fine writing from the front of her shirt-waist and conceal it in her lap. She looked quickly at Fräulein Weimer, but found her busy correcting notebooks; then she looked down at the paper in her lap and began writing again. It was the first time that Jean had seen open cheating, although she knew it occurred again and again. The very idea of looking at Anne Cockran's paper faded as quickly from her mind as it had entered it, and she blushed at the thought of what she might have done. At the end of the examination, Fräulein Weimer announced that she had reason to suspect certain members of the class of dishonesty, and all those who had given or taken help in any way during the examination might not pass in their examination books. How thankful Jean was that the number did not include herself, and she was shocked as she laid down her examination book on the table to find that it rested on one marked "Olive Windman." The French examination next day was hard from beginning to end, and although she did her very best she felt she had failed. English was easy, and she finished in less than two hours. Her music examination took most of Thursday afternoon, for part of it was on the piano and the rest on harmony. When she had written the last note and signed her name she breathed several deep sighs of relief and started for the gym. There were two whole days of vacation for her, for she had no more examinations and she meant to put most of her time into basket-ball practice, as the list of freshman candidates was to be posted the next Monday, and she hoped against hope to see her name among them. Monday was registration day for the second half-year, and every one reported at the office at the appointed time to find her marks and the number of hours she would be allowed to take second half. When Jean received her notification she found she had passed in everything but her French and she was requested to see Mlle. Franchant at once. With fear and trembling she approached her room, for she felt she was about to be told that she must drop French for the rest of the year. She peeped into the room and saw there were no other students there, so then she walked up to Mlle. Franchant's desk, where she sat writing a letter. "Come right in, Mlle. Cabot. I want to speak to you just one moment. I had to report a failure in your French work first semester, but it is not so bad a one that you must drop the subject. You have improved since I warned you and I think with good hard work you will pass at the June examination. If I can help you in any way I shall be glad to do so." "Thank you," said Jean, and she left the room saying to herself, "Well, I've lost my chance at basket-ball, but I'll pass that subject in June or know the reason why." CHAPTER XII BEFORE THE FRESHMAN-SOPHOMORE GAME After dinner, Peggy Allison seized Jean by the arm and insisted that they go up on the hill to see if the lists of basket-ball candidates were posted. Jean knew in her heart that her name would not be among them, for the one fast rule of Ashton was that no girl was considered eligible for athletic contests unless her work was satisfactory in every department. For a moment she wanted to refuse Peggy, but she felt she must know about her disappointment sooner or later, and she might as well tell her now. So they walked slowly over to the gym and Peggy found Jean very quiet. "What's the matter, Jean? What's troubling you?" "Nothing, except I'm awfully disgusted with myself and you will be, too, for you aren't going to find my name among the basket-ball candidates. I didn't pass in my French, so of course I can't play. I knew all along it was going to be a toss-up whether I'd get through or not, but I hoped that lately I'd done well enough to make up for my poor beginning. However, I've made up my mind to one thing, and that is if I can't try for the basket-ball team I'll do something here before I leave." "That's the proper spirit, Jean. I'm awfully sorry about your French, but every one admits that Mlle. Franchant is the hardest marker in college and flunks more freshmen than all the other profs together. But there's tennis left for you in the spring and the big tournament in June. Why don't you try to take the championship away from Natalie?" "Oh, I couldn't beat her, but I'll go into the tournament if my French is all right. I'll study it morning, noon, and night and I'll pass it, too, for I've made up my mind. I'm not going over to basket-ball practice any more. Not that I'm grouchy because I can't play, but I'm going to put that time into studying. I'll be the very greasiest grind you ever saw, with a towel around my throbbing head as I burn the midnight oil night after night and drive my little room-mate to distraction. Speaking of Elizabeth, do you know, she's doing splendid work in oratory. In class last week she astonished every one. She gave that little poem 'Carcasson,' and when she had finished, Miss Moulton said, 'Excellent, Miss Fairfax, I'm going to ask you to give that to us again next week; it's something for us to anticipate.' And Elizabeth told me afterward that when class was dismissed that day 'Moultie' stopped her and congratulated her and told her she hoped she would enter prize speaking. Elizabeth said that she shouldn't think of such a thing, for in the first place she would never dare to get up in the chapel before every one, and in the second place she hadn't the time to put into it. But later on I'm going to try to persuade her to enter, and I think she will." "I hope she will, Jean. Look at those girls around the bulletin board. We'll never get within a mile of it." "Oh, yes, we will, Peg; wait a minute," and before they realized it both girls were gazing at the long list of names. There were two Merton House girls among them, Anne Cockran for the freshmen, and Sallie Lawrence for the sophomores, and as Jean saw their names she hid her own disappointment by saying gayly, "Oh, isn't it splendid that there are two Merton girls? I hope they'll make the teams. Won't it be exciting to have the two rivals in the house before the game?" "Oh, Jean, you'll find excitement enough before the game and after it, too, for from now on there'll be plenty of spirit between you freshies and the sophs. Be on the watch, for you never can tell what the sophs will do next. You must be particularly careful about your flags and the class banquet, for those are the really great tests of strength or weakness of the freshmen class. Who's your chairman of the flag committee?" "Florence Cummings, over in North, and I'm fortunate or unfortunate enough, whichever you consider it, to be on the committee with four others. We haven't met yet, but I think there's a meeting next week." "Well, it's a mighty hard committee to serve on, and I don't envy you one bit. I hope you'll come out all right and win and float your flags, but make up your mind for some excitement." The two girls spent the rest of the afternoon walking over to Lookout Hill and the conversation changed from basket-ball and class rivalry to everything imaginable which could interest two such wide-awake college girls. Classes settled down again after the excitement of midyear's, and if there were heartaches and bitter disappointments most of them were covered up with good resolutions and hard work. The girls who had failed and were obliged to return home were missed for a little and then forgotten. The seniors were realizing that it was their last half-year and were crowding as much as possible into it; the juniors seemed to be devoting themselves to social activities; and the lower classes were developing class spirit and two rival basket-ball teams. It had been a custom from time immemorial at Ashton to have an annual basket-ball game between the freshmen and sophomores to decide which class might carry its flags for the rest of the year at all college events. If the freshmen were defeated in the game they gave up their flags to the sophomores, and if the sophomores were defeated they gave their flags to the freshmen. For several days before the game, and especially the one immediately preceding, each class strove to have one of its flags in some conspicuous place where it could remain without being hauled down by the rival class. It always took carefully laid plans on the part of the freshmen, and great precaution in executing them to outwit the wily sophs, and few freshmen classes could boast among their victories the successful raising of their flag. Then after the basket-ball game, as soon as possible, the freshman class held a banquet, either to celebrate its victory or find consolation in its defeat. If the sophomores could prevent the banquet from taking place, all the more glory for them, and they watched and plotted and made life miserable for the anxious freshmen. Classes come and classes go, but customs live on forever, and 1914 and 1915 were no exceptions to the rule and had made great preparations for the fray. Jean Cabot and the other members of the flag committee held secret meetings for days and days at Edith McAllister's house. When Edith came to Ashton, her mother, being the only other member of her family, had come with her and hired a small house in the shadow of the college where the two lived happily together. Mrs. McAllister had a sewing machine and could help the girls with their sewing. They had over a hundred and fifty small flags to make in order that every girl in the class might have one to carry to the game, besides several large ones to display in the gymnasium. The college color was blue, and 1915 had chosen white as its class color, so the numerals, 1915, were to be of white and sewed on the blue background. The flags were made of cheese-cloth and had to be cut out and hemmed and then the numerals were to be stitched on. Only a few of the girls knew how to run a sewing machine, so it took some time to get them done. But at last they were finished and the next thing was to know what to do with them, for if one of the sophs scented them out and captured them they were lost forever and the freshmen disgraced. Finally it was decided to lock them in a small trunk which belonged to Mrs. McAllister, and the trunk was to be placed in the attic and the door locked and the two keys put on a ribbon and worn round Mrs. McAllister's neck night and day. The one flag which the freshmen hoped to fly before the game was entrusted to the chairman, Florence Cummings, who sewed it on to her petticoat the day she carried it to her dormitory. All the other flags, however, were to remain in their hiding-place until the day of the game. Each dormitory had girls from both classes to act as spies and watch all proceedings and report suspicious actions to a general committee. Jean was chosen from the freshman class in Merton and found her hands full. On the day before the game, very early in the morning, it was whispered around the Hill that the sophomore flag was flying in the middle of the "Pond," as the girls called the small open reservoir, just back of the college buildings, which supplied a neighboring city with water. It did not take long for the rumors to be verified, and in a few moments nearly every girl in college had been to the "Pond" to see the small blue and orange flag floating in the water. There was much speculation as to how it could have been placed there, for the water, which was some ten feet below the surface of the ground, was held in by solid walls of masonry which seemed impossible to scale. But there was the flag, holding its head as high as any of the sophs who said nothing, but went about their recitations with a satisfied smile upon their faces which seemed to say, "You see our flag; well, get it if you can." The freshmen said nothing, but one could see disappointment on every face. The flag committee held an animated session at Mrs. McAllister's and then started out to work. Not a sign of a freshman flag all day long and apparently there was to be no attempt to remove the sophomore one, for to the casual observer that seemed impossible. There was not a boat nor a ladder, nor a rope anywhere in evidence around the "Pond," and the grumbly old watchman sat in his little box of a house at the northwest corner placidly smoking his pipe as though nothing had happened, all the while refusing to offer any suggestions to the numberless inquiries which poured in upon him. At nightfall the flag was still where it had been all day and the lofty sophs felt the victory was theirs, for the freshmen, to all appearances, had given up the attempt to capture it. There was tense excitement in all the dormitories during supper and the early hours of the evening, but it seemed to subside a little as bedtime approached. As Elizabeth and Jean turned out their lights and crept into bed, Elizabeth said, "Isn't it a shame, Jean, to be defeated at the very outset? It looks bad for the game in spite of all belief in signs. They say the even-year classes never are lucky, you know. Aren't you tired after such a strenuous day? I for one will be glad when the suspense is all over and the game is won or lost. You'll be worn to a thread if you do much more running around." "Yes, I am tired, Beth; but it's worth while working for the class. Luck does seem against us now, but don't give up yet; there's plenty of time for things to happen. Good night," and Jean turned on her pillow as though to sleep. Shortly after twelve o'clock, if one had been looking she might have seen girls hurrying from the different dormitories in the direction of Mrs. McAllister's house. On the small porch stood Edith and her mother ready to welcome the girls. "Come into the house and drink some hot coffee before we start, for it's bitter cold in spite of the fact that it's March. What time do you expect your man?" The girls were so excited that they declared they did not want the coffee, but preferred to wait on the porch for the arrival of the automobile which was to bring Mr. Doherty, professional swimmer and diver. "He promised to be here at quarter-past twelve," said Florence Cummings, "but I'm sure it's that now. What if he shouldn't come after all, and spoil our plans? I wish I'd offered him more money, but he seemed perfectly satisfied with my proposition. I think I'd almost be tempted to jump in myself if he didn't come. I don't just like the idea of an ice-cold bath, but I could do the swim all right. Are the ladder and rope here? Joe said he would bring them down after ten." "Yes," said Edith, "they're in the cellar with the lantern. Isn't it fortunate that there isn't a moon? It's dark as a pocket, so no one can see us. I can hear an automobile now. It must be the Hon. Mr. Doherty." In a moment a small roadster drew up in front of the porch and a stalwart youth alighted and approached the group. Florence Cummings greeted him with, "Good evening, is this Mr. Doherty? It's so dark I can hardly see you, but I'm Miss Cummings who interviewed you this afternoon." "Yes, Miss Cummings, it's me." "I was beginning to fear you weren't coming. You see it's very important work you have to do for us to-night and I think we'd better begin at once. Everything is ready and we will do exactly as you suggested this afternoon." "Yes, mum. I'm sorry to be late, but my auto broke down just after I was leavin' Boston and it took me some time to fix it, but I'm ready now." And then the little procession started, Mr. Doherty carrying one end of the long ladder and two of the girls helping on the other end. The other girls followed in the rear with Mrs. McAllister to chaperon them. They took a long roundabout way to avoid crossing the campus, and all waited a moment at the foot of the hill while Jean hastened up to the "Pond" to see if by any chance some of the sophs were on guard. Not a trace could she find of a girl, so she ran back to the others who anxiously awaited her. Then they all, silently and cautiously, followed her up to the spot agreed upon for the work. They had chosen the end of the reservoir farthest away from the college, and Mr. Doherty let down the long ladder until it reached the water. The heavy ropes which were tied securely around the ends of the ladder he trailed along the ground and tied firmly around the base of a tree which stood near by. Then taking off his overcoat and suit of clothes which covered his woolen bathing suit, he crept down the ladder and silently dropped into the water and swam toward the center of the reservoir. It took him some time to locate the little flag and loose it from its anchor, but finally it was done and he swam back and climbed the ladder and dropped the flag into Florence Cummings' lap. Then he drew up the ladder, untied the ropes, wrapped his fur coat around him and they hurried back to Mrs. McAllister's where the swimmer took a hot bath and a rub-down and drank what seemed to the girls gallons of coffee. Then he jumped into his automobile and was off to the city. It took the girls several moments to realize that what they had been working for so hard really had been accomplished and the coveted sophomore flag was here in their possession. "Now what shall we do with it?" said Florence Cummings. "I think the best place for it is in the trunk with the others," said Jean, and the rest agreed. Thereupon Mrs. McAllister removed the keys from her neck and Edith and Florence took two candles and went up to the attic and placed the flag with the others, after which they came downstairs for the last consultation of the flag committee. Although they had captured the sophomore flag they had not yet displayed their own, and to be effective it must be in evidence on the following morning and there remained but a few hours before sunrise. It was finally decided to fly it from the top of one of the dormitories. It would look like a tiny speck at such a height, but it would be beyond the reach of the enemy if carefully guarded until noon, when hostilities were to stop until the game itself. To make everything fair, lots were to be drawn and the girl drawing the piece of paper marked "3" was to have the honor of flying the flag from her dormitory. Mrs. McAllister cut the pieces of paper and marked them and then held them out to the girls. "Come, draw quickly, girls," and she approached Jean, who stood nearest her. Without hesitation Jean drew the paper nearest her and after one look waved the tiny white paper over her head, crying, "The die is cast! That flag shall fly from Merton or I'll die in the attempt. Come, fellow-conspirators, let us away that I may begin this bloody business," and the girls started back to the dormitories, Mrs. McAllister and Edith accompanying each one to the doors of the dormitories, where accomplices from within awaited their arrival. Anne Cockran had been chosen to guard Merton and she fairly pulled Jean into the reading-room to hear about the night's adventure. "No, not to-night, Anne, we've too much to do; we got the flag all right but now you've got to help me fly our flag from Merton. Don't ask me any questions, just do as I say and I'll tell you the rest in the morning. Get some sweaters and heavy coats and meet me at the roof-stairway as soon as you can." Each girl went silently to her room and collected as much heavy clothing as she could find and met as agreed upon at the stairway on the fifth floor which led to the flat roof above. "Now," said Jean, "I mean to go up on the roof and nail this flag to this flag-stick and tie it to the front projection of the roof where it can be seen by every one on the Row. After I have fastened it securely I shall come down to the stairs and lock the door with the key inside. I shall put these pillows and sweaters and coats on the stairs and make myself as comfortable as possible and stay there until twelve o'clock, so that our flag may be safe. When I want a little air I can go up on the roof or just keep the door open a bit. I've got plenty of crackers, so I won't starve. It's lucky to-morrow is a holiday, for I won't be cutting and no one can say I am breaking rules. It's only a few hours now till breakfast, so I must get a little sleep and you, too, Anne, or you'll be in no condition for the game. I'm all right; don't worry about me; 1915 will fly its flag, even if we are beaten at the game. We've broken one tradition and perhaps we can the others," and Jean, shut the little door, locked it and went up on the roof to execute her plans. She had a little electric light which she flashed every now and then to guide her over the flat pebbly roof until she found the corner projection. She nailed the flag to the flag-stick and tied it securely to the iron cornice. Her fingers seemed almost frozen when she finished, but her heart beat wildly as she thought that for the first time she was really doing something worth while for 1915. If she couldn't play basket-ball she could do this much, which was a victory, too, though in a smaller way. She got back to the stairway and settled down on her improvised couch, but, try as she might, sleep would not come. It seemed ages to her before the breakfast bell rang and then to satisfy her nervous hunger she munched some hard, dry crackers. She knew now that in a few moments the loss of the sophomore flag would be discovered and the freshman flag flying from Merton would enrage every Ashton sophomore and bring joy to the hearts of the freshmen. Suddenly, it seemed to grow close on the stairs and Jean opened the upper door and breathed in the cool morning air which refreshed her. One look at the flag assured her that it was safe and still waved proudly in the breeze. She gazed out over the college and admitted to herself that she was beginning to love it all, and was so glad that she was a part of it, even though only a very small, insignificant part. With the fresh air and renewed courage she went back to the stairs and waited. She heard the girls go up and down the corridors and she longed to ask them about the flag, but remained perfectly quiet. Presently she heard the sound of whispers and stealthy footsteps outside the door and then some one tried the knob. They evidently expected to find the door locked, for they shook and twisted the knob and rattled the door as if they meant to do business. She heard one girl say, "It's no use; the key's in the lock and we can do nothing unless we break the lock. Now's our only chance while the freshies are at mass meeting. Couldn't we get some tools somewhere? What do burglars generally use, anyway, when they break open locks?" "I don't know," some one answered, "but couldn't we get something sharp and a screw-driver and then unfasten the screws and take off the lock on this side and push the handle through, then perhaps we could push the key out and pry open the lock. Let's go down into the basement and see if we can beg, borrow, or steal some tools from Joe. We'll tell him we want to fix our trunks. We must hurry, though, for those freshies will be back here soon and on guard again," and they hurried down the corridor. Jean had listened to their plans with increasing fright. Suppose they did break open the lock, what could she do then? They did not suspect that she was there, and probably thought it would be smooth sailing if they could but open the door. She went up on the roof to see if by any chance she could find something to brace the door but all that presented themselves to her eyes were two brooms which some careless girl had left on the roof after sweeping her rugs, and an iron shovel which had probably been used last to shovel a path through the snow so that the maids could do their sweeping. Jean seized all three implements of warfare and hurried back again to the stairs and braced the shovel and then the brooms against the door. She knew the brooms would not do much good but she had more faith in the shovel. If the sophs were determined to get in at any costs, she would give them a hard struggle. Before long the sophomores returned and in addition to the tools, she felt sure they had brought more girls to help out. There was a scraping of a file and the turning of the screw-driver and Jean knew they were working as hard and as fast as they could. She wondered how near twelve o'clock it could be and if the mass meeting would ever be over. If they would only hurry, for in a few moments it might be too late! From the conversation outside the door the girls seemed confident that they would succeed, and were glorying in their luck. Just then Jean heard many footsteps on the stairs and a shout and as she listened she heard a tremendous shout of, "Rah, Rah, Rah, Freshmen; Rah, Rah, Rah, 1915; Rah, Rah, Rah, Jean Cabot; Rah, Rah, Rah, the flag," and she recognized Elsie Gleason's voice saying, "Unlock the door, Jean; it's twelve o'clock and we've won! We've come to thank you for what you've done. Come out where we can see you." When Jean opened the door she saw the hallway and the stairs filled with the freshmen, who sent up cheer after cheer for what she had done, but there was not a trace of a sophomore except the tools which they had dropped in their hasty flight. All Jean could say was, "Thank you, girls. I've only done what all of you would have done if you'd had the opportunity. I must go down now and get ready for the game, and I'm hungry, too. Is lunch ready?" Then the long procession turned and led Jean to her room, where it gave one mighty last cheer and then dispersed, and Jean closed the door upon them and sank down upon her couch and cried for real joy. CHAPTER XIII THE GAME The game was scheduled to begin at three o'clock, but long before that hour the great gymnasium was crowded with enthusiastic supporters of the rival teams. The sophomores and seniors with their friends filled the right side of the balcony, while the freshmen and juniors with their friends were at the left. At one end of the floor was erected a platform for the faculty, while on narrow benches on either side of the floor the teams and officials were to sit. The gymnasium had been gayly decorated with the blue and white of 1915 and the blue and orange of 1914; and huge banners were hung from the iron railing of the balcony. As Jean was on the flag committee she stood at the door and helped distribute flags to the freshmen. At last every one had been given out, and she hurried to her seat. Elizabeth and she were both fortunate enough to draw seats in the front row, not side by side, but only separated by two other freshmen, Mary Boyce and Ruth Witham. As she crowded her way down through the masses of girls she was stopped again and again to be congratulated by those who had just heard of what she had done. "Why, Jean, who would have thought it of you?" said Peggy Allison as Jean pushed by her. "It's lots better than making the team. Come down to the Inn with me after the game. I want you to meet my cousin, Miss Murray, from Radcliffe. I'm giving just a little supper for her, and it will be grand to have such a heroine as you with us." "Oh, nonsense, Peggy! I wish you wouldn't talk about it; it's nothing, but I shall be awfully glad to go down to the Inn with you. I'm starving already. You might introduce me to your cousin, though, instead of taking it for granted that we know each other." "Oh, I beg your pardon, Jean, but I'm so excited over what you've done that I have forgotten everything else. Allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Janet Murray, Radcliffe 1914. Miss Murray, allow me to introduce you to Miss Jean Cabot, Ashton 1915. There, is that perfectly proper, Jean? Don't forget to meet us after the game." "All right," said Jean, "and I'm very glad to have met you, Miss Murray," and she finally reached her seat. No sooner had she sat down than the class cheer leader arose and said, "Ready, girls; three long cheers for Jean Cabot," and the gym resounded with the three long rahs with Cabot at the end. Jean blushed a little and then began to look about her, apparently unconscious of the sensation her appearance had created. She thought she had never before seen anything as exciting as the scene the gym presented now. There were rows upon rows of girls with their bright-colored flags and streamers, their faces aglow with excitement. Most of them were sitting down, but those not fortunate enough to secure seats stood in the back rows and leaned this way and that for a better view. It did not make much difference as long as they were there. Down among the faculty there seemed to be as much enthusiasm as in the balcony, only in a more subdued manner. Jean looked at Miss Hooper to see if she wore the white carnations she had sent to her that morning, and smiled to herself as she saw her holding them in her hands and waving them every little while as she recognized a freshman or upper-class girl in the balcony. Miss Emerson had many carnations and daffodils, too, the flower that the sophomores decided best matched their class color, and she noticed that almost all the faculty wore or carried some flowers or ribbons to show their preferences. "Oh, Mary, isn't it wonderful?" said Jean, as she seized Mary Boyce's hand, "and to think I might perhaps have played with them if I had only studied harder. You better believe I'll study harder next--" but she stopped, for the door of the dressing-room opened and the girls ran out upon the floor. "Why, Jean," said Ruth Witham, "what dandy suits the girls have. Are they new?" "Yes," said Jean, "it's a surprise. The girls made them all themselves. Doesn't Anne Cockran look too sweet for anything? Isn't she little? But she surely can make baskets if she ever gets half a chance." Just then the freshmen broke into a round of cheers for the team and every member on it, and in turn the sophomores gave their cheers. The two teams practised a few minutes at both goals and promptly at three o'clock Miss Matthews blew her whistle and the girls lined up ready for play. "Ready, sophs?" and Sallie Lawrence replied, "All ready." "Ready, freshmen?" and Bess Johnson replied, "All ready." The ball was tossed into the air, the whistle blown and the game was on. "Good," said Jean; "they're off; keep your eye on Bess Johnson. Isn't she tall? She ought to be able to put the ball right into the basket by just reaching up her hands," and as she said this, Bess Johnson, the freshman captain, with her superior reach touched the ball first and sent it spinning toward the sophomore goal. Anne Cockran, freshman forward, rushed in pursuit of the ball, but missed it and a sophomore guard captured it and passing it quickly to the center who, eluding her long-armed opponent, continued its course toward the freshman goal by sending it into the arms of a waiting forward. Before she could be covered, she tossed it up to the basket where for a moment it poised upon the edge and then rolled in. A goal in less than two minutes of play! A deafening shout arose from the sophs, and not to be outdone the freshmen followed suit, although Jean declared to the girls around her that she didn't see anything to cheer for. "To keep up their courage," said Elizabeth. "Don't be discouraged, Jean; they've only begun playing." "That's all right, Beth, but I'm superstitious about some things, and I firmly believe that the side which gets the first basket always wins the game." "Who told you that?" asked Ruth Witham. "Nobody," replied Jean, "but I believe it, and you see how it works out to-night." Although the sophomores had got a basket so easily during the first minutes, it was not so easy getting another. The freshmen did not intend to allow them to continue gaining points, and settled down to good steady playing. Both sides were pretty evenly matched, and their passing and guarding were excellent. The sophomore team was a little heavier than the freshman one, and perhaps lacked a little of the agility of the lighter girls. The ball went back and forth over the floor with an occasional attempt at a basket, until suddenly Anne Cockran got the ball in her possession and turning quickly to measure the distance to the basket, slipped and fell to the floor and for a moment lay there perfectly still. "Time!" shouted Bess Johnson, the freshman captain, and Miss Matthews blew her whistle. After the college doctor examined Anne carefully he found that she had twisted her ankle, and of course could not play the rest of the game. Very reluctantly Anne left the floor amid a deafening cheer, and if one had been in the gallery she might have heard many a freshman murmur to her neighbor, "Oh, isn't it a shame! And she's our best player. We've lost now, surely." After the doctor had bound up Anne's ankle and wrapped her in a big bath-robe, he carried her out to the players' bench, where she was to watch the rest of the game, even if it broke her heart not to be out on the floor playing. Bess Johnson called for "Phil" Woodworth to take Anne's place, and the game was on again. Quickly the ball was put into play and there was such rapid passing and clever blocking on the part of each team that one seemed to have little advantage over the other. The playing grew more furious, and several times the referee had to interfere in order to put the ball back into play. Finally, in one of these scrimmages almost under the sophomore goal, the ball rolled out from under the feet of two struggling contestants straight toward Phil Woodworth. Unguarded for the moment, she sprang quickly forward, seized the ball and, in her slow, hesitant manner aimed at the basket. The ball dropped into the basket, but not a second too soon, for at that very moment the timer's whistle blew for the end of the first half. There was a tense silence for a moment, followed by tumultuous cheers by the freshmen as they realized that the work of the substitute had tied the score. "Oh, I'm so excited I can't sit here another second!" said Jean. "Let's stand up a little while; my foot's asleep, I've kept it so long in one position. I'd like to walk a little, but there's such a crowd I never can get through it." "Better not try, Jean," said Ruth, "there isn't time, anyway, and it's fine to watch the crowd. Wasn't that splendid for Phil Woodworth? After all, it does count to be a substitute. Her room-mate, Grace Littlefield, told me just to-day that when the regular team was chosen and Phil didn't make it she was so disappointed that she declared she'd never play basket-ball again, and it took a lot of coaxing on the part of the girls to get her to promise she'd be sub. Why, I'd give everything I possess in the world to be down there playing, even as one of the subs! Poor Anne! How do you suppose she feels?" "Pretty sore, Ruth, and of course awfully disappointed, but she'll get her numerals all right, won't she? She certainly deserves them," said Mary Boyce. "Oh, girls, look!" said Jean. "There's Miss Emerson and Miss Thurston going over to speak to Anne. My! isn't that an honor! Think of Miss Thurston condescending to console an insignificant freshman! Actually, she is the coldest, most unsympathetic individual I ever ran up against." "Yes," said Elizabeth, "and she's just in the act of giving her some flowers one of her fond admirers sent her, and Miss Emerson is sharing her carnations, too. Doesn't she look dear in that new gray dress? I think she's the sweetest college president that ever lived, and I wish I could do something to have her give me even one little carnation, to say nothing of a whole bunch of them. Doesn't a game like this just make you want to do things for old Ashton? I'll be a loyal supporter even if I can do nothing more." "Oh, you'll do something, my fair Elizabeth," said Jean, "and before very long, too. How much more time is there? I wish they'd begin. I want somebody to do something. I hate a tie score." "Here come the girls," said Mary, as the girls took their positions and the whistle sounded; "now for some good fast playing." With the changing of the goals, the tactics of the sophomore team seemed to change, and their superior weight and greater experience began to break down the freshman defense. They had quickly scored two goals to the freshmen's one and added another point, when an excited freshman, through too strenuous holding, committed a foul. "Why don't they play more carefully?" said Jean. "They're just throwing the game away." And as if to add strength to her remark, the referee at that moment declared another foul and another point was added to the sophomore total. "Oh, I don't want to see the rest of the game," wailed Jean. "I can't see the sophs beat us so badly. Why can't our girls do something?" At the toss-off which followed, Bess Johnson gave a signal with her left hand and instead of sending the ball towards the sophomore goal she tossed it back into the hands of one of the guards, who, in obedience to the signal, had rushed forward. Catching the ball before it had touched the floor, she threw it accurately to a waiting forward who, before the bewildered sophomores had recovered from this unusual strategy, threw the ball into the basket. The score was now 8-4 in favor of the sophs. Encouraged by the success of this play, the freshmen redoubled their efforts, but to little purpose, as they were already beginning to show the effects of their strenuous play, so that except for one point added to their score by a sophomore foul they could do little more than successfully defend their goal. The game was rapidly drawing to a close when the ball going out of bounds was awarded to Bess Johnson to throw in. Closely guarded by the waving arms of her opponent, she glanced quickly over the floor and at that moment saw the agile form of Louise Harrison as, eluding her opponent, she rushed down with arms outstretched to catch the ball. With quick movement she threw it over the shoulder of her antagonist toward the rapidly moving figure, who, though going at full speed, caught it fairly. But she had not a moment to consider passing it to another nearer the goal, as two sophs rushed towards her. The basket seemed very far away indeed, but with quick concentration and taut muscles she threw with all her might. It seemed an interminable moment as the ball soared through the air, but at last with a little spiral drop it settled into the waiting net. [Illustration: WITH A QUICK MOVEMENT SHE THREW IT OVER THE SHOULDER OF HER ANTAGONIST.--_Page 258_.] Time was up, and the sophomores had won, but by the scantest of margins, the final score being 8-7 in their favor. It took a moment or two for the freshmen to recover from their defeat, and then they cheered as lustily for the sophs as though it had been their own victory. Then there was a wild rush for the gymnasium floor and the balcony was emptied of all its occupants. The sophs formed a procession, and some of the strongest girls carried their captain, Sallie Lawrence, off the floor amid shouts and cheers, and the freshmen, not to be outdone, seized Bess Johnson and followed suit. When the teams came out of the dressing-rooms again the sophs sent up a mighty shout. "The freshman flags, the freshman flags, we want the freshman flags!" As they shouted, each girl seized the hand of the one nearest her and they formed a circle round the gymnasium. When they dissolved the circle some of the cheer-leaders erected from convenient apparatus what most closely resembled a funeral pile in the center of the floor, and then called for the freshmen to form a line. Sallie Lawrence hastened to the piano and struck up the Funeral March and the freshmen slowly approached the pile and each girl dropped her flag and passed on out of the building. "Well, I don't care a bit," said Jean to an animated group of freshmen outside the gymnasium. "If they did win it was only by one point, and our girls really did some wonderful playing. Why, that shot of Bess Johnson's was worth the whole game. Isn't she a star?" Then looking around her she whispered, "Now to get ready for our banquet; if we can only succeed in that we won't mind losing the game." CHAPTER XIV THE BANQUET The freshman banquet was always held as soon after the game as possible in the hotel of some neighboring town, easy of access but out of the reach of the sophs. It took a great deal of clever planning to escape their vigilant watch, and many a time freshman classes never succeeded in gathering at this festive occasion, but 1915 was a very energetic class and determined at any cost to outwit their rivals. They agreed among themselves that the banquet should be held the following Monday evening at Langley Inn, Southtown, about twelve miles from Ashton, and the girls were to assemble there before six o'clock. No two girls were to be seen leaving the Hill at the same time, and they could take the train, the electric cars or walk to near-by towns and leave from there. Miss Hooper and Miss Moulton of the faculty were to chaperon them and bring them back to college when the celebration was over. A little after six o'clock on the evening agreed upon, Lois Underwood, chairman of the banquet committee, walked through the reception-rooms of the Langley Inn to assemble the girls into the dining-room. "Are we all here, girls? I'll call the roll first and let every girl reply, 'Here,' as her name is called." It did not take long to discover that Bess Johnson, basket-ball captain and star of the recent game, Edith McCausland, class president, and Jean Cabot, heroine of the flag-raising, were the only ones missing. "Who knows anything about these girls?" asked Lois, anxiously. Instead of an individual answer, there was a universal shout of "The sophs! They've captured them." "Well," said Lois, "perhaps we had better wait a few moments before we begin to eat, for they may only have been delayed. If any thing has happened to them we shall be terribly disappointed, but as so many of us are here we will carry out our original plans, and hope for the best about the missing ones." Just then one of the maids entered the reception-room. "Is Miss Lois Underwood here? She is wanted at the telephone in the office." "Oh, probably it's from one of the girls. I'll be right back in a minute and tell you what has happened." But when she returned, her face did not look as though she were pleased with the message she had received. "It was Jean Cabot telephoning, but all she said was, 'I sha'n't be at the banquet to-night.' Probably one of those horrid sophs has her imprisoned, and made her telephone that without any explanation, so it would be all the harder to bear." "Are you sure it was Jean talking?" asked Elizabeth Fairfax. "Perhaps a soph did it to deceive us." "No; I recognized Jean's voice all right, in spite of the tone of anger. I call it mighty hard luck, for Jean was to reply to the toast, 'How I Raised the 1915 Flag.' Of course it's an old story with most of you now, but none of us will ever get tired of hearing Jean tell it in that inimitable style of hers." Again a maid summoned Lois to the telephone, and she returned again with a downcast face. "It's Edith McCausland this time and all she said was, 'Don't expect me at the banquet to-night,' and before I could ask her the reason she had hung up the receiver." "And are you sure it was Edith talking this time?" asked another doubting freshman. "Yes, quite sure, for no one could mistake her deep-toned voice. Another of our speech-makers gone. Well, all I've got to say is that some of the rest of you will have to speak impromptu, for we must have toasts even if the sophs have stolen our famous after-dinner speakers." As the maid appeared smiling a third time at the door Lois said, "You needn't tell me I'm wanted at the telephone again, for I know it's Bess Johnson this time to give me the same old message. I'm not going to answer, for it's only giving more satisfaction to the sophs, and they can keep ringing all night if they want to, but I'll not answer them. Tell them Miss Underwood is too busy to answer the telephone. Come, girls, let us go into the dining-room. Take any seat you wish; we won't try to find our place cards, for we haven't any. Let's sing our class song as we march in. Nell Butler, will you please go to the piano and play for us?" Obliging Nell, who always was called upon to furnish music at all the freshman doings, hurried to the piano and struck the opening chords of the class song, and then the girls broke into song and marched double-file into the long dining-room. There were two large tables and one smaller one intended for the speakers and guests of honor. Lois showed Miss Hooper and Miss Moulton to their seats and then called out, "Anne Cockran, Phil Woodworth, Mary Williamson, Stell Leavitt, Clara Hawkins, Vera Montgomery, Gertrude Hollis, this way, please," and when they sat down there were still the three empty seats which were to have been occupied by the missing girls. "We want these seats filled, too," said Lois. "Betty Horton, you come over here, for you'll have to sing for us; and, Florence Cummings, here's a seat for you; prepare to tell us how you made the glorious 1915 flags we've lost forever; and, Eleanor Whitcomb, join the other celebrities; because of your sophomore room-mate you can talk on, 'What I Know about the Sophomores, after Rooming with One for Seven Months.' There, that looks better to have the table full. Ladies, be seated," and at the signal every girl sat down and seizing her knife rapped three times on the table with it, as they sang out, "Rah, rah, rah; rah, rah, rah; rah, rah, rah, the freshmen." Then they began to eat, and quantities of good things rapidly disappeared. One would almost have wondered how they could eat so much, for it sounded as though each girl was keeping up a continual conversation with her neighbor, and every one admits it is somewhat difficult to eat and talk at the same time, but a college girl can do almost everything and perhaps did not find this difficult. Anyway, they continued to eat until about eight o'clock and then Lois called on Miss Hooper to respond to the toast, "The Freshman as Seen by the Faculty." Miss Hooper, in spite of her predilection for mathematics, had a keen sense of humor and kept the girls in gales of laughter as she summoned up the funny mistakes of freshmen she had known, without making her remarks at all personal. The girls clapped and clapped when she finished, and many a one was glad to see this side of their mathematics instructor which was entirely lacking in class-room. "Now," said Lois, "we'll hear from Anne Cockran on 'How I Enjoy Being an Invalid.'" Anne couldn't stand up, and so leaned against her chair and very briefly but brightly gave her views of the game after she had been obliged to sit on the benches and watch the others. One girl after another was called upon and all sounded the praises of 1915 and told what it had to be thankful for, even if the game had been lost. They sang between the speeches, and with so much cheering and singing many began to get hoarse. Just after Eleanor Whitcomb had sent the girls into gales of laughter over her humorous description of the sophs as judged by her room-mate, the door from the hallway opened to admit the proprietor, who ushered in Mlle. Franchant and the three missing freshmen. Instantly every girl arose and cheered and cheered in spite of tired throats. Room was made at the center table and the four late arrivals were given the places of honor. "Everything's eaten," said Lois Underwood, "except what you see on the tables, but help yourselves freely to that. Only don't eat too long, for we're crazy to hear what happened to you and how you succeeded in finally getting here. Elizabeth Johnson, you're next on the programme; please give us an account of yourself." Bess arose and slipped off her long black cloak, revealing a somewhat soiled and torn shirt-waist. "You see, girls, I'm not dressed just exactly right for a banquet, but take me as you find me and you'll understand everything when I've finished. "We're here at last, although we never expected to be and it's been rather difficult getting here. Some way or other the sophs found out that we were to have the banquet to-night and they suspected we three girls would speak. They evidently decided it was too late to break up the banquet entirely, but the next best thing seemed to be to kidnap us and keep us locked up until it was too late to think of leaving the Hill. I left Wellington about three o'clock and walked down back of the dormitory, intending to take the electrics over at Canton Corners for Boston and then take the train at the South Station. "Before I had gone very far Elsie Atherton overtook me and asked me where I was going. Not daring to say 'in town,' I told her I was going for a little walk, for I hoped she would leave me at the Corners, and then I could walk farther down the street to take the car. But she replied that she was out walking, too, and suggested that I go down to her aunt's on Oliver Street for a few moments, as she had an errand to do there. I knew I had several hours ahead of me and that it would be less suspicious if I went with her than if I refused and boarded a car. I consented, and we soon reached her aunt's house. A maid let us in and said that Mrs. Wolcott was upstairs and wished us to go to her room. I followed Elsie up the stairs and we entered what I supposed was Mrs. Wolcott's room. Instead of meeting Mrs. Wolcott, a masked figure approached me and before I could realize what was happening I was seized by several other masked figures and blindfolded. Then I was commanded to sit down and my hands and feet were bound securely to the chair. Some one whispered in my ear, 'Now get to Langley Inn if you can,' and they left the room and locked the door behind them. "How long I sat there I do not know, but I twisted and turned and tried every way to free myself, but it was no use. In course of time the door was unlocked and some one else was brought in and bound to a chair as I had been, and I heard again the whisper, 'Now get to Langley Inn in time for your banquet if you can.' And then the door was locked. It did not take me long to discover that my companion in misery was Jean Cabot, and we were comparing our experiences and trying to plan our escape when the door opened again and a third victim was brought in, securely fastened as we had been, and given the same suggestion that had been given to us. "For the third time the door was closed and locked and we were left to darkness and ourselves. It took only a moment to discover that the new arrival was Edith McCausland, but before she could tell us of her experiences we heard the key in the lock and we waited for the fourth victim. The electric light was turned on and we heard one of the girls, who we afterward decided was Sallie Lawrence, take down the telephone receiver and call up 'The Langley Inn.' When the line was connected we were each forced to say that we would not be at the banquet. No one answered my call, so I concluded Lois had begun to suspect foul play and would have nothing more to do with it. After the telephoning was over we were warned not to try to escape, for it would be impossible, and if we were quiet and submissive we would be released before ten o'clock. We said nothing and were soon left to ourselves again. "We decided to make every effort to free ourselves, and after much straining and striving, Edith McCausland got one hand free. She had her old clothes on and in her shirt-waist pocket was a penknife which she had used that afternoon in the lab. With this she finally managed to cut the ropes from her other hand and then from her feet and she was free. Although it was pitch dark she succeeded in freeing Jean and me, and we breathed freely again and felt that half the battle was won. We did not dare to turn on the lights for fear the girls would see us, for we suspected they might be somewhere within sight of the room or perhaps in the very house itself. We groped around until we found the windows and as quietly as possible opened them. Jean discovered that the window she had opened was not far above the ground, and better still, had a stout trellis which reached to the very sill. She decided to try to crawl down it, for even if it would not hold her weight the distance to fall would not be very great and she was willing to risk it. Once out of the house the way would be clear. "Very slowly and cautiously she stepped down upon the trellis, which proved perfectly capable of holding her weight, and in a moment she was on the ground. We followed suit, and in my haste to be out I forgot to close the window and I'm wondering now if the cold air from the window has chilled the whole house. Anyway, I didn't go back to close it. We crept back of the house without saying a word and walked fully five minutes before we stopped to get our bearings and hold a consultation. Edith knew where we were and told us that a short cut would take us up back of Faculty Row. If we could only get one of the faculty to chaperon us we could telephone for an automobile and get out to the banquet before it was too late. We knew Miss Hooper and Miss Moulton were out here, so we determined to ask Mlle. Franchant to go with us, knowing her fondness for the freshmen. We stumbled through backyards and over fences and finally reached Mlle. Franchant's house. We told her our story and persuaded her to chaperon us out here. We telephoned for an automobile and here we are at last, a little the worse for wear, perhaps, but loyal members of 1915," and she sat down amid vigorous clapping and shouts of "Bravo!" Lois then called upon Edith McCausland to tell the story of her capture. "My story is very similar to Elizabeth's," she said, "except the first part. I had an afternoon lecture and when I came out of College Hall and was on my way to West, Helen Humphrey overtook me and asked me if I would like a short automobile ride. You know she rooms next to me and we've always been very good friends. Her aunt had offered her machine to her that afternoon and it would be at West in about fifteen minutes. I pleaded an engagement, but she urged so hard I thought I might go for an hour or so and then take a late train in town. After we had ridden until it was almost dark, Helen suggested that we stop for a moment at her aunt's house. I was on pins and needles, for I knew I must hurry or I'd never make the train. Still, it seemed the only polite thing to stop a moment and thank her aunt for the ride. "When we rang the bell we were admitted by a maid, who sent us upstairs. The rest of the story you know, for Bess has told you. It's been the most exciting experience I've ever had, but now that we're here and have fooled those horrid sophs, I don't mind the rest. But there's one consolation, girls, we'll be sophs ourselves next year and we ought to take all this in the right spirit, as no real harm has been done by our enemies," and Edith sat down as though she were very, very tired. The girls were impartial in their applause and gave Edith her full share and then Jean was called upon for her story. "I had planned," she began, "to leave Merton very early after dinner and spend the afternoon in town with my cousin at the hospital where she is training. After I had dressed and was just about to start, Gertrude Vinton came in to talk a little while, and when she discovered where I was going she decided to go in town with me, for, strange to relate, she has a friend training at the Massachusetts General, too, who knows Cousin Nan very well. She suggested that we visit the girls and then have lunch up town and go back to Ashton together. I tried to think of various excuses, but couldn't persuade her to change her mind. So there was nothing to do but for us to go in town together, and I made up my mind that I could lose her after we reached the hospital. "But she stuck to me closer than a brother and insisted that we see both girls at the same time if possible. When we arrived at the hospital we found her friend was on duty, so we both had one hour with Nan. We would have stayed longer, but Nan was obliged to report at four o'clock for ward work. Just as we were discussing where to go for lunch, Gertrude began to feel sick and declared she should faint if she couldn't lie down immediately. Nan took us into one of the little waiting-rooms and brought water and restoratives to revive her, and although she did not faint she declared she was in great pain and must get back to college as quickly as possible. She said she was subject to terrible attacks of indigestion, so she wanted to be in her own room in East rather than in a hospital in town. Nothing would do but I must go out to college with her. On the train she said almost nothing, but curled up in the seat as though she were suffering intensely. I pitied her and tried to make her as comfortable as possible, although inwardly I was raging because I was not on my way to our banquet. "When we reached the station, Gertrude said she felt better and thought she could walk to East if we went slowly, and I helped her. Strange to relate, we met no one on the Row or in the dormitory. Gertrude rooms alone on the first floor, and so we were soon in her room. She lay down on her couch a few moments and then asked me if I would go down to the other end of the corridor and ask Ethel Fullman to come in and help her. Of course Ethel Fullman is a soph, but not a particle of suspicion entered my innocent little head and I walked into her room as big as life to tell her how sick Gertrude was and how much she wanted her to go up to her room to help her. As I entered her room I found myself in the midst of five sophs and before I could tell my story they had seized me and blindfolded me and covered my mouth so I could make no outcry. I tried my best to break away, but they were too many for me, and I soon gave it up as useless. Some one put a long cloak over me and I was led for what seemed miles and miles. Finally we stopped, and were admitted to the house which the other girls have described to you. There's no need of my saying more, except that I think Mlle. Franchant was a jewel to come out here with us, and I move that we all rise and show her how much we appreciate what she has done." Every girl jumped to her feet and the walls echoed and reëchoed with the cheers for the popular French instructor. After the speeches of the three heroines of the evening other speeches seemed out of the question and Lois suggested that the rest of the time be devoted to dancing and singing. At ten o'clock they left the hotel and took the train for Boston, and, after crossing the city they boarded the last train for Ashton. It was a very quiet lot of freshmen that crossed the campus and entered the various dormitories, for they were very tired, but they felt a certain exaltation. Although they had been defeated in the basket-ball game, they felt that they had shown their superiority over the sophs in the other two events. When Jean and Elizabeth finally reached their room, Elizabeth said, "You must be dead tired, Jean, with all you've been through. I can hardly move, myself, and I've done nothing all these exciting days but just look on. What a heroine you are, Jean. You're getting to be one of the most popular girls in 1915." "Not at all, Elizabeth, and if I were, perhaps it's not the only kind of popularity I want. 'Some men are born great, others achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.' You know the quotation; well, perhaps it's true in my case." "Which one, Jean?" "Oh, there ought not to be a question in your mind. Good night. Please don't waken me in the morning. I'm going to take one of my seven remaining cuts," and she went to sleep with her head full of banquets and kidnapings and flag-raisings and basket-ball games. CHAPTER XV MR. CABOT'S VISIT All college days are not as exciting and as full of the unusual as those centering around the freshman-sophomore basket-ball game. It took but a little while to settle down to the regular routine of recitations and hard study. This was the time to do the best work of the year, for June was not far off, and that meant hot nights and hotter days when studying, except for an occasional examination, seemed out of the question. This does not mean that the girls did nothing else but study during the spring term, but it was what they concentrated most of their energy upon. Jean was studying hard, particularly upon her French, for she had not forgotten her promise to Richard Fairfax and to herself. Some days it was harder than others, and she wondered if, after all, it was worth while if her college education was to end in June. On one of these days when the morrow's assignments seemed harder than usual and she was just a little discouraged about ever getting them, she decided to go down to the post office for the afternoon mail which came in at four o'clock, not that she expected a letter particularly, but she needed the exercise and change of air. There were plenty of girls she might have asked to accompany her, but to-day she wanted to be alone. She apparently was not in much of a hurry, for she went out of her way and circled around the laboratories before starting in the direction of the post office. Leisurely she entered the office and gazed into her box and there indeed was a letter. But when she found it was from her father that changed matters entirely. She could not wait until she reached home to read it, but she sat right down in the office on the edge of the window sill and tore open the envelope and began reading the letter. It was very brief, but told her that unexpected business called him to the East and he was starting as soon as possible and would wire her when he reached Boston. Her joy knew no bounds; her father actually coming to see her and perhaps already on his way. Oh, how glad she would be to see him, and then she said aloud, "He will take me back home with him; I can't stay here and see him go back alone. Two months more here aren't worth it. I shall miss the girls and the good times and Tom's graduation, but they're nothing in comparison with father and California and the boys. Yes; I shall persuade him to take me back. I know I can do it. He can't refuse me when he sees how badly I want to go," and she hurried back to Merton to tell Elizabeth and the others the good news. As she ran up the corridor to her room, she saw Miss Hooper just turning away from the door. "Oh," gasped Jean, "isn't Elizabeth at home? I left her in the room when I went down for the mail. I'm sorry neither of us were here to receive you. Won't you come in now with me?" "Yes, Miss Cabot, I shall be delighted to, for although I came to see you both I wanted particularly to talk with you. Perhaps Miss Fairfax will return before long." Jean opened the door and led her to the most comfortable chair by the window. The conversation was general for a while and then Jean could not keep her secret any longer. "Oh, Miss Hooper, I've just received a letter from my father and he's coming East on business and will be in Boston in a few days to see me. I'm so excited I can hardly wait to see him. Just think! It's a long time from September to April." "How splendid!" said Miss Hooper. "Of course you are very anxious to see him, and no doubt he is as anxious to see you. How very _à propos_, too; I came to talk to you about something particular which you may care to talk over with your father, so I'll tell you now without waiting any longer. I came to ask you if you would like to spend the summer abroad with me and perhaps one or two of the girls. I generally plan to go over every two or three years and have decided to go this year. I knew you liked to travel and could afford to do so, and hoped you would like to go with me. We need not join any excursion party, but take things leisurely and go where our inclination leads us. I have always wanted to spend a summer in the British Isles, but have never had the opportunity before. If we started the last of June, right after commencement, we should have almost three months, for college does not open until late next fall. You wouldn't mind giving up going home for one summer vacation when there are three more to come, and especially if your father is coming to see you now. What do you think of the idea?" For a moment Jean could not speak and then she burst out, "Why, Miss Hooper, I wouldn't give up going home to California for anything in the world! Why, do you know, ever since I got father's letter I have been thinking of only one thing, and that was to beg him to take me home with him when he goes. You know, I've never intended to stay here more than one year, and so I can't see what difference it makes whether I go back home now or in June. And how can you want me to go abroad with you? I'm not the kind of girl you'd like to travel with; I've never been half decent to you since I came. I've tried to, sometimes, but I never can forget how foolishly I acted at the very beginning of the year when I left your mathematics class. If there's ever been one thing which has made me want to return to college another year, it was to apologize to you and take mathematics I over again with some credit to myself and to you. I have been ashamed of myself whenever I have allowed myself to think of it, and I now humbly offer you my apology." "And I accept it, Jean. May I call you Jean? I felt very bad when I discovered you had left the class and several times I was tempted to ask you the reason, but I thought sometime it would come out all right and you would tell me about it. From the very first I've wanted your friendship and your confidence and I have tried many times to gain it. I felt there was a reason for your attitude towards me and that sometime you would tell me what it was. Will you tell me now?" "There is not much to tell, Miss Hooper, but what there is you shall hear now. The first day of the mathematics class you may remember that I was late, and when I entered your room you spoke to me, as you had a perfect right to do, about my tardiness, and reminded me that the class began at nine o'clock and not several minutes after. Then you called on me for the Binomial Theorem, and because I could not remember it you called upon the next girl and after she recited correctly you, indirectly perhaps, blamed me because I did not know it. I am extremely sensitive, I admit, and was keenly hurt because I thought you had criticized me too harshly before the entire class. I realized that my foundation in mathematics was very poor, and I feared my work would be an utter failure, particularly as I had begun in such a way. I acted upon the impulse of the moment and got permission to drop the subject and substitute psychology in its place. Many a time I have regretted it, but it is done and I have been the one to suffer the penalty. It is a very poor explanation, Miss Hooper, but such as it is, I hope you will accept it." "Yes, Jean, and I see how much to blame I was, too. My greatest weakness has always been my sarcastic tongue, which I can never quite seem to control, try as I will, and I fear I have caused many another girl unhappiness through my thoughtlessness. I feel that I am as much to blame as you and I offer you my apology. Will you accept it?" "Yes, indeed, Miss Hooper." "And now, Jean, that we are talking along this line may I speak a little about your college course? I have been interested in you from the start, and I have followed your work in all the departments very carefully. I know how badly you got behind the first three months and the warnings you received. I know the fresh start you took and the steady progress you have made ever since, and the splendid all-around freshman you are showing yourself to be. I do not want it to stop there. I want you to come back to Ashton for another year, anyway, and, if possible, for the whole four years. You have an influence with the girls; you're a born leader and can accomplish great things or small things as you choose. I think you prefer the great things and it will take longer than this short year to accomplish them. I am not thinking of your taking my particular course, as you have said you wish to do, that in itself is a little thing, but it is the principle of the thing, for if you conquer that you will conquer the bigger obstacles that must beset your path. Education is not a four years' college course; it is life, and there are always going to be mathematic courses, which, though unpleasant, must be taken up and finished, and the way you meet them then depends upon the start you make now. "I realize that home means a great deal to you, and so it does to all of us while we have it, and the memories of it last us long after we have lost it, but it will mean all the more to you later on. I know what I am telling you, Jean, for I've lived and learned myself. I'm begging you with all my heart and soul to come back to us and be the fine, splendid woman your father and brothers expect you to become. Perhaps I've said more than I should, but I'm so anxious for you, Jean." "No, Miss Hooper, it's been splendid to hear you talk like this; it's as my mother would have talked; it's what I've needed all these years. I've always done pretty much as I wanted to, without considering any one but myself. You're right, I ought to come back and do what father and my brothers want me to do and what you want me to do and what I want to do myself. Yes, I admit it to you now; I've struggled against it all the year. Every time I've said I wasn't coming back I knew it wasn't right. Something in me always said, 'You are coming back; you know you are,' but I wouldn't listen and tried to deceive myself and everybody else, but I can't any longer. I'm coming back and take Mathematics I. and French, too, if I fail at June, and I'm going to work with all that's in me for dear old Ashton College. "Oh, thank you, Miss Hooper, for coming just when you did, for I think if I had seen father first it would have been harder for me to decide the right way. And now that I feel so differently about coming back, perhaps I shall change my mind about the summer vacation. You quite took my breath away by asking me to go with you. I couldn't believe that you would want to travel with any one as silly as I have continually shown myself to be. You said perhaps there would be one or two other girls. Have you asked any one else?" "No, Jean, because I wanted to find out first how you felt about it, and if you cared to go I wanted you to suggest others that you would like to have with us. Do you know of any one?" "Yes, I know of one whom I should prefer above all others and who would enjoy it more than all others, but I'm not going to tell you who it is just now, if you don't mind. I've got to think it all over, and after father has come and we have had a good talk together, I'm going to take him to your room, if I may, and tell you my decision. I'm very favorably inclined, though, at the present moment." "I agree with you that it would be best to leave it until your father comes and you can talk it over with him. I shall be very glad to have you bring him to see me as often as you care to while he is here. This has been a splendid afternoon, Jean, and I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart and I hope it is the beginning of many others." "I think you are the one to be thanked, Miss Hooper, and not I." "Well, perhaps we both can accept the other's thanks if we feel that we need to, and now I must hurry on or I shall be late for supper and that is a very poor example for a matron to set her girls. Come and see me often. Good-by for to-day," and she hurried down the corridor, leaving Jean smiling at the door. About a week after this conversation took place a telegram came informing Jean that her father would arrive in Boston on the next day, Wednesday, and she was to meet him at the train. It was a very happy and excited girl who watched the New York express empty its passengers at the South Station, and she was beginning to fear he had been delayed somewhere along the way, for at first she could not find him in the hustling crowd. But after a while, away down the platform, she caught sight of him waving his hat as he saw her up beside the gate. It was a joyful meeting, and how their tongues did fly! Mr. Cabot had been to New Haven to see Tom and Jean insisted upon hearing all about that. They sat down in the big waiting-room and talked and talked and looked at each other to be sure it was really they. "I can't believe you're really here, Daddy; it seems as though I were dreaming. Just pinch me and see if I am asleep or awake." A hearty pinch assured Jean that she was awake, but she exclaimed, "Oh, but it's good to have you here with me!" "Let me look at you, Jeannie dear; you're changed somehow. You look the same and still there's something in your face I've never seen there before. What is it?" "Nothing, Father, that I know of. I'm just glad I'm alive and you're with me, that's all. How long can you stay with me? I want to know, for there are so many things I want you to do and see." "I must go back to New York to-morrow night, Jean, for I have an appointment there the following day. How would you like to go back with me, girlie?" "Do you mean New York, Father, or California?" "Well, when I spoke I meant New York, but how about California?" "I should like to go to New York all right, but not to California. I did want to go badly only last week, but it's all over now and I've changed my mind and I want to stay at college the rest of the year and the other three years, too. And I've something to ask you, Dad, about this summer." And then she told him about Miss Hooper's plans for the trip abroad, and they got so interested in it that they forgot entirely where they were and what time it was. "Why, Father," exclaimed Jean, "here we're wasting perfectly good time sitting in an old railroad station when we might be up town or out at college! Look at the clock; we've been sitting here over two hours. Why, we won't get any supper if we don't hurry. You can stay with me at Merton for supper, and then I've engaged a room for you at the Inn for the rest of the time. I had hoped you would stay over Sunday, anyway. Just think of all the things I want to show you! When can I do it all?" "If there isn't time this trip we'll have to do what we can and leave the rest till next winter, for if you're going away from us all summer I'll surely have to find a business call east again soon after you return. Perhaps we had better start now." There followed a busy twenty-four hours for Jean and her father. He insisted upon meeting all the girls Jean had written him about and he talked with them about the events of the year, for he was perfectly familiar with them through Jean's long, breezy, confidential letters which reached him every Friday regularly. He was introduced to Mrs. Thompson and some of the faculty; he was shown the college buildings, the rare volumes and art treasures in the library, but he wanted most to see the corridor where Elizabeth had fallen asleep. He considered that second only in interest to the roof-stairs where Jean had guarded the flag. He visited the "Pond," and Mrs. McAllister's house, and the society rooms and every other place Jean could find time to take him. She had promised Miss Hooper that her father and she would have afternoon tea with her at four o'clock and she proudly ushered him into the tiny reception-room at Wellington, which was for Miss Hooper's private use. They talked about everything in general and Miss Hooper carefully avoided all mention of the European trip until Mr. Cabot said, "I think we ought not to stay much longer, Jean, for you know I must take the 6.17 train for Boston, so hadn't we better tell Miss Hooper what we have decided about Europe?" "Yes, Father, but suppose you tell her." "All right, dear; I'm very glad to do so. I'm very grateful to you, Miss Hooper, for the great interest you seem to have taken in my motherless little girl. She's a good girl, though, and I don't blame any one for taking an interest in her. If she wants to go to Europe with you for the summer, I tell her she can go, although we'll miss her terribly out home. She's the light of our house, you know, and it's going to be pretty lonesome without her, but I want her to see the world and make the most of herself, for nothing but the best will suit us. We're pretty particular, that's why we sent her east, and we want her to stay till you've given her all you've got to give and she feels she's learned enough to come back to California and take care of us. She said you wanted some one else to go with you and she does, too, and when I asked her who it was to be, it didn't take long for her to say 'Elizabeth Fairfax.' So I'm going to send her along with Jean, and I want you to do the same for both of them. Give them whatever you think is best for them and plenty of it. Jean doesn't want Elizabeth to know anything about it yet, for she's planning a surprise, but I'm telling you now so that you can go ahead with your plans and be ready to start the day after Tom's commencement. He's counting on having Jean there that day, for she's got to represent the family, so I shouldn't want to disappoint him; but after June twentieth, the sooner the better. Wish I could go with you, but I can't leave the business this year. "Just one more cup of tea, thank you, and we'll be going. This is the best tea I've had since I can remember. Have you learned how to make it, Jean?" "Yes, Father, I can make tea, but not like Miss Hooper's. Every one says she makes the best tea in college. Now we must go," and after a rather protracted leave-taking they almost ran for the train. As Miss Hooper was washing her tea-dishes and putting them away, she hummed a little song to herself and said, "No wonder Jean Cabot is such a splendid girl. How can she help it with such a father?" And as Jean and her father hastened to the little station, Mr. Cabot said to Jean, "Mighty fine woman, that Miss Hooper, mighty fine woman. Almost makes me want to study mathematics myself." In a few moments he was on the train, waving good-by to Jean, and if she had not had this great new happiness in her heart it would have been very hard to let him go back home without her, but she smiled bravely through her tears and walked back to Merton apparently as happy as ever. CHAPTER XVI PRIZE-SPEAKING Jean spent the spring vacation with Elizabeth up on "Olympus," as she called their hilltop village, and she found the beauty and new experiences of the spring as fascinating as those of the winter. Although every waking hour seemed filled to the brim, still it was a restful change and the two girls returned to college with new strength and enthusiasm to begin the last term of the year. They would need it all, too, for this is the hardest term of the year, with the hot, drooping days of May and June, and still hotter nights, when studying seems almost impossible and one is content to sit in the darkness and watch the stars and dream such dreams as float through college girls' heads on nights in June, when all the world is theirs. On the Monday after they returned to college, both girls went up to oratory class in the afternoon and sat back to enjoy the hour, knowing it was not their turn to mount the platform and hold forth. Jean sat near the open window and was breathing in the balmy air and watching some greedy robins snatch at the worms in the damp, new grass. She had almost forgotten there was such a thing as oratory until Miss Moulton's clear, penetrating voice brought her back to consciousness again. "Of course you know, young ladies, that prize-speaking is an annual event at Ashton, and it is a great honor to participate in it. Any member of the oratory classes is eligible. In the freshman divisions I have made it a rule that every girl must do one of two things: either she must learn a new selection or choose one already learned during the year and present it to the committee of the faculty chosen to judge the preliminary speakers; or she must write an original poem or prose selection and present it before the freshman oratory classes. The preliminary prize-speaking will take place in the chapel on the evening of May twelfth at eight o'clock. The annual prize-speaking will take place at three o'clock on the afternoon of June sixth. The classes will meet May twenty-eighth for the afternoon of original work. I hope you will all take great interest in this work and feel free to consult me at any time about it. Unless there are some questions to be asked now, we will consider the class excused." As the girls left the class-room there was but one topic of conversation, for Miss Moulton had filled their minds with but one thought. Neither one of her propositions pleased the majority of the girls, for one looked as difficult as the other. Of course a few were delighted with what she had said, for they had been anticipating the event and in their hearts had secret hopes of being the prize winner, even though there were upper-class girls to compete with them. The chapel steps looked so attractive in the afternoon sunshine that three or four of the girls wandered over there to sit down for a few moments to discuss the question. "What are you going to do, Jean?" said Anne Cockran as she limped up to join the girls. Although it had been a long time since her accident, she could not walk easily yet. "Don't ask me, Anne; I don't know. I don't like the idea of exhibiting my limited oratorical ability before the faculty, but positively I haven't an original idea in my head. I'll have to think it over." "Why, nonsense, Jean," said Bess Johnson, "everybody knows that original sonnet you wrote for Miss Whiting last month was the cleverest thing in our whole division. When Miss Whiting condescends to praise anything we freshmen do, you can take it from me that it's pretty good. You don't need to hesitate about going in for the original stunt." "Elizabeth," said Anne, "you've just got to try for the prize, for there isn't a girl in our whole division that can hold a candle to you. If you give that little poem, 'Carcasson,' with which you won Miss Moulton's heart last term, you'll melt the faculty to tears, and they'll put you on the finals before you've finished the second verse." "Oh, Anne, you flatterer, why I couldn't compete with you or a half-dozen more of the girls in our division, to say nothing of the upper-class girls," replied Elizabeth, smiling. "I'm trying for credit in my German, and perhaps history, and it takes every spare moment I can get to do my collateral reading. It seems as though Miss Evans tried to see how much work she could pile on us. I think I'll try at the preliminaries, though, because it's easier than working on something original. I can give something I learned last term, 'Carcasson,' if you all like that so well." "Like it?" said Jean. "Why, Beth, it's by far the best thing anybody has done in class this whole year and you've just got to give it, and I know you'll make the finals, and if you do, why, we'll all insist upon your trying for all your worth for the prize. Why shouldn't a freshman win it? Think of the honor for the class. You've been saying lately you wished you could do something for 1915, and here's your chance. Why, I think it's an honor just to be on the finals even if you don't win the prize. Who knows how many are generally chosen?" "Eight, I think," said Bess Johnson. "I was looking over Edith Thayer's memorabilia the other day and saw a last year's programme. Edith spoke last year, but didn't win a prize. As I remember it, there were eight speakers. Anyway, there were somewhere near that number." "What is the prize, Bess?" asked Anne. "Miss Moulton forgot to say anything about that, and I think it's the most important item." "The first prize is twenty-five dollars in gold and the second and third ten dollars each. Of course it's the honor more than the money that counts," said Bess, whose idea of money values was very hazy, being abundantly supplied by an indulgent father. Although Elizabeth said nothing she thought the twenty-five dollars would help her a great deal if, by any chance, it came her way, for she needed a new dress and hat for class-day, but she hated to ask her father for anything more this year. "Well," said Jean, "this loafing here will never do for me. It's society meeting to-night and I've got a theme to write before supper. If any of you want to see me, come right down to the room and make yourselves comfortable, but don't talk to me until I've finished my theme. I think the subjects get worse and worse every week. Where do you suppose Miss Whiting ever finds them? I should think her poor head would ache many a time before she found some to really suit her. I wonder if she ever corrects half of the themes." "I doubt it," said Bess; "they say Mary Dudley corrects the themes in the daily theme course, for she's doing special work in the English for her degree." All the girls seemed to have plenty to do, and Jean went down to 45 alone and worked on her theme for the next day and finished it just as the supper bell rang. When the preliminary prize-speaking took place, it was surprising how many entries there were, especially among the freshmen, for undoubtedly most of them had decided that this was the lesser of the two evils offered them by Miss Moulton. From the large number there were eight chosen for the finals and among them was Elizabeth Fairfax, the only freshman thus honored. There were three seniors, two juniors, two sophomores and the one freshman, and 1915 was jubilant over the fact that one of its members was chosen. When Elizabeth first heard of it she was a little frightened and declared she never could do it, but when she saw how all the freshmen felt the honor that was hers in being chosen to represent them, she determined to enter the contest with all the best that was in her and prove to them that she was as loyal to 1915 as any of the rest of them. She spent hours and hours with Miss Moulton and finally decided upon a selection which, like the others, was to be kept secret until the programme was announced. Every minute that she could spare from her regular work she put upon her selection, and as the fatal day drew near she went again and again to the chapel and mounted the platform to move the empty seats with her eloquence. Miss Moulton gave all the girls equal coaching, and worked harder, perhaps, than all the girls together. When she had heard the last girl rehearse her selection for the last time, she closed the chapel door behind her with a bang and locking it said to herself and the clinging ivy on the tower wall, "I wish there were eight prizes so they all could have one, for they all deserve one, still I hope--" But she did not finish, for in the gathering dusk she recognized Elizabeth Fairfax's slender figure advancing toward her. "Oh, Miss Moulton, can I have just one more rehearsal to-night? There's one place toward the end that troubles me." "No, Miss Fairfax, not to-night; you are tired and nervous and you must do nothing more. Take my advice and think no more of your selection to-night; go to bed early and have a good night's sleep and to-morrow morning you will have forgotten all about these imaginary troubles. It's always darkest just before the dawn, you know, so let's not think any more about prize-speaking. I'm very tired to-night, too, but I'm going home to read some really thrilling detective story or something equally absorbing until I get sleepy, and then away to bed in spite of all the work I ought to do. I advise you not to do any studying to-night, for you are excused from to-morrow's lessons. Good night, Miss Fairfax. I wish you a restful night and success to-morrow," and the two went their separate ways. There could not have been a more beautiful June day than the one chosen for prize-speaking. The sun shed its warmth and brightness over everything, and the little green leaves danced merrily in the soft summer wind. The rain of a few days before had freshened the grass and the flowers until it seemed as though they were outdoing themselves for this special occasion. Merry little red and gray squirrels ran up and down the great tall trees and then across the wide paths, out of sight to another tree, and some of the bolder birds sang lustily as if proud of their share in the day's festivities. All nature seemed to be clapping its hands to applaud the eight nervous speakers concealed somewhere in the rear of the chapel. Prize-speaking Day is properly considered the forerunner of Class Day and Commencement, hence the friends of the college make every effort to attend this annual event. Long before three o'clock the seating capacity of the chapel seemed taxed to its utmost, and the gallery had to be opened to accommodate the waiting throng. Members of the various oratory classes had been chosen as ushers and were pretty indeed in their white dresses, with sprays of green ivy twisted in their hair, and they carried batons wound with white and green ribbons. Jean was one of the two representatives of the freshman class and was enjoying every moment of her ushering, for it was the first time she had ever served in this capacity, as only the upper-class girls ushered at Vespers on Sunday afternoons. A few minutes after three o'clock, Miss Emerson welcomed the guests to the exercises of the afternoon and announced the entire programme of the days to come. Then she informed them that the three judges were from neighboring colleges and at the close of the speaking she would announce their decision regarding the prize. In conclusion, she asked that there be no applause, and then took her seat with the other members of the faculty in the front row of seats usually occupied by the seniors. One after another of the speakers came upon the platform, did their very best, thrilled their listeners and then took their seats on the front row of the annex which had been reserved for them. Last on the programme was Elizabeth Fairfax and she was to give Tennyson's "Lady of Shalot." When she came upon the platform she looked very small and white, and her simple muslin dress was the one she had worn the year before at her high-school graduation. Instead of coming to the front of the platform as the others had done, she stood back almost in the center of the stage, where it was a little dark in spite of the brilliance of the outdoor world. She stood for a moment without uttering a sound, and more than one of the vast audience thought she must have become stagestruck and forgotten the lines, but soon her sweet, clear voice began: "On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky;" And she held every listener spellbound as she told the sad sweet story of the Lady of Shalot as though she were inspired, and when she finished with: "But Launcelot mused a little space: He said, 'She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalot.'" For a moment there was absolute silence, and then followed tremendous applause in spite of what Miss Emerson had said. Every one looked at her neighbor as much as to say, "There's not a question but that she deserves the prize. I never heard anything like it." So there was not great surprise a little later when Miss Emerson in her quiet way announced the prize-winners and first called upon Miss Elizabeth Fairfax to come to the platform. In presenting her with the tiny box which held the twenty-five dollars in gold, she congratulated her upon her excellent work and said that for the first time in her memory the first prize had been given to a freshman, consequently she might be doubly proud of what she had done. Elizabeth thanked her, and very white and trembling took her place with the other speakers. This ended the exercises and as the audience arose many went forward to offer their congratulations. Jean seized Elizabeth and whispered, "You were just wonderful, but I knew you'd do it. Oh, I'm so proud of you and I wish Dick could have been here," and she gave her place to a long line of girls and faculty, who were waiting their turn to speak to her. When Elizabeth went up to her room from the supper-table that night she was tired but very happy, for her dream of doing something worth while for 1915 was realized. She walked slowly down the corridor and opened the door, expecting to find Jean there, for she did not see her in the reading-room with the other girls as she passed by the open door. She did not see Jean in 45, but she gave a little gasp at the sight which did meet her gaze. The study-table which usually stood in the center of the room was drawn up between the couch and Elizabeth's desk. It had been cleared of the books and lamp which usually adorned it and was one mass of brilliant bloom. There were roses and carnations and sweet peas and lilies of the valley filling the room with their sweetness. For several moments Elizabeth just gazed and then walking up to the flowers found there were cards attached to each bouquet. The roses were from Jean, the carnations from Miss Hooper, the sweet peas from Merton House girls, and the lilies from Miss Moulton. Elizabeth had never had so many flowers in all her life before and could not quite believe they were all hers. She buried her face in the great American Beauty roses and was whispering a secret to them when Jean came out from the bedroom. "Well, little room-mate, what do you think of yourself now? I couldn't stay away another minute. The flowers came while we were at supper and I hustled upstairs the minute I was through so I could have them arranged before you came. Then after everything was ready I waited and waited, but I thought you never would come. When at last I heard you coming down the hall, I hid in the bedroom to see what you would do. You looked just about as surprised as when Miss Emerson called you to the platform this afternoon." "Of course I was surprised, Jean. I never had so much happen to me in one day before in all my life and I can hardly believe it's true. How I wish Father and Brother could know all about it and see what you've done for me! I must sit down and write to them now so the letter will go out the first thing in the morning." "Before you write your letter, Elizabeth, I want to ask you something. Come over here on your couch and sit down, for you are tired, and we can enjoy the flowers there just as well as standing up in the middle of the room." "All right, Jean, but let me take one of your roses with me. It's the first time I've ever had an American Beauty of my very own. How good you were to give them to me! You must have known how badly I have wanted one." In a moment the two girls sat down upon Elizabeth's couch and in Elizabeth's hand was a beautiful, long-stemmed rose. "What are you going to do this summer, Beth?" asked Jean. "I don't quite know yet," Elizabeth answered. "I feel as though I were needed at home so that mother can go away to visit her people in Vermont, but I wish I could find some work to do, for I want to earn the money for next year to help father all I can. Some of the girls are talking about waiting on the table at the beach or at the mountains and I thought of applying, too. Christine Newell is going to the White Mountains and says she went last year and earned fifty dollars. She wants me to go there with her, but I haven't decided yet." "Before you decide, Elizabeth, I want to tell you something, and perhaps it will alter your plans a little. Miss Hooper is going abroad for the summer and has invited me to go with her. When father was here I told him about it and my decision to stay at Ashton for the four years. He was so delighted that he consented to the trip abroad for the summer and said I might take any girl with me that I chose. Now I have chosen you, Elizabeth, and I want you to say you will go to the British Isles with Miss Hooper and me for your vacation. I have known about it ever since father was here and it has been awfully hard to keep it a secret, but I wanted to wait until after prize-speaking, for I made up my mind that if you didn't win the first prize I should offer you this as a consolation prize, and if you did win the prize then this would be my own special prize. What do you say, will you accept my prize, too?" At first Elizabeth could not speak and just looked straight at Jean as if to determine whether or not she was jesting. "Why, Jean Cabot! What are you talking about? I spend a whole summer in Europe? Why, you must be dreaming. I've never been out of New England and don't expect to go to Europe till I've taught years and years. Why, all the money I have in the world is this twenty-five dollars I won to-day and I need that to buy my class-day dress and hat and shoes. Where do you suppose I'd ever get the money? Why, it takes more than it does to go to college." "You big goosie, you don't understand. You needn't consider the money; I'm going to take you for my companion and it isn't to cost you a penny. Father would like to go himself and would if it wasn't for business, so he wants you to go with me in his place. Don't you see now what I mean?" "Yes, Jean, but why do you want me? There are so many of the other girls like Peggy and Natalie and Sallie, who have traveled and know more about the world than I. I'm pretty green, you know, when it comes to society." "Nonsense, Elizabeth; if I hadn't wanted you more than any one else I shouldn't have asked you. Is it 'yes' or 'no'? Quick!" "Why, you take my breath away, Jean. I can't believe you want me to go with you." "Yes, I do, I tell you, and you must say 'yes,' for I shan't take any other answer. Now write your letter home and tell them what you are going to do, or rather get their permission to do what you wish to do. After you finish the letter we'll take it down to the office and then go over to Miss Hooper's room for a minute. You want to thank her for the flowers she sent you, and I want to tell her that you are going with us. She will tell you what her plans are, and from now on we must do a lot of reading with her about the places we are to visit, for we don't want to appear to be perfect ignoramuses in the land of our forefathers. Of course you know English history from A to Z, but I can never tell one king from another and always mix up all the battles and wars, so it's good hard reading from now on for me." "Of course you know I'd like to go, Jean, but it's so sudden I can't quite grasp it all, but I'll write home and tell them all about it, and when I hear from them I can tell you definitely." "I'm going to write a letter to your father this very minute, too, and tell him what I think about the matter. Let's see who will finish first." Both pens scratched away at a merry rate, and each girl found so much to say that the college clock struck eight before either one realized it. "There, I've finished," said Jean. "How about you?" "I have a little more on this page and then I'll be ready. You collect the letters on the hall windows and go downstairs and register and I'll be through by that time." After the letters were dropped into the box outside the post office, Jean exclaimed, "There, that's off my mind! Now to tell Miss Hooper." They found Miss Hooper alone in her study lying on the couch because of a severe headache. The girls insisted that she remain there in spite of her protests. "We're only going to stay a minute, anyway, Miss Hooper. I've come to tell you that Elizabeth has consented to travel with us this summer." Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something, but Jean began again, "She hasn't really said she would go, but she's written home and after she hears from her father she'll tell us 'yes' pretty quickly. Won't you, Elizabeth?" "I think it's wonderful, Miss Hooper, but it's just like Jean, always doing something to give pleasure to other people. I want to thank you, too, for the beautiful flowers you sent me. I don't deserve all the good things that have come to me to-day." "If you didn't deserve them, dear, I am sure they never would come to you. We shall be a very congenial trio, I am sure, this summer, and I wish you both would come to see me Wednesday evening next so we can talk over our plans. I have a list of reading to give to you. Jean tells me you are a lover of history and literature, Elizabeth, so perhaps you have read my list already. If so, we shall depend upon you for a great deal of our information, for there is very little time left in which to do a great deal of work. I am sorry I do not feel better to-night, for we might have begun now." "No, Miss Hooper, we must not stay a moment longer," said Jean. "Elizabeth is tired, too, and we both have a little studying to do before ten o'clock bell. I hope your head will be better in the morning. Good night." "Good night to both of you, and thank you for coming," said Miss Hooper, and the two girls left Wellington and strolled slowly homeward in the shimmering moonlight. As they neared Merton, Elizabeth broke the silence. "I hate to go indoors, Jean, and have this splendid day end. I am inclined to believe it's all been a dream. Pinch me and let me see if I'm really awake." "Oh, you're awake all right, Elizabeth," said Jean, but she gave Elizabeth's arm a vigorous pinch to assure her that she really was awake. "It's only the beginning of a whole summer of splendid days if you'll only say you'll go with us." "I'll go, of course," said Elizabeth, "if father thinks it's all right," and the two girls left the summer moonlight behind them and climbed the stairs to 45. CHAPTER XVII THE TENNIS TOURNAMENT It did not take long for a letter to come back to the two girls from Dr. Fairfax, gladly giving his consent to the proposed plan for the summer and expressing his gratitude to Jean and her father for giving so much happiness to his "little girl," as he always called Elizabeth in spite of the fact that she had long since grown up. Both girls were highly elated over the prospects of their trip, and for the first few days could hardly keep their mind on anything else. However, they both were determined to make the most of the last days of college and each found her different interests absorbing. Elizabeth had been putting all her spare time on her extra work in history and Jean hers on the tennis courts. Ever since warm weather had made outdoor sports possible, the indoor gymnasium work had ceased, and the girls athletically inclined found plenty to interest them out of doors. Ashton could well boast of its splendid tennis courts directly back of the gymnasium, and on any pleasant day one would find the courts crowded. Jean had been out from the first day the courts were ready for use, and was easily acknowledged to be one of the best players in college--without a question the best player in the freshman class. Several of the upper-class girls, among them Natalie Lawton, Madeline Moore, and Avis Purrington, were working hard and had announced their intentions of going into the tournament. All along Jean had also secretly determined to enter, if it were a possible thing, and she wanted to win, too. It was her last chance to really do something for 1915, freshman year. The only obstacle that stood in her way was her fear of failure in French, but when she went to Mlle. Franchant late in May and asked her concerning her work, her joy knew no bounds when she was told that her mark was a passing one and she could enter the tournament. On the night of the twelfth of June, the day before the tournament began, several of the tennis enthusiasts were down in Natalie Lawton's room discussing the events of the next day. "What do you think of the weather, Nat?" said Peggy to her room-mate, who stood at the window, apparently lost in thought as she gazed out into the dark and cloudy night. "Doesn't look very promising, girls, does it? It will be a shame if it rains. We have had such perfect weather all the month it seems as though it might last two days longer. The courts are in perfect condition now and a heavy rain will spoil everything. How's your courage, Jean? You've drawn first round, haven't you, against Cora Hammond? I'm in the other court against Avis Purrington. How's your shoulder to-night?" "A little lame, Nat," said Jean, "but I'm going to rub it well and turn in early, for I need the sleep all right. I'm dead to the world. If you don't mind, I think I'll say good night now, rival. Are any of the rest of you coming upstairs with me? You all need sleep, so take my advice and stop eating that candy and get a good night's sleep." "Well, who ever heard of such nerve?" said Natalie. "The idea of a little freshie giving advice to us seniors and juniors. But then, I guess you're right in spite of your age, for I admit I'm tired, too. Suppose we all follow suit and turn in." "Good night, girls," called out Peggy. "Good luck to you all, although, of course, you can't all win the prize. By the way, what is the prize?" "Why, Peggy," said Natalie disgustedly, "you know perfectly well that there isn't any prize. It's the honor of the thing. Isn't that enough?" "Yes," said Peggy; "I'd forgotten about it. Well, 'Happy dreams,'" and then the girls scattered to their different rooms. In spite of the gloomy outlook of the weather the night before, the morning of June twelfth was as perfect as its predecessors had been, and all that the tennis players could wish for. The preliminaries were to be played throughout the day, as the programmes of the girls allowed. On the next morning were to come the semi-finals and in the afternoon the finals, when excitement always ran highest. About twenty of the girls had entered the tournament and most of them were speedy players. There were only two freshmen--and the others upper-class girls. Although Natalie Lawton had won the championship the year before, it had been with great difficulty, and her opponent, Madeline Moore, was all the more anxious to win out this year. Popular sentiment had picked Natalie Lawton, Madeline Moore, or Jean Cabot as the winner this year, so it was not at all surprising to the student body as a whole to learn that at the end of the preliminaries these three and a hitherto unsuspected sophomore, Mabel Hastings, were to play in the semi-finals on the following morning. It was rather a coincidence that each of the four classes should have a representative. The semi-finals took place at ten o'clock, and there were some of the hardest sets ever played at Ashton. Jean was playing Mabel Hastings and won after five sets, 7-5, 1-6, 6-8, 6-3, 6-1 and Natalie Lawton won from Madeline Moore in three sets, 6-2, 6-2, 6-1; so Natalie and Jean were left to fight for the finals in the afternoon. Jean was so excited that she declared she could eat no dinner, and hurried to her room to lie down and rest until the finals, which were to begin at three o'clock. Elizabeth carried up her dinner and compelled her to eat all that she had brought her, knowing how much she needed nourishment after her violent exercise of the morning. Then Jean lay quietly in her room, although she could not sleep from excitement, and she waited for the minutes to pass until it should be half-past two o'clock. It seemed as though every girl in college had turned out to see the finals. The early comers had filled the few seats which the ground afforded; the rest either sat on the grass or stood in little groups near by. Here and there among the white dresses could be seen the severely dark clothes of a man, for it was one of the few events to which the "masculine element" could be invited. This event was followed so closely by Class Day and Commencement that some of the favorite brothers or cousins or friends of the seniors were inveigled into coming a little earlier, ostensibly to witness a tennis tournament, but in reality to bask a little longer in the sunshine of the Sweet Girl Graduate. Promptly on the stroke of three, Jean and Natalie, in their immaculate white linens, walked coolly out upon the courts and the play began. By the toss of the racket Jean won the first serving and sent one of her usual swift balls into the opposite court. Natalie was there to receive it and sent it back as swiftly as it had come. Both girls seemed very evenly matched, but Natalie, by deep driving to Jean's backhand, won the first game. Her luck changed at this point though, and Jean jumped into the lead of 3-1. Natalie seemed spurred on by this, and by more hard, deep driving soon had Jean on the run. She played into the net oftener and with this style of play the lead changed to Natalie at 4-3. The eighth game was very close. Jean got to 30-40 on Natalie's serve, but fast driving on Natalie's part won her the game, making the score 5-3 in her favor. Jean won her serve in the next game and even got an advantage in the tenth, but then the last year's champion rose to the occasion and by taking a net position, won three successive points and the first set with a score of 6-4. There was a rest of fifteen minutes before the second set, and the two players left the court and retired to the gymnasium. The crowds out of doors circulated around the grounds, introducing their guests and talking over the remarkable playing of both girls. At the end of the fifteen minutes the players returned and, changing courts, began the second set. This set was not as close as the first one but was as full of spectacular playing. Natalie took the net oftener and by splendid smashing ran the score up to 4-1 in her favor. Weakening a little in the next game, she failed to return Jean's excellent service, so Jean took advantage of it and won her second game in the set. This seemed almost to enrage Natalie, and she went after the last two games in whirlwind fashion and outplayed Jean in every way, making the final score of the second set 6-2. It was all over before Jean realized it, and she had lost, and Natalie had won the college championship for a second time. [Illustration: NATALIE WENT AFTER THE LAST TWO GAMES IN WHIRLWIND FASHION.--_Page 328_.] She saw the girls hurrying toward Natalie, but she was determined to be the first to congratulate her, so she dropped her racket and ran as fast as she could to the spot where the almost exhausted champion had dropped. "Congratulations, Natalie," she said; "you certainly deserve the championship, and I'm mighty glad you won it." All Natalie could say was, "Thank you, Jean, but I hate to take it away from you, for you wanted it so badly." "Don't you worry about that," said Jean, smiling bravely. "I've got three more years to try for it, and you've only one. I'll have it yet, see if I don't. And I'd rather have you win it than any one else in college. We kept it from the sophs, anyway, and there's a lot of consolation in that. I'm monopolizing you, Nat, for all the girls are waiting to offer you their congratulations. It was splendid; that's all I've got to say." Jean had to acknowledge to herself that she was terribly disappointed, but as soon as she realized she had lost, she decided to make the most of it and not let any one else see her real feelings in the matter. She smiled in her most friendly manner to all of the girls who came to compliment her on her splendid playing, and to offer their sympathy for her defeat. She was as much surrounded as the real champion and accepted all of the homage in a most gracious way, although she secretly longed to be away from it all and alone by herself to have it out once for all. It was some time before she could leave the girls, for it was an ideal day to linger out of doors and no one seemed to be in a hurry to leave the courts. At last she managed to tear herself away from a gushing freshman and her fond mamma who was visiting Ashton for the first time, and felt the necessity of seeing everything and everybody worth while, and started down towards Merton hoping that she would not be held up again. She had gone but a little way when she heard some one calling to her from behind. At first she pretended not to hear, but the calls became louder and more insistent, so she turned around and saw Anne Cockran hurrying towards her and waving for her to stop. There was nothing to do but wait, so she stopped right where she was until Anne caught up with her. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Jean. Where have you been? Every time I got my eye on you on the courts you were completely surrounded by fond admirers and I couldn't get within ten feet of you. Finally I got discouraged and went over to talk with Bess Allison and some friends of hers, and when I left them and looked for you there wasn't a trace of you anywhere." "I was held up by that gushing Gladys Norton and her mother, and thought I never should get away from them, and when I finally managed to extricate myself I was so tired of people and conversation that I made a bee-line for Merton." "Which means," broke in Anne, "that you wish I hadn't butted in to bother you some more. That's just the reason you didn't stop when I called to you. Well, cheer up, Jean, I'll not bother you long; I just wanted to talk to you a few moments, but I'll leave it until another time if you want me to." "No, Anne dear, of course not; but it was just because I was tired and disappointed and felt a little grouchy at every one. You know how you felt the night of the freshman-sophomore basket-ball game when you got hurt and couldn't play any more. We both know what it is to be disappointed, don't we? But I'm better already with just seeing you this short time, so tell me what you wanted to and I promise you my undivided attention." "I wanted to ask you something rather than tell you something, and I'm just a little afraid to do so. You know room-drawing comes the day before Class Day and I wanted to know if you had made your plans for room-mate next year. I want to ask you to live with me. I'm sort of tired of Merton and perhaps one of us will draw another house and choose the other for room-mate. I don't want to room with Sallie another year. She's a dandy girl and we've had a good year together, but isn't just exactly my style, and then besides, she's a soph and we are always at swords' points when it comes to class spirit. But you are just the girl I want. We're in the same class and society and we like the same things and the same people and we both want to make basket-ball next year and I'm going in for tennis, too. I've never played a game in my life, but after to-day's games I wouldn't miss it for anything. Of course you don't want to room with Elizabeth another year. She's all nice enough and a fine student, but not at all your style. She'll probably want a single, anyway, won't she?" "I don't know, Anne," said Jean very thoughtfully. "Well, anyway, Jean, it doesn't make any difference to us what she wants to do, the main thing is that I want to room with you. What have you to say about it?" "Why really Anne, I haven't thought anything about next year. I've been so happy these days with things just as they are that I guess I thought everything was going on as it is now. When we are contented we don't want to change, do we? It's awfully nice of you to say that you want to have me room with you and I appreciate it, but honestly, Anne, I can't do it. Why, if Elizabeth will have me, I want to go on rooming with her. I couldn't really stay at college without her. She's my safety-valve and inspiration and all that sort of thing. She brings out the best that's in me and I need her more than anything else in the whole college, and then, besides, I think the world of her. She's the most lovable girl you can imagine, after you get to know her. I admit she doesn't go in for clothes and men and good times generally, but she's clever and she's going to amount to something before she leaves this place. I haven't asked her yet; but if she's willing I want her for my room-mate next year, and it doesn't make much difference where we room. I've grown very fond of Merton, but I'd prefer Wellington where Miss Hooper lives. "By the way, I'll tell you a secret. Miss Hooper and Elizabeth and I are going to travel together this summer in the British Isles. Isn't that splendid? Now, Anne, please don't be angry with me because I won't room with you. You see how it is. We can be the same good friends as ever, can't we, even if we're not room-mates?" "Yes, I suppose so," said Anne, "but I'm disappointed and I can't get over it in a minute. I can't understand what you see in Elizabeth; she seems to have hypnotized you from the very first of the year. She's all right and sweet and good enough, but I can't understand your awful crush on her." "There, there," said Jean, "don't get so excited or you'll be saying things you'll be sorry for later on. Will you come up to 45 until supper time? I want to get into some fresh clothes. I feel as though I'd been through a Turkish bath. Wasn't it frightfully hot in the sun? It was right in my eyes the last game. Isn't Nat a perfect wonder at the game?" "Yes, but so are you, and I was just boiling that you didn't win. You put up a much better game than she did all through the 'prelims' and semi-finals; you had all the hardest players up against you, and by the time you got to the finals you were all tired out. I think you deserve as much credit as Natalie, even if she did win at the end." "My goodness, Anne, but you've got it in for everybody this afternoon! Come upstairs with me and eat some candy and see if that will sweeten you a little." "All right, I will, thank you; I haven't had any candy for an age. I'm dead broke since I bought my Class-Day hat and I don't get another cent until I go home. I'm afraid I'll even have to borrow some money to buy my ticket home unless Dad will be favorably impressed by my last frantic appeal for a little more money." The girls finished a large box of chocolates, and by supper time Anne was in a much better mood, although still disappointed because Jean was not to room with her. When Jean came up from supper that night a little later than usual she found Elizabeth at her desk writing a letter. She stole softly up behind her and put her hands over her eyes and called out, "Guess who's your room-mate next year, Elizabeth." "Oh, is it you, Jean? I've been wanting all day to ask you about it, but I didn't quite dare. I heard some of the girls talking about the room-drawing last night when I was waiting on table, and that was the first time I knew anything about it. I thought things would go on just the same every year unless one wanted to change." "And do you want to change, Elizabeth?" "No, Jean, but I wasn't so sure about you. There are so many of your other friends, you know." "Well, Elizabeth, I'm perfectly satisfied with my present room-mate and don't intend to change her for any one else. I wish we might room in Wellington so we could be near Miss Hooper, but wherever we are we'll be together, won't we? Now I must write a letter to Tom about Class Day, for he wants to know everything he's expected to do, and if I don't get the letter mailed in the morning he won't have time to make any elaborate preparations. Have you any message to send him?" "Why, no, Jean; I'll save them until I meet him Class Day. Now get to writing, for it will be ten o'clock before you know it and you must be tired after your strenuous day." "Yes, I am tired," said Jean, "but this letter must be written if it takes till midnight," and she wrote several pages of full particulars about Class Day to Tom, who was to be her special guest on that day. He was to take her back with him for Yale Commencement and then see her safely to New York, where she was to meet Miss Hooper and Elizabeth the day before sailing. CHAPTER XVIII CLASS DAY Class Day at Ashton always came on a Friday with Commencement the following Wednesday, and although the undergraduates were not generally expected to remain over for the latter event, they all took great interest in the former and made it the gala day of the year. Each girl had the privilege of inviting as many guests as she wished, but it pretty generally narrowed down to one, except in the case of the graduates who had all their mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, cousins, and friends to entertain besides "the one" who generally hung around in the background, endeavoring to be gracious when the opportunity presented itself. On the night before Class Day, Jean and Elizabeth were busy in their room with their clothes for the following day. Jean was not satisfied with Elizabeth's hat which she had brought out from town that very afternoon. "Now, Elizabeth, do your hair low as you intend to wear it to-morrow and let me see what I can do in the way of trimming hats. I don't like this shape at all the way it is now. It's not at all becoming, and I want you to look your prettiest to-morrow. The roses are a beautiful pink, but they want to come down lower on the hat." While she was talking, Elizabeth had been fixing her hair and had coiled it low on her neck. "Does that suit your Majesty now? You're altogether too fussy about my personal appearance. Who do you suppose will notice me in all the crowd? If I had a man coming over from Harvard or Yale it would be different, but wandering about by myself no one will know whether my hair is up or down or whether my hat is the latest thing from New York or trimmed at home by the country milliner." "Why, Elizabeth, how can you talk so? Remember Tom is going to be your guest as well as mine. We three are going to do things together, so you'd better make up your mind to look your prettiest, for Tom is mighty particular when it comes to girls. There, your hair looks much better and the hat fits down closer to your head. I'm going to take off the bow and put it on the other side after I've put the roses down flat around the crown. They're too stiff, sticking up in the air. Now look in the glass and see how you like the effect." "Oh, it does look ever so much better, Jean. Just stick in some pins where you want things to go and I'll do the sewing." "No, you won't; I'm going to finish it. Who says I can't trim hats?" Just then there came a vigorous knock at the study door. Jean seized the hat from Elizabeth's head, and still holding it in her hand hastened out into the other room just as Peggy Allison, acting upon Jean's cordial, "Come in," entered the room. "Going into the hat business, Jean? I wish you'd take a look at my hat. I'm awfully disappointed in it now that I've got it out here. It doesn't look at all as I expected it would. Guess it will have to do, though. I haven't time to bother with another. That's the trouble with waiting until the last moment to do things, but I do hate buying hats in Boston. What time do you expect Tom, Jean?" "He's coming over from New York on the midnight, so he'll probably be out here between ten and eleven o'clock. I told him there was no need of coming before ten, anyway, and I'll be busy until that time with our chain, for we have left part of it until morning to finish, as our daisies gave out. Is your part finished?" "Yes; we were through about five o'clock and were tired as dogs. Oh, by the way, Jean, Nat wants to see you a moment about the spread tickets right away, so I'll excuse you and visit a little while with Elizabeth if she isn't too busy to talk with me." "All right, Peggy; I'll go down there this minute and take my hat along to finish. Beth, please hand me my sewing-bag on the couch. Thank you," and then she ran down the stairs with a knowing smile on her face. About an hour later Jean burst into 45 and found Elizabeth alone. "Come, Beth, I'm ready to have you try on your hat again. I've finished it, and when I tried it on Natalie it looked simply stunning. Come over to the glass where you can see yourself." As Elizabeth went over to where Jean was standing, Jean caught sight of a small bow of green ribbon pinned conspicuously on the left side of Elizabeth's white shirt-waist. "Oh, Elizabeth," she cried, "are you really pledged to Gamma Chi? It's too good to be true! Now I've got everything I've wanted. You're to room with me next year, spend the summer with me in Europe, and be initiated into Gamma Chi when we return in the fall. I've known all the year that when the girls came to know you as well as I did, they'd want you to join Gamma Chi, but I didn't tell them, for it was much better that they should find it out for themselves. Oh, isn't it splendid! You're my sister now, you know, forever." "But, Jean, didn't you know anything about it until just now? You don't act so awfully surprised." "Oh, yes; I have known since last society meeting that you were to be invited to join, but just when I didn't know, for it was Peggy Allison's duty to ask you. But the minute she came into the room to-night and kindly invited me to leave, I knew what was about to happen. Were you surprised yourself and are you pleased?" "Yes, Jean; I was surprised, but it's only one more of the things I thought could never happen to me. It seemed all right that you and the other girls should do them, but I seemed different from you all. I am glad to join, for I've wanted to go with you on the Monday nights when you went to society. You society girls always seemed better friends than those outside, and I felt I was missing something. I can't see, though, why they should want me to join." "Well, I shan't tell you again, for fear of making you too conceited. It's enough to know that they do want you, and now you're to become a good, loyal member of Gamma Chi. Oh, you must wear your ribbon all day to-morrow. It will show off nicely on your white dress. Is there anything else I can do to help you? We mustn't leave anything until to-morrow, for there's so much to be done then. Directly after breakfast you must go up to the gym to help finish our daisy-chain. I'm going out before breakfast to help gather more daisies, so if I don't get back in time to eat breakfast, just save me a roll and a glass of milk. Tom will arrive on that half-past ten train, probably, and I must meet him, for he doesn't know anything about the Hill." "Do you suppose he'll get lost, Jean, if you don't happen to meet him? What makes you take the time to go to the train?" "Why, do you suppose I'd let him come all that distance without meeting him? What are you thinking about, Elizabeth?" "Well, don't try to do too much to-morrow, for you've got to save some strength for your week at New Haven. Tom, being so particular about girls, will want his sister to look her prettiest, especially as she's to be the solitary representative of his large family. There's the bell! Hadn't we better stop talking and go to bed?" "Yes, Beth, I suppose so; but I'm not a bit sleepy to-night. I could sit up till midnight and just talk. You go to bed. I think I'll just read a little more of this story and perhaps I'll get sleepy." "Oh, don't read any more, Jean; you'll be sleepy enough after you once get into bed. It's excitement that makes you feel so wide awake." "All right, dear, I'll do as you say. You see I do need you to make me take care of myself," and the two happy but tired girls were soon in their beds and asleep. Jean had set the alarm clock for half-past five o'clock, and dressing in some old clothes started for the field back of the dormitories where it was white with daisies. She was chairman of the committee to make the daisy-chain, and was anxious that it be a success. She found four of the other girls ahead of her filling great baskets which they had brought for the purpose. After they had picked all they could possibly carry they went up to the gymnasium and began weaving the chain. When they arrived, it was long after the breakfast hour, but one girl, more thoughtful than the others, had brought a box or two of crackers and so saved her starving companions. More girls arrived every few minutes, and all worked hard, so that they were able to finish the long chain about half-past nine o'clock. They looked much the worse for wear and their dresses were wet and stained from the flowers, and Jean's hair was fast coming down round her face and neck. Her dress was badly torn in the front where she had stepped upon it in her haste to get into the gymnasium. As she and Elizabeth and Anne were hurrying down the Row to Merton, Anne, looking down toward the station, spied a young man coming in their direction, with a suit-case in his hand. "Here comes some one's man," she said. "Hope he's early enough. Evidently some one forgot to meet him." "Why, girls," exclaimed Jean, "there's something strangely familiar about him. I do believe it's my brother Tom. He must have taken an earlier train than I wrote him about. What a sight I am to meet him! I had planned to dress in my very best and go down to the ten-thirty train, and here I am looking more like a tramp than anything else. It is Tom, and I can't help how I look; I'm going to meet him," and she ran down the Row and was soon in her brother's arms, while the other girls hurried into the dormitory away from sight. "Oh, Tom, I'm so glad to see you! Don't look at me. I'm ashamed to have you find me like this, but I've been working since six o'clock on our daisy-chain. I didn't expect you for another hour. What do you mean by coming out at this time of day?" "Well, sister, you see I got in town very early this morning and didn't have a thing to do after I finished my breakfast. Time began to hang heavily on my hands, and then, too, I wanted to see you, so I came out here on the first train I could get, but I'll go back if you are so disturbed at my early arrival." "Of course I was only fooling, Tom; don't get so sarcastic. I'm delighted that you're here, only I'm a little ashamed to have you find me in such messy-looking clothes. But let's not stand here on the Row talking. Come up to the Hall. I'll find Peggy Allison and send her downstairs to talk with you while I get into some good clothes. I have a room engaged for you down at the Inn and we'll go down there before lunch. Peggy's going to have a Harvard man out to-day and we've planned that you two will be together during the exercises this afternoon, for we have to sit with our classes. "Before I forget it, Tom, I want to ask you to be particularly nice to Elizabeth. She's never known many college boys and didn't invite any one to be her guest to-day. I told her you were going to be her guest as well as mine, so please help me give her a royal good time. She's a mighty nice girl after you get to know her. At first she's a bit shy, but when you get her interested in something she's as lively as the next one. She's been invited to join Gamma Chi, and that shows she's all right, for only the nicest girls in college belong to that society." "Isn't that a little conceited, Jean, considering the fact that you belong to it yourself? However, if you and Peggy Allison are samples of the girls who are members, it's all right. "So this is Merton, the famous Merton. I call it a pretty fine sort of dormitory for a girls' college, of course not to be compared with ours, but rather decent, just the same. Are you going to live here next year, too?" "No; you see we had room-drawing yesterday and my name commencing with 'C' comes near the top of the list and I drew a room in Wellington where Miss Hooper is matron." "I suppose because you're a soph you've chosen a single." "No, Tom, I've a double, and Elizabeth is going to room with me again next year and every year, I hope. After you know her you'll understand why I want her. Now go into the reading-room and make yourself comfortable and I'll see if I can find Peggy and send her down to you." "Don't worry, Jean. I don't have to be amused. I'm perfectly able to take care of myself if you don't find her." But Peggy was available and perfectly willing to devote herself to Tom Cabot, of whom she was very fond in spite of the few times she had met him. About half an hour later Jean and Elizabeth came downstairs dressed in their soft white muslins and flower-bedecked hats. They did look attractive and Tom beamed approvingly upon them and was most gracious as Jean introduced Elizabeth. Then she said, "Now we'll go down to the Inn and then we're ready to show you the sights. You've got to see everything while you are about it, so we'd better hurry, for lunch is to be served half an hour earlier than usual to-day." They went to the Inn and found it thronged with guests and students and it was very fortunate for Tom that Jean had engaged his room several weeks in advance. After he had deposited his suit-case they started out on their tour of inspection. Tom kept the girls busy with questions about everything in sight, and insisted upon knowing the name of every good-looking girl they met. Once in a while they stopped for introductions, and dropped into Miss Hooper's room in Wellington for a few moments. "It's a mighty nice place, for a girls' college," said Tom as they finally entered Merton just as the bell sounded for lunch; "there's only one place I know of that's better and that's--" "Yale, of course," said Jean; "you needn't bother to tell us. Are you ready for lunch now?" "Ready! I should say I was; I'm nearly starved. I could eat half a dozen lunches. It's hours since I had my breakfast. Lead me to the food quickly or I perish. Am I going to be the only man among all you handsome girls? Not that I mind at all, but I'd like to know beforehand so I won't make any awful breaks to disgrace forever the House of Cabot." "Don't worry, Tom; there'll be plenty of men besides you. Most of the girls will have their out-of-town guests here. Elizabeth is to wait on table, but we'll see her again after lunch. I've got to find Mrs. Thompson to see where we are to sit, for we won't have our regular seats to-day, as lunch is to be served in the reading-room as well as in the dining-room." Lunch over, a lot of the young people met in the hall and introductions were pretty general. Peggy's man, Mr. Paul Thorndike, Harvard 1912, and Tom became good friends at once and agreed to stick together closer than brothers until the Tree Exercises were over, when the girls were to meet them and take them to the spreads. They strolled up the hill to the trees where the exercises were to be held, and found the grounds fairly alive with the Class-Day guests in their best summer gowns and hats. Beyond the space allotted for the classes were rows upon rows of settees for as many of the guests as could be accommodated, and the others leaned up against the chapel or College Hall or walked back and forth in the background. Just after two o'clock the three lower classes appeared in view carrying a long white daisy-chain. The band, concealed behind the trees, began to play softly, and at the sound of the music the girls swayed back and forth, lifting their chain in the measure of the music and then danced in and out of the trees and finally formed two long lines on either side of the opening to the space roped off for the tree exercises. The chain was held high above their heads, and all at once every voice broke into "Alma Mater" and the stately seniors in their black caps and gowns marched down between the rows of girls and stood by the seats nearest the "Grand Old Elm," as the tree was called, under whose branches the temporary platform had been erected. Then the other classes dropped their chain upon the ground and marched two by two to their places. They had been singing "Alma Mater" all this time and when every girl stood by her seat all finished the verse they were upon and sat down together. There was an address of welcome by the class president and then the tree oration, followed by the class history, which was extremely funny from beginning to end and boasted of all 1912 had done in her four glorious years at Ashton, and ended with the distribution of gifts to the undergraduates. There were class songs and class yells, and after the senior class ode the Class-Day marshal proposed that they cheer all the buildings. Forming as they had done at the beginning of the exercises, the under-class girls cheered the seniors as they passed through the double lines and headed the long procession that hurried on from one building to another. Not one was forgotten, and many a throat ached when they finished and disbanded at the chapel steps. Each girl then hastened to find her guests and go on to the society and private spreads which were to be held in the society rooms and some of the college buildings. "Did you think we would never finish?" said Jean, as she and Elizabeth and Peggy hastened up where Tom and Mr. Thorndike were leaning against College Hall. "No," said Tom; "I enjoyed every moment. You've sure got some clever girls in this college. That was one of the best tree orations I ever listened to. Please introduce me to Miss Mary Frances Buffington. I'd like to talk with her. What's next on the programme?" "We're going now to Gamma Chi spread in our club rooms, then after you've eaten all you can there, I've tickets for the Alpha Delt spread and the Tennis Club spread in the gym, and Madeleine Moore has invited us to a private spread in her room over in South. Of course we don't have to take them all in, but I think it will be loads of fun, for everywhere we go we will meet different people, to say nothing of the eats, which of course will appeal to Tom more than anything else. I propose for once to see if I can satisfy him on that score." At all the spreads they found food and interesting people in abundance and laughed and talked and made and renewed acquaintances to their hearts' content. Every one was gay and happy and filled with the college spirit and was young at heart if not in years. Fathers and mothers and even grandparents mingled with young girls and men and seemed to be as much a part of it all as their sons and daughters. Where is there another place in the world so productive of good-fellowship and joy as a college class day? From Madeleine Moore's upper room, where they went last, they sat by the windows and listened to the Glee Club singing the old college favorites. Old girls who were back for the day joined the singers on College Hall steps and swelled the chorus to two or three times its usual size. Every now and then the tinkle of the mandolins and guitars could be heard above the sweet voices of the girls and then was lost in the heavier choruses. It was almost dusk when the last notes died away and there still remained the dance in the gymnasium. Tom left Jean and Elizabeth at Merton to dress for the dance, and he hurried to the Inn to get into his dress-suit. When the three strolled across the campus again in the direction of the gym, a perfect fairyland met their astonished eyes. Thousands of bright Japanese lanterns were strung about the entire grounds and swayed gently back and forth in the soft summer breeze. Here and there were the moving forms of belated dancers like themselves, moving mysteriously through the semi-darkness. "I hate to leave such beauty," said Elizabeth. "I don't care anything about the dancing, so why not leave me here on one of these benches, Jean? You and Tom can go in and dance and stop for me when you come home." "Well, I should say not," answered Tom. "Haven't you promised me part of the first dance and as many more as I want? Do you think we're going to leave you here for some prowling night-watchman to abduct? No, you've got to stay with us till the very last moment and perhaps between some of the dances we'll stroll out here for a cool breath." When they finally reached the gymnasium, they found it literally packed with dancers, but they waded their way through the crowds, and Tom began the dance with Elizabeth, for Paul Thorndike had noticed Jean's entrance and begged her for the dance. It was not much pleasure for any one, as there was so little room that one was continually stepped on or crowded against a passing couple. "I think about half an hour of this will be enough for me, Jean," said Tom, after the first dance. "I'm as fond as anybody can be of dancing, but this is too much for me. Let's go up in the gallery and watch the others." So up they went into the gallery and watched the whirling mass below them. It was much more fun, and many of their friends followed suit and joined them. Occasionally some of them went down on the floor, but returned almost exhausted with the struggle. About half-past ten o'clock, Elizabeth suggested that they take her home if they would not let her go alone, and she found Tom and Jean were both as ready to go as she. When they stepped out into the fairyland of the campus, Jean exclaimed, "I agree with you, Elizabeth; this is much better than in that crowded, stifling gymnasium. Let's walk around out here for a while until we cool off." It was beautiful out there in the cool stillness with only the muffled music breaking it occasionally, and all three became strangely silent for such very talkative young people. Jean broke the silence by exclaiming, "I know now what Cousin Nan meant that first night when she and I stood just here and she said, 'Dear Old Ashton! How I love it all and how I hate to leave it, for it has done so much for me!' Then I couldn't understand what she meant and I smiled to myself as I listened to her, but now it's different and I can say all that she said, only I'm so glad I am coming back next year, and the next, and the next, for three whole years. This going to college is the best thing in a girl's life, isn't it, Elizabeth?" By this time they had reached Merton and good-nights had to be said, but Tom and Jean were to take an early morning train and had all the day to talk things over. Although it was very early when the train drew out of the little station, Elizabeth was there to see the two off, and as the train started, Jean called from the platform, "Good-by, Beth, see you in New York a week from to-day. Don't let Miss Hooper lose the train, for you know she has all our tickets and we can't go to Europe without her. Good-by!" and the train steamed away as a very happy freshman started back to Merton to think things over. It may be that some of the readers have become so interested in the doings of Jean and Elizabeth that they would like to know what they and Miss Hooper did during the summer of 1912 in the British Isles. For the benefit of these it may be stated that a second volume, entitled "Jean Cabot in the British Isles," will appear, giving their experiences in that delightful country. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: The spelling and punctuation of the original have been preserved. Obvious punctuation errors and misprints have been corrected. Blank pages have been deleted. The third sentence of Chapter XV has been retained as it appears in the original publication. 
9901	----	Mary Meehan, David Newman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. Grace Harlowe's Return to Overton Campus By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. Author of The High School Girls Series, The College Girls Series, etc. PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY Copyright, 1915 [Illustration: The Girls Worked Busily] CONTENTS I. A Midsummer Pilgrimage II. A Welcome Guest III. An Unexpected Caller IV. The Secret Session V. The Way to Perpetual Youth VI. Jessica's Wedding VII. The Return of Emma Dean VIII. A Strange Applicant IX. Mary Reynolds Makes a New Friend X. The Thirty-Third Girl XI. Evelyn Ward, Freshman XII. The Harlowe House Club XIII. Planning for the Reception XIV. A Disquieting Thought XV. A Semper Fidelis Reunion XVI. The Interrupted Confidence XVII. A Week-End in New York XVIII. A Humiliating Reprimand XIX. An Unintentional Listener XX. A Double Puzzle XXI. The Puzzle Deepens XXII. Two Letters XXIII. Kathleen West, Confidante XXIV. Conclusion LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Girls Worked Busily. "Why, Emma Dean!" Exclaimed Grace. "We Decided to Give Our Loyalheart a Loyalty Token." "Did I Startle You, Miss Ward?" Grace Harlowe's Return to Overton Campus CHAPTER I A MIDSUMMER PILGRIMAGE "Overton, at last!" exclaimed Grace Harlowe, as, regardless of possible cinders and stern railroad injunctions, she leaned far out of the car window to obtain a first eager glimpse of her destination. It was midsummer, and the quiet, little town of Overton drowsed gently, not to awaken until the sounds of girl laughter and the passing of light feet through its sleepy streets roused it to the realization that it was Overton College that made its hum-drum existence worth while. "Oh, Mrs. Gray, you can't imagine how happy I feel!" went on Grace, her eyes eloquent with emotion. "Next to home, I love Overton better than any other place on earth. I'm so glad we are going to stay at Wayne Hall, and that Mrs. Elwood is to meet us." A long shrill whistle, a creaking and groaning of protesting iron wheels, the stentorian cry of "Overton! Overton!" and then a sudden jarring stop. Grace reached to the rack overhead for Mrs. Gray's small leather bag, allowing the dainty little old lady to precede her down the aisle which was practically clear. Apparently they were the only Overton passengers in that car. She stood still on the top step of the train until Mrs. Gray had been safely landed on the platform by the smiling porter, then, disdaining his helping hand, ran down the steps with a joyful skip that caused her companion to say indulgently, "You'll never grow up, Grace, and I'm glad of it. I can't become reconciled to the fact that Nora and Jessica are brides-to-be and that Anne's art is making her terribly serious. It's a joy to my old age to see you frisk about as happily as you did when you were a little thing in short white skirts with two long braids of fair hair hanging down your back." "I don't really feel a bit older than I did then," confessed Grace. "Sometimes I'm almost ashamed of my enthusiasm. It seems as though nice things are always happening to me, and this summer pilgrimage of just we two is the nicest of all." They were walking slowly across the deserted platform now, and Grace was keeping a sharp look-out on all sides for the short, comfortable figure of Mrs. Elwood. "There she is!" Grace hurried forward, her hands outstretched. The next instant they were held in Mrs. Elwood's welcoming grasp, while she kissed Grace's soft cheek. "My dear, dear girl!" she exclaimed, a suspicious moisture in her kindly blue eyes. "It does seem good to see you again. I'm very glad to welcome you to Overton, Mrs. Gray," she turned to shake hands with the donor of Harlowe House, "and delighted to know that you are going to stay with me instead of going to the Tourraine. Miss Harlowe's old room is ready for her, and I'm going to put you in the room Miss Nesbit and Miss Briggs used to have." "You'll be haunted by the kimono-clad shades of Miriam and Elfreda drinking tea and eating cakes at unseemly hours of the night," laughed Grace. "How are all my girls?" asked Mrs. Elwood. "I don't know what I shall do without them this year. You will have to come and see me often and tell me all about them, Miss Harlowe. Now let me see. There ought to be a taxicab just the other side of the station. Yes, there it is." The driver touched his cap smilingly to Grace as they climbed into the automobile, "It does look good to see you here again, miss," he said respectfully. "Thank you. I'm glad to see you again." Grace beamed whole-heartedly upon him. How many times he had carried her to and from the station. It was he who had driven the car on that memorable day when Ruth Denton had gone to the station to meet her father. Grace's eyes grew dreamy as they passed through the familiar streets. How much had happened since the time when she had entered Oakdale High School as a freshman with college in the far and hidden future. To her many friends "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School," and "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School" are now familiar records. Equally well known to these friends is the story of her freshman year at Overton, as set forth in "Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College." Accompanied by her friends, Miriam Nesbit and Anne Pierson, Grace began her freshman year at Overton College under a cloud which rose from her ready defense of J. Elfreda Briggs, a disgruntled student who had made enemies of two sophomores, and whose first days at college were made very unpleasant by them. J. Elfreda's subsequent casting aside of her friendship and her tardy realization of Grace's worth brought about a happy ending of their freshman year. In "Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College" the four girls set out to find the rainbow side of their sophomore year. How each girl found it, but in an entirely different manner, how Grace lived up to her resolve to choose only the highest in college, and how the famous Semper Fidelis Club came into existence, made the sophomore year in college memorable. "Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College" told of what befell the four friends as juniors. The advent of Kathleen West, a newspaper girl, into college was the first link in a chain of petty difficulties with which Grace was obliged to contend as a junior. The carnival given by the Semper Fidelis Club in which the Alice in Wonderland Circus was enacted, the important part which Jean, the old hunter of Oakdale fame, played in one Overton girl's life, the message Emma Dean forgot to deliver, and countless other absorbing incidents served to fill their junior year with ceaseless interest. "Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College" found Grace and her friends on the homeward stretch with commencement at the end of their college trail. The record of Grace's senior year was filled with happenings grave and gay. It ended in a blaze of honor and glory, and it was on Commencement day that she made her decision to return to Overton and look after Harlowe House, lately completed and endowed by Mrs. Gray in honor of her young friends and dedicated to the use of poor girls who were making valiant efforts to obtain an education. It was in reference to Harlowe House, her future home, that Grace and Mrs. Gray had made this midsummer pilgrimage, as Grace had laughingly styled it, to Overton. As their car glided through the shady streets of the dignified college town Grace wondered if it were really eight years since her freshman days in Oakdale High School. It certainly couldn't be four years since Mabel Ashe had conducted her and Anne and Miriam to the Tourraine on that first eventful afternoon. She remembered just how beautiful Mabel had looked in her white linen frock, with her white embroidered parasol tilted over one shoulder, an effective frame for her lovely face and wavy, golden-brown hair. "Dreaming, Grace?" Mrs. Gray's voice dispelled the vision. "I can't blame you. I suppose this ride brings up hosts of memories." Grace nodded. She could not trust her voice to answer. A sudden mist filled her eyes, a silent tribute to those whose feet had once kept pace with hers through these beloved ways. Commencement had scattered them broadcast. She, alone, was coming back again to take up life at the college. How she would miss them all. The dry irresistible humor of Emma Dean, the sturdy independence of J. Elfreda Briggs, the daintiness of Arline Thayer and the steadfast loyalty of Ruth Denton. Last of all there were Anne and Miriam. Anne, her devoted little comrade of years, and Miriam, whose faith and good fellowship had never failed her. A sob rose in Grace's throat, but she quickly stifled it. After all she was about to begin the work she herself had chosen. She had known when she announced her determination to take charge of Harlowe House that things could never be quite the same. It would be selfish, indeed, in her to break down and cry when Mrs. Gray had come to Overton solely to help her select the furniture and plan for the opening of Harlowe House in September. Grace pulled herself together and, resolutely putting her own sense of loss behind her, said steadily: "I couldn't help thinking of the girls for a minute. It made me want to cry, but I've set my face to the future now, and I'm sure that my new work is going to bring me as much happiness here as I had during the other dear four years. When I think of how splendid it was in you to give Harlowe House to Overton, I feel as though there isn't any sacrifice too great for me to make to insure its success, and I hope that my coming back to Overton Campus to do my work is going to mean a thousand times more to me next June than it does now." CHAPTER II A WELCOME GUEST The summer sun, streaming intimately in at the window of her room, and touching her hair with warm, awakening fingers, caused Grace to open her eyes before six o'clock the next morning. She lay looking about her, unable for the moment to remember where she was. Then she laughed and reaching for her kimono, which hung folded across the footboard of the bed, slipped it on, and, thrusting her feet into her bedroom slippers, went to the window. "Dear old Overton Hall," she murmured, her eyes fixed lovingly on the stately gray tower of the building that she had come to regard as a close friend. Again she found herself overwhelmed by a tide of reminiscences. How many times she and Anne had stood at the self-same window, arm in arm, gazing out at the self-same sights. She could see the very seat at the foot of the big tree where she had sat the day Emma Dean had poked her head about the big syringa bush and mournfully handed her the letter from Ruth Denton's father which had been buried in the pocket of Emma's coat for so many weeks. She smiled as she recalled the ludicrously penitent expression with which Emma had delivered the letter. There were the library steps on which Arline Thayer had sat and cried so disconsolately because she could not go home for Christmas. Once more she saw a strange procession winding its way across the campus headed by a walking, chattering scarecrow, Emma Dean again in her famous representation of "Never Too Late to Mend," which had been one of the great features of the Famous Fiction dance. Then she saw four girls, with their shining heads bared to the sun, strolling across the campus, talking earnestly of what the future held for them. And still again she saw them in caps and gowns marching toward the Gate of Commencement. It was only a little time since they had passed through that gateway, yet how long it seemed. Suddenly her look of abstraction changed to one of startled interest. Running to the door she threw it open and listened intently. She heard Mrs. Elwood's voice raised in pleased surprise, then, could she believe her ears? she heard another never-to-be-forgotten voice say, "I could see that there was some one awake and stirring." With a joyous cry of "J. Elfreda, where, oh, where did you come from?" a lithe, blue-robed figure raced down the stairs and wrapped both arms tightly about a plump young woman, in a tailored coat suit, who returned the warm embrace with interest. "Oh, Grace, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you again!" exclaimed J. Elfreda Briggs fervently. "I never was so glad in all my life as when I found out you were here. The letter was forwarded to me at the beach. We're at Wildwood for the summer. Maybe I didn't pick up my things in a hurry. To use slang, which you know I can't resist using occasionally, I hot-footed it for the station the minute Ma said I could come." "Which letter do you mean, Elfreda?" asked Grace in a puzzled tone. "Why the one from Mrs. Gray, of course," returned Elfreda. "Isn't she here?" "Yes, but--" "Grace! Elfreda!" called Mrs. Gray from the head of the stairs, "come up here, children." "Come on." Grace seized Elfreda's heavy suit case and started up the stairs. Elfreda followed with alacrity. "Now," laughed Grace, as she stepped into Mrs. Gray's room, "I demand an explanation." She laid her hands lightly upon the old lady's shoulders, smiling down at her, then bent and kissed her cheek. "This is certainly a happy meeting," declared Elfreda, as she embraced Mrs. Gray, who rose to greet her. "I'm so glad you could come, my dear. I knew that Grace would miss her friends dreadfully when she came back here. Anne and Miriam are both away, and Nora and Jessica are too deep in the mysteries of hope chests and wedding finery to be dragged off on even the most delightful of midsummer pilgrimages. But my greatest reason for asking you to come was because I believed you were the very person Grace needed to make her happy here. You see it will take at least two weeks to set things to rights and she must have inspiring company. I hope everything has arrived safely. Suppose we hurry through with our breakfast and go over to Harlowe House at once. Mrs. Elwood tells me that she informed the caretaker yesterday of our coming. We shall be obliged to stop at his house for the key." "Oh, Elfreda, I'm so sorry that you weren't with us in New York," was Grace's regretful cry. "We stayed with the Southards, Mrs. Gray, Anne, Miriam and I. Anne, Miss Southard and Mr. Southard left New York City for California last week. Mr. Southard and Anne are to appear as joint stars in film productions of 'As You Like It,' 'Hamlet,' 'King Lear' and possibly other Shakespearian plays. It is their first experience in posing before the camera. Anne sent you her love. She will write you as soon as she is settled." "Dear little Anne," smiled Elfreda, her eyes growing tender. "I hope she'll be back in time for the girls' weddings. Nora and Jessica say positively that they won't be married without her." Grace looked anxious. "When are they to be married?" "The last of September. The date hasn't been set." "Grace," Elfreda fixed round solemn eyes on her friend, "do you feel very old this summer?" "Not the least little bit. I can't realize that I've come back to Harlowe House to take charge of it. I feel as young as I felt when I first entered high school." "Well, I'm glad to hear it, for, to save me, I can't feel responsible and dignified. I've run and raced and swum and played golf like an Indian all summer, and honestly I feel ever so much younger than when I came to Overton four years ago. See how tanned I am? I haven't gained an ounce either. I weigh just one hundred and thirty-five pounds and no more," concluded J. Elfreda in triumph. "You are in splendid condition, Elfreda," praised Mrs. Gray. Grace nodded emphatic approval. "Yes, I'm strong enough to hustle furniture, beat rugs, scrub floors, or do anything else necessary to the beautifying and eternal improvement of Harlowe House." Then she added slyly, "Lead me to it." "You'll be led to it fast enough," promised Grace. "Just wait until we have some breakfast." At that moment Mrs. Elwood appeared in the open doorway. "Shall I bring your breakfast upstairs this morning?" she asked. "I thought Mrs. Gray might like to have it in her room." "Thank you, but I'd rather go downstairs this morning," nodded the energetic old lady. "May we breakfast a la negligee?" "Yes, come down just as you are. There is no one here besides myself and the maid." "Miss Briggs, have you had your breakfast? Jane is making waffles. I thought you--" "Waffles!" exclaimed Elfreda, rolling her eyes in ecstacy. "If I'd had fifty breakfasts I couldn't resist waffles. Thank goodness Vinton's wasn't open." "Aren't waffles supposed to be fattening?" inquired Grace judiciously. "Don't ask me," was Elfreda's fervent protest. "I've set my mind on eating them, even though I have to walk to Hunter's Rock and back in the glare of the noonday sun to counteract their deadly effects." It was a merry trio that gathered around the table which Mrs. Elwood had set on the roomy, vine-covered back porch, and it was fully an hour after they sat down to breakfast before they rose to go upstairs and make ready for their visit to Harlowe House. "There is no use in trying to begin our real work to-day," declared Grace, as the three left Mrs. Elwood's and strolled slowly along College Street in the direction of the caretaker's house. Mr. Symes, who had faithfully executed so many commissions for Grace, had been selected as the best possible person to look after the house. "Mr. Symes was to see that everything was unpacked before we arrived. We shall have to employ two men to move the heavy furniture. Thank goodness and Mrs. Gray, there are no carpets to be laid. The floors are all hard wood and there are rugs for every room except the kitchen and laundry." "I brought an old dress along," Elfreda informed her friends. "I helped Ma set our cottage to rights this summer and I know something about work. We had two maids and a scrubwoman. The maids were in my way, so I sent them off for a holiday and the scrubwoman and I tackled the job and went through with it like wildfire. Ma nearly had a spasm, but she liked the looks of things when we had finished. You should have seen me, though. Ma didn't like my looks. I guess I did resemble a human mop if you know what that looks like." "I can imagine," laughed Grace. "If you attack the business of putting Harlowe House to rights with the same energy, I shall know exactly how you looked when you cleaned the cottage." "Perhaps you will," Elfreda grinned boyishly. "I hadn't thought of that." "You couldn't see that far ahead, could you?" quizzed Grace with twinkling eyes. "No I couldn't," declared Elfreda earnestly, then, catching sight of Grace's dancing eyes, she laughed good-naturedly. "You will tease me about that. I can see that you'll never outgrow the habit." "I can see that Elfreda is going to lighten our labors and make our tasks merry," smiled Mrs. Gray. "What a joy and a diversion you must have been to Miriam." "I was anything but an unqualified source of pleasure during my freshman year," replied Elfreda. "It is plain to be seen that Grace never told you my early Overton history." "Now, Elfreda--" began Grace, but Elfreda was not to be thus easily deterred from saying her say. She launched forth with a ludicrous account of her freshman shortcomings that left Mrs. Gray and Grace breathless with laughter. "Elfreda, it is hard to say which is funnier, you or Hippy," Mrs. Gray's eyes twinkled with enjoyment. "Well, isn't it so?" demanded J. Elfreda. "Isn't that exactly the way I used to do?" "It's what I call a highly exaggerated account of your self-named misdeeds," returned Grace. "You haven't said a word about all the nice things you did for the girls." "I don't remember them," evaded Elfreda hastily. "Oh, there's Mr. Symes now! How are you, Mr. Symes? You didn't expect to see me here, did you?" "Well, well, if it ain't Miss Briggs," beamed the old man joyfully. His remembrance of J. Elfreda was decidedly pleasant. She had always paid him generously for the numerous errands he had run for her. He greeted Grace with equal enthusiasm, and bobbed like a nodding mandarin before Mrs. Gray. "I hope you have been well, Mr. Symes. How is your wife and how do you like being caretaker of Harlowe House?" asked Grace. "I'm well, miss, and so's my wife. It's a fine place, miss, that Harlowe House, an' it'll be finer still when fall comes and it's full of Overton students. We're pretty proud of our young ladies, we Overton folks. Excuse me, miss, I'll go over to my house and get the key. I'll be right along." "He has a whole lot of real college spirit," commented Elfreda, "or he couldn't speak so beautifully of the Overton girls." "He always was a perfect old dear," agreed Grace warmly. The caretaker soon overtook them with the key, and the little company crossed the street and traversed the deserted campus. "How strangely still everything is," commented Grace. "Not in the least like it was six months ago, is it, Elfreda?" "It gives me the blues," averred Elfreda in a low tone. "Here we are," called Mrs. Gray, with a cheery attempt at dispelling the tiny cloud of dejection that had fallen over the two girls. "Harlowe House couldn't have a prettier site." The three women followed Mr. Symes up the steps, then, as if by common consent, turned and looked out over the green expanse of closely-clipped lawn, sprinkled with sentinel-like old trees. They had stood guard year after year and silently watched the comings and goings of the hundreds of girls who proudly acknowledged Overton as their Alma Mater. "What's the use of gazing and mooning?" asked Elfreda, with sudden brusqueness. "Please open that door, Mr. Symes. I shall certainly weep and wail disconsolately out of pure sentiment if you don't distract my attention with something else. Show me the furniture, or the boxes it came in, or anything else that won't call forth tender reminiscences." Grace's laugh sounded a trifle shaky, but it was a laugh nevertheless. Something in Elfreda's brusque tones acted as an antidote to her retrospection. She had been more or less ghost-ridden ever since her return to Overton. She now resolved to shake off that pleasantly melancholy sensation and "be up and doing with a heart for any fate." The caretaker admitted them to a hall crowded with huge packing boxes. In fact, the whole of the first floor was occupied by the large shipments of furniture recently delivered into the care of Mr. Symes. "It's worse than the cottage," announced Elfreda; "a regular howling wilderness. I'd like to know how we can possibly guess what's what and why. These boxes all look alike. If we have our minds set upon seeing the parlor suite, we'll be sure to unpack the kitchen furniture instead." "We'll let the men wrestle with the unpacking, girls," decided Mrs. Gray. "I don't wish my body guard to nurse wholesale bruises and smashed fingers. Mr. Symes, can you have two men besides yourself here this afternoon to unpack these things?" "I certainly can, Mrs. Gray," promised Mr. Symes with respectful promptness. "Then we'll have to possess our souls in patience until to-morrow," sighed Grace. "Isn't this a lovely, roomy house, Elfreda? I'm so glad, too, that there isn't a prim, stiff parlor. I like this immense living-room much better. The girls will surely like it. It will serve as a library too. That little room just off the hall will make such a convenient office for me. Imagine me as the head of a college house, with an office all my own, Elfreda." "It's a good thing for the house," commented Elfreda. "I hope the girls that live here will appreciate you, Grace. I hope none of them will be as silly as J. Elfreda Briggs was." "Elfreda, how can you?" remonstrated Grace. "How could I, you mean," flung back Elfreda. "Because I was a spoiled, selfish ingrate who never stopped to think of any one else's rights." "Now, now, Elfreda," protested Mrs. Gray. "Well, I was," insisted Elfreda positively. "It took a whole year to reduce me to order. I wasn't as hopeless as some of the others. It took three years to make Alberta Wicks and Mary Hampton real Overton girls, and two years to instil college spirit into Kathleen West. But Grace never gave any of us up, even though we treated her so shabbily. That's why I just said I hoped that the girls would appreciate Grace. I'd hate to think that some stupid ill-natured freshman, it's more likely to be a freshman than any one else, would behave like an idiot and spoil her first year at Harlowe House." There was an expression of anxious concern on Elfreda's round face. "Don't worry, Elfreda," reassured Grace, "the students who come to Harlowe House to live are sure to be nice. Girls who have their own way to pay through college are usually cheerful and unselfish. They are anxious to live and willing to let live." "I don't know about that. Kathleen West wasn't a glaring pattern of amiability when she entered Overton," reminded Elfreda. "Of course she's now a brilliant example of what forbearance will accomplish, and you know that I am very fond of her, but you and I remember what we went through during the forbearing process." "Don't croak, J. Elfreda Briggs," admonished Grace lightly, "I don't imagine that everything will be plain sailing this year. That would be asking too much. Still I hope I shall not have any serious misunderstandings with my girls. I'm going to remember my motto, 'Blessed are they that have found their work,' and not shirk anything that comes within the line of it." "I guess there isn't the slightest danger of shirking on your part," was Elfreda's dry retort. "I hope the men that do the unpacking of this stuff will be imbued with the same spirit. You'd better bring out that motto and hang it up where they can see it. To change the subject, we haven't been upstairs yet." "Come on, then." "I think I'll wait for you on the veranda, children," said Mrs. Gray. "Don't stay upstairs too long. I should like to go back to Mrs. Elwood's, telephone for a taxicab, and make a call upon Dr. Morton this morning." "We'll hurry," promised Grace, as they ascended the open staircase which led to the second floor. "These are to be my quarters," she announced, opening a door at the end of the hall on the left side of the stairs. "This left wing was designed especially for me. The right wing has the same amount of space, but it is divided into two bedrooms. But the left has a sitting-room and bedroom, with a bathroom between the two. It seems selfish in me to have so much room, but Mrs. Gray insists that I need it and wishes me to be thoroughly comfortable. She wanted me to have circassian walnut bedroom furniture, but I chose oak. I don't wish my rooms to suggest luxury. It wouldn't seem in touch with the spirit of my undertaking." Elfreda regarded Grace with loving admiration. "You're the squarest, fairest girl I ever knew or even expect to know, Grace," was her tribute. "And you deserve the best that the Harlowe House girls can give you." CHAPTER III AN UNEXPECTED CALLER "'And if I do say it as shouldn't,' this room is a credit to our college and our own sweet native land," proclaimed Elfreda, as she viewed with critical eyes the long cheerful living-room, to which she and Grace had just put the final touches. The morning sunshine of a perfect midsummer day poured in at the windows flooding the scene with dazzling light, as though smiling its approval of the pretty room. The walls and ceilings were papered in cream color with a running border of green leaves. The floor rug was in two shades of green, and the window draperies were in green and white. The furniture was in mission oak, but there were several comfortable arm chairs and willow rockers scattered about the room. A long library table took up considerable space at one end of the room, and conveniently near it were rows of book shelves, lined with special books required by the Overton curriculum of study, which, in price, were out of reach of the more impecunious students, and were in such constant demand at the library that their temporary possession often meant weeks of waiting. There was a piano, of course, but the crowning feature of the room, however, was the wide window seat built across the bow-window at its upper end. It was at least four feet wide, upholstered in thick green velvet and piled high with sofa pillows. It was indeed a cozy corner which invited rest, and Elfreda confidently predicted that it would be the most popular spot in the house. The house itself had not followed the usual plan of modern architecture. In fact, it was distinctly old-fashioned and built for room rather than effect. The hall ran the length of the house to the kitchen, dividing it into two parts. The dining-room was on the side opposite the living-room, and had also a bow-window. Directly behind it lay the servants' quarters. Adjoining the living-room was Grace's little office and behind that was a room furnished with every convenience for the benefit of those girls who were obliged to launder their own clothing to save expense. The second, third and fourth floors were, with the exception of Grace's suite, given up entirely to bedrooms, of which there were sixteen. This meant the accommodation of thirty-two students for whom the perplexing problem of food and shelter was solved for their entire four years' course at Overton, provided they complied with the rules of Harlowe House. "Doesn't it seem wonderful, Elfreda, that through Mrs. Gray's generosity the girls who come here will be free from the dreadful worry of paying board? All they will have to look out for is their regular college fees, and if they happen to be lucky enough to enter Overton on scholarships they will have absolutely plain sailing." Grace's face was alight with appreciation of Mrs. Gray's gift. "What a pity Ruth Denton couldn't have had such a chance," mused Elfreda. "Poor little Ruth, how hard she worked." "And now she has everything," returned Grace. "It seems miraculous that she found her father, doesn't it?" Elfreda nodded. "Arline Thayer was good to her those first three years. Do you remember the ridiculous quarrel they had because Ruth wouldn't tell us what she was like when she was a little girl?" "I ought to remember it, considering the fact that I officiated as peace maker," smiled Grace. "How I shall miss Arline. There is only one other girl, outside of you and Miriam and Anne, whom I shall miss as much." "Emma Dean?" guessed Elfreda. "Yes, Emma Dean. I can't begin to tell you how fond of her I am and always have been. She was the life of Wayne Hall. Mrs. Elwood was sighing fond remembrance of her only this morning. Really, Elfreda, I wonder if, ever again, there will be a class quite like 19--?" "Never," declared Elfreda with quick loyalty, then, glancing up at the mission clock on the wall, she exclaimed: "I wonder why Mrs. Gray doesn't come! Let's go out on the veranda and watch for her." The two young women strolled out onto the veranda just in time to see an automobile drive up to the house containing two persons. One of them was Mrs. Gray, the other, to whom she was talking animatedly, was a broad-shouldered young man, whose gray eyes shone with pleasure as he caught sight of Grace. "Why, Tom!" she called in astonishment. "Where did you come from? I thought you were away up in Maine." She hurried down the steps, her hands extended. The young man caught them in his and held them fast. "So I was," he answered, his eyes searching hers, "but my work there is done for the present. I am on my way to Washington, but it's a roundabout way, for, when I received your letter, I was devoured with curiosity to see Harlowe House, so I took a day off, on my own responsibility, and came this way." Grace colored under the young man's ardent gaze. She knew only too well that it was not alone curiosity to see Harlowe House that had taken Tom out of his way. "I'm sorry your curiosity didn't devour you sooner," she retorted mischievously. "If only you had come here last week! You could have made yourself invaluable. However, you are in time to meet Elfreda, at least." "Yes, Tom," declared his aunt, "you can't afford to miss knowing Elfreda. She is the counterpart of Hippy, and has kept Grace and I in a perpetual state of smiles during the past two weeks." Tom helped his aunt out of the automobile and the three walked slowly toward the veranda where Elfreda stood waiting. A moment later she and Tom were shaking hands and declaring that, having heard so much of each other from Grace, they were really old acquaintances. "When are you going home?" Tom asked, as half an hour later, the party paused in the living-room after a tour of inspection which included the four floors. "That is the main subject under discussion at present," smiled Grace. "It must be very soon. If not to-morrow, then the day after. Here we are fairly into August and I have spent a very short time with Father and Mother. Then, too, the Phi Sigma Tau has a great many mysterious rites to observe before two of its members enter into that state known as matrimony. Also we expect Eleanor Savelli soon. She and her father and aunt are going to be at 'Heartease' for two or three months. Mabel Allison and her mother are coming east, and the Southards are coming home with Anne when their motion-picture work in California is done. I could go on naming plenty of other reasons, but those are the really important ones." "I should say they were important ones," agreed Tom. "It sounds as though there were to be some lively times in Oakdale. I'm going to try to make my vacation cover the weddings. I can't allow the Originals to get married, celebrate or jollificate without me." "Oh, Tom, will you really?" cried Grace with enthusiasm. "I'll let you know the moment the date of the girls' weddings is set." "Can you stay over until to-morrow, Tom?" asked Mrs. Gray. "Then we can go back to Oakdale on the late afternoon train." "I'm afraid not, Aunt Rose, I'm a day late now. I'll have to take the night train for Washington. Let me see." He drew a time table from his coat pocket. "There is a train out of Overton at nine o'clock to-night. I'm due to catch it. But I'm going to take you all to dinner at the Tourraine and we are going for a drive afterward which will end at the station, where you will all see me on my desolate way. Are there any objections?" "Nothing but delighted acceptances, my dear boy," assured his aunt, glancing fondly at her big, good-looking nephew. "I'll venture to answer for the girls, too." "We'll come to Tom's dinner party, provided he has luncheon with us," stipulated Grace. "It's almost noon now. Mrs. Elwood will have luncheon ready at one. You'd better come with us, Tom. We are going to have strawberry shortcake with whipped cream, for dessert." "You couldn't lose me," asserted Tom with slangy emphasis. "Shall I go on ahead and telephone for a car, Aunt Rose?" "No, I'll walk to Wayne Hall with you children," decided Mrs. Gray. "I wonder if there is anything else to be done," murmured Grace, surveying the living-room with anxious eyes. "Oh, my motto. It must hang directly above the archway." "Where is it?" asked Elfreda. "We have time to put it up before we go to luncheon, and plenty of skilled laborers." She cast a laughing glance at Tom. "It isn't made yet," confessed Grace. "Eva Allen's brother, who is an artist, is illuminating one for me." "What is your motto, Grace?" asked Tom interestedly. "'Blessed are they that have found their work,'" repeated Grace, her eyes on the spot where she intended the precious motto to hang. Mrs. Gray had walked on into the hall, so there was only one pair of eyes to see the sudden tightening of Tom's lips and the look of wistfulness which crept into his face, and that pair of eyes belonged to Elfreda. "He cares a whole lot more for Grace than she cares for him," was Elfreda's quick appraisal. "At heart, Grace is still a little girl, and will be for a long time to come. I hope when she does wake up it won't be another prince who will do the awakening." CHAPTER IV THE SECRET SESSION "I feel more as though I were getting ready for a funeral than about to give a dinner for the Eight Originals," sighed Grace Harlowe, as she joined her mother on the shady front porch, a little white and gold work bag, which Miss Southard had brought her from Paris, swinging from her arm. "I can't realize that, within the next week, Nora and Jessica are actually going to become Mrs. Hippy Wingate and Mrs. Reddy Brooks. It seems ridiculous. Why it's only yesterday that Jessica's hair hung down her back in two braids, and Nora wore curls and short dresses." "I can't imagine Hippy in the role of a dignified bridegroom," smiled Mrs. Harlowe. "He is far more likely to convulse the wedding party and upset the whole solemn service than to conduct himself with strict propriety." "He insists that he will cover himself with glory if Reddy doesn't look at him, and Reddy insists that he will sit and stare him out of countenance. David is to be Hippy's best man and Tom Gray Reddy's, while Jessica is to be Nora's maid of honor and Nora Jessica's matron of honor. She's to be married first, you know. Mabel, Anne, Miriam Nesbit, Eleanor Savelli and I are to be the bridesmaids at both weddings," went on Grace. "We'll have a reunion of all our friends. The Gibsons are at home, Judge Putnam and his sister are coming down earlier from the Adirondacks; then there are Eleanor and her father, Miss Nevin and the Southards. Every one who has played an active part in our home lives will be on hand to see the girls married." "But how can Nora go away on a wedding journey and be Jessica's matron of honor, too?" asked Mrs. Harlowe. "She and Jessica went over that point a dozen times. You see Nora's wedding takes place in the morning. She is going to have a wedding breakfast, then she and Hippy will go to the mountains for a week. They will return to Oakdale on the day of Jessica's wedding, and leave for a long trip west the next morning. That was the best way they could carry out a compact they made last June to serve as maids of honor for each other." Mrs. Harlowe listened to Grace's flow of eager talk with a smile of content on her fine face. To her fond eyes Grace looked absurdly immature in her simple frock of white dotted swiss. She was secretly glad that Overton, rather than marriage, had claimed her alert, self-reliant daughter for another year. Like every other mother she wished some day to see Grace happily settled in a home of her own, but she preferred to think of that someday as being still far distant. Grace took out of her bag a guest towel she was embroidering. It was the last of the half dozen towels she had worked for Jessica's hope chest. She was not fond of needlework. She preferred to spend her spare time playing golf and tennis, or riding and walking. This, as well as the hemstitched table cloth and napkins she had completed for Nora, was a labor of love. Now as she bent painstakingly over her work, she smiled to herself and wove a tender thread of loyalty and love into the pattern. A long clear trill caused her to raise her head quickly and spring to her feet with, "Here they are, at last!" She ran to meet them. Three girls, or rather three young women, came loitering through the gate and up the walk, laughing gayly at something the girl in the center was relating for their benefit. "Now what has Hippy done?" guessed Grace shrewdly. "You might know it was something about him," said Jessica Bright. "This time it was a case of what was done to him. Tell the lady all over again, Nora." "It certainly was funny," dimpled Nora. "You see, Grace, Hippy and Edith and I were going for a ride, last night, in his new car. We waited and waited for him and couldn't imagine why he didn't come. About ten o'clock he came tearing along at a speed that would have made a traffic officer turn pale. Edith and I were still sitting on the porch. I pretended I was dreadfully offended until he told me where he had been, then Edith and I laughed until we almost cried." "Where had he been?" asked Grace curiously. The three girls giggled in unison. "Locked in the cellar," returned Nora mirthfully. "He was all ready to go for his car when he happened to remember that he wanted a wrench from the tool chest in the cellar. His father is away this week and there was no one in the house but the cook. She was all ready to go away for the evening, too. She didn't know Hippy was in the cellar, so she locked all the doors, the cellar door included, and went on her way rejoicing. Hippy said he pounded and shouted and howled and wailed and pounded some more. Can't you imagine just how funny he must have looked? He couldn't climb out of the cellar windows, for they are too small and he is too fat, so he had to stay there until almost ten o'clock. He says he sat on the cellar steps most of the time and thought of the happy past. At last the cook came home and when he heard her walking around upstairs he pounded and shouted again. She thought he was a burglar, just as though a burglar would make all that noise, and wasn't going to let him out. He insists that he ruined his voice forever in trying to convince her that he was himself. He says his frenzied pleadings finally touched her adamant heart, and she opened the cellar door very cautiously at the rate of about a sixteenth of an inch per minute." Grace laughed with the others, as Nora finished. "Poor Hippy," she commented, "he is always falling into difficulties. I must ask him about his evening in the cellar." "Yes, do," urged Nora. "He tried to swear Edith and me to secrecy, but we refused to be sworn." "It will make Reddy so happy," laughed Anne. "Oh, Anne, dear, you don't know how splendid it seems to have you home again!" exclaimed Grace. "It's just like old times. I can't help feeling sad though. We thought when we were graduated from high school that our parting of the ways had come, but now that we are all standing on the verge of our life work, it seems to me that this is going to be the real parting. I can't help wondering if things will seem quite the same again when we gather home next year." "Of course they will," declared practical Nora. "Grace Harlowe, don't you dare to grow gloomy and retrospective. We four are chums for life, and not all the weddings and stage careers and Harlowe House positions in the world can change us." "I know they can't. I won't make any more excursions into the Valley of Doubt," promised Grace. They had stopped on the walk to talk, now they moved slowly toward the veranda, four abreast, a bright-eyed, happy quartette. Mrs. Harlowe greeted her daughter's friends as affectionately as though they were her own children. "Did you bring your work, girls, or is it to be a case of idle hands?" "Idle hands!" exclaimed Nora. "Far from it. Jessica has a blouse to finish and I have innumerable initials to embroider." "I am the only idle one," confessed Anne. "I am sorry to say that I haven't the least desire to be industrious. I prefer to sit with my hands folded and watch the rest of you work. It sounds lazy, doesn't it?" "Not a bit of it," declared Grace loyally. "You've done your work, Anne. It's time you took a rest. Make yourselves comfy, girls. Here, give me your hats and parasols. I'll put them in the hall." In a moment Grace returned, and sitting down by Nora, who had stationed herself in the big porch swing, she picked up her work and began to embroider industriously. For the space of half an hour the little company worked busily, keeping up a running accompaniment of merry conversation broken with light laughter. It was Nora's quick eyes which first saw Grace lay down her work with an impatient sigh. An instant later Grace discovered that Nora's industry was flagging. Mrs. Harlowe had just gone into the house. Anne was leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the far horizon, while Jessica, alone, plodded patiently along, too much absorbed in the development of the butterfly pattern she was embroidering to note that two of her companions were lagging. A sudden silence fell upon them all. It was broken by Nora's quick tones. "I'll take it all back," she averred. "I'm strictly in favor of idle hands. Let's put our work away and go for a walk!" "For this brilliant idea, we thank you," returned Anne, coming out of her dream in a hurry. "Why not walk over to the old Omnibus House," suggested Grace. "Brillianter and brillianter," nodded Nora. "What could be more fitting than to make a pilgrimage to the scenes of our high school days? I haven't been there in ages." "Neither have I," was Grace's quick response. "It's only half-past three. We'll have plenty of time to go there and back before dinner. The boys won't be here until six o'clock. You know that Tom Gray arrived yesterday, I suppose? That makes the Eight Originals complete. We'll have to do without the Plus Two, because Miriam hasn't come home yet and Arnold won't be here until the night before Nora's wedding." "How I miss Miriam," sighed Grace. "We never dreamed when we were freshmen that she would ever be our close friend, did we?" asked Nora. "She's a dear, and no mistake," agreed Jessica. Then, her glance straying to Anne, "What makes Anne look so mysterious?" Anne smiled. "I'll tell you the most surprising secret you ever heard, but not until we get to the Omnibus House and are seated in a row on the old stone steps behind it." "Then let's away!" exclaimed Nora. "We won't need our hats. Two parasols will be enough to shade us from the sun." Five minutes later the four girls trooped down the steps and strolled through the familiar streets in the direction of their old playground. The afternoon sun beamed so gently and kindly upon them that it was not long before they closed their parasols and walked with their heads uncovered to his tempered rays. To see a bevy of girls walking in the quiet streets of the little city without hats was the commonest sight, and the quartette attracted little attention as they sauntered along. After leaving Oakdale behind, it was not more than ten minutes' walk across the fields to the quaint old stone house which had been the scene of so many of their high school revels. "What a lot of good times we have had here," mused Nora reminiscently, as they paused before the quaint old building, that had once been a tavern, and was, goodness knew, how many years old. "Shall you ever forget the time we buried the hatchet?" "Never!" chorused three emphatic voices. "Wasn't Julia Crosby too ridiculous for words?" declared Jessica. Her smile of recollection was reflected in the faces of her friends. "That reminds me," remarked Nora, "I have something to tell you girls too." "Let's have a 'secret' session," proposed Jessica. "Every one who wishes to attend must be ready to tell a secret the moment we sit down on the steps." "'A secret is a secret, only, when known to three persons, two of which are dead,'" quoted Anne mischievously. "These secrets mustn't be the heart-to-heart, keep-it-to-yourself-forever kind," stipulated Nora. "They mustn't be of the complex variety either. Dark secrets are also strictly tabooed from this session." "Stop laying down rules and regulations," laughed Grace, "and let us form our secret row. I am eaten up with curiosity to know what Anne and Nora know." "Are you eligible?" quizzed Nora. "That is the important question. Anne, you must head the row. You began this session." Anne complied obediently. Nora sat down beside her. Grace stood eyeing Nora thoughtfully. Then her eyes sparkled. "I'm eligible," she announced as she made a third. "So am I," declared Jessica a trifle soberly, taking her place at the other end of the row. "Ladies and no gentlemen," announced Nora, rising and bowing profoundly to the three girls, "the great secret session of the four inseparables is about to begin. Remember, you are not limited to one secret. If you happen to know several, now is the time to tell them. Go ahead, Anne." Nora seated herself again and with the eyes of her chums fixed expectantly upon her, Anne began the secret session. CHAPTER V THE WAY TO PERPETUAL YOUTH "This isn't a secret that any one told me," stated Anne. "It's something I found out for myself. One of the two persons it concerns doesn't know it yet. Perhaps she will never know." "How mysteriously interesting," commented Nora. "Hurry on with it, Anne. Who are the persons concerned?" "Mr. Southard and"--Anne paused briefly to give due effect to her words--"Miriam." A ripple of surprise passed along the row. "What do you mean, Anne?" was Grace's quick question. "I mean that for nearly four years Mr. Southard has cared for Miriam," replied Anne steadily. Nora's puckered red lips emitted a surprised whistle. "This _is_ news," averred Jessica. "But Miriam could never care for him. He is so much older." "How old do you imagine Mr. Southard to be, Jessica?" asked Anne slyly. "Oh, I don't know. He must be--" Jessica paused reflectively. Then a sudden look of astonishment passed over her face. "Why how funny! He isn't really old. I don't believe he is as old as thirty-five, but he _seems_ older." Anne nodded. "He is thirty-three. That isn't very ancient, is it?" "Miriam is twenty-four," mused Grace aloud. "She is so brilliant, self-possessed and stunning that one feels as though she were even older than that. I know she is very fond of the Southards, but I don't believe she suspects that Mr. Southard--" "She doesn't," put in Anne eagerly. "He has been careful that she shouldn't. I believe Miss Southard knows, but she would never say so, even to me. Do you remember the time we went to New York City for Thanksgiving, when we were freshmen at Overton, Grace? Well, it began then. I know him so thoroughly that I could see things that you girls couldn't. After that I took particular pains to notice the way he acted toward Miriam whenever they met, and, as Elfreda says, I could see his love for her grow and deepen. He cared a great deal last commencement, and he was so dreadfully afraid she'd find out that he actually kept away from her." "I remember that," interposed Grace. "Miriam noticed it, too. She told me that she was afraid she had in some way offended Mr. Southard, for he treated her with almost distant courtesy. I suppose he imagines himself as being too old for Miriam." "This _is_ an interesting secret and no mistake," said Nora, wagging her head with satisfaction, "but what about poor Arnold Evans?" "You are running ahead too fast, Nora," smiled Anne. "Remember Miriam doesn't suspect that Mr. Southard loves her. The chances are she doesn't nor never will care for him. But I'll be generous and tell you another secret. Miriam and Arnold aren't the least bit in love with each other." "Do you know, Anne, I've always thought that, too," agreed Grace. "They have always acted more like two good comrades." "Exactly," replied Anne, "but, as far as I am concerned, girls, to me it would be a wonderful thing if some day Everett Southard and Miriam Nesbit should decide that they were necessary to each other's welfare. They are so admirably suited in temperament, disposition, and all that goes toward making two persons absolutely happy." "Hear the sage expound life and love," giggled Nora. "What about poor David's future happiness?" Anne flushed. "I can't answer that question," she said, after a little pause. "It does sound rather silly for me to go on talking about the love affairs of others when I can't settle my own. Not that I love David less, but acting more," she finished almost tremulously. "I move that we go on to the next secret." "Mine is about Julia Crosby," began Nora, "and I can tell you in few words. She's engaged to a Harvard man." "Really!" exclaimed Grace delightedly. "Where did you see her, Nora? I didn't know she was at home." "She came home from the mountains yesterday. I saw her in Carlton's, that new confectioner's shop on Main Street. We had a sundae together and she told me all about it. She has known her fiancé for two years. She met him at a Harvard dance. He was graduated last June from the Harvard law school. The engagement hasn't been formally announced yet. She's going to give a luncheon to announce it. She wanted me to be sure and tell you three girls. She is coming to see you soon, Grace." "I'll receive her with open arms," assured Grace. "That was a nice secret," commented Anne. "Now, Grace." "Our fairy godmother is coming to dinner to-night." "Hurrah!" cried Anne, standing up and waving her hand. "I didn't know she was within two hundred miles of Oakdale. It seems years instead of weeks since I saw her. When did she arrive in Oakdale?" "This morning. She telephoned me. In my last letter I mentioned my dinner to you girls, and said I wished she might be here too. She came home from the seashore a week earlier so as not to miss it. She didn't say not to tell you. I had been holding it back as a surprise. It served me in good stead by making me eligible to Secret Row." "Last but not least, Jessica," reminded Nora briskly. "I was going to tell you this evening when we were all together, and Reddy promised to help me, but, somehow, I'd rather tell you now, while we are together on these dear old steps where we've had so much fun." Something in Jessica's tone caused the eyes of her friends to search hers inquiringly. It carried with it unmistakable regret. It presaged parting. "Reddy and I aren't going to live in Oakdale this winter. We--we--are going--to--Chicago to live." "Oh!" Nora ejaculated, drawing her breath sharply. "Oh, Jessica!" A painful silence fell upon the row of girls, whose voices had only a moment since rung out so gayly. Nora sat staring straight ahead of her with quivering lips. Of the three girls she would miss Jessica the most sorely. Grace, too, felt that dreadful sense of loss, of which she had complained earlier in the afternoon, stealing down upon her. Anne's face wore a look of loving concern, but an expression of resignation to destiny, which was likely to lead one to the ends of the earth, lurked in her somber eyes. She had learned young to bow with the best possible grace to the inevitable. Suddenly a half-stifled sob broke the oppressive quiet. "Nora, you mustn't," protested Jessica weakly, but Nora's curly head was already resting on Grace's comforting shoulder, and an instant afterward Jessica sought the consolation of the other shoulder. "Girls, girls," soothed Grace, an arm around each, "you mustn't cry." Nevertheless she experienced a wild desire to lift up her voice and lament with them. "I know you looked forward to being together this winter. It's terribly disappointing, but you can write letters and visit each other, and next summer, Jessica, you must arrange to come to Oakdale and stay all summer. Why didn't you tell us before?" "Reddy didn't know it until yesterday," faltered Jessica. "His father has taken over a large business there and he wants Reddy to manage it for him. Reddy's mother doesn't want to live in Chicago, so Mr. Brooks wants Reddy to go." "It's the real parting of the ways," said Grace softly to Anne. Anne nodded. "Still, if we had our choice as to whether we would like to go back and live over our past or go on, I am sure we'd choose to go on," she said thoughtfully. "Don't you think so, Grace!" "Of course we would," agreed Grace cheerfully. "Good gracious, girls!" she exclaimed in sudden consternation. "Whose familiar figures are those coming across the field? It must be later than I thought." Nora's and Jessica's mourning heads bobbed up from Grace's shoulders with simultaneous alacrity. "Hippy!" gasped Nora. "Do I look as though I'd been crying? I wouldn't have him know it for the world." "Reddy!" recognized Jessica. "Are my eyes a sight?" "Also David and Tom," added Anne. "No, children, you haven't wept enough to permanently disfigure your charming faces. If the boys had not appeared we might now be weeping in a melancholy row. I had no idea that Jessica's secret was to be a positive tragedy." "Neither had I," responded Grace soberly, laying an affectionate hand on Jessica's arm. There was no time for further remarks on the subject, for the four young men were crossing the last field in record time. As they neared the row of young women Hippy Wingate picked up his coat and pirouetted toward them, a wide smile on his round face, as he chanted gayly in a high voice: "Children go, to and fro In a merry pretty row; Faces bright, all alight, 'Tis a happy, happy sight. Swiftly turning round and round, Do not look upon the ground; Follow me, full of glee, Singing merrily." With each line of the song Hippy executed a most astonishing figure, ending on "merrily" with a funny pas-seul that turned the sorrow of the lately disconsolate audience to laughter. "How did you like that?" he inquired affably, as he landed directly in front of the steps. "Shall I sing the chorus now or would you prefer to hear it later." "Later, by all means," flung back Nora. "As you please. As you please," returned Hippy with a careless wave of his hand. "I am not chary of my art. I ask for but one recompense." "There he goes," groaned Dave Nesbit. "I'm not going," retorted Hippy, with dignity. "I'm standing perfectly still. However, I did not come away out here in this field to quarrel with you, David Nesbit. I came because I am a--" "Nuisance," suggested Reddy. "Precisely. No, I don't mean anything of the sort. I am not a nuisance. A nuisance is a tall, thin, conceited person with flaming red hair, pale blue eyes, a freckled nose and a slanderous tongue. His name begins with R and he is--" Without finishing his sentence Hippy took to his heels and disappeared around the corner of the Omnibus House, with an agility worthy of a better cause. "I'll see that he keeps at a safe distance from us till we start for Grace's," was Reddy's grim comment. "You'll see his head appear at that corner in a minute, and then, look out!" They waited in mirthful silence. True to Reddy's prediction Hippy's round face was suddenly thrust into view. Reddy leaped toward him. There was a horrified, "Oh, dreadful!" from Hippy, and the sound of running feet. "He's afraid of me," boasted Reddy in a purposely loud tone. "Don't you ever believe it," contradicted Hippy's voice. "I like the view from this side of the Omnibus House. I think Nora would like it, too." "Such thoughtfulness is rare," jeered David. "'Tis better to have thought such thoughts, than never to have thought at all," retorted the voice plaintively. "Let's eradicate him from the face of the earth, Reddy," proposed David. "He's a blot upon the community." "No-r-a," wailed the voice, "aren't you going to help your little friend!" "Rescue him, Nora," declared David disgustedly. "That's the reason he created all this disturbance." Nora dimpled, the pink in her cheeks deepening. "Yes, do," urged Grace. "It is high time for us to start home. We must be there to receive Mrs. Gray." "She sent me on ahead," informed Tom. "I wanted to wait and bring her over in my car, but she is going to have Haynes bring her over in the carriage." Nora disappeared around the corner of the house, but reappeared immediately, leading by the hand a broadly smiling Hippy, who carried a huge bouquet of buttercups and daisies in his free hand and cavorted at her side as joyously as the proverbial lambkin on the green. "You can lead the way with him, Nora," directed David. "I wouldn't trust him to bring up the rear. Reddy and I want him where we can keep an eye upon him." "Certainly we shall lead the way," flung back Hippy, "but not because you say so. Our superior rank places us in the front row of the procession. Come on, Nora. May I sing and dance? I haven't sung the chorus yet, you know." Without waiting for permission Hippy pranced ahead of her on his toes, swaying from side to side and scattering the flowers from his bouquet, his voice rising in a falsetto chorus of: "Singing merrily, merrily, merrily, Follow me, full of glee, Singing merrily." "He'll never grow old," said Anne, as she watched Hippy's ridiculous performance. "Neither will the rest of the Eight Originals," reminded Grace loyally. "Remember, we have a Fairy Godmother who has taught us the secret of perpetual youth." "What's the secret?" asked David innocently. He was fond of hearing Grace's enthusiastic views of things. "Never lose one's grip on life," she answered simply. And as the Eight Originals strolled home through the radiant sunset, in each young soul stirred the resolve to take a firm grip on life and keep eternally young at heart, no matter what the years might bring forth. CHAPTER VI JESSICA'S WEDDING "Jessica Bright, you will never look prettier in your life than you do to-night!" exclaimed Grace Harlowe, as she stood off a little from her friend and gazed at her with loving eyes. A wave of color dyed Jessica's pale cheeks. "I'm so glad that you think so," she breathed. "Do you know, girls, I have always hoped that I'd look nicer on my wedding day than at any other time. I'm glad I decided to have a green and white wedding, too." "You always used to say that you were going to have a pink rose wedding," reminded Anne. "What made you change your mind?" "Promise you won't laugh and I'll tell you," said Jessica solemnly. It was the evening of Jessica's wedding and Mabel Allison, Anne Pierson, Miriam Nesbit, Eleanor Savelli, Nora, now Mrs. Hippy Wingate, and Grace gathered about their friend with voluble promises of eternal secrecy. They were in Jessica's room saying good-bye to Jessica Bright, so soon to become Jessica Brooks. "I changed my mind," informed Jessica impressively, "on account of Reddy's hair." "'On account of Reddy's hair,'" repeated Grace. "Why--" Then, catching Nora's eye, she laughed. "You know how dreadfully pink and red clash," Jessica went on, with a faint giggle, "but I had never thought of it until one night when Reddy was sitting on our porch. He wrapped my pink scarf around his neck just for fun, and I made up my mind then and there not to have a pink wedding. Finally, I chose green and white, and I'm glad now, because he will look so much nicer." "I think that was very sweet in you, Jessica," said Eleanor Savelli decidedly. "Some of us ought to tell Reddy of Jessica's thoughtfulness," teased Anne. "Just as though any of you would," replied Jessica, fondly surveying the smiling faces of her friends. "You are very sure of us, aren't you, Jessica?" said Grace gayly. "And always shall be," answered Jessica simply. "Do you remember, girls, when I was about fourteen how frightfully sentimental I used to be. I read every love story I could lay hands on. I was forever imagining my wedding day. My bridegroom was always tall and dark, with piercing black eyes and a kingly air, and I always pictured myself as wearing a pink satin dress and being married in church. Sometimes fate parted us at the altar and sometimes we lived happily ever afterward. I used to plan that on the day of my wedding I would lock myself in my room, put on my pink satin dress and sit all day in rapt meditation. I would eat nothing, and see no one, not even father, until the moment when I swept grandly out into the hall and down the stairs to my carriage. Of course, I was transcendently beautiful and there I were always two or three disappointed lovers, who came to the church and cast sad, yearning eyes upon me as I glided up the center aisle with my hero. I never dreamed, then, that Reddy Brooks, my schoolmate and playfellow, was to be my destiny," she continued, her eyes growing tender, "or that I should begin my journey with him in our dear old parlor, surrounded by my chums. I haven't the least desire to sit alone and moon and meditate. I want all of you with me. It seems the most natural thing in the world that I should walk down the same old stairs to the same old parlor to meet the same old Reddy, just as I've done dozens of times before." "It's five minutes to eight, girls," announced Miriam Nesbit. "Say good-bye to Jessica Bright, and don't one of you dare to shed a tear." One after another the girls embraced Jessica. Nora was last. She and Jessica remained in each other's arms for a long, sweet moment. Their devotion was as deep and true as that which existed between Grace and Anne. "Here are the flower girls. It's time, Jessica," said Grace softly, as the two little girls who had been chosen to act in that capacity entered the room accompanied by Ellen, the Brights' old servant, who had been in the household since Jessica's babyhood. They were pretty, dark-haired children, cousins of Jessica's, and wore white lace frocks over pale green silk. On their heads were wreaths of tiny double white daisies and they carried small baskets filled to overflowing with the same flower. Quietly the little procession began to form. Nora, as matron of honor, followed the flower girls. She wore her wedding gown of white satin, and carried a huge armful of white roses. Then came the bride. As Grace had said Jessica would, in all probability, never look lovelier than in her wedding dress of white satin. Her veil of wonderful yellow-white old lace, was an heirloom, Jessica being the fourth bride in the family to wear it, and her bouquet was a shower of lilies of the valley. Jessica possessed a dazzlingly white skin, and the purity of her complexion had never showed to better advantage. Her deeply blue eyes were dark with reverence and her whole face radiated a tender happiness that made it rarely lovely. The bridesmaids wore gowns of white chiffon over pale green chiffon which blended into a misty, sea-foam effect. Dainty girdles of palest green satin and exquisite hair ornaments composed of tiny chiffon flowers and satin leaves, together with white satin slippers and white silk stockings, completed their costumes, and they carried shower bouquets of white sweet peas. Down the stairs swept the bridal procession to the strains of Mendelssohn's wedding march played by the orchestra, stationed in a palm-screened corner of the wide hall. It was the same old orchestra which had become so closely identified with the good times of the Eight Originals during their high school days. Jessica had declared laughingly that it would seem almost a sacrilege to think of being married to the strains of a wedding march that was not played by them. At the foot of the stairs the bride was met by her father, and the wedding party moved slowly into and down the long parlor to the bow window at the end of the room which had been transformed into a fairy bower of green. Before a bank of ferns, white roses and white sweet peas stood the old clergyman who had said the last solemn words over Jessica's mother years before, and who had come from another city, many miles distant, to marry Jessica and Reddy. Here it was that the bridegroom, accompanied by his best man, Tom Gray, awaited his one-time playmate, his boyhood friend, his first and only sweetheart, who had now come in all the bravery of her wedding finery to place her hands, trustingly, confidently in his for the journey over the untrodden trail they were to blaze together. A soft murmur that was almost a sigh went up from the assembled guests as Mr. Bright handed his most precious treasure into the keeping of the man who had claimed her for his own, and the beautiful Episcopal ring service began. Jessica's responses were clear and unfaltering, while Reddy's firm earnest tones carried conviction of the sincerity of his vows. Notwithstanding the fact that the appellation of "Reddy," by which he was known throughout Oakdale, arose from his unmistakably red hair, Lawrence Brooks looked singularly handsome on his wedding night and the expression of proud affection in his eyes, as he took Jessica's hand, was plainly indicative of the love he bore her. The moment the ceremony was over Reddy kissed Jessica, who lifted loving eyes to his, then, turning, wound both arms about her father's neck. The bridesmaids quickly hemmed them in and the guests crowded about them to offer their congratulations. Only the intimate friends of Reddy and Jessica had been invited to attend the ceremony, Mrs. Allison, the Southards, the Putnams, Mrs. Gibson, Eva Allen and James Gardner, Julia Crosby, Marian Barber, Mrs. Gray, Miss Nevin, Guido Savelli, Arnold Evans, Donald Earle, the immediate families of the bride and groom and the families of the rest of the Eight Originals Plus Two. The reception, which was to begin at half-past eight, included the greater part of Oakdale's younger set, and before it was over Reddy and Jessica were to slip away and motor to the next town, there to catch the night train to New York. From there they were to take a boat bound for the West Indies where they had planned to spend a month's honeymoon, then journey to their Chicago home. "Well, Reddy," declared Hippy condescendingly, when, a little later the Eight Originals stood near the flower bank indulging in a brief old-time chat before the arrival of the reception guests, "I must say that you did very well, and Jessica, too." He beamed on the bride, with a wide patronizing smile that caused her new dignity to vanish in a giggle of ready appreciation of the irrepressible Hippy. "I hoped that you, Reddy, would glance at me for inspiration. There you stood, like a wooden Indian, I mean a marble statue, and never winked. But as you stood there a beautiful thought came to me. I understood precisely why the name of 'Reddy' was appropriate to you. The electric light shone softly down upon your gleaming Titian locks, as though to call attention to their crimson glory. There was a look of--" "Nora, if you value the life of your husband, remove him," broke in David Nesbit decisively. "Reddy is trying to behave with the becoming dignity of a newly-wed, and I appeal to you, how can he?" "He can't," agreed Nora. "I'll remove the obstacle at once." "You'll have to use strategy to do it," announced Hippy. "'Come one, come all, this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I!'" he quoted determinedly, with jerky little gestures. Planting himself behind Jessica, he caught up a corner of her veil and peered defiantly through it at David. "You haven't seen the bride's table in the tent yet, have you, Hippy?" inquired Grace innocently. "It looks so pretty." "The bride's table!" Hippy's defiant face broke into an expansive, affable grin. "No, but I'd love to see it. Show it to me, instantly." "I'll take charge of him, Grace," interposed Nora. "If he inspects the refreshment tent it must be under guard." "I've changed my mind. I don't care to see it. I'd rather stay here and offer a few more congratulations to Reddy. Grace's strategy was very clever, but Nora's bullying is all wrong. I won't be taken charge of." But in spite of his vigorous protests Nora slipped her arm through his and piloted him in the direction of the huge refreshment tent which had been erected on the lawn. There the wedding supper was to be served by caterers at small tables. "What a treasure Hippy is," said Anne, as the group of young people smilingly watched Hippy and Nora out of sight. "He is so funny and nice that he takes away that half-sad feeling that one almost always has at a wedding. I am sure I don't know why seeing two friends made happy should inspire one with a desire to cry, but it does." "Weddings and commencements are always more or less solemn and productive of weeps," answered Grace. "Remember not one of us is going to shed a tear when Jessica leaves us. This has been such a sweet, happy wedding that we mustn't spoil its gladness. Of course, I can't imagine you boys lifting up your voices in lamentation, but I'm not so sure of the feminine half of the Eight Originals." "I couldn't help crying a little when Nora was married," confessed Jessica. "A church wedding seems so much more solemn, and Hippy was far too busy being a dignified bridegroom to say funny things." "He was perfect, wasn't he?" agreed Anne earnestly. "I never dreamed he could look so reverent and devoted. I don't know which was nicer, Jessica, Nora's wedding or yours. They were both beautiful." Happening to catch David's grave eyes fixed searchingly upon her she flushed and said hastily, "It must be almost time for the reception to begin." "So it is, and if I'm not mistaken here come the first guests," remarked Tom Gray. For the next hour Jessica and Reddy were kept busy receiving the congratulations of the steady in-pouring of friends who came to wish them godspeed. Then followed the wedding supper, and it was almost eleven o'clock when Jessica slipped away from her guests, and a little later, appeared at the head of the stairs in a smart tailored suit of brown, with hat, shoes and gloves to match. No secret had been made of their departure, for their friends were not of those who delighted in playing embarrassing and discomforting pranks. In fact, the majority of the reception guests had departed, and it was their intimate friends who were to see them off on their journey. Surrounded by her loved ones, Jessica made a second triumphal journey down the stairs. In the hall a halt was made and the dreaded good-byes began. Jessica clung first to her father, then to her aunt. Her chums came next and she was passed from one to the other of them with warm expressions of affection and good will. Then the procession moved on and the second halt was made at the drive where a limousine stood waiting to receive the bridal pair. It glided away amid a shower of rice and several old shoes, which had been carefully selected beforehand by Hippy, David and Grace, leaving six of the Eight Originals gazing after it with eloquent eyes in which lay the meaning of "Auld Lang Syne." "I love weddings," gushed Hippy sentimentally, as the six strolled back to the house. "I hope I shall have at least two more wedding invitations this year." No one answered this pointed sally. Nora gave her loquacious husband's arm a warning pinch. "Stop pinching my arm, Nora," he protested in a grieved tone. "How can you be so cruel to little me?" This was too much for the silent four. They looked into each other's eyes and laughed. Then Dave said quietly, "Not this year, old man." "Perhaps we can promise you one for next fall, Hippy," said Anne, with a sudden temerity which surprised her as well as the others. "Anne!" David's voice vibrated with newborn hope. For the instant he forgot everything except the fact that Anne had at last approached some degree of definiteness regarding their future. "I said 'perhaps,'" laughed Anne, but behind her laughter David read the blessed truth that in Anne's secret heart there was no "perhaps," and the little hand which lay so contentedly in his, as they strolled up the walk to the house, made the assurance of his new joy doubly sure. "Why can't you make me happy too, Grace?" asked Tom in a low, reproachful tone. They had dropped a little to the rear of the others. "I'm sorry, Tom," faltered Grace, "but I can't. I am fonder of you than any other man I know, but it is the fondness of long friendship. I'm not looking forward to marriage. It is my work that interests me most. I don't love you as Anne loves David, and Jessica and Nora love Reddy and Hippy. I don't believe I know what love means. I don't wish to hurt you, but I must be perfectly honest with myself and with you. I can only say that I care for no one else, and that perhaps someday I may care as much as you." Grace gazed sorrowfully at Tom as she ended. She knew by the tightening of his lips and the nervous squaring of his broad shoulders that she had hurt him sorely. "All right, Grace," he said with brave finality. "I'll try to be content with your friendship and live in the hope of that 'someday.' I'm going to be selfish enough to dream that there will come a time when even your work won't be able to crowd out love." Grace made no reply. She felt that there was nothing to be said. The bare idea that there might come a time when her beloved work would fail to fill her life was not to be considered, even for a moment. Love was a vague, far-distant possibility. It might come to her, and again it might not. But her work--that lay directly before her. The glory of life was not love, but achievement. Her eyes grew rapt with purpose, and, as Tom wistfully scanned her changeful face, it fell upon him with a sudden sinking of the heart that for him the longed-for "someday" might never come. CHAPTER VII THE RETURN OF EMMA DEAN "'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!'" chanted a voice in Grace Harlowe's ear. Grace whirled about, almost dropping the suit case and golf bag she carried. "Why, Emma, _Emma Dean_!" she exclaimed, her voice rising high in astonishment. [Illustration: "Why, Emma Dean!" Exclaimed Grace.] "Yes, it's Emma, _Emma Dean_," returned Emma humorously. "It is I, me, myself and all the other personally personal pronouns that stand for your old friend, Emily Elizabeth Dean." "Wherever did you come from and--oh, Emma"--as the tall thin young woman pointed significantly to two heavy suit cases and a small leather bag huddled together on the station platform--"you aren't really--are you--" "I am," interrupted Emma cheerfully. "I couldn't stay away. I knew you'd need a comforter this year, so I applied for the position and you can see for yourself how successful I was. Professor Morton was so grateful to me for applying that he said with tears in his eyes, 'Emma, I can't tell you how happy it makes me--'" "Emma Dean, stop talking nonsense and tell me how you really happened to be here. It's too good to be true." Grace beamed fondly on her tall, humorous classmate who had been a never-failing source of amusement to the Wayne Hall girls. "Since you are determined to have facts, here goes. I've come back to Overton, the land of the dig and the home of the sage, to show what four years of unremittent toil have done for me. I am to be a living testimonial, one of the 'after taking the prescribed course I can cheerfully recommend, etc.,' kind. Briefly and explicitly, I dropped off that train from the south that came in just before your train, and I'm going to be Miss Duncan's assistant in English." "You aren't really!" Grace's eyes were dancing. "How splendid! Why I didn't know you intended to teach." "Neither did I," returned Emma, a shadow flitting across her face, "until I went home last June and found that things hadn't been going as smoothly as they might. Mother and Father never gave me the slightest inkling last year that money wasn't plentiful in the Dean family. Dear, unselfish things! They wanted my college life to end in a blaze of glory. You see, Father had put most of his little capital into a real estate boom that didn't boom, and it left him with a lot of vacant lots on his hands that no one, not even himself, wanted. A trolley line was to pass through the section he owned and it changed its mind, or rather the directors changed theirs, and straggled off in another direction. So, unless it straggles back again and Father gets rid of his incubus, which isn't at all likely, the eldest daughter of the noble house of Dean will have to hustle indefinitely for her board and keep. "To go back a little, as soon as I noticed how worried Father looked, and after I surprised Mother crying one day, I made them tell me all about it. I wrote straight to Professor Morton. He helped me secure the position of assistant in English, and here I am. I haven't the least idea where I'm going to live either. I'd love to go back to Wayne Hall, but I'm afraid I couldn't preserve a proper attitude of dignity there. You know my failings. Beverly Place is a house given over to teachers. I thought I'd try there first. I hope it won't be too expensive. I expect to send some money home this year." Grace had listened attentively to Emma's recital. What a splendid girl Emma was! She had not tried to dodge Life and his inseparable comrades, Trouble and Hard Work. Instead, she had walked out courageously, fearlessly, to meet them with smiling lips and a merry heart. Grace was already enlivened by the prospect of having this free-hearted, jolly classmate with her during the college year now opening. "How I wish you could live near me, Emma," she said longingly. Then she stared at her friend with wide-open eyes, the expression of which betokened the birth of an amazing idea. "Why--you can," she declared. "I've just thought of the nicest way. Will you come, Emma? Will you?" "It depends on the exact spot where the pleasure of my company is requested," returned Emma waggishly. "If it is to Kamptchatka--no, most decidedly. I have no insane craving for life among the heathen, and that 'no' includes the Malay Archipelago and darkest Africa. It's too cold in Greenland and I couldn't countenance terrible Thibet, but if it's any place nearer home, say Hunter's Rock or Vinton's, I'll be delighted." Grace laughed happily. "It's a place you haven't guessed or thought of," she replied. "I want you to come to Harlowe House and room with me, Emma. I'm going to have lots of room, a whole suite. There's a sitting-room, a bedroom and a bath. I need some one to help me and I'd rather have you than any one else I know. Won't you say 'yes'? Please, please, do." Emma regarded Grace with a look of one who could not believe the evidence of her own ears. "Oh--I couldn't--it wouldn't be right to impose upon you. I'd love to, but--" "Wait until you see Harlowe House before you make up your mind not to live there," interposed Grace slyly. "We'll call a taxicab and go over to it at once. I have my own key, so we can leave our luggage and go to Vinton's or any other place we wish for luncheon. You can spend the night at Harlowe House. We won't be alone there, for the cook and both maids are supposed to arrive to-day. After you have enjoyed a few hours of my beneficent society you may refuse to be torn from me and my sheltering home," she ended banteringly. "I haven't the least doubt of it," averred Emma in a perfectly serious tone. "That's why I feel as though I ought to decide now while I am in my most heroic mood. I never dreamed of any such wonderful good fortune. Honestly, Grace, I don't know what to say." "Say 'yes,'" advocated Grace. "You ought to be willing to come if I am willing to have you. If it will make you feel more independent, you may pay for your meals. I'll see that you are not overcharged, but as far as the room is concerned you are welcome to it. Oh, Emma, think how delightful it will be for us! I say 'will' because you simply can't find yourself hard-hearted enough to refuse. I'm not obliged to consult a soul about my plans. Mrs. Gray gave me full permission to do as I think best. I have no set expense limit. I am to be prudent and economical, of course; that's part of my trust. After this year there will be an expense limit. We shall know by next June just what it costs for the up-keep of a house like Harlowe House. This year, however, we are bound to do more or less experimenting." Grace gazed pleadingly at Emma, who stood in the middle of the station platform, her heavy eyebrows drawn together in deep thought. "I'm going for that taxicab," said Grace, as Emma still remained silent. "There's one coming into the station yard now." She signalled to the driver, who drew up directly in front of where they were standing, then sprang out and began loading the girls' luggage in the car. "Come on, Emma," coaxed Grace. "You can finish making up your mind on the way to Harlowe House." Emma turned to her friend with a face full of affectionate gratitude. "I'm going to accept your offer, Grace," she declared. "In fact, I can't resist it. I am sure you want me to come and I don't know of any other place where I'd rather be. I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me, and in so many different ways. Are you sure there won't come a time when you'll think, 'Oh, if only I had never asked that noisy, nervous, nosing, messy, meddlesome, moping, miserable, growling, grumbling, grouchy, greedy, galloping, galumphing Emma Dean to room with me?'" "I don't know any such person," denied Grace, laughing merrily at Emma's remarkable self-arraignment. "It sounds more like a Thesaurus than a category of your failings, Emma. Come along. We mustn't keep this man waiting." Emma dutifully climbed into the automobile. "One never knows what will happen next," she remarked naively as they seated themselves in the car. "I feel as Cinderella must have felt when she was suddenly whisked off to the ball by her fairy godmother. By the way, Grace, how is Mrs. Gray, the fairy godmother of Harlowe House?" "I've been so busy coaxing you to come and live with me, I forgot to tell you that she and I were down here in August, and who do you suppose we had as a visitor?" "Arline Thayer?" asked Emma. "No; but that wasn't a bad guess. J. Elfreda was with us." "Bless her!" Emma's exclamation told plainly of her affection for the one-time stout girl. "Was she as funny as ever?" "Every bit. She kept Mrs. Gray and I in a perpetual state of laughter. She's going to study law in New York City, and she's promised to come to Overton for Thanksgiving. Arline Thayer and Mabel Ashe are coming too. We'll have a great celebration." "I'm certainly glad I'm here," sighed Emma, contentedly. "There seems to be a prospect of one continuous round of pleasure." "I'm glad you are here too," nodded Grace. "You don't know how queerly I felt to-day when I stepped off the train without seeing a soul I knew. I suppose there are a number of girls here, although it's early. Classes won't be called for at least a week or more. We'll surely see some familiar spirits soon. There are Patience Eliot, Kathleen West, Laura Atkins, Mildred Evans, Violet Darby, Myra Stone and ever so many others still due in the land of Overton." "Why, that's so," declared Emma, her eyes bright with the prospect of seeing her Overton friends. "Do you know, Grace, I'm ashamed to say I hadn't really considered those girls. All along I've thought about the Sempers and how strange and gray everything would seem without them." "I know it," sighed Grace. "I've felt exactly the same. Anne, Miriam, Arline, Ruth, Elfreda and you were my absent crushes, but now you are a present one, and next to you comes Patience Eliot. She always seemed like a senior. I think I'm going to love the new Kathleen West dearly. She is so clever, and now that we are friends I hope we can work together in ever so many ways." As the taxicab bore them swiftly toward Harlowe House the two young women talked on of the happy past with its pleasure-marked milestones. "We're almost there. Look, Emma! You can get a splendid view of all the campus houses. Now isn't Harlowe House the prettiest of them all?" "It is, I swear it," returned Emma solemnly, "and, if I'm not mistaken, one of your household has arrived ahead of you. Certainly some one is camping out on the front steps." "Why, so there is. I wonder who she can be. One of the maids, I suppose, or perhaps the cook. We'll know who she is in a minute." The car had now come to a full stop. Without waiting for the chauffeur Grace opened the door and sprang out. "Never mind our luggage," she said as she paid the driver. "We'll carry it into the house. It's not very heavy." Gathering her belongings in one hand, and picking up one of Emma's suit cases, Grace set off up the stone walk followed by Emma. As she advanced there rose from the steps and came to meet her a most astonishing little figure. CHAPTER VIII A STRANGE APPLICANT "This is Harlowe House, isn't it?" was the sharp question that assailed Grace's ears. "Yes." Grace's eyes traveled in amazement over the curious little stranger within her gates. She was a girl of perhaps eighteen, although there was a strained, anxious expression in her large brown eyes that made her look positively aged, an effect which the three deep lines in her high projecting forehead served to emphasize. If she possessed hair it was not visible under the small round hat of a by-gone style which set down upon her head like a helmet. She wore a plain, cheap black skirt and a queer, old-fashioned white blouse made with a peplum. Around her waist was a leather belt, and on her feet were coarse heavy shoes such as a farm laborer might wear. In one hand she carried a large bundle, in a newspaper wrapping. "I'm so glad. I thought I'd never get here," she said simply. Grace and Emma exchanged amazed glances. This must be the maid. But such a maid! "Are you the young woman Mrs. Elwood engaged?" asked Grace politely. The girl shook her head. "I don't know what you mean. No one engaged me. I just came because I heard about Harlowe House and wanted to go to college. I've passed all my high school examinations and I've a scholarship too. They wouldn't let me come, so I ran away from home and walked all the way here. Is it true that a girl can live at Harlowe House without having to pay her board?" she eyed Grace with a look of mingled anxiety and defiance. "Oh," Grace's amazed look changed to one of interested concern, "pardon me. I thought you were a young woman of whom Mrs. Elwood, of Wayne Hall, had spoken." "I don't know Mrs. Elwood. I never heard of Wayne Hall. I don't know a soul in this town. I only know that I want to go to Overton College more than I ever wanted anything else in my life. Do you suppose there's a chance for me to live at Harlowe House and study? I've walked over a hundred miles to find out," finished the queer little stranger pleadingly. "'Over a hundred miles!'" repeated Grace and Emma in chorus. The girl nodded solemnly. "You poor child!" exclaimed Emma Dean impulsively. "If your wish to be an Overton girl brought you that distance on foot, I should say you ought to have all the chance there is. At any rate you have applied to the proper authority. This is Miss Harlowe, for whom Harlowe House was named, and who is to be in charge of it. I am Miss Dean, of 19-- and now assistant in English at Overton." But the knowledge that she was face to face with the person who held the privilege of being a member of Harlowe House in her hands overcame the quaint stranger with a sudden shyness. She shifted her weight uneasily from one foot to the other, twisted her thin, bony hands nervously, while her forehead was corrugated afresh with deep wrinkles. With the frank, winning smile which was one of Grace's chief charms, she held out her hand to the other girl. "I am glad to know you," she said. "Won't you tell me your name?" "Mary Reynolds," returned the newcomer in a low voice, as she timidly shook Grace's proffered hand, then Emma's. "I shall be glad to welcome you to Harlowe House," said Grace cordially, "provided you can fulfill the requirements necessary for entering Overton. I am going over to Miss Wilder's office this afternoon, and if you wish to go with me you can learn all the particulars. Until then, however, you had better come into the house with Miss Dean and me. I am sure you must be very tired." "Yes, I am, but I don't mind that. I'm here and nothing else matters," returned the girl so fervently that Grace felt a sudden mist rise to her eyes, and she determined, then and there, that if this curious, destitute little stranger succeeded in measuring up to Overton's mental requirements, she would smooth in every possible way her path, which she foresaw would be troubled. "And now for our triumphal entry into Harlowe House," declaimed Emma Dean, as she and Grace picked up their luggage, and, followed by Mary Reynolds and her huge newspaper-wrapped bundle, mounted the steps. At the door Grace again set down her luggage. Fumbling for her latch key she fitted it to the lock. "What a perfectly delightful place!" was Emma's enthusiastic cry, as she stepped into the hall which was done in oak with furnishings to match. "Commend me to the living-room!" She poked her head inquisitively through the soft green silk hangings and after surveying the pretty room for an instant made a dive for the window seat. "Oh, you window seat!" she laughed with a fine disregard for dignity. Grace laughed with her, and queer little Mary Reynolds smiled in sheer sympathy with Emma's irresistible drollery. "I choose this green window seat for my boon companion," declared Emma, curling her wiry length cosily upon it, "and may I be ever faithful to my vows. I expect to have difficulty in protecting my claim, for I predict this will be the most popular spot in the house. May I put up a sign, Grace, 'This claim is staked by Emma Dean, no others need apply'?" "You may stake it, but I won't guarantee that it will stay staked," replied Grace. "Oh, yes, it will," argued Emma confidently, bouncing up and down on the soft springy cushions. "The freshmen of Harlowe House will be so impressed with my height, dignity and general appearance that they will defer to me as a matter of course. One imperious look, like this, over my glasses, and the world will be mine." She peered over her glasses at Grace in a ludicrous fashion which was far more likely to convulse, rather than impress, the prospective freshmen. Even the solemn stranger giggled outright, then looked as though she had been caught red-handed in some dreadful crime. "I'd like to recite English in one of your classes, Emma," smiled Grace. "Now there is just where you are wrong," retorted Emma. "I shan't have a single amusing feature in my daily round of recitations. I shall be as grim as grim can be and a regular slave driver as far as lessons are concerned. Those freshmen will wish they'd never met me." Emma wagged her head threateningly. "Stop making such dire threats and come upstairs to see our quarters," commanded Grace. Emma uncoiled herself from the window seat with alacrity and began gathering up her belongings. Grace turned kindly to Mary Reynolds. "If you will come upstairs with us, Miss Reynolds, I think we can easily find a room for you. So far I do not know just how many applications Miss Wilder has received. As I told you, I am going over to the office after luncheon. You had better go to your room and rest a little, then take luncheon with Miss Dean and me and go with us to Overton Hall to see Miss Wilder, the dean." "I--I--thank you," stammered the girl, the dull color flooding her sunburnt cheeks. "I'm afraid--I--can't go to luncheon--with you. I'm--not--very hungry." Emma Dean flashed a quick, appraising glance at her from under her eyelashes. "Neither are we," she assured the embarrassed girl, "but still we don't care to miss luncheon entirely. You are a stranger in a strange land, so you must be our guest, and then some day when you are a seasoned Overtonite we'll insist on being yours." Mary Reynolds regarded the two young women with shy, grateful eyes. "You are so good to me. You must know, of course, that I am very poor. I have nothing in the world but this bundle of clothes and ten dollars," she said humbly. "It took me two years to save it, I have been so sure that there would be some little corner of this wonderful house for me. I can't bear to think that I may be too late. I don't know where I'd go. I guess I'd have to try to find some place else. Do you suppose I am too late?" Her tones vibrated with alarm. "Of course you aren't," soothed Emma Dean. "I'm always late, but, as I used to tell Miss Harlowe, I am hardly ever too late. You may be almost the first girl to apply, or you may be among the latest, but not the too latest. There, isn't that encouraging? The best thing for you to do is to have an early luncheon and a long sleep. Suppose we go down to Vinton's, Grace, as soon as we get the fond souvenirs of the railroad off our faces. Then I'll come back here with Miss Reynolds and you can go on to Overton to see Miss Wilder. My business with her will keep until to-morrow. This little girl is too tired for interviews to-day." "I think that's dear in you, Emma, and real wisdom too. Now let's go upstairs, at once." Grace led the way and the trio ascended to the second story. "I'm going to put you in this room for the present, Miss Reynolds," said Grace. She paused before a door that faced the head of the stairs and threw it open. It was a pretty room, papered in dainty blue and white, with a blue and white floor rug and white enameled furniture. There were crisp, white dotted-swiss curtains at the windows and a sheer blue and white ruffled cover on the dressing table, while on the walls hung several neatly-framed water color and pen and ink sketches. The shabby, tired girl gave a long sigh of satisfaction and weariness as she stood in the middle of the floor, her eyes eagerly devouring the pretty room. "The bathroom is at the end of the hall," said Grace gently. "We'll stop for you in about half an hour." The other girl did not answer, and Grace and Emma slipped away, leaving her to get used to her new surroundings. "Well, did you ever?" asked Emma, the moment they were inside Grace's sitting-room with the door closed. Grace shook her head. "Poor little thing," she murmured. "She can't possibly go about Overton in those clothes, Emma. Yet I can't offer her any of mine. She seems independent. I am afraid she would resent it. I wonder what her story is. Did you notice she said that 'they' wouldn't let her go to college, so she had run away from home? Suppose some one of her family should follow her here just after we had nicely established her at Harlowe House? We must find out everything about her. I won't bother her with questions while she is so tired." "I am sure she is eighteen," declared Emma positively. "That will free her from parental sway in this state. I think it would be a greater tragedy if she has come too late. What is the highest number of girls Harlowe House will accommodate?" "Thirty-two," answered Grace. "Then let us hope that Mary Reynolds is not unlucky thirty-three. The sooner you go to see Miss Wilder the sooner you'll know her fate. Now I'm going on a tour of exploration and noisy admiration. I'm sure I haven't ohs and ahs enough to fully express my feeling of elevated pleasure at so much magnificence. And to thing that I, ordinary, every-day me, should be asked to become co-partner to all this." Emma struck an attitude and launched forth into fresh extravagances over the tastefully furnished suite of rooms. "Emma, you ridiculous creature, wind up your lecture and get ready for luncheon," commanded Grace affectionately. "Not until I've seen the last saw," returned Emma firmly. For the next ten minutes she prowled and peered, examined and admired, to her heart's content. "Now I've seen everything," she averred, at last, with calm satisfaction, "and I'm twice as hungry as I was. But I can't leave off thinking what a lucky person Emma Dean is to have all this grandeur and Grace Harlowe thrown in." "And I can't help thinking what a lucky person Grace Harlowe is to have Emma Dean." "Then we're a mutual admiration society," finished Emma, "and there's no telling where we'll leave off." "If I didn't have to go on to Overton Hall I wouldn't wear a hat," sighed Grace, half an hour later, reaching reluctantly for her hat. She and Emma had bathed their faces, rearranged their hair, and put on fresh lingerie blouses with their tailored suits. "Are you ready, Emma? I wonder if Miss Reynolds is. I'll stop and see." Grace knocked lightly on the newcomer's door. It was opened immediately. "Are you ready, Miss Reynolds?" she asked, her alert eyes noting that the offending peplum had been tucked inside the black skirt, and that Mary Reynolds with her hat off was a vast improvement on Mary Reynolds with her hat on. She also observed that the girl's hair, though drawn uncompromisingly back from her forehead, showed a decided tendency to curl. With her usual impulsiveness she exclaimed, "Oh, you have naturally curly hair, haven't you? It's such a pretty shade of brown. Do let me do it for you. It's a pity not to make the most of it." The girl regarded her with grave surprise. "Are you making fun of me?" she asked seriously. "'Making fun of you,'" repeated Grace. "I should say not. I think you have beautiful hair. Why, what is it, Miss Reynolds?" For, with a queer, choking cry, the odd little stranger threw herself face downward on the bed and sobbed disconsolately. Grace stood silent, watching the sob-wracked figure with puzzled, sympathetic eyes. Emma appeared in the doorway, her eyebrows elevated in astonishment. Grace motioned for her to come in. The girl on the bed wept on, while the two young women waited patiently for her sobs to cease. Suddenly she sat up with a jerk, and dashed her hand across her eyes. "I'm sorry--I--was so--so--silly," she faltered, "but I couldn't help it. No one ever told me that I was anything but plain and ugly before." "You poor little thing," sympathized Emma. Grace sat down on the bed beside Mary and put her arm across the thin shoulders. "Cheer up," she said brightly. "I am sure you are going to be happy at Overton. You feel blue just now because you are tired and hungry. Let me fix your hair and we'll hurry to Vinton's as fast as ever we can. I'm simply starved." Mary Reynolds obediently sat on the chair Grace placed for her and the hair dressing began. Grace and Emma both exclaimed in admiration as Grace unbraided the soft-golden brown hair, which, once free, broke into waves and curls. "Did you ever see a prettier head of hair?" exclaimed Emma. "I think it would look best combed low over her forehead, don't you?" asked Grace. Emma nodded her approval as Grace, with deft fingers, arranged the thick curly locks in a strictly smart fashion which completely changed Mary Reynolds' forlorn appearance. "Now look in the glass," directed Grace, when she had finished. Mary gazed earnestly at her new self. "It can't be me," she said with a pardonable disregard of English. "But it is," Grace assured her. "You must learn to do your hair like that and wear it so. Now let me put a tiny bit of powder on your face to scare away the tear stains and we'll be off." The obnoxious helmet-like hat did not seem so unbecoming, now that Mary's curls peeped from under it, and Grace felt a certain degree of satisfaction in her efforts to make the new girl at least presentable. She decided that once her large brown eyes had lost their scared, anxious expression and her thin face had grown plump, Mary would be really pretty. During luncheon at Vinton's Grace quietly studied her charge. There was something about Mary that reminded one of Ruth Denton, she decided. She and Emma made every effort to put the prospective freshman at her ease. By common consent they refrained from asking any questions likely to produce another flood of tears. As for Mary herself, although visibly embarrassed at the ultra-smartness of Vinton's, the attention of the waiter, and the puzzling array of knives, forks and spoons, she managed, by watching Grace and Emma, to acquit herself with credit. Thanks to Emma's never-failing flow of humorous remarks the luncheon proved to be a merry meal and before it ended the forlorn girl looked almost happy. "I'll see you later," said Grace, as they paused for a moment in front of Vinton's. "Emma, I leave Miss Reynolds in your care." "I accept the responsibility," declared Emma, flourishing her parasol in fantastic salute. "I'm going to march her home and put her to bed." "While I go on to Overton Hall to learn her fate," smiled Grace. "Good-bye. You may expect me when you see me." Grace swung across the campus toward Overton Hall at her usual brisk pace. A few moments more and she would be fairly launched in her new undertaking. She had no desire to run out to meet the future, yet she could not refrain from wondering what her first year on the campus would bring her. So far it had brought her Mary Reynolds, but somewhere in the world there were thirty-one other girls whose faces were set toward Overton and Harlowe House. A peculiar wave of dismay swept over Grace at the thought of actually being responsible for the welfare of so many persons. The old saying concerning the rushing in of fools where angels walk warily came involuntarily to her mind. Then she laughed and squaring her capable shoulders murmured half aloud, "I'm neither a fool nor an angel. I'm just Grace Harlowe, a 'mere ordinary human being,' as Hippy would put it. I'm not going to be so silly as to expect to get along with a whole houseful of girls without some friction. Like the gardens Anne and I planted away back in our freshman year, there are sure to be a few weeds among the flowers." CHAPTER IX MARY REYNOLDS MAKES A NEW FRIEND "Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one and Mary Reynolds makes thirty-two. Isn't it fortunate that there was a place all ready for her?" Grace Harlowe looked eagerly up from the list of names which she had been intently scanning. "Very fortunate," smiled Miss Wilder. "I am quite curious to see your protege, Miss Harlowe." Miss Wilder, the dean of Overton College, had been genuinely glad to welcome Grace Harlowe back to the college fold. During Grace's four years as a student at Overton she had greatly endeared herself to the dignified, but kindly, dean, who had watched her pass from honor to honor with the same sympathetic interest which Miss Thompson, the principal of Oakdale High School, had ever exhibited in Grace's progress. It was now almost four o'clock in the afternoon. Grace had spent a busy two hours in Miss Wilder's office going over the applications for admittance to Harlowe House and discussing ways and means with her superior. "Do you know, Miss Wilder, that one of the very nicest things about you is your interest in one's friends and plans?" Grace regarded the older woman with sparkling eyes. "Away back in my freshman days I can remember that I never came to you with anything, but that you were interested and sympathetic." "My dear child!" Miss Wilder put up a protesting hand. "It's perfectly true," persisted Grace staunchly. "I am sure I could never have planned everything so beautifully for Harlowe House if you hadn't helped me." "But I had such a wonderful source of inspiration," reminded Miss Wilder, turning the tide of approbation in Grace's direction. "I wish I could agree with you," laughed Grace, her color rising. Then her face grew earnest. "It would make me very happy if I thought that, as the head of Harlowe House, I could inspire my girls to love Overton as deeply and truly as I do. I don't intend to preach to them or to moralize, but I do wish them to gain real college spirit. If they strive to cultivate that, it will mean more to them than all the talks and lectures one could give them. Don't you think so?" "I do, indeed," agreed Miss Wilder warmly. "Of course," went on Grace thoughtfully, "there is the possibility that some of these girls may fail in their entrance examinations. Undoubtedly they will have to take them, for no girl who applies for admission to Harlowe House will have come from a preparatory school. Naturally, they will all be high school graduates. Some of them will have scholarships and some will not. It is going to be more or less of a struggle for those who have none to earn their college fees--that is, if they haven't saved the money for them beforehand. I am reasonably certain that poor little Mary Reynolds hasn't a penny of her own, other than the ten dollars she has saved. But if she passes her examinations she can borrow the money for her college fees from Semper Fidelis. Then, too, there is the subject of rules and regulations to be considered." "A very important subject," interposed Miss Wilder. "The success of Harlowe House will depend upon its rules and their absolute enforcement." "Don't you think it would be a nice idea to draw up a little constitution and by-laws as they do in clubs. It would not cost very much to have a certain number of copies of them printed, and a copy placed in each girl's room. Oh, Miss Wilder, wouldn't it be splendid if we could form the girls of Harlowe House into a social club. It would bring them in touch with one another, teach them to be self-governing, and do an endless amount of good." Grace finished with sudden inspiration. For a moment Miss Wilder did not answer. She was evidently turning the matter over in her own mind. "It is rather an unusual idea," she said slowly, "but I should not be surprised to see it work out well. Among a number of young women who, aside from the advantages Harlowe House offers them, are practically dependent upon their own resources you are sure to find a variety of dispositions, some of them a little warped from their struggle with poverty. I should say that they could be reached and understood better by becoming members of this club, which you propose, than by any other method. Yes, decidedly, it is a good plan." Grace remained with the dean until after five o'clock talking earnestly of her new work. "Oh, dear, I can scarcely wait for the next two weeks to pass I'm so anxious to begin," she sighed, as she gathered together her gloves, handkerchief and parasol and rose to go. "Miss Dean will come to see you to-morrow morning, Miss Wilder. I'll send Miss Reynolds with her." The sun was well advanced on his daily pilgrimage down the western sky, and Grace's usually rapid steps lagged as she crossed the dear familiar campus. Her eyes strayed lovingly from the green velvety carpeting under her feet to the red and yellow pennants of autumn which the trees were flaunting so bravely. It was hard to say at which season of the year Overton campus was most beautiful. To Grace it was like some familiar friend who was constantly surprising her with new and endearing virtues. She gazed across the wide stretch of green toward Morton House. Two girlish figures were seated on the steps apparently deep in their own interests. A little farther on she met three sophomores, who, recognizing her, bowed to her in smiling admiration. Grace stopped and held out her hand with the frank cordiality which characterized her. After a pleasant exchange of greetings they passed on greatly elated over the fact that "that clever Miss Harlowe, who was the most popular girl at Overton last year," had remembered them. "We're beginning to gather home," she murmured softly. She was passing Holland House now, and it brought back delightful memories of Mabel Ashe. Her glance rested wistfully on the front door. She half expected to see it open and to see coming toward her the lithe, graceful figure of the girl whose dainty hands had been the first to grasp hers in friendly welcome, when, as an untried freshman, she had first set foot in the land of Overton so long ago. "Mabel," she breathed, "dear, dear girl! If ever I come to mean half as much to lonely freshmen as you meant to me, I shall feel that I have succeeded gloriously." Wrapped in recollections of the past, which she realized were bound to haunt her at every turn until time and work had banished her sense of loss, Grace did not hear the light footsteps of the tall young woman who bore noiselessly down upon her like an avenging fate. Suddenly Grace felt two soft, cool hands close over her eyes. "Oh!" she gasped. Then she laughed. "I know it's some one I'm anxious to see. Is it Kathleen?" The hands did not relax their pressure. "Is it Laura Atkins?" guessed Grace again. The pressure tightened a little. "I know now," cried Grace. "Why didn't I guess you first of all? It's Patience." The hands fell away from her eyes. Grace wheeled about into a pair of encircling arms. A very tall, fair-haired young woman stood looking down on her with a face full of lively affection. "I wonder if you are as glad to see me as I am to see you, Grace," was her first speech. "Every bit as glad," responded Grace with emphasis. "Emma and I have been looking forward to your coming every day since we came." "Emma?" interrogated Patience. "Do you mean to tell me that Emma Dean is here?" "Yes," replied Grace happily. "She's come back to be Miss Duncan's assistant. Isn't that splendid?" "I've been mourning Emma among the rest of the bright departed spirits," smiled Patience, "and thinking of how dull Wayne Hall will be this year without her. Emma is Emma, you know, and cannot be duplicated, imitated nor replaced. I suppose, as a teacher, she'll live in one of the faculty houses, instead of Wayne Hall." "She is going to have part of my suite at Harlowe House," said Grace. "But, before I say another word, where are you going?" "To Overton Hall to see Miss Wilder." "Can't you put off going until to-morrow morning?" asked Grace. "Yes, if you and Emma will go with me to the six-thirty train to meet Kathleen and then to dinner at Vinton's afterward." "Will we?" cried Grace. "I should say--I'm afraid we can't, Patience." Her jubilant tone changed to one of disappointment. "I forgot all about Mary Reynolds." "Who is Mary Reynolds and what did I ever do to her that causes her to conspire to cheat me of the society of my friends?" inquired Patience humorously. "Not a single thing," assured Grace brightening again. "She's the thirty-second applicant for admission to Harlowe House, but she's living there as my guest for a few days until she finds out whether she 'belongs.' Suppose you walk over there with me. I wish you to see the house before the tenants arrive. I'll tell you the strange story of Mary Reynolds on the way over. Emma's at home, so you can see her, too." "All right, I'll go, provided you and your entire family, including Mary Reynolds, escort me to the train to meet Kathleen." "Here's my hand on it," promised Grace. Patience caught it in both of hers. "It's good to be here, Grace," she said earnestly. "It's good to have you here, Patience," returned Grace, in the same earnest tone. Patience was met at the door by Emma, who had seen their approach from the living-room window, and who now pounced upon Patience and joyfully escorted her into the living-room. "The plot thickens," declaimed Emma as the three paused in the middle of the room. "Hurrah for the old guard! Like Macbeth's immortal witches, I'll perform my antic round, just to show how jubilant I feel." She executed a few fantastic steps about Patience, then paused beside her, one hand on her shoulder. "Where did you acquire Patience, Grace?" "I acquired this particular kind of Patience on the campus just a few moments ago. I have never actually acquired the other kind." "You're not the only one," murmured Emma significantly. "Where is our freshman-to-be?" "In her room and fast asleep, I suppose. Although she wouldn't admit it, I know she was completely tired out. I could see that," she added slyly. Patience and Grace smiled in quick recognition of J. Elfreda Briggs' pet phrase. "How I wish 'I could see' dear old J. Elfreda. Wouldn't it be glorious if she were suddenly to appear in the flesh," sighed Emma. "She was here with Mrs. Gray and I in August, Patience." Grace went on to relate the details of Elfreda's visit. "Emma has heard all this before. Still, you don't mind hearing it again, do you, Emma?" "I could listen to it forever, and then ask for a repetition," asserted Emma with gallant glibness. "I won't be so malicious as to take you at your word," returned Grace. "Will you tell Patience all the news while I run upstairs to see Miss Reynolds?" "I will," nodded Emma, "and tell it truthfully and without embellishments. I am not a yellow journal. I am a reliable purveyor of facts and nothing but facts." She pounded on the library table with her clenched fist to emphasize her words. "I believe you," assured Patience with mock solemnity, "and salute you as a disciple of truth." Leaving her friends to exchange confidences, Grace ran lightly up the stairs and knocked on Mary Reynolds' door. Receiving no answer, she knocked again. "She must be asleep," thought Grace. Then she turned the knob and entered the room. Surely enough the tired stranger lay on her couch bed, tranquil and slumber-wrapped. Sleep had smoothed away the lines of care and, in repose, her face looked soft and childish. "Miss Reynolds." The girl sat up with a little, startled cry. "Oh," she breathed, in relief. "I was so frightened. I forgot where I was." "Miss Dean, a friend of ours and I are going to the station to meet another friend. We wish you to go with us," invited Grace. "That is, unless you prefer to stay here. You will be all alone in the house." An expression of alarm showed itself in the girl's eyes. "I'd rather go with you, if you are sure I won't be in the way." "Not in the least. We shall start in a few moments." With a cheerful smile that elicited a faint, answering one from the other girl, Grace left the room. She was back in an instant with something blue thrown over her arm. "Here is a little coat I took out of my trunk especially for you. It is cool enough for a coat to-night. This won't be too long for you. It's only three-quarter length on me." "I--I--" stammered Mary, but Grace was gone. Mary could not help thrilling a little with pure pleasure at sight of herself in the pretty blue serge coat. "I look just like them," she murmured. "I'm so glad I came. I won't go back either, and no one shall make me." She smoothed and patted her curly hair, then putting on her shabby hat went slowly down stairs. Her momentary awe of Patience vanished when she discovered that, in spite of her dignified bearing, this tall, fair young woman was as full of fun as the droll Emma Dean. The quartette started for the station with Patience and Emma in the lead. Grace walked with Mary, talking brightly of Overton to her absorbed listener. She had just begun to tell Mary of Kathleen West, her clever work as a newspaper woman and of how her play had won the honor pin, when they arrived at the station. "Wait here while I see if the train is on time," directed Grace. The three young women strolled slowly along the platform, pausing at one end of it. "The train's on time," called Grace as she came out of the station and approached them. "It's due in four minutes. Listen! Didn't you hear it whistle?" A minute later it was visible around the bend and bearing down on the station with a great puffing and whistling. "I see her," announced Emma. "She's getting off at the upper end of the train." An alert little figure in a gray coat suit came swinging down the platform, a suit case in each hand, her keen, dark eyes scanning every face. Suddenly she caught sight of her friends. Dropping her luggage she ran forward, both hands extended. Grace caught them in hers. The two embraced, then Grace passed Kathleen on to Patience. "And to think that Emma Dean is to be one of us!" exclaimed Kathleen. "Emma, the one sure and certain cure for the blues. I didn't half appreciate you last year." A swift flush rose to her cheeks. "I didn't appreciate any one. I missed knowing Overton's best, but I'm so thankful that part of that best has come back again, so that I can really show how much I care," she finished, her eyes very bright. The little company lingered on the platform, for there was so much to be said that they were loath to move on. So absorbed were they in their own affairs they did not observe that a tall, raw-boned, roughly dressed man, with a gaunt, disagreeable face had been stealthily edging nearer the group until within a few feet of them. All at once a long bony hand was thrust into their midst. The hand landed on the shoulder of Mary Reynolds, swinging her almost off her feet. She did not scream, but her face grew white and her eyes horror-stricken. Then she wrenched desperately to free herself from the cruel clutch, gasping, "Let--me--alone. I--won't--go back--with--you." "Oh, ye won't, won't ye," growled the hateful intruder. "We'll see if ye won't. Get a move on." He half dragged, half shoved the now sobbing Mary along the platform. For an instant no one of the astonished girls moved or protested. Then a small, lithe figure flung itself in front of the brutal fellow, barring his progress. "Take your hands off that girl," commanded a tense, authoritative voice. As if in recognition of its authority the man's cruel hold on Mary's slender shoulder relaxed. Kathleen West's black eyes were blazing. With a swift forward movement she threw her arm protectingly across Mary's shoulder and drew her close. "Now," she said, her whole body tense with suppressed anger, "touch her if you dare." "Ye better git out and mind yer own business or ye'll wish ye had," threatened the man, his first feeling of fear vanishing. "Yer nothin' but a lot o' silly girls. You git along," he ordered, fixing his scowling eyes on Mary. "This little girl is going to stay with us. It is you that had better move on. If you aren't out of sight within the next three minutes I'll have you arrested for annoying us, and it won't be wise for you to come back again either." Kathleen's face, as she stood calmly eyeing her disagreeable adversary, was like a study in stone. She looked as inexorable and relentless as Fate itself, and the bully understood dimly that here was a force with which he could not reckon. "I'm a goin'," he mumbled sullenly, "but I'm a goin' to git the law on _her_," he pointed to Mary, "and make her git back where she belongs." By this time several persons had hurried to the scene of the encounter. Kathleen's sole reply to the threat was a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders. "Come on, girls," she said so nonchalantly that the curious ones dropped disappointedly away. Not more than four minutes had elapsed from the time the uncouth stranger had appeared until he slunk off. Emma, Grace and Patience found their voices almost simultaneously. "Well, of all things!" exclaimed Emma. "I was literally amazed to dumbness," declared Patience. "So was I for a minute, but Kathleen was so completely sure of herself that I knew it was better to be silent. She disposed of that obstreperous individual most summarily. Who is he, Miss Reynolds?" Grace turned grave eyes upon Mary. "We shall have to know all about him if we are to help you." They were now walking slowly up the street. "He's--my--uncle," faltered the girl. "Mother died last summer just after I finished high school, and I had no place to go. He wanted me to go out in the country and live on his farm. He said I could go to college, but after I went to the farm he and his wife made me do all the work, and laughed when I spoke of going to college. A nice girl I knew had told me about Overton and Harlowe House. She was in the town of Overton last commencement and heard about it. I told them I would go in spite of them, so they locked me in my room, but I climbed out the window and into a big tree, one of its branches was quite near the window, and then slid to the ground." "How old are you, Miss Reynolds?" asked Kathleen West with apparent irrelevance. "I was eighteen last week." "Then you needn't worry about your uncle. You are of age and can do as you please." "Do you mean that he can't make me leave here?" Mary Reynolds' eyes were wide with surprise and sudden hope. "Of course he can't," reassured Kathleen. "Girls, I'm going to adopt Mary Reynolds as my especial charge and help her fight her battles in the Land of College. Mary, will you let me adopt you?" Mary regarded Kathleen with shy admiration. She thought her the most wonderful person she had ever known. She was deeply grateful to Grace and her two friends for their kindness, but Kathleen's swift, efficient action on her behalf had completely won her heart. "I'd be the happiest girl in the world," she said solemnly. The next morning Grace went frankly to Miss Wilder with the tragic story of Mary's struggle to obtain an education and the attempt her miserly uncle had made to force her to return to the farm. "We shall be obliged to look into the matter," declared the dean. "Send Miss Reynolds to me as soon as possible. I must be very sure that she is all she represents herself to be. I should not care to have a repetition of the station scene later, on the campus, for instance. It would hardly add to the dignity of Overton." "I'll bring her to your office to-morrow morning," said Grace, "then you can form your own opinion of her." Mary Reynolds' wistful face was the last touch needed to completely enlist Miss Wilder's sympathy in her behalf. On the strength of the straightforward story which she repeated to the dean, she was allowed to proceed with her examinations. Meantime Miss Wilder wrote to the authorities of the little town near which Mary's uncle's farm was situated. They conducted a prompt investigation and by the time the hitherto friendless girl had passed triumphantly through the ordeal of examinations the faintest trace of objection to her becoming a student at Overton had been removed. CHAPTER X THE THIRTY-THIRD GIRL "I am sorry," said Grace gently, "but I am afraid it will be impossible for me to do anything for your sister this year. Harlowe House will hold, comfortably, thirty-two girls and no more. It isn't so much a matter of meals. They could, perhaps, be arranged, but I haven't a room for your sister. Could she afford to rent a room in town and come here for her meals?" This was an afterthought on Grace's part, born of the desire to clear away the cruel shadow of disappointment that clouded the pale face of the woman who sat opposite her in her little office. "I--am--afraid not," faltered the pale, thin woman, her tired eyes filling with an expression of resignation. "I thought I might be able to manage her college fees, if her living expenses could be arranged. We were so sorry that she did not win a scholarship. You are quite sure that there is no chance for her here?" she asked pleadingly, for the fourth time. "She has set her heart on coming to Overton. College means so much to a girl, and Evelyn is so clever. It seems a pity that she must stop with only a high school education." Grace knitted her brows in earnest thought, while the pleading voice talked on. She felt an overpowering sympathy, not for the sister who wished to come to Overton, but for the sister who was now advocating her cause. And even as she thought the way in which one more girl might partake of the benefits of Harlowe House came to her. It was a way of sacrifice; she was not even sure that it could be done. Something in the expression of her face, however, seemed to inspire the woman opposite her with new hope. She leaned forward, with the eager question: "Am I wrong or does your face tell me that there is a chance for Evelyn?" For the first time she mentioned her sister's name. "'Evelyn,'" repeated Grace half musingly. "What a pretty name. How old is your sister, Miss Ward?" "She was eighteen last August." "I can make you no definite promise yet," returned Grace slowly. "Could you come to see me this afternoon at four o'clock? I shall know then whether the plan I have in mind can be carried out." "I will come," promised the woman eagerly, her eyes kindling with happy light. "I thank you for your kindness." Her voice trembled with gratitude. She rose to go, looking as though she would like to say more but could not find words in which to express herself. "You are quite welcome. I will try very hard to place her," was Grace's parting assurance. After the woman, who had introduced herself as Ida Ward, had gone, Grace went slowly upstairs and into her pretty sitting-room. She looked long and fixedly at each attractive appointment, then she walked on into the bedroom, which she and Emma shared, and surveyed it with the same searching gaze. "I can't do it unless Emma is willing," she murmured. "I dislike asking her after inviting her to share my suite. Still, we've always been frank with each other. I'll tell her the exact circumstances as soon as she comes home to luncheon, and let her decide what we had better do." Having determined upon her course of action Grace went downstairs again and was soon deep in the laying-out of next week's menu for Harlowe House, a task in which she had been engaged when Miss Ida Ward was announced. It was now two weeks since Overton College had opened. The thirty-two applicants for places in Harlowe House had, without exception, passed through the trying ordeal of their entrance examinations with varying degrees of success, but not one had actually failed. They had come into the house, which was their Open Sesame to college, in twos and threes. Few of them were pretty, but even the plainest of their faces bore the unmistakable stamp of intelligence that marks the scholar. The half-brooding, anxious look in young eyes and the womanly dignity, prematurely gained through hand to hand conflict with poverty, were certain indications that the girls of Harlowe House were there for earnest work and not for play. And now a thirty-third girl was knocking at the gate for admittance to the Land of College. Grace wondered vaguely why Evelyn Ward had not come to plead her own cause. The words of Ida Ward, "I thought I might be able to manage her college fees," returned to her with disquieting force. Then she made a little impatient gesture. "Grace Harlowe, what is the matter with you? You are judging poor Evelyn Ward without giving her an opportunity to defend herself. You know nothing whatever of the Wards' affairs. There may be a dozen good reasons for Miss Ward's coming here in her sister's behalf. Don't be so suspicious. Wait until you see Evelyn Ward before you judge her." Although Grace did not realize it she was already thinking of Evelyn Ward as a member of Harlowe House. There was no fear of refusal on Emma's part. Long acquaintance with her good-natured, easy-going classmate had taught her that Emma was equal to, if not more than a match for, almost any emergency. "Emma would take her belongings and camp out in the hall if I asked her to," smiled Grace to herself as she went slowly downstairs to her office and, seating herself at her desk, took up the writing on which she had been engaged when her caller was announced. She was still hard at work when the girls began to come in for luncheon, one after another, and at last she heard Emma's delightful drawl as she exchanged pleasantries with one of the freshmen who had opened the door for her. "Oh, Emma," she called, stepping to the door of her office, "will you come in here, please? I need you." By the time Grace had finished speaking Emma was standing in the doorway, peering owlishly at her. "Most Gracious Grace," she salaamed, "what is your majesty's magnificent pleasure with your worthless and most despicable dog of a servant?" "I don't know any such person," laughed Grace. Then, her face sobering, she plunged into the middle of things with, "What would you say, Emma, if I were to give half of our quarters to some one else?" "I'd say that I was lucky to have half of the half that's left," was Emma's prompt retort. "You're a dear!" cried Grace impulsively. "I knew you were true blue. Still, I must tell you all about certain things before you decide. It's just this way, Emma." Grace began with Miss Ward's call and recounted to Emma all that had passed between herself and the stranger. Emma listened without comment until Grace had finished with, "Now tell me what you think, Emma." "I think it is positively noble in you to be willing to give up one of your rooms," emphasized Emma. "As far as I am concerned I'm not a 'chooser.' I'm here because of that same saving grace--it's as much a part of you as your name--which is reaching out now to put one more girl in Overton. What can any strictly honorable, four-cornered person say except, 'I'm with you,' and here's my hand in seal and token of it." "Thank you, Emma," Grace's quiet words and warm handclasp were eloquent with appreciation of her friend's unselfish viewpoint, "Suppose we run upstairs for a moment before luncheon to look around and decide which of the two rooms we can best do without. And, O, Emma, we'll have room for a thirty-fourth girl, if she happens along. I never thought of that. In the face of all that a college education will mean to this girl our personal comfort rather pales into insignificance." "Who are we that we should revel in the fleshpots of Overton while the stranger knocks at our gates?" supplemented Emma. "Now which is it to be? Shall we say, 'good-bye beloved sitting-room, ne'er shall we behold thy like again,' or shall we bid fond adieu to the bedroom? I ask but one concession, let us reserve our nice private bathroom. It has a value above rubies." "Of course we'll keep our bathroom. There are three others in the house of which these new girls can have the use. As long as the bathroom opens into both rooms, I shall bolt the door leading into the room we give Miss Ward. That may appear a trifle inhospitable on the surface, but I wish to keep what is left of our apartment as secluded as possible," ended Grace, opening the door into the sitting-room. "Now, which shall it be, Emma?" Emma prowled contemplatively about the suite, her hands in her coat pockets, her glasses pushed far over her nose. Finally she paused before Grace. Settling her glasses at their proper angle she said earnestly, "I don't wish to seem selfish, Grace, but really I think you are entitled to the sitting-room. It's larger and lighter. It's more attractive in every way. I am not thinking of myself in this matter, I am thinking of you. You are the brains and brawn of Harlowe House, therefore you must be made comfortable if you are to do good work here. The other room is easily large enough to accommodate two girls. It is larger than the rooms we occupied at Wayne Hall." "I know it." Grace strolled reflectively through the open bathroom door and on into the bedroom. When she returned, she had decided. "You are right, Emma. I don't believe it would be selfish to keep this room. Now how shall we furnish it?" "Don't ask me to decide that," protested Emma. "I feel as though I ought to pack my belongings and go to one of the faculty houses, Grace. It isn't fair to you for me to stay here and be a cumberer of your room." "Emma Dean, if you do!" Grace caught Emma by the shoulders and proceeded to shake her. "Wait! Stop!" implored Emma. "My glasses! And lenses cost money!" "Will you stay?" demanded a relentless voice. The shaking continued, but gently. "I will. That is, I'll have to, or pay the oculist." Grace's hands fell from Emma's shoulders. "I didn't want to pack and go," confessed Emma, "but I was trying to be as fair to you as you are to every one else." "It wouldn't be one bit fair in you to leave me. You promised to see me through, you know," reproached Grace. "So I did, and so I will," declared Emma, "I take back all I said. From now on I am as much of a fixture here as the kitchen range or the window seat." Grace laughed at Emma's absurd declaration. "I couldn't let you go, Emma. You are too good a comrade. Now let me think. I'll have my dressing table brought in here, but, in order to make a combination sitting and sleeping room of this, we will have to buy a couch bed. The davenport there is a bed too. We'll put it across that corner, and have the couch against that wall. We'll have to keep the dressing table. We can't avoid that. I don't know what to do with my bed. It is three-quarter size. I selected it purposely, so that I'd have room for two of the girls at a time if they dropped in unexpectedly. I don't like to sell it. It matches the set." "Why not leave it in the other room," suggested Emma. "If girl number thirty-four never materializes then Miss Evelyn Ward can occupy the whole bed, if she chooses." "But suppose we do admit another girl?" "Sufficient unto the day, etc.," shrugged Emma. "When she appears, then let the committee take action." "I'll buy a smaller dressing table to match the bed, if I can, and a chiffonier. I can't quite give mine up to this newcomer. There goes the luncheon bell. I must hurry downstairs to the kitchen to see if everything is all right." Grace hastened down the stairs, with her friend at her heels. Emma went directly to the dining-room and took her place at the table laid for two at the lower end of the room. This table belonged exclusively to her and Grace. The dining-room at Harlowe House had been furnished after the fashion of a pretty little tea shop at which Grace had often lunched in New York. The walls were done in white with a faint blue and silver stripe. The ceiling was white with a decoration of deep blue corn flowers. The floor was covered with a thread and thrum rug in blue and white, and instead of two long tables there were several small ones which seated from four to six persons. In the middle of each table was a vase of flowers, and the effect of the whole room was dainty and homelike. Grace had spent much thought on the dining-room. The buffet, serving tables, tables and chairs were white, and the silver, linen and various other appointments had been carefully chosen. "I wish the girls to feel that this room is a place where they can eat and be merry. It is in the dining-room that they will first become acquainted with one another," Grace had said to Mrs. Gray while they were choosing the dining-room furniture. "I like the idea of having the small tables. The girls can talk quietly and confidentially, if they choose. Besides it looks so cosy and informal." As Grace ate her luncheon that day her eyes wandered to the various tables. She was speculating as to where she would seat Evelyn Ward. Already she thought of her as one of her girls. At precisely four o'clock the door bell rang and the maid ushered Ida Ward into the living-room. Her large eyes were wide with anxiety and suspense as she sat nervously on the edge of her chair, trying to appear composed. She tried to answer Grace's reassuring smile, but her anxious eyes belied her wanly-smiling lips. "I have good news for you, Miss Ward," said Grace brightly. "I have made room for your sister. When may I expect her?" Ida Ward's lips moved, but she made no sound. Then, to Grace's consternation, she covered her face with her black-gloved hands and began to cry quietly. For an instant Grace sat in embarrassed silence. She hardly knew what consolation to offer this poor, pale woman who looked as though she carried the burdens of the world upon her slender shoulders. Before she could think of anything to say, Miss Ward suddenly raised her head, wiped her eyes and said quietly, "Forgive me for crying. I--am a little tired. I was rather overcome by the good news." "Suppose we have tea in the living room," was Grace's kindly suggestion. "What time does your train leave? By the way, I don't think I know where you live." "We live in Burton, a little town about two hundred miles from here, with a population of six thousand people. I am a dressmaker. There are only Evelyn and I, and I am fifteen years older than she. Mother died when she was born. Father died only a year later and I have taken care of her all her life. She is very beautiful. One of the prettiest girls I have ever seen, and so clever." The plain face lighted as she described Evelyn. "How she loves her pretty sister," thought Grace. Over the tea, dainty sandwiches and cakes, Ida Ward became quite cheerful. When half an hour later she rose to take her leave, she looked really happy. "How can I thank you for what you have done for Evelyn?" she asked tremulously, her lips quivering. "My little sister will be so glad. I am sure she can't help being happy in this beautiful house." "Send her to us as soon as you can," advised Grace. "College has been open for over three weeks and she will have quite an amount of work to make up. This is Monday. May I expect her on Thursday?" "Yes, she can leave Burton early Thursday morning. There is a train which reaches here at two o'clock in the afternoon." "Very well. I will send some one to meet her," promised Grace. During the next two days Grace and Emma accomplished their moving so quietly that no one in the house knew of the new member the morrow was to bring. When everything had been put in place Emma declared cheerily that they would never miss the other room. At the last moment Grace decided to go in person to the train to meet Evelyn. The memory of Ida Ward's white patient face haunted her. For her sake her beloved sister should be cordially welcomed. Grace felt the deepest respect and sympathy for the older sister. "Miss Ward said her sister was very pretty," reflected Grace, then she looked a trifle dismayed. She had received absolutely no other description of the girl she was to meet. She did not know whether Evelyn Ward was short or tall, stout or thin, dark or fair. "I'll simply have to use my eyes and guess," was her mental comment, as she walked briskly along the station platform just as the train whizzed down the track. Her alert eyes scanned the nearest car steps where the porter was helping a crotchety old man to the platform. Behind him, came a stout middle-aged woman and two children. Grace scanned the next set of steps. Then, far up the platform she saw a tall, slender, blue-clad figure walking toward her at a leisurely pace. The girl carried a small handbag and a suit case. When she came directly opposite Grace she paused, then, after a deliberate survey, walked forward with outstretched hand. "Aren't you Miss Harlowe?" she asked sweetly. "If you are, I am Evelyn Ward." CHAPTER XI EVELYN WARD, FRESHMAN Grace found herself looking into one of the most perfect faces she had ever seen. Evelyn Ward was a blonde of the purest type. Her thick golden hair lay in shining waves under her small, smart blue hat. Her eyes were deeply, darkly blue with purple depths, while her skin had the sheen and texture of pale pink rose leaves. Her small, straight nose, softly-curved red mouth and delicately-arched dark eyebrows added to the tender beauty of her face. To Grace she came as a revelation, and, so far as she could remember, she had never seen any other blonde girl who approached this one in loveliness. "How do you do, Miss Ward? I am glad to know you," she said, offering her hand. She noticed that the slender hand that Evelyn put forth to meet hers was very soft and white. It had evidently done no hard work and was in sharp contrast to the rough, work-worn hands of her sister. "I'm sure I am pleased to know you, Miss Harlowe, and very thankful to you for arranging for my coming to Overton. I would have cried my eyes out with disappointment if Ida had come home with bad news," returned the pretty girl in a plaintive tone which impressed Grace with a curiously uncomfortable feeling that this attractive young woman would have done nothing of the sort. There was that indefinable something about her that contradicted, flatly, the idea of tears. "Your sister was an eloquent pleader, Miss Ward. I would have made an even greater effort than was necessary to place you, if only to please her. I was greatly impressed with her unselfishness and nobility of character," Grace made reply. An expression of amusement showed itself on Evelyn Ward's face. "Ida is a perfect old dear," she agreed lightly. "She takes life too seriously, though. She worries over every little thing. Still her very seriousness makes a good impression. She has ever so many friends; a great many more than I." She shrugged her shoulders, as though to convey the fact that the latter state of affairs did not trouble her. "As your luggage is not heavy, we might walk to Harlowe House," suggested Grace. "This glorious fall weather is ideal for walking. Let me take your suit case." "With pleasure. It's altogether too heavy for comfort. Are there no street cars or busses we can take? I like to walk, but not when I have luggage to carry." "We can take a car or an automobile bus if you like," said Grace courteously, although she experienced a vague sense of annoyance at this newcomer's calmly expressed preference. "Oh, let's take the automobile, if it isn't too expensive!" exclaimed Evelyn eagerly. "I love to ride in an automobile. Are there any girls at Overton who own cars? If there are I shall certainly cultivate them. I suppose they won't notice me, though, because I am a freshman and a poor one at that," she ended with a pout, her fair face taking on almost sullen lines. Grace shook her head. "Being poor doesn't count at Overton," she said, "I know a girl who lived in a bare, cheerless room in an old house in the suburbs of Overton and earned her way by doing mending for the students. She worked in a dressmaker's shop during her summer vacations too, and yet she was the chum of the richest girl in college." "Why didn't the rich girl help her if she thought so much of her?" inquired Evelyn rather sarcastically. "Because the girl wouldn't allow her to do so. She was too independent to accept help. She did not wish to become obligated to any one, not even her dearest friend." "Foolish girl," was Evelyn's contemptuous comment. "If one can't ask occasional favors of one's friends one might as well have none. I am very sure that I would take the goods the gods provide without murmuring. These extreme standards of ethics and honor are all very pretty in books, but not at all practical in every-day life." Grace made no reply. She was lost, for the instant, in a maze of disagreeable reflection. She was afraid she now understood only too well why Ida instead of Evelyn Ward had come to see her. In the Ward family the hard tasks had apparently been thrust upon the patient elder sister, while the younger reaped where she had not sown, without a conscientious qualm. And it was for this beautiful, selfish girl that she and Emma had curtailed their comfort. She almost wished she had been firm in her first refusal to consider taking another girl into Harlowe House. Then a vision of Ida Ward's thin face, lighted by two pleading eyes, rose before her. With an inward rebuke for her own grudging attitude, Grace squared her shoulders and resolved to look for only the best in this latest arrival. It took but a moment to hail an automobile bus which had just run into the station yard, and they were soon on their way to Harlowe House. Grace pointed out to Evelyn the various interesting features of Overton. They impressed the latter but little. "It must be a sleepy old town," she commented, as they passed through the quiet streets. She did, however, evince some slight interest in Vinton's, remarking lightly that she supposed she would never have money enough to buy a dinner there for herself, let alone ever inviting a guest. "Do not look at your college life through such pessimistic spectacles," advised Grace. "You will be sure to be unhappy." Evelyn made a pettish gesture. "You remind me of my sister, Miss Harlowe. She is forever preaching patience and optimism and all the other virtues in which I seem to be lacking." A bright flush rose to Grace's cheeks at this unparalleled rudeness. She cast a quick, curious glance at Evelyn, whose eyes were for the second fixed upon the campus which they were now nearing, and who appeared to be utterly oblivious of her impertinence. "This is the campus." Grace decided to overlook the pointed remark. "We are justly proud of Overton College and the campus." "It is really beautiful," nodded Evelyn, "but I'm going to tell you a secret. I'm not the least little bit enthusiastic over college. I'd rather go to a dramatic school and study for the stage. It is Ida who insists upon my going to college. Thank goodness, I'm not a dunce. It would be dreadful to be forced into college and then be too stupid to learn anything, wouldn't it?" "It would indeed," agreed Grace. "I suppose my stage aspirations shock you, Miss Harlowe," went on Evelyn, "but I can't help saying what I think." "My dearest woman friend is an actress," returned Grace quietly. "Oh, is she really?" Evelyn's voice rose high with excitement. "What is her name? Perhaps I've heard of her." "Anne Pierson." "I should say I had heard of _her_. She is one of the great stars. She is with Everett Southard, isn't she? I've seen their pictures in the magazines." "She graduated from Overton last year. We were roommates throughout our four years here. She is from my home town." "Really and truly?" demanded Evelyn impulsively. "That's the most interesting piece of news I've heard for a long time. Will you tell me all about her some time, Miss Harlowe?" "With pleasure," returned Grace. "It can hardly be to-day, however, for here we are at Harlowe House." "What a darling house!" praised Evelyn as they alighted from the automobile. "I am sure I shall like to live in it." "I hope that you will be happy here," returned Grace kindly. After all it might be better not to take this self-willed young woman too seriously. She had, at least, the virtue of truthfulness. She was entirely frank in the expression of her opinions. She might have many other redeeming qualities which would quite overbalance the disagreeably self-centered side of her character. Evelyn gazed about in open approval as they ascended the steps of Harlowe House. As they passed through the hall she peeped into the living room and exclaimed in admiration of its attractive appointments. Her voluble appreciation of her own room pleased Grace, who realized that Evelyn's personality was singularly fascinating and that she could be exceedingly gracious when she chose. "I will leave you now," said Grace, after a little further conversation. "The dinner bell rings at six o'clock. If you need anything, or wish to ask any questions, you will find me in my office downstairs. It is rather too late in the day for you to see the registrar. To-morrow morning will be time enough. You are lucky to be exempt from examinations." Grace had hardly established herself in her office when Emma Dean came breezily in from her work. "Well, Gracie," was her cheery greeting, "has she materialized, and is she as pathetic and persistent as Sister Ida?" Grace made a little gesture of resignation. "Prepare for the surprise of your college career, Emma." "Didn't she come?" demanded Emma, "That wouldn't surprise me. People are forever promising to arrive on a certain train and then strolling in several days later with the barefaced announcement that the time table had been mysteriously changed." "She arrived," stated Grace. "Then wherein lies the surprise?" "Emma," said Grace solemnly, "Evelyn Ward is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, and, if I am not mistaken, one of the most selfish. She is no more like her sister than I am like Dr. Morton, and she is going to require more looking after than any other girl in Harlowe House." CHAPTER XII THE HARLOWE HOUSE CLUB "There!" Grace Harlowe laid down her pen and scanned the notice she had just finished writing. "I'll post this now. The girls will see it this morning and again when they come in to luncheon. Then they will be sure to meet me in the living-room before dinner. I hope they will like our plan." "They ought to like it," replied Emma Dean. "It makes them a self-respecting, self-governing body." "That is precisely what I wish them to be," responded Grace, in all earnestness. "I believe that being members of Semper Fidelis was of great benefit to us. Oh, Emma, did I tell you that Mr. Bedfield's gift to Semper Fidelis is now an endowment? He called to see me on Friday for the express purpose of telling me that he has arranged the matter with Professor Morton. The money is to be known hereafter as the Semper Fidelis endowment. He said he felt certain that we had not handed the society down to this year's classes. He couldn't imagine any other young women in our places. Wasn't that nice in him?" "Very nice and very true," agreed Emma. "I am of the same mind. The Sempers can never be imitated, passed on to the next class, nor replaced. They are in a class all by themselves." "The purpose of this new club which I propose to organize will be one of welfare. The girls will do more for themselves as a self-governing body than I can possibly do for them. By the way, I wonder if Miss Ward is up yet. She overslept and missed her first recitation yesterday morning. She came down to the dining-room long after breakfast was over. Susan was rather upset over having to serve an extra breakfast. I was obliged to tell Miss Ward that if it occurred again she would have to abide by the consequences of her own tardiness. I can't impose upon the servants to please a girl who has no thought for any one except herself." Grace spoke rather bitterly. Her early disappointment in Evelyn Ward had deepened as the time passed. "I don't hear a sound from her room," commented Emma, who sat before the dressing-table brushing her long hair. With hair brush poised in the air she listened intently. "She is dead to the world." "Then I'll have to waken her," sighed Grace. Stepping out into the hall she knocked lightly on Evelyn's door. Receiving no response she knocked again, this time with more force. "Come in," called a sleepy voice. Grace turned the knob. Sure enough, Evelyn lay comfortably back on her pillow, her wonderful golden hair falling in long, loose waves about her. Her beauty now made little impression upon Grace, who knew only too well the tantalizing, troublesome spirit that lay behind it. "It is almost eight o'clock, Miss Ward. Remember, breakfast is over at nine." "I know it," responded Evelyn with maddening sweetness. She eyed Grace speculatively, but made no effort to rise. Without further words Grace closed the door. She did not wish to betray her annoyance. She had experienced a wild desire to march over to the bed and drag the complacent freshman forth from it by the shoulders. When Evelyn descended to the dining-room she found that most of the girls had eaten breakfast and gone off to chapel. Happening to recall that she had not attended the morning services for a week, and with visions of her unsigned chapel card staring her in the face, she ate a hurried breakfast and was about to depart when her eyes happened to rest upon the bulletin board in the hall around which were gathered several girls. Pausing, Evelyn read Grace's notice. It asked the members of Harlowe House to be in the living room at five o'clock that afternoon for the discussion of a most important subject. "I wonder what it is," said Nettie Weyburn, lively curiosity overspreading her usually placid face. "I think I know," volunteered Mary Reynolds. "Miss Harlowe was telling me only last night that she wishes to organize a club of just Harlowe House girls, with a president and other officers. The club will have a constitution and by-laws and every member will have to live up to them." "Wouldn't that be splendid?" asked Cecil Ferris, a gray-eyed, black-haired freshman who made up in energy what she lacked in height. "Who would be president I wonder," murmured Evelyn, shooting a glance of apparent innocence about the circle. "You'd make a good president, Miss Ward," declared Mary Reynolds, in open admiration. To her beauty-loving little soul Evelyn was the most exquisite person in the world. "_I_," cried Evelyn in well-simulated amazement. "I wouldn't attempt to be, I am not clever or popular enough." "I believe you would be the very one. You are so independent and know just how to do things." Now that Mary had suggested it, it met with Nettie Weyburn's placid approval. Cecil Ferris echoed it. She, too, had fallen under the spell of Evelyn's beauty. "I must run along or be late to chapel," murmured Evelyn modestly, and hurried off at precisely the wisest moment to further her own cause. The ambition to become the president of the proposed club had sprung into life in her self-centered young soul as she stood reading the bulletin, and she determined that she would leave nothing undone to obtain the honor. At luncheon that day she took particular pains to be unusually friendly to every one with whom she came in contact, exhibiting a gay graciousness of manner toward a number of girls she had secretly labeled, "digs, prigs and plodders." This quite won their trusting hearts and made them innocently wonder how they had, so far, happened to miss becoming really well acquainted with Miss Ward. When at five o'clock the big living room began to fill, Evelyn was among the first there, with a dazzling smile for all comers. At ten minutes past five the thirty-three girls who claimed Harlowe House as their home were sitting or standing expectantly about the room, waiting for Grace, who stood at one end of the room with Emma, to call the meeting to order and enter upon the discussion of that "most important subject." "I have asked you to come here this afternoon because I believe the time has arrived to try out a plan which I have had in my mind ever since college began," stated Grace, by way of beginning. Then in clear, concise sentences she told of her desire that her girls should be self-governing and of how much good fellowship their banding themselves together would create. "I thought, if you approved of the plan, we might elect our officers at once, and appoint a committee to draw up the constitution and by-laws. I am going to ask you to talk it over among yourselves for ten minutes, while Miss Dean and I prepare some balloting slips," she concluded, and at once a loud buzz of eager conversation began. It was fifteen minutes before Grace again called the meeting to order, and appointed four tellers, who distributed ballots. Then nominations were in order. "I nominate Miss Ward for president," proposed Cecil Ferris. "I second the motion," came from Mary Reynolds. Grace could hardly control the surprise in her voice, when, after waiting a little, she asked: "Are there any further nominations?" "I nominate Miss Sampson," called a small pale girl from her perch in the window seat, with a fond smile in the direction of her roommate. Another girl seconded the nomination, and it was then moved and seconded that the nominations for president be closed. The nomination for vice-president, secretary and treasurer were then in order and after they were closed the voting began. "Well, of all things," whispered Emma to Grace, who sank into the chair beside her friend, a peculiar expression on her fine face. "I never dreamed of matters taking that turn, did you?" Grace shook her head. It had indeed come as a shock. She had thought of the club as a novel and possible means of bringing the Harlowe House girls into a closer relationship with one another. She had never considered the possibility of Evelyn being president of the club. It was evident that her nomination had come about through admiration of her undeniable beauty. She was absolutely unfit for any such office. Grace hoped, devoutly, that Miss Sampson, a tall, capable young woman, with a likable personality and a cheery, hearty manner of speaking, would be elected. Emma made no further remark, but watched the tellers with calculating eyes. At last one of them, who had been industriously making notations on a sheet of paper, rose to announce the results of the election. "The total number of votes cast for president was thirty-three. Of these Miss Ward received twenty-nine"--an enthusiastic clapping of hands sounded--"Miss Sampson four." She then went on to read the result of the balloting for the other three officers. Nettie Weyburn had won the vice-presidency, Cecil Ferris had been chosen secretary, while quiet little Mary Reynolds had been made treasurer. The reading of each name elicited its quota of applause, but it was plain that, of the four officers, Evelyn was, by far, the greatest favorite. After appointing a committee of four girls to assist her in drawing up the constitution and by-laws, Grace said pleasantly: "Will the new officers please come forward so that we can all see you. You must be formally introduced, you know." The newly elected officers rose from their various positions which they occupied in the room and advanced to where Grace stood. About Evelyn Ward's red lips played a smile of suppressed triumph as she shook the hand Grace offered her and listened to the former's sincere wish for her success. For an instant the gray eyes studied the perfect face gravely, as though trying to penetrate what lay behind its smiling mask. Then Grace turned to greet the vice-president, just in time to miss the mocking flash which lighted Evelyn's blue eyes. CHAPTER XIII PLANNING FOR THE RECEPTION The committee on the constitution and by-laws for the new club met the very next evening and drew up a terse little document setting forth their object in banding themselves together. Grace had already made note of the few rules she wished the girls to observe, but, so far as possible, she wished the committee to draw up their own regulations, subject to her approval. To create a spirit of independence and self-confidence in the girls of Harlowe House had been Grace's basic motive. She realized that many of them were hampered with an undue sense of gratitude which made them too humble for their own interest. She purposed to make them self-reliant and free. Therefore the rules which she herself made were few and sensible, relating chiefly to the care of rooms, the entertaining of guests and the problems which, if not properly handled, were the most likely to cause friction among so many young women of so many different dispositions. "But what are we to do about money, Miss Harlowe?" asked Mary Reynolds in a plaintive tone, when the question arose of whether the club should be assessed for dues, and Grace spoke against it. "Of what use is it to have a treasureless treasurer?" The committee set up a unanimous giggle. "That is really a serious question," smiled Grace, "and one which the girls will have to decide for themselves. I should not wish any girl to feel that she were obliged to contribute money to the club, even for dues. We are not obliged to conform to any particular set of rules. Our club can be a purely informal organization with no obligations attached to it." "But it would be splendid to have a little money in the treasury," interposed Louise Sampson. "I know what we can do," she went on eagerly. "Let us make the dues a dollar a year, and pledge ourselves to earn that sum. Any one who feels that she can neither earn nor give a dollar can be a member of the club just the same. Then we could give entertainments or concerts or something and start a little fund of our own." Grace's gray eyes sparkled. Louise Sampson was a girl after her own heart. "Then you must ask your president to call a meeting. She can instruct the secretary to post a notice on the bulletin board," she advised. The committee seized upon Louise's plan with avidity. "Why can't we post a notice and have done with it?" asked Cecil Ferris innocently. "Because we have just made a law that the president shall be notified of proposed meetings and shall post a bulletin to that effect," reminded Grace. The girls remained for another hour, discussing their plans and reconstructing their by-laws previous to voting on them. It was decided to have a weekly meeting to take place on each Tuesday between five and six o'clock in the afternoon, but a special meeting might be called at any time at the request of a member, but at the president's discretion. "The last clause in that by-law is unfortunate," criticized Emma, when, in the privacy of their room that night, Grace went over with her friend the club rules as she had set them down. "I know what you mean." Grace gave an impatient sigh. "Still, as president of the club Miss Ward must be consulted about things. You think she is likely to refuse to call a meeting at the request of a member, if she happens to be so inclined, don't you?" "I do, and she will," prophesied Emma. "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it, Gracie, but still it's a good plan to be prepared in advance for the beauteous Evelyn's vagaries. To change the subject, I have heard very little mention made of the sophomore reception in the house. I wonder if it is because some of the girls have no evening gowns?" Grace sat up in her chair, with a start of surprise. "Really, Emma, I had forgotten all about the reception. I suppose it slipped my mind because it is to be held so much later this year on account of repairing the gymnasium. It will hardly be over until Thanksgiving will be upon us, and then, oh, joy! we'll see the dear old Sempers. I must see if there is anything I can do to help the girls get ready for it. I hope they understand that their summer dresses will do nicely." For the next three days Grace made it a point to inquire tactfully into the reception plans of the Harlowe House girls. She discovered that Emma's conjecture had been only too correct. The bare mention of evening gowns had intimidated them, and, worse still, only three or four of them had been especially invited by sophomores. This was partly accounted for by the fact that, while the sophomore class was large, it was completely outnumbered by the entering class. Remembering that the same state of affairs had prevailed when she had entered Overton as a freshman, Grace proceeded to make a round of calls which began with the members of the reception committee, and included Violet Darby, Myra Stone, Laura Atkins, Mildred Taylor, Patience, Kathleen and others of the upper classes whom she knew well, though not intimately. The reception committee had expressed their absolute willingness to allow the upper class girls to help them out on escort duty and the girls themselves entered heartily into the plan. "I'll walk over to Harlowe House with you now and invite Mary Reynolds," declared Kathleen West, who was the last girl on Grace's list. "I'm glad to have the opportunity. What a bright little thing Mary is! She is quick as a flash when it comes to grasping an idea. I tell her she has the making of a good newspaper woman in her." "She is Emma's star pupil in English. Emma says she writes the most original themes." "She has all sorts of queer fancies about people and things," went on Kathleen. "I can't begin to tell you, Grace, how glad I am to be of some help to her. I must do something to make up for lost time." A faint color tinged Kathleen's pale face. "You are doing a great deal for Mary Reynolds, Kathleen. She loves you dearly!" "It certainly is nice to be liked," returned Kathleen softly. "If it hadn't been for you and Elfreda and Patience I would have gone on in the same hard, selfish spirit in which I began college." "As it is, you are one of the literary lights of Overton, and a joy to your friends," said Grace gayly. "I wish you were at Harlowe House this year with Emma and me." "I wish I were," sighed Kathleen, "but I didn't feel that it would be fair to apply for admission there. You see, Grace, my salary on the newspaper, during the summer, is a generous one, and, by managing carefully, I can pay my expenses in college for the year with it. I don't have to do that, however, for every week I write a story for the Sunday edition of our paper which more than pays my board at Wayne Hall. Then I send in extra space articles and go out on special stories during the Christmas and Easter vacations. I am never really very short of money, so I'm not eligible as a member of your household." "You are a clever, capable girl, Kathleen," averred Grace, with honest admiration, "and I am proud to be your friend." A long look of perfect understanding passed between the two. It had come only after many days of misunderstanding and doubt. "Dear Loyalheart, I can never forgive myself for making you so unhappy," Kathleen's crisp tones trembled. "And I shall never forgive you if you mention it again," retorted Grace. "You mustn't recall such things. I am enough of a believer in destiny to feel that we had to go through a kind of probation period before we were ready to be friends." "It's dear in you to say so, Grace, but I know myself, and how contemptibly I behaved. I've been determined to say this to you ever since I came back to college, but you have never given me the least chance until now." "'Loyalheart' was the highest proof of your regard you could have given me," reminded Grace gently. "I don't need any other reminders. I must go, Kathleen. Did I hear you say you were going with me?" "Yes." Kathleen slipped into her hat and coat, and, as they went down Mrs. Elwood's familiar stairs and strolled out into the crisp autumn air, arm in arm, Kathleen felt that she could never be thankful enough to the girl who had taught her the true meaning of college spirit. CHAPTER XIV A DISQUIETING THOUGHT When half way across the campus the two young women encountered Evelyn Ward. The cold crisp November air had deepened the pink in her cheeks to living rose. Her violet eyes fairly blazed with light and sparkle, and her wonderful golden hair peeped in fascinating little curls from under her gray velour hat. She wore a three-quarter length gray coat, cut in the smartest fashion, and a passing glance at her would have left one with the impression that she was in affluent circumstances. "How can a girl who can't afford to pay her college expenses wear such smart clothes?" was Kathleen's appraising comment after they had passed Evelyn, who nodded to them in condescending fashion. "Her sister, Ida, makes them. She told me so when she came here to ask me to take Miss Ward into Harlowe House. She is a very pretty girl, isn't she?" Kathleen nodded. "How are things at Harlowe House?" she inquired irrelevantly. "Going beautifully. I told you about our club didn't I?" "Not a word. I haven't seen you for a week." The newspaper girl listened interestedly to Grace's account of the club. "It would make a good story for my paper," she commented. "How about it, Grace?" "You're welcome to it if the girls don't object. Suppose you come as a guest to our next meeting and ask their permission." "I'll do it," promised Kathleen. Mary Reynolds received and accepted Kathleen's invitation to the reception with unmistakable joy. Grace had sent home for a pink silk evening gown, which she had worn but little, and fairly forced it, with slippers, stockings and gloves, upon the reluctant Mary, with the plea that pink was not her color and therefore she never wore the frock. Aside from shortening it, it had needed little alteration, and when the night of the sophomore reception arrived, Kathleen appeared, an hour before the time to start for the dance, to help Mary dress. She brought a cluster of pinky-white roses and a pink chiffon scarf, which, she diplomatically insisted, did not go well with any of her gowns and exactly matched Mary's. "I can't believe that I am I," Mary said happily, as she viewed herself wonderingly in the round dressing-table mirror. She clasped her thin, childish hands impulsively together. "I wish every girl in the world had such good friends and pretty clothes as I have!" "I hope no one has such elusive hooks and eyes on their clothes as I have," grumbled Emma Dean, who had appeared in the doorway in time to hear Mary's heartfelt remark. "I have permanently dislocated one shoulder and ruined the charming curves of both my elbows forever, in a vain, but valiant, effort to unite one miserable hook and eye, which I'm sure the dressmaker purposely sewed out of my reach." "Poor Emma," sympathized Kathleen. "Let me help you." Emma surrendered herself to Kathleen's deft fingers with a ludicrous gesture of resignation. "Are all the Harlowe House girls going?" asked Kathleen. "Yes; thanks to the juniors and seniors, not one has been left out. It is such a clear, pleasant night the campus house girls won't need carriages," answered Grace. "It is eight o'clock now. Don't you think you had better start? You go on with the girls, Emma. I'll run over some time during the evening for a few minutes." After the merrymakers had set out for the gymnasium, Grace retired to her office to write a letter to her mother. She had hardly settled herself when the door bell rang and she heard a high, clear voice asking the maid for Miss Ward. "Please tell her to hurry, my car is waiting," instructed the voice, as the maid ushered the newcomer into the living-room. Grace glanced through the open door of the office into the next room. In Evelyn's escort she recognized Althea Parker, one of the most snobbish girls at Overton College, and a member of the sophomore class. Evelyn's declaration on her arrival at Overton that she intended to cultivate the richest girls in college now came back to Grace with disagreeable force. "Good evening, Miss Harlowe," hailed Althea, as Grace rose and went forward to greet her. "We are going to be late. I hope Evelyn won't keep me waiting." There was a touch of impatience in her voice. Even as she spoke there was a patter of light feet on the stairs, and Evelyn appeared in the doorway, her evening coat and scarf on her arm. Grace gave an involuntary gasp of admiration, while Althea cried out openly, "Evelyn Ward, you are wonderful!" Evelyn's violet blue eyes flashed with gratified vanity. She wore an exquisite gown of white silk and lace made in an apparently simple but very smart fashion, which revealed the pure beauty of her white throat and rounded arms, increasing her loveliness tenfold. She wore white silk stockings and white satin slippers with little rhinestone buckles. Her thick golden hair was drawn high on her head in a graceful knot and clustered in little curls about her temples and over her forehead, while her whole face was alive with excitement. At her corsage was an immense bunch of violets, evidently sent her by her escort. "Shall I do?" she asked pertly, walking over to the living-room mirror for a last peep at herself. "You look very lovely to-night," said Grace honestly. "Thank you," she swept Grace a curtsey. A faint mocking smile played about her red lips, as though she doubted the sincerity of the remark. Slipping on her evening coat of white broadcloth, and placing an extremely handsome scarf of white and gold over her pretty head, Evelyn walked to the door, followed by Althea Parker, who, divided between admiration of Evelyn and fear of being late, was talking rapidly in her high, excited voice. "Good night, Miss Harlowe," she nodded. "Oh, yes, good night," called Evelyn carelessly. Grace leaned back in her chair and smiled at Evelyn's slightly cavalier treatment of herself. "How her sister has spoiled her," she mused. "She treats me as though I were one of the maids. To see her to-night one would be quite likely to imagine that she, rather than Miss Parker, were the richest girl in Overton." A sudden, startled look stole into Grace's eyes. "Why, where--" She paused as though she had come upon something which did not quite please her. As a matter of fact it had recurred to her with an unpleasant jolt that Evelyn was wearing an evening gown entirely too expensive for her present circumstances. So were her evening coat, her scarf and all the dainty appointments which so perfectly matched the white silk frock. Again she recalled that Ida Ward planned and made all her sister's gowns. Even so, she must have spent considerable money on Evelyn's evening clothes. Suppose these things were to be noticed and commented upon by the girls in the house, or by outsiders who knew nothing of the real source of Evelyn's wardrobe? Suppose some one were ill-natured enough to say that a girl who could afford such expensive gowns ought to be able to pay her own expenses and give her place in Harlowe House to some one more needy. Had not Kathleen asked how Evelyn could afford to wear such smart clothes? Yet on the other hand, there was nothing to be done. Grace did not feel it within her province to take Evelyn to task on the subject of her wearing apparel. All she could do was to trust that what had perplexed her would pass unnoticed and uncriticized. CHAPTER XV A SEMPER FIDELIS REUNION "O frabjous day!" rejoiced Emma Dean, using her bath towel as a scarf and performing a weird dance about the room. "I know I shall go chortling through my classes this morning in a highly undignified manner. To think that dear old Semper Fidelis will hold forth again in the same old haunts! And the most beautiful part is that there will be no vacant chairs." Emma's delight was reflected on Grace's face. It was the morning before Thanksgiving Day and the two young women were preparing to go to breakfast, full of happy anticipation, for the various afternoon trains were to bring to them their Semper Fidelis comrades. It had all begun with Elfreda's and Mabel Ashe's promises to spend Thanksgiving at Harlowe House. Then Elfreda had persuaded Arline Thayer, whom she saw frequently in New York, to join them. Arline had written to Ruth, who had come on to New York for a long visit to her chum in time to swell the band. Elfreda had promptly written Grace that if she would see that Miriam and Anne put in an appearance at the proper moment, the Briggs Helping Hand Society would guarantee that the other members should appear at Overton on the appointed day. "Elfreda has taken rather a large contract on her hands," Grace had said to Emma, on receiving the letter. "She evidently knows what she's doing, so I had better write to Miriam and Anne." Miriam's promise to come had been easily obtained, but Anne was not sure of attending the Semper Fidelis reunion, until the week before Thanksgiving, when Everett Southard, who was then playing in Shakespearian repertoire in New York, obligingly arranged to give the "Taming of the Shrew" on the day before Thanksgiving, and "King Richard III" on Thanksgiving Day. As Anne did not appear in either play, her Thanksgiving freedom was assured. And now the great day had dawned at last! There were to be recitations in the morning, but college would close at noon, not to reopen until the following Monday. The Semper Fidelis girls were to be Elfreda's guests at Vinton's that night at a six o'clock dinner. On Thanksgiving morning they were to breakfast at the Tourraine as the guests of Ruth and Arline. Thanksgiving dinner at Martell's was to be Anne's and Miriam's part of the celebration, while Thanksgiving night Emma and Grace were to be hostesses at Vinton's, their favorite rendezvous. Grace would have dearly loved to be hostess at the Thanksgiving dinner, but she felt that her duty lay with her household. She wondered whether it would be really right for her to remain away from Harlowe House for so many meals. After long and earnest discussion, she and Emma had arranged that she would give up eating Thanksgiving dinner with her friends, while Emma cheerfully agreed to preside at the Harlowe House breakfast table on Thanksgiving morning. It was decided that Louise Sampson, of whom Grace had grown extremely fond, was the best possible person to leave in charge during their absence on Thanksgiving night, for neither Grace nor Emma felt that they could bear to miss that last gathering together of their beloved Semper Fidelis friends. "I wonder who will be first on the scene," speculated Grace. "Consult the time table, my child," advised Emma. "I have no time for speculation. I am starting on a hunt in darkest Deanery for my cuff links. They are tucked away in some remote corner of the Dean territory, but which corner?" "They are in one end of your handkerchief box. I saw you put them there yesterday, you ridiculous person," laughed Grace. "Thank you, thank you! 'One good turn deserves another,'" quoted Emma fervently. "Bring forth the fateful time table and I'll sort out the trains and the order of arrival of the clan." "I haven't a time table," confessed Grace. "Then we'll have to let the trains run merrily on, and the railroad do its perfect work. I'm sorry I can't pay my debt of gratitude. I am always helpful. I was always helpful. I have been helpful. I would be helpful. I might have been helpful and I may yet be helpful," conjugated Emma hopefully, "but not without a time table." "I appreciate your splendid spirit of helpfulness even though it isn't of any use at present," assured Grace satirically. "I suppose--" A long reverberating ring of the bell cut short her remark. The two friends exchanged questioning glances. "It can't be one of the girls. It's only eight o'clock," was Emma's quick comment. Grace opened the door and listened intently. Emma joined her, peering over her shoulder. Then Miss Duncan's dignified assistant in English gave an unmistakable, though subdued, war whoop, and, seizing Grace by the hand, made for the stairs. Grace needed no assistance. An instant later they brought up at the foot of the stairs and made a simultaneous rush for a tall, plump young woman, enveloping her in a tempestuous embrace. "I might have known you'd be the first," cried Grace with joyful affection. "You must have taken a train in the middle of the night." "I did," returned J. Elfreda Briggs calmly. "We are living in New York this winter, so Pa brought me to the station in his own pet car and saw me safely on my way. Emma Dean, you good old comrade, how are you?" Elfreda turned from Grace to Emma. Emma surveyed Elfreda with fond eyes. "Just now I'm overcome at seeing you, J. Elfreda. How we have missed you!" Depth of feeling for the moment checked Emma's irrepressible flow of humor. Next to Grace, in her regard, came the one-time stout girl, now merely plump and extremely attractive. Tears flashed across J. Elfreda's eyes as she stood looking into the faces of these friends, whom she loved so truly, yet saw so seldom. "Missing people has been my greatest cross this year," she said, her voice not quite steady. "There's no use in making a fuss, though. I'm beginning to learn that." A brief silence fell upon the three classmates. "Have you had your breakfast, Elfreda?" asked Grace, almost abruptly. "Are there waffles?" counter-questioned Elfreda. "There can be. The Harlowe House kitchen boasts of waffle irons, bought with this occasion in view." "Then I am heart and soul for breakfast," avowed Elfreda. "I ate my usual sumptuous repast of half a grape fruit and a piece of dry toast, plus one small cup of black coffee, on the train. I haven't had a waffle since I was here in August. I wonder how they would taste," she added innocently. "You'll know before long," promised Grace. "Emma take Elfreda upstairs to our room, while I ask Sarah to make the waffles." Half an hour later they sat around the breakfast table, a contented trio. After Emma had left them to go to her work, Grace and Elfreda had a long confidential conversation over their coffee. The noon train brought Mabel Ashe, Arline and Ruth, while from off the afternoon trains stepped Anne and Miriam, the smiling Emerson twins, Elizabeth Wade, Marian Cummings and Elsie Wilton. It was a congenial and talkative company that, as Elfreda's guests, graced Vinton's at six o'clock dinner that night. Kathleen West, who had been prevailed upon to spend at least one Thanksgiving at Overton, instead of on duty on her paper, was one of three guests of honor, Mabel Ashe and Patience Eliot were the others. By special arrangement a table that would seat fifteen persons had been set in their favorite rendezvous, the mission alcove. Elfreda, Grace, Anne and Miriam, rejoicing in their reunion, had made a tour of the stores together that afternoon, and gleefully carrying the fruits of their shopping to Vinton's had decorated the table with flowers, ribbons and funny little favors. The Overton girls that happened to drop into Vinton's that night smiled appreciatively at the gay little company in the alcove. A glance in that direction on the part of the upper class girls was sufficient. They knew that Semper Fidelis, the darling of the Overton clubs, was making merry. The freshmen, however, had to have matters explained to them by their friends. "That Semper Fidelis club was the life of Overton," Althea Parker explained to Evelyn Ward. "That's one reason I asked you to come here with me to-night. I wanted you to see them together." The two were seated at a small table not far from that of the Sempers. Evelyn made no response. Her eyes were fixed upon the mission alcove. She knew, only too well, that Althea's invitation to dinner had not been disinterested. She had learned to know that Althea was not only snobbish, but self-seeking as well. For whatever she gave she demanded value received. Evelyn had been in the living-room when Grace and Elfreda returned from their shopping. She had heard them discussing the dinner, and had lost no time in slipping on her wraps and carrying the news to Althea, who, as she had hoped, had at once invited her to dinner at Vinton's. "Althea thinks I'll attract the attention of those girls," Evelyn had speculated shrewdly. Meanwhile the girls in the alcove, quite unconscious of the discussion going on about them at the other tables, were in their element. One after another the dear wraiths of their Overton days were summoned, to be laughingly and lovingly reviewed, then lingeringly laid to rest again. "Girls, do you remember the dinner we gave here after the ghost party?" asked Mabel Ashe, her brown eyes alight with mischief. "Some of you girls weren't here that night, but at least half of you were." "I ought to remember it," declared Elfreda significantly. "Yes, Elfreda, it was in honor of you, I believe," laughed Arline. The dinner to which Mabel referred belonged to Elfreda's freshman year at Overton. "It was indeed," affirmed Anne Pierson. "Every one of our four years brought its own parties." "And its own problems," supplemented Miriam. "Of whom we were which," murmured J. Elfreda. Every one laughed at this naive assertion. "But we've all turned out creditably," smiled Miriam Nesbit, "thanks to our Loyalheart. She opened the way to good comradeship for me, long ago, in my high school days." "She found my father for me!" said Ruth Denton, her eyes eloquent. "She stood by me when I needed her most," said Anne. "Girls, I won't--" Grace half rose from her chair, but was gently shoved into it again. "Sit still and hear the rest of your misdeeds," commanded Mabel. "Go on, Arline." "She helped me to be unselfish and to think of others," was Arline's sweet tribute. "She made me over," asserted Elfreda with emphasis. "She taught me college spirit," said Kathleen softly. "Sara and I didn't like college and never had much fun until Grace asked us to join the Sempers," declared Sue Emerson. "She was the first to welcome me to Overton, and has given me countless good times since then," said Patience. "She taught me to look for the best rather than the worst, even in my enemies," declared Mabel Ashe. Elizabeth Wade, Marian Cummings and Elsie Wilton each added their tribute. "Girls, if you only knew how terribly this embarrasses me," pleaded Grace. "Every one of you have done the nicest sort of things for me. I think--" "You are not allowed to think," put in Miriam. "We will do the thinking for the next two minutes. Besides J. Elfreda has something to say. Go ahead, Elfreda." "Grace, you've heard what we all had to say about you, but there is a whole lot that we can never find words for. Each of us knows best what you've been to us, as individuals, and we all know that there will never be any other girl quite as dear, and true, and loyal as you are to us. So we decided to give our Loyalheart a loyalty token, and here it is. Hold out your arm," commanded Elfreda. [Illustration: "We Decided to Give Our Loyalheart a Loyalty Token."] Grace held out her pretty, bare arm in obedient bewilderment. Something shining slipped over her wrist. She stared at it in fascination. "How beautiful!" she gasped. "It can't be for me!" The bracelet was a wide band of dull gold, chased with a pattern of tiny leaves, and, at intervals, its golden circle was starred with small diamonds. It was the most expensive piece of jewelry Grace had ever owned. "Every one of our initials is inside," informed Elsie Wilton triumphantly. Grace slipped the band off her arm and peered into it. Sure enough there were rows of tiny initials inscribed on the smooth gold. "And now let us drink a toast to our Loyalheart and go up to the Tourraine," proposed Elfreda, after the excitement attending the presentation of the bracelet had died out. "Here's to our Loyalheart! Drink her down!" The emptied lemonade glasses were set on the table and the party rose to go. As they were passing out, Grace and Anne walked with linked arms, determined to make the most of their brief hour together. "Oh, Grace, I almost forgot to ask you," began Anne, "who was that beautiful girl at the next table to the alcove? I saw you speak to her. She was with Miss Parker, that little girl of 19-- who has so much money." "That was Evelyn Ward, Anne, and thereby hangs a tale which I'll entertain you with to-morrow. One thing about her will interest you. She wants to become an actress. She thinks you are the wonder of this century. I'll introduce her to you to-morrow." "She is beautiful," commented Anne, "and if she is really sincere in her ambition I might help her to attain her ambition." CHAPTER XVI THE INTERRUPTED CONFIDENCE The days that lay between Thanksgiving and Christmas passed swiftly and uneventfully for Grace. As the holiday vacation drew near she was divided, however, between her desire to go home and her duty to Harlowe House. It was Emma Dean who finally settled the question by announcing that she did not intend to go home for Christmas and would gladly look after things during Grace's absence. The trip home was too expensive, Emma had stated frankly, and her railroad fare would be quite a help when added to the Dean housekeeping fund. Once she had made her decision to stay at Overton she began to lay plans for a happy holiday season for the Harlowe House girls, who, without exception, were also to remain in Overton for their vacation. Two days before Christmas Grace left Overton for Oakdale, with many injunctions to Emma to take things easy and to telegraph her at once if she needed her. Once at home a round of merry parties began. True to their promise Jessica and Reddy had come back to Oakdale for Christmas. The only missing member of the Eight Originals was Anne, and the Sunday morning following Christmas Day she walked into the Harlowe's living room accompanied by Everett Southard and his sister. She could not bear to allow the holidays to pass without seeing her friends, so she and the Southards had taken the midnight train for Oakdale, determined to spend at least one day there. That evening a contented, happy company gathered at the Nesbits, as Miriam's and David's guests, at a dinner given in honor of the unexpected arrivals. After a short, but exceedingly earnest, confab in a cosy corner just off the hall, Anne and David had appeared arm in arm, and, to an accompaniment of meaning smiles, had announced their engagement. Although Miriam Nesbit was entirely unaware of it, four pairs of eyes, belonging to the feminine half of the Eight Originals had kept a lynx-like watch upon her and Everett Southard. Afterward Grace confided to Anne that she believed Miriam did like Mr. Southard a little, and it was quite plain to be seen that Mr. Southard cared for her, while Jessica and Nora were wagging their heads in secret agreement of the same belief. Only one thing marred Grace's pleasure in being at home and that was the thought that she was making Tom Gray unhappy. Outwardly he was the same sunny, smiling Tom she had known for so many years, but there were times when the mask of cheerfulness fell away and Grace read in his eyes a look of pain and longing that caused her to reproach herself. Then her honest nature would reassert itself and she would vow never to promise to marry Tom out of sympathy. Unless there came a time when she was absolutely convinced that he meant more to her than her work she and Tom would have to go on in the same old way. But aside from this one cloud it seemed to Grace that she had never before so fully appreciated her father and mother. "You grow dearer every minute," she assured them on her last night at home. She sat between them on a little stool, holding a hand of each. "If you don't put me out on the steps to-morrow morning with my luggage, and lock the door in my face, I know I'll never, never have the courage to go away from you. It is really a tragedy, this wanting to be in two places at once." "Dear child," said her mother softly, while her father stroked her shining hair and wondered how he ever managed to get along without her during the long months she spent at Overton. "We hate to give you up, Gracie," he said, "but we love you all the more for your faithfulness to your work." And that was the thought which Grace took back with her to Overton. She smiled to herself as she swung briskly through the quiet streets. Their approbation had quickened her spirit to put forth fresh effort. She felt as though she could remove mountains if they happened to rise suddenly in her path. And in this state of mental exhilaration she ran up the steps of Harlowe House and, after a second's fumbling with her latchkey, let herself in. It was almost six o'clock in the afternoon, and the darkness of early January had settled down upon the landscape. A wet, discouraging snow, which made the streets a slush-covered menace to pedestrians, was falling, and Grace gave a soft sigh of satisfaction as she stepped into the cheery, well-lighted hall. Knowing that she was quite likely to find Emma in her room she hurried up the stairs. Her hand was on the door knob when she heard what sounded suspiciously like a sob. Grace flung open the door and rushed into her room, her face alive with concern. What could possibly have happened to make jolly, self-reliant Emma Dean cry? She exclaimed in quick surprise, however, for, other than herself, the room held no occupant. "I'm sure I heard some one crying," she murmured. She listened intently. A moment later the same doleful sound was again borne to her ears. Walking quickly into the bathroom she stood by the door that opened into Evelyn Ward's room. "It comes from Miss Ward's room," was her second surmisal. "I wonder what I ought to do. She is so easily offended that, if I go to her, she may resent my call and think me meddlesome and interfering." Grace continued to listen uneasily to the unmistakable sounds of grief that came from the next room. "Something serious has certainly happened. I can't stand it to hear her cry so. I'll take the risk of being misunderstood," she decided with a grim little smile. Stepping out of her room into the hall she knocked softly on Evelyn's door, receiving no answer. Her second and rather more emphatic knock elicited a faint, "Who is there?" "Miss Harlowe," answered Grace. "May I come in for a moment, Miss Ward?" She heard Evelyn moving about the room for a moment, then the door was opened slowly, and with apparent reluctance on the part of the pretty freshman, who had evidently dried her tears for the time being. "How do you do, Miss Harlowe?" she said in a queer, strained voice. "I did not know that you had returned from your vacation." She did not offer her hand to Grace. In her blue eyes lay a look of positive fear. "I came in not more than ten minutes ago," returned Grace, stepping into the room and closing the door after her. Then with her usual directness she said, "Miss Ward, I heard you crying. I came to see if I could help you." The look of fear in Evelyn's eyes deepened. She continued to regard Grace intently, as though trying to discover whether there could be any other motive for her visit. In spite of the effort she was making to be natural her face expressed absolute consternation. "It--was--nothing," she stammered, at last. "I am not feeling very well." Grace was not deceived. She knew that Evelyn was not the kind of girl to cry hysterically over a slight illness. Still she could not force this perverse young woman to tell that which she did not choose to tell. "I am sorry you won't let me help you. Are you sure that I can't be of service to you." "_You._" Evelyn laughed shortly. "No; I am quite sure that _you_ can't be." "Very well." Grace was about to leave the room. "Wait a minute!" Evelyn's voice rang out sharply. "I--I--will tell you my trouble, Miss Harlowe. It's about--my college fees. I paid part of the money when I came here. My--my--sister has been very ill and can't send the rest of the money. She made a special arrangement with the registrar to make the other payment in November. I've received two notices. I don't know what to do. I can't bear to leave Overton." "Why didn't you come to me before?" asked Grace with gentle reproach. "I can help you in this matter through the Semper Fidelis fund." Grace went on to explain the purpose of the Semper Fidelis Club. "We lend the students the money rather than give it to them, because they like to feel that they are proceeding on a strictly business basis. It takes away the slightest idea of charity and makes the girls quite responsible for themselves." "I see," murmured Evelyn. "But suppose I borrowed the money and then found that I couldn't return it for ever so long?" "There is neither time limit set nor interest charged on any reasonable sum of money a girl may wish to borrow," returned Grace. "We have the utmost confidence in our borrowers. The very fact that they come to us for help is an avowal of their honesty. How much money do you wish to borrow, Miss Ward?" Evelyn rather hesitatingly named a sum considerably in excess of that needed for her college fees. "It--will--pay my expenses for the year and leave me a little besides for emergencies," she explained apologetically. "Then poor Ida can get well and won't have to worry. I am sure I can work at something this summer and pay at least part of the money back to the club." She swept a swift, speculative glance at Grace from under her eyelashes which quite belied her earnest tones. Grace, however, absorbed for a brief moment in her own thoughts, failed to see it. When she looked at Evelyn the latter's face bore a sweetly grateful expression that made her wonder if she had not been mistaken in her estimate of the, hitherto, troublesome freshman. Her apparent anxiety to relieve her sister of worry over financial difficulties was distinct evidence of an affection of which Grace had not believed Evelyn capable. "I have misjudged her," was Grace's thought. "She really cares for her sister." Aloud she said, "I will write at once to Miss Thayer, who is the president of the Semper Fidelis Club, and in whose name the account stands, telling her the circumstances. Thus far we have not received many calls for help since college opened, so there is quite a little money in bank. It is during the last half of the year that we make the greatest number of loans. I am sorry that your sister has been ill. If you will give me her address I will write to her to-night." Evelyn flushed hotly. "Oh, no, you mustn't!" she exclaimed sharply. "That is--I mean you--mustn't put yourself--to so much trouble for me," she added lamely. "It won't be a particle of trouble," assured Grace. "I should like to do so." Evelyn's confusion deepened. "I--can't--" she floundered. Grace regarded her with quiet, searching eyes. But before she had time to go on from wonder at Evelyn's strange objection to her writing her sister to actual suspicion, Evelyn interposed eagerly, "I'll give you the address, with pleasure, Miss Harlowe. Wait a moment." She sprang to her open writing desk and seizing a piece of paper and a pencil wrote energetically for a moment. "Here it is." She laid it before Grace, who picked it up and read, "Miss Ida Ward, 320 Duverne Street, Albany, N.Y." A puzzled frown wrinkled Grace's forehead. "I thought your sister told me she lived in Burton. I must have misunderstood her." "So we did," put in Evelyn hurriedly, "but Ida is spending the winter with my aunt in Albany. She went there just before she was taken ill. We may never go back to Burton again to live. Of course I am not sure of that. Perhaps I can find work in a large city during my summer vacation." "That reminds me," began Grace. "I had a talk with Miss Pierson when she was here about your going on the stage. She saw you at Vinton's, and when I told her you had stage ambitions she said she was quite sure she could find work for you during the summer in a stock company. She will try to take you with her." "Really!" Evelyn sprang to her feet, her blue eyes glittering with excitement. "Oh, Miss Harlowe, if I could, if she would take me! I'd work so hard and pay every penny of everything I owe." "But you don't owe anything yet," reminded Grace, smiling. Evelyn did not answer. It was doubtful whether she heard Grace's last words. She stood perfectly still, a curious look on her beautiful face. Suddenly she said in a low, halting tone, "Miss Harlowe, if you knew how--" A knock on the door interrupted her speech. Without finishing, she stepped to it and turned the knob. "Hello, Mary," she said indifferently. "Oh, Miss Harlowe, I didn't know that you had come home," cried Mary Reynolds. "We have all missed you dreadfully, haven't we, Evelyn?" "Yes," replied Evelyn in her usual indifferent fashion. Then as Grace turned to go she said sweetly, "Thank you so much for your kindness to me, Miss Harlowe." But Grace reflected disappointedly as she went slowly into her own room that Mary Reynolds' innocent interruption had occurred just in time to prevent the establishment with Evelyn of the very footing which she had been trying all year to gain. CHAPTER XVII A WEEK-END IN NEW YORK True to her promise Grace wrote to Arline Thayer that very evening concerning the sum of money which Evelyn wished to borrow, and three days later she opened a fat letter from the president of Semper Fidelis from which fell the magic slip of paper which, for Evelyn, meant the way out of her difficulties. Grace pounced with delight upon the letter and was soon deep in its contents. "We saw Anne as 'Ophelia' last Friday night," Arline wrote. "After the play father gave a little supper for her at our house and invited the Southards, Mabel and Mr. Ashe, Elfreda, Miriam Nesbit and her brother. Miriam came to New York to visit and shop, and it is not hard to guess why her brother came with her. We were all so surprised to see her, and so delighted. She is staying with the Southards, and, Grace, I do believe Everett Southard is in love with her. It is hard to say whether she returns his love, for she doesn't manifest the slightest sign of it. Wouldn't it be splendid if they did decide to go through life together? He is so clever, and a great actor too. Mabel's lawyer has won the most difficult case he ever fought for. He has persuaded Mabel to wear his ring. Their engagement is to be announced next week. I suppose you will hear from Mabel before many days. How I wish you were here. We all miss you so. Can't you come to New York for a week end before Easter? Do try to arrange it. I have so many things to tell you. It would take an age to write them. Think it over and decide to come. With my dearest love, Arline" Grace finished the letter with a happy sigh. She would try to manage to run down to New York for a week end. She wondered how long Miriam intended to stay in the city and she smiled faintly over Arline's comment regarding Miriam and Everett Southard. It was not news to her. Consulting the calendar that hung above the desk, she decided to go the first week in February, and began to plan her work accordingly. In spite of her secret fears that everything was too perfect to last, not only was her varied household serene, but prospering as well. From the time the Harlowe House girls became a self-governing body the question of putting money in the treasury had been continually agitated. One way and another had been suggested, but it was not until the Christmas holidays that the inspiration had come in the shape of a most toothsome batch of caramels which Louise Sampson had descended into the kitchen and made, one snowy, blustery evening when the club had assembled in the living-room for a social session. The caramels were a signal success, and when Cecil Ferris eyed one of the delicious brown squares lovingly before popping it into her mouth, then asked reflectively, "Why couldn't we make caramels and sell them to the Overton girls?" the idea was hailed with cries of "Great," "A good idea." "We could easily sell pounds of them." With one accord they had besieged Louise Sampson with curious questions as to how she had made the caramels and the cost of the ingredients. Louise had laughingly refused to tell her recipe. After talking things over Louise had sworn Cecil, Mary Reynolds and one other girl to secrecy, imparted the precious recipe to them, and on the next Saturday afternoon they had made their first candy. A gay little poster, drawn by one of the girls, advertised their wares. It was tacked to one side of the college bulletin board, and by nine o'clock on Saturday night the last caramel had gone its destined way, while the success-crowned merchants counted their money and lamented because they had not made half enough caramels. From then on, caramel-making occupied the spare moments of Louise and her faithful band and the "Harlowe House Caramels" rapidly gained favor. With her usual kindly interest in the success of others Grace, on her return from the Christmas holidays, entered into the candy making with spirit and energy, doing much to help fill the rush of orders. Try as they might the caramel supply was always running out, for the students found the delicious home-made caramels quite to their taste and they grew daily more popular. The Harlowe House girls were extremely proud of the growing fund in the treasury. One and all, with the exception of Evelyn Ward, they begged so earnestly to be initiated into the mysteries of caramel making that they were sworn to secrecy at a special meeting of the club and divided into caramel-making squads. It was also decided to make candy only twice a week, on Wednesday and Friday evenings, and set Thursday and Saturday as the days for selling the caramels, which were put up in neat half-pound and pound boxes. But while this little enterprise was being carried on with a will Evelyn was merely an indifferent onlooker. True she belonged to one squad of the candy makers, but she usually managed to be absent when they worked. Apparently she was not interested in the financial affairs of the Harlowe House Club. For a week or more after the check from Semper Fidelis had been handed to her she had maintained toward Grace an attitude of sweet gratitude, too flattering to be wholly sincere. It had gradually disappeared, however, and the old Evelyn had come to the surface again. Although she was now careful not to offend openly, Grace felt that underneath the thin veneer of reluctant gratitude lay the old dislike which she was sure Evelyn felt for her. In spite of her efforts to judge this strange selfish girl dispassionately Grace knew in her heart that she still disapproved of Evelyn. The first week in February found Grace looking forward to her week end in New York City. She had arranged to leave Overton on Friday at noon, and on Friday morning she opened her eyes with that feeling of exultation over something delightful just around the corner from her. Then she remembered. In a few hours she would again be with her beloved friends. She went about her work that morning humming under her breath. As she was to take the eleven-thirty train she had said a regretful good-bye to Emma before the latter went to her classes. "How I wish you were going with me, Emma," she had sighed. Emma's eyes had grown wistful for an instant, then she had launched forth into a multitude of pompous and wholly ridiculous reasons why her presence was needed at Harlowe House that made Grace laugh, and, for the time, banished the shadow from her face. Later as she climbed into the taxicab that was to take her to the station, Emma's face, with its funny little twisted smile, rose before her, and she experienced fresh regret at leaving her behind. It was hardly fair that she should have so much and Emma so little. How bravely Emma had stepped into the breach made by her father's sudden reverse of fortune. So deep was Grace in her own thoughts that she did not realize that they had reached the station until the car came to a sudden stop and the driver stood holding open the door. Handing him her suit case and traveling bag Grace stepped out of the car, and tendering the man her fare, gathered up her luggage and headed for the station. Seating herself on one of the wooden benches inside the station, she placed her traveling effects on the floor beside her and compared her watch with the station clock. Then she rose and going to the ticket window, which had just opened, purchased her ticket and inquired as to whether the train were on time. "Fifteen minutes late," was the brief reply. Grace went back to her bench, and, seating herself, opened a magazine she had brought with her. She was turning the leaves interestedly when a sudden banging of the station door caused her to glance up. Her eyes were riveted in surprise upon Evelyn Ward, who, suit case in hand, hurried over to her with, "Oh, Miss Harlowe, I wonder if you would mind my going to New York with you. I am invited to Althea Parker's for the week end, but she had to go down last night. I tried to see you at Harlowe House, but you had already gone. I would have spoken to you last night about going, but I wasn't quite sure whether I could make it or not." Evelyn's tones were far from concerned. "You are quite welcome to ride with me," returned Grace briefly. She hardly liked the situation, yet she made it a rule not to interfere with the amusements of the Harlowe House girls. When she had lived at Wayne Hall Mrs. Elwood had never questioned the comings and goings of her girls. Still Grace was not pleased with Evelyn's careless manner of passing over her evident intention to go without even informing Grace of her departure. Once on the train the two kept up a desultory conversation. But little sympathy existed between them, and the situation grew momentarily more strained. Grace caught Evelyn taking sly peeps at the magazine which she still held. With her usual good nature, Grace hailed the boy who passed through the train with magazines and candy and bought another magazine. "There is an article in this number which Miss Dean says is worth reading," she explained. "Keep my magazine if you like, and I'll read this." For the next two hours not a word was exchanged. The two girls read on and on. As the afternoon began to wane Evelyn finished her magazine, took off her hat, and, leaning her head against the high green velvet back of the seat, closed her eyes. At last Grace laid aside her reading, and idly watched, with half dreaming eyes, the fleeting landscape. Occasionally her gaze wandered, in unwilling admiration, to Evelyn's lovely, tranquil face. Why was such great beauty coupled with such tantalizing perversity of spirit? was the thought that sprang unbidden to her mind. It was long after dark when the two young women passed through the iron gates of the station to where their friends awaited them. Anne, David, Miriam and Arline stood eagerly watching for Grace. At almost the same moment Evelyn spied Althea. On seeing Evelyn's companions, Althea hurried forward in time to receive the much-coveted introduction to Arline Thayer, Anne and the Nesbits. After a brief exchange of courtesies Grace's friends bowed themselves off, gleefully escorting Grace to David's car. Althea stared moodily after them. "I think they are awfully snobbish," she remarked resentfully. "How did you manage to get away, Evelyn?" "Don't ask me," Evelyn made a gesture of deprecation. "All I hope is that I'm not found out. I'm glad I overheard Miss Harlowe talking last night about going to-day. If worse comes to worst, I'll say I came down here with her." "But what if she denies it?" Evelyn shrugged her shoulders. "Ten chances to one I shall not be missed, but if there is any trouble I'll appeal to her generosity of spirit to help me. She pretends to be so helpful, let her demonstrate her helpfulness by standing between me and Miss Sheldon." CHAPTER XVIII A HUMILIATING REPRIMAND To Grace forty-eight hours with her chums seemed hardly longer than forty-eight minutes, and she found it an exceedingly difficult task to divide her time equally among them. She went directly to the Southards for dinner, and to the theater that night with David, Miriam and Miss Southard to see Everett Southard and Anne as the ill-fated king and queen in "Macbeth." To her delight she discovered that the opposite box held Elfreda, Arline, Ruth, Mabel Ashe, Mr. Ashe and Mr. Thayer, and after the play they were Mr. Ashe's guests at supper. On Saturday the devoted little band gathered at Arline's home at nine o'clock in the morning, determined to crowd every possible bit of pleasure into the hours that were theirs. On Sunday it was Mabel Ashe who played hostess, and on Sunday night a goodly company saw Grace to the station and safely on her way. It was eleven o'clock when she let herself into Harlowe House, and hurried upstairs, anxious to relax and be comfortable after her long ride. As she had expected, on opening the door of her room, she saw Emma, her tall, thin figure wrapped in the folds of a gay crepe kimono, seated before the table, industriously looking over, and marking, themes. "Hello, Gracious," she caroled amiably, laying down the sheet of paper she held in her hand and making a quick dive for Grace. "I began to thing you weren't coming home to-night. How are you, and how is everybody? In spite of being fairly swamped with themes, I managed to arise in my might and make cocoa. It's in the chocolate pot and there are some extra fine Dean-made sandwiches to match. Now say, 'Emma, you are one in a million, and a cook besides.' Give me your coat and hat. Your kimono and slippers await you." "What a dear you are, Emma," declared Grace, as she handed her wraps to Emma and began to unhook her skirt. "How I wish you had been with us. The girls were so sorry you couldn't come. Elfreda says she is going to descend upon you some Friday and carry you off for a week end, regardless of howls and protests." Emma's expressive face lighted with whimsical tenderness. "J. Elfreda never forgets, does she? Here's your cocoa, Grace. Help yourself to sandwiches." Seating themselves opposite each other at the oak center table, the plate of sandwiches and the chocolate pot between them, the two young women settled themselves for a talk which lasted until after midnight. "We are setting a fearful example for our girls," remarked Grace yawning, as they finally arose to prepare for bed. "I hope we haven't disturbed Miss Ward. I haven't heard a sound from her room. She must be asleep. I wonder when she came back." "Came back from where?" asked Emma. "From New York City. She took the same train that I took and sat with me all the way there." "She did!" exclaimed Emma. "That doesn't tally with what I heard in the registrar's office Friday afternoon. I'm afraid she didn't ask permission to go, Grace." "Oh, she must have had permission!" A look of surprise, mingled with consternation, sprang into Grace's eyes. "Did she tell you she had the joyful sanction of the registrar?" quizzed Emma. "No--o. She made a half apology for not telling me that she was going to New York. She said she was not sure of going until the last minute. I supposed, of course, that she had permission. Why will she persist in disobeying the rules of the college?" asked Grace despairingly. "What was said in the registrar's office, Emma, or aren't you at liberty to tell me?" "Of course I am, otherwise I wouldn't have mentioned it," declared Emma. "Friday afternoon I went over to Overton Hall to see Miss Sheldon. Just as I stepped into her office I met Evelyn coming out looking like a young thunder cloud. I wondered what had happened to upset her sweet, even disposition," Emma's tones were distinctly ironical, "and without asking any questions I soon found out. Miss Sheldon herself looked anything but pleased and said: 'That Miss Ward is the most insolent girl with whom I have ever come in contact. I refused to allow her to go to New York City for the week end and she made some extremely impertinent remarks to me. She has a condition to work off. I felt justified in refusing her.'" "And she disregarded that refusal and went?" questioned Grace wonderingly. "We would never have dreamed of defying the registrar, would we, Emma?" "Hardly," returned Emma. "Even Laura Atkins in her most anarchistic moods, or Kathleen West with all her thorns set, would have stopped short of that. I hope the high and mighty Evelyn won't try to drag you into this affair." "How can she?" demanded Grace. "I had nothing to do with it." "Yes, but you rode down to New York City on the same train and in the same seat with her. She is quite likely to tell the registrar that you countenanced her going even though Miss Sheldon didn't." "Oh, she couldn't!" burst forth Grace. "Why couldn't she?" demanded Emma. Grace shook her head. "I think you are a trifle hard on her, Emma. I know she is selfish, but I don't believe she is malicious." "I wish I had your faith in people, Grace," said Emma sincerely. "You always believe them honest until they prove themselves villains, don't you?" When the next afternoon, Grace received a curt note from Miss Sheldon asking her to come to her office at five o'clock, Emma's prophesy loomed large before her. "It must be something else," reflected the troubled house mother, as she prepared for her call on Miss Sheldon. Once in the registrar's office, a quick glance at the older woman's face, set in lines of annoyance, was enough to convince Grace that Emma's conjecture had been only too true. Evelyn had in some way managed to make her a party to her disobedience. "Good afternoon, Miss Harlowe," said Miss Sheldon stiffly. There was no trace of her usual friendly manner. "I sent for you this afternoon for the purpose of clearing up any misunderstanding you may have in regard to your authority here at Overton. The students in the various houses are in every instance subject to the rules of Overton College, and it is the purpose of the faculty to see that these rules are enforced. You have no authority to grant a student leave of absence, particularly after that permission has been refused by me." Then there followed a further sharp reprimand to which Grace listened gravely, her calm, gray eyes never for an instant leaving Miss Sheldon's face. Something in the younger woman's composure had its effect upon the registrar, who, on first seeing Grace, had allowed her displeasure free rein. She looked searchingly into the quiet face before her and said more gently, "Perhaps I should have asked you to tell me your side of the story, before condemning you, Miss Harlowe." Ah, so there was another side of the story! It was apparently as Emma had said. Tears of hurt pride burned behind Grace's eyes, but they never fell. With a brave effort she steadied her voice. "I do not know what has been said to you, Miss Sheldon, but I do know that I have never given any girl at Harlowe House leave of absence from Overton. I would not presume to do so. I hope I understand the limit of my authority too clearly to overstep it." "Then you did not take Miss Ward with you to New York City last Friday afternoon?" "Miss Ward was with me on the train and shared my seat, but until I met her in the station I had not the remotest idea that she intended to go. I dislike to tell you this, Miss Sheldon, but since you have asked me this question I can only tell you the truth." "I am sorry I spoke so hastily, Miss Harlowe," apologized Miss Sheldon, "but I was greatly displeased. I have sent for Miss Ward. Will you wait until she comes? You need not unless you wish to do so." "Thank you," said Grace, a shade of offended dignity in her voice, "but I must go back to Harlowe House. It is almost dinner time. Good evening, Miss Sheldon." Once outside Overton Hall her composure took wings and she brushed the thick-gathering tears from her eyes as she hurried blindly across the snow-covered campus in the gray twilight. She was still smarting under the hurt of the registrar's sharp words. It was unspeakably humiliating to be told that she had overstepped her authority. She had thought that Miss Sheldon knew her too well for that. It merely served to show how little one knew persons, she reflected bitterly. As for Evelyn, the angry color dyed Grace's cheeks afresh as she thought of the girl's treachery, and she made a resentful vow that Evelyn Ward should not be admitted to Harlowe House for her sophomore year. The brisk walk across the campus in the crisp winter air cooled her anger, and by the time she had reached the house she felt her resentment, in a measure, vanishing. "You were right, Emma," she announced as she walked into their room where Emma sat plodding laboriously through her weekly mending. "About Evelyn?" "Yes." Emma finished the sleeve of the blouse she was mending with a flourish. Then, casting a swift, upward glance at Grace, she began singing dolorously. "Mend, mend, mend, On the waist that's weary and worn. Stitch, stitch, stitch, Each tatter so jagged and torn. Collar and cuffs and sleeves, Cobble and darn and baste, Before they gape in a ghastly row, And shriek the dirge of the waist." Grace's gloomy expression changed to a faint smile which broadened as Emma's chant went on. At the end of the verse she laughed outright. "I couldn't be sad for long with you about, Emma," she said affectionately. "How can you think of such funny things on the spur of the moment?" "Oh, I don't know," drawled Emma. "Tell me about everything, Gracious." "I will," nodded Grace, "but I must run downstairs to the kitchen for a minute. I'll be back directly." It was fifteen minutes before she returned. Emma had finished her mending and was on her knees before the chiffonier putting her waists away. "Now I'll tell you," began Grace. Emma turned her head to listen, but before Grace had time to begin the door was flung violently open and Evelyn Ward rushed in, her blue eyes bright with anger. "How could you tell Miss Sheldon that I didn't go to New York with you? You could have helped me and she wouldn't have said a word to Miss Wilder. Now I shall be expelled from college and it is all your fault. You are--" At this juncture, however, Emma Dean took a hand. Without giving Grace an opportunity to say a word she marched over to the excited Evelyn. "Miss Ward, leave this room instantly, and do not come into it again until you have asked Miss Harlowe to pardon you." In contrast to Evelyn's half-screamed denunciation Emma's voice was low and even, but it vibrated with stern command. "I--she--" began Evelyn, but the look in Emma's eyes was too much for her. With a half-sobbing cry of anger she rushed from the room. CHAPTER XIX AN UNINTENTIONAL LISTENER "Delightful young person," commented Emma dryly, as the resounding slam of the door echoed through the room. Grace walked slowly over to the chair which she had been occupying when Evelyn had made her tempestuous entrance, and sat down. There was a brief silence, then, "Do you suppose Miss Wilder will send Evelyn home?" "Grace, you aren't going to try to intercede for that hateful girl after this," Emma's tones quivered with vexation. "I don't know. I suppose it wouldn't be of much use. Miss Wilder won't tolerate out and out disobedience. I--yes, Emma, I'm going to see if I can save her. I'm going now." Grace sprang from her chair and began slipping into her wraps. Emma eyed her moodily, struggling between approval and disapproval, but saying nothing. "Good-bye, dear," called Grace over her shoulder as she hurried out the door. "I'm afraid I'll be late for dinner. Don't wait for me." Outside the house she paused, glanced toward Overton Hall, then set off in the opposite direction toward Miss Wilder's home. "I hope she's at home," was Grace's anxious thought as she rang the bell. "Miss Wilder's in the library, miss. I'll call her," informed the maid. "Come in. It's Miss Harlowe wants to see her, isn't it?" "Yes," Grace smiled in pleasant appreciation of the maid's remembrance of her. "Good evening, Miss Harlowe." Miss Wilder rose to greet her unexpected visitor and offered her a chair. Grace returned the greeting, then seated herself directly opposite the dean. "Miss Wilder, I came to see you," she burst forth, "to ask you if there is--if you could give Miss Ward another chance. She came to me to-night and said that she was to be sent home for what happened last Saturday. I am sorry that she has put herself in such an unpleasant position, but I am more sorry still for her sister, who has made so many sacrifices to give her a college education. I never told you much about Miss Ward, Miss Wilder. Let me tell you now." Miss Wilder listened attentively to Grace's eager outpouring. "Miss Ward's case has not yet been settled," she said slowly. "It rests with me whether she shall remain at Overton. I will think over what you have told me. I am not prepared to give you an answer now. Come to my office at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon and bring Miss Ward with you." "Thank you, Miss Wilder. Good night." Feeling that there was nothing more to be said, Grace rose and held out her hand to the dean. The older woman took the hand in both of hers and looked deep into Grace's honest eyes. "You are a true house mother," she said gently. "I know something of how greatly Miss Ward has tried your patience, and if I do decide to give her an opportunity to begin over again it will be largely because you have asked me." When Grace let herself into Harlowe House a little later a hasty glance into the dining-room revealed the fact that dinner was over. "I'll come down and get mine after awhile," she decided, and ran upstairs to her own room. "Well?" inquired Emma as Grace entered. "Pretty well," retorted Grace. "I won't know positively until to-morrow. Is Miss Ward in her room?" "She is," stated Emma, "and, judging from the sounds, packing is in full swing. I have heard her trunk lid banging frequently and wickedly, and she is opening and shutting the drawers of her chiffonier in an anything but gentle manner." "I must see her," declared Grace. "Then prepare to be greeted with an icy blast," predicted Emma. The next moment found Grace knocking on Evelyn's door. There was a rush of steps, the door was flung open and Evelyn faced her, white and defiant. "Miss Wilder wishes you to be in her office at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon. It will be to your interest to do as she requests," stated Grace briefly. Without giving Evelyn an opportunity for speech she turned and walked down the hall to her room. "Back so soon and no bones broken," commented Emma. Grace laughed a little in spite of herself. "Really, Emma, this is a serious matter," she declared. "I'm not at all sure that Miss Wilder will give Miss Ward another chance." "Don't think about it and she will. Worry over it and you'll defeat your own hope. Think about your dinner instead. It's downstairs keeping hot for you. I'll go down with you and entertain you while you eat. I have a letter from Elfreda which I've been keeping as a surprise. There is something in it that you will be glad to know." The "something" was Elfreda's announcement that Miriam had invited her to go to Oakdale for the Easter holidays. "That settles it, Emma, you simply must come home with me!" exclaimed Grace. "You know you delight in J. Elfreda." "I do, I do," solemnly agreed Emma. "I'll think it over, Gracious, and if my finances can be stretched to cover my railroad fare I'll be 'wid yez.' But who will look after the Harlowites if I fold my tents like the Arabs and set sail for Oakdale?" "I don't know yet. Louise Sampson, perhaps. She is so capable and the girls not only like her but respect her as well. I must talk with her first. She may not wish to assume the responsibility. Then again she may have other Easter plans. We shall manage, somehow, to arrange things satisfactorily." Louise Sampson had no definite Easter plans, so she said, when Grace broached the subject to her the following day. With never-failing good-nature she readily agreed to take charge of Harlowe House during the absence of Grace and Emma, provided Grace felt confident that she was able to measure up to her responsibility. "I'm so thankful that's arranged," sighed Grace as Louise left her office after luncheon to return to her classes. "I wish some other things could be as easily disposed of." As she dressed that afternoon to go to Miss Wilder's office she was far from joyous. She disliked the idea of meeting Evelyn in the dean's office. She was confident that Miss Wilder would state frankly to Evelyn why she had been spared. Her conjecture was only too well grounded. When Evelyn appeared in the dean's office at precisely four o'clock, half anxious, half defiant, Miss Wilder read her a lecture, the cutting severity of which caused Evelyn to flush and pale with humiliation and anger. "Remember, Miss Ward," she emphasized, "it is solely due to Miss Harlowe's intercession in your behalf that I have decided to allow you to remain at Overton." "Oh, dear, I hope she isn't going to make Evelyn apologize to me," was Grace's thought. "Why did Miss Wilder ask me to come here to-day?" As if in answer to her unspoken question, Miss Wilder went on to say, "Miss Harlowe came to me last night and asked me not to send you home. I requested her to be present to-day to hear what I wished to say to you. I trust, Miss Ward, that, hereafter, you will see fit to observe the rules of Overton College and live up to them, as a second infringement of this nature will mean instant dismissal from Overton. That is all, I believe." Thus dismissed Evelyn left the room without a word. Grace lingered for a moment's conversation with Miss Wilder, then left the office and started across the campus for Harlowe House. Half way there she glanced at her watch. It was not yet five o'clock. She would have time to do a little shopping before dinner. Turning her steps in the opposite direction she was soon hurrying along Overton's main business thoroughfare. It was ten minutes to six when, her shopping done, she came within sight of Harlowe House. She wondered if Evelyn were at home. Of late she had been more intimate than ever with Althea Parker. As Grace walked into the house and slowly up the stairs the pale face of Ida Ward rose before her. She was glad that she had been able to avert the disastrous consequences of Evelyn's disobedience so that Evelyn alone should suffer. Entering her room she took off her wraps and began rearranging her hair preparatory to going downstairs to dinner. The sound of footsteps in the hall, the opening of Evelyn's door, then Evelyn's voice declaring excitedly, "You can do it if you want to," caused Grace to lay down her brush and involuntarily listen for a reply. It came, and in Mary Reynolds' distressed tones. "Oh, really, I couldn't, Evelyn. Please, please don't ask me." "You must," Evelyn's command broke forth sharply. "I won't," Mary refusal gathered strength. "You have no right to ask me and I have no right to do it." "Then you are not my friend if you don't do as I ask," flung back Evelyn, "and I shall never speak to you again. Please go away and don't ever come to this room again." "I am your friend," quivered Mary, "that's why I refuse to do something which will surely make trouble for you." "How can it make trouble for me?" demanded Evelyn. "You know as well as I--" But Grace, coming to a sudden realization that she was listening to something not intended for her ears, sprang from her seat before her dressing-table and went downstairs, wondering not a little what it all meant. CHAPTER XX A DOUBLE PUZZLE Mary Reynolds slipped into her place at dinner that night with red eyelids and a woebegone expression on her small face. Evelyn did not enter the dining-room until after the others had began their meal. Despite the air of careless indifference with which she took her seat, Grace fancied she saw a gleam of anxiety in her eyes. From the few words she had overheard she understood not only the meaning of Mary's dejection, but also of Evelyn's anxious look. But what was it that Evelyn had required of Mary and that Mary had bluntly refused to do? Suppose Evelyn had involved herself in some fresh difficulty. To Grace the thought was distinctly disturbing. Still she felt that it was not within her province to interfere. After all it might be nothing of vital importance, merely a girls' disagreement. Resolutely dismissing the matter from her mind, Grace thought no more of it. That evening Evelyn came to her as she sat reading in the living room and, in her most distant manner, notified Grace that she intended to go to the dance to be given by the Gamma Kappa Phi, a Willston fraternity, at their fraternity house. Miss Hilton, a member of the Overton faculty, would chaperon her. There were four other freshmen besides herself invited. Grace made no objection to Evelyn's announcement. After the severe reprimand she had received it was hardly probable that Evelyn would again misrepresent matters. Quite by accident the next day she encountered Miss Hilton upon the campus, and the teacher confirmed Evelyn's story by mentioning the dance and inquiring if Grace had been asked to do chaperon duty. "I am surprised that you weren't," had been Miss Hilton's comment when Grace answered that her services had not been solicited. Grace had smiled to herself as she went on her way. She was not in the least surprised at not being invited by Evelyn to play chaperon. She was glad that she had not been asked. She decided that she would not have accepted. The dance was to be held on the Friday evening of the following week, and on the Saturday morning after she would be on her way to Oakdale. How long and yet how short the days seemed that lay between her and home. Long because of her impatience to see her father and mother, short because of the multifold details to be attended to in Harlowe House. "I'm so tired," she sighed when, at seven o'clock on Friday evening, she saw her trunk and Emma's safely in the hands of the expressman. "Thank goodness our packing is done and gone and out of the way. Let's do recreation stunts to-night, Emma. Suppose we call upon Kathleen and Patience. Incidentally we can pay our respects to Laura Atkins and Mildred Taylor. If they aren't busy we might have a quiet celebration just for auld lang syne at Vinton's. We can be home by ten o'clock." "All right," agreed Emma, who knelt on the floor, her glasses pushed above her forehead, wrestling valiantly with a refractory strap of her suit case. A moment and she had buckled it into place with a triumphant cluck. "There, that won't have to be done at the last minute. Shall I telephone the girls that we are coming? It's after seven now." "Yes, do." Emma left the room returning shortly. "They are all at home. The sooner we reach Wayne Hall the sooner the celebration will begin," she reminded. "Then we'll go at once." Five minutes later the two young women were on their way across the campus. As they neared Wayne Hall a limousine passed containing Miss Hilton, Althea Parker and a freshman friend of Evelyn's. Althea was driving. She bowed curtly to Grace and Emma as her car whizzed by them. "They are going for Evelyn, I suppose," commented Emma. "Yes. Oh, bother!" exclaimed Grace, "I've forgotten a letter to Arline which I must mail to-night. Will you wait until I go back for it?" With light feet Grace sped across the campus, letting herself into the house with her latch key. As she stepped into the hall, a buzz of voices caused her eyes to be fixed on the living-room. Through the parted curtains she saw a dazzling figure which was standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a group of admiring girls. It was Evelyn, looking like some wonderful fairy vision in a gown of apricot satin and chiffon, embroidered with exquisite little sprays of tiny rosebuds. The excitement of wholesale admiration had deepened the blue of her eyes to violet and her usual expression of bored indifference had changed to one of intense animation, due to her love of adulation. Grace watched her fascinatedly for a moment, then, remembering that Emma was waiting for her, she hurried on upstairs for her letter and out of the house, unobserved by the group of girls in the living room. "Was I gone long?" she asked as she rejoined her friend. "I stopped for a minute in the hall to look at Evelyn Ward. She was posing in the middle of the living room for the benefit of an admiring populace. She is going to the Gamma Kappa Phi dance. Miss Hilton and Miss Parker and some of our girls composed the populace. I suppose I ought to have gone in and spoken to them instead of slipping out like a criminal, but I didn't wish to lose time. Really, Emma, I can't begin to tell you how beautiful Evelyn looked!" "Her white silk evening gown is a work of art. I wish I had a sister Ida to sew for me," commented Emma. "Oh, she wasn't wearing her white silk. Her gown was apricot satin and--" Grace came to an abrupt stop. "Why--she--that was a new gown. How could she--" "Have a new gown when her sister is too ill to make it," supplemented Emma dryly. Two pairs of eyes exchanged questioning glances. "She may have brought it with her when she came to Overton," said Grace. "She is very secretive, you know. All along she may have been saving it for some such occasion as this dance." "True enough," admitted Emma. "Always take people at their face value until you find they haven't any," she added cheerfully. "I shall," declared Grace. "I'm not going to spoil my Easter vacation by worrying over something that is really Evelyn's own affair." CHAPTER XXI THE PUZZLE DEEPENS Grace experienced a pleasure in being at home for Easter so deep as to be akin to pain. When as a student at Overton she had traveled happily home for her Christmas and Easter vacations there had been a difference. Then, her classmates had much to do with making it easier to be away from her adored father and mother. But now that she had bravely launched her boat on the tempestuous sea of work, she found that home was a far distant shore, for whose cheery lights she often yearned. To be sure Emma was a never-failing source of consolation, but there were more times than one when the clutching fingers of homesickness were at her throat. To Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe, Emma Dean was an unfailing source of amusement and delight. In Hippy, too, she found a kindred spirit, and when Elfreda arrived the funny trio was complete. It seemed to Grace that she had not laughed so much in years. Anne, Jessica and Reddy had not been able to join their friends for the Easter holidays and were loudly mourned and sorely missed. Tom Gray managed to come on for a two days' visit and cause Grace the only unhappy moments she spent at home by again asking her to give up her beloved work to marry him. "I'm so sorry for Tom," she confided to her mother, on the night before leaving home to return to Overton, "but I can't give up my work, even for him. Really and truly, mother, I wish I did love Tom in the way he wants me to love him, but I don't. I feel toward him just as I felt when I first met him. He's a good comrade; nothing more." "If you loved Tom, your father and I would be glad to welcome him as our son, Grace," was her mother's quiet reply. "He is a remarkably fine type of young man, but unless you reach the point where you are certain that he is, and always will be, the one man in the world for you, you would be doing not only yourself but him too, the greatest possible injury if you promised to marry him." "That is just it!" exclaimed Grace. "I told him so, but I know that didn't console him. Last June when I came home from Overton I thought perhaps I might say 'yes' later on. But now that I've been working for almost a year I find I'd rather keep on working. It would be dreadful, of course, if some day I should suddenly discover that I did love him enough to marry him and then he shouldn't ask me. That isn't likely to happen. I don't believe I could give up my work for any man. My whole heart is in it." In spite of her declaration of unswerving loyalty to her work, more than once, Tom's fine resolute face rose before Grace on the return journey to Overton. During the afternoon Emma, usually loquacious, became absorbed in a book, so that Grace, who could not settle herself to read, had altogether too much opportunity for reflection. She was inwardly thankful when the lights of Overton twinkled into view. Emma was still deep in her book. "We are almost there, Emma," she reminded. Emma glanced out of the window, then closed her book and began to gather up her belongings. "I wonder how things are at Harlowe House," mused Grace, as they crossed the station platform. "Come on, Emma. There's a taxicab just turning into the station driveway." Three minutes later they were speeding through the silent streets. It was after nine o'clock and there were few persons passing. "No place like home," caroled Emma as they let themselves into Harlowe House. In the living-room they found Louise Sampson and half a dozen girls. At sight of Grace and Emma, Louise came quickly forward. "We thought you would come!" she exclaimed, "so we decided to watch for you. We have hot chocolate and sandwiches. Do say you're hungry." "We are ravenous," assured Emma, "and as soon as we make a trip upstairs and dispossess ourselves of our goods and chattels we'll come to the party." "Everything has gone beautifully," Louise confided to Grace, when later she dropped down on the window seat beside her, where the latter had established herself with a sandwich and a cup of chocolate. "Only one thing bothered me, and that was the way Miss Reynolds moped. She and Miss Ward had a quarrel and poor Miss Reynolds still goes about looking like a red-eyed little ghost. No one can find out her trouble and no one seems to be able to comfort her. One day last week I almost thought I saw Miss Ward crying too, but I must have been mistaken. She is too proud to cry over anything. There are several letters for you, Miss Harlowe. I put them in the top drawer of your desk in the office." At the word "letters" Grace had risen to her feet. "You'll excuse me if I go for them at once, won't you?" she asked. "Of course," smiled Louise. A goodly pile of letters met her eyes as she opened the drawer. Grace ran through the envelopes with eager fingers. The square thin envelope with the foreign postmark meant a letter from Eleanor Savelli. There was one from Mabel Ashe and another from Mabel Allison, Arline Thayer and Ruth Denton were also represented in the collection and on the very bottom of the pile lay a square envelope addressed in Anne's neat hand. Grace pounced upon it joyfully, and, laying the others on the slide of her desk, tore it open and became immediately absorbed in the closely written sheets. When she had finished reading the letter she laid it down, then picking it up again turned to a paragraph on the last sheet. "I promised to try to help Miss Ward," wrote Anne. "Well, I have practically secured an engagement for her with Mr. Forest. It is an ingenue part in 'The Reckoning,' which is to run in New York City all summer, at his theater. If she can come to New York as soon as college closes Mr. and Miss Southard wish her to stay at their home. We can soon tell whether she can play the part or not. If she can't, Mr. Southard will be able to give her 'bits' in his company, but the other part is by far the best engagement if she can make good in it. Both Mr. and Miss Southard say, however, that they must have a letter of consent from her sister before they will undertake launching her in the theatrical world. They will write her if Miss Ward wishes them to do so. It is a really great opportunity for her. You know how easily and delightfully I earned my way through college. Let me know as soon as you can, Grace, what she wishes to do." Grace read this paragraph half a dozen times. Her other letters lay unheeded before her. Finally she gathered them up and, with the open letter in her hand, went slowly upstairs. At Evelyn's door she paused and listened. She heard the sound of some one moving about within. Yes, Evelyn was still up. Grace rapped boldly on the door. A moment and it swung open. Evelyn stood staring blankly at Grace. She was wrapped in the folds of a pale blue silk kimono. Her hair hung in loose golden waves far below her waist and she reminded Grace of the beautiful Rapunzel of fairy tale fame who was shut up in a tower by a wicked witch and forced each night to let down her golden hair so that her dreadful jailer might climb up and into the tower window. "Miss Ward," began Grace, without giving Evelyn time to utter a word, "I am sorry to disturb you so late in the evening, but I have very good news for you. Miss Pierson has all but secured an engagement for you in 'The Reckoning,' a new play which is to run in New York City all summer. Read what she says." Grace handed the sheet of paper to Evelyn. The girl stretched forth her hand mechanically for it. She still regarded Grace dully. Then to Grace's utter amazement she burst into tears. "I can't--take--the--engagement," she sobbed. "I'm--not--coming--back--to--Overton--next year." "What can have happened to her!" wondered Grace. Aloud she said: "Don't decide too hastily, Miss Ward. Take three or four days in which to think things over. I'll come in and see you to-morrow." Evelyn made some incoherent response, unintelligible to Grace. The latter realized that in her present state Evelyn could not be comforted. It was best to leave her entirely alone until she had had her cry out. To-morrow would be time enough to try again to try to discover what had happened. CHAPTER XXII TWO LETTERS Shortly after Grace returned to her room Emma joined her. "Where did you go? You are not the only one whose correspondents rose nobly to the occasion," she exulted, holding up several letters. "You haven't read yours yet, have you. Let's get ready for bed, put on our dressing gowns, and have a letter reading orgy." "All right," agreed Grace. "I've already opened one of mine. It was from Anne. She sends her love to you, and what do you think, Emma?" Grace lowered her voice. "She has secured a New York engagement for Evelyn Ward. I saw Miss Ward to-night, but something is troubling her. When I went to the door to tell her what Anne had done she began to cry. I couldn't find out what ailed her, and the more I talked the harder she cried. She said, however, that she couldn't accept Anne's offer. She thinks she won't come back to Overton." "Happy Overton," commented Emma unsympathetically. "Now hurry into your dressing gown and let's begin our letters." Evelyn appeared at breakfast the next morning looking weary and haggard. Her face was very pale and her eyes were heavy. By night, however, she seemed to have regained something of her old poise. Covertly watching her, Grace noticed that for some unknown reason she was much subdued. Several days afterward she came to Grace and finally refused Anne's offer. "But are you quite certain that you are acting wisely, Miss Ward?" Grace asked in perplexed amazement. "Last winter you were anxious to go into dramatic work." "I have changed my mind," was Evelyn's sole reply. Grace wrote to Anne advising her of Evelyn's refusal, but adding that she wished Anne would keep Evelyn in mind. "I can't help feeling that she is acting against her real desires and that later she will realize her mistake." The little that was left of April passed quickly. Life went on placidly enough at Harlowe House, although Grace found few idle moments. With the first of June she began a detailed report of her year's work to be presented to the faculty and to Mrs. Gray. This report had not been required of her. She was making it merely for her own satisfaction. With her it was a matter of pride in having been a faithful steward. She had tried to safeguard not only the interests of the girls under her roof, but Mrs. Gray's interests as well. "I hope I've been a good house mother," she murmured wistfully, as, seated in her office one bright Friday afternoon, she worked on her report. The ring of the postman caused her to lay down her pen and hurry into the hall. To her surprise she saw Evelyn Ward had forestalled her. She had opened the door for the postman, and now stood rapidly going over the pile of letters in her hand. Grace saw her separate two letters from the pile. At this instant Evelyn glanced up. She uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise when she saw Grace standing beside her. Two letters fell from her hands. Grace stooped to pick them up. "Did I startle you, Miss Ward? I did not mean to. I did not know you were in the house. I thought the girls had gone to their classes." [Illustration: "Did I Startle You, Miss Ward?"] "I--I--am late," stammered Evelyn. "I'm going to my botany recitation in a minute. I--expected a letter. Here is the mail." She thrust the letters she had been holding into Grace's hand, and, turning, almost ran up the stairs. For an instant Grace's eyes followed Evelyn's disappearing figure, then she turned her attention to the letters. She still held the two she had picked up from the floor in her one hand. Glancing at them she saw that they were both addressed to her. No doubt Evelyn had intended to leave them on her desk. Rapidly sorting the other letters she found another for herself in Anne's handwriting. Placing the letters for the various members of the household in the bulletin board Grace retired to her office to read Anne's letter. "DEAREST GRACE: "Just a line to tell you that the part in 'The Reckoning' is still open. Mr. Forest cannot find the type of girl he wishes for the part. She must be dazzlingly, but naturally, blonde and very beautiful. I am sure if he were to see Miss Ward he would engage her at once, even though she has had no dramatic experience. Why not let her read this note? Perhaps she may change her mind. She will never have a better opportunity. I am ready and willing to help her. Am writing in a rush. It is almost time for me to go on. With much love. Will write more fully later. "Yours as ever, ANNE." Grace laid down the letter with a slight frown. Since Evelyn's first refusal to consider Anne's proposal Grace had held little communication with her. Of late Evelyn had gone about her affairs with a curious air of repression, which reminded Grace of the terrible calm that so often precedes a storm. "I'll watch for her when she comes in from her classes and give her Anne's letter," said Grace, half aloud. She picked up the next envelope and looked curiously at the unfamiliar writing. The postmark was all but obliterated. Tearing the envelope she drew forth the letter, unfolded it and read: "DEAR MISS HARLOWE: "More than once I have planned to write and thank you for your goodness to Evelyn, but I have been so very busy that the time has slipped by faster than I realized. Fortunately, for Evelyn and me, I have had a great deal of work to do and have been in exceptionally good health, so that it has been easier than I thought to raise the money to pay her college fees. I will enclose the second payment of her fee in a letter which I am writing to her. I have mentioned in my letter to her that I have written to you. I thank you many times for your goodness to my little sister and trust that she has been truly appreciative of your kindness to her. Trusting that you have been well and that you have met with the greatest success in your year's work. With grateful thanks and best wishes. "Yours sincerely, "IDA WARD." Grace read the letter through three times. When she raised her eyes from it her face wore an expression of mingled horrified suspicion and unbelief. Surely it could not be possible, and yet--before her mental eyes flashed the vision of that wet January afternoon when she had come back to Harlowe House from her Christmas vacation and had been greeted by the sound of Evelyn's sobs as she passed her door. How she had gone to Evelyn's room and there heard the pitiful story of Ida Ward's illness and her failure to send Evelyn's college fees, and of how, through the Semper Fidelis Fund, she had come forward and bridged Evelyn's difficulty. What did it mean? "She must have--" muttered Grace. In her agitation she spoke aloud. Then she stopped abruptly. She would not condemn Evelyn without a hearing, but Evelyn would have to explain, if explanation were possible. She laid the letter on her desk and turning away from it tore open the last envelope, which bore the name of a business house in one corner. It contained a bill from Hanford's, the largest department store in Overton. At the bottom was written. "This account is long overdue. Please remit at once." Grace had a charge account at Hanford's on which, occasionally, she allowed certain girls in the house to buy goods, merely as a matter of accommodation to them. Her gaze traveled down the list of items in bewilderment. "Why!" she exclaimed. "I never bought a gown there that cost seventy-five dollars, or silk stockings or a scarf. There must be some mistake. I know that none of the girls have either. I haven't bought anything since February. Let me see. It's only three o'clock. I think I'll walk down to Hanford's and have the matter adjusted. I must see Evelyn too, as soon as she comes in." Grace went upstairs for her hat and was soon on her way to the business center of Overton. Her impatience to learn the truth received its first check with the indifferent assurance of the clerk that Mr. Anderson, the man in charge of the department of accounts, was busy upstairs. "Then I'll wait for him." With a sigh of resignation she sat down on the oak seat just outside the office window to wait. It was twenty minutes past four when Mr. Anderson appeared. "I can't let you know about this at once," was the accountant's discouraging response when Grace laid the matter before him. "We'll take it up with the saleswoman, then write you." "Very well. I shall expect to hear from you within the next three days." Grace turned away, far from satisfied. Yet there was nothing else to do. Long since she had learned that the system employe of a department store is a law unto himself, and as unchangeable in his methods as the most stubborn Mede or Persian ever dreamed of being. And now for her interview with Evelyn. How could she best approach the girl whom she suspected of having first shamefully betrayed her sister's confidence, then purposely misrepresented matters to her? And what had Evelyn done with the money? These and similar painful questions occupied her thoughts so fully that she did not realize that she had reached Harlowe House until she found herself ascending the front steps. Without giving herself time to consider delaying the disagreeable interview, Grace hurried up the stairs. To her surprise Evelyn's door stood partially open. She peered into the room, but it was empty of an occupant. Stepping inside she glanced about her. Evelyn's hat was gone. She had come in from her classes and gone out again. Grace went slowly downstairs. She was sorry that she had not been able to have her talk with Evelyn before the others came in from their day's recitations. She decided to wait until after dinner. When Evelyn went to her room she would follow her there. The longer she delayed facing Evelyn with her sister's letter the harder the task would become. But at dinner time Evelyn's place was vacant. At ten o'clock that night she had not come in. Becoming alarmed Grace telephoned to Althea Parker to know if Evelyn were with her. In reply to her anxious inquiry Althea declared she had not seen Evelyn for two days. Uncertain as to the wisest course to pursue Grace concluded to wait until Emma came in from an evening's visit with Patience Eliot. It was almost eleven o'clock when Emma returned. "I'm so glad you've come," greeted Grace as her friend entered their room. "Evelyn Ward hasn't come in yet and I'm worried about her. I saw her this afternoon, but she hasn't been here since then." "Very likely she is with Miss Parker." Emma spoke in an unconcerned tone. "No she isn't. I telephoned Miss Parker. She hasn't seen Evelyn for two days." "She hasn't?" Emma glanced at Grace in surprise. The ring of anxiety in Grace's voice had not been lost upon her. "What's happened, Gracious!" she asked. For answer Grace handed Ida Ward's letter to Emma. "Read it," she commanded. Emma read the letter. "Do you think--" she began. "What do _you_ think?" interrupted Grace. "What can one think? Evelyn received her letter from Ida Ward before I received this. She knew that this letter was on the way. This afternoon I found her at the door sorting the mail. She had two letters in one hand, which she had separated from the others. When she saw me she dropped the two. I stooped to pick them up. Both of them were for me. I said, 'Did I startle you, Miss Ward?' and she stammered something about expecting a letter. She shoved the other letters into my hands and ran upstairs. I haven't seen her since." "Who was the other letter from that she had picked out?" "Oh, it was a bill from Hanford's. I--" Grace stopped short and stared at Emma. A horrible suspicion had seized her. She was afraid that she now understood the meaning of the bill she had received. In one of those curious, illumining flashes, which sometimes reveal in an instant what seems hopelessly obscure, she had hit upon the truth. Briefly she outlined the situation to Emma, who had long been her confidante. "You'd better let matters rest till to-morrow," advised Emma. "It's too late to try to find her to-night. We would only create comment and arouse suspicion if we telephone to the houses where her friends live. It wouldn't surprise me if she had left Overton for good and all." "We must find her," declared Grace with decision. "What will you do with her if you do find her?" "I don't know. That will depend entirely upon her. You are right, though, about waiting until morning. We must protect her from the consequences of her own foolishness. For she isn't wicked, Emma. She has been carried away by vanity and love of dress. Perhaps if we gave her another chance she would live all this down and be a different girl." "Perhaps," Emma's tone was skeptical. "For the sake of the community at large let us hope for this much-to-be-desired metamorphosis." But the next morning brought news of Evelyn in the shape of a letter addressed to Grace, which came on the first delivery of the mail for the day. With eager fingers Grace opened it. A slip of blue paper fluttered to the floor as she unfolded it. Picking it up she saw it was a money order made payable to Evelyn Ward, then she read: "DEAR MISS HARLOWE: "When you receive this letter I shall be far away from Harlowe House. I have done dreadful things and I cannot face you. All I can do is to go away where no one knows me, and begin over again. I used the money Ida sent me in the fall for my college fees to buy an evening dress. Then I told you that she was ill. I cried purposely to gain your sympathy because I knew about the Semper Fidelis Fund and was sure you would help me. I meant to pay it all back to you, and so I am going to New York to get work and do it, even though it takes me a long, long time. "But there is something still more dreadful to tell you. I wanted another new evening gown to wear to the Willston dance. I had paid my college fees for the year, so I thought I could take the money that Ida sent me for my payment and buy a gown and other things which I wanted. But Ida wrote and said she couldn't send the money just then, so I went to Hanford's department store and bought the things. I had them charged to your account. When the bill came I was terribly frightened. I thought they wouldn't send it for a long time. I just happened to see it in the bulletin board, so I took it out and tore it up. "Then I went to Mary Reynolds and tried to get her to lend me some of the treasury money until my money came, but she wouldn't do it. That is why she cried so often. When the first of May came I watched the bulletin board and took the bill again. It had Hanford's address in one corner so I knew it. All the time I kept hoping that Ida would send my money before it was too late. Yesterday morning it came, but in her letter she said she had written to you and told you how well she had been and about her work. I knew it would be dreadful for me if you received her letter, but I did not know when it would come, so I stayed away from my classes and watched the mail. I had the letter from Ida and the bill from the store in my hands when you surprised me this afternoon. You picked them up before I had a chance to do so. Then I knew that there was just one thing to do and that was to go away. "Please take the money order and pay the bill at the store. I will pay Semper Fidelis as soon as I can. I will write Ida and tell her how badly I have behaved, and when I go to work in New York I will send for my trunk. It is packed and ready to be shipped. "Forgive me if you can. I am sorry for everything. I wish I had been different. Good-bye and thank you for your great kindness to me. I did not deserve it. Please don't try to find me. "Penitently, "EVELYN WARD." For a time Grace sat at her desk with the letter in her hand. Then she stood up with the air of one who has come to a definite decision. "I'll go to New York City to-day to look for her," she said half aloud. "I believe she will try to get work at one of the theaters. Mr. Southard and Anne will help me find her. She must come back to Overton. I feel sure that she has suffered enough over this trouble to have learned her lesson." Grace ran upstairs and burst into her room with, "Emma, Evelyn has gone to New York! I'm going to take the next train there. Read this letter. It will tell you everything. I haven't time. I must make that 9.15 train." Grace was in the middle of a hasty toilet when a knock sounded on the door. Emma answered it. "Here's a telegram for Miss Harlowe." The maid held out a yellow envelope. Grace tore it open. One glance at the telegram and she began a joyful dance about the room, waving it over her head. "Hurrah for Kathleen West! She found Evelyn! Read it." She held the telegram before Emma's eyes. "Evelyn with me. Return Overton Sunday. All well "KATHLEEN." read Emma aloud. Turning to Grace she quoted with whimsical tenderness, "To Kathleen West, girls, drink her down." Then with twinkling eyes she added, "There's only one thing that I can say to express my sentiments, and, with my sincerest apologies to the august faculty which trustfully engaged me to teach English, I say it with heartfelt fervor, 'Can you beat it?'" CHAPTER XXIII KATHLEEN WEST, CONFIDANTE When Evelyn Ward left Grace Harlowe with the letters, which she had tried so hard to obtain, in her possession, she had but one thought. That thought was to leave Harlowe House before Grace realized the full meaning of her guilt. For two days Evelyn's suit case had been packed for just such an emergency. She had not been sure that she could stem the tide of retribution that had set in against her, so she was prepared to slip away if she failed to obtain the letters that meant her undoing. Hardly had Grace reseated herself in her office when Evelyn, suit case in hand, her hat on, the coat to her suit thrown over her arm, stole stealthily down the stairs and let herself out of the house without a sound. Once clear of the house she set off across the campus, almost at a run, in the direction of the station. At four o 'clock there was a train to New York. She had a little money. She would go there. Once there she would try to get into a theatrical company. Arrived at the station she glanced fearfully about her. She did not wish to meet any one she knew. Leaving her suit case in charge of the station master she left the station and walked slowly up the street. She would stroll about until almost train time. She had over an hour's wait. If she encountered any of the students she knew on the street they would attach no importance to seeing her. It was five minutes to four when she purchased her ticket to New York. To her relief she had seen no one she knew. When the train pulled into the station she was the first person to board it. She took a seat on the side of the car farthest from the platform, so she did not see a slim hurrying girl's figure rush madly down the platform, just as the train was about to start, and swing herself up the car steps on the last second, heedless of the warning expostulation of the porter. Torn with remorse for the past, fearful of the future, which, to her overwrought imagination, crouched like a huge black monster ready to spring upon her and engulf her in its cruel jaws, Evelyn watched the swiftly passing landscape with unseeing eyes. When a voice from the seat behind her suddenly addressed her with, "Good evening, Miss Ward," she half sprang to her feet in blind terror. Turning, she found herself looking into the keen, dark eyes of Kathleen West, the newspaper girl. "Oh--good evening," she faltered. "Going to New York?" was the brisk question. Evelyn nodded. "I'm coming into your seat. I hate riding alone in a train. I'm so glad you are going the whole way." Evelyn made no reply. She wished Kathleen a thousand miles off. The newspaper girl scrutinized narrowly her companion's lovely set face. Trained in the study of human nature she had learned to know the outward signs of a perturbed spirit. Her straight brows knit in a puzzled frown. Then, noting that Evelyn had colored hotly under the shrewd fixity of her sharp eyes, she glanced carelessly away. Neither girl spoke for a little. Evelyn was wondering distractedly how she could escape from Kathleen, when they reached New York, without arousing suspicion on the part of the newspaper girl. Kathleen, whose intuition as well as her eyes told her that all was not well with Evelyn, racked her brain for the words which would tear down the wall of stony reticence which this strange girl had built about herself. Try as she might she could think of no effectual way to begin. Deciding to bide her time she tried to rouse Evelyn's too-apparently flagging spirits by a crisp account of a big newspaper story which she had run to earth during her Easter vacation. At first she met with small success, but as she talked on Evelyn grew interested in spite of herself and began asking half timid, half eager questions about New York. Was it hard to get work there? Could a girl live on six or seven dollars a week in a large city? How did these girls go about it to find positions? In what section of the city did most of the working girls, who had no homes, live? Kathleen answered her questions imperturbably, telling of her own experience in New York as a beginner of newspaper work. Later Evelyn plied her with countless questions regarding the stage, its advantages and disadvantages. The throb of anxiety in her voice was stronger than her elaborate pretense of indifference. Figuratively, Kathleen pricked up her ears. It was only when they had exhausted the subjects of the working girl and the stage that she launched at Evelyn the seemingly innocent question, "Where are you going to stay in New York, Miss Ward?" "I--why--" stammered Evelyn. "Do you expect to be met at the station? It will be almost midnight when we reach New York, you know." "I know," muttered Evelyn. Averting her face from Kathleen she stared out the window. "It's now or never," decided Kathleen. Her strong supple fingers closed suddenly over one of the limp white hands that lay so helplessly in Evelyn's lap. "Miss Ward," she said in a low tense voice, "something dreadful has happened to you. I want you to tell me about it. Remember this. No matter what it is, I am your friend. I feel sure that you are going blindly and alone, to the coldest, cruelest city in the world and I should never forgive myself if I allowed you to do it." Into Evelyn's eyes leaped indescribable terror as Kathleen's hand closed over hers. For an instant she stared wildly at the newspaper girl, then the stony reserve, with which she had bolstered herself, gave away, and tearing her hands free she covered her face with them. Kathleen waited patiently till the tearless storm which shook Evelyn had subsided a little. "Now tell me all about it," she urged gently. Evelyn's hands dropped from her face. The tortured look in her blue eyes aroused all Kathleen's sympathy. Haltingly, tremblingly, bit by bit, Evelyn told of the temptation to use her sister's hard-earned money for fine clothes, and the gulf of deception and dishonesty into which she had plunged by yielding to it. Kathleen listened without comment. When Evelyn had finished she said, "You must go back to Overton, Miss Ward, and to Grace Harlowe. She will forgive everything and set you right with yourself again." "Oh, I couldn't," protested Evelyn wildly. "She knows already how dishonest I've been. I can never go back to Overton. I must stay in New York and work and never see Ida or any one again. I have forfeited all claim to friendship or love." "Nonsense! Just get rid of that idea as fast as ever you can. You are going to my boarding house with me to-night. To-morrow we will go and see Anne Pierson. I know where the Southards live. We will ask her to get you an engagement. Perhaps you can meet Mr. Forest." "Miss Harlowe told Miss Pierson about me, and she wrote and offered to get me an engagement," faltered Evelyn, "but I knew I couldn't take it, so I refused. There wouldn't be any chance for me now. That was several weeks ago." "There is sure to be something for you. You are beautiful, you know," went on Kathleen in an appraising, matter-of-fact tone. "You are sure to make good. You must. You're going to pay Semper Fidelis back as soon as ever you can and you'll have to work hard and save your money." Forgetting for the instant her remorse and humiliation Evelyn clasped her hands in an eagerness born of the desire to make reparation. "Oh, I will!" Then her face clouded. "Miss Pierson won't care to help me after the dreadful things I've done." "Who is going to tell her about them? I'm not. I know Grace Harlowe won't. It isn't necessary for you to tell her either. It shall be a secret among we three. I know Grace will say so." The two girls, so strangely brought together and united in this new bond of fellowship, talked on. It was ten minutes to twelve when they reached New York City. At the station they were met by a tall clean-cut, young man with keen blue eyes. "Got your wire, Kathleen." He stooped and kissed the self-reliant Miss West, who turned very pink. "I'll have to explain," she smiled as she introduced him to Evelyn. "Mr. Vernon is my fiancé, but don't you dare breathe it at Overton. Miss Ward won't be able to see the persons she is to call upon until to-morrow. She's going to my boarding house with me. You can call a taxicab and ride that far with us." The newspaper girl's clever explanation bridged a yawning gap. Kathleen and Mr. Vernon kept up a steady conversation during the ride. Evelyn sat silent, trying to realize just what had happened to her. She experienced an immeasurable sense of relief, as though she had been dragged, just in time, from the edge of a frightful precipice. Long after Kathleen had gone to sleep that night she lay staring into the darkness, wide-eyed and wondering at the goodness of this girl whom she hardly knew, and into her heart crept a sudden revelation of what true fellowship meant and was to mean to her forever afterward. CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION The following morning Kathleen took Evelyn to call on Anne Pierson at the Southards. She gazed almost in awe at Everett Southard, while her feeling of admiration for Anne was deep and abiding. Her undeniable beauty was not lost upon Mr. Southard, who later confided to his sister and Anne that Miss Ward was the most beautiful blonde girl he had ever seen. After an hour's chat in the actor's big, comfortable library Mr. Southard proposed that they call upon Mr. Forest that morning. Miss Pierson had written Miss Harlowe about the part, he declared, to the complete mystification of both Kathleen and Evelyn. He was glad Miss Ward had been able to come. He was sure she would be exactly suited to the part in "The Reckoning." Kathleen managed to shoot a warning glance at Evelyn not to betray herself. Later, by adroitly questioning Anne, she managed to put herself in possession of all the details concerning the letter Anne had written to Grace. Mr. Forest quite fulfilled Mr. Southard's prediction. He could not refrain from showing his satisfaction with Evelyn. Within half an hour after entering his office she had signed a contract to play the part of 'Constance Devon' in the forthcoming production of 'The Reckoning.' "First rehearsal July 2d. Here's the part. Study it. Make these hardened barnstormers help you," declared Mr. Forest with a dry chuckle, as he handed her the part. "But how does he know that I can do it?" she questioned, half fearfully, as they left the office. "He is going to take a chance," explained Mr. Southard. "In his own mind he thinks you will do. He knows we will help you. You must work hard and prove to him that he is right." To Evelyn the rest of that eventful Saturday seemed like a marvelous dream. She had never before been in a large city, but despite her interest in the sights and sounds of New York she could not help thinking of how different it might all have been if she had not met Kathleen. The busy, endless streets terrified her and the more she saw of the great metropolis the less confidence she felt in her own power to wrest a living from it, single-handed and alone. After leaving Mr. Forest's office they took luncheon at the Southards. Mr. Southard and Anne had a matinee in the afternoon. That evening they were to give the final performance of their season, which had run later than usual. Kathleen had an assignment for her paper for the afternoon, so Miss Southard took Evelyn to a matinee at one of the theaters. That evening the little party met at six o'clock in Mr. Southard's dressing room, where their dinner was brought in and served to them. Afterward Kathleen, Miss Southard and Evelyn sat in a box and saw Everett Southard and Anne in "The Merchant of Venice." After the theater came a little supper at the Southards' home to which Mr. Vernon, Kathleen's fiancé, was also invited. Miss Southard had insisted that Kathleen and Evelyn should be her guests for the remainder of their stay in New York, and it was under the Southards' hospitable roof that Evelyn fell asleep that night after one of the happiest, most eventful days she had ever spent. Sunday morning soon slipped by. It seemed hardly half an hour from breakfast until train time. The charming informality with which the actor and his sister treated her made Evelyn feel as though she had known them for a very long time. In the enjoyment of the moment she quite forgot the real reason of her journey to New York, and it was only when Miss Southard invited her to come to their home to live as soon as college was over, in order that Mr. Southard might help her with her new part, that the humiliating remembrance of her misdeeds returned to her with sickening force. "You must write to your sister, my dear, and explain everything," said Miss Southard. "If you will give me her address I will write to her too. That is one point on which Everett is most particular. He would not encourage a young girl to enter upon the life of the stage without the full consent of her parents or guardian." When finally she and Kathleen had said good-bye to the Southards, who had seen them to their train, and were settled for the long ride to Overton, Evelyn faltered, "Kathleen, all the time I was with the Southards I felt just like a traitor. Do you think I ought to have told them everything? It's not fair to them to masquerade under false colors." Kathleen eyed her companion searchingly. Evelyn's conscience was no longer sleeping. It was now wide awake and tormenting her. "I'm glad you feel as you do about it, Evelyn," was her blunt rejoinder. "It shows that you are on the right road. I don't believe it is necessary for you to tell the Southards anything. Still there is another person who must decide that." "You mean Miss Harlowe?" Kathleen nodded. "I can't bear to face her." Evelyn's voice sank almost to a whisper. "You are not the only one who has said that." There was a curiously significant ring in Kathleen's voice that made Evelyn look at her in mute inquiry. "Let me tell you of another girl who had to face the same situation." Kathleen began with her entrance into Overton as a freshman and told Evelyn the story of her hatred of Grace and her betrayal of Grace's trust, of how Elfreda had shown her the way to reparation and the gaining of true college spirit, and of how she had tried in a small measure to redeem the past by writing "Loyalheart" as a belated tribute to Grace. Evelyn listened with somber attentiveness. The past three days had taught her more of life than had her entire eighteen years. She had lately begun to see what college might mean to the girl who lived up to its traditions. Until the moment of hearing Kathleen's story she had felt that Grace Harlowe must despise her utterly. Now she fixed solemn blue eyes on Kathleen. "Do you believe Miss Harlowe will ever forgive me?" was her mournful question. "Of course she will. You don't know her as I do." Kathleen's emphatic assurance had a visibly cheering effect upon the other girl. When they reached Overton, however, her dread of meeting Grace returned with renewed force. "I can't face her to-night," she pleaded. "We are going to Harlowe House now. Come on." Kathleen grasped Evelyn's arm and piloted her up the street at a brisk pace. Neither girl ever forgot that walk across the campus. "Here we are." They had mounted the steps of Harlowe House. Kathleen rang the bell. A moment's wait and the door opened. Grace stood peering out at the two girls. "I knew you'd come. I've been watching for you," she cried. She held out her hands to Evelyn, who dropped her suit case and grasped them with a half smothered sob. "Come up to my room." Slipping her arm about Evelyn, Grace drew her toward the stairs. "Good night, Grace, I'll see you to-morrow." The vestibule door closed with a decided click. Kathleen did not wish to be a third party. Grace and Evelyn were better off without her. Once in Grace's room Evelyn broke down. "Oh, Miss Harlowe, can you, will you forgive me?" she sobbed. "You mustn't cry so, Miss Ward," soothed Grace. "Of course I forgive you. If Miss West had not brought you home to me I intended to go to New York City to look for you. Remember, you are, and I hope will be until your college days are over, a Harlowe House girl." "You are too good to me," sobbed Evelyn. Grace led her gently to a chair. "Sit down," she urged. Evelyn sank into the chair. "I can't come back to Overton next year." Her head drooped in shame and humiliation. "You must," said Grace simply, "for your own sake as well as your sister's. She must never be worried with the slightest inkling of what has happened. It is to be a secret. Outside of Miss Dean and Miss West no one except ourselves knows." "Miss Pierson and Mr. Southard took me to see Mr. Forest. He engaged me to play a part in his new play 'The Reckoning,'" began Evelyn. "I--I didn't--tell--the Southards--about--things. Kathleen wouldn't let me, but she says I must tell them if you say so. I'd--rather. I--I want to be--honest--now--and--and always." Evelyn's voice shook with the intensity of her feelings. "Kathleen was right in not allowing you to tell them. You have suffered enough, Evelyn. You must look to the future. Your work this summer will make it possible for you to pay the money you owe Semper Fidelis and your college expenses too." Grace's sensible, practical, words, went far toward restoring Evelyn to her normal self. The two young women talked long and earnestly. It was after eleven o'clock when Evelyn rose to go to her room. "I'll prove to you that I am worthy of your trust," she said with shining eyes. "I'll make you and Ida proud of me yet." After she had gone to her room Grace sat for a little, her hands idly folded, her thoughts on the girl who had found herself after many false starts. How glad she was that everything had turned out so beautifully, thanks to Kathleen's chance meeting with Evelyn. What a power for good Kathleen had become. Yes, college was really the place where one eventually found oneself. And now her first year of work was almost over. Another week and she would be back in dear old Oakdale. With the thought of home Tom Gray's earnest, boyish face rose before her. It cast a faint shadow on the pleasure of the coming reunion with her family and friends. She hated to feel that she was making Tom unhappy, yet she was equally certain that, with her, work still came first. "I can't give up my work," she said aloud. "Well, who said you should?" demanded Emma Dean's matter-of-fact tones. The door stood partly open and Emma had entered just in time to hear Grace's emphatic utterance. "Has the prodigal returned?" "She has," smiled Grace. Grace recounted what had taken place that evening. "Isn't it wonderful how college helps these girls to find themselves, Emma?" she asked when she had finished her recital. "College and Grace Harlowe," declared Emma. "You mustn't say that," Grace colored and shook her head in emphatic denial. "Oh, yes, I must, because it is the truth," insisted Emma. "Dear Loyalheart, your Highway of Life led you back into the Land of College, didn't it?" Grace nodded. "I'm going to stay in the Land of College too, Emma. I was just thinking about it when you came in. That was what made me say, 'I can't give up my work.'" "Overton needs you, and Harlowe House needs you, and Emma Dean needs you, but are you sure that some one else does not need you more than we do?" questioned Emma slyly. "That's three to one, Emma, and the majority rules," evaded Grace. "Will you be my roommate, mentor and comforter next year?" "Most Gracious Grace, I will, and there's my hand on it." How fully Emma Dean kept her promise and what Grace's second year on the campus brought her will be told in "Grace Harlowe's Problem," the record of her further college life at Harlowe House. THE END. 
46674	----	STOVER AT YALE By Owen Johnson _Lawrenceville Stories_ THE PRODIGIOUS HICKEY THE VARMINT THE TENNESSEE SHAD SKIPPY BEDELLE STOVER AT YALE THE WASTED GENERATION BLUE BLOOD CHILDREN OF DIVORCE [Illustration: "TOGETHER THEY WENT CHOKING THROUGH THE CROWD"--_Page 137._] STOVER AT YALE BY OWEN JOHNSON AUTHOR OF "THE VARMINT," "THE TENNESSEE SHAD," ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. R. GRUGER [Illustration: Logo] BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1931 _Copyright, 1911, by_ THE S. S. MCCLURE CO. _Copyright, 1911, 1912, by_ THE MCCLURE PUBLICATIONS, INC. _Copyright, 1912,_ BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ILLUSTRATIONS "Together they went choking through the crowd" _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "'Hello,' said Rogers' quiet voice. 'Well, what do _you_ want?'" 20 "'I come not to stultify myself in the fumes of liquor, but to do you good'" 90 "The period of duns set in, and the house became a place of mystery and signals" 202 "Oh, father and mother pay all the bills, and we have all the fun" 230 "'Life's real to those fellows; they're fighting for something'" 254 "Regan was his one friend" 286 "'Curse the man who invented fish-house punch'" 292 STOVER AT YALE CHAPTER I Dink Stover, freshman, chose his seat in the afternoon express that would soon be rushing him to New Haven and his first glimpse of Yale University. He leisurely divested himself of his trim overcoat, folding it in exact creases and laying it gingerly across the back of his seat; stowed his traveling-bag; smoothed his hair with a masked movement of his gloved hand; pulled down a buckskin vest, opening the lower button; removed his gloves and folded them in his breast pocket, while with the same gesture a careful forefinger, unperceived, assured itself that his lilac silk necktie was in snug contact with the high collar whose points, painfully but in perfect style, attacked his chin. Then, settling, not flopping, down, he completed his preparations for the journey by raising the sharp crease of the trousers one inch over each knee--a legendary precaution which in youth is believed to prevent vulgar bagging. Each movement was executed without haste or embarrassment, but leisurely, with the deliberate _savoir-faire_ of the complete man of the world he had become at the terrific age of eighteen. In front of him spasmodic freshmen arrived, struggling from their overcoats in embarrassed plunges that threatened to leave them publicly in their shirt sleeves. That they imputed to him the superior dignity of an upper classman was pleasurably evident to Stover from their covert respectful glances. He himself felt conscious of a dividing-line. He, too, was a freshman, and yet not of them. He had just ended three years at Lawrenceville, where from a ridiculous beginning he had fought his way to the captaincy of the football eleven and the vice-presidency of the school. He had been the big man in a big school, and the sovereign responsibilities of that anointed position had been, of course, such that he no longer felt himself a free agent. He had been of the chosen, and not all at once could he divest himself of the idea that his slightest action had a certain public importance. His walk had been studiously imitated by twenty shuffling striplings. His hair, parted on the side, had caused a revolution among the brushes and stirred up innumerable indignant cowlicks. His tricks of speech, his favorite exclamations, had become at once lip-currency. At that time golf and golf-trousers were things of unthinkable daring. He had given his approval, appeared in the baggy breeches, and at once the ban on bloomers had been lifted and the Circle had swarmed with the grotesqueries of variegated legs for the first time boldly revealed. He had stood between the school and its tyrants. He had arrayed himself in circumstantial attire--boiled shirt, high collar, and carefully dusted derby--and appeared before the faculty with solemn, responsible face no less than three separate times, to voice the protest of four hundred future American citizens: first, at the insidious and alarming repetition of an abhorrent article of winter food known as scrag-birds and sinkers; second, to urge the overwhelming necessity of a second sleighing holiday; and, third and most important, firmly to assure the powers that be that the school viewed with indignation and would resist to despair the sudden increase of the already staggering burden of the curriculum. The middle-aged faculty had listened gravely to the grave expounder of such grave demands, had promised reform and regulation in the matter of the sinkers, granted the holiday, and insufficiently modified the brutal attempt at injecting into the uneager youthful mind a little more of the inconsequential customs of the Greeks and Romans. The Doctor had honored him with his confidence, consulted him on several intimate matters of school discipline--in fact, most undoubtedly had rather leaned upon him. As he looked back upon the last year at Lawrenceville, he could not help feeling a certain wholesome, pleasant satisfaction. He had held up an honest standard, he had played hard but square, disdained petty offenses, seen to the rigorous bringing up of the younger boys, and, as men of property must lend their support to the church, he had even publicly advised a moderate attention to the long classic route which leads to college. He had been the big man in the big school; what new opportunity lay before him? In the seat ahead two of his class were exchanging delighted conjectures, and their conversation, coming to his ears clearly through the entangled murmur of the car, began to interest him. "I say, Schley, you were Hotchkiss, weren't you?" "Eight mortal years." "Got a good crowd?" "No wonder-workers, but a couple of good men for the line. What's your Andover crowd like?" "We had a daisy bunch, but some of the pearls have been side-tracked to Princeton and Harvard." "Bought up, eh?" "Sure," said the speaker, with the profoundest conviction. "Big chance, McNab, for the eleven this year," said Schley, in a thin, anemic, authoritative sort of way. "Play football yourself?" "Sure--if any one will kick me," said McNab, who in fact had a sort of roly-poly resemblance to the necessary pigskin. "Lord, I'm no strength-breaker. I'm a funny man, side-splitting joker, regular cut-up--didos and all that sort of thing. What are you out for?" "A good time first, last, and always." "Am I? Just ask me!" said McNab explosively; and in a justly aggrieved tone he added: "Lord, haven't I slaved like a mule ten years to get there! I don't know how long it'll last, but while it does it will be a lulu!" "My old dad gave me a moral lecture." "Sure. Opportunity--character--beauty of the classics--hope to be proud of my son--you're a man now--" "That's it." "Sure thing. Lord, we'll be doing the same twenty-five years from now," said McNab, who thus logically and to his own satisfaction disposed of this fallacy. He added generously, however, with a wave of his hand: "A father ought to talk that way--the right thing--wouldn't care a flip of a mule's tail for my dad if he didn't. And say, by gravy, he sort of got me, too--damned impressive!" "Really?" "Honor bright." A flicker of reminiscent convictions passed over McNab's frolicking face. "Yes, and I made a lot of resolutions, too--good resolutions." "Come off!" "Well, that was day before yesterday." The train started with a sudden crunching. A curious, excited thrill possessed Stover. He had embarked, and the quick plunge into the darkness of the long tunnel had, to his keenly sentimental imagination, something of the dark transition from one world into another. Behind was the known and the accomplished; ahead the coming of man's estate and man's freedom. He was his own master at last, free to go and to come, free to venture and to experience, free to know that strange, guarded mystery--life--and free, knowing it, to choose from among it many ways. And yet, he felt no lack of preparation. Looking back, he could honestly say to himself that where a year ago he had seen darkly now all was clear. He had found himself. He had gambled. He had consumed surreptitiously at midnight a sufficient quantity of sickening beer. He had consorted with men of uncontrollable passions and gone his steady path. He had loved, hopelessly, madly, with all the intensity and honesty of which he was capable, a woman--a slightly older woman--who had played with the fragile wings of his boy's illusion and left them wounded; he had fought down that weakness and learned to look on a soft cheek and challenging eye with the calm, amused control of a man, who invincibly henceforth would cast his life among men. There was not much knowledge of life, if any, that could come to him. He did not proclaim it, but quietly, as a great conviction, heritage of sorrow and smashing disillusionments, he knew it was so. He knew it all--he was a man; and this would give him an advantage among his younger fellows in the free struggle for leadership that was now opening to his joyful combative nature. "It'll be a good fight, and I'll win," he said to himself, and his crossed arms tightened with a quick, savage contraction, as if the idea were something that could be pursued, tackled, and thrown headlong to the ground. "There's a couple of fellows from Lawrenceville coming up," said a voice from a seat behind him. "McCarthy and Stover, they say, are quite wonders." "I've heard of Stover; end, wasn't he?" "Yes; and the team's going to need ends badly." It was the first time he had heard his name published abroad. He sat erect, drawing up one knee and locking his hands over it in a strained clasp. Suddenly the swimming vista of the smoky cars disappeared, rolling up into the tense, crowded, banked arena, with white splotches of human faces, climbing like daisy fields that moved restlessly, nervously stirred by the same expectant tensity with which he stood on the open field waiting for his chance to come. "I like a fight--a good fight," he said to himself, drawing in his breath; and the wish seemed but a simple one, the call for the joyful shock of bodies in fair combat. And life was nothing else--a battle in the open where courage and a thinking mind must win. "I'll bet we get a lot of fruits," said Schley's rather calculating voice. "Oh, some of them aren't half bad." "Think so?" "I say, what do you know about this society game?" "Look out." "What's matter?" "You chump, you never know who's around you." As he spoke, Schley sent an uneasy glance back toward Stover, and, dropping his voice, continued: "You don't talk about such things." "Well, I'm not shouting it out," said McNab, who looked at his more sophisticated companion with a little growing antagonism. "What are you scared about?" "It's the class ahead of you that counts," said Schley hurriedly, "the sophomore and senior societies; the junior fraternities don't count; if you're in a sophomore you always go into them." "Never heard of the sophomore societies," said McNab, in a maliciously higher tone. "Elucidate somewhat." "There are three: Hé Boulé, Eta Phi, and Kappa Psi," said Schley, with another uneasy, squirming glance back at Stover. "They're secret as the deuce; seventeen men in each--make one and you're in line for a senior." "How the deuce did you get on to all this?" "Oh, I've been coached up." Something in the nascent sophistication of Schley displeased Stover. He ceased to listen, occupying himself with an interested examination of the figures who passed from time to time in the aisle, in search of returning friends. The type was clearly defined; alert, clean-cut, self-confident, dressed on certain general divisions, affecting the same style of correct hat and collar, with, as distinguishing features, a certain boyish exuberance and a distinct nervous energy. At this moment an abrupt resonant voice said at his side: "Got a bit of room left beside you?" Stover shifted his coat, saying: "Certainly; come on in." He saw a man of twenty-two or -three, with the head and shoulders of a bison, sandy hair, with a clear, blue, steady glance, heavy hands, and a face already set in the mold of stern purpose. He stood a moment, holding a decrepit handbag stuffed to the danger point, hesitating whether to stow it in the rack above, and then said: "Guess I won't risk it. That's my trunk. I'll tuck it in here." He settled in the vacant seat, saying: "What are you--an upper classman?" Something like a spasm passed over the well-ironed shoulders of Schley in front. "No, I'm not," said Stover, and, extending his hand, he said: "I guess we're classmates. My name's Stover." "My name's Regan--Tom Regan. Glad to know you. I'm sorry you're not an upper classman, though." "Why so?" said Stover. "I wanted to get a few pointers," said Regan, in a matter-of-fact way. "I'm working my way through and I want to know the ropes." "I wish I knew," said Stover, with instinctive liking for the blunt elemental force beside him. "What are you going to try?" "Anything--waiting, to start in with." He gave him a quick glance. "That's not your trouble, is it?" "No." "It's a glorious feeling, to be going up, I tell you," said Regan, with a sudden lighting up of his rugged features. "Can hardly believe it. I've been up against those infernal examinations six times, and I'd have gone up against them six more but I'd down them." "Where did you come from?" "Pretty much everywhere. Des Moines, Iowa, at the last." "It's a pretty fine college," said Stover, with a new thrill. "It's a college where you stand on your own feet, all square to the wind," said Regan, with conviction. "That's what got me. It's worth everything to get here." "You're right." "I wonder if I could get hold of some upper classman," said Regan uneasily. That this natural desire should be the most unnatural in the world was already clear to Stover; only, somehow, he did not like to look into Regan's eyes and make him understand. "How are you, Stover? Glad to see you." Dink, looking up, beheld the erect figure and well-mannered carriage of Le Baron, a sophomore, already a leader of his class, whom he had met during the summer. In the clean-cut features and naturally modulated voice there was a certain finely aristocratic quality that won rather than provoked. Stover was on his feet at once, a little embarrassed despite himself, answering hurriedly the questions addressed to him. "Get your room over in York Street? Good. You're in a good crowd. You look a little heavier. In good shape? Your class will have to help us out on the eleven this year." Stover introduced Regan. Le Baron at once was sympathetic, gave many hints, recommended certain people to see, and smilingly offered his services. "Come around any time; I'll put you in touch with several men that will be of use to you. Get out for the team right off--that'll make you friends." Then, turning to Stover, he added, with just a shade of difference in his tone: "I was looking for you particularly. I want you to dine with me to-night. I'll be around about seven. Awfully glad you're here. At seven." He passed on, giving his hand to the right and left. Stover felt as if he had received the accolade. Schley ahead was squirmingly impressed; one or two heads across the aisle turned in his direction, wondering who could be the freshman whom Le Baron so particularly took under his protection. "Isn't he a king?" he said enthusiastically to Regan, with just a pardonable pleasure in his exuberance. "He made the crew last year--probably be captain; subtackle on the eleven. I played against him two years ago when he was at Andover. Isn't he a king, though!" "I don't know," said Regan, with a drawing of his lips. Stover was astounded. "Why not?" "Don't know." "What's wrong?" "Hard to tell. He sizes up for a man all right, but I don't think we'd agree on some things." The incident momentarily halted the conversation. Stover was a little irritated at what seemed to him his companion's over-sensitiveness. Le Baron had been more than kind in his proffer of help. He was at a loss to understand why Regan should not see him through his eyes. "You think I'm finicky," said Regan, breaking the silence. "Yes, I do," said Stover frankly. "I guess you and I'll understand each other," said Regan, approving of his directness. "Perhaps I am wrong. But, boy, this place means a great deal to me, and the men that are in it and lead it." "It's the one place where money makes no difference," said Stover, with a flash--"where you stand for what you are." Regan turned to him. "I've fought to get here, and I'll have a fight to stay. It means something to me." The train began to slacken in the New Haven station. They swarmed out on to the platform amid the returning gleeful crowd, crossing and intercrossing, caught up in the hubbub of shouted recognition. "Hello, Stuffy!" "There's Stuffy Davis!" "Hello, boys." "Oh, Jim Thompson, have we your eye?" "Come on." "Get the crowd together." "All into a hack." "Back again, Bill!" "Join you later. I've got a freshman." "Where you rooming?" "See you at Mory's." Buffeted by the crowd they made their way across the depot to the street. "I'm going to hoof it," said Regan, extending his hand. "Glad to have met you. I'll drop in on you soon." Stover watched him go stalwartly through the crowd, his bag under one arm, his soft hat set a little at defiance, looking neither to the right nor left. "Why the deuce did he say that about Le Baron?" he thought, with a feeling of irritation. Then, obeying an impulse, he signaled an expressman, consigned his bag, and made his way on foot, dodging in and out of the rapidly filled hacks, where upper classmen sat four on the seat, hugging one another with bearlike hugs. "Eh, freshman, take off that hat!" He removed his derby immediately, bowing to a hilarious crowd, who rocked ahead shouting back unintelligible gibes at him. Others were clinging to car steps and straps. "Hello, Dink!" Some one had called him but he could not discover who. He swung down the crowded street to the heart of the city in the rapid dropping of the twilight. There was a dampness underfoot that sent to him long, wavering reflections from early street-lamps. The jumble of the city was in his ears, the hazy, crowded panorama in his eyes, at his side the passing contact of strangers. Everything was multiplied, complex, submerging his individuality. But this feeling of multitude did not depress him. He had come to conquer, and zest was in his step and alertness in his glance. Out of the churning of the crowd he passed into the clear sweep of the city Common, and, looking up through the mist, for the first time beheld the battlements of the college awaiting him ahead, lost in the hazy elms. Across the quiet reaches of the Common he went slowly, incredibly, toward these strange shapes in brick and stone. The evening mist had settled. They were things undefined and mysterious, things as real as the things of his dreams. He passed on through the portals of Phelps Hall, hearing above his head for the first time the echoes of his own footsteps against the resounding vault. Behind him remained the city, suddenly hushed. He was on the campus, the Brick Row at his left; in the distance the crowded line of the fence, the fence where he later should sit in joyful conclave. Somewhere there in the great protecting embrace of these walls were the friends that should be his, that should pass with him through those wonderful years of happiness and good fellowship that were coming. "And this is it--this is Yale," he said reverently, with a little tightening of the breath. They had begun at last--the happy, care-free years that every one proclaimed. Four glorious years, good times, good fellows, and a free and open fight to be among the leaders and leave a name on the roll of fame. Only four years, and then the world with its perplexities and grinding trials. "Four years," he said softly. "The best, the happiest I'll ever know! Nothing will ever be like them--nothing!" And, carried away with the confident joy of it, he went toward his house, shoulders squared, with the step of a d'Artagnan and a song sounding in his ears. CHAPTER II He found the house in York Street, a low, white-washed frame building, luminous under the black canopy of the overtowering elms. At the door there was a little resistance and a guarded voice cried: "What do you want?" "I want to get in." "What for?" "Because I want to." "Very sorry," said McNab's rather squeaky voice--"most particular sorry; but this house is infected with yellow fever and the rickets, and we wouldn't for the world share it with the sophomore class--oh, no!" A light began to dawn over Stover. "I'm rooming here," he said. "What's your name and general style of beauty?" "Stover, and I've got a twitching foot." "Why didn't you say so?" said McNab, who then admitted him. "Pardon me. The sophomores are getting so fidgety, you know, hopping all up and down. My name's McNab--German extraction. Came up on the train, ahead of you--thought you were a sophomore, you put on such a beautiful side. Here, put on that chain." "Hazing?" "Oh, no, indeed. Just a few members of the weakling class above us might get too fond of us; just must see us--welcome to Yale and all that sort of thing. I hate sentimental exhibitions, don't you?" "Is McCarthy here?" said Stover, laughing. "Your wife is waiting for you most anxiously." "Hello, is that Dink?" called down McCarthy's exuberant voice at this moment. Stover went up the stairs like a terrier, answering the joyful whoop with a war-cry of his own. The next moment he and McCarthy were pummeling each other, wrestling about the room, to the dire danger of furniture and crockery. When this sentimental moment had exhausted itself physically, McCarthy bore him to the back of the house, saying: "We don't want to show our light in front just yet. We've got a corking lot in the house--best of the Andover crowd. Come on; I'll introduce you. You remember Hunter, who played against me at tackle? He's here." There were half a dozen loitering on the window-seat and beds in the pipe-ridden room. Hunter, in shirt sleeves, sorting the contents of his trunk, came forward at once. "Hello, Stover, how are you?" "How are you?" No sooner did their hands clasp than a change came to Dink. He was face to face with the big man of the Andover crowd, measuring him and being measured. The sudden burst of boyish affection that had sent him into McCarthy's arms was gone. This man could not help but be a leader in the class. He was older than the rest, but how much it would have been hard to say. He examined, analyzed, and deliberated. He knew what lay before him. He would make no mistakes. He was carried away by no sentimental enthusiasm. Everything about him was reserved--his cordiality, the quiet grip of his hand, the smile of welcome, and the undecipherable estimate in his eyes. "Will you follow me or shall I follow you?" each seemed to say in the first contact, which was a challenge. "How are you?" said Stover, shaking hands with some one else; and the tone was the tone of Hunter. There were three others in the room: Hunter's room-mate, Stone, a smiling, tall, good-looking fellow who shook his hand an extra period; Saunders, silent, retired behind his spectacles; and Logan, who roomed with McNab, who sunk his shoulders as he shook hands and looked into Stover's eyes intensely as he said, "Awful glad; awful glad to know you." "Have a pipe--cigarette--anything?" said Hunter over his shoulder, from the trunk to which he had returned. "No, thanks." "Started training?" "Sort of." "Take a chair and make yourself at home," said Hunter warmly, but without turning. The talk was immediately of what each was going to do. Stone was out for the glee club, already planning to take singing lessons in the contest for the leadership, three years off. Saunders was to start for the _News_. Logan had made drawings during the summer and was out for the _Record_. Hunter was trying for his class team and the crew. Only McNab was defiant. "None of that for me," he said, on his back, legs in the air, blowing rings against the ceiling. "I'm for a good time, the best in life. It may be a short one, but it'll be a lulu!" "You'll be out heeling the _Record_, Dopey, inside of a month," said Hunter quietly. "Never, by the Great Horned Spoon--never!" "And you'll get a tutor, Dopey, and stay with us." "Never! I came to love and to be loved. I'm a lovely thing; that's sufficient," said McNab, with a grimace to his elfish face. "I will not be harnessed up. I will not heel." "Yes, you will." Hunter's tone had not varied. Stover, studying him, wondered if he had marked out the route of Stone, Saunders, and Logan, just as he felt that McNab would sooner or later conform to the will of the man who had determined to succeed himself and make his own crowd succeed. Reynolds, a sophomore, an old Andover man, dropped in. Again it was but question of the same challenge, addressed to each: "What are you trying for?" The arrival of the sophomore, who installed himself in easy majesty in the arm-chair and addressed his questions with a quick, analytical staccato, produced somewhat the effect of a suddenly opened window. Even McNab was unwillingly impressed, and Hunter, closing the trunk, allowed the conversation to be guided by Reynolds' initiative. He was a fiery, alert, rather undersized fellow, who had been the first in his class to make the _News_, and was supposed to be in line for that all-important chairmanship. Inside of five minutes he had gone through the possibilities of each man, advising briefly in a quick, businesslike manner. To Stover he seemed symbolic of the rarefied contending nervousness of the place, a personality that suddenly threw open to him all the nervous panorama of the struggle for position which had already begun. On top of which there arrived Rogers, a junior, good-natured, popular, important. At once, to Stover's amused surprise, the rôle was reversed. Reynolds, from the enthroned autocrat, became the respectful audience, answered a few questions, and found a quick opportunity to leave. "Let's go in front and have a little fun," said Rogers. Somewhat perplexed, Stover led the way to their room. "Light up," said Rogers, with a chuckle. "There's a sophomore bunch outside just ready to tumble." Rogers' presence brought back a certain ease; they were no longer on inspection, and even in his manner was a more open cordiality than he had showed toward Reynolds. That under all this was some graduated system of authority Stover was slowly perceiving, when all at once from the street there rose a shout: "Turn down that light!" "Freshmen, turn down that light!" "Turn it down slowly," said Rogers, with a gesture to McNab. "Faster!" "All the way down!" "Turn it up suddenly," said Rogers. An angry swelling protest arose: "Turn that down!" "You freshmen!" "Turn it down!" "The freshest of the fresh!" "Here, let me work 'em up," said Rogers, going to the gas-jet. Under his tantalizing manipulation the noise outside grew to the proportions of a riot. "Come on and get the bloody freshmen!" "Ride 'em on a rail!" "Say, are we going to stand for this?" "Down with that light!" "Let's run 'em out!" "Break in the door!" "Out with the freshman!" Below came a sudden rush of feet. Rogers, abandoning the gas-jet, draped himself nonchalantly on the couch that faced the door. "Well, here comes the shindy," thought Stover, with a joyful tensity in every muscle. The hubbub stormed up the hall, shot open the door, and choked the passage with the suddenly revealed fury of angry faces. "Hello," said Rogers' quiet voice. "Well, what do _you_ want?" [Illustration: "'HELLO,' SAID ROGERS' QUIET VOICE, 'WELL, WHAT DO YOU WANT?'"--_Page 19._] No sooner had the barbaric front ranks beheld the languid, slightly annoyed junior than the fury of battle vanished like a flurry of wind across the water. From behind the more concealed began to murmur: "Oh, beans!" "A lemon!" "Rubber!" "Sold!" "Well, what is it?" said Rogers sharply, sending a terrific frown at the sheepish leaders. At this curt reminder there was a shifting movement in the rear, which rapidly communicated itself to the stammering, apologetic front ranks; the door was closed in ludicrous haste, and down the stairs resounded the stampede of the baffled host. "My, they are a fierce lot, these man-eating sophomores, aren't they?" said Rogers, giving way to his laughter. And then, a little apologetically, but with a certain twinkle of humor, he added: "Don't worry, boys; there was no one in that crowd who'll do you any harm. However, I might just as well chaperon you to your eating-joint." "Le Baron is going to take me out with him," said Stover, as they rose to go. "Hugh Le Baron?" said Rogers, with a new interest. "Yes, sir." "I didn't get your name." "Stover." "Oh! Captain down at Lawrenceville, weren't you?" "Yes, sir." "Well, wish you good luck," said Rogers, with a more appraising eye. "You've got an opening this year. Drop in and see me sometime, will you? I mean it." "See you later, Stover," said Hunter, resting his hand on his shoulder with a little friendly touch. "Bully you're with us," said Stone. "Come in and chin a little later," said Logan. Saunders gave him a duck of the head, with unconcealed admiration in his embarrassed manner. McCarthy went with them. Stover, left alone, measured the length of the room, smiling to himself. It was all quite amusing, especially when his was the fixed point of view. In a few moments Le Baron arrived. Together they went across the campus, now swarming like ant runs. At every step Le Baron was halted by a greeting. Recognition was in the air, turbulent, boyish, exaggerated, rising to the pitch of a scream or accomplished in a bear dance; and through it all was the same vibrant, minor note of the ceaseless activity. It was the air Stover loved. He waited respectfully, while Le Baron shook a score of hands, impatient for the moment to begin and the opportunity to have his name told from lip to lip. "I'm going to be captain at Yale," he said to himself, with a sudden fantastic, grandiloquent fury. "I will if it's in me." "We'll run down to Heub's," said Le Baron, free at last, "get a good last meal before going into training. You look in pretty fit shape." "I've kept so all summer." "Who's over in your house?" Stover named them. "They weren't my crowd at Andover, but they're good fellows," said Le Baron, listening critically. "Hunter especially. Here we are." A minute later they had found a table in the restaurant crowded with upper classmen, and Le Baron was glancing down the menu. "An oyster cocktail, a planked steak--rare; order the rest later." He turned to Stover. "Guess we'd better cut out the drinks. We'll stand the gaff better to-morrow." There was in his voice a quiet possession, as if he had already assumed the reins of Stover's career. "Are you out for the eleven again?" said Stover respectfully. "Yes. I'll never do any better than a sub, but that's what counts. We're up against an awfully stiff proposition this year. The team's got to be built out of nothing. There's Dana, the captain, now, over at the table in the corner." "Where?" said Stover, fired at the thought. Le Baron pointed out the table, detailing to him the names of some of the coaches who were grouped there. When Stover had dared to gaze for the first time on the face of the majestic leader, he experienced a certain shock. The group of past heroes about him were laughing, exchanging reminiscences of past combats; but the face of Dana was set in seriousness, too sensitive to the responsibility that lay heavier than the honor on his young shoulders. Stover had not thought of his leader so. "I guess it's going to be a bad season," he said. "Yes; we may have to take our medicine this year." Several friends of Le Baron's stopped to shake hands, greeting Stover always with that appraising glance which had amused him in Reynolds who had first sat in inquisition. He began to be conscious of an ever-widening gulf separating him and Le Baron, imposed by all the subtle, still uncomprehended incidents of the night, which gradually made him see that he had found, not a friend, but a protector. A certain natural impulsiveness left him; he answered in short sentences, resenting a little this sudden, not yet defined sense of subjection. But the hum of diners was about him, the unknown intoxication of lights, the prevailing note of joy, the free concourse of men, the vibrant note of good fellowship, good cheer, and the eager seizing of the zest of the hour. The men he saw were the men who had succeeded--a success which unmistakably surrounded them. He, too, wished for success acutely, almost with a throbbing, gluttonous feeling, sitting there unknown. All at once Dana, passing across the room, stopped for a handshake and a word of greeting to Le Baron. Stover was introduced, rising precipitately, to the imminent danger of his plate. "Stover from Lawrenceville?" said Dana. "Yes, sir." The captain's eye measured him carefully, taking in the wiry, spare frame, the heavy shoulders, and the nervous hands, and then stayed on the clean-cut jaw, the direct blue glance, and the rebellious rise of sandy hair. "End, of course," he said at last. "Yes, sir." "About a hundred and fifty-four?" "One hundred and fifty, sir, stripped." "Ever played in the back field?" "No, sir." "Report with the varsity squad to-morrow." "Yes, sir." "There's a type of man we're proud of," said Le Baron. "Came here from Exeter, waited at Commons first two years; every one likes him. He has a tough proposition here this year, though--supposing we dig out." In the room the laughter was rising, and all the little nervous noises of the clash of plate and cutlery. Stover would have liked to stay, to yield to the contagion, to watch with eager eyes the opposite types, all under the careless spell of the beginning year. The city was black about them as they stepped forth, the giant elms flattened overhead against the blurred mists of the night, like curious water weeds seen from below. They went in silence directly toward the campus. Once or twice Le Baron started to speak and then stopped. At length he said: "Come this way." They passed by Osborne Hall, and the Brick Row with the choked display of the Coöp below, and, crossing to the dark mass of the Old Library, sat down on the steps. Before Stover stretched all the lighted panorama of the college and the multiplied strewn lights against the mysteries of stone and brick--lights that drew him to the quiet places of a hundred growing existencies--affected him like the lights of the crowded restaurant and the misty reflections of the glassy streets. It was the night, the mysterious night that suddenly had come into his boyish knowledge. It was immense, unfathomable--this spectacle of a massed multitude. It was all confounded, stirring, ceaseless, feverish in its brilliant gaiety, fleeting, transitory, mocking. It was of the stage, theatric. It brought theatric emotions, too keenly sensitized, too sharply overwhelming. He wished to flee from it in despair of ever conquering, as he wished to conquer, this world of stirring ambitions and shadowy and fleeting years. "I'm going to do for you," said Le Baron's voice, breaking the charm--"I'm going to do what some one did for me when I came here last year." He paused a moment, a little, too, under the spell of the night, perhaps, seeking how best to choose his words. "It is a queer place you're coming into, and many men fail for not understanding it in time. I'm going to tell you a few things." Again he stopped. Stover, waiting, heard across from the blazing sides of Farnam a piano's thin, rushing notes. Nearer, from some window unseen, a mandolin was quavering. Voices, calling, mingled in softened confusion. "Oh, Charley Bangs--stick out your head." "We want Billy Brown." "Hello, there!" "Tubby, this way!" Then this community of faint sounds was lost as, from the fence, a shapeless mass beyond began to send its song towards him. "_When freshmen first we came to Yale_ _Fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol._ _Examinations made us pale_ _Fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol._" "What do you know about the society system here?" said Le Baron abruptly. "Why, I know--there are three senior societies: Skull and Bones, Keys, Wolf's-Head--but I guess that's all I do know." "You'll hear a good deal of talk inside the college, and out of it, too, about the system. It has its faults. But it's the best system there is, and it makes Yale what it is to-day. It makes fellows get out and work; it gives them ambitions, stops loafing and going to seed, and keeps a pretty good, clean, temperate atmosphere about the place." "I know nothing at all about it," said Stover, perplexed. "The seniors have fifteen in each; they give out their elections end of junior year, end of May. That's what we're all working for." "Already?" said Stover involuntarily. "There are fellows in your class," said Le Baron, "who've been working all summer, so as to get ahead in the competition for the _Lit_ or the _Record_, or to make the leader of the glee club--fellows, of course, who know." "But that's three years off." "Yes, it's three years off," said Le Baron quietly. "Then there are the junior fraternities; but they're large, and at present don't count much, except you have to make them. Then there are what are called sophomore societies." He hesitated a moment. "They are very important." "Do you belong?" asked Stover innocently. "Yes," said Le Baron, after another hesitation. "Of course, we don't discuss our societies here. Others will tell you about them. But here's where your first test will come in." Then came another lull. Stover, troubled, frowning, sat staring at the brilliant windows across which passed, from time to time, a sudden shadow. The groups at the fence were singing a football song, with a marching swing to it, that had so often caught up his loyal soul as he had sat shivering in the grand-stand for the game to begin. It was not all so simple--no, not at all simple. It wasn't as he had thought. It was complex, a little disturbing. "This college is made up of all sorts of elements," said Le Baron, at last. "And it is not easy to run it. Now, in every class there are just a small number of fellows who are able to do it and who will do it. They form the real crowd. All the rest don't count. Now, Stover, you're going to have a chance at something big on the football side; but that is not all. You might make captain of the eleven and miss out on a senior election. You're going to be judged by your friends, and it is just as easy to know the right crowd as the wrong." "What do you mean by the right crowd?" said Stover, conscious of just a little antagonism. "The right crowd?" said Le Baron, a little perplexed to define so simple a thing. "Why, the crowd that is doing things, working for Yale; the crowd--" "That the class ahead picks out to lead us," said Stover abruptly. "Yes," said Le Baron frankly; "and it won't be a bad judgment. Money alone won't land a man in it, and there'll be some in it who work their way through college. On the whole, it's about the crowd you'll want to know all through life." "I see," said Stover. His clasp tightened over his knees, and he was conscious of a certain growing uncomfortable sensation. He liked Le Baron--he had looked up to him, in a way. Of course, it was all said in kindness, and yet-- "I'm frankly aristocratic in my point of view"--he heard the well-modulated voice continue--"and what I say others think. I'm older than most of my class, and I've seen a good deal of the world at home and abroad. You may think the world begins outside of college. It doesn't; it begins right here. You want to make the friends that will help you along, here and outside. Don't lose sight of your opportunities, and be careful how you choose. "Now, by that I mean don't make your friends too quickly. Get to know the different crowds, but don't fasten to individuals until you see how things work out. This rather surprises you, doesn't it? Perhaps you don't like it." "It does sort of surprise me," said Stover, who did not answer what he meant. "Stover," said Le Baron, resting a hand on his knee, "I like you. I liked you from the first time we lined up in that Andover-Lawrenceville game. You've got the stuff in you to make the sort of leader we need at Yale. That's why I'm trying to make you see this thing as it is. You come from a school that doesn't send many fellows here. You haven't the fellows ahead pulling for you, the way the other crowds have. I don't want you to make any mistake. Remember, you're going to be watched from now on." "Watched?" said Stover, frowning. "Yes; everything you do, everything you say--that's how you'll be judged. That's why I'm telling you these things." "I appreciate it," said Stover, but without enthusiasm. "Now, you've got a chance to make good on the eleven this year. If you do, you stand in line for the captaincy senior year. It lies with you to be one of the big men in the class. And this is the way to do it: get to know every one in the class right off." "What!" said Stover, genuinely surprised. "I mean, bow to every one; call them by name: but hold yourself apart," said Le Baron. "Make fellows come to you. Don't talk too much. Hold yourself in. Keep out of the crowd that is out booze-fighting--or, when you're with them, keep your head. There are a lot of fellows here, with friends ahead of them, who can cut loose a certain amount; but it's dangerous. If you want to make what you ought to make of yourself, Stover, you've got to prove yourself; you've got to keep yourself well in hand." Stover suddenly comprehended that Le Baron was exposing his own theory, that he, prospective captain of the crew, was imposing on himself. "Don't ticket yourself for drinking." "I won't." "Or get known for gambling--oh, I'm not preaching a moral lesson; only, what you do, do quietly." "I understand." "And another thing: no fooling around women; that isn't done here--that'll queer you absolutely." "Of course." "Now, you've got to do a certain amount of studying here. Better do it the first year and get in with the faculty." "I will." "There it is," said Le Baron, suddenly extending his hand toward the lighted college. "Isn't it worth working for--to win out in the end? And, Stover, it's easy enough when you know how. Play the game as others are playing it. It's a big game, and it'll follow you all through life. There it is; it's up to you. Keep your head clear and see straight." The gesture of Le Baron, half seen in the darkness, brought a strange trouble to Stover. It was as if, at the height of the eager confidence of his youth, some one had whispered in his ear and a shadowy hand had held before his eyes a gigantic temptation. "Are there any questions you want to ask me?" said Le Baron, with a new feeling of affection toward the unprotected freshman whom he had so generously advised. "No." They sat silently. And all at once, as Stover gazed, from the high, misty walls and the elm-tops confounded in the night, a monstrous hand seemed to stretch down, impending over him, and the care-free windows suddenly to be transformed into myriad eyes, set on him in inquisition--eyes that henceforth indefatigably, remorselessly would follow him. And with it something snapped, something fragile--the unconscious, simple democracy of boyhood. And, as it went, it went forever. This was the world rushing in, dividing the hosts. This was the parting of the ways. The standards of judgment were the world's. It was not what he had thought. It was no longer the simple struggle. It was complex, disturbing, incomprehensible. To win he would have to change. "It's been good of you to tell me all this," he said, giving his hand to Le Baron, and the words sounded hollow. "Think over what I've said to you." "I will." "A man is known by his friends; remember that, Stover, if you don't anything else!" "It's awfully good of you." "I like you, Dink," said Le Baron, shaking hands warmly; "now you know the game, go in and win." "It's awfully good of you," said Stover aimlessly. He stood watching Le Baron's strong, aristocratic figure go swinging across the dim campus in a straight, undeviating, well-calculated path. "It's awfully good of him," he said mechanically, "awfully good. What a wonder he is!" And yet, and yet, he could not define the new feeling--he was but barely conscious of it; was it rebellion or was it a lurking disappointment? He stood alone, looking at the new world. It was no longer the world of the honest day. It was brilliant, fascinating, alluring, awakening strange, poignant emotions--but it was another world, and the way to it had just been shown him. He turned abruptly and went toward his room, troubled, wondering why he was so troubled, vainly seeking the reason, knowing not that it lay in the destruction of a fragile thing--his first illusion. CHAPTER III Tough McCarthy was in the communal rooms, busily delving into the recesses of a circus trunk, from which, from time to time, he emerged with the loot of the combined McCarthy family. "Dink, my boy, cast your eye over my burglaries. Look at them. Aren't they lovely, aren't they fluffy and sweet? I don't know what half of 'em are, but won't they decorate the room? And every one, 'pon my honor, the gift of a peach who loves me! The whole family was watching, but I got 'em out right under their noses. Well, why not cheer me!" He deposited on the floor a fragrant pile of assorted embroideries, table-covers, lace pincushions, and filmy mysteries purloined from feminine dressing-tables, which he rapidly proceeded to distribute about the room according to his advanced theories on decoration, which consisted in crowding the corners, draping the gas-jets, and clothing the picture-frames. Stover sat silently, out of the mood. "Here's three new scalps," continued McCarthy, producing some cushions. "Had to vow eternal love, and keep the dear girls separated--a blonde and two brunettes--but I got the pillows, my boy, I got 'em. And now sit back and hold on." He made a third trip to the trunk, unaware of Stover's distracted mood, and came back chuckling, his arms heaped with photographs to his chin. "One thousand and one Caucasian beauties, the pride of every State, the only girls who ever loved me. Look at 'em!" He distributed a score of photographs, mustering them on the mantelpiece, pinning them to the already suspended flags, massing them in circles, ranging them in crosses and ascending files, and announced: "Finest I could gather in. Only know a third of 'em, but the sisters know the rest. Isn't it a beauty parlor? Why, it'll make that blond warbler Stone, downstairs, feel like an amateur canary." Suddenly aware of Stover's opposite mood, he stopped. "What the deuce is the matter?" "Nothing." "You look solemn as an owl." "I didn't know it." "Well, how did you like Le Baron?" "He's a corker!" said Stover militantly. "I've been arranging about an eating-joint." "You have?" "We're in with a whole bunch of fellows. Gimbel, an Andover chap, is running it. Five dollars a week. We can see if we can stand it." "Tough, go slow." "Why so?" Stover hesitated, looking at McCarthy's puzzled expression, and, looking, there seemed to be ten years' experience dividing them. "Oh, I only mean we want to pick our friends carefully," he said at length. "What difference does it make where we eat?" "Well, it does." "Oh, of course we want to enjoy ourselves." Stover saw he did not understand and somehow, feeling all the exuberant enthusiasm that actuated him, he hesitated to continue the explanation. "By George, Dink," continued McCarthy comically solicitous of his scheme of decoration, "is there anything like the air of this place? You can't resist it, can you? Every one's out working for something. By George, I hope I can make good!" "You will," said Stover. And in his mind was already something of the paternal protection that he had surprised in Hunter, the big man of the Andover crowd. "If I'm to do anything at football I've got to put on a deuce of a lot of weight," said McCarthy a little disconsolately. "Guess my best chance is at baseball." "The main thing, Tough, is to get out and try for everything," said Stover wisely. "Show you're a worker and it's going to count." "That's good advice--who put it into your head?" "Le Baron talked over a good many things with me," said Stover slowly. "He gave me a great many pointers. That's why I said go slow--we want to get with the right crowd." "The right crowd?" said McCarthy, wheeling about and staring at his room-mate. "What the deuce are you talking about, Dink? Do you mean to say any one cares who in the blankety-blank we eat with?" "Yes." "What! Who the deuce's business is it to meddle in my affairs? Right crowd and wrong crowd--there's only one crowd, and each man's as good as the other. That's the way I look at it." He stopped, amazed, looking over at Stover. "Why, Dink, I never expected you to stand for the right and wrong crowd idea." "I don't mean it the way you do," said Stover lamely--for he was trying to argue with himself. "We're trying to do something here, aren't we--not just loaf through? Well, we want to be with the crowd that's doing things." "Oh, if you mean it that way," said McCarthy dubiously, "that's different. I've been filled up for the last hour with nothing but society piffle by a measly-faced runt just out of the nursery called Schley. Skull and Bones--Locks and Keys--Wolf's-Head--gold bugs, hobgoblins, toe the line, heel the right crowd, mind your _p's_ and _q's_, don't call your soul your own, don't look at a society house, don't for heaven's sake look at a pin in a necktie, never say 'bones' or 'fee-fie-fo-fum' out loud--never--oh, rats, what bosh!" "Schley is an odious little toad," said Stover evasively. A little vain of his new knowledge and the destiny before him, he looked at the budding McCarthy with somewhat the anxiety of a mother hen, and said with great solemnity: "Don't go off half cock, old fellow." "What! Have you fallen for the bugaboo?" "My dear Tough," said Stover, with a little gorgeousness, "don't commit yourself until you know the whole business. You like the feeling here, don't you--the way every one is out working for something?" "You bet I do." "Well, it's the society system that does it." "Come off." "Wait and see." "But what in the name of my aunt's cat's pants," said McCarthy, unwilling to relinquish the red rag, "what in the name of common sense is the holy sacred secret, that it can't be looked at, talked about, or touched?" "Don't be a galoot, Tough," said Stover, in a superior way; "don't be a frantic ass. All that's exaggerated; only little jack-asses like Schley are frightened by it. The real side, the serious side, is that the system is built up for the fellows who are going to do something for Yale. Now, just wait until you get your eyes open before you go shooting up the place." But, as he stood in his own bedroom, with no Tough McCarthy to instruct and patronize, alone at his window, looking out at the sputtering arc lights with their splotchy regions of light and the busy windows of Pierson Hall across the way, listening to the chapel sending forth its quarter hour over the half-divined campus--he was not quite so confident of all he had proclaimed. "It's different--different from school," he said to himself half apologetically. "It can't be the same as school. It's got to be organized differently. It's the same everywhere." He went to bed, to sleep badly, restless and unconvinced, a stranger in strange places, staring at the flickering glare of the arc light against the window-panes, that light as unreal in comparison with the frank sunlight as the sudden bewildering introduction to the new, complex life was different from the direct and rugged simplicity of the unconscious democracy of school that had gone. He awoke with a start, to find McCarthy and Dopey McNab, in striped pajamas, solicitously occupied in applying a lather to his bare feet. He sprang up with all the old zest, and, a free scrimmage taking place, wreaked satisfactory vengeance on the intruders. "Hang you, Stover," said McNab weakly, "if you'd snored another minute I'd have won my dollar from McCarthy. If you want to be friends, nothing like being friendly, is there? Come on down to my rooms, we've got eggs and coffee right on tap. It's a bore going down to the joint. To-morrow we'll all be slaves of the alarm clock again. Hang compulsory chapel." They breakfasted hilariously under McNab's irresistible good humor. When at last Stover sauntered out to reconnoiter in company with McCarthy, a great change had come. The emotions of the night, the restless rebelliousness, had lost all their acuteness and seemed only a blurred memory. The college of the day was a different thing. The late arrivals were swarming in carriages, or on top of heaped express-wagons, just as the school used to surge hilariously back. The windows were open, crowded with eager heads; the street corners clustered with swiftly assembling groups, sophomores almost entirely, past whom isolated, self-conscious freshmen went with averted gaze, to the occasional accompaniment of a whistled freshman march. Despite himself, Stover began to feel a little tightening in the shoulders, a little uncertainty in the swing of his walk, and something in his back seemed uneasily conscious of the concentrated attack of superior eyes. They entered the campus, now the campus of the busy day. Across by the chapel, the fence was hidden under continually arriving groups of upper classmen, streaming to it in threes and fours in muscular enthusiasm. There was no division there. Gradually the troubled perceptions of the night before faded from Stover's consciousness. The light he saw was the clear noon of the day, and the air that filled his lungs the atmosphere of life and ambition. At every step, runners for eating-houses, steam laundries, and tailors thrust cards in their hands, coaxing for orders. Every tree seemed plastered with notices of the awakening year, summons to trials for the musical organizations and the glee club, offers to tutor, announcements of coming competitions, calls for candidates to a dozen activities. "Hello, Dink, old boy!" They looked up to behold Charley De Soto, junior over in the Sheffield Scientific School, bearing down upon them. "Hello, Tough, glad to see you up here!" De Soto had been at Lawrenceville with them, a comrade of the eleven, now prospective quarter-back for the coming season. "You've put on weight, Dink," he said with critical approval. "You've got a bully chance this year. Are you reporting this afternoon?" "Captain Dana asked me to come out for the varsity." "I talked to him about you." He asked a dozen questions, invited them over to see him, and was off. They elbowed their way into the Coöp to make their purchases. The first issue of the _News_ was already on sale, with its notices and its appeals. They went out and past Vanderbilt toward their eating-joint. Off the campus, directly at the end of their path, a shape more like a monstrous shadow than a building rose up, solid, ivy-covered, blind, with great, prison-like doors, heavily padlocked. "Fee-fi-fo-fum," said McCarthy. "Which is it?" said Stover, in a different tone. "Skull and Bones, of course," said McCarthy defiantly. "Look at it under your eyelids, quick; don't let any one see you." Stover, without hearing him, gazed ahead, impressed despite himself. There it was, the symbol and the embodiment of all the subtle forces that had been disclosed to him, the force that had stood amid the passing classes, imposing its authority unquestioned, waiting at the end of the long journey to give or withhold the final coveted success. "Will I make it--will I ever make it?" he said to himself, drawing a long breath. "To be one of fifteen--only fifteen!" "It is a scary sort of looking old place," said McCarthy. "They certainly have dressed it up for the part." Still Stover did not reply. The dark, weighty, massive silhouette had somehow entered his imagination, never to be shaken off, to range itself wherever he went in the shadowy background of his dreams. "It stands for democracy, Tough," he said, as they turned toward Chapel Street, and there was in his voice a certain emotion he couldn't control. "And I guess the mistakes it makes are pretty honest ones." "Perhaps," said McCarthy stubbornly. "But why all this mumbo-jumbo business?" "It doesn't affect you, does it?" "The trouble is, it does," said McCarthy, with a laugh. "Do you know what I ought to do?" "What?" "Go right up and sit on the steps of the bloomin' old thing and eat a bag of cream-puffs." Stover exploded with laughter. "What the deuce would be the sense in that, you old anarchist?" "To prove to my own satisfaction that I'm a man." "Do you mean it?" said Stover, half laughing. McCarthy scratched his head with one of the old boyish, comical gestures Stover knew so well. "Well, perhaps I mean more than I think," he said, grinning. "In another month I may get it as bad as that little uselessness Schley. By the way, he wants us over at his eating-joint." "He does?" "He's a horsefly sort of a cuss. You'll see, he'll fasten on to you just as soon as he thinks it worth while. Here we are." They pressed their way, saluted with the imperious rattle of knives and plates, through three or four rooms, blue-gray with smoke, and found a vacant table in a far corner. A certain reserve was still prevalent in the noisy throng, which had not yet been welded together. Immediately a thin, wiry fellow, neatly dressed, hair plastered, affable and brimming over with energy, rose and pumped McCarthy's hand, slapping him effusively on the back. "Bully! Glad to see you. This is Stover, of course. I'm Gimbel--Ray Gimbel; you don't know me, but I know you. Seen entirely too much of you on the wrong side of the field in the Andover-Lawrenceville game." "How are you, Gimbel?" said Stover, not disliking the flattery, though perceiving it. "We were greatly worried about you," said Gimbel directly, and with a sudden important seriousness. "There was a rumor around you had switched to Princeton." "Oh, no." "Well, we're certainly glad you didn't." Looking him straight in the face, he said with conviction: "You'll be captain here." "I'm not worrying about that just at present," said Stover, amused. "All right; that's my prophecy. I'll be back in a second." He departed hastily, to welcome new arrivals with convulsive grip and rolling urbanity, passing like a doctor on his hospital rounds. "Who's Gimbel?" said Stover, wondering, as he watched him, what new force he represented. "Hurdler up at Andover, I believe." In a moment Gimbel was back, engaging them in eager conclave. "See here, there's a combination being gotten up," he said impersonally, "a sort of slate for our class football managers, and I want to get you fellows interested. Hotchkiss and St. Paul are going in together, and we want to organize the other schools. How many fellows are up from Lawrenceville?" "About fifteen." "We've got a corking good man from Andover not in any of the crowds up there, and a lot of us want to give him a good start. I'll have you meet him to-night at supper. If you fellows weren't out for football, we'd put one of you up for secretary and treasurer. You can name him if you want. I've got a hundred votes already, and we're putting through a deal with a Sheff crowd for vice-president that will give us thirty or forty more. Our man's Hicks--Frank Hicks--the best in the world. Say a good word for him, will you, wherever you can. See you to-night." He was off to another table, where he was soon in animated conversation. "Don't mix up in it," said Stover quietly. "Why not?" said McCarthy. "A good old political shindig's lots of fun." "Wait until we understand the game," said Stover, remembering Le Baron's advice not to commit himself to any crowd. "But it would be such a lark." Dink did not reply. Instead he was carefully studying the many types that crowded before his eyes. They ranged from the New Yorker, extra spick-and-span for his arrival, lost and ill at ease, speaking to no one; to older men in jerseys and sweaters, unshaven often, lolling back in their chairs, concerned with no one, talking with all. The waiters were of his own class, who presently brought their plates to the tables they served and sat down without embarrassment. It was a heterogeneous assembly, with a preponderance of quiet, serious types, men to whom the financial problem was serious and college an opportunity to fit themselves for the grinding combat of life. Others were raw, decidedly without experience, opinionated, carrying on their shoulders a chip of somewhat bumptious pride. The talk was all of the doings of the night before, when several had fallen into the hands of mischief-bent sophomores. "They caught Flanders down York Street and made him roll a peanut up to Billy's." "Yes, and the darned fool hadn't sense enough to grin and bear it." "So they gave him a beer shampoo." "A what?" "A beer shampoo." "Did you hear about Regan?" "Who's Regan?" "He's a thundering big coal-heaver from out the woolly West." "Oh, the fellow that started to scrap." "That's the man." "Give us the story, Buck." "They had me up, doing some of my foolish stunts," said a fellow with a great moon of a face, little twinkling eyes, and a grotesque nose that sprang forth like a jagged promontory, "when, all at once, this elephant of a Regan saunters in coolly to see what's doing." "Didn't know any better, eh?" "Didn't know a thing. Well, no sooner did the sophs spot him than they set up a yell: "'Who are you?' "'Tom Regan.' "'What's your class?' "'Freshman.' "'What in the blankety-blank are you doing here?' "'Lookin' on.' "With that, of course, they began just leaping up and down for joy, hugging one another; and a couple of them started in to tackle the old locomotive. The fellow, who's as strong as an ox, just gives a cough and a sneeze, scatters a few little sophs on the floor, and in a twinkling is in the corner, barricaded behind a table, looking as big as a house. "'Tom, look out; they're going to shampoo you,' says I. "'Is it all right?' he says, with a grin. "'It's etiquette,' says I. "'Come on, then,' says he very affably, and he strips off his coat and tosses it across the room, saying, 'It's my only one; look out for it.' "Well, when the sophs saw him standing there, licking his chops, arms as big as hams, they sort of stopped and scratched their heads." "I bet they did!" cried a couple. "They didn't particularly like the prospect; but they were game, especially a little bantam of a rooster called Waring, who'd been putting us through our stunts. "'I'm going in after that bug myself,' said he, with a yelp. 'Come on!'" "Well, what happened, Buck?" "Did they give it to him?" "About fifteen minutes after the bouncers had swept us into the street with the rest of the _débris_, as the French say," said the speaker, with a far-off, reflective look, "one dozen of the happiest-looking sophs you ever saw went reeling back to the campus. They were torn and scratched, pummeled, bruised and bleeding, soaked from head to foot, shot to pieces, smeared with paint, not a button left or a necktie--but they were happy!" "Why happy?" "They had given _Regan_ the shampoo." Stover and McCarthy rose and made their way out past the group where Buck Waters, enthroned already as a natural leader, was tuning up the crowd. "I came up in the train with Regan," said Stover, thrilling a little at the recital. "Cracky! I wish I'd seen the scrap." "We'll call him out to-night for the wrestling," said McCarthy. "He's a queer, plunging sort of animal," said Stover reflectively. "I wonder if he'll ever do anything up here?" Saunders, riding past on a bicycle, pad protruding from his pocket, slowed up with a cordial hail: "Howdy! I'm heeling the _News_. If you get any stories, pass them on to me. Thought you fellows were down at our joint. Where the deuce are you fellows grubbing?" "We dropped into a place one of your Andover crowd's runnin'." "Who's that?" "Fellow called Gimbel." Saunders rode on a bit, wheeled, came slowly back, resting his hand on Stover's shoulder. "Look here," he said, frowning a little. "Gimbel's a good sort, clever and all that; but look here--you're not decided, are you?" "No." "Because we've been counting you fellows in with us. We've got a corking crowd, about twenty, and a nice, quiet place." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully: "I think you'll find the crowd congenial." "When do you start in?" said Stover. "To-morrow. Are you with us?" "Glad to come." "Bully!" He made a movement to start, and then added suddenly: "I say, fellows, of course you're not on to a good many games here, but don't get roped into any politics. It'll queer you quicker than anything else. You don't mind my giving you a tip?" "Not at all," said Stover, smiling a little as he wondered what distinction Saunders made to himself between politics and politics. "Ta-ta, then--perfectly bully you're with us. I'm off on this infernal _News_ game--half a year's grind from twelve to ten at night--lovely, eh, when the snow and slush come?" He sped on, and they went up to the rooms. "I thought we'd better change," said Stover. "This place is loaded up with wires--live wires," said McCarthy, scratching his head. "Well, go ahead, if you want to." "Well, you see--we're all in the same house; it's more sociable." "Oh, of course." "And then, it'll be quieter." "Yes, it'll be quieter." A little constraint came to them. They went to their rooms silently, each aware that something had come into their comradeship which sooner or later would have to be met with frankness. CHAPTER IV Stover had never been on the Yale field except through the multitudinous paths of his imagination. Huddled in the car crowded with candidates, he waited the first glimpse as Columbus questioned the sky or De Soto sought the sea. Three cars, filled with veterans and upper classmen, were ahead of him. He was among a score of sophomores, members of third and fourth squads, and a few of his own class with prep school reputations who sat silently, nervously overhauling their suits, adjusting buckles and shoe-laces, swollen to grotesque proportions under knotted sweaters and padded jerseys. The trolley swung over a short bridge, and, climbing a hill, came to a slow stop. In an instant he was out, sweeping on at a dog-trot in the midst of the undulating, brawny pack. In front--a thing of air and wood--rose the climbing network of empty stands. Then, as they swept underneath, the field lay waiting, and at the end two thin, straight lines and a cross-bar. No longer were the stands empty or the breeze devoid of song and cheers. The goal was his--the goal of Yale--and, underfoot at last, the field more real to him than Waterloo or Gettysburg! He camped down, one among a hundred, oblivious of his companions, hands locked over his knees, his glance strained down the field to where, against the blue sweater of a veteran, a magic Y was shining white. For a moment he felt a plunging despair--he was but one among so many. The whole country seemed congregated there in competition. Others seemed to overtop him, to be built of bone and muscle beyond his strength. He felt a desire to shrink back and steal away unperceived, as he had that awful moment when, on his first test at school, he had been told that he must stand up and fill the place of a better man. Then he was on his feet, in obedience to a shouted command, journeying up the field to where beyond the stands a tackling dummy on loose pulleys swung like a great scarecrow. "Here, now, get some action into this," said a fiery little coach, Tompkins, quarter-back a dozen seasons before. "Line up. Get some snap to it. First man. Hard--hit it hard!" The first three--heavy linesmen, still soft and short of breath--made lumbering, slipping attempts. Tompkins was in a blaze of fury. "Hold up! What do you think this is? I didn't ask you to hug your grandmother; I told you to tackle that dummy! Hit it hard--break it in two! If you can't tackle, we don't want you around. Tackle to throw your man back! Tackle as if the whole game depended on it. Come on, now. Next man. Jump at it! Rotten! Rotten! Oh, squeeze it. Don't try to butt it over--you're not a goat! Half the game's the tackling! Next man. Oh, girls--girls! What is this bunch, anyhow--a young ladies' seminary? Here! Stop--stop! You're up at Yale now. I'll show you how we tackle!" Heedless of his street clothes, of the grotesqueness of the thing, of all else but the savage spark he was trying to communicate, he went rushing into the dummy with a headlong plunge that shook the ropes. He was up in a moment, forgetting the dust that clung to him, shouting in his shrill voice: "Come on, now, bang into it! Yes, but hold on to it! Squeeze it. Better--more snap there! Get out the way! Come on! Rotten! Take that again--on the jump!" Stover suddenly felt the inflaming seriousness of Yale, the spirit that animated the field. Everything was in deadly earnest; the thing of rags swinging grotesquely was as important as the tackle that on a championship field stood between defeat and victory. His turn came. He shot forward, left the turf in a clean dive, caught the dummy at the knees, and shook the ground with the savageness of his tackle. "Out of the way, quick--next man!" cried the driving voice. There was not a word of praise for what he knew had been a perfect tackle. A second and a third time he flung himself heedlessly at the swinging figure, in a desperate attempt to win the withheld word of approbation. "He might at least have grunted," he said to himself, tumbling to his feet, "the little tyrant." In a moment Tompkins, without relaxing a jot of his nervous driving, had them spread over the field, flinging themselves on a dozen elusive footballs, while always his voice, unsatisfied, propelling, drove them: "Faster, faster! Get into it--let go yourselves. Throw yourself at it. Oh, hard, harder!" Ten minutes of practise starts under his leash, and they ended, enveloped in steam, lungs shaken with quick, convulsive breaths. "Enough for to-day. Back to the gymnasium on the trot; run off some of that fatty degeneration. Here, youngster, a word with you." Stover stepped forward. "What's your name?" "Stover." To his profound disappointment, Tompkins did not recognize that illustrious name. "Where from?" "Lawrenceville. Played end." Tompkins looked him over, a little grimly. "Oh, yes; I've heard something about you. Look here, ever do any punting?" "Some, but only because I had to. I'm no good at it." "Let's see what you can do." Stover caught the ball tossed and put all his strength into a kick that went high but short. "Try another." The second and third attempts were no better. "Well, that's pretty punk," said Tompkins. "Dana wants to give you a try on the second. Run over now and report. Oh, Stover!" Dink halted, to see Tompkins' caustic scrutiny fixed on him. "Yes, sir." "Stover, just one word for your good. You come up with a big prep school reputation. Don't make an ass of yourself. Understand; don't get a swelled head. That's all." "Precious little danger of that here," said Dink a little rebelliously to himself, as he jogged over to the benches where the varsity subs were camped. Le Baron waved him a recognition, but no more. It was as if the gesture meant: "I've started you. Now stand on your own feet. Don't look to me for help." For the rest of the practise he sat huddled in his sweater, waiting expectantly as each time Captain Dana passed down the line, calling out the candidates for trials in the brief scrimmages that took place. The afternoon ended without an opportunity coming to him, and he jogged home, in the midst of the puffing crowd, with a sudden feeling of his own unimportance. He had barely time to get his shower, and run into the almost deserted eating club for a quick supper, when Gimbel appeared, crying: "I say, Stover, bolt the grub and hoof it. We assemble over by Osborne." "Where's the wrestling?" "Don't know. Some vacant lot. Ever do any?" "Don't know a thing about it." "We're going to call out a chap called Robinson from St. Paul's, Garden City, for the lightweight, and Regan for the heavy," said Gimbel, who, of course, had been busy during the afternoon. "Thought of you for the middleweight." "Lord! get some one who knows the game," said Stover, following him out. "Have you thought of any one you'd like to run for secretary and treasurer?" said Gimbel, locking arms in a cordial way. "No." "I've got the whole thing organized sure as a steel trap." "You haven't lost any time," said Stover, smiling. "That's right--heaps of fun." "What are _you_ going to run for?" said Stover, looking at him. "I? Nothing now. Fence orator, perhaps, later," said Gimbel frankly. "It's the fun of the game interests me--the organizing, pulling wires, all that sort of thing. I'm going to have a lot of fun here." "Look here, Gimbel," said Stover, yielding to a sudden appreciation of the other's openness. "Isn't this sort of thing going to get a lot of fellows down on you?" "Queer me?" said Gimbel, laughing. The word was still new to Stover, who showed his perplexity. "That's a great word," added his companion. "You'll hear a lot of it before you get through. It's a sort of college bug that multiplies rapidly. Will politics 'queer' me--keep me out of societies? Probably; but then, I couldn't make 'em anyway. So I'm going to have my fun. And I'll tell you now, Stover, I'm going to get a good deal more out of my college career than a lot of you fellows." "Why include me?" "Well, Stover, you're going to make a sophomore society, and go sailing along." "Oh, I don't know." "Yes, you do. We don't object to such men as you, who have the right. It's the lame ducks we object to." "Lame ducks?" said Stover, puzzled as well as surprised at this spokesman of an unsuspected proletariat opposition. "'Lame ducks' is the word: the fellows who would never make a society if it weren't for pulls, for the men ahead--the cripples that all you big men will be trying to bolster up and carry along with you into a senior society." "I'm not on to a good deal of this," said Stover, puzzled. "I know you're not. Look here." Gimbel, releasing his arm, faced him suddenly. "You think I'm a politician out to get something for myself." "Yes, I do." "Well, I am--I'm frank about it. There's a whole mass of us here who are going to fight the sophomore society system tooth and nail, and I'm with them. When you're in the soph crowd you mightn't like what I'm saying, and then again you may come around to our way of thinking. However, I want you to know that I'm hiding nothing--that I'm fighting in the open. We may be on opposite sides, but I guess we can shake hands. How about it?" "I guess we can always do that," said Stover, giving his hand. The man puzzled him. Was his frankness deep or a diplomatic assumption? "And now let's have no pretenses," continued Gimbel, on the same line, with a quick analytical glance. "You're going with your crowd; better join one of their eating-joints." Stover was genuinely surprised. "Have you already arranged it?" said Gimbel, laughing. "Gimbel," said Stover directly, "I'm not quite sure about you." "You don't know whether I'm a faker or not." "Exactly." "Stover, I'm a politician," said Gimbel frankly. "I'm out for a big fight. I know the game here. I wouldn't talk to every one as I talk to you. I want you to understand me--more, I want you to like me. And I feel with you that the only way is to be absolutely honest. You see, I'm a politician," he said, with a laugh. "I've learned how to meet different men. Sometime I'm going to talk over things with you--seriously. Here we are now. I've got a bunch of fellows to see. McCarthy's probably looking for you. Don't make up your mind in a hurry about me--or about a good many things here. Ta-ta!" Stover watched him go gaily into the crowd, distributing bluff, vociferous welcomes, hilariously acclaimed. The man was new, represented a new element, a strange, dimly perceived, rebellious mass, with ideas that intruded themselves ungratefully on his waking vision. "Is he sincere?" he said to himself--a question that he was to apply a hundred times in the life that was beginning. CHAPTER V "Hello, there, Stover!" "Stover, over here!" "Oh, Dink Stover, this way!" Over the bared heads of the bobbing, shifting crowd he saw Hunter and McCarthy waving to him. He made his way through the strange assorted mass of freshmen to his friends, where already, instinctively, a certain picked element had coalesced. A dozen fellows, clean-cut, steady of head and eye, carrying a certain unmistakable, quiet assurance, came about him, gripping him warmly, welcoming him into the little knot with cordial acknowledgment. He felt the tribute, and he liked it. They were of his own kind, his friends to be, now and in the long reaches of life. "Fall in, fall in!" Ahead of them, the upper classes were already in rank. Behind, the freshmen, unorganized, distrustful, were being driven into lines of eight and ten by seniors, pipe in mouth, authoritative, quiet, fearfully enveloped in dignity. Cheers began to sound ahead, the familiar _brek-e-kek-kex_ with the class numeral at the end. A cry went up: "Here, we must have a cheer." "Give us a cheer." "Start her up." "Lead a cheer, some one." "Lead a cheer, Hunter." "Lead the cheer, Gimbel." "Lead the cheer, Stover." "Come on, Stover!" A dozen voices took up his name. He caught the infection. Without hesitating, he stepped by Hunter, who was hesitating, and cried: "Now, fellows, all together--the first cheer for the class! Are you ready? Let her rip!" The cheer, gathering momentum, went crashing above the noises of the street. The college burst into a mighty shout of acclaim--another class was born! Suddenly ahead the dancing lights of the senior torches began to undulate. Through the mass a hoarse roar went rushing, and a sudden muscular tension. "Grab hold of me." "Catch my arm." "Grip tight." "Get in line." "Move up." "Get the swing." Stover found himself, arms locked over one another's shoulders, between Schley, who had somehow kept persistently near him, and a powerful, smiling, blond-haired fellow who shouted to him: "My name's Hungerford--Joe Hungerford. Glad to know you. Down from Groton." It was a name known across the world for power in finance, and the arm about Stover's shoulder was taut with the same sentimental rush of emotion. Down the moving line suddenly came surging the chant: "_Chi Rho Omega Lambda Chi!_ _We meet to-night to celebrate_ _The Omega Lambda Chi!_" Grotesquely, lumberingly, tripping and confused, they tried to imitate the forward classes, who were surging in the billowy rhythm of the elusive serpentine dance. "How the deuce do they do it?" "Get a skip to it, you ice-wagons." "All to the left, now." "No, to the right." Gradually they found themselves; hoarse, laughing, struggling, sweeping inconsequentially on behind the singing, cheering college. Before Dink knew it, the line had broken with a rush, and he was carried, struggling and pushing, into a vacant lot, where all at once, out of the tumult and the riot, a circle opened and spread under his eyes. Seniors in varsity sweaters, with brief authoritative gestures, forced back the crowd, stationed the fretful lights, commanding and directing: "First row, sit down." "Down in front, there." "Kneel behind." "Freshmen over here." "Get a move on!" "Stop that shoving." "How's the space, Cap?" In the center, Captain Dana waited with an appraising eye. "All right. Call out the lightweights." Almost immediately, from the opposite sophomores, came a unanimous shout: "Farquahar! Dick Farquahar!" "Come on, Dick!" "Get in the ring!" Out into the ring stepped an agile, nervous figure, acclaimed by all his class. "A cheer for Farquahar, fellows!" "One, two, three!" "_Farquahar!_" "Candidate from the freshman class!" "Candidate!" "Robinson!" "Teddy Robinson!" "Harris!" "No, Robinson--Robinson!" Gimbel's voice dominated the outcry. There was a surging, and then a splitting of the crowd, and Robinson was slung into the ring. In the midst of contending cheers, the antagonists stripped to the belt and stood forth to shake hands, their bared torsos shining in high lights against the mingled shadows of the audience. The two, equally matched in skill, went tumbling and whirling over the matted sod, twisting and flopping, until by a sudden hold Robinson caught his adversary in a half nelson and for the brief part of a second had the two shoulders touching the ground. The second round likewise went to the freshman, who was triumphant after a struggle of twenty minutes. "Middleweights!" "Candidate from the sophomore class!" "Candidate from the freshman!" "Fisher!" "Denny Fisher!" The sophomore stepped forth, tall, angular, well knit. Among the freshmen a division of opinion arose: "Say, Andover, who've you got?" "Any one from Hotchkiss?" "What's the matter with French?" "He doesn't know a thing about wrestling." "How about Doc White?" "Not heavy enough." The seniors began to be impatient. "Hurry up, now, freshmen, hurry up!" "Produce something!" Still a hopeless indecision prevailed. "I don't know any one." "Jack's too heavy." "Say, you Hill School fellows, haven't you got some one?" "Some one's got to go out." The sophomores, seizing the advantage, began to gibe at them: "Don't be afraid, freshmen!" "We won't hurt you." "We'll let you down easy." "Take it by default." "Call time on them." "I don't know a thing about it," said Stover, between his teeth, to Hungerford, his hands twitching impatiently, his glance fixed hungrily on the provokingly amused face of the sophomore champion. "I'm too heavy or I'd go." "I've a mind to go, all the same." McCarthy, who knew his impulses of old, seized him by the arm. "Don't get excited, Dink, old boy; you don't know anything about wrestling." "No, but I can _scrap_!" The outcry became an uproar: "Quitters!" "'Fraid cats!" "Poor little freshmen!" "They're in a funk." "By George, I can't stand that," said Stover, setting his teeth, the old love of combat sweeping over him. "I'm going to have a chance at that duck myself!" He thrust his way forward, shaking off McCarthy's hold, stepped over the reclining front ranks, and, springing into the ring, faced Dana. "I'm no wrestler, sir, but if there's no one else I'll have a try at it." There was a sudden hush, and then a chorus: "Who is it?" "Who's that fellow?" "What's his name?" "Oh, freshmen, who's your candidate?" "Stover!" "Stover, a football man!" "Fellow from Lawrenceville!" The seniors had him over in a corner, stripping him, talking excitedly. "Say, Stover, what do you know about it?" "Not a thing." "Then go in and attack." "All right." "Don't wait for him." "No." "He's a clever wrestler, but you can get his nerve." "His nerve?" "Keep off the ground." "Off the ground, yes." "Go right in; right at him; tackle him hard; shake him up." "All right," he said, for the tenth time. He had heard nothing that had been said. He was standing erect, looking in a dazed way at the hundreds of eyes that were dancing about him in the living, breathing pit in which he stood. He heard a jumble of roars and cheers, and one clear cry, McCarthy crying: "Good old Dink!" Some one was rolling up his trousers to the knee; some one was flinging a sweater over his bared back; some one was whispering in his ear: "Get right to him. Go for him--don't wait!" "Already, there," said Captain Dana's quiet, matter-of-fact voice. "Already, here." "Shake hands!" The night air swept over him with a sudden chill as the sweaters were pulled away. He went forth while Dana ran over the rules and regulations, which he did not understand at all. He stood then about five feet ten, in perfect condition, every muscle clearly outlined against the wiry, spare Yankee frame, shoulders and the sinews of his arms extraordinarily developed. From the moment he had stepped out, his eyes had never left Fisher's. Combat transformed his features, sending all the color from his face, narrowing the eyes, and drawing tense the lips. Combat was with him always an overmastering rage in the leash of a cold, nervous, pulsating logic, which by the very force of its passion gave to his expression an almost dispassionate cruelty--a look not easy to meet, that somehow, on the instant, impressed itself on the crowd with the terrific seriousness of the will behind. "Wiry devil." "Good shoulders." "Great fighting face, eh?" "Scrapper, all right." "I'll bet he is." "Shake hands!" Stover caught the other's hand, looked into his eyes, read something there that told him, science aside, that he was the other's master; and suddenly, rushing forward, he caught him about the knees and, lifting him bodily in the air, hurled him through the circle in a terrific tackle. The onslaught was so sudden that Fisher, unable to guard himself, went down with a crash, the fall broken by the bodies of the spectators. A roar, half laughter, half hysteria, went up. "Go for him!" "Good boy, Stover!" "Chew him up!" "Is he a scrapper!" "Say, this _is_ a fight!" "Wow!" Dana, clapping them on the shoulders, brought them back to the center of the ring and restored them to the position in which they had fallen. Fisher, plainly shaken up, immediately worked himself into a defensive position, recovering his breath, while Stover frantically sought some instinctive hold with which to turn him over. Suddenly an arm shot out, caught his head in chancery, and before he knew it he was underneath and the weight of Fisher's body was above, pressing him down. He staggered to his feet in a fury, maddened, unreasoning, and went down again, always with the dead weight above him. "Here, that won't do," he said to himself savagely, recovering his clarity of vision; "I mustn't lose strength." All at once, before he knew how it had been done, Fisher's arm was under his, cutting over his neck, and slowly but irresistibly his shoulders were turning toward the fatal touch. Every one was up, shouting: "Turn him over!" "Finish him up!" "Hold out, freshman!" "Hold out!" "Flop over!" "Don't give in!" "Stick it out!" With a sudden expenditure of strength, he checked the turning movement, desperately striving against the cruel hold. "Good boy, Stover!" "That's the stuff!" "Show your grit!" "Hold out!" "Show your nerve!" In a second he had reasoned it out. He was caught--he knew it. He could resist three minutes, five minutes, slowly sinking against his ebbing strength, frantically cheered for a spectacular resistance--and then what? If he had a chance, it was in preserving every ounce of his strength for the coming rounds. "All right; you've got me this time," he said coldly, and, relaxing, let his shoulders drop. Dana's hand fell stingingly on him, announcing the fall. He rose amid an angry chorus: "What the deuce!" "Say, I don't stand for that!" "Thought he was game." "Game nothing!" "Lost his nerve." "Sure he did." "Well, I'll be damned." "A quitter--a rank quitter!" He walked to his seconds, angry at the misunderstanding. "Here, I know what I'm doing," he said in short, quick breaths, forgetting that he, a freshman, was addressing the lords of creation. He was a captain again, his own captain, conducting his own battle. "I'll get him yet. Rub up this shoulder, quick." "Keep off the ground," said one mentor. "You bet I will." "Why the deuce did you give in so easily?" "Because there are two more rounds, and I'm going to use my head--hang it!" "He's right, too," said the first senior, rubbing him fiercely with the towel. "Now, sport, don't monkey with him until you've jarred him up a couple of times!" "That's what I'm going to do!" "Time!" cried the voice of Dana. This time he retreated slowly, drawing Fisher unwarily toward his edge of the ring, and then suddenly, as the sophomore lunged at him, shot forward again, in a tackle just below the waist, raised him clear off the ground, spun him around, and, putting all his force into his back as a wood-chopper swings an ax, brought him down crashing, clear across the ring. It was a fearful tackle, executed with every savage ounce of rage within him, the force of which momentarily stunned him. Fisher, groggy under the bruising impact, barely had time to turn on his stomach before Stover was upon him. Dink immediately sprang up and back, waiting in the center of the ring. The sophomore, too dazed to reason clearly, yielding only to his anger at the sudden reversal, foolishly struggled to his feet and came staggering toward him. A second time Stover threw all his dynamic strength into another crashing tackle. This time Fisher went over on his back with a thump, and, though he turned instinctively, both shoulders had landed squarely on the turf, and, despite his frantic protests, a roar went up as Dana allotted the fall to Stover. This time, as he went to his corner, it was amid pandemonium: "You're a corker, freshman!" "Oh, you bulldog!" "Tear him up!" "You're the stuff!" "Good head, freshman!" "Good brain-work!" Several upper classmen came hurriedly over to his corner, slapping him on the back, volunteering advice. "Clear out," said his mentor proudly. "This rooster can take care of himself." Fisher came up for the third round, visibly groggy and shaken by the force of the tackles he had received, but game. Twice Stover, watching his chance, dove under the groping hands and flung him savagely to the ground. Once Fisher caught him, as they lay on the ground, in a hold that might have been decisive earlier in the match. As it was, Stover felt with a swift horror the arm slipping under his arm, half gripping his neck. The wet heat of the antagonistic body over his inflamed all the brute in him. The strength was now his. He tore himself free, scrambled to his feet, and hurled Fisher a last time clean through into the scattering crowd, where he lay stunned, too weak to resist the viselike hands that forced his shoulders to the ground. Dana hauled Stover to his feet, a little groggy. "Some tackling, freshman! Bout's yours! Call out the heavyweights!" Scarcely realizing that it was his captain who had spoken, Dink stood staring down at Fisher, white and conquered, struggling to his feet in the grip of friends. "I say, Fisher," he said impulsively, "I hope I didn't shake you up too much. I saw red; I didn't know what I was doing." "You did me all right," said the sophomore, giving his hand. "That tackle of yours would break a horse in two. Shake!" "Thank you," said Stover, flustered and almost ashamed before the other's perfect sportsmanship. "Thank you very much, sir!" He went to his corner, smothered under frantic slaps and embraces, hearing his name resounding again and again on the thunders of his classmates. The bout had been spectacular; every one was asking who he was. "Stover, eh, of Lawrenceville!" "Gee, what a fierce tackler!" "Ridiculous for Fisher to be beaten!" "Oh, is it? How'd you like to get a fall like that?" "Played end." "Captain at Lawrenceville." "He ought to be a wonder." "Say, did you see the face he got on him?" "Enough to scare you to death." "It got Fisher, all right." While he was being rubbed down and having his clothes thrust upon him, shivering in every tense muscle, which, now the issue was decided, seemed to have broken from his control, suddenly a hand gripped his, and, looking up, he saw the face of Tompkins, ablaze with the fire of the professional spectator. "I'm not shaking hands on your brutal old tackling," he said, with a look that belied his words. "It's the other thing--the losing the first fall. Good brain-work, boy; that's what'll count in football." The grip of the veteran cut into his hand; in Tompkins's face also was a reminiscent flash of the fighting face that somehow, in any test, wins half the battle. The third bout went to the sophomores, Regan, the choice of the class, being nowhere to be found. But the victory was with the freshmen, who, knit suddenly together by the consciousness of a power to rise to emergencies, carried home the candidates in triumph. McCarthy, with his arms around Stover as he had done in the old school days after a grueling football contest, bore Dink up to their rooms with joyful, bearlike hugs. Other hands were on him, wafting him up the stairs as though riding a gale. "Here, let me down will you, you galoots!" he cried vainly from time to time. Hilariously they carried him into the room and dumped him down. Other freshmen, following, came to him, shaking his hand, pounding him on the back. "Good boy, Stover!" "What's the use of wrestling, anyhow?" "You're it!" "We're all for you!" "The old sophomores thought they had it cinched." "Three cheers for Dink Stover!" "One more!" "And again!" "Yippi!" McCarthy, doubled up with laughter, stood in front of him, gazing hilariously, proudly down. "You old Dink, you, what right had you to go out for it?" "None at all." "How the deuce did you have the nerve?" "How?" For the first time the question impressed itself on him. He scratched his head and said simply, unconscious of the wide application of what he said: "Gee! guess I didn't stop to think how rotten I was." He went to bed, gorgeously happy with the first throbbing, satisfying intoxication of success. The whole world must be concerned with him now. He was no longer unknown; he had emerged, freed himself from the thralling oblivion of the mass. CHAPTER VI Stover fondly dreamed, that night, of his triumphal appearance on the field the following day, greeted by admiring glances and cordial handshakes, placed at once on the second eleven, watched with new interest by curious coaches, earning an approving word from the captain himself. When he did come on the field, embarrassed and reluctantly conscious of his sudden leap to world-wide fame, no one took the slightest notice of him. Tompkins did not vouchsafe a word of greeting. To his amazement, Dana again passed him over and left him restless on the bench, chafing for the opportunity that did not come. The second and the third afternoon it was the same--the same indifference, the same forgetfulness. And then he suddenly realized the stern discipline of it all--unnecessary and stamping out individuality, it seemed to him at first, but subordinating everything to the one purpose, eliminating the individual factor, demanding absolute subordination to the whole, submerging everything into the machine--that was not a machine only, when once accomplished, but an immense idea of sacrifice and self-abnegation. Directly, clearly visualized, he perceived, for the first time, what he was to perceive in every side of his college career, that a standard had been fashioned to which, irresistibly, subtly, he would have to conform; only here, in the free domain of combat, the standard that imposed itself upon him was something bigger than his own. Meanwhile the college in all its activities opened before him, absorbing him in its routine. The great mass of his comrades to be gradually emerged from the blurred mists of the first day. He began to perceive hundreds of faces, faces that fixed themselves in his memory, ranging themselves, dividing according to his first impression into sharply defined groups. Fellows sought him out, joined him when he crossed the campus, asked him to drop in. In chapel he found himself between Bob Story, a quiet, self-contained, likable fellow, popular from the first from a certain genuine sweetness and charity in his character, son of Judge Story of New Haven, one of the most influential of the older graduates; and on the other side Swazey, a man of twenty-five or six, of a type that frankly amazed him--rough, uncouth, with thick head and neck, rather flat in the face, intrusive, yellowish eyes, under lip overshot, one ear maimed by a scar, badly dressed, badly combed, and badly shod. Belying this cloutish exterior was a quietness of manner and the dreamy vision of a passionate student. Where he came from Stover could not guess, nor by what strange chance of life he had been thrown there. In front of him was the great bulk of Regan, always bent over a book for the last precious moments, coming and going always with the same irresistible steadiness of purpose. He had not been at the wrestling the opening night, he had not been out for football, because his own affairs, his search for work, were to him more important; and, looking at him, Stover felt that he would never allow anything to divert him from his main purpose in college--first, to earn his way, and, second, to educate himself. Stover, with others, had urged him to report for practise, knowing, though not proclaiming it, that there lay the way to friendships that, once gained, would make easy his problem. "Not yet, Stover," said Regan, always with the same finality in his tone. "I've got to see my way clear; I've got to know if I can down that infernal Greek and Latin first. If I can, I'm coming out." "Where do you room?" said Stover. "Oh, out about a mile--a sort of rat-hole." "I want to drop in on you." "Come out sometime." "Drop in on me." "I'm going to." "I say, Regan, why don't you see Le Baron?" "What for?" "Why, he might--might give you some good tips," said Stover, a little embarrassed. "Exactly. Well, I prefer to help myself." Stover broke out laughing. "You're a fierce old growler!" "I am." "I wish you'd come around a little and let the fellows know you." "That can wait." "I say, Regan," said Stover suddenly, "would you mind doing the waiting over at our joint?" "Why should I?" "Why, I thought," said Stover, not saying what he had thought, "I thought perhaps you'd find it more convenient at Commons." "Is that what you really thought?" said Regan, with a quizzical smile. The man's perfect simplicity and unconsciousness impressed Stover more than all the fetish of enthroned upper classmen; he was always a little embarrassed before Regan. "No," he said frankly, "but, Regan, I would like to have you with us, and I think you'd like it." "We'll talk it over," said Regan deliberately. "I'll think it over myself. Good-by." Stover put out his hand instinctively. Their hands held each other a moment, and their eyes met in open, direct friendship. He stood a moment thoughtfully, after they had parted. What he had offered had been offered impulsively. He began to wonder if it would work out without embarrassment in the intimacy of the eating-joint. The crowd that they had joined--as Gimbel had predicted--had taken a long dining-room cheerily lighted, holding one table, around which sixteen ravenous freshmen managed to squeeze in turbulent, impatient clamor. Bob Story, Hunter and his crowd, Hungerford and several men from Groton and St. Mark's, Schley and his room-mate Troutman made up a coterie that already had in it the elements of the leadership of the class. As he was deliberating, he perceived Joe Hungerford rolling along, with his free and easy slouch, immersed in the faded blue sweater into which he had lazily bolted to make chapel, a cap riding on the exuberant wealth of blond hair. He broached the subject at once: "Say, Hungerford, you're the man I want." "Fire away." Stover detailed his invitation to Regan, concluding: "Now, tell me frankly what you think." "Have him with us, by all means," said Hungerford impulsively. "Might it not be a little embarrassing? How do you think the other fellows would like it?" "Why, there's only one way to take it," said Hungerford directly. "Our crowd's too damned select now to suit me. We need him a darn sight more than he needs us." "I knew you'd feel that way." "By George, that's why I came to Yale. If there are any little squirts in the crowd think differently, a swift kick where it'll do the most good will clear the atmosphere." Stover looked at him with impulsive attraction. He was boyish, unspoiled, eager. "Now, look here, Dink--you don't mind me calling you that, do you?" continued Hungerford, with a little hesitation. "Go ahead." "I want you to understand how I feel about things. I've got about everything in the world to make a conceited, pompous, useless little ass out of me, and about two hundred people who want to do it. I wish to blazes I was starting where Regan is--where my old dad did; I might do something worth while. Now, I don't want any hungry, boot-licking little pups around me whose bills I am to pay. I want to come in on your scale, and I'm mighty glad to get the chance. That's why my allowance isn't going to be one cent more than yours; and I want you to know it. Now, as for this fellow Regan--he sounds like a man. I tell you what I'll do. I'll fix it up in a shake of a lamb's tail." "Question is whether Regan will come," said Stover doubtfully. "By George, I'll make him. We'll go right out together and put it to him." Which they did; and Regan, yielding to the open cordiality of Hungerford, accepted and promised to change at the end of his week. In the second week, having satisfactorily arranged his affairs--by what slender margin no one ever knew--Regan reported for practise. He had played a little football in the Middle West and, though his knowledge was crude, he learned slowly, and what he learned he never lost. His great strength, and a certain quality which was moral as well as physical, very shortly won him the place of right guard, where with each week he strengthened his hold. Regan's introduction at the eating-joint had been achieved without the embarrassment Stover had feared. He came and went with a certain natural dignity that was not assumed, but was inherent in the simplicity of his character. He entered occasionally into the conversation and always, when the others were finished and tarrying over the tobacco, brought his plate to a vacant place and ate his supper; but, that through, though often urged, went his purposeful way, with always that certain solitary quality about him that made approach difficult and had left him friendless. On the fourth afternoon of practise, as Stover, restraining the raging impatience within him, resolved that at all costs he would not show the chafing, went to his place on the imprisoning bench, watching with famished eyes the contending lines, Dana, without warning, called from the open field: "Stover! Stover! Out here!" He jumped up, oblivious of everything but the sudden thumping of his heart and the curious stir in the ranks of the candidates. "Here, leave your sweater," shouted Tompkins, who had repeated the summons. "Oh, yes." Clumsily entangled in the folds of his sweater, he struggled to emerge. Tompkins, amid a roar of laughter, caught the arms and freed him, grinning at the impetuousness with which Stover went scudding out. On the way he passed the man he was replacing, returning rebelliously with a half antagonistic, half apprehensive glance at him. "Take left end on the scrub," said Dana, who was not in the line of scrimmage. "Farley, give him the signals." The scrub quarter hastily poured into his ears the simple code. He took up his position. The play was momentarily halted by one of the coaches, who was hauling the center men over the coals. Opposite Stover, Bangs, senior, was standing, legs spread, hands on his hips, looking at him with a look Stover never forgot. For three years he had plugged along his way, doggedly holding his place in the scrubs, patiently waiting for the one opportunity to come. Now, at last, after the years of servitude, standing on the coveted side of the line, suddenly here was a freshman with a big reputation come in the challenge that might destroy all the years of patience and send him back into the oblivion of the scrubs. Stover understood the appealing fury of the look, even in all the pitilessness of his ambition. Something sharp went through him at the thought of the man for whose position, ruthlessly, fiercely, he was beginning to fight. Five or six coaches, always under the direction of Case, head coach, were moving restlessly about the field, watching for the first rudimentary faults. One or two gave him quick appraising looks. Stover, moving restlessly back and forth, his eyes on the ground, too conscious of the general curiosity, awaited the moment of action. The discussion around the center ended. "Varsity take the ball," called out Dana; "get into it, every one!" The two lines sprang quickly into position, the coaches, nervous and vociferous, jumping behind the unfortunate objects of their wrath, while the air was filled with shrieked advice and exhortation. "On the jump, there, Biggs!" "Charge low!" "Oh, get down, get down!" "Break up this play!" "Wake up!" "Smash into it!" "Charge!" "Now!" "Block that man!" "Throw him back!" "Get behind!" "Push him on!" "Shove him on!" "Get behind and shove!" "Shove!" "Shove! Oh, shove!" Attack and defense were still crude. The play had gone surging around the opposite end, but in a halting way, the runner impeded by his own interference. Stover, sweeping around at full speed, was able to down the half from behind, just as the interference succeeded in clearing the way. At once it was a chorus of angry shouts, each coach descending on the particular object of his wrath. "Beautiful!" "You're a wonder!" "What are you doing,--growing to the ground?" "What did I tell you?" "Say, interference, is this a walking match?" "Wonderful speed--almost got away from the opposite end." "Say, Charley, a fast lot of backs we've got." "Line 'em up!" Two or three plays through the center, struggling and squirming in the old fashion of football, were succeeded by several tries at his side. Stover, besides three years' hard drilling, had a natural gift of diagnosis, which, with the savagery of his tackling, made him, even at this period, an unusual end, easily the best of the candidates on the field. He stood on guard, turning inside the attack, or running along with it and gradually forcing his man out of bounds. At other times he went through the loose interference and caught his man with a solid lunge that was not to be denied. The varsity being forced at last to kick, Bangs came out opposite him for that running scrimmage to cover a punt that is the final test of an end. Stover, dropping a little behind, confident in his measure of the man, caught him with his shoulder on the start, throwing him off balance for a precious moment, and then followed him down the field, worrying him like a sheep-dog pursuing a rebellious member of his flock, and caught him at the last with a quick lunge at the knees that sent him sprawling out of the play. Up on his feet in a minute, Stover went racing after his fullback, in time to give the impetus of his weight that sent him over his tackle, falling forward. "How in blazes did that scrub end get back here?" shouted out Harden, a coach, a famous end himself. He came up the field with Bangs, grabbing him by the shoulder, gesticulating furiously, his fist flourishing, crying: "Here, Dana, give us that play over again!" A second time Bangs sought to elude Stover, goaded on by the taunts of Harden, who accompanied them. Quicker in speed and with a power of instinctive application of his strength, Stover hung to his man, putting him out of the play despite his frantic efforts. Harden, furious, railed at him. "What! You let a freshman put you out of the play? Where's your pride? In the name of Heaven do something! Why, they're laughing at you, Ben,--they're giving you the laugh!" Bangs, senior society man, manager of the crew, took the driving and the leash without a protest, knowing though he did that the trouble was beyond him--that he was up against a better man. Suddenly Harden turned on Stover, who, a little apart, was moving uneasily, feeling profoundly sorry for the tanning Bangs was receiving on his account. "Look here, young fellow, you're not playing that right." Stover was amazed. "What's the first thing you've got to think about when you follow down your end?" "Keep him out of the play," said Stover. "Never!" Harden seized him by the jersey, attacking with his long expostulating forefinger, just as he had laid down the law to Bangs. "Never! That's grand-stand playing, my boy; good for you, rotten for the team. The one thing you've got to do first, last, and always, is to know where the ball is and what's happening to it. Understand?" "Yes, sir." "Now you didn't do that. You went down with your eyes on your man only, didn't you?" "Yes, sir." "You never looked at your back to see if he fumbled, did you?" "No, sir." "And if he had, where'd you have been? If he holds it all right, knock over your end, but if he fumbles you've got to beat every one to it and recover it. You're one of eleven men, not a newspaper phenomenon--get that in your head. You didn't know I was trying you out as well as Bangs. Now let it sink into you. Do you get it?" "Yes, sir, thank you," said Stover, furious at himself, for if there was one thing that was instinctive in him it was this cardinal quality of following the ball and being in every play. It was a day of the hardest, trying alike to the nerves of coaches and men, when the teams were driven without a rest, when tempers were strained to the snapping point, in the effort to instil not so much the details of the game as the inflaming spirit of combat. It was dusk before the coaches called a halt to the practise and sent them, steaming and panting, aching in every joint, back to the gymnasium for a rub-down. Climbing wearily into the car to sink gratefully into a seat, Dink suddenly, to his confusion, found himself by the side of Bangs. "Hello," said the senior, looking up with a grin, "I hope every muscle in your body's aching." "It certainly is," said Stover, relieved. Bangs looked at him a long moment, shook his head, and said: "I wish I could drop a ton of brick on you." "Why?" "I've plugged away for years, slaved like a nigger at this criminal game, thought I was going to get my chance at last, and now you come along." "Oh, I say," said Stover in real confusion. "Oh, I'll make you fight for it," said the other, with a snap of his jaws. "But, boy, there's one thing I liked. When that old rhinoceros of a Harden was putting the hooks into me, you never eased up for a second." "I knew you'd feel that way." "If you'd done differently I'd slaughtered you," said Bangs. "Well, good luck to you!" He smiled, but back of the smile Stover saw the cruel cut of disappointment. And this feeling was stronger in him than any feeling of elation as he returned to his rooms, after the late supper. He had never known anything like the fierceness of that first practise. It was not play with the zest he loved, it was a struggle of ambitions with all the heartache that lay underneath. He had gone out to play, and suddenly found himself in a school for character, enchained to the discipline of the Cæsars, where the test lay in stoicism and the victory was built on the broken hopes of a comrade. For the first time, a little appalled, he felt the weight of the seriousness, the deadly seriousness of the American spirit, which seizes on everything that is competition and transforms it, with the savage fanaticism of its race, for success. CHAPTER VII After a week of grueling practise, the first game of the season came like a holiday. Stover was called out after the first few minutes, replacing Bangs, and remained until the close. He played well, aided by several fortunate opportunities, earning at the last a pat on the back from Dana which sent him home rejoicing. The showing of the team was disappointing, even for that early season. The material was plainly lacking in the line, and at full-back the kicking was lamentably weak. The coaches went off with serious faces; throughout the college assembled on the stands was a spreading premonition of disaster. Saturday night was privileged, with the long, grateful Sunday morning sleep ahead. "Dink, ahoy!" shouted McNab's cheerful voice over the banister, as he entered the house. "Hello, there!" "How's the boy wonder, the only man-eating Dink in captivity?" "Tired as the deuce." "Fine. First rate," said McNab, skipping down. "Forget the past, think only of the bright furniture. We've got a block of tickets for Poli's Daring-Dazzling-Delightful Vaudeville to-night. You're elected. We'll end up with a game at Reynolds'. Seen the _Evening Register_?" "No." "My boy, you are famous," said McNab, brandishing a paper. "I'm lovelier, but you get the space. Never mind, I'll be arrested soon--anything to get in the papers!" While McNab's busy tongue ran on, Stover was gazing at the account of the game, where, among the secondary headlines, there stared out at him the caption: STOVER, A FRESHMAN, PLAYS SENSATIONAL GAME. The thing was too incredible. He stood stupidly looking at it. "How do you feel?" said McNab, taking his pulse professionally. There was no answer Stover could give to that first throbbing sensation at seeing his name--his own name--in print. It left him confused, almost a little frightened. "Why, Dink, you're modest," said the irrepressible McNab; and, throwing open the door, he shouted at the top of his voice: "I say, fellows, come down and see Dink blush." A magnificent scrimmage, popularly known as a "rough house," ensued, in which McNab was properly chastised, though not a whit subdued. McCarthy arrived late, with the freshman eleven, back from a close contest with a school team. They took a hurried supper, and went down a dozen strong, in jovial marching order. The sensations of the theater were still new to Stover, nor had his fortunate eye seen under the make-up or his imagination gone below the laughter. To parade down the aisle, straight as a barber's pole, chin carefully balanced on the sharp edge of his collar, on the night of his first day as end on the Yale varsity, delightfully conscious of his own startling importance, feeling as if he over-topped every one in the most public fashion, to be absolutely blushingly conscious that every one in the theater must, too, be grasping a copy of that night's _Evening Register_, that every glance had started at his arrival and was following in set admiration, was a memory he was never to forget. His shoulders thrown up a little, just a little in accentuation, as behooved an end with a reputation for tackling, he found his seat and, dropping down quickly to escape observation, buried himself in his program to appear modest before the burning concentration of attention which he was quite sure must now be focused on him. "Dobbs and Benzigger, the fellows who smash the dishes--by George, that's great!" cried McNab, joyfully running over the program. "They're wonders--a perfect scream!" "Any good dancing?" said Hungerford, and a dozen answers came: "You bet there is!" "Fanny Lamonte--a dream, Joe!" "Daintiest thing you ever saw." "Sweetest little ankles!" "Who's this coming--the Six Templeton Sisters?" "Don't know." "Well, here they come." "They've got to be pretty fine for me!" Enthroned as lords of the drama, they pronounced their infallible judgments. Every joke was new, every vaudeville turn an occasion for a gale of applause. The appearance of the "Six Templetons" was the occasion of a violent discussion between the adherents of the blondes and the admirers of the brunettes, led by the impressionable McNab. "I'm all for the peach in the middle!" "Ah, rats! She's got piano legs. Look at the fighting brunette at this end." "Why, she's got a squint." "Squint nothing; she's winking at me." "Yes, she is!" "Watch me get her eye!" Stover, of course, preserved an attitude of necessary dignity, gently tolerant of the rakish sentimentalities of the younger members of the flock. Moreover, he was supremely aware that the sparkling eyes under the black curls (were they real?) were not looking at McNab, but intensely directed at his own person--all of which, as she could not have read the _Register_, was a tribute to his own personal and not public charms. The lights, the stir of the audience, the boxes filled with the upper classmen, the gorgeous costumes, the sleepy pianist pounding out the accompaniments while accomplishing the marvelous feat of reading a newspaper, were all things to him of fascination. But his eye went not to the roguish professional glances, but lost itself somewhere above amid the ragged drops and borders. He was transported into the wonders of Dink-land, where one figure ran a hundred adventures, where a hundred cheers rose to volley forth one name, where a dozen games were passed in a second, triumphant, dazzling, filled with spectacular conflicts, blurred with frantic crowds of blue, ending always in surging black-hatted rushes that tossed him victoriously toward the stars! "Let's cut out," said McNab's distinct voice. "There's nothing but xylophones and coons left." "Come on over to Reynolds's." "Start up the game." Reluctantly, fallen to earth again, Stover rose and followed them out. In a moment they had passed through the fragrant casks and bottles that thronged the passage, saluting the statesmanly bulk of Hugh Reynolds, and found themselves in a back room, already floating in smoke. White, accusing lights of bracketed lamps picked out the gray features of a dozen men vociferously rolling forth a drinking chorus, while the magic arms of Buck Waters, his falcon's nose and little muzzle eyes, dominated the whole. A shout acclaimed them: "Yea, fellows!" "Shove in here!" "Get into the game." "Bartender, a little more of that brutalizing beer!" "Cheese and pretzels!" "Hello, Tough McCarthy!" "Over here, Dopey McNab." "Get into the orchestra." "Good boy, Stover!" "Congratulations!" "Oh, Dink Stover, have we your eye?" The last call, caught up by every voice, went swelling in volume, accompanied by a general uplifting of mugs and glasses. It was the traditional call to a health. "I'd like to oblige," said Dink, a little embarrassed, "but I'm in training." "That's all right--hand him a soft one." For the first time he perceived that there was a perfect freedom in the choice of beverage. He bowed, drained his glass, and sat down. "Oh, Dopey McNab, have we your eye?" "You certainly have, boys, and I'm no one-eyed man at that," said McNab, jovially disappearing down a mug, while the room in chorus trolled out: "_Drink the wine divine_ _As long as you can stand it._ _Hand the bowl around_ _As long as you can hand it._ _Drink your glass,_ _Drink your glass,_ _Dri-i-i-i-ink--he's drunk it down._" "Oh, Jim Hunter, have we your eye?" Each new arrival in turn, called to his feet, rose and drained his glass to a hilarious accompaniment, while Stover, to his surprise, noted that fully a third of the crowd were ordering soft drinks. "Oh, Dink Stover, here's to _you_!" From across the table Tommy Bain, lifting his glass of ginger ale, smiled a gracious smile. "Same to you, Tommy Bain." The fellow who had addressed him was a leader among the Hotchkiss crowd, out for coxswain, already spoken of for one of the class managerships. He was a diminutive type, immaculately neat, black hair exactly parted and unflurried, well jacketed, turn-down collar embellished with a red-and-yellow four-in-hand, a rather large, bulbous nose, and thin eyes that were never quiet--shrewd, direct, inquisitive, always estimating. He was smiling again, raising his glass to some one else down the table, and the smile that passed easily over his lips had the quality of seeming to come from the heart. McNab and Buck Waters, natural leaders of the revels, arms locked, were giving a muscular exhibition of joint conducting, while the room in chorus sang: "_Should fortune prove unkind,_ _Should fortune prove unfair,_ _A cure I have in mind_ _To drive away all care._" "By George!" said Hungerford, at his side, laughing, "it's good to be in the game at last, isn't it, Dink?" "It certainly is." "We've got a great crowd; it's going to be a great class." "Who's Bain?" said Dink, under his breath. "Bain--oh, he's a clever chap, probably be a class deacon. That's another good thing about this place: we can all get together and drink what we want." "Chorus!" cried McNab and Waters, with a twin flourish of their arms. "Chorus!" shouted Hungerford and Bain, raising their glasses in accompaniment. "_For to-night we will be merry_ _As the rosy wine we drink--_ _The rosy wine we drink!_" "Yea!" "A little more close harmony!" A great shout acclaimed the chorus and another song was started. Hunter and Bain were opposite each other, surrounded as it were by adherents, each already aware of the other, measuring glances, serious, unrelaxing, never unbending, never departing a moment from the careful attitude of critical aloofness. In the midst of the rising hilarity and the rebellious joy of newly gained liberty, the two rival leaders sat singing, but not of the song, the same placid, maliciously superior smile floating over the perfectly controlled lips of Bain, while in the anointed gaze of Hunter was a ponderous seriousness which at that age is ascribed to a predestined Napoleonic melancholy. "Solo from Buck Waters!" "Solo!" "On the chair!" "Yea, Buck Waters!" Yielding to the outcry Waters was thrust upward. "The cowboy orchestra!" "Give us the cowboy orchestra!" "The cowboy orchestra, ladies and gentlemen." With a wave of his hand he organized the room into drums, bugles, and trombones, announcing: "The orchestra will tune up and play this little tune, "'_Ta-de-dee-ra-ta-ra-ta-rata,_ _Ta-de-dee-ra-ta-ra-ta-rata-ta!_' "All ready? Lots of action there--a little more cyclonic from the trombones. Fine! Whenever I give the signal the orchestra will burst forth into that melodious refrain. I will now give an imitation of a professional announcer at Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and Congress of Rough Riders. Orchestra: "_Ta-de-dee-rata-rata-rata_ _Ta-de-dee-rata-rata-rata-ta!_" While Waters, with his great comical face shining above the gleeful crowd like a harvest moon rising from the lake, continued endlessly drawling out his nasal imitations, the crowd, for the first time welded together, rocked and shouted out the farcical chorus. When he had ended, Buck Waters sat down, enthroned forever afterward master of song and revels. Bain began to cast estimating glances, calculating on the moment to leave. At the other end Waters was fairly smothered under the rush of delighted comrades, patting him on the back, acclaiming his rise to fame. The tables settled down into a sentimental refrain led by Stone's clear tenor. Dink's glance, traveling down the table, was suddenly attracted by the figure of a young fellow with a certain defiant yet shy individuality in its pose. "Who's the rather dark chap just beyond Dopey?" he asked Hungerford. "Don't know; ask Schley." "Brockhurst--Sidney Brockhurst," said Schley, not lowering his voice, "from Hill School. Trying for the _Lit_. Clever chap, they say, but a little long-haired." Stover studied him, his curiosity awakened. Brockhurst, of all present, seemed the most solitary and the most self-conscious. He had a long head, high, thin cheeks, and a nervous little habit, when intent or conscious of being watched, of drawing his fingers over his lips. His head was thrown back a little proudly, but the eyes contradicted this attitude, with the acute shyness in them that clouded a certain keen imaginative scrutiny. At this moment his eyes met Stover's. Dink, yielding to an instinct, raised his glass and smiled. Brockhurst hastily seized his mug in response, spilling a little of it and dropping his glance quickly. Once or twice, as if unpleasantly conscious of the examination, he turned uneasily. "He looks rather interesting," said Stover thoughtfully. "Think so?" said Schley. "Rather freaky to me." Suddenly a shout went up: "Come in!" "Yea, Sheff!" "Yea, Tom Kelly!" The narrow doorway was suddenly alive with a boisterous, rollicking crowd of Sheff freshmen, led by Tom Kelly, a short, roly-poly, alert little fellow with a sharp pointing nose and a great half-moon of a mouth. "Come in, Kelly!" "Crowd in, fellows!" "Oh, Tom, join us!" "I will _not_ come in," said Kelly, with a certain painful beery assumption of dignity. He balanced himself a moment, steadied by his neighbors; and then, to the delight of the room, began, with the utmost gravity, one of his inimitable imitations of the lords that sit enthroned in the faculty. "I come, not to stultify myself in the fumes of liquor, but to do you good. Beer is brutalizing. With your kind permission, I will whistle you a few verses of a noble poem on same subject." [Illustration: "'I COME NOT TO STULTIFY MYSELF IN THE FUMES OF LIQUOR, BUT TO DO YOU GOOD'"--_Page 89._] "Whistle, Tom?" "The word was whistle," said Kelly sternly. Extending his arm for silence, he proceeded, with great intensity and concentrated facial expression, to whistle a sort of improvisation. Then, suddenly ceasing, he continued: "And what does this beautiful, ennobling little thing teach us, written by a great mind, one of the greatest, greatest minds--what does it teach us?" "Well, what does it teach?" said one or two voices, after Kelly had preserved a statuesque pose beyond the limits of their curiosity. "Ask me," said Kelly, with dignity. "Mr. Kelly," said McNab rising seriously, "what does this little gem of intellectuality, this as it were psycho-therapeutical cirrhosis of a paleontological state,--you get my meaning, of course,--that is, from the point of view of modern introspective excavations, with due regard to whatever the sixth dimension, considered as such, may have of influence, and allowing that a certain amount of error is inherent in Spanish cooking if eggs are boiled in a chafing-dish--admitting all this, I ask you a simple question. Do you understand me?" "Perfectly," said Kelly, who had followed this serious harangue with strained attention. "And, moreover, I agree with you." "You agree?" said McNab, feigning surprise. "I do." "Sir, you are a congenial soul. Shake hands." But, in the act of stealing this sudden friendship, Kelly brought forth his hand, when it was perceived that he was tightly clutching a pool-ball, and, moreover, that his pockets were bulging like a sort of universal mumps with a dozen inexplicable companions. A shout went up: "Why, he's swallowed a frame of pool-balls!" "He certainly has." "He's swiped them." "He's wrecked a pool-room." "How the deuce did he do it?" "Why, Tom, where did you get 'em?" "Testimonial--testimonial of affection," replied Kelly, "literally showered on me." "Tom, you stole them." "I did not steal them!" "Tom, you stole them!" "Tom, O Tom!" Kelly, who had proceeded to empty his pockets for an exhibition, becoming abruptly offended at the universal shouted accusation, repocketed the pool-balls and departed, despite a storm of protest and entreaties, carrying with him McNab. A number of the crowd were passing beyond control; others, inflexible, smiling, continued in their attitude of spectators, Brockhurst because he could not forget himself, Hunter and Bain because they would not. "Time for us to be cutting out," said Hunter, with a glance at his watch. "What about it, Stover?" Dink was annoyed that he had not made the move himself. McCarthy, Hungerford, and one or two of the freshman candidates arose. A shout went up from the noisy end of the table. "Here! no quitting!" "Cowards!" "Come back!" "Shut up; it's the football crowd!" "Oh, football, eh?" "Right." "Splendid!" Stover with a serious face, shook hands with Troutman, a red-haired fellow with sharp advancing features who said impressively: "Mr. Stover, I wish to express for my friends the gratification, the extreme gratification, the extreme moral gratification we feel at seeing a football--a football candidate showing such moral courage--moral--it's wonderful--it moves me. Mr. Stover, I'd like to shake your hand." Dink laughed and escaped, seeing, in a last glance at the vaporous fitful room, Troutman solemnly giving his hand to Waters, whom he was congratulating on his extreme moral courage in remaining. Tommy Bain, in the confusion, slipped out unnoticed and joined them. The last swollen burst of the song was shut from them. They went back toward the campus in twos and threes, over the quiet, moist pavement, past the noisy windows of Mory's--where no freshmen need apply--to the Common, where suddenly, in the moonlit shadow of a great elm, they found a vociferous group with Tom Kelly and McNab in the midst. At this moment something fell from the skies within perilous distance. "What the deuce is that?" said Hungerford, jumping back. "Why, it's a pool-ball," said Stone, stooping down. Another fell, just missing Hunter's shoulders. "It's Kelly," said Bain, "and he's firing at us." With a rush they joined the group, to find Kelly, determined and enthusiastic, solemnly discharging his ammunition at the great bulbous moon that was set lumberingly above them. They joined the group that surrounded him, expostulating, sober or fuddled: "Don't be an ass, Tom." "The cops are coming." "I say, come on home." "How many more has he got?" "Get him home, you fellows." "Stop him." Meanwhile, abetted by the admiring, delighted McNab, Tom Kelly, taking the most solicitous aim, was continuing his serious efforts to hit the moon with the pool-balls which he had procured no one knew how. "I say, McNab," said Stover, drawing him aside, "better get him to stop now. Too many cops around. Use your influence--he'll listen to you." McNab's sense of responsibility having thus become violently agitated, he wabbled up to the laboring Kelly, and the following historic dialogue took place: "I say, Tom, old fellow, you know me, don't you? You know I'm a good sort, don't you--one of the finest?" "I know you, Dopey McNab; I'm proud to know you." "I want to speak a word with you seriously." "What?" "Seriously." "Say on." "Now, seriously, Tom, do you think you can hit it?" "Don't know; going to try's much as in me. Biff!" "Hold up," said McNab, staying his hand. "Tom, I'm going to appeal to you as man to man." "Appeal." "You understand--as man to man." "Sure." "You're a man; I'm a man." "The finest." "Now as man to man, I'm going to tell you the truth." "The whole truth?" "Solemn truth." "Tell on." "You can't hit it." "Why not?" "Tom, it's too--too far away!" The two shook hands solemnly and impressively. "Can't hit it--too far away," said Kelly, with the pool-ball clutched tight. "Too far away, eh?" "My dear Tom," said McNab, tearfully breaking the news, "it's too far--entirely too far away. You can't reach it, Tom; believe me, as man to man--you can't, you can never, never hit it." "I know I can't, Dopey," said Kelly, in an equally mournful tone, "I know all that. All that you say is true. But, Dopey, suppose I _should_ hit it, suppose I _should_, just think--think--how my name would go reeling and rocking down to fushure generations! Biff!" They left McNab overcome by the impressiveness of this argument, busily gathering up the pool-balls, resolved that every opportunity should be given Kelly to rank among the immortals. Stover would have liked to stay. For the moment, almost a rebellion swept over him at the drudgery to which he had condemned himself in his ambition. He saw again the low table, through the smoke, and Buck Waters's jovial pagan face leading the crowd in lazy, care-free abandon. He felt that liberty, that zest of life, that wild spirit of youth for which he yearned and of which he had been defrauded by Le Baron's hand, that hand which had ruthlessly torn away the veil. Something leaped up within him--a longing to break the harness, to jump the gate and go heels in the air, cavorting across unfenced meadows. He rebelled against the way that had been marked out for him. He rebelled against the self-imposed discipline, and, most of all, he rebelled against the hundred eyes under whose inspection he must now inevitably walk. Ahead of them to the left, across by Osborne, came the gay, defiant singing of a group of upper classmen returning to the campus: "_For it's always fair weather_ _When good fellows stand together,_ _With a stein on the table_ _And a good song ringing clear._" The echo came to him with a certain grim mockery. There would be very little of that for him. It was to be four years, not of pleasure and inclination, but of seriousness and restraint, if he continued in his decision. For a moment the pagan in him prevailed, and he doubted. Then they passed across High Street, and at their sides the dead shadow of the society tomb suddenly intruded upon them. Which of the group at the end of the long three years would be of the chosen? Which would lead? "Well, fellows, we go this way," said Bain's methodical voice. "Drop around at the rooms soon. Good night." Stover, Hunter, and Bain for the moment found themselves together, each striving for the same social honor, each conscious that, whatever an established system might bring to them, with its enforced comradeship, among them would always be the underlying contending spirit of variant ambitions. Stover felt it keenly, almost with a sharp antagonism that drove from him finally the slumbering rebellion he had felt all that night--the tugging at the bridle of consciousness which had been imposed upon him. This was a bigger thing, a thing that wakened in him the great instincts of combat. He would be a leader among leaders. He would succeed as success was reckoned. He gave a little laugh and held out his hand to Hunter. "Good night, Jim," he said. "Why--good night," said Hunter, surprised at the laugh and the unnecessary handshake. But the hand had been offered in challenge, and the laugh marked the final deliberate acceptance of all that Le Baron had logically exposed to him. "I'll play the game, and I'll play it better than they will," he said, setting his lips. "I've got my eyes open, and I'm not going to throw away a single chance. We'll see who'll lead!" CHAPTER VIII The intensity and seriousness of the football season abetted Stover in his new attitude of Napoleonic seclusion by leaving him little time for the lighter side of college pleasures. Every hour was taken up with the effort of mastering his lessons, which he then regarded, in common with the majority of his class, as a laborious task, a sort of necessary evil, the price to be paid for the privilege of passing four years in pleasant places with congenial companions. After supper he returned immediately to his rooms, where presently a succession of visiting sophomores, members of the society campaign committees, took up the first hours. These inquisitorial delegations, formal, stiff, and conducted on a basis of superior investigation, embarrassed him at first. But this feeling soon wore off with the consciousness that he was a subject of dispute; and, secure in the opportunity that would come to him with the opening of the winter-term period of elections, his interest was directed only to the probable selection among his classmates. By the middle of October the situation at Yale field had become critical. The earlier games had demonstrated what had been foreseen--the weakness and inexperience of the raw material in hand. Serious errors in policy were committed by Captain Dana, who, in the effort to find some combination which would bolster up the weak backfield, began a constant shifting of the positions in order to experiment with heavier men behind the line. A succession of minor injuries arrived to further the disorganization. The nervousness of the captain communicated itself to the team, harassed and driven in the effort for accomplishment. That there was serious opposition among the coaches to these new groping policies every man saw plainly; yet, to Stover's amazement, the knowledge remained within the team, impregnated with the spirit of loyalty and discipline. After three weeks of brilliancy at his natural position of end, buoyed up by the zest of confidence and success, he was abruptly called to one side. "Stover, you've played behind the line, haven't you?" said Dana. "A couple of games at school, sir," he answered hastily, "just as a makeshift." "I'm going to try you at fullback." "At fullback?" "Get into it and see if you can make good." "Yes, sir." He went without spirit, sure of the impossibility of the thing, feeling only the humiliation and failure that all at once flung itself like a storm-cloud across his ambition. A coach took charge of him, running over with him the elementary principles of blocking and plunging. When he lined up, it was with half of the coaching force at his back. "Come on, Stover; get into it!" "Wake up!" "Get your head down!" "Keep a-going!" "Ram into it!" "Knock that man over!" "Knock him _over_!" He went into the line blindly, frantically, feeling for the first time that last exhausting, lunging expenditure of strength that is called forth with the effort to fall forward when tackled. Nothing he did satisfied. It was a constant storm of criticism, behind his back, in his ears, shrieked to his face: "Keep your feet--oh, keep your feet!" "Smash open that line!" "Rip open that line!" "Hit it--hit it!" "Hard--harder!" "Go on--don't stop!" A dozen times he flung his meager weight against the ponderous bodies of the center men, crushed by the impact in front, smothered by the surging support of his own line behind, helpless in the grinding contention, turned and twisted, going down in a heap amid the shock of bodies, thinking always: "Well, the darn fools will find out just about how much use I am here!" When the practise ended, at last, Dana called on Tompkins. "Joe, take Stover and give him a line on the punting, will you?" "I say, he's been worked pretty hard," said the coach with a glance. "How about it?" said Dana quickly. "All right," said Stover, lying gloriously. At that moment, aching in every joint, he would have given everything to have spoken his mind. Instead he brought forth a smile distinguished for its eagerness, and said, "I'd like to get right at it, sir." "Fullback's the big problem," said Tompkins, as they started across the field. "Bangs can fill in at end, but we've got to get a fullback that can catch punts, and with nerve enough to get off his kicks in the face of that Princeton line." "I'll do my best, sir," said Stover, with a sinking feeling. For twenty minutes, against the rebellion of his body, he went through a rigorous lesson, improving a little in the length of his punts, and succeeding fairly well in holding the ball, which came spinning end over end to him from the region of the clouds. "That'll do," said Tompkins, at last. "That's all?" said Stover stoically, picking up his sweater. "That's all." Tompkins, watching him for a moment, said suddenly: "Stover, I don't know whether Dana'll keep you at full or not, but I guess you'll have to get ready to fill in. Come over to the gym lot every morning for about half an hour, and we'll see if we can't work up those punts." "Yes, sir." They walked out together. "Stover, look here," said Tompkins abruptly, "I'm going to speak straight to you, because I think you'll keep your mouth shut. We're in a desperate condition here, and you know it. There's only one man in charge at Yale, now and always, and that's the captain. That's our system, and we stand or fall by it; and in order that we can follow him four times out of five to victory, we've got sometimes to shut our eyes and follow him down to defeat. Do you get me?" "I think I do." "No matter what happens, no criticism of the captain--no talking outside. You may think he's wrong, you may know he's wrong, but you've got to grin and bear it. That's all. Remember it--a close mouth!" But it required all Stover's newly learned stoicism to maintain this attitude in the weeks that arrived. After a week he was suddenly returned to his old position, and as suddenly redrafted to fullback when another game had displayed the inadequacy of the regular. From a position where he was familiar with all the craft of the game, Stover suddenly found himself a novice whom a handful of coaches sought desperately to develop by dint of hammering and driving. His name no longer figured in the newspaper accounts as the find of the season, but as Stover the weak spot on the eleven. It was a rude discipline, and more than once he was on the point of crying out at what seemed to him the useless sacrifice. But he held his tongue as he saw others, seniors, put to the same test and giving obedience without a word of criticism for the captain, who, as every one realized, face to face with a hopeless outcome, was gradually going to pieces. Meanwhile Dopey McNab was just as zealously concerned in the pursuit of his classic ideal, which, however, was imagined more along the lines of such historic scholars as Verdant Green, Harry Foker, and certain heroes of his favorite author, Charles Lever. The annoyance of recitations by an economical imagination he converted into periods of repose and refreshing slumber behind the broad back of McMasters, who, for a certain fixed portion of tobacco a week, agreed to act as a wall in moments of calm and to awake him with a kick on the shins when the summons to refuse to recite arrived. Having discovered Buck Waters as a companionable soul, congenially inclined to the pagan view of life, it was not long before the two discovered the third completing genius in the person of Tom Kelly, who, though a member of the Sheff freshman class, immediately agreed not to let either time, place, or conflicting recitations stand in the way of that superior mental education which must result from the friction of three such active imaginations. The triumvirate was established on a firm foundation on the day after Kelly's ambitious but unsuccessful attempt to hit the moon with a pool-ball, and immediately began a series of practical jokes and larks which threatened to terminate abruptly the partnership or remove it bodily to an unimaginative outer world. McNab, like most gentlemen of determined leisure, worked indefatigably every minute of the day. Having slept through chapel and first recitation, with an occasional interruption to rise and say with great dignity "Not prepared," he would suddenly, about ten o'clock in the morning, awake with a start, and drifting into Stover's room plaster his nose to the window and restlessly ask himself what mischief he could invent for the day. After a moment of dissatisfied introspection, he would say fretfully: "I say, Dink?" "Hello!" "Studying?" "Yes." "Almost finished?" "No." "What are you doing, McCarthy?" "Boning out an infernal problem in spherical geometry." "I gave that up." "Oh, you did!" "Sure, it's too hard--what's the use of wasting time over it, then? What do you say to a game of pool?" "Get out!" "Let's go for a row up on Lake Whitney." "Shut up!" "Come over to Sheffield and get up a game of poker with Tom Kelly." At this juncture, Stover and McCarthy rising in wrath, McNab would beat a hurried retreat, dodging whatever came sailing after him. Much aggrieved, he would go down the hall, trying the different doors, which had been locked against his approach. About this time Buck Waters, moved by similar impulses, would appear and the two would camp down on the top step and practise duets, until a furious uprising in the house would drive them ignominiously on to the street. Left to their own resources, they would wander aimlessly about the city, inventing a hundred methods to accomplish the most difficult of all feats, killing time. On one particular morning in early November, McNab and Buck Waters, being refused admission to three houses on York Street, and the affront being aggravated by jeers and epithets of the coarsest kind, went arm in arm on mischief bent. "I say, what let's do?" said McNab disconsolately. "We must do something new," said Buck Waters. "We certainly must." "Well, let's try the old clothes gag," said McNab; "that always amuses a little." Reaching the thoroughfare of Chapel Street, McNab stationed himself at the corner while Waters proceeded to a point about half-way down the block. Assuming a lounging position against a lamp-post, McNab waited until chance delivered up to him a superhumanly dignified citizen in top hat and boutonnière, moving through the crowd with an air of solid importance. Darting out, he approached with the sweep of an eagle, saying in a hoarse whisper: "Old clothes, any old clothes, sir?" His victim, frowning, accelerated his pace. "Buy your old clothes, sir, buy 'em now." Several onlookers stopped and looked. The gentleman, who had not turned to see who was addressing him, said hurriedly in an undertone: "No, no, nothing to-day." "Buy 'em to-morrow--pay good price," said McNab peevishly. "No, no, nothing to sell." "Call around at the house--give good prices." "Nothing to sell, nothing, I tell you!" "Buy what you got on," said McNab at the psychological moment, "give you five dollars or toss you ten or nothinks!" "Be off!" said the now thoroughly infuriated victim, turning and brandishing his cane. "I'll have you arrested." McNab, having accomplished his preliminary rôle, retreated to a safe distance, exclaiming: "Toss you ten dollars or nothinks!" The now supremely self-conscious and furious gentleman, having rid himself of McNab, immediately found himself in the hands of Buck Waters, who pursued him for the remainder of the block, with a mild obsequious persistency that would not be shaken off. By this time the occupants of the shop windows and the loiterers, perceiving the game, were in roars of laughter, which made the passage of the second and third victims a procession of hilarious triumph for McNab and Waters. Tiring of this, they locked arms again and, taking by hazard a side street, continued their quest for adventure. "Mornings are a dreadful bore," said McNab, pulling down his hat. "They certainly are." "Who was the old duck we tackled first?" "Don't know--familiar whiskers." "Seemed to me I've seen him somewhere." "Say, look at the ki-yi." "It's a Shetland poodle." "It's a pen-wiper." Directly in front of them a shaggy French poodle, bearing indeed a certain resemblance to both a Shetland pony and a discarded pen-wiper, was gleefully engaged in the process of shaking to pieces a rubber which it had stolen. "If it sees itself in a mirror it will die of mortification," said Buck Waters. "And yet, Buck, he's happier than we are," said McNab, who had been unjustifiably forced to flunk twice in one morning's recitation. "I say, Dopey," said Waters in alarm, "quit that!" "I will." "Look at the fireworks," said Waters, stopping suddenly at a window, "pin-wheels, rockets, Roman candles." "What are they doing there this time of the year?" said McNab angrily. "Election parade, perhaps." "That's an idea to work on, Buck." "It certainly is." "We must tell Tom Kelly about that." "We will." "Why, there's that ridiculous ki-yi again!" "He seems to like us." "I'm not complimented." At this moment, with the poodle sporting the rubber about fifteen feet ahead of them, they beheld an Italian barber lolling in the doorway of his shop, as profoundly bored by himself as they affected to be in conjunction. "Fine dog," said the barber with a critical glance. "Sure," said McNab, halting at once. The poodle, for whatever reason, likewise halted and looked around. "Looka better, cutta da hair." "You're right there, Columbus," assented Buck Waters. "His fur coat looks as though it came from a fire sale." "He ought to be trim up nice, good style." "Right, very, very right!" "Give him nice collar, nice tuft on da tail, nice tuft on da feet." "Right the second time!" "I clip him up, eh?" said the barber hopefully. "Why not?" said McNab, looking into the depth of Buck Waters's eyes. "Why not, Beecher?" said Waters, giving him the name of the President of the College Y. M. C. A. "I think it an excellent suggestion, Jonathan Edwards," said McNab instantly. With considerable strategic coaxing, the dog was enticed into the shop, where to their surprise he became immediately docile. "You see he lika da clip," said the barber enthusiastically, preparing a table. "He's a very intelligent dog," said McNab. "You've done much of this, Columbus?" said Waters with a business-like air. "Sure. Ten, twenta dog a day, down in da city." "Edwards, we shall learn something." The dog was induced to come on the table, and Waters delegated to hold him in position. "Something pretty slick now, Christopher," said McNab, taking the attitude a connoisseur should take. "Explain the fine points to us, as you go along." "Sure." "I like the way he handles the scissors, Beecher--strong, powerful stroke." "He's got a good batting eye, too, Edwards." "My, what a nice clean boulevard!" "Just see the hair fly." "It'll certainly improve the tail." "Clip a little anchor in the middle of the back." "Did you see that?" "I did." "He's a wonder." "He is." "Columbus, a little more off here--oh, just a trifle!" "First rate; shave up the nose and part the whiskers!" "Look at the legs, with the dinky pantalets--aren't they dreams?" "I love the tail best." "Why, Columbus is an artist. Never saw any one like him." "Would you know the dog?" "Why, mother wouldn't know him," said McNab solemnly. "All in forty-three minutes, too." "It's beautifully done, beautifully." "Exquisite!" The barber, perspiring with his ambitious efforts, withdrew for a final inspection, clipped a little on the top and to the side, and signified by a nod that art could go no further. "Pretta fine, eh?" "Mr. Columbus, permit me," said Waters, shaking hands. McNab gravely followed suit. The dog, released, gave a howl and began circling madly about the room. "Open the door," shouted McNab. "See how happy he is!" The three stationed themselves thoughtfully on the doorstep, watching the liberated poodle disappear down the street in frantic spirals, loops and figure-eights. "He lika da feel," said the barber, pleased. "Oh, he's much improved," said Waters, edging a little away. "He fine lookin' a dog!" "He'll certainly surprise the girls and mother," said McNab, shifting his feet. "Well, Garibaldi, ta-ta!" "Hold up," said the barber, "one plunk." "One dollar, Raphael?" said Buck Waters in innocent surprise. "What for, oh, what for?" "One plunk, clippa da dog." "Yes, but Garibaldi," said McNab gently, "that wasn't our dog." "Shall we run for it?" said Waters, as they went hurriedly up the block. "Wait until Garibaldi gives chase--we must be dignified," said McNab, with an eye to the rear. "Dagos have no sense of humor. Here he comes with a razor--scud for it!" They dashed madly for the corner, doubled a couple of times, joined by the rejuvenated friendly poodle, and suddenly, wheeling around a corner, ran straight into the dean, who as fate would have it, was accompanied by the very dignified citizen who had been the first victim of their old clothes act and upon whom the frantic poodle, with canine expressions of relief and delight, immediately cast himself. "Buck," said McNab, half an hour later, as they went limply back, "Napoleon would have whipped the British to an omelet at Waterloo if he'd known about that sunken road." "We are but mortals." "How the deuce were we to know the pup belonged to Professor Borgle, the eminent rootitologist?" "Well, we paid the dago, didn't we?" "That was outrageous." "I say, Dopey, what'll you do if they fire us?" "Don't joke on such subjects." "Dopey," said Waters solemnly, "while the dean has the case under consideration, just to aid his deliberations, I think we had better--well, study a little." "I suppose we must flirt with the text-books," said McNab, "but let's do it together, so no one'll suspect." CHAPTER IX The last week of the football season broke over them before Stover could realize that the final test was almost at hand. The full weight of the responsibility that was on him oppressed him day and night. He forgot what he had been at end; he remembered only his present inadequacy. It had been definitely decided to keep him at fullback, for three things were imperative in the weak backfield: some one who could catch punts, with nerve enough to get off his kicks quickly in the face of a stronger line, and above all some one on the last defense who would never miss the tackle that meant a touchdown. In the last week a great change took place in the sentiment of the university--the hoping against hope that often arrives with the intensity of combat. At this time Harvard and Yale were still reluctantly estranged, due to a purely hypothetical question as to which side had begun a certain historic slaughter, and the big game of the season was with Princeton, which, under the leadership of Garry Cockerell, Dink's first captain at Lawrenceville, had established a record of unusual power and brilliancy. Up to Monday of the last week, the opinion around the campus was unanimous that the day of defeat had arrived; but, with the opening of the week and the flocking in of the old players, a new spirit was noticeable, and (among the freshmen) a tentative loosening of the purse-strings on news of extra-insulting challenges from the South. At the practise, the season's marked division among the coaches was forgotten, and the field was alive with frantic assistants. The scrimmage between the varsity and the scrub took on a savageness that was sometimes difficult to control. The team, facing the impossible, with eagerness to respond, had clearly overworked itself. Stover himself weighed a bare one hundred and forty, an unspeakable depravity which he carefully concealed. Still, the team began to feel a new impulse and a new unity, inspired by the confidence of the returned heroes. The grim silence of the past began to be broken by hopeful comments. "By George, I believe there's something in those boys." "We've come up smiling before." "We may do it again." "Shouldn't be surprised if they gave those Princeton Tigers the fight of their lives." "Oh, they'll fight it out all right." One or two trick plays were perpetrated behind closed gates, and a thorough drill in a new method of breaking up the Princeton formation for a kick, under the instruction of returning scouts. The team itself began to question and wonder. "That fellow Rivers certainly has stiffened us up in the center of the line," said Regan, between plays, in one of his rare moments of loquacity. "I've learned more in three days than in the whole darn season." "You've got to hold for my kicks," said Stover, submitting to the sponge which Clancy, the trainer, was daubing over his face. "We'll hold." "What do you really think, Tom?" said Stover as they stood a little apart, waiting for the scrimmage to be resumed. "Do you think there's a chance?" "I'm not thinking," said Regan, in his direct way. "Haven't any business to think. But we're getting together, there's no doubt of that. If we can't win, why, we'll lose as we ought to, and that's something." Others were not so unruffled as Regan. The last days brought out all the divergent ways in which fierce, combative natures approach a crisis. Dana, the captain, was plainly on the edge of his self-control, his forehead drawn in a constant frown, his glance shooting nervously back and forth, speaking to no one except in the routine of the day. Dudley, at the other half, had adopted the same attitude. De Soto at quarter, on the contrary, radiated a fierce joy, joking and laughing, his nervous little voice piping out: "A little more murder, fellows! Send them back on stretchers. That's the stuff. What the deuce is the matter, Bill, do you want to live forever? Use your hands, use your feet, use your teeth, anything! Whoop her up!" Others in the line were more stolid, yet each in his way contributing to the nervous electricity that sent the team tirelessly, frantically, like mad dervishes, into the breach, while behind them, at their sides, everywhere, the coaches goaded them on. "Oh, get together!" "Shove the man in front of you!" "Get your shoulder into it!" "Fight for that last inch there!" "Knock him off his feet!" "Put your man out o' the play!" "Break him up!" No one paid any attention to the scrubs, fighting desperately with the same loyalty against the odds of weight and organization, without hope of distinction, giving every last ounce of their strength in futile, frantic effort, rejoicing when flung aside and crushed under the victorious rush of the varsity, who alone counted. Against the scrubs Stover felt a sort of rage. Time after time he went crashing into the line, seeing the blurred faces of his own comrades with an instinctive hatred, striking them with his shoulder, hurling them from the path of attack with a wild, uncontrollable fury at their resistance, almost unable to keep his temper in leash. The first feeling of sympathy he had felt so acutely for those who bore all the brunt of the punishment, unrewarded, was gone. He no longer felt any pity, but a brutal joy at the incessant smarting, grinding shock of the attack of which he was part and the touch of prostrate bodies under his rushing feet. Thursday and Friday the practise was lightened for all except for the backs. For an hour he was kept at his punting in the open and behind the lines, while the scrubs, reënforced by every available veteran, swarmed through the line, seeking to block his kicks. To one side a little knot of coaches watched the result with critical anxiety, following the length of the punts in grim silence. Tompkins, behind him, from time to time, spoke quietly, knowing that his was a nature to be restrained rather than goaded on. "Watch your opposing backs, Stover. Keep your punts low and away from them so as to gain as much on the ground as you can. That's it! Here, you center men, you've got to hold longer than that! You're hurrying the kick too much. Get it off clean, Stover. Not so good. Remember what I say about placing your punt. You're going to be out-kicked fifteen yards; make up for it in brain work. All right, Dana?" "That'll do," said Dana, after a moment's hesitation. "All over?" said Dink, dazed. "All over!" The scrubs, with a yell, broke up, cheering the varsity, and being cheered in turn. Stover, with a sinking, realized that the week of preparation had gone and that as he was he must come up to the final test--the final test before the thousands that would blacken the arena on the morrow. The squad went rather silently, each oppressed by the same thought. "We'll go out to the country club for the night," said Tompkins's shrill voice. "Get your valises ready. And now stop talking football until we tell you. Go out on the trot now!" From the gymnasium he went back to the house. As he came up the hall he heard a hum of voices from his room. "Dink's got the nerve, but what the deuce can he do against that Princeton line? Do you know how much he weighs? One hundred and fifty." Stover listened, smiled grimly. If they only knew his real weight! "Do you think he'll last it through?" "What, Dink?" said McCarthy's loyal voice. "You bet he'll last!" "Blamed shame he isn't at end!" "By ginger! he'd make the All-American if he was." "Yes, and now every one will jump on him for being a rotten fullback." "Dana be hanged!" Stover went back to the stairs and returned noisily At his entrance the crowd sprang up instinctively. He felt the sudden focus of anxious, critical glances. "Hello, fellows," he said gruffly. "Tough, help me to stow a few duds in my valise." "Sure I will!" Two or three hurried to help McCarthy, in grotesque, unconsciously humorous eagerness; others patted him on the back with exaggerated good spirits. "Dink, you look fine!" "All to the good." "Right on edge." "Dink, we're all rooting for you." "Every one of us." "You'll tear 'em up." "We're betting on you, old gazebo!" "Thanks!" He took the bag which McCarthy thrust upon him. Each solemnly shook his hand, thrilling at the touch, and Hungerford said: "Whatever happens, old boy, we're going to be proud of you." Stover stopped a moment, curiously moved, and obeying an instinct, said brusquely: "Yes, I'll take care of that." Then he went hurriedly out. That night, after supper--a meal full of nervous laughter and assumed spirits--two or three of the older coaches came in, and their spirit of hopefulness somehow communicated itself to the team. Other Yale elevens had risen at the last moment and snatched a victory--why not theirs? It lay with them, and during the week they certainly had forged ahead. Dink felt the infection and became almost convinced. Then Tompkins, moving around as the spirit of confidence, signaled him. "Come out here; I want a little pow-wow with you." They left the others and went out on the dim lawns with the lighted club-house at their backs, and Tompkins, drawing his arm through Stover's, began to speak: "Dink, we're in for a licking." "Oh, I say!" said Stover, overwhelmed. "But we have come on; we've come fast." "Stover, that's a great Princeton team," said Tompkins quietly, "and we're a weak Yale one. We're going to get well licked. Now, boy, I'm telling you this because I think you're the stuff to stand it; because you'll play better for knowing what's up to you." "I see." "It's going to depend a whole lot on you--how you hold up your end--how badly we're licked." "I know I'm the weak spot," said Stover, biting his lips. "You're a darn good player," said Tompkins, "and you're going to leave a great name for yourself; but this year you've had to be sacrificed. You've been put where you are because you've got nerve and a head. Now this is what I want from you. Know what you're up against and make your brain control that nerve--understand?" "Yes, I do." "You've got to do the kicking in the second half as well as in the first. You've got to keep your strength and not break it against a wall. You won't be called on for much rushing in the first half; you'll get a chance later. The line may go to pieces, the secondary defense may go to pieces; but, boy, if _you_ go to pieces, we'll be beaten thirty to nothing." "As bad as that!" "Every bit." "That's awful--a Yale team." He drew a long breath and then said: "What do you want me to do?" "I want you to get off every punt without having it blocked; and that's a good deal, with what you're up against." "Yes, sir." "And hold on to every punt that comes to you--no fumbling." "No fumbling--yes, sir." "And kick as you've never kicked before--every kick better as you go on. Put your whole soul into it." "I will." "You won't miss a tackle--I know that; but you'll have some pretty rum ones to make, and when you tackle, make them remember it." "Yes, sir." "But, Stover, above all, hold steadfast. Keep cool and remember the game's a long one. Boy, you don't know what it'll mean for some of us old fellows to see Yale go down, but out of it all we want to remember something that'll make us proud of you." He stopped, controlled the emotion that was in his voice, and said a little anxiously: "I tell you this because a first game is a terrible thing, and I didn't want you to be caught in a panic when you found what you were up against. And I tell you, Stover, because you're the sort of fighting stuff that'll fight harder when you know all there is to it is the fighting. Am I right?" "I hope so, sir." "And now, do a more difficult thing. Get right hold of yourself. Put everything out of your mind; go to bed and sleep." This last injunction, though he tried his best to obey it, was beyond Stover's power. He passed the night in fitful flashes of sleep. At times he awoke, full of a fever of eagerness from a dream of success. Then he would lie staring, it seemed for hours, at the thin path across the ceiling made by a street lamp, feeling all at once a weakness in the pit of his stomach, a physical horror of what the day would bring forth. The words of the coach framed themselves in a sort of rhythmic chant which went endlessly knocking through his brain: "Catch every punt--get off every kick--make every tackle." In the morning it was the same refrain, which never left him. He rose tired, with a limpness in every muscle, his head heavy as if bound across with biting bonds. He stood stupidly holding his wash-pitcher, looking out of the window, saying: "Good heavens! it's only a few hours off now." Then he began feebly to wash, repeating: "Get off every kick--every kick." Breakfast passed like a nightmare. He put something tasteless into his mouth, his jaws moved, but that was all. The brisk walk to chapel restored him somewhat, and the consciousness of holding himself before the gaze of the crowd. After first recitation, Regan joined him, and together they went across the campus, no longer the campus of the University, but beginning to swarm with strangers, and strange colors amid the blue. "How are you feeling?" said Regan in a fatherly sort of way, as they went through Phelps and out on to the Common. "Tom, my shoes stick to the ground, my knees are made of paper, and I'm hollow from one end to the other." "Fine!" "Oh, _is_ it?" "You'll be a bundle of fire on the field." "Let's not walk too far. We want to keep fresh," said Stover, feeling indeed as though every step was draining his energy. "Rats! let's saunter down Chapel Street and see the crowds come in." "You old rhinoceros, have you any nerves?" "Lots, but they're a different sort. By George, isn't it a wonderful sight?" Side by side with Regan, a certain shame steadied Stover. They went silently through the surging, arriving multitude, all intoxicated with the joy and zest of the great game. In and out, newsboys howling papers with headlines and pictures of the team thrust their wares before their eyes, while a pestiferous swarm of strange pedlers shrieked: "Get your colors here!" "Get your winnin' color." Suddenly Stover saw a headline--his name and the caption: STOVER THE WEAK SPOT "Let's get a paper," he said, nervously drawn to it. "No you don't," said Regan, who had seen it. "Come on, now, get out of here, some one might walk on your foot or stick a hatpin in your eye." "What time is it?" "Time to be getting back." "Tom, do you know how much I weigh?" said Stover irrelevantly. "What the deuce?" "I weigh one hundred and forty-one pounds," said Stover solemnly, as though imparting a State secret. "Go on, be loony if you want," said Regan. "I've seen bruisers before a fight act like high school girls. If you've got something on your mind, why talk it out, it'll do you good." "It's awful--it's awful," said Stover, shaking his head. "What's awful?" "It's awful to think I'm the weak spot, that if they only had a decent fullback there would be a chance. I've no right there--every one knows it, and every one's groaning about it." "Go on." "That's all," said Stover, a little angry. "Well, then come on, I'm getting hungry." "Hungry! Tom, I'd like to knock the spots out of you," said Dink, laughing despite himself. "Dink, old bantam," said Regan, resting his huge paw on Stover's shoulder in rough affection, "you're all right. I say so and I know it. Now shut up and come on." CHAPTER X Almost before he knew it Stover was in the car and the wheels were moving at last irresistibly toward the field. There was no longer any pretense in those last awful moments that had in them all the concentrated hopes and fears of the weeks that had rushed away. The faces of his own team-mates were only gray faces without identity. He saw some one's lips moving incessantly, but he did not remember whose they were. Opposite him, another man was bending over, his head hidden in his hands. Some one else at his side was nervously locking and unlocking his fingers, breathing short, hard breaths. He remembered only the stillness of it all, the forgetfulness of others, the set stares, and Charlie de Soto fidgeting on the seat and nervously humming something irrelevant. Caught up in this unreasoning intensity of a young nation, filled, too, with this exaggerated passion of combat, Stover leaned back limply. Outside, the street was choked with hilarious parties packed in rushing carriages, blue or orange-and-black. Horns and rattles sounded like tiny sounds in his ears, and his eyes saw only grotesque blurred shapes that swept across them. "I'll get 'em off--they won't block any on me--they mustn't," he said to himself, closing his eyes. Then, on top of the draining weakness that had him in its grip, came a sudden feeling of nausea, and he knew suddenly what the man opposite him with his head in his hands was fighting. He put his arms over the ledge of the door, and rested his head on them, too weak to care that every one saw him, gulping in the stinging air in desperation. All at once there came a grinding jerk and the car stopped. From the inside came Tompkins' angry, rasping voice: "Every one up! Get out there! Quick! On the jump!" Instinctively obedient, the vertigo left him, his mind cleared. He was out in the midst of the bobbing mass of blue sweaters, moving as in a nightmare through the black spectators, seeing ahead the mammoth stands, hearing the dull, engulfing roars as one hears at night the approaching surf. Then they were struggling through the human barriers, and he saw something green at the bottom of a stormy pit, and a great growing roar of welcome smote him as of a descending gale, the hysterical cry of the American multitude, a roar acclaiming Yale. "All ready!" said Dana's unrecognizable voice somewhere ahead. "On the trot, now!" Instantly he was sweeping on to the field and up along the frantic stands of suddenly released blue. All indecision, all weakness, went with the first hoarse cry from his own. Something hot and alive seemed to flow back into his veins, and with every stride the spongy turf underneath seemed to send its strength and vitality into his legs. From the other end of the field, through the somber crowd, an orange-and-black group was trickling, flowing into a band and sweeping out on the field, while the Princeton stands were surging to their feet, adding the mounting fury of their welcome to the deafening uproar that suddenly bound the arena in the gripping hollow of a whirlwind. "Line up, you blue devils," came Charlie de Soto's raucous cry. "On your toes. Get your teeth into it. Hard, now. Ha-a-ard!" He was in action immediately, thinking only of the signals, sweeping down the field, now to the right, now to the left, stumbling in his eagerness. "Enough," said the captain's voice, at last. "Get under your sweaters, fellows. Brown and Stover, start up some punts." Dana and Dudley went back to practise catching. Brown, the center, pigskin under hand, set himself for the pass, while Stover, blowing on his hands, measured his distance. Opposite, Bannerman, the Princeton fullback, was setting himself for a similar attempt. In the stands was a sudden craning hush as the great audience waited to see with its own eyes the disparity between the rival fullbacks. Stover, standing out, felt it all instinctively, with a little nervous tremor--the quick stir in the stands, the muttered comments, the tense turning of even the cheer leaders. Then the ball came shooting back to him. He caught it, turned it in his hands, and drove forward his leg with all his might. At the same moment, as if maliciously calculated, the great booming punt of Bannerman brought the Princeton stands, rollicking and gleeful, to their feet in a burst of triumph. In his own stands there was no answering shout Stover felt on his cheeks, under his eyes, two hot spots of anger. What did they know, who condemned him, of the sacrifice he had made, of the far more difficult thing he was doing? He remembered Tompkins' advice; he could not compete with Bannerman in the air. Deliberately he sent his next punt low, swift, striking the ground about thirty yards away and rolling treacherously another fifteen feet before Dudley, who had swerved out, could stop it. This time from the mass almost a groan went up. A sudden cold contempt for them, for everything, seized possession of Stover. He hated them all. He stooped, plucked a blade of grass, and stuck it defiantly between his teeth. "Shoot that back a little lower, Brown," he said with a sudden quick authority, and again and again he sent off his fast, low-rolling punts. "That's the stuff, Dink," said Tompkins, with a pat on the shoulder, "but you've got to get 'em off on the instant--remember that. Here, throw this sweater over you." "All right." He did not sit down, but walked back and forth with short steps, waiting for the interminable conference of the captains to be over. And again that same sinking, hollow feeling came over him in the suspense before the question that would be answered in the first shock of bodies. The feeling he felt ran through the thousands gathered only to a spectacle. The cheers grew faint, lacking vitality, and the stir of feet was a nerve-racked stir. Dink gazed up at the high benches, trying to forget the interval of seconds that must be endured. It did not seem possible that he was to go out before them all. It seemed rather that in a far-off consciousness he was the same loyal little shaver who had squirmed so often on the top line of the benches, clinging to his knees, biting his lips, and looking weakly on the ground. "All ready--get out, boys!" Dana came running back. Yale had won the toss and had chosen to kick off. Some one pulled his sweater from him, struck him a stinging slap between the shoulders, and propelled him on the field. "Yale this way!" They formed in a circle, heads down, arms locked over one another's shoulders, disputing the same air; and Dana, the captain, who believed in a victory, spoke: "Now, fellows, one word. It's up to us. Do you understand what that means? It's up to us to win, the way Yale has won in the past--and win we're going to, no matter how long it takes or what's against us. Now, get mad, every one of you. Run 'em right off their feet. That's all." The shoulders under Stover's left him. He went hazily to the place, a little behind the rest, where he knew he should go, waiting while Brown poised the football, waiting while the orange-and-black jerseys indistinctly scattered before him to their formation, waiting for the whistle for which he had waited all his life to release him. And for a third time his legs seemed to crumble, and the whole blurred scheme of stands and field to reel away from him, and his heart to be lying before him on the ground where he could lean over and pick it up. Then like a pistol shot the whistle went throbbing through his brain. He sprang forward as if out of the shell of himself, keen, alert, filled with a savage longing. Down the field a Princeton halfback had caught the ball and was squirming back. Then a sudden upheaval, and a mass was spread on the ground. "Guess he gained about fifteen on that," he said to himself. "They'll kick right off." Dana came running back to support him. Out of the sky like a monstrous bird something round, yellow, and squirming came floating toward him. He was forced to run back, misjudged it a little, reached out, half fumbled it, and recovered it with a plunging dive just as Cockerell landed upon him. "Get you next time, Dink," said the voice of his old school captain in his ear. Stover, struggling to his feet, looked him coolly in the eye. "No, you won't, Garry, and you know it. The next time I'm going back ten yards." "Well, boy, we'll see." They shook hands with a grim smile, while the field straggled up. He was lined up, flanked by Dana and Dudley, bending over, waiting for the signal. Three times De Soto, trying out the Princeton line, sent Dana plunging against the right tackle, barely gaining the distance. A fourth attempt being stopped for a loss, Stover dropped back for a kick on the second down. The ball came a little low, and with it the whole line seemed torn asunder and the field filled with the rush of converging bodies. To have kicked would have been fatal. He dropped quickly on the ball, covering it, under the shock of his opponents. Again he was back, waiting for the trial that was coming. He forgot that he was a freshman--forgot everything but his own utter responsibility. "You center men, hold that line!" he cried. "You give me a chance! Give me time!" Then the ball was in his hands, and, still a little hurried, he sent it too high over the frantic leaping rush, hurled to the ground the instant after. The exchange had netted Princeton twenty yards. A second time Bannerman lifted his punt, high, long, twisting and turning over itself in tricky spirals. It was a perfect kick, giving the ends exact time to cover it. Stover, with arms outstretched, straining upward, cool as a Yankee, knew, from the rushing bodies he did not dare to look at, what was coming. The ball landed in his convulsive arms, and almost exactly with it Garry Cockerell's body shot into him and tumbled him clear off the ground, crashing down; but the ball was locked in his arms in one of those catches of which the marvel of the game is, not that they are not made oftener, but that they are made at all. "Come on now, Yale," shouted Charlie De Soto's inflaming voice. "We've got to rip this line. Signal!" Two masses on center, two futile straining, crushing attempts, and again he was called on to kick. The tackles he had received had steadied him, driving from his too imaginative mind all consideration but the direct present need. He began to enjoy with a fierce delight this kicking in the very teeth of the frantic Princeton rushes, as he had stood on the beach waiting for great breakers to form above his head before diving through. On the fourth exchange of kicks he stood on his own goal-line. The test had come at last. Dana, furious at being driven back without a Princeton rush, came to him wildly. "Dink, you've got to make it good!" "Take that long-legged Princeton tackle when he comes through," he said quietly. "Don't worry about me." Luckily, they were over to the left side of the field. He chose his opening, and, kicking low, as Tompkins had coached him, had the joy of seeing the ball go flying over the ground and out of bounds at the forty-yard line. The Princeton team, springing into position, at last opened its attack. "Now we'll see," said Stover, chafing in the backfield. Using apparently but one formation, a circular mass, which, when directly checked, began to revolve out toward end, always pushing ahead, always concealing the runner, the Princeton attack surely, deliberately, and confidently rolled down the field like a juggernaut. From the forty-yard line to the thirty it came in two rushes, from the thirty to the twenty in three; and then suddenly some one was tricked, drawn in from the vital attack, and the runner, guarded by one interferer, swept past the unprotected end and set out for a touchdown. Stover went forward to meet them like a shot, frantic to save the precious yards. How he did it he never quite knew, but somehow he managed to fling himself just in front of the interferer and go down with a death grip on one leg of the runner. A cold sponge was being spattered over him, he was on his back fighting hard for his breath, when he again realized where he was. He tried to rise, remembering all at once. "Did I stop him?" "You bet you did." Regan and Dudley had their arms about him, lifting him and walking him up and down. "Get your breath back, old boy." "I'm all right." "Take your time; that Princeton duck hasn't come to yet!" He perceived in the opposite group something prone on the ground, and the sight was like a tonic. The ball lay inside the ten-yard line, within the sacred zone. In a moment, no longer eliminated, but close to the breathing mass, he was at the back of his own men, shrieking and imploring: "Get the jump, Yale!" "Throw them back, Yale!" "Fight 'em back!" "You've got to, Yale--you've got to!" Then, again and again, the same perfected grinding surge of the complete machine: three yards, two yards, two yards, and he was underneath the last mass, desperately blocking off some one who held the vital ball, hoping against hope, blind with the struggle, saying to himself: "It isn't a touchdown! It can't be! We've stopped them! It's Yale's ball!" Some one was squirming down through the gradually lightening mass. A great weight went from his back, and suddenly he saw the face of the referee seeking the exact location of the ball. "What is it?" he asked wildly. "Touchdown." Some one dragged him to his feet, and, unnoticing, he leaned against him, gazing at the ball that lay just over the goal-line, seeing with almost a bull-like rage the Princeton substitutes frantically capering up and down the line, hugging one another, agitating their blankets, turning somersaults. "Line up, Yale," said the captain's unyielding voice, "this is only the beginning. We'll get 'em." But Stover knew better. The burst of anger past, his head cleared. That Princeton team was going to score again, by the same process, playing on his weakness, exchanging punts, hoping to block one of his until within striking distance, and the size of the score would depend on how long he could stand it off. "Goal," came the referee's verdict, and with it another roar from somewhere. He went up the field looking straight ahead, hearing, like a sound in a memory, a song of jubilation and the brassy accompaniment of a band. Again the same story: ten, fifteen yards gained on every exchange of kicks, and a slow retrogression toward their own goal. Time and again they flung themselves against a stronger line, in a vain effort to win back the last yards. Once, in a plunge through center, he found an opening, and went plunging along for ten yards; but at the last the ball was Princeton's on the thirty-five-yard line, and a second irresistible march bore Yale back, fighting and frantic over the line for the second score. Playing became an instinct with him. He no longer feared the soaring punts that came tumbling to him from the clouds. His arms closed around them like tentacles, and he was off for the meager yards he could gain before he went down with a crash. He no longer felt the shock of the desperate tackles he was called on to make, nor the stifling pressure above him when he flung himself under the serried legs of the mass. He had but one duty--to be true to what he had promised Tompkins: not to fumble, not to miss a tackle, to get each punt off clean. All at once, as he was setting in position, a body rushed in, seizing the ball. "Time!" The first half was over, and the score was: Princeton, 18; Yale, 0. Then all at once he felt his weariness. He went slowly, grimly with the rest back to the dressing-room. A group of urchins clustering to a tree shrieked at them: "O you Yaleses!" He heard that, and that was all he heard. A sort of rebellion was in him. He had done all that he could do, and now they would haul him over the coals, thinking that was what he needed. "Oh, I know what'll be said," he thought grimly. "We'll be told we can win out in the second, and all that rot." Then he was in the hands of the rubbers, having his wet, clinging suit stripped from him, being rubbed and massaged. He did not want to look at his comrades, least of all Dana. He only wanted to get back, to have it over with. "Yale, I want you to listen to me." He looked up. In the center stood Tompkins, preternaturally grave, trembling a little with nervous, uncontrollable twitches of his body. "You're up against a great Princeton team--the greatest I remember. You can't win. You never had a chance to win. But, Yale, you're going to do something to make us proud of you. You're going to hold that score where it is! Do you hear me? All you've got left is your nerve and the chance to show that you can die game. That's all you're going to do; but, by heaven, you're going to do that! You're going to die game, Yale! Every mother's son of you! And when the game's over we're going to be prouder of your second half than the whole blooming Princeton bunch over their first. There's your chance. Make us rise up and yell for you. Will you, Yale?" He passed from man to man, advising, exhorting, or storming, until he came to Stover. "Dink," he said, putting out his hand and changing his tone suddenly, "I haven't a word to say to you. Play the game as you've been doing--only play it out." Stover felt a sudden rush of shame; all the fatigue left him as if by magic. "If Charlie'll only give me a few chances at the center. I know I could gain there," he said eagerly. "You'll get a chance later on, perhaps, but you've quite enough to do now." The second view of the arena was clear to him, even to insignificant details. He thought the cheer leaders, laboring muscularly with their long megaphones, strangely out of place--especially a short, fat little fellow in a white voluminous sweater. He saw in the crowd a face or two that he recognized--Bob Story in a group of pretty girls, all superhumanly glum and cast down. Then he had shed his sweater and was out on the field, back under the goal-posts, ready for the bruising second half to begin. "All ready, Yale!" "All ready." Again the whistle and the rush of bodies. Dana caught the ball, and, shifting and dodging, shaking off the first tacklers, carried it back twenty yards. Two short, jamming plunges by Dudley, through Regan, who alone was outplaying his man, yielded first down. Then an attempt at Cockerell's end brought a loss and the inevitable kick. Instead of a return punt, the Princeton eleven prepared to rush the ball. "Why the deuce do they do that?" he thought, biting his fingers nervously. Opening up their play, Princeton swept out toward Bangs's end, forcing it back for four yards, and immediately made first down with a long, sweeping lunge at the other end. Suddenly Stover, in the backfield, watching like a cat, started forward with a cry. Far off to one side, a Princeton back, unperceived, was bending down, pretending to be fastening one of his shoe-laces. "Look out--look out to the left!" His cry came too late. The Princeton quarter made a long toss straight across, twenty yards, to the loitering half, who caught it and started down field clear of the line of scrimmage. A Princeton forward tried to intercept him, but Stover flung him aside, and, without waiting, went forward at top speed to meet the man who came without flinching to his tackle. It was almost head on, and the shock, which left Stover stunned, instinctively clinging to his man, sent the ball free, where Dana pounced upon it. "Holy Mike, what a tackle!" said Regan's voice. "Any bones broken?" "Of course not," he said gruffly. Some one insisted on sponging his face, much to his disgust. "How's the other fellow?" he said grimly. "He's a tough nut; he's up, too!" "He must be." The recovery of the ball gave them a short respite, but it served also to enrage the other line, which rose up and absolutely smothered the next plays. Again his kick seemed to graze the outstretched fingers of the Princeton forwards, and he laughed a strange laugh which he remembered long after. This time the punting duel was resumed until, well within Yale territory, Cockerell looked around and gave the signal for attack. "Now, Yale, stop it, stop it!" Dink said, talking to himself. But there was no stopping that attack. Powerless, not daring to approach, he saw the blue line bend back again and again, and the steady, machine-like rolling up of the orange and black. Over the twenty-five-yard line it came, and on past the twenty. "Oh, Yale, will you let 'em score again?" De Soto was shrieking. "You're on your ten-yard line, Yale." "Hold them!" "Hold them!" Two yards at a time, they were rolled back with a mathematical, unfeeling precision. "Third down; two yards to go!" "Yale, stop it!" "Yale!" And stop it they did, by a bare six inches. Behind the goal-line, Charlie De Soto came up, as he stood measuring his distance for a kick. "How are you, Dink? Want a bit of a rest--sponge-off?" "Rest be hanged!" he said fiercely. "Come on with that ball." Suddenly, instead of kicking low and off to the right, he sent the ball straight down the field with every ounce of strength he could put in it. The punt, the best he had made, catching the back by surprise, went over his head, rolling up the field before he could recover it. A great roar went up from the Yale stands, fired by the spirit of resistance. Thereafter it had all a grim sameness, except, in a strange way, it seemed to him that nothing that had gone before counted--that everything they were fighting for was to keep their goal-line inviolate. Nothing new seemed to happen. When he went fiercely into a mêlée, finding his man somehow, or felt the rush of bodies about him as he managed each time to get clear his punt, he had the same feeling: "Why, I've done this before." A dozen times they stopped the Princeton advance, sometimes far away and sometimes near, once within the five-yard line. Every moment, now, some one cried wearily: "What's the time?" The gray of November twilights, the haze that settles over the struggles of the gridiron like the smoke of a battle-field, began to close in. And then a sudden fumble, a blocked kick, and by a swift turn of luck it was Yale's ball for the first time in Princeton's territory. One or two subs came rushing in eagerly from the side lines. Every one was talking at once: "What's the time?" "Five minutes more." "Get together, Yale!" "Show 'em how!" "Ram it through them!" "Here's our chance!" Stover, beside himself, ran up to De Soto and flung his arms about his neck, whispering in his ear: "Give me a chance--you must give me a chance! Send me through Regan!" He got his signal, and went into the breach with every nerve set, fighting his way behind the great bulk of Regan for a good eight yards. A second time he was called on, and broke the line for another first down. Regan was transformed. All his calm had gone. He loomed in the line like a Colossus, flinging out his arms, shouting: "We're rotten, are we? Carry it right down the field, boys!" Every one caught the infection. De Soto, with his hand to his mouth, was shouting hoarsely, through the bedlam of cheers, his gleeful slogan: "We don't want to live forever, boys! What do we care? We've got to face Yale after this. Never mind your necks. We've got the doctors! A little more murder, now! Shove that ball down that field, Yale! Send them back on stretchers! Nineteen--eight--six--four--Ha-a-ard!" Again and again Stover was called on, and again and again, with his whole team behind him or Regan's great arm about him, struggling to keep his feet, crawling on his knees, fighting for every last inch, he carried the ball down the field twenty, thirty yards on. He forgot where he was, standing there with blazing eyes and colorless face. He forgot that he was only the freshman, as he had that night in the wrestling bout. He gave orders, shouted advice, spurred them on. He felt no weariness; nothing could tire him. His chance had come at last. He went into the line each time blubbering, laughing with the fierce joy of it, shouting to himself: "I'm the weak spot, am I? I'll show them!" And the certainty of it all overwhelmed him. Nothing could stop him now. He knew it. He was going to score. He was going to cross that line only fifteen yards away. "Give me that ball again!" he cried to De Soto. Then something seemed to go wrong. De Soto and Dudley were shrieking out something, protesting wildly. "What's wrong?" he cried. "They're calling time on us!" "No, no, it's not possible! It's not time!" He turned hysterically, beseechingly, catching hold of the referee's arm, not knowing what he did. "Mr. Referee, it isn't time. Mr. Referee--" "Game's over," said Captain Dana's still voice. "Get together, Yale. Cheer for Princeton now. Make it a good one!" But no one heard them in the uproar that suddenly went up. Nature could not hold out; the disappointment had been too severe. Stover stood with his arms on Regan's shoulders, and together they bowed their heads and went choking through the crowd. Others rushed around him--he thought he heard Tompkins saying something. He seemed lost in the crowd that stared at him, struggling to hold back his grief. Only one figure stood out distinctly--the figure of a white-haired man, who took off his hat to him as he went through the barrier, and shouted something unintelligible--a strangely excited white-haired man. All the way back to the gymnasium, through the jubilant street, Dink sat staring out unseeing, his eyes blurred, a great lump in his throat, possessed by a fatigue such as he had never known before. No one spoke. Through his own brain ceaselessly the score, strangely jumbled, went its tiring way: "Eighteen to nothing--to nothing! Eighteen to six--it should have been eighteen to six. Eighteen to nothing. It's awful--awful! If I only could punt!" His ideal, his dream of a Yale team, had always been of victory, not like this, to go down powerless, swept aside, routed--to such a defeat! Then he shut his eyes, fighting over again those last desperate rushes against defeat, against hope, against time, unable to believe it was over. "How many times did I take that ball?" he thought wearily. "Was it seven or eight? If I'd only got free that last time--kept my feet!" He remembered flashes of that last frenzy--the face of a Princeton rusher who reached for him and missed, the teeth savage as a wolf's and the strained mouth. He saw again Regan turning around to pull him through, Regan, the brute, raging like a fury. He remembered the quick, strange white looks that Charlie De Soto had given him, wondering each time if he had the strength to go on. Why had they stopped them? They had a right to that last rally! "Eighteen to nothing. Poor Dana--I wonder what he'll do?" He remembered, in a far-off way, tales he had heard of other captains, disgraced by defeat, breaking down, leaving college, disappearing. He dreaded the moment when they should break silence, when the awful thing must be talked over, there in the gymnasium, feeling acutely all the misery and ache Dana must be feeling. "All right there, Stover? Let yourself go, if you want to." The voice was Tompkins', who was looking up at him anxiously, the gymnasium at his back. "All right," he said gruffly, raising himself with an effort and half slipping to the ground. "Sure? How's Dudley?" He realized in a curious way that others, too, had gone through the game. Then Regan's arm was around him. He did not put it from him, grateful for any support in his weakness. Together they went through the crowd of ragamuffins staring open-mouthed at a defeated team. "What's the matter with Dudley?" "Played through all the last with a couple of broken ribs." "Dudley?" "Yes. Go as slow as you want, old bantam." "If we only could have had another minute, Tom--" He stopped, unable to go on, shaking his head. "I know, I know." "It was tough." "Darned tough." "I thought we were going to do it." "Now, you shut up, young rooster. Don't think of it any more. You played like a fiend. We're proud of you." "Poor Dana!" Upstairs a couple of rubbers took charge of him, stripping him and rubbing him rigorously. Two or three coaches came up to him, gripping him with silent grips, patting him on the back. The cold bite of the shower brought back some of his vitality, and he dressed mechanically with the squad, who had nothing to say to one another. "Yale, I want to talk to you boys a moment." He looked up. In the center of the room was Rivers, coach of coaches, around whom the traditions of football had been formed. Stover looked at him dully, wondering how he could stand there filled with such energy. "Now, boys, the game's over. We've lost. It's our turn; we've got to stand it. One thing I want you to remember when you go out of here. _Yale teams take their medicine!_" His voice rose to a nervous staccato, and the sharp, cold eye seemed to look into every man, just as at school the Doctor used to awe them. "Do you understand? Yale teams take their medicine! No talking, no reasoning, no explanations, no excuses, and no criticism! The thing's over and done. We'll have a dinner to-night, and we'll start in on next year; and next year nothing under the sun's going to stop us! Go out; take off your hats! A great Princeton team licked you--licked you well! That's all. You deserved to score. You didn't. Hard luck. But those who saw you try for it won't forget it! We're proud of that second half! No talk, now, about what might have happened; no talk about what you're going to do. Shut up! Remember--grin and take your medicine." "Mr. Rivers, I'd like to say a few words." Stover, with almost a feeling of horror, saw Dana step forward quietly, purse his lips, look about openly, and say: "Mr. Rivers, I understand what you mean, and what's underneath it all, and I thank you for it. At the same time, it's up to me to take the blame, and I'm not going to dodge it. I've been a poor captain. I thought I knew more than you did, and I didn't. I've made one fool blunder after another. But I did it honestly. Well, that doesn't matter--let that go. I say this because it's right, too, I should take my medicine, and because I don't want next year's captain to botch the job the way I've done. And now, just a word to you men. You've done everything I asked you to do, and kept your mouths shut, no matter what you thought of it. You've been loyal, and you'll be loyal, and there'll be no excuses outside. But I want you men to know that I'll remember it, and I want to thank you. That's all." Instantly there was a buzz of voices, and one clear note dominating it--Regan's voice, stirred beyond thought of self: "Boys, we're going to give that captain a cheer. Are you ready? Hip--hip!" Somehow the cry that went up took from Dink all the sting of defeat. He went out, head erect, back to meet his college, no longer shrinking from the ordeal, proud of his captain, proud of his coach, and proud of a lesson he had learned bigger than a victory. CHAPTER XI After the drudgery of the football season he had a few short weeks of gorgeous idleness, during which he browsed through a novel a day, curled up on his window-seat, rolling tobacco clouds through the fog of smokers in the room. He had won his spurs and the right to lounge, and he looked forward eagerly to the rest of the year as a time for reading and the opening up of the friendships of which he had dreamed. Old age settled down rapidly upon him, and at eighteen that malady appears in its most virulent form. Perhaps there was a little justification. The test he had gone through had educated him to self-control in its most difficult form. He was not simply the big man of the class, the first to emerge to fame, but the prospective captain of a future Yale eleven. A certain gravity was requisite--moreover, it was due the University. To have seen the burning letters S-T-O-V-E-R actually vibrating on the front pages of metropolitan papers, to have gazed on his distinguished (though slightly smudged) features, ruined by an unfeeling photographer, but disputing nevertheless the public attention with statesmen and champions of the pugilistic ring--to have felt these heavenly sensations at the age of eighteen could not be lightly disguised. So he lay back among welcome cushions, book in hand, and listened with a tolerant ear to the rapid-fire comedy of McNab and Buck Waters. He stayed much in his own room, which became a sort of lounging spot where the air was always blue with smoke and a mandolin or guitar was strumming a low refrain or a group near the fireplace was noisy with the hazards of the national game. Pretty much every one of importance in the class dropped in on him. The preliminary visiting period of the sophomore societies was nearly over. With the opening of the winter term the hold-offs and elections would begin. He understood that those who were uncertain wished the advantage of being seen in his company--that his, in fact, was now the "right" crowd. He intended to call on several men who interested him: Brockhurst, who had made his appearance with a story in the _Lit_ which announced him as a possible future chairman; Gimbel, about whose opinions and sincerity he was in doubt; and, above all, Regan, who genuinely attracted him. But, somehow, having now nothing to do, his afternoons and evenings seemed always filled, and he continually postponed until the morrow what suggested itself during the day. Besides, there was a complacent delight in being his own master again and of looking forward to such a period of independent languor. The first discordant note to intrude itself upon this ideal was a remark of Le Baron's during one of the evening visits. These embassies were always conducted with punctiliousness and gravity. The inquisitorial sophomores arrived about eight o'clock in groups of three and four. As McCarthy was the object of attention from a different society, Stover, when the former's inspectors arrived, shook hands gravely, and shortly discovered that he had a letter to post at the corner. When the committee on Stover appeared trimly at the door, McCarthy rose at once to return a hypothetical book, after which the conversation began with about as much spontaneity and zest as would be permitted to a board of alienists sitting in judgment on a victim. The sophomores were embarrassed with their own impromptu dignity, and the freshmen at the constraint of their superiors. On one such occasion, after the committee of four had spent fifteen minutes in the grave discussion of a kindergarten topic, and had filed out with funereal solemnity, Le Baron returned for a more intimate conversation. Since the night of his introduction to college, Stover had had only occasional glimpses of Le Baron. True, he was generally of the visiting committee that called every other night for perfunctory inspection, but through it all the sophomore had adopted an attitude of almost defensive aloofness and impartiality. "I want to talk over some of the men in the class," said Le Baron, falling into an arm-chair and picking up a pipe, while his manner changed to naturalness and equality. Stover understood at once that the attitude was a notice served on him of the security of his own position. "Dink, I want to know your opinion. What do you think of Brockhurst, for instance?" "Brockhurst? Why, I hardly know him." "Is he liked?" "Why, yes." "Who are his friends?" Stover thought a moment. "Why, I think he rather keeps to himself. He strikes me as being--well, a little undeveloped--rather shy." "Do you like him? "I do." "And Schley?" The question was put abruptly, Le Baron raising his eyes to get his answer from Stover's face. "Schley?" said Dink, considering a little. "Why, Schley seems to--" "Regan?" said Le Baron, satisfied. "One of the best in the class!" "He seems a rather rough diamond." "He's proud as Lucifer--but he has more to him than any one I know." "It's a question what he'll do." "I'd back him every time." "You are quite enthusiastic about him," said Le Baron, looking at him with a little quizzical surprise. "He's a man," said Stover stoutly. "Of course, the football captaincy will probably be between you two." "Regan?" said Stover, amazed. "Either you or Regan." Stover had never thought of him as a rival for his dearest ambition. He remained silent, digesting the possibility, aware of Le Baron's searching inquiry. "Of course, you have nine chances out of ten, but the race is a long one." "He would make a good captain," Stover said slowly. "You think so?" "I hadn't thought of it before," Stover said, with a sudden falling inside, "but he has the stuff in him of a leader all right." "I wish he weren't quite so set," said Le Baron. "He hasn't made a particularly favorable impression on some of the fellows." An involuntary smile came to Stover at the thought of Regan's probable reception of a committee of inspection. "He doesn't perhaps realize the importance of some things," he said carefully. "He doesn't," said Le Baron, who was not without a sense of humor. "It's a pity, though, for his sake. I wish you'd talk to him a little." "I will." Le Baron rose. "By the way, what are you going out for this spring?" "This spring?" said Stover, surprised. "Ever rowed any?" "Never." "That doesn't make any difference. You learn the stroke quicker--no bad habits." "I'm light as mischief." "Oh, I don't know--not for the freshman. We want to stimulate the interest in rowing up here. It's a good example for a man like you to come out. Ever done anything in baseball or the track?" "No." "Rowing's the stunt for you." He went toward the door, and turned. "Have a little chat with Regan. I admire the fellow, but he needs to rub up a bit with you fellows and get the sharp edges off him. By the way, when you start rowing I'll get hold of you and give you a little extra coaching." When McCarthy came grinning through the door, he found Dink, his legs drawn up Turkish fashion, staring rebelliously at the ceiling. "Hello! In love, or what?" said Tough, stopping short. "Recovering, perhaps, from the brilliant conversation?" "By George, I'm not going out for anything more!" said Dink, between his teeth. "Heavens! haven't you slaved enough?" "You bet I have. I'll be hanged if I'm going through here--just varsity material. I'm going to be a little while my own master." "You think so?" said McCarthy, with a short, incredulous laugh. "Every one's doing something." McCarthy was a candidate for the baseball nine. "Have you heard anything about Regan?" said Stover, between puffs. "In what way?" "Have any of the sophomores been around to see him?" McCarthy exploded into laughter. "_Have_ they? Didn't you hear what happened?" "No. What?" "They spent half the night locating his diggings, and when they got them the old rhinoceros wouldn't receive them." "Why not?" "Hadn't time, he said, to be fooling with them." "The old chump!" "Lucky dog," said McCarthy, between his teeth. "I wish I had the nerve to do the same." "What the deuce?" "It makes me boil! I can't sit up and have a solemn bunch of fools look me over. I can't be natural." "It's give and take," said Dink, smiling. "You'll think yourself the lord of the universe next year." "I'm not so sure," said McCarthy, gloomily. "Rats!" "Oh, you--you've a cinch," said McCarthy. "They're not picking you to pieces and dissecting you. Half the crowd that come to see me have got some friends in the class they'd rather see in than me. I'm darned uncertain, and I know it." Stover, who believed the contrary, laughed at him. He rose and went out, determined to find Regan and make him understand conditions. His walk led him along the dark ways of College Street into the forgotten street where, under the roof of a bakery, Regan had found a breathing-hole for five dollars a month. For the first time a little feeling of jealousy went through Stover as he swung along. Why should he help build up the man who might snatch from him his ambition? Why the deuce had Le Baron mentioned Regan as a possible captain? No one else thought of such a thing. Compared to him, Regan was a novice in football knowledge and experience. Still, it was true that the man had a stalwart, unflinching way of moving on that impressed. There was a danger there with which he must reckon. He found Regan in carpet slippers and sweater, bending grimly over the next day's Greek as if it were a rock to be shattered with the weight of his back. "8-16-6-9-47," said Stover, in a hallo, giving the signal that had sent him through the center. Regan started up. "Hello, Dink, old bantam; glad to hear your voice." Stover entered, with a glance at the room. A cot, a bureau, a washstand reënforced by ropes, a pine table scorched and blistered, and a couple of chairs were the entire equipment. Half the gas globe was left and two-thirds of the yellow-green shade at the window. In the corner was the battle-scarred valise which had brought Regan's whole effects to college. "Boning out the Greek?" said Stover, placing a straight chair against the wall so that his feet could find the ledge of the window. "Wrestling with it." "Don't you use a trot?" said Stover in some surprise, perceiving the absence of the handy, literal short-cut to recitation. "Can't afford to." "Why not?" said Stover, wondering if Regan was a gospel shark, after all. "I've got too much to learn," said Regan, leaning back and elevating his legs in the national position. "You know something; I don't. You can bluff; I'm a rotten bluffer. I've got to train my whole mind, lick it into shape and make it work for me, if I'm going to do what I want." "Tom, what are you aiming for?" "You'd never guess." "Well, what?" "Politics." "Politics?" said Stover, opening his mouth. "Exactly," said Regan, puffing at his corncob pipe. "I want to go back out West and get in the fight. It's a glorious fight out there. A real fight. You don't know the West, Stover." "No." "We believe in something out there, and we get up and fight for it--independence, new ideas, clean government, hard fighters." "I hadn't thought of you that way," said Stover, more and more surprised. "That's the only thing I care about," said Regan frankly. "I've come from nothing, and I believe in that nothing. But to do anything I've got to get absolute hold of myself." "Tom, you ought to get in with the fellows more. You ought to know all kinds," said Stover, feeling an opening. "I will, when I get the right," said Regan, nodding. "Why the devil don't you let the University help you out a while? You can pay it back," said Stover angrily. "Never! I know it could be done, but not for me," said Regan, shaking his head. "What I need is the hardest things to come up against, and I'm not going to dodge them." "Still, you ought to be with us; you ought to make friends." "I'm going to do that," said Regan, nodding. "I'm going to get in at South Middle after Christmas and perhaps get some work in the Coöp." He took up a sheet of paper jotted over with figures. "I'm about fifty dollars to the good; a couple of weeks' work at Christmas will bring that up about twenty more. If I can make a hundred and fifty this summer I'll have a good start. I want to do it, because I want to play football. It's bully! I like the fight in it!" "What sort of work will you do?" said Stover curiously. "I may go in the surface cars down in New York." "Driving?" "Sure. They get good pay. I could get work in the mines--I've done that--but it's pretty tough." "But, Tom, what the deuce do you pick out the hardest grind for? Make friends with fellows who only want to know you and like you, and you'll get a dozen openings where you'll make twice what you get at manual labor." "Well, there's this to it," said Regan ruminatively, "It's an opportunity I won't always have." "What the deuce do you mean?" "The opportunity to meet the fellow who gets the grind of life--to understand what he thinks of himself, and especially what he thinks of those above him. I won't have many more chances to see him on the ground floor, and some day I've got to know him well enough to convince him. See? By the way, it would be a good college course for a lot of you fellows if you got in touch with the real thing also." "Are you a socialist?" said Stover, who vaguely associated the term with dynamite and destruction. "I may be, but I don't know it." "I say, Tom, do you go in for debating and all that sort of thing?" "You bet I do; but it comes hard as hen's teeth." Stover, who had waited for an opportunity to volunteer advice, finding no opening, resolved to take the dilemma by the horns. "Tom, I think you're wrong about one thing." "What's that?" "Holding aloof so much." "Particularly what?" "I'm thinking about sophomore societies, for one thing. Why the deuce don't you give the fellows a chance to help you?" "Oh, you mean the dinky little bunch that came around to call on me," said Regan thoughtfully. "Yes. Now, why turn them out?" "Why, they bored me, and, besides, I haven't time for anything like that. There are too many big things here." "They can help you like the mischief, now and afterward." "Thanks; I'll help myself. Besides, I don't want to get their point of view." "Why not?" "Too limited." "Have you been talking to Gimbel?" said Stover, wondering. "Gimbel? No; why?" "Because he is organizing the class against them." "That doesn't interest me, either." "What do you make of Gimbel?" "Gimbel's all right; a good politician." "Is he sincere?" "Every one's sincere." "You mean every one's convinced of his own sincerity." "Sure; easiest person in the world to convince." Stover laughed a little consciously, wondering for a brief moment if the remark could be directed at him. Curiously enough, the more the blunt antagonism of Regan impressed him, the more he was reassured that the man was too radical ever to challenge his leadership. He rose to go, his conscience satisfied by the half-hearted appeal he had made. "I say, Dink," said Regan, laying his huge paw on his shoulder, "don't get your head turned by this social business." "Heavens, no!" "'Cause there's some real stuff in you, boy, and some day it's coming out. Thanks, by the way, for wanting to make me a society favorite." Dink left with a curious mixture of emotions. Regan always had an ascendency over him he could not explain. It irritated him that he could not shake it off, and yet he was genuinely chained to the man. "Why the deuce did Le Baron put that in my head?" he said to himself, for the tenth time. "If Regan beats me out for captain it'll only be because he's older and has got a certain way about him. Well, I suppose if I'm to be captain I've got to close up more; I can't go cutting up like a kid. I've got to be older." He resolved to be more dignified, more melancholy, shorter of speech, and consistent in gravity. For the first time he felt what it meant to calculate his chances. Before, everything had come to him easily. He had missed the struggle and the heartburnings. Now, suddenly, a shadow had fallen across the open road, the shadow of one whom he had regarded as a sort of protégé. He had thoughts of which he was ashamed, for at the bottom he was glad that Regan would not be of a sophomore society--that that advantage would be denied him; and, a little guiltily, he wondered if he had tried as hard as he might have to show him the opportunity. "If they ever know him as I do," he said, with a generous revulsion, "he'll be the biggest thing in the class." York Street and the busy windows of Pierson Hall came into his vision. A group of sophomores, ending their tour of visits, passed him, saluting him cordially. He thought all at once, with a sharp rebellion, how much freer Regan was, with his own set purpose, than he under the tutelage of Le Baron. "I wonder what I'd do if no darn sophomore societies existed," he said to himself thoughtfully. And then, going up the stairs to his room, he said to McCarthy as he entered: "I guess, after all, I'll get out and slave again this spring--might as well heel the crew. I'm just varsity material--that's all!" CHAPTER XII The first weeks of the competition for the crew were not exacting, and consisted mostly of eliminating processes. Stover had consequently still enough leisure to gravitate naturally into that necessity of running into debt which comes to every youth who has just won the privilege of a yearly allowance; the same being solemnly understood to cover all the secret and hidden needs of the flesh as well as those that are outwardly exposed to the admiration of the multitude. Now, the lure of personal adornment and the charm of violent neckties and outrageous vests had come to him naturally, as such things come, shortly after the measles, under the educating influence of a hopeless passion which had passed but had left its handiwork. About a week after the opening of the term, Stover was drifting down Chapel Street in the company of Hungerford and McCarthy, when, in the window of the most predatory haberdasher's, he suddenly was fascinated by the most beautiful thing he had ever seen adorning a window. A tinge of masculine modesty prevented his remaining in struck admiration before it, especially in the presence of McCarthy and Hungerford, whose souls could rest content in jerseys and sweaters; but half an hour later, slipping away, he returned, fascinated. Chance had been kind to him. It was still there, the most beautiful green shirt he had ever beheld--not the diluted green of ordinary pistache ice-cream, but the deep, royal hue of a glorious emerald! He had once, in the school days when he was blossoming into a man of fashion, experienced a similar sensation before a cravat of pigeon-blood red. He peered through the window to see if any one he knew was present, and glanced up the street to assure himself that a mob was not going to collect. Then he entered nonchalantly. The clerk, who recognized him, greeted him with ingratiating unction. "Glad to see you here, Mr. Stover. What can I do for you?" "I thought I'd look at some shirts," he said, in what he believed a masterly haphazard manner. "White lawn--something with a thin stripe?" "Well, something in a color--solid color." He waited patiently, considering solicitously twenty inconsequential styles, until the spruce clerk, casually producing the one thing, said: "Would that appeal to you?" "It's rather nice," he said, gazing at it. Entranced, he stared on. Then a new difficulty arose. People didn't enter a shop just to purchase one shirt, and, besides, he was known. So he selected three other shirts and added the beautiful green thing to them in an unostentatious manner, saying: "Send around these four shirts, will you? What's the tax?" "Very pleased to have you open an account, Mr. Stover," said the clerk. "Pay when you like." Stover took this as a personal tribute to his public reputation. Likewise, it opened up to him startling possibilities, so he said in a bored way: "I suppose I might just as well." "Thank you, Mr. Stover--thank you very much! Anything more? Some rather tasty neckties here for conservative dressers. Collars? Something like this would be very becoming to you. We've just got in a very smart line of silk socks. All the latest bonton styles. Look them over--you don't need to buy anything." When Stover finally was shown to the door, he had clandestinely and with great astuteness acquired the green shirt on the following terms: One green shirt (imported) $ 5 Three decoy shirts 9 Four silk ties (to go with green shirt) 8 One dozen Roxburgh turndown collars (to complete same) 3 One dozen Gladstone collars (an indiscretion) 3 One half dozen silk socks (bonton style) 12 ---- Total for one green shirt $40 By the time he had made this mental calculation he was half way up the block. Then, his extravagance overwhelming him, he virtuously determined to send back the Gladstone collars, to show the clerk that, while he was a man of fashion, he still had a will of his own. Refreshed then by this firm conscientious resolve, he went down York Street, where he was hailed by Hungerford from an upper story, and went in to find a small group sitting in inspection of several bundles of tailoring goods which were being displayed in the center of the room by a little bow-legged Yankee with an open appealing countenance. "I say, Dink, you ought to get in on this," said Hungerford at his entrance. "What's the game?" "Here's a wonderful chance. Little bright-eyes here has got a lot of goods dirt cheap and he's giving us the first chance. You see it's this way: he travels for a firm and the end of the season he gets all the samples for himself, so he can let them go dirt cheap." "Half price," said the salesman nodding. "Half price on everything." "I've bought a bundle," said Troutman. "It's wonderful goods." "How much?" said Stover, considering. "Only twenty dollars for enough to make up a suit. Twenty's right, isn't it, Skenk?" "Twenty for this--twenty-two for that. You remember I said twenty-two." "Let me see the stuff," said Stover, as though he had been the mainstay of custom tailors all his life. Now the crowd was a New York one, a little better groomed than their companions, affecting the same predilections for indiscreet vests and modish styles that would make them appreciative of the supremacy of green in the haberdashery arts. "This is rather good style," he said, with a glance at Troutman's genteel trousers. "What sort of goods do you call it?" "Imported Scotch cheviot," said the salesman in a confidential whisper. Stover looked again at Troutman, who tried discreetly, without being seen by the unsuspecting Yankee, to convey to him in a look the fact that it was a crime to acquire the goods at such a price. Thus tipped off, Dink bought a roll that had in it a distinct reminiscent tinge of green, and saw it carried to the house, for fear the salesman should suddenly repent of the sacrifice. At half past eight that night, as he and Tough McCarthy were painfully excavating a bit of Greek prose for the morrow, McNab came rushing in. "Get out, Dopey, we're boning," said McCarthy, reaching for a tennis racket. "Boys, the greatest bargain you ever heard," said McNab excitedly, "come in before it's too late!" "Bargain?" said Stover, frowning, for the word was beginning to cloy. McNab, with a show of pantomime, squinted behind the window curtains and opened the closet door. "Look here, Dopey, you get out," said Tough, wrathfully, "you're faking." "I'm looking for customs officers," said McNab mysteriously. "What! I say, what's this game?" "Boys, we've got a couple of _Cuba libre_ dagos rounded up and dancing on a string." "For the love of Mike, Dopey, be intelligible." "It's cigars," said McNab at last. "Don't want them!" "But it's smuggled cigars!" "Oh!" "Wonderful, pure Havanas, priceless, out of a museum." "You don't say so." "And all for the cause of _Cuba libre_. You're for _Cuba libre_, aren't you?" "Sure we are." "Well, these men are patriots." "Who found them?" "Buck Waters. They were just going into Pierson Hall to let the sophs have all the candy. Buck side-tracked them and started them down our row. Hungerford bought twenty-five dollars' worth." "Twenty-five? Holy cats!" "For the cause of _Cuba libre_! Joe is very patriotic. All the boys came up handsomely." "Are they good cigars?" said Dink who, since his purchases of the day, was not exactly moved to tears by the financial needs of an alien though struggling nation. "My boy, immense! Wait till you smoke one!" At this moment there came a gentle scratching at the door, and a chocolate pair appeared, with Buck Waters in the background. "Emanuel Garcia and Henry Clay!" said McNab irreverently. "They smuggled the cigars right through the Spanish lines," said Waters who, from constant recital, had caught the spirit of unconquerable revolution. "How do you know?" said McCarthy suspiciously, watching the unstrapping of the cigar boxes. "I speak French," said Waters with pride, and turning to his protégés he continued fluently, "_Vous êtes patriots, vous avez battlez, soldats n'est-ce-pas?_ You see, they have had a whole family chopped up for the cause. The Cuban Junta has sent them over to raise money--very good family." "Let's see the cigars," said Stover. "How much a box?" Curiously enough this seemed to be a phrase of English which could be understood without difficulty. "Fourteen dollar." "That's for a box of a hundred," said McNab, who screwed up the far side of his face, to indicate bargaining was in order. "Of course," said Buck Waters, "everything you give goes to the cause. Remember that." "Try one," said McNab. The smaller Cuban with an affable smile held up a bundle. "Nice white teeth he's got," said Buck Waters encouragingly. "Don't let him shove one over on you," said McCarthy warningly. Waters and McNab were indignant. "Oh, I say fellows, come on. They are patriots." "If they could understand you they would go right up in the air." "Nevertheless and notwithstanding," said McCarthy, indicating with his finger, "I'll take this one; it appeals to me." "I'll worry this one," said Dink with equal astuteness. They took several puffs, watched by the enthusiastic spectators. "Well?" said McNab. Stover looked wisely at McCarthy, flirting the cigar between his careless fingers. "Not bad." "Rather good bouquet," said McCarthy, who knew no more than Stover. "Let's begin at eight dollars and stick at ten," said Dink. At that latter price, despite the openly expressed scorn of the American allies of the struggle for Cuban independence, Stover received a box of one hundred finest Havana cigars--fit for a museum, as McNab repeated--and saw the advance guard of the liberators disappear. "Dink, it's a shame," said McCarthy gleefully. "Finest cigars I ever smoked." They shook hands and Stover, overcome by the look of pain he had seen in the eyes of the patriots on their final surrender at ten dollars, said, with a patriotic remorse: "Poor devils! Think what they're fighting for! If I hadn't been so lavish to-day, I'd have given them the full price." "I feel sort of bad about it myself." About ten o'clock they rose by a common impulse and, seeking out the cigars with caressing fingers, indulged in another smoke. "Dink, this is certainly living," said McCarthy, reclining in that position which his favorite magazine artist ascribed to men of the world when indulging in extravagant desires. "Pretty high rolling, old geezer." "I like this better than the first one." "Of course with a well-seasoned rare old cigar you don't get all the beauty of it right at first." "By George, if those chocolate patriots would come around again I'd give 'em the four plunks." "I should feel like it," said Dink, who made a distinction. The next morning being Sunday, they lolled deliciously in bed, and rose with difficulty at ten. "Of course I don't believe in smoking before breakfast, as a general rule," said McCarthy in striped red and blue pajamas, "but I have such a fond feeling for Cuba." "I can hardly believe it's true," said Dink, emerging from the covers like an impressionistic dawn. "Smoke up." "How is it this morning?" "Wonderful." "Better and better." "I could dream away my life on it." "We ought to have bought more." "Too bad." After chapel, while pursuing their studies in comparative literature in the Sunday newspapers, they smoked again. "Well?" said Stover anxiously. "Well?" "Marvellous, isn't it?" "Exquisite." "Only ten cents apiece!" "It's the way to buy cigars." "Trouble is, Dink, old highroller, it's going to be an awful wrench getting down to earth again. We'll hate anything ordinary, anything cheap." "Yes, Tough, we are ruining our future happiness." "And how good one of the little beauties will taste after that brutalizing Sunday dinner." "I can hardly wait. By the way, I blew myself to a few glad rags," said Dink, bringing out his purchases, "I rather fancy them. How do they strike you?" McCarthy emitted a languishing whistle and then his eyes fell on the cause of all the trouble. "Keeroogalum! Where did you get the pea-soup?" The expression did not please. However, Stover had still in the matter of his sentimental inclinations a certain bashfulness. So he said dishonestly: "I had 'em throw it in for a lark." "Why, the cows would leave the farm." "Rats. Wait and see," said Dink, who seized the excuse to don the green shirt. When Stover's blond locks were seen struggling through the collar McCarthy exploded: "It looks like you were coming out of a tree. What the deuce has happened to you? Are you going out for class beauty? Holy cats! the socks, the socks!" "The socks, you Reuben, should match the shirt," said Stover, completing his toilet under a diplomatic assumption of persiflage. "Well, you are a lovely thing," said McCarthy, when the new collar and the selected necktie had transformed Stover. "Lovely! lovely! you should go out and have the girls fondle you." At this moment Bob Story arrived, as fate would have it, with an invitation to dinner at his home. "Sis is back with a few charmers from Farmington and they're crazy to meet you." "Oh, I say," said Stover in sudden alarm. "I'm the limit on the fussing question." "Yes, he is," said McCarthy maliciously. "Why, they fall down before him and beg him to step on them." "You shut up," said Stover, with wrath in his eye. "Why, Bob, look at him, isn't he gotten up just to charm and delight? You'll have to put a fence around him to keep them off." "In an hour," said Story, making for the door. "Hunter and Hungerford are coming." "Hold up." "Delighted you're coming." "I say--" "There's a Miss Sparkes--just crazy about you. You're in luck. Remember the name--Miss Sparkes." "Story--Bob, come back here!" "Au reservoir!" "I can't go--I won't--" But here Dink, leaning over the banister, heard a gleeful laugh float up and the sudden banging of the door. He rushed back frantically to the room and craned out the window, to see Bob Story sliding around the corner with his fingers spread in a gesture that is never anything but insulting. He closed the window violently and returned to the center of the room. "Damn!" "Pooh!" said McCarthy, chuckling with delight. "Petticoats!" "Alas!" "A lot of silly, yapping, gushing, fluffy, giggling, tee-heeing, tittering, languishing, vapid, useless--" "My boy, immense! Go on!" "Confound Bob Story, why the deuce did he rope me into this? I loathe females." "And one just dotes on you," said McCarthy, with the expression of a Cheshire cat. "I won't go," said Stover loudly. "Are you going in that green symphony?" "Why not?" In the midst of this quarrel, Joe Hungerford entered, with a solemn face. "You're going to this massacre at Story's?" "Don't I look like it?" said Dink crossly. "We'll go over together then," said Hungerford, with a sigh of relief. "I say, help yourself to a cigar, Joe," said McCarthy, with the air of a Maecenas. "_Cuba Libre_?" said Hungerford, approaching the box. "And _à bas_ Spain!" Hungerford examined the cigars with a certain amount of caution which was not lost on the room-mates. "How many of these have you smoked?" he asked, turning to them with interest. "Oh, about three apiece." "How do you like 'em?" "Wonderful!" said Dink loudly. "Wonderful!" said McCarthy. The three lit up simultaneously. "What did you pay for yours?" said Hungerford, with a sort of inward concentration on the flavor. "Ten bright silver ones." "I paid twenty-five for two. How do they taste?" "Wonderful!" "Troutman only paid seven-fifty for his box." "What!" "And Hunter only five." "Five dollars?" said McCarthy, with a foreboding. "But what I can't understand is this--" "What?" "Dopey McNab got a box at two-fifty." A sudden silence fell on the room, while, reflectively, each puffed forth quick, questioning volumes of smoke. "How do they smoke?" said Hungerford again. "Wonderful!" said McCarthy, hoping against hope. "They're not!" said Dink firmly. He rose, went to the window, and cast forth the malodorous thing. Hungerford followed suit. McCarthy, proud as the Old Guard, sat smoking on; only one leg was drawn up under the other in a tense, convulsive way. "They were wonderful last night," he said obstinately. "They certainly were." "And they were wonderful this morning." "Not quite so wonderful." "I like 'em still." "And Dopey McNab bought a hundred at two-fifty." This was too much for McCarthy. He surrendered. Dopey McNab, at this favorable conjunction, sidled into the room with his box under his arm and the face of a boy soprano on duty. "I say, fellows, I've got a little proposition to make." A sort of dull, rolling murmur went around the room which he did not notice. "I find I've been cracking my bank account--the fact is, I'm strapped as a mule and have got to raise enough to pay my wash bill." "Wash bill, Dopey?" said McCarthy softly. "We must wash," said Dopey firmly. "To resume. As I detest, abhor, and likewise shrink from borrowing from friends--" "Repeat that," said Joe Hungerford. "I will not. But for all of which reasons, I have a little bargain to propose. Here is a box of the finest cigars ever struck the place." "A full box?" "Only three cigars out." "Three!" said Hungerford with a significant look at Stover. "I could sell them on the campus for twenty, easy." "But you love your friends," said Stover, moving a little, so as to shut off the retreat. "Who will give me seven-fifty for it?" said McNab, with the air of one filling a beggar with ecstasy. "Seven-fifty. You'll let it go at seven-fifty, Dopey?" said McCarthy faintly, paralyzed at such duplicity. "I will." "Dopey," said Dink, with a signal to the others, "what is the exact figure of that wash bill of yours?" "Two dollars and sixty-two cents." "Will you take two dollars and sixty-two cents for it?" "You're fooling." "I am very, very serious." McNab struck a pose, while over his face was seen the conflict of duty and avarice. "Take it," he said at last, in a glow of virtue. "I didn't say I wanted it." "You didn't!" "I only wanted to know what you'd really take." "What's this mean?" said McNab indignantly. "Dopey, would you sacrifice it at just a little less?" said Hungerford. But here McNab, suddenly smelling danger in the air, made a spring backwards. Hungerford, who was on guard, caught him. "Put him in the chair and tie him," said Stover, savagely. Which was done. "I say, look here, what are you going to do with me?" said McNab, fiercely. "You're going to sit there and smoke a couple of those museum cigars, for our delectation and amusement." "Assassins!" "Two cigars." "Never! I'll starve to death first!" "All right. Keep on sitting there." "But this is a crime! Police!" "There are other crimes, Dopey." "Hold up," said McNab, frantically, as he perceived the cigar being prepared. "I've got to dine over at the Story's at one o'clock." "So have we," said Hungerford, "but McCarthy will watch you for us." "I will," said McCarthy, licking his chops. "I've got to be there," said McNab, wriggling in a frenzy. "Smoke right up, then. You can smoke them in twenty minutes." "Police!" "I say, Dink," said Hungerford, as McNab's head whipped from side to side like a recalcitrant child's. "Perhaps we'd better get in all the crowd who fell for the cigars--round 'em up." "I'll smoke it," said McNab instantly. "I thought you would." They sat around, unfeelingly, grinning, while McNab, strapped in like a papoose, rebelliously, with much sputtering and coughing, smoked the cigar that Dink fed him like a trained nurse. "Fellows, I've got to get to that dinner." "We know that, Dopey--but there's one thing you won't do there--tell the story of the _Cuba libre_ cigar." "Say, let me off and I'll put you on to a great stunt." "We can't be bought." "I'll tell you, I'll trust you! We're going to have a cop-killing over in Freshman row. We've got a whole depot of Roman candles. Let me off this second cigar and I'll work you in." "We'll be there!" "You bandits, I'll get even with you." "You probably will, Dopey, but you'll never rob us of this memory." "Curse you, feed it to me quickly." The cigar consumed to the last rebellious puff, McNab was released in a terrific humor, and departed hastily to dress, after remarking in a deadly manner: "I'll get you yet--you brutal kidnappers." "I think it's a rather low trick of Bob Story's," said Stover, considering surreptitiously in the mirror the effect of his new color scheme. "Ditto here," said Hungerford. Now Stover was in a quandary. He was divided between two emotions. He firmly thought that he had never looked so transcendingly the perfect man of fashion, but he had numerous busy doubts as to whether the exquisite costume was as appropriate at a quiet Sunday dinner as it undoubtedly would have been in a sporting audience. Still, to make a change now, under the malicious inspection of Tough McCarthy, would be to invite a storm of joyful ridicule, so he said hopefully. "Think it all right to go in this?" "Why not?" As this put the burden of the proof on him, Stover remained silent, but compromised a little by exchanging a rather forward vest for one of calmer aspect. "Well," he said, at last, with something between a gulp and a sigh, "I suppose we'd better push along." "I suppose so," said Hungerford, who brought a strangle hold to bear on his necktie and shot a last look down at the slightly wavering line of his trousers. At the door, the vision of McNab, like a visiting English duke, bore down upon them. "Where in the thunder did you get the boutonnière?" said Stover, examining him critically. "Why, Dopey, you're a dude!" said Hungerford disapprovingly. "Everything is correct--brilliant, but correct," said McNab with a flip of his fingers. "Come on now--we're late." Half way there, when the conversation had completely fizzled out, McNab said cheerily: "How d'ye feel? Getting a little nervous, eh? Getting cold feelings up and down your back? Fingers twitching--what?" "Don't be an ass," said Hungerford huskily. "Chump," said Stover, feeling all at once the tightness of his vest. "'Course you know, boys, you're dressed all wrong--in shocking taste. You know that, don't you? Thought I'd better tell you before the girls begin giggling at you." "Huh!" "Joe's bad enough in a liver-colored sack, but Dink's unspeakable!" "I am! What's wrong?" "Fancy wearing a colored shirt--and such a color! You're gotten up for a boating party--not for a formal lunch. You're unspeakable, Dink, unspeakable! Look at me. I'm a delight--black and white, immaculate, impressive, and absolutely correct." By this time they had reached the steps. "Now, don't try to shine your shoes on your trousers. It always shows. Don't stumble or trip when you go in. Don't bump against the furniture. Don't stutter. Don't hold on to your hostess to keep from falling over. And don't, _don't_ shoot your cuffs." McNab's malicious advice reduced Hungerford to a panic, while only the consciousness of his public importance prevented Stover from bolting as he saw McNab press the button. "Stand up straight and keep your hands out of your pockets." "Dopey, I'll wring your neck if you don't stop!" "Ditto." "Say something interesting to every girl," continued McNab, in a solemn whisper. "Talk about art or literature." The door opened, and they stumbled into the ante-room, from which escape was impossible. "Dink," said McNab in a last whisper. "What?" "Don't ask twice for soup, and stop shooting that cuff." The next moment Stover, who had been thrust forward by the other two, found himself crossing the perilous track of slippery rugs on slippery floors, and suddenly the cynosure of at least a hundred eyes. Judge Story had him by the hand, patting him on the back, smiling up at him with a smile he never forgot--a little lithe man bristling with good humor and the genius of good cheer. "Stover, I'm glad to shake your hand. We did all we could for you in those last rushes. We rooted hard. My wife assaulted a clergyman in front of her, and my daughter was found afterward weeping with her arms around the man next to her. I certainly am proud to shake your hand. I won't shake it too long, because"--here he looked up in a confidential whisper--"because the girls have been fidgeting at the window for an hour. Look them over and tell me which one you want to sit next to you, and I'll fix it." "Dad, aren't you awful?" said a voice in only laughing disapproval. "My daughter," said the judge, passing joyfully on to Hungerford. "Indeed, I'm very glad to meet you." He shook hands, a trifle embarrassed, with a young lady of quiet self-possession, gentle in voice and action, with somewhat of the thoughtful reserve of her brother. He followed her, only half conscious of a certain floating grace and the pleasure of following her movements, bowing with cataleptic bobs of his head as the introductions ran on: "Miss Sparkes." "Miss Green." "Miss Woostelle." "Miss Raymond." Then he straightened and allowed his chin to right itself over the brink of his mounting collar, smiling, but without hearing the outburst that went up from the equally agitated sex: "Isn't the Judge perfectly terrible!" "You mustn't believe a word he says." "Don't you think he's lovely, though?" "We really were so excited at the game." "Oh, dear, I almost cried my eyes out." "We thought you were perfectly splendid." "We did want you to score so." "I just hated those Princeton men, they were so much bigger." Hungerford and McNab coming up for presentation, he found himself a little to leeward, clinging to a chair, and, opening his eyes, perceived for the first time Hunter, with whom he shook hands with the convulsiveness of a death grip. Miss Sparkes, a rather fluttering brunette with dimples and enthusiastic eyes, cut off his retreat and isolated him in a corner, where he was forced to listen to a disquisition on the theory of football, supremely conscious that the unforgiving McNab was making him a subject of conversation with the young lady to whom he was rapidly succumbing. The entrance of Mrs. Story and Bob, and the welcome descent on the dining-room, for a moment made him forget the awful fact that he had perceived, on his entrance, that the green shirt was, in fact, nothing short of a social outrage. "Every one sitting next to the person they want," said the Judge roguishly, his glance rolling around the table. "By George, if that body-snatcher of a Miss Sparkes hasn't bagged Stover--well, I never! Seems to me a certain party named Hungerford has done very well indeed. McNab, I perceive, is going to set the fashions for the class, but I certainly do like Stover's green shirt." At this a shout went up, and Stover's ears began to boil. "I don't see what you're ha-ha-ing about, Mr. McNab," continued the Judge, diverting the attack, "descending upon us, a quiet, respectable back-woods family, with a boutonnière! I think that's putting on a good deal of airs, don't you? Now, boys, don't let these young society ladies from Farmington pretend they're too delicate to eat. You ought to see the breakfast they devoured. Everybody happy all right." In five minutes all were at ease, chattering away like so many magpies. Stover, finding that his breath came easier, recovered himself and listened with a tolerant sense of pleasure while Miss Sparkes rushed on. "The girls up at Farmington will be so excited when they hear I've actually sat next to you at the table. You know, we're all just crazy about football. Oh, it gets me so excited! Dudley's the new captain, isn't he? I met him last summer at a dance down at Long Island. I admire him tremendously, don't you? He has such a _strong_ character." He nodded from time to time, replied in dignified monosyllables, and became pleasurably aware that Miss Raymond, opposite, in disloyalty to her companion, had one ear trained to catch his slightest word, while Miss Green and Miss Woostelle, farther away, watched him covertly over the foliage of the celery. He was a lion among ladies for the first time--a sensation he had sworn to loathe and detest; and yet there was in him a sort of warm growing feeling that he could not explain but that was quite far from unpleasant. "If Miss Sparkes, Mr. Stover, will stop whispering in your ear for just a moment," said the Judge, on mischief bent, "you can help Mrs. Story with the beef." "You'll get accustomed to him soon," said his hostess, smiling. "There, if you'll steady the platter I think we two can manage it. I am so glad to have you here. Bob has spoken of you so often. I hope you'll be good friends." There was something leonine and yet very feminine in her face, a quiet and restfulness that drew him irresistibly to her and gave him the secret of the reserve and charm that was in her children. Of all the delegation from school, Jean Story alone had not seemed aware of his imposing stature. She was sitting between Hungerford and Hunter, whom she called by his first name, and her way of speaking, unlike the impulsiveness of her companions, was measured and thoughtful. She had a quantity of ash-colored hair which, like her dress, seemed to be floating about her. Her forehead was clear, a little serious, and her eyes, while devoid of coquetry, held him with their directness and simplicity. He found himself only half hearing the conversation that Miss Sparkes rolled into his ear, watching the movements of other hands, feeling a little antagonism to Hunter and wondering how long they had known each other. Dinner over, he forgot his shyness, and went up to her with the quick direction which was impulsive in him when he was strongly interested. "I want to talk to you," he said. "Yes?" She looked at him, a little surprised at the bluntness of his introduction, but not displeased. "You are very like your brother," he said. She seemed younger than he had thought. "I am glad of that," she answered, with a genuine smile. "Bob and I are old friends." "I hope you'll be my friend," he said. She turned, and then, seeing in his face only sincerity, nodded her head slightly and said: "Thank you." He said very little more, ill at ease, a feeling that also seemed to have gained possession of her. Miss Raymond and Miss Woostelle came up, and he found himself restored to the rôle of a hero, a little piqued at Miss Story's different attitude, always aware of her movements, hearing her low voice through all the chatter of the room. He went home very thoughtful, keeping out of the laughing discussion that went on, watching from the corner of his eye Hunter, and wondering with a little unexplained resentment just how well he knew the Storys. CHAPTER XIII With Stover's return after the Christmas vacation the full significance of the society dominion burst over him. The night that the hold-offs were to be given, there was a little joking at the club table, but it was only lip-deep. The crisis was too vital. Chris Schley and Troutman, who were none too confident, were plainly nervous. Stover and McCarthy walked home directly to their rooms, and took up the next day's lessons as a convenient method of killing time. "You're not worrying?" said Stover suddenly. McCarthy put down the penitential book, and, rising, stretched himself, nervously resorting to his pipe. "Not for a hold-off--no. That ought to be all right." "And afterward?" "Don't speak about it." "Rats! You'll be pledged about the eighth or tenth." "What time is it?" said McCarthy shortly. "Five minutes more." This time each took up his book in order to be found in an inconsequential attitude, outwardly indifferent, as all Anglo-Saxons should be. From without, the hour rang its dull, leaden, measured tones. Almost immediately a knock sounded on the door, and Le Baron appeared, hurried, businesslike, mysterious, saying: "Stover, want to see you in the other room a moment." Dink retired with him into the bedroom, and received his hold-off in a few matter-of-fact sentences. A second after, Le Baron was out of the door, rushing down the steps. "Your turn next," said Stover, with a wave of his hand to McCarthy. "Yes." The sound of hurrying feet and the shudder of hastily banged doors filled the house. "My, they're having a busy time of it," said Stover. "Yes." Ten minutes passed. McCarthy, staring at his page, mechanically took up the dictionary, hiding the fear that started up. Stover rose, going to the window. "They're running around Pierson Hall like a lot of ants," he said, drumming against the window. "How far's this advance go?" said McCarthy in a matter-of-fact tone. "End of page 152," said Stover. He came back frowning, glancing at the clock. It was seventeen minutes after the hour. All at once, outside, came a clatter of feet, and the door opened on Waring, out of breath and flustered. "McCarthy, like to see you a moment." Stover returned to the window, gazing out. Presently behind his back he heard the two return, the door bang, and McCarthy's voice saying: "It's all right, Dink." "All right?" he said. "Yes." "Glad of it." "He gave me a little scare, though." "Your crowd lost a couple of men; besides, you give more hold-offs." "That's it." They abandoned the subject by mutual consent; only Stover remembered for months after the tension he had felt and the tugging at the heart-strings. If he could feel that way for his friend, what would be his sensations when he faced his own crisis on Tap Day? Fellows from other houses came thronging in with reports of how the class had divided up. Every one had his own list of the hold-offs, completing it according to the last returns, amid a bedlam of questions. "How did Story go?" "Did Schley get a hold-off?" "Yes, but Troutman didn't." "He did, too." "When?" "Half an hour late." "Brockhurst got one." "You don't say so!" "Gimbel get anythin'?" "No." "Regan?" "Don't know." "Any one know about Regan?" "No." "How about Buck Waters?" "I don't know. I think not." "Damned shame." "What, is Buck left out?" "'Fraid so." "What's wrong?" "Too much sense of humor." Stover, off at one side, watched the group, seeing the interested calculation as each scanned his own list, wondering who would have to be eliminated if he were to be chosen. Story, Tommy Bain, and Hunter were in his crowd, as he had foreseen. He went out and across the campus to South Middle, where Regan was now rooming. By the Coöp he found Bob Story, and together they went up the creaky stairs. Regan was out--just where, the man who roomed on his entry did not know. "How long has he been out?" said Story anxiously. "Ever since supper." "Didn't he come in at all?" "No." "Were they going to give him a hold-off?" said Stover, as they went down. "Yes. They've been looking everywhere for him." "I don't think the old boy would take it." "Can't you make him see what it would mean to him?" "I've tried." "I'm afraid Regan's queered himself with a lot of our crowd," said Story thoughtfully. "They don't understand him and he doesn't want to understand them. Didn't he know this was the night?" "Yes; I told him." "Stayed away on purpose?" "Probably." "Too bad. He's just the sort of man we ought to have." "How do you feel about the whole proposition?" said Stover curiously. "The sophomore society question?" said Story frankly. "Why, I think there've got to be some reforms made; they ought to be kept more democratic." "You think that?" "Yes; I think we want to keep away a good deal from the social admiration game--be representative of the real things in Yale life; that's why we need a man like Regan. Course, I think this--that we've all got too much this society idea in our heads; but, since they exist it's better to do what we can to make them representative and not snobbish." Stover was surprised at the maturity of judgment in the young fellow, as well as his simplicity of expression. He would have liked to talk to him further on deeper subjects, but, as always, the first steps were difficult and as yet he accepted things without a clear understanding of reasons. He went up with Story for a little chat. There was about the room a tone of quiet good taste and thoughtfulness quite different from the boyish exuberance of other rooms. The pictures were Braunotypes of paintings he did not know, while bits of plaster casts mellowed with wax enlivened the serried contents of the book-shelves. "You've got a lot of books," said Stover, feeling his way. "Yes. Drop in and borrow them any time you want." While Story flung a couple of cushions on the state arm-chair and brought out the tobacco, Dink examined the shelves respectfully, surprised and impressed by the quality of the titles, French, German, and Russian. "Why do you room alone, Bob?" he said, with some curiosity, knowing Story's popularity. "I wanted to." Story was opposite, his face blocked out in sudden shadows from the standing lamp, that accentuated a certain wistful, pensive quality it had. "I enjoy being by myself. It gives me time to think and look around me." "Are you going out for anything?" said Stover, wondering a little at the impression Story had made already, through nothing but the charm and sincerity of his character. "Yes, I'm going out for the _News_ next month, and besides I'm heeling the _Lit_." "Oh, you are?" said Stover, surprised. "But it comes hard," said Story, with a grimace. "I have to work like sin over every line. It's all hammered out. Brockhurst is the fellow who can do the stuff." "Do you know him at all?" "He won't let any one know him. I've tried. I don't think he quite knows yet how to meet fellows. I'm sorry. He really interests me." "That's a good photo of your sister," said Stover, who had held the question in leash ever since his entrance. "So, so." "How much longer has she at Farmington?" "Last year." "Going abroad afterwards?" said Stover carelessly. "No, indeed. Stay right here." "I like her," said Stover. "It's quite a privilege to know her." Story looked up and a pleased smile came to him. "Yes, it is," he said. "Bob, what do you think about McCarthy's chances?" Story considered a moment. "Only fair," he said. "Why, what's wrong with him?" "He hasn't any one ahead pulling for him," said Story, "and most of the other fellows have. That's one fault we have." "It would knock him out to miss." "It is tough." They spoke a little more in a desultory way, and Stover left. He was dissatisfied. He wanted Story to like him, conscious of a new longing in himself for the friendships that did not come, and yet somehow he could find no common ground of conversation. Moreover, and he rather resented it, there was not in Story the least trace of the admiration and reverence that he was accustomed to receive, as a leader should receive. The following weeks were ones of intrigue and nervous speculation. Pledged among the first, he found himself with Hunter, Story, and Tommy Bain in the position of adviser as to the selection of the rest of his crowd. Hunter and Bain, each with an object in view, sought to enlist his aid. He perceived their intentions, not duped by the new cordiality, growing more and more antagonistic to their businesslike ambitions. With Joe Hungerford and Bob Story he found his real friends. And yet, what completely surprised him was the lack of careless, indolent camaraderie which he had known at school and had expected in larger scope at college. Every one was busy, working with a dogged persistence along some line of ambition. The long, lazy afternoons and pleasant evenings were not there. Instead was the grinding of the mills and the turning of the wheels. How it was with the rest he ignored; but with his own crowd--the chosen--life was earnest, disciplined in a set purpose. He felt it in the open afternoon, in the quiet passage of candidates for the baseball teams, the track, and the crew; in the evenings, in the strumming of instruments from Alumni Hall and the practising of musical organizations, and most of all in the flitting, breathless passage of the _News_ heelers--in snow or sleet, running in and out of buildings, frantically chasing down a tip, haggard with the long-drawn-out struggle now ending the fourth month. He himself had surrendered again to this compelling activity and gone over to the gymnasium, taking his place at the oars in the churning tanks, bending methodically as the bare torso of the man in front bent or shot back, concentrating all his faculties on the shouted words of advice from the pacing coach above him. He was too light to win in the competition of unusual material--he could only hope for a second or third substitute at best; but that was what counted, he said to himself, what made competition in the class and brought others out, just as it did in football. And so he stuck to his grind, satisfied, on the whole, that his afternoons were mapped out for him. Meanwhile the pledges to the sophomore societies continued and the field began to narrow. McCarthy's hold-off was renewed each time, but the election did not arrive. In his own crowd Story, Hungerford, and himself found themselves in earnest alliance for the election of Regan and Brockhurst. Regan, however, had so antagonized certain members of their sophomore crowd that their task was well-nigh impossible. He had been pronounced "fresh," equivalent almost to a ban of excommunication, for his extraordinary lack of reverence to things that traditionally should be revered, and as he had a blunt, direct way of showing in his eyes what he liked and disliked, his sterling qualities were forgotten in the irritation he caused. Besides, as the opening narrowed to three or four vacancies, Hunter and Bain, in the service of their own friends, arrayed themselves in silent opposition to him and to Brockhurst. About the latter, Stover found himself increasingly unable to make up his mind. He went to see him once or twice, but the visit was never returned. In his infallibility--for infallibility is a requisite of a leader--he decided that there was something queer about him. He rather shunned others, took long walks by himself, in a crowd always seemed removed, watching others with a distant eye which had in it a little mockery. His room was always in confusion, as was his tousled hair. In a word, he was a little of a barbarian, who did not speak the ready lip language that was current in social gatherings, and, unfortunately, did not show well his paces when confronted with inspection. So when the final vote came Stover, infallible judge of human nature, conscientiously decided that Brockhurst did not rank with the exceedingly choice crowd of which he was a leader. With the arrival of the elections for the managerships of the four big athletic organizations, positions in the past disputed by the candidacies of the three sophomore societies, a revolution took place. The non-society element, organized by Gimbel and other insurgents ahead of him, put up a candidate for the football managership and elected him by an overwhelming majority, and repeated their success with the Navy. The second victory was like the throwing down of a gauntlet. The class, which had been quietly dividing since the advent of the hold-offs, definitely split, and for the first time Stover became aware of the soundness of the opposition to the social system of which he was a prospective leader. Quite to his surprise, Jim Hunter appeared in his room one night. "What the deuce does he want now?" he thought to himself, wondering if he were to be again solicited in favor of Stone, who was still short of election. "I say, Dink, we're up against a serious row," said Hunter, making himself comfortable and speaking always in the same unvarying tone. "The class is split to pieces." "It looks that way." "It's all Gimbel and that crowd of soreheads he runs. We had trouble with him up at Andover." "Well, Jim, what do you think about the whole proposition?" said Stover. "The college seems pretty strong against us." "It's just a couple of men who are cooking it up to work themselves into office," said Hunter, dismissing the idea lightly. "You'll see, that's all there is to it." Somehow, Stover found that renewed contest with Hunter only increased the feeling of antagonism he had felt from the first. He was aware of a growing resistance to Hunter's point of view, guarded and deliberate as it was. So he said point blank: "I'm not so sure there isn't some basis for the feeling. We ought to watch out and make ourselves as democratic as possible." "My dear fellow," said Hunter, in the tone of amused worldliness, "these anti-society fights go on everywhere. There was a great hullabaloo six or seven years ago, and then it all died out. You'll see, that's what'll happen. Gimbel'll get what he wants, then he'll quiet down and hope to make a senior society. Don't get too excited over things that happen in freshman year." "Have you talked with Story?" said Stover, resenting his tone. "Bob's got a curious twist--he's a good deal of a dreamer." "Then you wouldn't make any changes?" "No, not in our crowd," said Hunter. "I think we do very well what we set out to get--the representative men of the class, to bring them together into close friendship, and make them understand one another's point of view and so work together for the best in the university." "You think the outsiders don't count?" "As a rule, no. Of course, there are one or two men who develop later, but if there's anything in them they'll really make good." "Rather tough work, won't it be?" "Yes; but every system has its faults." "What did you come in to see me about?" said Stover abruptly. "To talk the situation over," said Hunter, not seeming to perceive the hostility of the question. "I think all of us in the crowd ought to be very careful." "About what?" "About talking too much." "What do you mean by that?" "I mean, if you have any criticism on the system, keep it to yourself. Gimbel is raising enough trouble; the only thing is for us to shut up and not encourage them by making the kickers think that any of us agree with them." "So that's what you came in to say to me?" "Yes." "You're for no compromise." "I am." "Are there fellows in our crowd, or the classes ahead, who feel as Story does?" "Yes; of course there are a few." "And, Hunter, you see no faults in the system?" "What other system would you suggest?" Now, Stover had not yet come to a critical analysis of his own good fortune, nor had he any more than a personal antagonism for Hunter himself. He did not answer, unwilling to let this feeling color his views on what he began to perceive might some day shape itself as a test of his courage. Hunter left presently, as he had come up, without enthusiasm, always cold, always deliberate. When he had gone, Stover became a little angry at the advice so openly imposed on him, and as a result he decided on a sudden move. If the split in the class was acute, something ought to be done. If Hunter, as a leader, was resolved on contemptuous isolation, he would do a bigger thing in a bigger way. In pursuance of this idea, he suddenly set out to find Gimbel and provoke a frank discussion. If anything could be done to hold the class together and stop the rise of political dissension, it was his duty as a responsible leader to do what he could to prevent it. When he reached the room, it was crowded, and an excited discussion was going on, which dropped suddenly on his entrance. What the subject of conversation was he had a shrewd suspicion, seeing several representatives from Sheff. "Hello, Stover. Come right in. Glad to see you." Gimbel, a little puzzled at this first visit, came forward cordially. "You know every one here, don't you? Jackson, shake hands with Stover. What'll you have, pipe or cigarette?" Stover nodded to the fellows whom he knew on slight acquaintance, settled in an arm-chair, brought forth his pipe, and said with assumed carelessness: "What was all the pow-wow about when I arrived?" A certain embarrassment stirred in the room, but Gimbel, smiling at the question, said frankly: "We were fixing up a combination for the baseball managership. We are going to lick you fellows to a scramble. That's what you've come over to talk about, isn't it?" "Yes." The crowd, plainly disconcerted at this smiling passage of arms, began to melt away with hastily formed excuses. "Quite a meeting-place, Gimbel, you have here," said Stover, nodding to the last disappearing group. "Politicians should have," replied Gimbel, straddling a chair, and, leaning his arms on the back, he added, smiling: "Well, fire away." Each had grown in authority since their first meeting on the opening of college, nor was the question of war or peace yet decided between them. "Gimbel, I hope we can talk this thing over openly." "I think we can." "I'm doing an unusual thing in coming to you. You're a power in this class." "And you represent the other side," said Gimbel. "Go on." "You're going to run a candidate for the baseball managership." "I'm not running him, but I'm making the combination for this class." "Same thing." "Just about." "Are you fellows going to shut out every society man that goes up for a class election?" "You're putting a pretty direct question." "Answer it if you want to." "Yes, I'll answer it." Gimbel looked at him, plainly concerned in emulating his frankness, and continued: "Stover, this anti-sophomore society fight is a fight to the finish. We are going to put up an outsider, as you call it, for every election, and we're going to elect him." "Why?" "Because we are serving notice that we are against a system that is political and undemocratic." "What good'll it do?" "We'll abolish the whole system." "Do you really believe that?" said Stover, strangely enough, adopting Hunter's attitude. "I do; I may know the feeling in the upper classes better than you do." "Gimbel, how much of this is real opposition and how much is worked up by you and others?" "My dear Stover, why ask who is responsible? Ask if the opposition is genuine and whether it's going to stick." "I don't believe it is." "That's not it. What you want to know is how much is conviction in me, and how much is just the fun of running things and stirring up mischief." "That does puzzle me--yes. But what I want _you_ to see is, you're splitting up the class." "I'm not doing it, and you're not doing it. It's the class ahead that's interfering and doing it. Now, Stover, I've answered your questions. Will you answer mine?" "That's fair." "If you put up a candidate, why shouldn't we?" "But you make politics out of it." "Do you ever support the candidate of another crowd?" Stover was silent. "Stover, do you know that for years these elections have gone on with just three candidates offered, one each from your three sophomore societies? And how have they been run? By putting up your lame ducks." "Oh, come." "Not always. But if you think you can elect a weak member instead of a strong one, you trot out the lame duck. Why? Because at the bottom you are not really social, but political; because your main object is to get as many of your men into senior societies as you can." "Well, why not?" "Because you're doing it at the expense of the class--by making us bolster up the weak ones with an office." "I don't think that's entirely fair." "You'll see. Look at the last candidates the sophomores put up. You haven't answered my questions. Why shouldn't we non-society men, six-sevenths of the class, have the right to put up our candidates and elect them?" "You have," said Stover; "but, Gimbel, you're not doing it for that. You're doing it to knock us out." "Quite true." "That means the whole class goes to smash--that we're going to have nothing but fights and hard feelings from now on. Is that what you want?" "Stover, it's a bigger thing than just the peace of mind of our class." "But what is your objection to us?" said Stover. "My objection is that just that class feeling and harmony you spoke of your societies have already destroyed." "In what way?" "Because you break in and take little groups out of the body of the class and herd together." "You exaggerate." "Oh, no, I don't; and you'll see it more next year. You've formed your crowd, and you'll stick together and you'll all do everything you can to help each other along. That's natural. But don't come and say to me that we fellows are dividing the class." "Rats, Gimbel! Just because I'm in a soph isn't going to make any difference with the men I see." "You think so?" said Gimbel, looking at him with real curiosity. "You bet it won't." "Wait and see." "That's too ridiculous!" Stover, feeling his anger gaining possession of him, rose abruptly. "How can it be otherwise?" said Gimbel, persisting. "Next year the only outsiders you'll see will be a few bootlickers who'll attach themselves to you to get pulled into a junior society. The real men won't go with you, because they don't want to kowtow and heel." "We'll see." "I say, Stover," said Gimbel abruptly, as Dink, for fear of losing his temper, was leaving. "Now, be square. You've come to me frankly--I won't say impertinently--and I've answered your questions and told you openly what we're going to do. Give me credit for that, will you?" "I don't believe in you," said Stover, facing him. "I know you don't," said Gimbel, flushing a little, "but you will before you get through." "I doubt it." "And I'll tell you another thing you'll do before this sophomore society fight is ended," said Gimbel, with a sudden heat. "What?" "You'll stand on the right side--where we stand." "You think so?" "I know it!" CHAPTER XIV When a freshman has been invited to dinner and in a rash moment accepted the invitation and lived through the agony, he usually pays his party call (always supposing that he has imbibed a certain amount of home etiquette) sometime before graduation. In the balance of freshman year the obligation possesses him like a specter of remorse; in sophomore year he remembers it by fits and starts, always in the middle of the week, in time to forget it by Sunday; in junior year he is tempted once or twice to use it as an excuse for sporting his newly won high hat and frock-coat, but fears he has offended too deeply; and in senior year he watches the local society columns for departures, and rushes around to deposit his cards, with an expression of surprise and regret when informed at the door that the family is away. Dink Stover temporized, confronted with the awful ordeal of arraying himself in his Sunday prison garb and stiffly traversing the long, tricky, rug-strewn hall of the Story's, with the chance of suddenly showing his whole person to a dozen inquisitive eyes. He let the first Sunday pass without a qualm, as being too unnecessarily close and familiar. On the second Sunday he decided to wait until he had received the suit made of goods purchased at a miraculous bargain from the unsuspecting Yankee drummer. The third Sunday he completely forgot his duties as a man of fashion. On the fourth Sunday, in a panic, he bound his neck in a shackling high collar, donned his new suit, which looked as lovely as everything that is new and untried can look, and went post-haste in search of Hungerford as a companion in misery and a post to which to cling. To his horror, Hungerford had paid his visit, and felt very doubtful as to the propriety of repeating it before having been again fed. Dink returned for McNab or Hunter as the lesser of two evils. They were both out. Being in stiff and circumstantial attire, the afternoon was manifestly lost. With a sort of desperate hope for some miraculous evasion, he set out laggingly for the Story mansion, revolving different plans. "I might leave a card at the door," he thought to himself, "and tell the girl that my room-mate was desperately ill--that I had just run in for a moment because I wanted them to know, to know--to know what?" The idea expired noiselessly. He likewise rejected the idea of stalking the door Indian fashion, and slipping the card under the crack as if he had rung and not been heard. "After all, they might be out," he thought at last, hopefully. "I'll just go by quietly and see if I can hear anything." But at the moment when he came abreast the steps a carriage drove up, the door opened, and Judge Story and his wife came down. Stover came to a balky stop, hastily snatching away his derby. "Why, bless me if it isn't Mr. Stover," said the Judge instantly. "Dressed to kill, too. Never expected to see you until I went around myself, with an injunction. How did you screw up your courage?" Mrs. Story came to his rescue, smiling a little at his tell-tale face. "Don't stop on my account," said Stover, very much embarrassed. "It's a beautiful day for a ride, beautiful." "Oh, you are not going to get off as easily as that," said the Judge, delighted. "My daughter Jean is inside watching you from behind the curtains. Go right up and entertain her with some side-splitting stories. Besides, Miss Kelly is there with some important top-heavy junior who thinks he's making an awful hit with her. Go in and steal her right away from him." The maid stood at the open door. There was nothing to do but to toil up the penal steps, heart in mouth. "Is Miss Story in?" he said in a lugubrious voice. "Will you present her with this card?" "Step right into the parlor, sah. You'll find Miss Jean there," said the colored maid, with no feeling at all for his suffering. He caught a fleeting, unreassuring glimpse of himself in a dark mirror, successfully negotiated the sliding rugs, and all at once found himself somehow in the cheery parlor alone with Miss Story, shaking hands. "Miss Kelly is here?" he said, perfunctorily stalking to a chair. "No, indeed." "Why your father said--" "That was only his way--he's a dreadful tease." Stover drew a more quiet breath, and even relaxed into a smile. "He had me all primed up for a junior, at least." "Isn't Dad dreadful! That's why you came in with such overpowering dignity?" Stover laughed, a little pleased that his entrance could be so described, and, shifting to a less painfully contracted position, sought anxiously for some brilliant opening that would make the conversation a distinguished success. Now, although he still retained his invincible determination to keep his faith from women, he had during certain pleasant episodes of the last vacation condescended to listen politely to the not disagreeable adoration of a score of hero-worshiping young ladies still languishing in boarding-schools. He had learned the trick of such conversations, exchanged photographs with the laudable intention of making his rooms more like an art gallery than ever, and carried off as mementos such articles as fans, handkerchiefs, flowers, etc. But, somehow, the stock phrases were out of place here. He tried one or two openings, and then relapsed, watching her as she took up the conversation easily and ran on. Ever since their first meeting the charming silhouette of the young girl had been in his mind. He watched her as she rose once or twice to cross the room, and her movements had the same gentle rhythm that mystified him in her voice. Yet he was conscious of a certain antagonism. His vanity, perhaps, was a little stirred. She was not flattered in the least by his attentions, which in itself was an incredible thing. There was about her not the slightest suggestion of coquetry--in fact, not more than a polite uninterested attitude toward a guest. And, perceiving this all at once, a desire came to him to force from her some recognition. "You are very much like Bob," he said abruptly, "you are very hard to know." "Really?" "I really want to know your brother, but I can't. I don't think he likes me," he said. "I don't think Bob knows you," she said carefully, raising her eyes in a little surprise. "You're right; we both take a long time to make up our minds." "Then what I said is true?" he persisted. She looked at him a moment, as if wondering how frank she might be, and said after a little deliberation: "I think he's in a little doubt about you." "In doubt," said the prospective captain of a Yale eleven, vastly amazed. "How?" "You will succeed; I am sure of that." "Well, what then?" he said, wondering what other standard could be applied. "I wonder how _real_ you will be in your success," she said, looking at him steadily. "You think I am calculating and cold about it," he said, insisting. She nodded her head, and then corrected herself. "I think you are in danger of it--being entirely absorbed in yourself--not much to give to others--that's what I mean." "By George," said Dink, open-mouthed, "you are the strangest person I ever met in my life!" She colored a little at this, and said hastily: "I beg your pardon; I didn't realize what I was saying." "You may be right, too." He rose and walked a little, thinking it over. He stopped suddenly and turned to her. "Why do you think I'm not 'real'?" "I don't believe you have begun to think yet." "Why not?" "Because--well, because you are too popular, too successful. It's all come too easily. You've had nothing to test you. There's nothing so much alike as the successful men here." "You are very old for your years," he said, plainly annoyed. "No; I listen. Bob and Dad say the same thing." "You know, I wanted you to be my friend," he said, suddenly brushing aside the conversation. "You remember?" "I should like to be your friend," she said quietly. "If I turn out as you want." "Certainly." He seized an early opportunity to leave, furious at what (not understanding that the instincts of a first antagonism in a young girl are sometimes evidence of a growing interest) he felt was her indifference. He did not go directly to his rooms, but struck out for a brisk walk up the avenue. "What the deuce does she think I'm going to turn out?" he said to himself, with some irritation. "Turn out? Absurd! Haven't I done everything I should do? I've only been here a year, and I stand for something. By George, I'd like to know how many men get where I've gotten the first year." Looking back over the year, he was quickly reassured on this vital point. "If she thinks I'm calculating, how about Hunter? He's the original cold fish," he said. "Yes, what about him? Absurd. She just said that to provoke me." He sought in his mind some epithet adequate to such impertinence, and declared: "She's young--that's it; she's _quite_ young." Suddenly he thought of Regan, who had intruded his shadow across the path of his personal ambition. Had he really been honest about Regan? Could he not have made him see the advantages of belonging to a sophomore society, if he had really tried? Whereupon Mr. Dink Stover began a long, victorious debate with his conscience, one of those soul-satisfying arguments that always end one way, as conscience is a singularly poor debater when pitted against a resourceful mind. "Heavens! haven't I been the best friend he's had?" he concluded. "Perhaps I might have talked more to him about the sophomore question, but then, I know I never could have changed him. So what's the odds? I'm democratic and liberal. Didn't I go to Gimbel and have it out? I can see the other side, too. What the deuce, then, did she mean?" After another long period of furious tramping, he answered this vexing question in the following irrelevant way: "By George, what an extraordinary girl she is! I must go around again and talk with her. She brushes me up." And around he did go, not once, but several times. The first little antagonism between them gradually wore away, and yet he was aware of a certain defensive attitude in her, a judgment that was reserved; and as, by the perfected averaging system of college, he had lost in one short year all the originality and imagination he had brought with him, he was quite at a loss to understand what she found lacking in so important and successful a personage as Mr. John Humperdink Stover. Naturally, he felt that he was in love. This extraordinary passion came to him in the most sudden and convincing manner. He corresponded, with much physical and mental agony, with what is called a dashing brunette, with whom he had danced eleven dances out of a possible sixteen on the occasion of a house-party in the Christmas vacation, on the strength of which they had exchanged photographs and simulated a confidential correspondence. He had done this because he had plainly perceived it was the thing for a man to do, as one watches the crease in the trousers or exposes a vest a little more daring than the rest. It gave him a sort of reputation among lady-killers that was not distasteful. At Easter he had annexed a blonde, who wrote effusive rolling scrawls and used a noticeable crest. He had done this, likewise, because he wished to be known as a destructive force, as one who rather allowed himself to be loved. But he found the manual labor too taxing. He was cruel and abrupt to the blonde, but he consoled himself by saying to himself that he had restored to the little girl her peace of mind. On Sunday evening, then, according to tacit agreement, after a pipe had been smoked and the fifth Sunday newspaper had been searched for the third time, McCarthy stretched himself like a cat and said: "Well, I guess I'll dash off a few heart-throbs to the dear little things." "That reminds me," said Stover, with an obvious loudness. He took out the last heliotrope envelop and read over the contents which had pleased him so much on the preceding Tuesday. Somehow, it had a different ring--a little too flippant, too facile. "What the deuce am I going to write her?" he said, inciting his hair to rebellion. He cleaned the pen, and then the ink-well, and wrote on the envelop: _Miss Anita Laurence_ It was a name that had particularly attracted him, it was so Spanish and suggestive of serenades. He wrote again at the top of the page: "_Dear Anita._" Then he stopped. "What the deuce can I say now?" he repeated crossly. "By George, I've only seen her five times. What is there to say?" He rose, went to his bureau, and took up the photograph of honor and looked at it long. It was a pretty face, but the ears were rather large. Then he went back, and, tearing up what he had written, closed his desk. "Hello," said McCarthy, who was in difficulties. "Aren't you going to write Anita?" "I wrote her last night," said Stover with justifiable mendacity. "I was writing home, but feel rather sleepy." As this was unchallengeable, he went to his room and stretched out on the delicious bed. "I wonder if I'm falling in love with Jean Story?" he said hopefully. "I'm sick to death of Anita calling me by my front name and writing as she does. I'll bet I'm not the only one, either!" This sublimely ingenious suspicion sufficed for the demise of the dashing brunette from whom he had forced eleven dances out of a possible sixteen. "Jean Story is so different. What the deuce does she want changed in me? I wonder if I could get Bob to give me a bid for a visit this summer?" The opening to the imagination being thus provided, he went wandering over summer meadows with a certain slender girl who moved as no one else moved and in a dreamy landscape showed him the most marked preference. In the midst of a most delightful and thoroughly satisfactory conversation he fell asleep. When he woke he went straight to his bureau, and, removing the photograph of Anita, consigned it to a humble position in the study amid the crowded beauties that McCarthy termed the harem. During first recitation, which was an inconsequential voyage into Greece, his imagination jumped the blackboarded walls and went wandering into the realm of the possible summer. A week on the river at the oars, however, drove from him all such imaginings; but at times the vexing question returned, and each Sunday, somehow, he found an opportunity to drop in and have a long talk with Judge Story, of whom he grew surprisingly fond. The period of duns now set in, and the house on York Street became a place of mystery and signals. McNab, naturally, was the most sought, and he took up a sort of migratory abode on Stover's window-seat, disappearing under the flaps at the slightest sound in the corridor. Stover himself began to feel the possibilities of vistas and the sense of lurking shadows. He was utterly disappointed in the material for a suit which he had bought from the unsuspecting Yankee. It had a yielding characteristic way about it that brought the most surprising baggings and stretchings, and he had a suspicion that it was pining away and fading in the sun. By the time the tailor's bill had been presented (not paid), the suit might have been on the fashion account of a prince. Then there were little notes, polite but insistent, from the haberdasher's whence the glowing green shirt, now sadly yellowed, had come. In order to make a show of settling, he went over to Commons to eat, and, being on an allowance for clothes, economized on such articles of apparel as were visible only to himself and McCarthy, who was in the same threadbare state. [Illustration: "THE PERIOD OF DUNS SET IN, AND THE HOUSE BECAME A PLACE OF MYSTERY AND SIGNALS"--_Page 201._] His candidacy for the class crew kept him in strict training, though he ranked no better than third substitute. His afternoons thus employed and his evenings occupied with consultations, he found his life as narrowed as it had been in the season of football. Every one knew him, and he had learned the trick of a smile and an enthusiastic bob of the head to every one. He was a popular man even among the outsiders now more and more openly opposed to the sophomore society system. He was perhaps, at this period, the most popular man in his class; and yet, he had made scarcely a friend, nor did he understand quite what was the longing in him. With the end of May and the coming of society week for the first time the full intensity and seriousness of the social ambition was brought before him. The last elections in his own crowd were given out, Regan and Brockhurst failing to be chosen. In McCarthy's society the last place narrowed down to three men; and Stone, who had made the _News_, won the choice. Stover was sitting alone with McCarthy on the critical night, when the door opened and Stone entered. One look at his face told McCarthy what had happened. "I'm sorry, Tough," said Stone, a little over-tense. "They gave me the pledge. It's hard luck." "Bully for you!" There wasn't a break in McCarthy's voice. "I knew you'd get it all along." "I came up to let you know right away," said Stone, looking down at the floor. "Of course, I wanted it myself, but I'm sorry--deuced sorry." "Nonsense. You've made the _News_. You ought to have it." McCarthy, calm and smiling, held out his hand. "Bully for you! Shake on it!" Stone went almost immediately and the room-mates were left alone. McCarthy came back whistling, and irrelevantly went to his bureau, parting his hair with methodical strokes of the brush. "That was real white of Stone to come up and tell me," he said quietly. "Yes." "Well, we'll go on with that geometry now." He came back and sat down at the desk quite calmly, as if a whole outlook had not been suddenly closed to him. Stover, cut to the heart, watched him with a genuine thrill. He rose, drew a long breath, walked to the window, and, coming back, laid his hand on his room-mate's shoulder. McCarthy looked up quickly, with a little flush. "Good grit, old man," said Dink, "darned good grit." "Thank you." "It won't make any difference, Tough." "Of course not." McCarthy gave a little laugh and said: "Don't say any more, Dink." Stover took his place opposite, saying: "I won't, only this. You take it better than I could do. I'm proud of you." "You remember what the old man said to you fellows after that Princeton slaughter?" said Tough solemnly. "'Take your medicine.' Well, Dink, I'm going to swallow it without a wink, and I rather guess, from what I've seen, that's the biggest thing they have to teach us up here." "It'll make no difference," said Dink obstinately. "Of course not." But each knew that for McCarthy, who would never be above the substitute class, the issue of the senior society was settled, once and for all. The excitement of being initiated, the outward manifestation of Calcium Light Night and the spectacular parade of the cowled junior societies with their swelling marching songs, and the sudden arrival of Tap Day for a while drove from Stover all thoughts but his personal dreams. On the fateful Thursday in May, shortly after half past four, he and Tough went over to the campus. By the fence the junior class, already swallowed up by the curious body of the college, were waiting the arrival of the senior elections which would begin on the stroke of five. "Lots of others will take their medicine to-day," said McCarthy a little grimly. "You bet." Hungerford and McNab, seeing them, came over. "Gee, look at the way the visitors are on the campus," said McNab. "They're packed in all the windows of Durfee and over on the steps of Dwight Hall," said Hungerford. "I didn't know they came on like this." "If you want a sensation," said McNab, "just go over to that bunch of juniors. You can hear every one of them breathe. They're scared to death. It's a regular slaughter." Stover looked curiously at McNab, amazed to note the excitement on his usually flippant countenance. Then he looked over at the herd huddled under the trees by the fence. It was all a spectacle still--dramatic, but removed from his own personality. The juniors, with but a few exceptions, were only names to him. His own society men meant something, and Captain Dudley of next year's eleven, who, of course, was absolutely sure. He felt a little thrill as he looked over and saw the churning mass and thought that in two years he would stand there and wait. But, for the moment, he was only eagerly curious and a little inclined to be amused at the excessive solemnity of the performance. "Who do you think will be first tapped for Bones?" said McNab, at his side. "Dudley," said Hungerford. "No; they'll keep him for the last place." "Well, Allison, captain of the crew, then." "I heard Smithson has switched over to Keys." "They're both after De Gollyer." All four had tentative lists in their hands, eagerly comparing them. "Dopey, you're all wrong. Clark'll never get it." "Why not." "Look at your Bones list--there's no place for him. You've got to include the pitcher of the nine and the president of Dwight Hall, haven't you?" "My guess is Rogers first man for Keys." "No; they'll take some man Bones wants--De Gollyer, probably." "Let's get into the crowd." "Come on." "It's ten minutes of five already." Le Baron, passing, stopped Stover, saying excitedly: "Say, Dink, watch out for the crowd who go Keys and let me know, will you? I mean the men in our crowd?" "Sure I will." Stover was in the throng, with a strange, sharp memory of Le Baron's drawn face. It was a silent mass, waiting, watch in hand, trying stoically to face down the suspense of the last awful minutes. Men he knew stared past him unseeing. Some were carefully dressed, and others stood in sweater and jersey, biting on pipes that were not lit. He heard a few scattered voices and the brief, crisp remarks came to him like the scattered popping of musketry. "What's the time, Bill?" "Three minutes of." "Did they ever make a mistake?" "Sure; four years ago. A fellow got mixed up and tapped the wrong man." "Didn't discover it until they were half way down the campus." "Rotten situation." "I should say so." "Let's stand over here." "What for?" "Let's see Dudley tapped. He'll be first man for Bones." "Gee, what a mob!" "Packed like sardines." Near the fence, the juniors, hemmed in, were constantly being welded together. Stover, moving aimlessly, caught sight of Dudley's face. He would have liked to signal him a greeting, a look of good will; but the face of the captain was set in stone. A voice near him whispered that there was a minute more. He looked in a dozen faces, amazed at the physical agony he saw in those who were counted surest. For the first time he began to realize the importance of it, the hopes and fears assembled there. Then he noticed, above the ghost-like heads of the crowd, the windows packed with spectators drawn to the spectacle. And he had a feeling of indignant resentment that outsiders should be there to watch this test of manhood after the long months of striving. "Ten seconds, nine seconds, eight," some one said near him. Then suddenly, immediately swallowed up in a roar, the first iron note of the chapel bell crashed over them. Then a shriek: "Yea!" "There he comes!" "Over by the library." "First man." Across the campus, Dana, first man out for Bones, all in black, was making straight for them with the unrelenting directness of a torpedo. The same breathless tensity was in his face, the same solemnity. The crowd parted slightly before him and then closed behind him with a rush. He made his way furiously into the center of the tangle, throwing the crowd from him without distinction until opposite Dudley, who waited, looking at him blankly. He passed, and suddenly, seizing a man nearer Stover, swung him around and slapped him on the back with a loud slap, crying: "Go to your room!" Instantly the cry went up: "It's De Gollyer!" "First man tapped!" The mass parted, and De Gollyer, wabbling a little, taking enormous steps, shot out for his dormitory, tracked by Dana, while about him his classmates shouted their approval of the popular choice. "Yea!" "Rogers!" "First man for Keys." "Rogers for Keys!" Stover set out for a rush in the direction of the shout, tossed and buffeted in the scramble. At every moment, now, a cry went up as the elections proceeded rapidly. From time to time he found Le Baron, and shouted to him his report. He saw men he knew tearing back and forth, Hunter driven out of his pose of calm for once, little Schley, hysterical almost, running to and fro. At times the slap was given near him, and he caught the sudden realization, a look in the face that was not good to have seen. It was all like a stampede, some panic, a sudden shipwreck, when every second was precious and, once gone, gone forever; where the agony was in the face of the weak-hearted and a few stoically stood smiling at the waiting gulf. The elections began to be exhausted and the writing on the wall to stare some in the face. Then something happened; a cry went up and a little circle formed under one of the trees, while back came the rumor: "Some one's fainted." "Man's gone under." "Who?" "Who is it?" "Franklin." "No, no; Henderson." "You don't say so!" "Fainted dead away. Missed out for Bones." All at once another shout went up--a shout of amazement and incredulity. A great sensation spread everywhere. The Bones list had now reached thirteen; only two more to be given, and Allison of the crew, Dudley, and Harvey, chairman of the _News_, all rated sure men, were left. Who was to be rejected? Stover fought his way to where the three were standing white and silent, surrounded by the gaping crowd. Some one caught his arm. It was Le Baron, beside himself with excitement, saying: "Good God, Dink! you don't suppose they're going to turn down Harvey or Allison?" Almost before the words were uttered something had happened. A slap resounded and the sharp command: "Go to your room!" Then the cry: "Harvey!" "Harvey's tapped!" "Only one place left." "Good heavens!" "Who's to go down?" "It's impossible!" Dudley and Allison, prospective captains, room-mates from school days at Andover, were left, and between them balancing the fates. A hush fell in the crowd, awed at the unusual spectacle of a Yale captain marked for rejection. Then Dudley, smiling, put out his hand and said in a clear voice: "Joe, one of us has got to walk the plank. Here's luck!" Allison's hand went out in a firm grip, smiling a little, too, as he answered: "No, no; you're all right! You're sure." "Here he is." "Last man for Bones." "Here he comes!" The crowd massed at the critical point fell back, opening a lane to where Allison and Dudley waited, throwing back their shoulders a little, to meet the man who came straight to them, pale with the importance of the decision that had been given him. He reached Dudley, passed, and, seizing Allison by the shoulder, almost knocked him down by the force of his slap. Pandemonium broke loose: "It's Allison!" "No!" "Yes." "What, they've left out Dudley?" "Missed out." "Impossible!" "Fact." "Hi, Jack, Dudley's missed out!" "Dudley, the football captain!" "What the devil!" "For the love of heaven!" "Why, Dudley's the best in the world!" "Sure he is." "It's a shame." "An outrage." "They've done it just to show they're independent." Across the campus toward Vanderbilt, Allison and the last Bones man, in tandem, were streaking like water insects. Le Baron, holding on to Stover, was cursing in broken accents. But Dink heard him only indistinctly; he was looking at Dudley. The pallor had left his face, which was a little flushed; the head was thrown back proudly; and the lips were set in a smile that answered the torrent of sympathy and regret that was shouted to him. The last elections to Keys and Wolf's-Head were forgotten in the stir of the incredible rejection. Then some one shrieked out for a cheer, and the roar went over the campus again and again. Dudley, always with the same smile and shining eyes, made his way slowly across toward Vanderbilt, hugged, patted on the back, his hand wrung frantically by those who swarmed about him. Stover was at his side, everything forgotten but the drama of the moment, cheering and shouting, seeing with a sort of wonder a little spectacled grind with blazing eyes shaking hands with Dudley, crying: "It's a crime--a darned crime! We all think so, all of us!" For half an hour the college, moved as it had never been, stood huddled below Dudley's rooms, cheering itself hoarse. Then slowly the crowd began to melt away. "Come on, Dink," said Hungerford, who had him by the arm. "Oh, is that you, Joe?" said Dink, seeing him for the first time. "Isn't it an outrage?" "I don't understand it." "By George, wasn't he fine, though?" "He certainly was!" "I was right by him. He never flinched a second." "Dink, the whole thing is terrible," said Hungerford, his sensitive face showing the pain of the emotions he had undergone. "I don't think it's right to put fellows through such a test as that." "You don't believe in Tap Day?" "I don't know." Their paths crossed Regan's and they halted, each wondering what that unusual character had thought of it all. "Hello, Tom." "Hello, Joe; hello, Dink." "Tough about Dudley, isn't it?" "How so?" "Why, missing out!" "Perhaps it's Bones's loss," said Regan grimly. "Dudley's all right. He's lucky. He's ten times the man he was this morning." Neither Hungerford nor Stover answered. "What do you think of it--Tap Day?" said Hungerford, after a moment. "The best thing in the whole society system," said Regan, with extra warmth. "Well, I'll be darned!" said Stover, in genuine surprise. "I thought you'd be for abolishing it." "Never! If you're going through three years afraid to call your souls your own, why, you ought to stand out before every one and take what's coming to you. That's my idea." He bobbed his head and went on toward Commons. "I don't know," said Hungerford solemnly. "It's a horror; I wish I hadn't seen it." "I'm glad I did," said Stover slowly. "They certainly baptize us in fire up here." He remembered McCarthy with a new understanding and repeated: "We certainly learn how to take our medicine up here, Joe. It's a good deal to learn." They wandered back toward the now quiet fence. All the crowding and the stirring was gone, and over all a strange silence, the silence of exhaustion. The year was over; what would come afterward was inconsequential. "I wonder if it's all worth it?" said Hungerford suddenly. Stover did not answer; it was the question that was in his own thoughts. What he had seen that afternoon was still too vivid in his memory. He tried to shake it off, but, with the obsession of a fetish, it clung to him. He understood now, not that he would yield to the emotion, but the fear of judgment that swayed men he knew, and what Regan had meant when he had referred to those who did not dare to call their souls their own. "It does get you," he said, at last, to Hungerford. "It does me," said Hungerford frankly, "and I suppose it'll get worse." "I wonder?" He was silent, thinking of the year that had passed, wondering if the next would bring him the same discipline and the same fatigue, and if at the end of the three years' grind, if such should be his lot, he could stand up like Dudley before the whole college and take his medicine with a smile. CHAPTER XV When Stover returned after the summer vacation to the full glory of a sophomore, he had changed in many ways. The consciousness of success had given him certain confidence and authority, which, if it was more of the manner than real, nevertheless was noticeable. He had aged five or six years, as one ages at that time under the grave responsibilities of an exalted leadership. A great change likewise had come in his plans. During the summer Tough McCarthy's father had died, and Tough had been forced to forego his college course and take up at once the seriousness of life. Several offers had been made Dink to go in with Hungerford, Tommy Bain, and others of his crowd, but he had decided to room by himself, for a time at least. The decision had come to him as the result of a growing feeling of restlessness, an instinctive desire to be by himself and know again that shy friend Dink Stover, who somehow seemed to have slipped away from him. Much to his surprise, this feeling of restlessness dominated all other emotions on his victorious return to college. He felt strangely alone. Every one in the class greeted him with rushing enthusiasm, inquired critically of his weight and condition, and passed on. His progress across the campus was halted at every moment by acclaiming groups, who ran to him, pumping his hand, slapping him on the back, exclaiming: "You, old Dink Stover!" "Bless your heart." "Put it there." "Glad to see you again." "How are you?" "You look fit as a fiddle!" "The All-American this year!" "Hard luck about McCarthy." "Ta-ta." His was the popular welcome, and yet it left him unsatisfied, with a strange tugging at his heart. They were all acquaintances, nothing more. He went to his room on the second floor in Lawrence, and, finding his way over the bare floor and the boxes that encumbered, reached the window and flung it open. Below the different fences had disappeared under the joyful, hilarious groups that swarmed about them. He saw Swazey and Pike, two of the grinds of his own class, men who "didn't count," go past hugging each other, and their joy, comical though it was, hurt him. He turned from the window, saying aloud, sternly, as though commanding himself: "Come, I must get this hole fixed up. It's gloomy as the devil." He worked feverishly, ripping apart the covers, ranging the furniture, laying the rugs. Then he put in order his bedroom, and, whistling loudly, fished out his bedclothes, laid the bed, and arranged his bureau-top. That done, he brought forth several photographs he had taken in the brief visit he had paid the Storys, and placing them in the position of honor lit his pipe and, camping on a dry-goods box, like Scipio amid the ruins of Carthage, dreamily considered through the smoke-wreaths the distant snap-shots of a slender girl in white. He was comfortably, satisfactorily in love with Jean Story. The emotion filled a sentimental want in his nature. He had never asked her for her photograph or to correspond, as he would have lightly asked a hundred other girls. He knew instinctively that she would have refused. He liked that in her--her dignity and her reserve. He wanted her regard, as he always wanted what others found difficult to attain. She was young and yet with an old head on her shoulders. In the two weeks he had spent in camp, they had discussed much together of what lay ahead beyond the confines of college life. He did not always understand her point of view. He often wondered what was the doubt that lay in her mind about him. For, though she had given him a measure of her friendship, there was always a reserve, something held back. It was the same with Bob. It puzzled him; it irritated him. He was resolved to beat down that barrier, to shatter it some way and somehow, as he was resolved that Jim Hunter, whose intentions were clear, should never beat him out in this race. He rose, pipe in mouth, and, taking up a photograph, stared at the laughing face and the quiet, proud tilt of the head. "At any rate," he said to himself, "Jim Hunter hasn't got any more than this, and he never will." He went back to the study, delving into the packing-boxes. From below came a stentorian halloo he knew well: "Oh, Dink Stover, stick out your head!" "Come up, you, Tom Regan, come up on the jump!" In another moment Regan was in the room, and his great bear clutch brought Stover a feeling of warmth with its genuineness. "Bigger than ever, Tom." "You look fine yourself, you little bantam!" "Lord, but I'm glad to see you!" "Same to you." "How'd the summer go?" "Wonderful. I've got four hundred tucked away in the bank." "You don't say so!" "Fact." Stover shook hands again eagerly. "Tell me all about it." "Sure. Go on with your unpacking; I'll lend a hand. I've had a bully summer." "What's that mean?" said Stover, with a quizzical smile. "Working like a slave?" "No, no; seeing real people. I tried being a conductor a while, got in a strike, and switched over to construction work. Got to be foreman of a gang, night shift." "You don't mean out all night?" "Oh, I slept in the day. You get used to it. They're a strange lot, the fellows who work while the rest of you sleep. They brushed me up a lot, taught me a lot. Wish you'd been along. You'd have got some education." "I may do something of the sort with you next summer," said Stover quietly. "They tell me Tough McCarthy's not coming back." "Yes; father died." "Too bad. Going to room alone?" "For a while. I want to get away--think things over a bit, read some." "Good idea," said Regan, with one of his sharp appraising looks. "If a man's given a thinker, he might just as well use it." Hungerford and Bob Story joined them, and the four went down to Mory's to take possession in the name of the sophomore class. Regan, to their surprise, making one of the party, paid as they paid, with just a touch of conscious pride. The good resolves that Dink made to himself, under the influence of the acute emotions he had felt on his return, gradually faded from his memory as he felt himself caught up again in the rush of college life. He found his day marked out for him, his companions assigned to him, his standards and his opinions inherited from his predecessors. Insensibly he became a cog in the machine. What with football practise and visiting the freshman class in the interest of his society, he found he was able to keep awake long enough to get a smattering of the next day's work and no more. The class had scattered and groups with clear tendencies had formed, Hunter and Tommy Bain the center of little camps serious and ambitious, while off the campus in a private dormitory another element was pursuing mannish delights with the least annoyance from the curriculum. The opposition to the sophomore societies had now grown to a college issue. Protests from the alumni began to come in; one of the editors of the _Lit_ made it the subject of his leader, while the college, under the leadership of rebels like Gimbel, arrayed itself in uncompromising opposition and voted down every candidate for office that the sophomore societies placed in the field. That the situation was serious and working harm to the college Stover saw, but, as the fight became more bitter, the feeling of loyalty, coupled with distrust of the motives of the assailants, placed him in the ranks of the most ardent defenders, where, a little to his surprise, he found himself rather arrayed with Tommy Bain and Jim Hunter in their position of unrelenting conservatism, fighting the revolt which was making head in the society itself, as Bob Story and Joe Hungerford led the demand for some liberal reform. However, the conflict did not break out until the close of the season. The team, under the resolute leadership of Captain Dudley, fought its way to one of those almost miraculous successes which is not characteristic of the Yale system as it is the result of the inspiring guidance of some one extraordinary personality. Regan went from guard to tackle, and Stover, back at his natural position of end, developed the promise of freshman year, acclaimed as the All-American end of the year. Still the possibility of Regan's challenge for the captaincy returned constantly to his mind, for about the big tackle was always a feeling of confidence, of rugged, immovable determination that perhaps in its steadying influence had built up the team more than his own individual brilliancy. Dink, despite himself, felt the force of these masterful qualities, acknowledging them even as, to his displeasure, he felt a rising jealousy; for at the bottom he was drawn more and more to Regan as he was drawn to no other man. About a month after the triumphant close of the football season, then, Stover, in the usual course of a thoroughly uneventful morning, rose as rebelliously late as usual, bolted his breakfast, and rushed to chapel. He was humanly elated with what the season had brought, a fame which had gone the rounds of the press of the country for unflinching courage and cold head-work, but, more than that, he was pleasantly satisfied with the difficult modesty with which he bore his honors. For he was modest. He had sworn to himself he would be, and he was. He had allowed it to make no difference in his relations with the rest of the class. If anything, he was more careful to distribute the cordiality of his smile and the good-natured "How are you?" to all alike without the slightest distinction. "How are you, Bill?" he said to Swazey, the strange unknown grind who sat beside him. He called him by his first name consciously, though he knew him no more than this slight daily contact, because he wished to emphasize the comradeship and democracy of Yale, of which he was a leader. "Feelin' fine this morning, old gazabo?" "How are you?" said Swazey gratefully. "Tough lesson they soaked us, didn't they?" "It was a tough one." "Suppose that didn't bother you, though, you old valedictorian." "Oh, yes, it did." Stover, settling comfortably in his seat, nodded genially to the right and left. "I say, Dink." "Hello, what is it?" "Drop in on me some night." "What?" said Stover surprised. "Come round and have a chat sometime," said Swazey, in a thoroughly natural way. "Why, sure; like to," said Stover bluffly, which, of course was the only thing to say. "To-night?" "Sorry; I'm busy to-night," said Stover. Swazey, of course, being a grind, did not realize the abhorrent, almost sacrilegious, social break he was making in inviting him on his society evening. "To-morrow, then?" "Why, yes; to-morrow." "I haven't been very sociable in not asking you before," said Swazey, in magnificent incomprehension, "but I'd really like to have you." "Why, thankee." Stover, entrapped, received the invitation with perfect gravity, although resolved to find some excuse. But the next day, thinking it over, he said to himself that it really was his duty, and, reflecting how pleased Swazey would be to receive a call from one of his importance, he determined to give him that pleasure. Setting out after supper, he met Bob Story. "Whither away?" said Story, stopping. "I'm going to drop in on a fellow called Swazey," said Stover, a little conscious of the virtue of this act. "I sit next to him in chapel. He's a good deal of a grind, but he asked me around, and I thought I'd go. You know--the fellow in our row." "That's very good of you," said Story, with a smile which he remembered after. Stover felt so himself. Still, he had the democracy of Yale to preserve, and it was his duty. He went swinging on his way with that warm, glowing, physical delight that, fortunately, the slightest virtuous action is capable of arousing. With Nathaniel Pike, a classmate, Swazey roomed in Divinity Hall, where, attracted by the cheapness of the rooms, a few of the college had been able to find quarters. "Queer place," thought Dink to himself, eyeing a few of the divinity students who went slipping by him. "Wonder what the deuce I can talk to him about. Oh, well, I won't have to stay long." Swazey, of course, being outside the current of college heroes, could have but a limited view. He found the door at the end of the long corridor and thundered his knock, as a giant announces himself. "Come in if you're good-looking!" said a piping voice. Stover entered with strongly accentuated good fellowship, giving his hand with the politician's cordiality. "How are you, Nat? How are you, Bill?" He ensconced himself in the generous arm-chair, which bore the trace of many masters, accepted a cigar and said, to put his hosts at their ease: "Bully quarters you've got here. Blame sight more room than I've got." Pike, cap on, a pad under his arm, apologized for going. "Awful sorry, Stover; darned inhospitable. This infernal _News_ grind. Hope y'will be sociable and stay till I get back." "How are you making out?" said Stover, in an encouraging, generous way. Pike scratched his ear, a large, loose ear, wrinkling up his long, pointed nose in a grimace, as he answered: "Danged if I don't think I'm going to miss out again." "You were in the first competition?" said Stover, surprised--for one trial was usually considered equivalent to a thousand years off the purgatory account. "Yep, but I was green--didn't know the rules." "Lord, I should think you'd have had enough!" "Why, it's rather a sociable time. It is a grind, but I'm going to make that _News_, if I hit it all sophomore year." "What, you'd try again?" "You bet I would!" There was a matter-of-fact simplicity about Pike, uncouth as was his dress and wide sombrero, that appealed to Stover. He held out his hand. "Good luck to you! And say--if I get any news I'll save it for you." "Obliged, sir--ta-ta!" "Holy cats!" said Dink, relapsing into the arm-chair as the door banged. "Any one who'll stick at it like that gets all I can give him." "He's a wonderful person," said Swazey, drawing up his chair and elevating his hobnailed shoes. "Never saw anything like his determination. Wonderful! Green as salad when he first came, ready to tickle Prexy under the ribs or make himself at home whenever a room struck his fancy. But, when he got his eyes open, you ought to have seen him pick up and learn. He's developed wonderfully. He'll succeed in life." Stover smiled inwardly at this critical assumption on Swazey's part, but he began to be interested. There was something real in both men. "Did you go to school together?" he said. "Lord, no! Precious little school either of us got. I ran up against him when I landed here--just bumped together, as it were." "You don't say so?" "Fact. It was rather queer. We were both up in the fall trying to throttle a few pesky conditions and slip in. It was just after Greek prose composition--cursed be the memory!--when I came out of Alumni Hall, kicking myself at every step, and found that little rooster engaged in the same process. Say, he was a sight--looked like a chicken had been shipped from St. Louis to Chicago--but spunky as you make 'em. Never had put a collar on his neck--I got him up to that last spring; but he still balks at a derby. So off we went to grub, and I found he didn't know a soul. No more did I. So we said, 'Why not?' And we did. We hunted up these quarters, and we've got on first-rate ever since. No scratching, gouging, or biting. We've been a good team. I've seen the world, I've got hard sense, and he's got ideas--quite remarkable ideas. Danged if I'm not stuck on the little rooster." Stover reached out for the tobacco to fill a second pipe, all his curiosity aroused. "I say, Dink," said Swazey, offering him a match, "this college is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" He stood reflectively, the sputtering light of the match illuminating his thoughtful face. "Just think of the romance in it. Me and Pike coming together from two ends of the country and striking it up. That's what counts up here--the perfect democracy of it!" "Yes, of course," said Stover in a mechanical way. He was wondering what Swazey would think of the society system, or if he even realized it existed, so he said curiously: "You keep rather to yourselves, though." "Oh, I know pretty much what I want to know about men. I've sized 'em up and know what sorts to reach out for when I want them. Now I want to learn something real." He looked at Stover with a sort of rugged superiority in his glance and said: "I've earned my own way ever since I was twelve years old, and some of it was pretty rough going. I know what's outside of this place and what I want to reach. That's what a lot of you fellows don't worry about just now." "Swazey, tell me about yourself," said Stover, surprised at his own eagerness. "By George, I'd like to hear it! Why did you come to college?" "It was an idea of the governor's, and he got it pretty well fixed in my head. Would you like to hear? All right." He touched a match to the kindling, and, his coat bothering him, cast it off. "The old man was a pretty rough customer, I guess--he died when I was twelve; don't know anything about any one else in the family. I don't know just how he picked up his money; we were always moving; but I fancy he was a good deal of a rum hound and that carried him off. He always had a liking for books, and one set idea that I was to be a gentleman, get to college and get educated; so I always kept that same idea in the back of my head, and here I am." "You said you'd earned your living ever since you were twelve," said Stover, all interest. "That's so. It's pretty much the usual story. Selling newspapers, drifting around, living on my wits. Only I had a pretty shrewd head on my shoulders, and wherever I went I saw what was going on and I salted it away. I made up my mind I wasn't going to be a fool, but I was going to sit back, take every chance, and win out big. Lord of mercy, though, I've seen some queer corners--done some tough jobs! Up to about fifteen I didn't amount to much. I was a drifter. I've worked my way from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine, stealing rides and hoofing it with tramps. I've scrubbed out bar-rooms in Arizona and Oklahoma, and tended cattle in Kansas City. I sort of got a wandering fit, which is bad business. But each year I tucked away a little more of the long green than the year before, and got a little more of the juice of books. About four years ago, when I was seventeen--I'd saved up a few hundreds--I said to myself: "'Hold up, look here, if you're ever going to do anything, it's about time now to begin.' So I planted my hoof out in Oklahoma City and I started in to be a useful citizen." The pipe between Stover's lips had gone out, but he did not heed it. A new life--life itself--was suddenly revealing itself to him; not the guarded existences of his own kind, but the earnest romance of the submerged nine-tenths. As Swazey stopped, he said impulsively, directly: "By George, Swazey, I envy you!" "Well, it's taught me to size men up pretty sharply," said Swazey, continuing. "I've seen them in the raw, I've seen them in all sorts of tests. I've sort of got a pretty guess what they'll do or not do. Then, of course, I've had a knack of making money out of what I touch--it's a gift." "Are you working your way through here?" said Stover. All feeling of patronage was gone; he felt as if a torrent had cleared away the dust and cobwebs of tradition. "Lord, no," said Swazey, smiling. "Why, boy, I've got a business that's bringing me in between four and five thousand a year--running itself, too." Stover sat up. "What!" "I've got an advertising agency, specialties of all sorts, seven men working under one. I keep in touch every day. Course I could make more if I was right there. But I know what I'm going to do in this world. I've got my ideas for what's coming--big ideas. I'm going to make money hand over fist. That's easy. Now I'm getting an education. Here's the answer to it all." He drew out of his pocketbook a photograph and passed it over to Stover. "That's the best in the world; that's the girl that started me and that's the girl I'm going to marry." Dink took the funny little photograph and gazed at it with a certain reverence. It was the face of a girl pretty enough, with a straight, proud, reliant look in her eyes that he saw despite the oddity of the clothes and the artificiality of the pose. He handed back the photograph. "I like her," he said. "Here _we_ are," said Swazey, handing him a tintype. It was grotesque, as all such pictures are, with its mingled sentimentality and self-consciousness, but Stover did not smile. "That's the girl I've been working for ever since," said Swazey. "The bravest little person I ever struck, and the squarest. She was waiting in a restaurant when I happened to drop in, standing on her own feet, asking no favor. She's out of that now, thank God! I've sent her off to school." Dink turned to him with a start, amazed at the matter-of-fact way in which Swazey announced it. "To school--" he stammered. "_You've_ sent _her_." "Sure. Up to a convent in Montreal. She'll finish there when I finish here." "Why?" said Stover, too amazed to choose his methods of inquiry. "Because, my boy, I'm going out to succeed, and I want my wife to know as much as I do and go with me where I go." The two sat silently, Swazey staring at the tintype with a strange, proud smile, utterly unconscious of the story he had told, Stover overwhelmed as if the doors in a great drama had suddenly swung open to his intruding gaze. "She's the real student," said Swazey fondly. "She gets it all--all the romance of the big things that have gone on in the past. By George, the time'll come when we'll get over to Greece and Egypt and Rome and see something of it ourselves." He put the photographs in his pocketbook and rose, standing, legs spread before the fire, talking to himself. "By George, Dink, money isn't what I'm after. I'm going to have that, but the big thing is to know something about everything that's real, and to keep on learning. I've never had anything like these evenings here, browsing around in the good old books, chatting it over with old Pike--he's got imagination. Give me history and biography--that inspires you. Say, I've talked a lot, but you led me on. What's your story?" "My story?" said Stover solemnly. He thought a moment and then said: "Nothing. It's a blank and I'm a blank. I say, Swazey, give me your hand. I'm proud to know you. And, if you'll let me, I'd like to come over here oftener." He went from the room, with a sort of empty rage, transformed. Before him all at once had spread out the vision of the nation, of the democracy of lives of striving and of hope. He had listened as a child listens. He went out bewildered and humble. For the first time since he had come to Yale, he had felt something real. His mind and his imagination had been stirred, awakened, hungry, rebellious. He turned back, glancing from the lights on the campus to the room he had left--a little splotch of mellow meaning on the somber cold walls of Divinity, and then turned into the emblazoned quadrangle of the campus, with its tinkling sounds and feverish, childish ambitions. "Great heavens! and I went there as a favor," he said. "What under the sky do I know about anything--little conceited ass!" He went towards his entry and, seeing a light in Bob Story's room, suddenly hallooed. "Oh, Bob Story, stick out your head." "Hello, yourself. Who is it?" "It's me. Dink." "Come on up." "No, not to-night." "What then?" "Say, Bob, I just wanted you to know one thing." "What?" "I'm just a plain damn fool; do you get that?" "What the deuce?" "Just a plain damn fool--good-night!" And he went to his room, locked the door to all visitors, pulled an arm-chair before the fire, and sat staring into it, as solemn as the wide-eyed owls on the casters. CHAPTER XVI The hours that Dink Stover sat puffing his pipe before the yellow-eyed owls that blinked to him from the crackling fireplace were hours of revolution. His imagination, stirred by the recital of Swazey's life, returned to him like some long-lost friend. Sunk back in his familiar arm-chair, his legs extended almost to the reddening logs, his arms braced, he seemed to see through the conjuring clouds of smoke that rose from his pipe the figures of a strange self, the Dink Stover who had fought his way to manhood in the rough tests of boarding-school life, the Dink Stover who had arrived so eagerly, whose imagination had leaped to the swelling masses of that opening night and called for the first cheer in the name of the whole class. That figure was stranger to him than the stranger in his own entry. Together they sat looking into each other's eyes, in shy recognition, while overhead on every quarter-hour the bell from Battell Chapel announced the march toward midnight. Several times, as he sat plunged in reverie, a knock sounded imperiously on the locked door; but he made no move. Once from the campus below he heard Dopey McNab's gleeful voice mingling with the deep bass of Buck Waters: "_Oh, father and mother pay all the bills,_ _And we have all the fun._ _That's the way we do in college life._ _Hooray!_" [Illustration: "'OH, FATHER AND MOTHER PAY ALL THE BILLS, AND WE HAVE ALL THE FUN'"--_Page 229._] For a moment the song was choked, and then he heard it ring in triumphant crescendo as the two came up his steps, pounding out the rhythm with enthusiastic feet. Before his door they came to a stop, sang the chorus to a rattling accompaniment of their fists, and exclaimed: "Oh, Dink Stover, open up!" Receiving no response, they consulted: "Why, the geezer isn't in." "Let's break down the door." "What right has he to be out?" "Is there any one else we can annoy around here?" "Bob Story is in the next entry." "Lead me to him." "About face!" "March!" "_Oh, father and mother pay all the bills,_ _And we have all the fun:_ _That's the way we do--_" The sound died out. Upstairs a piano took up the refrain in a thin, syncopated echo. From time to time a door slammed in his entry, or from without the faint halloo: "Oh, Jimmy, stick out your head." Dink, shifting, poked another log into place and returned longingly to his reverie. He could not get from his mind what Swazey had told him. His imagination reconstructed the story that had been given in such bare detail, thrilling at the struggle and the drama he perceived back of it. It was all undivined. When he had thought of his classmates, he had thought of them in a matter-of-fact way as lives paralleling his own. "Wonder what Regan's story is--the whole story?" he thought musingly. "And Pike and all the rest of--" He hesitated, and then added, "--of the fellows who don't count." He had heard but one life, but that had disclosed the vista of a hundred paths that here in his own class, hidden away, should open on a hundred romances. He felt, with a sudden realization of the emptiness of his own life, a new zest, a desire to go out and seek what he had ignored before. He left the fire suddenly, dug into his sweater, and flung a great ulster about him. He went out and across the chilly campus to the very steps where he had gone with Le Baron on his first night, drawing up close to the wall for warmth. And again he thought of the other self, the boyish, natural self, the Dink Stover who had first come here. What had become of him? Of the two selves it was the boy who alone was real, who gave and received in friendship without hesitating or appraising. He recalled all the old schoolmates with their queer nicknames--the Tennessee Shad, Doc MacNooder, the Triumphant Egghead, and Turkey Reiter. There had been no division there in that spontaneous democracy, and the Dink Stover who had won his way to the top had never sought to isolate himself or curb any natural instinct for skylarking, or sought a reason for a friendship. "Good Lord!" he said, almost aloud, "in one whole year what have I done? I haven't made one single friend, known what one real man was doing or thinking, done anything I wanted to do, talked out what I wanted to talk, read what I wanted to read, or had time to make the friends I wanted to make. I've been nothing but material--varsity material--society material; I've lost all the imagination I had, and know less than when I came; and I'm the popular man--'the big man'--in the class! Great! Is it my fault or the fault of things up here?" Where had it all gone--that fine zest for life, that eagerness to know other lives and other conditions, that readiness for whole-souled comradeship with which he had come to Yale? Where was the pride he had felt in the democracy of the class, when he had swung amid the torches and the cheers past the magic battlements of the college, one in the class, with the feeling in the ranks of a consecrated army gathered from the plains and the mountains, the cities and villages of the nation, consecrated to one another, to four years of mutual understanding that would form an imperishable bond wherever on the face of the globe they should later scatter? And, thinking of all this young imagination that somehow had dried up and withered away, he asked himself again and again: "Is it my fault?" Across the campus Buck Waters and Dopey McNab, returning from their marauding expedition, came singing, arm in arm: "_Oh, father and mother pay all the bills,_ _And we have all the fun._ _That's the way we do in college life._ _Hooray!_" The two pagans passed without seeing him, gloriously, boyishly happy and defiant, and the rollicking banter recalled in bleak contrast all the stern outlines of the lives of seriousness he had felt for the first time. At first he revolted at the extremes. Then he considered. Even their life and their point of view was something unknown. It was true he was only a part of the machine of college, one of the wheels that had to revolve in its appointed groove. He had thought of himself always as one who led, and suddenly he perceived that it was he who followed. A step sounded by him, and the winking eye of a pipe. Some one unaware of his tenancy approached the steps. Stover, in a flare-up of the tobacco, recognized him. "Hello, Brockhurst," he said. "Hello," said the other, hesitating shyly. "It's Stover," said Dink. "What are you doing this time of night?" "Oh, I prowl around," said Brockhurst, shifting from one foot to the other. "Sit down." "Not disturbing you?" "Not at all," said Stover, pleased at this moment at the awe he evidently inspired. "I got sort of restless; thought I'd come out here and smoke a pipe. Amusing old spot." "I like it," said Brockhurst. Then he added tentatively: "You get the feeling of it all." "Yes, that's so." They puffed in unison a moment. "You're hitting up a good pace on that _Lit_ competition," said Dink, unconscious of the tone of patronage into which he insensibly fell. "Pretty good." "That's right. Keep plugging away." "Why?" said Brockhurst, with a little aggressiveness. "Why, you ought to make the chairmanship," said Dink, surprised. "Why should I?" "Don't you want to?" "There are other things I want more." "What?" "To go through here as my own master, and do myself some good." "Hello!" Stover sat up amazed at hearing from another the thoughts that had been dominant in his own mind; amazed, too, at the trick of association which had put into his own mouth thoughts against which a moment before he had been rebelling. "That's good horse sense," he said, to open up the conversation. "What are you going to do?" "I'm going to do the best thing a fellow can do at our age. I'm going to loaf." "Loaf!" said Dink, startled again, for the word was like treason. "Just that." "But you're not doing that. You're out to make the _Lit_. You're heeling something, like all the rest of us," said Stover, who suddenly found himself on the opposite side of the argument, revolting with a last resistance at the too bold statement of his own rebellion. "I'm not 'heeling' the _Lit_," said Brockhurst. His shyness disappeared; he spoke energetically, interested in what he was saying. "If I were, I would make the chairmanship without trouble. I'm head and shoulders over the rest here, and I know it. As it is, some persistent grubber who sits down two hours a day, thirty days a month, nine months of the year for the next two years, who will regularly hand in one essay, two stories, a poem, and a handful of portfolios will probably beat me out." "And you?" "I? I write when I have something to write, because I love it and because my ambition is to write." "Still, that's not exactly loafing." "It is from your point of view, from the college point of view. It isn't what I write that's doing me any good." "What then?" said Stover, with growing curiosity. "The browsing around, watching you other fellows, seeing your mistakes." "Well, what are they?" said Dink, with a certain antagonism. "Why, Stover, here are four years such as we'll never get again--four years to revel in; and what do you fellows do? Slave as you'll never slave again. Why, you're working harder than a clerk supporting a family!" "It's a good training." "For a certain type, yes, but a rather low type. Thank you, I prefer to go my own way, to work out my own ideas rather than accept others'. However, I'm a crank. Any one who thinks differently here must be a crank." While they were talking the hour of twelve had struck, and presently across the campus came a mysterious line of senior society men, marching silently, two by two, returning to their rooms. "What do you think of that?" said Stover, with real curiosity. "That. A colossal mumbo-jumbo that has got every one of you in its grip." He paused a moment and gave a short laugh. "Did you ever stop to think, Stover, that this fetish of society secrecy that is spread all over this Christian, democratic nation is nothing but a return of idol-worship?" This idea was beyond Stover, and so, not comprehending it, he resented it. He did not reply. Brockhurst, perceiving that he had spoken too frankly, rose. "Well, I must be turning in," he said. "So long, Stover. You go your way and I'll go mine; some day we'll talk it over--four years out of college." "The fellow _is_ a crank," said Dink, going his way. "Got some ideas, but an extremist. One or two things he said, though, are true. I rather like to get his point of view, but there's a chap who'll never make friends." And he felt again a sort of resentment, for, after all, Brockhurst was still unplaced according to college standards, and he was Stover, probable captain, one of those rated sure for the highest society honors. When he awoke the next morning, starting rebelliously from his bed, his head was heavy, and he did not at first remember the emotions of the night, as sleepily struggling through his sweater he ran out of his entry for a hurried cup of coffee. Bob Story hailed him: "Hold up, you crazy man." "What's the matter?" "What the deuce got into you last night?" "Last night?" said Stover, rubbing his eyes. "You hauled me out of bed to shout out a lot of crazy nonsense." "What did I say?" said Dink, trying to open his eyes. "Nothing new," said Bob maliciously. "You said you were a plain damn fool, and were anxious for me to know it." "Oh, I remember." "Well?" "Well what?" "Explanations?" Stover did not feel in the mood; besides, the new ideas were too big and strange. He wanted time to understand them. So he said: "Why, Bob, I just woke up, that's all. I'll tell you about it sometime--not now." "All right," said Story, with a quick look. "Drop in soon." The following night Stover again went over to Swazey's rooms. It being Saturday, one or two men had dropped in: Ricketts, a down-East Yankee who recited in his divisions, a drawling, shuffling stripling with a lazy, overgrown body and a quick, roving eye; Joe Lake, a short, rolling, fluent Southerner from Texas; and Bud Brown, from a small village in Michigan, one of the class debaters who affected a Websterian deportment. "I brought my pipe along," said Stover genially. "Got a place left where I can stow myself? Hello, Ricketts. Hello, Lake. Glad to shake your hand, Brown. How's the old _News_ getting along, Pike? By the way, I'll give you a story Monday." "Right in here, sir," said Lake, making room. A couple of stout logs were roaring in the fireplace, before which, propped up with cushions, the majority of the company were sprawling. Stover took his place, filling his pipe. His arrival brought a little constraint; the conversation, which had been at fever pitch as he stood rapping at the door, dwindled to desultory remarks on inconsequential things. "Well, I certainly am among the fruits of the class," thought Stover, eyeing the rather shaggy crowd, where sweaters and corduroys predominated and the razor had passed not too frequently. In the midst of this hesitation, Regan's heavy frame crowded the doorway, accompanied by Brockhurst. Both were surprised at Stover's unaccustomed presence, Brockhurst looking at him with a little suspicion, Regan shaking his hand with new cordiality. "Have you, too, joined the debating circle?" he said, crowding into a place by Stover and adjusting the fire with a square-toed boot. "Debating circle?" said Stover, surprised. "Why, this is the verbal prize ring of the college," said Regan, laughing. "We settle everything here, from the internal illnesses of the university to the external manifestations of the universe. Pike can tell you everything that is going to happen in the next fifty years, and so can Brocky--only they don't agree. I'm around to get them out of clinches." "Reckon you get rather heated up yourself, sometimes, Tom," said Lake. "Oh, I jump in myself when I get tired of listening." Swazey, Lake, Ricketts, and Brown in one corner installed themselves for a session at the national game, appropriating the lamps, and leaving the region about the fireplace to be lit by occasional gleams from the fitful hickories. Brockhurst, the champion of individualism, was soon launched on his favorite topic. "The great fault of the American nation, which is the fault of republics, is the reduction of everything to the average. Our universities are simply the expression of the forces that are operating outside. We are business colleges purely and simply, because we as a nation have only one ideal--the business ideal." "That's a big statement," said Regan. "It's true. Twenty years ago we had the ideal of the lawyer, of the doctor, of the statesman, of the gentleman, of the man of letters, of the soldier. Now the lawyer is simply a supernumerary enlisting under any banner for pay; the doctor is overshadowed by the specialist with his business development of the possibilities of the rich; we have politicians, and politics are deemed impossible for a gentleman; the gentleman cultured, simple, hospitable, and kind, is of the dying generation; the soldier is simply on parade." "Wow!" said Ricketts, jingling his chips. "They're off." "Everything has conformed to business, everything has been made to pay. Art is now a respectable career--to whom? To the business man. Why? Because a profession that is paid $3,000 to $5,000 a portrait is no longer an art, but a blamed good business. The man who cooks up his novel according to the weakness of his public sells a hundred thousand copies. Dime novel? No; published by our most conservative publishers--one of our leading citizens. He has found out that scribbling is a new field of business. He has convinced the business man. He has made it pay." "Three cards," said Swazey's voice. "Well, Brocky, what's your remedy?" "A smashing war every ten years," said Brockhurst shortly. "Why, you bloody butcher," said Regan, who did not seize the idea, while from the card-table came the chorus: "Hooray, Brocky, go it!" "That's the way!" "You're in fine form to-night!" "And why a war?" said Pike, beginning to take notice. "A war has two positive advantages," said Brockhurst. "It teaches discipline and obedience, which we profoundly need, and it holds up a great ideal, the ideal of heroism, of sacrifice for an ideal. In times of war young men such as we are are inspired by the figures of military leaders, and their imaginations are stirred to noble desires by the word 'country.' Nowadays what is held up to us? Go out--succeed--make money." "That's true, a good deal true," said Regan abruptly. "And the only remedy, the only way to fight the business deal, is to interest young men in politics, to make them feel that there are the new battle-fields." "Now Tom's in it," said Lake, threshing the cards through his fingers. At the card-table the players began to listen, motioning with silent gestures. "I _am_ off," said Regan, bending forward eagerly and striking his fist against his open hand. "That's the one great thing our colleges should stand for; they ought to be great political hotbeds." "And they're not," said Brockhurst shortly. "The more's the pity," said Regan. "There I'm with you. They don't represent the nation: they don't represent what the big masses are feeling, fighting, striving for. By George, when I think of the opportunity, of what this place could mean, what it was meant to mean! Why, every year we gather here from every State in the Union a picked lot, with every chance, with a wonderful opportunity to seek out and know what the whole country needs, to be fired with the same great impulses, to go out and fight together--" He stopped clumsily in the midst of a sentence, and flung back his hair, frowning. "Good government, independent thinking, the love of the fight for the right thing ought to begin here--the enthusiasm of it all. Hang it, I can't express it; but the idea is immense, and no one sees it." "I see it," said Pike. "That's my ambition. I'm going back; I'm going to own my own newspaper some day, and fight for it." "But why don't the universities reflect what's out there?" said Regan with a gesture. "Because, to make it as it should be, and as it was, a live center of political discussion," said Brockhurst, "you've got to give the individual a chance, break through this tyranny of the average, get away from business ideas." "Just what do you mean when you say we are nothing but a business college?" said Stover, preparing to resist any explanation. He understood imperfectly what Regan was advocating. Politics meant to him a sort of hereditary division; what new forces were at work he completely ignored, though resolved on enlightenment. Brockhurst's attack on the organization of the college was personal, and he felt that his own membership in the sophomore society was aimed at. "I mean this," said Brockhurst, speaking slowly in the effort to express a difficult thought. "I hope I can make it clear. What would be the natural thing? A man goes to college. He works as he wants to work, he plays as he wants to play, he exercises for the fun of the game, he makes friends where he wants to make them, he is held in by no fear of criticism above, for the class ahead of him has nothing to do with his standing in his own class. Everything he does has the one vital quality: it is spontaneous. That is the flame of youth itself. Now, what really exists?" As he paused, Stover, unable to find an opening for dissent, observed with interest the attitudes of the listeners: Pike, his pipe forgotten in the hollow of his hand, was staring into the fire, his forehead drawn in difficult comprehension; Regan was puffing steady, methodical puffs, nodding his head from time to time. In the background Swazey's earnest face was turned in their direction, and the cards, neglected, were moving in a lazy shuffle; Brown, the debater, man of words rather than ideas, was running his fingers nervously through his drooping hair, chafing for the chance to enter the fray; Lake, tilted back, his fat body exaggerated under the swollen rolls of his sweater, from which from time to time he dug out a chip, kept murmuring: "Perfectly correct, sir; perfectly correct." Ricketts, without lifting his head, arranged and rearranged his pile of chips, listening with one ear cocked, deriving meanwhile all the profit which could be gained from his companions' divided attention. Two things struck Stover particularly in the group--the rough, unhewn personal exteriors, and the quick, awakened light of enthusiasm on their faces while listening to the expounding of an idea. Brockhurst himself was transformed. All the excessive self-consciousness which irritated and repelled was lost in the fervor of the thinker. He spoke, not as one who discussed, but as one who, consciously superior to his audience, announced his conclusions; and at times, when most interested, he seemed to be addressing himself. "Now, what is the actual condition here?" He rose, stretching himself against the mantel, lighting a match which died out, as did a half-dozen others, unnoticed on his pipe. "I say our colleges to-day are business colleges--Yale more so, perhaps, because it is more sensitively American. Let's take up any side of our life here. Begin with athletics. What has become of the natural, spontaneous joy of contest? Instead you have one of the most perfectly organized business systems for achieving a required result--success. Football is driving, slavish work; there isn't one man in twenty who gets any real pleasure out of it. Professional baseball is not more rigorously disciplined and driven than our 'amateur' teams. Add the crew and the track. Play, the fun of the thing itself, doesn't exist; and why? Because we have made a business out of it all, and the college is scoured for material, just as drummers are sent out to bring in business. "Take another case. A man has a knack at the banjo or guitar, or has a good voice. What is the spontaneous thing? To meet with other kindred spirits in informal gatherings in one another's rooms or at the fence, according to the whim of the moment. Instead what happens? You have our university musical clubs, thoroughly professional organizations. If you are material, you must get out and begin to work for them--coach with a professional coach, make the Apollo clubs, and, working on, some day in junior year reach the varsity organization and go out on a professional tour. Again an organization conceived on business lines. "The same is true with the competition for our papers: the struggle for existence outside in a business world is not one whit more intense than the struggle to win out in the _News_ or _Lit_ competition. We are like a beef trust, with every by-product organized, down to the last possibility. You come to Yale--what is said to you? 'Be natural, be spontaneous, revel in a certain freedom, enjoy a leisure you'll never get again, browse around, give your imagination a chance, see every one, rub wits with every one, get to know yourself.' "Is that what's said? No. What are you told, instead? 'Here are twenty great machines that need new bolts and wheels. Get out and work. Work harder than the next man, who is going to try to outwork you. And, in order to succeed, work at only one thing. You don't count--everything for the college.' Regan says the colleges don't represent the nation; I say they don't even represent the individual." "What would you do?" said Brown. "Abolish all organizations?" "Absolutely," said Brockhurst, who never recoiled. "What! Do you mean to say that the college of 1870 was a bigger thing than the college of to-day?" "My dear Brown, it isn't even debatable," said Brockhurst, with a little contempt, for he did not understand nor like the man of flowing words. "What have we to-day that is bigger? Is it this organization of external activities? We have more bricks and stones, but have we the great figures in the teaching staff? I grant you, this is purely an economic failure--but at the bottom of the whole thing compare the spirit inside the campus now and then. Who were the leaders then? The men of brains. Then the college did reflect the country; then it was a vital hotbed of political thought. To-day everything that has been developed is outside the campus; and it's so in every college. This is the tendency--development away from the campus at the expense of the campus. That's why, when you ask me would I wipe out our business athletics and our professional musical and traveling dramatic clubs, I say, yes, absolutely. I would have the limits of college to be the walls of the campus itself, and we'd see, when men cease to be drafted for one grind or another, whether they couldn't begin to meet to think and to converse. However, that brings up the whole pet problem of education, and, I'm through talking. Go on, Pike; tell us that we are, after all, only schools for character." "Brocky, you certainly are a radical--a terrific one," said Pike, shaking his head. Regan, smoking, said nothing. "A sort of red-shirt, eh?" said Brockhurst, smiling. "You always go off on a tangent." "Well, there's a good deal in what Brocky says," said Regan, nodding slowly, "about bringing us all back into the campus and shutting out the world. It's the men here, all sorts and conditions, that, after all, are big things, the vital thing. I'm thinking over what you're saying, Brocky--not that I follow you altogether, but I see what you're after--I get it." Stover, on the contrary, was aware of only an antagonism, for his instinct was always to combat new ideas. There were things in what Brockhurst had said that touched him on the quick of his accepted loyalty. Then, he could not quite forget that in the matter of his sophomore society he had rejected him as being a little "queer." So he said rather acidly: "Brockhurst, one question. If you feel as you do, why do you stay here?" Brockhurst, who had withdrawn after his outburst, a little self-conscious again, flushed with anger at this question. But with an effort he controlled himself, saying: "Stover has not perceived that I have been talking of general conditions all through the East; that I am not fool enough to believe one Eastern university is different in essentials from another. What I criticize here I criticize in American life. As to why I remain at Yale, I remain because I think, because, having the advantages of my own point of view, I can see clearer those who are still conventionalized." "But you don't believe in working for Yale," persisted Stover, for he was angry at what he perceived had been his discourtesy. "Work for Yale! Work for Princeton! Work for Harvard! Bah! Sublime poppycock!" exclaimed Brockhurst, in a sort of fury. "Of all drivel preached to young Americans, that is the worst. I came to Yale for an education. I pay for it--good pay. I ask, first and last, what is Yale going to do for me? Work for Yale, go out and slave, give up my leisure and my independence--to do what for Yale? To keep turning the wheels of some purely inconsequential machine, or strive like a gladiator. Is that doing anything for Yale, a seat of learning? If I'm true to myself, make the most of myself, go out and be something, stand for something _after_ college, then ask the question if you want. Ridiculous! Hocus-pocus and flap-doodle! Lord! I don't know anything that enrages me more. Good night; I'm going. Heaven knows what I'll say if I stay!" He clapped his hat on his head and broke out of the door. The chorus of exclamations in the room died down. Ricketts, still shifting his victorious pile, began to whistle softly to himself. Regan, languidly stretched out, with a twinkle in his eyes kept watching Stover, staring red and concentrated into the fire. "Well?" he said at last. Stover turned. "Well?" said Regan, smiling. Dink rapped the ashes from his pipe, scratched his head, and said frankly: "Of course I shouldn't have said what I did. I got well spanked for it, and I deserve it." "What do you think of his ideas?" said Regan, nodding appreciatively at Stover's fair acknowledgment. "I don't know," said Stover, puzzled. "I guess I haven't used my old thinker enough lately to be worth anything in a discussion. Still--" "Still what?" said Regan, as Dink hesitated. "Still, he has made me think," he admitted grudgingly. "I wish he didn't quite--quite get on my nerves so." "There's a great deal in what he said to-night," said Pike meditatively; "a great deal. Of course, he is always looking at things from the standpoint of the individual; still, just the same--" "Brocky always states only one side of the proposition," said Brown, who rarely measured swords when Brockhurst was present in the flesh. "He takes for granted his premise, and argues for a conclusion that must follow." "Well, what's your premise, Brown?" said Stover hopefully, for he wanted to be convinced. "This is my premise," said Brown fluently. "The country has changed, the function of a college has changed. It is now the problem of educating masses and not individuals. To-day it is a question of perfecting a high average. That's what happens everywhere in college: we all tend toward the average; what some lose others gain. We go out, not as individuals, but as a type--a Yale type, Harvard type, Princeton type, five hundred strong, proportionately more powerful in our influence on the country." "Just what does our type take from here to the nation?" said Stover; and then he was surprised that he had asked the question that was vital. "What? What does this type stand for? I'll tell you," said Brown readily, with the debater's trick of repeating the question to gain time. "First, a pretty fine type of gentleman, with good, clear, honest standards; second, a spirit of ambition and a determination not to be beaten; third, the belief in democracy." "All of which means," said Regan, "that we are simply schools for character." "Well, why not?" said Pike. "Isn't that a pretty big thing?" "You're wrong on the democracy, Brown," said Regan, with a snap of his jaws. "I mean the feeling of man to man." "Perhaps." Stover at that moment was not so certain that he would have answered the same. The discussion had so profoundly interested him that he forgot a certain timidity. "What would Brockhurst answer to the school-for-character idea?" he said. "I calculate he'd have a lovely time with it," said Ricketts, with a laugh, "a regular dog-and-slipper time of it." "In all which," said Swazey's quick voice, "there is no question about our learning a little bit." A laugh broke out. "Lord, no!" "That doesn't count?" "Why the curriculum?" "That," said Regan, rising, "brings up the subject of education, which is deferred until another time. Ladies and gentlemen, good night. Who's winning? Ricketts. That's because he's said nothing. Good night, everybody." Stover went with him. "Tom," he said, when they came toward the campus, "do you know what I've learned to-night? I've learned what a complete ignoramus I am." "How did you happen in?" said Regan. Stover related the incident without mincing words. "You're a lucky boy," said Regan, at the conclusion. "I'm glad you're waking up." "You know I know absolutely nothing. I haven't thought on a single subject, and as for politics, and what you men talk about, I don't know the slightest thing. I say, Tom, I'd like to come around and talk with you." "Come," said Regan; "I've had the door on the latch for a long while, old rooster." CHAPTER XVII The next afternoon Stover passed Brockhurst going to dinner. "Hello," he said, with a cordial wave of the hand. "Hello," said Brockhurst, with a little avoidance, for he had a certain physical timidity, which always shrank at the consequences of his mental insurgency. "I was a chump and a fool last night," said Stover directly, "and here's my apology." "Oh, all right." "Drop in on me. Talk things over. You've started me thinking. Drop in--I mean it." "Thanks, awfully." Brockhurst, ill at ease, moved away, pursued always by a shackling self-consciousness in the presence of those to whom he consciously felt he was mentally superior. One direct result came to Stover from the visit to Swazey's rooms. Despite the protests and arguments, he did not report for the competition for the crew. "Stay in for a couple of months," said Le Baron. "We want the moral effect of every one's coming out." "Sorry; I've made up my mind," said Dink. "Why?" "Want time to myself. I've never had it, and now I'm going to get it." Le Baron of the machine did not understand him, and he did not explain. Stover was essentially a man of action and not a thinker. He did not reason things out for himself, but when he became convinced he acted. So, when he had thought over Brockhurst's theories and admitted that he was not independent, he determined at once to be so. He began zealously, turning his back on his own society crowd, to seek out the members of his class whom he did not know, resolved that his horizon should be of the freest. For the first time he began to reason on what others said to him. He went often to Swazey's rooms, and Regan's, which were centers of discussion. Some of the types that drifted in were incongruous, bizarre, flotsam and jetsam of the class; but in each, patiently resolved, he found something to stir the imagination; and when, under Regan's quickening influence, he stopped to consider what life in the future would mean to them, he began to understand what his friend, the invincible democrat, meant by the inspiring opportunity of college--the vision of a great country that lay on the lips of the men he had only to seek out. Dink was of too direct a nature and also too confident in the strength of his position to consider the effect of his sudden pilgrimage to what was called the "outsiders." Swazey and Pike, at his invitation, took to dropping into his room and working out their lessons with him. Quite unconsciously, he found himself constantly in public companionship with them and other newly discovered types who interested him. About two weeks after this new life had begun, Le Baron stopped him one day, with a little solicitous frown, saying: "Look here, Dink, aren't you cutting loose from your own crowd a good deal?" "Why, yes, I guess I am," Dink announced, quite unconsciously. "I wouldn't get identified too much with--well, with some of the fellows you've taken up." Stover smiled, and went his way undisturbed. For the first time he felt his superiority over Le Baron. Le Baron could not know what he knew--that it was just these new acquaintances who had waked him up out of his torpor and made a thinking being of him. Others in his class, mistaking his motives, began to twit him: "I say, Dink, what are you out for?" "Running for something?" "Getting into politics?" "Junior Prom, eh?" He turned the jests aside with jests as ready, quite unaware that in his own crowd he was arousing a little antagonism; for he was developing in such deep lines that he did not perceive vexing details. All at once he remembered that it had been over a fortnight since he had called at the Storys' and he ran over one afternoon about four o'clock, expecting to stay for dinner; for the Judge kept open house to the friends of his son, and Stover had readily availed himself of the privilege to become intimate. Although Bob Story was bound to him by the closest social ties, Dink felt, nor was he altogether at fault in the feeling, that the brother was still on the defensive with him, due to a natural resentment perhaps at Dink's too evident interest in his sister. When he arrived at the old colonial house set back among the elms, Eliza, the maid, informed him that no one was at home. Miss Jean was out riding. But immediately she corrected herself, and, going upstairs to make sure, returned with the welcome information that Miss Story had just returned and begged him to wait. He took the request as a meager evidence of her interest, and entered the drawing-room. Waiting there for her to come tripping down the stairs, he began to think of the new horizon that had opened to him, and the new feeling of maturity; and, feeling this with an acute realization, he was impatient for her to come, that he might tell her. It was a good ten minutes before he turned suddenly at a rustling on the stairs, and saw her, fresh and flushed from the ride. "It's awfully good of you to wait," she called to him. "I did my best to rush." Arrived on the landing, she gave him her hand, looking at him a little earnestly. "How are you? You're a terrible stranger." "Have I been very bad?" he said, holding her hand. "Indeed you have. Even Bob said he hardly saw you. What have you been doing?" She withdrew her hand gently, but stood before him, looking into his face with her frank, inquiring eyes. Stover wondered if she thought he'd been a trifle wild; and, as there was no justification, he was immensely flattered, and a little tempted dramatically to assume an attitude that would call for reform. He smiled and said: "I've been on a voyage of discovery, that's all. You'll be interested." They sat down, and he began directly to talk, halting in broken phrases at first, gradually finding his words as he entered his subject. "By George! I've had a wonderful two weeks--a revelation--just as though--just as though I'd begun my college course; that's really what it means. All I've done before doesn't count. And to think, if it hadn't been for an accident, I might have gone on without ever waking up." He recounted his visit to Swazey's rooms, drawing a picture of his self-satisfied self descending _en prince_ to bestow a favor; and, warming out of his stiffness, drew a word picture of Swazey's telling his story before the fire, and the rough sentiment with which he brought forth the odd, common little tintypes. "By George! the fellow had told a great story and he didn't know it; but I knew it, and it settled me," he added with earnestness, always aware of her heightened attention. "It was a regular knockout blow to the conceited, top-heavy, prancing little ass who had gone there. By Jove, it gave me a jar. I went out ashamed." "It is a very wonderful life--simple, wonderful," she said slowly, thinking more of the relator than of the story. "I understand all you felt." "You know life's real to those fellows," he continued, with more animation. "They're after something in this world; they believe in something; they're fighting for something. There's nothing real in me--that is, there wasn't. By George, these two weeks that I've gone about, looking for the men in the class, have opened up everything to me. I never knew my own country before. It's a wonderful country! It's the simple lives that are so wonderful." [Illustration: "'LIFE'S REAL TO THOSE FELLOWS; THEY'RE FIGHTING FOR SOMETHING'"--_Page 254._] She had in her hand a piece of embroidery, but she did not embroider. Her eyes never left his face. For the first time, the rôles were reversed: it was he who talked and she who listened. From time to time she nodded, satisfied at the decision and direction in his character, which had answered the first awakening suggestion. "Who is Pike?" she asked. "Pike is a little fellow from a little life in some country town in Indiana; the only one in a family of eight children that's amounted to anything--father's a pretty even sort, I guess; so are the rest of them. But this fellow has a dogged persistence--not so quick at thinking things out, but, Lord! how he listens; nothing gets away from him. I can see him growing right under my eyes. He's interested in politics, same as Regan; wants to go back and get a newspaper some day. He'll do it, too. Why, that fellow has been racing ahead ever since he came here, and I've been standing still. Ricketts is an odd character, a sort of Yankee genius, shrewd, and some of his observations are as sharp as a knife. Brockhurst has the brains of us all; he can out-think us every one. But he's a spectator; he's outside looking on. I can't quite get used to him. Regan's the fellow I want for a friend. He's like an old Roman. When he makes up his mind--it takes him a long while--when he does, he's right." He recounted Regan's ideas on politics--his enthusiasm, and his ideal of a college life that would reflect the thought of the nation. Then, talking to himself, he began to walk up and down, flinging out quick, stiff gestures: "Brockhurst states a thing in such a slap-bang way--no compromise--that it hits you at first like a blow. But when you think it over he has generally got to the point. Where he's wrong is, he thinks the society system here keeps a man wrapped in cotton, smothering him and separating him from the class. Now, I'm an example to the contrary. It's all a question of the individual. I thought it wasn't at one moment, but now I know that it is. You can do just what you want--find what you want. "But we do get so interested in outside things that we forget the real; that's true. Brockhurst says we ought to bring the college back to the campus, and the more I think of it the more I see what he means. The best weeks, the biggest in my life, are those when I've realized I had an imagination and could use it." Suddenly he halted, gave a quick glance at her, and said: "Here I'm talking like a runaway horse. I got started." "Thank you for talking to me so," she said eagerly. He had never seen in her eyes so much of genuine impulse toward him, and, suddenly recalled, in this moment of exhilaration, to the personal self, he was thrilled with a strange thrill at what he saw. "You remember," he said, with a certain new boldness, "how impudent you used to be to me, and how furious I was when you told me I was not awake." "I remember." "Now I understand what you meant," he said, "but then I didn't." She rose to order tea, and then turned impulsively, smiling up to him. "I think--I'm sure I felt it would come to you; only I was a little impatient." And with a happy look she offered him her hand. "I'm very glad to be your friend," she said, to make amends; "and I hope you'll come and talk over with me all that you are thinking. Will you?" He did not answer. At the touch of her hand, which he held in his, at the new sound in her voice, suddenly something surged up in him, something blinding, intoxicating, that left him hot and cold, rash and silent. She tried to release her hand, but his grip was not to be denied. Then, seeing him standing head down boyishly unable to speak or act, she understood. "Oh, please!" she said, with a sudden weakness, again trying to release her fingers. "I can't help it," he said, blurting out the words. "Jean, you know as well as I what it is. I love you." The moment the words were out, he had a cold horror of what had been said. He didn't love her, not as he had said it. Why had he said it? She remained motionless a moment, gathering her strength against the shock. "Please let go my hand," she said quietly. This time he obeyed. His mind was a vacuum; every little sound came to him distinctly, with the terror of the blunder he had made. She went to the window and stood, her face half turned from him, trying to think; and, misreading her thoughts, a little warm blood came back to him, and he tried to think what he would say if she came back with a light in her eyes. "Mr. Stover." He looked up abruptly--he had scarcely moved. She was before him, her large eyes seeming larger than ever, her face a little frightened, but serious with the seriousness of the woman looking out. "You have done a very wrong thing," she said slowly, "and you have placed me in a very difficult position. I do not want to lose you as a friend." She made a rapid movement of her fingers to check his exclamation. "If what you said were true, and you are too young to have said such solemn words, may I ask what right you had to say them to me?" "What right?" he said stupidly. "Yes, what right," she repeated, looking at him steadily with a certain wistfulness. "Are you in a position to ask me to be your wife?" "Let me think a moment," he said, drawing a breath. He walked away to the table, leaning his weight on it, while, without moving, she followed with a steady gaze, in which was a little pity. "Let me help you," she said at last. He turned and looked up for the first time, a look of wretchedness. "It would be too bad that one moment should spoil all our friendship," she said, "and because that would hurt me I don't want it so. You are a boy, and I am not yet a woman. I have always respected you, no more so than to-day, before--before you forgot your respect toward me. I want always to keep the respect I had for you." "Don't say any more," he said suddenly, with a lump in his throat. "I don't know why--what--why I forgot myself. Please don't take away from me your friendship. I will keep it very precious." "It is very hard to know what to do," she said. Then she added, with a little heightening of her color: "My friendship means a great deal." He put out his hand and gently took the end of a scarf which she wore about her shoulders, and raised it to his lips. It was a boyish, impulsive fantasy, and he inclined his head before her. Then he went out hurriedly, without speaking or turning, while the girl, pale and without moving, continued to stare at the curtain which still moved with his passing. CHAPTER XVIII Stover went rushing from the Storys' home, and away for a long feverish march along dusky avenues, where unseen leaves came whirling against him. He was humiliated, mortified beyond expression, in a panic of self-accusation and remorse. "It's all over," he said, with a groan. "I've made a fool of myself. I can never square myself after that. What under the shining stars made me say that? What happened? I hadn't a thought, and then all at once--Oh, Lord!" A couple of upper classmen returning nodded to him, and he flung back an abrupt "Hello," without distinguishing them. "Why did I do it?--why--why!" He went plunging along, through the dark regions that lay between the spotted arc lights that began to sputter along the avenue, his ears deafened by the rush and grind of blazing trolley cars. When he had gone breathlessly a good two miles, he stopped and wearily retraced his steps. The return no longer gave him the sensation of flight. He came back laggingly, with reluctance. Each time he thought of the scene which had passed he had a sensation of heat and cold, of anger and of cowardice. Never again he said to himself, would he be able to enter the Storys' home, to face her, Jean Story. But after a time, from sheer exhaustion, he ceased to think about his all-important self. He remembered the dignity and gentleness with which the young girl had met the shock of his blunder, and he was overwhelmed with wonder. He saw again her large eyes, filled with pain, trouble, and yet a certain pity. He recalled her quiet voice, the direct meeting of the issue, and deep through all impressions was the memory of the woman, sweet, self-possessed, and gentle, that had been evoked from her eyes. He forgot himself. He forgot all the wretchedness and hot misery. He remembered only this Jean Story, and the Jean Story that would be. And feeling the revealing acuteness of love for the first time, he said impulsively: "Oh, yes, I love her. I have always loved her!" And silently, deep in his heart, a little frightened almost to set the thought to words, he made a vow that his life from now on should be earnest and inspired with but one purpose, to win her respect and to win the right to ask her for his wife. With the resolve, all the fret and fever went from him. He felt a new confidence and a new maturity. "When I speak again, I shall have the right," he said solemnly. "And she shall see that I am not a mere boy. That I will show her soon!" When he came again into the domain of the college, he suddenly felt all the littleness of the ambitions that raged inside those self-sufficient walls. "Lord, what have I been doing all this time--what does it count for? Brocky is right; it isn't what you do here, it's what you are ready to do when you go out. Thank Heaven, I can see it now." And secure in the knowledge that the honors he rated so lightly were his, he added: "There's only one thing that counts--that's your own self." It was after the dinner hour, and he hesitated; a little tired of his own company, longing for the diversion another personality would bring, and seeking some one as far removed from his own point of view as possible, he halted before Durfee, and sent his call to the top stories: "Oh, Ricky Ricketts, stick out your head." Above a window went up, and a fuzzy head came curiously forth. "Wot'ell, Bill?" "It's Stover, Dink Stover. Come down." "Somethin' doin'?" "You bet." Presently, Ricketts's bean-stalk figure came flopping out of the entry. "What's up, Dink?" "I'm back too late for supper. Come on down with me to Mory's and keep me company, and I'll buy you a drink." "Did I hear the word 'buy'?" said Ricketts, in the manner then made popular by the lamented Pete Dailey. "You did." "Lead me to it." At Mory's, two or three men whom he didn't know were at the senior table. Le Baron and Reynolds, prospective captain of the crew and chairman of the News, respectively, men of his own society, gave him a hearty, "Hello, Dink," and then stared curiously at Ricketts, whose general appearance neither conformed to any one fashion nor to any two. Gimbel, the politician, was in the off room with three of the more militant anti-sophomore society leaders. The two parties saluted in regulation style. "Hello, you fellows." "Howdy, there." Stover, sitting down, saw Gimbel's perplexed glance at his companion, and thought to himself: "I've got Gimbel way up a tree. I'll bet he thinks I'm trying to work out some society combine against him." The thought recalled to him all the increasing bitterness of the anti-sophomore society fight which had swept the college. There was talk even of an open mass meeting. He remembered that Hunter had mentioned it, and for a moment he was inclined to put the question direct to Gimbel. But his mood was alien to controversy, and Louis, with sidelong, beady eyes, and a fragrant aroma, was waiting the order. Ricketts had, among twenty Yankee devices for greasing his journey through college, a specialty of breaking in new pipes, one of which he now produced, with an apologetic: "You don't mind, do you, if I crack my lungs on this appetizing little trifle?" "I say, Ricketts," said Stover, trying to keep off his mind the one subject, "is that all a joke about your breaking in pipes?" "Straightest thing in the world." "What do you charge?" "Thirty-five cents and the tobacco." "You ought to charge fifty." "I'm going to next year. You think I'm loony?" said Ricketts. "I'm not sure." "Dink, my boy, I'll be a millionaire in ten years. You know what I'm figuring out all this time? I'm going at this scientifically. I'm figuring out the number of fools there are on the top of this globe, classifying 'em, looking out what they want to be fooled on. I'm making an exact science of it." "Go on," said Dink, amused and perplexed, for he was trying to distinguish the serious and the humorous. "What's the principle of a patent medicine?--advertise first, then concoct your medicine. All the science of Foolology is: first, find something all the fools love and enjoy, tell them it's wrong, hammer it into them, give them a substitute and sit back, chuckle, and shovel away the ducats. Bread's wrong, coffee's wrong, beer's wrong. Why, Dink, in the next twenty years all the fools will be feeding on substitutes for everything they want; no salt--denatured sugar--anti-tea--oiloline--peanut butter--whale's milk--et cetera, et ceteray, and blessing the name of the fool-master who fooled them." "By Jingo," said Stover, listening to this jumble of words, entranced, "I believe you're right. And so you've reduced it to a science, eh--Foolology?" Ricketts, half in earnest, never entirely in jest, abetted by newly arriving tobies, was off again on his pet theories of business imagination, disdaining the occasional gibes that were flung at him from Gimbel's table. When Le Baron and Reynolds passed out, with curious glances, Stover was weak with laughter. Later arrivals dropping in joined them, egging on the inventor. Stover, who had been busily consulting his watch, left at half-past eight on a sudden resolve. The farcical interruption that had temporarily drawn him out of himself, had cleared his head, and brought him a sudden authoritative decision. He went directly to the Storys', and, entering the parlor, found a group of his crowd there, dinner finished, trying out the latest comic opera chorus. He came in quite coldly self-possessed, shook hands, and immediately jumped into the conversation, which was all on the crisis in the sophomore societies. Jean Story was at the piano, a little more serious than usual. At his entrance, she looked up with sudden wonder and confusion. He came to her, and in taking her hand inclined his head in great respect, but did not speak to her. He had but one desire, to show her that he was not a boy but a man, and that he could rise to the crisis which he had brought on himself. Hunter and Tommy Bain had been arguing for no compromise, Bob Story and Hungerford were of the opinion that the time had come to enlarge the membership of the societies, and to destroy their exclusiveness. On the sofa, the little Judge, a spectator, never intimating his opinion, studying each man as he spoke, appealed to Stover: "Well, now, Judge Dink, what is your learned opinion on this situation? Here is the dickens to pay; three-fourths the college lined up against you fellows, and a public mass meeting coming. Jim Hunter here believes in sitting back and letting the storm blow over; Bob, who of course can regulate it all, wants to double the membership and meet some objections. Now what do you say? Mr. Stover has the floor. My daughter will please come to order." Jean Story abruptly turned from the piano, where her fingers had been absent-mindedly running over the keys. "Frankly, I haven't made up my mind just yet," said Stover. "There are a great many sides to it. I've listened to a good many opinions, but haven't yet chosen mine. Every one is talking about the effect on the college, but what has impressed me most is the effect on the sophomore society men themselves. If the outsiders only knew the danger and handicap they are to us!" "Hello," said the Judge, shifting with a little interest. "What do you mean?" said Hunter aggressively. "I mean we are the ones who are limited, who are liable to miss the big opportunities of college life. We have got into the habit, under the pretense of good fellowship, of herding together." "Why shouldn't we?" persisted Hunter. "Because we shut ourselves up, withdraw from the big life of the college, know only our own kind, the kind we'll know all our life; surrender our imagination. We represent only a social idea, a good time, good friends, good figure-heads on the different machines of the college. But we miss the big chance--to go out, to mingle with every one, to educate ourselves by knowing opposite lives, fellows who see things as we never have seen them, who are going back to a life a thousand miles away from what we will lead." He expressed himself badly, and, realizing it, said impatiently: "Here, what I mean is this. It's not my idea, it's Brockhurst's, it's Tom Regan's. The biggest thing we can do is to reflect the nation, to be the inspiration of the democracy of the country, to be alive to the fight among the people for real political independence. We ought to get a great vision when we come up here, as young men, of the bigness of our country, of the privilege of fighting out its political freedom, of what American manhood means in the towns of Georgia and Texas, in the little manufacturing cities of New England, in the great West, and in the small homes of the big cities. We ought to really know one another, meet, discuss, respect each other's point of view, independence--odd ways if you wish. We don't do it. We did once--we don't now. Princeton doesn't do it, Harvard doesn't do it. We're over-organized away from the vital thing--the knowledge of ourselves." "Then you'd abolish the sophomore societies?" said Hunter, crowding him to the wall. "I don't know. Sometimes I've felt it's the system that is wrong," said Stover frankly. "Lately, I've changed my mind. I think we can do what we want--at least I know I've gone out and met whom I wanted to without my being in a sophomore society making the slightest difference. I say I don't know where the trouble is; whether the whole social system here and elsewhere is the cause or the effect. It may be that it is the whole development of America that has changed our college life. I don't know; those questions are too big for me to work out. But I know one thing, that my own ideas of what I want here have taken a back somersault, and that I'm going out of here knowing everything I can of every man in the class." Suddenly he remembered Hunter's opposition, and turning, concluded: "One thing more; if ever I make up my mind that the sophomore society system or any other system ought to be abolished, I'll stand out and say so." When he had finished, his classmates began talking all at once, Hunter and Bain in bitter opposition, Bob Story in warm defense, Hungerford, in his big-souled way, coming ponderously to his assistance. Stover withdrew from the conversation. He glanced at Jean Story, wondering if she had understood the reason of his return, and that he had spoken for her ears alone. She was still at the piano, one hand resting on the keyboard, looking at him with the same serious, half-troubled expression in her large eyes. He made an excuse to leave, and for the second that he stood by her, he looked into her eyes boldly, with even a little bravado, as though to ask: "Do you understand?" But the young girl, without speaking, nodded her head slightly, continuing to look at him with her wistful, a little wounded glance. CHAPTER XIX It was only a little after nine. He had left in the company of Joe Hungerford, who had ostensibly taken the opportunity of going with him. "I say, Dink," he began directly, in the blustering, full-mouthed way he had when excited, "I say bully for you. Lord, I liked to hear you talk out." "It's all simple enough," said Stover, surprised at the other's enthusiasm. "I suppose I wouldn't have said all I did if it hadn't been for Hunter." "Oh, Jim's a damned hard-shell from way back," said Hungerford good-humoredly, "never mind him. I say though, Dink, you really have been going round, haven't you, breaking through the lines?" "Yes, I have." "I wish you'd take me around with you some time," said Hungerford enviously. "Why the deuce don't you break in yourself?" "It doesn't come natural, Dink," said the inheritor of millions regretfully. "I never went through boarding-school like you fellows. By George, it's just what I want, what I hoped for here! and, damn it, what I'm not getting!" "You know, Joe," said Dink suddenly, "there wouldn't be any society problem if fellows that felt the way you and I do would assert themselves. By George, there's nothing wrong with the soph societies, the trouble is with us." "I'm not so sure," said Hungerford seriously. "Rats!" "You know, Dink," said Joe with a little hesitation, "it is not every one who understands you or what you're doing." "I know," said Stover, laughing confidently. "Some have got an idea I've got some great political scheme, working in with the outsiders to run for the Junior Prom, or something like that." "No, it's not all that. I don't think some of our crowd realize what you're doing--rather fancy you're cutting loose from them." "Let them think," said Stover carelessly. Then he added with some curiosity: "Has there been much talk?" "Yes, there has." "Any one spoken to you?" "Yes." "I know--I know they've got an idea I'm queering myself--oh, that word 'queer'; it's the bogey of the whole place." "You're right there! But, Dink, I might as well let you know the feeling; it isn't simply in our set, but some of the crowd ahead." "Le Baron, Reynolds?" "Yes. Haven't they ever--ever said anything to you?" "Bless their simple hearts," said Stover, untroubled. "So they're worrying about me. It's rather humorous. It's their inherited point of view. Le Baron, Joe, could no more understand what we are thinking about--and yet he's a fine type. Sure, he's stopped me a couple of times and shaken his head in a worried, fatherly way. To him, you see, everything is selective; what he calls the fellow who doesn't count, the 'fruit,' is really outside what he understands, the fellows who are in the current of what's being done here. I must talk it out with him sometime. We've come to absolutely opposite points of view. And yet the curious thing is, he's fond as the deuce of me." "Yes, that's so," said Hungerford. He did not insist, seeing that Stover was insensible to the hints he had tried to convey. Not wishing to express openly a point of view which was personally unsympathetic, he hesitated and remained silent. "Coming up for a chin?" said Dink, as they neared the campus. "No, I've got a date at Heub's. I say, Dink, I'm serious in what I said. I want to wake up and get around. Work me in." "You bet I will, and you'll meet a gang that really have some ideas." "That's what I want. Well, so long." "So long, Joe." Dink, turning to the right, entered the campus past Battell. He had never before felt so master of himself, or surer of a clear vision. The thought of his instinctive return to the Storys', and the knowledge that he had distinguished himself before Jean Story, gave him a certain exhilaration. He began to feel the opportunity that was in his hands. He remembered with pleasure Hungerford's demand to follow where he had gone, and he said to himself: "I can make this crowd of mine see what the real thing is--and, by George, I'm going to do it." As he delayed in the campus, Le Baron and Reynolds passed him, going toward Durfee. "Hello, Dink." "Hello there." He continued on to his entry, and, turning, saw the two juniors stop and watch him. Without heed he went up to his room, lit the dusty gas-jet, and went reverently to his bureau. He was in his bedroom, standing there in a sentimental mood, gazing at the one or two little kodaks he had displayed of Jean Story, when a knock sounded. He turned away abruptly, singing out: "Let her come." The door opened and some one entered, and, emerging from his bedroom, he beheld to his surprise Le Baron and Reynolds. "Hello," he said, puzzled. "Anything doing, Dink?" said Le Baron pleasantly. "Not a thing. Make yourself at home," he said hastily. "Take a seat. Pipe tobacco in the jar--cigarettes on the table." Each waved his hand in dissent. Reynolds seated himself in a quick, business-like way on the edge of his chair; Le Baron, more sociable, passed curiously about the room, examining the trophies with interest. "I wonder what's up now," thought Dink, without uneasiness. He knew that it was the custom of men in the class above about to go into the senior societies to acquaint themselves with the tendencies of the next class. "That's it," he said to himself; "they want to know if I'm heeling Bones or Keys." "You've got a great bunch of junk," said Le Baron, finishing his inspection. "Yes, it's quite a mixture." Le Baron, refusing a seat, stood before the fireplace, a pocket knife juggling in his hands, seeking an opening. "Here, I'll have a cigarette," he said finally, with a frown. Reynolds, more business-like, broke out: "Dink, we've dropped in to have a little straight talk with you." "All right." He felt a premonition of what was coming, and the short note of authority in Reynolds's voice seemed to stiffen everything inside of him. "We've dropped a few hints to you," continued Reynolds, in his staccato manner, "and you haven't chosen to understand them. Now we're going to put it right to you." "Hold up, Benny," said Le Baron, who had lit his cigarette, "it's not necessary to talk that way. Let me explain." "No, put it to me straight," said Stover, looking past Le Baron straight into Reynolds's eyes. An instinctive antagonism was in him, the revolt of the man of action, the leader in athletics, at being criticized by the man of the pen. "Stover, we don't like what you've been doing lately." "Why not?" "You're shaking your own crowd, and you're identifying yourself with a crowd that doesn't count. What the deuce has got into you?" "Just shut up for a moment, Benny," said Le Baron, giving him a look, "you're not putting the thing in the right way." "I'm not jumping on any one," said Reynolds. "I'm giving him good advice." Stover looked at him without speaking, then he turned to Le Baron. "Well?" "Look here, Dink," said Le Baron conciliatingly. "A lot of us fellows have spoken to you, but you didn't seem to understand. Now, what I'm saying is because I like you, and because you are making a mistake. We're interested personally, and for the society's sake, in seeing you make out of yourself what you ought to be, one of the big men of the class. Dink, what's happened? Have you lost your nerve about anything--anything wrong?" "Wait a moment--let me understand the thing," said Stover, absolutely dumbfounded. Reynolds's purely unintentional false start had left him cold with anger. "Am I to understand that you have come here to inform me that you do not approve of the friends I've been making?" "Hold up," said Le Baron. "No, let's have it straight. That's what I want, too," he said quickly, facing Reynolds. "You criticize the crowd I'm going with, and you want me to chuck them. That's it in plain English, isn't it?" A little flush showed on Reynolds's face. He, too, felt the physical superiority in Stover, and the antagonism thereof, and, being provoked, he answered more shortly than he meant to: "Let it go at that." "Is that right?" said Stover, turning to Le Baron. "Now, look here, Dink, there's no use in getting hot about this," said Le Baron uneasily. "No one's forcing anything on you. We are here as your friends, telling you what we believe is for your own good." "So you think if I go on identifying myself with the crowd I'm with that I may 'queer' myself?" "That's rather strong." "Why not have it out?" "This is true," said Le Baron, "that the men in your own crowd don't understand your cutting loose from them, and that no one can make out why you've taken up with the crowd you have." The explanation which might have cleared matters was forgotten by Stover in the wound to his vanity. "You haven't answered my question." "Well, Dink, to be honest," said Le Baron, "if you keep on deliberately, there is more than a chance of--" "Of queering myself?" "Yes." "Being regarded as a sort of wild man, and missing out on a senior election." "That's what we want to prevent," said Le Baron, believing he saw a reasonable excuse. "You've got everything in your hands, Stover, don't waste your time--" "One moment." Stover, putting out his hand, interrupted him. He locked his hands behind his back, twisting them in physical pain, staring out the window, unable to meet the suddenness of the situation. "You've been quite frank," he said, when he was able to speak. "You have not come to me to dictate who should be my friends here, though that's perhaps a quibble, but as members of my sophomore society you have come to advise me against what might queer me. I understand. Well, gentlemen, you absolutely amaze me. I didn't believe it possible. I'll think it over." He looked at them with a quick nod, intimating that there was nothing more to be discussed. Reynolds, saying something under his breath, sprang up. Le Baron, feeling that the interview had been a blunder from the first, said suddenly: "Benny, see here; let me have a moment's talk with Dink." "Quite useless, Hugh," said Stover, in the same controlled voice. "There's nothing more to be said. You have your point of view, I have mine. I understand. There's no pressure being put on me, only, if I am to go on choosing my friends as I have--I do it at my own risk. I've listened to you. I don't know what I shall answer. That's all. Good night." Reynolds went out directly, Le Baron slowly, with much hesitation, seeking some opportunity to remain, with a last uneasy glance. When Stover was left to himself, his first sensation was of absolute amazement. He, the big man of the class, confident in the security of his position, had suddenly tripped against an obstruction, and been made to feel his limitations. "By Heavens! If any one would have told me, I wouldn't have believed it--the fools!" The full realization of the pressure that had been exerted on him did not yet come to him. He was annoyed, as some wild animal at the first touch of a rope that seems only to check him. He moved about the room, tossing back his hair impatiently. "That's what Hungerford was trying to hint to me," he said. "So my conduct has been under fire. What I do is a subject of criticism because I've gone out of the beaten way, done something they don't understand--the precious idiots!" Then he remembered Reynolds, and his anger began to rise. "The little squirt, the impudent little scribbler, to come and tell me what I should or shouldn't do! How the devil did I ever keep my temper? Who is he anyhow? I'll give him an answer!" All at once he perceived the full extent of the situation, and what a defiance would mean to those leaders in the class above, men marked for Skull and Bones, the society to which he aspired. "No pressure!" he said aloud, with a grim laugh, "Oh, no! no pressure at all! Advice only--take it or leave it, but the consequences are on your head. By Heavens, I wouldn't have believed it." It hurt him, it hurt him acutely, that he, who had won his way to leadership, should have sat and listened to those who were the masters of his success. "Hold up, hold up, Dink Stover," he said, all at once. "This is serious--a damn sight more serious than you thought. It's up to you. What are you going to do about it?" All at once the temper that always lay close to his skin, uncontrollable and violent, broke out. "By Heavens--and I stood for it--I stood there quietly and listened, and never said a word! But I didn't realize it--no, I didn't realize it. Yes, but he won't understand it, that damned little whipper-snapper of a Reynolds; he'll think I've kow-towed. He will, will he? We'll see! By Heavens, that's what their society game means, does it! Thank Heaven, I didn't argue with them. At least I didn't do that." He strode over quickly, and seizing his cap clapped it on his head, and stopped. "Now or never," he said, between his teeth. He went out slamming the door; and as he went, furiously, all the anger and humiliation blazed up in a fierce revolt--he, Dink, Dink Stover, had stood tamely and listened while others had come and told him what to do, told him in so many words that he was "queering" himself. He went out of the entry almost at a run, with a sort of blind, unreasoning idea that he could overtake them. By the fence he almost upset Dopey McNab, who called to him fruitlessly: "Here--I say, Dink! What the devil!" He reached the center of the campus before he stopped. He had quite lost control of himself; he knew what he would say, and he didn't care. Suddenly he recalled where Reynolds roomed, and went hot-foot for Vanderbilt, with a fierce physical longing to be provoked into a fight. He arrived at the door breathlessly, a lump in his throat, never considering the chances of finding them out. Le Baron and Reynolds were before the fireplace in a determined argument. He shut the door behind him, and leaned against it, digging his nails into his hands with the effort to master his voice. The two juniors, struck by the violence of his entrance, turned abruptly, and Le Baron, a little pale, started forward, saying: "I say, Dink--" "Look here," he cried, flinging out a hand for silence, "I don't know why I didn't say it to you there--when you spoke to me. I don't know. I'm a low-livered coward and a skunk because I didn't! But I know now what I'm going to say, and I'll say it. You came to me, you dared to come to me and tell me what I was to do--to heel--that's what you meant; to cut out fellows I know and respect--oh, you didn't have the courage to say it out, but that's it. Well, now, I've just got one thing to say to you both. If this is what your society business means, if this is your idea of democracy--I'm through with you--" "Hold up," said Le Baron, springing forward. "I won't hold up," said Stover, beside himself, "for you or for any one else, or whatever you can do against me! Here's my answer--I'm through! You and the whole society can go plumb to Hell!" And suffocating, choking, blinded with his fury, he thrust his hand into his breast, and tore from his shirt the pin he had been given to wear, and flung it on the floor, stamped upon it, and bolted from the room. CHAPTER XX For an hour, bareheaded, he went plunging into the darkness, a prey to a nervous crisis, that left him shaking in every muscle. He knew the extent of his passions, and the anger which had swept over him left him weak and frightened. "It's lucky that runt of a Reynolds held his tongue," he said hotly. "By the Lord, I don't know what I would have done to him. Here, I must get hold of myself. This is terrible. Well, thank Heaven, it's over." He controlled himself slowly, and came back, limp and weak; yet beyond the physical reaction was a liberated soaring of the spirit. "I'm glad I did it! I never was gladder!" he said solemnly. "Good-by to the whole society game, Skull and Bones, and all the rest. But I take my stand from now on, and I stand on my own feet. I'm glad of it." Then he thought of Jean Story, and he was troubled. "I wonder if she'll understand? I can't help it. I couldn't do anything else. Now, I suppose the whole bunch will turn on me. So be it." It was long after midnight when he came back gloomily to the light still staring from his window, and toiled up the heavy steps. When he entered the room, Le Baron, Bob Story, and Joe Hungerford were sitting silently, waiting for him, and in Story's hand was the pin bruised by his furious heel. He saw at once the full strength of the appeal that was to be made to him, and he closed the door wearily. "I don't want to talk about it," he said slowly. "The whole thing is done and buried." Bob Story, agitated and solemn, came to him. "Dink, this is awful--the whole thing is awful," he said earnestly. "You've got to talk it out with us." "Do you understand, Bob," Stover said suddenly, "just what happened in this room?" "Yes, I think I do." "I don't believe it." "Dink, I want you to listen to me a moment," said Le Baron. "It's been rotten business, the whole wretched thing. I can understand how you felt. Reynolds and you got on each other's nerves. You each said what you didn't mean. It was damned unfortunate. He put things to you like a fool, and I was telling him so when you broke into the room. He was all up on edge from something that had gone before." "Oh, I lost my temper," said Stover. "I know it." "I'd have done the same," said Hungerford openly. "Now, Dink, there isn't one of us here that doesn't like you, and look up to you," said Story, with his irresistible charm. "We know you're every inch a man, and what you do you believe in. But, Dink, we're all friends together, and this is a terrible thing to us. We want you to take back your pin, and shut up this whole business. Will you?" "I'd do a great deal for you, Bob Story," said Stover, looking him in the eyes, "more than for any one else, but I can't do this." He said it calmly, with a little sadness. The three were impressed with the finality of the judgment. Story, standing with the cast-off pin in his hand, turning and twisting it, said slowly: "Dink, do you really mean it?" "I do." "It's a serious thing you're doing, Stover," said Le Baron, with the first touch of formality, "and I don't think it should be done in anger." "I'm not." "Remember that you are judging a whole society--your own friends--by what one man happened to say to you in a moment of irritation." "I don't want to talk of what's done," said Stover slowly, for his head was throbbing. "I know myself, and I know nothing is going to make me go back on what I've said. I'm only going to say a word, and then I'm going into my room and going to bed. Le Baron"--with a sudden rise of his voice he turned and faced the junior--"don't think I don't understand what it means that I'm giving up. I get what you mean when you start in calling me Stover. I know as well as I'm standing here that you and Reynolds will keep me out of Bones, whether I make captain or not. And that'll hurt me a good bit--I admit it. Now don't let's quibble. It isn't the way Reynolds said what he did--though that did rile me--it's what was told me, indirectly or directly--it's the same thing; you men in sophomore societies would limit my freedom of choice. There you are. I'm against you now, because for the first time I see how the thing works out, because you're wrong! You're a bad influence for those who are in, and a rotten influence for the whole college. Now I've made up my mind to just one thing. I'm going to finish up here at the head of my own business--my own master; and I'm not going to be in a position to be told by any one in your class or my class what I'm to do." "One moment." Le Baron rose as Stover moved towards the bedroom. "There's another side to it." "What other side?" "Whatever you decide, and I won't take your answer until the morning," said Le Baron solemnly, "I want you to give me your word that what's happened to-night remains a secret." "I won't give my word to that or anything else," said Dink defiantly. "I shall do exactly what I think is right to be done, and for that reason only. Now you'll have to excuse me. Good night." He went to his bedroom, shut the door, and without undressing tumbled on the bed, and, still hearing in a confused jumble the murmur of voices, dropped off to sleep. He was startled out of heavy dreams by a beating in his ears, and sprang up to find Bob Story thundering on his door. He looked at his watch. It was still an hour before chapel. When he entered his dim study, Story was waiting, and Hungerford uncoiling from the couch where he had passed the night. "Have you fellows been here all night?" said Stover, stopping short. "Dink, we want a last chance to talk this over," said Story solemnly. "We've all had a chance to sleep it out. Le Baron isn't here, just Joe and myself--your friends." "You make it hard for me, boys," said Dink, shaking his head. Hungerford rose with the stiffness of the night, and coming to Stover, took him by the shoulders. "Damn you, Dink," he said, "get this straight, we're not thinking about the society, we're thinking about you--about your future. And I want you to know this: whatever you decide, I'm your friend and proud to be it." "What Joe says is what I feel," said Story, as Stover, much affected, stood looking at the ground. "We're sticking by you, Dink--that's why I'm going to try once more. Can't you go on in the society, make no open break, and still fight for what you believe in--what Joe and I believe in, too?" "But, Bob, I think they're wrong through and through--you don't understand--I'm for wiping them out now." "That whole question's coming up, and coming up soon," continued Story earnestly, "and a lot of our own crowd will line up for you. Work inside the crowd, if you can see it that way, Dink. There are only five of us know what's happened, and no one else need know." "Wait a moment, Bob, old fellow," said Dink, stopping him. "You two have got down under my skin, and I won't forget it. Now I'm going to ask you fellows a couple of questions. First: you think if I stick to my determination that most of the crowd'll turn on me?" "Yes." "That I have as much chance of being tapped for Bones as Jackson, the sweep?" "Yes, Dink." "Now, boys, honest, if I took back my pin for any such reason as that, wouldn't I be a spineless, calculating little quitter?" Neither answered. "What would you think of me, Joe--Bob?" "Damn the luck," said Hungerford. He did not attempt to answer the question. Neither did Bob Story. They shook hands with Stover, and went out defeated. Just how big a change in his college career his renunciation would make, Stover had not understood until in the weeks that succeeded he came to feel the full effects of the resentment he had aroused in the society crowds, now at bay before a determined opposition. The second morning, as he went down High Street to his eating-joint, Hungerford was loafing ahead of him, ostensibly conning a lesson. Stover joined him, unaware of the friendly intent of the action. They went inside, laughing together, to where a score of men were rubbing their eyes over hasty breakfasts. Four-fifths of them belonged to sophomore societies. "Morning, everybody," said the new arrivals, in unison, and the answer came back: "Hello, Joe." "Hello, Dink." "Shove in here." At their arrival a little constrained silence was felt, for the news had somehow passed into rumor. Opposite Stover, Jim Hunter was sitting. He nodded to Hungerford, and then with deliberation continued a conversation with Tommy Bain, who sat next to him. Stover perceived the cut instantly, as others had perceived it. He sat a moment quietly, his glance concentrated on Hunter. "Oatmeal or hominy?" said the waiter at his back. "One moment." He raised his hand, and the gesture concentrated the attention of the table on him. "Why, how do _you_ do, Jim Hunter?" he said, with every word cut sharp. There was a breathless moment, and a nervous stirring under foot, as Hunter turned and looked at Stover. Their glances matched one another a long moment, and then Hunter, with an excess of politeness, said: "Oh, hello--Stover." Instantly there was a relieved hum of voices, and a clatter of cutlery. "I'll take oatmeal now," said Stover calmly. Story, glancing over, saw two spots of scarlet standing out on his cheeks, and realized how near the moment had come to a violent scene. "Dink, old gazabo," said Hungerford, as they walked over to chapel, "what are you going to do? You can't go about the whole time with a chip on your shoulder." "Oh, yes, I can," said Dink between his teeth. "I'll stick right where I am. And I'd like to see Jim Hunter or any one else try that again on me!" Hungerford shook his head. "You know, Dink, you must see both sides. Now from Hunter's side, you've smashed all traditions, and given us a blow that may be a knockout, considering the state of feeling in the college. Hunter's a society man, believes in them heart and soul." "Then let him come to me and say what he thinks." "Are you quite sure, Dink," said Joe, with a glance, "that there isn't some other reason for the way you two feel about each other?" "You mean jealousy?" said Dink, flushing a little. "Bob's sister? Yes, there's that. But from the first we've been on opposite sides." He hesitated a moment, and then asked: "I say, Joe, what does Bob think about what I've done? Tell me straight." "Of course he respects you," said Hungerford carefully, "more now than I think he did last year, but--Bob's a society man--all these Andover fellows are brought up in the idea, you know--and I think it's kind of a jolt." "I suppose it is," said Stover, with a little depression. He would like to have asked Hungerford to state his case to Jean Story, but he lacked the courage of his boyish impulse. The thought of Jean Story, as he sat in chapel, came to him like a temptation. The Judge was of the Skull and Bones alumni, Bob was sure to go; all the influences about her were of belief in the finality of that judgment. "Yes, and Hunter will go in with sailing colors; he'll never risk anything," he said bitterly, "and I'll stand up and take my medicine, for doing what? For showing I had a backbone. But no one will ever know it outside. They'll think it's something wrong in my character--they always do. Stover, Yale's star end, misses out for Bones! That's the slogan. Cheating at cards or bumming. I wonder what she'll think? Lord, that's the hard part!" For a week, proud as Lucifer, on edge for an opportunity, he stuck it out at the eating-joint, knowing the hopelessness of it all--that what he wanted had gone, and no amount of bravado could make him wink the fact, that in the midst of his own crowd, where he had stood as a leader, he was now regarded as an outsider. In the second week he gave up the useless fight, and went to Commons, to the table where Regan, Gimbel, and Brockhurst ate. They forebore to ask him the reasons of the change, and he gave no explanation. That something had happened which had caused him to break away from his society was soon a matter of common rumor, and several incorrect versions circulated, all vastly to his credit. His influence in the body of the class was correspondingly increased, and Gimbel once or twice approached him with offers to run him for manager of the crew or the Junior Prom. One day, about a month after his withdrawal, when, bundled up in his dressing-gown, he went shuffling into the basement for a cold tub, he had quite a shock, that brought home visually to him the realization of the price he had paid. It had been the practise from long custom to inscribe on the walls tentative lists of the probable selections from the class for the three senior societies. On this particular list his name had stood at the head from the beginning, and the constant familiar sight of it had always brought him a warm, secure pleasure. All at once, as he looked at it, he perceived a leaden blur where his name had stood, and the names of Bain and Hunter heading the list. "I suppose they've got me down among the last now," he said, with a long breath. He searched the list, his name was not even on it. This popular estimation of what he himself believed had nevertheless power to wound him deeply. "Well, it's so--I knew it," he said; but it was said in bitterness, with a newer and keener realization. He began indeed to feel like an outsider, and, rebelling against the injustice of it all, to set his heart in bitterness. Hungerford and Bob Story, Dopey McNab often, tried to keep up with him, but, understanding their motives, he was proudly sensitive, and sought rather to avoid them. Meanwhile the opposition to the sophomore societies reached the point of open revolt, and a mass meeting was held, which, as had been planned, caused a stir throughout the press of the country, and brought in from the alumni a storm of protest. Stover, himself, despite his inclination to come forward in direct opposition, after a long debate, remained silent, feeling bound by the oath he had given at his initiation. Shortly after the news spread like wildfire that the President, taking cognizance of the intolerable state of affairs, had summoned representatives of the three sophomore societies before him, and given them a month to deliberate and decide on some scheme of reform that would be comprehensive and adequate. Rightly or wrongly, Stover felt that these developments intensified the feeling of the society element against him. A few weeks outside the boundaries, despite all his bravado, had brought home to him how much he cared for the companionship of those from whom he had separated. Regan was his one friend; Brockhurst stimulated him; and in the intercourse with Swazey, Pike, Lake, Ricketts, and others he had found a certain inspiration. But after all, the men of his own kind--Story, Hungerford, and others, whom from pride he now avoided--were largely the men of the society crowd. They spoke a language he understood, they came from a home that was like his home, and their judgment of him would go with him out into the new relations in life. [Illustration: "REGAN WAS HIS ONE FRIEND"--_Page 288._] It was a time of depression and bitter revolt at what he knew was the injustice of his ostracism, forgetting how much was of his own proud choosing. He wandered from crowd to crowd, rather taciturn and restless, seeking diversion with a consuming nervousness. The new restlessness of spirit drove him away from the conferences in Regan's and Swazey's rooms to the company of idlers. For a period, in his pride and bitterness, he let go of himself, flung the reins to the wind, and started down hill with a gallop. In pursuance of his policy of open defiance, he chose to appear at Mory's with the wildest element of the class. His companions were a little in awe of his grim, concentrated figure; when he sat into a game of poker or joined a table of revelers, he did it with no zest. He never joined in the chorus, and if he occasionally broke out into a boisterous laugh, there was always a jarring note to it, that caused his companions to glance at him uneasily. With the impetuousness of his nature, he outstripped his associates, plunging deeper and deeper, obstinately resolved, into the black gulf of his cynicism. In a week his excesses became college gossip, and, unknown to Stover, the subject of many long conferences among his friends. One Friday night, as, straying aimlessly from room to room, he set out for Mory's in quest of Tom Kelly and a group of Sheff pagans, he was trudging along the hard ways in front of Welch Hall, fists sunk in his pockets, head down under a slouch hat, when he chanced on Tom Regan coming out of the Brick Row. "Hello there, bantam," said Regan, with the prerogative of his size. "Hello, Tom," he said, but without enthusiasm, for he had rather avoided him in company with the rest of his old friends. "That's a deuced cordial greeting! Where are you bound, stranger?" "Mory's." "Mory's," said Regan, appearing to consider. "Good idea. I've got a hankering after a toby of musty ale and a rabbit myself. Wait till I stow these books and I'll join you." Stover stood frowning, suspicious and rebelling, for at that age it is a point of honor, when a man of the world resolves to run his head against a stone wall, that any interference from a friend is regarded as an unwarranted insult. "He thinks he'll try the big brother act on me," he said, scowling. He was not in a particularly good humor, nor was his head clear from several nights that had gone their reeling way. When they entered Mory's, Tom Kelly, Dopey McNab, and Buck Waters were already grouped in the inner room. "Well, old flinthead, how do you feel after last night?" said Kelly, making room for them. "Fine," said Dink mendaciously, secretly pleased at the tribute to his sporting talents before Regan. "More'n I can say," said Dopey, affectionately feeling of his head. "Curse the man who invented fish-house punch." [Illustration: "'CURSE THE FELLOW WHO INVENTED FISH-HOUSE PUNCH'"--_Page 290._] "Get home all right?" continued Kelly. "Sure." "I had a little tiff with a cop. If he'd been smaller, I'd have taken his shield away. He was most impudent. Never mind, I beat him in a foot race." "Cocktails," said Stover, resolved that Regan should be well punished. "Make it two for me, Louis, I'll have to catch up." "I'll stick to a toby and a rabbit," said Regan, without a change of expression. "Cocktail, Dopey?" continued Stover, with a millionaire gesture. "I never refuse," said Dopey, who planned to go through life on that virtuous method. With such a beginning, matters progressed with remarkable facility. Stover, taciturn and in an ugly mood, constantly hurried the rounds, matching drink for drink, secretly resolved to prove his supremacy here as elsewhere. Regan, after two tobies, withdrew from the contest, sitting silently puffing on his huge pipe, but without attempt at interference. Bob Story and Hungerford came in, and went away with a glance at Stover's clouded face and Regan's stolid, unfathomable expression. When midnight arrived, and Louis came in with apologies to announce the closing, there was quite a reckoning to be paid. Stover was the best of the lot, doggedly resolved to show no effects of what he had taken. He felt a haziness in his vision, and words that were spoken seemed to be whirled away without record, but his legs stood firm, and his head was still under control. Buck Waters and a Sheff man took Tom Kelly home by a circuitous route to avoid either a wrestling match or a foot race with too zealous members of the New Haven police force; and Stover had the fierce pride of showing Regan that he could take charge of the hilarious but wabbly Dopey McNab, who, moved by the finest feelings of the brotherhood of man, was determined to scatter his superfluous change among his brother beings. With great dignity and impressiveness, Stover, supporting one side, continued to give foggy directions to Regan on the other, until, come to McNab's quarters, they delivered that joyously exuberant person into his bed, propped up his head, opened the window, locked the door and left the key outside, to insure the termination of the night's adventure. Stover went down the steep, endless stairs with great deliberation and minute pains. "Dopey's got weak head--no good--stand nothing," he said seriously to Regan. "Well, we've fixed him up for the night," said Regan cheerily. "You've got a wonderful top, old sport." "I'm pretty good--Dopey's got the weak head," said Stover, taking his arm. "I'm good, I can put 'em under the table--all under the table." "Good for you." "Tom, you aren't--aren't in critical at-attochood, are you?" said Dink, with all feeling of resentment gone. "Lord, no, boy." "'Cause it does me good--this does me good. I feel bad--pretty bad, Tom, about some things. You don't know--can't tell--but I feel bad--this does me good--forget--you understand." "I understand." "You're a good friend, Tom. They don't understand--no one else understands. I'd like to shake hands. Thank you. Good night." They had come opposite the Brick Row, and Regan, knowing the other's true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. But he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said: "Feel all right, old bantam?" "Fine." Stover took a step or two, and then returned. "I put 'em to bed, didn't I?" "You certainly did." "Never 'fects me." "You're a wonder." "I thank you for your company." "Good night." Stover, intent only on making his entry, a hundred yards away, felt a roaring in his ears, and sudden jumble and confusion before him. "Must get there--self-control--that's it, self-control," he said to himself, and by a supreme effort he reached his entry, pushed open the door, and, stumbling in out of Regan's vision, sat heavily down on the steps. Some indistinct time after he beheld before him a little spectacled figure in pink pajamas. "Who are you?" he said. "Wookey, sir." "What's your class?" "Freshman, sir." "Very well. All right. You can help me--help me up. You know me?" "Yes, sir." The pink pajamas approached, and with an effort he rose, and, grasping the proffered shoulder, tumbled up the steps. When he reached his room his mind seemed to clear a moment, like the sudden drifting to and fro of a fog. "Who are you?" he said, frowning. "Wookey, sir." "Where do you room?" "On the first landing, sir." "Why do you wear pink ones?" The little freshman, hero-worshipper, face to face with his first great emotion, the conduct of an intoxicated man, blurted out: "Don't you like 'em, sir?" "Keep 'em on," said Stover magnanimously. "So you're a freshman." "Yes, sir." Suddenly he felt impressed with his duty, his obvious duty to one below him. "Freshman," he said thickly, "I want you listen to me. Never drink to excess--understand. You beginning college--school of character--hold on yourself--lead a good life--self-control's the great thing--take it from me--understand?" "Yes, sir," said Wookey, awed and a little frightened at the service he was rendering to the great Dink Stover. "That's all," said Stover benignly. "Is--is my bedroom still there?" "Yes, sir." "You may lead me to it." When he had been brought to his bed he recalled the pink pajamas, and said: "I thank you for your courtesy and your kindness." Then he said to himself: "It does me good--forget--happy now." A moment later the fog closed over his consciousness again and he was asleep. CHAPTER XXI Night after night, Wookey, the little freshman from a mountain village of Maine, the shadow of a grind, whom no one knew in his class, and who would never know any one, waited over his books the hour of twelve and the arrival of the great man gone wrong, whose secret only he possessed. Sometimes at the clatter on the stairs, when he went out eagerly, the hero would be in control, and would say: "Hello, Wookey, how are you to-night?" "All right, sir," he would answer, shifting from foot to foot, afraid to volunteer assistance. "All right myself," Stover would answer. "See you to-morrow. Good night." Gradually, however, to his delight, Stover grew to like the strange meetings, and permitted him to accompany him to his room to open the window, draw off the boots and disappear with the promise to thunder on his door in time for chapel. In the daytime they never met. Stover never failed to thank him with the utmost ceremony. Often the dialogue that ensued was farcically humorous, only little Wookey, solemn as an owl, never laughed. One night Stover, draped in difficult equilibrium on the mantelpiece, suddenly, in his new parental solicitude for the freshman, bethought himself of the curriculum. "Wookey." "Yes, sir." "One thing must speak about--meant speak about long time ago." "What, sir?" said Wookey, looking up apprehensively over his spectacles. "Study," said Stover, with terrific solemnity. "Want you be good scholar." "Oh, yes, sir." "Want you be validict--you understand what mean?" "Yes, sir." "Wookey, college life serious, finest thing in it's study, don't neglect study, you understand." "Yes, sir; I do study pretty hard." "Not enough," said Stover furiously. "Study all time! What 'cher do to-day? Recite in--in Greek, Latin, eh?" "Yes, sir--all right." "Good, very good--proud of you, Wookey," said Stover, satisfied. "Must be good influence--understand that, Wookey. Going to ask every night." "Yes, sir." "All right. Go an' study now. Study lot more." This feeling of the influence he was exerting for Wookey's academic betterment was so strong in Dink when the hour of midnight had passed that shortly after he brought McNab home with him to witness his works. When Wookey appeared, something displeased Stover. His protégé was not as he should be presented. Suddenly he remembered--Wookey was not in the pink pajamas! "Wookey," he said sternly. "Yes, sir." "The pink ones," he said solemnly. "Very well, sir." "Hurry." "Yes, sir." "Study's better in pink," said Stover wisely to McNab, who was trying to exceed him in dignity. "Most becomin'." "Aha!" "Make him study, Dopey," continued Stover. "I make him study." "Want hear'm reshite," said McNab, unconvinced. When Wookey, in changed costume, came puffing upstairs, books under his arm, McNab, who had been exhorted by Stover, viewed the pink pajamas with deliberation, and said: "Like you in pink, Wookey; always wear 'em. Want to hear you reshite." "Reshite," said Stover. "Hold up," said Dopey, scratching his head. "What's matter?" "Where going to sleep?" "Wookey, suggestions?" said Stover, who added in a thundering whisper to McNab, "Always leave such things to Wookey." The freshman busily took down the cushions from the window seat, piled up the pillows at one end before the fire, and brought up a rug. "Thank Mr. Wookey," said Stover severely. "Mr. Wookey, I thank you," said McNab, who sat down tailor fashion, and, staring at a book of geometry open on his lap, said: "I'm most--interested--most, very fond of Horace--reshite." Wookey in the pink pajamas, seated in a sort of spinal bend, overwhelmed by the terrifying delight of being admitted to the company of Olympians, began directly to translate an ode of Horace. McNab, staring at the geometry, turned a casual page, remarking from time to time severely: "What's that!--oh, yes, h'm--quite right--free, rather free, Dink--not bad, not bad for freshman." "Is it all right?" said Stover anxiously. "All right." "All my influence," said Stover. "Wookey," said McNab, as a judge would say it, "very fortunate, sir, have such good infloonce. Con-grath-ulate you." Wookey, whether deceived by their drunken assumption of sobriety, or to conciliate dangerous men, remained in his corner, his book closed, blinking out from his wide glasses. McNab, remembering the beginning of a discussion in which he had engaged with serious purpose, suddenly began, shaking his head: "Dink, you ought be better infloonce than y'are." Stover chose to be offended. "Why you say that?" "'Cause 'm right; y'oughtn't drink, not a drop!" "What right you got to say that?" "Every right--every," said McNab, trying to remember what was the original destination of his argument. "I'm bad example 'n you're good infloonce, there's diff, see?" "Ratsh!" "I remember," said McNab all at once. "I know what I want say. I'm going to leave it to Wookey. Wookey'll be the judge--referee--y'willin'?" "Willin'." "'M going to give moral lecture," said McNab rapidly, then paused and considered a long while. "I'm fond of Stover, Wookey, very fond--very worried, too, want him to stop drinking--bad for him--bad for any one, but bad for him!" Stover, who could still perceive the argument, laughed a disagreeable laugh. "He's laughin' at me, Wookey," said McNab in a grieved voice. "He means by that insultin' laugh that I sometimes drink excess. I admit it; I'm not proud of it, but I admit it. But there's a difference, and here's where you ref'ree, judge. When I take 'n occasional glass, I drink to be happy, make others happy--y'understand, excesh of love for humanity, enjoy youth an' all that sort of thing, you know. That's the point--you're ref'ree. When Stover drinks he goes at in bad way, no love humanity, joy of youth. That's the point, y'understand. I want him to stop it, 'cause he's my friend, he's good infloonce--I'm bad example." "You're my friend?" said Stover, overcome. "You're besh friend." "Shake hands." "Shure." "Dopey, I tell you truth--confide in you," said Stover, slipping down beside him. "Swear." "Swear." "Never tell." "Never!" "I'm unhappy." "No!" "Drink to forget, y'understand." "Must stop it," said McNab, firmly closing one eye, and gazing fearfully at the yellow owls in front. "Going to shtop it," said Stover, "soon--stop soon--promise." "Promish?" "Promise! Y'understand, want to forget." "Must stop it," repeated McNab, turning from the yellow-eyed owls to Stover. "Promish," repeated Stover solemnly. A moment later he said sleepily: "I shay." "Shay it." "What--what I going to stop?" "What you, what--" McNab frowned terrifically at the owls. "Stop--must stop--promish--what--what stop?" The question being transferred to Stover, he in turn scratched his head and sought to concentrate his memory. "I promished," he said slowly, "remember that--stop--promish stop. Wookey!" "Yes, sir." The pink pajamas approached with reluctance, and waited at a safe distance. "Wookey! What--what's this all about? What's it?" Wookey, facing the crisis of his life, hesitated between two impulses; but at this moment the two took solemn hold of each other's hands, vacillated and rolled over on the cushions. Wookey, in the pink pajamas, covered them over with the rug, and stole out, like a thief, carrying away a secret. But despite McNab's more sober remonstrances and his own proclamation, Stover did not cease his headlong gallop down the hill of Rake's Progress. He still avoided his old friends--he had not been to the Storys' home for weeks. Regan occasionally forced himself upon him, but never offered a suggestion. The truth was, Stover began to have a horror of his own society, of being left alone. What he did, he did without restraint. At the card tables to which he wandered he was always clamoring for the raising of the limit; always ready to eat up the night. Even the most inveterate of the gamblers in his class perceived what McNab perceived, that there was no pleasure in what he did, but a sort of self-immolation. They were a little in awe of him, uneasy when he was around. He wandered over into Sheff, and among a group of hard livers in the Law School, getting deeper and deeper into the maelstrom. Several times, returning unsteadily late at night, he had met Le Baron, who stood aside, and watched him go with difficulty towards the haven of his own entry, for Stover always made it a point of pride to reach home and Wookey unaided. He never was offensive or quarrelsome. On the contrary, his struggle was always for self-control and an excess of politeness. The climax arrived one Friday night when, having outlasted the party, he had put Tom Kelly to bed, and was returning from Sheff alone. He was very well pleased with himself. He had delivered Tom Kelly to his friends and gone away without assistance. "Weak head, all weak head," he said to himself valiantly, "all but Stover, Dink Stover, old Rinky Dink. Self-control, great self-control. That's it, that's the point. Never taken home--walk myself--self-control." He began to laugh at the memory of Tom Kelly, who had insisted on going to bed with one boot under the pillow and his watch on the floor. The excruciating humor of it almost made him collapse. He clung to the nearest tree and wept for joy. "Never hear end of it--Tom Kelly--boots--wonderful--poor old Tom--'n I walkin' home--alone." Some one on the opposite sidewalk, seeing him clinging hilariously, stopped. Stover straightened up instantly, adjusted his hat and started off. "Mustn't create false impression--all right! Street corner--careful of street corner." He crossed with a run and a leap, and continued more sedately. "Know just what 'm doin'. "_Oh, father's mother_ _Pays all the bills,_ _'N I have all the fun._" Suddenly he remembered he was passing Divinity Hall, and broke off abruptly, raising his hat in apology. "'Scuse me, no offense." Then he considered anxiously: "Mishtake--nothin' hilar-ious--might be Sunday." He tried to remember the day and could not. He stopped a laborer returning home with his bundle, and said ceremoniously: "Beg your pardon, don't mean insult you, can you tell me what day the week it is?" "Sure, me b'y," said the Irishman. "It's to-morrow." "Thanks--sorry trouble you," said Stover, bowing. Then, pondering over the information, he started hurriedly on his way. "Knew it was late--must hurry." When he came to the corner of the campus he raised his hat again to the chapel. "Battell--believe in compulsory chapel--Yale democracy." He passed along College Street, saluting the various buildings by name. "Great inshtoostion--campus--Brocky's right--bring life back into campus, bring it all back. Things wrong now--everything's wrong--must say so--must stop an' fight, good fight. Regan's right 'n Swazey's right--all right. Hello, Donnelly. Salute!" The campus policeman, lolling in the shadow of Osborne Hall, said: "So there you are again, Dink. A fine life you're leadin'." Stover felt this was an unwarranted criticism. "Never saw any one take me home," he said. "Always manage get home. That's the point, that's it--see?" "Go on with you," said Donnelly. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself--you who ought to be captain of the team." Stover approached him. "Bill--captain?" "What?" "I'm goin' to stop. Solemn promish." He went into the campus and steadied himself against an elm, gazing down the long dim way to where in the shadow of the chapel was his entry. "I see it--see it plainly--perfect self-control. What's that?" The trees seemed swollen to monstrous shapes, and the façades of the dormitories to be set on a slant, like the leaning tower of Pisa. He laughed cunningly: "Don't fool me--might fool Dopey--Tom Kelly--weak head--don't fool me--illushion, pure illushion--know all 'bout it. Worse comes worse, get down hands knees." "Well, Dink, pickled again," said the voice of Le Baron from an outer world. He straightened up, his mind coming back to his control, as it always did in the presence of others. "All right," he said, leaning up against the cold, hard side of Phelp's, "bit of a party, that's all." "Look here, Dink," said Le Baron, who was ignorant of the extent of the other's condition, "let's have a few plain words--man to man." Stover heard him as from a distance, and nodded his head gravely. "Good." "We've had our break, but I've always respected you. You thought I was a snob then, and a damned aristocrat. Well, was I so far wrong? I believe in the best getting together and keeping together. You've chucked that and tried the other, haven't you? Now look where it's brought you." Stover, his back to the wall, heard him with the clarity that sometimes comes. His head seemed to be among whirling mists, but every word came to him as though it alone were the only sound in a sleeping world. He wanted to answer, he rebelled at the logic, he knew it could be answered, but the words would not come. "You're going to the devil, that's it in good English words," said Le Baron, not without kindness. "You ought to be the biggest thing in your class, and you're headed for the biggest failure. And it's all because you've cut loose from your crowd, Dink--from your own kind, because you've taken up with a bunch who don't count, who aren't working for anything here." Suddenly Stover revolted, saying angrily: "Hugh!" "I don't want to hit you when you're down," said Le Baron quickly. "But, Dink, man alive, you're too good to go to the devil. Brace up--be a man. Get back to your own kind again." "Hugh, that's enough!" He said it sharply, and there was a finality about it. "I say, Dink." "Good night!" He stood without moving until he had compelled Le Baron to leave, then he set out for his room. A great anger swept over him--at himself, at the Dink Stover who had betrayed the cause, and given Le Baron the right to say what he did. "It isn't that," he said furiously, "it's not for breaking 'way--democracy--standing on m' own feet, no! It's a lie, all a lie. It's m' own fault--damn you, Dink Stover, you're quitter!" He marched into his entry, his head on fire, but clear with one last resolve, and thundered on Wookey's door. "Come out!" The pink pajamas flashed out as by magic. The little freshman, perceiving Stover's fierce expression, drew back in alarm. "Go'n to help _you_ up to-night--able to do it," said Dink, the idea of assistance to another mingling in some curious way with his great resolve. He took Wookey firmly by the arm and assisted him up the stairs. Once in his room he motioned him to a chair. "Sit down--somethin' to say to you!" Wookey, frightened, calculating the chances to the door, huddled in the big arm-chair, his toes drawn up under him, his large eyes over the spectacles never daring to deviate from the imperious glance of Stover. "Studied to-day?" "Yes, sir." "Good. Wookey, listen to me. I'm a quitter, you understand. I've fought fight--good fight--big fight--real democracy--'n then I lost nerve. I'm wrong; I'm all wrong. I know it. Fault's with me, not what fought for. Wookey, listen to me. Le Baron's wrong, all wrong, you understand; doesn't know--realize--see." "Yes, sir," said Wookey, in terror and complete incomprehension. "I'm fool--big fool, but that's over, y'understand. Never give Le Baron chance say again what he did to-night. 'M going fight again--good fight. An' no one's ever going say saw me like this again, y'understand." "Yes, sir," said the freshman weakly, terrified at the passion that showed in Stover, rocking before the mantelpiece. "Last time they ever get me this way!" The green shaded lamp was burning on the table before him. "The last time--by God," he said, and lifting his fist he drove it through the shattering glass, reeled, and stretched insensible on the floor. On the following night, a Saturday, Kelly, Buck Waters, and McNab at Mory's set up a shout of welcome as Stover came in quietly: "Good old Dink!" "Hard old head." "What is it, old boy?--get in the game." "A toby of musty, Louis," he said, quietly sitting down. McNab glanced at him, aware of something new in the sharp, businesslike movements, and the old determined lines of the lips. "My round," said Buck Waters presently. "Another toby for me," said Stover. A little later Kelly rang on the table: "Bring 'em in all over again." "Not for me," said Stover. "I guess two'll be my limit from now on." There was no protest. McNab surreptitiously, while the others were in an argument, leaned over and patted him on the knee. CHAPTER XXII What Stover in his fuddled consciousness had said to little Wookey on that last wild night returned to him with doubled force in the white of the day. He had given his opponents the right to destroy all he had stood for by pointing to his own example. He had been a deserter from the cause, but the sound of the enemy's bugle had recalled him to the battle. He took the first occasion to stop Le Baron, for he wanted the latter to make no mistake about him. "Hugh, I was rude as the devil to you the other night," he said directly. "I was drunk--more than you had any idea. What I want you to know is this. You put the question right up to me. You've forced me to take my stand, and I've done it. You're all wrong on the argument, but I don't blame you. Only after this you'll never have the chance to fling that at me again. You and I'll never agree on things here, we're bound to be enemies, but I want to thank you for opening my eyes, putting it squarely up to me." He left without waiting for an answer, having said what he wished to. For several days he kept by himself, taking long walks, disciplining the ship that had sailed so long in mutiny. Then he turned up in Regan's room, and holding out his hand, said: "Well, Tom, it's over. How in blazes did you keep from telling me what you thought about me all this time?" Regan, unruffled and undemonstrative, said through the cloud of his pipe: "Well, I've seen men go through it before. You never were very bad." "What?" said Stover, who felt rather annoyed at this tame estimate. "It's not a bad thing when you've licked the devil four ways to election," said Regan. "You know what you can do, and that's something." "Ever been through it?" said Stover, still a little piqued. "Ye-es." "Really, Tom?" said Dink amazed. "Ran about six months," said Regan, crossing his legs and dreaming. "I wasn't nice and polite like you--used to clean up the place--rather ugly time, but I pulled out." "You've never told me about yourself," said Stover tentatively. Regan rose, reaching for the tobacco. "No, I never have," he said. "My story is one of those stories that isn't told. Come on over to Brocky's; he's got a debating scheme you'll be interested in." "You damned unemotional cuss," said Stover, looking at him a little defiantly. "Are you coming with me this summer to see a little real life--get a little real education?" said Regan irrelevantly. "If you'll take me." "Good boy." He rested his hand on Stover's shoulder a moment, and gave him a little tap, and the touch brought a genuine thrill of happiness to Dink. "Lord, what a leader he'd make," he thought. "Why is it, and what's the story the old rhinoceros can't tell, I wonder?" The old crowd was at Brocky's, the crowd which had first stirred his imagination. His return produced quite a sensation. Nothing was said, but the grip in the handshakes was different, and the diffident, hesitant little expressions of relieved good-will that came to him touched him more than he would have believed. Brockhurst began to expound his scheme, speaking nervously, in compressed sentences, as he always did in the beginning of an argument. "Here's what I'm trying to say. We've all been sitting round and criticizing--I mean I have--things up here. Now why not really suggest something--worth while?" He frowned, and becoming angry at his own difficulty in expressing himself, gradually became more fluent. "We all feel the need of getting together and having real discussions, and we all agree that debating here has died out, become merely perfunctory. The debates take place in a class-room, and everything is cold, stiff, mechanical. Now that all is unnecessary. What we want is something spontaneous, informal and with the incentive of a contest. This is my scheme. To take a certain number--say twenty--of the men in the class who really have ideas, and believe in expressing them; form a club to meet one night a week in some room over a restaurant where we can sit about tables, smoke, have beer and lemonade, a bit to eat if you want, everything natural, informal. Divide the club up equally into two camps, each camp to have a leader for each debate, who opens the discussion and sums it up--the only formal, perfunctory speeches. Every one else speaks as he feels like it, right from his table. Have in an outside judge, and keep a record. At the end of the year the side that loses sets the other up to a banquet." Stover was interested at once. He saw an instrument at hand for which he had been looking--something to bring the class together. "Look here, it's bigger than that, Brocky," he said earnestly. "I'm not criticizing--I like the idea, the whole thing, you know. But here's what we can do. Make the club, say, forty, and get into it all the representative elements of the class--make it a real meeting place. Get the fellows who are going to be managers and captains. They've all got to speak--the fellows on papers, the real debaters--and you'll have something that'll bring the class together." "What would you debate?" said Swazey, while the others considered Stover's suggestion. "College subjects every one has an opinion about at first," said Regan. "And then get into red-hot politics." "Of course Stover's idea is a social one--democratic if you will," said Brockhurst perplexed. "My idea was for a more intimate crowd, all alike, trying to discuss real things." "Brocky, I don't believe you can do it," said Stover. "My experience is that the big discussions, the ones worth while, always are informal, just as they've been in this crowd, and the crowd mustn't be too large." Several nodded assent. "The other thing is something we need in the class. We've been torn to pieces, all at loggerheads, and I believe, outside of the debating, this is the first step to getting together. Moreover, I think you'll find all crowds will jump at the chance. Let me talk it around." "I think Dink's got the practical idea, Brocky," said Regan. "And, moreover, he's the man to work it." As they went out together they were met with the sensation of the campus--the sophomore societies had been abolished! Stover stopped McNab, who was hurrying past. "I say, Dopey, is it true?" "Sure thing." "How'd it happen?" "Don't know." Gimbel came up with the full news. "The President gave them a certain time, you remember, to submit a plan of reform. They reported they couldn't agree, so he called the committee together and said: "'Well, gentlemen, I gave you the opportunity to conform to public sentiment, you haven't been able to do it, you are now abolished.'" "Who'd have thought it!" "You don't say so!" "Abolished!" "I know you're glad, Dink, old man," said Gimbel, shaking his hand with a confidential look. "We all know how you stood." "It's for the best," said Stover slowly; then he added: "But Gimbel, the fight's over; the big thing now is for the class to get together--be careful how you fellows take it." Strangely enough, in the hour of defeat the instinct of caste came back to him--he was again the sophomore society man. He walked over to his rooms with a curious feeling of resentment at the rejoicing on the campus, where the news was being shouted from window to window. Bob Story, leaving the fence, came over and took him by the arm. "Dink, old fellow, I've been waiting to see you." "I've just heard the news," said Stover, when they reached his room. "That's not what I came about," said Story, "though it fits in all the better. Dink, you won't mind our clearing up a little past history?" "I wish you would, Bob," said Stover earnestly. "I know you never saw things my way." "No, I didn't. I don't say you were wrong. It was a question of different temperaments. You did a braver thing than I would have done--" "Oh, I say--" "Yes, I mean it. Of course I think it was all a rotten mistake, and that if you'd talked the matter out as you've done with me, Le Baron and Reynolds would have seen your side." "Perhaps so." "I felt that Reynolds had acted like an ass, and you very naturally had lost your temper--the result being to put the society in the position as a society of dictating a man's friendships. I don't believe that was justified." "Indirectly, Bob, it worked out that way." "There I believe you're right, Dink," said Story openly. "I've come to see it, and I admit it now. I'm glad the system has gone. I'm for the best here. Now, Dink,"--he hesitated a moment--"I know you've been through a rotten time; you've felt every one was against you unjustly. I know all that, and I know you've got hold of yourself again." "That's true." "What I want to talk over with you now is this. Don't let what has passed keep you away from any one in the class." "But, Bob," said Dink, amazed, "how can I help it? The soph crowd must be down on me--particularly now." "Rats, they all know pretty well the circumstances, and they all respect your nerve, that's honest. We like a good fighter up here. Now, Dink, more than ever, we need a real leader here to bring us together again. Don't leave the field to Bain and Hunter--they're all right in their way, but they can't see things in a big way. Go right out where you've always gone, twice the man you used to be, and make us all follow you. Don't make apologies for what you did--go out as though you were proud of it, and the whole bunch will rise up and follow you." "I get what you mean," said Stover solemnly. "That's horse sense, Bob--you've always got that. I wish you'd said it before." "I wish I had." Stover looked at him wondering, but not daring to ask if some one else had prompted him to the act. "It's strange you came just now, Bob," he said. "You've put words in my mouth that were already there. I've just been talking over a scheme that I think's a big idea. It's Brockhurst's." He detailed the plan and his own suggestion. Story was enthusiastic. They talked at length, drawing up a list of possible members, with the enthusiasm of pioneers. "I say, Dink, there's one thing more," said Bob, as he started to go. "I've been thinking a lot lately about things here, and what I want for the next two years--this is about ended. I'd like to propose something to you." "Propose it." "What do you say to you and me, Joe Hungerford, and Tom Regan, all rooming together another year?" "Tom?" said Stover, surprised a moment. "The very thing if he'd do it." "The four of us are all different enough to make just the combination we need. I'm tired of bunking alone. I want to rub up against some one else." "There's nothing I could have thought of better, Bob. You're right, we four ought to be friends--real friends--and stand together. Here's my hand on it." "Bully. I've spoken to Joe, and he's going to see Regan. I say, Dink, drop in soon." "Sure thing." "I mean at the house." "Oh, yes." A little constraint came to him, and then a flush of boyish hope. "I'm coming round." "Because--the family have been wondering." When Bob had gone, Stover stood a long while gazing at the excited groups about the fence, retailing the all-important news. "By George, I'll do it," he said at last. "I'll not leave it to Tommy Bain or Jim Hunter. It may be a fight, but I'm going out to lead because I can do it, and because I believe in the right things." Then he thought over all the incidents of Bob's visit, and he fell into a musing state with sudden wild jumps of the imagination. "I wonder--did he come of his own accord--I wonder if she knew!" With one of his old-time sudden resolves, he went that very night to the Storys'. The struggle he had come through in victory showed in a new, abrupt self-confidence. He felt older by a year than at his last visit. Jean Story was at the piano, Jim Hunter on the wide seat beside her, turning over the leaves of her music. He saw it from the hall in the first glance. The Judge, surprised, came to him, delighted. "Well, if here isn't Dink in the flesh. How are you? Thought you'd eloped somewhere. Glad to see you; tarnation if I'm not glad to shake your hand." Hungerford, Bain, Bob Story, and Stone were present; a little difference in their several greetings. "Well, we're holding a sort of wake here," said the Judge cheerily. "Bain seems the most afflicted." "It's a hard moment," said Stover calmly, knowing that any expression of opinion from him would be resisted in certain quarters. "I felt quite upset myself to-day when I heard the news, despite the stand I've taken." Hunter looked up and then down, but said nothing. "It's for the best," said Hungerford, not wishing him to stand alone. "Best for the college as a whole." "That remains to be seen," said Bain. "I passed Gimbel coming over, and his crowd. It wasn't very pleasant." "Well, it's over," said Dink in a matter-of-fact tone. "No post-mortem! The great thing now is to recognize what exists. The class to-day is shot to pieces. We want to get together again. One half our time's up, and, wherever the fault, we've done nothing but scrap and get apart." "I've been telling them a little about your scheme, yours and Brockhurst's," said Story. Stover launched into an enthusiastic argument in its support. Bain and Hunter followed, instinctive in their opposition, each perceiving all the superiority that would derive to Stover from its success. "May I ask," said Hunter finally, in a tone of icy criticism, "What is the difference between knocking down the sophomore society and putting up this organization?" "Very glad to tell you, Jim," said Stover, assuming an attitude of careful good-will. "The difference is that this is an open organization, drawing from every element of the class, to meet for the sole purpose of doing a little thinking and getting to know other crowds. The sophomore society was an organization drawn from one element of the class, consciously or unconsciously for the purpose of advancing the social ambitions of its members at the expense of others. One is natural and democratic, and the other's founded on selfishness and exclusiveness." The Judge, fearing the results of a controversy, broke in, switching the conversation to safer channels. "By the way, Jim," said Stover, in an interlude, "we're counting on you and Tommy Bain to go into this thing and make it a success. Is that right?" Despite their reluctance at so prompt an espousal, Hunter and Bain were too far-seeing to set themselves in opposition. But the acceptance was given without enthusiasm, and, not relishing this sudden renewal of authority in one whom they naturally held at fault, they soon broke up the party. Hungerford and Bob went into the billiard room for a game, and presently the Judge disappeared upstairs to run over some routine work. Stover took the seat vacated by Hunter, with perhaps a little malicious pleasure, saying: "Aren't you going on playing?" The young girl hesitated a moment, turning the leaves aimlessly. "I don't know," she said. "Do you want me to very much?" "I'd much rather talk." She closed the music, turning to him with a little reproachful seriousness. "You've been away a long while." "Yes." He admitted the implied accusation with a moment's silence. "A crazy spell of mine. Bob was over this afternoon and we had a long talk." He said it point blank, watching her face for some indication he hoped to find there of her complicity. "Did he tell you?" "He was speaking of it at the dinner table," she said quietly. "Did you blame me," he said impulsively, "for what I did about getting out of my society?" "No." "Bob did, at least for a while," he said, looking eagerly into her eyes. "I did not agree with him there." She rose. "If we are going to talk, let's find more comfortable chairs." He followed her, a little irritated at the sudden closing on this delightful prospect. They took chairs by the window. Through the vista of open rooms could be seen the glare of the brilliant lights, and the figures of the two young fellows moving at their game. Suddenly, with a return of the old-time feeling of camaraderie between them, he burst out: "You know I've got into such a serious point of view! I don't quite know how it happened. Sometimes it seems to me I'm missing all the fun of college life." He made a gesture toward the billiard room. "Even fellows like McNab, good for nothing, jovial little loafers, according to Yale standards, do seem to be getting something wonderful out of these years. I don't. It's been all work or fighting." "That's because they are going different ways in life than you are," she said quickly. "Tell me more about this new organization. It seems a big idea. Whom will you take in?" She added suddenly: "Take charge yourself, do it all yourself. It's just what you should do." He was too much interested in the expounding of the idea to notice the solicitude she showed him. After a while the conversation drifted to other topics. He spoke of the summer. "Joe wants me to go on a cruise, and Bob wants me to run up to your camp for a visit, but I've about decided to do neither." She looked up. "Why not?" "I am going with Regan for the summer--slumming it, I suppose some would call it; Tom calls it getting real education. We're going down to work among men who work, to know something of what they think and want--and what they think of us. It appeals to me tremendously. I want to have an all-around point of view. There are so many opportunities coming now, and I want to grasp them all--learn all I can. What do you think?" "It is a splendid idea, just the thing for you now. It will broaden you," she said, with a determined bob of her head. "Why doesn't Bob ever bring Regan around? He sounds interesting." "Don't know--he sticks by himself. You can't move him. Bob's told you about the four of us rooming together?" "Yes." "I wonder--" "What?" she asked as he stopped. "Did you suggest to Bob what he said to me this afternoon?" he said point blank. She looked at him troubled and undecided, and he suddenly guessed the reason. "Oh, won't you trust me enough to tell me," he said boyishly, "if you did?" She looked into his eyes a moment longer. "He was afraid you wouldn't like it," she said simply. "Yes, I told him to go." A dozen things rushed to his lips, and he said nothing. Perhaps she liked his silence better than anything he could have said, for she added: "You will do the big things now, won't you? You see, I want to see you at your biggest." When he went home that night, he seemed to walk on air. He had taken no advantage of her friendship, tempted almost beyond his powers as he had been by the kindness in her voice and her direct appeal. He had to tell some one, not of the interest he felt she had shown him, but of his own complete adoration and supreme consecration. So he hauled Hungerford up to his room, who received the information as to Stover's state of mind with gratifying surprise, as though it were the most incredible, mystifying, and incomprehensible bit of news. CHAPTER XXIII When Stover returned to college as a junior, he showed the results of his summer with Regan. He had gone into construction gangs, and learned to obey and to command. He had had a glimpse of what the struggle for existence meant in the stirring masses; and he had known the keenness of a little joy and the reality of sorrow to those for whom everything in life was real. He had long ago surrendered the idea of entering Skull and Bones over the enmity of Reynolds and Le Baron, and this relinquishing somehow robbed him of all the awe that he had once felt. He had returned a man, tempered by knowledge of the world, distinguishing between the incidental in college life and the vital opportunity within his grasp. The new debating club, launched in the previous spring, had been an instant success, and its composition, carefully representative, had become the nucleus of a new comradeship in the class. With the one idea of proving his fitness to lead in this new harmonizing development, Stover made his room a true meeting-place of the class, and, loyally aided by Hungerford and Story, sought to restore all the old-time zest and good-will to the gatherings about the sophomore fence. His efforts were met by a latent opposition from Hunter and Bain, on one side, who never outgrew their wounded resentment, and from Gimbel on the other, who, though enthusiastically seconding him in the open, felt secretly that he was being supplanted. But, as Story had foreseen, Stover had the magnetism and the energy to carry through what no other leader would have accomplished. Once resolved on the accomplishment, upheld by a strong sentimental devotion, Stover went at his task with a blunt directness that disdains all objections. Each Saturday night was given over to a rally of the class _en masse_ at the Tontine. Certain groups held off at first, but soon came into the fold when Stover, who was no respecter of persons, would find occasion to say publicly: "Hello there, what happened to you last night? Get out of that silk-lined atmosphere of yours! Wake up! You're not too good for us, are you?" "Well, why weren't you there? It's no orgy--you can get lemonade or milk if you want. There are bad men present, but we keep 'em from biting." "I say, forget your poker game for one night. We all know you're dead game sports. That's why we want you--to give us an atmosphere of real life." The remarks were made half in jest, half in earnest, but they seldom failed of their object. At the Saturday night rallies it was the same. Stover was everywhere, saying with his good-humored, impudent smile what no one else dared to say, sometimes startling them with his boldness: "Here now, fellows, no grouping around here. We want to see a sport and a gospel shark sitting arm in arm. Come on, Schley, your social position's all right--there's only one crowd here to-night. No one here is going to boost you into a senior society. Percolate, fellows, percolate. We've scrapped like Sam Hill, now we're tired of it. No more biting, scratching, or gouging. Don't forget this is a love feast, and they're going to be lovelier. Now let's try over that song for the Princeton game. Bob Story perpetrated it--pretty rotten, I think, but let's hit it up all the same." The rallies jumped into popularity. The class gasped, then laughed at Stover's abrupt reference to the late unpleasantness, and with the laugh all constraint went. The class found itself, as a regiment returns to its pride again. It went to the games in a body, it healed its differences, and packed the long room at the Tontine each Saturday night, shouting out the chorus which Buck Waters, McNab, Stone, and the talent led. Many, undoubtedly, marvelling at the ease with which Stover had inspired the gathering, admired him for what they believed was a clever bid for society honors. But the truth was that he succeeded because he had no underlying motive, because he had achieved in himself absolute independence and fearlessness of any outer criticism, and his strength with the crowd was just the consciousness of his own liberty. By the fall of junior year, he was the undisputed leader of the class, a force that had brought to it a community of interest and friendly understanding. Unknown to him, his classmates began to regard him, despite his old defiance, as one whom a senior society could not overlook. Stover had no such feeling. He believed that the hatred in what remained of the sophomore society organization was, and would continue, unrelenting, and this conviction had determined him in a course of action to which he was impelled by other reasons. He went through the football season as he had gone through the previous season, with a record for distinguished brilliancy, acclaimed by all as the best end in years, the probable captain of the next year. He wanted the position, as he had desired it on his first arrival at Yale, and yet he surrendered it. Hunter had developed into a tackle and made the team. In the class below were two men of the defunct sophomore societies. Stover had vividly before him the record of Dana, his captain of freshman year, and the memory of the ordeal after the game, when he had stood up and acknowledged his lack of leadership. That this still resentful society element in the eleven would follow him with distaste and reluctance, despite all traditional loyalty, he knew too well. Moreover, sure that he was destined to be passed over on Tap Day, he felt perhaps too keenly the handicap of such a rejection. Then, at the bottom, reluctantly, he knew in his heart that Regan was the born leader of men, and what once he had rebelled against he finally acknowledged. So when at the end of a victorious season the members of the eleven gathered for the election of the next year's captain, he stood up immediately and stated his views. It was a difficult announcement to make, both on the score of seeming sentimentality, and from the danger of seeming to refuse what might not be offered him. But during the tests of the last year the self-consciousness which would have prevented Brockhurst's expressing himself had completely gone. Determined on one course of action, to be his own master, to do what he wanted to do, and to say what he wanted to say, in absolute fearlessness, he spoke with a frankness that amazed his comrades, still under the fetish of upper-class supremacy. "Before we begin," he said, "I've a few words I want to say. I suppose I am a candidate here. I don't say I shouldn't be crazy to have the captaincy. I would--any one would. What I say is that I have thought it over and I withdraw my name. Even if you hadn't in Tom Regan here the best type of leader you could get, it would be very unfortunate for our chances next year if I were chosen. I'm quite aware that in a certain element of the team, due to the open stand I felt forced to take in the question of the sophomore society, there is a great deal of resentment against me. I can understand that; it is natural. But there should be no such division in a Yale team. We've got a tough fight next year, and we need a captain about whom are no enmities, who'll command every bit of the loyalty of the team"--he paused a moment--"and every bit of help he can get from the college. I move that Tom Regan be unanimously elected captain." There was quite an outcry at the end of his declaration, especially from Regan, who was utterly surprised. But Stover held firm, and perceived, not without a little secret resentment, that the outcome came with relief not only to the team but to the coaches. When they returned, and Regan was still protesting, Stover said frankly: "Look here, Tom, we don't split hairs with one another. If I had thought it was right for me to stand for it I would have. I wanted it--like hell. You remember Dana? I do. It's an awful thing to lead a team into defeat, and say I was responsible. I don't care to do it. Besides, you are the better man--and I'm of such a low, skulking nature I hate to admit it. So shut up and buy me a rabbit at Mory's. I'm hungry as a pirate." He had said nothing of his determination to any one. He had been tempted to talk it over with Jean Story, but he had refrained, feeling instinctively that in her ambition for him, and in her inability to judge the depth of certain antagonisms towards him, she would oppose his determination. The four friends had gone to Lyceum together--Swazey and Pike were in the same building. There was a certain flavor of the simplicity and ruggedness of old Yale in the building that gave to the meetings in their rooms a character of old-time spontaneity. By the opening of the winter term, Stover, the enthusiast, had begun to see the weakness of movements that must depend on organization. The debating club, which had started with a zest, soon showed its limitations. Once the edge of novelty had worn off, there were too many diverting interests to throng in and deplete the ranks. When, following Regan's suggestion, they had attempted a new division on the lines of the political parties, the result was decidedly disappointing. There was no natural interest to draw upon, and the political discussions, instead of fanning the club into a storm of partizanship, lapsed into the hands of perfunctory debaters. Regan himself took his disillusionment much to heart. They discussed the reasons of the failure one stormy afternoon at one of their informal discussions, to which they had returned with longing. "What the devil is the matter?" said the big fellow savagely. "Why, where I come from, the people I see, every mother's son of them, feed on politics, talk nothing else--they love it! And here if you ask a man if he's a Republican or a Democrat, he writes home and asks his father. A condition like this doesn't exist anywhere else on the face of the globe. And this is America. Why?" When he had propounded the question, there was a busy, unresponsive puffing of pipes, and then Pike added: "That's what hits me, too. Just look at the questions that are coming up; popular election of senators, income tax, direct primaries; it's like building over the government again, and no one here cares or knows what's doing. I say, why?" "There may be fifty-two reasons for it," said Brockhurst, in his staccato, biting way. "One is, our colleges are all turning into social clearing houses, and every one is too absorbed in that engrossing process to know what happens outside; second is the fact that our universities are admirably organized instruments for the prevention of learning!" "Good old Brocky," said Swazey with a chuckle. "Just what I like; stormy outside, warm inside, and Brocky at the bat. Serve 'em up." Brockhurst, who was used to this reception of his pointed generalizations, paid no heed. He, too, had grown in mental stature and in control. A certain diffidence was over him, and always would be; but when a subject came up that interested him, he forgot himself, and rushed into the argument with a zeal that never failed to arouse his listeners. Brockhurst turned on Swazey with the license that was always permissible. "Well, what do you know? You've been here going on three years. You are supposed to be more than half educated. And you're not a fair example either, because you really are seeking to know something." "Well, go on," said Swazey, thoroughly aroused. "What do you know about the Barbizon school, and the logical reasons for the revolt of the impressionists?" Instantly there was an outcry: "Not fair." "Oh, I say." "That's no test." "Finishing your third year, gentlemen," said Brockhurst triumphantly, "age over twenty; the art of painting is of course known to the aborigines only in its cruder forms. Well, does any one know at least who Manet is, or what he's painted?" There was an accusing silence. "Of course you've an idea of the Barbizon school--one or two of you. You remember something about a Man with a Hoe or the Angelus--that's Sunday supplement education. Now let me try you. Please raise hands, little boys, when you know the answer to these questions, but don't bluff teacher. I'm not contending you should have a detailed knowledge of the world in your eager, studious minds. I am saying that you haven't the slightest general information. I'll make my questions fair. "First, music: I won't ask you the tendencies and theories of the modern schools--you won't know that such a thing as a theory in music exists. You know the opera of Carmen--good old Toreadore song. Do you know the name of the composer? One hand--Bob Story. Do you know the history of its reception? Do you know the sources of it? Do you know what Bach's influence was in the development of music? Did you ever hear of Leoncavallo, Verdi, or that there is such a thing as a Russian composer? Absolute silence. You have a hazy knowledge of Wagner, and you know that Chopin wrote a funeral march. That is your foothold in music; there you balance, surrounded by howling waters of ignorance. "Take up architecture. Do you know who built the Vatican? Do you know the great buildings of the world--or a single thing about Greek, Roman and Renaissance architecture? Do you know what the modern French movement is based upon? Nothing. "Take up religion. Do you know anything about Confucius, Shintoism, or Swedenborg, beyond the names? Of course you would not know that under Louis XVI a determined movement was made to reunite the Catholic and Protestant branches, which almost succeeded. That's unfair, because of course it is the forerunner of the great religious movement to-day. Do you know the history of the external symbols of the Christian religion, and what is historically new? Darkness denser and denser. "Take literature. You have excavated a certain amount of Shakespeare, and grubbed among Elizabethans, and cursed Spenser. Who has read Taine's History of English Literature, or known in fact who Taine is? Only Bob Story. And yet there is the greatest book on the whole subject; you could abolish the English department and substitute it. Beside Story, who else has had even a fair reading knowledge of any other literature--Russian, Norwegian, German, French, Italian? Who knows enough about any one of these writers to look wise and nod; Renan, Turgeniev, Daudet, Björnson, Hauptman, Suderman, Strindberg? Do you know anything about Goethe as a critic, or the influence of Poe upon French literature? What do you know? I'll tell you. You know Les Misérables and The Three Musketeers in French literature. You know Goethe wrote Faust. You're beginning to know Ibsen as a name, and one may have read Tolstoi, and all know that he's a very old man with a long white beard, who lives among his peasants, has some queer ideas, and has started to die three or four times. The papers have told you that. "Take another field, of simple curiosity on what is doing in a world in which by opportunity you are supposed to be of the leading class. What do you know about the strength and spread of socialism in Germany, France and England? In the first place no one of you here probably has any idea of what socialism is; you've been told it's anarchy, and, as that only means dynamite to you, you are against socialism, and will never take the trouble to investigate it. What do you know about the new political experiments in New Zealand?--nothing. What do you know about the labor pension system in Germany, or the separation of the church and state in France?--all subjects dealing with the vital development of the race of bipeds on this earth of which you happen to be members. "Now here is a catch question--all candidates for the dunce-cap will take a guess. The Botticelli story is such a chestnut now that you all know that it isn't a cheese or a wine--credit that to ridicule. I'm going to give you a few names from all the professions, and let's see who can tag them. What was Spinoza, Holman Hunt, Dostoiefski, Ambrose Thomas, Savonarola (if you've read the novel you'd know that), Bastien Le Page, Zorn, Bizet, Bossuet! Unfair?--not at all. These things are just as necessary to know to a man of education and culture as it is to a man of good manners to realize that peas are not introduced into the mouth by being balanced on a knife." "Help!" cried Hungerford, as Brockhurst went rushing on. "Great Scott, what _do_ we know?" "You know absolutely nothing," said Brockhurst savagely. "Here you are; look at yourselves--four years when you ought to learn something, some informing knowledge of all that has developed during the four thousand years the human race has fought its way toward the light, four years to be filled with the marvel and splendor of it all, and you don't know a thing. "You don't know the big men in music; you don't know the pioneers and the leaders in any art; you don't know the great literatures of the world, and what they represent; you don't know how other races are working out their social destinies; you've never even stopped to examine yourselves, to analyze your own society, to see the difference between a civilization founded on the unit of the individual, and a civilization, like the Latin, on the indestructible advance of the family. You have no general knowledge, no intellectual interests, you haven't even opinions, and at the end of four years of _education_ you will march up and be handed a degree--Bachelor of Arts! Magnificent! And we Americans have a sense of humor! Do you wonder why I repeat that our colleges are splendidly organized institutions for the prevention of learning? No, sir, we are business colleges, and the business of our machines is to stamp out so many business men a year, running at full speed and in competition with the latest devices in Cambridge and Princeton!" "Brocky, you are terrific," said Swazey in admiration. There was too much truth in the attack, violent as it was, not to have called forth serious attention. "I feel a good deal the way you do," said Bob Story, and Stover nodded, "only it seems to me, Brocky, a good deal of what you're arguing for must come from outside--in just such informal talks as this." "That's true," said Brockhurst. "If the stimulus in the college life itself were toward education all our meetings would be educational. It's true abroad, it isn't here. You know my views. You think I'm extreme. I'm getting an education because I didn't accept any such flap-doodle as, 'What am I going to do for Yale?' but instead asked, 'What has Yale got to offer me?' I'm getting it, too." Stover suddenly remembered the conversation they had together the year before, and looking now at Brockhurst, revealed in a new strength, he began to understand what had then so repelled him. "The great fault," continued Brockhurst, "lies, however, with the colleges. The whole theory is wrong, archaic and ridiculous--the theory of education by schedule. All education can do is to instil the love of knowledge. You get that, you catch the fire of it--you educate yourself. All education does to-day is to develop the memory at the expense of the imagination. It says: 'Here are so many pounds of Greek, Latin, mathematics, history, literature. In four years our problem is to pass them through the heads of these hundreds of young barbarians so that they will come out with a lip knowledge.'" "But come, we do learn something," said Hungerford. "No, you don't, Joe," said Brockhurst. "You've translated the Iliad--you've never known it. You've recited in Horace--you have no love for him. You've excavated the plays of Shakespeare, a couple of acts at a time; you don't know what Hamlet means or Lear, the beauty of it all has escaped you. You've _recited_ in Logic and Philosophy, but you don't understand what you're repeating. You're only _repeating_ all the time. Your memory is trained to hold a little knowledge a little time--that's all. You don't enjoy it, you're rather apologetic--or others are." "Well, what other system is there?" said Regan. "There is the preceptorial system of England," said Brockhurst, "where a small group of men are in personal contact with the instructor. In French universities, education is a serious thing because failure to pass an examination for a profession means two extra years of army service. Men don't risk over there, or divide up their time heeling the _News_ or making a team. In Germany a man is given a certain number of years to get a degree, and I believe has to do a certain amount of original work. "But of course the main trouble here is, and there is no blinking the fact, that the colleges have surrendered unconsciously a great deal of their power to the growing influence of the social organization. In a period when we have no society in America, families are sending their sons to colleges to place themselves socially. Some of them carry it to an extreme, even directly avow their hope that they will make certain clubs at Princeton or Harvard, or a senior society here. It probably is very hard to control, but it's going to turn our colleges more and more, as I say, into social clearing houses. At present here at Yale we keep down the question of wealth pretty well; fellows like Joe Hungerford here come in and live on our basis. That's the best feature about Yale to-day--how it will be in the future I don't know, for it depends on the wisdom of the parents." "Social clearing house is well coined," said Hungerford. "I think it's truer though of Harvard." "That's perhaps because you see the mote in your neighbors' eyes," said Brocky rising. "Well, discussion isn't going to change it. Who's always talking about school for character--Pike or Brown? We might as well stand for that--but it would not be very wise to announce it to the American nation, would it?--we might be dubbed a reformatory. Fathers, send your sons to college--reform their characters, straighten out the crooks. At the end give 'em a degree of--of, say--G. B." "What's that, Brocky?" said Swazey, grinning with the rest. "Good Boy," said Brockhurst, who departed, as he liked, on the echoes of the laugh which he had inspired. "Whew!" said Hungerford, with a comical rubbing of his head. "What struck me?" "And I expect to make Phi Beta Kappa," said Swazey, with an apologetic laugh. "What a dreadfully disconcerting person," said Bob Story. "By George, it takes the conceit out of you," said Stover ruthfully. "Shall we all start in and learn something? What's the answer?" At this moment a familiar slogan was heard below, increasing in riotous, pagan violence with the approach of boisterous feet. "_Oh, father and mother_ _Pay all the bills,_ _And we have all the fun._ _Hooray!_ _That's the way we do in college life--_ _In college life._" The room burst into a roar of laughter. "There's one answer," said Regan rising. The door slammed open, and McNab and Buck Waters reeled in arm in arm. "I say, fellows, we've cornered the sleigh market," said Dopey uproariously. "We're all going to beat it to the Cheshire Inn, a bottle of champagne to the first to arrive. Are you on?" Half an hour later, Stover at the reins was whirling madly along the crusty roads, in imminent danger of collision with three other rollicking parties, who packed the sleighs and cheered on the galloping horses, singing joyfully the battle hymn of the pagans: "_Oh, father and mother_ _Pay all the bills,_ _And we have all the fun._ _Hooray!_ _That's the way we do_ _In college life._" CHAPTER XXIV Once Stover had reconciled himself to the loss of a senior society election, he found ample compensation in the absolute liberty of action that came to him. It was not that he condemned this parent system; he believed in it as an honest attempt to reward the best in the college life, a sort of academic legion of honor, formed not on social cleavage, but given as a reward of merit. In his own case, he believed his own personal offending in the matter of Le Baron and Reynolds had been so extreme that nothing could counteract it. So he gave himself up to the free and untrammelled delights of living his own life. His fierce stand for absolute democracy made of his rooms the ante-room of the class, through which all crowds seemed to pass, men of his own kind, socially calculating, glad to be known as the friends of Regan, Hungerford and Story, all rated sure men, and Stover, about whom they began to wonder more and more, as a unique and rebellious personality, which, contrary to precedent, had come to bear down all opposition. Gimbel and Hicks, elected managers for the coming year, came often, willing to conciliate the element they had fought, in the hopes of a favorable outcome on Tap Day. Men who worked their way dropped in often on Regan; Ricketts, with his drawling Yankee astuteness, always laughing up his sleeve; twenty odd, lonely characters, glad to sink into a quiet corner and listen to the furious discussions that raged about Brockhurst, Story and Regan. It was seldom that Stover talked. He learned more by listening, by careful weighing of others' opinions, than in the attempt to classify his own thoughts through the medium of debate. At times when the discussion wandered from vital sources, he would ask a question, and these sharp, direct remarks had a pertinency and a searching trenchancy that sometimes upset an elaborate argument. Regan brought him to the romance of commonplace things, to a genuine interest and study of political conditions; Brockhurst irritated and dissatisfied him, and so stimulated him to reading and self-analysis; Story, with his seriousness and fairness, recalled him always to a judicial point of view and an understanding of others; Hungerford, with his big, effusive nature, always dissatisfied and eager for realities, was akin to his own nature, and they grew into a confidential intimacy. In a community of splendid barbarians, their circle was exceptional, due to the pronounced individuality of their several rebellious minds. Despite the abolition of the sophomore societies, other groups still maintained their exclusiveness, and kept alive the old antagonism, as the approach of Tap Day intensified the struggle for election and the natural campaigning of friend for friend. As Brockhurst had prophesied, the chairmanship of the _Lit_ Board went to Wiggin, a conscientious, thorough little plodder, who had never failed to hand in to each number his numerically correct quota of essays, two stories, a hammered-out poem and two painful portfolios. On the night of the election, Stover heard from his room in Lyceum the familiar: "Oh, you Dink Stover--stick out your head." "Hello there, Brocky; come up," he said anxiously. "Who got it?" "Wiggin, of course. Come on down, I want a ramble." It was the first time that Brockhurst had shown a longing for companionship. Stover returned into the room, announcing: "Poor old chap. Wiggin got it. Isn't it the devil?" "Wiggin--oh, Lord!" said Regan. "Why, he's not fit to tie Brocky's shoe-strings," said Hungerford, who fired a volley of soul-relieving oaths. "I'm going down to bum around a bit with him," said Stover, slipping on his coat, "cheer the old boy up." "Well, he knew it." "Lots of difference that makes!" Below Brocky, muffled to the ears, brim down, was whistling in unmusical enthusiasm. "_'Tis a jolly life we lead,_ _Care and sorrow we defy--_" "Hello, that you, Dink?" he said, breaking off. "Come on for a tramp." At that age, being inexperienced, the undergraduate in questions of sympathy wisely returns to the instincts of the canine. Stover, without speaking, fell into his stride, and they swung off towards West Rock. "Wiggin is the type of man," said Brockhurst, meditatively puffing his pipe, "that is the glorification of the commonplace. He is a sort of sublime earthworm, plodding along and claiming acquaintance with the rose because he travels around the roots. He is really by instinct a bricklayer, and the danger is that he may continue either in literature or some profession where the cry is for imagination." "You could have beaten him out," said Stover, as a solace. "And become an earthworm?" said Brockhurst. "The luck of it is, he made up his mind to heel the _Lit_. With his ideas he would have made leader of the glee club, president of the Phi Beta Kappa, chairman of the _News_, or what not." "Still, give him credit," said Stover, smiling to himself, for he felt that he saw for the first time the human side of Brockhurst. "I did; it was quite an amusing time." "What happened?" "Why, the little grubber came up to me and said, 'Brocky, old man, you ought to have had it.'" "Why, that was rather decent," said Stover. "Rubbish. All form," said Brockhurst impatiently. "Showed the calibre of his mind,--the obvious; nothing but the obvious. He thought it the thing to say, that's all." "Well, what did you answer?" said Stover wondering. "I said, 'Well, why didn't you vote for me then?'" Stover burst out laughing, and Brockhurst, who had lost a coveted honor, was a little mollified by the tribute. "Of course he stammered and looked annoyed--naturally; situation his imagination couldn't meet, so I said: "'Come, Wiggin, no stuff and nonsense. You didn't think I ought to have it, and I know damn well, now that you've won out, you'll get a Skull and Bones to wear, pose in the middle of the photograph for the Banner, and be thoroughly satisfied at our board meeting to sit back and listen while I do the talking.'" Stover broke into a laugh. "Brocky, you scandalized him." "Not at all. He thought I was joking--the last thing that occurs to the grubber is that wit is only a polite way of calling a man an ass." "Brocky, you're at your best, don't stop." Brockhurst smiled. It was turning a defeat into a victory. He continued: "After all, Wiggy is interesting. I'll be revenged. I'll put him in a book some day. He represents a type--the mathematical mind, quantity not quality. He set out for the chairmanship as a man trains for a long-distance run. Do you know the truth? He rose every morning and took a cold shower, fifty swings to the left with the dumb-bell, fifty to the right, ate nothing heavy or starchy for his meals, walked the same distance each afternoon, and worked his two hours each night, hammering out divine literature." "Oh, I say!" said Dink, a little in doubt. Brockhurst began to laugh. "He may have for all I know. Now I'll bury him. He will be eminently successful--I like that word eminently. You see he has no sense of humor, and especially no imagination to hinder him." Brockhurst, in one of his quixotic moods, began to gesture to the stars as he abandoned himself to the delights of his conceit. "Oh, that's a wonderful thing, to have no imagination--the saving of commonplace minds. If Wiggin had an imagination he would never have written a line, he would have perceived the immense distances that separated him from the Olympians. Instead he read Stevenson, Dumas, Kipling, and, unafraid, wrote little Stevenson echoes of Dumas, capsule Kiplings. He'll go out in the world, nothing will frighten him. He will rebel against nothing, for he hasn't an idea. He will choose the woman he needs for his needs, persuade himself that he's in love, and then persuade her. And he'll believe that's a virtuous marriage. He'll belong to the conservative party, the conservative church, and will be a distinguished subordinate, who will stand for tradition, institutions, and will be said to resemble some great man. Then he'll die, and will be pointed to as a great example. _Requiescat in pace._" "Off with his head," said Stover appreciatively. "Now he's finished, own up, Brocky, that you are furious that you did not buckle down and beat him out." "Of course I am--damn it," said Brockhurst. "I know I did right, but no one else will ever know it. And the strange thing is, Dink, the best thing for me is to have missed out." "Why, in Heaven's name?" "If I had made the chairmanship, I should probably be tapped for Bones--one of the successful. I might have become satisfied. Do you know that that is the great danger of this whole senior business?" "What?" "The fellow who wears his honors like a halo. He's made Bones or Keys, he's a success in life. Nothing more awaits him. 'I was it.'" "Still, you would have liked it." "Sure; I'm inconsistent," said Brocky, with a laugh. "It's only when I don't get what I want that my beautiful reason shows me I shouldn't have had it." "Well, there's no danger of either of us disappearing under the halos," said Stover shortly. "I'm not so sure about you," said Brockhurst. The casual doubt aroused strange emotions in Stover. "I thought you didn't believe in them," he said slowly. "I don't. I don't believe in organizations, institutions, traditions--that's my point of view," said Brockhurst. "But then I'm in the world to be in revolt." "You once spoke of the society system--the whole thing as it exists in America--" said Stover, "as a sort of idol worship. I never quite understood your meaning." "Why, I think it's quite obvious," said Brockhurst surprised. "What was idol worship? A large body of privileged charlatans, calling themselves priests, impressed the masses with all the flummery of mysterious ceremonies, convenient voices issuing from caves or stone idols. What was an idol? An ordinary chunk of marble, let us say, issuing from the sculptor's chisel. When did it become sacred and awe-inspiring? When it had been placed in an inner shrine of shrines, removed from the public, veiled in shadows, obscured by incense, guarded by solicitous guards; the stone is still a stone but the populace is convinced. Look into a well in daylight--commonplace; look into it at night--a great mystery; black is never empty, the imagination fills it." "How does this apply?" said Stover, impatiently. "Cases are parallel. A group of us come together for the purpose of debate and discussion; no one notices it beyond a casual thought. Suddenly we surround ourselves with mystery, appear on the campus with a sensational pin stuck in our cravats, a bat's head or a gallows, and when, marvellously enough, some one asks us what the dickens we are wearing, we turn away; instantly it becomes known that something so deadly secret has begun that we have sworn to shed our heart's blood before we allow the holy, sacred name of Bat's Head or Gallow's Bird to pass our lips!" "It's a little foolish, but what's the harm?" "The harm is that this mumbo-jumbo, fee-fi-fo-fum, high cockalorum business is taken seriously. It's the effect on the young imagination that comes here that is harmful. Dink, I tell you, and I mean it solemnly, that when a boy comes here to Yale, or any other American college, and gets the flummery in his system, believes in it--surrenders to it--so that he trembles in the shadow of a tomblike building, doesn't dare to look at a pin that stares him in the face, is afraid to pronounce the holy, sacred names; when he's got to that point he has ceased to _think_, and no amount of college life is going to revive him. That's the worst thing about it all, this mental subjection which the average man undergoes here when he comes up against all this rigmarole of Tap Day, gloomy society halls, marching home at night, et cetera--et ceteray. By George, it _is_ a return of the old idol-worship idea--thinking men in this twentieth century being impressed by the same methods that kept nations in servitude to charlatans three thousand years before. It's wrong, fundamentally wrong--it's a crime against the whole moving spirit of university history--the history of a struggle for the liberation of the human mind." "But, Brocky, what would you have them do--run as open clubs?" "Not at all," said Brockhurst. "I would strip them of all nonsense; in fact that is their weakness, not their strength, and it is all unnecessary. This is what I'd do: drop the secrecy--this extraordinary muffled breathless guarding of an empty can--retain the privilege any club has of excluding outsiders, stop this childishness of getting up and leaving the room if some old lady happens to ask are you a Bones man or a Keys man. Instead, when a Bones man goes to see a freshman whom he wants to befriend, have him say openly as he passes the chapter house: "'That's my society--Skull and Bones. It stands as a reward of merit here. Hope you'll do something to deserve it.' "Which is the better of the two ideas, the saner, the manlier and the more natural? What would they lose by eliminating the objectionable, unnecessary features--all of which you may be sure were started as horse play, and have curiously enough come to be taken in deadly earnestness?" "I think you exaggerate a little," said Stover, unwilling to accept this arraignment. "No, I don't," said Brockhurst stubbornly. "The thing is a fetish; it gets you; it's meant to get you. It gets me, and if you're honest you'll admit it gets you. Now own up." "Yes, I suppose it does." "Now, Dink, you're fighting for one thing up here, the freedom of your mind and your will." "Why, yes," Stover said, surprised at Brockhurst's knowledge of his inner conflicts. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm fighting out." "Well, my boy, you'll never get what you're after until you see this thing as it is--the unreasoning harm done, the poppycock that has been thrown around a good central idea--if you admit such things are necessary, which of course I don't." "You see," said Stover stubbornly, "you're against all organization." "I certainly am--inherited organizations," said Brockhurst immediately, "organizations that are imposed on you. The only organization necessary is the natural, spontaneous coming together of congenial elements." They had returned to the campus, and Brockhurst, by intent leading the way, stopped before the lugubrious bulk of Skull and Bones. "There you are," he said, with a laugh. "Look at it. It's built of the same stone as other buildings, it has in it what secret? Go up, young Egyptian, to its mystery in awe and reverence, young idol worshiper of thirty centuries ago." "Damn it, Brocky, it does get me," said Stover with a short laugh. "Curious," said Brockhurst, turning away. "The architecture of these sacred tombs is almost invariably the suggestion of the dungeon--the prison of the human mind." Stover's conversation with Brockhurst did not at first trouble him much. Curiously enough the one idea he retained was that Brockhurst had spoken of him as a possibility for Tap Day. "What nonsense," he said to himself angrily. "Here, I know better!" But the next afternoon, the thought returning to him with pleasure, all at once, following a boyish whim, he passed into his old entry at Lawrence, and, going down a little guiltily into the region of the bath-tubs, came to the wall on which was inscribed the lists of his class. On the Bones list, third from the top, the name Stover had been replaced and heavily underlined. It gave him quite a thrill; something seemed to leap up inside of him, and he went out hastily. Then all at once he became angry. It was like opening up again a fight that had been fought and lost. "What an ass I am," he said furiously. "The deuce of a chance I have to go Bones--with Reynolds and Le Baron. Can the leopard change his spots? About as much chance as a ki-yi has to go through a sausage machine and come out with a bark." But, as he went towards Jean Story's home, thinking of her and what she would want, the force of what Brockhurst had said began to weaken. "Brocky is impractical," he said artfully. "We must deal with things as they are, make the best of them. He exaggerates the effect on the imagination. At any rate, no one can accuse me of not taking a stand." He saw the old colonial home, white and distinguished under the elms, and he said to himself, hoping against hope: "If I were tapped--it would mean a good deal to her. I'll be darned if I'll let Brocky work me up. I'm not going up against anything more! I've done enough here." He said it defiantly, for the courage of a man has two factors, his courage and the courage of the woman he loves. CHAPTER XXV When he had returned to the college after the summer, he came to his first call on Jean Story with a confident enthusiasm, eager for the first look in her eyes. He had not corresponded with her during the summer. He had not even asked for permission to write, confident though he was that her consent would now be given. He was resolved, as a penance for his first blunder, to hold himself in reserve on every occasion. Bob had written the news, always pressing him to take two weeks off for a visit to the camp, but Dink, despite the tugging at his heart, had stuck to Regan, perhaps a little secretly pleased to show his earnestness. Now, as he came swinging impatiently toward the glowing white columns under the elms, he realized all at once what was the moving influence in his struggle for growth and independence. "Here is the horny-handed son of toil," he said, holding out his hand with a laugh. She took it, turning over the firm palm with a little curiosity, and looked at him sharply, aware of a great change--they were no longer boy and girl. The vacation had made of the impetuous Dink Stover she had known a new personality that was strange and a little intimidating. He did not understand at all the sudden dropping of her look, nor the uneasy turning away, nor the quick constraint that came. He was hurt with a sudden sharp sting that he had never known before and the ache of unreasoning jealousy at the bare thought of what might have happened during the summer. "I'm awfully glad to see you," she said, but the words sounded formal. He followed her into the parlor puzzled, irritated by something he did not understand, something that lay underneath everything she said, and seemed to interpose itself as a barrier between them and the old open feeling of camaraderie. "Mother will be so glad to see you," she said, after a little moment of awkwardness. "I must call her." This maneuver completed his bewilderment, which increased when, Mrs. Story joining them, suddenly the Jean Story of old returned with the same cordiality and the same enthusiasm. She asked a hundred questions, leading him on until he was launched into an account of his summer experiences, the little bits of real life that had brought home to him the seriousness of the world that waited outside. He spoke not as the Stover of sophomore year, filled with the enthusiasm of discovery, but with a maturer mind, which had begun to reflect and to reason upon what had come into his knowledge. Mrs. Story, sunk in the old high-backed arm-chair near the fire, followed him, too, aware also of the change in the boy, wondering what lay in the mind of her daughter, camped at her knee on the hearth rug, listening so intently and yet clinging to her as though for instinctive protection. Stover spoke only of outward things; the thoughts that lay beneath, that would have come out so eagerly before the girl, did not appear in the presence of another. As he understood nothing of this sudden introduction of a third into the old confidential relationship, he decided to be more formal than the girl, and rose while still his audience's attention was held by his account. "It's been awfully jolly to see you again," he said with a perfect manner to Mrs. Stover. "But you're going to stay to dinner," she said, with a little smile. "Awfully sorry, but I've got a dozen things to do," he said, in the same careful, matter-of-fact tone. "Bob sent word he'd come later." Jean Story had not urged him. He went to her with mechanical cheeriness, saying: "Good-by. You're looking splendidly." She did not answer, being in one of her silent moods. Mrs. Story went with him towards the door, with a few practical housekeeping questions on the ménage that had just begun. As they were in the ante-room, Jim Hunter entered and, greeting them, passed into the salon. Stover, deaf to anything else, heard her greeting: "Why, Jim, I _am_ glad to see you." Mrs. Story was asking him a question, but he did not hear it. He heard only the echoes of what seemed to him the joy in her laugh. "If you need any rugs let me know," said Mrs. Story in patient repetition. "I beg your pardon," he stammered. "Yes--yes, of course." She looked at him with a little maternal pity, knowing the pang that had gone through him, and for a moment a word was on her lips to enlighten him. But she judged it wiser to be silent, and said: "Come in for dinner to-morrow night, surely." This invitation fitted at once into Stover's scheme of mislogic. He saw in it a mark of compassion, and of compassion for what reason? Plainly, Jean was interested in some one else, perhaps engaged. In ten minutes, to his own lugubrious satisfaction, he had convinced himself it was no other than Jim Hunter. But a short, inquisitive talk with Joe Hungerford, who magnanimously appeared stupidly unconscious of the real motives, reassured him on this point. So, after the hot tempest of jealousy, he began to feel a little resentment at her new, illogical attitude of defensive formality. Gradually, as he gave no sign of unbending from his own assumption of strict politeness, she began to change, but so gradually that it was not for weeks that he perceived that the old intimate relations had returned. This little interval, however, had brought to him a new understanding. With her he had lost the old impulsiveness. He began to reason and analyze, to think of cause and effect in their relationship. As a consequence the initiative and the authority that had formerly been with her came to him. All at once he perceived, to his utter surprise, what she had felt immediately on his return: that he was the stronger, and that the old, blind, boyish adoration for the girl, who was companion to the stars, had steadied into the responsible and guiding love of a man. This new supremacy brought with it several differences of opinion. When the question of the football captaincy had come up he did not tell her of his decision, afraid of the ambition he knew was strong in her for his career. When he saw her the next night, Bob had already brought the news and the reason. She received him with great distance, and for the first time showed a little cruelty in her complete ignoring of his presence. "You are angry at me," he said, when finally he had succeeded in finding her alone. "Yes, I am," she said point blank. "Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" "I didn't dare," he said frankly. "You wouldn't have approved." "Of course I wouldn't. It was ridiculous. Why shouldn't you be the captain?" "There were reasons," he said seriously. "I should not have had a united team back of me--oh, I know it." "Absurd," she said with some heat. "You should have gone out and made them follow you. Really, it's too absurd, renouncing everything. Here's the Junior Prom; every one says you would have led the class if you'd have stood for it." "Yes, and it's just because a lot of fellows thought they knew my whole game of democracy that I wouldn't stand for it." She grew quite angry. He had never seen her so stirred. "Stuff and nonsense. What do you care for their opinion? You should be captain and chairman of the Prom, but you renounce everything--you seem to delight in it. It's too absurd; it's ridiculous. It's like Don Quixote riding around." He was hurt at this, and his face showed it. "It's something to be able to refuse what others are grabbing for," he said shortly. "But all you seem to care for is the name." The flash that was in his eyes surprised her, and the sudden stern note in his voice that she had never heard before brought her to a quick realization of how she must have wounded him. Her manner changed. She became very gentle, and before he went she said hurriedly: "Forgive me. You were right, and I was very petty." But though he had shown his independence of her ambitions for him, and gained thereby, at heart he had a foolish longing, a senseless dream of winning out on Tap Day--just for the estimation he knew she held of that honor. And, wishing this ardently, he was influenced by it. There were questions about the senior societies that he had not put to himself honestly, as he had in the case of the sophomore. He knew they were way back in his mind, claiming to be met, but, thinking of Jean, he said to himself evasively again and again: "Suppose there are bad features. I've done enough to show my nerve. No one can question that!" With the passing of the winter, and the return to college in the pleasant month of April, the final, all-absorbing Tap Day loomed over them only six weeks away. It was not a particularly agreeable period. The contending ambitions were too keen, too conflicting, for the maintenance of the old spirit of comradeship. The groups again defined themselves, and the "lame ducks," in the hopes of being noticed, assiduously cultivated the society of what are called "the big men." One afternoon in the first week in April, as Dink was returning from the gymnasium, he was suddenly called to from the street. Chris Schley and Troutman, in a two-seated rig, were hallooing: "Hello there, Dink." "Come for a ride." "Jump in--join us." The two had never been of his intimates, belonging to a New York crowd, who were spoken of for Keys. He hesitated, but as he was free he considered: "What's the game?" "We're out for a spin towards the shore. Tommy Bain and Stone were going but had to drop out. Come along. We might get a shore supper, and toddle back by moonlight." "I've got to be here by seven," said Dink doubtfully. "Oh, well, come on; we'll make it just a drive." "Fine." He sprang into the front seat, and they started off in the young, tingling air. Troutman, at the reins, was decidedly unfamiliar with their uses, and, at a fervent plea from Schley, Stover assumed control. Since freshman year the three had been seldom thrown together. He remembered Troutman then as a rather overgrown puppy type, and Schley as a nuisance and a hanger-on. He scanned them now, pleasantly surprised at their transformation. They had come into a clean-cut type, affable, alert, and if there was small mark of character, there was an abundance of good-humor, liveliness, and sociability. "Well, Dink, old chap," said Troutman, as he passed along quieter ways, "the fatal day approaches." "It does." "A lot of seniors are out buying nice brand-new derbies to wear for our benefit." "I'll bet they're scrapping like cats and dogs," said Schley. "They say last year the Bones list wasn't agreed upon until five minutes before five." "The Bones crowd always fight," said Schley, from the point of view of the opposite camp. "I say, Dink, did you ever think of heeling Keys?" "No, I'm not a good enough jollier up for that crowd." "They say this year Keys is going to shut down on the sporting life and swipe some of the Bones type." "Really?" said Stover, in disbelief. "Sure thing; Tommy Bain has switched." "I heard he was packer," said Stover, not particularly depressed. In the college the rumor had always been that the Keys crowd had what was termed a packer in the junior class, who helped them to pledge some of their selections before Tap Day. "Sure he is," said Troutman, with conviction. "Wish he'd stuck to Bones," said Schley. "Yours truly would feel more hopeful." "Why, you fellows are sure," said Stover to be polite. "The deuce we are!" Schley, tiring of the conversation, was amusing himself from the back seat by well-simulated starts of surprise and a sudden snatching off of his hat to different passers-by, exclaiming: "Why, how _do_ you do. I remember meeting you before." He did it well, communicated his good spirits to the pedestrians, who took his banter good-naturedly. All at once his mischievous eye perceived two girls of a rather noticeable type. Instantly he was on his feet, with an exaggerated sweep of his hat, exclaiming: "Ladies, accept my carriage, my prancing horses, my groom and my footman." The girls, bursting into laughter, waved to him. "Yes, it's a lovely day," continued Schley, in imitation of McNab. "Mother's gone to the country, aunty's visiting us now, Uncle John's coming to-morrow--he'll be sober then. Too bad, girls, you're going the other way, and such lovely weather. Won't you take a ride? What? Oh, do now. Here, I say, Dink--whoa there! They're coming." "Rats," said Troutman, glancing uneasily up the street. "Sure they are. Whoa! Hold up. We'll give 'em a little ride, just for a lark. What's the diff?" He was down, hat off, with exaggerated Chesterfield politeness, going to their coming. "Do you mind?" said Troutman to Stover. "Schley's a crazy ass to do this just now." "I wouldn't take them far," said Stover, who did not particularly care. He had no facility for bantering of this sort, but it rather amused him to listen to Schley. He saw that while they were of an obvious type one was insipid, and the other rather pretty, dark with Irish black eyes. "Ladies, I wish to make you acquainted with my friends," said Schley, as he might speak to a duchess. "The ill-favored gent with the vermilion hair is the Reverend Doctor Balmfinder; the one with the padded shoulders is Binks, my trainer. Now what is this little girl's name?" "Muriel," said the blonde, "Muriel Stacey." "Of course, I might have known it. And yours of course is Maude, isn't it?" "My name is Fanny Le Roy," said the brunette with a little pride. "Dear me, what a beautiful name," said Schley. "Now girls, we'll take you for a little ride, but we can't take you very far for our mammas don't know we're out, and you must promise to be very good and get out when we tell you, and not ask for candy! Do we promise?" Schley sat on the rear seat, chatting along, a girl on either side of him, while Troutman, facing about, added his badinage. It was not excruciatingly witty, and yet at times Stover, occupied with the driving, could not help bursting into a laugh at the sheer nonsense. It interested him as a spectator; it was a side of life he knew little of, for, his nature being sentimental, he was a little afraid of such women. "What's our real names?" said Troutman in reply to a demand. "Do you really want to know? We'll send them to you. Of course we've met before. In New York, wasn't it, at the junior cotillion?" "Sure I saw this fellow at the Hari-gori's ball," said Fanny, appealing to her companion. "Sure you did." "If you say so, all right," said Troutman, winking at Schley. "Fanny, you have beautiful eyes. Course you don't know it." "You two are great jolliers, aren't you?" said Fanny, receiving the slap-stick compliment with pleasure. "They think we're easy," said Muriel, with a look at Schley. "I think the fellow that's driving is the best of the lot," said Fanny, with the usual method of attack. "Wow," said Troutman. "Come on back," said Schley, "we don't count." Stover laughed and drove on. The party had now passed the point of interest. He had no desire for a chance meeting that would require explanations, but he volunteered no advice, not caring to appear prudish in the company of such men of the world. They were in the open country, the outskirts of New Haven just left behind. For some time Fanny Le Roy had been silent, pressing her hand against her side, frowning. All at once a cry was wrung from her. The carriage stopped. All turned in alarm to where the girl, her teeth compressed, clutching at her side, was lying back against the seat, writhing in agony. Troutman swore under his breath. "A devil of a mess!" They descended hurriedly and laid the girl on the grass, where her agony continued increasingly. Schley and Troutman were whispering apart. The other girl, hysterically bending over her companion, mopped her face with a useless handkerchief, crying: "She's got a fit; she's got a fit!" "I say it's appendicitis or gripes," said Troutman, coming over to Stover. His face was colorless, and he spoke the words nervously. "The deuce of a fix Chris has got us into!" "Come, we've got to get her back," said Stover, realizing the gravity of the situation. He went abruptly to the girl and spoke with quick authority. "Now stop crying; I want you to get hold of yourself. Here Schley, lend a hand; you and Troutman get her back into the carriage. Do it quickly." "What are you going to do?" said Troutman, under his breath. "Drive her to a doctor, of course." "Couldn't we go and fetch a doctor here?" "No, we couldn't!" With some difficulty they got the suffering girl into the carriage and started back. No one spoke; the banter had given place to a few muttered words that broke the moaning, delirious tones of the stricken girl. "Going to drive into New Haven this way?" said Troutman, for the second time under his breath. "Sure." "Hell!" They came to the city streets, and Stover drove on hastily, seeking from right to left for a doctor. All at once he drew up at the curb, flung the reins to Troutman, and rushed into a house where he had seen a sign displayed--"Dr. Burke." He was back almost immediately with the doctor at his heels. "I say, Dink, look here," said Schley, plucking him aside, as the doctor hurriedly examined the girl. "This is a deuce of a mess." "You bet it is," said Stover, thinking of the sufferer. "I say, if this gets out it'll be a nasty business." "What do you mean?" "If we're seen driving back with--well, with this bunch!" "What do you propose?" said Stover sharply. Troutman joined them. "See here, leave her with the doctor, I'll put up all the money that's necessary, the doctor'll keep a close mouth! Man alive, you can't go back this way!" "Why not?" "Good Lord, it'll queer us,--we'll never get over it." "Think of the papers," said Schley, plucking at his glove. "We can fix it up with the doctor." At this moment Dr. Burke joined them, quiet, business-like, anxious. "She has all the symptoms of a bad attack of appendicitis. There's only one thing to do; get her to the hospital at once. I'll get my hat and join you." "Drive to--drive to the hospital?" said Troutman, with a gasp, "right through the whole city, right in the face of every one?" "Don't be a fool, Dink," said Schley nervously. "We'll fix up Burke; we'll give him a hundred to take her and shut up." Stover, too, saw the danger and the inevitable scandal. He saw, also, that they were no longer men as he had thought. The thin veneer had disappeared--they were boys, terrified, aghast at a crisis beyond their strength. "You're right, it would queer _you_," he said abruptly. "Clear out--both of you." "And you?" "You're going to stay?" said Schley. Neither could face his eyes. "Clear out, I tell you!" When Burke came running down the steps he looked at Stover in surprise. "Hello, where are your friends?" "They had other engagements," said Dink grimly. "All ready." "I've seen your face before," said Dr. Burke, climbing in. "I'm Stover." "Dink Stover of the eleven?" "Yes, Dink Stover of the eleven," said Stover, his face hardening. "Where do I drive?" "Do you want to go quietly?" said Dr. Burke, with a look of sympathetic understanding. From behind the girl, writhing, began to moan: "Oh, Doctor--Doctor--I can't stand it--I can't stand it." "What's the quickest way?" said Stover. "Chapel Street," said the doctor. Stover turned the horses' heads into the thoroughfare, looking straight ahead, aware soon of the men who saw him in the full light of the day, driving through the streets of New Haven in such inexplicable company. And suddenly at the first turn he came face to face with another carriage in which were Jean Story and her mother. CHAPTER XXVI When Stover returned to his rooms, it was long after supper. "Where the deuce have you been?" said Hungerford, looking up from his books. "Went for a drive, got home late," said Stover shortly. He filled the companionable pipe, and sank into the low arm-chair, which Regan had broken for comfort. Something in his abrupt procedure caused Bob Story to look over at Regan with an inquiring raise of his eyebrows. "Got this psychology yet?" said Hungerford, to try him out. "No," said Stover. "Going to get it?" "No." "The thinghood of a thing is its indefinable somewhatness," said Hungerford, with another slashing attack on the common enemy, to divert Stover's attention. "What in the name of peanuts does that stuff mean?" Dink, refusing to be drawn into conversation, sat enveloped in smoke clouds, his eyes on the clock. "Hello, I forgot," said Story presently. "I say, Dink, Troutman and Schley were around here hallooing for you." "They were, eh?" "About an hour ago. Wanted to see you particularly. Said they'd be around again." "I see." At this moment from below came a bellow: "Oh, Dink Stover--hello above there!" "That's Troutman now," said Joe Hungerford. Stover went to the window, flinging it up. "Well, who's there?" "Troutman and Chris Schley. I say, Dink, we've got to see you. Come on down." "Thanks, I haven't the slightest desire to see you now or at any other time," said Stover, who closed the window and resumed his seat, eyeing the clock. His three friends exchanged troubled glances, and Regan began to whistle to himself, but no questions were asked. At nine o'clock Stover rose and took his hat. "I'm going out. I may be back late," he said, and went down the stairs. "What the devil?" said Hungerford, closing his book. "He's in some scrape," said Regan ruthfully. "Oh, Lord, and just at this time, too," said Story. Stover went rapidly towards the hospital. The girl had been operated on immediately, and the situation was of the utmost seriousness. He had been told to come back at nine. When he arrived he found Muriel Stacey already in the waiting-room, her eyes heavy with frightened weeping. He looked at her curiously. All suggestion of the provoking impertinence and the surface allurement was gone. Under his eyes was nothing but an ignorant boor, stupid and hysterical before the awful fact of death. "What's the news?" he asked. "Oh, Mr. Stover, I don't know. I can't get anything out of them," the woman said wildly. "Oh, do you think she's going to die?" "Of course not," he said gruffly. "See here, where's her family?" "I don't know." "Don't they live here?" "They're in Ohio somewhere, I think. I don't know. Ask the doctor, won't you, Mr. Stover? He'll tell you something." He left her, and, making inquiries, was met by a young intern, immaculate and alert, who was quite communicative to Dink Stover of the Yale eleven. "She's had a bad case of it; appendix had already burst. You got her here just in time." "What's the outlook?" "Can't tell. She came out of the anæsthetic all right." He went into a technical discussion of the dangers of blood poisoning, concluding: "Still, I should say her chances were good. It depends a good deal on the resistance. However, I think your friend's family ought to be notified." Stover did not notice the "your friend," nor the look which the doctor gave him. "She's here alone as far as I can find out," he said. "Poor little devil. I'll call round about midnight." "No need," said the doctor briskly, "nothing'll develop before to-morrow." Stover sent the waiting girl home somewhat tranquilized, and, finding a florist's shop open, left an order to be sent in to the patient the first thing in the morning. Then, thoroughly exhausted by his sudden contact with all the nervous fates of the hospital, he walked home and heavily to bed. The next morning as he went to his eating-joint with Regan and Hungerford, the newsboy, who had his papers ready, gave them to him with a hesitating look. All at once Joe Hungerford swore mightily. "Now what's wrong, Joe?" said Regan in surprise. "Nothing," said Hungerford hastily, but almost immediately he stopped, and said in a jerky, worried way: "Say, here's the devil to pay, Dink. I suppose you ought to know about it. Damn the papers." With his finger he indicated a space on the front page of the New York newspaper he was reading. Stover took it, reading it seriously. It was only a paragraph, but it rose from the page as though it were stamped in scarlet. DINK STOVER'S LARK ENDS SERIOUSLY. Below followed in suggestive detail an account of the drive with friends "not exactly in recognized New Haven society," and the sudden seizure of Miss Fanny Le Roy, with an account of his drive back to the hospital. "That's pretty bad," he said, frowning. "What do the others say?" One paper had it that his presence of mind and prompt action had saved the girl's life. The third one hinted that the party had been rather gay, and said in a short sentence: "_It is said other students were with young Stover, who prefer not to incur any unnecessary notoriety._" "It looks ugly," said Stover grimly. "Who was with you?" said Hungerford anxiously. "I prefer not to tell." "Troutman and Schley, of course," said Regan suddenly, and, starting out of his usual imperturbability, he began to revile them. "But, Dink, old man," said Hungerford, drawing his arm through his, "how the deuce did you ever get into it?" "Well, Joe, what's the use of explanations?" said Stover gloomily. "Every one'll believe what they want to. It's a thoroughly nasty mess. It's my luck, that's all." "Is that all you can say?" said Hungerford anxiously. "All just now. I don't feel particularly affable, Joe." The walk from his eating-joint to the chapel was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done. Every one was reading the news, commenting on it, as he passed along, red, proud, and angry. He felt the fire of amazed glances, the lower classmen looking up at the big man of the junior class in disgrace, his own friends puzzled and uncomprehending. At the fences there was an excited buzz, which dropped perceptibly as he passed. Regan was at one side, Hungerford loyally on the other. At the junior fence Bob Story, who had just got the report, came out hurriedly to him. "I say, Dink, it--it isn't true?" he said. "Something's wrong--must be!" "Not very far wrong," said Stover. He saw the incredulity in Bob's face, and it hurt him more than all the rest. "Even Bob thinks I'm that sort, that I've been doing things on the sly I wouldn't stand for in public. And if he thinks it, what'll others think?" "Shut up, Bob," he heard Regan say. "It may look a nasty mess, and Dink may not tell the real story, but one thing I know, he didn't scuttle off like a scut, but faced the music, and that's all I want to know." Stover laughed, a short, nervous, utterly illogical laugh, defiant and stubborn. He would never tell what had happened--let those who wanted to misjudge him. Several men in his class--he remembered them ever after--came up and patted him on the back, one or two avoided him. Then he had to go by the senior fence into chapel with every eye upon him, watching how he bore the scandal. He knew he was red and uncomfortable, that on his face was something like a sneer. He knew that what every one was saying under his voice was that it was hard luck, damned hard luck, that it was a rotten scandal, and that Stover's chances for Skull and Bones were knocked higher than a kite. Then something happened that almost upset him. In the press about the chapel doors he suddenly saw Le Baron's tall figure across the scrambling mass. Their glances met and with a little solemnity Le Baron raised his hat. He understood; they might be enemies to the end of their days, but the hat had been raised as the tribute of a man to a man. Once in his seat he looked about with a little scorn--Troutman and Schley were not there. After first recitation he went directly to the hospital, stubbornly resolved to give no explanations, stubbornly resolved in his own knowledge of his right to affront public opinion in any way he chose. The news he received was reassuring, the girl was out of danger. Muriel Stacey not yet arrived, for which he was physically thankful. He returned to his rooms, traversing the difficult campus with erect head. "Now, boy, see here," said Hungerford, when he had climbed the stairs, "I want this out with you. What did happen, and who ran away?" "You've got the story in the papers, haven't you?" said Stover wearily. "The New Haven ones have in a couple of columns and my photograph." "Is that all, Dink, you're going to tell me?" "Yes." "Is that all you're going to let Jean Story know?" said Hungerford boldly. Stover winced. "Damn you, Joe!" "Is it?" "She'll have to believe what she wants to about me," said Stover slowly. "It's a test." "No, it isn't a test or a fair test," said Hungerford hotly. "I know everything's all right, boy, but I want to stop anything that might be said. You're hurt now because you know you're misjudged." "Yes, I am hurt." "Sure; a rotten bit of luck has put you in a false position. That's the whole matter." "Joe, I won't tell you," said Stover shortly. "I am mad clear through and through. I'm going to shut up on the whole business. If my friends misjudge me--so much the worse for them. If some one else--" He stopped, flung his hat on the couch, and sat down at the desk. "What's the lesson?" But at this moment Regan and Story came in, bolting the door. "Well, we've got the truth," said Story. He came over and laid his hand on Dink's shoulder. "What do you mean?" "Tom and I have had it out with Schley and Troutman. They've told the whole thing, the miserable little curs." His voice shook. "You're all right, Dink; you always were, but it's a shame--a damn shame!" "Oh, well, they lost their nerve," said Stover heavily. "Why the devil didn't you tell us last night?" "What was the use?" "We could have stopped its getting into the papers, or had it right." "Well--it all comes down to a question of luck sometimes," said Stover. "I was just as responsible as they were--it was only fooling, but there's the chance." "Dink, I've done one thing you may not like." "What's that?" "I've written the whole story to your folks at home--sent it off." "No--I don't mind--I--that was rather white of you, Bob--thank you," said Stover. He drew a long breath, went to the window and controlled himself. "What are Troutman and Schley going to do?" "They're all broken up," said Story. "Don't wonder." "They won't face it out very long," said Regan, without pity. "Well, it was a pretty hard test," said Stover, coming back--and by that alone they knew what it had meant to him. Despite the giving out of the true story, the atmosphere of scandal still clung to the adventure. His friends rallied stanchly to him, but from many quarters Stover felt the attitude of criticism, and that the thing had been too public not to affect the judgment of the senior societies, already none too well disposed toward him. Stover was sensitively proud, and the thought of how the story had traveled with all its implications wounded him keenly. He had done nothing wrong, nothing for which he had to blush. He had simply acted as a human being, as any decent gentleman would have acted, and yet by a malignant turn of fate he was blackguarded to the outer world, and had given his enemies in college a chance to imply that he had two attitudes--in public and in secret. The next morning came a note to him from Jean Story, the first he had ever had from her--just a few lines. "_My Dear Friend_: "You are coming in soon to see me, aren't you? I shall be very much _honored_. "Most cordially, "JEAN STORY." The note brought a great lump to his throat. He understood what she wished him to understand, her loyalty and her pride in his courage. He read it over and over, and placed it in his pocket-book to carry always--but he did not go at once to see her. He did not want sympathy; he shunned the very thought. Before, in his revolt, he had come against a college tradition, now he was face to face with a social prejudice, and it brought an indignant bitterness. He called every day at the hospital; out of sheer bravado at first, furious at the public opinion that would have him go his way and ignore a human being alone and suffering, even when his motives were pure. At the end of a week he was told that the girl wanted to see him. He found her in a cot among a row of other cots. She was not white and drawn as he had expected, but with a certain flush of color in her face, and lazy eyes that eagerly waited his coming. When he had approached, surprised and a little troubled at her prettiness, she looked at him steadily a long moment until he felt almost embarrassed. Then suddenly she took his hand and carried it to her lips, and her eyes overflowed with tears, as an invalid's do with the strength of any emotion. The nurse motioned him away, and he went, troubled at what his boyish eyes had seen, and the touch of her lips on his hand. "By George, she can't be very bad," he thought. "Poor little girl; she's probably never had half a chance. What the devil will become of her?" He knew nothing of her life--he did not want to know. When she left the hospital at last he continued to see her, always saying to himself that there was no harm in it, concealing from himself the pleasure it gave him to know himself adored. She would never tell him where she lived, always giving him a rendezvous on a certain corner, from which they would take a walk for an hour or so. Guessing his desires, she began to change her method of dress, leaving aside the artifices, taking to simple and sober dress, which brought a curious, girlish, counterfeit charm. "I am doing her good," he said to himself. "It means something to her to meet some one who treats her with respect--like a human being--poor little girl." He did not realize how often he met her, leaving his troubled room-mates with a curt excuse, nor how rapidly he consumed the distance to their meeting place. He had talked to her at first seriously of serious things, then gradually, laughing in a boyish way, half tempted, he began to pay her compliments. At first she laughed with a little pleasure, but, as the new attitude continued, he felt her eyes on his face constantly in anxious, wistful scrutiny. One night she did not keep her appointment. He waited troubled, then furious. He left after an hour's lingering, irritable and aroused. The next night as he approached impatiently, half afraid, she was already at the lamp-post. "I waited an hour," he said directly. "I'm sorry; I couldn't come," she answered troubled, but without volunteering an explanation. "Why?" he said with a new irritation. "I couldn't," she said, shaking her head. He felt all at once a new impulse in him--to wound her in some way and make her suffer a little for the disappointment he had had to undergo the night before. "You did it on purpose," he said abruptly. "No, no," she said frowning. "You did." Then suddenly he added: "That's why you stayed away--to make me jealous." "Never." "Why, then?" "I can't tell you," she said. They walked along in silence. Her resistance in withholding the information suddenly made her desirable. He wondered what he might do with her. As they walked still in silence, he put out his hand, and his fingers closed over hers. She did not draw them away. He gave a deep breath and said: "I would like--" "What?" she said, looking up as his pressure made her face him. He put out his arms and took her in them, and stood a long moment, looking at her lips. "Forgive me--I--" he said, stepping back suddenly. "I--I didn't mean to offend you." "No--you couldn't do that--never," she said quietly. "You--you're so pretty to-night--I couldn't help it," he said. To himself he vowed he would never let himself be tempted again--not that night. "I'm going to take you to your home," he said, when after small conversation they returned. "Sure." He was surprised and delighted at this, but almost immediately to be generous he said: "No, no, I won't." "I don't care." They had reached their corner. "To-morrow." "Yes." "At eight." "Yes." He resisted a great temptation, and offered his hand. She took it suddenly in both of hers and brought it to her lips as she had done in the hospital. "You've been white, awful white to me," she said, and flitted away into the engulfing night. When he left her, her words came back to him, and brought an unrest. He had almost yielded to what he had vowed never to do, he, who only wanted her to feel his respect. Yet the next day seemed endless. He regretted that he had not gone to where she lived, for then he could have found her in the afternoon. A shower passed during the day, leaving the streets moist and luminous with long lances of light and star points on the wet stones. He went breathlessly as he had never gone before, a little troubled, always reasoning with his conscience. "It was only a crazy spell," he said to himself. "I don't know what got into me. I'll be careful, now." When he reached the lamp-post another figure was there, Muriel Stacey, painted and over-dressed, and in her hand was a white letter, that he saw half-way up the block. He stopped short, frowning. "Where's Fanny?" "Here's a note she sent you," said the girl; "she's gone." "Gone?" "This morning." He looked at the envelope; his name was written there in a childish, struggling hand. "All right; thank you," he said suffocating. He left hurriedly, physically uncomfortable in the presence of Muriel Stacey, her friend. At the first lamp-post he stopped, broke the envelope, and read the awkward, painfully written script. "I'm going away, it's best for you and me I know it. Guess I would care too much and I'm not good enough for you. Don't you be angry with me. Good luck. God bless you. "F." He slipped it hurriedly in his pocket, and set off at a wild pace. And suddenly his conscience, his accusing conscience, rose up. He saw where he had been going. It brought him a solemn moment. Then he remembered the girl. He took the letter from his pocket and held it clutched like a hand in his hand. "Good God," he said, "I wonder what'll become of her?" He had found so much good that the tragedy revolted him. So he went through the busy streets with their flare and ceaseless motion, in the wet of the night, watching with solemn, melancholy eyes, other women pass with sidelong glances. All the horror and the hopelessness of a life he could not better thronged over him, and he stood a long while looking down the great bleak ways, through the gates that it is better not to pry ajar. Then in a revulsion of feeling, terrified at what he divined, he left and went, almost in an instinct for protection, hurriedly to the Story home, white and peaceful under the elms. He did not go in, but he stood a little while opposite, looking in through the warm windows at the serenity and the security that seemed to permeate the place. When he returned to his rooms, Joe and Regan were there. He sat down directly and told them the whole story, showing them her letter. "She went away--for my sake," he said. "I know it. Poor little devil. It's a letter I'll always keep." Solemnly, looking at the letter, he resolved to put this with the one, the first from Jean Story, and reverently he felt that the two had the right to be joined. "What's terrible about it," he said, talking out his soul, "is that there's so much good in them. And yet what can you do? They're human, they respond, you can't help pitying them--wanting to be decent, to help--and you can't. It's terrible to think that there are certain doors in life you open and close, that you must turn your back on human lives sometimes, that things can't be changed. Lord, but it's a terrible thing to realize." He stopped, and he heard Regan's voice, moved as he had never heard it, say: "That's my story--only _I_ married." Suddenly, as though realizing for the first time what he had said, he burst out: "Good God, I never meant to tell. See here, you men, that's sacred--you understand." And Dink and Joe, looking on his face, realized all at once why a certain gentler side of life was shut out to him, and why he had never gone to the Storys'. CHAPTER XXVII One result of Stover's sobering experience with Fanny Le Roy was that he met the problem of the senior elections with directness and honesty. What Brockhurst had said of the injurious effect of secrecy and ceremony on the imagination had always been with him. Yet in his desire to stand high in the eyes of Jean Story, to win the honors she prized, he had quibbled over the question. Now the glimpse he had had into the inscrutable verities of human tragedy had all at once lifted him above the importance of local standards, and left him with but one desire--to be true to himself. The tests that had come to him in his college life had brought with them a maturity of view beyond that of his fellows. Now that he seriously debated the question, he said to himself that he saw great evils in the system: that on the average intelligence this thraldom to formula and awe at the assumption of mystery had undeniably a narrowing effect, unworthy of a great university dedicated to liberty of thought and action. He saw that while certain individuals, such as Hungerford and Regan, laughed at the bugbear of secrecy, and went their way unconcerned, a great number, more impressionable, had been ruled from the beginning by fear alone. With the aims and purposes of Skull and Bones he was in thorough sympathy--their independence of judgment, their seeking out of men who had to contend with poverty, their desire to reward ambition and industry and character--but the more he freely acknowledged their influence for democracy and simplicity at Yale, the more he revolted at the unnecessary fetish of it all. "They should command respect and not fear. By George, that's where I stand. All this rigmarole is ridiculous, and it's ridiculous that it ever affected me; it is of the middle ages--outgrown." Then a problem placed itself before him. Admitting that he had even the ghost of a chance of being tapped, ought he to go into a senior society feeling as he did about so many of its observances, secretly resolved on their elimination? Finally, a week before Tap Day, he decided to go to Judge Story and frankly state his case, letting him know that he preferred thus to give notice of his beliefs. When he arrived at the Story home the Judge was upstairs in his study. Jean, alone in the parlor, looked up in surprise at his expressed intention to see her father. Since her letter they had never been alone. Stover had avoided it with his shrinking from sympathy, and, perhaps guessing his temperament, she had made no attempt to go beyond the safe boundaries of formal intercourse. "Yes, indeed, Dad's upstairs," she said. Then she added a little anxiously: "You look serious--is it a very serious matter?" He hesitated, knowing instinctively that she would oppose him. "It's something that's been on my mind for a long time," he said evasively; and he added with a smile, "It's what you call my Quixotic fit." "It's about Skull and Bones," she said instantly. "Yes, it is." "What are you going to say?" "I'm going to tell him just where I stand--just what I've come to believe about the whole business." "And what's that?" "That Skull and Bones, which does a great good here--I believe it--also does a great deal of harm; all of which is unnecessary and a weakness in its system. In a word, I've come to the point where I believe secrecy is un-American, undemocratic and stultifying; and, as I say, totally unnecessary. I should always be against it." "But aren't you exaggerating the importance of it all?" she said hastily. "No, I'm not," he said. "I used to silence myself with that, but I see the thing working out too plainly." "But why speak about it?" "Because I don't think it's honest not to. Of course," he added immediately, "I have about one chance in a thousand--perhaps that's why I'm so all-fired direct about it." "I wish you wouldn't," she said, rising and coming towards him. "It might offend them terribly; you never know." He shook his head, though her eagerness gave him a sudden happiness. "No, I've thought it out a long while, and I've decided. It all goes back to that sophomore society scrap. I made up my mind then I wasn't going to compromise, and I'm not now." "But I want to see you go Bones," she said illogically, in a rush. "After all you've gone through, you must go Bones!" He did not answer this. "Oh, it's so unnecessary," she said. "No one but you would think of it!" "Don't be angry with me," he said, a little troubled. "I am--it's absurd!" she said, turning away with a flash of temper. "I'm sorry," he said, and went up the stairs. When he returned, after an interview which, needless to say, had somewhat surprised the Judge, he found a very different Jean Story. She was waiting for him quiet and subdued, without a trace of her late irritation. "Did you tell him?" she said gently. "Yes." "What did he say?" "I didn't ask for an answer. I told him how I felt, and that I would rather my opinions should be known. That's all." "Are you going?" she said, as he made a movement. "I didn't know--" he said, hesitating and looking at her. "I am not angry," she said a little wistfully. "You were quite right. I'm glad you did it. You are much bigger than I could be--I like that." "You were the first to wake me up," he said happily, sitting down. "Yes, but you have gone so far ahead. You do things without compromise, and that sometimes frightens me." She stopped a moment, and said, looking at him steadily: "You have kept away a long while. Now you see you are caught. You can't avoid being alone with me." "I don't want to," he said abruptly. "You are so proud, Dink," she said softly, using his nickname for the first time. "I have never seen any one so proud. Everything you do I think comes from that. But it must make you suffer terribly." "Yes, it does." They were in the front parlor, dimly lit, sitting on the window-seat, hearing from time to time the passing chug of horses' feet. "I knew how it must have hurt you--all this publicity," she said slowly. "Why didn't you come when I wrote you? Were you too proud?" "Yes, I suppose so--and then it didn't seem fair to you--after all the talk." "I was proud of you," she said, raising her head a little. She put out her hand again to his, leaving it in his for a long time, while they sat in silence. The touch that once had so disturbed him brought now only a gentle serenity. He thought of the other woman, and what might have been, with almost a hatred, the hatred of man towards whatever he wrongs. "You are right about me," he said slowly. "Most people think I don't care what happens, that I'm sort of a thick-skinned rhinoceros. How did you know?" "I knew." She withdrew her hand slowly, without resistance on his part; only when he held it no longer he felt alone, abandoned to the blackness of the street outside. "I've kept my promise to you, Jean," he said a little unsteadily, "but don't make it too hard." She rose and he followed. Together they stood in the shadows of the embrasure, half seeing each other. Only he knew that her large eyes were looking out at him with the look of the woman that he had first called forth when he had wounded the pride of the girl. "I am glad you didn't listen to me just now," she said slowly. "When?" "When you went upstairs to Dad. You will never weaken, I know." She came a little towards him, and understanding, he took her gently, wonderingly, in his arms. "It's going to be very hard for you," she said, "Tap Day--to stand there and know that you may be misjudged. I should be very proud to announce our engagement, then--that same day." Then he knew that he held in his arms one who had never given so much as her hand lightly, who came to him in unflinching loyalty, whose only interest would be his interest, who would know no other life but his life, whose joy would be the struggle that was his struggle. Tap Day arrived at last, cloudy and misty. He had slept badly in fits and starts, nor had the others fared better, with the exception of Regan, who had rumbled peacefully through the night--but then Regan was one whom others sought. The morning was interminable, a horror. They did not even joke about the approaching ordeal. No one was so sure of election but that the possible rejection of some chum cast its gloom over the day. Dink ran over a moment after lunch with Bob for a last word with Jean. She was going with her father and mother to see the tapping from a window in Durfee. "I shall only see you," she said to him, with her hands in his, and her loyal eyes shining. "I shall be so proud of the way you take it." "So you think I won't be tapped," he said slowly. "It means so little now," she said. "That can't add a feather's weight to what you are." They went back to their rooms, joining Hungerford and Regan, who were whiling away the time playing piquet. "Here," said Tom in relief when they entered, "one of you fellows keep Joe entertained, the darn fool has suddenly made up his mind he's going to be passed over." Regan, relinquishing his place, went back to his book. "Why, Joe, you fluffy ass," said Story affectionately, "you're the surest of the lot. Shut up--cheer us up instead." "Look at that mound of jelly," said Hungerford peevishly, pointing to Regan. "Has he any nerves?" "What's the use of fidgeting?" said Regan. An hour later Hungerford stretched his arm nervously, rose and consulted the clock. "Four-fifteen; let's hike over in about twenty minutes." "All right." "Say, I don't mind saying that I feel as though I were going to be taken out, stuck full of holes, sawed up, drawn and quartered and boiled alive. I feel like jumping on an express and running away." Stover, remembering Joe's keen suffering at the spectacle back in freshman year, said gravely: "You're sure, Joe. You'll go among the first. Come back with smelling salts for me. I've got to stand through the whole thing and grin like a Cheshire cat--that's _de rigueur_. Do you remember how bully Dudley was when he missed out? Funny--then I thought I had a cinch." "If it was left to our class, you would, Dink," said Bob. "Thanks." Stover smiled a little at this unconscious avowal of his own estimate, rose, picked out his favorite pipe, and said: "I don't care so much--there's a reason. Well, let's get into the mess." The four went together, over toward the junior fence, already swarming. "Ten minutes of five," said Hungerford, looking at the clock that each had seen. "Yes." Some one stopped Stover to wish him good luck. He looked down on a diminutive figure in large spectacles, trying to recall, who was saying to him: "I--I wanted to wish you the best." "Oh, it's Wookey," said Stover suddenly. He shook hands, rather troubled. "Well, boy, there's not much chance for me." "Oh, I hope so." "Thanks just the same." "Hello, Dink, old fellow." "Put her there." "You know what we all want?" He was in another group, patted on the back, his arm squeezed, listening to the welcome loyalty of those who knew him. "Lord, if they'd only have sense enough." He smiled and made his way towards his three friends, exchanging salutations. "Luck, Dink." "Same to you, Tommy Bain." "Here's wishing." "Back to you, Dopey." "You've got my vote." "Thanks." He joined his room-mates under the tree, looking over the heads to the windows of Durfee where he saw Jean Story with her father and mother. Presently, seeking everywhere, she saw him. Their eyes met, he lifted his cap, she nodded slightly. From that moment he knew she would see no one else. "Let's keep together," said Regan. "Lock arms." The four stood close together, arms gripped, resisting the press that crushed them together, speaking no more, hearing about them the curious babble of the underclassmen. "That's Regan." "Story'll go first." "Stand here." "This is the spot." "Lord, they look solemn enough." "Almost time." "Get your watch out." "Fifteen seconds more." "Five, four, three, two--" "_Boom!_" Above their heads the chapel bell broke over them with its five decisive strokes, swallowed up in the roar of the college. "_Yea!_" "Here he comes!" "First man for Bones!" "Reynolds!" From where he stood Stover could see nothing. Only the travelling roar of the crowd told of the coming seniors. Then there was a stir in the crowd near him, and Reynolds, in black derby, came directly for them; pushed them aside, and suddenly slapped some one behind. A roar went up again. "Who was it?" said Story quickly. "Hunter, Jim Hunter." The next moment Hunter, white as a sheet, bumped at his side and passed, followed by Reynolds; down the convulsive lane the crowd opened to him. Roar followed roar, and reports came thick. "Stone's gone Keys." "Three Wolf's-Head men in the crowd." "McNab gets Keys." "Hooray!" "Dopey's tapped!" "Bully." "Wiggins fourth man for Bones." Still no one came their way. Then all at once a Bones man, wandering in the crowd, came up behind Bob Story, caught him by the shoulders, swung him around to make sure, and gave him the slap. Regan's, Hungerford's, and Stover's voices rose above the uproar: "Bully, Bob!" "Good work!" "Hooray for you!" Almost immediately Regan received the eighth tap for Bones, and went for his room amidst the thundering cheers of a popular choice. "Well, here we are, Dink," said Hungerford. "You're next." About them the curious spectators pressed, staring up into their faces for any sign of emotion, struggling to reach them, with the dramatic instinct of the crowd. Four more elections were given out by Bones--only three places remained. "That settles me," said Stover between his teeth. "If they wanted me I'd gone among the first. Joe's going to get last place--bully for him. He's the best fellow in the class." He folded his arms and smiled with the consciousness of a decision accepted. He saw Hungerford's face, and the agony of suspense to his sensitive nerves. "Cheer up, Joe, it's last place for you." Then another shout. "Bones or Keys?" he asked of those around him. "Bones." "Charley Stacey." "Thirteenth man." "I was sure of it," he said calmly to himself. Then he glanced up at the window. Her eyes had never left him. He straightened up with a new defiance. "Lord, I'd like to have gotten it, just for Jean. Well, I knocked against too many heads. I don't wonder." Suddenly Hungerford caught his hand underneath the crowd, pressing it unseen. "Last man for Bones now, Dink," he said, looking in his eyes. "I hope to God it's you." "Why, you old chump," said Stover laughing, so all heard him. "Bless your heart, I don't mind. Here's to you." Above the broken, fitful cheers, suddenly came a last swelling roar. "Bones." "Last man." The crowd, as though divining the election, divided a path towards where the two friends waited, Hungerford staring blankly, Stover, arms still folded, waiting steadily with a smile of acceptation on his lips. It was Le Baron. He came like a black tornado, rushing over the ground straight toward the tree. Once some one stumbled into his path, and he caught him and flung him aside. Straight to the two he came, never deviating, straight past Dink Stover, and suddenly switching around almost knocked him to the ground with the crash of his blow. "Go to your room!" It was a shout of electrifying drama, the voice of his society speaking to the college. Some one caught Stover. He straightened up, trying to collect his wits, utterly unprepared for the shock. About him pandemonium broke loose. Still dazed, he felt Hungerford leap at him, crying in his ears: "God bless you, old man. It's great, great--they rose to it. It's the finest ever!" He began to move mechanically towards his room, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He started towards the library, and some one swung him around. He heard them cheering, then he saw hundreds of faces, wild-eyed, rushing past him; he stumbled and suddenly his eyes were blurred with tears, and he knew how much he cared, after the long months of rebellion, to be no longer an outsider, but back among his own with the stamp of approval on his record. The last thing he remembered through his swimming vision was Joe Hungerford, hatless and swinging his arms as though he had gone crazy, leading a cheer, and the cheer was for Bones. That night, even before he went to the Storys', Stover went out arm in arm with Hungerford, across the quiet campus, so removed from the fray of the afternoon. "Joe, it breaks me all up," he said at last. "You and I waiting there--" "Don't speak of it, old fellow," said Hungerford. "Now let me talk. I did want to make it, but, by George, I know now it's better I didn't. I've had everything I wanted in this world; this is the first I couldn't get. It's better for me; I know it already." "You were clean grit, Joe, cheering for Bones." "By George, I meant it. It meant something to feel they could rise up and know a man, and you've hit pretty close to them, old boy." "Yes, I have, but I've believed it." "It shows the stuff that's here," said Hungerford, "when you once can get to it. Now I take off my hat to them. I only hope you can make your influence felt." "I'm going to try," said Stover solemnly. "The thing is so big a thing that it ought not to be hampered by bug-a-boo methods." Brockhurst joined them. "Well, the smoke's rolled away," said Brockhurst, who likewise had missed out. "It's over--all over. Now we'll settle down to peace and quiet--relax." "The best time's coming," said Hungerford. "We'll live as we please, and really enjoy life. It's the real time, every one says so." "Yes," said Brockhurst, rebel to the last, "but why couldn't it come before, why couldn't it be so the whole four years?" "Well, now, old croaker," said Hungerford with a little heat, "own up the old college comes up to the scratch. We've surrendered the sophomore society system, and the seniors showed to-day that they could recognize honest criticism. That's pretty fine, I say." "You're pretty fine, Joe," said Brockhurst to their surprise. "Well, it's good enough as it is. It takes an awful lot to stir it, but it's the most sensitive of the American colleges, and it will respond. It wants to do the right thing. Some day it'll see it. I'm a crank, of course." He stopped, and Stover felt in his voice a little note of bitterness. "The trouble with me is just that. I'm impractical; have strange ideas. I'm not satisfied with Yale as a magnificent factory on democratic business lines; I dream of something else, something visionary, a great institution not of boys, clean, lovable and honest, but of men of brains, of courage, of leadership, a great center of thought, to stir the country and bring it back to the understanding of what man creates with his imagination, and dares with his will. It's visionary--it will come." 
38694	----	PETER BINNEY A NOVEL BY ARCHIBALD MARSHALL NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1921 PUBLISHED 1921 IN U. S. A. BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. First Printing, September, 1921 Second Printing, October, 1921 Third Printing, December, 1921 Fourth Printing, January, 1922 PRINTED IN THE USA BY The Quinn & Boden Company BOOK MANUFACTURERS RAHWAY NEW JERSEY TO E. F. BENSON INTRODUCTION It is over twenty years since "Peter Binney" was first published in England, and I should be unwilling to offer it to my American readers at this time of day without some plea for leniency towards a young man's book, which contains perhaps more than the average number of crudities to be found in such beginnings. A few of the crudities I have been able to soften, but if you begin tampering with early work in the light of maturer knowledge, you are very apt to rub off the bloom that attaches to it just because it is early work, written with spirit and freshness, though with little skill. So I have left "Peter Binney" much as it was, with most of its imperfections on its head, and I trust some compensating merits. One merit I know it to possess. It presents a picture of the lighter side of undergraduate life as it was in Oxford and Cambridge, and as it still exists, in spite of superficial changes; and that is something that can only be done by a young man, whose memories are still fresh, and to whom that life is still important enough to make it the basis of a story. New York, July, 1921 CONTENTS CHAPTER I Mr. Binney Makes Up His Mind II Mr. Binney Interviews One Tutor, and Engages Another III Lucius Wins a Year's Respite IV No Help To Be Gained from Mrs. Higginbotham V Mr. Binney Arrives in Cambridge VI Lord Blathgowrie Has Something to Say VII Mr. Binney Speaks at the Union And Makes a Distinguished Acquaintance VIII The Newnham Girl IX Mr. Binney Gives a Dinner and Receives a Rebuff X "The New Court Chronicle" XI "Put Him in the Fountain" XII Lucius Makes One Discovery and Mrs. Toller Another XIII Mr. Binney Gets into Trouble XIV Nemesis XV Lucius Finds a Backwater XVI Third Trinity Makes a Bump XVII Mr. Binney Drinks the Health of a "Blue" CHAPTER I MR. BINNEY MAKES UP HIS MIND "I'll do it to-day," said Peter Binney. He had been sitting deep in thought ever since he had climbed on to the omnibus outside his place of business in the Whitechapel Road. As the vehicle pursued its ponderous way through the crowded streets of the City, stopping now and again to add to its load of homeward-bound business men, Mr. Binney sat in his seat, silent and preoccupied, his eyes on the ground and a thoughtful frown on his face. As it left the Post Office, full inside and out, and bowled smartly along the broad asphalted road towards the Viaduct, his face cleared, the light of determination shone in his eye, and looking up, he said aloud:-- "I'll do it to-day." His fellow passengers gazed at him in surprise, and a young lady who sat by his side, heavily fringed and feathered, and laden with a huge cardboard box, laughed a coarse laugh, and said: "That's right, guv'nor, don't you put it off no longer." Mr. Binney had not intended to express his determination aloud, and the notice his remark had drawn annoyed him. As the young lady was apparently turning over in her mind further witticisms, he decided to leave the omnibus and walk the rest of the way to his house in Russell Square. He made his way slowly down the unsteady stairs, and the young lady said: "A good cup o' beef tea's what _you_ want, George, and don't forgit the 'ot-water bottle," and as the omnibus pursued its way, leaving him walking briskly along the pavement, she leant over the side and called out, "Git Mariar to put a mustard plaster on yer chest," which made the people on the omnibus laugh, although Mr. Binney could see no humour in the remark. He had come, however, to such a momentous decision during the last half-hour that by the time he had gone a dozen steps he had ceased to feel any irritation at the young lady's pleasantries, and walked smartly along, his brain all on fire with his mighty purpose. Peter Binney was a small man of about forty-five years of age. His hair was gingery, and his whiskers decidedly red. He looked rather like a little bantam-cock as he strutted along, and this was a curious coincidence, for he had made his fortune by selling poultry food. Every one has heard of Binney's Food for Poultry. Indeed it would be quite impossible for anybody who is able to read to be unaware of its existence, for its fame is blazoned on every hoarding in the United Kingdom. It was Peter Binney who first conceived the idea of advancing the cause of art and advertising his wares at the same time. In the early days, when the future world-famed business was just emerging from its chrysalis state of a little cornchandler's shop in the neighbourhood of the East India Docks, he was content to publish a picture of a simpering young woman in a quilted satin petticoat and dancing shoes, feeding a number of plethoric hens in a very clean farmyard. But when the shop became a factory and Mr. Binney's keen business capacity began to tell, he issued his celebrated series of "Raphael's Cartoons for the Home," across the sky of each of which ran the inscription, "Binney's Food for Poultry." After a little time he published an edition of the "Plays of Shakespeare," in which all the passages that Mr. Bowdler would have omitted were ingeniously converted by Mr. Binney into eulogies on his Food for Poultry. Poultry and taste were alike fed by Mr. Binney, and his business flourished accordingly. At the age of forty-five he found himself a rich man, with a house in Russell Square, a family tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery (tenanted at present only by his wife), and a son who was being educated at Eton. But to return to the present time and Mr. Binney's purpose. When he had let himself into the house in Russell Square, he rang the bell and inquired of the parlour-maid who answered it if Mr. Lucius was at home. Hearing that he was not, Mr. Binney seemed somewhat relieved, and went straight up into his dressing-room, where he put on the coat and trousers generally reserved for Sunday wear, and exchanged his dark tie for a brilliant red one. Then he looked at his boots, and hesitated. They were neat enough, but they had lost the sober brilliance of the morning. There was a row of similar boots freshly blacked under the dressing-table, but even these must have wanted something in Mr. Binney's eyes, for after looking at them thoughtfully he shook his head, and opening the door stole quietly out and upstairs into a room above his own. It was rather an untidy room and evidently occupied by a young man of athletic tastes, to judge by the dumb-bells and Indian clubs, cricket-bats, guncases and fishing-rods that littered the corners. There was a row of boots and shoes under the dressing-table here too, and among them a pair of shining patent leathers. Mr. Binney made his way across the room on tiptoe, and seizing the boots, trees and all, retreated with them hurriedly to his own room, where he sat down and put them on. They were a good deal too big, but an extra pair of winter socks set that right, and when Mr. Binney had buttoned them he stood up on a chair and surveyed himself in the glass with considerable satisfaction. "I must get a pair like that," he said. Then he went downstairs, and putting on his best hat and gloves, and taking his best umbrella out of the stand, he left the house. Turning to the left, Mr. Binney made his way towards Woburn Square. If he had looked the other way as he came out of his house he would have seen his son Lucius coming towards him not fifty yards off. Lucius was very unlike his father. He was a good-looking boy of about eighteen, tall and slim, with blue eyes and a pleasant smiling mouth fringed with a few fair downy hairs, of which he always spoke collectively. He was very popular among his school-fellows, and was commonly known by the name of "Lucy." "Halloa!" he said to himself as he caught sight of his father coming down the steps of the parental mansion. "Where's the governor off to, I wonder! Looks jolly smart, too. S'pose he's going to call on that old woman. Jove! he's got a pair of shiny boots on. I say, governor, you're going it! They're a bit too big for you though, my boy. Shall I give him a hail? Think I won't. He might want me to go and call on the old tabby with him." So Lucius let himself into the house and went upstairs. As he passed his father's room, the door of which was open, he looked in and saw that the floor was littered with the component parts of a pair of boot-trees. "Didn't know the governor went in for those luxuries," he said to himself. Then a sudden thought struck him; he went in and took up one of the pieces. "Well, I'm hanged!" he said in a tone of deep annoyance. "They _are_ mine. And he's actually got on my boots. There's a piece of nerve for you! There'll be a row when you get home, young man. I really can't stand that, you know." And Lucius went out of his father's room very much annoyed. We left Mr. Binney making his way towards Woburn Square. He walked on until he came to a house with a brightly-painted blue door, where he rang the bell and asked if Mrs. Higginbotham was at home. The maid treated him with the subdued cordiality of an old acquaintance and led him straight upstairs to Mrs. Higginbotham's drawing-room, where her mistress was discovered warming her feet at a bright fire, and reading the _Christian World_. She was a stout, middle-aged lady, and wore a dress of rich black silk. The room wore an air of warm, solid comfort. Its decorations would not have satisfied the late Mr. William Morris, it is true, but as they completely satisfied Mrs. Higginbotham, that was not a matter of great importance. "Dear me, Mr. Binney, this is very kind of you," said Mrs. Higginbotham, rising to greet her visitor. Mr. Binney shook hands with her and took the chair to which she had motioned him. He did not speak, but the compressed upper lip and the thoughtful look with which he regarded Mrs. Higginbotham caused a slight fluttering in that lady's ample bosom. With a woman's instinct she immediately knew as surely as if he had already told her what he had come to say. "He's going to do it to-day," she said to herself, and true to the tactics of her sex she set herself at once to ward off the critical moment as long as possible. She plunged into conversation of the sprightly religious order, for Mrs. Higginbotham was a good woman and could talk by the hour together of preachers and movements and causes, in which conversation Mr. Binney was quite capable of holding his own, for he and Mrs. Higginbotham sat under the same preacher and held the same theological views. There was another point in common between them, and while Mrs. Higginbotham is struggling to maintain a bright and lively conversation, to which Mr. Binney replies only by terse monosyllables, there will be time to explain what this was. Both Mr. Binney and Mrs. Higginbotham had a soul above their surroundings. In the case of Mr. Binney this has already been indicated by the way in which, while conducting his business on the most approved lines of commercial progress, he essayed to import into it something better and nobler than the mere pushing of his wares and the piling up of a fortune. Those cartoons from Raphael had infused a love of art into many humble homes, and not a few minds had been enriched by the perusal of Binney's Shakespeare (a play given away with every sack of his food for poultry), to such an extent that the deterioration of eyesight brought about by the quality of paper and print with which those masterpieces were issued was a very small matter in consideration of the mental enlightenment which had been diffused throughout the country. Mrs. Higginbotham's aspirations were not of so educational a character. Her literary yearnings were satisfied by the weekly appearance of the _Family Herald Supplement_, to which event she looked forward regularly with great pleasure. That excellent periodical never made its appearance in her drawing-room, although sundry works of fiction from the lending library round the corner, dealing with the habits and customs of the aristocracy, did. Mrs. Higginbotham's father had been a draper in a small way of business, and her husband, beginning life in her father's shop, by the time he died had become a draper in a very large way. Wealth and luxury had been Mrs. Higginbotham's lot for many years, but what she yearned for was the larger, freer life led by those happy beings of whom she read in her chosen novels. To be able to look upon a lord without blinking; to be able to look upon lords every day of your life; to have it said in a newspaper, "I saw Mrs. 'Fluffy' Higginbotham" (Fluffy had been the term of endearment enjoyed by the late Mr. Higginbotham) "sitting under the Achilles Statue in a plum-coloured gown with lettuce-green _revers_;" to have cards of invitation pouring in, every other one illuminated by a title; to regard the London season as something more than the time of year when the days were getting longer and it would soon be time to think about going to the seaside--comfortable as Mrs. Higginbotham's circumstances were, her life had been singularly devoid of these delights. And this was not all. Mrs. Higginbotham was romantic. She revelled in a love-story. She adored the Apollo-like heroes of her favourite fiction with an ungrudging wealth of admiration, and she envied hardly less the blushing heroines on whom they lavished the stores of their magnificent affections. Mrs. Higginbotham felt that it ought to be the lot of every girl to be a blushing heroine at one time of her life. She felt that she herself had been unjustly deprived of that privilege, although she had been an attractive girl, and, if she read the expression in Peter Binney's eyes rightly, was attractive still. The late Mr. Higginbotham had been a good husband to her, but his actual proposal had been of the "Here I am--Take me if you like--If you don't there are plenty that will, and only too glad to get the chance" order. She _had_ taken him, but he had never satisfied the romantic cravings of her nature. She, on her part, had been a good wife to him, but so far as she was aware he had never, from first to last, regarded her as a heroine, or if he had he had never shown it. Would Peter Binney do more? Was it too late to hope that a whiff of the fragrant breezes of romance might yet blow upon her? Mrs. Higginbotham scarcely knew. There was a something in the little man that inclined her to think that he would not be averse to dally in the Indian summer of a romantic courtship if she made it quite plain to him that that was what she required; and there was a something, in spite of his diminutive stature and the byegone forty-five years of his successful life, in the fire of his eye and in his erect and proud bearing, that whispered to Mrs. Higginbotham's heart that she might, by guarding the sensation with extreme care, bring herself to regard him as a very good substitute for the youthful adorer who it was almost too much to hope would come forward at this time of day. While these questions passed through her mind, Mrs. Higginbotham went on talking, and Mr. Binney, answering her without knowing in the least what she was talking about, mentally braced himself up for the proposal he was about to make. At last he broke into the middle of one of Mrs. Higginbotham's sentences, and said in a firm and resolute voice, "Mrs. Higginbotham, ma'am." Mrs. Higginbotham saw that the time had come, and gave up the struggle. "Yes, Mr. Binney?" she said in as cool a tone as she could muster. "I am not so young as I was, ma'am," said Mr. Binney. "We are none of us that," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "At least not people at our time of life." "You have no reason to complain, ma'am," said Mr. Binney gallantly. "My heart is young," said Mrs. Higginbotham, greatly pleased at the compliment, "and if I am not very much mistaken, yours is also." "I hope it is," said Mr. Binney, greatly pleased in his turn; "and on that account I have a proposal to make to you, ma'am, which I hope you will consider favourably." "I'm sure I shall do that, whatever it is," said Mrs. Higginbotham comfortably. "I hope so," said Mr. Binney again. "The fact is, ma'am, that I have long regarded you with feelings of interest, which have in the course of time developed into feelings of affection. I can scarcely hope that those feelings are returned, but I should wish to ask, ma'am, if there is any chance in the near or distant future that they might be." "Oh, Mr. Binney!" exclaimed Mrs. Higginbotham with a lively recollection of the heroines of fiction. "This is so sudden." "It is, ma'am," said Mr. Binney. "I am aware of that. This sort of thing _must_ be sudden at some time or another, if it is to result in bus--I mean if anything is to come of it. I don't wish to press you for an answer yet. I merely wish to lay my ideas before you. I might say that I wish to marry again in order to obtain those advantages which--er--which _come_ from marrying again. I might say that I want an agreeable companion to sit at the head of my table, to entertain me with her society in my leisure hours, and to act in the capacity of mother to my only son. I do want that, but that is not all. I have worked hard all my life, ma'am, and am now a comparatively rich man. But I have had very little pleasure in my life. I married my first wife to please _her_. I want to marry my second to please _myself_. And I want above all to impart into the affair some of that--er--_glamour_, which, in my opinion, should envelop all courtship. I therefore come to you, ma'am, an agreeable and charming woman, and ask you, not to accept me as a man of good position able to offer you a comfortable home, which I am aware you have already, but as a man who, although no longer young, is younger than a good many people, and who loves you for yourself alone, and would like to take an opportunity of proving it." Could Mrs. Higginbotham believe her ears? If Peter Binney had asked her to marry him in the way he had suggested, and scouted, she would have accepted him with a sigh for lost illusions now no longer tenable. But it really seemed as if that romance for which the poor lady had so longed was going to be opened up for her, and an ardent swain, in the person of Peter Binney, Manufacturer of Poultry Food, was ready to throw himself at her feet and plead for her favour. Mrs. Higginbotham could scarcely yet grasp the happiness that seemed to be dawning on her horizon. "Do you really love me for myself, Mr. Binney?" she asked with faltering lips. "Say Peter," corrected Mr. Binney. "Peter," said Mrs. Higginbotham submissively, with a delicious thrill. "Yes, I do," said that gentleman. "But I don't want you to accept me in a hurry, you know," he added hastily. "I want you to try me, to prove me, to see what I'm made of." He slapped his little breast with a determined air, and looked round the room as if in search of some object by means of which he might be proved on the spot. Mrs. Higginbotham might have replied that she knew him tolerably well already, having met him with some frequency for the last twenty years. But his attitude caused her such a degree of pleasure that she was by no means prepared to spoil the sensation by reminding him of that fact. At the same time she was a little nervous and flurried. She had all the will in the world to prove him, but she didn't quite know how to set about it. If there had been a crusade handy she might have sent him off to that, but she could think of no nineteenth century substitute on the spur of the moment. Mr. Binney had been a Volunteer in his youth, as he had often told her, but he was one no longer, so she could not set him to watch his accoutrements all night in a church. Besides, Mr. Binney went to chapel, and the minister wouldn't have liked it. She didn't really quite know what he did want, but fortunately Mr. Binney himself came to the rescue and made himself a little clearer. "Now, Mrs. Higginbotham," he began. "By-the-bye, may I call you Martha?" "Yes, do," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "Now, my dear Martha," began Mr. Binney again, "what you have got to do is to tell me what in your opinion the behaviour of an ideal lover should be, and what _I_ have got to do is to endeavour to the best of my ability to act up to your opinion." "Well, Peter," began Mrs. Higginbotham, "I must confess that I have always wished that I had had in my youth a devoted lover who should be something of a hero." "Quite so, quite so," assented Mr. Binney with an energetic nod. "I shall do my best to be that, my very best." "One," continued Mrs. Higginbotham, "whom I could admire for--er--manliness and--er--light-heartedness, and--er--beauty, both of form and feature." "Exactly so," nodded her wooer. "One who would regard me as the most beautiful--er--female in the world; not that I should be that, of course, but I should like him to think so." "Of course, of course," said Mr. Binney. "Quite natural." "And who would try to make little opportunities of meeting me, and being where I was." "Exactly," said Mr. Binney, who had been admitted into Mrs. Higginbotham's house any time these last twenty years whenever he liked to present himself. "Whose heart would beat quicker when he _did_ see me, and who would be quite rewarded for any trouble he might have taken over the matter _by_ seeing me." "I quite see, ma'am, I quite see," said Mr. Binney. "The truth of it is, you want to renew your youth, I take it. Not that it requires much renewing," he added gallantly. "Oh, Peter!" exclaimed Mrs. Higginbotham coyly. "And I want to renew _my_ youth, Martha," continued Mr. Binney with some fervour. "I've worked very hard ever since I was a boy, as you know, and I never had the fun that I should like to have had, or that the young fellows I see about me now have--my son, for instance." "Dear boy," murmured Mrs. Higginbotham. "Dear boy, certainly," acquiesced Mr. Binney, "and _lucky_ boy, too, Martha. Look what I've done for that boy. I've sent him to Eton, where _I_ never had a chance of going, or anywhere like it. Why, Martha, life is one continuous round of pleasure at Eton. And now he is going to Cambridge. _There's_ a place for you! Why, I assure you, you could hardly believe the fun that young fellows have at a place like Cambridge." "Yes, I can. I've read books about it," said Mrs. Higginbotham, "and I had a nephew there once who used to tell me things. Ah, Mr. Binney, if I were only what I used to be twenty years ago, and you were at Cambridge!" "Pooh, Martha," said Mr. Binney. "You weren't half so attractive as you are now, I'll be bound. And as for me, though I _am_ forty-five, I'm as active as ever and could hold up my head with the best of them." "I know you could, Peter," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "Now, Martha, I've got something in my mind," said Mr. Binney. "It's been there for some time, but I haven't liked to mention it to you because I was afraid--well, I didn't know how you might take it. But really, you've taken what I _have_ said in such a way as--as to be extremely gratifying to me, and upon my word I don't believe you'll think my idea so very absurd after all." Mrs. Higginbotham looked at him with deep interest depicted in her face. Mr. Binney squared himself and sat up in his chair. "Lucius is going to Cambridge in October," he said. "Now what do you say to my going with him?" Mrs. Higginbotham's look of interest gradually brightened into one of delighted agreement. "Oh, Peter," she said, "if you only could! Isn't it too late?" "Not a bit," said Mr. Binney. "There's no limit of age. I found that out long ago. I could go up there and be treated in all respects as if I was five-and-twenty years younger than I am. And do you know, Martha," added the little man confidentially, "such is my freshness of mind that I believe in time I should come to believe that I _was_ five-and-twenty years younger." Mrs. Higginbotham looked at him in speechless admiration. "It would be lovely," she said. "What an interest I should take in your doings, Peter!" This speech was as a spark to the tinder of Mr. Binney's inclinations. "If you think about it like that, Martha, I'll do it," he cried delightedly. "And now I must be getting home. I'll have a talk to Lucius about it to-night, and come and tell you what I have decided to-morrow." Mr. Binney took a tender farewell of Mrs. Higginbotham, and left her to spend the evening in roseate dreams of returning youth and a wider horizon than that visible from her windows in Woburn Square. CHAPTER II MR. BINNEY INTERVIEWS ONE TUTOR AND ENGAGES ANOTHER Mr. Binney and his son sat over their wine that evening in the seclusion of the dining-room in Russell Square. Mr. Binney had been somewhat silent during dinner, thinking over the disclosure he was about to make. Somehow, now that it came to the point, he felt a certain diffidence in mentioning it. Lucius also had something to say, but waited until the servants were out of the room. "I say, father," he said, when they were left alone, "I've ordered a new pair of patent leather boots from Peal's, and asked them to send the bill in to you." Mr. Binney, immersed in his thoughts, had forgotten the occurrence of the afternoon, or he would not have rushed with such haste to his own destruction. "Bill into me, Lucius?" he exclaimed angrily. "What do you mean? You've got your own allowance, and a very handsome one it is. I'm not going to pay your bills for you besides. If it comes into me I shall tear it up." "You've got your own boots," retorted Lucius, "and very handsome ones they are. If you take a fancy to mine I don't mind you wearing them a bit, only I haven't got enough for us both, so I thought you wouldn't mind my getting another pair, as I can't do without." "H'm! Ah! yes!" said Mr. Binney, a trifle confused. "No, I don't mind really, my boy, though I don't think there are many fathers who would take it like that." "There aren't many fathers who would take their sons' boots," said Lucius. "By the way, father, talking about allowances, what allowance are you going to make me at Cambridge?" "Ah, Cambridge!" echoed Mr. Binney, as if that ancient seat of learning had just been brought to his notice for the first time. "Yes, we must talk about Cambridge." "I should like to have it settled before I go back to Eton for my last half, if you don't mind," said Lucius. "A lot of my friends are going up, and we shall be sure to be talking over it a good deal. I should like to know what I shall be able to do and what I shan't." "You ought to think yourself very lucky to be going to Cambridge at all," said Mr. Binney with a shake of the head. "I never had the chance of going to Cambridge when I was a young fellow." "Oh, I daresay it's a jolly enough place," said Lucius, "although I shall be sorry to leave Eton. Still, it isn't all fun, you know, father. There's a certain amount of work to be done." "Work! Of course there is," said Mr. Binney. "But _what_ work! Think of being able to carry on your education till you're twenty-two or thereabouts. It's a grand thing, education. I never had any myself, at least not what _you_ would call education, although I flatter myself I know as much as most people." "Oh, yes, father," said Lucius. "Why, bless me, you've edited the text of Shakespeare." "H'm, yes," said Mr. Binney, on whom a certain amount of adverse comment had bred a measure of distrust in this feat. He took a gulp of port. "We've always been friends, my boy, you and I, haven't we?" he continued rather nervously. "Friends, father?" said Lucius. "Why, of course. I should think so." "You might, perhaps, almost say that we are more like brothers than father and son," pursued Mr. Binney. "I don't know that I should go quite so far as that," said Lucius. "But we always get on very well together, don't we?" "Yes, that is what I meant," said Mr. Binney. "Now I've got an idea, which may be a little unusual." ("Not at all," murmured Lucius politely.) "But I hope you'll fall in with it. At least when I say, I hope, it doesn't matter a fig whether you do or not. I'm not going to be dictated to by my son, though he has been to a public school and I haven't. Who sent him there?" "Why, you did, of course, father," said Lucius. "I don't want to dictate to you. What is your idea? That I shall go into the business when I come down from Cambridge?" "That you'll do, of course," said Mr. Binney. "I hope you know on which side your bread's buttered, and who buttered it for you. No, my idea is about myself. I have worked very hard until now, but I haven't had the time for self-improvement that I should have liked. Now, what I propose to do is to take three years holiday off business and go up to Cambridge with you in October. What do you think of that?" What Lucius thought of it might have been accurately gathered from the length of his face. All power of speech seemed to have left him. He could only sit with open mouth staring at his father, and this demeanour instantly set up the comb of that peppery little bantam. "Well, well, what have you got to say? Why don't you speak?" he cried, with some heat. Suddenly Lucius lay back in his chair, and gave vent to a loud, but entirely mirthless, peal of laughter. "That's a good joke, father," he said. "Gad! you _are_ a ripper. Won't the fellows laugh when I tell 'em?" This behaviour seemed to have a very ill effect on the circulation of Mr. Binney's blood, which flew into his head to such an extent that his face got as red as a tomato. "What do you mean, sir?" he cried angrily. "It isn't a joke at all. Why should the fellows laugh, I should like to know? I tell you what it is, sir, you're ashamed of your father, you ungrateful young snob. Where would you have been, I should like to know, if I hadn't made my fortune and sacrificed myself to give you a good education? Sweeping a shop, I dare say, or a clerk on ten shillings a week. That's what you would have been, my fine fellow, and a good deal too good for you, too, you idle young----" "Steady on, father," interposed Lucius, now quite serious again. "I'm not ashamed of you, you know that quite well--there's nothing to be ashamed of--but I didn't think you could mean it, really. You can't mean it, you know, why it's ridic--it's out of the question." "_Why_ is it out of the question, sir?" asked Mr. Binney. "_Why_ is it out of the question?" "Well," said Lucius, "look what a precious pair of fools we shall look." "_You_ may, sir," said Mr. Binney. "I dare say you will. I can't help your looking anything you please. But I flatter myself there's nothing particularly foolish looking about me, is there? _Is_ there, I say?" "Oh, no, nothing at all," Lucius made haste to reply, "but I should think there would be if you went up to Cambridge as an undergraduate--something precious foolish. I suppose you mean to take a house there, though, or something, and enter at some small college where they won't worry you." "I intend to do nothing of the sort, sir," said Mr. Binney. "I shall enter myself at Trinity. It is, I believe, the best college at Cambridge. You chose it yourself. And I have no intention of taking a house. I shall live in the college, and comport myself in the same way as the steady young men with whom I, and you, too, I hope, expect to associate." "Oh, Lord!" groaned Lucius. "Are we to go about together as steady young men? Well, you can't get into Trinity, you know, that's one comfort. The entrance examination is over and you couldn't pass it if it wasn't." "Couldn't pass it, sir! You little know either your father's ability or determination. And it is not over. There is another in October, for which I shall present myself." "You'll have your work cut out for you to get ready for it. I suppose you'll go to school for a term. I should go to Johnson's at Margate if I were you, where you sent me--you see you're just over age for a public school--they'll take you as a parlour-boarder, and I should think you might get the good-conduct prize if you're careful." "That's right, sir," said Peter bitterly. "Pour scorn on your own father, who has given you all the advantages you ever had. Of course, you're a gentleman. You've been to Eton and you're going to Trinity. Yet you grudge me having my little bit of education, though I pay for both." "Oh, blow the education, father. Why don't you stew up for London University, and live comfortably at home?" "Because I choose to 'stew up' for Cambridge University, sir, and let that be an end of the matter. You'll find there will only be one of us there if you're not precious careful, and it won't be you." Poor Lucius went to bed that night with a heavy heart. He had rowed for one year in the Eton eight, and wore with great satisfaction a flannel coat of light blue. He had hitherto looked forward with pleasure to his career at Cambridge, with the hope of wearing another light blue coat of a slightly different cut and shade of colour in the course of it. Now a dark cloud had arisen to obscure the happy azure of his mental horizon. "If he's going to be such a fool as to go up," he said to himself as he undressed, "I'm hanged if _I_ will. I'll go to Oxford instead, although all the chaps I know best are going to the other shop, and I shan't like it half as well." He broached this proposition to his father the next morning at breakfast, hoping all the time that he had given up his intention. But Mr. Binney was more than ever confirmed in it, having spent a happy night in dreams of glorious youthful feats to be laid at the feet of the fair Mrs. Higginbotham; and Lucius's idea was received so badly that he relinquished it at once, and made up his mind ruefully that he should either have to go to Cambridge with his father as his close companion, or not go at all. He went back to Eton the next day with all his pleasure in the coming half spoilt by the dark fate that was hanging over him, his only consolation being the recollection of the difficulty of the Trinity entrance examination, which it had taken him all his time to get through, although his work for the last ten years had led directly up to it. "Of course he can't do the work by October," he said to himself. "He doesn't know a word of Greek and only about three of Latin." And this consolation had to suffice him, for he knew his father well enough to realise that if he had made up his mind to do this thing, and it was in him to do it, do it he would. Moreover, on the day he had left Russell Square for Eton he had seen a letter on the hall-table addressed in his father's handwriting to the tutor on whose side he himself was entered at Trinity, and blushed to think of what it contained. Lucius's tutor, who was the most popular in the college, wrote to say that his own side was full, but that his colleague, Mr. Rimington, still had a few vacancies. So Peter wrote to Mr. Rimington and received a reply requesting him to go up to Cambridge for a personal interview. Peter travelled to Cambridge the same evening and put up at the "Bull." After dinner he went out to make his first acquaintance with a University town. It was a lovely April evening. The deep violet of the twilight sky revealed the irregular roofs and towers of the old buildings. There was a half foreign air about the clean paved streets with the open rivulets running along the pavements. Peter walked up King's Parade and viewed with awe the pile of the famous chapel of King's, past the University Library and the Senate House, and the modern pretentious façade of Caius College, conceived and executed in the best Insurance office style of architecture, and into the narrow, noisy little Trinity Street. The streets were full of men in caps and gowns, and a few still in flannels and straw hats. Mr. Binney wondered how these latter could walk along so unconcernedly when they might at any corner run straight into the arms of a perambulating Proctor. He was so imbued with the idea of himself as a budding undergraduate that he half expected to be taken for one, and felt quite nervous when he did meet a Proctor a little later on, lest he should be asked for his name and college. He was a little disappointed when that functionary passed him without comment, but so reverential were his feelings towards one who held such high office in the University that he could not refrain from taking off his hat to him, a salute which the Proctor gravely returned, much to Mr. Binney's gratification. He would perhaps have been less gratified if he had known that the great man, who was not accustomed to receiving respectful greetings from middle-aged gentlemen, took him for a subservient tradesman whose face he happened to have forgotten. When Mr. Binney turned into the open space in front of Trinity College and passed through the noble gateway into the Great Court, his heart swelled with pride as he stood and looked round him. The twilight had deepened into night, and the court lay quiet and spacious under the stars. Opposite to him stood the hall, its painted windows shining brightly through the dusk. To its right lay the Master's lodge, which Mr. Binney had been told was also a royal palace, and in front of it plashed the fountain underneath its graceful canopy of stone. To his right was the dark mass of the closed chapel, and all round the court stretched the long low buildings with their lighted windows and busy staircases, their modest regularity broken up by the three gate towers, the hall, the lodge, and the chapel. A little group of chatty dons came towards him from the combination room, across the sacred grass, one of them in all the bravery of a scarlet gown, and passed out through the gate. A porter touched his hat to them and Mr. Binney felt that he could have done the same with pleasure. Towards the undergraduates who went to and fro in the court, along the flagged pathways, his feelings were less reverential, but more curious, for he hoped some day to be one of them. What a proud thing it would be to walk on these very stones in a square cap and a blue gown and feel that one had a share in all the ancient surrounding glories. He walked slowly across the court, and up the steps of the hall. He stopped to read the college notices in the glass-covered cases which hang in the passage between the kitchen and buttery hatches on the one side, and the carved screen which gives access to the hall itself, through heavy swing doors, on the other. A crowd of waiters in their shirt-sleeves were busy between the two clearing away the remains of the feast. Mr. Binney looked into the hall which was now nearly ready to be shut up for the night. The massive boards and benches of polished oak ran up to the daïs in which were the two long tables where the dons sit at their dinner long after the undergraduates have finished and left them to their grandeur. The pictures of bygone worthies whom their college delights to honour looked down on him solemnly from the walls. Behind him was the beautiful screen with the gallery above, from which the panels are removed on state occasions, when a bright array of fair visitors looks down on the "animals feeding." The lights were going out now, and the high-pitched roof with its many rafters was fading into dimness. Mr. Binney turned with a sigh and went out, while a servant locked the door and left the great hall to its solitude, with the moonlight streaming in through the blazoned windows and the wakeful eyes of the departed worthies watching through the night. The next morning Mr. Binney called on Mr. Rimington. He had to sit for a quarter of an hour in the Tutor's ante-room, where half-a-dozen undergraduates were awaiting their turn for admittance, looking over the bound volumes of _Punch_ which were laid on the table for their amusement. Two of them were talking, and Mr. Binney listened with open ears to their conversation which was "shoppy" in the extreme, and all the more interesting to him on that account. His appearance caused no surprise, for fathers do sometimes visit their son's Tutors, but Mr. Binney thought that every one present would know what he had come for, and felt a little shy. He was shown presently into the inner room, a handsome one with a beautiful ceiling, and was received very kindly by Mr. Rimington, who, however, seemed a little nervous. "I don't know, Mr. Binney," he said, with some hesitation, "whether I quite understood your letter." (Here he took Mr. Binney's application from an orderly little pile on his desk.) "It seemed to mean that you wished to enter yourself as an undergraduate of the college." Mr. Binney sat on a chair before the Tutor fumbling his hat between his knees. "Certainly, sir," he said, "that is what I meant." "There is an undergraduate of your name already entered, I believe, on Mr. Segrave's side?" "Yes, my boy Lucius. He passed the certificate examination last month." "Quite so. We are very glad to have him here. We hope he may row in the boat and help us to beat Oxford." Mr. Binney was surprised to find a don taking an interest in such a frivolous affair as a boat-race, but it put him a little more at his ease. "There is nothing to prevent a man of my age entering at the University, I suppose?" he inquired. "No," said Mr. Rimington with some hesitation, "not from our point of view. But have you thought what it means, Mr. Binney? It is a little--er--unusual for father and son to be undergraduate members of the same college at the same time. Our rules are not at all irksome for a young man--in fact, some people think we allow too much freedom, although we find that we get on better by not drawing the rein so tight as they do at some other colleges--but such as they are we could not relax them, and in your case they might very well prove to be irksome." "Not at all," said Mr. Binney, "not at all. I am prepared to take the rough with the smooth, and I can keep rules, if they are sensible rules, as well as the young fellows." Mr. Rimington laughed nervously. "May I ask your reason for wanting to come up to Cambridge so--so late in life?" he asked. "I have a passion for education, sir," said Mr. Binney. "I left school at the age of fourteen, and have worked hard at my business ever since. But money-making isn't the sole interest in life--besides I have got as much money as I want. I wish to regain some of the lost opportunities of youth." "Have you kept up your classical studies at all since you left school?" asked the Tutor. "I never learnt any classics, sir," answered Mr. Binney airily; "that has all to come. They didn't consider that Latin and Greek prepared us for the business of life when I was a boy." "Oh! then I am afraid it is not of the slightest use your attempting to enter for our examination," said the Tutor, with a visible shade of relief overspreading his face, "it would take you years to come up to the standard we require." "That is _my_ affair, sir," said Mr. Binney. "I shall not only attempt it, I shall succeed. I have ability and determination." Mr. Rimington looked annoyed. "I think you will find you are mistaken," he said. "However, as you say, that is your affair and not mine. But, apart from that, I am not sure, Mr. Binney--I speak quite openly--that it is the kindest course you could take, as far as your son is concerned, to enter at the same college. He comes to us with a very good character, and we hope he will do us credit. But it is likely to go against him--I mean it will hardly be giving him a fair chance with the other men of the college to be constantly under your supervision. A University education, you know, Mr. Binney, is a valuable training for a young man, because he begins to learn to stand alone, while he is not left entirely alone. Your son would lose that advantage, whatever else he might gain, if you were to be constantly with him." Mr. Binney straightened himself up. Mr. Rimington's opposition roused his fighting business instincts, which prompted him to take every opportunity of gaining an advantage. "That again is a matter for me to decide, sir," he said. "Lucius and I are very good friends and understand one another thoroughly. I have given him advantages of education that I never had, but when I put my foot down he has to obey. He knows that by this time. We will leave him out of the question, if you please." Mr. Rimington again looked annoyed. "If you are determined to come up for entrance to this college," he said, "and succeed in passing the necessary test, which, I warn you, will be a harder matter than you imagine, you would find yourself compelled to associate with men of very immature views, Mr. Binney." "I am not afraid of that," said Mr. Binney. "In fact I shall enjoy it. I have preserved my youth and can take the young fellows on their own ground and beat 'em." Mr. Rimington passed his hand over his mouth. "Then I had better give you the necessary papers," he said. "You must send us a certificate of good conduct, signed by a clergyman who has known you for three years." "My pastor, the celebrated Dr. Toller, under whose ministrations I have sat for the last twenty years would do, I suppose," said Mr. Binney. "I am a Baptist." "Yes, certainly," said the Tutor. "Then there is the certificate of birth. And this paper will tell you all about the subjects for examination. I should advise you to engage a private coach. You are too late, of course, for the first examination, but----" "There is another in October," interrupted Mr. Binney. "I know. I shall present myself for that." "Then I will wish you good-morning, Mr. Binney," said the Tutor. "You will excuse me, but I have a good many pupils to see." Mr. Rimington summoned up his usual amiable smile and took leave of Mr. Binney with a warm grasp of the hand; and Mr. Binney went out through the ante-room, where the waiting crowd had swelled to unusual proportions, and clattered down the oak staircase into the court, hugging his precious sheaf of papers. In the Combination Room, that evening, Mr. Rimington and Mr. Segrave discussed Mr. Binney over their wine. "I did my best to dissuade him," said Mr. Rimington. "It is very hard lines on the boy." "He is a nice boy," said the other. "Wargrave"--this was Lucius's house-master at Eton--"says he is one of the best boys he has in his house; not at all brilliant, but of excellent character and a first-rate oar--just the sort of freshman we want, as we can't expect them all to be scholars. I'm afraid it will spoil his life here if his father insists upon inflicting himself on us. What sort of a man is he?" Mr. Rimington laughed. He would have liked to say, "Just a cocky little tradesman," but he was a charitable man. "If I were the boy," he said, "I would rather have him in London than at Cambridge. But I don't think we shall see him at Cambridge. He left school thirty years ago and has never learnt either Latin or Greek, or indeed anything that we want, excepting, perhaps, arithmetic, and we don't want much of that. Yet he expects us to admit him in October." "Oh, well then, we may set our minds at rest," said Mr. Segrave. "But it's a curious idea altogether." Mr. Binney had got back to Russell Square by that time and was just then engaged in writing out an advertisement for a resident tutor. CHAPTER III LUCIUS WINS A YEAR'S RESPITE A week after Mr. Binney's visit to Cambridge, he wrote the following letter to his son:-- "MY DEAR Lucius,--Yours of 29th ult. to hand. I note you are getting on with your work and enjoying yourself. I have now relinquished my attendance at the office, and have left the management in Mr. Walton's hands, merely dropping in for an hour or two once a week to see how things are going. As far as I can see he will carry on the business well during my three years' absence, and at the end of that time I shall take the reins again and you will begin work there. If all goes well I shall take you into partnership a year after that, by which time you ought to have fully mastered the details. "_Re_ work for Trinity Entrance Examination. "I have started on above, having engaged a private coach. I had 430 answers to my application. My choice fell on a gentleman named Minshull, a Peterhouse man who dwells in the vicinity. He took his degree only last year and expects to enter the Church shortly. He comes every morning at nine o'clock and we work till one. He lunches with me, after which we take a walk in the Park or elsewhere, returning for tea and another two hours' work. Then Minshull leaves me, and after a light dinner I do preparation for him for another two hours and then to bed. On Saturday we knock off at one, and I generally take an outing with Mrs. Higginbotham, who wishes to be kindly remembered to you. She takes a great interest in my enterprise, and refreshes her memory and mine during our little jaunts by getting me to repeat to her without book such things as I have learnt during the week as come within the limits of the curriculum to which she applied herself during girlhood. The subjects themselves are hardly such as in my judgment repay the amount of study necessary to master them. What with the growing competition in commercial life, and the great influx of foreigners--Germans and others--it seems to me waste of time to devote three valuable years of a young man's life in getting up the opinions of a man like Plato, who lived so many years ago that his ideas are by no means up-to-date. Or take a poet like Virgil again--if Virgil can be justly called a poet. Compare his thoughts with those of our own immortal Shakespeare--the Swan of Avon--or even with Macaulay's _Lays of Ancient Rome_, if you _must_ have matters of ancient history treated in poetry. And what is the use of puzzling over the Acts of the Apostles in the Original Greek, when that book, as well as the rest of the New Testament, has been so admirably translated in the Revised Version? What the authorities of our Universities entirely fail to grasp is that Latin and Greek _are not spoken nowadays_. How much better young men would be fitted for the business of life if they were trained to speak and write French and German fluently! This is so obvious to a man of experience that I seriously thought of writing to the Chancellor of the University, the Duke of Devonshire, and laying my views before him, but Minshull dissuaded me, saying that I should be in a better position to bring to bear any influence I might possess after I have taken my degree, which is perfectly true. But the truth of it is there are too many old women at the head of the Universities. What you want are keen-headed men, men of experience in the world, who would move with the times, and get Oxford and Cambridge to move with them. I am so convinced I am right in this opinion, that if it were not for the cares of business, to which I must return when I have finished with Cambridge, I should apply for a Trinity fellowship after I have taken my degree, and try to infuse a little spirit into the counsels of the college and through it into the University. "I must now draw to a close and return to my studies. I feel that they are beneath my powers, but at the same time I must not grumble at having to begin at the bottom rung of the ladder. 'Thorough' has always been my motto and will continue so. No more at present, from your affectionate father,--PETER BINNEY." Mr. Binney's letters as the time went on became more and more sprightly in tone. With the cares of business he seemed to have finally laid aside all the interests commonly felt by gentlemen who have reached middle age. He relapsed into slang. Minshull, he said, was a "jolly good sort," only you had to work. It was no good trying to "kid him." The subjects for examination he now found "beastly stiff," and it was an "awful sap" getting them up, but he quite expected to have "bowled them over" by the time the examination was due. He mentioned Mrs. Higginbotham once or twice as one on whose approval of the course he was pursuing he greatly relied. "Confound that old woman," said Lucius when he read this. "She's backing him up in all this nonsense. She's a sentimental old donkey. Well, he can't do it in time, that's one comfort;" and Lucius would encourage himself by dwelling on this conviction, and then tear up his father's letters. He came up to town for two nights about the end of June on his long leave. Mr. Binney, of course, was full of his work. He wished to be treated just like any other youth with the ordeal of an examination before him, and itched to talk over his chances. But Lucius retired into his shell whenever Cambridge was mentioned. Mr. Binney, of course, noticed this and began to get his back up about it. At last he tackled his son in the most effectual way as they sat together in the library at Russell Square after dinner. "Look here, young man," he said, "you may as well get used to this idea. You and I are going up to Trinity together, and I want to do the thing fairly and squarely. I shall put us both on an allowance, and at present I intend to make them equal. But if you're going to be sulky about it, they won't be equal, or anything like it. So put that in your pipe and smoke it." "What allowance?" inquired Lucius with some interest. His father had always refused to come to the point when he had asked him the same question before. "Well, I thought of £300 a year," said Mr. Binney. "Minshull did it on £200, and did it very well, but, as he says, Trinity is the college where all the swells go, and if you want to live up to 'em you might have to spend a bit more. As I say, I want to do the thing well." "I don't suppose Minshull knows much about it," said Lucius. "Most of the chaps I know are going to have about four hundred, and hardly any of them less than three. You have to be jolly careful on three hundred a year at Trinity." "Ah, well," said Mr. Binney, "I won't let a hundred a year, or even two, stand in the way, and we'll share alike if you're sensible about it. But I'm not going to pay you four hundred a year to look down on your father, so you had better make up your mind how you're going to behave before October comes." Lucius sat silent with a gloomy countenance and his hands in his pockets. When he was at school the idea of his father accompanying him to Cambridge as a freshman seemed so absurd that he was sometimes surprised to find that he was enjoying life much as usual, without being very much burdened by it. When he was at home and realised how very much in earnest Mr. Binney was, the dark fate that hung over him became less remote, and filled him with gloomy forebodings. But youth is elastic. It seemed almost out of the question that Mr. Binney would succeed in passing the entrance examination, while Lucius himself was already admitted a member of Trinity College. The allowance his father had named seemed to him quite adequate, and he allowed himself to cheer up a little and inquire after the health of Mrs. Higginbotham. Mr. Binney coughed in some little embarrassment. "Mrs. Higginbotham has a bad cold," he said, "and is confined to the house. I hope she will be well enough to accompany me to Lord's for the Eton and Harrow match, if the state of her bronchial tubes, which are giving her a lot of trouble just now, permit of it. You will be able to introduce us to some of your friends and future companions at Cambridge." "I'm very sorry," said Lucius, "but I shan't be there. Henley comes in the same week." "I shall be at Henley as well," said Mr. Binney, "and Mrs. Higginbotham has kindly consented to accompany me. She takes a great interest in your rowing career, Lucius, as she does in every other manly sport. Ah! I hope the day may come when I myself--but we mustn't count our chickens before they are hatched, must we? With regard to Henley, you will be able to go about with us, I suppose, and see that----" "Very sorry, father," interrupted Lucius hastily, "I shall be rowing nearly all day long. We're in for the Grand and the Ladies' Plate. Besides, the captain of the boats is a terrible fellow. If he caught one of us so much as speaking to a lady he'd cut up very rough." "Why is that, pray?" inquired Mr. Binney. "Oh, I don't know. They might offer us an ice or something. We have to be awfully strict, you know, over training." "Ah, well, that's a pity. Mrs. Higginbotham would like to meet a few of the young fellows who will be my companions for the next three years. She said so. Perhaps you might get one of your cricketing friends who would be unoccupied to look after us." "I'm afraid most of them will have people of their own to look after. However, if any of them happens to lose his father and mother between now and Henley, I'll see what can be done." "And now I must go to bed," said Mr. Binney, "so as to begin work early to-morrow morning. I don't want to lose a minute more than I can help. I'm not getting on terms with Mr. Plato as quickly as I should like. I shall be able to introduce you to Minshull before you start, Lucius. He's a good chap, and not a bit stand-offish as you might expect, considering he's a B.A., and I'm not even a freshman yet. You'll find him quite easy to get on with." Minshull was one of those people in whose eyes a three years' residence at Oxford or Cambridge is such a glorious thing, that if they have gone through it themselves they can talk or think of nothing else throughout their lives. The healthy pleasant life of the average undergraduate is idealised into a sort of seventh heaven, and a "blue" takes his place immediately below the archangels and considerably above any mere mortal. Seniority of residence forms an almost complete bar to social intercourse with undergraduates of lower standing, and the little code of etiquette invented to enliven proceedings in the lesser colleges is as the laws of the Medes and Persians. To be or to have been "a 'Varsity man" was the only thing quite necessary in Minshull's eyes, if you were to call yourself a gentleman, and he therefore saw nothing that was not entirely laudable in Mr. Binney's determination to acquire this hall-mark of superiority, however late in life. While trying to instil into his pupil the requisite amount of Latin and Greek, he imparted to him at the same time his own particular point of view in matters of undergraduate custom, taught him what to admire and what to avoid, until Mr. Binney was infused with the spirit of a provincial youth about to enter the gates of the University paradise from his country grammar school. Mr. Binney had first of all considered a belated career at Cambridge as an opportunity for mending a defective education; under the encouragement of Mrs. Higginbotham's yearnings after vanished delights he had come to look upon it as a means of gaining some of the prestige of golden youth; influenced by Minshull's complacent reverence, he had insensibly drifted away from the careless acquiescence with which Lucius, for instance, regarded his own proposed residence at the University, and now felt that he should break his heart if he was prevented from taking his part in the glamorous delights which his tutor held before his eyes. He made herculean efforts to get on terms with his examination subjects, and worked harder than he had ever done in his life before. Minshull arrived at nine o'clock the next morning as usual. Mr. Binney, who had been working since seven and had breakfasted at eight, had not yet returned from a short constitutional, and Lucius had the privilege of an interview with his father's tutor. Minshull was a tall young man, rather shabbily dressed, with a long solemn face diversified by little ranges of spots of an eruptive tendency. He greeted Lucius with some respect, for Lucius was a potential "blue," and Minshull would have been as incapable of keeping on his hat in church as of talking without due reverence to a "blue." "How's the governor getting on with his work?" asked Lucius with an abashed snigger. "Oh, pretty well," replied Minshull. "He works very hard, but of course he has to do everything from the beginning." "No chance of his getting through, I suppose?" said Lucius. "Oh, I don't know," said Minshull. "If he works as hard as he has been doing so far for the next three months he may just be able to scrape through in October." Lucius began to pace the room. "If he gets into Trinity I won't go up, that's flat," he said. "What! Not go up to the ''Varsity' when you've got a chance!" exclaimed Minshull. "My dear fellow, you don't know what you're talking about. You will regret it all your life if you don't." "Look here," said Lucius, "you were at Cambridge, weren't you?" "Yes, certainly," said Minshull, slightly offended. "I took my degree last year." "Well, how would you have liked to have your old governor playing the fool up there at the same college?" "I see no reason to suppose that Mr. Binney will play the fool," said Minshull stiffly. "I have put him up to everything he ought to know. He won't make mistakes. He is not likely to carry an umbrella with a cap and gown or anything of that sort." "Why shouldn't he carry an umbrella if it rains? Look here, can't you make certain of his getting pilled for this examination?" Minshull looked horrified. "What! and prevent his going up to the 'Varsity when he wants to?" he exclaimed. "Or if you can't do that and he's likely to get through, tell him that you don't think much of Trinity, and get him to go somewhere else." "There are plenty of good colleges in Cambridge besides Trinity," said Minshull, "although Trinity men don't seem to think so. My own college, for instance, Peterhouse, isn't big, but it is one of the best, if not _the_ best of the smaller ones." "Is it? Well then, get him to go there. Do you mean to say you don't think it's a beastly shame him wanting to come up and spoil all my time at Cambridge?" "I can't see----" began Minshull, but just then Mr. Binney came in, and Lucius left them to their labours, with the uncomfortable conviction that the toils were closing in on him and that there was no help at any rate to be gained from his father's tutor. Henley week came round in due course, but Mrs. Higginbotham, alas, did not come round with it. Her cold had settled on her lungs and the poor lady was brought very low. At the time Mr. Binney hoped to have been paddling her about on the Thames in a Canadian canoe she was surveying the beauties of Torquay in a bathchair. Mr. Binney had been told by Minshull that if he really wished to pass the Trinity entrance examination in October, it was absolutely imperative that he should not lose a single day's work if he could possibly help it, so Lucius won a reprieve for that occasion, at least, and as the Eton boys managed to win the Ladies' Plate and rowed a good race in the semi-final heat for the Grand Challenge Cup, he spent on the whole a pleasant Henley. During the first few weeks of his holidays he was training for and rowing in some of the up-river regattas, and September he spent with various school-fellows in Scotland, so it was not until just before he was due at Cambridge that he found himself once more in the house in Russell Square and the society of his father. Mr. Binney, in the meantime, fired with a mighty ambition to show his mettle and acquit himself well in his examination, had retired to an east coast village with Minshull, and devoted himself strenuously to his books. He had worked very hard for six months, but a man who has left a cheap commercial school at the age of fourteen, and that thirty years before, can hardly expect to do in that time what a public school boy has been working steadily up to ever since his education began. A month before the examination, Minshull saw that his pupil had no chance of success, and told him so one morning as they were walking together by the sea. Mr. Binney was heart-broken. "_No_ chance, Minshull?" he asked plaintively. "I don't mind working another two hours a day, you know. Isn't there _any_ chance?" "I'm afraid not, Mr. Binney," said Minshull. "You have worked very hard; you couldn't have done better; but you see the work is all new to you. You might get in at the Hall, perhaps, or if you cared about it I should think I might have enough influence with the Peterhouse authorities to----" "Never," said Mr. Binney firmly. "Trinity or nowhere. If I make up my mind to a thing, I stick to it. I shouldn't have made my fortune if I hadn't." "I should advise you, sir, to give up all ideas of attempting the October examination," said Minshull. "I can assure you you can't possibly pass it, and if you do very badly it may be prejudicial to your chances in the future. Take a month's holiday, or you'll knock yourself up. Then set to work again and be ready for them next spring." "I feel you're right," said poor Mr. Binney. "I feel you're right, Minshull, but it's a sad blow. You'll excuse me if I just walk on alone for a bit. I shall get over it better." Minshull left him, and Mr. Binney spent a very bitter hour by himself. He had never been beaten before when he had made up his mind to succeed, and it enraged him to think of the two hundred beardless boys who would enter Trinity College as freshmen in a month's time, most of whom had succeeded without any difficulty in doing what he could not do even with the most strenuous endeavours. Lucius, for instance, had taken the whole thing very calmly, although he was not a particularly clever nor a particularly diligent boy. Then his thoughts passed on to Mrs. Higginbotham--Martha. That was the worst thought of all. He had written once a week to Mrs. Higginbotham, alluding in an airy way to his new acquaintances, Plato and Virgil and Euclid, as if he and they were on the most intimate terms of familiarity. Now he would have to tell her that their thoughts were too deep for him--for him who had familiarised all England with the mind of a Shakespeare--and that the languages by means of which they expressed their thoughts still presented such a mountain of obstacles to him that it was doubtful if he would ever succeed in getting over them. Still, the confession would have to be made, and Mr. Binney, with that directness which characterised all his actions, determined that it should be made that very night. "I am very, very sorry, Martha," he wrote, "I have really done my best. I shouldn't have been worthy of you if I hadn't. I'm afraid your Peter is a bit of a dunce, although he never thought so before. Write and say you will not throw me over for it, and I shall set to work again with renewed earnestness." Mrs. Higginbotham, although deeply disappointed, wrote a very kind and consoling letter from Torquay, where her bronchial tubes, which had assumed complete mastery over all her actions, still detained her. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again," she wrote, and thought she had said a very original thing. "I always found, when I was a young lady at school, that if I couldn't master my tasks immediately, the only thing for it was, not to give them up, but to determine that I _would_ master them in time; and my mistress, Miss Dolby--now an angel--used frequently to point me out to the parents of other pupils, and say, 'That child has great determination, and will undoubtedly make her mark.' I am aware that I have not fulfilled Miss Dolby's prophecy up to present date, but your triumphs are mine, Peter, and I trust that we shall both grow famous together." Mr. Binney was much encouraged by Mrs. Higginbotham's letter. He took a holiday and went to Torquay, and by the time Lucius went up to Cambridge early in October, very much relieved at the idea of at least one year free from the companionship of his father as a fellow undergraduate, he had settled down for a hard winter's work in Russell Square. CHAPTER IV NO HELP TO BE GAINED FROM MRS. HIGGINBOTHAM Lucius Binney enjoyed his first year at Cambridge exceedingly. He had been popular at school and he was very much liked at the University. He did enough work to enable him to avoid friction with the authorities and passed both parts of his Littlego in his first term. He rowed in the Trial Eights, but as he was not heavy enough to fill any place but bow in a University boat, a place which was adequately filled already, he did not get his Blue. His allowance enabled him to play his part in the hospitalities of University life with credit, and he showed no disposition to exceed it. He was made a member of the historic Amateur Dramatic Club, commonly known as the A.D.C., and played the part of a maid-servant in the first performances of his year on the most approved principles of Cambridge dramatic art, with a slim waist, a high colour, and an unmistakably masculine voice. He would have been one of the happiest men in the University if he had not been continually haunted by the thought of his father. But for some reason or other Mr. Binney, although he insisted upon lengthy letters being written to him, giving the fullest possible account of University matters, expressed no intention of paying him a visit, as Lucius lived in continual fear of his doing. Perhaps he was ashamed of his inability to pass the entrance examination after having made certain of doing so; perhaps he preferred to make his first appearance amongst Cambridge men as an undergraduate and not as the guest of an undergraduate. At any rate he left Lucius unmolested during his first two terms, but his letters became more and more jubilant as he worked on at his examination subjects, and felt himself getting nearer the desired goal. Lucius had a friend called Dizzy. His name was not really Dizzy, but it is only fair to state that he had been christened Benjamin. To him alone, of all his friends, Lucius had disclosed, under a solemn promise of secrecy, the dark fate that was hanging over him. "He'll pass this time, Dizzy, I know he will," said Lucius, after receiving a more than usually confident letter from his father, who informed him that Minshull had told him that his Latin prose was, at last, beginning to show signs of an elementary grasp of the fact that there was such a thing as Latin grammar. "Not he," said Dizzy with complete confidence. "He'll never pass. I knew an old geezer--no offence to your governor, Lucy--who first took up Latin when his little boys were seven and eight, under a governess. First week they were all three about equal. Then the eldest boy began to forge ahead. In a fortnight the little one left the old man behind, and after a month the governess said she'd have to go if he didn't do her more credit. He didn't want that, so he married her, which was what he'd been after all along, only hadn't liked to say so. They can't learn things at that time of life, my boy, any more than we can make a pot of money by winking at a fellow on the Stock Exchange. It's not in 'em." "You don't know my governor," said Lucius, his depression very little lightened by Dizzy's narrative. "He's been at it for nearly a year now, grinding like a galley slave. That fellow Minshull must have got something into his head by this time. And after all the entrance exam isn't anything very big, is it?" "Not to us; we're educated men," said Dizzy, who was a member of Trinity Hall, where the entrance examination is tempered to the shorn Trinity candidate. "But it's the devil and all to people like your old governor who ain't used to that sort of thing. _He_ won't pass, Lucy; don't you be afraid of it." "It's too bad of him wanting to come up, isn't it, Dizzy?" said poor Lucius, who yearned for sympathy and could only obtain it from this one particular friend. "It _is_ too bad," said Dizzy. "I don't know what governors are coming to. There's mine wrote to me the other day and said I was disgracing the family name, just because I turned out those lights in St. Andrew's Street and got hauled up at the police court for it. I told him I did it entirely to save the ratepayers' money. He's always talking about the enormous fiscal burdens he's got to bear, or some such tommy-rot, and I thought that would please him. But not a bit of it. Governors never listen to reason. I got eight pages back with a lot more about the family name. Hang it, it ain't much of a name after all." It was not. It was Stubbs. But General Sir Richard Stubbs, V.C., had done his little best to adorn it in days gone by and saw no great probability of his son Benjamin doing the same in days to come. The account Lucius gave at home of his doings fired Mr. Binney's imagination. "Splendid, my boy, splendid!" cried the little man, when he described the two bumps which the Third Trinity boat had made in the Lent races. "I shall go in for rowing myself; best exercise you can have," and Mr. Binney drew himself up and struck the place where his chest would have been if he had had one. "Is it likely, do you think, Lucius, that you and I will row in the same boat?" "It's not only unlikely," said Lucius shortly, "it's impossible." "Oh, indeed," said Mr. Binney, with a dangerous gleam in his eye. "You are such a swell I suppose, that nobody else can expect to come near you." "You wouldn't even belong to the same boat-club," said Lucius. "You ought to know that by this time. Third Trinity is only for Eton and Westminster men, the rest of the college belongs to First Trinity." "I did know it," said Mr. Binney, "but I had forgotten it for the moment. You needn't take me up so sharp, Lucius. Is First Trinity a good boat club?" "Of course it is," said Lucius. "Very well, then, I shall join it, and take up rowing seriously. Have you spoken at the Union yet?" "No, I don't belong to it. I shouldn't speak if I did, and it's no good belonging to that and the 'Pitt' too." "The 'Pitt'! What's the 'Pitt'?" "It's a club." "Is it the thing to belong to it?" "Oh, I don't know. A lot of people do." "Ah, well, I must belong to that too." "You have to be elected to it. People sometimes get pilled." "Well, I should hope there wouldn't be much chance of _my_ getting pilled, whatever that may mean. I belong to the National Liberal Club. That ought to be enough for them, oughtn't it?" "Quite enough for them, I should think," answered Lucius, who had once dined at that famous institution with Peter, and been offensively patronised by one of Mr. Binney's fellow-members, a man old enough to be his father. "I shall join the Union," continued Mr. Binney. "I expect most of my triumphs will lie there. I am accustomed to addressing large assemblies. I was nearly elected to the London County Council two years ago, as you know. That's where I score, you see, being a man of the world among a lot of boys. I've learnt to do things that they are only just beginning to think about." "Yes. You've made your pile among other things," replied Lucius. "Most of us haven't learnt to do that yet. We generally begin at the other end and spend it first." "I shan't grudge spending some of it," said Mr. Binney. "I hope to entertain the young fellows a good deal. Minshull says if you give a few good breakfasts every term--do the thing well, you know, with perhaps some fruit and a bottle of claret to come after--you get a tremendous reputation for hospitality throughout the 'Varsity. Is that so?" "Well, I'm not sure I ever met anybody who drank claret at breakfast. I did know a fellow who used to drink brandy. He certainly did get a tremendous reputation throughout the 'Varsity, but it wasn't for hospitality. He wasn't up there long." "H'm. Well, Minshull said he knew a man who went up a bit late, who had more money to spend than most people, who got into the first set at Peterhouse through his breakfasts." "Did he? Lucky fellow! Well, I should give a few breakfasts if I were you, father. We shall all think you a tremendous chap." "I mean to go one better than that, my boy, and give a little dinner occasionally, to the _élite_ of the 'Varsity--Blues, and people of that sort. I daresay you young fellows will only be too pleased to go outside the ordinary lines once in a way. I suppose there's no rule against giving dinners, is there?" "I never heard of it. It's pretty often broken if there is." "I intend to do the thing well, and open a bottle of champagne. I daresay, now, champagne's a thing that's hardly known at Cambridge." "That's what I told my wine merchant last term. He was rather annoyed." "I don't object to a little jollification occasionally. I daresay you and I, Lucius---for you shall do what I do--will become pretty well known up there by-and-bye." "I dare say we shall," said Lucius with a sigh. And, indeed, it did not seem unlikely. Before Lucius went back to Cambridge for the summer term, he made one last attempt to avert the catastrophe which had now become imminent--for Minshull had told him that Mr. Binney was now quite capable of passing the required test. He called on Mrs. Higginbotham, whose bronchial tubes had by this time become less ostentatious in their behaviour. "Well, Lucius," said that lady, when he was seated opposite to her in her comfortable drawing-room, "you will soon have your dear father to look after you at college. It is not many young men who have a father so ready to share in all their little pleasures." "No," said Lucius. "Don't you think you could stop him, Mrs. Higginbotham, if you tried?" "Stop him!" exclaimed Mrs. Higginbotham with raised voice and hands. "My dear Lucius, do not tell me that you are so selfish as to be jealous of an excellent father." "Jealous!" echoed Lucius. "I don't know what you mean." "You _do_ know what I mean, Lucius," said Mrs. Higginbotham severely. "And you _are_ jealous. I can see it in your face. Here is your dear father continually talking to me with pride about the things you are doing at Cambridge, while you are only thinking of yourself, and fear that you will lose the position you have won when he is there to compete with you. What a contrast! You should be ashamed of such feelings, Lucius. I am sure I should be if I were in your place. What matter if you do have to take a lower place in the estimation of your young friends, when it is your own father--and _such_ a father--who will replace you? I do not like to think of such behaviour." "He'll only be laughed at, you know," said Lucius. "And do you mean to tell me that, as an unworthy revenge for your loss of prestige, you would actually dare to hold your own father up to ridicule?" inquired Mrs. Higginbotham. "Of course I shouldn't," said Lucius. "I should do my best to prevent his making a f--I mean becoming notorious." "There!" said Mrs. Higginbotham triumphantly. "Now you have acknowledged your baseness, Lucius. I am thoroughly ashamed of you. But you will learn that you _cannot_ prevent your father from becoming notorious. He is _bound_ to take the lead in whatever he takes up, especially among a lot of boys many years his juniors, and far inferior in capacity. I am afraid that in addition to your miserable jealousy, Lucius, there are things you wish to hide in your life at Cambridge, things that you do not wish your father to know of. I hope, indeed, that is not so. I should be truly sorry if the innocent life to which he is looking forward with such pleasure was to be spoiled by the misbehaviour of one for whom he has done so much." "I've got nothing to be ashamed of in my life at Cambridge, Mrs. Higginbotham," said Lucius. "You don't seem to be any more reasonable about this silly scheme than my father himself. I had better go, I think." "I think so too," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "And do not come and see me again, Lucius, until you are in a better frame of mind, and can speak with more respect to one of your father's oldest friends." "I won't come and see you again at all, you silly old fool," said Lucius; but he waited to say it until he was on the other side of the door. CHAPTER V MR. BINNEY ARRIVES IN CAMBRIDGE Lucius's first May term wore itself out with a burst of glorious summer weather. The boat races and cricket matches, the dances and college concerts, the crowds of sisters and cousins, the mayonnaises and iced cups, and all the other attributes of those ten days of mid-June which go by the name of the May week, played their accustomed parts in mitigating the severity of the toil to which Cambridge devotes itself for the rest of the academic year. But to Lucius there was a heavy cloud darkening the vivid blue of the summer sky. Mr. Binney was to arrive at the end of the term, to undergo his examination. The days passed with relentless speed, and one unhappy morning he found himself walking up and down the long unlovely platform of the Cambridge station, awaiting the train which was bearing his father rapidly towards the scene of his future exploits. So far only Mr. Benjamin Stubbs shared with him the knowledge of the evil fate that was in store for him. But the secret was bound to come out now, and Lucius wondered whether there was a more unhappy man in all Cambridge than himself. Mr. Binney arrived, accompanied by Minshull, for whom he had taken rooms at the Hoop, in order that he might have the advantage of his able tuition up to the very last moment, for he was determined to throw away no little chance that might add to his prospect of success. Mr. Binney himself had been allotted rooms in college for the few days during which the examination lasted. If he was not already a Cambridge man this was the next best thing to it, and a proud man was Mr. Binney to find himself the occupant of a garret in the Great Court with a bedroom which any one of his servants at Russell Square would have turned up her nose at. They were the rooms of a sizar, and were barely furnished even for a very poor man's rooms, but the sizar had blossomed into the Senior Wrangler of that year, and that fact repaid Mr. Binney in full for any little inconvenience he might have felt at being deprived of most of the necessities and all the luxuries of life to which he had been accustomed. Lucius accompanied his father to these rooms and left him to himself, for he was lunching with the captain of his boat. It was the last night of the races, and Mr. Binney proposed, after spending a busy afternoon with Minshull over his books, to go down to Ditton Corner and see the boats. Lucius thanked his lucky stars that he was rowing and need not present his father to an admiring circle of friends on that very public occasion. He would have been pleased enough to introduce him as a father, there or at any other place, if he had come up simply to pay him a visit, for Lucius was a right-minded boy and showed no disposition to be ashamed of his somewhat humble origin among his circle of more or less gilded youth; but to have to say "My father, who is coming up here next term," and to have to stand by while little Mr. Binney tried to reduce himself to the level of an inexperienced schoolboy, as he felt certain he would do, was an ordeal that he did not feel equal to, and he made up his mind to let the inevitable catastrophe bring itself about in its own way. He told himself that he was happy to have averted it for so long, for although some of the dons knew of Mr. Binney's intention, and his own Tutor had actually talked to him about it, the secret did not seem to have become public property among the undergraduates of the college. Mr. Binney was delighted with everything he saw. The gay crowd in the paddock at Ditton Corner, the lines of carriages on one side, and the flotilla of moored boats under the bank, appealed to him with all the force of a delightful novelty. The boating men and others on the tow-path across the river, with the photographers plying their trade and letting off their amiable witticisms through their megaphones, the boat crews in their coloured coats, some of them with flowers in their hats, swinging down to their stations round the bend, gave him great pleasure. Then, after a pause, filled with the gossip and laughter of the crowd, when a distant gun was heard, and three minutes afterwards a second, and a minute after yet another; when the men in the boats under the bank straightened themselves and said, "They're off"; when a moving mass of the heads of men running was seen far away under the willows across the meadows; when little men laden with bundles of coats fled along the tow-path opposite towards the "Pike and Eel"; when the noise of the shouting and the springing of rattles drew nearer; when every head in the crowd was turned towards Ditton Corner, and two boats came into sight very close to one another, and after them two more, and the shouting and cheering was taken up by every one around him, Mr. Binney lost his head with excitement, and yelled with the best of them, especially for the heroes of Fitzwilliam Hall whom he, for some reason or other, mistook for a Trinity crew. "It's grand, Minshull, it's grand," he said as they made their way home with the crowd along the river bank and across Midsummer Common. "I don't wonder at your being proud of Cambridge, Minshull." "I'm glad Pothouse made their bump just opposite Ditton," said Minshull complacently. "Now you see what rowing is like, Mr. Binney." "Lucius rowed well," said Mr. Binney. "Didn't you think so?" "Yes," said Minshull, who had been a diligent but ineffective La Crosse and hockey player during his residence at the University, and hardly knew an oar from a barge pole. "But it seemed to me that he hardly caught the beginning enough." "You had better tell him that," said Mr. Binney with unconscious irony. "I dare say he'll be glad of any hints he can get." Lucius sat in his rooms in Jesus Lane the next afternoon in a very depressed frame of mind. His father had intimated that he was coming to tea. Lucius had invited Dizzy to meet him, hoping that his friend's pleasant flow of conversation would help out the entertainment, and prevent his own plentiful lack of cheerfulness from becoming too apparent; but Dizzy had not arrived yet. He devoutly hoped that nobody else would unexpectedly honour him with his society. But alas! an Eton friend, one year his junior, who was in for the entrance examination, took that untoward opportunity of paying him a visit. "There's such a rummy little devil up," he said in the course of conversation, "about sixty years old, with carrotty whiskers. It oughtn't to be allowed." The blow had fallen. Poor Lucius sat silent in untold misery, and just then in walked Mr. Binney. "My father," said the wretched boy. "Lord Blathgowrie." Lord Blathgowrie shook hands with Mr. Binney without visible embarrassment, and then, suddenly remembering a pressing engagement, went out to spread his extraordinary news. "A lord!" said little Mr. Binney with great satisfaction. "Well, there are a good many lords I could buy up. However, that seems a nice young fellow. I wonder how he got on with his Virgil paper. I must ask him to-morrow." Lucius groaned inwardly. "I shouldn't pal up to chaps like that, if I were you, father," he said. "I should keep as quiet as I could, or you'll make yourself and me look jolly ridiculous." "Allow me to tell you, sir," said Mr. Binney up in arms at once, "that no action I choose to take is likely to make either you or myself look ridiculous. And I object to being made the butt of such observations from my own son. It isn't the first time it has happened, and in order that it may be the last, I beg to tell you that it is my intention to knock ten pounds a year off your very handsome allowance for every speech of that sort that I am called upon to listen to." Lucius groaned again and passed his hand wearily across his brow, but made no verbal remonstrance to his father's harsh announcement, and just then the door of the house was heard to slam, and Dizzy tumbled noisily upstairs and into the room. "My father--Mr. Stubbs," said Lucius dejectedly. "How do you do, Mr. Binney," said the cheerful Dizzy. "Pleased to meet you. Lucy--I mean Lucius, told me you were thinking of giving us a turn up here. Not a bad place, is it? Better than Threadneedle Street, eh?" "I don't know very much about Threadneedle Street, Mr. Stubbs," said Mr. Binney, a little taken aback by Dizzy's extreme friendliness, "but this certainly is _not_ a bad place. Indeed it is a very good place. It is a noble place." "How did you get on with your papers?" inquired Dizzy, helping himself to a large slice of cake. "Pipped 'em all right, I hope." "I think I acquitted myself tolerably satisfactorily, thank you," answered Mr. Binney. "We were examined on the Acts of the Apostles this afternoon." "Rummy old boys, those Apostles," began Dizzy in a vein of reminiscent anecdote, but Mr. Binney interrupted him. "Mr. Stubbs," he said, "I am a man of religious views. I must beg you not to make light of sacred matters. You'll excuse my making the stipulation, but----" "Oh, not at all," said the unabashed Dizzy ambiguously, "don't mention it. I was only going to say that it seems a rummy thing--however, perhaps I'd better not. See the races yesterday?" "I did," said Mr. Binney, warming at once. "I never saw anything which pleased me better. What a thing it is to see a lot of young fellows going in for such a grand sport as that!" "It is," said Dizzy. "I'm a whale on sport. I ain't much of a hand in a boat myself, but put me on a horse and I'll undertake to----" "Tumble off," interpolated Lucius, who was in a state of irritation verging on desperation. "Lucy, you've got a fit of the green-eyed monster," said Dizzy. "You ride like a bag of potatoes yourself, and you're jealous of those who can beat you. Don't you pay any attention to him, Mr. Binney. You'll get to know him by-and-bye. Going to keep a horse up here?" "I hadn't thought of it," said Mr. Binney doubtfully. "I rather thought of devoting myself to rowing." "Capital thing," said Dizzy. "I knew a fellow who----" Dizzy's anecdote was so little to the point that it may be omitted. In later life he would probably become one of those old men who interrupt conversation with the dread opening, "I recollect upon one occasion," and sail off into interminable pointless reminiscence. But, at present, his absolute lack of self-consciousness and his flow of youthful good spirits made him very agreeable company, and when he left Lucius's rooms half-an-hour later, he had completely captivated Mr. Binney with his artless prattle. "That's a very nice young fellow," said Mr. Binney, when the door had closed on Dizzy's back. "If all your friends at Trinity are like that, Lucius----" "Stubbs isn't at Trinity," said Lucius, "he's at the Hall." "Really!" said Mr. Binney, much surprised, "I thought that Trinity men never associated on equal terms with men of other colleges." "That's one of Minshull's ridiculous ideas, I suppose," said Lucius. "It doesn't matter what college a fellow is at if he's a good chap, and there are plenty of good chaps in Cambridge outside Trinity, especially at the Hall." "But I should have expected a little more--what shall I say?--deference, in a man from another college." "Well, then, I'm afraid it's one of those expectations in which you'll be disappointed if you're really coming up here. Trinity's the best college in Cambridge--or Oxford either for that matter--but it isn't the only one, and nobody thinks it is unless it's fellows like Minshull, who are always running it down, although they would have given their ears to belong to it themselves." "I don't like the tone you take up about Minshull, Lucius," said Mr. Binney. "Minshull's a very good fellow, although he hasn't had the advantages that you and I have. I owe him a great deal, and I shan't forget it. Now I must go and look over the subjects for to-morrow's papers." CHAPTER VI LORD BLATHGOWRIE HAS SOMETHING TO SAY Poor Lucius went up to Cambridge for his second year with his allowance pared down to £360 a year, for, careful as he was, he had not been so successful as altogether to avoid hurting his father's susceptibilities; and with him went Mr. Binney, for eighteen months of hard toil had enabled him to pass the entrance examination, and he was now duly admitted a pensioner of Trinity. Lucius had been allotted rooms in college, while Mr. Binney inhabited one of the choice mansions in Jesus Lane. He had knocked off ten pounds from his son's allowance for suggesting a retired situation in the Trumpington Road. "I am determined to do the thing as well as my means will permit of," he had said. "If I can secure good rooms in college next year, I shall do so. Until then I shall take the best lodgings that are available." They parted at the railway station. "I suppose I shall see you some time to-morrow," said Mr. Binney, when he had collected his luggage and was just stepping into a fly. "I suppose so," said Lucius dejectedly, as he drove away. Lucius dined that night in hall, and sat in extreme misery while his friends aired their humour at his expense, for by this time the news of Mr. Binney's arrival had become public property. Their chaff was not ill-humoured, and if matters had stood as they evidently imagined, Lucius could have borne it. Elderly undergraduates are not altogether unknown at Cambridge, although they do not often appear at Trinity College; but they are usually careful to comport themselves with dignified reticence, and to keep very much in the background. A University degree is, as a rule, the sole end they have in view in putting themselves to school again, and they are very far from wishing to ape the manners and customs of the young men with whom they share the pursuit of that laudable object. Lucius had the mortification of feeling that if Mr. Binney had contented himself with working quietly for a degree, and living the unobtrusive life which befitted his years, the amused interest aroused by the event of father and son pursuing their studies at the same time at the same college would have worn itself out, and Mr. Binney might even have come to be considered in the light of a pleasant acquaintance by Lucius's friends. He knew quite well that his father would not be content with this humble role, and that the intermittent sniping of which he was now the object would develop into a regular fusillade of ridicule when Mr. Binney had had time to spread himself a bit and become more notorious. He went back to his solitary rooms after hall and set himself down to read. Poor boy, he was too dispirited to do anything else. He sported himself in with the half-formed intention of refusing admittance to his father if he should present himself. But up to ten o'clock, when the college gates are shut to outsiders, no one had attempted to invade his privacy. Soon afterwards he went to bed, having spent his first evening at Cambridge entirely in his own society. For two days he moped alone, keeping to his rooms as much as possible and only leaving the college to go down to the river, where his fame was steadily rising. His friends for the most part considerately kept out of his way, thinking that he might be engaged in looking after his freshman parent. But strangely enough he heard or saw nothing of Mr. Binney. He avoided places where he was likely to meet him, and so far his father had never once been to his rooms. On the third morning he determined to face the music. "If I'm to stop up here," he said to himself--"and I can't go down now I've got a chance of my Blue--I must make up my mind to get used to it. But it's enough to make a fellow take to drink, or work, or something." Then he put on his hat and went round to the "Pitt" Club. There was a group of men round the fire-place in the big room. "Halloa! here's Binney Minor," said one of them. "How's your major getting on, old man?" Then many agreeable pleasantries were fired off at him, while he sat on one of the long seats and pretended to read a paper. When it was found that the pleasantries did not amuse him, and he was taking his fate seriously, they ceased, and by-and-bye an exodus took place and he was left to himself. "I'm afraid poor old Lucy's papa is rather a trial to him," said one of his late tormentors as they walked up Jesus Lane in the sedate and easy manner affected by undergraduates who value their position. "What has he come up for, any way?" "To look after Lucy, I suppose," said another, "but I don't know why; _he's_ straight enough." "Have you seen the little beggar?" inquired Blathgowrie, who was one of the group. "He's one of the rummiest little beggars you ever saw; rather like an elderly jockey who's got into parliament. Can't think where Lucy gets his good looks from. His mother must have been a ripper." "I saw him on the river yesterday," said a rowing man; "he was coxing a First Trinity boat and shouting away as if he had been at it all his life. The crew looked frightened and the coach couldn't get a word in edgeways. I think that little man is going to afford us some amusement." "If he's going to play the fool," said the first man, "that's why Lucy looks so glum when he's chaffed, and I don't wonder at it. I must say it's beastly hard lines on him, and he's such a good chap. Binney major's the sort of governor one would like to keep in the background. Here's Dizzy." Dizzy was on his way to the "Pitt." When he got there he found Lucius sitting alone, looking the picture of misery. A few Bloods were talking blatantly round the fire, and some quiet members were trying to write letters or read the papers in other parts of the room. "Well, how has he been behaving?" asked Dizzy, sitting down by his friend. "I haven't seen him yet," said Lucius. "I can't think why." "Perhaps he means to behave decently and keep out of the way," suggested Dizzy. "Not he," answered Lucius. "There's something up." There was. When Lucius got back to his rooms he found a note on his table. "Dear Lucius," it ran, "Pray what is the meaning of your not coming to call on me? You know very well that I can't go to your rooms until you do, you being the senior man, and there are a lot of things I want to talk to you about. You will find yourself £10 poorer at the end of the year for this piece of impertinence, and let me advise you to be very careful how you behave. Though a freshman I am still your father. Come to tea this afternoon at five o'clock. I am not to be trifled with.--P.B." The miserable Lucius went to his father's rooms on his way up from the river. Mr. Binney had been on the river, too, and had not yet returned. Lucius had an opportunity of surveying his father's quarters. There was nothing to show they did not belong to the most callow freshman of eighteen. There were two large shields with the coats-of-arms of the University and Trinity College over the mantelpiece. There was a Trinity coat-of-arms on the coal scuttle, on the match-holders, the pipe-rack, and every article in the room that could reasonably bear it, as well as on every piece of crockery that was laid out on Mr. Binney's tea-table. The usual textbooks and note-books lay about. Lucius looked into the latter and found a feeble attempt at a caricature of a respected lecturer, signed P.B. On the mantelpiece were some printed cards and papers relating to certain small clubs and societies, of which the freshman seeks membership with much avidity, and resigns with equal enthusiasm when he has reached the dignity of his second year. On a chair lay Mr. Binney's cap and gown. To Lucius's horror, the stiffening of the cap had disappeared, and the gown had been cut short. These are the unfailing signs of the second-rate undergraduate who wishes to be taken for a sporting character. Some misguided but radically inoffensive freshmen fall under the influence of such ideals in their early days, and grow out of them afterwards. But surely Mr. Binney could not have made friends with the rowdies yet! He had hardly had time to make friends with anybody. Just then Mr. Binney himself came in. He was in his boating clothes, of which he was not a little proud. "Oh, so you've condescended to come at last, have you?" he said. "I'm very sorry, father," said poor Lucius. "I'd no idea you would stand on all that ceremony. I couldn't make out why you didn't turn up. I thought perhaps you had made up your mind that it would be better for us to take different lines." "Another ten pounds off," roared Mr. Binney, "you know what I said." "Oh, _damn_ it," said Lucius, losing patience. "I shan't have anything left at all soon. I'd better go down at once, and have done with it." "How dare you swear at me, sir?" cried Mr. Binney. "Well, isn't it enough to make a chap swear?" answered Lucius, almost crying. "I've had such a jolly time up here, and now I'm ashamed to show my face. And as if that wasn't enough you take money off me every time I open my mouth." Mr. Binney relented. He was fond of his son, and Lucius looked very unhappy. "I'll let you off this time," he said, "but don't let it occur again. Now, what I wanted to say was that I'm not getting on as I expected. Not a soul has called on me except some one who wanted a subscription for a missionary society. I was very pleased to give him a sovereign, of course, but I could hardly take his call as a friendly visit. I have picked up a few friends of my own year at hall and elsewhere, but that isn't what I want. I want to know the distinguished men. You know them. Why haven't you sent some of them to call on me?" "Look here, father," said Lucius. "It's no use going on like this. The people I know don't go in for all this 'calling' rot, and I'm not going to ask them to. If you _must_ know that particular lot, you'll meet some of them in my rooms occasionally, and if they take to you, well, you'll get to know some of them. But you must take your chance just like anybody else. It's no good pushing things." "Well, there's sense in that," said Mr. Binney. "You can have a little dinner in your rooms. I'll pay for it, and I daresay we shall be very good friends before the evening is out. I suppose you couldn't get Muttlebury up for it, could you? You said you knew him. I should like to meet Muttlebury." "No, I couldn't," said Lucius shortly. "Well, any blues will do. I should like to be able to tell Minshull I dined with a party of blues. He only knew one, and that very slightly--Widgeon, who put the hammer or something last year. He was at Peterhouse--Pothouse, I mean. By-the-bye, I suppose there's no harm in my looking up men of my own year, is there?" "I suppose not, not if you use your sense about it." "Now, what about the 'Pitt' Club? When is the election?" "I don't know. In about a fortnight I should think." "Is my name down for it?" "No." "And why not, pray?" "I've only been there once since I came up." "Put it down at once, then, and don't lose any more time about it. Minshull had never heard of the 'Pitt,' but I have learnt since I came up that all the best known people belong to it. And I should like to belong to the A.D.C. too." "I daresay I can manage that for you. I'm on the committee now, and we are always very kind; but, look here, father, there's not the slightest chance of your belonging to the 'Pitt' or the A.D.C. either if you don't keep yourself in the background at first. And whatever made you knock the stuffing out of your cap like that? It's only the rowdies whom nobody respectable has anything to do with who go in for that sort of thing." "Minshull told me that if you wore a new cap and gown everybody took you for a smug," said Mr. Binney. "Minshull's a fool," said Lucius, with withering scorn. "You'd better take my advice about things like that, not his. And I should buy myself a new cap if I were you." A few days after, Dizzy gave a dinner. Most of his guests had arrived and were discussing the vagaries of Mr. Binney, who by this time had become a public character, when Blathgowrie arrived in a state of some perturbation. "I say, you fellows," he said, as he came in. "This business will have to be stopped. I've had that little bantam in my rooms since seven o'clock. I'm not going to stand it." "What did he want?" "Said he hadn't seen me in hall, and wondered what had become of me--thought he'd pay me a friendly call." "What did you do?" "Well, I was civil for the sake of poor old Lucy. But I didn't get him out of the room for an hour, and he said he was coming again. Hang me if I ever saw such a pushing little scug." "Lucy ought to tell him to keep to himself." "Bless you, _he_ can't help it," said Dizzy. "He gets his screw docked every time he suggests such a thing." "Well, I call it a beastly shame. But if Lucius can't do it, somebody else must." "I'll do it," said Blathgowrie. "I'm not shy. He's bound to turn up again soon; said we were fellow freshmen, or some such rot, and ought to know one another better. He'll know _me_ better before I've done with him. Hush, here's Lucy." Mr. Binney was not elected to the "Pitt" Club, and Lucius had not been able to bring himself to propose his name for membership of the A.D.C., preferring to lose the £10 of income which his father knocked off for each rebuff, than to put his colleagues to the awkward necessity of either rejecting his nomination, or of electing his father to clubs where he was not wanted. Nor did his dinner bring about that measure of popularity which Mr. Binney had hoped for. Lucius asked four of his tried friends, who were very polite, very much bored, and retired early. Dizzy might have saved the situation, but Dizzy had gone up to town with an _exeat_. Mr. Binney had by this time joined the Union and spoken twice. He could talk of nothing else and looked forward with confidence to filling the President's chair. A few nights afterwards he again invaded Blathgowrie. It was about half-past nine, and that estimable nobleman had a select party of about twelve playing the unallowable game. There was an abashed silence when little Mr. Binney entered and flung his cap and gown on a chair. "Good evening, Mr. Binney," said Blathgowrie. "We are engaged in a quiet game of whist. Could you make it convenient to call on another occasion?" "Don't mention it, my lord; don't mention it," said Mr. Binney. "I'll make myself comfortable and look on. I should like to see whist played. It is a game I am unacquainted with, although I recollect when I was a young fellow Snap and Old Maid used to be favourite games in the family circle." "They're favourite games up here," said Blathgowrie, "and so are Hunt the Slipper and Puss in the Corner. We'll play Puss in the Corner when we've finished this, and you shall be poor pussy. What, not going yet, Astley!" But first one and then another of Blathgowrie's friends was afraid he must be going, and in ten minutes he was alone with Mr. Binney, putting up the cards with unimpaired cheerfulness. "I'm very sorry I've disturbed your game," said Mr. Binney, whom this wholesale exodus had considerably amazed. "Not at all, Mr. Binney, not at all. My friends are in the habit of retiring to rest early. They're all anxious to catch the worm to-morrow, you know." "Don't call me Mr. Binney," said Peter; "call me Binney. We're of the same standing, you know." "So we are, Binney," acquiesced Blathgowrie. "Well, Binney, how do you find yourself? Pretty well, thank you?" Mr. Binney began to grow suspicious. "I hope, sir, I'm not intruding on you," he began. "Well, Binney," said Blathgowrie, "to tell you the plain truth, you do intrude confoundedly." Mr. Binney started up out of his chair. "Pray sit down, Binney," said Blathgowrie. "I am commissioned by my friends and your son's--Lucy's, you know--to tell you we consider you're behaving in a devilish mean and shabby manner to him. He's done his best for you, you know, but to tell you the truth we don't care for you, Binney. You're not quite our sort, you know---a year or two older perhaps--and we really can't have you poking in your nose where you're not wanted. There are plenty of nice quiet Johnnies about who'll be very pleased to make your acquaintance, especially if you feed them well, but speaking for the unworthy people whom you honour with your attentions at present, I beg to inform you that they are declined with thanks." Mr. Binney arose in his wrath. He was somewhat violent and altogether incoherent. Blathgowrie handed him his cap and gown and opened the door for him. "Good-night, Binney," he said, "mind the step;" and Mr. Binney disappeared down the staircase. CHAPTER VII MR. BINNEY SPEAKS AT THE UNION AND MAKES A DISTINGUISHED ACQUAINTANCE Mr. Binney went out of Blathgowrie's lodgings and into the street in a white heat of indignation. His blood boiled within him at the indignity to which he had been subjected. Was it possible that he, Peter Binney, the founder of a great commercial house, the Bloomsbury ratepayer, the almost successful candidate for the London County Council, had been told in so many words by a mere slip of an impudent boy that his society was not wanted by him and his callow friends? What next! he wondered. As if he cared for their contemptible society! Pshaw! It was the other way about. If they had had the slightest idea how his name was respected in the City, they would have sung a _very_ different tune. He wouldn't have their acquaintance now, or join their precious clubs if the committee went down on their bended knees and begged him to do so. He flung into his rooms burning with anger against the whole insolent crew of them, and most of all against his son, Lucius, whom he unjustly accused of being the disloyal cause of his late reverse. "Ah, Binney, I thocht ye wouldn't be long, and I'd just wait for ye," said a voice with a strong Scotch accent, from the depths of Mr. Binney's armchair. "Oh, that you, M'Gee!" said Mr. Binney. "I'm pleased to see you. But you'll excuse me for being a little upset. I've just undergone a piece of monstrous impertinence from my Lord Blathgowrie, and I scarcely know how to contain my anger." "Toch!" exclaimed M'Gee. "What for do ye want to mix yourself up with such trash? I've come to talk to you about the Union. Sit down, man, and listen." M'Gee, like Mr. Binney, was a freshman, and like Mr. Binney again, had come up to Cambridge many years later than the average young man enters upon his University course. He was the son of a Highland gillie, and had succeeded with incredible difficulty, as far as money was concerned, in gaining a degree at a Scotch University. But that had not sufficed for him. He was ambitious, and extremely tenacious of ideas. He had early made up his mind to bring his brains to the market of Cambridge, and at Cambridge he accordingly found himself at the age of thirty-seven, with a scholarship at St. John's College, and nothing else upon which to support himself except his determination to succeed to the highest honours that Cambridge could afford. He had joined the Union with a shrewd and resolute eye to the President's chair, but the lighter social success which held such a charm from Mr. Binney's point of view he regarded with the most lofty scorn. Self-contained and self-reliant as he was, however, he was not entirely without a human weakness for sympathy and encouragement in his aims, and had fixed upon Mr. Binney, as one who shared with him some of the accidents of his position, with whom to indulge in the occasional luxury of discussing his ambitions. "I wouldn't give a thought to these young 'bloods,' as they call them," said M'Gee. "They'll be of no use to ye. They make a big splash while they are up here, but when they go down they're no better than dirt." Here M'Gee snapped a bony finger and thumb. "I'm no saying that I'd like to be nothing but a worker in Cambridge," he went on. "You keep to yourself for three years and you come out Senior Wrangler at the end of it, and they put your picture in the papers. And then you go down, and what glory do you get from it? There's aye one way of getting yourself known here, if you're a man of brains, and that's at the Union. Go round the rooms and look at the pictures of the Presidents from the beginning. Why, man, there's not a dozen of them that isn't known to the world at large. That's fame. And it's the sort of fame that's worth having. Colloguing wi' lords an' that is a puir thing to it." "You're right, M'Gee," cried Mr. Binney, springing up, "You're right. A lord! What's a lord and all his hangers-on? Froth! Dregs! Dirt! as you rightly remark. I won't have my boy associating with such." "Leave your boy alone," said M'Gee. "He is a boy, and does very well as he is. You and I are men, and we'll make use of this place which most of them don't know the value of. Study the questions of the day, give a lot of preparation to your speeches, and speak every time the house sits. Force 'em to take account of you and you'll come out top." "I will," said Mr. Binney, now greatly excited. "I _can_ come out top if I want to. I know I can. You and I will be carried down to posterity, M'Gee, as two of the greatest Presidents the Union has ever had. To-day's Monday. To-morrow I speak on the vaccination question. I don't take any interest in it, but I'll get the subject up thoroughly in the meantime, and my speech will surprise them." And so Mr. Binney changed his social aspirations, and wrote long letters to Mrs. Higginbotham describing the acclamations with which he was received when he rose to speak at the Union, and painting in vivid colours the honours paid to the occupant of the President's chair, that chair which had been filled by so many illustrious men. He and M'Gee spoke every Tuesday in that term. M'Gee was intolerably dogmatic, metaphysical and long-winded, always heard the secretary's bell ring before he had half finished his argument, and invariably emptied the house of all but the long-suffering officials whenever he rose to his feet. Mr. Binney as surely filled it. He was a wind-bag, but a wind-bag who delighted his audience in the same way as a monkey on an organ is a source of appreciation not so much for its innate humour as for the unstudied expression of its personality. It was quite true that Mr. Binney roused the applause of the assembly. The incipient statesmen lolling on the benches or writing notes on their knees or strolling up to have a word with the President in his seat of state, cheered him on, laughed uproariously at his witticisms as well as at his studied and serious periods, and could never have enough of him. It was a long time since any speaker at the Union had amused his audience so well, and he was in the seventh heaven of delight at his popularity until the elections for the officers at the end of the term, when both he and M'Gee stood for the committee, and appeared at the bottom of the list, M'Gee with thirty votes and Mr. Binney with six. This was a serious blow to him, and he began to realise that he had been looked upon as a buffoon. But before this other things had happened. Although debarred from the society of those with whom he had at first tried to ally himself, Mr. Binney had contracted many acquaintanceships with men of his own year and others who did not place the value of their friendship very high. The boys fresh from school who had come up at the same time as himself looked upon him as a great joke, ate his breakfasts and luncheons and occasional dinners, and asked him to their own in return. As he showed himself anxious to be considered one of themselves, they obliged him, with perhaps more familiarity and slappings on the back than they usually made use of to one another. But Mr. Binney enjoyed it and felt he was getting on famously. He greatly appreciated the tales of daring which freshmen love to tell one another, about exciting runs from avenging Proctors, and smart, one-sided conversations with Deans, in which the freshman is always represented as using such witty and convincing arguments that the Dean can only sit and listen, and is glad to get rid of him at last at any price if he will only allow the management of the college to remain in its present inefficient hands a little longer. Mr. Binney had not as yet emulated any of these deeds of daring, for he still looked upon the authorities with considerable awe, and was turning his attention for the most part towards getting his work ready for the first part of the Littlego and maintaining his reputation at the Union. But he thought them very fine for all that, and it was not long before he fell. Among his fellow-freshmen was one, Brandon, a Rugby football-player, who had once or twice played for the University. He was not a Blue yet, but he was the next best thing to it, and Mr. Binney cultivated his society in the intervals of his more serious pursuits. Brandon had a friend called Howden who was a Blue, a great, noisy, good-natured, ignorant ox, who was in constant danger of being sent down for his numerous breaches of discipline. Howden came into Brandon's rooms one morning to fish for a dinner, his affairs being in a chronic state of financial depression. He used no unnecessary finesse in stating his ends. "I've taken my name off hall to-night," he said, "and don't know where to feed. Got anything going, Brandy?" "I'm going to dine with Binney," said Brandon. "You'd better come too." "What! that stuck-up ass!" said Howden. "Didn't know you knew him. No, thanks. I don't mix with Bloods." "Oh, I don't mean Lucy Binney," said Brandon, "I don't know him. The bantam's my pal." "What! that little old man!" exclaimed Howden. "Whatever do you want to go and dine with him for? He'll report you to the dons if you make a row, and I don't care for dining where I can't enjoy myself." "My dear chap," said Brandon, "you can make as much row as you like. He'll be all the better pleased. He's a tremendous little sportsman. He gives you the best fizz and as much as you want of it." "The deuce he does! All right, I'll come, Brandy. I don't know him. I suppose that don't matter." "Not a bit," said Brandon. "I'll make that all right. 19A Jesus Lane, eight o'clock." "Right you are," said Howden. "Don't forget. I shall turn up." Mr. Binney was as pleased as Punch when he learnt that he was at last going to be honoured by the company of a Blue, and made an excuse to write a note to Minshull in which he casually mentioned that he was expecting Howden, "who plays back for the 'Varsity," to dinner that night. Howden came and made himself agreeable to his host. Mr. Binney was delighted to find that such a great man was not inclined to stand on any ceremony. The rest of the party were freshmen, who were also inclined to treat the great Howden with deference, but in the course of the dinner the deference vanished, and the company got hilarious and on perfectly good terms with one another. After dinner they "ragged," and played a little game of "Soccer" with a sofa cushion, in the course of which Mr. Binney got the wind knocked out of his body, and was not sorry when his landlord came up to inform him that the chandelier in the room below had fallen down. "Let's go round and rag old Tubby Vane," said Howden. Vane was another football Blue, and lived in college. So the party moved round in a body to the New Court. Vane kept on the third floor, and was out, so his visitors were baffled for the moment. "There's old Miniken keeps below," said Mr. Binney, who was enjoying himself to the full in this distinguished company. "Let's go and rag _him_." Miniken was a Union light, a quiet reading man, when he was not thundering forth Radical views in the debates. Mr. Binney did not know him very well, but wished to display the brilliant Howden to his astonished gaze. "All right," said Howden. "Never heard of him, but I daresay he keeps very good whisky. Come on." Miniken's oak was sported. "He's skulking," said Howden. "Let's kick his oak in." "Hi! Miniken! Come out of that, you old beggar," yelled Mr. Binney; but all was silence. Howden took a short run and kicked in a panel. Mr. Binney took a short run at the same panel, and got his foot wedged. When he had been extricated with unnecessary violence by his companions, a combined assault was made upon the oak, which presently gave way. The rooms were empty. Howden turned up the lights and made a search for something to drink, which was unsuccessful, as Miniken was a teetotaller. Then they "made hay" of his rooms, and, after completely changing their aspect, left, to avoid an interview with a porter who was coming up the staircase to see what the disturbance was about. Mr. Binney never doubted but that Miniken would be quite as amused as themselves when he came back, and not a little flattered at receiving a visit from the august Howden, if he found out who was responsible for the altered appearance of his apartments. When Miniken did return he was naturally annoyed at the discovery of what had taken place. He obtained from the porter the names of his invaders, and sat down and wrote a letter of complaint to the Senior Dean. Then he put his room to rights and went to bed. In the meantime Mr. Binney went home, greatly pleased with his evening's entertainment. Before retiring to rest he wrote a full account of it to Mrs. Higginbotham, and expatiated on the popularity that must accrue to him from having made a friend of Howden, who, before parting from him, had assured him that he was one of the best fellows he had ever met, and that he would stick by him and come and dine with him whenever he liked. The next day Mr. Binney was requested to call on the Junior Dean at a specified hour. He did so with some inward trepidation, and waited in the ante-room where a secretary was at work, who informed him that the Dean was engaged, but would see him in a few minutes. Presently steps were heard on the staircase, and to his surprise Lucius entered the room. "Halloa! you hauled too?" said the little man with a sheepish grin. "What for?" "I don't know. Chapels, I suppose," said Lucius, who had heard of his father's escapade, and whose face was covered with a deep blush. "I hope we shan't get gated," said Mr. Binney. "What are you going to say to the old chap?" Before Lucius had time to reply the Dean's door opened, and Mr. Binney was summoned into the presence of the "old chap," who had been in frocks when "Binney's Food for Poultry" was first becoming known. "Sit down, Mr. Binney," said the Dean, who appeared unaccountably nervous. "I see you have not kept the requisite number of chapels since the beginning of term. Is there any reason for that? I see by my list that you have not been once to chapel on a Sunday." Mr. Binney breathed a sigh of relief and drew himself up. "I prefer to attend my own place of worship on the Sabbath," he said, twisting his cap by the tassel. "Ah! you are perhaps a Nonconformist," said the Dean. "I am," said Mr. Binney; "and I'm not ashamed of it." "No reason to be, Mr. Binney," said the Dean. "I needn't trouble you any more on that score then," and he made a pencil note on the paper before him. "But there is another matter," he went on, "which, I confess, it surprises me to have to bring before a man of your--er--standing. I understand that you and some others broke in the door of Mr. Miniken's rooms last night, and took most unwarrantable liberties with his furniture. I could hardly believe it, but I am assured that it is so." "It was a mere freak, sir," said Mr. Binney boldly. "I went round with Howden--the football Blue----" "You needn't bring in anybody else's name," said the Dean. "Well, we went round to call on--on another football Blue, but he was out, and as old Miniken, who is a friend of mine, happened to live below him, I said, 'Let's go and rouse him up.' He was sported, so we kicked in his oak for a lark. We didn't mean any harm. Of course, I'm quite willing to pay for repairing the door." The Dean passed his hand over his mouth. "That you will have to do, of course, you and the others between you," he said. "But I may as well tell you, Mr. Binney, that we don't recognise such larks here. If you want to behave like a troublesome boy, you had better go somewhere else. You are gated at eight for a fortnight, and don't let me hear of any such piece of folly again, or you won't get off so easily." Mr. Binney took himself off feeling rather ashamed, but still a little pleased with himself. "Gated at eight for a fortnight," he said, as he joined his son in the ante-room, where Blathgowrie had also made his appearance. "Serve you right, you little ass," said Blathgowrie as Lucius entered the presence chamber. "Now run along and play." "You were not with your father, I think, when the door in the New Court was broken in?" said the Dean. "No, I wasn't," said Lucius shortly, his face a deep red. The Dean threw a quick glance at him. "Is your father--?" he began, and then stopped. "Off his head?" said Lucius. "I don't know. I never thought he was until he came up here. I know _I_ shall be, pretty soon, if this goes on." "I didn't mean that," said the Dean, "I was going to ask if he intended to stop here until he takes a degree." "I suppose so, if he isn't sent down first," said Lucius bitterly. The Dean could not disguise a smile. "Don't get downhearted about it, Binney," he said kindly, "we've all got our little trials to bear. One of mine is having continually to ask undergraduates why they don't come to chapel. I see you haven't kept a single chapel this term. How is that?" "I was afraid I might meet my father," said Lucius. The Dean smiled again. "Your father has conscientious objections to joining in our services," he said, "and I'm afraid I couldn't accept that as an excuse in any case. Have you been anywhere instead?" "I go to King's sometimes." "Well, I think you had better come to Trinity sometimes too in the future. Good-night, Binney." His introduction to Howden was the beginning of Mr. Binney's fall from steadiness. He soon made the acquaintance of other athletes of similar character to Howden, and was very proud of being seen about with them. These accommodating gentlemen had no sort of objection to his being constantly in their company, so long as he fed them generously and put no check on their boisterous behaviour when he was with them. And Mr. Binney was far from wishing to do this. The new cap which he had bought under Lucius's directions was soon exchanged for a very old and battered one. Howden and all his friends were rowdies, and Mr. Binney in his mild way became a rowdy too. One Tuesday evening towards the end of the term, Lucius found himself in the gallery at the Union listening to a debate on the motion: "That this house views with alarm the growing tyranny of University officials," and sat dejectedly through an uproariously applauded speech from his father, in the course of which Mr. Binney inquired "why a fellow shouldn't smoke in cap and gown if he wanted to," and was twice called to order for alluding to "the progginses." "Come out of this; it makes me sick," he said to his companion. They went out and strolled slowly down Jesus Lane to Edwards's billiard rooms. Opposite the "Pitt," Mr. Binney passed them with two of his noisy friends, carrying his gown on his arm. He did not notice them, nor a Proctor who was coming along Park Street, and Lucius had the gratification of seeing his father stopped at the corner, and peremptorily ordered to put on his gown by the Proctor. Mr. Binney did as he was told, taking off his gown again when the Proctor had turned his back, and was let into his lodgings feeling himself the very devil of a fellow. After his first escapade with Howden, Mr. Binney was a little upset by a letter he received from Mrs. Higginbotham in answer to the one in which he had given her an account of the proceedings. "You must not let yourself be led away by your high spirits," wrote Mrs. Higginbotham, "and pray be careful that these new grand young friends you have made do not lead you astray. I should like you to keep a good character with your masters and bring home a good report at the end of the term. My dear father often used to say that he would rather my brothers won the conduct prize at school than any other, and they always did so, which pleased my father very much until he discovered that they used to buy the prizes themselves out of their very liberal allowance of pocket money and write their master's name in them, which was not right, and earned them a whipping from Mr. Wilkinson who was at that time the head of the Lewisham Academy for Young Gentlemen, where they were educated, as well as another from my father, which they told me was far the worse of the two, as I can quite credit, because my dear father, who made his own way in the world, had been employed in early life in a furniture warehouse, and among his duties was that of beating carpets." Mr. Binney wrote in answer that little occurrences such as the one in which he had taken part were common in Cambridge and increased the fame of those who inaugurated them, and rebuked Mrs. Higginbotham for talking of his "masters." "The 'Varsity is not a school, my dear Martha," wrote Mr. Binney, "and we are allowed a great deal of freedom to amuse ourselves as we please." Mr. Binney and Lucius now saw very little of one another, but before Mr. Binney had allied himself with Howden and his crew, Lucius had paid him a visit one afternoon and found a young man with a long, solemn face not unlike Minshull's sitting on Mr. Binney's sofa. "Ah, Lucius," said Mr. Binney, "I'm glad you have come. This is your mother's cousin, John Jermyn, whose father you may have heard me speak of as a respected clergyman in Norfolk. John tells me he has gained a scholarship at Queens' and I am very glad to hear it--very glad. It is most laudable of him. We must go and call on him when we have time. Let me see, where is Queens'? That little college at the end of the Backs with a wooden bridge, isn't it? Quite so. A very nice little college indeed. I should have liked to have been at Queens' myself if I hadn't been at Trinity. Pity you couldn't come to Trinity, John. However, we can't all be at the best college, can we?" After a little more patronage from his uncle, John Jermyn took his leave. "You must look that young fellow up, Lucius," said Mr. Binney, "and he tells me his sister Elizabeth is at Girton. They both came up this term. A clever family. You must go and call on her too--I believe it's allowed--I don't care about going out there myself. Their mother was a great friend of your dear mother's when they were girls together. We never saw much of her after she was married, for her husband held his head high, although I have never heard that he was at Trinity or any good college as a young man. It is our turn to hold our heads high now, but you must certainly call on John and Elizabeth, and show them that we are not too proud to recognise our relations." Lucius did call on John Jermyn soon afterwards and asked him to lunch. The two young men found they had very little in common and the acquaintanceship dropped. CHAPTER VIII THE NEWNHAM GIRL The morning hours in Cambridge are for books, the afternoon for exercise, and the evening for social intercourse. So, at least, the majority of the undergraduate members of the University regard them, and sometimes throw in an extra hour or two of work between tea and dinner. Of course there are those who work all the evening as well as all the morning, and there are others who do not work at all; but the morning for lectures and books is a general rule, and one that has few exceptions, however squeezed up the morning may be between late breakfast and early luncheon. If you go into the Great Court of Trinity, let us say about ten minutes to eleven in the morning, you will find it, comparatively speaking, deserted. Quite deserted it never is, unless in the dead hours of night, and not always then; but now its chief occupants appear to be the bed-makers, who empty their pails down the gratings, or stand for a few minutes' gossip by their respective staircases. Every now and then an idler passes through in a leisurely manner, or a don scurries across the grass in a terrible hurry. White-aproned cooks from the college kitchens collect plate and crockery from the various gyp-rooms and carry them away in green boxes balanced on their heads. Tradesmen's boys, their baskets on their arms, pass from one staircase to another, quite unawed by their surroundings, whistling as if their errands were taking them down a street of numbered houses instead of to the studious rooms of a venerable college, for centuries devoted to learning. But of the undergraduate life which is so busy in the courts of a college at other times of the day there is very little, for most undergraduates are listening to lecturers or coaches, or reading in their own rooms. But the hour strikes and everything is changed. Men in gowns of blue or black, with note-books under their arms, come pouring out of the lecture-rooms into the court. Interspersed with them are the lecturers, laden with books, their long gowns and ribbons flying; and most curious of all, little groups of girls stand about the court waiting until it is time for another lecturer to appear and dart hurriedly into the room where his wisdom is to keep them entranced for the next hour. How horrified our grandfathers would have been could they have pictured girls and men sitting in the same lecture-room to-day, and how incredulous, could they have been told what a very little difference such an unforeseen arrangement would make in the daily life of their colleges. For the women are already in Cambridge. They have their own colleges, and if they have not yet their own lecturers, they make very good use of ours. And, strange to say, nobody takes much notice of them, or realises that they are there at all, except when they form their little groups round the college doorways, or when their names are read out before those of the men in the Senate House, or when they want something which Cambridge with all its chivalry is not quite prepared to give them. One such little group of girls was standing by the Trinity Chapel one bright November morning in the first term of Lucius's second year, waiting for the learned gentleman who was to lecture to them during the next hour on some subject connected with the Classical Tripos. The learned gentleman was a little late and all the other lecturers had by this time penned their flocks and were busily engaged in feeding, and in some cases shearing them. The men who were booked for the same lecture as the girls were standing in twos and threes a little distance away, or strolling up and down the flagged pathways. At ten minutes past the hour the lecturer was seen approaching at a hurried pace from the direction of Neville's Court, and a minute later, girls, men, and lecturer had disappeared, and the Great Court had settled down again to its normal morning condition of dignified calm. One of the girls was conspicuously attractive. She wore a neat costume of blue serge and a hat that showed up the gold of her pretty head. Her eyes were blue and innocent, her little nose had a mischievous tilt to it, and her mouth was like Cupid's bow. These last named attractions were not visible to Lucius Binney, who sat at the corner of a desk a few rows behind her; but he had a good view of the soft curves of a delicate tinted cheek, and a little shell-like ear perched coquettishly underneath the wavy brown hair, and, to do him justice, these beauties were not unappreciated by him, for he paid a good deal more attention to them than to the dulcet tones of the learned lecturer. It was now about the middle of the Michaelmas term, and Lucius had already sat in the same corner and looked at the same girl three times a week since the beginning of term, eleven times in all, and each time he looked his sense of the beautiful was more satisfied than before. Besides minor varieties the girl sometimes wore another costume of grey-green cloth and a felt hat to match, with a woodcock's tip in it. Lucius was like the lover in Tennyson's poem who speaks of his lady's dresses:-- "Now I know her but in two, Nor can pronounce upon it, If one should ask me whether The habit, hat and feather, Or the frock and gipsy bonnet Be the neater and completer; For nothing could be sweeter Than maiden Maud in either." He sometimes spoke of her to Dizzy, who attended the same lecture, and whose admiration of the girl was æsthetically great, but had not succeeded in penetrating his feelings. These two would hang about the court, chatting unconcernedly together, while she went out through the Great Gate with her companions. After the first week, when Lucius's appreciation of her charms had begun to bite a little, she sometimes gave him the merest glance out of the corners of her blue eyes as she passed him. There seemed to be a trace of amusement lurking in the glance, and Lucius understood that his admiration, although by no means obtrusive, had been observed--and dared he hope in some measure accepted?--by its object. "Oh, Dizzy, old man, she really _is_--that girl!" sighed Lucius, after silently watching the blue serge coat and skirt and the fair hair under the little hat disappear round the corner. "She really _is_--" What she really was did not transpire, but Dizzy quite understood and agreed. "She's a topper," said Dizzy. "I can't say fairer than that. She's a topper." "Have you noticed those little fluffy curls on her neck?" inquired Lucius. "With most girls they stick out straight and look as if they ought to be tucked in somewhere. But hers don't." "Why don't you take a snap-shot at them with a Kodak in the lecture-room?" suggested Dizzy. Lucius did buy a Kodak after this, and stayed away from the charmed lecture-room one morning with a heavy heart, in order to take photographs of the girl as she went through the court to and from the lecture. He ensconced himself in a friend's rooms on the kitchen staircase, the nearest position he could gain, for he did not want her to see him standing in the court; but after pressing the button feverishly six or eight times, and waiting impatiently for three weeks until the other people had done the rest, he was rewarded with several curious pictures of fog effects, only one of which showed a scene which could be recognised as the Great Court, with a few dark little spots some miles away, which Lucius interpreted as the girl and her companions leaving the college, but did not gain much satisfaction from the possession of them even with the help of a magnifying glass. The girl was a Newnhamite (hideous word!). Lucius and Dizzy knew that much, though they could not discover her name. She must have known theirs, for the lecturer was in the habit of calling them over after each lecture. Unfortunately he omitted to do so in the case of the lady students. "It's just my luck, you know," said Lucius disconsolately. "I've got a cousin of sorts at Girton. I ought to have looked her up before now--I promised the governor I would--and I'd have done it pretty quick, you bet, if she had had the sense to go to the other place." "What is she like?" asked Dizzy. "I don't know. I've never seen her. She is a sister of my cousin at Queens'." "Oh, I should look her up if I were you. She may be pretty," said Dizzy. "Have you seen my cousin at Queens'?" Dizzy had, and acknowledged that the inferences were not encouraging. "Still there's no telling," he said. "She may be a regular topper." "Her father's a country parson," said Lucius, "and she has never been anywhere. I don't see the fun of tramping out to Girton to see a fat girl with spectacles." "And a space between her belt and the top of her skirt with hooks and eyes showing," added Dizzy. "No, I agree with you it isn't good enough, although, of course, she may be a topper, you can't tell." Lucius did bicycle out to Girton before the end of the term along a straight and appallingly hideous road, only to find Miss Jermyn "not at home" at the end of it, and then dismissed his cousin Elizabeth and Girton College from his mind, and indulged himself in roseate dreams of the Newnham girl instead. Although he was constantly plunged in shame at the behaviour of his father, and was gradually growing poorer and poorer as time went on, owing to Mr. Binney's relentless views on the subject of filial conduct, his first term at Cambridge in the companionship of his father was not altogether an unhappy one. At the end of it Mr. Binney went in for the first part of his Little-go and failed ignominiously, for his work had greatly deteriorated since he had been admitted to the friendship of Howden and the rest. But the disquieting news did not reach him until he had left Cambridge at the beginning of the Christmas vacation, and that blow was not added to the one caused by his failure at the Union, and another which befel him at the end of term in the shape of an interview with his Tutor. Mr. Rimington looked grave as Mr. Binney entered his presence, and shook hands with him without his usual smile. "Sit down, please, Mr. Binney," he said. "I didn't send for you when I heard about that foolish affair in Mr. Miniken's rooms, because I thought you must have taken part in it against your will, and I couldn't but believe that nothing of the sort would happen again. But I learn, to my surprise, that you seem to have made a--a specialty of that sort of behaviour, and however unpleasant the duty may be, I must remonstrate seriously with you on the course you have adopted here." Mr. Binney's mouth was dry. Mr. Rimington's tone was more conciliatory than that of the Junior Dean, but the latter, after his first few words, had treated him just like any other undergraduate, while Mr. Rimington addressed him as a middle-aged gentleman who had been making a fool of himself; and Mr. Binney disliked this above all things. Mr. Rimington paused, and Mr. Binney felt he was expected to speak. "I was gated for that affair of Miniken's, sir," he said with a gulp, "and the subject ought to be at an end. It was foolish, perhaps, but it was all done in good part, and I had no idea the man would make such a fuss about it. Since then I am not aware of having done anything to bring my conduct under the notice of the officials of the college." Mr. Rimington heard him out in grave silence. "You have done nothing that has actually had to be punished," he said, "but if you imagine, Mr. Binney, that your conduct has not come very seriously under the notice of the officials of the college, you are mistaken. Behaviour that would not call for much remark from a boy of eighteen or nineteen is a different matter in a man of your age. For one thing it is demoralising in the extreme to the undergraduates with whom you associate. It is a very disagreeable task to have to point this out to you, and I must say that it surprises me exceedingly that there should be any necessity for my having to do so." He paused so as to give Mr. Binney a chance of speaking, who, however, took no advantage of his opportunity, but sat gazing on the carpet. His attitude seemed to show that he was taking his Tutor's remonstrances to heart, but a slight frown on his brow and the set of his mouth belied that assumption. "Have you anything to say, Mr. Binney?" asked the Tutor. "I should like to hear what _you_ have got to say first, sir," said Mr. Binney. "Then I will give utterance to my opinions." "Very well," said Mr. Rimington. "Then I had better say what I have got to say in as few words and as strongly as possible. When we talked over your coming up here as an undergraduate in the spring, I pointed out that it would hardly be fair to your son to be under your constant supervision, and I pointed out other reasons why I thought you should reconsider your decision. You did not agree with me, and the objections were not strong enough to induce the college to refuse your application when you persisted in making it. No man in his senses could have foreseen that at the end of your first term, your son, who has been here over a year, should bear a high character in the college, while you, his father, should be giving us a great deal of trouble in matters of conduct. If that could have been foreseen I need scarcely say that we should not have admitted you. "Now, look here, Mr. Rimington," said Mr. Binney, with his most uncompromising air. "I take great objection to your manner of speaking to me. My son I refuse to discuss. As far as I myself am concerned, you have acknowledged that with one exception, for which I have paid the appointed penalty, my conduct has not been such as to have called for any special remark, supposing I had been of the age of the ordinary undergraduate with whom you have to deal. I take my stand on that statement. These references to my age are offensive to me. I am here in the position of an ordinary undergraduate, and I demand fair treatment as such. That puts the matter in a nutshell." Mr. Rimington kept his temper. "You seem to forget, Mr. Binney," he said quietly, "that no ordinary undergraduate would be permitted to speak to me in those terms. You take advantage of your age, which I think is about the same as mine, to address me as an equal, but wish it to be ignored entirely in my estimation of your behaviour. That, of course, is an unreasonable demand, and one that I cannot entertain. I sent for you to remonstrate with you on the course that you have seen fit to adopt. But as you have taken my remonstrance so badly, I must point out to you that my powers go far beyond a mere remonstrance, and if you are incapable of seeing yourself in the wrong and mending your ways, the college will have to think very seriously of asking you to take your name off the books." "Then, sir," said Mr. Binney, now very angry, "I have to inform you that I shall not comply with the request of the college. I am here, and here I shall remain. The treatment I have received I consider infamous. I demand to be let alone. I shall keep on the right side of the law in the future, as I have done in the past, and I challenge--I _dare_ the college to touch me. Let me remind you, Mr. Rimington, that this University has been thrown open--yes, _open_, sir. The old iniquitous Test Acts have been done away. One man has as much right here as another. If I am interfered with further, I will raise such a storm throughout the country, that not only Trinity College but Cambridge University shall tremble in its shoes. I will wish you good-morning, sir; and let me advise you to take my words to heart," and with this Mr. Binney took himself out of his Tutor's rooms, and went straight round to the Union to write a fiery letter of indignation to the _Daily Chronicle_, unmasking the unwarrantable interference with the liberties of the subject practised by the authorities of a "well-known college in a well-known University." His letter was not inserted. So the storm he had threatened to raise delayed its raging for the present. After his departure, Mr. Rimington pondered for some time on his course of action, and then wrote the following letter:-- "DEAR MR. BINNEY,--I enclose the _exeat_ which you will require in order to enable you to leave Cambridge for the Christmas vacation. I have dated it for to-morrow. You will, I think, on consideration regret your manner towards me in our conversation of this morning, and I shall be glad to receive any expressions of regret you may feel inclined to make. I must also repeat my statement that it is subversive of all discipline in the college that a gentleman in your peculiar position should constitute himself a leader in disorderly behaviour, and warn you that if such behaviour is persisted in you will not be allowed to remain here.--Yours sincerely, "ROBERT RIMINGTON." "Let 'em try to remove me, that's all," said Mr. Binney, when he received this very moderate communication. "They'll be sorry for it all their lives. _Exeat_ dated for to-morrow! What does he mean? I don't want to go down to-morrow. A piece of impertinence! I shan't go." But on consideration Mr. Binney did go down on the appointed day, and having arrived at a more reasonable frame of mind after a few days' residence in Russell Square, wrote to Mr. Rimington that he regretted that he had been led in the heat of the moment to express himself in a way he could not justify, and that, while he still stood his stand on a position which, he thought, would prove to be unassailable, there was no reason why he and Mr. Rimington should not agree to differ in a perfectly friendly and gentlemanly way. CHAPTER IX ME. BINNEY GIVES A DINNER AND RECEIVES A REBUFF Mr. Binney took advantage of his unexpectedly early arrival in town for the Christmas vacation to pay a surprise visit to Mrs. Higginbotham. He found that good lady seated by her drawing-room fire as on the occasion of that momentous visit with the account of which this history opens. With the glad cry "Peter!" "Martha!" these two ardent souls were locked in a close embrace, which afforded great gratification to themselves, and not a little to the parlour-maid, who had delayed her exit in order to satisfy herself as to the warmth of their greeting. "My dear Peter," said Mrs. Higginbotham, "I did not expect to see you for another two days at least. How is it you have managed to come home for your holidays so early?" "We don't have holidays at Cambridge, Martha," said Mr. Binney; "we call them vacations. And of course we can come away when we like--that is if the dons will let us." "Well, it is a very agreeable surprise to see you, Peter," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "But how you have altered! Why, you have cut off your beautiful whiskers!" "Yes," said Mr. Binney. "Fellows don't wear whiskers at Cambridge. It is considered old-fashioned. How do you like the change, Martha?" "I don't know," said Mrs. Higginbotham, doubtfully. "But you should have asked _my_ leave first, you know, Peter, before taking a step like that," she added, archly. Mr. Binney enjoyed this. He became facetious, affected to dig Mrs. Higginbotham in the ribs, and jocularly cried, "Oh! you saucy little skipper!" Mrs. Higginbotham was scandalised. "Peter!" she exclaimed, "surely you forget yourself." "Pooh! Martha," said Mr. Binney, "don't be old-fashioned. That's the way young men go on now-a-days." "Is it?" said Mrs. Higginbotham, only half reassured. "I don't think I much like it. It isn't respectful. But I'm so pleased to see you back, Peter, that I don't mind _how_ you go on. And you certainly do look younger, somehow--I suppose it is from cutting off your whiskers. But do you know I think it makes you look _smaller_ too." "Ah!" said Peter, "I used to be sorry I was rather short. I'm not now. It's a distinct score. I've got a great piece of news for you, Martha. I'm going to steer the first Lent boat next term, if all goes well. The first boat captain told me the other day that I was the most useful man they'd got, if I didn't play the fool and kept my head; he said if I steered well in the Lents I should probably steer the first boat in the Mays; and that means, Martha, that next year I shall very likely be cox of the 'Varsity and get my Blue. Think of that, now!" "Lor!" said Mrs. Higginbotham, "And very nice too, I'm sure. But why are you wearing a tie with the Oxford colours instead of the Cambridge?" "Oh dear! Martha!" exclaimed Peter with some irritation. "Will you _never_ understand these things? These are the First Trinity colours. Nobody can wear the Cambridge colours unless he's a Blue. And I'm not a Blue yet." "Aren't you?" said Mrs. Higginbotham. "Well, never mind, I'm sure you will be some day if you do your lessons--I mean your work well, and satisfy the Professors. And now, Peter, there is one little thing that I wish to speak to you about. That time you got into trouble. I was very grieved to hear about that. My poor dear father always used to say----" "Oh, bother your father, Martha!" exclaimed Peter. "What did _he_ know about life at the 'Varsity? I told you in my letter that nobody at Cambridge thinks anything of a lark like that except the fusty old dons--and who cares for what _they_ think?" "It isn't polite of you to say, 'bother my father,' Peter," rejoined Mrs. Higginbotham with some warmth. "He was a very good father to me, and I never gave him a moment's trouble till the day of his death. I did think that after the lesson you had received--being locked into your bedroom every night at eight o'clock as I gathered from your letter--that you would have seen the folly of such behaviour. But I am sorry to see from this paper which you sent me the other day, that this is not the case." Mrs. Higginbotham took up from the table at her side one of those ephemeral journals which come and go at the Universities with almost as much frequency as the successive generations of undergraduates who produce them. This one was called _The New Court Chronicle_, and had been started by one of Mr. Binney's Rugby football acquaintances. In it was a weekly letter in imitation of those that appear in some of the London Society papers, and one paragraph ran as follows:-- "Millie has come up here for a week to see something of her younger brother, Arthur, who has entered at Trinity, and is quite a _persona grata_ with the 'smart' set at that most _chic_ of all the colleges. He took his brother-in-law to a dinner at Mr. 'Peter' Binney's rooms one night, and Sir George came away quite charmed with the _verve_ and _élan_ of his diminutive host. Sir George says that there was not so much wine drunk as in his days at Cambridge, but what there was, was of excellent quality and seemed to _go further_. Little Mr. Binney insisted on making a speech, and caused uproarious merriment by remarking that he _saw double_ the number of friends he had invited, but he was pleased to welcome them all, and as many more of the same sort as liked to come. Owing to the sultriness of the weather, Mr. Binney was unfortunately seized with a slight indisposition before the party broke up, but he was comfortably settled in bed by his guests before they left, and Millie met him in Jesus Lane the next morning looking as sprightly as ever, and had a short conversation with him, in which he humorously remarked that he had never turned his back upon don or devil yet." Mrs. Higginbotham opened the paper and pointed to this paragraph. "It was indeed a grief to me to read that, Peter," she said, "and how you could send it me of your own accord passes my comprehension. Inattention to study I can overlook, and thoughtless levity of conduct I can pardon--but _drunkenness_! Oh, Peter, I never thought it would come to _that_." Mr. Binney had been getting very red during the passing of this exordium on his conduct. "Pooh, Martha!" he burst out at last. "How could I have known that you would take it seriously. You don't think all that rubbish is true, do you? It is all made up and put in for a lark. I sent it to you because--well, because I thought it would please you to see how popular and well-known I have become in Cambridge. If you don't like it, throw it in the fire." "But if it is not true, Peter," said Mrs. Higginbotham--"and I'm sure I'm very much relieved to hear that it is not--why do you allow such things to be put into a paper? It distinctly says you 'saw double,' and I have always understood that to be an unfailing sign of--of _tipsiness_. I call it disgraceful taking away a gentleman's character like that. Supposing it should come round to Dr. Toller's ears, or some others of the congregation? And you a deacon, too, and so much looked up to." "Dr. Toller!" echoed Mr. Binney with much scorn. "What do I care for Dr. Toller? _He's_ not a 'Varsity man; he doesn't understand these things." "He has got a University degree," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "Indeed, _two_ degrees. He is always put in the bills as Rev. Samuel Toller, B.A., D.D." "That's nothing," said Mr. Binney. "He wasn't at Oxford or Cambridge. The rest don't count." "Oh, don't they! I didn't know," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "But, at any rate, I shouldn't allow those things to be said of you, Peter, especially as they are not true. It might get about, and I shouldn't like that. Now, tell me about some of your speeches at the Young Men's Christian Association. I am so glad you----" "The Union, Martha! The Union!" shouted Mr. Binney, annoyed beyond bounds at Mrs. Higginbotham's consistent inability to grasp the true inwardness of University life. "Well, the Union then," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "It's the same thing, isn't it?" "No, it's _not_ the same thing," said Mr. Binney, and then he calmed down and gave Mrs. Higginbotham a full and true account of the building up of his forensic ambitions, and their sad and disastrous downfall. Mrs. Higginbotham was full of sympathy and womanly consolation. "Ah, Martha," said Mr. Binney at last, "what a treasure I have gained in your love! My barque will never suffer shipwreck so long as the haven of your true woman's breast is open to it." "I trust not," said Mrs. Higginbotham. "And now let us have tea up. I expect Annie will have toasted some muffins." Lucius arrived home the next afternoon, and brought Dizzy with him for a few days. The point of view from which he had hitherto regarded his father had been so rudely altered by Mr. Binney's behaviour during his first term at Cambridge that Lucius had been unable to face the ordeal of the first few days alone with him in Russell Square. "You know what the governor is, Dizzy," he had said. "It won't be so bad if you are here for a bit, and we can have a good time. I've got _some_ money left, although my allowance has been getting smaller and smaller ever since I came up to Cambridge. We needn't be at home more than we like, and we can go about a bit and see plays." "I should like to come, old man," said Dizzy. "I've got a bit of splosh laid by, too. I'm an economical beggar and I've let my bills stand over till next term. We'll have a rare old time. I suppose your governor won't want to go about with us, will he?" "I shouldn't be surprised," said Lucius. "You can never tell what nonsense he'll be up to now." "Oh, well, we must make the best of it, if he does," said Dizzy cheerfully. "He's not such bad fun if you take him in the right way, and I can always get on with him very well." "He's not your father," said Lucius. Dizzy considerately gave thanks inaudibly. But when they reached Russell Square they found that a change for the better had set in in Mr. Binney's behaviour. The responsibilities of a householder and the head of a large business-house had temporarily settled down on him again. He went to the City every day for an hour or two, and spent a good deal of his spare time in the company of Mrs. Higginbotham, leaving the young men pretty well to their own devices. He had been brought up to regard theatre going as injurious to the morals, and, while he did not attempt to prevent Lucius from enjoying himself in his own way, the remains of an early prejudice prevented his accompanying him. So Dizzy spent a pleasant week with his friend, and as he was always cheery and obliging from morning to night, Mr. Binney was delighted with his company. One evening towards the end of Dizzy's visit there was a little dinner-party in Russell Square. The guests were Mrs. Higginbotham, Dr. Toller, his wife and daughter, and a sprightly middle-aged lady called Miss Tupper, who had been a friend of the late Mrs. Binney, whose place she was generally supposed to be desirous of filling. Mrs. Higginbotham and she were very cordial to one another when they met, but there was a delicate sub-acid flavour about their conversation which hardly seemed in accord with the indelible sweetness of their respective smiles. Mr. Binney sat at the head of the table with Mrs. Toller on his right, and Mrs. Higginbotham on his left, Lucius at the foot, flanked by Miss Tupper and Miss Toller. The Reverend Doctor and Dizzy faced one another. "And how do you like University life, Mr. Binney?" inquired Mrs. Toller sweetly, when her husband had recited an impromptu grace, and infused as much originality into it as possible, and the company had settled themselves down to soup and agreeable conversation. Mr. Binney, of course, was anxious to talk about Cambridge, but he did not quite like a question which drew attention to his novice state. "Oh, all University men like University life, Mrs. Toller," he replied. "Though, of course, some are not in a position to appreciate it as much as others." "Oh, Mr. Binney, I'm sure _you_ are in a position to appreciate it," said Miss Tupper gushingly. "I hope I am, Miss Tupper," said Mr. Binney. "Who are the people who do _not_ appreciate it?" asked Mrs. Toller. This gave Mr. Binney the opportunity he wanted of expatiating on the prestige to be gained by membership of a good college, and a wide circle of distinguished athletic acquaintances. Mrs. Toller seemed much interested and put many questions in a tone of innocent inquiry, which had the effect of drawing Mr. Binney into a somewhat fuller account than he would otherwise have given of his manner of life during the past term. Miss Tupper was enchanted with everything she heard. She even clapped her hands. "Oh, do tell me more, Mr. Binney," she cried. "It is all so _young_. I simply love to hear about it. Lucius, why don't you back Mr. Binney up? I believe you are a very wicked boy when you're at college, for all you are so quiet at home. Oh, fie!" Lucius made no reply to this sally. The old feeling towards his father which had been coming back slowly during the last few days was disappearing again as the conversation developed, and he ate his dinner in shamed silence. Miss Tupper became more and more sprightly, but she devoted herself to Mr. Binney although she was two places away from him. She was the daughter of a solicitor, while Mrs. Toller's father had been a bookseller, and she wished to show that lady that the manners of the upper classes possess a greater breadth and freedom than those of the people with whom Mrs. Toller had mixed all her life. Mrs. Higginbotham was very anxious that Mr. Binney should not give Dr. Toller reason to suppose that his habits had become at all loose during his short residence at Cambridge, and tried to bring the conversation down to the more sober aspects of University life, but the Doctor was enjoying a very good dinner and was inclined to be tolerant. He even told some anecdotes of his own salad days when he had been a student at Homerton College, but the mild devilry of his proceedings took such a long time to narrate, and amounted to so very little when it was reduced to speech, that his anecdotes fell very flat. Mrs. Higginbotham gave them rather more than their due share of appreciation, but Mr. Binney listened with ill-concealed impatience, and instantly capped each story with a much more highly-spiced one of his own, while Miss Tupper actually had the temerity to snub the great man, which exasperated his wife to such an extent that she half made up her mind to bring her unseemly conduct before the next church meeting. Under cover of this conversation Dizzy had been trying to get on terms with his neighbour. Miss Toller was very young and very shy, but undoubtedly pretty. Dizzy, that discriminating critic of feminine beauty, had run his eye cursorily over her upon his first appearance. "Pity she ain't turned out properly," he had said to Lucius. "She's worth it. I should like to get her a proper evening frock instead of that dowdy thing, and take her somewhere to get her hair waved. I could turn her into a regular topper in no time. Give her a few lessons on how to walk, and teach her to hold her hands properly and you wouldn't know her when I'd finished with her." "Shouldn't want to; you'd only spoil her," said Lucius. "She's a nice enough little thing as it is. I've danced with her at children's parties ever since I can remember." "Come now," said Dizzy, "you wouldn't like to see the Newnham beauty turned out like that of an evening." "That's different," said Lucius, with a blush. Poor little Miss Toller would have sunk into the earth with shame if she had heard herself thus discussed. This was her first dinner-party end she had looked forward to it with tremulous but pleasurable anticipation. She was going to meet Lucius, and Lucius had always stood for her as an embodiment of everything that was worthy of admiration in the opposite sex. She had recently been put in command of her own small dress allowance, and had expended a good part of her quarter's income on the frock that Dizzy had criticised so contemptuously. Lucius had not taken so much notice of her as she had expected, considering that they had been friends all their lives; and he seemed unhappy! Poor boy! With feminine intuition she instantly divined something of the state of things that existed between him and his father. Hitherto she had regarded Mr. Binney with that respect due to his age and his standing in her father's congregation. Suddenly she found herself hating and despising him with a fervour that surprised even herself, and she would have given anything she possessed, even her new frock, to be able to console Lucius without appearing to understand why he was so downcast. Lucius spoke very little to her, although she sat next to him, and she was too shy to address him first; but now she had to collect her wits and cope with the embarrassing young man who sat on her left, who seemed more at ease than she could possibly have conceived any young man being in the awe-inspiring surroundings of a set dinner-party, and who spoke and behaved in quite a different manner from anybody she had ever met before. "Oysters!" began Dizzy, as an opening to conversation. "I don't know whether you know that if you eat a dozen oysters and drink a wine-glassful of brandy after them, you die." Miss Toller had never eaten oysters in her life, nor drunk brandy except under strong maternal pressure for medicinal purposes, but she looked rather frightened. "Do you?" she said. "Yes," said Dizzy, "the brandy turns the oysters into leather. Leather's the most indigestible thing you can swallow, although of course nobody would swallow it if they could help it. But the funny part of it is, that if you eat a piece of cheese the size of a walnut--I don't know why _walnut_ particularly--it melts the leather and then you are all right." Miss Toller thought this information a trifle indelicate, but made no comment on it, except the tacit one of leaving her oysters untasted. "Been to any plays lately?" inquired Dizzy. "No," said Miss Toller, "my father doesn't approve of theatres." "Doesn't he?" said Dizzy. "Quite right too. I'm sure the nonsense that's put on the stage now and called a play is enough to make you ill. And then they talk about dramatic art! Why, there's more art in a Punch and Judy show. Lucius and I have been going the rounds for the last week, and I'm hanged if I want to go and see another play till I'm seventy. Louie Freer's the only artist among the whole lot of 'em. Ever heard her sing 'Mary Jane's Top Note'? Oh, no, I forgot. You don't care for theatres. But you should have seen Lucius at the A.D.C. He was only a maid-servant--but _such_ a maid-servant. He had letters from all the Registry Offices in Cambridge offering him situations. Every Sunday out and as many followers as he liked. Didn't you, Lucius?" "He's talking nonsense, Nesta," said Lucius. "He always will talk whether he's got anything to say or not." "But did you dress up as a maid-servant, Lucius?" asked the girl. "He did," said Dizzy, "and his waist was twenty-two inches round. His name was Mary." But here Mr. Stubbs's attention was demanded by his other neighbour, Mrs. Toller, who had learnt enough of Mr. Binney's late doings to satisfy her for the present, and had caught a few scraps of the conversation addressed to her daughter, and thought it a trifle free. "And what may you be going to do, Mr. Stubbs, when you leave college?" she asked with a slight touch of asperity. "Well, 'pon my word, I don't know," replied Dizzy, who may have been a little surprised at the directness of the inquiry, but didn't show it. "I leave all that sort of thing to my old father, you know. He's got plenty of ideas on the subject, but he changes 'em about once a month. I fall in with 'em all and give 'em up directly the new one comes along. It keeps him out of mischief, having something to think about, and it don't hurt me. I think it's the Church just at present--or is it brewing? No, brewing was last term. My old father read in the papers that the country spends more money on its drink bills than on anything else, so he thought that if I was put in a position to enable me to receipt a few of 'em, it wouldn't be a bad thing. However, he gave up the idea for some reason or other, and now we're turning our attention to the Church." "And do you feel that you have any vocation for the ministry?" asked Mrs. Toller. "Oh! I shall rub along all right," said Dizzy. "I've an old uncle who's got several livings in his gift. He'll give me one if I want it, I dare say. There's one up in Lincolnshire,--not much money, but a nice house, and five hundred acres of rough shooting--you don't often get that sort of thing with a rectory nowadays--and only about fifty people in the parish. I shouldn't mind going there, and I dare say I could if I wanted to. My old uncle's place is in the next parish, and I could have a very good time." Mrs. Toller listened with inward disapproval, but the mention of Dizzy's uncle with his patronage and his "place" disarmed her rancour, she being as arrant a snob as ever walked, and she said with much sweetness: "Don't you think, Mr. Stubbs, that the system of patronage adopted by the Established Church is a little--what shall I say?--a little--" "I _do_," said Dizzy with warmth. "I quite agree with you. I think it's perfectly monstrous. Now, look at my old uncle--well, perhaps I oughtn't to let out family secrets--but I assure _you_ that for that old man to be able to present people to livings--though, mind you, he's a very nice old man, and I've nothing to say against him--well, upon my word, it's enough to make you turn Particular Baptist or something--never quite know why Baptists should be more particular than anybody else---oh, I _beg_ your pardon, Mrs. Toller--'pon my word I forgot we weren't of the same way of thinking--clumsy beggar, always putting my foot in it--but you're not what they call a _Particular_ Baptist, are you?" "Certainly not," said Mrs. Toller. "The Particular Baptists were----" "Quite so. Yes, I remember. And I know, of course, that Dr. Toller is a most distinguished leader of religious thought--_everybody_ knows that. I ought to have remembered that he didn't happen to belong to the same Church as I do--stupid of me. But, you know, the truth of it is, Mrs. Toller, that when a man gets up to the top of the tree, well, he may be Archbishop of Canterbury, or a Cardinal or--or a man like your husband, and to a fellow like me who don't follow these things very closely, well, there isn't much difference, don't you know." "You feel that, do you?" said Mrs. Toller, much gratified. "Of course _we_ think so; but church people are usually so bigoted. I'm sure it's a great pleasure to meet a member of the Establishment who is so broad-minded." Dizzy felt that he had completely retrieved his error, and proceeded to amplify his ideas. "I think it's such rot being narrow-minded, don't you know," he said. "Look at the Buddhists. They're just as good as we are. I knew a fellow once who became one. He was fond of a good glass of wine. He had to knock _that_ off, and become a teetotaller. He liked shooting, but he had to give it up, because he said he couldn't take life--he never had taken much before, but he used to hit 'em sometimes by mistake, and he didn't want to run any risks. Of course, he didn't eat meat. Then he hadn't been married very long, and there was a baby he was very fond of. He began to bring that up as a Buddhist too, and fed it on apples and filbert nuts. Don't know what his wife was doing all the time, but it died in a month. _He_ didn't care. He just went on. Now, that's what I call religion, you know, and I should admire that fellow just as much if he were a Mormon or whatever he was. Wouldn't you?" Mrs. Toller was not prepared to go quite so far as that, but she went part of the way, and went very amiably. "I suppose you have never heard my husband preach, have you, Mr. Stubbs?" she asked. "No, I haven't," said Dizzy. "And it's a funny thing, because I've been in London a good deal. It's the people who come up from the country who see and hear everything that's going on. Now, you wouldn't credit it, but I've actually never been to the Zoo." Mrs. Toller did not quite see the connection of ideas, but her amiability did not decrease. "He preached a very fine sermon last Sunday," she said, "on 'The Municipal Duties of an Enlightened Electorate.' The papers were full of it. The _Daily Chronicle_ said it was 'an epoch-making sermon.'" "I can quite believe that," said Dizzy. "If a man talks sense in the pulpit people will listen to him. If he talks nonsense they won't." "That is so true," said Mrs. Toller, and felt quite sorry when the time came for the ladies to leave the table, for Dizzy had by this time completely wiped out the memory of his little slip. Driving home after the entertainment was over Mrs. Toller laid down the law. "Mr. Binney seems to have been behaving very foolishly at Cambridge," she said. "I gathered something of the sort from Mrs. Higginbotham, and wished to find out if it was true. I could see that she was ashamed of the nonsense he talked at dinner, and I felt for her, poor thing. I shall go and see her to-morrow and tell her so. The way Miss Tupper egged him on was disgraceful. She ought to be ashamed of herself, at her age, too. If I were you, I should allude to it in your prayer on Sunday, Samuel. It will not seem so pointed as if you were to do it in the sermon, and there is never any telling what Miss Tupper may do. She might leave the chapel altogether if she is offended, and if she once took to going to church she'd give herself such airs that there'd be no holding her." "I think Mr. Binney is a very silly little man," said Miss Toller vindictively. "I believe he is making poor Lucius miserable." "Nesta!" exclaimed Mrs. Toller, astonished at this outburst from her usually submissive daughter, "I cannot allow you to speak like that of your elders. Mr. Binney is one of your father's greatest supporters. Pray express yourself with more respect. And as for Lucius--I've no patience with him. I've gone out of my way to be kind to that boy, and he shows no more gratitude than if I was a mere nobody--hardly troubled himself to answer when I asked him how he was getting on with his studies, and actually turned his back upon me when I began to give him a little advice about the temptations of University life. Now if he were like that nice young Mr. Stubbs it would be different. Stubbs is not a genteel name, but I believe he is very well connected, and he certainly has a well-bred manner of speaking. Samuel, I have asked him to come with us and hear you preach on Sunday evening. He said nothing would please him better. He has never been in a Nonconformist place of worship, and he will certainly come if he is still in town. I should be careful what I said about the Establishment if I were you. I should like him to carry away a good impression of your preaching." "I'll be sure and remember it, my dear," said Dr. Toller drowsily from his corner of the carriage. "Nesta, dear, write a note for me when we get home--'Mr. Stubbs--no rubs.' Then I shan't disgrace myself." The Reverend Dr. Toller cultivated his small gift of humour; he found it necessary in order to live comfortably with his wife. Dizzy took his departure the next morning, but not before a very painful scene had occurred in Russell Square. The _Times_ which graced Mr. Binney's breakfast table, and was now eagerly searched each morning for news of the Little-go examination, at last published the list. Mr. Binney's name was not in it. Dizzy came down to find a dejected figure sitting at the head of the table, while the disregarded urn which had filled the teapot and flooded the tea-tray was beginning to flow over the surrounding tract of tablecloth. As he entered the room Mr. Binney bounded from his seat with a yell of pain, and turned off the tap. The physical anguish of the moment diverted his mind from the mental shock he had undergone, but the numbing realisation of failure soon settled on him again. "Stubbs!" he said mournfully, "it is all over. I shall never hold up my head again." "Lor, Mr. Binney!" exclaimed Dizzy. "It can't be so bad as that, is it? Shall I ring for a servant to bring a cloth and mop it up?" "It isn't that," said Mr. Binney, with the calm born of despair. "I have failed to pass the Previous examination. I am a disgraced man." "Oh, that's all, is it?" said Dizzy, helping himself to devilled kidneys off the side table. "I thought you'd scalded yourself. Why, bless my soul, I knew a fellow who had eight shots at the Little-go and didn't pass it then. I had three goes myself, and here I am as merry as a cricket." "Ah, you are young!" said Mr. Binney. "You've got your life before you. I shall never get over it." Nevertheless he did get over it, and the failure did him good. He went to Mrs. Higginbotham and confessed all. He saw now, he said, that he had wasted his time and opportunities. He had consorted with idle and graceless companions, and made himself a reproach to the authorities of the college. He had brought this appalling result on himself, and he deserved it. Mrs. Higginbotham gave the repentant prodigal full absolution. She advised him to write to Mr. Rimington, and promise full amendment of his ways. Mr. Binney did not take her advice in this particular, but he did summon to his aid the learned Minshull, and set himself steadily to read for several hours a day during the Christmas vacation in order to make up for lost time. Lucius found the house very dull. An unexpected invitation from his cousin John Jermyn's mother came for him to spend the week after Christmas at the Norfolk Rectory, but remembering his cousin John he did not feel attracted, and receiving another invitation the day after to the ancestral home of the Stubbses he accepted that, and refused the other. He went up to Cambridge early, for there was a chance of his rowing in the University boat, and he wanted to keep a term before going to Putney, if he should be fortunate enough to be wanted there; so he saw next to nothing of his father for the remainder of the vacation. CHAPTER X "THE NEW COURT CHRONICLE" Mr. Binney embarked on his second term at Cambridge with the full intention of acquitting himself with credit and freeing his character from the suspicion of unruliness which had unfortunately become attached to it. He was very much in earnest about his work, and mapped out a course of arduous study which was to be continued right up to the following June, when he hoped to make up for his first failure by taking a high class in both parts of the Little-go. The Union he was determined to let severely alone. His pride had had a severe rebuff from the indignity which had been put upon him in the elections. "They can do without _me_," said Mr. Binney to his fellow-aspirant, M'Gee. "Very well, then, I will show them that I can do without _them_." "Toch! man, have another try," said the indomitable M'Gee. "Rome wasn't built in a day." But he said it without enthusiasm, for the path to success, according to his ideas, did not lie through the follies and extravagances to which Mr. Binney had treated his audience during the previous term. "I shall never speak at the Union again, M'Gee," said Mr. Binney firmly. And he kept his word. He was a little troubled as to what course he should adopt with Howden and the rest of his athletic friends. He did not want to drop them altogether, but he wanted to make it clearly understood that the open restaurant which he had previously conducted for their benefit was now closed, and he had a suspicion that its closing might mean the discontinuance of their favour, and a consequent loss of prestige to himself. He gave a dinner on the second evening of the term, or perhaps it would be more correct to say that Howden, who professed himself delighted to meet his old friend once more after five weeks' absence, gave it for him in his rooms, and Mr. Binney paid the bill. It was quite as noisy as any that had gone before it, but Mr. Binney did not add to the gaiety. He made a speech in the course of the evening--he was rather fond of making speeches--in which he informed his friends that he was about to embark on a severe course of study and found he would not be able to have the pleasure of entertaining them quite so often as before on account of the time that was thrown away over these festivities. What he said was cheered to the echo, which gratified him not a little, but Howden, who followed him, did not appear to have taken his remarks in the least seriously, and assured him in a voice broken with emotion, that they would all stick by him and never forsake him. This was not quite what Mr. Binney wanted, but Howden's affecting periods caused such an outburst of enthusiasm that he succumbed to the general goodwill and allowed the matter to stand over for the present. On the next afternoon, however, it was decided for him. He was sitting over his books for an hour before hall when he received a call from Mirrilees, the Captain of the First Trinity Boat Club. Mirrilees was an acquaintance of whom Mr. Binney might reasonably have been proud if he had ever shown the slightest wish to have anything to do with our hero apart from his official position as captain of the boat club to which Mr. Binney belonged. He was tall and well set up, a really fine oar and a thoroughly good fellow in the best sense of that misused term. He was not everybody's friend, even in the exceedingly tolerant atmosphere of undergraduate Cambridge, and athletes of the type of Howden disliked him, and said so freely; but Mr. Binney had kept his own opinion on this point, and if there was one man in Cambridge whom he respected with all the force of the hero-worship which was a part of his still undeveloped character, it was Mirrilees. He therefore rose to his feet, and showed by his nervousness of manner that he fully appreciated the honour done to him. Mirrilees sat down on the sofa and refused the proffered suggestion of refreshment. His keen eyes glanced round the room and then rested on Mr. Binney. "I told you last term," he said, "that we might want you to steer the first Lent boat. You're a light weight and you've got a head on your shoulders. At least you haven't lost it yet on the river, although you seem to have done so occasionally elsewhere." What Mr. Binney suffered at that instant in the way of remorse is beyond description. This was a very different thing to Mr. Rimington's strictures on his conduct. He made no reply, but hung his head. "Now I've come to offer you the place----" Mr. Binney revived a little--"but on certain conditions. I am not going to have the cox of any boat I've got anything to do with making himself more ridiculous than he is by nature. We shall be laughed at, of course, for having a man of your age in the boats at all. I don't mind that as long as that's all there is to laugh at. What I'm not going to stand is your making yourself the butt and crony of every drunken rowdy in Cambridge. I say what I've got to say perfectly straight as captain of the club to one of its members who may turn out useful to it. If you lay it to heart and don't take offence I shall have done what I wanted to do. If you don't like such plain speaking, say so, and I'll clear out, and we need never speak to one another again." Mr. Binney's choler had shown signs of rising during this very plain and unvarnished statement of the light in which Mirrilees regarded him, but the hint with which the address had closed brought it down again. "I don't take offence," he said slowly, "though I'm not used to--to----" "Well, perhaps I put it a bit too strong," said Mirrilees, "but if I were you I shouldn't have anything more to do with Howden and that lot. I hear that they were all here last night again as usual, and that's why I'm talking to you now. They're only sponging on you and making you appear a fool all the time. If you steer the first Lent boat this term--and mind, though I make no promises, that's intended to mean the first May boat _next_ term--you'll have to train with the rest, and that will mean knocking off all these diversions; and you'll find plenty of good chaps in the boat club without running after footballers, amongst whom you can't exactly expect to shine." "I'm very grateful to you, Mirrilees, for your kind advice," said Mr. Binney. "I shall certainly take it, and you may rely upon me to do my best for the honour of the club." "That's all right then," said Mirrilees, rising. "Walters is captain of your boat, as you know, but I thought I'd just come round and settle things up. Good-night!" Outside in the darkness of Jesus Lane, Mirrilees smiled continuously. "Good Lord!" he said to himself. "Fancy talking like that to the father of one of your pals! But it was the only way, and I thought he'd stand it somehow. I rather fancy I've done Lucy a good turn. But I hope he'll never know." He left Mr. Binney in a fervour of amended ambitions. What a grand thing it would be to have a friend like Mirrilees, a man whom most people turned round to look at if they passed him in the street, a man who had already rowed two years in the University boat and would probably row two years more before he left Cambridge, a man whose name was known all over England. Why, it was almost as good as knowing Muttlebury or Guy Nickalls. Lucius knew him, of course, lucky young beggar. He wondered whether it was worth while making another attempt to make acquaintances through his son, but the memory of Blathgowrie and others deterred him, for Lucius's friends were not all Mirrilees's, and he made up his mind to deserve the great man's favour by a brilliant career as a cox, and extreme carefulness as to his behaviour both on the river and away from it. And so for the best part of that term Mr. Binney's behaviour was irreproachable. He never missed a lecture or an appointment with his Coach, and the amount of work he got through in the privacy of his rooms was little short of marvellous. He was on the river, of course, every afternoon, and suffered greatly from the exposure to the cold as he sat in his narrow seat, fumbling with numbed hands at the rudder lines, and was carried swiftly along by the combined exertions of the eight stalwart men who faced him. His appearance always caused some merriment on the tow-path, and the town urchins were a great trial to him with their coarse banter, but the men of the First Trinity Boat Club, as a rule, treated him with the respect due to his years, and, if they did show a slight disinclination to walk up from the boats with him, or to admit him into very close intimacy with them, he made up his mind to bear the deprivation, trusting that it would disappear in time, rather than fall again into the mistake he had made in trying to force himself upon Blathgowrie and his friends. As for Howden, there was not so much trouble with him as Mr. Binney had expected. For one thing, he played Rugby football regularly for the University, and, although no such arduous course of training is expected from a football player as is necessary in the case of an oarsman, still a continuous course of hilarious dinners is not regarded with favour by those in authority, and Howden did not apply so often as before for sustenance at Mr. Binney's table. Mr. Binney also conceived the idea of employing Howden himself to keep his friends off him. He got him to talk about his financial troubles one morning, a subject which he had before instinctively avoided. Howden was nothing loth, and poured out a dismal tale of debts and duns. Mr. Binney then afforded him temporary pecuniary relief, and asked, as a favour, that Howden should inform his friends that he, Mr. Binney, was very busy this term and would not be able to see quite so much of them as before. Howden accepted the responsibility, and discharged it satisfactorily, and Mr. Binney was left in peace to carry out his reformation. But, alas! the old proverb still holds true: "Give a dog a bad name and hang him." Mr. Binney was now an exemplary character, but nobody would believe it. When his guests left his rooms after the evening already alluded to, they got into trouble with the Proctors. It was the usual offence of smoking in cap and gown, but Howden added to it by running away from avenging justice. Neither Proctor nor Bull-dogs could hope to equal him at that game, so they made no attempt to enter into competition, but entered up his name, which was perfectly familiar to all three of them, instead. So the only thing Howden got by his little sprint was the exercise, which he did not require, and a double fine the next morning, which he could ill afford to pay. His escapade also came to the ears of his tutor, Mr. Rimington. He would not have taken notice of such a comparatively slight offence, if such offences had not been of frequent occurrence with Howden. As it was, he sent for him and talked to him, and then it came out that Howden had been dining with Mr. Binney. It will be remembered that Mr. Rimington had expostulated with Mr. Binney on the last day of the previous term, and this occurrence had taken place on the second day of the present term. Mr. Rimington may therefore be excused for coming to the conclusion that his expostulations had had very little effect, and that Mr. Binney was proceeding on the reckless career which had made him such a nuisance to those responsible for the order of the college. He said nothing on this occasion, but continued to regard Mr. Binney with feelings of strong disfavour. Mr. Binney might have lived down his reputation in time had it not been artificially sustained for him by the journal to which we have already referred, the _New Court Chronicle_. The editor of that enterprising publication had found that Mr. Binney's eccentricities made very good copy for him in the previous term, and confidently looked forward to keeping up his circulation by exploiting our hero to a considerable extent as long as his paper should continue to run. He had had an altercation with Lucius one night in the Great Court upon one of those occasions when two factions meet and mutually disagree, and although, or probably because, he had been in the wrong, the editor of the _New Court Chronicle_ bore Lucius a grudge and was not above paying it off by ridiculing his father. He had also been one of the band whom Howden had frequently invited to partake of Mr. Binney's hospitality, with which he had made so free that Mr. Binney had decided that in his case at least he would give the cold shoulder himself and not entrust the work entirely to Howden. The journalistic gentleman had not taken this very kindly, and a flavour of malice had crept into his witticisms, where before there had only been good-humoured chaff. As Mr. Binney gave him very little occasion now for humorous writing, he allowed himself a freer hand, and invented stories against him instead of merely repeating them. In order to provide a fitting framework for his humour, he published each week a correspondence between Mr. Binney in Cambridge and an imaginary mother in London, in which the former recounted his exploits, and the latter commented upon them. The idea was carried out with some humour and proved to be an acceptable feature of the paper. Unfortunately the editor had hit upon the name of "Martha" for Mr. Binney's supposed mother, and her letters were not so unlike Mrs. Higginbotham's in style as quite to relieve Mr. Binney of the suspicion that the story of his wooing of that good woman had reached Cambridge. The only two people who could possibly be suspected of divulging it were Lucius and Dizzy, and after the issue of the first instalment he went angrily round to his son's rooms to see if the offence could be brought home to him. Lucius was out, but seated comfortably in his armchair and smoking one of his cigars was Dizzy, who must have been the culprit, if Lucius were not, thought Mr. Binney. "Ah, Mr. Binney, pleased to see you again," said Dizzy genially. "How are you feeling! Pretty toll-lollish?" "No, Stubbs, I am not feeling particularly 'toll-lollish' just at present--I thank you all the same," said Mr. Binney severely. "I don't know whether this publication has come to your notice yet?" Mr. Binney put a copy of the _New Court Chronicle_ on the table, which Dizzy took up and glanced through with interest. "It ain't bad," he said, "though it's got up by a set of rotters. Hullo, what's this--something about you, Mr. Binney, eh?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Binney angrily, "and a most scurrilous piece of work it is. My dear mother, sir, has lain in her grave these twenty years. It is a scandalous thing that contempt should be poured on her memory in this indecent fashion." "It is," said Dizzy warmly. "A most preposterous thing! I quite agree with you. These fellows ought to be kicked, every one of them. And if they treated my old mater in that way I'd--I'd pay somebody to do it." "But that is not all, sir," continued Mr. Binney. "I don't know whether you recollect meeting a lady of the name of Higginbotham at my table?" "Mrs. Higginbotham!" exclaimed Dizzy. "Why, of course I do. And a most engaging old lady she was too. Don't know when I've met a nicer." "I'm obliged for your good opinion sir," said Mr. Binney stiffly, "although I confess the idea of Mrs. Higginbotham as an _old_ lady is a new one to me. You are probably aware that her Christian name is Martha." "First I've heard of it," said Dizzy, "but it's an excellent name. I had an old aunt called Martha, and I thought she was going to leave me a lot of money; but she didn't." "You are _sure_ that you didn't know that Mrs. Higginbotham's name was Martha?" asked Mr. Binney suspiciously. "'Pon my word I hadn't the slightest idea of it, Mr. Binney," said Dizzy. "I shouldn't have had a word to say if you'd told me it was Mary. But why do you ask?" "Never mind," said Mr. Binney. "If you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that the fact is new to you, I accept your assurance, and there let the matter end. Here is Lucius. I should like to have a word alone with him, if you will permit me, Stubbs." "Certainly," said the obliging Dizzy, rising instantly. "Come round and give me a look in presently, Lucy. I'll take another of those weeds of yours if I may." When he had got outside, Mr. Binney turned to his son, with, "Now, sir, what is the meaning of this?" Lucius glanced at the paper to which his father pointed. "Oh, I've read the rubbish," he said wearily. "It makes me sick." "Read it," said Mr. Binney. "Yes, I've no doubt you've read it, sir. What I should like to know is how much you wrote of it." "I don't know what you mean," said Lucius. "I've had quite enough mud thrown at me since you've been up here, father. It isn't likely I should take to throwing it at myself." "Don't prevaricate, sir," said Mr. Binney, his voice rising. "Did you write it, or did you not?" "I'm not going to answer such a ridiculous question," said Lucius sulkily. "Then I will answer it for you," said Mr. Binney. "You _did_ write it. I know you have always nourished evil feelings against that excellent woman Martha Higginbotham, who I hope will one day do you the honour of becoming your mother. Not content with wreaking your unfilial spite against your own father who begat you, you must smirch the good name of a lady who has always loaded you with kindness. Out upon such conduct, I say." Lucius held his head in his hands. "I suppose I shall understand it all soon," he said. "At present it sounds like one of Dr. Toller's sermons. Is there anything about you and Mrs. Higginbotham in the advertisements, father? I've read all the rest of the rag and I don't remember her name being mentioned." "What is that name, sir?" asked Mr. Binney, pointing to the signature of his imaginary mother's letters. "Martha Binney," read Lucius. "Yes, Martha Binney," echoed his father. "And in two years and a half from now, Martha Higginbotham will change her name for Martha Binney, if we're both spared." "It'll be a change for the better then, as far as she's concerned," said Lucius. "But what _are_ you driving at, father? You can't really think I wrote that or had anything to do with it. I'm not such a scug as all that." "And pray who else up here but you knows that Mrs. Higginbotham's name is Martha?" inquired Mr. Binney. "That's my point." "Well, I don't think it's much of a point," said Lucius. "It's a fluke, their happening to hit upon that name. But, look here, can't you stop this sort of thing? It's really awful the way things are going on. I don't suppose there's anybody ever been up here who's had such a miserable time as I'm having. Other fellows respect their fathers. You simply don't give me a chance." This touched Mr. Binney to the quick. He was very susceptible to criticism since Mirrilees had spoken to him so plainly. "I'm afraid I have given you some reason to say that, my boy," he said. "I--I was led away last term. I was under a wrong impression of what was the thing and what wasn't the thing. But that is all changed now. I have become a reading man and a boating man. I have turned the page on everything else." "There was that dinner with Howden and the rest of them the very night after we came up," said Lucius. "It was the last dinner that Howden will get out of me," said Mr. Binney. "I have done with him--at least I hope so." "Well, then, there's some hope," said Lucius. "And, look here, father, if you've really given up that sort of thing there's a much better chance of your getting on with the fellows worth knowing. I shouldn't take any notice of that business, if I were you. It will die down in time. Would you care to come to lunch to-morrow? Mirrilees is coming. He's a good chap, you'll like to meet him." "Oh, I know him well. He was in my rooms a few days ago," said Mr. Binney. "But I should like to meet him again very much. Yes, I'll come, Lucius," and Mr. Binney went away feeling that the reward of good behaviour had already come, in spite of the _New Court Chronicle_. But, alas! Mr. Binney's reputation proved harder matter to live down than he had anticipated. The men whom he met on the river fought rather shy of him, for to tell the truth, there was very little to recommend the poor little gentleman as a companion for youth if he was to be taken seriously as he now seemed to desire. Howden and Co. had only put up with him because of his dinners, and because, at the time he had consorted with them, he had apparently not objected to being made the butt of their not over-refined pleasantries. He now led a very dull and dejected life, but his work kept him employed, and the prospects of his boat in the Lent races gave him something to look forward to with keen expectation. The First Trinity first Lent boat had fallen to the fourth place on the river, but this year it was by far the best crew practising, with the possible exception of the head boat. It was expected to make its first three bumps with comparative ease, and to row an exciting race with Trinity Hall in the last night of the races for the head place on the river. Whenever Mr. Binney felt inclined to get down-hearted at the thought of his unpopularity he would buoy himself up with the anticipation of the glory that would accrue to him if his hopes were realised. Unfortunately the editor of the _New Court Chronicle_ found his journalistic ingenuity increasing with practice, and spent such pains over "The Binney Correspondence," that that feature of his paper soon became the talk of Cambridge. After the third number Mr. Binney wrote him a letter of expostulation, which he published with appropriate comment, but of which he took no further notice. That week's instalment of the Correspondence contained an account from "Your repentant son, Peter Binney," of how he had been asked to dine with the Vice-Chancellor, had disgraced himself by drinking too much wine, and had been escorted home by the two Esquire Bedells with their silver pokers, while he raised the town with a spirited rendering of "Rule Britannia." Mrs. Binney, the mother, expressed herself heart-broken at the news, and announced her intention of coming up to Cambridge to implore the Vice-Chancellor to overlook the offence, and give her erring boy another chance. She also alluded to her grand-daughter Lucy, who was supposed to be studying at Girton College. "She is a good girl," wrote the old lady, "and would be ashamed to carry on in the way you do, Peter, but the dear child tells me she wishes she had been sent to Newnham College. She likes the students there so much better." Poor little Mr. Binney went round to his son's rooms almost in tears. He found Lucius still more angry than himself, for, although his admiration of the Newnham girl was well known among his immediate friends, and he did not take a mild degree of chaff on the subject at all ill, the vulgar publicity now given to it goaded him to the verge of desperation. "Oh, it's you, father," he said. "I'm going round to that fellow Piper to tell him if this business isn't stopped I'll knock his teeth down his throat." "Ah, Lucius," said Mr. Binney plaintively. "I wish I was big and strong like you. I'd have done that long ago. But you're a good boy to stick up for your poor father. I'm going to increase your allowance by £10 for asking me to lunch to meet Mirrilees, and if you get these disgraceful attacks stopped I'll add another £20. You'll get back to the old figure if you're careful, and even beyond it." "Thanks, father," said Lucius, "but I don't want paying for doing a thing like that. I've got a little score of my own against Mr. Piper, and I'm going to pay it off now." And Lucius took up his cap and left the room. CHAPTER XI "PUT HIM IN THE FOUNTAIN" Mr. Binney had wished he was big and strong like his son. As a matter of fact Lucius was quite a light weight, and although wiry and in good condition, it was certain that he was quite incapable of fulfilling his threat of knocking Piper's teeth down his throat, unless Piper allowed him to do so without making any resistance, which was unlikely. Piper was a great heavy lump of bone and muscle, over six feet high, and quite as fit as Lucius, for the latter had been finally rejected for the University boat, for this year at least, and had gone out of training, while Piper was still playing football. These considerations did occur to Lucius as he walked from his own rooms to those where Piper carried on his editorial functions, but he was so angry that they carried little weight with them. In the New Court he met Dizzy. "Come up here with me," he said. "I've got a little job on." Dizzy followed him up the staircase to Piper's rooms, talking volubly, as was his wont; but Lucius gave him no answer. Piper was discovered sitting at his table talking to Howden, who stood with his back to the mantel-piece. Lucius plunged into his business without any preface. "Look here, sir," he said, "I've come about this stuff you've been printing about me and my father. I'll trouble you to stop it, if you don't mind." Piper's face darkened. He was a bad-tempered man. He was also a clever man, and having no reason to be alarmed at any possible violence on Lucius's part, which he would rather have welcomed than otherwise, he thought he might as well draw him into a battle of words and afford his intellect some little amusement. So he choked down his temper and said quietly: "You are Mr. Binney, junior, I believe. You are not mentioned from one end of the paper to the other, except as having had the chuck from the 'Varsity boat, and I don't see you've any reason to complain of that." "That's a lie," said Lucius instantly. Piper started from his chair, but sat down again and waited. "You know perfectly well," continued Lucius hotly, "that that rot about Lucy and Girton is meant for me, and even if it wasn't I object to your making fun of my father." This was what Piper wanted. "Is the other Binney your father?" he said with a sneer. "I didn't know it. If I had a father like that I'd drown him." Lucius made a dash forward, and Piper stood up with an evil smile on his face. But Stubbs caught hold of his friend and pulled him back, and Howden stepped forward. "Oh, come now, Pips!" expostulated he, "don't overdo it, old man." But Piper took no notice. He suddenly lost all control over his temper. "What the devil do you mean by coming blustering here?" he shouted. "Get out of my rooms this minute or I'll throw you out of the window. Yes, you'd better keep him back, you putty-faced swab"--this to Dizzy--"if he comes near me I'll put some marks on him that he won't lose in a hurry." Lucius shook off Dizzy's encircling grasp. "Will you stop printing lies about me and my father?" he said. "I won't stop anything," rejoined Piper. "Then will you fight?" "Fight! By G--, yes. Take off your coat and try." Howden and Stubbs both tried to stop them, but they might as well have tried to stop the tide rising. They were shaken off impatiently. Piper pushed the table and sofa aside, and in less than three minutes after Lucius had entered the room they were at it hammer and tongs. There was not much science displayed. The room was too small, for one thing, and there was a good deal of damage done to furniture and breakables before it was all over. If Lucius had kept cool he might have made up in some measure for the great disparity in weight between them, for he knew just a little more of the game than Piper; but both of them were blind with rage, and it was attack on both sides, with very little defence, as long as it lasted. It did not last long. Lucius fought as long as he could stand, but his blows got weaker and weaker, while Piper got in again and again with as much force as at first. At last he knocked Lucius clean through the glass doors of a cupboard which held his stock of crockery, and he fell heavily on to the floor, and lay there insensible, with the blood pouring from his head. Piper had not had enough even to cool his passion. "Get a towel and water from the bedroom," he said to Dizzy, who was kneeling by the side of his friend. "And take him out of this as soon as you can. I'm not going to stay in the same room with him." And he put on his coat and went out of the room. Howden stayed behind and helped to restore Lucius to consciousness. "It's rot his tackling a chap like Pips," he said; "he's not in the same class with him, and he's a demon when he's roused. I wouldn't care to take him on myself." "He's a d--d cad," said Dizzy, in deep concern, "and I don't care if he hears me say so." This was the only conversation that passed between them till Lucius came round. Then they both helped him across to his own rooms in Whewell's Court, which they reached with some difficulty, as Lucius was dazed, and as weak as a kitten. Here the drama changed from tragedy to farce, for Mr. Binney was waiting for them, and as soon as he saw the state to which Lucius had been reduced he made such lamentations that neither Dizzy nor Howden could help laughing. "Oh, chuck it, Binney," said Howden. "He'll be all right when he gets to bed." "Go out and get a doctor, Mr. Binney," said Dizzy. "He's cut his head with some broken glass, and we can't stop the bleeding." Mr. Binney dashed out instantly in a frenzy of terror, and Howden and Dizzy helped Lucius off with his clothes and into bed, where he lay silent with his face to the wall, while the blood slowly oozed out from under the bandages on his head and soaked into his pillow. The two stood looking at him irresolutely. "I'm all right now," said Lucius faintly, "you needn't wait." They went into the sitting-room. "Look here, sir," said Dizzy. "You must stop this business. It's gone quite far enough." "My dear fellow," said Howden, "I didn't have anything to do with it. I told Piper he ought to stop it when Binney wrote to object, because--well, because Binney ain't a bad old chap after all, and it's rough on him. But he wouldn't, and it isn't likely he'll stop now, after this." "Well, if he won't stop it of his own accord, he'll have to be made to," said Dizzy. "I don't know who's going to make him," said Howden. "Oh, I think we can manage that," said Dizzy. Mr. Binney came back with a doctor, who patched up Lucius's damaged head and told him to keep in bed until he should come again on the next day. Mr. Binney kept fussing about the room wringing his hands over the trouble that he had caused, and bewailing the smallness of his stature which debarred him from visiting summary justice upon Piper for the way he had treated his son. He was a ridiculous little object in his grief, and his behaviour was not soothing to the nerves of a sick man. "Do get him away," whispered Lucius to Dizzy. "I want to go to sleep;" and the latter, by the exercise of infinite tact, managed to remove Mr. Binney from the premises. A short time afterwards, having seen that Lucius was comfortably settled, he removed himself, and then set to work to lay plans to circumvent Piper and cause the downfall of the _New Court Chronicle_. First of all he went round to the rooms of an influential member of the Third Trinity Boat Club, a man named Tait, who was rowing "Seven" in the University boat. He found him at home, and with him were Mirrilees, two other members of the University crew, and our old acquaintance Blathgowrie. To them he confided his story, which was received with interest and indignation, for Lucius was a popular member of the boating set, between which and the clique represented by Howden and Piper there happened to be a certain amount of bad blood at that particular time. "It's all the fault of that confounded little bantam," said Blathgowrie, when Dizzy's tale had come to an end. "It's jolly good of Lucy to fight his battles for him after the way he's treated him. I'm hanged if I would." "Those letters are the best thing in Piper's scurrilous rag," said Tait. "It's a pity to stop them, but if Lucy objects--and I expect it was more on his own account than his governor's--I think it's about time the paper was suppressed. I've a good mind to take Mr. Piper on myself." "You can't do that," said Mirrilees quickly. "You might manage to lick him, but even that is doubtful, and he'd damage you so that you wouldn't be able to row for a day or two. Besides, if you licked him once a week from now till the end of the term he wouldn't stop the paper. He's not that sort." "It's got to be stopped somehow," said Dizzy. "Who publishes it?" asked Blathgowrie. "Breedon," said Tait. "Very well, then. We'll tell him to leave off, and if he don't we'll boycott him. We can get everybody to go somewhere else for their _menus_ and all those little jobs. He won't hesitate long between us and Mr. Piper, I think." Blathgowrie busied himself to some purpose, and submitted to Messrs. Breedon & Co. a considerable list of gentlemen who proposed to transfer their valuable custom if another number of the _New Court Chronicle_ appeared with Messrs. Breedon's name on the cover. The firm caved in at once and intimated to the editor that he must find another publisher. Piper made himself very objectionable, but Messrs. Breedon & Co. were firm, and absolutely refused to bring out another number for him. Piper had now got his back up and swore to go on publishing his paper if he brought out every number at a loss. He found a more obscure stationer than Messrs. Breedon & Co. who was willing to oblige him, and went on with his editorial functions, throwing far more vigour and malice into the next instalment of the "Binney Correspondence" than he had done before. Poor Lucius lay alone that afternoon in his comfortless college bedroom. He was very miserable. He felt weak and ill, and his thoughts took a melancholy turn. He had done no good by his single combat with the redoubtable Piper; in fact, things would now probably be worse than before. He had no energy to feel angry with his father, but he saw the whole University pointing fingers of scorn at him, an unpleasantness which might be expected to continue and increase as long as he remained at Cambridge. The hope which he had entertained up to a week ago of a place in the University boat no longer buoyed him up against adversity. In his present state of depression he saw himself missing everything that made Cambridge interesting to him, and heartily wished himself away from the place altogether. His thoughts, nowadays, seldom kept long away from the girl whom he had seen for the first time last term, but there was not much comfort to be got out of thinking about her. He had not been so fortunate this term as to have hit upon a lecture which she attended, and no longer had the satisfaction of sitting in the same room with her for an hour, twice a week. He had discovered that she went to a lecture at St. John's College, and used to hang about outside the gates on the chance of seeing her as she went to and fro. But there are two ways between Newnham and St. John's, one along Trinity Street and the King's Parade, the other past the backs of the colleges, and after a time the uncomfortable conviction took hold of Lucius that his divinity was taking a malicious delight in dodging him. If he waited outside the big gate of St. John's, she went home by the backs, and if he lay in wait on the Bridge of Sighs, she would go through the town. And upon the rare occasions when he did meet her face to face there was no sign that she was so much as aware of his existence. Lying on his bed, with heavy heart and throbbing head, as the light of the short winter afternoon slowly died, poor Lucius took the gloomiest view of his chances of ever becoming better acquainted with her. Just as he had reached the lowest possible depths of depression, Mirrilees and Tait came in to see him, and to sympathise. They told him of Blathgowrie's strategy. They had not discovered yet that Piper had circumvented it, and arranged to produce his paper from another address. "We're going to hoot Piper in hall to-night," said Tait, "and see if we can't bring on a scrimmage afterwards. If we do, we'll put him in the fountain. I expect he'll oblige us. He's a pugnacious beggar." When they had gone, he received an unexpected visit from his cousin, John Jermyn, who was much surprised to find him in bed, and hardly knew how to express himself with reference to current events. In a small way, in his own college, John Jermyn had suffered some annoyance from his relationship to Mr. Binney, and was not particularly proud of it. His shyness, however, prevented him from alluding to his cousin's reputation. If he had done so, he might have discovered that Lucius, in spite of his loyalty, was not very well pleased with his father at that particular time. "My mother is coming up next week for a few days," said Jermyn, "and I came to ask you if you would lunch with us on Tuesday. There will only be she and my sister from Newnham. You haven't met her yet." "But surely, your sister is at Girton, isn't she?" said Lucius. "No, Newnham," said Jermyn. Lucius's heart suddenly lightened. Any connection with Newnham was welcome to him, and opened up possibilities. "Why, I went out to Girton to call on her," said Lucius; "they said she was out." "Rather lucky," said his cousin. "That's a Miss German with a G. Well, then, you'll come on Tuesday, if you're well enough, at half-past one." "Yes, I'll come," said Lucius. "Thanks very much." When his cousin had left him he found that his spirits had lightened considerably. The visit of his friends had cheered him, for he had thought that if he was to fight his father's battles for him he would have to fight them alone, and it was pleasant to find that there were others on his side. And the Newnham girl seemed to be nearer to him, somehow, now he knew that she and his cousin were at the same college. He began to build castles in the air. He knew that his cousin was in her first year, and he thought that if his divinity had been in Cambridge before last term, he must have noticed her; so the two were of the same year, and probably friends. He might get to know her through his cousin--though it was difficult to see how an introduction could be brought about. At any rate he would be able to find out her name, and that was something. He was rather sorry that he had refused the invitation to the Norfolk Rectory at Christmas. He would make up for it by cultivating his cousins now. He comforted himself with rosy visions, and by-and-bye fell asleep. Mr. Binney came in after his afternoon's work on the river was over, and went out again. Dizzy crept in, looked at him, and crept away again on tiptoe. But still Lucius slept on, and when he woke again about nine o'clock he was very much better. In the meantime the ill-feeling between the boating men and the football players, fanned by Piper's treatment of Lucius, had burnt up to a blaze. When Piper went into hall that night, a little late, there was a chorus of groans and hisses as he passed the table where Mirrilees and Tait sat. He stopped for an instant, and an ugly look came over his face. The groans grew louder, and the dons turned round and looked down the hall from their seats at the high tables. Then Piper went to his place, the noise ceased and the dons, reassured, turned to their dinner. But there were ominous whisperings and glances at the table where Piper sat, and like signs at the table of the boating men nearer the door. The latter finished their dinner early and went out in a body. When they had got outside the door they waited by the college screens. Men who belonged to neither faction dropping out of hall one by one, looked with surprise at such an unexpected gathering, and passed on. Some of them waited outside to see what would happen. Before very long Piper came out, immediately followed by Howden and the rest. He looked black when he saw the waiting crowd, and then there was a curious pause. Bodily violence between fellow-undergraduates is a rare thing unless arising spontaneously from chance collisions of opposing factions. In this case there was plenty of bad feeling, but no hot blood at present, and although both sides were eager for a quarrel, nobody quite knew how to begin it. After a moment's pause Piper went on towards the steps leading down to Neville's Court. He looked a very ugly customer. Although Lucius had not succeeded in doing him a fraction of the damage which he himself had received, Piper had not got off quite unmarked. He had a black eye and a swollen cheek bone. His temper was up, too, and he was probably nearer the state of mind when a fight is a relief than any one there. "Ugly bruiser!" remarked Tait as he passed. Piper faced him instantly. "What's that, sir!" he asked angrily. "I said you were an ugly bruiser, sir." Piper aimed a savage blow at him before the words were well out of his mouth. Tait had just time to parry it. There was no need for any further introduction. Exactly where they were, with startled waiters going to and fro from the kitchens to the hall, and the intermittent stream of undergraduates passing through, the two parties fell upon one another, and the noise of the combat rose above the clatter of plates and the muffled swinging of the heavy doors, and reached the dons on the daïs at the other end of the hall. "Put him in the fountain," shouted Mirrilees, and the struggling mass surged slowly out of the doorway and down the shallow flight of steps into the Great Court. Blood was up now and there was no lack of sincerity in the blows that were given and taken. Little groups of disinterested spectators looked on at the strange spectacle of men of the same college, most of them well known throughout the University for their prowess in different branches of sport, fighting fiercely, and gradually drawing nearer to the great stone fountain which rears its stately mass from one of the grass plots. The boating men had a slight advantage in numbers, but the footballers were, with some few exceptions, a heavier lot, and progress was slow. Piper fought savagely and disabled one or two of the men who were dragging him along, while his friends were mostly engaged in a series of single combats round him. There is no knowing how the battle would have ended. In spite of their slightly superior force it is doubtful whether Mirrilees's and Tait's party could have succeeded in inflicting the punishment on Piper which they intended. But before they reached the fountain a little party of dons who had been apprised of what was going on came running down the steps of the hall towards the struggling and swaying mass. They were led by the Senior Dean. "Stop this, gentlemen, stop this," he shouted, as he reached them. A few of them stopped irresolutely. The rest paid no attention to the order. It is doubtful if they heard it. The Senior Dean, who was a man of resolution, threw himself among them, followed by one or two of his companions. At first there was no result, except that dons and undergraduates were mixed up together in one general _mêlée_. But gradually the voice and energetic action of authority began to tell. First one left off fighting and then another, until Piper and the men who had got hold of him were the only ones still left. Deprived of the assistance of his backers, Piper was carried with a little run right up to the steps of the fountain, but there the Dean and a few stalwart Fellows who were helping him managed to stop them by sheer force, and the fight ceased, leaving a dishevelled panting crowd of combatants facing one another, with the stern figure of judicial vengeance master of the field. Names were taken, orders given, and the crowd slowly dispersed. The boating men held the conviction that if they had been left alone they would have done what they meant to do and avenged the defeat Piper had administered to Lucius. At any rate they had given him a lesson which he wouldn't forget in a hurry. The football men made a great deal of the fact that they had been overpowered by superior numbers. _They_ were also greatly cheered by the conviction that they had given their opponents something that they wouldn't forget in a hurry. The sequel to the fracas was rather curious. It resulted in an entire healing up of the feud that had arisen, no one quite knew how, for it dated from before the issue of the _New Court Chronicle_. These quarrels between two sets of men are rare in the University, but they sometimes arise and continue for a year or so and then die away. This one would have disappeared slowly in due course, because no two sets of men can be said to be absolutely clear and distinct one from another, but are merged at some points by friendships between their respective members. But, the matter having been brought to a head by the quarrel between Lucius and Piper, and the bad blood let off, the ill-feeling disappeared as if by magic, and men who had fought with one another on that night by the fountain might have been seen in one another's rooms later on in the term the best of friends. There was one exception to the general amicability. Piper, who was an evil-tempered fellow, emerged from the tussle in a black rage, and continued in it for much longer than a normally constituted man would have found such a state of mind possible. The Senior Dean being wise in his generation, and having a fairly shrewd idea as to how the unseemly fracas had arisen, and what was likely to be its result, dealt lightly with the offenders. There were a good many official interviews and a few "gates," and then the matter was allowed to drop. None of the combatants actually told him in so many words what had been the immediate origin of the fray, but Mr. Binney having discovered the day after that Piper was more determined than ever to continue the publication of his paper, had paid an early visit to the Dean and asked him to suppress it officially. He had brought the term's numbers already issued with him, and the Dean gravely perused the "Binney Correspondence" then and there, while the object of it sat uneasily before him watching his face. "I don't defend this, Mr. Binney," said the Dean, laying down the papers on his table when he had finished them. "A great deal of it is very offensive. But, you know, you've got yourself to thank for most of it. "I know--I know," said poor little Mr. Binney, whose cock-sureness in his treatment of Deans and Tutors had been considerably reduced of late. "A good deal of it might fairly have been said of me last term. But it isn't true of me now. With the exception of a dinner in my rooms on the second night of the term, after which occurred some insubordination for which I was not responsible, nothing of the sort mentioned here has happened. I have been one of the quietest men in the college. It is my fixed intention to bring an action for libel against this man Piper," he continued, with a slight return to his former manner, "if this goes on, and if you don't see your way of stopping it, sir. It is intolerable." "You will not find it necessary to do that, Mr. Binney," said the Dean. "I will see that it is stopped. You had better leave these papers with me." It did not add to Piper's amiability when it came to his turn to be interviewed, to be told by the Dean that he had perused several numbers of the _New Court Chronicle_, and that it was about time that publication came to an end. He allowed Piper to argue the point, but when he found that they were no nearer an agreement on it than before, he told him peremptorily that he had made up his mind that the paper should be stopped, and stopped it must be. He pointed out several offensive articles aimed at the authorities of the University and Colleges, and alluded very little to the "Binney Correspondence," and finally found it necessary to tell Mr. Piper that he might choose between publishing another number of the paper and remaining at Cambridge. So the _New Court Chronicle_ came to an end, and neither Mr. Binney nor Lucius suffered any further annoyances from the printed expression of Piper's malice. The effects of the hitherto published instalments of the "Binney Correspondence," however, did not end there as far as Mr. Binney was concerned, as will afterwards, appear. CHAPTER XII LUCIUS MAKES ONE DISCOVERY AND MRS. TOLLER ANOTHER Lucius was out and about again, not much the worse for his late encounter, by the time Tuesday came round, when he was to lunch with his cousin. He was in fairly good spirits as he walked down the King's Parade and Silver Street, towards the ancient pile of Queens' College. He and his father were better friends than they had been any time since Mr. Binney had come into residence at Cambridge. Mr. Binney now comported himself with the dignity that befitted his years, and no longer made his son's life a burden to him by those continued indiscretions which had brought shame and confusion of face to Lucius in the past. He had restored his full allowance, and Lucius was better off in pocket than he had been since Mr. Binney had come up. And then the Newnham girl, to whom somehow he seemed to be getting nearer, now that he had discovered that she and his cousin were fellow-students, had distinctly given him a glance of recognition when he had seen her in King's Chapel on the previous Sunday. It was not much to pride himself on, certainly, but such as it was he had hugged the thought of it ever since. She had been sitting with some other girls in the front row of seats as Lucius walked up the chapel, and he had taken particular notice of those other girls when he had manoeuvred himself into a seat opposite her, in case one of them should turn out to be his cousin. John Jermyn kept in a charming set of oak-panelled rooms over-looking the river. There was an elderly lady sitting in the window seat as Lucius entered, who rose to greet him. She was tall and graceful, with a sweet face and grey hair. "You are very like your dear mother," she said, her eyes growing a little moist as she looked at him. "We used to be great friends in days gone by, but that is twenty years ago now." Lucius sat and talked to her in the window seat, while John Jermyn wandered about the room with his hands in his pockets casting impatient glances at the clock on the mantelpiece and the lunch on the table. "Betty is late," he said. "I told her half-past one, and it is getting on for a quarter to two." "We had better not wait any longer," said Mrs. Jermyn, rising. But just then light steps were heard on the staircase, the door opened, and disclosed to Lucius's astonished gaze the form and features of the Newnham girl. Miss Betty Jermyn came forward, rosy and a little out of breath, with murmured apologies, kissed her mother and her brother, and then waited with a deepening blush and a mischievous light in her eyes, to be introduced to Lucius, for whom the low dark room seemed suddenly to have become filled with brilliant sunshine. "This is jour cousin Lucius, Betty," said Mrs. Jermyn, and the two shook hands, but found no words with which to address one another. In the course of luncheon it came out in the most natural way that Betty and Lucius had attended the same lecture in Trinity College all last term, and remembered one another perfectly. "But you must have known who I was," said Lucius, a sudden light breaking in on him, as he remembered those little glances of amusement which had so thrilled his soul last term. "Gandey always used to read out our names after the lecture." "Yes, I knew who you were," said Betty, with a little laugh. "And I wondered how long it would be before you knew who _I_ was." Lucius felt that when he was alone again he would be very angry with himself for not having cultivated the society of his cousin John more assiduously, and also for having refused Mrs. Jermyn's invitation to stay with them in the Christmas vacation, but at present he was so happy that there was no room for regrets. It was quite apparent to the maternal eyes of Mrs. Jermyn before lunch was half over that this nice boy with his mother's eyes was head over ears in love with her pretty little daughter, whom she still looked upon as a child, in spite of the dignity conferred upon her by a scholarship at Newnham. Her son, of course, saw nothing of the sort, but he was pleased to find that his cousin, who was something of a hero in his eyes, seemed to have taken a fancy to his sister, whom he found it constantly necessary to keep in her place. He was afraid that Betty would never learn to show reverence where reverence was due, but it was a relief to find that Lucius apparently did not take her little audacities amiss, and indeed seemed to be even amused by them. What Mrs. Jermyn thought, it would not become us to disclose, but she accepted Lucius's invitation for the whole party to lunch with him on the next day, and her cordiality towards him had suffered no diminution when they parted. It was curious that Mr. Binney's name was not once mentioned between them. John Jermyn had given his mother a rather highly coloured account of our hero's peccadillos, and Betty had added her little comments, for the fame of Mr. Binney's exploits had penetrated even the walls of Newnham College. "Oh, mother," she had said, "you really can't have anything to do with cousin Peter. He is a horrid little man and leads Lucius such a life, so everybody says. And Lucius is so popular with all the men. It is a great shame." "I never cared for Mr. Binney very much," said Mrs. Jermyn, "but I should like you to ask Lucius to meet us, John. I should like to see dear Lucy's boy, although I saw very little of her after her marriage." So Lucius had come, been seen and had conquered, and went away again full of delighted wonder at the surprising thing that had happened. His first desire was to find the sympathetic Dizzy and impart to him the astounding news. He tracked him down at the racquet courts and brought him away when he had finished his game. "I say, old man," he said in as calm a tone as he could muster, "I've found out the name of that girl at last. What do you think it is?" "Oh, I don't know," said Dizzy, who had lost his match, and was as nearly inclined to pessimism as was consistent with his equable nature. "Henrietta, I should think, or Lulu, or Kate. Parents haven't any taste nowadays. Look at mine christening me Benjamin. Stubbs is bad enough, but Benjamin! 'Pon my word I sometimes feel inclined to get it changed by Act of Parliament." "Her name is Elizabeth J----" "Yes, it would be," interrupted Dizzy. "Elizabeth Jones. Just what I said. Well, what are you going to do about it?" "I didn't say Elizabeth Jones," said Lucius. "Elizabeth is a very pretty name, especially when it's shortened to Betty. Her surname isn't Jones, it's Jermyn." "Oh, is it? Well, I'm not so sure that--_what_! JERMYN!! You don't mean to say----?" "Yes, I do," said Lucius triumphantly. "That very girl is my cousin at Newnham, and no other." "Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed Dizzy. "But there, Lucy, I always told you if you'd only take the trouble to hunt your cousin down, or rather up, she'd turn out to be a topper. And I was right. When are you going to have her to tea?" "She's coming to lunch to-morrow," said Lucius. "I'm engaged to-morrow, I'm afraid," said Dizzy. "Going to lunch with Blathgowrie. I dare say I could get off it, though." "You needn't try," said Lucius; "but I'll get her to tea some day soon, before her mother goes away, and then you can come. Oh, my goodness! What a chance for a fellow! to be head over ears in love with a girl, and think he's never going to get to know her, and then for her to turn out to be his own cousin after all." "Did she say anything about me?" inquired Dizzy. "About you? No. Why should she?" "Why shouldn't she, you mean. I'm a very striking looking feller. She must have noticed me in the lecture-room last term." "You needn't trouble yourself that she'll waste many thoughts on _you_." "Oh, all right, old man. Keep your wool on. Now, don't forget to ask me to tea one of these days. I won't try and cut you out; you can rely on me." The remainder of that week passed like a happy dream to Lucius. He managed to spend some time every day with his cousins, found his way right inside Mrs. Jermyn's heart, and seemed to make very good headway up to a certain point with Betty. That is to say, they became excellent friends, and were on perfectly familiar terms, but at the end of the week he was no nearer knowing whether she reciprocated his admiration than at the beginning, for beyond a certain point he was never allowed to go. When Saturday came, Mrs. Jermyn went away and left Lucius desolated. But she had already asked him to stay with them in Norfolk during the Easter vacation, and he was left in by no means such a state of hopeless longing as before, for he managed to meet his cousin pretty often during the rest of the term, and although he was never allowed to enjoy the pleasure of her company for very long, she seldom met him without a few words of conversation passing between them, which gave Lucius something to live for now that the University boat had gone to Putney and left him behind in Cambridge. Mrs. Jermyn had not been able to avoid Mr. Binney altogether during her stay at Cambridge. She thought that she ought to see something of him now that his son seemed likely to become an intimate friend in her family. Accordingly Mr. Binney was notified of her arrival, and called on her at the "Bull" where she was staying. Mr. Binney had not yet recovered from the events narrated in the last two chapters, and was in a depressed and dull state of mind. He quite forgot to patronize Mrs. Jermyn on the fact of her son being a scholar of Queens' College, while he was a pensioner of Trinity, as he certainly would have done a few months before. Mrs. Jermyn talked chiefly about his wife, and Mr. Binney, who had been a widower for fifteen years, and had set up the image of Mrs. Higginbotham in the niche left vacant by the death of Lucius's mother, followed her lead with some uneasiness of mind. There was no warmth of feeling between them, and each was mutually relieved when Mr. Binney rose to take his leave. He apologised for not asking his cousins to lunch, but explained that he had to be down on the river early every afternoon, and Mrs. Jermyn was not sorry that the invitation was not given. Mr. Binney, of course, still corresponded regularly with Mrs. Higginbotham. He had refrained from sending her the _New Court Chronicle_, or, indeed, from mentioning that feature of it which most nearly concerned him, for some slight sense of dignity, which he had appeared to have relinquished during the Michaelmas term, had returned to him, and he was not anxious to have it known that he was treated with ridicule. He wrote about his work and about the prospects of the First Trinity first Lent boat, and if his letter did betoken a depression of spirits, the tender Mrs. Higginbotham put this down to his separation from her and threw a wealth of affection and sympathy into her replies, which greatly consoled Mr. Binney during his trying time. She also expressed herself delighted with the improvement in conduct displayed by her undergraduate lover, for, although Mrs. Higginbotham liked to read stories of youthful daring and devilry, when theory resolved itself into practice her mind recoiled affrighted. Mr. Binney was fond of imagery, and he often assured Mrs. Higginbotham at this time that her love and confidence in him was the rock to which he clung while the waves of adversity buffeted him; it was also an anchor, and a port, and a city of refuge; a ray of sunshine, a star, a beacon, a lantern; a refreshing fountain, an oasis in the desert, a cup of cold water; a buckler, and a good many other things. Mrs. Higginbotham made no attempt to discover what the waves of adversity were that were reported to be buffeting Mr. Binney. She liked his poetical method of expressing himself; she said it made her feel warm all over, and there she let the matter rest. But there was a serpent in this garden of mutual esteem. If Mrs. Higginbotham did not read the _New Court Chronicle_ and was ignorant of the dreadful things that were being said about her Peter, there was someone else who was fully acquainted with them. The day after Mr. Binney's dinner-party in Russell Square, Mrs. Toller called upon Mrs. Higginbotham, as she had announced her intention of doing. She waited for ten minutes alone in the drawing-room before Mrs. Higginbotham made her appearance. The first three or four she spent in refreshing her memory of the contents of the room. Then, growing bolder, she inspected the contents of Mrs. Higginbotham's Davenport writing-table, without, however, discovering anything that interested her. Thinking she heard a step on the stair she seated herself quickly beside the fire and snatched up a paper from the little table by her side. Nobody came, and Mrs. Toller then turning over the little pile of periodicals, lighted upon the creased copy of the _New Court Chronicle_ which Mr. Binney had posted from Cambridge. "Well! upon my word!" exclaimed Mrs. Toller to herself when she had perused the paragraph in "Madge's Letter" already referred to. She then turned to the title page of the paper and made a note of the publisher's address on the little ivory tablet she carried in her purse. When she had done that she heard Mrs. Higginbotham approaching, so, hastily burying the _New Court Chronicle_ under the pile and taking up _The Christian World_ instead, she affected to be so deeply interested in its varied contents as to be unaware of Mrs. Higginbotham's approach until that good lady had closed the door behind her and begun to make apologies for her delay, which had arisen through the arrival of a dressmaker to "try on." When Cambridge University had once more got into the swing of term time, there appeared every Monday morning among Mrs. Toller's correspondence a wrapper enclosing a paper directed from that ancient seat of learning. Mrs. Toller always secreted this and opened it after breakfast when the Doctor had retired to his study, for her subscription to the _New Court Chronicle_ cost her sixpence halfpenny a week, which was more than the good Doctor paid for having the _Daily Chronicle_ served up hot with his breakfast every morning. University journalism is not apt to afford great entertainment to people outside the University where it is practised, but Mrs. Toller, although a woman of economical habits, counted the information which she derived from the _New Court Chronicle_ cheap at the price which she paid for her subscription, and looked forward keenly to the budget of news which arrived for her every Monday morning. It must not be supposed that Mrs. Toller intended to keep her information from her excellent husband; she was far too good a wife for that. What she meant to do was to keep the _New Court Chronicle_ to herself until the end of the term, in order that Mr. Binney's infamies might heap themselves up until she had a good budget of scandal to lay before the Doctor. The game went merrily on for four or five weeks and there was matter of offence against Mr. Binney enough to have brought down upon him the wrath of the whole congregation of which he was so distinguished a member. But Mrs. Toller's appetite, whetted by the disclosure she had already surprised, thirsted for more. More she would have had, for Mr. Piper had got his hand thoroughly in, but, as we know, the _New Court Chronicle_ had come to an untimely end, and great was Mrs. Toller's disappointment when she received, one Monday morning, instead of the journal she had so looked forward to during the whole of the Sunday's religious exercises, a letter from the publisher informing her that the publication had ceased, and that he begged to return to her the remainder of the term's subscription. However, there was quite enough upon which to act. The Doctor retired to his study as usual after breakfast. Mrs. Toller got her daughter out of the way, produced the numbers she had already received, and refreshed her memory of the whole of the "Binney Correspondence." Then she sought her husband, who was taking a well-earned rest after his Sabbath labours over a novel, which he hastily secreted upon the entrance of his wife. "What's that you're reading, Samuel?" said Mrs. Toller. "I shouldn't waste my time over that trash if I were you. I've got an important matter to talk to you about." Dr. Toller breathed a sigh of resignation. He knew those important matters. If they were not complaints of the behaviour of various members of his congregation, they were generally household matters which Mrs. Toller could very well have settled for herself. "You know how deep an interest I take in the welfare of the church," began Mrs. Toller, seating herself in the easy chair by the side of the fire. Dr. Toller knew only too well. "Yes, my dear, certainly," he said. "I should be very sorry," pursued Mrs. Toller, "if any scandal occurred through the behaviour of one of our most prominent members, especially when he happens to be a deacon." "Yes, my dear," interrupted Dr. Toller hastily, "but I think that is hardly likely to happen. All our deacons are men of irreproachable character." "I am not so sure about that," said Mrs. Toller. "There is one of them who seems to be rapidly treading the broad road, and if he is not very sharply pulled up, I tremble to think of the catastrophe that may occur." "Oh, nonsense, my dear," said Dr. Toller. "You must surely be exaggerating. There is an occasional tendency towards undue interference on the part of our officers, who are some of them men of more money than brains, although I wouldn't for the world have it known that I said so. But I have no reason to dread anything worse than that. You have got hold of some trivial matter and are magnifying it in your mind--quite unintentionally, I am sure," he added hastily, observing the ominous stiffening of Mrs. Toller's upper lip, "and with the best of intentions, I am sure." "I am not aware," said Mrs. Toller, drawing herself up, "that drunkenness is a trivial matter, Samuel, or revelry. If it is so, I have misread the meaning of Scripture, and I should be glad to be corrected." "Of course, my dear," said Dr. Toller, "such things are very dreadful, but you have surely no reason to charge one of our deacons with such--er--crimes." "Read the passages I have marked with blue pencil in these papers," said Mrs. Toller, rising and handing the doctor her little bundle of ephemeral journalism. "And then say if you can justly accuse me of exaggeration, which I beg to say is not a habit of mine. I will leave you for a quarter of an hour and then return." When Mrs. Toller did return she found the Doctor chuckling over some of the humorous sallies of Mr. Piper's young lions. "Samuel!" she exclaimed, "is that the fashion in which you treat a serious matter like this? Such ill-timed levity is surely out of place." "Quite so, my dear, quite so," said her husband, his face instantly becoming serious. "I was not laughing at the news about Mr. Binney, which I finished perusing some time ago. Some of these young men are very clever. But really, with regard to Mr. Binney, I fully share your feeling, my dear. Mr. Binney has always been rather erratic, curiously so for a man of his years and position, but I could never have believed that this sort of thing would happen. I--I--hardly know what to say about it. But how did you get hold of these papers?" "Never mind that," said Mrs. Toller firmly. "We must act, and act promptly so as to save scandal." Dr. Toller disliked acting at all on Monday morning, but he saw that his wife was not to be trifled with, and said, "Certainly. Yes. I quite agree with you. What shall I do?" "You must go up to Cambridge instantly, and remonstrate with the misguided man." Dr. Toller looked blank. "Do you think that is necessary?" he asked. "I should have thought a letter would have answered the purpose." "Not at all," said Mrs. Toller. "Mr. Binney is in that state of mind in which he would take no notice of a letter. Severe expostulation and ghostly advice are what he wants. He must be checked in his profligate career at all costs, or worse may come of it. I should go with you, but I have my mothers' meeting this afternoon, and I am not one to neglect my duty." "But, surely, my dear," exclaimed the Doctor, "you would not wish me to go to Cambridge to-day?" "Certainly I should," replied Mrs. Toller. "Why procrastinate? And yet, I don't know. To-morrow perhaps I could accompany you. Perhaps there is no necessity." "If it has to be done," said Dr. Toller, "perhaps it had better be done to-day. It is not a pleasant business, but I agree with you that the gravity of the occasion demands immediate action, and I shall not shrink from taking it. I am really astounded at the disclosures made in these papers. If the extraordinary course Mr. Binney appears to have taken were to come to the ears of the church committee, I don't know what would happen. I will go to Cambridge after the ladies' Bible class this afternoon, and I think I will stay the night, my dear. I should like to have a look round the colleges, that is if you have no objection." "Yes, you can do that," said Mrs. Toller, "if you like. And you might call on Lucius and see how he is behaving himself, and on young Bromley, at Emmanuel College. And mind, Samuel, I shall expect a full account from you when you return home." So Dr. Toller packed his bag and traveled up to Cambridge by the five o'clock train. He drove first of all to Corpus, where he had a friend among the Fellows. He was persuaded to dine in Hall before he set out on his visit to Mr. Binney, and enjoyed himself exceedingly at the High Table, and in the Combination room afterwards. He did not disclose his object in coming up to Cambridge, but heard quite enough about the extraordinary career of Mr. Binney, who enjoyed considerable notoriety at the University, to persuade him that his visit of expostulation was really needed. About nine o'clock he told his host that he wished to call on an undergraduate, and putting on his clerical cloak and hat, he went round to Trinity College, where he was directed by the porter to Mr. Binney's rooms in Jesus Lane. CHAPTER XIII MR. BINNEY GETS INTO TROUBLE Since the dinner at the beginning of the term Mr. Binney had done nothing further to bring him under the displeasure of the authorities. Howden, in return for the pecuniary assistance he had received, kept his noisy friends away from him almost entirely, and so managed it that none of them considered himself ill-used by the cessation of Mr. Binney's former hospitalities. He worked very hard, and if the absence of his previous amusements did make life rather dull to him, the excitement of the coming Lent races and the probability that the crew he was steering would give a good account of themselves buoyed him up. Everything went well, the men were trained to a nicety, and most of them were confident that their boat would go head of the river. On the morning of the races Mr. Binney was too nervous to work. He attended one lecture, but found himself quite incapable of discovering any meaning in the lecturer's remarks. After that he relinquished the attempt to turn his mind to anything except boat-racing, and wandered about the town, with his hands in his pockets, looking the picture of misery. By-and-bye it occurred to him to pay a visit to his son and to try and extract some consolation from that experienced oarsman. He found Lucius engaged over a game of piquet with the ever-cheerful Dizzy. Lucius looked rather ashamed of himself when his father entered, but Dizzy was not at all put out. "Ah, Mr. Binney," he exclaimed, "very pleased to see you. We are just unbending our great minds a little. All work and no play, you know, won't do at all." But reprehensible as card playing at twelve o'clock in the morning undoubtedly is, Mr. Binney made no comment upon his son's occupation. "I am terribly nervous, Lucius," he said. "I wish this afternoon was well over." "What! Got the needle!" exclaimed Dizzy, while Lucius cleared away the cards. "Well, I'm not surprised at it. My old governor once had to make a political speech. He don't know anything about politics, but the big man had disappointed 'em, and they couldn't get anybody bigger at a day's notice. I assure you he got so nervous that he lost the use of his limbs and had to be massaged for an hour before he went off to the meeting, and when he got there he made such a hash of it that nobody's ever asked him to talk since, although he frequently obliges when he _isn't_ asked." "Political speaking is nothing to this," said Mr. Binney. "I know all about that. When I put up for the County Council two years ago, I had to make a speech every night of my life for a fortnight, and I enjoyed it, although I didn't get in; but I feel so nervous now that I really don't know what to do." "You will be all right, father," said Lucius, "when you find yourself sitting in the boat with the rudder lines in your hand. Make a good lunch and forget all about it till it's time to go down to the river. I should take a glass of brandy if I were you. It'll pull you together, and can't do you any harm as you're not rowing." "Brandy, Lucy!" echoed Dizzy, "the very worst thing you could possibly take. Don't you remember Dale who coxed the Eight at Eton. When he was in the lower boats he got the needle to such an extent he cried all the morning. Some fellow gave him half a glass of brandy. It made him as merry as a cricket. He said he didn't care for anybody, but he forgot which was his left, and steered 'em into the bank before they had rowed twenty strokes." "I am not likely to do that, Stubbs," said Mr. Binney, slightly offended. "I'm not a child. I'm a man with a head on my shoulders, as Mirrilees has often told me, but all the same I wish it were all over." Just then Mirrilees himself came into the room and looked a little disturbed at finding Mr. Binney there. It was quite easy to treat him as a freshman of no importance when he was by himself, but in the presence of his son Mirrilees found the position awkward. "You're bound to catch Pembroke to-night, I think," he said shyly, "and I should certainly think you will go head on Saturday if everything goes well." "I feel so nervous, you know, Mirrilees," said poor little Mr. Binney. "It's all very well for you young fellows who are used to it, but it's all new to me, and it's no use pretending I feel at my ease." "Oh, for heaven's sake don't lose your head," said Mirrilees anxiously, "or Third will bump you to a certainty. They're not so good as you are, but they always go off with a rush, and may hustle you a bit at first. If they don't catch you before Grassy you'll keep away all right, and ought to run into Pembroke at Ditton Corner." "Third's pretty good," said Lucius. "They're not to be sneezed at. We generally row faster than we are expected to." Then followed a long discussion between Lucius and Mirrilees upon the respective merits of the two boats, which was not calculated to allay Mr. Binney's nervousness, so he took his leave, and wandered about again until lunch time, more disconsolate than ever. A hundred times he wished he had never joined a boat club and even that he had never come up to Cambridge. He passed a very trying few hours until it was time to go down to the boat-house. During the long row down to the starting-point he discovered that he had not entirely forgotten all that he had learnt about the art of steering and felt a little better. But when the crew got out of the boat and waited about in the drizzling rain for the first gun his fears returned and he was unable to take any part in the mild horse-play with which the rest of the crew beguiled the interval. The bustle of getting into the boat again and seeing that everything was right with stretchers, rowlocks, and steering-gear, revived him a little, but during that awful minute before the last gun, when the boat was shoved out and the men sat forward with every nerve on edge, while the coach stood on the bank, watch in hand, telling off the relentless seconds, Mr. Binney's face of gloom and despair was a picture to behold. He was convinced that he was going to drop the chain so that it would foul the rudder lines, or not drop it at all, or pull the wrong string, or perform one of those mistakes to which the best of coxswains are liable at these terrible moments. But the gun went off at last, and before Mr. Binney had time to realise that they were fairly off, the boat was swinging down the river and he himself was steering as straight as an arrow towards the vivid blue of the Pembroke cox's blazer, feeling as capable and clear-headed as he had ever done in his life. At first it seemed almost impossible to believe that they would ever make up the distance which lay between them and the boat which was moving along so steadily in front of them. But they had not rowed twenty strokes before Mr. Binney realised that they were slowly creeping up. A wild exultation took hold of him. "We're gaining!" he cried. Stroke's face was immovable, but he quickened up slightly. Another thirty strokes and there was only a length between the two boats. Then Pembroke spurted and began to draw away. Mr. Binney's face fell. "We're losing ground!" he said, but Stroke made no answer. His eyes were fixed upon something past Mr. Binney's head, and our hero suddenly woke up to the fact that the cries of: "Third! Third!" which came from the bank behind him, were now much nearer and almost as loud as those of "First! First!" from their own supporters alongside. A panic seized him, and he quickly turned his head and saw the nose of the Third Trinity boat within six feet of his own. As he did so, he unconsciously pulled one of his strings and the pursuing boat shot up to within two feet. "Steady, there, steady!" growled Stroke, with an awful frown. Mr. Binney pulled himself together and set his teeth, determined to think of nothing but the Pembroke boat, which had now increased its lead to a length and a half. "How far are they ahead?" asked Stroke, in a low voice. Mr. Binney told him. Stroke quickened up and Mr. Binney had the delight of feeling the boat shoot away under him, while a tremendous roar from the men on the bank told him that Third Trinity was being left behind and that all danger of being bumped by them was over for the present. Up and up went the boat; the length and a half was lessened to a length, then to half a length, then to a few feet. The Pembroke stroke quickened, and drew away for a few seconds, but the spurt soon died down. First Trinity went on gaining. The Pembroke cox began to wash them off with his rudder. They had now reached the Red Grind, and Ditton Corner was close ahead. Mr. Binney bided his time and crept in a trifle closer to the bank. The nose of his boat began to dance up alongside the stern of the one in front. Then the Pembroke cox made a mistake and steered into the river. "We've got them," yelled Mr. Binney. Stroke made a mighty effort, which was answered by Pembroke, too late, for the Trinity boat was shaving the corner, while they were right out in the river. Mr. Binney held his course until the nose of his boat was level with No. 5's rigger. Then he pulled his left string sharply and ran into them just behind their coxswain's seat. "Well steered," said Stroke quietly, as he rested on his oar. "Couldn't have been done better." And Mr. Binney tasted the joys of paradise. The next day Mr. Binney's nervousness had vanished entirely. He thirsted to be again in the fray, and looked forward keenly to repeating the triumph of the previous afternoon. Needless to say he wrote a long, exultant letter to Mrs. Higginbotham, recounting his success and the honour it had brought him. Lucius and Dizzy came round in the morning to congratulate him and to wish him luck in the coming race. "Of course I wish Third had bumped them," said Lucius, as they walked down Jesus Lane together, "but still the governor would have been so sorry for himself that it's just as well they didn't." "You would have had your screw docked, Lucy, if Third had caught them," said Dizzy, "so you may consider yourself jolly lucky they kept away." "Oh, that's all over now," said Lucius. "The Governor behaves much more respectably than he did last term. If that business had gone on I really don't think I could have stopped up here." Mr. Binney received their congratulations with equanimity. He had jumped from the depths of self-distrust to the height of complaisance, and now felt that if he had gone to Putney with the University crew the victory of Cambridge over Oxford would have been assured. "Oh, it's as simple as anything," he said, in answer to their congratulations. "I can't think what ever can have made me feel so nervous yesterday." "Don't you be too cocksure about it, Mr. Binney," said Dizzy. "I knew a fellow once who rode in a steeple-chase. He'd got by far the best nag, and the odds were four to one on him. But he was so certain of winning that he forgot he was riding in a race at all, and got off to pick a flower after he had jumped the first hurdle. By the time he remembered where he was and got on again, the other fellows had reached the winning post. The bookies nearly murdered him." Mr. Binney was not in a frame of mind to take warning by this awful example of forgetfulness. He was so talkative in the changing room that he was severely snubbed by the Captain of the boat. Jesus, the boat in front of them this evening, ought to have presented no difficulties and would certainly have been caught by Pembroke in the long reach the night before if First Trinity had not made their bump at Ditton. Mr. Binney steered very badly at Grassy and lost a lot of ground. His steering round Ditton Corner was a little better, but nothing like so good as on the previous evening, and again Jesus got away. First Trinity made their bump at the railway bridge, but the men had had a hard race instead of a very easy one, and some unpleasant things were said to our hero when the race was at last over. The next day Mr. Binney had learned a lesson, steered well, and caught Lady Margaret at Ditton much in the same way as Pembroke had been bumped on the first night. First Trinity were now in the second place on the river, and had their work cut out for them to bump Trinity Hall on the last night. It was generally agreed that they were slightly the better boat, but whether they were good enough to overcome the advantage that the head boat always has in rowing in clear water, was a disputed point. They had at any rate nothing to fear from the boat behind them. Mr. Binney's previous experience had brought him into the right state of mind to enable him to do his best. The three bumps he had already made had given him confidence, and his mistakes of the second night preserved him from being over-confident. First Trinity made up their distance by the time they had reached the Red Grind, and from that time there was never more than a few feet of daylight between the two boats until the end of the race. At Ditton they overlapped, but Mr. Binney made his shot too early, and the Hall just managed to keep away. The enthusiasm from the supporters of the Crescent, standing or running on the banks, had the effect of steadying Mr. Binney's nerves. A ding-dong race ensued, right up the Long Reach, but with all their exertion the First Trinity men were unable to increase their distance. At the railway bridge the nose of the pursuing boat was a foot past the rudder of the other. But Mr. Binney knew that if he made a shot at them now all was lost. "Plug it in," he said in a low voice to Stroke, "and we've got them." Stroke did plug it in. He was nobly seconded in one last despairing effort by the men behind him. The nose of the First Trinity boat crept slowly but surely up, Mr. Binney pulled his left line just in the nick of time, and First Trinity bumped the head boat not a dozen yards from the winning post. A very proud man was Mr. Binney that evening when everything was over, when they had rowed back to the boat-house with the heavy flag flapping behind them and the cheering crowd of men accompanying them on the bank. When he had changed and gone home to his rooms with the pleasures of an amusing bump supper in the hall before him, he sat down in front of his fire and went over in his mind the causes for self-congratulation. At last he had done something which raised him out of the common ruck of University men, something that could never be taken away from him. He saw in imagination his rudder with the Trinity coat-of-arms, the names and weights of the crew and the cox, and the conquered colleges emblazoned upon it hanging up in his hall in Russell Square. His imagination did not stop there. He saw other rudders nailed up by its side, of which at least one should bear the combined arms of Oxford and Cambridge. He felt that he had acquitted himself so as to earn him Mrs. Higginbotham's undying admiration, and visited a telegraph office immediately upon his return in order to send that excellent woman the earliest information of his brilliant achievement. At the bump supper that evening Mr. Binney was the gayest of the gay. He did not exceed his usual allowance of wine. This, in spite of the unmannerly taunts of the _New Court Chronicle_, he had never yet done and would have been ashamed of doing. But he was so excited by his success that other members of the party who had not been so careful as himself gave him full credit for having done so, and laughed uproariously at his sallies of wit, clapped him vigorously on the back, and displayed all the usual signs of the best of good fellowship. Mr. Binney made a speech. He always did make a speech whenever there was an opportunity. He said that this was the proudest moment of his life. (Cheers.) He should despise himself if he thought otherwise. (Cheers.) He thought that the cox was the most important man in a boat. (Loud cries of "No! No!" and laughter.) Well, if he wasn't the most important, at any rate, they couldn't get on without him, and he was very proud to find himself in a position of that sort. He had had triumphs in his life before now (cheers and laughter), but they were as nothing to this. He didn't know how to say enough about it, although he was used to public speaking. (Laughter, cries of "Union.") Some gentleman had mentioned the word "Union." Well, he had thought at one time that success at the Union was the best sort of success that Cambridge could afford. He didn't think so now. Give him success on the river--he would leave all the rest to gentlemen not so fortunate as himself. (Loud applause and cries of "Sit down.") He saw around him a great many friends. (Laughter.) He hoped he might call them friends. (Cries of "Certainly," "By all means.") They were all jolly good fellows, and so say all of us. (Cheers.) He had said before that this was the proudest moment of his life. He would say it again. (Laughter, and the rest of Mr. Binney's speech, which he appeared to be about to begin all over again, was drowned by vociferous cheers which were gradually rounded off into "For he's a jolly good fellow," sung in chorus by everyone present.) At the close of the evening, just before twelve o'clock, as Mr. Binney was going out of college, arm-in-arm with two jovial companions, the gate was opened to admit Piper and one or two more football players who had gained a great victory over Dublin University that afternoon in the last match of the season, and had since celebrated the occasion by a more protracted dinner than was good for them. Piper was, in fact, very drunk, and his potations always had the effect of making him extremely quarrelsome. At this particular juncture he was, in American phraseology, "looking for trouble." He found it in the obnoxious person of his late butt, Mr. Binney, who came towards him smiling, his gown put on inside out, over his somewhat disordered evening clothes. The sight of Mr. Binney roused Piper's smouldering ill-humour to the point of frenzy. With a muttered execration he went for our hero. Mr. Binney saw him coming, and with a shriek of terror, turned round, loosening his hold upon his two companions, and fled terrified back towards the hall. Piper gave a yell, and started off in chase, but lost his footing at the two steps leading into the Court, and enabled Mr. Binney to get a clear start as far as the fountain, before his pursuer was up and after him again. His two friends made no attempt to protect him. They shrieked with laughter at the ridiculous spectacle, and rolled about doubled up in their ecstasy of amusement. But fortunately for Mr. Binney the Great Court was full of his late companions of the feast. "Save me, save me!" cried the poor little man, as he ran towards a group of them near the kitchen staircase. Piper was still a _bête noir_ to a great many of the rowing men, although with his exception the feud between oarsmen and footballers was now quite healed. Mr. Binney ran through the astonished group, down the narrow passage leading into the Hostels. They closed up their ranks and let Piper run into them. There was great confusion for the moment, and cries of "Now then, sir, where are you coming to?" and the like. Piper forgot for the moment where he _was_ going to, and in the meantime his companions came up. One of them was Howden, who was in the effusive after-dinner stage. "You're the fellows who went head of the river, aren't you?" he cried. "You're jolly noble fellows all the lot of you, and I shall be proud to shake hands with you all round. We're the fellows who have beaten the Irishmen by two goals and a try to nothing. And that's all right, isn't it?" It appeared to be all right, certainly, for the two groups immediately fraternised with mutual expressions of admiration. And even Piper was so overborne by the general good feeling that he relinquished his intention of spilling Mr. Binney's blood, and allowed himself to be drawn off, while our hero crept round by Neville's Court, through the screens and out again through the Great Gate, still somewhat frightened, and by no means so hilarious as he had been five minutes before. The next morning Mr. Binney woke up feeling rather cheap, but not without a thrill of pride when he recalled the glorious achievements of the last four days. He went to the chapel which he was accustomed to attend twice on a Sunday, and thought that every member of the congregation must have heard of his prowess on the river, and be eyeing him with admiration as he handed round the plate at the close of the service, clad in his undergraduate's gown. As he sat at his solitary lunch Howden came in. "Hullo, Binney, old chap," he said, "here you are at last. I've been in once or twice to try and find you this morning. You did jolly well in the races. I was there on Friday and saw you make your bump." "It's a splendid thing, you know, Howden," said Mr. Binney, "taking part in a great contest like that. You know what it is, for you're a celebrated athlete yourself. It makes you feel warm all over, doesn't it?" "It makes you feel black and blue all over," said Howden, "after a game like yesterday. We didn't do so badly, Binney, did we? We never expected to beat them like that. Look here, I've got some of the fellows who were playing yesterday coming to supper with me this evening, and two of the Irish chaps who are staying here over Sunday are coming as well. You come too, Binney. We shall have a jolly rowdy evening, quite like old times. You're out of training now, and you haven't had a bust since the beginning of the term. Eight o'clock in my rooms." Mr. Binney looked shocked. "What, on Sunday evening?" he exclaimed. "My dear Howden, I couldn't entertain the idea for a moment." "Oh, well," said Howden, somewhat abashed, "we shan't be doing any harm. You must feed somewhere even if it is Sunday." "I always dine in hall on Sunday," said Mr. Binney, "and go to church afterwards. I am sorry I can't join you, Howden, although, if it had been on any other night in the week, I should have been delighted. Those dinners we used to have were rather good fun, weren't they? I shouldn't mind another one now if we could keep it a bit quieter. I'll tell you what, Howden, we _will_ have another dinner in my rooms to-morrow night; just to celebrate our going head." "What, the old lot!" exclaimed Howden. "That will be ripping, Binney. I've never had such jolly dinners since I've been up here as yours were. You're such a capital good host, you know." "Well, I like entertaining my friends," said Mr. Binney, much gratified. "I used to enjoy those dinners myself, but they certainly were getting rather too rowdy. We must keep a bit quieter to-morrow." "Right you are," said Howden, and he and Mr. Binney drew out a list of half a dozen constellations of the athletic world, who had already had experience of Mr. Binney's hospitality in days gone by, and might be supposed to be willing to partake of it again. Mr. Binney's dinner was a repetition of those which had brought him into disrepute during the previous term, only, instead of being quieter than had been customary with those entertainments, it was a noisier revel than any of them. Bumpers had to be drunk to the First Trinity Boat Club, and to the cox of its first Lent boat. This was done before the fish came on. By the time the _entrée_ had made its appearance success to the University Rugby Football Club had been duly honoured, and the healths of the various members of it there present brought them to dessert in a state of hilarious good fellowship. Mr. Binney usually objected to bumpers, but it was pointed out to him that his refusal to empty them would be considered a cowardly insult to his guests in whose honour they were proposed. Alas! before dinner was well over, Mr. Binney was in a state the mere imagination of which would have made him blush with shame in his more collected moments. His face was flushed, his speech thick, and his laughter meaningless but incessant. His guests were, most of them, in a similar state, and the unhappy little man, instead of mildly rebuking them for their excesses, as he had been accustomed to do, encouraged them to further libations, and filled their glasses himself with an unsteady hand, and giggling exhortations to make a night of it. At a later stage of the evening Mr. Binney was on his legs making the inevitable speech. It was an entirely incoherent speech, but his hearers applauded it no less for that. When a gleam of intelligence did detach itself from Mr. Binney's rambling procession of verbiage and pierce their heated brains, the cheers and hammerings on the table rose to fever pitch, and spurred on the poor little object to still greater exertions. During one of these interludes, when the applause was at its height and Mr. Binney stood leaning against the table with glassy eye and fatuous smile waiting for the din to subside, and bracing himself up for a further attempt, the door of the room opened, and a tall black figure, its face wearing an expression of scandalised amazement, stood framed in the door-way. It was the Reverend Dr. Toller come to expostulate with the wandering sheep of his otherwise irreproachable flock. Mr. Binney was the first to notice him. He frowned slightly in a determined effort to regain his scattered senses. Then the amiable smile spread once more over his face as he recognised his friend. "Dorrertoller!" he cried, in a delighted impulse of hospitable welcome. "Come in, my dear sir, and dring a glass o' wine. You see me, Dorrertoller, s'rounded by m' friends, celebrelating merrificent vickery, boclub. Genelmel, 'low me, ole friend, Dorrertoller. Come in, ole boy. Mayself tome. Siddown." "Mr. Binney!" said the good doctor in an awful tone. "Are you aware, sir, of the terrible scandal you are bringing upon yourself and your friends by this unseemly--this disgraceful conduct?" "Thashalri, Dorrertoll," said the unhappy Mr. Binney. "Siddow. All ole frells here." It would ill become us to protract the account of this shameful scene. Dr. Toller, shocked and horrified beyond all bounds, lifted up his voice in expostulation and reproof to the best of his ability, but all in vain. Mr. Binney was past taking heed of rebukes, and wandered foolishly along, pressing the doctor to make one of the party, and drink the health of some of the best fellows he was ever likely to meet. That at least was the intention of his invitation, but his enunciation not being so clear as could be wished, the warmth of his welcome could only be gathered from his engaging smile and his ineffectual attempts to drag a chair up to the table, a chair on which one of his guests happened already to be sitting. Most of the other men took Dr. Toller for a Proctor and kept quiet, while Mr. Binney used his utmost endeavours to induce him to join them. They returned again to their previous state of merriment when the Doctor had left the room, having perceived that anything that he might have to say to Mr. Binney would have to be kept until the next morning. Later on in the evening, a Proctor did pay them a visit, the noise having become so insistent that it was bound to attract the attention of any one passing down Jesus Lane. He took the names of all the party, but Mr. Binney went to bed in happy oblivion of the event, as well as of the advent of his pastor, and woke up in the morning with a bad headache and a dim impression that something had happened the night before which would cause him great uneasiness if only he could remember what it was. As he sat with throbbing head and smarting eyeballs over a late cup of tea, which he dignified by the name of breakfast, a "bull-dog" was announced, who brought him a slip of paper requesting him to call on the Junior Proctor at a stated time. Mr. Binney groaned. He had a dim idea that he had had an unfinished conversation with a Proctor at some previous state of his existence, but he could not remember when. He supposed it must have been during the previous evening, but he could not remember having gone out after dinner. A little later on, a similar notice was brought to him from his Tutor. Mr. Binney was in such a low state that he actually shed tears at this fresh misfortune. He must have done something very bad indeed. If only he could remember what it was! But he couldn't, and his head was too painful to allow him to exert it to any great extent. All he knew was that he would never be able to hold up that head again. He would be sent down for a certainty. He would be eternally disgraced in the eyes of all his friends, before whom he had been used to bear himself so proudly. He grew cold when he thought of what Mrs. Higginbotham would say to him. Then his thoughts flew with a deadly sinking of heart to Dr. Toller and his fellow-officers in the congregation of which Dr. Toller was the shining leader. At this moment there was a ring at the bell, and in a few moments Dr. Toller himself was announced. Mr. Binney buried his head in the cushions of his armchair and wept aloud. CHAPTER XIV NEMESIS Dr. Toller left Mr. Binney an hour afterwards, chastened and repentant. The full enormity of his crime had been brought home to him. His only plea was that this was the first time such a dreadful thing had happened. Dr. Toller did not refer in direct terms to the _New Court Chronicle_, as he remembered in time that his wife had not told him before he left home how its numbers had fallen into her hands. But he drew from Mr. Binney an account of the occurrences of the term, and amongst them of the attack that Piper had made upon him in his paper. "I went in for revelry to some extent last term," Mr. Binney explained, "but, even then, nothing of the sort that happened last night took place. This term my life has been hitherto irreproachable, and I did not deserve these attacks." Dr. Toller was pleased to hear it. Poor Mr. Binney was so ashamed of himself and looked such a pitiable object bundled up in his armchair with a despairing look on his white face and black rings under his eyes, that he readily promised to keep the account of the previous night's orgie from Mr. Binney's friends in Bloomsbury, and before he went gave the repentant sinner full absolution and a great deal of very good advice. When the doctor had removed himself it was time for Mr. Binney to call on the Proctor, who was a Fellow of Jesus College. Mr. Binney crawled along down the sunny side of the lane feeling very miserable. But the interview was not quite so painful as he had imagined. The Proctor was a young man with a keen sense of humour. He tried to impart a fitting air of severity into his strictures on the disgraceful scene he had interrupted, but spoilt it all by bursting into a peal of laughter in the middle of his lecture. After that there was nothing further to be done but to extort a heavy fine from the culprit and to let him go. Mr. Binney felt somewhat relieved as he walked out through the gates of Jesus down the passage into the lane, but his heart sank again like lead as he remembered his coming interview with his Tutor. He had just time enough to go into his rooms and drink a glass of milk and soda, before it was time to repair to Trinity College to undergo the ordeal of Mr. Rimington's displeasure. Mr. Binney had to wait some time in the Tutor's ante-room. His thoughts were very bitter as he sat turning over the pages of a book, keenly aware of the titters and whispers of the men who were waiting with him. The Tutor's face, when Mr. Binney at last entered the inner room, was not reassuring. It wore a severe, and, to Mr. Binney's overstrung perceptions, it seemed a contemptuous look. Mr. Rimington did not shake hands with his pupil as was his wont, but motioned him to a chair and plunged immediately _in medias res_. "You know, of course, why I have sent for you, Mr. Binney," he said. "I have no intention of expostulating with you. I have tried that already, and it proved to be of no avail. I simply have to say that the college can no longer put up with the way you choose to behave yourself, and you must go down to-day." "What? go down for good, sir?" said poor Mr. Binney in a broken voice. "Yes, I think so," said the Tutor. "Oh, surely you can't be so hard as that," pleaded Mr. Binney. "Think of the disgrace, sir." "I do think of the disgrace," said the Tutor, with a short laugh. "I wish you had thought of it yourself a little sooner." It will be remembered that on the last occasion of a conversation between Mr. Rimington and Mr. Binney, the latter had taken a very high line, for which he had subsequently apologised, but not quite adequately. Mr. Rimington had become very tired of Mr. Binney's methods of speech and conduct, and had made up his mind to speak shortly and sharply, and not to allow any discussion of his decision. He was not, however, prepared for the total breakdown of Mr. Binney's opposition to his authority. The poor little creature sitting crumpled up before him in abject and hot-eyed misery was a very different person from the combative self-sufficient gentleman who had resisted his warnings in such a high-handed fashion when he had before animadverted on his conduct, so he did not refuse to listen when Mr. Binney began to plead with him in a piteous, broken-hearted manner. "I know I have disgraced myself, sir," he said, "I feel it deeply. But such a thing will never happen again, and it has never happened before." "Oh, pardon me, Mr. Binney," said the Tutor. "This affair is only the climax to a consistent course of such behaviour. I have had reason to speak to you before about it. You can't possibly have forgotten that." "Not about drunkenness, sir," said Mr. Binney. "I was drunk last night, you know. I confess it. That has never happened before, and will never happen again." "There are degrees of culpability, of course, in these matters," said Mr. Rimington. "Where you seem to disagree with me is in thinking that these disorderly meetings are allowable at all when a man of your age and influence takes the lead in setting all rules of order and good conduct aside." "I don't disagree with you at all, sir," said Mr. Binney. "I am very sorry that anything of the sort has ever happened in my rooms. I promise you, if you will only give me another chance, that it shall never happen again." "You forget, Mr. Binney, that I ventured to impress my views upon you at the end of last term, and warned you that if anything of the sort happened again I should be compelled to take a serious view of it. The first man I had to deal with at the beginning of this term had got into trouble through--er--his companionship with you. And further than that your name has become synonymous with disorderly behaviour throughout the University." What would not Mr. Binney have given at that moment to recall the vanished days and spend them to better advantage? The contemptible light in which he must appear to men of his own standing was borne in upon him like a flood, and he felt that it would indeed be better if he left Cambridge for good and never showed his face there again. "I deserve to be sent down in disgrace," he said feebly. "There is only one reason why I beg you to exercise your clemency--for the sake of my boy." Mr. Rimington's mild eyes flashed fire. "I can scarcely trust myself to speak to you on that subject," he said. "If I do so it is because I feel it my duty as a clergyman to try and bring home to you the enormity of your conduct towards your son. Are you incapable of----" "Oh, don't, don't," interrupted Mr. Binney in a broken-hearted voice. "I see it all. Nothing you could say would be so severe as what I say to myself. I can't bear it. I can't really. But just think what an awful thing it would be for him to have it said that his father was sent down for drunkenness. He would bear the brand of it all his life." "It seems to me," said the Tutor dryly, "that you have already given him something that he will have reason to be ashamed of all his life. I have a great admiration for your son. I tell you candidly, Mr. Binney, that I don't know one other undergraduate who could have held up his head in Cambridge after what he has gone through." "Oh, don't say any more, I beg of you," cried Mr. Binney, cut to the heart. "And don't make things worse for him by sending me down." "If I thought for a moment that your staying up here would make things easier for him," said Mr. Rimington, "I own I should hesitate, although I don't say that my decision would be altered. But it seems to me that the very kindest course to pursue on his account would be to prevent his having any further cause to be shamed by your conduct up here. No, Mr. Binney. You must go down this afternoon. I have spoken to one or two of my colleagues about it, and our decision is irrevocable. I see no use in protracting this painful interview." Mr. Binney pleaded and besought, but all to no avail, and left his Tutor's presence at last, a disgraced and despairing man. The feelings of Lucius towards his father are too painful a subject to dilate upon. Never surely, since the wide doors of Cambridge University were opened to all comers, had any of its members been placed in a more disagreeable position. Looking back on this trying time in after years, Lucius wondered how he could ever have endured life at Cambridge for a single day. But he had attained to that state of sympathetic intimacy with his cousin in which he could pour out some of his troubles to her when they met, and be gently but effectually consoled for them. Betty had never met Mr. Binney, but she knew him by sight, and nourished a fierce and bitter enmity towards him. Lucius met his cousin, on the morning after his father's fall, outside the lecture room of St. John's College, where she was engaged for an hour three mornings in the week. The other girls who were with her gave Lucius a glance and then hurried off through the gate, leaving them alone. "Good-bye, Lucius," she said hastily, "I must go. I don't know what those girls are running away for like that." "Do let me walk back with you, Betty," said Lucius. "I'm so beastly miserable, I don't know what to do." "Very well, then. Just for once," said Betty, after a look at his face. "We'll go along the Backs." "I suppose you haven't heard about my father last night, have you?" asked Lucius, as they made their way across the bridge. "No. What about him?" asked Betty. "I really sometimes think he's going off his head," said Lucius despondently. "He was so pleased at his boat going head of the river that he gave a great feed. There was a terrific row. In the middle of it the old fool I have to go and hear preach at home turned up. Goodness knows what brought him. He came to see me this morning just after breakfast, and seems to think I must have been in it too, although he knew I wasn't there. He began a long solemn jaw, but I was so sick I shut him up. He's an awful old outsider, and he's got nothing to do with me, even if I had done something he didn't approve of, which I haven't." "But it doesn't matter what _he_ thinks, does it?" asked Betty with all the scorn of the rector's daughter against a member of a usurping caste. "I don't know," said Lucius dubiously. "His wife is a spiteful old woman. Of course it will get to her ears and then it will be all over the place. There's one good thing, I have been away from home such a lot, and have so many friends outside, that it won't matter so much to me as it might have done. But it will be awful for the poor old governor. I don't think he knows what he's laying up for himself." "Oh, I shouldn't bother my head about him if I were you," said Betty airily. "It's his own fault, and he's got himself to thank for it. It's you I'm thinking of." Then she blushed a little. Lucius blushed too. "You are so awfully kind," he began, "and----" "Yes. Thank you," interrupted Betty, hastily. "But I really shouldn't know what to do if it wasn't for you," persisted Lucius. "It's like----" "Yes, I know," interrupted Betty again. "But you haven't told me all about last night yet, have you?" "No," said Lucius, his face falling again. "The row reached such a pitch that the Proctors came in. My gyp told me that the governor was going to be hauled this morning, and I shouldn't wonder if he were sent down." "Well, that will be all the better for you, won't it?" inquired Betty, unmoved at the awful announcement. "I don't know. I haven't thought of that yet," Lucius admitted. "But I'm afraid it will kill the poor old governor. I shall go and see him when I get back. I'm awfully sorry for him, although he has been so tiresome. But don't let's talk any more about it. We're nearly there. I say, Betty----" "I think you'd better go back now," said Betty. "You've come quite far enough," and Lucius was not bold enough to disobey her. He found Mr. Binney just returned from his visit to his Tutor. "It's all over, Lucius. I'm sent down," he said hopelessly. Lucius was at a loss for words. The humour of the situation suddenly struck him, and he had hard work to prevent himself smiling. "I've been a bad father to you, my boy," went on Mr. Binney. "I see it all now. I wish I had behaved differently. But it is too late. All is over. The blow has fallen. I am a disgraced man." "Oh, come, cheer up, father," said Lucius. "I should think they would give you another show if you promise to keep quiet in future." "No, they won't," said Mr. Binney. "They think I am spoiling your chances at Cambridge. And they are quite right--oh, _absolutely_ right." "What nonsense," said Lucius. "Is it only on my account they have sent you down?" "That chiefly," said Mr. Binney, with the calm voice of despair. "But they have lost faith in me. And quite right too. Oh, _quite_ right." "Well, I'll tell you what, father," said Lucius, "I'll go and see Rimington and ask him to give you another chance. We're rather pals, and he might listen, although it's rather cheek my tackling him." "Oh, Lucius, if you only would," exclaimed Mr. Binney, grasping his son eagerly by the arm. "I believe he would listen to you. I do really, and it's my only chance. I thought this morning that I shouldn't care to stay at Cambridge any longer after what has happened. But I can't bear the thought of going down like this. It is too awful." "Of course not," said Lucius. "I'll go at once." Mr. Rimington was still receiving when Lucius presented himself in his anteroom. After a time he found himself cordially greeted by his father's Tutor, and sat down without an idea as to how he should begin what he had to say. "I've come about my father," he said, reddening and playing with the tassel of his cap. "I hope you'll give him another chance, sir. It wasn't altogether his fault that all the noise was made last night, and he'll be very careful that it doesn't happen again. It will be rather unpleasant for me if he is sent down," he added. "Has your father asked you to come to me?" asked Mr. Rimington. "No," said Lucius, "I come of my own accord." "Wouldn't you be happier up here if your father were--were at home, Binney?" "I shouldn't be any happier if people could say he had been sent down. In fact, I don't think I could stand it. He'll keep pretty well in the background after this, I should think, and I don't much mind his being up here if he does that." "I can't hold out any hopes of our decision being altered," said Mr. Rimington after a pause. "It is not I alone who am responsible for it. But I think that your wishes in the matter should certainly be considered. I can't say more than that at present, and, as I say, your father had better not entertain any hopes of our decision being reversed. If there is anything more to say, I will write to him in London." With this slender thread of hope Mr. Binney travelled home to Russell Square that afternoon in sad and lonely dejection. His head still ached after his excesses of the previous night, and his mood was so dark that he put off the confession which he knew he should have to make to Mrs. Higginbotham, until the next morning. As he dined in solitary state that evening, attended by his neat and soft-footed maids, he found himself wondering how the habits and customs of twenty years could have broken down so completely under the influence of new surroundings. Two years ago he would have been the first to hold up pious hands of horror at the mere mention of an orgie such as he had taken part in the night before. And, having returned once more to his accustomed manner of life, he felt just as far apart from it as he would have done then. But he could not keep his thoughts away for long from the dark fact that he had just been expelled from the University for continuous bad conduct, and it will be agreed that this cannot have been a pleasant recollection for a middle-aged gentleman with a grown-up son. Dr. Toller had promised Mr. Binney that he would keep to himself all mention of the scene he had surprised. His doing so was only another example of the eternal self-complaisance of human nature. Dr. Toller was about as capable of keeping anything to himself that his wife wanted to hear about, as a puppy is of holding a stick that its master wants to take away. At twelve o'clock Dr. Toller returned from Cambridge to the wife of his bosom. By a quarter past, Mrs. Toller was in possession of the main outlines of his story, which had been filled in before the half hour struck by all the details that Dr. Toller's memory could supply. "You won't tell anyone else what has happened, my dear, will you?" said Dr. Toller, when his wife had extracted all the information from him he was capable of affording. "I shall tell what I please to whomsoever I please," said Mrs. Toller. "But, my dear, my promise," expostulated the doctor. "Bother your promise!" said Mrs. Toller, as she went out of the room. After breakfast the next morning Mr. Binney, to whom another day had brought no cessation of the gnawing pains of remorse, took his courage in both hands, and putting on his hat and coat, went round to Woburn Square. The maid who opened the door to him gave a little start. "Mrs. Higginbotham is not at home, sir," she said. "But she told me to give you this little parcel if you happened to call." Mr. Binney took the parcel, neatly tied up and directed in Mrs. Higginbotham's well-known writing. "Do you know when Mrs. Higginbotham will be in?" he asked. The maid hesitated. "She told me to say she was not at home, sir," she repeated awkwardly, and Mr. Binney went down the steps with the terrible realisation hammering at his brain, that Mrs. Higginbotham had heard of his disgrace and refused to receive him. He waited until he had returned to the seclusion of his own library before he opened the packet which she had directed to him. It contained all the letters he had ever written to her. CHAPTER XV LUCIUS FINDS A BACKWATER It was ten o'clock of a late April morning, one of those hot sunny days which sometimes make it not unfitting that the term which in Cambridge begins in April and ends in the middle of June should be known as the Summer Term. The morning in Cambridge, as has been explained, is usually devoted to books, but here was Mr. Lucius Binney of Trinity College in a very light grey flannel suit and a straw hat apparently making preparations for some sort of an expedition. He had collected from different corners of the room a Japanese umbrella, two plethoric silken cushions and a large box of chocolate creams. He put them down on the table and looked for a moment longingly at his collection of pipes, but finally contented himself with filling a cigarette case, which he slipped into his pocket. At this juncture a step was heard approaching. Lucius had just time to cover the box of chocolate creams with a cushion before the door was opened and Mr. Benjamin Stubbs entered the room. He was in cap and gown and carried a notebook. "Holloa!" he exclaimed, "going on the Backs? Not a bad idea this fine morning. I've a good mind to cut lecture and come with you." "Oh I shouldn't do that, Dizzy, if I were you," said Lucius, "you'd better go and hear what Mansell has got to say. I can crib your notes afterwards." "We can both crib 'em off Hare," said Dizzy. "I should like a paddle in a canoe. Lend us a hat and I'll leave these things here." "I haven't got another hat except that one with the Third Trinity colours and you can't wear that." "Well, you Juggins, you can wear that and lend me the one you've got on." "The other doesn't fit me very well," objected Lucius. "What rot! why, you wear it every day. I'll tell you what it is, young man, you've got some game on and you don't want me to come. What is it?" Dizzy here took up one of the cushions on the table and disclosed the box of chocolates which it hid. Enlightenment diffused itself over his intelligent features. "Oh, I see, yes," he said, "Good morning, Binney, I'm afraid I shall be late for lecture." And he betook himself out of the room. "Silly ass!" soliloquised Lucius. Then he gathered up his properties and made his way out across the Great Court, which lay wide and still beneath a smiling April sky, through the Hostel and down the narrow lane which leads to the river and the raft, where in summer-time a flotilla of boats and canoes is moored under the trees. Lucius selected a Canadian canoe and deposited a cushion at either end, supplementing those supplied by the boatmen. The chocolate creams he stowed carefully behind his own cushion, and taking his seat pushed out into the open water through the maze of pleasure boats which stretched half-way across the river. He was almost alone on the water. The rooks cawed in the high elms which fringe the pleasant gardens by the river, the whirr of a mowing machine came from some unseen lawn close by; there was an idle summer feeling in the air. Lucius paddled in a leisurely manner up the river, past the terraced gardens of Trinity Hall, the prow of his canoe breaking up the reflection of the beautiful Clare Bridge as he passed under it, along the spacious level lawn of King's and under the King's bridge into the darker waters bounded by the old buildings of Queens'. The illicit tinkling of a piano came from an open window in the new King's buildings and two men leant idly on the parapet of the bridge and watched him as he paddled slowly underneath. When he reached the wooden bridge of Queens', the bridge which Sir Isaac Newton is said to have erected without a bolt or nut, he turned round and dropped down the river again. As he neared the King's bridge he pulled out his watch. "She said half-past ten," he murmured to himself. "I suppose she is bound to be a bit late. Girls always are." He lay back on his cushions and allowed the canoe to drift. Opposite to him was the entrance to a backwater, arched over with trees, and crossed by a wooden bridge. Lucius surveyed it idly. "I wonder if she will come down there with me," he said to himself. At this moment a fair vision of youth and beauty in diaphanous summer draperies came into sight on the river bank just above him. Lucius sprang out on to the bank and knelt down on the grass to hold the canoe for the fair vision to step into it. It was his cousin Betty. She looked cool and fresh and not at all as if she was doing a very bold thing as she stepped into the wobbly craft and settled herself on the cushions opposite him. "This is ripping, Betty," said Lucius. "It is most charming of you to come out with me like this." "You don't think I came for the pleasure of your company, do you?" inquired Betty. "Oh, no, not in the least." "How conceited you are! You know you do think it." "I assure you, Betty, it never entered my head. When a girl writes to her cousin and asks him to take her out on the river, he would be a conceited ass, as you say, to imagine for a moment that she wanted to go with him." "I didn't say I didn't want to go with you. If I must go at all I would just as soon go with you as any one." "I don't know that there's any necessity for you to go at all if you don't want to." "Ah, but you don't know everything." "Why did you come, then?" "I'll tell you when we get back again. Now paddle up to the Bridge of Sighs." "How mysterious you are! But there's no hurry. Let us go down this little backwater. You can't think how jolly it is. There are shady trees on one side and a field with daisies and cows and buttercups and things on the other." "No thank you, I don't want to go down a backwater. I want to paddle down to St. John's and back." "What for?" "I shan't tell you yet." "Then I shan't paddle." "How tiresome you are, Lucius! You spoil all my pleasure in your society." "You said you didn't take any pleasure in my society just now." "No more I do. Now paddle along, there's a good boy." "Who is that female on the bank taking such an interest in us?" "She isn't a female. Don't be rude. She's one of my particular friends. Now go on please." "What is she doing there? Why doesn't she go home?" "She will, when we have been up to the Bridge of Sighs and back, and I shall go with her. Now do paddle on and be quick. I shall get into a row, you know, if anyone else sees me here." "I shan't go on until you tell me what all this is about. Don't get into a temper. If you kick the bottom of the boat like that your foot will go through and we shall both be in the water." "You really are too provoking, Lucius. I'll never speak to you again if you don't go on directly." Lucius began to paddle on slowly. "Now, tell me," he said, "why you wanted to come." "Well, if you must know, that girl betted me a box of chocolates that I wouldn't, and I do love them so and I've spent all last quarter's allowance and can't afford to buy any. Now do go on, Lucius, there's a good boy. We have only got to get up to the Bridge of Sighs and back, and I shall get them." Lucius stopped again. "I don't know that I want you to get them particularly," he said, "after what you have said about not wanting to come with me. Didn't you want to come with me a bit?" "No, of course not." "Not a little bit?" "No." "Then I shan't go on." "Oh--oh--oh! I feel as if I should like to throw something at you." "Well, why don't you? Look, there's the girl on the bank grinning at you. How pleased she'll be if I let her win." "Horrid thing, she is! But I hate you worse still. I feel as if I could do anything to you now." "What, hurt poor little Cousin Lucy? Oh, Betty, for shame!" "Well, if you won't go on, turn back then, and I'll get out. Only I'll never speak to you again as long as I live." "I say, Betty, are you very fond of chocolates?" "Yes, I am, but I wouldn't sit here for another five minutes for all the chocolates in the world. Turn round and go back, please." Lucius put his hand behind his back, and drew out the big box already mentioned. "Look here; let's stop and eat these here, while that girl looks on. Then we'll go up to St. John's and back and you can have hers too." This plan commended itself to Betty, and she spent a happy ten minutes while the girl on the bank strolled about and pretended to be admiring the Chapel of King's and the beautiful College of Clare, which are both seen to advantage at the point where the canoe had stopped. There is a time when even Buszard's most expensive confections cease to charm. When this time had arrived for Betty, she said, "I don't much care if I don't get the others now, but I know I shall want them to-morrow, so paddle on, Lucius. I'm much more pleased with you now." "Thank you, Betty," said Lucius, and the canoe proceeded on its way, under the Clare, Hostel, and Trinity Bridges with the graceful willows sweeping the water, round the curve where the classical front of the Trinity library looks severely towards the paddocks and the elms, and under the wall of the Master of Trinity's garden, where a blossoming tree showed a mass of delicate pink against the red-tile gables of Neville's Court, under yet another bridge flanked by the stone eagles of St. John's, and between the walls of that college until they reached their goal, the covered bridge, which, through no merit of its own, has usurped the name of the Bridge of Sighs. "Thank you," said Betty. "Now be quick and get back. What a sell for that girl! and we haven't met anybody to matter either." "Plenty of time for that. We've got to get all the way back again. I didn't tell you before, because I thought you would be frightened, but you remember Dizzy whom you met in my rooms last term when your mother was up?" "Yes, I hope he isn't coming out, is he?" "Well, I'm afraid he is. It's an old standing engagement; he promised to row a party of Newnham dons--seven of them--on the Backs this morning." For one moment Betty's face blanched with terror. Then she said, "You are a donkey, Lucius. Hurry up, please." But Lucius wasn't going to hurry up. He was very well content with his present position. Betty reclined opposite to him in a graceful attitude, the brilliant colour of the Japanese umbrella a setting to her pretty face. "Why did you put on that pretty frock?" asked Lucius. "Because it is so hot; just like summer." "I know why you put it on." "Of course you do when I've just told you." "You put it on because you wanted me to think how pretty you looked in it." "I didn't do anything of the sort. Don't be so silly." "You do look awfully pretty in it, you know." "Now, Lucius, if you begin saying that sort of thing I shall get out." "All right. The river is shallow here. It won't come much above your shoulders." "Be quiet, and go on." "I am going on. I say, Betty!" "Well?" "Do you remember those lectures last October term?" "Yes, pretty well; I've got the notes of them at home if you want them." "Bother the notes! Do you remember how regular I was?" "How should I? I didn't know you then." "Oh, you wicked story! You knew who I was perfectly well, you little witch, and you let me go on like that for two whole terms without making a sign. It was cruel of you." "Well, did you expect me to stop you in the street and say I was your cousin, when you had never taken the trouble to call on me?" "You know I thought you were at Girton. Father said you were, and there _is_ someone called German there." "Yes, and you went to Girton such a lot, didn't you?" "I could swear now when I think what an idiot I was." "Then don't do it, please, although I quite agree with you. And, of course, you were much too grand to come and see us at Christmas." "Confound it! I say, Betty, was it you who got me asked there?" "I certainly shouldn't think of doing so again. And it was mother who asked you last vacation. I had nothing to do with it." "Then it _was_ you. Betty, you are a dar----" "Now, then, be quiet, please." "You and John are coming to us in town for a week, directly after term." "Poor old John. I wonder whatever he would say if he saw me now!" They had now passed Clare again, and were gliding slowly along between the pleasant meadow and the great lawn towards King's bridge. "I say, Betty," said Lucius, "I don't want to frighten you, but who is that on the bridge?" "I should think the Vice-Chancellor and Principal of Newnham waiting for us," answered Betty without turning round. "No, but really, I do believe it is John." Betty turned round and saw a man in a straw hat with a green and black ribbon leaning over the bridge. "Yes, it is," she said, blushing scarlet, but speaking quite unconcernedly, "he ought to be working. I shall blow him up for it." "Shall we turn round? He hasn't spotted us yet." "Turn round? Whatever for? You don't suppose I'm frightened of John, do you?" "I don't know. You look rather as if you were." "Of course I'm not. But I don't know what he will think, and I should look so idiotic if I began to explain." "What about that backwater?" "Is it very pretty?" "Yes, very. Hold your umbrella towards the bridge as we go round the corner and he won't see you. I'll pull my hat over my face." So the canoe glided under the little wooden bridge and into the still, shaded water beyond. The other girl, who was still walking about along the river bank, and had seen it disappear, waited for an hour, and then went away furious, half intending to report Miss Betty Jermyn to the authorities of her college. Directly she had gone, the canoe came sliding out into the river again. Betty was speaking. "I shouldn't much mind if John did see us now, should you, Lucius?" "Not a bit, darling," answered the happy Lucius. "But it wasn't John at all. I looked when you were holding the umbrella in front of your face." Our narrative has dwelt so long on a series of painful and discreditable events, that it is hoped that the account of how Lucius and Betty, boy and girl as they were, made up their minds to spend their lives together, may have dissipated the gloom which the sympathetic reader will have experienced in following the chequered career of Mr. Binney. We must now go back a little and fill up the gap which we have left between the end of February and the end of April. And first let us say that the very time Lucius and Betty were cooing like a pair of young doves in the seclusion of that backwater of the Cam, which now holds for them more tender memories than any other spot in the world, Mr. Binney was still in evidence as an undergraduate member of the University of Cambridge. Lucius's plea had been successful. A week after Mr. Binney's return to Russell Square he had received a letter from Mr. Rimington, to inform him that he might come up again at the beginning of the following term, but that the slightest breach of discipline on his part in the future would mean a sentence of instant dismissal from which there would be no appeal. But alas! this letter, welcome as its contents were, did not suffice to raise Mr. Binney from the despondency into which he had fallen. After the receipt of Mrs. Higginbotham's mute but eloquent dismissal he had passed a week of such black despair that he could never look back upon it in after life without shuddering. He had beaten his wings against the doors of Mrs. Higginbotham's dwelling, but in vain. There was no admittance for him. He had importuned her by post. His letters remained unanswered. He scarcely knew how to bear the hard fate that he had brought upon himself. He was all alone in the house, for Lucius had gone straight from Cambridge to Norfolk, and was now engaged in the Reverend Mr. Jermyn's pleasant rectory house and garden in laying the train which eventually culminated in the scene between him and Betty recounted at the beginning of this chapter. He would have gone down to his place of business, but he was ashamed to face his manager and his clerks. He thought that every one would know he had been sent down from Cambridge. As a matter of fact, this particular event of his University career never did become known to any but a very few. Even Mrs. Toller did not know it, although Mr. Binney was convinced that she must have done, for she cut him pointedly in Gower Street one afternoon as he crept miserably along taking a little air and exercise, and audibly instructed her daughter to do the same, as Mr. Binney raised his hat. After that he was not surprised to receive a letter from his fellow deacons of Dr. Toller's chapel requesting him to resign his office, which he did that day with an added pang of shame, and resolved that, as he had now made the Baptist community too hot to hold him, he would become a Wesleyan Methodist, and work his way up to a position of authority in that body. He also made up his mind to let the house in Russell Square, which was far too large for himself and Lucius, and take a flat in Earl's Court, since Mrs. Higginbotham seemed to be made of adamant, and there seemed very little chance now of her ever gracing his establishment. With all these wrenches in his life, actual and imminent, it may be imagined that Mr. Binney was not a happy man at this time. When Mr. Rimington's letter came, he decided to make one more appeal to Mrs. Higginbotham. He told her that he was going back to Cambridge, and intended to lead a very different life in the future from that of the past. Might he nourish a hope that if he did something to make up for past disgrace, Mrs. Higginbotham would forgive him and smile on him once more? To his intense relief and tearful joy Mrs. Higginbotham replied to his letter. It appeared that he was not to be debarred from all hope. But he was not to be allowed to see Mrs. Higginbotham again until he had done something definite at Cambridge to atone for his past misconduct. "I do not mean success in your play-hours, Peter," wrote Mrs. Higginbotham. "That you have already attained, and it has been the means of leading you astray. Such success as that will never restore my lost confidence in you. You must come to be well spoken of by masters and pupils alike. You must rise to the top of your classes, and acquit yourself well in your examinations. When you have done that you may come and see me again. Until then the memory of the dreadful trouble you have brought upon yourself and upon me, who trusted you, must abide with me. I do not wish to load you with reproaches. Your own conscience must be a very heavy burden for you to bear. But I could not bear to see you with the account that one who shall be nameless gave me of your conduct and appearances still fresh in my memory." Mr. Binney stifled his renewed feelings of remorse and wrote to ask if the passing of his Little-go in the following June might be considered a passport to Mrs. Higginbotham's society? Mrs. Higginbotham replied, Yes. If he passed that examination well and behaved immaculately in the meantime he might consider himself on the old footing with her. So Mr. Binney took heart, re-engaged the useful Minshull and retired to Cornwall for the Easter vacation, where he ploughed away at his studies so energetically that Minshull held out hopes of his attaining a second class in one part at least of the examination. When Lucius paddled his canoe out of the backwater with Betty sitting opposite to him in a flutter of dimples and happiness, there was literally no cloud on his horizon. He had been up at Cambridge now for three weeks and his father had never once given him occasion to wish himself away. Mr. Binney behaved himself irreproachably. In fact, if he had kept himself in the background as he was doing now from the time he had entered the University, Lucius would have had no reason to be ashamed of him at all. Even as it was, the contrast of what Mr. Binney was now and what he had been when he first came up was so great that the relief felt by Lucius almost made up for the distress he had previously undergone. Mr. Binney as a subject for discussion had somewhat lost interest by this time, and Lucius lived much in the same way as he would have done if his father had never come to Cambridge. Mr. Binney, whose nature was elastic, had recovered a little of his self-importance now that he had nothing to fear from outraged officialdom, and was rather inclined to patronise his son, and generally to assume the high parental air with which he had treated him before his own arrival in Cambridge. But Lucius, whose appeal had saved his father from expulsion, took it all in excellent part, and was only too thankful that things were not worse. He could have borne a great deal more and thought nothing of it now that Betty had at last allowed him to put to her the all-important question, and had given him the answer he wanted. He whistled gaily as he walked up to his rooms from the river and thought himself the luckiest fellow in the world. At the entrance to Whewell's Court he met Dizzy. "I've done it, old man," he said with a beaming face. "You're the first person I've told about it." "Then I'm sure I'm extremely flattered," answered Dizzy, "although I haven't the slightest notion what you're talking about." "I'm going to be married, Dizzy," said Lucius. "Will you be my best man?" "Well, I'm going to play racquets at two," said Dizzy. "If you could put it off till to-morrow perhaps I could----" "No, but really, Ben, I asked Betty this morning, and it's all right." "My dear old man," said Dizzy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while a bright smile lit up his ingenuous features, "I couldn't have been better pleased if I'd done it myself!" CHAPTER XVI THIRD TRINITY MAKES A BUMP There never was such a little man as Mr. Binney for getting knocked down flat and picking himself up again as cocky as ever. Lucius's announcement of his engagement to his cousin Betty brought him to his feet as pompous as if he had never been fined by a Proctor or rebuked by a Dean. "I never heard of such a thing," he said indignantly. "Getting engaged to be married at your age! Why, it's ridiculous. I won't have it. That's flat." "What won't you have, father?" asked Lucius. "You can't stop my being engaged to her, you know. That's over and done with." "It is not over and done with, sir," said Mr. Binney. "The engagement, if there is one, must be broken off." "Why?" asked Lucius. "Because I say so," said his father. "You ought to give me a reason," said Lucius. "I'm not a child. I love her and she loves me. Why shouldn't we be married? Of course I don't mean now, but in two years' time or so, when you make me a partner in the business." "You'll never be a partner in the business," said Mr. Binney, "if you persist in this folly. You're a boy and she's a girl, and I won't have it. It's ridiculous." "Of course she's a girl. I shouldn't want to marry her if she were an old woman," said Lucius. "If you can't give me any better reason than that, father, I don't think you're treating me fairly." Mr. Binney laid down the law for half-an-hour or so longer. He did not produce a better reason for refusing his sanction to the engagement, not having a better one to produce, unless he had told Lucius that he was objecting simply for the pleasure of asserting his authority, which was about the long and short of it. Lucius left him at last, somewhat dispirited, and sought the society of Dizzy, his friend. "Governor won't hear of it," he said, laconically, as he threw himself into an easy chair. "Why not?" asked Dizzy. "Wants to show his independence, I fancy," said Lucius. "He talked a powerful lot of rot. Told me he'd turn me out of the house if I didn't break it off." "Oh, he'll come round," said Dizzy encouragingly. "I know his little ways. You stick to it. You'll find yourself settled in a semi-detached villa at Brixton in a twelve-month, bringing home a basket of fish for dinner, and making a row about the water-rate. It'll turn out right in the end. You see if it don't." "I don't see much chance of it," said Lucius despondently. "The governor swears he won't allow me enough to marry on for five years at least. I've a good mind to take to gambling and try and pick up a bit that way." "Rub your eyes, old man," said Dizzy. "This is Cambridge. It isn't a novel by Alan St. Aubyn, although you _are_ in love with a Newnham girl, and the first fellow I've ever known up here who's gone anywhere near it. Not that they're not regular toppers, some of them," he added hastily, anxious to clear himself from any suspicion of being wanting in chivalry. "But that sort of thing don't happen, as they say in the play. And that's all about it." "Well, it's happened with me," said Lucius. "And I'm pretty well down in the mouth about it." "Look here," said Dizzy. "Shall I go and tackle your old governor? I daresay he'd listen to me." Lucius laughed. "I won't stop you," he said, "but it won't be any good." "We'll see," said Dizzy. "I'll go at once." When Lucius left his father, Mr. Binney began to turn over in his mind the news he had received. He was not really displeased at it now he came to think it over. Betty Jermyn was a very charming girl, and there was no objection to her on the score of blood relationship, for her mother had only been a second cousin of his wife's. They were both very young, it is true, certainly too young to marry yet; but then they did not want to marry yet. As far as money was concerned, Mr. Binney fully intended to take Lucius into partnership with him in two or three years' time. And even if the girl should prove to be penniless, as was probable, Lucius would have quite enough to marry on directly he gave him a share in the business. At this point in his ruminations Dizzy entered the room. "Ah, Mr. Binney!" he said. "I thought I'd just look you up as I was passing. How's the work getting on?" "Very well, thank you, Stubbs," replied Mr. Binney, with a pre-occupied air. "Have you heard anything about this nonsense between Lucius and his cousin?" "What, Miss Jermyn?" asked Dizzy. "Yes. I did hear they were thinking of getting married or something of that sort. I didn't take much notice of it." "Then you don't think Lucius is in earnest about it?" "Oh, I wouldn't say that. I should say he was in devilish deep earnest." "Now, look here, Stubbs," said Mr. Binney. "Don't you think it's a very ridiculous thing a boy not much over twenty getting engaged to be married?" "Well, if you ask me for a plain answer, I can't say I do. I believe in early marriages myself. It don't come so hard on the children. Now look at my case. My old governor didn't marry till he was past fifty. What's the consequence? When I go down from this place and want to go about a bit and amuse myself, I shall have to sit by his bedside and hold his hand. I'm fond of my old governor, but it isn't good enough." "That is a point, certainly," said Mr. Binney, thoughtfully. "Yes, and look at the other side of the question," continued Dizzy. "You married young yourself, I take it, and here you are at the prime of life with a son old enough to be a companion to you. Old enough! Why, bless me, you're the younger of the two, and that's a fact." Mr. Binney was very much impressed by this argument. "There is a good deal in what you say, Stubbs," he remarked. "I don't want to be hard on the boy, of course, and I've no objection to the girl personally. She seems a very nice girl, what little I've seen of her." "Oh, _she's_ all right. She's a topper," said Dizzy. "Of course I've got to keep up my authority, you know," pursued Mr. Binney. "It won't do to slack the rein yet awhile." "By George, no," said Dizzy. "I should be a whale on parental authority myself if I were in your place. Still, I don't think you'll find Lucius disposed to question your decision. He told me himself he had the utmost faith in your judgment and should follow your advice whatever it might cost him." "Did he really tell you that?" inquired Mr. Binney, somewhat surprised. "Well, he didn't put it quite in that way," admitted Dizzy. "But that's about what it came to." "Then if he feels like that about it," said Mr. Binney, "I shall put no further obstacles in his path. He's a good boy, Lucius, and I'm pleased with him." "He's got a good father," said Dizzy. "That's about the size of it," and he took himself off to inform Lucius that he had managed everything for him in a perfectly satisfactory manner. Mr. Binney had asserted his authority and was content. Subject to the approval of Betty's parents, she and Lucius were allowed to consider themselves engaged, with the prospect of marriage when Lucius should reach the age of twenty-three. Mr. and Mrs. Jermyn made no objections. Lucius had made himself very popular in the Norfolk rectory, and he was a good match for their daughter from a worldly point of view. He went about Cambridge for the rest of that term in the seventh heaven of happiness. A few days after Lucius's future had been satisfactorily settled for him, Mr. Binney had occasion to call on his Tutor. He now no longer looked upon this as an ordeal. The sternest official critic could have found no flaw in his behaviour during that part of the term that was past, and he had no intention of giving any occasion for complaint during the remainder of his residence in Cambridge. He could hold up his head before anybody, and entered the Tutor's presence with an air of conscious worth. Mr. Rimington received him pleasantly and attended to the business upon which Mr. Binney had come. "I hope you are feeling happy amongst us now that things are going more smoothly, Mr. Binney," he said as he blotted the paper in front of him. "Thank you," said Mr. Binney, "University life is full of interest to those who know how to value it." Mr. Rimington looked at him and smiled. "You have found out how to value it now, have you?" he asked. "Certainly," said Mr. Binney. "I hope, sir, that you do not intend to allude to past mistakes. I should resent such remarks on your part." "Oh, not at all," said Mr. Rimington hastily, "we have had no cause to complain of you this term, Mr. Binney, and I have no wish to remind you of what is over and done with. I hope you are getting on well with your work." "I expect to take a first in both parts of the examination," said Mr. Binney, rising. "Good-morning, sir." As the summer term passed quickly away with its feverish work and its incessant pleasures, for it is the term when examinations closely jostle its crowded gaieties, Mr. Binney found himself nearing two important events. In one week about the beginning of June he was to go in for both parts of his Little-go, and at the end of it to steer the First Trinity first boat in the May races. With regard to his examination, he felt confident of acquitting himself well. That he was over-confident was shown by his boast to Mr. Rimington, for it is not out of material such as himself that first classes are made, even in the most elementary examination that Cambridge affords. But he had worked so hard that he was certain of passing, and he looked forward with trembling hope to a renewal of his intercourse with Mrs. Higginbotham as a reward of his success. In being chosen to steer the representative oarsmen of First Trinity he had been extremely fortunate. When he had so disgraced himself in the previous term after the success of his boat in the Lent races, Mirrilees had sworn that he should never again steer a boat with which he had anything to do. But one of the coxswains tried for the first boat had fallen ill, others had proved unsatisfactory, and by the middle of term, by which time Mr. Binney had already proved that his manner of life would be innocuous for the future, Mirrilees had relented, and he was installed in the proud position that he so coveted. Trinity Hall was the head boat on the river, First Trinity was second, and Third Trinity was behind them. All three were considered equally good, and no one could safely prophesy what the result of the races would be so far as they were concerned. The Hall men laughed at the idea of losing their place; the First Trinity men expected to bump them, and said so; while Third Trinity kept quiet, but expected to find themselves in the second place if not head of the river by the time the races were over. Lucius was rowing bow in the Third Trinity boat, and his quiet confidence that Third were a better crew than First exasperated Mr. Binney, who wouldn't hear of it. "Don't talk such nonsense," he said in an annoyed tone, when Lucius ventured to advance the opinion that Third would finish head of the river and First second. "We shall row away from you, and catch the Hall at Ditton on the first night." "We shall see," said Lucius calmly. "No, we shall not see, sir," said Mr. Binney angrily. "I mean we _shall_ see. And we shall see that I am right." He had quite recovered his bombastic tone, only he had learnt by bitter experience to quell it, except when addressing his son, who was too good-tempered to resent it. Betty, of course, showed the utmost interest in the prospects of the Third Trinity crew. She was delighted when she heard that they were to row behind the boat which was to be steered by Mr. Binney, for she still maintained a deep-rooted prejudice against her future father-in-law, in spite of the welcome he had given her as Lucius's intended bride. "If they bump them, and I see it," she said to one of her friends, the girl from whom she had won the box of chocolate creams, "I think I shall scream with joy. Oh, won't cousin Peter's face be worth seeing when he has to hold up his hand and acknowledge he has been beaten. I'd give worlds to see it." "You show a very vindictive spirit," said her friend. Mr. Binney's time was fully occupied between putting the finishing touches to his reading, and his work on the river. He had almost entirely dropped out of the social side of University life. Although his wings had been clipped, and he would now have been a quite harmless companion, the men with whom he might have associated, had he behaved differently when he first came up, still looked rather shyly on him; and he had entirely dropped the society of men like Howden, for he had learnt such a lesson that he would have been almost frightened of results if one of them had even come into his rooms. Indeed, the poor little man led a very dull life, and when he had time to think about it, on Sundays perhaps, or for half-an-hour after his work was done, and before he went to bed, he often asked himself what was the use of his staying up at Cambridge at all, since so much of what he had hoped to gain from the place seemed to have been an illusive dream. He had lost his Martha, at any rate for the present, and in his moments of insight he could not disguise from himself the fact that he was unpopular, although he endeavoured to carry off the conviction with an added bumptiousness of manner which did not endear him to those with whom he came in contact. He would probably have made up his mind to leave Cambridge after this term, when he would have passed one examination and attained to a considerable measure of success on the river, but one consideration deterred him. He hoped to be chosen to steer the University boat in the following spring, and on the chance of having that ambition realised he would have stayed on at Cambridge if everyone in the place had cut him. June came and brought the roses, and with them the anxieties of Triposes and all the multitude of lesser examinations. Mr. Binney went in for the Little-go. All day long he sat at a narrow desk in the Corn Exchange, that classical building which the University of Cambridge periodically hires for the purpose of putting her sons through their facings, and wrote assiduously, only leaving off now and again to gaze up at the roof with an expression of agonised effort, or to rest his brain for a minute by idly reading the names on the corn dealers' lockers which lined the walls. On these occasions he would find his thoughts wandering off to business affairs, for the corn dealers' names meant considerably more to Mr. Binney than to the other few hundred undergraduates who attained a short-lived familiarity with them during those few days of effort. But when he found his thoughts slipping he would bring them back with a frown and wrestle eagerly with his translations and his problems, for the card nailed on to the desk before him reminded him that he was "Binney of Trinity," and that Peter Binney of the Whitechapel Road must be ignored at least for the next few days. The examination lasted from the beginning of the week until Friday, and the May races began on that day. The hotels and lodgings throughout the town gradually filled up with ladies, old and young, plain and pretty, amiable and perhaps ill-tempered, although the smiling faces one met in all the streets might have given the impression that all the bad-tempered ladies had been left at home. But Mr. Binney took very little notice of the change. By day he slaved in the Corn Exchange. After his afternoon's work was over he went out with his crew on the river. In the evening he looked up his subjects for the following day and went to bed early with his mind full of books and boats. Even Mrs. Higginbotham retired into the background of his mind, and other things were forgotten entirely. By the time the examination was over Mr. Binney was rather despondent. He had done fairly well, but not so well as he had expected. But he remembered a saying of his coach: "If you think you have done _rather_ badly you may have done well. If you think you have done _very_ badly, you probably have." He knew he had not done very badly, so he took heart, dismissed the Little-go from his mind entirely, and threw himself heart and soul into anticipations of success in the races. We have already described the gay scene on the river bank at Ditton Corner in the May races, and one bumping race is very much like another; so the experiences of Mr. Binney, when he had steered in the previous Lent races, were not unlike those he underwent in the Mays. Of course he was now in a much more important position, and his appearance in the coxswain's seat of the First Trinity boat, as the First Division rowed down to the starting-point, never failed to cause a flutter of amusement and inquiry to go through the waiting crowd at Ditton Corner, which brought a blush to the cheek of Betty Jermyn, who was generally to be found in a boat or on the bank, in a position from which she could see everything that was going on. She did not waste much time, however, on the contemplation of Mr. Binney, in his dark blue coat and speckled straw hat, for in the bows of the boat just in front of him, as they rowed down in reversed order, was a slim muscular figure whose eyes eagerly sought the crowded ranks of the onlookers as the crews rested for a minute on their oars before they went swinging round the bend to their stations. Betty was very proud of her lover then, for even her inexperienced eyes could see that the grace and ease with which he rowed were something to be admired, and poor little Mr. Binney sank still lower in her esteem as he gave the words of command "Get ready all! Forward all! Are you ready? Paddle!" which was the signal for his boat to move on. On the first night of the races there was no change in the position of the three head boats. Third Trinity drew up to First at Ditton Corner, but then fell away and finished at about their distance. First Trinity gained on the Hall, but never got within a length of them. Mr. Binney steered with great judgment, and was told that he could not have done better, but he was disappointed at not catching the head boat and a little alarmed at Third Trinity having come so close to them during the early part of the race. "They always bustle up like that at first," said Mirrilees, to whom he confided his tremors. "We shall keep away from them all right, and I hope we shall catch the Hall to-morrow." Mr. Binney was comforted, but on the next night Third not only got to within a length of them at Grassy Corner but hustled them right up the Long Reach and very nearly caught them at the railway bridge. This pursuit seemed, however, to have increased their own pace, for it drove them right on to Trinity Hall, whom they very nearly succeeded in bumping. All three boats passed the winning post overlapping, but if Mr. Binney had made a shot at the head boat he would almost certainly have missed it, and the boat behind would almost as certainly have run into them. He was warmly congratulated on his presence of mind by the Captain, but he went home to his rooms by no means at ease, for he now saw plainly that Third Trinity were just as likely to bump First as First Trinity were to catch Trinity Hall. He was as keenly anxious as any member of his crew to go head of the river, and he felt that not only to fail in that object but to be taken down a place instead would be more than he could bear. It was characteristic of Mr. Binney, as may already have been gathered, to throw himself heart and soul into what he happened to be doing for the moment. He had entirely dismissed all thoughts of his late examination from his mind, and even Mrs. Higginbotham scarcely entered his thoughts during the whole of the next day, which was a Sunday, as he walked or sat and went over, in his mind all the events of the last two races and the probabilities of those that were to come. He was alone all day, for he now had very few friends, and Sunday was for Lucius a happy day spent mostly in Betty's charming society. So Mr. Binney brooded, and by-and-bye dark thoughts began to enter his mind. During the progress of Saturday's race, when First Trinity had been chased all the way up the Long Reach by Third, Mr. Binney had cast one fleeting glance behind him, and had seen the little indiarubber ball on the nose of the Third Trinity boat within a few inches of his own rudder, while the back of his son was swinging regularly and steadily behind it. An unreasoning anger and jealousy had taken hold of his mind. It was as much as he could do to prevent himself from shouting out to Lucius to ask him where he was coming to. It seemed to him an intolerable thing that he should be prevented from gaining something that he wanted by the action of his own son, and the more he thought of it the more intolerable it seemed. He had only to say a word to Lucius, and Third Trinity would keep away from him, for it was quite certain that if one man in the boat "sugared" they would have no chance of making a bump. Should he say that word? That was the black thought that held Mr. Binney in its grip during the whole of that pleasant June Sunday, when Cambridge was full of life and gaiety, and he only wandered about lonely and distraught. It would not be sportsman-like behaviour certainly, but Mr. Binney had not been brought up to be a sportsman, and the iniquity of the proceeding did not strike him very forcibly. It also never entered his head that Lucius would disobey his behests if he brought pressure to bear on him. Lucius was entirely dependent on his father, and could be threatened with being immediately taken away from Cambridge if he refused to do what he was told. Mr. Binney had worried himself into such a fever of desire that he could not bring himself to look upon his possible defeat with the slightest equanimity. He would have preferred that his boat should go head of the river on the merits of its crew, but rather than not go head at all, he was prepared to take any steps that would bring about what he desired. But the morning light happily brought better counsels. He dismissed his half-formed intention of tampering with a member of the Third Trinity crew, and went down to the river with renewed hopes. The First Trinity men rowed like heroes and got up to the head boat at Ditton Corner. Third were pressing them hard, but lost a little by bad steering. The shouts from the bank were deafening. Mr. Binney lost his head and made shot after shot. If he had waited, his crew would have made their bump. But in the meantime they lost ground, and Third was creeping up again. Mr. Binney turned round in his seat and saw a long sharp point with a little ball at the end of it dancing gaily past his rudder. Behind it was the back of his son, swinging regularly. "Keep off!" roared Mr. Binney, and made another dab at the Head boat. Then he turned round again. The little ball was within reach of him, and behind it was Lucius rowing more vigorously than ever. Mr. Binney was aware of the ball and the back, and nothing else in all the world. He lost his head completely and turned round in his seat, half rising, pulling his right rudder line, and so crammed his boat right on to the high bank under the tow-path. "Catch a crab, or you go down to-morrow," he shrieked to Lucius. The next moment, he could never recall how, he found himself floundering in the river, in an inextricable confusion of boats, oars, and shouting, struggling humanity. He could not swim. As he rose to the surface the blade of an oar hit him on the head. He went down again, and gave himself over, but when he came up the second time he felt himself grasped by the collar of his blazer. "Don't kick!" gasped the voice of his son. "I'll get you out." When he was hauled on to the tow-path, panting and dripping, he turned round on Lucius in a fury: "What do you mean by it? It was your fault," he shrieked. "You'll go down! you'll go down!" Mirrilees, dripping from head to foot, with a slimy weed clinging round his leg, shouldered his way through the crowd. "Hold your tongue, you little beast, or I'll pitch you into the river again," he said. Other things happened to Mr. Binney that evening, of which he does not now speak--some of them on his way to the First Trinity boat-house, some of them when he got there, others as he made his way for the last time to his rooms in Jesus Lane, and others again before he found himself in the train on his way to London, having shaken the dust of Cambridge from his feet for ever. The next night Third Trinity bumped Trinity Hall and went head of the river. First Trinity were badly steered by the coxswain who had been put into Mr. Binney's place, and succumbed to Jesus. CHAPTER XVII MR. BINNEY DRINKS THE HEALTH OF A "BLUE" Nine months had passed and the nipping March winds were raising the dust and numbing noses and finger-tips in London, while March sunshine was bringing out daffodils and primroses in the country. It was very cold on the river Thames between Putney and Mortlake, but the sun was shining brightly, and a little party on the deck of a steamer, which was making its way with other similar craft to a station near Barnes Bridge, seemed to be quite unaffected in spirits by the keen east wind, for it was the morning of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race. The party on the steamer were all interested in the prospects of one University, but the two crews were so equal that none of the sporting critics had ventured to prophesy the winner in clear and unmistakable terms, and everybody looked forward to seeing one of the best races that had been rowed for years. Surely that short but erect figure, standing in the bows, with a First Trinity scarf showing above the collar of its overcoat and the ruddy glow of health in its cheeks, can belong to no one but Mr. Peter Binney, late of Trinity College, Cambridge! And that ample comfortable form on the seat beside him with a fur-lined cloak and a close-fitting bonnet, well-secured against the wind, must be that of his true and loyal wife, Martha Binney, relict of the late Matthew Higginbotham. Here also are the Reverend Dr. Toller with his wife and daughter, for Mr. Binney still lives in Russell Square, and is once more a valued and important official in the doctor's congregation. Here also are Mr. and Mrs. Jermyn with their son and daughter, the latter attended by the loquacious Dizzy, while John Jermyn sticks close to the side of Nesta Toller, rather to the dismay of Mrs. Jermyn, who, charitable woman as she is, has not taken kindly to that young lady's mother, and is not at all anxious that this acquaintanceship which has been made under Mr. Binney's hospitable roof should develop into intimacy. There are other people on the boat which has been chartered by Mr. Binney for the entertainment of his friends, but we need not concern ourselves with them. There is one very important person, however, of those with whom our story has concerned itself, who is not to be found there. Surely Lucius, and not Dizzy, entertaining as that gentleman's conversation is, should be found by the side of Betty Jermyn! And by her side Lucius certainly would be, if duty and honour did not call him elsewhere. For Lucius has occupied the bow seat of the Cambridge boat ever since they went into practice, and is even now, as Mr. Binney's steamer makes its way up the crowded river, preparing to help launch the frail shell which all those in whom we are interested confidently hope will soon bear him to victory. Mr. and Mrs. Peter Binney are alone for a time in the bows of the steamer. Let us join them, and listen to their conversation. "See what an interest the world takes in this historic contest," Mr. Binney is saying, waving his hand round towards the river dotted with craft all moving the same way, and the banks lined with a dense, holiday-making mass. "It makes you proud of being able to call yourself a 'Varsity man." "Yes, indeed," answers his wife. "And to think of Lucius actually taking part in it! I feel as proud as anything of the dear boy." "So do I," says Mr. Binney heartily. "There was a time when I should have been jealous of him. But that is all over and done with. I've put such things behind me. Here am I, settled down comfortably with a devoted and charming wife. I can take life gratefully now as it comes, and be just as proud of my boy distinguishing himself as if I had done it myself." "That's the way to look at it, Peter," says Mrs. Binney. "We made a mistake in thinking it was necessary for you to go to Cambridge in order to keep young. It's love that keeps the heart young, and so we've found, haven't we?" "Indeed we have, Martha," says Mr. Binney. "Ah! Shall I ever forget what you did for me in that dark time of illness and remorse? Shall I ever forget reaching home that morning, racked with anguish at the thought of the ingratitude I had displayed towards my noble-hearted son, and the remembrance of the awful punishment I had received for my rash folly? How I sat indoors brooding over the past, feeling wretched and miserable, without hope or comfort. How the next day I was too ill to get up, and by night time was mercifully beyond the reach of my remorseful thoughts, because of the severe attack of pneumonia, which the exposure and distress I had gone through had brought on. How I lay for days, tossing and burning on a couch of misery, and woke at last to find your cool hand stilling the throbbing of my burning brain, and your angel voice falling in words of balm on my distressed and fevered spirit. "Yes, dear," says his wife as Mr. Binney pauses for breath, "and then you soon got better, didn't you?" "Shall I ever forget," pursues Mr. Binney more energetically than ever, "how, when I came again to the realisation of all the many follies I had committed, you soothed and consoled me, how you brought my boy to me, and neither of you would listen to my broken cries of repentance, but gave me calves' foot jelly and grapes instead, and insisted upon carrying on a cheerful conversation? How you brought me the news of my success in the Little-go, which was greater than I deserved, but less than I expected; and finally, Martha, how you made me the happy man I am to-day by promising to become mine when I had sufficiently recovered, on the condition that I should leave Cambridge and settle down once more to my business." "Yes, dear, and now we're all comfortable and happy," says Mrs. Binney. "I made mistakes too, Peter, as well as you, but they're all over now. And----" "Well, Mrs. Binney," interrupts a well-known voice, "this is something like, eh? I don't know whether you know that if you've got any microbes or things of that sort in your system a wind like this blows 'em all away." "I didn't know it, Mr. Stubbs," says Mrs. Binney, with a pleasant smile. "But I have no doubt the wind is a very good thing if only it wouldn't blow all one's hair about one's face so?" "Ah, dear lady!" says Dizzy, "you may consider yourself lucky you've got any hair _to_ be blown about. Now look at the top of _my_ old pepper-box. I haven't had to use a comb for a year, and I shall soon be able to part my hair with a towel. You wouldn't like to be like that, would you?" "No," says Mrs. Binney. "But you are very young to be going so bald, Mr. Stubbs. What do you attribute it to?" It appears that Dizzy attributes his growing baldness to hard work and care combined, but just as he is explaining this to the sympathetic Mrs. Binney the steamer shuts off steam and is turned and backed with a good deal of commotion into her berth just by Barnes Bridge. There is another hour to wait, but the time goes by somehow. The party stamp about the deck and huddle themselves up in coats and cloaks to keep themselves warm, and by-and-bye a muffled roar from a mile away down the river, warns them that the boats are drawing near. The roar deepens and increases, and by-and-bye, leaning over the rail of the steamer, they can see the rhythmic flash of oars in the sunshine, and nearer and nearer come the two boats, with the Umpire's launch fussing along just behind them, and the four steamers which follow the race in the background, the Cambridge steamer--_absit omen!_--some way behind the rest. Now they are alongside, and a mighty cheer goes up from all the throats in Mr. Binney's steamer as they pass, and Cambridge is seen to be leading by half a length. Just here Oxford makes a spurt, and creeps up level. Cambridge answers it, and on they go under Barnes Bridge, fighting every inch of the way, as they have done ever since the starting gun sent them off like greyhounds from the leash, four miles down the river at Putney. Our party spends five minutes of breathless expectation, after boats and following steamers have passed out of sight, and then another cheer, louder than the first, goes up as the light blue flag slowly unfurls itself from the flag-staff at the finish of the course, and the dark blue is run up underneath it. Then mutually congratulating one another with every expression of delight and fulfilled expectation, our party steam away down the river, very well pleased with their afternoon's amusement. On the night of the boat race Lucius dined with the crews; but while he was by no means a drag on the hilarity of the proceedings, and may be said on the whole to have enjoyed himself, he often found himself wishing that he was at home in Russell Square, where Betty was. He had declined the invitation he had received to the "Blue Monday" dinner, as Mr. Binney had announced his intention of exercising his hospitality on that evening in honour of the distinction Lucius had gained in rowing in the winning University crew. The company was the same as that which had graced Mr. Binney's board in the Easter vacation a year before, with the exception of Miss Tupper, who had not entered the house since Mrs. Higginbotham had taken her place there, and with the addition of Mrs. Jermyn, Betty, and John. The Reverend Julius Jermyn had returned to his parish at Norfolk directly after the boat race on the previous Saturday. The Tollers would not have been there had not Mrs. Toller practically asked herself. She was sweetness itself in her intercourse with Mrs. Binney, but although her claws were sheathed they were not cut, and were likely to spring out at a moment's warning if she were offended, and Mrs. Binney had wisely given in at once, and warmly proffered the invitation which was being fished for. Mrs. Toller could not come without her husband, and Nesta had been asked in order to fill up. Mr. Binney took in Mrs. Jermyn. It was known that Mrs. Toller would resent this, but she was placed on her host's left, having been paired off with Dizzy, to whom she had taken a great fancy, and smiled sweetly as she took her seat after the Doctor's extempore grace. Lucius was allowed to take in Betty, and sat between her and her mother. Next to Betty came Dr. Toller on Mrs. Binney's left. On the other side of the table was John Jermyn, who had been made happy with Nesta Toller, with Dizzy and Mrs. Toller next to them. The table was decorated with Lucius's silver cups, standing on an artistically crinkled square of light blue silk. The menus, adorned with appropriate aquatic emblems and the arms of the two Universities, had been ordered expressly from Messrs. Breedon & Co., and were quite in the orthodox Cambridge style. "Very pretty," said Mrs. Toller, examining hers when she had settled herself. "One might almost imagine oneself transported to Cambridge, Mr. Stubbs. Quite delightful, is it not?" "Yes," said Dizzy, "although to tell you the truth, I'm getting a bit tired of Cambridge." "Oh! but I thought young men never got tired of University life," said Mrs. Toller. "I have always heard that it was so very attractive. I'm sure you found it so, didn't you, Mr. Binney?" But Mr. Binney was engaged with Mrs. Jermyn and affected not to have heard the inquiry. "It's all very well for a bit," said Dizzy, "but when a fellow gets my age he wants to settle down and do something." "Oh! come," said Mrs. Toller, "you're not so old as all that, Mr. Stubbs." "Not in years perhaps," said Dizzy. "But I assure you that in other things Methuselah was a babe compared with me. I sometimes sit and look at fellows amusing themselves, and I say to myself: 'Well, you are a set o' Jugginses. Call this life! Why, you ought all to be in the nursery!' However, I've only got one more term and the whole thing will be over." "And what are you going to do when you leave the University?" asked Mrs. Toller. "Are you still thinking of entering the Church?" "Oh! bless me, no," said Dizzy. "That's off. My old father got a bit frightened, when these Kensit Johnnies began bally-ragging all over the place. He's a far-sighted old fellow. He saw that if I got shoved into a comfortable living and then they went and disestablished it or something, I should get left." "Have you ever turned your attention to the Nonconformist ministry?" inquired Mrs. Toller. "No, I can't say I have," replied Dizzy. "Is there much in it?" "The incomes made by our leading men are superior to anything in the Establishment," said Mrs. Toller. "Our people have been taught to give." "_Have_ they?" said Dizzy, with interest. "Well now, that's worth knowing. I'll put my old governor on to that. If you hear of a soft thing going, I shall consider it very kind of you if you'll drop me a line. One's got to keep one's eyes skinned to pick up a living now-a-days. We're getting ready for the bar now, to tell you the truth. My old father was dining with a railway fellow down our way, and he told him that they spent I forget how many thousands a year on litigation. My governor's a cute old bird, and he thought it wouldn't be a bad thing if I could pick up a bit of it, so I've been eating dinners at Lincoln's Inn for the last year or so, and previous poor dinners they are too. I don't think I shall take to it much. In fact, the governor's been dropping hints about diplomacy lately. It seems he's found out from the papers that the people ain't over and above pleased with the way things have been carried on by the ambassadors we've got now, and he thinks there might be a chance there in a few years' time. I don't much care what it is. I suppose I shall keep going somehow." Lucius and Betty were talking quietly together on the other side of the table. "Only two more years," Lucius was saying. "Won't it be ripping, Betty, when we're settled down in a house of our own?" "I don't think we shall ever have a better time than we've had for the last year at Cambridge," said Betty. "And think of another summer term there together." Lucius's face lit up. "There's nothing like a summer term at Cambridge when the girl you're in love with is there," he said. "We'll go on the Backs in a canoe every fine afternoon. I say, Betty, do you remember that backwater?" "Of course I do, you silly boy," said Betty. "I haven't forgiven you yet for getting me to go up it on false pretences. I'll see that you don't get me there again though." "I'll take particular good care that I do," said Lucius. "I like that backwater better than any place in Cambridge. Betty, what shall you do when I've gone down?" "I know I shall be very miserable," said Betty, her face falling. "But don't let us talk about that. We shall have another summer term together." Dr. Toller was making himself pleasant to his hostess. He was an agreeable man when he succeeded in banishing from his mind "the Problems that confront the Age," and brought himself down to the level of those who are content to let the Age worry along in its own way without making too much noise about it. Mrs. Binney, at the head of her own table, was an attractive figure in a gown of rich black silk, festooned with hangings of lace, and smiled engagingly at the Doctor's conversation. "Yes, Doctor," she said, in answer to a remark from him, "I feel I am a very fortunate woman. I have a comfortable house and the best of husbands. Peter is consideration itself to all my little whims, and I assure you I have a great many whims. There was a time when I feared that this happiness would never come to me. You know all about it and were very kind to me when I thought it my duty to cut myself off from all these bright prospects. I am thankful that that trouble passed away and I was not compelled to spend the rest of my life by myself. There is the closest confidence between me and my husband. He is of a sanguine disposition, and I think I may say that any weight of character I may have attained to--and you know, Doctor, I am a weighty woman in more ways than one--keeps the balance true. There is not a happier couple in all Bloomsbury than Peter and myself, and you know that in marrying him I have gained a son, which is a great joy to me, for I never had a child of my own. Lucius treats me with the greatest respect and affection, and I could not be fonder of him than if he were my own. I am as proud as anyone of his success to-day. Cambridge has not proved an unmixed source of pleasure to me, as you know, but I have seldom performed a more agreeable duty than when I arranged this light blue silk on the table this afternoon with my own hands. Anything that I can do towards making the dear boy's life happy with the sweet girl he is going to marry I _shall_ do, as if they were my own children, and consider myself fortunate in being permitted to do." If Mrs. Binney could speak in such terms of gratitude of the new life she had entered upon, what words could be too strong for her husband to use in describing his content in having gained as his helpmate that most estimable woman. She was the theme on which he was expatiating to Mrs. Jermyn while the conversations already recorded were going on around him. "Nobody knows," Mr. Binney was saying, "what that woman has been to me. She has stuck by me in sickness and in health, when I was working at the business to which I was brought up, and when I was trying to do something that I oughtn't have tried to do. You know all about that, Elizabeth, so I don't mind mentioning it to you, although it's all over now. I can't say that I'm altogether sorry to have had the mental training that University life affords. Nobody can deny that there's a difference between a man who has been at the University and one who hasn't. You've had a husband at Oxford and a son at Cambridge and you know that as well as I do. But still on the whole I acknowledge that Oxford and Cambridge are for the young fellows. When I saw Lucius pulling away in such perfect style in that boat on Saturday afternoon I can tell you it warmed my heart to see it. And Martha feels just the same as I do about it. She told me so. Nobody knows, Elizabeth, what a treasure I've found in that woman. And as for Lucius, well, he didn't take to the idea kindly at first--I don't know that it was to be expected that he should--but they're as fond of one another as they can be now, and--and it makes me very happy to see it--very happy." The conversation became more general after this, and great were the merriment and goodwill round Mr. Binney's table. When dinner was over and the servants had left the room, Mr. Binney rose to his feet. There was an expectant silence and a rapping on the table from all except Lucius, who knew what was coming and wished it was well over. "Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Binney, "I rise to perform a very pleasant duty, a duty which I am proud of having occasion to perform, a duty which I am sure all the friends I see gathered round me to-night will join with me heartily in--in performing, a duty which--which I will now perform. I rise, ladies and gentlemen, to propose the health of my son Lucius, who rowed with such conspicuous success in the Cambridge boat last Saturday." (Murmured but heartfelt applause, rappings on the table, and "Well rowed, Lucy, well rowed," from Dizzy.) "We have gathered round our table to-night," continued Mr. Binney, "four members of the University of Cambridge." ("Five, sir, five," from Dizzy.) Mr. Binney's puzzled eye searched quickly round the table and lit upon Betty. "Five, of course," he said, "for have we not a fair representative of the great college of Newnham in the person of the dear girl whom I hope soon to welcome as a daughter?" (Renewed applause.) "We have also a distinguished member of another University, or rather of two Universities, for my friend Dr. Toller is a Bachelor of Arts of the University of London and a Doctor of Divinity--_honoris causâ_--of the University of Joppa, Pa., across the water. And speaking for the ladies, I am sure there is not one present here to-night whose sympathies do not go out to the great University to which I have the honour to belong." (Rappings and subdued acquiescent murmurs from the ladies with the exception of Mrs. Toller, who thought Oxford rather more aristocratic.) "I needn't say," pursued Mr. Binney, "that to become a Blue is to gain the proudest position which Cambridge can afford, and to become a rowing Blue is perhaps the highest distinction of all. I have always had occasion to be proud of my son throughout his school and University career, and I am prouder than ever of him to-night." (Applause.) "These trophies, ladies and gentlemen, and this decoration of light blue, are signs of his having distinguished himself in the highest possible degree in one path of life--the path which only those who have youth, strength, and health on their side can hope to tread. In proposing the health of my son Lucius, I am sure you will join with me in wishing him equal success in other paths of life in the future, a success which, with the charming girl who has promised to share it with him, I for one feel confident of his attaining. Ladies and gentlemen--My son Lucius." THE END 
8550	----	T. HAVILAND HICKS SENIOR BY J. RAYMOND ELDERDICE TO MASTER LLOYD ELDERDICE CONTENTS I. HICKS--WILD WEST BAD MAN II. "LEAVE IT TO HICKS" III. HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY IV. QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER V. HICKS MAKES A DECISION VI. HICKS MAKES A SPEECH VII. HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY VIII. COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN IX. THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK X. THOR'S AWAKENING XI. "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL" XII. THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS XIII. HICKS--CLASS KID--YALE '96 XIV. THE GREATER GOAL XV. HICKS HAS A "HUNCH" XVI. THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON XVII. HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY XVIII. T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.'S HEADWORK XIX. BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY XX. "VALE, ALMA MATER!" T. HAVILAND HICKS, SENIOR CHAPTER I HICKS--WILD WEST BAD MAN "Oh, a bold, bad man was Chuckwalla Bill-- An' he lived in a shanty on Tom-cat Hill; Ten notches on the six-gun he toted on his hip-- For he'd sent ten buckos on the One-way Trip!" Big Butch Brewster, captain and full-back of the Bannister College football squad, his behemoth bulk swathed in heavy blankets and crowded into a narrow bunk, shifted his vast tonnage restlessly. He was dreaming of the wild and woolly West, and like a six-reel Western drama thrown on the screen in a moving-picture show, he visioned in his slumbers a vivid and spectacular panorama. The first lurid scene was the Deserted Limited held up at a tank station in the great Mojave Desert by a lone, masked bandit who winged the dreaming Butch in the shoulder, the latter being an express guard who resisted. After the desperado, Two-Gun Steve, had forced the engineer to run the train back to a siding, he had ordered Butch to vamoose. Quite naturally, then, the collegian next found himself staggering across the arid expanse, until at last, half dead from a burning thirst, seeking vainly for a water-hole, the vast stretch of sandy, sagebrush-studded wastes shimmered into a gorgeous ocean of sparkling blue waters. Then, as he collapsed on the scorching-hot sand, helpless, the cool water so near, suddenly the scene shifted. In quick and vivid succession, Butch Brewster beheld a burning stockade besieged by howling Indians, and a frontier town shot up by recklessly riding cowboys on a jamboree. Then he became a tenderfoot, badgered by yelling, shooting roisterers, and later a sheriff, bravely leading his posse to a sensational battle with that same Two-Gun Steve and his gang, entrenched in a rock-bound mountain defile. Finally, he stood with hands above his head in company with other passengers of the Sagebrush Stagecoach, while a huge, red-shirted Westerner with a fierce black mustache and a six-shooter in each hand belching bullets at Butch's dancing feet, roared out huskily: "Oh--I'm a ring-tailed roarer (_bang-bang_)! I'm a rip-snortin', high-falutin', loop-the-loopin' _bad_ man (_bang-bang_)! I'm wild an' woolly, an' full o' fleas, an' hard to curry below the knees--I'm a roarin' wild-cat, an' it's my night to howl (_bang-bang_)! Yip-yip-yip-_yeee_!" Big Butch, opening his eyes and starting up, gazed about him in sheer surprise; for an instant, in that state of bewilderment that comes with sudden awakening, he almost believed himself in a Western ranch bunkhouse, and that some happy cowboy outside roared a grotesque ballad. He gazed at the interior of a rough shack built of pine boards, with bunks constructed in tiers on both sides. There were figures in them--Western cowboys, perhaps. Then it seemed, somehow, that the voice drifting from the outside was strangely familiar. Back at Bannister College, where he remembered he had gone in the dim and dusty past, he had often heard that same fog-horn voice, roaring songs of a less blood-curdling character, and accompanied by that same banjo twanging, which tortured the campus, and bothered would-be studious youths! "I'm not in a moving-picture show," Butch informed himself, as he donned khaki trousers, football sweater, and heavy shoes. "I'm not on a Western ranch, either. I'm in the sleep-shack of Camp Bannister, the football training-camp of the Bannister College squad! Those fellows in the bunks are not cowboys, Indians, and bandits--they are my teammates! I did dream stuff that would shame a Wild West scenario, but I understand it all now--my dreams were influenced by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!" At that dramatic moment, to substantiate his statement, the raucous voice, accompanied by resounding chords strummed on a banjo, sounded again. The vocal and instrumental chaos was frequently punctured by revolver reports, as the torturesome Caruso outside roared: "Oh, Chuckwalla Bill thought life was sweet-- Till he met up with Sure-shot Pete; A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw-- But Sure-shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!" The pachydermic Butch, fully dressed--and awake, raging in his wrath like an active volcano, glanced at his watch, and discovered that it was exactly five A.M.! Intensely pacified by this knowledge, he lumbered toward the bunkhouse door and flung it open, determined to crush the pestersome youth who thus unfeelingly disturbed the quietude of Camp Bannister at such an unearthly hour! However, his grim purpose was temporarily thwarted--before him spread a beautiful panorama, a vast canvas painted in rich hues and colors, that indescribably charming masterpiece of nature, entitled dawn. Butch, gazing from the bunkhouse doorway toward the pebbly shore of the placid lake stretching out for two miles before him, beheld Old Sol, blood-red, peeping above the wooded hills on the far-off, opposite strand of Lake Conowingo; the luminous orb laid a flaming pathway across the shimmering waters, and golden bars of light, like gleaming fingers outstretched, fell athwart the tall pines that towered on the high bluff back of the camp. The glorious sunshine, succeeding a flood of rosy color, inundated the scene; it bathed in a gorgeous radiance the early autumn woods, it illumined the bunkhouse, and another rude shanty known to the squad as the grub-shack, it poured down on old Hinky-Dink, the ancient negro cookee, setting the breakfast tables just outside the canvas cook-tent. "Deed, cross mah heart, Mistah Butch," grinned old Hinky-Dink, seeing, as a motion picture director would express it, "Wrath registered on the countenance" of Butch Brewster, "Ah done tole dat young Hicks dat a bird what cain't sing an' will sing mus' be made _not_ to sing! Ah done info'med him dat yo'-all was layin' fo' him, cause he done bus' up yo' sleep!" A jay bird, a flashing bit of vivid blue, shot from a tall pine, jeering shrilly at Butch; out on the lake, a trout leaped above the water for an infinitesimal second, its shining scales gleaming in the sunshine. From the cook-tent, where old Hinky-Dink grumbled at the frying pan, the appetizing odor of frying fish assailed the football captain, softening his wrath. High above the shanties, on a tall flagpole made from a straight young pine, floated a big gold and green banner, its bright colors gleaming in the sunshine; it bore the words: CAMP BANNISTER TRAINING CAMP THE FOOTBALL SQUAD BANNISTER COLLEGE Head Coach Corridan, smashing the precedent that had made former Gold and Green squads have their training camp at Bannister College, had brought the Varsity and second-string stars to this camp on the shore of Lake Conowingo, in the Pennsylvania mountains. For two weeks, one of which had passed, they were to train at Camp Bannister, until college officially opened; swimming, hunting, cross-country runs, and a healthful outdoor existence would give the athletes superb condition, and daily scrimmages on the level field back of the bluff rounded out an eleven that promised to be the strongest in Bannister history. As big, good-natured Butch Brewster stood in the bunkhouse doorway, his wrath at the pestiferous Hicks forgotten, in his rapture at the glorious dawn, he saw something that showed why his dreams had been of the wild West! The expression of indignation, however, yielded to one of humorous affection, as he gazed toward the shore. "I can't be angry with Hicks!" breathed Butch, beholding a spectacle more impressive than dawn. "So, the irrepressible wretch has Coach Corridan's revolvers, used in starting our training sprints, and a lot of blank cartridges! He is giving an imitation of a Western bad man. No wonder I dreamed of Indians, cowboys, and hold-ups; I'll have revenge on the heartless villain, routing me out at five!" He saw a massive rock, rising thirty feet in air, its sheer walls scaled only by a rope-ladder the collegians had rigged up on one side. Atop of "Lookout There!" as the campers humorously designated the rock, roosted a youth who possessed the colossal structure of a splinter, and whose cherubic countenance was decorated with a Cheshire cat grin. Quite unaware that his riotous efforts had brought out the wrathful Butch Brewster, the youthful narrator of Chuckwalla Bill's stormy career continued his excessively noisy séance. His costume was strictly in character with his song. He wore a sombrero, picked up on his Exposition trip the past vacation, a lurid red outing-shirt, and he had wrapped a blanket around each locomotive limb to imitate a cowboy's chaps. Two revolvers suspended from a loosened belt, _à la_ wild West, and as Butch stared, the embryo Western bad man twanged a banjo noisily, and roared the concluding stanza of his desperado hero's history: "Said Chuckwalla Bill, 'Oh, boys, plant me With my boots on--on the wide prair-eee'-- Where the coyotes howl, they planted Bill-- An' so far as _I_ know, he's sleepin' there still!" "Here they come," grinned Butch, hearing a tumult in the bunkhouse, and a confused Babel of voices. "Hicks has awakened the camp. Now watch the fellows wreak summary vengeance on his toothpick frame!" From the sleep-shack, aroused at that weird hour by the clamor of the irrepressible youth, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., tumbled others of the squad, in varying stages of _déshabille_; big Beef McNaughton, right half-back, Roddy Perkins, the Titian-haired right-end, Pudge Langdon, a ponderous tackle, and Monty Merriweather, a clean-cut, aggressive candidate for left end. From within, other wrathy youths howled vociferous protests at their tormentor: "Stop that noise; put your muzzle on again, Hicks!"--"Where's the fire? Say, Hicks, muffle your exhaust!"--"Say, Coach, must we endure this day and night?" The bunkhouse fairly erupted angry collegians, boiling out like bees swarming from a disturbed hive; Hefty Hollingsworth, the Herculean center-rush. Biff Pemberton, left half-back, Bunch Bingham, Tug Cardiff, and Buster Brown, three huge last-year substitutes; second-string players, Don Carterson, Cherub Challoner, Skeet Wigglesworth, and Scoop Sawyer. A dozen others, from sheer laziness, hugged their bunks devotedly, despite the terrific turmoil outside. "It's a disgrace, a _howling_ shame!" exploded Beef, his elephantine frame swathed in blankets to conceal a lack of vestiture, "Last night, until midnight, that graceless wretch roosted on 'Lookout There' and because the glorious moonlight made him sentimental and slushy, he twanged his banjo and warbled such mushy stuff as 'My Love is young and fair. My Love has golden hair!' When does he expect us to sleep?" "He doesn't!" explained Monty Merriweather, with succinct lucidity, grinning at his comrades. "Say, fellows, you know how Hicks dreads a cold shower-bath; well, some of you rage at him from the other side of the rock, while _I_ climb up the rope-ladder and close with him! Then some of you prehistoric pachyderms ascend, and we'll chuck that pestersome insect into the cold, cold lake--" "Done!" chuckled Butch Brewster, delightedly. So, while he, Beef McNaughton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and others beguiled the jeering Hicks, expressing in dynamic, red-hot sentences their exact opinions of his perfidy, the athletic Monty imitated a mountain-scaling Italian soldier. He climbed stealthily up the swaying rope-ladder; nearer and nearer to the unsuspecting youth he crept, while the cherubic Hicks, to tantalize the group below, again burst forth: "_Whoop-eee_! I'm a bold, _bad_ man (_bang-bang_)! I got ten notches on my ole six-gun--I'm a _killer_. I wings a man before breakfast every day! I got a private burying-ground, where I plants my victims (_bang-bang_)! Yip-yip-yip-_yee_! Oh, I'm a--_Ouch_, Monty--leggo me--Oh, I'll be good--why didn't I pull that rope-ladder up here? Don't bust my banjo--don't let Butch get me--" Monty Merriweather, reaching the flat top of the rock, had courageously flung himself, without regard for the Bad Man's desperate record, on the startled Hicks, whose first thought was for his beloved banjo. While he held the blithesome tormentor helpless, Butch, Beef, and Roddy Perkins climbed the rope-ladder, and the grinning youth was soon in their clutches, while the collegians below, like a Roman, mob aroused by the oratory of Mr. Mark Antony, howled for revenge: "Bust the old banjo over his head, Butch!"--"Sing to him, Beef--that's an _awful_ revenge on Hicks!"--"Tie him to the rock--make him miss his breakfast!" "Hicks," growled Butch, eyeing his sunny comrade ominously, "you ought to be tarred and feathered, and shot at sunrise! When Bannister opens, you will be a Senior, and you'll disgrace '19's dignity! This is a sample of what we have endured at college for three years, and the worst is yet to come! You have committed the awful atrocity of awakening Camp Bannister at five A. M. with your ridiculous imitation, of a Western desperado. To dampen your ardor, we will chuck you into the cold lake--just as you are!" "Help! Assistance! Aid! Succor!" shouted the happy-go-lucky Hicks, as the behemoth Butch and Beef seized him, swinging him aloft with ludicrous ease, "Police! Fire! Murder! Take care of my banjo, Monty. Tell all the fellows at old Bannister I died game, and plant Hair-Trigger Bill with his boots on! _Oooo_, Beef, Butch, _have a heart_, that water is _cold_!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., relieved of banjo and revolvers, but his shadow-like structure still clad in shoes, trousers, with imitation "chaps" and flamboyant red shirt, with his classic head still adorned by the sombrero, was swung back and forth by the two bulky football stars--once--twice-- "_Three_--Let him go!" shouted Butch Brewster, and like a falling meteor, the splinter-like youth, who had already fallen from grace, shot from the rock, head-first, disappearing with a spectacular splash in the icy waters of Lake Conowingo. Knowing Hicks to be as much at home in the water as a fish in an aquarium, the hilarious squad on shore prepared to jeer his reappearance above the water; however, their program was interrupted by old Hinky-Dink, who stood in the cook-tent doorway, belaboring a dishpan lustily with a soup-ladle, and shouting: "Breakfus' am served; fus' an' las' call fo' breakfus; all dem what am late don't git no breakfus!" "Breakfast!" exclaimed Monty Merriweather, who, with Roddy, Butch, and Beef, remained on the rock, despite the summons of the Cookee. "Hurry up, Hicks, I'm ravenous. Say, Butch, suppose all that Western regalia makes him water-logged; he's a terribly long while down there! Didn't he look like the hero in a moving-picture feature? We've given him the water-cure, but he will do that same stunt over again. That sunny-souled Hicks is simply Incorrigible!" A second later, the grinning, cheery countenance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot above the water, and simultaneously with his appearance, just as though he had been chanting below the surface, for the entertainment of the finny denizens of Lake Conowingo, the irrepressible youth roared: "A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw-- But Sure-Shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!" CHAPTER II "LEAVE IT TO HICKS" Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, known to toil-tortured Gold and Green football squads from time immemorial as "the Slave-Driver," Captain Butch Brewster, and serious Deacon Radford, the star Bannister quarter-back, foregathered around a table in the Camp Bannister grub-shack. It was ten-thirty of the morning whose dawn T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had blithesomely hailed with an impromptu musicale and saengerfest on "Lookout There!" rock, and the football triumvirate were in togs. The squad, over in the bunkhouse, noisily donned gridiron armor for the morning practice, and the pestiferous Hicks was maintaining a mysterious silence, somewhere. This football trio, on whom rested the responsibility of rounding out a winning Bannister eleven, vastly resembled a coterie of German generals, back of the trenches, studying a war-map. Before them was spread what seemed to be a large checker-board. It was a miniature gridiron, with the chalk-marks painted in white; there were thumb-tacks stuck here and there, some with flat tops painted green and gold, others, representing the enemy, were solid red. The former had names printed on them, Butch, Roddy, Beef, and so on. By sticking these on the board, the three directors of Bannister's football destiny could work out new plays, and originate possible winning lineups. "We've just got to win the State Championship this season, Coach!" declared Butch, banging the table emphatically, as he stated a self-evident fact. "It's my last year for Old Bannister, and so with Beef and Pudge. I'll give every ounce of strength I possess In every game, to make that pennant float over Bannister Field!" "Bannister _will_ win it!" vowed the behemoth Beef, his good-natured countenance grim, and his jaw set. "Not for five years has a Gold and Green team won the Championship--not since the year before Butch and I were Freshmen! We've got a splendid bunch of material to build a team with, and--" "Our biggest problem is this," spoke Coach Corridan, as with a phenomenal display of strength he took Beef McNaughton between thumb and forefinger and placed him on the field. "We must strengthen both line and backfield, for we lost by graduation Babe McCabe, Heavy Hughes, and Jack Merritt. Now, to replace that lost power--" Just then, from directly beneath the open window by which they had gathered, like the midnight serenade of a romantic lover, sounded the well-known foghorn voice of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as to the plunkety-plunk of a banjo accompaniment, he warbled melodiously: "Gone are the days--I used to spend with Car-o-li-nah! She had the sunshine in her laughter (_plunkety-plunk_) Just like that state they named her after--" "_Hicks_!" announced Butch, stealthily approaching the window, and beckoning his companions. "Easy--look at him, Deke, there he is, Hicks, the irrepressible! We might as well attempt to stab a rhinocerous to death with a humming-bird's feather, as to try and reform _him_!" Arrayed like a lily of the field, a model of sartorial splendor, Hicks occupied a chair beneath the window, tilted back gracefully against the side of the grub-shack. He had decked his splinter-structure with a dazzling Palm Beach suit, and a glorious pink silk shirt, off-set by a lurid scarf. A Panama hat decorated his head, white Oxfords and flamboyant hosiery adorned his feet, while the inevitable Cheshire cat grin beautified his cherubic countenance. A latest "best seller" was propped on his knees, and as he perused its thrilling pages, he carelessly strummed his beloved banjo, and in stentorian tones chanted a sentimental ballad: "Gone are the days--the golden days I'm dreaming of, I think I hear her softly calling (plunkety-plunk) 'Will you be back? Will you be back? (plunk-plunk) Back to the Car-o-li-nah you love?'"(plunkety-plunk), For three golden campus years T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had gayly pursued the even tenor (or _basso_, since he possessed a foghorn, subterranean voice) of his Bannister career. He absolutely refused to take life seriously, and he was forever arousing the wrath--mostly pretended, for no one could be really angry with the genial youth--of his comrades, by twanging his banjo and roaring out rollicking ballads at all hours. He was never so happy as when entertaining a crowd of happy students in his cozy quarters, or escorting a Hicks' Personally Conducted expedition downtown for a Beef-Steak Bust, at his expense, at Jerry's, the rendezvous of hungry collegians. However, despite his butterfly existence, Hicks, possessed of a scintillating mind, always set the scholastic pace for 1919, by means of occasional study-sprints, as he characteristically called them. But when it came to helping his beloved Dad realize a long-cherished ambition to behold his only son and heir shatter Hicks, Sr.'s, celebrated athletic records, it was a different story. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., ever since he committed the farcical _faux pas_ of running the wrong way with the pigskin in the Freshman-Sophomore football contest of his first year, had been a super-colossal athletic joke at old Bannister. His record to date, beside that reverse touchdown that won for the Sophomores, consisted of scoring a home-run with the bases congested, on a strike-out; of smashing hurdles and cross-bars on the track; endangering his heedless career with the shot and hammer; and making a ridiculous farce of every event he entered, to the vast hilarity of the students, who, with the exception of Butch Brewster, had no idea his ridiculous efforts were in earnest. In the high-jump, however, Hicks had given considerable promise, which to date the grasshopper collegian had failed to keep. Hicks, the lovable, impulsive, and irrepressible, with his invariable sunny disposition, his generous nature, and his democratic, loyal comradeship for everybody, was loved by old Bannister. The students forgave him his pestersome ways, his frequent torturing of them with banjo-twanging and rollicking ballads. His classmates idolized him, Juniors and Sophomores were his true friends, and entering Freshmen always regarded this happy-go-lucky youth as a demigod of the campus. Big Butch Brewster, who was forever futilely lecturing the heedless Hicks, thrust his head from the grub-shack window, fought down a grin, and sternly arraigned his graceless comrade: "Hicks, you frivolous, campus-cluttering, infinitesimal atom of nothing, you labor under the insane delusion that college life is a continuous vaudeville show. You absolutely refuse to take your Bannister years seriously, you banjo-thumping, pillow-punishing, campus-torturing nonentity. You will never grasp the splendid opportunities within your reach! You have no ambition but to strum that banjo, roar ridiculous songs, fuss up like a tailor's dummy, and pester your comrades, or drag them down to Jerry's for the eats! You won't be earnest, you Human Cipher, Before you entered Bannister, you formed your ideas and ideals of campus life from colored posters, moving-pictures, magazine stories, and stage dramas like 'Brown of Harvard'; you have surely lived up, or down, to those ideals, you--" "Them's harsh words, Butch!" joyously responded the grinning Hicks, unchastened, for he knew good Butch Brewster would not, for a fortune, have him forsake his care-free nature. "Thou loyal comrade of my happy campus years, what wouldst thou of me?--have me don sack-cloth and ashes, strike 'The Funeral March' on my golden lyre, and cry out in anguish, _'ai! ai_! 'Nay, nay, a couple of nays; college years are all too brief; hence I shall, by my own original process, extract from them all the sunshine and happiness possible, and by my wonderful musical and vocal powers, bring joy to my colleagues, who--_Ouch_, Butch--look out for that nail, you inhuman elephant--" Big Butch, at that juncture of Hicks' monologue, had effectively terminated it by leaning from the window, grasping his unsuspecting comrade by the scruff of the neck, and dragging him over the window-ledge, into the grub-shack, and the presence of Coach Corridan and Deacon Radford. Strenuous objection was registered, both by the futilely struggling Hicks, and a nail projecting from the sill, which caught in the Palm Beach trousers and ripped a long rent in them; fortunately, Hicks' anatomy escaped a similar fate. "A ripping good move, eh-what?" chuckled Hicks, twisting like a contortionist, to view the damage done his vestiture, "Hello, what have we here?--the German field-map, by the Van Dyke beard of the Prophet! I bring the Kaiser's order, ham and eggs, and a cup of coffee. No, that's a mistake. General Hen Von Kluck, lead a brigade of submarines up yon hill to thunder the Russian fort! Von Hindering-Bug, send a flock of aeroplanes and Zeppelins to the Allied trenches, the enemy is shooting Russian caviare at--" "Hicks," said Head Coach Corridan, smiling at Butch Brewster's indignation, "you are such a wonder at solving perplexing problems by your marvelous 'inspirations,' suppose you turn the scintillating searchlight of your colossal intellect upon the question that Bannister must solve, to produce a championship eleven!" It was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, inveterate habit, whenever a baffling situation, or what the French call an "_impasse_" presented itself, to state with the utmost confidence, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" On most occasions, when he made this remark, accompanied by a swaggering braggadocio that never failed to make good Butch Brewster wrathful, the happy-go-lucky youth possessed not the slightest idea of how the problem was to be solved. He just uttered his rash promise, and then trusted to his needed inspiration to illuminate a way out! And, as the Bannister campus well knew, Hicks had solved more than one torturing question by an inspiration that flashed on his intellect, when all hope of a satisfactory solution seemed dead. For example, in his Sophomore year, when the Freshman leader, James Roderick Perkins, that same Titian-haired Roddy who was now a bulwark at right end, became charged with a Napoleonic ambition, and organized a Freshman Equal Rights campaign, paralyzing Bannister football by refusing to allow Freshmen to try for athletic teams, unless their demands were granted. Hicks, when his inspiration finally smote him, smashed the Votes-for-Freshmen crusade, and quelled Roddy, Futilely racking his brain for a counter-attack, having blithely told the troubled campus, "Just leave it to Hicks," he had ceased to worry, and then the inspiration had come, By The Big Brotherhood of Bannister giving the upper-classmen full government over Freshmen, a scheme successfully carried through, the peril had been thwarted. "I got a letter from Dad yesterday," began Hicks, somewhat irrelevantly, considering the Coach's remarks, "and he said--" "'--Inclosed find the check you wrote for,'" quoth Deacon Radford, humorously. "'If you keep up this pace, I shall have to turn my steel mills to producing war munitions, to pay your college bills.' Say, Hicks, seriously, listen to our problem, and suggest what Coach Corridan should do." While Hicks' athletic powers were known to equal those of the paralyzed oldest inhabitant of a Civil War Veterans' Home, the sunny youth knew football thoroughly; often he originated plays that the team worked out with success, and his suggestions were always weighed carefully by the football directors. So, after he had adjusted his lurid scarf at the correct angle, and gazed ruefully at his torn habiliments, the sunshiny Senior seated himself at the table, before the "war-map," and gave heed to the Coach. [Illustration A: 'Here's the problem, Hicks'] "Here's the problem, Hicks," said the Slave-Driver, indicating the Bannister eleven, represented by the gold and green topped thumb-tacks. "From the line we lost Babe, a tackle, Heavy, a guard, and Jack Merritt, a star end. Now, Monty Merriweather will hold down Jack's place O. K.--I can shift Beef from right half to guard, and put Butch at right-half, while Bunch Bingham can take care of Babe's old berth at tackle. But I have no one to shoot in at full-back, when I shift Butch; you see, Hicks, my plan is to build an eleven that can execute old-time, line-smashing football, and up-to-date open play as well; I want fast ends and halves, with a snappy quarter, and I have them; also, the backfield is heavy enough for line-bucking, if I get my beefy full-back. I must have a big, heavy, fast player, a giant who simply can't be stopped when he hits the line. With Butch and Biff at halves, Deke at quarter. Roddy and Monty ends, and my heavy line--why, a ponderous, irresistible Hercules at full-back will--" "Say!" grinned the irrepressible Hicks, as Coach Corridan warmed up to his vision, "you don't want _much_, Coach! Why don't you ask Ted Coy, the famous ex-Yale full-back, to give up his business and play the position for you? Maybe you can persuade Charlie Brickley, a _fair_ sort of dropkicker, to quit coaching Hopkins, and kick a few goals for old Bannister! I get you, Coach--you want a fellow about the size of the _Lusitania,_ made of structural steel, a Brobdingnagian Colossus who will guarantee to advance the ball fifteen yards per rush, or money refunded! "Why, Coach, while you are wanting things, just wish for a chap who will play the entire game himself, taking the ball down the field, while the rest of the team are pushed along in rolling-chairs, while imbibing pink tea. Get a prodigy who will instill such terror into our rivals that instead of playing the schedule, Bannister will simply arrange with other teams to mark themselves down defeated, and then agree what the scores shall be." "I knew it!" growled Butch Brewster, glowering at the jocular youth. "We should never have consulted him on this problem, for it is not one within his power to solve, even though he performed the miracle of talking seriously about it Now--" "Now--" echoed Hicks, with pretended seriousness, "Coach, you just hand me the blue-prints and specifications of said Gargantuan Hercules, and I'll try to corrall just such a phenomenon as you desire. Never hesitate to consult me on such important matters, for I am ever-ready to cast aside my own multifarious duties, when my Alma Mater needs my mental assistance, or--" "Hicks, are you _crazy_?" fleered Deacon Radford, moved to excitement, despite his great faith in the versatile youth. "Full-backs like that do not grow on trees; the only one I ever read of was _Ole Skjarsen_, in George Fitch's 'Siwash College Stories,' and he was purely fictitious. We know you have accomplished some great things by your 'inspirations,' but as for this--" "Just leave it to Hicks" quoth the irrepressible youth, swaggering toward the door with an affected nonchalant self-confidence that aroused Butch to wrath, and vastly amused his companions. "I'll admit a human juggernaut like Coach Corridan dreams of will be hard to round up, but, I'll have an inspiration soon. Don't worry about your old eleven, your problem will be solved, and you will have a team that can play fifty-seven varieties of football. _Raw revolver_, my comrades." When the graceless T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had sauntered gracefully out of the grub-shack, big Butch Brewster, almost exploding with suppressed wrath, stared at Slave-Driver Corridan and staid Deacon Radford a full minute; then he grinned, "That--Hicks!" he murmured, struggling against a desire to laugh. "What a ridiculous prophecy! 'Just leave it to Hicks!' Well, that means the problem goes unsolved, for though I confess he _is_ brilliant, and his so-called 'inspirations' have helped old Bannister; when it comes to rushing out and lassoing a smashing. Herculean full-back--_bah_!" Ten minutes later, when Coach Corridan and the Gold and Green squad climbed the bluff to the field back of Camp Bannister, for morning signal drill, their last memory was of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., arrayed in radiant vestiture, his chair tilted against the bunkhouse--the chords of the banjo, and his foghorn voice drifting to them on the warm September air: "Oh, father and mother pay all the bills (_plunk-plunk_) And we have all the fun (_plunkety-plunk_) With the money that we spend in college life!" Two hours afterward, as a tired, perspiring squad scrambled down the bluff, and made for the cool waters of Lake Conowingo, a mysterious silence, like a mighty wave, literally surged toward them. Camp Bannister seemed deserted, the sun was still shining, the birds sang as cheerily as ever, but instinctively the collegians felt an indescribable loneliness, a sense of tremendous loss. "_Hicks_!" shouted Butch Brewster, loudly, his voice shattering the stillness. "Hicks--ahoy! I say, Hicks--" Old Hinky-Dink, a letter in his hand, hobbled from the cook-tent toward them; like a sinister harbinger of evil he advanced, grinning deprecatingly at the squad: "Mistah Hicks am gone!" he announced importantly. "He done gib me fo' bits to row him ober to de village, to cotch de noon 'spress fo' Philadelphy! Heah am a letter what he lef'--" Big Butch Brewster, to whom the _billet-doux_ was addressed in T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, familiar scrawl, tore open the envelope, and while the squad listened, he read aloud the message left by that sunny-souled youth; "DEAR BUTCH: "Coach Corridan will have to use the alarm clock from now on! I'm called away on business. See that my stuff gets to Bannister O.K. Stow it in the room next to yours. I'll be back at college some time in the next century. Give my _adieux_ to Coach Corridan and the squad. "Yours truthfully, "T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR. "P.S.: Tell Coach Corridan he should worry--_not_! I'm hot on the trail of a fullback that will make Ted Coy at his coyest look like the paralyzed inmate of an old man's home. Just leave it to Hicks!" CHAPTER III HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY "Has anybody here seen our Hicks? _H-i-c-k-s_! Has anybody here seen our Hicks? If you've seen him, answer, 'Yes!' He's tall and slim, and he wears a grin, And his banjo-thumping is a sin. Has _anybody_ here seen our Hicks-- Hicks--and his old banjo?" Captain Butch Brewster, big Beef McNaughton, the Phillyloo Bird--that flamingo-like Senior--and little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous boner whom Bannister College called the "Human Encyclopedia," roosted on the sacred Senior Fence, between the Gymnasium and the Administration Building. A gloomy silence, like a somber mantle, enshrouded the four members of '19, as they listened to a rollicking parody on, "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" chanted by some Juniors in Nordyke, with T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the object of solicitude. Nor did the melancholy youths respond to the queries hurled down at them from the dormitories' windows: "Say, Butch Brewster, where is that crazy Hicks?" "Beef, ain't our Hicks a-comin' back here no more?" "Hello, Phillyloo, any word from our Hicks yet?" "Ahoy there, Theophilus, where is Hicks, the Missing?" The seven-thirty study-hour bell was ringing, its mellow chimes sounding from the Administration Building tower. From the windows of the dormitories gleams of light shot athwart the darkness. Over in Creighton Hall, the abode of Freshmen, a silence reigned, but in Smithson, where the Sophomores roomed, Nordyke, home of the Juniors, and Bannister, haunt of the solemn Seniors, pandemonium obtained. In these dorm. rooms and corridors that night, just as in the class-rooms, or on the campus, and Bannister Field that day, there was but one topic. Whenever two students met, came the query inevitable: "Where is Hicks? Isn't Hicks coming back this year?" The Freshmen, bewildered, quite naturally, at the furore made over one missing student, asked, "Who is Hicks?" Seeking information from upper-classmen they received innumerable tales, in the nature of Iliad and Odyssey, concerning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; they heard of his campus exploits, such as his originating The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, and they laughed, at recitals of his athletic fiascos. They were told of his inevitably sunny nature, his loyal comradeship, his generous disposition, and as a result, the Freshmen, too, became intensely interested in the all-important campus problem: "Where is T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.?" Little Theophilus Opperdyke, whose big-rimmed spectacles, high forehead, and bushy hair gave him an intensely owlish appearance, sighed tremendously, stared solemnly at his class-mates, and became the author of a most astounding statement: "I--I can't study," quavered the "boner," he whose tender devotion to his books was a campus tradition, and whose loyalty to his firm friend, the blithesome Hicks, was as that of Damon to Pythias, "I just _can't_ care about my studies, without Hicks here! Somehow, it--it doesn't seem like old times, on the campus." "I should say not!" ejaculated the Phillyloo Bird, sepulchrally, his string-bean length draped with extreme decorative effect on the Senior Fence, "Life at old Bannister without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is about as interesting as 'The Annual Report of the Department of Agriculture!' Prexy thought he started the college on its Marathon three days ago, but Bannister will not be officially opened until Hicks stands by his window some study-hour, twangs that old banjo, and shatters the campus quietude with a ballad roared in his fog-horn voice!" Big Butch Brewster, enshrouded in melancholy, instinctively gazed up at the windows of the room T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had reserved on the third floor of Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., as if he fully expected to behold the missing youth materialize. There, in lonely grandeur, waited the sunny-souled Senior's vast aggregation of trunks, crates, and packing boxes, together with Hicks' baggage brought down from Camp Bannister. The bothersome banjo had disappeared at the same time the youthful Caruso imitated the Arabs, folding his figurative tent, and stealing away. "It's a strange paradox," boomed Butch Brewster, finding that no Hicks appeared at the window, "but for three years Bannister has stormed at Hicks for bothering us during study-hour, or at midnight, with his saengerfest, and now I'd give anything to see him up there, and to hear that banjo, and his songs! It is just as if the sun doesn't shine on the campus, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is away!" Bannister College had been running for three days "on one cylinder," as the Phillyloo Bird quaintly phrased it, on account of the gladsome Hicks' mysterious absence. Not a word had the Head Coach, Captain Brewster, the football squad, or any of the collegians received from the blithesome youth, since the _billet-doux_ he left with old Hinky-Dink at Camp Bannister. Old students, returning to the campus for another golden year, invaded Hicks' room in Bannister, ready to enjoy the cozy den of that jolly Senior, but they encountered silence and desolation. No one had the slightest knowledge of where the cheery Hicks could be; they missed his singing and banjo strumming, his pestersome ways, his cheerful good nature, his cozy quarters always open house to all, and his Hicks' Personally Conducted tours downtown to Jerry's for those celebrated Beefsteak Busts. A telegram to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in Pittsburgh, sent by the worried Butch Brewster, had brought this concise response: No knowledge of Thomas' whereabouts. He should be at Bannister. "Queer," reflected Beef McNaughton, shifting his bulk on the protesting fence. "We know Hicks will be back, for all his luggage is stowed away in his room, and we are sure he is giving us all this mystery just for a joke--he dearly loves to arrange a sensational and dramatic climax--but we just can't get used to his not being on the campus. When Theophilus Opperdyke can't study, it's high time the S.O.S. signal was sent to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr." "That is not the worst of it," growled Captain Butch Brewster, his arm across little Theophilus' shoulders. "The football squad misses Hicks, Beef. For the past two seasons he has sat at the training-table, his invariable good-humor, his Cheshire cat grin, and his sunny ways have kept the fellows in fine mental trim so they haven't worried over the game. But now, just as soon as he left Camp Bannister, the barometer of their spirits went down to zero and every meal at training-table is a funeral. Coach Corridan can't inject any pep into the scrimmages, and he says if Hicks doesn't return soon, Bannister's chances of the Championship are gone." "As Theophilus says," responded the gloomy Beef, "we just can't get used to his not being here. We miss his good-nature, his sunny smile, the jolly crowds in his cozy quarters--why, the campus is talking of nothing but Hicks--and I don't know what Bannister will do after Hicks graduates--shut down, I suppose!" "Well, you know," grinned the Phillyloo Bird, his cadaverous structure humped over like a turkey on the roost, "our Hicks hath sallied forth on the trail of a full-back, a Hercules who will smash the other elevens to infinitesimal smithereens! He told the squad to just leave it to Hicks, so don't be surprised if he is making flying trips to Yale, Harvard, and Princeton, striving to corral some embryo Ted Coy. Remember how Hicks often fulfills his rash prophecies!" "A Herculean full-back--_Bah_!" fleered Butch, for all the campus knew of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, extremely rash vow to unearth a "phenom." "The truth of it is, fellows. Hicks has failed to locate such a wonder as Coach Corridac outlined, for there ain't no such animal! He doesn't like to come back to Bannister without having made good his promise, without that Gargantuan giant he vowed to round up for the Gold and Green." Just then, as if to substantiate Butch's jeering statement, a youth wearing the uniform and cap of The Western Union Telegraph Company and advancing across the campus at that terrific speed always exhibited by messenger-boys, appeared in the offing. Periscoping the four Seniors on the fence, he navigated his course accordingly and pulling a yellow envelope from his cap, he queried, in charmingly chaste English: "Say, kin youse tell me where to find a feller name o' Brewster, wot's cap'n o' de football bunch?" "Right here, Little Nemo," advised the Phillyloo Bird, solemnly. "Hast thou any messages from New York for me? John D. Rockefeller promised to wire me whether or not to purchase war-stocks." The Phillyloo Bird, at this stage of his monologue, was interrupted by a yell that would have caused a full-blooded Choctaw Indian to turn pale. This came from good Butch Brewster, who, having signed for the message, and imagined all manner of catastrophes, from world-wars, earthquakes, pestilence and loss of wealth, down to bad news from Hicks, after the fashion of those receiving telegrams but seldom, had scanned the yellow slip. Never before, or afterward, not even when the luckless Butch fell in love, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., assisted Cupid, did the pachydermic Butch act so insanely as on this occasion. "Whoop-_eee! Yee-ow! Wow-wow-wow_!" howled the supposedly solemn Senior, tumbling from the Senior fence and rolling on the campus like a decapitated rooster. "Hip-hip-_hooray_! Ring the bell, Beef, get the fellows out, have the Band ready, Oh, where is Coach Corridan? Read it, Beef, Theophilus, Phillyloo. Oh, Hicks is _coming_ and he's got--" It is possible that little Theophilus, who firmly believed that big Butch Brewster had gone emotionally insane, would have fled for help, but at that juncture members of the Gold and Green football squad, with Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, appeared, marching funereally toward the Gym., where a signal quiz was booked for seven forty-five. Beholding the paralyzing spectacle of their captain apparently in paroxysms on the grass, Hefty Hollingsworth, Biff Pemberton, Monty Merriweather and Pudge Langdon hurled themselves on his tonnage, while Roddy Perkins sat on his head, and wrested the telegram from his grasp, "Call up Matteawan," shouted Roddy, unfolding the slip, "Butch is getting barmy in the dome, he--Oh, Coach, fellows--_great joy_! Just heed." James Roderick Perkins, as excited as a Senator about to make his first speech, read aloud the telegram, on which the heedless Hicks had triple rates: "BUTCH: "Coming 8.30 P. M. express today. Discharge entire eleven--got whole team in one. Knock out partitions between five rooms. Make space for Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy! Leave it to Hicks! "T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR." "_Hicks is coming_!" shrieked the Phillyloo Bird, soaring down from the Senior Fence like a condor. "He will be here in less than an hour; he sent this wire just before his train left Philadelphia. Money is no object, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wants to mystify old Bannister." "'Discharge entire eleven,'" quoth Butch Brewster, having somewhat subdued his frenzy. "'Got whole team in one--knock out partitions between _five_ rooms--make space for Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy!' Now, what in the world has that lunatical Hicks done? Who can Thor be?" Tug Cardiff, Buster Brown, Bunch Bingham, Scoop Sawyer, little Skeet Wigglesworth, Don Carterson, and Cherub Challoner, not having given their brawn to the subduing of Butch, now kindly donated their brain, in all manner of weird suggestions. According to their various surmises, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had lured the Strong Man away from Barnum and Bailey's Circus, had in some way reincarnated the mythical Norse god, Thor, had hired some Greco-Roman wrestler, or by other devices too numerous and ridiculous to mention, had produced a full-back according to Coach Corridan's blue-prints and specifications. Big Beef McNaughton, seized with an inspiration that supplied locomotive-power to his huge frame, lumbered into the Gym., and soon appeared with monster megaphones, used in "rooting" for Gold and Green teams, which he handed out to his comrades. Then the riotous squad, at his suggestion, sprinted for the Quad., that inner quadrangle or court around which the four class dormitories, forming the sides of a square, were built; anyone desiring an audience could be sure of it here, since the collegians in all four dorms. could rush to the Quadrangle side and look down from the windows. In the Quadrangle, under the brilliant arc-lights, the exuberant youths paused, "One--two--three--let 'er go!" boomed Beef, and the football squad, in _basso profundo_, aided by the Phillyloo Bird's uncertain tenor, and Theophilus' quavery treble, roared in a tremendous vocal explosion that shook the dormitories: "Hicks is coming! Hicks is coming! Everybody out on the campus! Get ready to welcome our T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.! Hicks is bringing Bannister's full-back--a _Prodigious Prodigy_!" Windows rattled up, heads were thrust out, a fusillade of questions bombarded the squad in the Quadrangle below; from the three upper-class dormitories erupted hordes of howling, shouting youths, and soon the Quad. was filled with a singing, yelling, madly happy crowd. The Bannister Band, that famous campus musical organization, following a time-honored habit of playing on every possible occasion, gladsomely tuned up and soon the noise was deafening, while study-hour, as prescribed by the Faculty, was forgotten. "Everybody on the campus, at once!" Butch Brewster, Master-of-Ceremonies, boomed through his megaphone, having aroused excitement to the highest pitch by reading Hicks' telegram. "Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus will soon heave into sight. Let the Band blare, make a _big noise_. Let's show Hicks how glad we are to have him back to old Bannister." It is historically certain that Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte returning from Jena and Austerlitz, Mr. Julius Caesar, home at Rome from his Conquests, or Mr. Alexander the Great (Conqueror, not National League pitcher) never received such a welcome as did T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., from his Bannister comrades that night. To the excited students, massed on the campus before the Gym. awaiting his arrival, every second seemed a century; everybody talked at once until the hubbub rivaled that of a Woman's Suffrage Convention. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., was actually returning to old Bannister; and he was bringing "The Prodigious Prodigy," whatever that was, with him. Knowing the cheery Senior's intense love of doing the dramatic and his great ambition to startle his Alma Mater with some sensational stunt, they could hardly wait for old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus to roll up the driveway, "Here he comes!" shrieked, little Skeet Wigglesworth, an excitable Senior, who had climbed a tree to keep watch. "Here comes our Hicks!" "Honk--Honk!" To the incessant blaring of a raucous horn, old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus moved up the driveway. The genial Irish Jehu, who for over twenty years had transported Bannister collegians and alumni to and from College Hill in a ramshackle hack drawn by Lord Nelson, an antiquated, somnambulistic horse, had yielded to modern invention at last. Lord Nelson having become defunct during vacation, Old Dan, with a collection taken up by several alumni at Commencement, had bought a battered Ford, and constructed therewith a jitney-bus. This conveyance was fully as rattle-trap in appearance as the traditional hack had been, but the returning collegians hailed it with glee. "All hail Hicks!" howled Butch Brewster, beside himself with joy, "Altogether--the Bannister yell for--_Hicks_!" With half the collegians giving the yell, a number shouting indiscriminately, the Bannister Band blaring furiously, "Behold, The Conquering Hero Comes," with the youths a yelling, howling, shrieking, dancing mass, old Dan Flannagan, adding his quota of noises with the Claxon, brought his bus to a stop. This was a hilarious spectacle in itself, for on its sides the Bannister students had painted: HENRY FORD'S "PIECE-OF-A-SHIP," _THE DOVE_! ALL RIDING IN THIS JIT DO SO AT THEIR OWN RISK! TEN CENTS FOR A JOY-RIDE TO COLLEGE HILL! YES, IT'S A _FORD_! WHAT DO YOU CARE? GET ABOARD! On the roof of "The Dove," or "The Crab," as the collegians called it when it skidded sideways, perched precariously that well-known, beloved youth, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. He clutched his pestersome banjo and was vigorously strumming the strings and apparently howling a ballad, lost in the unearthly turmoil. As the jitney-bus stopped, the grinning Hicks arose, and from his lofty, position made a profound bow. "Speech! Speech! Speech!" A mighty shout arose, and Hicks raised his hand for silence, which was immediately delivered to him. "Fellows, one and all," he shouted, a mist before his eyes, for his impulsive soul was touched by the ovation, "I--I am _glad_ to be back! Say--I--I--well, I'm glad to be back--that's all!" At this masterly oration, which, despite its brevity, contained volumes of feeling, the Bannister students went wild--for a longer period than any political convention ever cheered a nominated candidate, they cheered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Roar--roar--roar--_roar_!" in deafening sound-waves, the noise swept across the campus; never had football idol, baseball hero, or any athletic demigod, in all Bannister's history, been accorded such a tremendous ovation. "Fellows," called T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., climbing down from his precarious perch, "stand back; I have brought to Bannister the 'Prodigious Prodigy.' I have rounded up a full-back who will beat Ballard all by himself. Behold the new Gold and Green football eleven, 'Thor'!" From the grinning Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, like a Russian bear charging from its den, lumbered a being whose enormous bulk fairly astounded the speechless youths; Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Tug Cardiff, Bunch Bingham, Buster Brown, and Pudge Langdon were popularly regarded as the last word in behemoths, but this "Thor" dwarfed them, towered above them like a Colossus over Lilliputians. He was a youth, and yet a veritable Hercules. Over six feet he stood, with a massive head, covered with tousled white hair, a powerful neck, broad shoulders, a vast chest. To a judge of athletes, he would tip the scales at a hundred and ninety pounds, all solid muscle, for that superb physique held not an ounce of superfluous flesh. "Hicks," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, gazing at the mountain of muscle, "if _size_ means anything, you have brought old Bannister an entire football squad! What splendid material to train for the Big Games, why--he will be irresistible!" CHAPTER IV QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER "I didn't raise my _Ford_ to be a _jitney_-- To run the streets, and stay out late at night! Who dares to put a jitney sign, upon it-- And send my _peace-ship_ out for fares to fight?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., standing by his open window at 3 P. M. one afternoon a week after his sensational return to Bannister College, with the "Prodigious Prodigy" in tow, indulged in the soul-satisfying pastime of twanging his banjo, and roaring, in his subterranean voice, a parody on "I Didn't Raise My Boy to be a Soldier." It was actually the first Caruso-like outburst of the pestersome youth that year, but his saengerfest brought vociferous howls of protest from campus and dormitories: "_Bow-wow-wow_! The Grand Opery season is starting!" "Sing some records for a talking-machine company, Hicks!" "Kill that tom-cat! Listen to the back-fence musicale!" "Say, Hicks--we'll take your word for that noise!" On the Gym. steps, loafing a few moments before jogging out to Bannister Field for a strenuous scrimmage under the personal supervision of Slave-Driver Corridan, the Gold and Green football squad had gathered. It was from these stalwart gridiron gladiators that the caustic criticism of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, vocal atrocities emanated, and the imitation of a mournful hound by "Ichabod," the skyscraping Senior, was indeed phenomenal. Added to the howls, whistles, jeers, and shouts of the squad, were like condemnations from other collegians, sky-larking on the campus, or in the dorms. "At that," grinned Captain Butch Brewster happily, "it surely makes me feel jubilant to hear Hicks' foghorn voice shattering the echoes, with his banjo strumming disturbing the peace--for which offense it shall soon be arrested. We can truly say that old Bannister is now officially opened for another year, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., has performed his annual rite--" "Right--!" scoffed big Pudge Langdon, indignantly, as he gazed up at the happy-go-lucky youth, at the window of his room on the third-floor, campus side, of Bannister Hall, "Hicks ought to be tarred and feathered; there is _nothing right_ in the way he has acted since his return to college! He struts around like Herman, the Master-Magician, and all the fellows fully expect to see him produce white rabbits from his cap, or make varicolored flags out of his handkerchief." "We ought to toss him in a blanket," stormed Beef McNaughton, in ludicrous rage. "Ever since he mystified Bannister by going out and corralling a Hercules who is an entire eleven in himself, Hicks has maintained that sphinx-like silence as to how he achieved the feat, and he swaggers around, enshrouded in _mystery_! All we know is that 'Thor' is John Thorwald, of Norwegian descent. If we ask _him_ for information, that wretch Hicks has him trained to say, 'Ask the little fellow, Hicks!'" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in truth, had acted in a most reprehensible manner since that memorable night when he brought "Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy," to the campus. Not that he ceased to be the same sunny-souled, popular and friendly youth. The collegians, happy at finding his room open-house again, flocked to his cozy quarters, Freshmen _fell_ under the spell of his generous nature, his Beef-Steak Busts, down at Jerry's were nightly occurrences, and he was the same Hicks as of old. But, after the dramatic manner in which Hicks had mysteriously made good the rash vow uttered at Camp Bannister and had brought to Coach Corridan a blond-haired giant who seemed destined to perform prodigies at full-back, the sunny Senior had evidently labored under the delusion that he was "Kellar, The Great Magician." Instead of relieving the tortured curiosity of the students, wild to know how and where Hicks had unearthed this physical Hercules, who in every way filled the details of Head Coach Corridan's "blue-prints," T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enjoying to the full this novel method of torturing his comrades, made a baffling mystery of the affair, much to the indignation of his friends. _"Just leave it to Hicks,"_ he would say, when the Bannister youths cajoled, implored, threatened, or argued. "Thor is eligible to play four years of football at old Bannister. I call him Thor, after the great Norse god, Thor; he is of Norwegian descent. That is all of the Billion-Dollar Mystery I can disclose; ten thousand dollars offered for the correct solution." "Here comes Scoop Sawyer," said Monty Merriweather, as that Senior, waving his arms in air, catapulted from Bannister Hall, and strode toward the squad on the Gym. steps; his appearance registered wrath, in photo-play parlance, and on reaching his comrades he immediately acquainted them with its cause. "Listen to that Hicks!" he exploded, gesticulating with a sheaf of papers. "Hicks, the mocking-bird! He is mocking _us_--with his 'Billion-Dollar Mystery!' Say--here I am writing to Jack Merritt; he played football four years for old Bannister; he was captain of the Gold and Green eleven; last Commencement he graduated, and the last thing he said to me was, 'Scoop, old pal, write to me next fall, tell me everything about the football season; keep me posted as to new material!' _Everything_--keep him posted as to new material--_Bah_! If I write that Hicks has brought a fellow he calls 'Thor,' who spreads the regulars over the field, Jack will want to know the details, and--that villainous Hicks won't divulge his dread secret!" At this moment, Scoop Sawyer, so-called because he was ambitious to be a newspaper reporter, after graduation, and for his humorous articles in the _Bannister Weekly_, had his intense wrath soothed by that which has "power to soothe the savage breast"; T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., displaying a wonderful originality by composing, then chanting, his parody, concluded the chorus roaring lustily, to a rollicking banjo accompaniment: "If street car companies gave seats to all patrons The strap-hangers in jitneys would not ride. There'd be no jits. today If Ford owners would say, I didn't raise my Ford to be a--jitney!" "That is too much!" raged Captain Butch Brewster, facing his excited colleagues. "Come on, fellows, we'll invade Hicks' room, read him Scoop's letter to Jack Merritt, and _make_ him solve the Mystery! We're done with diplomacy; now, we'll deliver the ultimatum; when the squad returns from scrimmage, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., will tell us all about Thor, or be tossed in a blanket! Are you with me?" "We are _ahead_ of you!" howled Roddy Perkins, leading a wild charge for the entrance to Bannister Hall. Following him up the two flights of stairs with thunderous tread came Butch, Beef, Monty, Biff, Hefty, Pudge, Tug, Ichabod, Bunch, Buster, Bus Norton, and several second-team players, Cherub, Chub Chalmers, Don, Skeet, and Scoop Sawyer with his letter. With a terrific, blood-chilling clatter, and hideous howls, the Hicks-quelling Expedition roared down the third corridor of Bannister, and surged into the room of that tantalizing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.! "Safety first!" shrieked that cheery collegian, stowing his banjo in the closet and making a strenuous but futile effort to dive head-first beneath the bed, being forcibly restrained by Beef, who clung to his left ankle. "Say, to what am I indebted for the honor of this call? Why, when I got back to Bannister, you fellows gushed, 'Oh, we're _so_ glad you're back, Hicks, old top; we missed even your saengerfests,' and when I start one--" "Hicks," pronounced Butch Brewster grimly, holding the genial offender by the scruff of the neck, "you tantalizing, aggravating, irritating, lunatical, conscienceless degenerate! You assassin of Father Time, you disturber of the peace, _heed_! Scoop Sawyer is writing to Jack Merritt, to tell about the football team, and Bannister's chances of the Championship; he wants to tell Jack all about this Thor! Now, you have acted like Herman-Kellar-Thurston long enough, and hear our final word. Read Scoop's letter, and if when you finish its perusal you fail to give us full information, and answer all questions about Thor--" "The football team will toss you in a blanket until you do!" finished Monty Merriweather, "We intended to wait until after the scrimmage, but Butch evidently believes we should end your bothersome mystery as once, and--" "'Curiosity killed the cat!'" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; then seeing the avenues and boulevards of escape were closed, but fighting for time, "let me peruse said missive indited by our literarily overbalanced Scoop. I am reluctant to dispel the clouds of mystery, but--" Scoop Sawyer thrust the typewritten pages of the letter--composed on the battered old typewriter in the editorial sanctum of the _Bannister Weekly_--into Hicks' grasp and with a grin, that blithesome youth read: Bannister College, Sept, 27. DEAR OLD JACK: There is so _much_ to tell you, old pal, that I scarcely know where to start, but you want to know about the football eleven, so I'll write about T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his 'Billion-Dollar Mystery,' as he calls it; about Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. You well know what a scatter-brained wretch Hicks is, and how he dearly loves to plot dramatic climaxes--to mystify old Bannister. Just now Hicks has the campus as wrathful as it is possible to be with that lovable youth; he has originated a great mystery, and achieved a seemingly impossible feat, and instead of explaining it, he swaggers around like a Hindoo mystic enshrouded in mystery and the fellows are wild enough to tar and feather the incorrigible villain! To get off to a sprint-start, up in Camp Bannister, before college opened, when the squad was in training camp, Butch Brewster says that Coach Corridan one day, before Hicks, expressed a fervid ambition to find a huge, irresistible fullback-- Here the chronicle must hang fire, while T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinning at the wrath his mysterious behavior aroused, peruses those sections of Scoop Sawyer's epistle telling of two scenes already described; first, the one in the Camp Bannister grub-shack, where Head Coach Corridan blue-printed the Gargantuan athlete he desired, and the blithesome Hicks confidently requested that the Herculean task be left to him; second, the scene of intense excitement on the campus the night that the missing Hicks returned personally conducting that mountain of muscle, the blond-haired Thor. Having grinned at these descriptions, the pestiferous Hicks scanned a picturesque description by Scoop of the events that transpired between that memorable night and the present invasion of the sunny Senior's room by the indignant squad. --Naturally, Jack, old Bannister was intensely curious to know who this "Thor" could be, and how Hicks unearthed such a giant. But, instead of swaggering a trifle, as he inevitably does, and saying, 'Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!' then telling all about it, after accomplishing what everyone believed a ridiculously impossible quest, he maintains that provokingly mysterious silence, and John Thorwald (we know his name, anyway) stolidly refers us to Hicks. So where Thor originated or how under the sun Hicks got on his trail, after making his rash vow to corral a mighty fullback, is a deep, dark mystery. Now for Thor himself. Words cannot describe that Prodigious Prodigy; he must be seen to be believed! We do know that he is John Thorwald, and of distinctly Norwegian descent, so that calling him after the mythic Norse god is extremely appropriate. And he is reminiscent of the great Thor, with his vast strength and prowess. Thanks to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, love of mystery, and of tantalizing old Bannister, we know nothing of Thorwald's past, but we are sure he has lived and toiled among _men_, to possess that powerful build. I can't describe him, old man, without resorting to exaggeration, for ordinary words and phrases are utterly inadequate with Thor! Conjure up a vision of Gulliver among the Lilliputians and you can picture him towering over us. He is a Viking of old, with his fair features and blond hair. Probably twenty-five years old, he has a powerful frame and prodigious strength, he dwarfs such behemoths as Butch and Beef, and makes such insignificant mortals as little Theophilus and myself seem like insects! Thor is so _big_, Jack, that when he gets in a room, he crowds everyone into the corridor, and fills it alone. No wonder Hicks telegraphed to knock out the partitions between five rooms to make space for Thor! When he stands on the campus he blots out several sections of scenery, and the college disappears, giving the impression he has swallowed it. Thor is a slow-minded being, but possessed of a grim determination. To get an idea into his mind requires a blackboard and Chautauqua lecturer, but once he masters it, he never lets go; so it will be with football signals, once let him grasp a play, he will never be confused. He is simply a huge, stolid giant. He has a bulldog purpose to get an education, and nothing else matters. As for college spirit, the glad comradeship of the campus, he has no time for it; he pays no attention to the fellows at all, only to Hicks. His devotion to that wretch is pathetic! He follows Hicks around like a huge mastiff after a terrier, or an ocean leviathan towed by a tug-boat; he seems absolutely helpless without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and so we have a daily Hicks' personally conducted tour of Thor to interest us. Briefly, Jack, John Thorwald is a slow-moving, slow-minded, grimly bulldog giant, who has come to Bannister to study, and as for any other phase of campus existence, he has never awakened to it! Now for the football story: Well, the day after Hicks' sensational arrival, which I described, Coach Corridan, Captain Butch Brewster, Beef, Buster, Pudge, Monty, and Roddy with yours truly, went to Thor's room in Creighton just before football practice. We found that Colossus, who had matriculated as a Freshman, aided by Hicks, patiently masticating mental food as served by Ovid. Coach Corridan said, 'Come on, Thorwald, over to the Gym.; we'll fix you out with togs, if we can get two suits big enough to make one for your bulk! Ever play the game?' 'I play some,' rumbled Thor stolidly, never raising his eyes from his Latin. 'Don't bother me, I want to _study._ I have not time for such foolishness. I am here to study, to get an education!' 'But,' urged the coach earnestly, 'you _must_ play football for your Alma Mater, for old Bannister. Why, you--you _must_, that's all!' Thor gazed at Hicks questioningly--I forgot to add that insect's name--and asked, 'Is it so, Hicks? I _got_ to play for the college?' And when Hicks grinned, '_Sure_, Thor, it must be did. Bannister expects you to smear the other teams over the landscape,' that blond Norwegian Viking said, 'Well, then, I play.' All Bannister turned out to behold the "Prodigious Prodigy" on the football field. Somewhere--Hicks won't divulge where--Thor has learned the rudiments of the game. With that bulldog tenacity of his, he has learned them well. Hence he was ready for the scrubs, and in the practice game it was a veritable slaughter of the innocents. The 'Varsity could not stop Thor. Remember 'Ole' Skjarsen, the big Swede of George Fitch's 'Siwash College' tales? Thor, after the ten minutes required to teach him a play, would take the ball and just wade through the regulars for big gains. The only way to stop him was for the entire eleven to cling affectionately to his bulk, and then he transported them several yards. He is a phenom, a veritable Prodigious Prodigy, and maybe old Bannister isn't _wild_ with enthusiasm. His development will be slow but sure, and by the time the big games for the championship come, he will be a whole team in himself. Right now he goes through daily scrimmage as solemnly as if performing a sacred rite. He doesn't thrill with college spirit, but as for football-- Leaving Hicks to read the rest of Scoop Sawyer's long missive, terminating with indignant condemnation of the sunny youth's love of mystery, the terrific enthusiasm roused at old Bannister by the daily appearance on Bannister Field of Thor, and his irresistible marches through the 'Varsity, must be chronicled and explained. Not for five seasons, not since the year before Hicks, Pudge, Butch, Beef and the others of 1919 were Freshmen, had the Gold and Green corraled that greatest glory, The State Intercollegiate Football Championship! In Captain Butch's Sophomore year, he had flung his bulk into the fray, training, sacrificing, fighting like a Trojan, only to see the pennant lost by a scant three inches, as Jack Merritt's forty-yard drop-kick for the goal that would have won the Championship struck the cross-bar and bounded back into the field. And the past season-old Bannister could still vision that tragic scene of the biggest game. The students could picture Captain Brewster, with the Bannister eleven a few yards from Ballard's goal-line, and the touchdown that would give the Gold and Green that supreme glory. One minute to play; Deacon Radford had given Butch the pigskin, and like a berserker, he fought entirely through the scrimmage. But a kick on the head had blinded him, in the _mêlée_--free of tacklers, with the goal-line, victory, and the Championship so near, he staggered, reeled blindly, crashed into an upright, and toppled backward, senseless on the field, while the Referee's whistle announced the end of the game, and glory to Ballard. Even then, after the first terrible shock of the loss, of the cruel blow fate dealt the Gold and Green two successive seasons, the slogan was: "_Next year_--Bannister will win the Championship--_next year_!" It was now "next year!" Losing only Jack Merritt, Babe McCabe and Heavy Hughes from the line-up, and having Monty Merrlweather and Bunch Bingham, fully as good, Coach Corridan's Gold and Green eleven, before the season started, seemed a better fighting machine than even the one of the year before. But when the irrepressible T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in some mysterious fashion making good his rash vow to produce a smashing full-back that can't be stopped, towed that stolid, blond Colossus, Thor, to old Bannister, enthusiasm broke all limits! Mass-meetings were held every night. Speeches by Coaches, Captain, players, Faculty, and students, aroused the campus to the highest pitch; every day, the entire student-body, with The Bannister Band, turned out on Bannister Field to cheer the eleven, and to watch the Prodigious Prodigy perform valorous deeds, like the god Thor. "Bannister College--State Championship!" was the cry, and with the giant Thor to present an irresistible catapulting that could not be stopped, the Gold and Green exultantly awaited the big games with Hamilton and Ballard. And yet, the stolid, unemotional, unawakened Thor, on whom every hope of the Championship was based, whom all Bannister came out to watch every day, practiced as he studied, doggedly, silently. It was evident to all that he hated the grind, that he wanted to quit, that his heart was not in the game, but for some cause, he drove his Herculean body ahead, and could not be stopped! "Now, you abandoned wretch," said Butch Brewster grimly, as the happy-go-lucky Hicks finished Scoop's letter, and glanced about him wildly seeking a way of escape, "in one minute you will tell us all about John Thorwald, alias 'Thor,' or be tossed sky-high in a blanket by the football squad, and please believe me, you'll break all altitude records!" "Spare me, you banditti!" pleaded Hicks, reluctant to cease torturing Bannister with his Billion-Dollar Mystery, yet equally unwilling to aviate from a blanket heaved by the husky athletes. "Why seek ye to question the ways of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.? You have your Prodigious Prodigy--your smashing full-back is distributing the 'Varsity over the scenery with charming nonchalance that promises dire catastrophe for other teams, once he makes the regulars, so--" At that dramatic moment, just as Butch Brewster glanced at Hicks' alarm-clock, to start the minute of grace, a startling interruption saved the gladsome youth from having to make a decision. A heavy, creaking tread shook the corridor, and the squad beheld, looming up in the doorway, Thor. He was not in football togs, and as he started to speak his fair face as stolid and expressionless as that of a sphinx, Captain Butch Brewster stepped toward him. "Thor!" he exclaimed, seizing the blond Colossus by the arm, "You aren't ready for the scrimmage; hustle over to the Gym. and get on your suit." But John Thorwald, as passive of feature as though he announced something of the most infinitesimal importance, and were not hurling a bomb-shell whose explosion, was to shake old Bannister terrifically, spoke in a matter-of-fact manner: "I shall not play football--any more." "_What_!" Every collegian in Hicks' room, including that dazed producer of the Prodigious Prodigy, chorused the exclamation; to them it was as stunning a shock as the nation would suffer if its President calmly announced, "I'm tired of being President of the United States. I shall not report for work tomorrow." Bannister College, ever since the night that Thor arrived on the campus, had talked or thought of nothing but how this huge, blond-haired Hercules would bring the Championship to the Gold and Green; his prodigies on the gridiron, his ever-increasing prowess, had aroused enthusiasm to fever heat, and now-- "I was told wrong," said Thor, shifting his vast tonnage awkwardly from one foot to the other, and evidently bewildered at the consternation caused by what he believed a trifling announcement, "I understood that I _had_ to play football, that the Faculty required it of me, and the students let me think so. I have just learned from Doctor Alford that such is not true, that I do not have to play unless I choose, hence, I quit. I came to college to study, to gain an education. I have toiled long and hard for the opportunity, and now I have it, I shall not waste my time on such foolishness." Then, utterly unconscious that he had spoken sentences which would create a mighty sensation at old Bannister, that might doom the Gold and Green to defeat, lose his Alma Mater the Championship, and bring on himself the cruel ostracism and bitter censure of his fellows, John Thorwald lumbered down the corridor. A moment of tense silence followed and then Captain Butch Brewster groaned. "It's all over, it's all over, fellows!" he said brokenly, "Bannister loses the Championship! We know it is impossible to move Thor on the football field, and now that he has said 'No!' to playing football, dynamite can not move him from his decision." Then, crushed and disconsolate, the football squad filed silently from the room, to break the glad news to Coach Corridan, and to spread the joyous tidings to old Bannister. When they had gone, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., staring at the figurative black cloud that lowered over his Alma Mater, strove to find its silver lining, and at last he partially succeeded. "Anyway," said Hicks, with a lugubrious effort to grin, "Thor's announcement shocked the squad so much that I was not forced to explain my Billion-Dollar Mystery!" CHAPTER V HICKS MAKES A DECISION "In the famous words of Mr. Somebody-Or-Other," quoth T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "something has _got_ to be did, and immediately to once!" Big Butch Brewster nodded assent. So did Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, Beef McNaughton, Team Manager Socks Fitzpatrick, Monty Merriweather, Dad Pendleton, President of the Athletic Association, and Deacon Radford, quarter-back, also Shad Fishpaw, who, being Freshman Class-Chairman, maintained a discreet silence. Instead of the usual sky-larking, care-free crowd that infested the cozy quarters of the happy-go-lucky Hicks, every collegian present, except the ever-cheerful youth, seemed to have lost his best friend and his last dollar at one fell swoop! "Oh, yes, something has got to be did!" fleered Beef McNaughton, the davenport creaking under the combined tonnage of himself and Butch Brewster, "But who will do it? Where's all that Oh-just-leave-it-to-Hicks stuff you have pulled for the past three years, you pestiferous insect? _Bah_! You did a lot; you dragged a Prodigious Prodigy to old Bannister, enshrouded him in darkest mystery, and now, when he pushed the 'Varsity off the field and promised to corral the Championship, single-handed, he puts his foot down, and says, '_No_--I will not play football!' Get busy, Little Mr. Fix-It." "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" accommodated that blithesome Senior, with a cheeriness he was far from feeling. "You all do know why Thor won't play football; it is not like last season, when Deke Radford, a star quarter-back, refused either to play, or to explain his refusal. Let me get an inspiration, and then Thor will once again gently but firmly thrust entire football elevens down the field before him!" As evidence of how intensely serious was the situation, let it be chronicled that, for the first time in his scatter-brained campus career, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., did not dare strum his banjo and roar out ballads to torture his long-suffering colleagues. Popular and beloved as he was, the gladsome youth hesitated to shatter the quietude of the campus with his saengerfest, knowing as he did what a terrible blow Thor's utterly astounding announcement had been to the college. It was nine o'clock, one night two weeks after the day when John Thorwald, better known as Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, so mysteriously produced by Hicks, had stolidly paralyzed old Bannister by unemotionally stating his decision to play no more football. Since then, to quote the Phillyloo Bird, "Bannister has staggered around the ring like a prizefighter with the Referee counting off ten seconds and trying to fight again before he takes the count." In truth, the students had made a fatal mistake in building all their hopes of victory on that blond giant, Thor; seeing his wonderful prowess, and beholding how, in the first week of the season, the Norwegian Colossus had ripped to shreds the Varsity line which even the heavy Ballard eleven of the year before could not batter, it was but natural that the enthusiastic youths should think of the Championship chances in terms of _Thor_. For one week, enthusiasm and excitement soared higher and higher, and then, to use a phrase of fiction, everything fell with a dull, sickening thud! In vain did Coach Corridan, the staff of Assistant Coaches, Captain Butch Brewster, and others strive to resuscitate football spirit; nightly mass-meetings were held, and enough perfervid oratory hurled to move a Russian fortress, but to no avail. It was useless to argue that, without Thor, Bannister had an eleven better than that of last year, which so nearly missed the Championship. The campus had seen the massive Thor's prodigies; they knew he could not be stopped, and to attempt to arouse the college to concert pitch over the eleven, with that mountain of muscle blotting out vast sections of scenery, but not in football togs, was not possible. "One thing is sure," spoke Dad Pendleton seriously, gazing gloomily from the window, "unless we get Thor in the line-up for the Big Games, our last hope of the Championship is dead and interred! And I feel sorry for the big fellow, for already the boys like him just about as much as a German loves an Englishman; yet, arguments, threats, pleadings, and logic have absolutely no effect on him. He has said 'No,' and that ends it!" "He doesn't understand things, fellows," defended T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with surprising earnestness. "Remember how bewildered he seemed at our appeal to his college spirit, and his love for his Alma Mater. We might as well have talked Choctaw to him!" Butch Brewster, Socks Fitzpatrick, Dad Pendleton, Beef McNaughton, Deacon Radford, Monty Merriweather, and Shad Fishpaw well remembered that night after Thor's tragic decision, when they--part of a Committee formed of the best athletes from all teams, and the most representative collegians of old Bannister, had invaded Thor's room in Creighton Hall, to wrestle with the recalcitrant Hercules. Even as Hicks spoke, they visioned it again. A cold, cheerless room, bare of carpet or pictures, with just the study-table, bed, and two chairs. At the study-table, his huge bulk sprawling on, and overflowing, a frail chair, they had found the massive John Thorwald laboriously reading aloud the Latin he had translated, literally by the sweat of his brow. The blond Colossus, impatient at the interruption, had shaken his powerful frame angrily, and with no regard for campus tradition, had addressed the upperclassmen in a growl: "Well, what do you want? Hurry up, I've got to study." And then, to state it briefly, they had worked with (and on) the stolid Thorwald for two hours. They explained how his decision to play no more football would practically kill old Bannister's hopes of the Championship, would assassinate football spirit on the campus, and cause the youths to condemn Thor, and to ostracise him. Waxing eloquent, Butch Brewster had delivered a wonderful speech, pleading with John Thorwald to play the game. He tried to show that obviously uninterested mammoth that, like the Hercules he so resembled, he stood at the parting of the ways. "You are on the threshold of your college career, old man!" he thundered impressively, though he might as well have tried to shoot holes in a battleship with a pop-gun, "What you do now will make or break you. Do you want the fellows as friends or as enemies; do you want comradeship, or loneliness and ostracism? You have it in your power to do two _big_ things, to win the Championship for your Alma Mater, and to win to yourself the entire student-body, as friends; will you do that, and build a firm foundation for your college years, or betray your Alma Mater, and gain the enmity of old Bannister!" Followed more fervid periods, with such phrases as, "For your Alma Mater," "Because of your college spirit," "For dear old Bannister," and "For the Gold and Green!" predominating; all of which terms, to the stolid, unimaginative Thorwald being fully as intelligible as Hindustani. They appealed to him not to betray his Alma Mater; they implored him, for his love of old Bannister; they besought him, because of his college spirit; and all the time, for all that the Prodigious Prodigy understood, they might as well have remained silent. "I will tell you something," spoke Thor, at last, with an air of impatient resignation, "and don't bother me again, please! I have come to Bannister College to get an education, and I have the right to do so, without being pestered. I pay my bills, and I am entitled to all the knowledge I can purchase. I look from my window, and I see boys, whose fathers are toiling, sacrificing, to send them here. Instead of studying, to show their gratitude, they loaf around the campus, or in their rooms, twanging banjos and guitars, singing silly songs, and sky-larking. I don't know what all this rot is you are talking of; 'college spirit,' 'my Alma Mater,' and so on. I do not want to play football; I do not like the game; I need the time for my study, so I will not play. Both my father and myself have labored and sacrificed to send me to college. The past five years, with one great ambition to go to college and learn, I have toiled like a galley-slave. "And now, when opportunity is mine, do you ask me to _play_? You want me to loaf around, wasting precious time better spent in my studies. What do I care whether the boys like me, or hate me? Bah! I can take any two of you, and knock your heads together! Their friendship or enmity won't move me. I shall study, learn. I will not waste time in senseless foolishness, and I _won't_ play football again." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. was silent as he stood by the window of his room, gazing down at the campus where the collegians were gathering before marching to the Auditorium for the nightly mass-meeting that would vainly strive to arouse a fighting spirit in the football "rooters." That blithesome, heedless, happy-go-lucky youth was capable of far more serious thought than old Bannister knew; and more, he possessed the rare ability to read character; in the case of Thor, he saw vastly deeper than his indignant comrades, who beheld only the surface of the affair. They knew only that John Thorwald, a veritable Colossus, had exhibited football prowess that practically promised the State Championship to old Bannister, and then--he had quit the game. They understood only that Thor refused to play simply because he did not want to, and as to why their appeals to his college spirit and his love for his Alma Mater were unheeded they were puzzled. But the gladsome Hicks, always serious beneath his cheerful exterior, when old Bannister's interests were at stake, or when a collegian's career might be blighted, when the tragedy could be averted, fully understood. Of course, as originator of the Billion-Dollar Mystery, and producer of the Prodigious Prodigy, he knew more about the strange John Thorwald than did his mystified comrades. He knew that Thor, as he named him, was just a vast hulk of humanity, stolid, unimaginative of mind, slow-thinking, a dull, unresponsive mass, as yet unstirred by that strange, subtle, mighty thing called college spirit. He realized that Thor had never had a chance to understand the real meaning of campus life, to grasp the glad fellowship of the students, to thrill with a great love for his Alma Mater. All that must come in time. The blond giant had toiled all his life, had labored among men where everything was practical and grim. Small wonder, then, that he failed utterly to see why the youths "loafed on the campus, or in their rooms, twanging banjos and guitars, singing silly songs, and skylarking." "I must save him," murmured Hicks softly, for the others in his room were talking of Thor. "Oh, imagine that powerful body, imbued with a vast love for old Bannister, think of Thor, thrilling with college spirit. Why, Yale's and Harvard's elevens combined could not stop his rushes, then. I must save him from himself, from the condemnation of the fellows, who just don't understand. I must, some way, awaken him to a complete understanding of college life in its entirety, but how? He is so different from Roddy Perkins, or Deke Radford." It seemed that the lovable Hicks was destined to save, every year of his campus career, some entering collegian who incurred the wrath, deserved or otherwise, of the students. In his Freshman first term, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., indignant at the way little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, nervous "grind," had been alarmed at the idea of being hazed, had by a sensational escape from a room locked, guarded, and filled with Sophomores, gained immunity for himself and the boner for all time, thus winning the loyal, pathetic devotion of the Human Encyclopedia. As a Sophomore, by crushing James Roderick Perkins' Napoleonic ambition to upset tradition, and make Freshmen equal with upperclassmen, Hicks had turned that aggressive youth's tremendous energy in the right channels, and made him a power for good on the campus. And, a Junior, he had saved good Deacon Radford. When that serious youth, a famous prep. quarter, entered old Bannister, the students were wild at the thought of having him to run the Gold and Green team, but to their dismay, he refused either to report for practice or to explain his decision. Hicks, promising blithely, as usual, to solve the mystery and get Deke to play, discovered that the youth's mother, called "Mother Peg" by the collegians, was head-waitress downtown at Jerry's and that she made her son promise not to own the relationship, and that while she worked to get him through college, Deacon would not play football. The inspired Hicks had gotten Mother Peg to start College Inn, and board Freshmen unable to get rooms in the dormitories, and Deacon had played wonderful football. For this achievement, the original youth failed to get glory, for he sacrificed it, and swore all concerned to secrecy. "But Roddy and Deke were different," reflected Hicks, pondering seriously. "Both had been to Prep. School, and they understood college life and campus spirit. It was Roddy's tremendous ambition that had to be curbed, and Deke was the victim of circumstances. But Thorwald--it is just a problem of how to awaken in him an understanding of college spirit. The fellows don't understand him, and--" A sudden thought, one of his inspirations, assailed the blithesome Hicks. Why not make the fellows understand Thor? Surely, if he explained the "Billion-Dollar Mystery," as he humorously called it, and told why Thorwald, as yet, had no conception of college life, in its true meaning, they would not feel bitter against him; perhaps, instead, though regretful at his decision not to play the game, they would all strive to awaken the stolid Colossus, to stir his soul to an understanding of campus tradition and existence. But that would mean--"I surely hate to lose my Billion-Dollar Mystery!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., remembering the intense indignation of his comrades at his Herman-Kellar-Thurston atmosphere of mystery, "It is more fun than, my 'Sheerluck Holmes' detective pose or my saengerfests. Still, for old Bannister, and for Thor." It would seem only a trifle for the heedless Hicks to give up his mystery, and tell Bannister all about Thor; yet, had the Hercules reconsidered, and played football, the torturesome youth would have bewildered his colleagues as long as possible, or until they made him divulge the truth. He dearly loved to torment his comrades, and this had been such an opportunity for him to promise nonchalantly to produce a Herculean full-back, then, to return to the campus with the Prodigious Prodigy in tow, and for him to perform wonders on Bannister Field, naturally aroused the interest of the youths, and he had enjoyed hugely their puzzlement, but now-- "Say, fellows," he interrupted an excited conversation of a would-be Committee of Ways and Means to make Thor play football, "I have an announcement to make." "Don't pester us, Hicks!" warned Captain Butch Brewster, grimly. "We love you like a brother, but we'll crush you if you start any foolishness, and--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with the study-table between himself and his comrades, assumed the attitude of a Chautauqua lecturer, one hand resting on the table and the other thrust into the breast of his coat, and dramatically announced: "In the Auditorium--at the regular mass-meeting tonight--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., will give the correct explanation of Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, and will solve the Billion-Dollar Mystery!" CHAPTER VI HICKS MAKES A SPEECH The announcement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had practically the same effect on Head Coach Corridan and the cheery Senior's comrades as a German gas-bomb would have on the inmates of an Allied trench. For several seconds they stared at the blithesome youth, in a manner scarcely to be called aimless, since their looks were aimed with deadly accuracy at him, but in general, with the exception of Hicks, those in the room resembled vastly some of the celebrated Madame Tussaud's wax-works in London. "Oh," breathed Monty Merriweather, with the appearance of dawning intelligence, "that's so, Coach, Hicks never has disclosed the details of his achievement; we were about to extort a confession from him, when Thor broke up the league with his announcement, and since then, Bannister has been too worried over Thorwald to trifle with Hicks!" "That's a good idea!" exclaimed Coach Corridan, who had been remarkably silent, for him, pondering the football crisis, "Hicks can make his explanation at the regular mass-meeting tonight, in the Auditorium. I'll post an announcement of his purpose, and you fellows spread the news among the students, stating that Hicks will tell how he rounded up Thor. Some have shirked these meetings since Thorwald quit the game, and this will bring them out, so maybe we can arouse the fighting spirit again!" So well did Butch, Beef, Socks, Monty, Dad, Deacon, and Shad tell the news, that when the bell in the Administration Hall tower rang at ten o'clock it was ascertained by score-keepers that every youth at Bannister, Freshmen included, except that Hercules, Thor, had assembled in the Auditorium. That stolid behemoth, who regarded the football mass-meeting as foolishness, was reported as boning in his cheerless room, fulfilling the mission for which he came to college, namely, to get his money's worth of knowledge, which he evidently regarded as some commodity for which Bannister served merely as a market. Big Butch Brewster, on the stage of the Auditorium, the big assembly-hall of the college, along with Coach Corridan, several of the Gold and Green eleven, two members of the Faculty, several Assistant Coaches, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., stepped forward and stilled the tumult of the excited youths with upraised hand. "We have with us tonight," he spoke, after the fashion of introducing after-dinner speakers, "Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the celebrated Magician and Mystifier, who will present for your approval his world-famous Billion-Dollar Mystery, and give the correct solution to Thor, the problem no one has been able to solve. I take great pleasure in introducing to you this evening, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr." The collegians, firmly believing it was another of the pestiferous Hicks' jokes, and wholly unaware of the deep purpose of the sunny-souled, irrepressible youth's speech, went into paroxysms of glee, as the shadow-like Hicks stepped forward. For several minutes, the hall echoed with jeers, shouts, groans, whistles, and sarcastic comments: "Hire a hall, Hicks; tell it to Sweeney!"--"Bryan better look out. Hicks, the _Chau-talker;_"--"Spill the speech, old man; spread the oratory!"--"Oh, where are my smelling-salts? I know I shall faint!"--"You'd better play a banjo-accompaniment to it, Hicks!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., for once in his campus career, fervidly wished he had not been such a happy-go-lucky, care-free collegian, for now, when he was serious, his comrades refused to believe him to be in such a state. However, quiet was obtained at last, thanks to the fact that the youths possessed all the curiosity of the proverbial cat who died thereby, and the sunny Senior plunged earnestly into his famous speech, that was destined, at old Bannister, to rank with that of Demosthenes "On The Crown," or any of W. J, Bryan's masterpieces. "Fellows," began Hicks, without preface, "I know I've built myself the reputation of being a scatterbrained, heedless nonentity, and it's too late to change now. But tonight, please believe me to be thoroughly in earnest. Bannister faces more than one crisis, more than one tragedy. It is true that the football eleven is crippled by the defection of Thor, that we fellows have somewhat unreasonably allowed his quitting the game to shake our spirit, but there is more at stake than football victories, than even the State Intercollegiate Football Championship! The future of a student, of a present Freshman, his hopes of becoming a loyal, solid, representative college man, a tremendous power for good, at old Bannister, hang in the balance at this moment! I speak of John Thorwald. You students have it in your power to make or break him, to ruin his college years and make him a recluse, a misanthrope, or to gradually bring him to a full realization of what college life and campus tradition really mean." "I have made a great mystery of Thor, just for a lark, but the enmity and condemnation of the campus for him because he quit football suddenly, shows me that the time for skylarking is past. For his sake, I must plead. He is not to blame, altogether, for quitting. Myself, and you fellows, gave him the impression that it was a Faculty requirement for him to play football, for we feared he would not play, otherwise; when he learned that it was not a Faculty rule, he simply quit." Here T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., seeing that at last he had convinced the collegians of his earnestness, though they seemed fairly paralyzed at the phenomenon, paused, and produced a bundle of papers before resuming. "Now, I'll try to explain the 'mystery' as briefly and as clearly as possible. Up at Camp Bannister, before college opened, Coach Corridan, as you know, outlined to Butch, Deke, and myself, his dream of a Herculean, irresistible full-back; I said, 'Just leave It to Hicks!' and they believed that I, as usual, just made that remark to torment them. But such was not the case. When I joined them, I remarked that I had a letter from my Dad; Deke made some humorous remarks, and I forgot to read it aloud, as I intended. Then, after Coach Corridan blue-printed his giant full-back, I kept silent as to Dad's letter, for reasons you'll understand. But, after all, there was no mystery about my leaving Camp Bannister, after making a seemingly rash vow, and returning to college with a 'Prodigious Prodigy' who filled specifications, In fact, before I left Camp Bannister, at the moment I made my rash promise--I had Thor already lined up!" "I shall now read a dipping or two, and a letter or two from my Dad. The clippings came in Dad's letter to me at Camp Bannister, the letter I intended to read to Coach Corridan, Deke, and Butch, but which I decided to keep silent about, after the Coach told of the full-back he wanted, for I knew I had him already! First, a clipping from the _San Francisco Examiner_, of August 25: MAROONED SAILOR RESCUED--TEN YEARS ON SOUTH SEA ISLAND! SOLE SURVIVOR OF ILL-FATED CRUISE OF THE ZEPHYR "The trading-schooner _Southern Cross_, Captain Martin Bascomb, skipper, put into San Francisco yesterday with a cargo of copra from the South Sea Islands. On board was John Thorwald, Sr., who for the past ten years has been marooned on an uninhabited coral isle of the Southern Pacific, together with 'Long Tom' Watts, who, however, died several months ago. Thorwald's story reads like a thrilling bit of fiction. He was first mate of the ill-fated yacht _Zephyr_, which cleared from San Francisco ten years ago with Henry B. Kingsley, the Oil-King, and a pleasure party, for a cruise under the southern star. A terrific tornado wrecked the yacht, and only Thorwald and 'Long Tom' escaped, being cast upon the coral island, where for ten years they existed, unable to attract the attention of the few craft that passed, as the isle was out of the regular lanes. Only when Captain Martin Bascomb, in the trading-schooner _Southern Cross_, touched at the island, hoping to find natives with whom to trade supplies for copra, were they found, and 'Long Tom' had been dead some months." "Despite the harrowing experiences of his exile, Thorwald, a vast hulk of a stolid, unimaginative Norwegian, who reminds one of the Norse god, 'Thor,' intends to ship as first mate on the New York-Christiania Steamship Line. It is said that Thorwald has a son, at this time about twenty-five years of age, somewhere In this country, whom he will seek, and--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., at this juncture, terminated the newspaper story, and finding that his explanation held his comrades spellbound, he produced a letter, and drew out the message, after stating the youths could read the entire news-story of John Thorwald, Sr., later. "This is the letter I received from my Dad," he explained to the intensely interested Bannister youths, who were giving a concentrated attention that members of the Faculty would have rejoiced to receive from them. "Up at Camp Bannister--I was just about to read it to Coach Corridan, Butch, and Deke Radford, when Deke chaffed me, and then the Coach outlined the mammoth full-back he desired, so I kept quiet. I'll now read it to you: "Pittsburgh, Pa., Sept, 17. "DEAR SON THOMAS: "Read the inclosed clipping from the _San Francisco Examiner_ of August 25, and then pay close attention to the following facts: At the time of this news-story I was in 'Frisco on business, as you will recall, and for reasons to be outlined, when I read of the _Southern Cross_ finding the marooned John Thorwald, and bringing him to that city, I was particularly interested, so much so that I at once looked up the one-time first mate of the ill-starred _Zephyr_ and brought him to Pittsburgh in my private car. My reason was this; in my employ, in the International Steel Combine's mill, was John Thorwald's son, John Thorwald, Jr. "To state facts as briefly as possible, almost a year ago, as I took some friends through the steel rolling mill, I chanced to step directly beneath a traveling crane, lowering a steel beam; seeing my peril, I was about to step aside when I caught my foot and fell. Just then a veritable giant, black and grimy, leaped forward, and with a prodigious display of strength, placed his powerful back under the descending weight, staving it off until I rolled over to safety! "Well, of course, I had the fellow report to my office, and instinctively feeling that I wanted to show my gratitude, without being patronizing, he responded to my question as to what I could do to reward him, by asking simply that I get him some job that would allow him to attend night school. He stated that, owing to the fact that he worked alternate weeks at night shift he was unable to do so. Questioning him further, I learned the following facts: "He was John Thorwald, Jr., only son of John Thorwald, Sr., a Norwegian; his mother was also a Norwegian, but he is a natural born American. Realizing the opportunities for an educated young man in our land, Thorwald's parents determined that he should gain knowledge, and until he was fifteen years old, he attended school in San Francisco. When he was fifteen, his father signed as first mate on the yacht _Zephyr_, going with the oil-king, Henry B. Kingsley, on a pleasure cruise in the Southern Pacific; Thorwald, Sr.'s, story you read in the paper. Soon after the news of the _Zephyr's_ wreck, with all on board lost, as was then supposed, Thorwald's mother died. Her dying words (so young Thorwald told me, and I was moved by his simple, straightforward tale) were an appeal to her boy. She made him promise, for her sake, to study, study, study to gain knowledge, and to rise in the world! Thorwald promised. Then, believing both his parents dead, the young Norwegian, a youth of fifteen without money, had to shift for himself. "Thomas, Jack London could weave his adventures into a gripping masterpiece. Starting in as cabin-boy on a freighter to Alaska, young Thorwald, in the past ten years, has simply crowded his life with adventure, thrill, and experience, though thrills mean nothing to him. He was in the Klondike gold-fields, in the salmon canneries, a prospector, a lumber-jack in the Canadian Northwest, a cowboy, a sailor, a worker in the Panama Canal Zone, on the Big Ditch, and too many other things to remember. Finally, he drifted to Pittsburgh, where his prodigious strength served him in the steel-mills, and, let me add, served _me_, as I stated. "And ever, no matter where he wandered, or what was his toil, whenever possible, Thorwald studied. His promise to his mother was always his goal, and in the cities he studied, or in the wilds he read all the books he could find. The past year, finding he had a good-pay job in Pittsburgh, he settled to determined effort, and by sheer resolution, by his wonderful power to grasp facts and ideas for good once he gets them, he made great progress in night school, until he was shifted, a week before he saved my life, to work that required him to toil nightly, alternate weeks. So, for a year, Thor has had every possible advantage, some, unknown to him, I paid for myself; I got him clerical work, with shorter hours, he went to night school, and I employed the very best tutor obtainable, letting Thorwald pay him, as he thought, though his payments wouldn't keep the tutor in neckties. The gratitude of the blond giant is pathetic, and suspecting that I paid the tutor something, he insisted on paying all he could, which I allowed, of course. "Well, in August, a year after Thorwald rescued me from serious injury, perhaps death, I was in 'Frisco, and read of Thorwald, Sr.'s rescue and return. Overjoyed, I took the father to Pittsburgh, to the son. I witnessed their meeting, with the father practically risen from the dead, and all those stolid, unimaginative Norwegians did was to shake hands gravely! Young Thorwald told of his mother's last words, and of his promise, of his having studied all the years, and of his late progress, so that he was ready to enter college. His father, happy, insisted that he enter this September, and he would pay for his son's college course, to make up for the years the youth struggled for himself--Kingsley's heirs, I believe, gave Thorwald, Sr., five thousand dollars on his return. So, though grateful to me for the aid I offered, they would receive no financial assistance, for they want to work it out themselves, and help the youth make good his promise to his dying mother. "Much as I love old Bannister, my Alma Mater, I would not have tried to send Thorwald there, had I not deemed it a good place for him. However, since it is a liberal, not a technical, education he wants, it is all right; and that prodigious strength will serve the Gold and Green on the football field. Now, Thomas, I want you to meet him in Philadelphia, and take him to Bannister, look out for him, get him started O. K., and do all you can for him. Get him to play football, if you can, but don't condemn if he refuses. Remember, his life has been grim and unimaginative; he has toiled and studied, it is probable he will not understand college life at first." "That's all I need to read of Dad's letter, fellows," concluded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "After I got it, and Coach Corridan, Butch, and Beef heard my seemingly rash vow to round up a giant full-back, I made a mystery of it; I loafed in Philadelphia and Atlantic City until I met Thor, and brought him here. You have all the data regarding Thor, 'The Billion-Dollar Mystery.'" The students, almost as one, drew a deep breath. They had been enthralled by the story, and their feeling toward Thor had undergone a vast change. Stirred by hearing of his promise to his dying mother, thrilled at the way the stolid, determined Norwegian had ceaselessly studied to make something of himself for the sake of his mother's sacred memory, the Bannister youths now thought of football, of the Championship, as insignificant, beside the goal of Thorwald, Jr. The blond Colossus, whom an hour ago all Bannister reviled and condemned for not playing the game, who was a campus outcast, was now a hero; thanks to the erstwhile heedless Hicks, whose intense earnestness in itself was a revelation to the amazed collegians, Thor stood before them in a different light, and the impulsive, whole-souled, generous youths were now anxious to make amends. _"Thor! Thor! Thor!"_ was the thunderous cry, and the Bannister yell for the Prodigious Prodigy shattered the echoes. Then T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., ecstatically joyous, again stilled the tumult, and spoke in behalf of John Thorwald. "We all understand Thor now, fellows," he said, beaming on his comrades. "We want him to play football, and we'll keep after him to play, but we won't condemn him if he refuses. At present, Thor is simply a stolid, unimaginative, dull mass of muscle. As you can realize, his nature, his life so far have not tended to make him appreciate the gayer, lighter side of college life, or to grasp the traditions of the campus. To him, college is a market; he pays his money and he takes the knowledge handed out. We can not blame him for not understanding college existence in its entirety, or that the gaining of knowledge is a small part of the representative collegian's purpose. "Now, boys, here's our job, and let's tackle it together: To awaken in Thor a great love for old Bannister, to cause college spirit to stir his practical soul. Let every fellow be his friend, let no one speak against him, because of football. We must work slowly, carefully, gradually making him grasp college traditions, and once he awakens to the real meaning of campus life, what a power he will be in the college and on the athletic field! Maybe he will not play football this season, but let us help him to awaken!" With wild shouts, the aroused collegians poured from the Auditorium, an excited, turbulent mass of youthful humanity, a tide that swept T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., on the shoulders of several, out on the campus. Massed beneath the window of John Thorwald's room, in Creighton Hall, the Bannister students, now fully understanding that stolid Hercules, and stirred to admiration of him by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, great speech, cheered the somewhat mystified Thor again and again; in vast sound waves, the shouts rolled up to his open window: "Rah! Rah! Rah-rah-rah! _Thor! Thor! Thor_!" Captain Brewster, through a big megaphone, roared; "Fellows--What's the matter with _Thor_?" And in a terrific outburst which, as the Phillyloo Bird afterward said, "Like to of busted Bannister's works!" the enthusiastic collegians responded: "_He's_--all--right!" Then Butch, apparently in quest of information, persisted: "_Who's_ all right?" To which the three hundred or more youths, all seemingly equipped with lungs of leather, kindly answered: "Thor! Thor! Thor!" Still, though the Phillyloo Bird declared that this vocal explosion caused the seismographs as Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and in Salt Lake City, Utah, to register an earthquake somewhere, it had on the blond Freshman a strange effect. The vast mountain of muscle lumbered heavily across the room, gazed down at the howling crowd of collegians without emotion, then slammed down the window, and returned to study. "_Good night_" called Hicks. "The show is over! Let him have another yell, boys, to show we aren't insulted; then we'll disband!" Considering Thorwald's cool reception of their overtures, which some youth remarked, "Were as noisy as that of a Grand Opera Orchestra," it was quite surprising to the students, in the morning, when what occurred an hour after their serenade was revealed to them. As the story was told by those who witnessed the scene, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, Beef, Monty, Pudge, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, Tug, Buster, and Coach Corridan after the commotion subsided, retired to the sunny Hicks' quarters, where the football situation was discussed, along with ways and means to awaken Thor, when that colossal Freshman himself loomed up in the doorway. As they afterward learned, several excited Freshmen had dared to invade Thor's den, even while he studied, and give him a more or less correct account of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s masterly oration in his defense. Out of their garbled descriptions, big John Thorwald grasped one salient point, and straightway he started for Hicks' room, leaving the indignant Freshmen to tell their story to the atmosphere. "Hicks," said Thor, not bothering with the "Mr." required of all Freshmen, as his vast bulk crowded the doorway, "is it true that Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., wants me to play football? He has been very kind to me, and has helped me, and so have you, here at college. After a year of study, I should have had to stop night-school, but for him--instead, I got another year, and prepared for Bannister. I did not know that _he_ desired me to play, but if he does, I feel under obligation to show my great gratitude, both for myself and for my father." A moment of silence, for the glorious news could not be grasped in a second; those in the room, knowing Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.'s, brilliant athletic record at old Bannister, and understanding his great love for his Alma Mater, knew that Hicks, Sr., had sent Thor to Bannister to play football for the Gold and Green, though, as he had written his son, he would not have done so had he honestly believed that another college would suit the ambitious Goliath better. "Does he?" stammered the dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while the others echoed the words feebly, "Yes, I should say he _does_!" For a second, the ponderous young Colossus hesitated, and then, as calmly as though announcing he would add Greek to his list of studies, and wholly unaware that his words were to bring joy to old Bannister, he spoke stolidly. "Then I shall play football." CHAPTER VII HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY. "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! Drink and the Devil had done for the rest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!" T HAVILAND HICKS, JR., his chair tilted at a perilous angle, and his feet thrust gracefully atop of the study-table, in his cozy room, one Friday afternoon two weeks after John Thorwald's return to the football squad, was fathoms deep in Stevenson's "Treasure Island." As he perused the thrilling pages, the irrepressible youth twanged a banjo accompaniment, and roared with gusto the piratical chantey of Long John Silver's buccaneer crew; Hicks, however, despite his saengerfest, was completely lost in the enthralling narrative, so that he seemed to hear the parrot shrieking, "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" and the wild refrain: "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!" He was reading that breathlessly exciting part where the cabin-boy of the _Hispaniola_, and Israel Hands have their terrible fight to the death, with the dodging over the dead man rolling in the scuppers, the climbing up the mast, and the dirk pinning the boy's shoulder, before Hands is shot and goes to join his mate on the bottom; just at the most absorbing page, as he twanged his beloved banjo louder, and roared the chantey, there sounded, "Tramp--tramp--tramp!" in the corridor, the heavy tread of many feet sounded, coming nearer. Instinctively realizing that the pachydermic parade was headed for _his_ room, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., rushed to the closet, murmuring, "Safety first!" as usual, and stowed away his banjo. He was just in the nick of time, for a second later there crowded into his room Captain Butch, Pudge, Beef, Hefty, Biff, Monty, Roddy, Bunch, Tug, Buster, Coach Corridas, and Thor, the latter duo bringing up the rear. "Hicks, you unjailed public nuisance!" said Butch Brewster, affectionately. "We, whom you behold, are going for to enter into that room across the corridor from your boudoir, and hold a football signal quiz and confab. We should request that you permit a thunderous silence to originate in your cozy retreat, for the period of at least a hour! A word to the _wise_ is sufficient, so I have spoken several, that even you may comprehend my meaning." "I gather you, fluently!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., taking up "Treasure Island" and his graceful pose once more. "Leave me to peruse the thrilling pages of this classic blood-and-thunder book, and I'll cause a beautiful serenity to obtain hither." "See that you do, you pestiferous insect!" threatened Beef McNaughton, ominously. "Come on, fellows, Hicks can't escape our vengeance, if he bursts into what he fatuously believes is song. Just let him act hippicanarious, and--" When the Gold and Green eleven, half of which, to judge by size, was Thor, had gone with Coach Corridan into the room across from that of the blithesome Hicks, the sunny-souled Senior tried to resume his perusal of "Treasure Island," but somehow the spell had been broken by the invasion of his cozy quarters. So, after vainly essaying to take up the thread of the story again, Hicks arose and stood by the window, gazing across the campus to Bannister Field, deserted, since the football team rested for the game of the morrow. As he stood there, the gladsome Hicks reflected seriously. He thought of "Thor," and decided sorrowfully that the problem of awakening that stolid Colossus to a full understanding of campus life was as unsolved as ever. "But I _won't_ give it up!" declared Hicks, determinedly. "I have always been good at math, and I won't let this problem baffle me." Since the night, two weeks back, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had made his memorable speech, explaining to his fellow-students the "Billon-Dollar Mystery," and arousing in them a vast admiration for the slow-minded, plodding John Thorwald, every collegian had done his best to befriend the big Freshman. Upperclassmen helped him with his studies. Despite his almost rude refusal to meet any advances, the collegians always had a cheery greeting for him, and his class-mates, in fear and trembling, invaded his den at times, to show him they were his friends. Yet, despite these whole-hearted efforts, only two of old Bannister did the silent Thor seem to desire as comrades: the festive Hicks, for reasons known, and--remarkable to chronicle--little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, studious "Human Encyclopedia." "Colossus and Lilliputian!" the Phillyloo Bird quaintly observed once when this strangely assorted duo appeared on the campus. "Say, fellows--some time Thor will accidentally sit on Theophilus, and we'll have another mystery, the disappearance of our boner!" The generous Hicks, longing for Thor's awakening to come, was not in the least jealous of his loyal little friend, Theophilus. In fact, he was sincerely delighted that the unemotional Hercules desired the comradeship of the grind, and he urged the Human Encyclopedia to strive constantly to arouse in Thor a realization of college existence, and a true knowledge of its meaning. At least one thing, Theophilus reported, had been achieved by Hicks' defense of Thorwald, and the subsequent attitude of the collegians-- the colossal Freshman was puzzled, quite naturally. When over three hundred youths criticized, condemned, and berated him one night, and the next, even before he reconsidered his decision about football, came under his window and cheered him, no wonder the young Norwegian was bewildered. On the football field, with his dogged determination, his bulldog way of hanging on to things until he mastered them, big Thor progressed slowly, and surely; the past Saturday, against the heavy Alton eleven, the blond Freshman had been sent in for the second half, and, to quote an overjoyed student, he had "busted things all up!" It seemed simply impossible to stop that terrible rush of his huge body. Time after time he plowed through the line for yards, and old Bannister, visioning Thor distributing Hamilton and Ballard over the field, in the big games, literally hugged itself. And yet, despite Thorwald's invincible prowess, despite the vast joy of old Bannister at the chances of the Championship, some intangible shadow hovered over the campus. It brooded over the training-table, the shower-rooms after scrimmage, on Bannister Field during practice; as yet, no one had dared to give it form, by voicing his thought, but though no youth dared admit it, something was wrong, there was a defective cog in the machinery of that marvelous machine, the Gold and Green eleven. "'Oh, just leave it to Hicks," quoth that sunny youth, at length, turning from the window; "I'll solve the problem, or what is more probable, Theophilus may stir that sodden hulk of humanity, after awhile. I won't worry about it, for that gets me nothing, and it will all come out O.K., I'm positive!" At this moment, just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., picked up "Treasure Island" again, he heard drifting across the corridor from the room opposite, in Butch Brewster's familiar voice: "--Yes, I'll win three more Bs'--one each in football, baseball and track; next spring, I'll annex my last B at old Bannister, fellows--" His _last_ B--The words struck the blithesome Hicks with sledge-hammer force. Big Butch Brewster was talking of his last B, when he, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had never won his first; with a feeling almost of alarm, the sunny youth realized that this was his final year at old Bannister, his last chance to win his athletic letter, and to make happy his beloved Dad, by helping him to realize part of his life's ambition--to behold his son shattering Hicks, Sr.'s, wonderful record. His final chance, and outside of his hopes of winning the track award in the high-jump, Hicks saw no way to win his B. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., as has been chronicled, the beloved Dad of the cheery Senior, a Pittsburgh millionaire Steel King, was a graduate of old Bannister, Class of '92. While wearing the Gold and Green, he had made an all-round athletic record never before, or afterward, rivaled on the campus. At football, basketball, track, and baseball, he was a scintillating star, annexing enough letters to start an alphabet, had they been different ones. Quite naturally, when the Doctor, speaking anent the then infantile Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., said, "Mr. Hicks, it's a boy!"--the one-time Bannister athlete straightway began to dream of the day when his only son and heir should follow in his Dad's footsteps, shattering the records made at Bannister, and at Yale, by Hicks, _père_. However, to quote a sporting phrase, the son of the Steel King "upset the dope!" At the start of his Senior year, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had not annexed a single athletic honor, nor did the signs point to any records being in peril of getting shattered by his prowess; as Hicks himself phrased it, "Dame Nature was _some stingy_ when she handed out the Hercules stuff to me!" The happy-go-lucky youth, when he matriculated as a Freshman at Bannister College, was builded on the general lines of a toothpick, and had he elected to follow a pugilistic career, a division somewhat lighter than the tissue paperweight class would have had to be devised to accommodate the splinter-student. A generous, sunny-souled, intensely democratic collegian, despite his father's wealth, the festive Hicks, with his room always open-house to all; his firm friendship for star athlete or humble boner, his never-failing sunny nature, together with his famous Hicks Personally Conducted Expeditions downtown to the Beef-Steak Busts he had originated, in his three years at old Bannister, had made himself the most popular and beloved youth on the campus, but, he had not won his B! And he had tried. With a full realization, of his Dad's ambition, his life-dream to behold his son a great athlete, the blithesome Hicks had tried, but with hilariously futile results. Nature had endowed him, as he told his loyal comrade, Butch Brewster, with "the Herculean build of a Jersey mosquito," and his athletic powers neared zero infinity. In his Freshman year, he inaugurated his athletic career by running the wrong way in the Sophomore-Freshman football game, scoring a touchdown that won for the enemy, and naturally, after that performance, every athletic effort was greeted with jeers by the students. "I _have_ tried!" said Hicks, producing two letters from the study-table, "But not like I should have tried. I could never have played on the eleven, or on the nine, but I have a chance in the high-jump. I know I've been indolent and care-free, and I ought to have trained harder. Well, I just must win my track B this spring, but as to keeping the rash promise I made to Butch as a Freshman--not a chance!" It had been at the close of his Freshman year, after Hicks, in the Interclass Track Meet, had smashed hurdles, broken high-jumping cross-bars, finished last in several events, and jeopardized his life with the shot and hammer, that he made the rash vow to which he now had reference. Butch, believing his sunny friend had entered all the events just to entertain the crowd, in his fun-loving way, was teasing him about his ridiculous fiascos, when Hicks had told him the story--how his Dad wanted him to try and be a famous athlete; he showed Butch a letter, received before the meet, asking his son to try every event, and to keep on training, so as to win his B before he graduated. Butch, great-hearted, was surprised and moved by the revelation that the gladsome youth, even as he was jeered by his friendly comrades, who thought he performed for sport, was striving to have his Dad's dream come true; he had sympathized with his classmate, and then his scatter-brained colleague had aroused his indignation by vowing, with a swaggering confidence: "'Oh, just leave it to Hicks!' Remember this, Butch, before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!" Butch had snorted incredulously. To win the football or the baseball B, the gold letter for the former, and the green one for the latter sport, an athlete had to play in three-fourths of the season's games, on the "'Varsity"; to gain the white track letter, one had to win a first place in some event, in a regularly scheduled track meet with another team. And now, Butch's skepticism seemed confirmed, for at the start of his last year at college, Hicks had not annexed a single B, though he bade fair to corral one in the spring in the high-jump. "Heigh-ho!" chuckled Hicks, at length. "Here I am threatening to get gloomy again! Well I'll sure train hard to win my track letter, and that seems all I can do! I'd like to win my three B's, and jeer at Butch, next June, but--_it can't be did_! I shall now twang my trusty banjo, and drive dull care away." Quite forgetful of the football conclave across the corridor, and of Butch Brewster's request for quiet, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. dragged out his beloved banjo, caressed its strings lovingly, and roared: "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! Drink and the--" "_Hicks_!" Big Butch Brewster crashed across the corridor, both doors being open. "Is this how you maintain a quiet? I'm going to call Thor over and make him sit down on you! Why, you--" "Have mercy!" plead the grinning Hicks. "Honest, Butch, I didn't go to bust up the league--I--I heard you talk about your B's, and I got to thinking that _I_ have but little time to make my Dad happy; see, here's proof--read these letters I was perusing--" Puzzled, Butch scanned the first one, dated back in the May of their Freshman year; Hicks had received it before the class track meet, and, as chronicled, he had heard from his sunny comrade later, how it impelled the splinter youth to try every event, while Bannister believed him to enter them for fun. The letter was post-marked "Pittsburgh, Pa.," and it read: DEAR SON THOMAS: Your last term's report gratified me immensely, and I am proud of your class record, and scholastic achievements. Pitch in, and lead your class, and make your Dad happy. But there is something else of which I want to write, Thomas. As you must know, it has always been a cause of keen regret to me that you have never seemed to care for athletics of any sort; you appear to be too indolent and ease-loving to sacrifice, or to endure the hardships of training. I suppose it is because of my athletic record both at Bannister and at old Yale that I am so eager to see you become a star; in fact, it is my life's most cherished ambition to have you become as famous as your Dad. However, I realize that my fond dream can never come true. Nature has not made you naturally strong and athletic, and what athletic success you may gain, must come from long and hard training and practice. If you can only win your college letter, your B, Thomas, while at Bannister, I shall be fully content. I said nothing when you failed even to try for the teams at your Preparatory School, but I did hope that at Bannister, under good coaches and trainers, you would at least endeavor to win your letter. I must admit that I am disappointed, for you have not even made an earnest effort to find your event. Often, by trying everything, especially in a track meet, a fellow finds his event, and later stars in it. I really believe that if you would start in now to develop yourself by regular, systematic gymnasium work, and if you would only try, in a year or so you could make a Bannister team. Theodore Roosevelt, you know, was a puny, weakly boy, but he built himself up, and became an athlete. If you want to please me, start now and find your event. Attempt all the sports, all the various track and field events, and always build yourself up by exercise in the Gym. And you owe it to your Alma Mater, my son! Even if, after conscientious effort, you fail to win your B, to know that you have given your college and teams what help you could, will please your Dad. Remember, the fellow who toils on the scrubs is the true hero. If you become good enough to give the first eleven, the first nine, the first five, or the first track squad a hard rub and a fast practice, you are serving Bannister. I don't ask you to do this, Thomas, I only say that it will make me happy just to know you are striving. If you never get beyond the scrubs, just to hear you are serving the Gold and Green, giving your best, in that humble unhonored way, will please me. And if, before you graduate, you _can_ win your B, I shall be so glad! Don't get discouraged, it may take until your Senior year, but once you start, _stick_. Your loving DAD. "Read this one, too, Butch," requested Hicks, hurriedly, as a hail of, "Oh, you Hicks, come here!" sounded down the corridor, from Skeet Wigglesworth's abode. "I'll be back as soon as Skeet finishes his foolishness. Don't wait for me, though, if I am delayed, for you want to be talking football." Left alone, big Butch Brewster, who of all the collegians that had known and loved the sunny Hicks, some now graduated, understood that his athletic efforts, jeered good-naturedly by the students, were made because of a great desire to win his B and make happy his Dad, read the second letter, dated a few days before: DEAR SON THOMAS: You are starting the last lap, son, your Senior year, and your final chance to win your B! Don't forget how happy it will make your Dad if you win your letter just once! Of course, you cannot gain it in football, for nature gave you no chance, nor in baseball; but in track work it is up to you. Train hard, Thomas, and try to win a first place; just win your track B, and I'll rest content! Your college record gives me great pleasure. You stand at the top in your studies, and you are vastly popular, while the Faculty speak highly of you. Let your B come as a climax to your career, and I'll be so proud of you. Don't forget, you are the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and those sons of old Eli want you to win the letter. As to football, you cannot win your gold B by playing three-fourths of a season's games, but you might get in a big game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself. Don't mind the jeers of your comrades--they just don't know how you've tried to please your Dad; you owe it to your Alma Mater to tell, and, take my word as a football star, you have the goods! Your peculiar prowess has won many a contest, and old Bannister needs it this season, I hear-- There was more, but big Butch scarcely saw it, bewildered as the behemoth Senior was; what new mystery had Hicks set afoot? What did Hicks, Sr., mean by writing, "You might get in a big game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself? You owe it to your Alma Mater to tell, and take my word, as a football star, you have the goods--" Why, everyone knew that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., possessed no more football ability than a Jersey mosquito, and yet-- "Another Hicks mystery," groaned Butch, holding the two letters thoughtfully. "And father and son are in it, But if Hicks don't get his B, it will be a shame. _Say, I know--_" A few moments later, good-hearted Butch Brewster, in the behalf of his sunny comrade, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was making to the Gold and Green eleven and Coach Corridan, as eloquent a speech as that blithesome youth, two weeks before, had made in defense of the condemned and ostracized Thor! He read them the two letters of Hicks' beloved Dad, and told how the cheery collegian wanted to win his B for his father's sake; graphically, he related Hicks, Sr.'s, great ambition, and how Hicks, Jr., for three years had vainly tried to make good at some athletic sport, and to win his letter. Big Butch, warming to his theme, spoke of how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., letting the students believe that he entered every event in the track meet of his Freshman year just for fun, had been trying to find his event, and train for it; he explained that the festive youth, ever sunny-natured, under the good-humored jeers of his comrades, who did not know his real purpose, really yearned to win his B. "You fellows, and you, Coach," he thundered, "all know how Hicks, unable to make the 'Varsity, has always done humble service for old Bannister, cheerfully, gladly; how he keeps the athletes in good spirits at the training-table, and is always on hand after scrimmage to rub them out. He is chock-full of college spirit, and is intensely loyal to his Alma Mater. Why, look how he rounded up Thor--he ought to have his B for that!" Thanks to Butch's speech, the Gold and Green football stars, most of whom were Hicks' closest friends, saw the scatter-brained, happy-go-lucky youth in a new light; his eloquent defense of John Thorwald had shown old Bannister that he could be serious, but the knowledge that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., even as he made a ridiculous farce in athletics, was ambitious to win his B, just to make his Dad happy, stunned them. For three years, the sunny Hicks' appearance on old Bannister Field, to try for a team, had meant a small-sized riot of jeers and good-natured ridicule at his expense; but Hicks had always grinned _à la_ Cheshire cat,--and no one but good Butch Brewster, all the time, had known how in earnest the lovable collegian was. "Now," concluded Butch, "Hicks _may_ win a B in track work, if he gets a first place in the high-jump, and if so, O.K., but if he does not--" "You mean--" Monty Merriweather--understood, "if he fails, then the Athletic Association ought to--" "Present him with a B!" said Butch, earnestly, "as a deserved reward for his faithful loyalty and service to old Bannister's athletic teams. Don't let him graduate without gaining his letter, and making his Dad realize a part of his ambition--a two-thirds vote of the Athletic Association can award him his letter, and when all the students know the truth about his ridiculous fiasco on Bannister Field, and realize the serious purpose beneath them all, they--" "_We'll give him his B_!" shouted Beef, loudly, "If he fails in track work next spring, we'll vote him his letter, anyway!" Out in the corridor, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., returning from Skeet Wigglesworth's room and entering his own cozy quarters, could not help hearing the conversation, as the doors of both his den and the room across the corridor were open. A great love for his comrades came to his impulsive heart, and a mist before his eyes, as he heard how they wanted to vote him his B in case he failed to win it in track work; he thrilled at Butch's speech, but-- [Illustration B: 'Fellows,...I--I thank you from the bottom of my heart'] "Fellows," he startled them by appearing in the doorway, "I--I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't help hearing, you know--I _do_ appreciate your generous thoughts, but--I can't and won't accept my B unless I win it according to the rule of the Athletic Association." A silence, and then Butch Brewster, gripping his comrade's hand understandingly, held out to him the two letters. "Forgive me, old man," he breathed, "for reading them aloud, but I wanted the fellows to know, to appreciate you! And say, Hicks, what does your Dad mean by saying that you are the _'Class Kid'_ of Yale, '96, and that those sons of old Eli want you to win your letter? And what does he mean by saying that you may get in a _big game_--may _win_ it--that you have the goods in football, but lack the confidence to announce it to Coach Corridan? Also that old Bannister needs just the peculiar brand you possess?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his sunny, Cheshire cat grin illuminating his cherubic countenance, beamed on the eleven and Coach Corridan a moment. "Oh, that's a _mystery_," he said, cheerfully. "If I _do_ gain the courage and confidence, I'll explain, but unless I do--it remains a--_mystery_!" CHAPTER VIII COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN "ALL MEMBERS OF THE FIRST ELEVEN ARE URGENTLY REQUESTED TO BE PRESENT IN THE ROOM OF T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.--AT EIGHT P. M. TONIGHT; YOU WILL BE DETAINED ONLY A FEW MINUTES, BUT LET EVERY PLAYER COME, AS A MATTER OF EXTREME IMPORTANCE WILL BE PRESENTED. PATRICK HENRY COERIDAN, HEAD-COACH." "Now, what do you suppose is up Coach Corridan's sleeve?" demanded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., cheerfully. "Has Ballard learned our signals, or some Bannister student sold them to a rival team, as per the usual football story? Though the notice doth not herald it, I am to be present, for my room is to be used, and the Coach gave me a special invitation to cut the Gordian knot with my keen intellect." The sunny Hicks, with Butch, Beef, Tug, and Monty, had just come from "Delmonico's Annex," the college dining-hall, after supper; they had paused before the Bulletin Board at the Gymnasium entrance, where all college notices were posted, and the Coach's urgent request had caught their gaze. The announcement had caused quite a stir on the campus. The Bannister youths stood in excited groups talking of it, and in the dormitories it superseded all thought of study; however, there seemed little chance that any but the "'Varsity" and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who was always consulted in football problems, would know what took place in this meeting. "There is only one way to find out, Hicks," responded big Butch Brewster, his arm across his blithesome comrade's shoulders, "and that is, attend the meeting! You can wager that every member of the eleven will be there, except Thor--he regards it as 'foolishness,' I suppose, and he won't spare that precious time from his studies." At five minutes past eight, Butch's prophecy was fulfilled, for every member of the eleven _was_ in Hicks' cozy room, except Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, whose presence would have caused a mild sensation. It was an extremely quiet and orderly gathering, for Coach Corridan, who had the floor, was so grave that he impressed the would-be sky-larking youths. Having their undivided attention, he proceeded to make a speech that, to all intents and purposes, had much the same effect on the team and Hicks as a Zeppelin's bombs on London: "Boys," he spoke, in forceful sentences, driving straight to the point, "I am going to take the eleven, and Hicks, whose suggestions are always timely, into my confidence, in the hope that we, working together, may carry out an idea of mine for the awakening of Thor to a realization of things! I ask you not to let what I shall tell you be known to the student-body, but you fellows play with Thor every day, and you will understand the crisis, and appreciate _why_ it is done, if I decide it necessary to drop John Thorwald from the football squad." "Drop Thor from the squad!" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., staggered, and then pandemonium broke loose among the players. Drop the Prodigious Prodigy from the squad, why, what _could_ the Slave-Driver be thinking of? Why, look how Thorwald, on the scrubs, tore through the heavy 'Varsity line for big gains. He was simply unstoppable; and yet, almost on the eve of the big game that old Bannister depended on Thor to win by his splendid prowess, he might be dropped from the squad! Excited exclamations sounded from Captain Butch Brewster, Beef, and the others of the Gold and Green eleven: "Why not give the big games to Ballard and Ham, Coach?" "Say, shoot Theophilus Opperdyke in at full-back!" "Good-by, championship! No hopes now, fellows!" "If Thor doesn't play in the Big Games--good night!" A greater sensation could not have been caused even had kindly white-haired Prexy announced his intention of challenging Jess Willard for the World's Heavy-Weight Championship. Dropping that human battering-ram, Thor, from the football, squad was something utterly undreamed-of. Coach Corridan raised his hand for silence, and the youths subsided. "Hear me carefully, boys," he urged, "I know that old Bannister has come to regard John Thorwald as invincible, to use his vast bulk as a foundation on which to build hopes of the Championship, which is a bad policy, for no team can be a _one-man_ team and win. I realize that as a football player, Thor hasn't an equal in the State today, and if he had the right spirit, he would have few in the country. It would be ridiculous to decry his prowess, for he is a physical phenomenon. But you remember T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, splendid defense of Thor, a week or so ago? Hicks gave you a full and clear explanation of the big fellow, and showed you _why_ he does not know what college spirit is, what loyalty and love for one's Alma Mater mean! His masterly speech changed your attitude toward Thor, and even before he decided to play football, for Mr. Hicks' sake, you admired him, because of his indomitable purpose, his promise to his dying mother. Now _I_ am telling you why he may be dropped from the squad, because I want you fellows to give Thor a square deal, to remember what Hicks told you of him, and to keep on striving to awaken him to the true meaning of campus years, to make him realize that college life is more than a mere buying of knowledge. I want to keep him on the squad, if humanly possible, and I shall outline my plot later. "Tomorrow we play Latham College. It is the last game before the big games for The State Intercollegiate Football Championship. Saturday after this, we play Hamilton, and the following week Ballard, the Champions! The eleven I send in against those teams must be a solid unit, _one_ in spirit and purpose--every member of the Gold and Green team must be welded with his team-mates, and they must forget everything but that their Alma Mater must win the Championship! With no thought of self-glory, no other purpose in playing than a love for old Bannister, every fellow must go into those games to fight for his Alma Mater! Now, as for Thor, I need not tell you that he is not in sympathy with our ambition; he simply does not understand campus tradition and spirit. He is as yet not possessed of an Alma Mater; he plays football only because of gratitude to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., and he hates to lose the time from his studies for the practice. The football squad knows that his presence is a veritable wet blanket on enthusiasm and the team's fighting spirit." It was true. That intangible shadow of something wrong, brooding over training-table, shower-room, and Bannister Field, that self-evident truth which almost every collegian had for days confessed to himself yet hesitated to voice, had been given definite form by Coach Corridan talking to the eleven. The good that Thorwald might do for the team by his superb prowess and massive bulk was more than offset and nullified by his attitude. To the blond Colossus, daily practice was unutterable mental torture. His mind was on his studies, to which his bulldog purpose shackled him; he begrudged the time spent on Bannister Field; he was stolid, silent, aloof. He scarcely ever spoke, except when addressed. He reported for practice at the last second, went through the scrimmage like a great, dumb, driven ox, doing as he was ordered; and when the squad was dismissed he hurried to his room. He was among the squad, but not of them; he neither understood nor cared about their love for old Bannister, their vast desire to win for their Alma Mater; he played football because he was grateful to Hicks, Sr., for helping him to get started toward his goal, but as Coach Corridan now told the 'Varsity, he killed the squad's enthusiasm, "All of this cannot fail to damage the _esprit de corps_, the _morale_, of the eleven," declared Coach Corridan, having outlined Thor's attitude. "I know that every member of the squad, if Thor played the game because of college spirit, for love of old Bannister, would rejoice at his prowess. But as it is they are justly resentful that he is not in the spirit of the game. What we may gain by his playing, we lose because the others cannot do their best with his example to hurt their fighting spirit. I do not want, nor will I have on my eleven, any player who plays for other reasons than a love for his Alma Mater, be he a Hogan, Brickley, Thorpe, or Mahan. I have waited, hoping Thorwald would be awakened, as Hicks explained, but now I must act. Tomorrow's game with Latham must see Thor awakened, or I must, for the sake of the eleven, drop him from the squad for the rest of the season. "Yet I beg of you, in case the plan I shall propose fails, remember Hicks' appeal! Do not condemn or ostracize John Thorwald in any degree. He has three more seasons of football, so let us keep on trying to make him understand campus life, college tradition. Be his friends, help him all you can, and sooner or later he will awaken. Something may suddenly shock him to a true understanding of what old Bannister means to a fellow. Or perhaps the awakening will be slow, but it must come. And Bannister can win without Thor, don't forget that! We'll make one final effort to awaken Thor, and if it fails, just forget him, boys, so far as football goes, and watch the Gold and Green win that championship." "What is your scheme, Coach?" questioned Captain Butch Brewster, his honest countenance showing how heavily the responsibility of team-leader weighed upon him. "You are right; as Thor is now, he is a handicap to the eleven, but--" "My idea is this," explained the Slave-Driver earnestly. "Select some student to go to Thorwald and try to show him that unless he gets into the game and plays for old Bannister, he will be dropped from the squad. If possible, let the fellow make him understand that, in his case, it will be a shame and a dishonor. Now, Butch, you and Hicks can probably approach Thor, or perhaps you know of someone who--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cherubic countenance showed the light of dawning inspiration, and Coach Corridan paused, as the sunny youth exhibited a desire to say something, with him not by any means a phenomenal happening; given the floor, the blithesome youth burst forth excitedly: "Theophilus--Theophilus Opperdyke is the one! He has more influence over Thor than any other student, and the big fellow likes the little boner. Thor will at least listen to Theophilus, which Is more than any of us can gain from him." After the meeting had adjourned, and the last inspection had been made in the other dorms, the Seniors being exempt, several members of the Gold and Green team--Captain Butch, Beef, Pudge, Monty, Roddy, and Bunch, together with little Theophilus Opperdyke, dragged from his studies--foregathered in the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; those who had heard the coach's talk were still stunned at the ban likely to be placed on the Brobdingnagian Thor. On the campus outside Creighton Hall, a horde of Bannister youths, incited by Tug Cardiff, who gave them no reason for his act, were making a strenuous effort to awaken the Prodigious Prodigy, evidently depending on noise to achieve that end, for a vast sound-wave rolled up to Hicks' windows--"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor! He's--all--right!" "Listen!" exploded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., indignantly. "You and I, Theophilus, would give a Rajah's ransom just to hear the fellows whoop it up for us like that, and it has no more effect on that sodden hulk of a Thor than bombarding an English super-dreadnaught with Roman candles! Howsomever, Coach Corridan exploded a shrapnel bomb on old Bannister's eleven tonight." Then Hicks carefully outlined to the dazed little boner the substance of the coach's talk to the team, and Theophilus was alarmed when he thought of Thor's being dropped from the squad. When Captain Butch had outlined the Slave-Driver's plot for striving to awaken the Colossus to a realization of what a disgrace it would be to be sent from the gridiron, though he did not announce that the Human Encyclopedia had been elected to carry out Coach Corridan's last-hope idea, Theophilus sat on the edge of the chair, blinking owlishly at them over his big-rimmed spectacles. "After all, fellows," quavered Theophilus nervously, "Coach Corridan, if he drops Thor from the squad, won't create such a riot on the campus as you might expect. You see, the students, even as they built and planned on Thor, gradually came to know that there is vastly more to be considered than physical power. That great bulk actually acts as a drag on the eleven, because Thor isn't in sympathy with things! Still, if he could only be aroused, awakened, wouldn't the team play football, with him striving for old Bannister, and not because he thinks he ought to play, for Hicks' dad? Oh, I _do_ hope the Coach's plan succeeds, and he awakens tomorrow; I know the boys won't condemn him, if he doesn't, but--I--I want him to understand!" "It's his last chance this season," reflected T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a penumbra of gloom. "I made a big boast that I would round up a smashing full-back. I returned to Bannister with the Prodigious Prodigy. I made a big mystery of him, and then--biff!--Thor quit football. Then I explained the mystery, and got the fellows to admire him, and when Thor decided to play the game I thought 'All O.K.; I'll just wait until he scatters Hamilton and Ballard over Bannister Field, then I'll swagger before Butch and say, "Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!"' But now Thor has spilled the beans again." "I--I hope that the one you have chosen to appeal to Thor--" spoke Theophilus timorously, "will succeed, for--Oh, I _don't_ want him to be dropped from the squad, and--" Big Butch Brewster, who had been gazing at little Theophilus Opperdyke with a basilisk glare that perturbed the bewildered Human Encyclopedia, suddenly strode across the room and placed his hand on the grind's thin shoulders. "Theophilus, old man, it's up to you!" he said earnestly. "Thor has a strong regard for you; in fact, outside of his good-natured tolerance for Hicks, you alone have his friendship. Now I want you to go to him, Theophilus, and make a last appeal to Thor. Try to awaken him, to make him understand his peril of being dropped from the squad, unless he plays the game for his college! It's for old Bannister, old man, for your Alma Mater--" "Go to it, Theophilus!" urged Beef McNaughton. "Coach Corridan said Thor might be suddenly awakened by a shock, but no electric battery can shock that Colossus, and, besides, miracles don't happen nowadays. Yes, it's up to you, old man." For a moment little Theophilus, his big-rimmed spectacles falling off as fast as he replaced them, and his puny frame tense with excitement, hesitated. Sitting on the extreme edge of the chair, he surveyed his comrades solemnly and was convinced that they were in earnest. Then, "I--I will _try_, sir!" exclaimed Theophilus, who would _never_ forget his Freshman training. "I'm _sure_ Hicks, or somebody, could do It better than I; but--I'll try!" CHAPTER IX THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK "College ties can ne'er be broken-- Loyal will remain each heart; Though the last farewell be spoken-- And from Bannister we part! "Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail! Echoes softly from each heart; We'll be ever loyal to thee-- Till we from life shall part!" Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, intensely studious Human Encyclopedia, stood at the window of John Thorwald's study room. That behemoth, desiring quiet, had moved his study-table and chair to a vacant room across the second-floor corridor of Creighton, the Freshman dormitory, when the Bannister youths cheered him, and he was still there, so that Theophilus, on his mission, had finally located him by his low rumblings, as he laboriously read out his Latin. The little Senior was gazing across the brightly lighted Quadrangle. He could see into the rooms of the other class dormitories, where the students studied, skylarked, rough-housed, or conversed on innumerable topics; from a room in Nordyke, the abode of care-free Juniors, a splendidly blended sextette sang songs of their Alma Mater, and their rich voices drifted across the Quad. to Thor and Theophilus: "Though thy halls we leave forever Sadly from the campus turn; Yet our love shall fail thee never For old Bannister we'll yearn! Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!" Theophilus turned from the window, and looked despairingly at that young Colossus, Thor. The behemoth Norwegian, oblivious to everything except the geometry problem now causing him to sweat, rested his massive head on his palms, elbows on the study-table, and was lost in the intricate labyrinth of "Let the line ABC equal the line BVD." The frail chair creaked under his ponderous bulk. On the table lay an unopened letter that had come in the night's mail, for, tackling one problem, the bulldog Hercules never let go his grip until he solved it, and nothing else, not even Theophilus, could secure his attention. Hence the Human Encyclopedia, trembling at the terrific importance of the mission entrusted to him, waited, thrilled by the Juniors' songs, which failed to penetrate Thor's mind. "Oh, what _can_ I do?" breathed Theophilus, sitting down nervously on the edge of a chair and peering owlishly over his big-rimmed spectacles at the stolid John Thorwald. "I am sure that, in time, I can help Thor to--to know campus life better; but--_tomorrow_ is his last chance! He will be dropped from the squad, unless--" As Thor at last leaned back and gazed at his little comrade, just then, to the tune of "My Old Kentucky Home," an augmented chorus drifted across the Quadrangle: "And we'll sing one song For the college that we love-- For our dear old Bannister--good-by" To the Bannister students there was something tremendously queer in the friendship of Theophilus and Thor. That the huge Freshman, of all the collegians, should have chosen the timorous little boner was most puzzling. Yet, to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a keen reader of human nature, it was clear; Thorwald thought of nothing but study, Theophilus was a grind, though he possessed intense college spirit, hence Thor was naturally drawn to the little Senior by the mutual bond of their interest in books, and Theophilus, with his hero-worshiping soul, intensely admired the splendid purpose of John Thorwald, toiling to gain knowledge, because of the promise of his dying mother. The grind, who thought that next to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Thor was the "greatest ever," as Hicks phrased it, had been, doing what that care-free collegian termed "missionary work," with the stolid, unimaginative Prodigious Prodigy for some weeks. Thrilled with the thought that he worked for his Alma Mater, he quietly strove to make Thorwald glimpse the true meaning and purpose of college life and its broadness of development. The loyal Theophilus lost no opportunity of impressing his behemoth friend with the sacred traditions of the campus, or of explaining why Thor was wrong in characterizing all else than study as foolishness and waste of time. "Thor," began Theophilus timidly yet determinedly, for he was serving old Bannister now, "old man, do you feel that you are giving the fellows at Bannister a square deal?" John Thorwald, slowly tearing open the letter that had come that night, and had lain, unnoticed, on the study-table while he wrestled with his geometry, turned suddenly. The Human Encyclopedia's vast earnestness and the strange query he had fired at Thor, surprised even that stolid mammoth. "Why, what do you mean, Theophilus?" spoke Thor slowly. "A square deal? Why, I owe them nothing! I sacrifice my time for them, leaving my studies to go out and waste precious time foolishly on football. Why--" "I mean this," Theophilus kept doggedly on, his earnest desire to stir Thor conquering his natural timidity. "You were brought to old Bannister by Hicks, who made a great mystery of you, so we knew nothing of you; but the fellows all thought you were willing to play football. Then, after they got enthused, and builded hopes of the championship on _you_, came your quitting. Hicks defended you, Thor, and changed the boys' bitter condemnation to vast admiration, by telling of your life, your father's being a castaway, your mother's dying wish, your toil to get learning, and your inability to grasp college life. Then from gratitude to Mr. Hicks you started to play again--naturally, the students waxed enthusiastic, when you ripped the 'Varsity to pieces, but now you may be dropped by the coach, after tomorrow, because you don't play for old Bannister, and your indifference kills the team's fighting spirit. You do not care if you are dropped; it will give you more time to study, and relieve you of your obligation, as you so quixotically view it, to play because Mr. Hicks will be glad; but--think of the fellows. "They, Thor, disappointed in you, their hopes of your bringing by your massive body and huge strength the Championship to old Bannister shattered, are still your friends--they of the eleven, I mean especially, for, as yet, the rest do not know you may be dropped. And the fellows came beneath your window tonight to cheer you; they will do so, Thor, even if you are dropped and they know that you will not use that prodigious power for their Alma Mater in the big games; they will stand by you, for they understand! Just think, old man; haven't the fellows, despite your rude rebuffs, _tried_ to be your comrades? Haven't they helped you to get settled to work and assisted you with your studies? Why, you have been a big boor, cold and aloof, you have upset their hopes of you in football, and yet they have no condemnation for you, naught but warm friendliness. "You are not giving them or yourself a square deal, Thor! You won't even _try_ to understand campus life, to grasp its real purpose, to realize what tradition is! The time will come, Thor, when you will see your mistake; you will yearn for their good fellowship, you will learn that getting knowledge is not all of college life. You will know that this 'silly foolishness' of singing songs and giving the yell, of rooting for the eleven, of loyalty and love for one's Alma Mater, is something worth while. And you may find it out too late. Oh, if you could only understand that it isn't what you take from old Bannister that makes a man of you, it is what you give to your college--in athletics, in your studies, in every phase of campus life; that in toiling and sacrificing for your Alma Mater you grow and develop, and reap a rich reward!" Could T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch Brewster, and the Gold and Green eleven have heard little Theophilus' fervent and eloquent appeal to John Thorwald, they would have felt like giving three cheers for him. They loved this pathetic little boner, who, because of his pitifully frail body, could never fight for old Bannister on gridiron, diamond, or track, and they tremendously admired him for working for his college and for the redemption of Thor. Timorous and shrinking by nature, whenever his Alma Mater, or a friend, needed him the Human Encyclopedia fought down his painful timidity and came up to scratch nobly. It was Theophilus whose clear logic had vastly aided T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., to originate The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, in 1919's Sophomore year, and quell Roddy Perkins' Freshman Equal Rights campaign. In fact, it had been the boner's suggestion that gave Hicks his needed inspiration. And, a Junior, Theophilus had been elected business manager of the _Bannister Weekly_, with Hicks as editor-in-chief as a colossal joke. The entire burden of that almost defunct periodical had been thrust on those two, and, thanks to the grind's intensely humorous "copy," the _Weekly_ had been revived and rebuilt. And Theophilus, in writing the humorous articles, had been moved by a great ambition to do something for old Bannister. "Look at me, Thor!" continued Theophilus Opperdyke, his puny body dwarfed as he faced the colossal Prodigious Prodigy. "A poor, weak, helpless nothing! I'd cheerfully sacrifice all the scholastic honor or glory I ever won, or shall win, just to make a touchdown for the Gold and Green, just to win a baseball game, or to break the tape in a race for old Bannister! And you--_you_, with that tremendous body, that massive bulk, that vast strength--you won't play the game for your Alma Mater, you won't throw that big frame into the scrimmage, thrilled with a desire to win for your college! Oh, what wonderful things you _could_ do with your powerful build; but it means nothing to you, while _I--_ Oh, you don't care, you just won't awaken; and, unless you do, in tomorrow's game you'll be dropped from the squad, a disgrace." John Thorwald-Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, that Gargantuan Freshman of whom Bannister said he possessed no soul--stirred uneasily, shifted his vast tonnage from one foot to the other, and stared at little Theophilus Opperdyke. That solemn Senior, who had not seen the slightest effect his "Missionary Work" was having on the stolid Thor, was in despair; but he did not know the truth. As Hicks had once said, "You don't know nothing what goes on in Thor's dome. There's a wall of solid concrete around the machinery of his mind, and you can't see the wheels, belts, and cogs at work!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with all his keen insight into human nature, had failed utterly to diagnose Thor's case, had not even stumbled on the true cause of that young giant's aloofness. The truth was unknown to anyone, but there was one natural reason for John Thorwald's not mingling with his fellows of the campus-the blond Colossus was inordinately bashful! From his fifteenth year, Thor had seen the seamy side of life, had lived, grown and developed among men. In his wanderings in the Klondike, the wild Northwest, in Panama, his experiences as cabin-boy, miner, cowboy, lumber-jack, and Canal Zone worker, he had existed where everything was roughness and violence, where brawn, not brain, usually held sway, where supremacy was won, kept, and lost by fists, spiked boots, or guns! In his adventurous career, young Thorwald had but seldom encountered the finer things of life, and his nature, while wholesome, was sturdy and virile, not likely to be stirred by sentiment; so that now, among the good-natured, friendly boys of old Bannister, he, accustomed to rude surroundings and rough acquaintances, was bashful. And Theophilus, as well as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot far wide of the mark in believing that the big Hercules had no power to feel; he possessed that power, but, with it the ability to conceal his feelings. They thought nothing appealed to him, had stirred his soul, at college, but they were wrong; true, Thor was unable to understand this new, strange life; he was puzzled when the collegians condemned and ostracized him at first, when he quit football because it was not a Faculty rule to play, but he was grateful when Hicks defended him, and the admiration of the student-body was welcome to him. He had thought he was doing all they desired of him, when he went back to the game, and now--when Theophilus told him that he might be dropped from the squad, he was bewildered. He could not understand just why this could be, when he was reporting for scrimmage every day! But the friendliness of the youths, their kind help with his studies, the assistance of the genial Hicks, and, more than all, above even the admiration of the Freshmen for his promise and purpose, the daily missionary work of little Theophilus, for whom the massive Thor felt a real love, had been slowly, insidiously undermining John Thorwald's reserve. No longer did he condemn what he did not understand. At times he had a vague feeling that all was not right, that, after all, he was missing something, that study was not all; and yet, bashful as he was, fearing to appear rough, crude, and uncouth among these skylarking youths, Thor kept on his silent, lonely way, and they thought him untouched by their overtures. Of late, when unobserved, the big Freshman had stood by the window, watching the collegians on the campus, listening to their songs of old Bannister, and yet because he felt embarrassed when with them, he gave no sign that he cared. Now, however, the splendid appeal of loyal, timorous Theophilus stirred Thor, and yet he could not break down the wall of reserve he had builded around himself. He had deluded himself that this comradeship was not for him, that he could never mingle with these happy-go-lucky youths, that he must plod straight ahead, and live to himself, because his past had roughened him. "You are a Freshman!" spoke Theophilus, unaware that forces were at work on Thor, and making a last effort. "You stand on the very threshold of your campus years; everything is before you. I am at the journey's end--very nearly, for in June I graduate from old Bannister. I never had the chance to fight for my Alma Mater on the athletic field, and you--Oh, think of what you can do! About to leave the campus, I, and my class-mates, realize how dear our college has become to us. If _you_ could just know that Bannister means something to you, even now, if you only felt it, you could make your years mean great things to you. Thor, could you leave old Bannister tomorrow without regret, without one sigh for the dear old place? We, who soon shall leave it forever, fully understand Shakespeare, when in a sonnet he wrote: "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong-- To love that well which thou must leave ere long!" There was a silence, and then Thor slowly drew out a letter from its envelope, scanning the scrawl across its pages. A few moments, while its meaning seemed to seep into his slow-acting mind, and then a look of helpless bewilderment, as though the stolid Freshman just could not understand at all, came to his face; a minute John Thorwald stood, as in a trance, staring dully at the letter. "Thor! Thor! What's the matter? What's wrong?" quavered the alarmed Theophilus, "Have you gotten bad news?" "Read it, read it," said the big Freshman lifelessly, extending the letter to the startled Senior. "It's all over, I suppose, and I've got to go to work again. I've got to leave college, and toil once more, and save. My promise to my mother can't be fulfilled--yet. And just as I was getting fairly started." Theophilus Opperdyke hurriedly perused the message, which had come to Thor in that night's mail but which the blond giant had let lie unnoticed while he tackled his geometry. With difficulty Theophilus deciphered the scrawl on an official letterhead: THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANA STEAMSHIP LINE (New York Offices) Nov. 4, 19--. DEAR SON: I am writing to tell you that I've run into a sort of hurricane, and you and I have got a hard blow to weather. I started you at college on the $5,000 received from the heirs of Henry B. Kingsley, on whose yacht, as you know, I was wrecked in the South Seas, and marooned for ten years. I figured on giving you an education with that sum, eked out by my wages, and what you earn in vacations. I had the $5,000, untouched, in a New York bank, and I wanted to take it over to Christiania; when I was about to sail on my last voyage, I drew out the sum, and put it in care of the Purser of the _Norwhal_, on which I was mate, intending, of course, to get it on docking, and deposit it in Christiania. At the last hour I was transferred to the _Valkyrie_, to sail a few days later, and I knew the _Norwhal's_ purser would leave the $5,000 for me in the Company's Christiania offices, so I did not bother to transfer it to the _Valkyrie_. Perhaps you read in the newspapers that the _Norwhal_ struck a floating mine, and went down with a heavy loss of life. The Purser was among those lost, and none of the ship's papers were saved; my $5,000, of course, went down also. I am sorry, John, but there seems nothing to do but for you to leave college and work. For your mother's sake, I wish we could avoid it; but we must wait and work and tackle it again. Your first term expenses are paid, so stay until the term is out. Perhaps Mr. Hicks can give you a job in one of his steel mills again, but we must work our own way, son. Don't lose courage, we'll fight this out together with the memory of your promise to your dying mother to spur you on. The road may be long and rocky but we'll make it. Just work and save, and in a year or two you can start at college again. You can study at night, too, and keep on learning. I'll write later. Stay at college till the term is up, and in the meantime try to land a job. However, you won't have any trouble to do that. Keep your nerve, boy, for your mother's sake. It's a hard blow, but we'll weather it, never fear, and reach port. Your father, JOHN THORWALD, SR. P.S. I am sailing on the _Valkyrie_ today, will write you on my return to New York, in a few weeks. Theophilus looked at the massive young Norwegian, who had taken this solar-plexus blow with that same stolid apathy that characterized his every action. He wanted to offer sympathy, but he knew not how to reach Thor. He fully understood how terrific the blow was, how it must stagger the big, earnest Freshman, just as he, after ten years of grinding toil, of sacrifice, of grim, unrelenting determination, had conquered obstacles and fought to where he had a clear track ahead. Just as it seemed that fate had given him a fair chance, with his father rescued and five thousand dollars to give him a college course, this terrible misfortune had befallen him. Theophilus realized what it must mean to this huge, silent Hercules, just making good his promise to his dying mother, to give up his studies, and go back to work, toil, labor, to begin all over again, to put off his college years. "Leave me, please," said Thor dully, apparently as unmoved by the blow as he had been by Theophilus' appeal. "I--I would like to be alone, for awhile." Left alone, John Thorwald stood by the window, apparently not thinking of anything in particular, as he gazed across the brightly lighted Quad. The huge Freshman seemed in a daze--utterly unable to comprehend the disaster that had befallen him; he was as stolid and impassive as ever, and Theophilus might have thought that he did not care, even at having to give up his college course, had not the Senior known better. Across the Quadrangle, from the room of the Caruso-like Juniors, accompanied by a melodious banjo-twanging, drifted: "Though thy halls we leave forever Sadly from the campus turn; Yet our love shall fail thee never For old Bannister we'll yearn! "'Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!' Echoes softly from each heart; We'll be ever loyal to thee Till we from life shall part." Strangely enough, the behemoth Thorwald was not thinking so much of having to give up his studies, of having to lay aside his books and take up again the implements of toil. He was not pondering on the cruelty of fate in making him abandon, at least temporarily, his goal; instead, his thoughts turned, somehow, to his experiences at old Bannister, to the football scrimmages, the noisy sessions in "Delmonico's Annex," the college dining-hall, to the skylarking he had often watched in the dormitories. He thought, too, of the happy, care-free youths, remembering Hicks, good Butch Brewster, loyal little Theophilus; and as he reflected, he heard those Juniors, over the way, singing. Just now they were chanting that exquisitely beautiful Hawaiian melody, "Aloha Oe," or "Farewell to Thee," making the words tell of parting from their Alma Mater. There was something in the refrain that seemed to break down Thor's wall of reserve, to melt away his aloofness, and he caught himself listening eagerly as they sang. Somehow he felt no desire to condemn those care-free youths, to call their singing silly foolishness, to say they were wasting their time and their fathers' money. Queer, but he actually liked to hear them sing, he realized he had come to listen for their saengerfests. Now that he had to leave college, for the first time he began to ponder on what he must leave. Not alone books and study, but-- As he stood there, an ache in his throat, and an awful sorrow overwhelming him, with the richly blended voices of the happy Juniors drifting across to him, chanting a song of old Ballard, big Thor murmured softly: "What did little Theophilus say? What was it Shakespeare wrote? Oh, I have it: "'This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong-- To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.'" CHAPTER X THOR'S AWAKENING "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea, And we'll put Bannister in that hole! In that hole--in--that--hole-- Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!" "In the famous words of the late Mike Murphy," said T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "the celebrated Yale and Penn track trainer, 'you can beat a team that can't be beat, but--you can't beat a team that won't be beat!' Latham must be in the latter class." It was the Bannister-Latham game, and the first half had just ended. Captain Butch Brewster's followers had trailed dejectedly from Bannister Field to the Gym, where Head Coach Corridan was flaying them with a tongue as keen as the two-edged sword that drove Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. A cold, bleak November afternoon, a leaden sky lowered overhead, and a chill wind swept athwart the field; in the concrete stands, the loyal "rooters" of the Gold and Green, or of the Gold and Blue, shivered, stamped, and swung their arms, waiting for the excitement of the scrimmage again to warm them. Yet, the Bannister cohorts seemed silent and discouraged, while the Latham supporters went wild, singing, cheering, howling. A look at the score-board explained this: END OF FIRST HALF: SCORE: Bannister ........ 0 Latham ........... 3 The statement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a gold and green blanket and humped on the Bannister bench, to shivering little Theophilus Opperdyke, the Phillyloo Bird, Shad Weatherby, and several more collegians who had joined him when the half ended, was singularly appropriate. In Latham's light, fast eleven, trained to the minute, coached to a shifty, tricky style of play with numberless deceptive fakes from which they worked the forward pass successfully, Bannister seemed to have encountered, as Mike Murphy phrased it, "A team that won't be beat!" According to the advance dope of the sporting writers, who, in football, are usually as good prophets as the Weather Bureau, Bannister was booked to come out the winner by at least five touchdowns to none. But here a half was gone, and Latham led by three points, scored on a rather lucky field-goal! The psychology of football is inexplicable. Yale, beaten by Virginia, Brown, and Wash-Jeff, with the Blue's best gridiron star ineligible to play, a team that seemed at odds with itself and the 'Varsity, mismanaged, poorly coached, journeys to Princeton to battle with old Nassau; the Tiger, Its tail as yet untwisted, presents its best eleven for several seasons, a great favorite in the odds, and yet the final score is Yale, 14; Princeton, 7! A strange fear of the Bulldog, bred of many bitter defeats, of similar occasions when a feeble Yale team aroused itself and trampled an invincible Orange and Black eleven, when the Blue fought old Nassau with a team that "wouldn't" be beat, gave victory to the poorer aggregation. So many things unforeseen often enter into a football contest, shifting the balance of power from the stronger to the weaker team. One eleven gets the jump on the other, the favorite weirdly goes to pieces--team dissension may exist, a dozen other causes--but, boiled down, Mike Murphy's statement was most appropriate now. Latham simply _would not_ be beat! The sporting pages had said: "Latham simply can't beat Bannister!" Here the team, that could not be beaten was being defeated, and the team that would not be defeated was, so far, the victor. Perhaps the threatened dropping of Thor from the Gold and Green squad shook somewhat Captain Butch's players; more likely, the Latham aggregation got the jump on Bannister, opening up a bewildering attack of criss-crosses, line plunges, cross-bucks, and tandems, from all of which the forward pass frequently developed; they literally overwhelmed a supposedly unbeatable team. And once they got the edge, it was hard for Bannister to regain poise and to smother the fast plays that swept through or around the bewildered eleven. "We have _got_ to beat 'em!" growled Shad, "Mike Murphy or not. Why, if little old Latham cleans us up, smash go our chances of the State Championship! Oh, look at Thor--the big mountain of muscle. Why doesn't he wake up, and go push that team off the field?" Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, his vast hulk unprotected from the cold wind by a football blanket, squatted on the ground, on the side-line, apparently in a trance. Ever since the night before, when his father's letter had dealt such a knock-out blow to his hopes of fulfilling the promise to his dying mother, had rudely side-tracked him from the climb to his goal, the blond giant had maintained that dumb apathy. If anything, it seemed that the cruel blow of fate had only served to make Thor more stolid and impassive than ever, and Theophilus wondered if the Colossus had really grasped the import of the tragic letter as yet. The news had spread over the college and campus, and the students were sincerely sorry for Thor. But to offer him sympathy was about as difficult as consoling a Polar bear with the toothache. Coach Corridan, carrying out his plot, had decided not to start Thor in the first half of the game. So the Norwegian Hercules, having received no orders to the contrary, however, donned togs and appeared on the side-line, where he had sat, paying not the slightest heed to the scrimmage and seemingly unaware that the Gold and Green was facing defeat and the loss of the Championship, for a game lost would put the team out of the running. All big John Thorwald knew was, in a few weeks he must leave old Bannister, must give up, for a time, his college course. Just when the grim battle was won, he must leave, to work. Not that the Viking cared about toil. It was the delay that chafed even his stolid self. He was stunned at having to wait, maybe two years, before starting again. And yet, as he squatted on the side-line, oblivious to everything but his bitter reflections, the Theophilus-quoted words of Shakespeare persisted in intruding on his thoughts: "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong-- To love that well, which thou must leave ere long." Try as he would, he could not fight away the keen realization that books and study were not all he would regret to leave. He was forced to acknowledge that his mind kept wandering to other things. He found himself pondering on the parting with Theophilus Opperdyke, with that crazy Hicks; he wondered if he, out in the world again, toiling his lonely way, would miss the glad fellowship of these care-free youths that he had watched, but never shared, if he would ever think of the weeks at old Bannister. Somehow, he felt that he would often vision the Quad at night, brightly lighted, dormitories' lights agleam, students crossing and recrossing, shouting at studious comrades. He would hear again the melodious banjo-twanging, the gleeful saengerfests, the happy skylarking of the boys. He had never entered into all this, and yet he knew he would miss it all; why, he would even miss the daily scrimmage on Bannister Field; the noisy shower-room, with its clouds of steam, and white forms flitting ghostlike. He would miss the classrooms; in brief, _everything_! John Thorwald was awakening! Even had this blow not befallen him, the huge, slow-minded Norwegian, in time, with Theophilus Opperdyke's missionary work, would have gradually come to understand things better--at least, to know he was wrong in his ideas, which is the beginning of wisdom. Already, he had ceased to condemn all this as foolishness, to rail at the youths for wasting time and money. Already something stirred within him, and yet, stolid as he was, bashful among the collegians, he was apparently the same. But the sudden shock Head Coach Corridan spoke of had come. His father's letter telling of his loss and that Thor must leave Bannister had awakened him to the startling knowledge that he did care for something more than study, that all the things that had puzzled him, that he had sneered at, meant something to his existence, that he dreaded leaving other things than his books. "I--I don't understand things," thought Thorwald. "But--if I could only stay, I'd want to learn. I'd try to get this 'college' spirit! Oh, I've been all wrong, but if I could only stay--" As if in answer to his unspoken thought, the big Freshman beheld marching toward him Theophilus Opperdyke, his spectacles off, and his face aglow, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., evidently in the throes of emotional insanity; a Senior whom he knew as Parson Palmetter; Registrar Worthington, and Doctor Alford, the kindly, beloved Prexy of old Bannister. The last named placed his hand on the puzzled behemoth's ponderous shoulder. "Thorwald," he said kindly, "Hicks, Opperdyke and Brewster, last night, came to my study and acquainted me with your misfortune. They told me of your life-history, of your splendid purpose to gain knowledge, to make something of yourself, for your dying mother's sake. Old Bannister needs men like you, Thorwald. Perhaps you do not understand campus ways and tradition yet, perhaps you are not in sympathy with everything here; but once a love for your Alma Mater is awakened, you will be a power for good for your college. "Now I at once took up the matter with Mr. Palmetter, President of The Students' Aid Bureau. This year, for the first time in our history, we have dispensed with janitors and sweeps in the dormitories, and with dining-hall waiters, so that needy and deserving students may work their way through Bannister. Owing to the fact that Mr. Deane, a Senior, has given up his dormitory, Creighton Hall, as he has funds for the year and needs the time to study, we can offer you board and tuition, in exchange for your work in the dormitory, and waiting on tables in the dining-hall. Since your first term bills, until January first, are paid, if you will start to work at once, we will credit any work done this term on books and incidentals for next term. By this means--" "Why, you don't--you _can't_ mean--" rumbled Thor, who had just dimly grasped the greatest point in Prexy's speech. "Why, then I won't have to leave Bannister--I won't have to quit my studies! Oh, thank you, sir; thank you! I will work _so_ hard. I am not afraid of work; I love it--a chance to toil and earn my education, that's what I want! Thank you!" "And in addition," said the Registrar, "Mr. Palmetter reports that he can secure you, downtown, a number of furnaces to tend this winter, which you can do early in the morning and at night; this will bring you an income for living expenses, and in the spring something else will offer itself. It means every moment of your time will be crowded, but Bannister needs workers--" Something stirred in John Thorwald. His heart had been touched at last. He thought of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, and little Theophilus worried at his having to leave college, going to Doctor Alford; of Prexy, the Registrar, and Parson Palmetter, working to keep Thor at old Bannister. He recalled how sympathetic all the youths had been, how they admired his purpose and determination; and he had rewarded their friendliness with cold aloofness. He felt a thrill as he visioned himself working for his education, rising in the cold dawn, tending furnaces, working in the dorm., waiting on tables--studying. With what fierce joy he would assail his tasks, glad that he could stay! He knew the students would rejoice, that they would not look down on him; instead, they would respect and admire him, toiling to grow and develop, to attain his goal! "Go to it, Thor!" urged T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "We all want you to stay, old man; we'll give you a lift with your studies. Old Bannister _wants_ you, _needs_ you, so _stick_!" "Stay, please!" quavered little Theophilus. "You don't want to leave your Alma Mater; stay, Thorwald, and--you'll understand things soon," "Report at the Registrar's office at seven tonight, Thorwald," said Prexy, and then, because he understood boys and campus problems, "and to show your gratitude, you might go out there and spank that team which is trying to lick old Bannister." John Thorwald, when Doctor Alford and the Registrar had gone, arose and stood gazing across Bannister Field. He saw not the white-lined gridiron, the gaunt goal-posts, the concrete stands filled with spectators, or the gay banners and pennants. He saw the buildings and campus of old Bannister, the stately old elms bordering the walks; he beheld the Gym., the four dormitories--Bannister, Nordyke, Smithson, and Creighton--the white Chapel, the ivy-covered Library, the Administration and Recitation Halls; he glimpsed the Memorial Arch over the entrance driveway, and big Alumni Hall. All at once, like an inundating wave, the great realization flashed on Thor that he did not have to leave it all! Often again would he hear the skylarking youths, the gay songs, the banjo-strumming; often would he see the brightly lighted Quad., would gaze out on the campus! It was still his--the work, the study, and, if he tried, even the glad comradeship of the fellows, the bigger things of college life, which as yet he did not understand. The big slow-minded youth could not awaken, at once, to a full knowledge and understanding of campus life and tradition, to a knowledge of college spirit; but, thanks to the belief that he had to leave it all, he had awakened to the startling fact that already he loved old Bannister. And now, joyous that he could stay, John Thorwald suddenly felt a strong desire to do something, not for himself, but for these splendid fellows who had worried for his sake, had worked to keep him at college. And just then he remembered the somewhat unclassical, yet well meant, words of dear old Doctor Alford, "And to show your gratitude, you might go out there and spank that team, which is trying to lick old Bannister." John Thorwald for the first time looked at the score-board; he saw, in big white letters: BANNISTER .......... 0 LATHAM ............. 3 From the Gym. the Gold and Green players--grim, determined, and yet worried by the team that "won't be beat!"--were jogging, followed by Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan. The Latham eleven was on the field, the Gold and Blue rooters rioted in the stands. From the Bannister cohorts came a thunderous appeal: "Hold 'em, boys--hold 'em, boys--hold--hold--_hold_! Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!" A sudden fury swayed the Prodigious Prodigy; it was his college, his eleven, and those Blue and Gold youths were actually beating old Bannister! The Bannister boys had admired him, some of them had helped him in his studies, three had told Doctor Alford of him, had made it possible for him to stay, to keep on toward his goal. _They_ would be sorrow-stricken if Latham won! A feeling of indignation came to Thor. How dare those fellows think they could beat old Bannister! Why, _he_ would go out there and show them a few things! Head Coach Corridan, let it be chronicled, was paralyzed when he ducked under the side-line rope--stretched to hold the spectators back--to collide with an immovable body, John Thorwald, and to behold an eager light on that behemoth's stolid face. Grasping the Slave-Driver in a grip that hurt, Thor boomed: "Mr. Corridan, let me play, _please_! Send me out this half. We can win. We've _got_ to win! I want to do something for old Bannister. Why, if we lose today, we lose the Championship! I don't understand things yet, but I do love the college. I want to fight for Bannister. _Please_ let me play!" The astonished coach and the equally dazed Gold and Green eleven, with the bewildered collegians who heard Thor's earnest appeal, were silent a few moments, unable to grasp the truth. Then Captain Brewster, his face aglow, seized the big Freshman's arm excitedly. "_Sure_ you'll play, Thor!" he shouted. "Fullback, old man! Come on, team. Thor's awake! He wants to fight for his Alma Mater; he wants Bannister to win! Oh, watch us shove Latham off the field--everybody together now--the yell, for Thor!" "Right here," grinned an excitedly happy T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., when the yell was given, "is where a team that won't be beat gets licked by a chap what can lick 'em!" What took place when the blond Prodigious Prodigy lumbered on Bannister Field at the start of the last half of the Bannister-Latham game can be imagined by the final score-board figures: BANNISTER ......... 27 LATHAM ............. 3 It can best be described with the aid of Scoop Sawyer's account in the next _Bannister Weekly:_ --At the start of the second half, however, the Latham cohorts were given a shock when they beheld a colossal being almost as big as the entire Gold and Blue eleven, go in at fullback for Bannister. And the Latham eleven received a series of shocks when Thor began intruding that massive body of his into their territory. Tennyson's saying, "The old order changeth, yielding place to new" was aptly illustrated in the second half; for Bannister's bugler quit sounding "Retreat!" and blew "Charge!" Four touchdowns and three goals from touchdowns, in one half, is usually considered a fair day's work for an entire team. Even Yale or Harvard; but when one player corrals four touchdowns in a half--he is going some! Well, Thor went some! Most of the half he furnished free transportation for two-thirds of the Latham team, carrying them on his back, legs, and neck, as he strode down the field; a writ of habeas corpus could not have stopped the blond Colossus. Anyone would have stood more show to stop an Alpine avalanche than to slow up Thor, and the stretcher was constantly in evidence, for Latham knockouts. [Illustration C: 'A writ of habeas corpus could not have stopped the blond Colossus'] The game turned into a Thor's Personally Conducted Tour. Thorwald, escorted by the Gold and Green team, made four quick tours to the Latham goal-line. It was simply a matter of giving the ball to the Prodigious Prodigy, then waving the linesmen to move down twenty yards or more toward Latham's line. Thor was simply unstoppable, and more beneficial even than his phenomenal playing was his encouragement to the team. He kept urging them to action, his foghorn growl of, "Come on, boys!" was a slogan of victory! Judging by Thor's awakening, and his work of the Latham game, Bannister's hopes of The State Intercollegiate Football Championship are as roseate as the blush on a maiden's cheek at her first kiss, and-- That night, in the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., John Thorwald, supremely happy yet withal as uncomfortable as a whale on the Sahara Desert, overflowed an easy-chair. The room was filled, or what space Thor left, with the Bannister eleven, second-team players, Coach Corridan, and several students; on the campus a riotous crowd of Bannister youths "raised merry Heck," as Hicks phrased it, and their cheer floated up to the windows: "Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor! He's--all--right!" "Come, fellows," spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Let's sing to the captain, good old Butch! Let 'er go!" "Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink it down! Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink It down! Here's to good Butch Brewster-- He plays football like he _uster--_ Drink it down! Drink it down--down--down--down!" A strange sound startled the joyous youths; it was a rumbling noise, like distant thunder, and at first they could not place it. Then, as It continued, they located the disturbance as coming from the prodigious body of Thor, and at last the wonderful phenomenon dawned on them. "Thor is singing college songs!" quavered little Theophilus Opperdyke, so happy that his big-rimmed spectacles rode the end of his nose. "Oh, Hicks--Butch--Thor is awake at last! He is trying to get college spirit, to understand campus life--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., suddenly realized that what he had so ardently longed for had come to pass; aided by Theophilus' missionary work and by the sudden shock of Thorwald, Sr.'s, letter. Thor was awakened, had come to know that he loved old Bannister. His awakening, as shown in the football game, had been splendid. How he had towered over the scrimmage, in every play, urging his team to fight, himself doing prodigies for old Bannister. Thor, who had been so silent and aloof! Then the sunny-souled youth remembered. "Oh, I told you I'd awaken Thor, Butch!" he began, but that behemoth quelled him with an ominous look. "_You_!" he growled, with pretended wrath, "_you_! It was Theophilus Opperdyke who did the most of it, and Thorwald's father did the rest! Don't you rob Theophilus of his glory, you feeble-imitation-of-some-thing-human!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinned _à la_ Cheshire cat. The happy-go-lucky Senior was vastly glad that Thor had awakened, that now he would try to grasp the real meaning of college existence. He felt that the young Hercules, from now on, would slowly and surely develop to a splendid college man, that he would do big things for his Alma Mater. And the generous Hicks gave Theophilus all the credit, and impressed on that happy Human Encyclopedia the fact that he had done a great deed for old Bannister. Just so, Thor was awakened. "Oh, I say, Deke Radford, Coach, and Butch," Hicks chortled, getting the attention of that triumvirate as well as that of the others in the room, "remember up in Camp Bannister, in the sleep-shack, when Coach Corridan outlined a smashing full-back he wanted?" "Sure!" smiled Deke. "What of it, Hicks?" Then T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., that care-free, lovable, irrepressible youth, whose chance to swagger before this same trio had been postponed so long and seemingly lost forever, satiated his fun-loving soul and reaped his reward. Calling their attention to Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, and asking them to remember his playing against Latham that day, the sunny Senior strutted before them vaingloriously. "Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!" he declared, grinning happily. "I promised to round up an unstoppable fullback, a Gargantuan Hercules, and I did! Just think of what he will do to Hamilton and Ballard in the big games! As I have often told you, _always_--leave It to Hicks!" CHAPTER XI "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL" "Oh, what we'll do to Ballard Will surely be a shame! We'll push their team clear off the field And win the football game!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one night three days after the first big game, that with Hamilton, a week following Thor's great awakening in the Latham game, sat in his cozy room, having assumed his favorite position--chair tilted back at a perilous angle and feet thrust atop of the radiator. The versatile youth, having just composed a song with which to encourage Bannister elevens in the future, was reading it aloud, when his mind was torpedoed by a most startling thought. "Land o' Goshen!" reflected the sunny-souled Senior, aghast. "I haven't twanged my ole banjo and held forth with a saengerfest for a coon's age! I surely can do so now without arousing Butch to wrath. Thor has awakened, Hamilton is walloped, and Bannister will surely win the Championship! Everything is happy, an' de goose hangs high, so here goes!" Holding his banjo _à la_ troubadour, the blithesome Hicks, who as a Senior was harassed by no study-hours or inspections, strode from his room and out into the corridor, up and down which he majestically paced, like a sentinel on his beat, twanging his beloved banjo with abandon, and roaring in his foghorn, subterranean voice: "Oh, the way we walloped Hamilton Surely was a shame! And we're going to win the Championship-- For we'll do Ballard the same! "And Bannister shall flaunt the flag For at least three seasons more; Because--no team can win a game While the Gold and Green has Thor!" On Bannister Field, three days before, the Gold and Green had crushed the strong team from "old Ham" to the tune of 20 to 0; Thor's magnificent ground-gaining, in which he smashed through the supposedly impregnable defense of the enemy, was a surprise to his comrades and a shock to Hamilton. Time and again, on the fourth down, the ball was given to Thorwald, and the blond Colossus, with several of old Ham's players clinging to him, plunged ahead for big gains. So now with a monster mass-meeting in half an hour, the exultant Bannister youths pretended to study, but prepared to parade on the campus, cheer the eleven and Thor, and arouse excitement for the winning of the biggest game, a victory over Ballard, a week later. From the rooms of would-be studious Seniors on both sides of the corridor, as Hicks patrolled it, came vociferous protests and classic criticisms, gathering in force and volume as the breezy youth's foghorn voice roared his song; that heedless collegian grinned as he heard: "R-r-rotten! Give that Jersey calf more rope!" "Hicks has had a relapse! _Sing-Sing_ for yours, old man!" "Arrest Hicks, under the Public Nuisance Act!" "_Woof! Woof_! Shoot it quick! Don't let it suffer!" Just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., strumming the banjo blithely and Carusoing with glee, reached the end of the corridor and executed a brisk 'bout-face, he heard a terrific commotion on the stairway, and, a moment later, Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Deacon Radford and Monty Merriweather gained the top of the stairs. As they were now between the offending Hicks and his quarters, there seemed no chance for the sunny Senior to play his safety-first policy; so he waited, panic-stricken, as Butch and Beef lumbered heavily down the corridor. "Help! Aid! Succor! Relief! Assistance!" shrieked Hicks, leaning his beloved banjo against the wall and throwing himself into what he fatuously believed was an intensely pugilistic pose. "I am a believer in preparedness. You have me cornered, so beware! I am a follower of Henry Ford, but even _I_ will fight--at bay!" "Well, you are at _sea_ now!" growled Beef, tucking the splinter youth under one arm and striding down the corridor, followed by Butch with the banjo, and Monty with Deacon. "You desperado, you destroyer of peace and quietude, you one-cylinder gadabout! You're off again! We'll instruct you to annoy real students, you faint shadow of something human!" "Them's harsh sentences, Beef!" chuckled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as that behemoth kicked open Hicks' door, bore the futilely squirming, kicking youth into the room, and hurled him on the davenport. "Watch my banjo, there, Butch; have a couple of cares! Say, what'smatter wid youse guys, anyhow? This is my first saengerfest for eons. Old Bannister has a clear track ahead at last, the Championship is won for _sure_, and Thor, that mighty engine of destruction to Ham's and Ballard's hopes, after much tinkering, is hitting on all twelve cylinders. Why, I prithee, deny me the pleasure of a little joyous song?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., since the memorable Latham game, when Thor had awakened between halves, and the Prodigious Prodigy had shown himself worthy of his title by winning the game after defeat leered at old Bannister, had suffered a relapse, and was again his old sunny, heedless, happy-go-lucky self. Now that John Thorwald had been startled into realizing that he loved his college and had been saved from having to leave, now that he played football for his Alma Mater, and Bannister's hopes of the Championship were roseate, the blithesome Hicks had abandoned himself to a golden existence of Beefsteak Busts downtown at Jerry's, entertaining jolly comrades in his cozy room, and pestering the campus with his banjo and ridiculous imitations of Sheerluck Holmes, the Dachshund Detective. Big Butch Brewster, lecturing him for his care-free ways, as futilely as he had done for three years past, gave up in despair. "I might as well be showing moving-pictures to the inmates of a blind asylum," he growled on one occasion, "as to persuade you to quit acting like a lunatic! You, a Senior--acting like an escaped inhabitant of Matteawan! Bah!" Big Butch Brewster, drawing a chair up to the davenport, assumed the manner of a physician toward a recalcitrant patient, while Beef carefully stowed the banjo in the closet and Deacon Radford, an interested spectator, sat on the bed. The happy-go-lucky Hicks, at a loss to account for the strange expressions of his comrades, tried to arise, but the football captain pinned him down with one hand. "Seriously, Hicks," spoke Butch, "your saengerfest came at a lamentably inopportune time! I regret to Inform you that old Bannister faces another problem, with regard to Thor, and unless it is solved, I fear--" "Thor has balked again?" gasped the dazed Hicks, whom Butch now allowed to sit up, as he showed interest. "Has the engine of destruction stalled? Why, as fast as we get him lined up, off he slides at an angle! Well, you fellows did perfectly right to bring this baffling problem, whatever it is, to me. What is the trouble--won't Thor play football?" The irrepressible Hicks was bewildered at hearing that a new problem regarding Thor had arisen, and, naturally, he at once connected it with football, since the big Freshman had twice balked in that respect. Since his awakening, effected by Theophilus' missionary work, his last appeal, and Thor's letter from his father, Thor had earnestly striven to grasp the true meaning of college life, to understand campus tradition. No longer did he hold aloof, boning always, in his lonely room. Instead, he mingled with his fellows, lingering with the team for the skylarking in the shower-room after scrimmage, turning out for the nightly mass-meeting. Often, as the youths practiced songs and yells on the campus, Thor's terrific rumble was heard--some had even dared to slap his massive back and say, "Hello, Thor, old man!" and the big Freshman had responded. It was evident to all that Thorwald was striving to become a collegian, and knowing his slow, bulldog nature, there was no doubt as to his ultimate success; hence T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was vastly puzzled now. "Oh, Thor hasn't backslid!" smiled Beef. "You see, Hicks, it's this way: Owing to Mr. Thorwald's losing the five thousand dollars, Thor, as you know, is working his way at Bannister. Well, with his hustling, his studies and football scrimmage, he simply does not have a minute for the other phases of college life, for the comradeship with his fellows--" "Here is his day's schedule," chimed in Deacon, referring to a paper: "Rise at four-thirty A. M. Hustle downtown to tend several furnaces until seven. Breakfast at seven. Till nine, make beds and sweep dormitory rooms. Nine till three-fifteen P. M., recitation periods and dormitory work, sandwiched. Then until supper, football practice, and nights study. Add to that waiting on tables for the three meals, and what time has Thor to broaden and develop, to take in all the big things of campus existence, to grow into an all-round college man?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wonderful to chronicle, was silent. He was reflecting on the irony of fate; as Deacon said, now that Thor had awakened, and earnestly wanted to be a collegian, he had no time to enter into campus life. Glad at being able to stay at old Bannister, to keep on with his studies, climbing steadily toward his goal, and finding a joy in his new relationship with the students, the ponderous Thorwald had flung himself into his hustling, as the youths called working one's way at college, with zeal. To the huge Freshman, toil was nothing, and since it meant that he could keep on with his study, he was content. The collegians vastly admired his grim determination; they aided all they could with his studies, and helped with his work, so he could have more time for scrimmage, and yet another phase of the problem came to Hicks. It seemed unjust that John Thorwald, after his long years of hard physical toil, and his mental struggles, often after hours of grinding work, at the very time when the five thousand dollars from Henry B. Kingsley's heirs promised him a chance to study without a body tortured and exhausted, should be forced again to take up his stern fight for knowledge. And it was cruel that Thor, just awakening to the true meaning of college life, striving to grasp campus tradition, and eager to serve his Alma Mater in every way, should have so little time to mingle with his fellows. He should be with them on the campus, on the athletic field, in the dorms., the literary society halls, the Y. M. C. A. He should be realizing the golden years of college life, the glad comradeship of the campus. Instead, he must arise in the bitter cold, gray dawn, and from then until late night toil and study unceasingly. "It's a howling shame!" declared the serious Hicks, a heart full of sympathy for Thor. "Just as he wakes up and is trying to understand things at old Bannister, bang! the _Norwhal_ is blown up by a stray mine, and down goes his dad's money. Why didn't Mr. Thorwald get the five thousand transferred to the _Valkyrie_? Oh, if that money hadn't gone down to Davy Jones' locker, Thor would be awakened and have time for college life, too!" Butch Brewster started to speak when the thunderous tread of John Thorwald sounded in the corridor. The Prodigious Prodigy seemed approaching at double-quick time, and the youths stared at each other. However, when Thor appeared in the doorway, a letter in hand, they gazed at him in bewilderment, for his face fairly glowed. "Read it, fellows, read it!" he breathed, with what, for him, was almost excitement. "It just came! Oh, isn't that good news? Read it out, Captain Butch. Won't we wallop Ballard now!" Big Butch Brewster, mystified by Thor's happiness, and urged on by his equally puzzled comrades, drew out the letter, and a glad smile coming to his honest countenance, he read aloud: "THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA. STEAMSHIP LINE (New York Office) "Nov. 18, 19--. "MR. JOHN THORWALD, JR., Bannister College. "DEAR SIR: "We beg to state that your father, first mate on our liner, the _Valkyrie_, three days outbound from New York to Christiania, sent a message, _via_ wireless, to our New York offices by the inbound Dutch Line's _Rotterdam_. The _Rotterdam_ relayed the message to us, and we forward it herewith, _verbatim:_ "'DEAR SON: Purser of my ship, the _Valkyrie_, informed me today that the purser of the ill-fated _Norwhal_, learning of my transfer to this liner, transferred my $5,000 to the _Valkyrie_ before he sailed to his fate. I am sending this _via_ the _Rotterdam_, inbound, and our office will forward it to you. Will write on arriving at Christiania. Father.' "We are sorry for the delay in forwarding this message, but through an accident, it was mislaid in our office for a few days. "Yours truly, "THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA STEAMSHIP LINE, "per J. L. G." A moment of silence; outside on the campus the Bannister youths, preparing for the mass-meeting in the Auditorium, started cheering. Someone caught sight of Thor, standing now by the window of Hicks' room, on the third floor of Bannister Hall, and a few seconds later there sounded: "Thor! Thor! Thor! Thor will bring the Championship to old Bannister! Rah! Rah! Rah!--Thor!" "Oh," shouted T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinning happily, his arm across Thor's massive shoulders, "'All's well that ends well,' as Bill Shakespeare says. It's all right now, Thor. Fate dealt you a hard punch, but it served its purpose; for it made you realize how you would regret to leave college. Now you won't have to hustle and have all your time filled with toil and study; you can go after every phase of campus life, and serve old Bannister in so many ways." John Thorwald stood, a contented look on his placid, impassive face, gazing down at the campus below and hearing the plaudits of the excited collegians. The stately old elms, gaunt and bare, tossed their limbs against a leaden sky; a cold, dreary wind sent clouds of dry leaves scurrying down the concrete walks. In the faint moonlight that struggled through the clouds, the towers and spires of old Bannister were limned against the sky-line. Across the campus, on Bannister Field, the goal-posts, skeleton-like, kept their lonely vigil. On that field, in less than a week, the Gold and Green must face the crucial test--against Ballard's championship eleven, in the Biggest Game; and now, almost on the eve of battle, the shackles had been knocked from him; he was free of the great burden, free to serve his Alma Mater, to fight for the Gold and Green, to grow and develop into an all-round, representative college man. All of a sudden it dawned on the slow-thinking young Norwegian just how much this freedom to grow and expand meant to him, and he turned from the window. From below, the shouts of "Thor! Thor! Thor!" drifted, stirring his blood, as he looked at Hicks, Butch, Beef, Monty and Deacon. "'All's well that ends well,' you say. Hicks," he spoke slowly, his face joyous. "That's true; but I'm just starting, fellows. I'm just _beginning_ to live my college years, not for myself, but for old Bannister, for my Alma Mater, for I am awake, and _free_!" CHAPTER XII THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS Big Butch Brewster, a life-sized picture of despair, roosted dejectedly on the Senior Fence, between the Gym and the Administration Building. It was quite cold, and also the beginning of the last study-period before Butch's final and most difficult recitation of the day, Chemistry. Yet instead of boning in his warm room, the behemoth Senior perched on the fence and stared gloomily into space. As he sat, enveloped in a penumbra of gloom, the campus entrance door of Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., opened suddenly, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., that happy-go-lucky youth, came out cautiously, after the fashion of a second-story artist, emerging from his crib with a bundle of swag, the last item being represented by a football tucked under Hicks' left arm. Beholding Butch Brewster on the Senior Fence, the sunny-souled Senior exhibited a perturbation of spirit seeming undecided whether to beat a retreat or to advance. "Now what's ailin' _you_?" demanded Butch wrathily, believing the pestersome Hicks to be acting in that burglarious manner for effect. "Why should _you_ sneak out of a dorm., bearing a football like it was an auk's egg? Why, you resemble a nigger, making his get-away after robbing a hen-roost! Don't torment me, you accident-somewhere-on-its-way-to-happen. I feel about as joyous as a traveling salesman who has made a town and gotten nary a order!" "It's _awful_!" soliloquized T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., perching beside the despondent Butch on the Senior Fence. "I am not a fatalist, old man, but it _does_ seem that fate hasn't destined Thor to play football for old Bannister this season! Here, after he won the Ham game, and we expected him to waltz off with Ballard's scalp and the Championship, he has to tumble downstairs! Oh, it's tough luck!" It was two days before the biggest game, with Ballard--the contest that would decide the State Intercollegiate Football Championship. Ballard, the present champions, discounting even Hamilton's stories of Thor's prowess, were coming to Bannister with an eleven more mighty than the one that had crushed the Gold and Green the year before, with a heavy, stonewall line, fast ends, and a powerful, shifty backfield. The Ballard team was confident of victory and the pennant. Bannister, building on the awakened Thorwald, superbly sure of his phenomenal strength and power, of his unstoppable rushes, serenely practiced the doctrine of preparedness, and awaited the day. And then John Thorwald, the Prodigious Prodigy, whose gigantic frame seemed unbattered by the terrific daily scrimmage, whom it was impossible to hurt on the gridiron, the day before, going downstairs in Creighton Hall, hurrying to a class, had caught his heel on the top step, and crashed to the bottom! And now, with a broken ankle, the blond Colossus, heartbroken at not being able to win the Championship for old Bannister, hobbled about on crutches. Without Thor, the Gold and Green must meet the invincible Ballard team! It was a solar-plexus blow, both to the Bannister youths, confident in Thor's prowess, building on his Herculean bulk, and to the big Freshman. Thorwald, awakened, striving to grasp campus tradition, to understand college life, was eager to fling himself into the scrimmage, to give every ounce of his mighty power, to offer that splendid body, for his Alma Mater, and now he must hobble impotently on the side-line, watching his team fight a desperate battle. "If Bannister only had a sure, accurate drop-kicker!" reflected Captain Butch hopelessly. "One who could be depended on to average eight out of ten trials, we'd have a fighting chance with Ballard. Deke Radford is a wonder. He can kick a forty-five-yard goal, but he's erratic! He might boot the pigskin over when a score is needed from the forty-yard line, and again he might miss from the twenty-yard mark. Oh, for a kicker who isn't brilliant and spectacular, but who can methodically drop 'em over from, say, the thirty-five-yard line! Hello, what's the row, Hicks?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., started to speak, changed his mind, coughed, grew red and embarrassed, and acted in a most puzzling manner. At any other time, big Butch would have been bewildered; but with Thor's loss weighing on his mind, the Gold and Green captain gave his comrade only a cursory glance. "I--I--Oh, nothing, Butch!" stammered Hicks, to whom, being "fussed," as Bannister termed embarrassment, was almost unknown. "I--I guess I'll take this football over to my locker in the Gym. I ought to glance at my Chemistry, too. So-long, Butch; see you later, old top!" When the splinter-youth had drifted into the Gym., Butch Brewster, remembering his strange actions, actually managed to transfer his thoughts for a time from the eleven to the care-free T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. The behemoth Senior reflected that, to date, the pestiferous Hicks had not explained his baffling mystery he recalled the day when he had told the Gold and Green eleven of the loyal Hicks' ambition to please his dad by winning his B, when he had described the youth's intense college spirit and had suggested that if Hicks failed to corral his letter the Athletic Association award him one for his loyalty to old Bannister. And Butch saw again the bewildering sentences in the letter from Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., to his son. "Evidently," meditated Butch, literally and figuratively "on the fence," "Hicks has failed to summon up enough self-confidence to explain his mystery; queer, too, for he usually is bubbling with faith in himself. He has acted like a bashful schoolgirl at frequent times--he starts to tell me something, then he gets embarrassed, back-fires, and stalls. He and Theophilus have been sneaking out in the early dawn, too. Wow! What did he sneak out of the dorm. that way, with a football, for? He looked like a yeggman working night shift. Why should _he_ skulk out with a football? He has never explained his dad's letter, or told just what Mr. Hicks meant by calling him the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and saying those members of old Eli wanted him to star! Oh, he's a tantalizing wretch, and I'd like to solve his mystery, without his knowledge, so I could--" At that instant, to the intense indignation and bewilderment of good Butch Brewster, little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous Human Encyclopedia of old Bannister, exited from Bannister Hall. The Senior boner gave a correct imitation of the offending Hicks, in that he skulked out, gazing around him nervously; but he portaged no pigskin, and, unlike the sunny youth, on periscoping Butch, he seemed relieved. "Theophilus, _come here_!" thundered the wrathful football captain, shifting his tonnage on the Senior Fence. "What's the plot, anyhow? It's bad enough when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sneaks out, bearing a football, like an amateur cracksman making a getaway; but when you appear, imitating a Nihilist about to hurl a bomb--say, what's the answer to the puzzle, old man?" Little Theophilus, his pathetically frail body trembling with suppressed excitement, his big-rimmed spectacles tumbling off with ridiculous regularity, and his solemn eyes peering owlishly at his behemoth classmate, stood before the startled Butch. It was evident that the 1919 grind labored under great stress. He was waging a terrific battle with himself, struggling to make some vast and all-important decision. He strove to speak, hesitated, choked, coughed apologetically, and acted as fussed as Hicks had done, until Butch was wild; then, as if resolved to cast the die and cross the Rubicon, he decided, and plunged desperately ahead. "It's--it's Hicks, Butch!" he quavered, torn cruelly by conflicting emotions. "Oh, I don't want to be a traitor--he trusted me with his secret, and I--I can't betray him, I just can't! But he didn't make me promise not to tell. He just told me not to. Oh, it's his very last chance, Butch, and with Thor hurt, old Bannister might need him in the Ballard game." "What is it, Theophilus, old man?" Butch spoke kindly, for he saw the solemn little Senior was intensely excited. "Tell me--if our Alma Mater needs any fellow's services, you know, he should give them freely--since you did not promise not to tell about Hicks, if Bannister may be able to use Hicks against Ballard--though I can't, by any stretch of the imagination, figure how--then it is your duty to tell! I think I glimpse the dark secret--Hicks possesses some sort of football prowess, goodness knows what, and he lacks the confidence to tell Coach Corridan! Now, were it only drop-kicking--" _"It is drop-kicking!"_ Theophilus burst forth desperately. "Hicks is a drop-kicker, Butch, and a sure one--inside the thirty-yard line. He almost _never_ misses a goal, and he kicks them from every angle, too. He isn't strong enough to kick past the thirty-yard line, but inside that he is wonderfully accurate. With Thor out of the Ballard game, a drop-kick may win for Bannister, and Deke Radford is so erratic! Oh, Hicks will be angry with me for telling; but he just won't tell about himself, after all his practice, because he fears the fellows will jeer. He is afraid he will fail in the supreme test. Oh, I've betrayed him, but--" "T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a drop-kicker!" exploded the dazed Butch, who could not have been more astounded had Theophilus announced that the sunny youth possessed powers of black magic. "Theophilus Opperdyke, Tantalus himself was never so tantalized as I have been of late. Tell me the whole story, old man--hurry. Spill it, old top!" Butch Brewster, by questioning the excited Human Encyclopedia, like a police official giving the third degree, slowly extracted from Theophilus the startling story. A year before, just as the Gold and Green practiced for the Ham game, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one afternoon, had arrayed his splinter-structure in a grotesque, nondescript athletic outfit, and had jogged out on Bannister Field. The gladsome youth's motive had been free from any torturesome purpose. He intended to round up the Phillyloo Bird, Shad Weatherby, and other non-athletic collegians, and with them boot the pigskin, for exercise. However, little Skeet Wigglesworth, beholding him as he donned the weird regalia of loud sweater, odd basket-ball stockings, tennis trousers, baseball shoes, and so on, misconstrued his plan, and believed Hicks intended to torment the squad. Hence, he hurried out, so that when Hicks appeared in the offing, the football squad and the spectators in the stands had jeered the happy-go-lucky Junior, and had good-natured sport at his expense. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., after Jack Merritt had drop-kicked a forty-yard goal, made the excessively rash statement that it was easy. Captain Butch Brewster had indignantly challenged the heedless youth to show him, and the results of Hicks' effort to propel the pigskin over the crossbar were hilarious, for he missed the oval by a foot, nearly dislocated his knee, and, slipping in the mud, he sat down violently with a thud. However, so the excited Theophilus now narrated, even as the convulsed students jeered Hicks, hurling whistles, shouts, cat-calls, songs and humorous remarks at the downfallen kicker, one of Hicks' celebrated inspirations had smitten the pestersome Junior, evidently jarred loose by his crashing to terra firma. "Hicks figured this way, Butch," explained little Theophilus Opperdyke, eloquent in his comrade's behalf, "nature had built him like a mosquito, and endowed him with enough power to lift a pillow; hence he could never hope to play football on the 'Varsity; but he knew that many games are won by drop-kicks and by fellows especially trained and coached for that purpose, and they don't need weight and strength, but they must have the art, that peculiar knack which few possess. His inspiration was this: Perhaps he had that knack, perhaps he could practice faithfully, and develop into a sure drop-kicker. If he trained for a year, in his Senior season, he might be able to serve old Bannister, maybe to win a big game. So he set to work." Theophilus hurriedly yet graphically narrated how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had made the loyal, hero-worshiping little Human Encyclopedia his sole confidant. He told the thrilled Butch how the sunny youth, from that day on, had watched and listened as Head Coach Corridan trained the drop-kickers, learning all the points he could gain. Vividly he described the mosquito-like Hicks, as he with a football bought from the Athletic Association began in secret to practice the fine art of drop-kicking! For a year, at old Bannister and at his dad's country home near Pittsburgh, Hicks had faithfully, doggedly kept at it. With no one bat Theophilus knowing of his great ambition, he had gone out on Bannister Field, when he felt safe from observation; here, with his faithful comrade to keep watch, and to retrieve the pigskin, he had practiced the instructions and points gained from watching Coach Corridan train the booters of the squad. To his vast delight, and the joy of his little friend, Hicks had found that he did possess the knack, and from before the Ham game until Commencement he had kept his secret, practicing clandestinely at old Bannister; he had improved wonderfully, and when vacation started the cheery collegian had told his beloved dad, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., of his hopes. The ex-Yale football star, delighted at his son's ambition to serve old Bannister and joyous at discovering that Hicks actually possessed the peculiar knack of drop-kicking, coached the splinter-youth all summer at their country place near Pittsburgh. Under the instruction of Hicks, Sr., the youth developed rapidly, and when he returned to the campus for his final year, he was a sure, dependable drop-kicker, inside the thirty-yard line. As Theophilus stated, beyond that he lacked the power, but in that zone he could boot 'em over the cross-bar from any angle. "He's been practicing all this season, in secret!" quavered the little Senior, "and he's a--a _fiend_, Butch, at drop-kicking. And yet, here it is time for the last game of his college years, and--he lacks confidence to tell you, or Coach Corridan. Oh, I'm afraid he will be angry with me for betraying him, and yet--I just _can't_ let him miss his splendid chance, now that Thor is out and old Bannister _needs_ a drop-kicker!" Big Butch was silent for a time. The football leader was deeply impressed and thrilled by Theophilus Opperdyke's story of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s ambition. As he roosted on the Senior Fence, the behemoth gridiron star visioned the mosquito-like youth, whom nature had endowed with a splinter-structure, sneaking out on Bannister Field, at every chance, to practice clandestinely his drop-kicking. He could see the faithful Human Encyclopedia, vastly excited at his blithesome colleague's improvement, retrieving the pigskin for Hicks. He thrilled again as he thought of the bean-pole Hicks, who could never gain weight and strength enough to make the eleven, loyally training and perfecting himself in the drop-kick, trying to develop into a sure kicker, within a certain zone, hoping sometime, before he left college forever, to serve old Bannister. With Thor in the line-up at fullback, he would not have been needed, but now, with the Prodigious Prodigy out, it was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s big chance! And Butch Brewster understood why the usually confident Hicks, even with the knowledge of his drop-kicking power, hesitated to announce it to old Bannister. Until Butch had told the Gold and Green football team of Hicks' being in earnest in his ridiculous athletic attempts of the past three years, no one but himself and Hicks had dreamed that the sunny youth meant them, that he really strove to win his B and please his dad. The appearance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., on Bannister Field was always the cause of a small-sized riot among the squad and spectators. Hicks was jeered good-naturedly, and "butchered to make a Bannister holiday," as he blithely phrased it. Hence, the splinter-Senior was reluctant to announce that he could drop-kick. He knew that when tested he would be so in earnest, that so much would hang in the balance and the youths, unknowing how important it was, would jeer. Then, too, knowing his long list of athletic fiascos, ridiculous and otherwise, Hicks trembled at the thought of being sent into the biggest game to kick a goal. He feared he might fail! "You are a _hero_, Theophilus!" said Butch, with deep feeling. "I can realize how hard it was for Hicks to tell us. He would have kept silent forever, even after his training in secret! And how you must have suffered, knowing he could drop-kick, and yet not desiring to betray him! But your love for old Bannister and for Hicks himself conquered. I'll take him out on the gridiron, before the fellows come from class, and see what he can do. Aha! There is the villain now. Hicks, ahoy! Come hither, you Kellar-Herman-Thurston. Your dark secret is out at last!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., peering cautiously from the Gym. basement doorway, in quest of the tardy Theophilus, who was to have accompanied him on a clandestine journey to Bannister Field, obeyed the summons. Bewildered, and gradually guessing the explanation from the shivering little boner's alarmed expression, the gladsome youth approached the stern Butch Brewster, who was about to condemn him for his silence. "Don't be angry with me, Hicks, _please_!" pled Theophilus, pathetically fearful that he had offended his comrade, "I--I just _had_ to tell, for it was positively your last chance, and--and old Bannister needs your sure drop-kicking! I never promised not to tell. You never made me give my word, so--" "It was Theophilus' duty to tell!" spoke Butch, hiding a grin, for the grind was so frightened, "and yours, Hicks, knowing as you do how we need you, with Thor hurt! You graceless wretch, you aren't usually so like ye modest violet! Why didn't you inform us, then swagger and say, 'Oh, just leave it to Hicks, he'll win the game with a drop-kick?' Now, you come with me, and I'll look over your samples. If you've got the goods, it's highly probable you'll get your chance, in the Ballard game; and I'm _glad_, old man, for your sake. I know what it would mean, if you win it! But--now that the '_mystery_' is solved, what's that about your being a 'Class Kid,' of Yale, '96?" "That's easy!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his arm across Theophilus' shoulders, "I was the first boy born to any member of Yale, '96; it is the custom of classes graduating at Yale to call such a baby the class kid! Naturally, the members of old Eli, Class of 1896, are vastly interested in me. Hence, my Dad wrote they'd be tickled if I won a big game for Bannister with a field-goal!" A moment of silence, Theophilus Opperdyke, gathering from Hicks' arm, across his shoulders, that the cheery youth was not so awfully wrathful at his base betrayal, adjusted his big-rimmed spectacles, and stared owlishly at Hicks. "Hicks, you--you are not angry?" he quavered. "You are not sorry. I--I told--" "_Sorry_?" quoth T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "Class Kid," of Yale, '96, with a Cheshire cat grin, "_sorry_? I should say _not_--I wanted it to be known to Butch, and Coach Corridan, but I got all shivery when I tried to confess, and I--couldn't! Nay, Theophilus, you faithful friend, I'm so _glad_, old man, that beside yours truly, the celebrated Pollyanna resembles Niobe, weeping for her lost children." CHAPTER XIII HICKS--CLASS KID--YALE '96 "Brekka-kek-kek--Co-Ax--Co-Ax! Brekka-kek-kek--Co-Ax--Co-Ax! Whoop-up! Parabaloo! Yale! Yale! Yale! _Hicks! Hicks! Hicks_!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a cumbersome Gold and Green football blanket, and crouching on the side-line, like some historic Indian, felt a thrill shake his splinter-structure, as the yell of "old Eli" rolled from the stand, across Bannister Field. In the midst of the Gold and Green flags and pennants, fluttering in the section assigned the Bannister cohorts, he gazed at a big banner of Blue, with white lettering: YALE UNIVERSITY--CLASS OF 1896 "Oh, Butch," gasped Hicks, torn between fear and hope, "just listen to that. Think of all those Yale men in the stand with my Dad! Oh, suppose I do get sent in to try for a drop-kick!" It was almost time far the biggest game to start, the contest with Ballard, the supreme test of the Gold and Green, the final struggle for The State Intercollegiate Football Championship! In a few minutes the referee's shrill whistle blast would sound, the vast crowd in the stands, on the side-lines, and in the parked automobiles, would suddenly still their clamor and breathlessly await the kick-off--then, seventy minutes of grim battling on the turf, and victory, or defeat, would perch on the banners of old Bannister. It was a thrilling scene, a sight to stir the blood. Bannister Field, the arena where these gridiron gladiators would fly at each other's throats--or knees, spread out--barred with white chalk-marks, with the skeleton-like goal posts guarding at each end. On the turf the moleskin clad warriors, under the crisp commands of their Coaches, swiftly lined down, shifted to the formation called, and ran off plays. Nervous subs. stood in circles, passing the pigskin. Drop-kickers and punters, tuning up, sent spirals, or end-over-end drop-kicks, through the air. The referee, field-judge, and linesmen conferred. Team-attendants, equipped with buckets of water, sponges, and ominous black medicine-chests, with Red Cross bandages, ran hither and thither. On the substitutes' bench, or on the ground, crouched nervous second-string players; Ballard's on one side of the gridiron, and Bannister's directly across. A glorious, sunshiny day in late November, with scarcely a breath of wind, the air crisp and bracing; the radiant sunlight fell athwart the white-barred field, and glinted from the gay pennants and banners in the stands! Here was a riot of color, the gold and green of old Bannister; in the next section, the orange and black of Ballard. The bright hues and tints of varicolored dresses, and the luster of the official flowers all contributed to a bewilderingly beautiful spectacle! Flower-venders, peddlers of pennants, sellers of miniature footballs with the college colors of one team and the other, hawked their wares, loudly calling above the tumult, "Get yer Ballard colors yere!" "This way fer the Bannister flags!" Ten thousand spectators, packed into the cheering sections of the two colleges, or in the general stands, or standing on the side-lines, impatiently awaited the kick-off. At the appearance of each football star, a tremendous cheer went up from the mass. Across the field from each other, the two bands played stirring strains. The confident Ballard cohorts cheered, sang, and yelled and those of Bannister, not _quite_ so sure of victory, with Thor out, nevertheless, cheered, sang, and yelled as loudly, for the Gold and Green. The sight of that vast Yale banner, so conspicuous, with its big white letters on a field of blue, amidst the fluttering pennants of gold and green, excited comment among the Ballard followers. The Bannister students, however, knew what it meant; Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., and thirty members of Yale, '96, were in the stand, ready to cheer Captain Butch's eleven, and hoping for a chance to whoop it up for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., if he got his big chance. Two days before, when little Theophilus Opperdyke, after a terrible struggle with himself, divided between loyalty to Hicks and a love for his Alma Mater, had betrayed his toothpick class-mate to Captain. Butch Brewster, that behemoth Senior had rounded up Coach Corridan, and together they had dragged the shivering Hicks out to the football field. Here, while the rest of the student body, unsuspecting the important event in progress, made good use of the study-hour, or attended classes in Recitation Hall, the Gold and Green Coach, with the team-Captain, and the excited Human Encyclopedia, watched T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. show his samples of drop-kicks. And the success of that happy-go-lucky youth, after his nervous tension wore off, may be attested by the Slave-Driver's somewhat slangy remark, when the exhibition closed. "Butch," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, impressively, "what it takes to drop-kick field-goals, from anywhere inside the thirty-yard line, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is broke out with!" The proficiency attained by the heedless Hicks in the difficult art of drop-kicking, gained by faithful practice for a year, aided by his Dad's valuable coaching, was wonderful. Of course, Hicks possessed naturally the needed knack, but he deserved praise for his sticking at it so loyally. He had no surety that he would ever be of use to his college, and, indeed, with the advent of Thor, his hopes grew dim, yet he plugged on, in case old Bannister might sometime need him--and yet, but for Theophilus, he would not have summoned the courage to tell! To the surprise and delight of the Coach and Captain, Hicks, after missing a few at first, methodically booted goals over the crossbar from the ten, twenty, and thirty-yard lines, and from the most difficult angles. There was nothing showy or spectacular in his work, it was the result of dogged training, but he was almost sure, when he kicked! [Illustration D: He was almost sure, when he kicked!] "Good!" ejaculated Coach Corridan, his arm across Hicks' shoulders, as they walked to the Gym. "Hicks, the chances are big that I'll send you in to try for a goal tomorrow, if Bannister gets blocked inside the thirty-yard line! Just keep your nerve, boy, and boot it over! Now--I'll post a notice for a brief mass-meeting at the end of the last class period, and Butch and I will tell the fellows about you, and how you may serve Bannister." "That's the idea!" exulted Butch, joyous at his comrade's chance to get in the biggest game. "The fellows will understand, Hicks, old man, and they won't jeer when you come out this afternoon. They'll root for you! Oh, just wait until you hear them cheer you, and _mean_ it--you'll astonish the natives, Hicks!" Butch's prophecy was well fulfilled. In the scrimmage that same day, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shivering with apprehensive dread, his heart in his shoes, sat on the side-line. In the stands, the entire student-body, informed in the mass-meeting of his ability, shrieked for "Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" Near the end of the practice game, the hard-fighting scrubs fought their way to the 'Varsity's thirty-yard line, and another rush took it five yards more. Coach Corridan, halting the scrimmage, sent the right-half-back to the side-line, and a moment later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. hurried out on the field with the Bannister Band playing, the collegians yelling frenziedly, and excitement at fever height, the sunny youth took his position in the kick formation. Then a silence, a few seconds of suspense, as the pigskin whirled back to him, and then--a quick stepping forward, a rip of toe against the leather, and--above the heads of the 'Varsity players smashing through, the football shot over the cross-bar! "Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" was the shout, _"Hicks will beat Ballard!"_ That night, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., having crossed the Rubicon, and committed himself to Coach Corridan and Captain Brewster, had dispatched a telegraphic night-letter to his beloved Dad. He informed his distinguished parent that his drop-kicking powers were now known to old Bannister, and that the chances were fifty-fifty that he would be sent in to try for a field-goal in the biggest game. On the day before the game, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in a night-letter, had wired back: Son Thomas: Am on my way to New Haven for Yale-Harvard game. Will stop off at old Bannister--bringing thirty members of Yale '96. We hope our Class Kid will get his chance against Ballard. Dad. On the morning of the Bannister-Ballard game, Mr. Hicks' private car the _Vulcan_, with the Pittsburgh "Steel King," and thirty other members of Yale, '96, had reached town. They had ridden in state to College Hill in good old Dan Flannagan's jitney, where T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., proudly introduced his beloved Dad to the admiring collegians. All morning, Mr. Hicks had made friends of the hero-worshiping youths, who listened to his tales of athletic triumphs at Bannister and at old Yale breathlessly. The ex-Yale star had made a stirring speech to the eleven, sending them out on Bannister Field resolved to do or die! "My Dad!" breathed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., crouched on the side line; as he gazed at the Yale banner, he could see his father, with his athletic figure, his strong face that could be appallingly stern or wonderfully tender and kind. Like the sunny Senior, Mr. Hicks, despite his wealth, was thoroughly democratic and already the Bannister collegians were his comrades. "Here we go, Hicks!" spoke Butch Brewster, as the referee raised his whistle to his lips. "Hold yourself ready, old man; a field-goal may win for us, and I'll send you in just as soon as I find all hope of a touchdown is gone. If they hold us back of the thirty-yard line, I'll try Deke Radford, but inside it, you are far more sure." The vast crowd, a moment before creating an almost inconceivable din, stilled with startling suddenness; a shrill blast from the referee's whistle cut the air. The gridiron cleared of substitutes, coaches, trainers, and rubbers-out, and in their places, the teams of Bannister and Ballard jogged out. Captain Brewster won the toss, and elected to receive the kick-off. The Gold and Green players, Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty, Biff, Pudge, Bunch, Tug, Hefty, Buster, and Ichabod, spread out, fan-like, while across the center of the field the Ballard eleven, a straight line, prepared to advance as the full-back kicked off. There was a breathless stillness, as the big athlete poised the pigskin, tilted on end, then strode back to his position. "All ready, Ballard?" The Referee's call brought an affirmative from the Orange and Black leader. "Ready, Bannister?" "Ready!" boomed big Butch Brewster, with a final shout of encouragement to his players. The biggest game was starting! Before ten thousand wildly excited and partisan spectators, the Gold and Green and the Orange and Black would battle for Championship honors; with Thor out of the struggle, Ballard, three-time Champion, was the favorite. The visitors had brought the strongest team in their history, and were supremely confident of victory. Bannister, however, could not help remembering, twice fate had snatched the greatest glory from their grasp, in Butch's Sophomore year, when Jack Merritt's drop-kick struck the cross-bar, and a year later, when Butch himself, charging for the winning touchdown, crashed blindly into the upright. Old Bannister had not won the Championship for five years, and now--when the chances had seemed roseate, with Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy--smashing Hamilton out of the way, Fate had dealt the annual blow in advance, by crippling him. "Oh, we've _got_ to win!" shivered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Oh, I hope I don't get sent in--I mean--I hope Bannister wins without me! But if I _do_ have to kick--Oh, I hope I send it over that cross-bar--" A second later the Ballard line advanced, the fullback's toe ripped into the pigskin, sending it whirling, high in air, far into Bannister's territory; the yellow oval fell into the outstretched arms of Captain Butch Brewster, on the Gold and Green's five-yard line, and--"We're off!" shrieked Hicks, excitedly. "Come on, Butch--run it back! Oh, we're off." The biggest game had started! CHAPTER XIV THE GREATER GOAL "Time out!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a gold and green blanket, and standing on the side-line, like a majestic Sioux Chief, gazed out on Bannister Field. There, on the twenty-yard line, the two lines of scrimmage had crashed together and Bannister's backfield had smashed into Ballard's stonewall defense with terrific impact, to be hurled back for a five-yard loss. The mass of humanity slowly untangled, the moleskin clad players rose from the turf, all but one. He, wearing the gold and green, lay still, white-faced, and silent. "It's Biff Pemberton!" chattered Hicks, shivering as with a chill. "Oh, the game is lost, the Championship is gone. Biff is out, and the last quarter is nearly ended. Coach Corridan has got to send me in to kick. It's our very last chance to tie the score, and save old Bannister from defeat!" The time keeper, to whom the referee had megaphoned for time out, stopped the game, while Captain Butch Brewster, the campus Doctor, and several players worked over the senseless Biff. In the stands, the exultant Ballard cohorts, confident that victory was booked to perch on their banners, arose _en masse,_ and their thunderous chorus drifted across Bannister Field: "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea, And we'll put Bannister in that hole! In that hole--in--that--hole-- Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!" From the Bannister section, the Gold and Green undergraduates, alumni, and supporters, feeling a dread of approaching defeat grip their hearts, yet determined to the last, came the famous old slogan of encouragement to elevens battling on the gridiron: "Smash 'em, boys, run the ends--hold, boys, _hold_-- Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold! Touchdown! Touchdown! Hold, boys, _hold, Don't_ let 'em win from the Green and the Gold!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with a groan of despair, sat down on the deserted subs. bench. With a feeling that all was lost, the splinter-like Senior gazed at the big score-board, announcing, in huge, white letters and figures: 4TH QUARTER; TIME TO PLAY--2 MIN.; BANNISTER'S BALL ON BALLARD'S 22-YD. LINE; 4TH DOWN--8 YDS. TO GAIN; SCORE: BALLARD--6; BANNISTER--3. It had been a terrific contest, a biggest game never to be forgotten by the ten thousand thrilled spectators! Each eleven had been trained to the second for this decisive Championship fight, and with the coveted gonfalon of glory before them, the Bannister players battled desperately, while Ballard's fighters struggled as grimly for their Alma Mater. For six years, the Gold and Green had failed to annex the Championship, and for the past three, the invincible Ballard machine had rushed like a car of Juggernaut over all other State elevens; one team was determined to wrest the banner from its rival's grasp, and the other fully as resolved to retain possession, hence a memorable gridiron contest, to which even the alumni could find none in past history to compare, was the result. Weakened by the loss of Thor, whose colossal bulk and Gargantuan strength would have made victory a moral certainty, presenting practically the same eleven that had faced Ballard the past season and had been defeated by a scant margin, old Bannister had started the first quarter with a furious rush that swept the enemy to midfield without the loss of a first down. Then Ballard had rallied, stopping that triumphal march, on its own thirty-five yard line, but unable to check Quarterback Deacon Radford, who booted a forty-three-yard goal from a drop-kick, with the score 3-0 in Bannister's favor, and Deacon, a brilliant but erratic kicker, apparently in fine trim, the Gold Green rooters went wild. In the second half, however, came the break of the game, as sporting writers term it. The strong Ballard eleven found itself, and with a series of body-smashing, bone-crushing rushes, battering at the Bannister lines like the Germans before Verdun, they steadily fought their way, trench by trench, line by line, down the field. Without a fumble, or the loss of a single yard, the terrific, catapulting charges forced back old Bannister, until the enemy's fullback, who ran like the famous Johnny Maulbetsch, of Michigan, shot headlong over the goal line! The attempt for goal from touchdown failed, leaving the score, at the end of the third quarter, Ballard--6; Bannister--3. And Deacon Radford, whose first effort at drop-kicking had been so brilliant, failed utterly. Three times, taking a desperate chance, the Bannister quarter booted the pigskin, but the oval flew wide of the goal posts, even from the thirty-yard line. With his mighty toe not to be depended on, with the Gold and Green line worn to a frazzle by Ballard's battering rushes, unable to beat back the victorious enemy, the Bannister cohorts, dismayed, saw the start of the fourth and final quarter, their last hope. The forward pass had been futile, for the visitors were trained especially for this aerial attack, and with ease they broke up every attempt. And then, with the ball in Ballard's possession on Bannister's twenty-yard line, came a fumble--like a leaping tiger, Monty Merriweather had flung himself on the elusively bounding ball, rolled over to his feet, and was off down the field. "Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" shrieked old Bannister's madly excited students, as Monty sprinted. "Go it, Monty--_touchdown_! Sprint, old man, _sprint_!" But Cupid Colfax, Ballard's famous sprinter, playing quarterback, was off on Monty's trail almost instantly, and his phenomenal speed cut down the Ballard end's advantage; still, by dint of exerting every ounce of energy, it was on Ballard's forty-yard line that Monty Merriweather, hugging the pigskin grimly, finally crashed to earth. "Come on, Bannister!" shouted Captain Butch Brewster, as the two teams lined down. "Right across the goal-line, then kick the goal, and we win! Play the game--_fight_--Oh, we can win the Championship right now." Then ensued a session of football spectacular in the extreme, replete with thrilling plays, with sensational tackles, and blood-stirring scrimmage. The Bannister players, nerved by Captain Brewster's exhortation, by sheer will-power drove their battered bodies into the scrimmage. End runs, line-smashing tandem plays, forward passes, followed in bewildering succession, until the ball rested on Ballard's twenty-yard line, and a touchdown meant victory and the Championship for old Bannister, Another rush, and five yards gained, then, Ballard, fighting at the last ditch, made a stand every bit as heroic and thrilling as that sensational march in the first half. The Gold and Green's tigerish rushes were hurled back--three times Captain Butch threw his backfield against the line, and three times not an inch was gained. On the third down, Monty Merriweather was forced back for a loss, so now, with two minutes to play and the ball in Bannister's possession, with eight yards to gain, the play was on Ballard's twenty-two-yard line! And the biggest game had produced a new hero of the gridiron. Biff Pemberton, left half-back, imbued with savage energy, had borne the brunt of that spectacular advance; and now, he stretched on the turf, white and still. "Hicks, old man," T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. turned as a hand rested grippingly on his shoulder. Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, his face grim, had come to him, and in quick, terse sentences, he outlined his plan. "It's Bannister's last chance--" he said, tensely. "We _can't_ make the first down, the way Ballard is fighting, unless we take desperate odds. Now, Hicks, it's _up to you_. On _you_ depend old Bannister's hopes." A great, chilling fear swept over T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., leaving him weak and shaken. It had come at last-the moment for which he had trained and practiced drop-kicking, for a year, in secret, that moment he had hoped would come, sometime, and yet had dreaded, as in a nightmare. Before that vast, howling crowd of ten thousand madly partisan spectators, _he_ must go out on Bannister Field, to try and boot a drop-kick from the twenty-eight-yard-line, to save the Gold and Green from defeat. And he thought of the great glory that would be his, if he succeeded-he would be a campus hero, the idol of old Bannister, the youth who saved his Alma Mater from defeat, in the biggest game! Then he remembered his Dad, inspiring the eleven, between the halves, by a ringing speech; he heard again his sentences: "--And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor to our dear Alma Mater, is our greater goal! Go back into the game, throw yourselves into the scrimmage, with no thought of personal glory, of the plaudits of the crowd--it is a fine thing, a splendid goal, to play the game and be a hero; it is a far more noble act to strive for the greater goal, one's Alma Mater!" "Now listen carefully," Coach Corridan rushed on, "Biff is knocked out. They'll start again soon, we are going to take a desperate chance; your Dad advises it! A tie score means the Championship stays with Ballard. To win it, we must _win_ this game--and on _you_ everything depends." "But--how--" stammered Hicks, dazed--the only way to _tie_ the score was by a drop-kick; the only way to win, by a touchdown--did the Coach mean he was _not_ to realize his great ambition to save old Bannister by a goal, the reward of his long training? "You jog out," whispered Coach Corridan, hurriedly, for a stretcher was being rushed to Biff Pemberton, "report to the Referee, and whisper to Butch to try Formation Z; 23-45-6-A! Now, here is the dope: our only chance is to fool Ballard completely. When you go out, the Bannister rooters, and your Yale friends, will believe it is to try a drop-kick and tie the score. I am sure that the Ballard team will think this, too, because of your slender build. You act as though you intend to try for a goal, and have Captain Butch make our fellows act that way. Then--it is a fake-kick; the backfield lines up in the kick formation, but the ball is passed to Butch, at your right. He either tries for a forward pass to the right end, or if the end Is blocked, rushes it himself! Hurry-the referee's whistle is blowing; remember, Hicks, my boy, it's the greater goal, it's for your Alma Mater." In a trance, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., flung off the gold and green blanket, and dashed out on Bannister Field. How often, in the past year, had he visioned this scene, only--he pictured himself saving the game by a drop-kick, and now Coach Corridan ordered him to sacrifice this glory! From the stands came the thunderous cheer of the excited Bannister cohorts, firmly believing that the slender youth, so ludicrously fragile, among those young Colossi, was to try for a goal. "Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Hicks! Kick the goal--Hicks!" And from the Yale grads., among them his Dad, came a shout, as he jogged across the turf: "Breka-kek-kek--co-ax--Yale! Hicks-Hicks-Hicks!" But the Bannister Senior did not thrill. Now, instead, a feeling of growing resentment filled his soul; even this intensely loyal youth, with all his love for old Bannister, was vastly human, and he felt cheated of his just rights. How the students were cheering him, how those Yale men called his name, and he was not to have his big chance! That for which he had trained and practiced; the opportunity to serve his Alma Mater, by kicking a goal at the crucial moment, and saving Bannister from defeat, was never to be his. Now, in his last game at college, he was to act as a decoy, as a foil. Like a dummy he must stand, while the other Gold and Green athletes ran off the play! Instead of everything, a tie game, or a defeat, depending on his kicking, defeat or victory hung on that fake play, on Butch Brewster and Monty Merriweather! So--the ear-splitting plaudits of the crowd for "Hicks!" meant nothing to him; they were dead sea fruit, tasteless as ashes--as the ashes of ambition. And then-- "--And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor to our dear Alma Mater, is our greater goal--no thought of personal glory--a splendid goal, to play the game and be a hero; It is a far more noble act to strive for the greater goal--one's Alma Mater--" "I was nearly a _traitor_" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his Dad's words echoing In his memory, and a vision of that staunch, manly Bannister ex-athlete before him. "Oh, I was betraying my Alma Mater. Instead of rejoicing to make _any_ sacrifice, however big, for Bannister, I thought only of myself, of my glory! I'll do it, Dad, I'll strive for the greater goal, and--we just can't fail." Reaching the scrimmage, Hicks, whose nervous dread had left him, when he fought down selfish ambition, and thirst for glory, reported to the Referee, and hurriedly transferred Coach Corridan's orders to Captain Butch Brewster; half a minute of precious time was spent in outlining the desperate play to the eleven, for "time!" had been called, and then-- "Z-23-45-6-A!" shouted Quarterback Deacon Radford. "Come on, line--hold! Right over the cross-bar with it, Hicks--tie the score, and save Bannister from defeat--" The Gold and Green backfield shifted to the kick formation. Ten yards back of the center, on the thirty-two-yard line of Ballard, stood T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; the vast crowd was hushed, all eyes stared at that slender figure, standing there, with Captain Butch Brewster at his right, and Beef McNaughton on his left hand-the spectators believed the frail-looking youth had been sent in to try a drop-kick. The Ballard rooters thought it, and--the Ballard eleven were _sure_ of their enemy's plan--Hicks' mosquito-like build, his nervous swinging of that right leg, deluded them, and helped Coach Corridan's plot. It was the only play, if Bannister wanted the Championship enough to try a desperate chance; better a fighting hope for that glory, with a try for a touchdown, than a field-goal, and a tie-score! The lines of scrimmage tensed. The linesmen dug their cleats in the sod, those of Ballard tigerish to break through and block; old Bannister's determined to _hold_. Back of Ballard's line, the backfield swayed on tip-toe, every muscle nerved, ready to crash through; the ends prepared to knock Roddy and Monty aside, the backs would charge madly ahead, in a berserk rush, to crash into that slim figure. "Boot it, Hicks!" shrieked Deke Radford, and as he shouted, the pigskin shot from the Bannister center's hands; the Gold and Green line held nobly, but not so the ends. Monty Merriweather, making a bluff at blocking the left end, let him crash past, while he sprinted ahead--Captain Butch Brewster, to whom the pass had been made, ran forward, until he saw he was blocked, and then, seeing Monty dear, he hurled a beautiful forward pass. Into the arms of the waiting Monty it fell, and that Gold and Green star, absolutely free of tacklers, sprinted twelve yards to the goal-line, falling on the pigskin behind it! Coach Corridan's "100 to 1" chance, suggested by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., had succeeded, and--the Biggest Game and the Championship had come to old Bannister at last! Followed a scene pauperizing description! For many long years old Bannister had waited for this glory; years of bitter disappointment, seasons when the Championship had been missed by a scant margin, a drop-kick striking the cross-bar, Butch Brewster blindly crashing into an upright. But now, all their pent-up joy flowed forth in a mighty torrent! Singing, yelling, dancing, howling, the Bannister Band leading them, the Gold and Green students, alumni, Faculty, and supporters, snake-danced around Bannister Field. A vast, writhing, sinuous line, it wound around the gridiron, everyone who possessed a hat flinging it over the cross-bars. The victorious eleven, were borne by the maddened youths--Captain Butch, Pudge, Beef, Monty, Roddy, Ichabod, Tug, Hefty, Buster, Bunch, and--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. Ballard, firmly believing Hicks would try a field-goal, had been taken completely off guard. Surprised by the daring attempt, it had succeeded with ease, and the final score was Bannister--10; Ballard--6! "At last! At last!" boomed Butch Brewster, to whom this was the happiest day of his life. "The Championship at last. My great ambition is realized. Old Bannister has won the Championship, and I was the Team Captain!" After a time, when "the shouting and the tumult died," or at least quieted somewhat, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., felt a hand on his arm, and looking down from the shoulders on which he perched, he saw his Dad. Mr. Hicks' strong face was aglow with pride and a vast joy, and he shook his son's hand again and again. "I understand, Thomas!" he said, and his words were reward enough for the youth. "It was a _big_ sacrifice, but you made it gladly--I know! You gave up personal glory for the greater goal, and--old Bannister won the Championship! You helped win, for the winning play turned on _you_. It was splendid, my son, and I am proud of you! No matter if your sacrifice is never known to the fellows, _I_ understand." A moment of silence on Hicks' part; then the sunny youth grinned at his beloved Dad, as he responded blithesomely: "I'm Pollyanna, that old Bannister and _I_ won out, Dad!" CHAPTER XV HICKS HAS A "HUNCH" "Ladies and gentlemen, Seniors, Juniors, Sophomores, human beings, and--_Freshmen_! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the Olympic High-Jump Champion, holder of the World's record, and winner at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition National Championships, in his event, is about to high jump! The bar is at five feet, ten inches. Mr. Hicks is the Herculean athlete in the crazy-looking bathrobe." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his splinter-structure enshrouded in that flamboyant bathrobe of vast proportions and insane colors, that inevitably attended his athletic efforts, shaming Joseph's coat-of-many-colors, gazed despairingly at his good friend, Butch Brewster, and Track-Coach Brannigan, with a Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic countenance. "It's no use, Butch, it's no use!" quoth he, with ludicrous indignation, as big Tug Cardiff, the behemoth shot-putter, through a huge megaphone imitated a Ballyhoo Bill, and roared his absurd announcement to the hilarious crowd of collegians in the stand. "Old Bannister will _never_ take my athletic endeavors seriously. Here I have won two second places, and a third, in the high-jump this season, and have a splendid show to annex _first_ place and my track B in the Intercollegiates, but--hear them!" It was a balmy, sunshiny afternoon in late May. The sunny-souled, happy-go-lucky T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had trained indefatigably for the high jump, with the result that he had won several points for his team--however, he had not realized his great ambition of first place, and his track letter. As Hicks now exclaimed to his team-mate and Coach Brannigan, no matter, to the howling Bannister youths, if he _had_ won three places in the high jump, in regularly scheduled meets; his comrades had been jeering at his athletic fiascos for nearly four years, and even had Hicks suddenly blossomed out as a star athlete, they would not have abandoned their joyous habit. Still, those football 'Varsity players to whom good Butch had read Hicks, Sr.'s, letters, and explained the sunny youth's persistence, despite his ridiculous failures, though they kept on hailing his appearance on Bannister Field with exaggerated joy, understood the care-free collegian, and loved him for his ambition to please his Dad. Since Hicks had absolutely refused to accept his B, for any sport, unless he won it according to Athletic Association eligibility rules, the eleven had kept secret the contents of the letters Butch Brewster had read to them, for Hicks requested it. The Bannister College track squad, under Track Coach Brannigan and Captain Spike Robertson, had been training most strenuously for that annual cinder-path classic, the State Intercollegiate Track and Field Championships. The sprinters had been tearing down the two-twenty straightaway like suburban commuters catching the 7.20 A.M. for the city. Hammer-throwers and shot-putters--the weight men--heaved the sixteen-pound shot, or hurled the hammer, with reckless abandon, like the Strong Man of the circus. Pole-vaulters seemed ambitious to break the altitude records, and In so doing, threatened to break their necks; hurdlers skimmed over the standard as lightly as swallows, though no one ever beheld swallows hurdling. The distance runners plodded determinedly around the quarter-mile track, broad-jumpers tried to jump the length of the landing-pit. And T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., vainly essayed to clear five-ten In the high-jump! It was the last-named event that "broke up the show," as the Phillyloo Bird quaintly stated, somewhat wrongly, since the appearance of that blithesome youth in the offing, his flamboyant bathrobe concealing his shadow-like frame, had _started_ the show, causing the track squad, as well as a hundred spectator-students, to rush for seats in the stand. The arrival of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., to train for form and height in the high-jump, though a daily occurrence, was always the signal for a Saturnalia of sport at his expense, because-- "You can't live down your athletic past, Hicks!" smiled good-hearted Butch Brewster. "Your making a touchdown for the other eleven, by running the wrong way with the pigskin, your hilarious fiascos in every sport, your home-run with the bases full, on a strike-out-are specters to haunt you. Even now that you have a chance to win your B, just listen to the fellows." The track squad's "heavy weight--white hope" section, composed of hammer-heavers and shot-putters--Tug Cardiff, Beef McNaughton, Pudge Langdon, Buster Brown, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and Bunch Bingham, equipped with megaphones, and with the _basso profundo_ voices nature gave them, lined up on both sides of the jumping-standards, and chanted loudly: "All hail to T. Haviland Hicks! He runs like a carload of bricks; When to high jump he tries From the ground he can't rise-- For he's built on a pair of toothpicks!" This saengerfest was greeted with vociferous cheers from the vastly amused youths in the stands, who hailed the grinning Hicks with jeers, cat-calls, whistles, and humorous (so they believed) remarks: "Say, Hicks, you won't _never_ be able to jump anything but your board-bill!" "You're built like a grass-hopper, Hicks, but you've done lost the hop!" "If you keep on improving as you've done lately, you'll make a high-jumper in a hundred more years, old top!" "You may rise in the world, Hicks, but never in the high jump!" "Don't mind them, Hicks!" spoke Coach Brannigan, his hands on the happy-go-lucky youth's shoulders. "Listen to me; the Intercollegiates will be the last track meet of your college years, and unless you take first place in your event, you won't win your track B. Second, McQuade, of Hamilton, will do five-eight, and likely an inch higher, so to take first place, you, must do five-ten. You have trained and practiced faithfully this season, but no matter what I do, I _can't_ give you that needed two inches, and--" "I know it, Coach!" responded the chastened Hicks, throwing aside his lurid bathrobe determinedly, and exposing to the jeering students his splinter-frame. "Leave it to Hicks, I'll clear it this time, or--" "Not!" fleered Butch, whom Hicks' easy self-confidence never failed to arouse. "Hicks, listen to me, _I_ can tell you why you can't get two inches higher. The whole trouble with you is this; for almost four years you have led an indolent, butterfly, care-free existence, and now, when you must call on yourself for a special effort, you are too lazy! You can dear five-ten; you ought to do it, but you can't summon up the energy. I've lectured you all this time, for your heedless, easy-going ways, and now--you pay for your idle years!" "You said an encyclopedia, Butch!" agreed the Coach, with vigor. "If only something would just _make_ Hicks jump that high, if only he could do it once, and know it is in his power, he could do it in the Intercollegiates, aided by excitement and competition! Let something _scare_ him so that he will sail over five-ten, and--he will win his B. He has the energy, the build, the spring, and the form, but as you say, he is so easy-going and lazy, that his natural grass-hopper frame avails him naught." "Here I go!" announced Hicks, who, to an accompaniment of loud cheers from the stand, had been jogging up and down in that warming-up process known to athletes as the in place run, consisting of trying to dislocate one's jaw by bringing the knees, alternately, up against the chin. "Up and over--that's my slogan. Just watch Hicks." Starting at a distance of twenty yards from the high-jump standards, on which the cross-bar rested at five feet, ten inches, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who vastly resembled a grass-hopper, crept toward the jumping-pit, on his toe-spikes, as though hoping to catch the cross-bar off its guard. Advancing ten yards, he learned apparently that his design was discovered, so he started a loping gallop, turning to a quick, mad sprint, as though he attempted to jump over the bar before it had time to rise higher. With a beautiful take-off, a splendid spring--a quick, writhing twist in air, and two spasmodic kicks, the whole being known as the scissors form of high jump, the mosquito-like youth made a strenuous effort to clear the needed height, but--one foot kicked the cross-bar, and as Hicks fell flat on his back, in the soft landing-pit, the wooden rod, In derision, clattered down upon his anatomy. "Foiled again!" hissed Hicks, after the fashion of a "Ten-Twent'-Thirt'" melodrama-villain, while from the exuberant youths in the grandstand, who really wanted Hicks to clear the bar, but who jeered at his failure, nevertheless, sounded: "Hire a derrick, Hicks, and hoist yourself over the bar!" "Your _head_ is light enough--your feet weigh you down!" "'Crossing the Bar'--rendered by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!" "Going up! Go play checkers, Hicks, you ain't no athlete!" While the grinning, albeit chagrined T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., reposed gracefully on his back, staring up at the cross-bar, which someone kindly replaced on the pegs, big Butch Brewster, who seemed suddenly to have gone crazy, tried to attract Coach Brannigan's attention. Succeeding, Butch--usually a grave, serious Senior, winked, contorted his visage hideously, pointed at Hicks, and sibilated, "_Now_, Coach--now is your chance! Tell Hicks--" Tug Cardiff, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, Bunch Bingham, Buster Brown, Beef McNaughton, and Pudge Langdon, who had been attacked in a fashion similar to Butch's spasm, concealed grins of delight, and made strenuous efforts to appear guileless, as Track-Coach Brannigan approached T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. To that cheery youth, who was brushing the dirt from his immaculate track togs, and bowing to the cheering youths in the stand, the Coach spoke: "Hicks," he said sternly, "you need a cross-country jog, to get more strength and power in your limbs! Now, I am going to send the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade for a four-mile run, and you go with them. Oh, don't protest; they are all shot-putters and hammer-throwers, but Butch, and they can't run fast enough to give a tortoise a fast heat. Take 'em out two miles and back, Butch, and jog all the way; don't let 'em loaf! Off with you." The unsuspecting Hicks might have detected the nigger in the woodpile, had he not been so anxious to make five-ten in the high-jump. However, willing to jog with these behemoths, with whom even he could keep pace, so as to develop more jumping power, the blithesome youth cast aside his garish bathrobe, pranced about in what he fatuously believed was Ted Meredith's style, and howled: "Follow Hicks! All out for the Marathon--we're off! One--two--three--_go_!" With the excited, track squad, non-athletes, and the baseball crowd, which had ceased the game to watch the start, yelling, cheering, howling, and whistling, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drawing his knees up in exaggerated style at every stride, started to lead the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade on its cross-country run. Without wondering why Coach Brannigan had suddenly elected to send _him_ along with the hammer-throwers and shot-putters, on the jog, and not having seen the insane facial contortions of the Brigade, before the Coach gave orders, the gladsome Senior started forth in good spirits, resembling a tugboat convoying a fleet of battleships. "'Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! And over the country we go!'" warbled Hicks, as the squad left Bannister Field, and jogged across a green meadow. "'--O'er hill and dale, through valley and vale, Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho!'" "Save your wind, you insect!" growled Butch Brewster, with sinister significance that escaped the heedless Hicks, as the behemoth Butch, a two-miler, swung into the lead. "You'll _need_ it, you fish, before we get back to the campus! Not _too_ fast, you flock of human tortoises. You'll be crawling on hands and knees, if you keep that pace up long!" A mile and a half passed. Butch, at an easy jog, had led his squad over green pastures, up gentle slopes, and across a plowed field, by way of variety. At length, he left the road on which the pachydermic aggregation had lumbered for some distance, and turned up a long lane, leading to a farm-house. Back of it they periscoped an orchard, with cherry-trees, laden with red and white fruit, predominating. Also, floating toward the collegians on the balmy May air came an ominous sound: "Woof! Woof! Woof! Bow-wow-wow! Woof!" "Come on, fellows!" urged Butch Brewster. "We'll jog across old Bildad's orchard and seize some cherries--the old pirate can't catch us, for we are attired for sprinting. Don't they look good?" "Nothing stirring!" declared Hicks, slangily, but vehemently, as he stopped short in his stride. "Old Bildad has got a bulldog what am as big as the New York City Hall. He had it on the campus last month, you know! Not for mine! I don't go near that house, or swipe no cherries from his trees. If you wish to shuffle off this mortal coil, drive right ahead, but _I_ will await your return here." T, Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, dread of dogs, of all sizes, shapes, pedigrees, and breeds, was well known to old Bannister; hence, the Heavy-weights now jeered him unmercifully. Old "Bildad," as the taciturn recluse was called, who lived like a hermit and owned a rich farm, did own a massive bulldog, and a sight of his cruel jaws was a "No Trespass" sign. With great forethought, when cherries began to ripen, the farmer had brought Caesar Napoleon to the campus, exhibited him to the awed youths, and said, "My cherries be for _sale_, not to be _stole_!" which object lesson, brief as it was, to date, had seemed to have the desired effect. Yet--here was Butch proposing that they literally thrust their heads, or other portions of their anatomies, into the jaws of death! "Well," said Bunch Bingham at last, "I tell you what; we'll jog up to the house and ask old Bildad to _sell_ us some cherries; we can pay him when he comes to the campus with eggs to sell, Come along. Hicks, I'll beard the bulldog in his kennel." So, dragged along by the bulky hammer-throwers and shot-putters, the protesting T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in mortal terror of Caesar Napoleon, and the other canine guardians of old Bildad's property, progressed up the lane toward the house. "I got a hunch," said the reluctant Hicks, sadly, "that things ain't a-comin' out right! In the words of the immortal Somebody-Or-Other, 'This 'ere ain't none o' _my_ doin'; it's a-bein' thrust on me!' All right, my comrades, I'll be the innocent bystander, but heed me--look out for the bulldog!" CHAPTER XVI THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON The Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, towing the mosquito-like T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., advanced on the stronghold of old Bildad, so named because he was a pessimistic Job's comforter, like Bildad, the Shuhite, of old--like a flock of German spies reconnoitering Allied trenches. Hearing the house, with Butch and Beef holding the helpless, but loudly protesting Hicks, who would fain have executed what may mildly be termed a strategic retreat, big Tug Cardiff boldly marched, in close formation, toward the door, when the portal suddenly flew open. "Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Let go, Butch--there's the dog!" Amid ferocious howls from Caesar Napoleon, and alarmed protests from the paralyzed Hicks, who could not have run, with his wobbly knees, had he been set free by his captors, old Bildad, towed from the house by Caesar Napoleon, who strained savagely at the leash until his face bulged, burst upon the scene with impressive dramatic effect! It was difficult to decide, without due consideration, which was the more interesting. Bildad, a huge, gnarled old Viking, with matted gray hair, bushy eyebrows, a flowing beard, and leathery face, a fierce-looking giant, was appalling to behold, but so was Caesar Napoleon, an immense bulldog, cruel, bloodthirsty, his massive jaws working convulsively, his ugly fangs gleaming, as he set his great body against the leash, and gave evidence of a sincere desire to make free lunch of the Bannister youths. As Buster Brown afterward stated, "Neither one would take the booby prize at a beauty show, but at that, the bulldog had a better chance than Bildad!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., let it be recorded, could not have qualified as a judge, since his undivided attention was awarded to Caesar Napoleon! "What d'ye want round here, ye rapscallions?" demanded Bildad, courteously, holding the savage bulldog with one hand, and constructing a ponderous fist with the other, "_Hike_--git off'n my land, y'hear? _Git_, er Caesar Napoleon'll git holt o' them scanty duds ye got on!" "We want to--to buy some cherries, Mr.--Mr. Bildad!" explained Bunch Bingham, edging away nervously. "We won't steal any, honest, sir. Well pay you for them the very next time you come to the campus with milk and eggs." "Ho! Ho!" roared old Bildad, piratically, his colossal body shaking, "A likely tale, lads--an' when I come for my money, ye'll jeer me off the campus, an' tell me to whistle for it! Off my land--_git,_ an' don't let me cotch ye on it inside o' two minutes, or I'll let Caesar Napoleon make a meal off'n yer bones--_git_!" To express it briefly, they got. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., not standing on the order of his going, set off at a sprint that, while it might have caused Ted Meredith to lose sleep, also aroused in Caesar Napoleon an overwhelming desire to take out after the fugitive youth, so that Mr. Bildad was forced to exert his vast strength to hold the massive bulldog. Butch, Beef, Hefty, Tug, Buster, Bunch, Pudge, and Biff, a pachydermic crew, awed by Caesar Napoleon's bloodthirsty actions, jogged off in the wake of Hicks, who confidently expected to hear the bulldog giving tongue, on his trail, at every second. Another lane, making in from a road making a cross-roads with the one from which they came to Bildad's house, ran alongside the orchard for two hundred yards, inside the fence; at its end was a high roadgate. At what they decided was a safe distance from the "war zone," the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the latter forcibly restrained from widening the margin between him and peril, held a council on preparedness. "The old pirate!" stormed Butch Brewster, gazing back to where the vast figure of old Bildad, striding toward the house, towered. "We can't let him get away with that, fellows. I'll have some of his cherries now, or--" "No, no--_don't_, Butch!" chattered Hicks, whose dread of dogs amounted to an obsession. "He can still see us, and if you leave the lane, he will send Caesar Napoleon after us! Oh, _don't_--" But Butch Brewster, evidently wrathful at being balked, strode from the path, or lane, of virtue, toward a cherry-tree, whose red fruit hung temptingly low, and his example was followed by every one of the Brigade, leaving the terrified Hicks to wait in the lane, where, because of his alarm, he had no time to wonder at the bravado of his behemoth comrades. However, finding that Bildad had disappeared, and believing he had taken Caesar Napoleon into the house, the sunny Hicks, who was far from a coward otherwise, but who had an unreasonable dread of dogs, little or big, was about to wax courageous, and join his team-mates, when a wild shout burst from Pudge Langdon: "Run, fellows--_run_! Bildad's put the bulldog on us! Here comes--Caesar Napoleon--!" With a blood-chilling _"Woof! Woof!"_ steadily sounding louder, nearer, a streak of color shot across the orchard, from the house, toward the affrighted Brigade, while old Bildad's hoarse growl shattered the echoes with "Take 'em out o' here, Nap--chaw 'em up, boy!" For a startled second, the youths stared at the on-rushing body, shooting toward them through the orchard-grass at terrific speed, and then: "Run!" howled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., terror providing him with wings, as per proverb. Down the lane, at a pace that would have done credit to Barney Oldfield in his Blitzen Benz, the mosquito-like youth sprinted madly, and ever, closer, closer on his trail, sounded that awful "Woof! Woof!" from Caesar Napoleon, who, as Hicks well knew, was acting with full authority from Bildad! He heard, as he fled frantically, the excited shouts of his comrades. "Beat it, Hicks--he's right after you--run! Run!" "Jump the fence--he can't get you then--jump!" "He's right on your trail, Hicks--_sprint_, old man!" "Make the fence, old man--_jump_ it--and you're _safe_!" The terrible truth dawned on the frightened youth, as he desperately sprinted: the innocent bystander always gets hurt. He had protested against the theft of Bildad's cherries, and naturally, the bulldog had kept after _him_! But it was too late to stop, for the old adage was extremely appropriate, "He who hesitates is lost." He must _make_ that road-gate, and tumble over it, in some fashion, or be torn to shreds by Caesar Napoleon, the savage dog that the cruel Bildad had sent after the youths. Nearer loomed the road-gate, appallingly high. Closer sounded the panting breath of the ferocious Caesar Napoleon, and his incessant "Woof-woof!" became louder. It seemed to the desperate Hicks that the bulldog was at his heels, and every instant he expected to feel those sharp teeth take hold of his anatomy! Once, the despairing youth imitated Lot's wife and turned his head. He saw a body streaking after him, gaining at every jump, also he lost speed; so thereafter, he conscientiously devoted his every energy to the task in hand, that of making the gate, and getting over it, before Caesar Napoleon caught his quarry! At last, the road-gate, at least ten feet high, to Hicks' fevered imagination, came so close that a quick decision was necessary, for Caesar Napoleon, also, was in the same zone, and in a few seconds he would overhaul the fugitive. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., realizing that a second lost, perhaps, might prove fatal to his peace of mind, desperately resolved to dash at the gate, and jump; if he succeeded even in striking somewhere near the top, and falling over, he would not care, for the bulldog would not follow him off Bildad's land. From his comrades, far in the rear, came the chorus: "Jump, Hicks! He's right on your heels!" Like the immortal Light Brigade, Hicks had no time to reason about anything. His but to jump or be bitten summed up the situation. So, with a last desperate sprint, a quick dash, he left the ground--luckily, the earth was hard, giving him a solid take-off, and he got a splendid spring. As he arose In air, al! the training and practicing for form stayed with him, and instinctively he turned, writhed, and kicked-- For a fleeting second, he saw the top of the gate beneath his body, and he felt a thrill as he beheld twisted strands of barbed wire, cruel and jagged, across it; then, with a great sensation of joy, he knew that he had cleared the top, and a second later, he landed on the ground, in the country road, in a heap. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., that sunny-souled, happy-go-lucky, indolent youth, for once in his care-free campus career aroused to strenuous action, scrambled wildly to his feet, and forcibly realized the truth of Longfellow's, "And things are not-what they seem!" Instead of the ferocious, bloodthirsty bulldog, Caesar Napoleon, a huge, half-grown St. Bernard pup gamboled inside the gate, frisking about gleefully, and exhibiting, even so that Hicks, with all his innate dread of dogs, could understand it, a vast friendliness. In fact, he seemed trying to say, "That's fun. Come on and play with me some more!" "Hey, fellows," shrieked the relieved Hicks, "that ain't Caesar Napoleon! Why, he just wanted to play." Bewildered, the members of the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade of the Bannister College track squad rushed on the scene. To their surprise, they found not a savage bulldog, but a clumsy, good-natured St. Bernard puppy, who frisked wildly about them, groveled at their feet, and put his huge paws on them, with the playfulness of a juvenile elephant. "Why, it _isn't_ Nappie, for a fact!" gasped Butch. "Oh, I am so glad that old Bildad wasn't mean enough to put the bulldog after us, for he is dangerous. He scared us, though, and put this pup on our trail. He wanted to play, and he thought it all a game, when Hicks fled. Oho! What a joke on Hicks." "I don't care!" grinned Hicks, thus siding with the famous Eva Tanguay. "You fellows were fooled, too! You were too _scared_ to run, and if it had been Caesar Napoleon, I'd have saved your worthless lives by getting him after me! I'll bet Bildad is snickering now, the old reprobate! Why, Tug, are you _crazy_?" Tug Cardiff, indeed, gave indications of lunacy. He marched up to the road-gate, and stood close to it, so that the barbed wire top was even with his hair; then he backed off, and gazed first at the gate, then at the bewildered Hicks, while he grinned at the dazed squad in a Cheshire cat style. "Measure it, someone!" he shouted. "I am nearly six feet tall, and it comes even with the top of my dome! Can't you see, you brainless imbeciles, Hicks cleared it." "Wait for me here!" howled big Butch Brewster, climbing the fence and starting down the road at a pace that did credit even to that fast two-miler. The Brigade, In the absence of their leader, tried to estimate the height of the gate, and Hicks, gazing at its barbed-wire top, shuddered. The St. Bernard pup, having caused T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., for once in his indolent life to exert every possible ounce of energy in his splinter-frame, groveled at his feet, and strove to express his boundless joy at their presence. Butch Brewster, in fifteen minutes, returned, panting and perspiring, bearing a tape-measure, borrowed at the next farm-house. With all the solemnity of a sacred rite being performed, the youths waited, as Butch and Tug, holding the tape taut, carefully measured from the ground to the top of the barbed wire on the gate. Three times they did this, and then, with an expression of gladness on his honest countenance, Butch hugged the dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while Tug Cardiff howled, "Now for the Intercollegiates and your track B, Hicks! You _can_ do five-ten in the meet, for Coach Brannigan said you could dear it, if only you did it _once_." "Why--what do you mean, Tug?" quavered Hicks, not daring to allow himself to believe the truth. "You--you surely don't mean--" "I mean, that now you _know_ you can jump that high," boomed Tug, executing a weird dance of exultation, In which, the Brigade joined, until it resembled a herd of elephants gone insane, "for you have done it--allowing for the sag, and everything, that gate is just five feet, ten inches high, and--_you cleared it_!" "Ladies and gentlemen--Hicks, of Bannister, is about to high jump! Hicks and McQuade, of Hamilton, are tied for first place at five feet eight inches! McQuade has failed three times at five-ten! Hicks' third and last trial! Height of bar--five feet ten inches!" This time, however, it was not big Tug Cardiff, imitating a Ballyhoo Bill, and inciting the Bannister youths to hilarity at the expense of the sunny-souled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; it was the Official Announcer at the Annual State Intercollegiate Field and Track Championships, on Bannister Field, and his announcement aroused a tumult of excitement in the Bannister section of the stands, as well as among the Gold and Green cinder-path stars. "Come on, Hicks, old man!" urged Butch Brewster, who, with a dozen fully as excited comrades of the cheery Hicks, surrounded that splinter-athlete. "It's positively your last chance to win your track B, or your letter in any sport, and please your Dad! If they lower the bar, and you two jump off the tie, McQuade's endurance will bring him out the winner." "You _can_ clear five-ten!" encouraged Bunch Bingham. "You did it once, when you believed Caesar Napoleon was after you. Just summon up that much energy now, and clear that bar! Once over, the event and your letter are won! Oh, if we only had that bulldog here, to sick on you." Sad to chronicle, the score-board of the Intercollegiates recorded the results of the events, so far, thus: HAMILTON ............35 BALLARD .............20 BANNISTER ...........28 It was the last event, and even did Hicks win the high-jump, McQuade's second place would easily give old Ham. the Championship. Hence, knowing that victory was not booked for an appearance on the Gold and Green banners, the Bannister youths, wild for the lovable, popular Hicks to win his Bs vociferously pulled for him: "Come on, Hicks--up and over, old man--it's _easy_!" "Jump, you Human Grass-Hopper--you can do it!" "Now or never, Hicks! One big jump does the work!" "Sick Caesar Napoleon on him, Coach; he'll clear it then!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., casting aside that flamboyant bathrobe, for what he believed was the last athletic event of his campus career, stood gazing at the cross-bar. One superhuman effort, a great explosion of all his energy, such as he had executed when he cleared the gate, thinking Caesar Napoleon was after him, and the event was won! He _had_ cleared that height, it was within his power. If he failed, as Butch said, the bar would be lowered, and then raised until one or the other missed once. McQuade, with his superior strength and endurance, must inevitably win, but as he had just missed on his third trial at five-ten, if Hicks cleared that height on _his_ final chance, the first place was his. "And my B!" murmured Hicks, tensing his muscles. "Oh, won't my Dad be happy? It will help him to realize some of his ambition, when I show him my track letter! It is positively my last chance, and I _must_ clear it." With a vast wave of determined confidence inundating his very being, Hicks started for the bar; after those first, peculiar, creeping steps, he had just started his gallop, when he heard Tug Cardiff's _basso_, magnified by a megaphone, roared: "All together, fellows--_let 'er go_--" Then, just as Hicks dug his spikes into the earth, in that short, mad sprint that gives the jumper his spring, just as he reached the take-off, a perfect explosion of noise startled him, and he caught a sound that frightened him, tensed as he was: "Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Woof! Woof! Look out, Hicks, Caesar Napoleon is after you!" Psychology Is inexplicable. Ever afterward, Hicks' comrades of that cross-country run averred strenuously that their roaring through megaphones, in concert, imitating Caesar Napoleon's savage bark at the psychological moment, flung the mosquito-like youth clear of the cross-bar and won him the event and his B. Hicks, however, as fervidly denied this statement, declaring that he would have won, anyhow, because he had summoned up the determination to do it! So it can not be stated just what bearing on his jump the plot of Butch Brewster really had. In truth, that behemoth had entertained a wild idea of actually hiring old Bildad and Caesar Napoleon to appear at the moment Hicks started for his last trial, but this weird scheme was abandoned! Fifteen minutes later, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had escaped from the riotous Bannister students, delirious with joy at the victory of the beloved youth, the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade, capturing the grass-hopper Senior, gave him a shock second only to that which he had experienced when first he believed Caesar Napoleon was on his trail. "Perhaps our barking didn't make you jump it!" said Beef McNaughton, when Hicks indignantly denied that he had been scared over the cross-bar, "but indirectly, old man, we helped you to win! If we had not put up a hoax on you--" "A _hoax_?" queried the surprised Hicks. "What do you mean--hoax?" "It was all a frame-up!" grinned Butch Brewster, triumphantly. "We paid old Bildad five dollars to play his part, and as an actor, he has Booth and Barrymore backed off the stage! We got Coach Brannigan to send you along with us on the cross-country jog, and your absurd dread of dogs, Hicks, made it easy! Bildad, per instructions, produced Caesar Napoleon, and scared you. Then, with a telescope, he watched us, and when I gave the signal, he let loose Bob, the harmless St. Bernard pup, on our trail. "The pup, as he always does, chased after strangers, ready to play. We yelled for you to run, and you were so _scared_, you insect, you didn't wait to see the dog. Even when you looked back, in your alarm, you didn't know it was not Caesar Napoleon, for his grim visage was seared on your brain--I mean, where your brain ought to be! And even had you seen it wasn't the bulldog, you would have been frightened, all the same. But I confess, Hicks, when you sailed over that high gate, it was one on _us_." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drew a deep breath, and then a Cheshire cat grin came to his cherubic countenance. So, after all, it had been a hoax; there had not been any peril. No wonder these behemoths had so courageously taken the cherries! But, beyond a doubt, the joke _had_ helped him to win his B. It had shown him he could clear five feet, ten inches, for he had done it--and, in the meet, when the crucial moment came, the knowledge that he _had_ jumped that high, and, therefore, could do it, helped--where the thought that he never had cleared it would have dragged him down. He had at last won his B, a part of his beloved Dad's great ambition was realized, and-- "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth that sunny-souled, irrepressible youth, swaggering a trifle, "It was my mighty will-power, my terrific determination, that took me over the cross-bar, and not--_not_ your imitation of--" "Woof! Woof! Woof!" roared the "Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade" in thunderous chorus. "Sick him--Caesar Napoleon--!" CHAPTER XVII HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY "Come on, Butch! Atta boy--some fin, old top! Say, you Beef--you're asleep at the switch. What time do you want to be called? More pep there, Monty--bust that little old bulb, Roddy! Aw, rotten! _Say_, Ballard, your playing will bring the Board of Health down on you--why don't you bring your first team out? Umpire? What--do you call that an umpire? Why, he's a highway robber, a bandit. Put a 'Please Help the Blind' sign on that hold-up artist!" Big Butch Brewster, captain of the Bannister College baseball squad, navigating down the third-floor corridor of Bannister Hall, the Senior dormitory, laden with suitcases, bat-bags, and other impedimenta, as Mr. Julius Caesar says, and vastly resembling a bell-hop in action, paused in sheer bewilderment on the threshold of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cozy room. "Hicks!" stormed the bewildered Butch, wrathfully, "what in the name of Sam Hill _are_ you doing? Are you crazy, you absolutely insane lunatic? This is a study-hour, and even if _you_ don't possess an intellect, some of the fellows want to exercise their brains an hour or so! Stop that ridiculous action." The spectacle Butch Brewster beheld was indeed one to paralyze that pachydermic collegian, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the sunny-souled, irrepressible Senior, danced madly about on the tiger-skin rug in midfloor, evidently laboring under the delusion that he was a lunatical Hottentot at a tribal dance; he waved his arms wildly, like a signaling brakeman, or howled through a big megaphone, and about his toothpick structure was strung his beloved banjo, on which the blithesome youth twanged at times an accompaniment to his jargon: "Come on, Skeet, take a lead (_plunkety-plunk_!) Say, d'ye wanta marry first base--divorce yourself from that sack! (_plunk-plunk_!) _Oh_, you bonehead--steal--you won't get arrested for it! Hi! Yi! _Ouch_, Butch! Oh, I'll be good--" At this moment, the indignant Butch abruptly terminated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, noisy monologue by seizing that splinter-youth firmly by the scruff of the neck and forcibly hurling him on the davenport. Seeing his loyal class-mate's resemblance to a Grand Central Station baggage-smasher, the irrepressible Senior forthwith imitated a hotel-clerk: "Front!" howled the grinning Hicks, to an imaginary bellboy, "Show this gentleman to Number 2323! Are you alone, sir, or just by yourself? I think you will like the room-it faces on the coal-chute, and has hot and cold folding-doors, and running water when the roof leaks! The bed is made once a week, regularly, and--" "Hicks, you Infinitesimal Atom of Nothing!" growled big Butch, ominously. "What were you doing, creating all that riot, as I came down the corridor? What's the main idea, anyway, of--" "Heed, friend of my campus days," chortled the graceless Hicks, keeping a safe distance from his behemoth comrade, "tomorrow-your baseball aggregation plays Ballard College, at that knowledge-factory, for the Championship of the State. Because nature hath endowed me with the Herculean structure of a Jersey mosquito, I am developing a 56-lung-power voice, and I need practice, as _I_ am to be the only student-rooter at the game tomorrow! Q.E.D.! And as for any Bannister student, except perhaps Theophilus Opperdyke and Thor, desiring to investigate the interiors of their lexicons tonight, I prithee, just periscope the campus." "I guess you are right, Hicks!" grinned Butch Brewster, as he looked from the window, down on an indescribably noisy scene. "For once, your riotous tumult went unheard. Say, get your traveling-bag ready, and leave that pestersome banjo behind, if you want to go with the nine!" Several members of the Gold and Green nine, embryo American and National League stars, roosted on the Senior Fence between the Gymnasium and the Administration Building, with, suitcases and bat-bags on the grass. In a few minutes old Dan Flannagan's celebrated jitney-bus would appear in the offing, coming to transport the Bannister athletes downtown to the station, for the 9 P.M. express to Philadelphia. Incited by Cheer-Leaders Skeezicks McCracken and Snake Fisher, several hundred youths encouraged the nine, since, because of approaching final exams., they were barred by Faculty order from accompanying the team to Ballard. In thunderous chorus they chanted: "One more Job for the undertaker! More work for the tombstone maker! In the local ceme_tery_, they are very--very--_very_ Busy on a brand-new grave for--Ballard!" As the lovable Hicks expressed it, "'Coming events cast their shadows before.' Commencement overshadows our joyous campus existence!" However, no Bannister acquaintance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., could detect wherein the swiftly approaching final separation from his Alma Mater had affected in the least that happy-go-lucky, care-free, irrepressible youth. If anything, it seemed that Hicks strove to fight off thoughts of the end of his golden campus years, using as weapons his torturesome saengerfests, his Beefsteak Busts down at Jerry's, and various other pastimes, to the vast indignation of his good friend and class-mate, Butch Brewster, who tried futilely to lecture him into the proper serious mood with which Seniors must sail through Commencement! "You are a Senior, Hicks, a Senior!" Butch would explain wrathfully. "You are popularly supposed to be dignified, and here you persist in acting like a comedian in a vaudeville show! I suppose you intend to appear on the stage, and, when handed your sheepskin, respond by twanging your banjo and roaring a silly ballad." Yet, the cheery Hicks had been very busy, since that memorable day when, thanks to Caesar Napoleon and the hoax of the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade of the track squad, he had cleared the cross-bar at five-ten, and won the event and his white B! Mr. T. Haviland Hicks, Sr., overjoyed at his son's achievement, had sent him a generous check, which the youth much needed, and had promised to be present at the annual Athletic Association Meeting, at Commencement, when the B's were awarded deserving athletes, which caused Hicks as much joy as the pink slip. With his final study sprint for the Senior Finals, his duties as team-manager of the baseball nine, his preparations for Commencement, his social duties at the Junior Prom., and multifarious other details coincident to graduation, the heedless Hicks had not found time to be sorrowful at the knowledge that it soon would end, forever, that he must say "Farewell, Alma Mater," and leave the campus and corridors of old Bannister; yet soon even Hicks' ebullient spirits must fail, for Commencement was a trifle over a week off. "Hicks, you lovable, heedless, irrepressible wretch," said Big Butch, affectionately, as the two class-mates thrilled at the scene. "Does it penetrate that shrapnel-proof concrete dome of yours that the Ballard game tomorrow is the final athletic contest of my, and likewise your, campus career at old Bannister?" "Similar thoughts has smote my colossal intellect, Butch!" responded the bean-pole Hicks, gladsomely. "But--why seek to overshadow this joyous scene with somber reflections? You-should-worry. You have annexed sufficient B's, were they different, to make up an alphabet. You've won your letter on gridiron, track, and baseball field, and you've been team-captain of everything twice! Why, therefore, sheddest thou them crocodile tears?" "Not for myself, thou sunny-souled idler!" announced Butch, generously, "But for _thee_! I prithee, since you pritheed me a few moments hence, let that so-called colossal intellect of yours stride back along the corridors of Time, until it reaches a certain day toward the close of our Freshman year. Remember, you had made a hilarious failure of every athletic event you tried-football, basketball, track, and baseball; you had just made a tremendous farce of the Freshman-Sophomore track meet, and to me, your loyal comrade, you uttered these rash words, 'Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!' "I reiterate and repeat, tomorrow's game with Ballard is the last chance you will have. There is no possibility that you, with your well-known lack of baseball ability, will get in the game, and--your track B, won in the high-jump, is the only B you have won! Now, do you still maintain that you will make good that rash vow?" "'Where there's a will, there's a way.' 'Never say die.' 'While there's life, there's hope.' 'Don't give up the ship.' 'Fight to the last ditch.' 'In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as _fail_,'" quoth the irrepressible Hicks, all in a breath. "As long as there is an infinitesimal fraction of a chance left, I repeat, just leave it to Hicks!" "You haven't got a chance in the world!" Butch assured him, consolingly. "You did manage to get into one football game, for a minute, and you were a 'Varsity player that long. By sticking to it, you have won your track B in the high-jump, thanks to your grass-hopper build, and we rejoice at your reward! Your Dad is happy that you've won a B, so why not be sensible, and cease this ridiculous talk of winning your B in _three_ sports, when you can see it is preposterously out of the question, absolutely impossible--" It was not that Butch. Brewster did not _want_ his sunny classmate to win his B in three sports, or that he would have failed to rejoice at Hicks' winning the triple honor. Had such a thing seemed within the bounds of possibility, Butch, big-hearted and loyal, would have been as happy as Hicks, or his Dad. But what the behemoth athlete became wrathful at was the obviously lunatical way in which the cheery Hicks, now that his college years were almost ended, parrot-like repeated, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" when he must know all hope was dead. In truth, T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., in pretending to maintain still that he would make good the rash vow of his Freshman year, had no purpose but to arouse his comrade's indignation; but Butch, serious of nature, believed there really lurked in Hicks' system some germs of hope. "We never know, old top!" chuckled Hicks, though he was _sure_ he could never fulfill that promise, as he had not played three-fourths of a season on both the football and the baseball teams, "Something may show up at the last minute, and--" At that moment, something evidently did show up, on the campus below, for the enthusiastic students howled in: thunderous chorus, as the "Honk! Honk!" of a Claxon was heard, "Here he comes! All together, fellows--the Bannister yell for the nine--then for good old Dan Flannagan!" As Hicks and Butch watched from the window, old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, to the discordant blaring of a horn, progressed up the driveway, even as it had done on that night in September, when it transported to the campus T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. Amid salvos of applause from the Bannister youths, and blasts of the Claxon, old Dan brought "The Dove" to a stop before the Senior Fence, and bowed to the nine, grinning genially the while. "The car waits at the door, sir!" spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., touching his cap after the fashion of an English butler, before seizing a bat-bag, and his suit-case. "As team manager, I must attempt to force into Skeet Wigglesworth's dome how he and the five subs, are to travel on the C. N. & Q., to Eastminster, from Baltimore. Come on, Butch, we're off--" "You are always off!" commented Butch, good-humoredly, as he seized his baggage and followed the mosquito-like Hicks from the room, downstairs, and out on the campus. Here the assembled youths, with yells, cheers, and songs sandwiched between humorous remarks to Dan Flannagan, watched the thrilling spectacle of the Gold and Green nine, with the Team Manager and five substitutes, fifteen in all, squeeze into and atop of Dan Flannagan's jitney-Ford. "Let me check you fellows off," said Hicks, importantly, peering into the jitney, for he, as Team Manager, had to handle the traveling expenses. "Monty Merriweather, Roddy Perkins, Biff Pemberton. Butch Brewster, Skeet Wigglesworth, Beef McNaughton, Cherub Challoner, Ichabod Crane, Don Carterson; that is the regular nine, and are you five subs, present? O. K. Skeet, climb out here a second." Little Skeet Wigglesworth, the brilliant short-stop, climbed out with exceeding difficulty, and facing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., he saluted in military fashion. The team manager, consulting a timetable of the C. N. &.Q. railroad, fixed him with a stern look. "Skeet," he spoke distinctly, "now, _get this_--myself and eight regulars, _nine_ in all, will take the 9 P. M. express for Philadelphia, and stay there all night. Tomorrow, at 8 A. M., we leave Broad Street Station for Eastminster, arriving at 11 A. M. _Now_ I have a lot of unused mileage on the C. N. & Q., and I want to use it up before Commencement. So, heed: you want to go _via_ Baltimore, to see your parents. You take the 9.20 P. M. express tonight, to Baltimore, and go from that city in the morning, to Eastminster, on the C. N, & Q.--it's the only road. And take the five subs with you, to devour the mileage. Now, has that penetrated thy bomb-proof dome?" "_Sure;_ you don't have to deliver a Chautauqua lecture, Hicks!" grinned Skeet. "Say, what time does my train leave Baltimore, in the A.M., for Eastminster?" "Let's see." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., handing the mileage-books to the shortstop, focused his intellect on the C. N. & Q. timetable. "Oh, yes--you leave Union Station, Baltimore, at 7:30 A.M., arriving at Eastminster at noon; _it is the only train, you can get,_ to make it in time for the game, so remember the hour--7.30 A.M.! Here, stuff the timetable in your pocket." In a few moments, the team and substitutes had been jammed into old Dan Flannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus concentrated their interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning _à la_ Cheshire cat, climbed atop of "The Dove," which old Dan was having as much trouble to start as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late Lord Nelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a Louisville Slugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks at the irrepressible youth: "Home-run Hicks--he made a home-run--_on a strike-out_!"--"Put Hicks in the game, Captain Butch--he will win it."--"Watch Hicks--he'll pull some _bonehead_ play!"--"Bring home the Championship, but--lose Hicks somewhere!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the battered engine of the jit. yielded to old Dan's cranking, and kindly consented to start, surveyed the yelling students, seized a bat, and struck an attitude which he fatuously believed was that of Ty Cobb, about to make a hit; taking advantage of a lull in the tumult, the lovable youth howled at the hilarious crowd: "Just leave it to Hicks! I will win the game and the _Championship_, for my Alma Mater, and--I'll do it by my headwork!" CHAPTER XVIII T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR'S. HEADWORK "Play Ball! Say, Bannister, are you _afraid_ to play?" "Call the game, Mr. Ump.--make 'em play ball!" "Batter up! Forfeit the game to Ballard, Umpire!" "Lend 'em Ballard's bat-boy-to make a full nine!" Captain Butch Brewster, his honest countenance, as a moving-picture director would express it, "registering wrathful dismay," lumbered toward the Ballard Field concrete dug-out, in which the Gold and Green players had entrenched themselves, while from the stands, the Ballard cohorts vociferated their intense impatience at the inexplicable delay. "We have _got_ to play," he raged, striding up and down before the bench. "The game is ten minutes late now, and the crowd is restless! And here we have only _eight_ 'Varsity players, and no one to make the ninth--not even a sub.! Oh, I could--" "That brainless Skeet Wigglesworth!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who, arrayed like a lily of the field, reposed his splinter-structure on the bench with his comrades. "In some way, he managed to _miss_ that train from Baltimore! They didn't come on the noon C, N. & Q. train, and there isn't another one until night. My directions were as plain as a German war-map, and it beats me how Skeet got befuddled!" Gloom, as thick and abysmal as a London fog, hovered over the Bannister dug-out. On the concrete bench, the seven Gold and Green athletes, Beef, Monty, Roddy, Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, with Team Manager T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., stared silently at Captain Butch Brewster, who seemed in imminent peril of exploding. Something probably never before heard of in the annals of athletic history had happened. Bannister College, about to play Ballard the big game for the State Championship, had lost a short-stop and five substitutes, in some unfathomable manner, and it was impossible to round up one other member of the Gold and Green baseball squad. True, a hundred loyal alumni were in the stands, but only _bona fide_ students, of course, were eligible to play the game, and--the Faculty ruling had kept them at old Bannister! "Here comes Ballard's Manager," spoke Beef McNaughton, as a brisk, clean-cut youth advanced, a yellow envelope in hand. "Why, he has a telegram. Do you suppose Skeet actually had _brains_ enough to wire an explanation?" "Telegram for Captain Brewster!" announced the Ballard collegian, giving the message to that surprised behemoth. "It was sent in my care--collect, and the sender, name of Wigglesworth, fired one to me personally, telling me to deliver this one to Captain Butch Brewster, and collect from Team Manager Hicks--he surely didn't bother to save money! I've been out of town, and just got back to the campus; of course, the telegrams could not be delivered to anyone but me, hence the delay." Big Butch, thanking the Ballard Team Manager, and assuring him that the charges he had paid would be advanced to him after the game, ripped open the yellow envelope, and drew out the message. Like a thunder-storm gathering on the horizon, a dark expression came to good Butch's countenance, and when he had perused the lengthy telegram, he transfixed the startled and bewildered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with an angry glare: "_Bonehead_!" he raged, apparently controlling himself with a superhuman effort. "Oh, you lunatic, you wretch, villain--you--_you_--" To the supreme amazement and dismay of the puzzled Hicks, Beef, next in line, after _he_ had scanned Skeet's telegram, followed Butch's example, for _he_ glowered at the perturbed youth, and heaped condemnations on his devoted head. And so on down the line on the bench, until Monty, Roddy, Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, reading the message, joined in gazing indignantly at their gladsome Team Manager, who, as the eight arose _en masse_ and advanced on him, sought to flee the wrath to come. "Safety first!" quoth T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. "'Mine not to reason why, mine but to haste and fly,' or--be crushed! Ouch! Beef, Monty--have a heart!" Captured by Beef and Monty Merriweather, as he frantically scrambled up the steps of the concrete dug-out, the grinning Hicks was held in the firm grasp of that behemoth, Butch Brewster, aided by the skyscraper Ichabod, while Cherub Challoner thrust the telegram before his eyes. In words of fire that burned themselves into his brain--something his colleagues denied he possessed--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the explanation of Skeet Wigglesworth's missing the train from Baltimore that A. M. Dazed, the sunny youth read the message on which over-charges must be paid: "Hicks--you bonehead! The time-table of the C.N. & Q. you gave me was an old one--schedule revised two weeks ago! Train now leaves Balto. at 6.55 A.M.! When we got to station at 7.05 A.M. she had went! No train to Ballard till night! I and subs, had to wire Bannister for money to get back on! You mis-manager--the _head-work_ you boasted of is boneheadwork! Pay the charges on this, you brainless insect! I'll send it to Butch, for you'd never show it to him if I sent it to you! Indignantly-- "SKEET." "_Mis_-manager is _right_!" seethed Captain Butch, for once in his campus career really wrathy at the lovable Hicks. "We are in a fix--eight players, and the crowd howling for the game to start. Oh, I could jump overboard, and drag you with me!" "Bonehead! Bonehead!" chorused the Gold and Green players, indignantly. "Gave Skeet an out-of-date time-table--never looked at the date! Let's drag him out before the crowd, and announce to them his brilliant headwork!" Captain Butch, "up against it," to employ a slightly slang expression, gazed across Ballard Field. In the stands, the students responding thunderously to their cheer-leaders' megaphoned requests, roared, "Play ball! Play ball! Play ball!" Gay pennants and banners fluttered in the glorious sunshine of the June day. It was a bright scene, but its glory awakened no happiness in the heart of the Bannister leader, as his gaze wandered to the somewhat flabbergasted expression on the cheery Hicks' face. That inevitably sunny youth, however, managed to conjure up a faint resemblance of his Cheshire cat grin, and following his usual habit of letting nothing daunt his gladsome spirit, he croaked feebly: "Oh, just leave it to Hicks! I will--" "Play the game!" thundered Butch, inspired. "Beef, see the umpire and say we'll be ready as soon as we get Hicks into togs-show him the telegram, and explain our delay! I'll shift Monty from the outfield to Skeet's job at short, and put this diluted imitation of something human in the field, to do his worst. Come to the field-house, you poor fish--" "Oh, Butch, I can't--I just _can't_!" protested the alarmed Hicks, helpless, as the big athlete towed him from the trench, "I--I can't play ball, and I don't want to be shown up before all that mob! It's all right at Bannister, in class-games, but--Oh, can't you play the game with _eight_ fellows?" "That is just what we intend to do!" said Butch, with grim humor. "But--we'll have a dummy in the ninth position, to make the people believe we have a full nine! Cheer up, Hicks--'In the bright lexicon of youth there ain't no such word as fail,' you say! As for your making a fool of yourself, you haven't brains enough to be classed as one! Now--you'll pay dearly for your bonehead play." Ten minutes later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as agitated as a _prima donna_ making her début with the Metropolitan: Opera Company, decorated the Bannister bench, arrayed in one of the substitutes' baseball suits. It was too large for his splinter-structure, so that it flapped grotesquely, giving him a startling resemblance to a scarecrow escaped from a cornfield. With the thermometer of his spirits registering zero, the dismayed youth, whose punishment was surely fitting the crime, heard the Umpire bellow: "Play ball! Batter up! Bannister at bat--Ballard in the field!" Hicks, that sunny-souled youth, had often daydreamed of himself in a big game of baseball, for his college. He had vividly imagined a ninth inning crisis, three of the enemy on base, two out, and a long fly, good for a home-run, soaring over his head. How he had sprinted--back--back--and at the last second, reached high in the air, grabbing the soaring spheroid, and saving the game for his Alma Mater! Often, too, he had stepped up to bat in the final frame, with two out, one on base, and Bannister a run behind. With the vast crowd silent and breathless, he had walloped the ball, over the left-field fence, and jogged around the bases, thrilling to the thunderous cheers of his comrades. But now-- _"Oooo!"_ shivered Hicks, as though he had just stepped beneath an icy shower-bath. "I wish I could run away. I just _know_ they'll knock every ball to me, and I couldn't catch one with a sheriff and posse!" However, since, despite the blithesome Hicks' lack of confidence, it was that sunny Senior, after all, whom fate--or fortune, accordingly as each nine viewed it--destined to be the hero of the Bannister-Ballard Championship baseball contest, the game itself is shoved into such insignificance that it can be briefly chronicled by recording the events that led up to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, self-prophesied "head-work." Without Skeet Wigglesworth at shortstop, with the futile Hicks in right-field, and the confidence of the nine shaken, Captain Butch Brewster and the Gold and Green players went into the big game, unable to shake off the feeling that they would be defeated. And when Pitcher Don Carterson, in his half of the frame, passed the first two Ballard batters, the belief deepened to conviction. However, a fast double play and a long fly ended the inning without damage, and Bannister, likewise, had failed to make an impression on the score-board. In the second, Don promptly showed that he was striving to rival the late Cy Morgan, of the Athletics, for he promptly hit two batters and passed the third, whereupon, as sporting-writers express it, he was "derricked" by Captain Butch. Placing the deposed twirler in left field, Captain Brewster, as a last resort, believing the game hopelessly lost, with his star pitcher having failed, and his relief slabmen, thanks to Hicks, mislaid _en route_, sent out to the box one Ichabod Crane, brought in from the position given to Don Carterson. This cadaverous, skyscraper Senior, who always announced, himself as originating, "Back at Bedwell Center, Pa., where I come from--" was well known to fame as the "Champion Horse-Shoe Pitcher of Bucks County," but his baseball pitching was rather uncertain; like the girl in the nursery jingle, Ichabod, as a twirler, "When he was good, he was very, very good, and when he was wild, he was _horrid_!" Like Christy Mathewson, after he had pitched a few balls, he knew whether or not he was in shape for the game, and so did the spectators. With terrific speed and bewildering curves, Ichabod would have made a star, but his wildness prevented, and only on very rare days could he control the ball. Luckily for old Bannister's chances of victory and the Championship, this was one of the elongated Ichabod's rare days. He ambled into the box, with the bases full, and promptly struck out a batter. The next rolled to first, forcing out the runner at home, while the third hitter under Ichabod's régime drove out a long fly to center-field. Thus the game settled to one of the most memorable contests that Ballard Field had ever witnessed, a pitchers' battle between the awkward, bean-pole youth from "Bedwell Center, Pa.," and Bob Forsythe, the crack Ballard twirler. It was a fight long to be remembered, with hits as scarce as auks' eggs, and runs out of the reckoning, for six innings. At the start of the seventh, with the Ballard rooters standing and thundering, "The lucky seventh! Ballard--win the game in the lucky seventh!" the score was 0-0. Only two hits had been made off Forsythe, of Ballard, whose change of pace had the Bannister nine at his mercy, and but three off Ichabod, who had superb control of his dazzling speed. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., cavorting in right field, had made the only error of the contest, dropping an easy fly that fell into his hands after he had run bewilderedly in circles, when any good fielder could have stood still and captured it; however, since he got the ball to second in time to hold the runner at third, no harm resulted. "Hold 'em, Bannister, _hold_ 'em!" entreated Butch Brewster, as they went to the field at their end of the lucky seventh, not having scored. "Do your best, Hicks, old man--never mind their Jokes. If you can't _catch_ the ball, just get it to second, or first, without delay! Pitch ball, Ichabod--three innings to hold 'em!" But it was destined to be the lucky seventh for Ballard. An error on a hard chance, for Roddy Perkins, at third, placed a runner on first. Ichabod struck out a hitter, and the runner stole second, aided somewhat by the umpire. The next player flew out, sacrificing the runner to third; then--an easy fly traveled toward the paralyzed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one that anybody with the most infinitesimal baseball ability could have corralled, as Butch said, "with his eyes blindfolded, and his hands tied behind him!" But Hicks, who possessed absolutely _no_ baseball talent, though he made a desperate try, succeeded in doing an European juggling act for five heartbreaking seconds, after which he let the law of gravity act on the sphere, so that it descended to terra firma. Hence, the "Lucky Seventh" ended with the score: Ballard, 1; Bannister, 0; and the Ballard cohorts in a state bordering on lunacy! "Oh, I've done it now--I've lost the game and the Championship!" groaned the crushed Hicks, as he stumbled toward the Bannister bench. "First I made that bonehead play, giving Skeet an old time-table I had on hand, and not telling him to get one at the station. How was _I_ to know the old railroad would change the schedule, within two weeks of this game? And now--I've made the error that gives Ballard the Championship. If I hadn't pulled that boner, Skeet would be here, and the regular right-fielder would have had that fly. What a glorious climax to my athletic career at old Bannister!" Hicks' comrades were too generous, or heartbroken, to condemn the sorrowful youth, as he trailed to the dug-out, but the Ballard rooters had absolutely no mercy, and they panned him in regulation style. In fact, all through the game, Hicks expressed himself as being butchered by the fans to make a Ballard holiday, for he struck out with unfailing regularity at bat, and dropped everything in the field, so that the rooters jeered him, whenever he stepped to the plate, and--it was quite different from the good-natured ridicule of his comrades, back at old Bannister. "Never mind, Hicks," said good Butch Brewster, brokenly, seeing how sorrow-stricken his sunny classmate was, "We'll beat 'em--yet! We bat this inning, and in the ninth maybe someone will knock a home-run for us, and tie the score." The eighth Inning was the lucky one for the Gold and Green. Monty Merriweather opened with a clean two-base hit to left, and advanced to third on Biff Pemberton's sacrifice to short. Butch, trying to knock a home-run, struck out-_à la_ "Cactus" Cravath in the World's Series; but the lanky Ichabod, endeavoring to bunt, dropped a Texas-Leaguer over second, and the score was tied, though the sky-scraper twirler was caught off base a moment later. And, though Ballard fought hard in the last of the eighth, Ichabod displayed big-league speed, and retired two hitters by the strike-out route, while the third popped out to first. "The _ninth_ Inning!" breathed Beef McNaughton, picking up his Louisville Slugger, as he strode to the plate. "Come on, boys--we will win the Championship _right now_. Get one run, and Ichabod will hold Ballard one more time!" Perhaps the pachydermic Beef's grim attitude unnerved the wonderful Bob Forsythe, for he passed that elephantine youth. However, he regained his splendid control, and struck out Cherub Challoner on three pitched balls. After this, it was a shame to behold the Ballard first-baseman drop the ball, when Don Carterson grounded to third, and would have been thrown out with ease--with two on base, and one out, Roddy Perkins made a sharp single, on which the two runners advanced a base. Now, with the sacks filled, and with only one out-- "It's all over!" mourned Captain Butch Brewster, rocking back and forth on the bench. "Hicks--is--at--bat!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his bat wobbling, and his knees acting in a similar fashion, refusing to support even that fragile frame, staggered toward the plate, like a martyr. A tremendous howl of unearthly joy went up from the stands, for Hicks had struck out every time yet. "Three pitched balls, Bob!" was the cry. "Strike him out! It's all over but the shouting! He's scared to death, Forsythe--he can't hit a barn-door with a scatter-gun! One--two--three--out! Here's where Ballard wins the Championship." Twice the grinning Bob Forsythe cut loose with blinding speed--twice the extremely alarmed Hicks dodged back, and waved a feeble Chautauqua salute at the ball he never even saw! Then--trying to "cut the inside corner" with a fast inshoot, Forsythe's control wavered a trifle, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the ball streaking toward him! The paralyzed youth felt like a man about to be shot by a burglar. He could feel the bail thud against him, feel the terrific shock; and yet--a thought instinctively flashed on him, he remembered, in a flash, what a tortured Monty Merriweather had shouted, as he wobbled to bat: "Get a base on balls, or--if you can't _make_ a hit--_get hit_!" If he got hit--it meant a run forced in, as the bases were full! That, in all probability, would give old Bannister the Championship, for Ichabod was invincible. It is not likely that the dazed Hicks thought all this out, and weighed it against the agony of getting hit by Forsythe's speed. The truth is, the paralyzed youth was too petrified by fear to dodge, and that before he could avoid it, the speeding spheroid crashed against his noble brow with a sickening impact. All went black before him, T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., pale and limp, crumpled, and slid to the ground, senseless; therefore, he failed to hear the roar from the Bannister bench, from the loyal Gold and Green rooters in the stands, as big Beef lumbered across the plate with what proved later to be the winning run. He did not hear the Umpire shout: "Take your base!" "What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right! What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right! He was never a star in the baseball game, But he won the Championship just the same-- What's the matter with our Hicks-he's all right!" "Honk! Honk!" Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, rattling up the driveway, bearing back to the Bannister campus the victorious Gold and Green nine, and the State Intercollegiate Baseball Championship, though the hour was midnight, found every student on the grass before the Senior Fence! Over three hundred leather-lunged youths, aided by the Bannister Band, and every known noise-making device, hailed "The Dove," as that unseaworthy craft halted before them, with the baseball nine inside, and on top. However, the terrific tumult stilled, as the bewildered collegians caught the refrain from the exuberant players: "He was never a star in the baseball game-- But he won the Championship just the same-- What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right!" "Hicks did what?" shrieked Skeezicks McCracken, voicing through a megaphone the sentiment of the crowd. Captain Butch had simply telegraphed the final score, so old Bannister was puzzled to hear the team lauding T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who, still white and weak, with a bandage around his classic forehead, maintained a phenomenal quiet, atop of "The Dove," leaning against Butch Brewster. "Fellows," shouted Butch, despite Hicks' protest, rising to his feet on the roof of the "jit."--"T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., today won the game and the Championship! Listen--" The vast crowd of erstwhile clamorous youths stood spellbound, as Captain Butch Brewster, in graphic sentences, described the game--Don Carterson's failure, Ichabod's sensational pitching, Hicks' errors, and--the wonderful manner in which the futile youth had won the Championship! As little Skeet Wigglesworth and the five substitutes, who had returned that afternoon, had spread the story of Hicks' bonehead play, old Bannister had turned out to ridicule and jeer good-naturedly the sunny youth, but now they learned that Hicks had been forced by his own mistake into the Big Game, and had won it! Of course, his comrades knew it had been through no ability of his, but the knowledge that he had been knocked senseless by Forsythe's great speed, and had suffered so that his college might score, thrilled them. "What's the matter with Hicks?" thundered Thor, he who at one time would have called this riot foolishness, and forgetting that the nine had just chanted the response to this query. "He's all right!" chorused the collegians, in ecstasy. "Who's all right?" demanded John Thorwald, his blond head towering over those of his comrades. To him, now, there was nothing silly about this performance! "Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" came the shout, and the band fanfared, while the exultant collegians shouted, sang, whistled, and created an indescribable tumult with their noise-making devices. For five minutes the ear-splitting din continued, a wonderful tribute to the lovable, popular youth, and then it stilled so suddenly that the result was startling, for--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swaying on his feet arose, and stood on the roof of the "jit." With that heart-warming Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic countenance, the irrepressible Hicks seized a Louisville Slugger, assumed a Home-Run Baker batting pose, and shouted to his breathlessly waiting comrades: "Fellows, I vowed I would win that baseball game and the Championship for my Alma Mater by my headwork! With the bases full, and the score a tie, the Ballard pitcher hit me in the head with the ball, forcing in the run that won for old Ballard--now, if that wasn't _headwork_--" CHAPTER XIX BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY "We have come to the close of our college days. Golden campus years soon must end; From Bannister we shall go our ways-- And friend shall part from friend! On our Alma Mater now we gaze, And our eyes are filled with tears; For we've come to the close of our college days, And the end of our campus years!" Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., Bannister, '92; Yale, '96, and Pittsburgh millionaire "Steel King," stood at the window of Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, room, his arm across the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, his only son and heir. Father and son stood, gazing down at the campus. On the Gym steps was a group of Seniors, singing songs of old Bannister, songs tinged with sadness. Up to Hicks' windows, on the warm June: night, drifted the 1916 Class Ode, to the beautiful tune, "A Perfect Day." Over before the Science Hall, a crowd of joyous alumni laughed over narratives of their campus escapades. Happy undergraduates, skylarking on the campus, celebrated the end of study, and gazed with some awe at the Seniors, in cap and gown, suddenly transformed into strange beings, instead of old comrades and college-mates. "'The close of our college days, and the end of our campus years--!'" quoted Mr. Hicks, a mist before his eyes as he gazed at the scene. "In a few days, Thomas, comes the final parting from old Bannister--I know it will be hard, for _I_ had to leave the dear old college, and also Yale. But you have made a splendid record in your studies, you have been one of the most popular fellows here, and--you have vastly pleased your Dad, by winning your B in the high-jump." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, last study-sprint was at an end, the final Exams. of his Senior year had been passed with what is usually termed flying colors; and to the whole-souled delight of the lovable youth, he and little Theophilus Opperdyke, the Human Encyclopedia, had, as Hicks chastely phrased it, "run a dead heat for the Valedictory!" So close had their final averages been that the Faculty, after much consideration, decided to announce at the Commencement exercises that the two Seniors had tied for the highest collegiate honors, and everyone was satisfied with the verdict. So, now it was all ended; the four years of study, athletics, campus escapades, dormitory skylarking--the golden years of college life, were about to end for 1919. Commencement would officially start on the morrow, but tonight, in the Auditorium, would be held the annual Athletic Association meeting, when those happy athletes who had won their B during the year would have it presented, before the assembled collegians, by one-time gridiron, track, and diamond heroes of old Bannister. And--the ecstatic Hicks would have his track B, his white letter, won in the high-jump, thanks to Caesar Napoleon's assistance, awarded him by his beloved Dad, the greatest all-round athlete that ever wore the Gold and Green! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., _en route_ to New Haven and Yale in his private car, "Vulcan," had reached town that day, together with other members of Bannister College, Class of '92. They, as did all the old grads., promptly renewed past memories and associations by riding up to College Hill in Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus--a youthful, hilarious crowd of alumni. Former students, alumni, parents of graduating Seniors, friends, sweethearts--every train would bring its quota. The campus would again throb and pulsate with that perennial quickening--Commencement. Three days of reunions, Class Day exercises, banquets, and other events, then the final exercises, and--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., would be an alumnus! "It's like Theophilus told Thor, last fall, Dad," said the serious Hicks. "You know what Shakespeare said: 'This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong; To love that well which thou must leave ere long.' Now that I soon shall leave old Bannister, I--I wish I had studied more, had done bigger things for my Alma Mater! And for you, Dad, too; I've won a B, but perhaps, had I trained and exercised more, I might have annexed another letter--still; hello, what's Butch hollering--?" Big Butch Brewster, his pachydermic frame draped in his gown, and his mortar-board cap on his head, for the Seniors were required to wear their regalia during Commencement week, was bellowing through a megaphone, as he stood on the steps of Bannister Hall, and Mr. Hicks, with his cheerful son, listened: "Everybody--Seniors, Undergrads., Alumni--in the Auditorium at eight sharp! We are going to give Mr. Hicks and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a surprise party--don't miss the fun!" "Now, just what does Butch mean, Dad?" queried the bewildered Senior. "Something is in the wind. For two days, the fellows have had a secret from me--they whisper and plot, and when _I_ approach, loudly talk of athletics, or Commencement! Say, Butch--_Butch_--I ain't a-comin' tonight, unless you explain the mystery." "Oh, yes, you be, old sport!" roared Butch, from the campus, employing the megaphone, "or you don't get your letter! Say, Hicks, one sweetly solemn thought attacks me--old Bannister is puzzling _you_ with a mystery, instead of vice versa, as is usually the case." "Well, Thomas," said Mr. Hicks, his face lighted by a humorous, kindly smile, as he heard the storm of good-natured jeers at Hicks, Jr., that greeted Butch Brewster's fling, "I'll stroll downtown, and see if any of my old comrades came on the night express. I'll see you at the Athletic Association meeting, for I believe I am to hand you the B. I can't imagine what this 'surprise party' is, but I don't suppose it will harm us. It will surely be a happy moment, son, when I present you with the athletic letter you worked so hard to win." When T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, beloved Dad had gone, his firm stride echoing down the corridor, that blithesome, irrepressible collegian, whom old Bannister had come to love as a generous, sunny-souled youth, stood again by the window, gazing out at the campus. Now, for the first time, he fully realized what a sad occasion a college Commencement really is--to those who must go forth from their Alma Mater forever. With almost the force of a staggering blow, Hicks suddenly saw how it would hurt to leave the well-loved campus and halls of old Bannister, to go from those comrades of his golden years. In a day or so, he must part from good Butch, Pudge, Beef, Ichabod, Monty, Roddy, Cherub, loyal little Theophilus and all his classmates of '19, as well as from his firm friends of the undergraduates. It would be the parting from the youths of his class that would cost him the greatest regret. Four years they had lived together the care-free campus life. From Freshmen to Seniors they had grown and developed together, and had striven for 1919 and old Bannister, while a love for their Alma Mater had steadily possessed their hearts. And now soon they must sing, "Vale, Alma Mater!" and go from the campus and corridors, as Jack Merritt, Heavy Hughes, Biff McCabe, and many others had done before them. Of course, they would return to old Bannister. There would be alumni banquets at mid-year and Commencement, with glad class reunions each year. They would come back for the big games of the football or baseball season. But it would never be the same. The glad, care-free, golden years of college life come but once, and they could never live them, as of old. "Caesar's Ghost!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., making a dive for his beloved banjo, as he awakened to the startling fact that for some time he had been intensely serious. "This will never, never do. I must maintain my blithesome buoyancy to the end, and entertain old Bannister with my musical ability. Here goes." Assuming a striking pose, _à la_ troubadour, at the open window, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a somewhat paradoxical figure, his splinter-structure enshrouded in the gown, the cap on his classic head, this regalia symbolic of dignity, and the torturesome banjo in his grasp, twanged a ragtime accompaniment, and to the bewilderment of the old Grads on the campus, as well as the wrath of 1919, he roared in his fog-horn voice: "Oh, I love for to live in the country! And I love for to live on the farm! I love for to wander in the grass-green fields-- Oh, a country life has the charm! I love for to wander in the garden-- Down by the old haystack; Where the pretty little chickens go 'Kick-Kack-Kackle!' And the little docks go 'Quack! Quack!'" From the Seniors on the Gym steps, their dignified song rudely shattered by this rollicking saenger-fest, came a storm of protests; to the unbounded delight of the alumni, watching the scene with interest, shouts, jeers, whistles, and cat-calls greeted Hicks' minstrelsy: "Tear off his cap and gown--he's a disgrace to '19!" "Shades of Schumann-Heink--give that calf more rope!" "Ye gods--how long must we endure--that?" "Hicks, a Senior--nobody home--can that noise!" "Shoot him at sunrise! Where's his Senior dignity?" Big Butch Brewster, referring to his watch, bellowed through the megaphone that it was nearly eight o'clock, and loudly suggested that they forcibly terminate Hicks' saengerfest, and spare the town police force a riot call to the campus, by transporting the pestiferous youth to the Auditorium, for his "surprise party." His idea finding favor, he, with Beef and Pudge, somewhat hampered by their gowns, lumbered up the stairway of Bannister, and down the third-floor corridor to the offending Hicks' boudoir, followed by a yelling, surging crowd of Seniors and underclassmen. They invaded the graceless youth's room, much to the pretended alarm of that torturesome collegian, who believed that the entire student-body of old Bannister had foregathered to wreak vengeance on his devoted head. "_Mercy_! Have a heart, fellows!" plead T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., helpless in the clutches of Butch, Beef, and Pudge, "I won't never do it no more, no time! Say, this is too much--much too much--too much much too much--I, Oh--_help--aid--succor--relief--assistance--"_ "To the Auditorium with the wretch!" boomed Butch; and the splinter-youth was borne aloft, on his broad shoulders, assisted by Beef McNaughton. They transported the grinning Hicks down the corridor, while fifty noisy youths, howling, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" tramped after them. Downstairs and across the campus the hilarious procession marched, and into the Auditorium, where the students and alumni were gathering for the awarding of the athletic B. A thunderous shout went up, as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was carried to the stage and deposited in a chair. "_Hicks! Hicks! Hicks_! We've got a surprise for--_Hicks_!" "Now, just what have I did to deserve all these?" grinned that happy-go-lucky youth, puzzled, nevertheless. "Well, time will tell, so all I can do is to possess my soul with impatience; old Bannister has a mystery for me, this trip!" In fifteen minutes, the Athletic Association meeting opened. On the stage, beside its officers, were those athletes, including T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who were to receive that coveted reward--their B, together with a number of one-time famous Bannister gridiron, track, basketball, and diamond stars. Each youth was to receive his monogram from some ex-athlete who once wore the Gold and Green, and Hicks' beloved Dad--Bannister's greatest hero--was to present his son with the letter. There were speeches; the Athletic Association's President explained the annual meeting, former Bannister students and athletic idols told of past triumphs on Bannister Field; the football Championship banner, and the baseball pennant were flaunted proudly, and each team-captain of the year was called upon to talk. Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., a great favorite on the campus, delivered a ringing speech, an appeal to the undergraduates for clean living, and honorable sportsmanship, and then: "We now come to the awarding of the athletic B," stated the President. "The Secretary will call first the name of the athlete, and then the alumnus who will present him with the letter. In the name of the Athletic Association of old Bannister, I congratulate those fellows who are now to be rewarded for their loyalty to their Alma Mater!" Thrilled, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., watched his comrades, as they responded to their names, and had the greatest glory, the B, placed in their hands by past Bannister athletic heroes. Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty, Ichabod, Biff, Hefty, Tug, Buster, Deacon Radford, Cherub, Don, Skeet, Thor, who had won the hammer-throw. These, and many others, having earned the award by playing in three-fourths of a season's games on the eleven or the nine, or by winning a first place in some track event, stepped forward, and were rewarded. Some, as good Butch, had gained their B many times, but the fact that this was their last letter, made the occasion a sad one. Every name was called but that of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and that perturbed youth wondered at the omission, when the President spoke: "The last name," he said, smiling, "is that of Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., and we are glad to have his father present the letter to his son, as Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., is with us. However, we Bannister fellows have prepared a surprise party for our lovable comrade, and I beg your patience awhile, as I explain." Graphically, Dad Pendleton described the wonderful all-round athletic record made by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., while at old Bannister, and sketched briefly but vividly his phenomenal record at Yale; he told of Mr. Hicks' great ambition, for his only son, Thomas, to follow in his footsteps--to be a star athlete, and shatter the marks made by his Dad. Then he reminded the Bannister students of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, athletic fiascos, hilarious and otherwise, of three years. He explained how that cheery youth, grinning good-humoredly at his comrades' jeers, had been in earnest, striving to realize his father's ambition. As the spellbound collegians and grads. listened, Dad chronicled Hicks' dogged persistence, and how he finally, in his Senior year, won his track B in the high-jump. Then he described the biggest game of the past football season, the contest that brought the Championship to old Bannister. The youths and alumni heard how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., made a great sacrifice, for the greater goal; how, after training faithfully in secret for a year, hoping sometime to win a game for his Alma Mater, he cheerfully sacrificed his chance to tie the score by a drop-kick, and became the pivotal part of a fake-kick play that won for the Gold and Green. "I have left Hicks' name until last," said Dad, with a smile, "because tonight we have a surprise party for our sunny comrade, and for his Dad. In the past, the eligibility rule, as regards the football and baseball B, has been--an athlete must play on the 'Varsity in three-fourths of the season's games. But, just before the Hamilton game, last fall, the Advisory Board of the Athletic Association amended this rule. "We decided to submit to the required two-thirds majority vote of the students this plan, inasmuch as many athletes, toiling and sacrificing all season for their college, never get to win their letter, yet deserve that reward for their loyalty, we suggested that Bannister imitate the universities. Anyone sent into the Yale-Harvard game, you know, wins his H or Y. If one team is safely ahead, a lot of scrubs are run into the scrimmage, to give them their letter. Therefore, we--the Advisory Board--made this rule: 'Any athlete taking part, for any period of time whatsoever, in the Ballard football or baseball game as a regular member of the first team shall be eligible for his Gold or Green B. This rule, upon approval of the students, to be effective from September 25!' "Now," continued the Athletic Association President, "we decided to keep this new ruling a secret until the present, for this reason: Many good football and baseball players, not making the first teams, lack the loyalty to stick on the scrubs, and others, not as brilliant, but with more college spirit, give their best until the season's end. We knew that if we announced this rule last fall, several slackers, who had quit the squad, would come out again, just on the hope of getting sent into the Ballard game, for their B. This would not be fair to those who loyally stuck to the scrubs. So we did not announce the rule until the year closed, and then a practically unanimous vote of the students made the rule effective from September 25. So--all athletes who took part in the Ballard football game, last fall, for any period of time whatsoever, are eligible for the gold B, and the same, as regards the green letter, applies to the Ballard baseball game this spring." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., gasped. Slowly, the glorious truth dawned on the happy-go-lucky Senior--he had been sent into the Bannister-Ballard football game; the crucial and deciding play had turned on him, hence he had won his gold letter! And thanks to his brilliant "mismanaging" of the nine, losing shortstop Skeet Wigglesworth and the substitutes, he had played the entire nine innings of the Ballard-Bannister baseball contest, and, therefore, was eligible for his green B. In a dazed condition, he heard Dad Pendleton saying: "You remember how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was sent into the Ballard game, and how the fake-play fooled Ballard, who believed he would try a drop-kick? Well, knowing Hicks to be eligible for his football B, we planned a surprise party. The Advisory Board kept the new rule a secret, and not until this week was it voted on. Then, the required two-thirds majority made it effective from last September--we managed to have Hicks absent from the voting, and the fellows helped us with our surprise! So instead of Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., presenting his son with one B, that for track work, we are glad to hand him _three_ letters, one for football, one for baseball, and one for track, to give our own T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. And, let me add, he can accept them with a clear conscience, for when the rule was made by the Advisory Board, we had no idea that Hicks would ever be eligible in football or baseball." A moment of silence, and then undergraduates and alumni, thrilled at Dad Pendleton's announcement, arose in a body, and howled for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad. Mr. Hicks, unable to speak, silently placed the three monograms, gold, green, and white, in his son's hands, and placed his own on the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, who for once in his heedless career could not say a word! "What's the matter with Hicks?" Big Butch Brewster roared, and a terrific response sounded: "He's all right! Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" For ten minutes pandemonium reigned. Then, regardless of the fact that, in order to surprise Mr. Hicks and his son, other athletes, eligible under the new rule, had yet to be presented with their B, the howling youths swarmed on the stage, hoisted the grinning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his happy Dad to their shoulders, and started a wild parade around the campus and the Quadrangle, singing: "Here's to our own Hicks--drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our own Hicks--drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our own Hicks--When he starts a thing, he sticks--Drink it down--drink it down--down! Down! Down!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., aloft on the shoulders of his behemoth class-mate, Butch Brewster, was deliriously happy. The surprise party of his campus comrades was a wonderful one, and he could scarcely realize that he had actually, by the Athletic Association ruling, won his three B's! How glad his beloved Dad, was, too. He had not expected this bewildering happiness. He had been so joyous, when his sort earned the track letter, but to have him leave old Bannister, with a B for three sports--it was almost unbelievable! And, as Dad had said--there had been no thought of Hicks when the Advisory Board made the rule, so Hicks had no reason to suppose it was done just to award him his letter. Then, Hicks remembered that rash vow, made at the end of his Freshman year, a vow uttered with absolutely no other thought than a desire to torment Butch Brewster, "Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!" Never, not even for a moment, had the happy-go-lucky youth believed that his wild prophecy would be fulfilled, though he had pretended to be confident to tease his loyal comrades; but now, at the very end of his campus days, just before he graduated, his prediction had come true! So the sunny Senior, who four years before had made his rash vow, saw its realization, and suddenly thrilled with the knowledge that he had a golden opportunity to make Butch indignant. "Oh, I say, Butch," he drawled, nonchalantly, leaning down to talk in Butch's ear, "do you recall that day, at the close of our Freshman year, when I vowed to win my B in three branches of sport, ere I bade farewell to old Bannister?" "No, you don't get away with that!" exploded Butch Brewster, indignantly, lowering his tantalizing classmate to terra firma. "Here, Beef, Pudge, catch this wretch; he intends to swagger and say--" But he was too late, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., dodging from his grasp, imitated the celebrated Charley Chaplin strut, and satiated his fun-loving soul. After waiting for three years, the irrepressible youth realized an ambition he had never imagined would be fulfilled. "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth he, gladsomely. "I told you I'd win my three B's, Butch, old top, and--_ow_!--unhand me, you villain, you _hurt_!" CHAPTER XX "VALE, ALMA MATER!" "Oh, it was '_Ave_, Alma Mater--' We sang as Freshmen gay; But it's '_Vale_, Alma Mater' now As our last farewells we say!" "_Honk-Honk! Br-r-rr-r-Bang! Honk-Monk! Br-rr-rr-r--"_ T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., big Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Pudge Langdon, Scoop Sawyer, and little Theophilus Opperdyke--late Seniors of old Bannister--roosted atop of good old Dan Flannagan's famous jitney-bus before Bannister Hall. It was nearly time for the 9.30 A. M. express, but the "peace-ship" had inconsiderately stalled, and the choking, wheezing, and snorting of the engine, as old Dan frenziedly cranked, together with the Claxon, operated by Skeet Wigglesworth, rudely interrupted the Seniors' chant. A vociferous protest arose above the tumult: "Oh, the little old _Ford_--rambled right along--like heck!" "Can that noise-we want to sing a last song, boys!" "Chuck that engine, Dan, and put in an alarm clock spring!" "Christmas is coming, Dan-u-el--we've graduated you know!" "'The Dove' doesn't want us to leave old Bannister, fellows!" Commencement was ended. The night before, on the stage of Alumni Hall, before a vast audience of old Bannister grads, undergraduates, friends, and relatives of the Seniors, the Class of 1919 had received its sheepskins, and the "Go forth, my children, and live!" of its Alma Mater. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., and timorous little Theophilus had jointly delivered the Valedictory, eight other Seniors, including Butch, Scoop, and the lengthy Ichabod, had swayed the crowd with oratory. Kindly old Prexy, his voice tremulous, had talked to them, as students, for the last time. The Class Ode had been sung, the Class Shield unveiled, and then--Hicks and his comrades of '19 were alumni! It had been a busy, thrilling time, Commencement Week. There had been scarcely any spare moments to ponder on the parting so soon to come; after the memorable Athletic Association meeting, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad had been given a wonderful "surprise party" by the collegians, and Hicks had corralled his three B's, time had "sprinted with spiked shoes," as the sunny Hicks stated. Event had followed event in bewildering fashion. The Seniors, dignified in cap and gown, had been fêted and banqueted, the cynosure of all eyes. Campus and town were filled with visitors. Old Bannister pulsated with renewed life, with the glad reunions of former students. There had been the Alumni Banquet, the annual baseball game between the 'Varsity and old-time Gold and Green diamond stars, Class Night exercises, the Literary Society Oratorical Contests, and the last Class Supper; and, Commencement had come. It was all ended now--the four happy, golden years of campus life, of glad fellowship with each other; like those who had gone before, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his comrades of 1919 had come to the final parting. The sunny-souled youth's Dad had gone to New Haven, to Yale's Commencement. Alumni and visitors had left town; the night before had witnessed farewells with Monty, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, and the underclassmen, with that awakened Colossus, John Thorwald. All the collegians had gone, except the few Seniors now leaving, and they had remained to enjoy Hicks' final Beefsteak Bust downtown at Jerry's. The campus was silent and deserted. No footsteps or voices echoed in the dormitories, and a shadow of sadness hovered over all. The youths who were leaving old Bannister forever felt an ache in their throats, and little Theophilus Opperdyke's big-rimmed spectacles were fogged with tears. Three times, in the past, they had left the campus, but this was forever, as collegians! "I don't care if we miss the old train!" declared Scoop Sawyer, as the jitney-Ford's engine wheezed, gasped, and was silent, for all of Dan's cranking. "Just think, fellows, it's all over now--'We have come to the end of our college days-golden campus years are at an end--!' Say, Hicks, old man, what's your Idea. What future have you blue-printed?" "Journalism!" announced T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sticking a fountain pen behind his ear, and fatuously supposing he resembled a City Editor, "In me you behold an embryo Richard Harding Davis, or Ty--no, I mean Irvin Cobb. I shall first serve my apprenticeship as a 'cub,' but ere many years, I shall sit at a desk, run a newspaper, and tell the world where to get off." "That is--If Dad says so!" chuckled Butch Brewster. "You know, Hicks, it's the same old story--your father wants you to learn how to own steel and iron mills, and when it comes to a showdown, you must convince Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., that you'd make a better journalist than Steel King!" "Nay, nay-say not so!" responded the happy-go-lucky alumnus of old Bannister, as the perspiring Dan Flannagan cranked away futilely. "My Dad has a broader vision, fellows, than most men. He and I talked it over last night, and he would never try to make me take up anything but a work that appeals to me. While, as Butch says, he'd like to train me to follow in his footsteps, he understands my ambition so thoroughly that he is trying to get me started--read this:" The lovable youth produced a letter, the envelope bearing the heading: "THE BALTIMORE CHRONICLE;" Butch Brewster, to whom he extended it, read aloud: "Baltimore, Maryland, "June 12, 1919. "DEAR OLD CLASSMATE: "I'd sure like to be with you, back at old Yale, next week, but I can't leave the wheel of this ship, the _Chronicle_, for even a day. Give my regards to all of old Eli, '96, old man. "As regards a berth for your son, Thomas. The _Chronicle_ usually takes on a few college men during the summer, when our staff is off on vacations. We always use undergraduates, and often, in two or three summers, we develop them into star reporters. However, for old time's sake, I'll be glad to give your son a chance, and if he means business, let him report for duty next Friday, at 1 P.M., to my office. Understand, Hicks, he must come here and fight his own way, without any favor or special help from me. Were he the son of our nation's President, I'd not treat him a whit better than the rest of the Staff, so let him know that in advance. On the other hand, I'll develop him all I can, and if he has the ability, the _Chronicle_ long-room is the place for him. "Yours for old Yale, "'Doc' Whalen, Yale, '96, "City Editor--_THE CHRONICLE_." "Here's my Dad's ultimatum," grinned Hicks, when. Butch finished the letter. "I am to take a summer as a cub on the _Baltimore Chronicle_, making my own way, and living on my weekly salary, without financial aid from anyone. If, at the end of the summer, City Editor Whalen reports that I've made good enough to be retained as a regular, then--Yours truly for the Fourth Estate. If I fail, then I follow a course charted out by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.! So, it is up to me to make good--" "You--you will make good, Hicks," quavered Theophilus, whose faith in the shadow-like youth was prodigious. "Oh, that will be splendid, for I am going to take a course at a business college in Baltimore. I want to become an expert stenographer, and we'll be together." "It's work now, fellows!" sighed Beef McNaughton, shifting his huge bulk atop of the jit "College years are ended, we're chucked into the world, to make good, or fail! Butch and I have not decided on our work yet. We may accept jobs as bank or railroad presidents, or maybe run for President of the U.S.A., provided John McGraw or Connie Mack do not sign us up. However--" At that moment, the engine of old Dan Flannagan's battered "Dove" consented to hit on two cylinders, and the genial Irishman, who was to transport Hicks and his comrades, as collegians, for the last time, yelled, "_All aboard_!" loudly, to conceal his emotion at the sad scene. "We're off!" shrieked Skeet Wigglesworth, stowed away below, as the jitney-bus moved down the driveway. "Farewell, dear old Bannister! Run slow, Dan, we want to gaze on the campus as long as we can." The youths were silent, as the 'bus rolled slowly down the driveway and under the Memorial Arch, old Dan, sympathizing with them, and finding he could make the express by a safe margin, allowing the jitney to flutter along at reduced speed. From its top, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his vision blurred with tears, gazed back with his class-mates. He saw the campus, its grass green, with stately old elms bordering the walks, and the golden June sunshine bathing everything in a soft radiance. He beheld the college buildings--the Gym., the Science Hall, the Administration Building, Recitation Hall, the ivy-covered Library; the white Chapel, and the four dorms., Creighton, Smithson, Nordyke, Bannister. One year he had spent in each, and every year had been one of happiness, of glad comradeship. He could see Bannister Field, the scene of his many hilarious athletic fiascos. And now he was leaving it all--had come to the end of his college course, and before him lay Life, with its stern realities, its grim obstacles, and hard struggles; ended were the golden campus days, the gay skylarking in the dorms. Gone forever were the joyous nights of entertaining his comrades, of Beefsteak Busts down at Jerry's. Silenced was his beloved banjo, and no more would his saengerfests bother old Bannister. A turn in the street, and the campus could not be seen. As the last vision of their Alma Mater vanished, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., smiling sunnily through his tear-blurred eyes, gazed at his comrades of old '19-- "Say, fellows--" he grinned, though his voice was shaky, "let's--let's start in next September, and--do it all over again!" 
26851	----	TOM BROWN AT OXFORD Thomas Hughes (1822-96) [Illustration: 0010] [Illustration: 0011] With Illustrations by Sydney P. Hall New York: John W. Lovell Company 150 Worth Street, Corner Mission Place PUBLISHING HISTORY First serialized ending in circa 1861 in MacMillan's Magazine (mentioned by the author in his preface, and Chapter 28 contains the author's footnote indicating that at least part of this chapter was not written earlier than 1859) First published in 3 volume book form 1861 by Cambridge, London (British Library) 2nd edition published 1861 by MacMillan & Co., Cambridge & London (British Library) Published 1861 by Ticknor & Fields, Boston (Library of Congress) May have been serialized by Ticknor & Fields in 1859 (parts offered on Amazon.com by an antique bookseller) Published 1863 by Ticknor & Fields, Boston (Library of Congress) Published 1865 by MacMillan & Co. (British Library) Published 1870 by Harper Bros., New York (British Library) Published 1871 by Harper Bros., New York (Library of Congress & British Library) Published 1879 by unknown, New York (Library of Congress) Published 1881 by MacMillan & Co., New York (Library of Congress) French translation published 1881 in Paris with added name Girardin, Jules Marie Alfred who is possibly the translator(?) (British Library) Published circa 1888-92 by John W. Lovell, New York (Ebook transcriber's scanned copy) Published 1888 by Porter & Coates, Philadelphia (Ebook transcriber's proofreading copy) Published 1889 by MacMillan, London & New York (Library of Congress) Published 1890 by Lovell, Coryell & Co., New York (Library of Congress) Published 1905 in two volumes with Tom Brown's School Days (British Library) Published 1914 by T. Nelson & Sons (British Library) Published 1920 by S.W. Partridge & Co., London (British Library) Published 2004 as part of a five volume set entitled Victorian Novels of Oxbridge Life, Christopher Stray editor, Thoemmes, Bristol (British Library) * * * * * (Transcriber's Notes: Notice the author's name does not appear on the title page or on the cover, and in fact it is only given as T. Hughes at the end of his preface and nowhere else. Sydney Hall, 1842-1922, did portraits, newspaper and magazine illustrations, but oddly enough there are none to be found in the Lovell produced book, though the Porter & Coates edition has one unattributed woodcut) Printed and Bound by Donohue & Henneberry, Chicago (Transcriber's Note: Donahue & Henneberry were in business 1871-99 doing book binding and printing for the cheap book trade at various addresses in Chicago's business district known as the Loop, mostly on Dearborn Street.) * * * * * TOM BROWN AT OXFORD By Thomas Hughes Author of "Tom Brown's School Days" Philadelphia: Porter & Coates (Transcriber's Note: the date 1888 is penciled in here on this page by a previous owner) * * * * * Transcriber's Note: A Short Summary, With Some Explanations of Concepts Presented by Hughes, but Not Well Defined by Him, Being Apparently Well Understood in His Day, but With Which Modern Readers May be Unfamiliar. This is the sequel to Hughes' more successful novel _Tom Brown's School Days_, which told about Tom at the Rugby School from the age of 11 to 16. Now Tom is at Oxford University for a three year program of study, in which he attends class lectures and does independent reading with a tutor. A student in residence at Oxford is said to be "up" or have "come up", and one who leaves is said to have gone "down". The author weaves a picture of life at Oxford University in the 1840s, where he himself was at that time, at Oriel College, where he excelled in sports rather than academics. The University is made up of a number of separate colleges, and the students form friendships within and develop a loyalty to their own college. Tom's college, St. Ambrose, is fictional. The study programs available to the students are intended to prepare them for the legal, ecclesiastical, medical and educational professions. Students who do poorly might be expected to enter the diplomatic corps or the army or navy, though a son of the aristocracy might be thrust into a minor church role. To enter into business or manufacturing engineering or the research sciences would require an inheritance or family connection. Latin was still taught because the best literature available to them was still the ancient Greek and Roman poets and philosophers, and the legal and medical professions still used it extensively, though the ecclesiastical and educational fields had largely abandoned it. Tom finds that there is a social barrier between the wealthy students and the students that are there on the equivalent of a modern academic scholarship, or have to work as a graduate student tutor to earn their stipend. There were no sports scholarships at this time, though the author hints vaguely at one point that someday the idea could be explored. There were no female students at this time. Tom becomes involved with a local barmaid. The barmaid being of a different social class than Tom, this relationship causes problems for both of them, and it is important for the modern reader to realize that such social distinctions were very real and inflexible in those days. The working class referred to the educated class as their "betters", meaning better educated and entitled to better respect, regardless of whether it was earned or deserved. There were no dormitories and self-serve cafeterias as with modern colleges, instead meals were served in a dining hall by scouts, and each student gets what are called "rooms", consisting of a bedroom and a sitting room for study and entertaining. "Scouts" are a kind of servant attached to one student or a small number of students. They run errands, bring meals from the kitchen, and take care of clothing. A bootblack called the "boots" takes care of footwear. A charwoman called the "char" cleaned the rooms. If a student wished to study without interruption, he would close the oak door to his rooms, which was called "sporting his oak", the signal not to disturb. The term "the eleven" refers to the cricket team, and "prize-men" refers to students who win prizes for scholarship. "Hunting Pinks" are red riding jackets, and "hunters" are horses especially suited to steeplechase or fox hunting type riding. The Boating Club and Boat Racing is the popular sport of crew rowing or sculling, where each college appoints a crew of eight strong scull pullers or oarsmen and one small coxswain or steersman to pilot a long narrow boat called a skiff or shell. The coxswain calls the strokes and is generally the coach and commander of the crew. Unlike in a canoe, the pullers face backwards, and the one nearest the coxswain is called the "stroke oar", because all the other oars watch him and match his stroke. The racing takes place on the river which runs through Oxford, and since because of the oars the river is too narrow for normal passing as in most other kinds of racing, the race is sometimes with just two boats, one ahead of the other. If the prow of the second boat touches the stern of the first boat, the second boat is considered the winner and advances in ranking. If the first boat rows the length of the course without being bumped, it is considered the winner and maintains its ranking. Sometimes the winning crewmen put their little coxswain in the boat and parade him through the streets of the town. At the end of the season the honor of "Head of the River" belongs to the boat that has not been defeated and is presumably the fastest, whereas the slowest boat, Tail End Charlie, has been defeated by all the other colleges. For another description of boating on the Thames in the nineteenth century, see the humorous travel-log "Three Men in a Boat, to Say Nothing of the Dog" by Jerome K. Jerome, written in 1889, which also mentions the dangers of the lasher at the Sandford Lock. Students were required to wear the traditional student's gown and mortarboard cap to classes. Professors wore floppy caps and similar gowns with indications of their rank on the sleeves, Doctor, Master or Batchelor. This garb dates from the Middle Ages, but is now only seen at Graduation Day and special university occasions, and the gown has survived in some church choirs. A professor was also called a don, and graduate assistants were called fellows or servitors. The "tufts" or students from the nobility or titled families were a privileged set, paid double fees and were not required to do much of anything academically. Gentlemen-commoners were from the untitled but wealthy families and also paid double fees. A few students from poorer social classes were accepted if they had good references. "Town and Gown" refers to the animosity between the local permanent residents of the town and the rowdy students, occasionally descending into actual fist fights. To be "gated" was to be confined to college and to be "rusticated" was to be suspended from college. A "wine" is the nineteenth century equivalent of a student's beer and pizza party, though it seems to have been paid for entirely out of the pocket of the host. It is also a form of student networking, wherein they build relationships useful for their future business, professional or social life. German university students joined a Kadet Korps, which was somewhat like a combination of a modern day fraternity and Officer's Training Corps, but no such equivalent seems to have been at Oxford. Instead there was an academic set called the "reading men" which buckled down to the books, and a set of "fast men" who lived the dissipated high life of drinking, gambling, women and riding fast horses. The fast set, though they were gentleman commoners and not titled nobility, usually were from wealthy families, and often ran up large bills with the local tradesmen, called "going tick", which could go unpaid for quite a long time. In Chapter 14 the author mentions Big Ben, but this is not the clock tower bell in London, which at the time of writing had not yet been rung; instead this is Benjamin Caunt, the bare-knuckle boxer who defeated William Thompson in 75 rounds to become Heavyweight Champion of England in 1838. The bell may possibly have been named after him. It should be remembered that at the time this story was written, the dangers of tobacco smoke were mostly unknown, and cigars, cheroots and pipes were quite commonly used, though the cigarette had not come into use yet. Tobacco, often called weed, was only discouraged during physical training, thus at one point in Chapter 15 Tom recommends smoking to Hardy for an almost therapeutic purpose. In Chapter 17 the author imagines a flying machine, though at the time of writing only balloons had ever carried men aloft. He imagines it something like a carriage equipped to carry passengers, with the most comfortable carriage type C-springs, steam powered, and faster than the latest trains, which at that time went 40 miles per hour, the fastest speed that anyone had ever achieved. The author mentions Tractarians and Germanizers. The Tractarians were a group of Oxford dons who, in the 1840s, wrote a series of tracts, aimed at proposing some changes to the theological system of the Anglican Church. Germanizers proposed some changes more along the lines of the Lutheran theology, and these controversies occupied the Anglican theologians of the time. The author did not expand on these subjects, nor even indicate his support or opposition to them, as it was not necessary for the story. At this time, as in many other times, the evangelical Christians were in the forefront of movements to help poor and downtrodden people, but other elements were attempting to become involved, promoting their own methods and beliefs. Karl Marx was not known in England, and the Russian Revolution was still in the distant future, but a few radical left-wing idealists know as Chartists and Swings were beginning to be heard on campus, and Tom gets briefly involved with them, speaking up for the poor, but realizes their destructive ideas cannot be reconciled with proper Christian behavior, thus voicing some of the author's views on social reforms. The author later in life got involved with a communal living experiment. Some words and expressions are used differently today than they were used in the nineteenth century. For example, when Tom says "There must always be some blackguards," he means "Regrettably there will always be blackguards," not "We ought to have some blackguards". Katie and Tom discuss "profane" poetry, in the sense of being secular and not sacred or religious. Mary weighs "8 stone", which is 112 pounds or 50 kilograms, and "famously" is used in the sense of being well done, not in the incorrect modern use of being well known. A "twelve-horse screw" is the propeller of a steam launch. To "give someone a character" is to speak or write about their moral character, either favorably or slanderously. The book which I scanned using Optical Character Recognition was printed in the 1888-92 period by John W. Lovell of 150 Worth St. New York. Lovell has been described as a book pirate who tried to form a monopoly in the cheap uncopyrighted book trade. The US copyright laws were rather weak in the nineteenth century, and Charles Dickens was particularly hurt by pirates. There was even a book war, with rival publishers of the same book undercutting each other on price. Proof reading was done with another copy of the book published in 1888 by Porter & Coates of Philadelphia, which is in poorer condition with water damage, and would not scan well, but has fewer typesetting errors. Nineteenth century punctuation made much more use of commas, hyphens and semicolons, and these have been retained as much as possible. British spellings of words such as colour, neighbour, odour, and flavour are retained, though in some cases the American publisher seems to have made his own corrections as he saw fit, and some words such as "connection" have retained the nineteenth century spelling "connexion", but where a word was obviously spelled wrong by the typesetter, I have corrected it. The author used a few Greek words, which do not scan, and I have entered those manually using Symbol font for the rtf file, but substituted normal characters for the plain txt file and indicated [Greek text] where appropriate. The English pound symbol cannot be expressed in ASCII, so 25 pounds is rendered as 25L. Words printed in italics for emphasis are here rendered with _underscores_ for the ASCII file. Robert E. Reilly, PE, BSIE, BSME Chicago, 2008 * * * * * INITIUM Tom Brown at Oxford Thomas Hughes (1822-96) Author's Dedication To the Rev. F. D. Maurice, in memory of fourteen years' fellow work, and in testimony of ever increasing affection and gratitude this volume is dedicated by The Author. PREFACE Prefaces written to explain the objects and meaning of a book, or to make any appeal, _ad miseracordiam_ or other, in its favor, are, in my opinion, nuisances. Any book worth reading will explain its own objects and meaning, and the more it is criticized and turned inside out, the better for it and its author. Of all books, too, it seems to me that novels require prefaces least--at any rate, on their first appearance. Notwithstanding which belief, I must ask readers for three minutes' patience before they make trial of this book. The natural pleasure which I felt at the unlooked for popularity of the first part of the present story, was much lessened by the pertinacity with which many persons, acquaintance as well as strangers, would insist (both in public and in private) on identifying the hero and the author. On the appearance of the first few numbers of the present continuation in Macmillan's Magazine, the same thing occurred, and, in fact, reached such a pitch, as to lead me to make some changes to the story. Sensitiveness on such a point may seem folly, but if the readers had felt the sort of loathing and disgust which one feels at the notion of painting a favorable likeness of oneself in a work of fiction, they would not wonder at it. So, now that this book is finished and Tom Brown, so far as I am concerned, is done with for ever, I must take this, my first and last chance of saying, that he is not I, either as boy or man--in fact, not to beat about the bush, is a much braver, and nobler, and purer fellow than I ever was. When I first resolved to write the book, I tried to realize to myself what the commonest type of English boy of the upper middle class was, so far as my experience went; and to that type I have throughout adhered, trying simply to give a good specimen of the genus. I certainly have placed him in the country, and scenes which I know best myself, for the simple reason, that I knew them better than any others, and therefore was less likely to blunder in writing about them. As to the name, which has been, perhaps, the chief "cause of offense," in this matter, the simple facts are, that I chose the name "Brown," because it stood first in the trio of "Brown, Jones, and Robinson," which had become a sort of synonym for the middle classes of Great Britain. It happens that my own name and that of Brown have no single letter in common. As to the Christian name of "Tom," having chosen Brown, I could hardly help taking it as the prefix. The two names have gone together in England for two hundred years, and the joint name has not enjoyed much of a reputation for respectability. This suited me exactly. I wanted the _commonest_ name I could get, and did not want any name which had the least heroic, or aristocratic, or even respectable savor about it. Therefore I had a natural leaning to the combination which I found ready to my hand. Moreover, I believed "Tom" to be a more specially English name than John, the only other as to which I felt the least doubt. Whether it be that Thomas a Beckett was for so long the favorite English saint, or from whatever other cause, it certainly seems to be the fact, that the name "Thomas," is much commoner in England than in any other country. The words, "tom-fool," "tom-boy," etc., though, perhaps not complimentary to the "Tom's" of England, certainly show how large a family they must have been. These reasons decided me to keep the Christian name which had been always associated with "Brown"; and I own that the fact that it happened to be my own, never occurred to me as an objection, till the mischief was done, past recall. I have only, then, to say, that neither is the hero a portrait of myself, nor is there any other portrait in either of the books, except in the case of Dr. Arnold, where the true name is given. My deep feeling of gratitude to him, and reverence for his memory, emboldened me to risk the attempt at a portrait in his case, so far as the character was necessary for the work. With these remarks, I leave this volume in the hands of readers. T. Hughes Lincoln's Inn, October, 1861 CONTENTS INTRODUCTORY I--ST. AMBROSE'S COLLEGE II--A ROW ON THE RIVER III--A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S IV--THE ST. AMBROSE BOAT CLUB; ITS MINISTRY--AND THEIR BUDGET V--HARDY, THE SERVITOR VI--HOW DRYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISHING VII--AN EXPLOSION VIII--HARDY'S HISTORY IX--"A BROWN BAIT" X--SUMMER TERM XI--MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY XII--THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS XIII--THE FIRST BUMP XIV--A CHANGE IN THE CREW AND WHAT CAME OF IT XV--A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS XVI--THE STORM RAGES XVII--NEW GROUND XVIII--ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE XIX--A PROMISE OF FAIRER WEATHER XX--THE RECONCILIATION XXI--CAPTAIN HARDY ENTERTAINED BY ST. AMBROSE XXII--DEPARTURES EXPECTED AND UNEXPECTED XXIII--THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE XXIV--THE SCHOOLS XXV--COMMEMORATION XXVI--THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS XXVII--LECTURING A LIONESS XXVIII--THE END OF THE FRESHMEN'S YEAR XXIX--THE LONG VACATION LETTER BAG XXX--AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR XXXI--BEHIND THE SCENES XXXII--A CRISIS XXXIII--BROWN PATRONUS XXXIV--[Greek text] MEHDEN AGAN XXXV--SECOND YEAR XXXVI--THE RIVER SIDE XXXVII--THE NIGHT WATCH XXXVIII--MARY IN MAYFAIR XXXIX--WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT WATCH XL--HUE AND CRY XLI--THE LIEUTENANT'S SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS XLII--THIRD YEAR XLIII--AFTERNOON VISITORS XLIV--THE INTERCEPTED LETTER BAG XLV--MASTER'S TERM XLVI--FROM INDIA TO ENGLE BOURN XLVII--THE WEDDING DAY XLVIII--THE BEGINNING OF THE END XLIX--THE END L--THE POSTSCRIPT TOM BROWN AT OXFORD By Thomas Hughes (1822-96) CHAPTER INTRODUCTORY In the Michaelmas term after leaving school, Tom Brown received a summons from the authorities, and went up to matriculate at St. Ambrose's College, Oxford. He presented himself at the college one afternoon, and was examined by one of the tutors, who carried him, and several other youths in like predicament, up to the Senate House the next morning. Here they went through the usual forms of subscribing to the articles, and otherwise testifying their loyalty to the established order of things, without much thought perhaps, but in very good faith nevertheless. Having completed the ceremony, by paying his fees, our hero hurried back home, without making any stay in Oxford. He had often passed through it, so that the city had not the charm of novelty for him, and he was anxious to get home; where, as he had never spent an autumn away from school till now, for the first time in his life he was having his fill of hunting and shooting. He had left school in June, and did not go up to reside at Oxford till the end of the following January. Seven good months; during a part of which he had indeed read for four hours or so a week with the curate of the parish, but the residue had been exclusively devoted to cricket and field sports. Now, admirable as these institutions are, and beneficial as is their influence on the youth of Britain, it is possible for a youngster to get too much of them. So it had fallen out with our hero. He was a better horseman and shot, but the total relaxation of all the healthy discipline of school, the regular hours and regular work to which he had been used for so many years, had certainly thrown him back in other ways. The whole man had not grown; so that we must not be surprised to find him quite as boyish, now that we fall in with him again, marching down to St. Ambrose's with a porter wheeling his luggage after him on a truck as when we left him at the end of his school career. Tom was in truth beginning to feel that it was high time for him to be getting to regular work again of some sort. A landing place is a famous thing, but it is only enjoyable for a time by any mortal who deserves one at all. So it was with a feeling of unmixed pleasure that he turned in at the St. Ambrose gates, and inquired of the porter what rooms had been allotted to him within those venerable walls. While the porter consulted his list, the great college sundial, over the lodge, which had lately been renovated, caught Tom's eye. The motto underneath, _"Pereunt et imputantur,"_ stood out, proud of its new gilding, in the bright afternoon sun of a frosty January day: which motto was raising sundry thoughts in his brain, when the porter came upon the right place in his list, and directed him to the end of his journey: No. 5 staircase, second quadrangle, three pair back. In which new home we shall leave him to install himself, while we endeavor to give the reader some notion of the college itself. CHAPTER I--ST. AMBROSE'S COLLEGE St. Ambrose's College was a moderate-sized one. There might have been some seventy or eighty undergraduates in residence, when our hero appeared there as a freshman. Of these, unfortunately for the college, there were a very large proportion of the gentleman-commoners; enough, in fact, with the other men whom they drew round them, and who lived pretty much as they did, to form the largest and leading set in the college. So the college was decidedly fast. The chief characteristic of this set was the most reckless extravagance of every kind. London wine merchants furnished them with liqueurs at a guinea a bottle and wine at five guineas a dozen; Oxford and London tailors vied with one another in providing them with unheard-of quantities of the most gorgeous clothing. They drove tandems in all directions, scattering their ample allowances, which they treated as pocket money, about roadside inns and Oxford taverns with open hand, and "going tick" for everything which could by possibility be booked. Their cigars cost two guineas a pound; their furniture was the best that could be bought; pine-apples, forced fruit, and the most rare preserves figured at their wine parties; they hunted, rode steeple-chases by day, played billiards until the gates closed, and then were ready for _vingt-et-une_, unlimited loo, and hot drink in their own rooms, as long as anyone could be got to sit up and play. The fast set then swamped, and gave the tone to the college; at which fact no persons were more astonished and horrified than the authorities of St. Ambrose. That they of all bodies in the world should be fairly run away with by a set of reckless, loose young spendthrifts, was indeed a melancholy and unprecedented fact; for the body of fellows of St. Ambrose was as distinguished for learning, morality and respectability as any in the University. The foundation was not, indeed, actually an open one. Oriel at that time alone enjoyed this distinction; but there were a large number of open fellowships, and the income of the college was large, and the livings belonging to it numerous; so that the best men from other colleges were constantly coming in. Some of these of a former generation had been eminently successful in their management of the college. The St. Ambrose undergraduates at one time had carried off almost all the university prizes, and filled the class lists, while maintaining at the same time the highest character for manliness and gentlemanly conduct. This had lasted long enough to establish the fame of the college, and great lords and statesmen had sent their sons there; head-masters had struggled to get the names of their best pupils on the books; in short, everyone who had a son, ward, or pupil, whom he wanted to push forward in the world--who was meant to cut a figure, and take the lead among men, left no stone unturned to get him into St. Ambrose's; and thought the first, and a very long step gained when he had succeeded. But the governing bodies of colleges are always on the change, and, in the course of things men of other ideas came to rule at St. Ambrose--shrewd men of the world; men of business, some of them, with good ideas of making the most of their advantages; who said, "Go to; why should we not make the public pay for the great benefits we confer on them? Have we not the very best article in the educational market to supply--almost a monopoly of it--and shall we not get the highest price for it?" So by degrees they altered many things in the college. In the first place, under their auspices, gentlemen-commoners increased and multiplied; in fact, the eldest sons of baronets, even squires, were scarcely admitted on any other footing. As these young gentlemen paid double fees to the college, and had great expectations of all sorts, it could not be expected that they should be subject to quite the same discipline as the common run of men, who would have to make their own way in the world. So the rules as to attendance at chapel and lectures, though nominally the same for them as for commoners, were in practice relaxed in their favour; and, that they might find all things suitable to persons in their position, the kitchen and buttery were worked up to a high state of perfection, and St. Ambrose, from having been one of the most reasonable, had come to be about the most expensive college in the university. These changes worked as their promoters probably desired that they should work, and the college was full of rich men, and commanded in the university the sort of respect which riches bring with them. But the old reputation, though still strong out of doors, was beginning sadly to wane within the university precincts. Fewer and fewer of the St. Ambrose men appeared in the class lists, or amongst the prize-men. They no longer led the debates at the Union; the boat lost place after place on the river; the eleven got beaten in all their matches. The inaugurators of these changes had passed away in their turn, and at last a reaction had commenced. The fellows recently elected, and who were in residence at the time we write of, were for the most part men of great attainments, all of them men who had taken very high honors. The electors naturally enough had chosen them as the most likely persons to restore, as tutors, the golden days of the college; and they had been careful in the selection to confine themselves to very quiet and studious men, such as were likely to remain up at Oxford, passing over men of more popular manners and active spirits, who would be sure to flit soon into the world, and be of little more service to St. Ambrose. But these were not the men to get any hold on the fast set who were now in the ascendant. It was not in the nature of things that they should understand each other; in fact, they were hopelessly at war, and the college was getting more and more out of gear in consequence. What they could do, however, they were doing; and under their fostering care were growing up a small set, including most of the scholars, who were likely, as far as they were concerned, to retrieve the college character of the schools. But they were too much like their tutors, men who did little else but read. They neither wished for, nor were likely to gain, the slightest influence on the fast set. The best men amongst them, too, were diligent readers of the _Tracts for the Times_, and followers of the able leaders of the High-church party, which was then a growing one; and this led them also to form such friendships as they made amongst out-college men of their own way of thinking-with high churchmen, rather than St. Ambrose men. So they lived very much to themselves, and scarcely interfered with the dominant party. Lastly, there was the boating set, which was beginning to revive in the college, partly from the natural disgust of any body of young Englishmen, at finding themselves distanced in an exercise requiring strength and pluck, and partly from the fact, that the captain for the time being was one of the best oars in the University boat, and also a deservedly popular character. He was now in his third year of residence, had won the pair-oar race, and had pulled seven in the great yearly match with Cambridge, and by constant hard work had managed to carry the St. Ambrose boat up to the fifth place on the river. He will be introduced to you, gentle reader, when the proper time comes; at present, we are only concerned with a bird's-eye view of the college, that you may feel more or less at home in it. The boating set was not so separate or marked as the reading set, melting on one side into, and keeping up more or less connexion with, the fast set, and also commanding a sort of half allegiance from most of the men who belonged to neither of the other sets. The minor divisions, of which of course there were many, need not be particularized, as the above general classification will be enough for the purposes of this history. Our hero, on leaving school, having bound himself solemnly to write all his doings and thoughts to the friend whom he had left behind him: distance and separation were to make no difference whatever in their friendship. This compact had been made on one of their last evenings at Rugby. They were sitting together in the six-form room, Tom splicing the handle of a favourite cricket bat, and Arthur reading a volume of Raleigh's works. The Doctor had lately been alluding to the "History of the World," and had excited the curiosity of the active-minded amongst his pupils about the great navigator, statesman, soldier, author, and fine gentleman. So Raleigh's works were seized on by various voracious young readers, and carried out of the school library; and Arthur was now deep in a volume of the "Miscellanies," curled up on a corner of the sofa. Presently, Tom heard something between a groan and a protest, and, looking up, demanded explanations; in answer to which, Arthur, in a voice half furious and half fearful, read out:-- "And be sure of this, thou shalt never find a friend in thy young years whose conditions and qualities will please thee after thou comest to more discretion and judgment; and then all thou givest is lost, and all wherein thou shalt trust such a one will be discovered." "You don't mean that's Raleigh's?" "Yes--here it is, in his first letter to his son." "What a cold-blooded old Philistine," said Tom. "But it can't be true, do you think?" said Arthur. And in short, after some personal reflections on Sir Walter, they then and there resolved that, so far as they were concerned, it was not, could not, and should not be true, that they would remain faithful, the same to each other; and the greatest friends in the world, through I know not what separations, trials, and catastrophes. And for the better insuring this result, a correspondence, regular as the recurring months, was to be maintained. It had already lasted through the long vacation and up to Christmas without sensibly dragging, though Tom's letters had been something of the shortest in November, when he had lots of shooting, and two days a week with the hounds. Now, however, having fairly got to Oxford, he determined to make up for all short-comings. His first letter from college, taken in connexion with the previous sketch of the place, will probably accomplish the work of introduction better than any detailed account by a third party; and it is therefore given here verbatim:-- _"St. Ambrose, Oxford,_ _"February, 184-_ "MY DEAR GEORDIE, "According to promise, I write to tell you how I get on up here, and what sort of a place Oxford is. Of course, I don't know much about it yet, having only been up some weeks, but you shall have my first impressions. "Well, first and foremost it's an awfully idle place; at any rate for us freshmen. Fancy now. I am in twelve lectures a week of an hour each--Greek Testament, first book of Herodotus, second AEneid, and first book of Euclid! There's a treat! Two hours a day; all over by twelve, or one at latest, and no extra work at all, in the shape of copies of verses, themes, or other exercises. "I think sometimes I'm back in the lower fifth; for we don't get through more than we used to do there; and if you were to hear the men construe, it would make your hair stand on end. Where on earth can they have come from? Unless they blunder on purpose, as I often think. Of course, I never look at a lecture before I go in, I know it all nearly by heart, so it would be sheer waste of time. I hope I shall take to reading something or other by myself; but you know I never was much of a hand at sapping, and, for the present, the light work suits me well enough, for there's plenty to see and learn about in this place. "We keep very gentlemanly hours. Chapel every morning at eight, and evening at seven. You must attend once a day, and twice on Sundays--at least, that's the rule of our college--and be in gates by twelve o'clock at night. Besides which, if you're a decently steady fellow, you ought to dine in hall perhaps four days a week. Hall is at five o'clock. And now you have the sum total. All the rest of your time you may just do what you like with. "So much for our work and hours. Now for the place. Well, it's a grand old place, certainly; and I dare say, if a fellow goes straight in it, and gets creditably through his three years, he may end by loving it as much as we do the old school-house and quadrangle at Rugby. Our college is a fair specimen: a venerable old front of crumbling stone fronting the street, into which two or three other colleges look also. Over the gateway is a large room, where the college examinations go on, when there are any; and, as you enter, you pass the porters lodge, where resides our janitor, a bustling little man, with a pot belly, whose business it is to put down the time at which the men come in at night, and to keep all discommonsed tradesmen, stray dogs, and bad characters generally, out of the college. "The large quadrangle into which you come first, is bigger than ours at Rugby, and a much more solemn and sleepy sort of a place, with its gables and old mullioned windows. One side is occupied by the hall and chapel; the principal's house takes up half another side; and the rest is divided into staircases, on each of which are six or eight sets of rooms, inhabited by us undergraduates, and here and there a tutor or fellow dropped down amongst us (in the first-floor rooms, of course), not exactly to keep order, but to act as a sort of ballast. This quadrangle is the show part of the college, and is generally respectable and quiet, which is a good deal more than can be said for the inner quadrangle, which you get at through a passage leading out of the other. The rooms ain't half so large or good in the inner quad; and here's where all we freshmen live, besides a lot of the older undergraduates who don't care to change their rooms. Only one tutor has rooms here; and I should think, if he's a reading man, it won't be long before he clears out; for all sorts of high jinks go on on the grass-plot, and the row on the staircases is often as bad, and not half so respectable, as it used to be in the middle passage in the last week of the half-year. "My rooms are what they call garrets, right up in the roof, with a commanding view of the college tiles and chimney pots, and of houses at the back. No end of cats, both college Toms and strangers, haunt the neighbourhood, and I am rapidly learning cat-talking from them; but I'm not going to stand it--I don't want to know cat-talk. The college Toms are protected by the statutes, I believe; but I'm going to buy an air-gun for the benefit of the strangers. My rooms are pleasant enough, at the top of the kitchen staircase, and separated from all mankind by a great, iron-clamped, outer door, my oak, which I sport when I go out or want to be quiet; sitting room eighteen by twelve, bedroom twelve by eight, and a little cupboard for the scout. "Ah, Geordie, the scout is an institution! Fancy me waited upon and valeted by a stout party in black of quiet, gentlemanly manners, like the benevolent father in a comedy. He takes the deepest interest in all my possessions and proceedings, and is evidently used to good society, to judge by the amount of crockery and glass, wines, liquors, and grocery, which he thinks indispensable for my due establishment. He has also been good enough to recommend to me many tradesmen who are ready to supply these articles in any quantities; each of whom has been here already a dozen times, cap in hand, and vowing that it is quite immaterial when I pay--which is very kind of them; but, with the highest respect for friend Perkins (my scout) and his obliging friends, I shall make some enquiries before "letting in" with any of them. He waits on me in hall, where we go in full fig of cap and gown at five, and get very good dinners, and cheap enough. It is rather a fine old room, with a good, arched, black oak ceiling and high panelling, hung round with pictures of old swells, bishops and lords chiefly, who have endowed the college in some way, or at least have fed here in times gone by, and for whom, _"caeterisque benefactoribus nostris,"_ we daily give thanks in a long Latin grace, which one of the undergraduates (I think it must be) goes and rattles out at the end of the high table, and then comes down again from the dais to his own place. No one feeds at the high table except the dons and the gentlemen-commoners, who are undergraduates in velvet caps and silk gowns. Why they wear these instead of cloth and serge I haven't yet made out, I believe it is because they pay double fees; but they seem uncommonly wretched up at the high table, and I should think would sooner pay double to come to the other end of the hall. "The chapel is a quaint little place, about the size of the chancel of Lutterworth Church. It just holds us all comfortably. The attendance is regular enough, but I don't think the men care about it a bit in general. Several I can see bring in Euclids, and other lecture books, and the service is gone through at a great pace. I couldn't think at first why some of the men seemed so uncomfortable and stiff about the legs at morning service, but I find that they are the hunting set, and come in with pea-coats over their pinks, and trousers over their leather breeches and top-boots; which accounts for it. There are a few others who seem very devout, and bow a good deal, and turn towards the altar at different parts of the service. These are of the Oxford High-church school, I believe; but I shall soon find out more about them. On the whole I feel less at home at present, I am sorry to say, in the chapel, than anywhere else. "I was very near forgetting a great institution of the college, which is the buttery-hatch, just opposite the hall-door. Here abides the fat old butler (all the servants at St. Ambrose's are portly), and serves out limited bread, butter, and cheese, and unlimited beer brewed by himself, for an hour in the morning, at noon, and again at supper-time. Your scout always fetches you a pint or so on each occasion in case you should want it, and if you don't, it falls to him; but I can't say that my fellow gets much, for I am naturally a thirsty soul, and cannot often resist the malt myself, coming up as it does, fresh and cool, in one of the silver tankards, of which we seem to have an endless supply. "I spent a day or two in the first week, before I got shaken down into my place here, in going round and seeing the other colleges, and finding out what great men had been at each (one got a taste for that sort of work from the Doctor, and I'd nothing else to do). Well, I never was more interested; fancy ferreting out Wycliffe, the Black Prince, our friend Sir Walter Raleigh, Pym, Hampden, Laud, Ireton, Butler, and Addison, in one afternoon. I walked about two inches taller in my trencher cap after it. Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who will change the history of England. Why shouldn't I? There must have been freshmen once who were chums of Wycliffe of Queen's, or Raleigh of Oriel. I mooned up and down the High-street, staring at all the young faces in caps, and wondering which of them would turn out great generals, or statesmen, or poets. Some of them will, of course, for there must be a dozen at least, I should think, in every generation of undergraduates, who will have a good deal to say to the ruling and guiding of the British nation before they die. "But, after all, the river is the feature of Oxford, to my mind; a glorious stream, not five minutes' walk from the colleges, broad enough in most places for three boats to row abreast. I expect I will take to boating furiously: I have been down the river three or four times already with some other freshmen, and it is glorious exercise; that I can see, though we bungle and cut crabs desperately at present. "Here's a long yarn I'm spinning for you; and I dare say after all you'll say it tells you nothing, and you'd rather have twenty lines about the men, and what they're thinking about and the meaning, and the inner life of the place, and all that. Patience, patience! I don't know anything about it myself yet, and have had only time to look at the shell, which is a very handsome and stately affair; you shall have the kernel, if I ever get at it, in due time. "And now write me a long letter directly, and tell me about the Doctor, and who are in the Sixth, and how the house goes on, and what sort of an eleven there'll be, and what you are doing and thinking about. Come up here try for a scholarship; I'll take you in and show you the lions. Remember me to old friends.--Ever your affectionately, T. B." CHAPTER II--A ROW ON THE RIVER Within a day or two of the penning of this celebrated epistle, which created quite a sensation in the sixth-form room as it went the round after tea, Tom realized one of the objects of his young Oxford ambition, and succeeded in embarking on the river in a skiff by himself, with such results as are now described. He had already been down several times in pair-oar and four-oar boats, with an old oar to pull stroke, and another to steer and coach the young idea, but he was not satisfied with these essays. He could not believe that he was such a bad oar as the old hands' made him out to be, and thought that it must be the fault of the other freshmen who were learning with him that the boat made so little way and rolled so much. He had been such a proficient in all the Rugby games, that he couldn't realize the fact of his unreadiness in a boat. Pulling looked a simple thing enough--much easier than tennis; and he had made a capital start at the latter game, and been highly complimented by the marker after his first hour in the little court. He forgot that cricket and fives are capital training for tennis, but that rowing is a speciality, of the rudiments of which he was wholly ignorant. And so, in full confidence that, if he could only have a turn or two alone, he should not only satisfy himself, but everybody else, that he was a heaven-born oar, he refused all offers of companionship, and started on the afternoon of a fine February day down to the boats for his trial trip. He had watched his regular companions well out of college, and gave them enough start to make sure that they would be off before he himself could arrive at St. Ambrose's dressing room at Hall's, and chuckled, as he came within sight of the river, to see the freshmen's boat in which he generally performed, go plunging away past the University barge, keeping three different times with four oars, and otherwise demeaning itself so as to become an object of mirthful admiration to all beholders. Tom was punted across to Hall's in a state of great content, which increased when, in answer to his casual inquiry, the managing man informed him that not a man of his college was about the place. So he ordered a skiff with as much dignity and coolness as he could command, and hastened up stairs to dress. He appeared again, carrying his boating coat and cap. They were quite new, so he would not wear them; nothing about him should betray the freshman on this day if he could help it. "Is my skiff ready?" "All right, sir; this way, sir;" said the manager, conducting him to a good, safe-looking craft. "Any gentleman going to steer, sir?" "No" said Tom, superciliously; "You may take out the rudder." "Going quite alone, sir? Better take one of our boys--find you a very light one. Here, Bill!"--and he turned to summons a juvenile waterman to take charge of our hero. "Take out the rudder, do you hear?" interrupted Tom. "I won't have a steerer." "Well, sir, as you please," said the manager, proceeding to remove the degrading appendage. "The river's rather high, please to remember, sir. You must mind the mill stream at Iffley Lock. I suppose you can swim?" "Yes, of course," said Tom, settling himself on his cushion. "Now, shove her off." The next moment he was well out in the stream, and left to his own resources. He got his sculls out successfully enough, and, though feeling by no means easy on his seat, proceeded to pull very deliberately past the barges, stopping his sculls in the air to feather accurately, in the hopes of deceiving spectators into the belief that he was an old hand just going out for a gentle paddle. The manager watched him for a minute, and turned to his work with an aspiration that he might not come to grief. But no thought of grief was on Tom's mind as he dropped gently down, impatient for the time when he should pass the mouth of the Cherwell, and so, having no longer critical eyes to fear, might put out his whole strength, and give himself at least if not the world, assurance of a waterman. The day was a very fine one, a bright sun shining, and a nice fresh breeze blowing across the stream, but not enough to ruffle the water seriously. Some heavy storms up Gloucestershire way had cleared the air, and swollen the stream at the same time; in fact, the river was as full as it could be without overflowing its banks--a state in which, of all others, it is the least safe for boating experiments. Fortunately, in those days there were no outriggers. Even the racing skiffs were comparatively safe craft, and would now be characterized as tubs; while the real tubs (in one of the safest of which the prudent manager had embarked our hero) were of such build that it required considerable ingenuity actually to upset them. If any ordinary amount of bungling could have done it, Tom's voyage would have terminated within a hundred yards of the Cherwell. While he had been sitting quiet and merely paddling, and almost letting the stream carry him down, the boat had trimmed well enough; but now, taking a long breath, he leaned forward, and dug his sculls into the water, pulling them through with all his strength. The consequence of this feat was that the handles of the sculls came into violent collision in the middle of the boat, the knuckles of his right hand were barked, his left scull unshipped, and the head of his skiff almost blown round by the wind before he could restore order on board. "Never mind; try again," thought he, after the first sensation of disgust had passed off, and a glance at the shore showed him that there were no witnesses. "Of course, I forgot one hand must go over the other. It might have happened to anyone. Let me see, which hand shall I keep uppermost; the left, that's the weakest." And away he went again, keeping his newly-acquired fact painfully in mind, and so avoiding further collision amidships for four or five strokes. But, as in other sciences, the giving of undue prominence to one fact brings others inexorably on the head of the student to avenge his neglect of them, so it happened with Tom in his practical study of the science of rowing that by thinking of his hands he forgot his seat, and the necessity of trimming properly. Whereupon the old tub began to rock fearfully, and the next moment, he missed the water altogether with his right scull, and subsided backwards, not without struggles, into the bottom of the boat; while the half stroke which he had pulled with his left hand sent her head well into the bank. Tom picked himself up, and settled himself on his bench again, a sadder and wiser man, as the truth began to dawn upon him that pulling, especially sculling, does not, like reading and writing, come by nature. However, he addressed himself manfully to his task; savage indeed, and longing to drive a hole in the bottom of the old tub, but as resolved as ever to get to Sandford and back before hall time, or perish in the attempt. He shoved himself off the bank, and warned by his last mishap, got out into mid stream, and there, moderating his ardor, and contenting himself with a slow and steady stroke, was progressing satisfactorily, and beginning to recover his temper, when a loud shout startled him; and, looking over his shoulder at the imminent risk of an upset, he beheld the fast sailor the Dart, close hauled on a wind, and almost aboard of him. Utterly ignorant of what was the right thing to do, he held on his course, and passed close under the bows of the miniature cutter, the steersman having jammed his helm hard down, shaking her in the wind, to prevent running over the skiff, and solacing himself with pouring maledictions on Tom and his craft, in which the man who had hold of the sheets, and the third, who was lounging in the bows, heartily joined. Tom was out of ear-shot before he had collected vituperation enough to hurl back at them, and was, moreover, already in the difficult navigation of the Gut, where, notwithstanding all his efforts, he again ran aground; but, with this exception, he arrived without other mishap at Iffley, where he lay on his sculls with much satisfaction, and shouted, "Lock--lock!" The lock-keeper appeared to the summons, but instead of opening the gates seized a long boat-hook, and rushed towards our hero, calling upon him to mind the mill-stream, and pull his right-hand scull; notwithstanding which warning, Tom was within an ace of drifting past the entrance to the lock, in which case assuredly his boat, if not he, had never returned whole. However, the lock-keeper managed to catch the stern of his skiff with the boat-hook, and drag him back into the proper channel, and then opened the lock-gates for him. Tom congratulated himself as he entered the lock that there were no other boats going through with him; but his evil star was in the ascendant, and all things, animate and inanimate, seemed to be leagued together to humiliate him. As the water began to fall rapidly, he lost his hold of the chain and the tub instantly drifted across the lock, and was in imminent danger of sticking and breaking her back, when the lock-keeper again came to the rescue with his boat-hook and, guessing the state of the case, did not quit him until he had safely shoved him and his boat well out into the pool below, with an exhortation to mind and go outside of the barge which was coming up. Tom started on the latter half of his outward voyage with the sort of look which Cato must have worn when he elected the losing side, and all the gods went over to the winning one. But his previous struggles had not been thrown away, and he managed to keep the right side of the barge, turn the corner without going around, and zigzag down Kennington reach, slowly indeed, but with much labor, but at any rate safely. Rejoicing in his feat, he stopped at the island, and recreated himself with a glass of beer, looking now hopefully towards Sandford, which lay within easy distance, now upwards again along the reach which he had just overcome, and solacing himself with the remembrance of a dictum, which he had heard from a great authority, that it was always easier to steer up stream than down, from which he argued that the worst part of his trial trip was now over. Presently he saw a skiff turn the corner at the top of the Kennington reach, and, resolving in his mind to get to Sandford before the new comer, paid for his beer, and betook himself again to his tub. He got pretty well off, and, the island shutting out his unconscious rival from his view, worked away at first under the pleasing delusion that he was holding his own. But he was soon undeceived, for in monstrously short time the pursuing skiff showed around the corner and bore down on him. He never relaxed his efforts, but could not help watching the enemy as he came up with him hand over hand, and envying the perfect ease with which he seemed to be pulling his long steady stroke and the precision with which he steered, scarcely ever casting a look over his shoulder. He was hugging the Berkshire side himself, as the other skiff passed him, and thought he heard the sculler say something about keeping out, and minding the small lasher; but the noise of the waters and his own desperate efforts prevented his heeding, or, indeed, hearing the warning plainly. In another minute, however, he heard plainly enough most energetic shouts behind him and, turning his head over his right shoulder, saw the man who had just passed him backing his skiff rapidly up stream towards him. The next moment he felt the bows of his boat whirl round, the old tub grounded for a moment, and then, turning over on her side, shot him out on to the planking of the steep descent into the small lasher. He grasped at the boards, but they were too slippery to hold, and the rush of water was too strong for him, and rolling him over and over like a piece of driftwood, plunged him into the pool below. After the first moment of astonishment and fright was over, Tom left himself to the stream, holding his breath hard, and paddling gently with his hands, feeling sure that, if he could only hold on, he should come to the surface sooner or later; which accordingly happened after a somewhat lengthy submersion. His first impulse on rising to the surface, after catching his breath, was to strike out for the shore, but, in the act of doing so, he caught sight of the other skiff coming stern foremost down the decent after him, and he trod the water and drew in his breath to watch. Down she came, as straight as an arrow, into the tumult below; the sculler sitting upright, and holding his sculls steadily in the water. For a moment she seemed to be going under, but righted herself, and glided swiftly into the still water; and then the sculler cast a hasty and anxious glance around, till his eyes rested on our hero's half-drowned head. "Oh, there you are!" he said, looking much relieved; "all right, I hope. Not hurt, eh?" "No, thankee; all right, I believe," answered Tom. "What shall I do?" "Swim ashore; I'll look after your boat." So Tom took the advice, swam ashore, and there stood dripping and watching the other as he righted the old tub which was floating quietly bottom upwards, little the worse for the mishap, and no doubt, if boats can wish, earnestly desiring in her wooden mind to be allowed to go quietly to pieces then and there, sooner to be rescued than be again entrusted to the guidance of freshmen. The tub having been brought to the bank, the stranger started again, and collected the sculls and bottom boards which were floating about here and there in the pool, and also succeeded in making salvage of Tom's coat, the pockets of which held his watch, purse, and cigar case. These he brought to the bank, and delivering them over, inquired whether there was anything else to look after. "Thank you, no; nothing but my cap. Never mind it. It's luck enough not to have lost the coat," said Tom, holding up the dripping garment to let the water run out of the arms and pocket-holes, and then wringing it as well as he could. "At any rate," thought he, "I needn't be afraid of its looking too new any more." The stranger put off again, and made one more round, searching for the cap and anything else which he might have overlooked, but without success. While he was doing so, Tom had time to look him well over, and see what sort of a man had come to his rescue. He hardly knew at the time the full extent of his obligation--at least if this sort of obligation is to be reckoned not so much by the service actually rendered, as by the risk encountered to be able to render it. There were probably not three men in the University who would have dared to shoot the lasher in a skiff in its then state, for it was in those times a really dangerous place; and Tom himself had an extraordinary escape, for, as Miller, the St. Ambrose coxswain, remarked on hearing the story, "No one who wasn't born to be hung could have rolled down it without knocking his head against something hard, and going down like lead when he got to the bottom." He was very well satisfied with his inspection. The other man was evidently a year or two older than himself, his figure was more set, and he had stronger whiskers than are generally grown at twenty. He was somewhere about five feet ten in height, very deep-chested, and with long powerful arms and hands. There was no denying, however, that at the first glance he was an ugly man; he was marked with small-pox, had large features, high cheekbones, deeply set eyes, and a very long chin; and had got the trick which many underhung men have of compressing his upper lip. Nevertheless, there was that in his face which hit Tom's fancy, and made him anxious to know his rescuer better. He had an instinct that good was to be gotten out of him. So he was very glad when the search was ended, and the stranger came to the bank, shipped his sculls, and jumped out with the painter of his skiff in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to an old stump, while he remarked-- "I'm afraid the cap's lost." "It doesn't matter the least. Thank you for coming to help me; it was very kind indeed, and more than I expected. Don't they say that one Oxford man will never save another from drowning unless they have been introduced?" "I don't know," replied the other; "are you sure you're not hurt?" "Yes, quite," said Tom, foiled in what he considered an artful plan to get the stranger to introduce himself. "Then we're very well out of it," said the other, looking at the steep descent into the lasher, and the rolling tumbling rush of the water below. "Indeed we are," said Tom; "but how in the world did you manage not to upset?" "I hardly know myself--I had shipped a good deal of water, you see. Perhaps I ought to have jumped out on the bank and come across to you, leaving my skiff in the river, for if I had upset I couldn't have helped you much. However, I followed my instinct, which was to come the quickest way. I thought, too, that if I could manage to get down in the boat I should be of more use. I am very glad I did it," he added after a moment's pause; "I'm really proud of having come down that place." "So ain't I," said Tom, with a laugh, in which the other joined. "But now you're getting chilled," and he turned from the lasher and looked at Tom's chattering jaws. "Oh, it's nothing. I'm used to being wet." "But you may just as well be comfortable if you can. Here's this rough Jersey which I use instead of a coat; pull off that wet cotton affair, and put it on, and then we'll get to work, for we have plenty to do." After a little persuasion Tom did as he was bid, and got into the great woolen garment, which was very comforting; and then the two set about getting their skiffs back into the main stream. This was comparatively easy as to the lighter skiff, which was soon baled out and hauled by main force on to the bank, carried across and launched again. The tub gave them much more trouble, for she was quite full of water and very heavy; but after twenty minutes or so of hard work, during which the mutual respect of the labourers for the strength and willingness of each other was much increased, she also lay in the main stream, leaking considerably, but otherwise not much the worse for her adventure. "Now what do you mean to do?" said the stranger. "I don't think you can pull home in her. One doesn't know how much she may be damaged. She may sink in the lock, or play any prank." "But what am I to do with her?" "Oh, you can leave her at Sandford and walk up, and send one of Hall's boys after her. Or, if you like, I will tow her up behind my skiff." "Won't your skiff carry two?" "Yes; if you like to come I'll take you, but you must sit very quiet." "Can't we go down to Sandford first and have a glass of ale? What time is it?--the water has stopped my watch." "A quarter past three. I have about twenty minutes to spare." "Come along, then," said Tom; "but will you let me pull your skiff down to Sandford? I resolved to pull to Sandford to-day, and don't like to give it up." "By all means, if you like," said the other, with a smile; "jump in, and I'll walk along the bank." "Thank you," said Tom, hurrying into the skiff, in which he completed the remaining quarter of a mile, while the owner walked by the side, watching him. They met on the bank at the little inn by Sandford lock, and had a glass of ale, over which Tom confessed that it was the first time he had ever navigated a skiff by himself, and gave a detailed account of his adventures, to the great amusement of his companion. And by the time they rose to go, it was settled, at Tom's earnest request, that he should pull the sound skiff up, while his companion sat in the stern and coached him. The other consented very kindly, merely stipulating that he himself should take the sculls, if it should prove that Tom could not pull them up in time for hall dinner. So they started, and took the tub in tow when they came up to it. Tom got on famously under his new tutor, who taught him to get forward, and open his knees properly, and throw his weight on to the sculls at the beginning of the stroke. He managed even to get into Iffley lock on the way up without fouling the gates, and was then and there complimented on his progress. Whereupon, as they sat, while the lock filled, Tom poured out his thanks to his tutor for his instruction, which had been given so judiciously that, while he was conscious of improving at every stroke, he did not feel that the other was asserting any superiority over him; and so, though more humble than at the most disastrous period of his downward voyage, he was getting into a better temper every minute. It is a great pity that some of our instructors in more important matters than sculling will not take a leaf out of the same book. Of course, it is more satisfactory to one's own self-love to make everyone who comes to one to learn, feel that he is a fool, and we wise men; but if our object is to teach well and usefully what we know ourselves there cannot be a worse method. No man, however, is likely to adopt it, so long as he is conscious that he has anything himself to learn from his pupils; and as soon as he has arrived at the conviction that they can teach him nothing--that it is henceforth to be all give and no take--the sooner he throws up his office of teacher, the better it will be for himself, his pupils, and his country, whose sons he is misguiding. On their way up, so intent were they on their own work that it was not until shouts of "Hello, Brown! how did you get there? Why, you said you were not going down today," greeted them just above the Gut, that they were aware of the presence of the freshmen's four-oar of St. Ambrose College, which had with some trouble succeeded in overtaking them. "I said I wasn't going down with _you_," shouted Tom, grinding away harder than ever, that they might witness and wonder at his prowess. "Oh, I dare say! Whose skiff are you towing up? I believe you've been upset." Tom made no reply, and the four-oar floundered on ahead. "Are you at St. Ambrose's?" asked his sitter, after a minute. "Yes; that's my treadmill, that four-oar. I've been down in it almost every day since I came up, and very poor fun it is. So I thought to-day I would go on my own hook, and see if I couldn't make a better hand of it. And I have too, I know, thanks to you." The other made no remark, but a little shade came over his face. He had no chance of making out Tom's college, as the new cap which would have betrayed him had disappeared in the lasher. He himself wore a glazed straw hat, which was of no college; so that up to this time neither of them had known to what college the other belonged. When they landed at Hall's, Tom was at once involved in a wrangle with the manager as to the amount of damage done to the tub; which the latter refused to assess before he knew what had happened to it; while our hero vigorously and with reason maintained, that if he knew his business it could not matter what had happened to the boat. There she was, and he must say whether she was better or worse, or how much worse than when she started. In the middle of which dialogue his new acquaintance, touching his arm, said, "You can leave my jersey with your own things; I shall get it to-morrow," and then disappeared. Tom, when he had come to terms with his adversary, ran upstairs, expecting to find the other, and meaning to tell his name, and find out who it was that had played the good Samaritan by him. He was much annoyed when he found the coast clear, and dressed in a grumbling humour. "I wonder why he should have gone off so quick. He might just as well have stayed and walked up with me," thought he. "Let me see, though; didn't he say I was to leave his Jersey in our room, with my own things? Why, perhaps he is a St. Ambrose man himself. But then he would have told me so, surely. I don't remember to have seen his face in chapel or hall; but then there is such a lot of new faces, and he may not sit near me. However I mean to find him out before long, whoever he may be." With which resolve Tom crossed in the punt into Christ's Church meadow, and strolled college-wards, feeling that he had had a good hard afternoon's exercise, and was much the better for it. He might have satisfied his curiosity at once by simply asking the manager who it was that had arrived with him; and this occurred to him before he got home, whereat he felt satisfied, but would not go back then, as it was so near hall time. He would be sure to remember it the first thing tomorrow. As it happened, however, he had not so long to wait for the information which he needed; for scarcely had he sat down in hall and ordered his dinner, when he caught sight of his boating acquaintance, who walked in habited in a gown which Tom took for a scholar's. He took his seat at a little table in the middle of the hall, near the bachelors' table, but quite away from the rest of the undergraduates, at which sat four or five other men in similar gowns. He either did not or would not notice the looks of recognition which Tom kept firing at him until he had taken his seat. "Who is that man that has just come in, do you know?" said Tom to his next neighbour, a second term man. "Which?" said the other, looking up. "That one over at the little table in the middle of the hall, with the dark whiskers. There, he has just turned rather from us, and put his arm on the table." "Oh, his name is Hardy." "Do you know him?" "No; I don't think anybody does. They say he is a clever fellow, but a very queer one." "Why does he sit at that table!" "He is one of our servitors; they all sit there together." "Oh," said Tom, not much wiser for the information, but resolved to waylay Hardy as soon as the hall was over, and highly delighted to find that they were after all of the same college; for he had already begun to find out, that however friendly you may be with out-college men, you must live chiefly with those of your own. But now his scout brought his dinner, and he fell to with the appetite of a freshman on his ample commons. CHAPTER III--A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S No man in St. Ambrose College gave such breakfasts as Drysdale. Not the great heavy spreads for thirty or forty, which came once or twice a term, when everything was supplied out of the college kitchen, and you had to ask leave of the Dean before you could have it at all. In those ponderous feasts the most hum-drum of the undergraduate kind might rival the most artistic, if he could only pay his battle-bill, or get credit with the cook. But the daily morning meal, when even gentlemen commoners were limited to two hot dishes out of the kitchen, this was Drysdale's forte. Ordinary men left the matter in the hands of scouts, and were content with the ever-recurring buttered toasts and eggs, with a dish of broiled ham, or something of the sort, with a marmalade and bitter ale to finish with; but Drysdale was not an ordinary man, as you felt in a moment when you went to breakfast with him for the first time. The staircase on which he lived was inhabited, except in the garrets, by men in the fast set, and he and three others, who had an equal aversion to solitary feeding, had established a breakfast-club, in which, thanks to Drysdale's genius, real scientific gastronomy was cultivated. Every morning the boy from the Weirs arrived with freshly caught gudgeon, and now and then an eel or trout, which the scouts on the staircase had learnt to fry delicately in oil. Fresh watercresses came in the same basket, and the college kitchen furnished a spitchedcocked chicken, or grilled turkey's leg. In the season there were plover's eggs; or, at the worst, there was a dainty omelette; and a distant baker, famed for his light rolls and high charges, sent in the bread--the common domestic college loaf being of course out of the question for anyone with the slightest pretension to taste, and fit only for the perquisite of scouts. Then there would be a deep Yorkshire pie, or reservoir of potted game, as a _piece, de resistance_, and three or four sorts of preserves; and a large cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to finish up with, or soda-water and maraschino for a change. Tea and coffee were there indeed, but merely as a compliment to those respectable beverages, for they were rarely touched by the breakfast eaters of No. 3 staircase. Pleasant young gentlemen they were on No. 3 staircase; I mean the ground and first floor men who formed the breakfast-club, for the garrets were nobodies. Three out of the four were gentlemen-commoners, with allowances of 500L a year at least each; and, as they treated their allowances as pocket-money, and were all in their first year, ready money was plenty and credit good, and they might have had potted hippopotamus for breakfast if they had chosen to order it, which they would most likely have done if they had thought of it. Two out of the three were the sons of rich men who made their own fortunes, and sent their sons to St. Ambrose's because it was very desirable that the young gentlemen should make good connexions. In fact, the fathers looked upon the University as a good investment, and gloried much in hearing their sons talk familiarly in the vacations of their dear friends Lord Harry This and Sir George That. Drysdale, the third of the set, was the heir of an old as well of a rich family, and consequently, having his connexion ready made to his hand, cared little enough with whom he associated, provided they were pleasant fellows, and gave him good food and wines. His whole idea at present was to enjoy himself as much as possible; but he had good manly stuff in him at the bottom, and, had he fallen into any but the fast set, would have made a fine fellow, and done credit to himself and his college. The fourth man at the breakfast-club, the Hon. Piers St. Cloud was in his third year, and was a very well-dressed, well-mannered, well-connected young man. His allowance was small for the set he lived with, but he never wanted for anything. He didn't entertain much, certainly, but when he did, everything was in the best possible style. He was very exclusive, and knew no man in college out of the fast set, and of these he addicted himself chiefly to the society of the rich freshmen, for somehow the men of his own standing seemed a little shy of him. But with the freshmen he was always hand and glove, lived in their rooms, and used their wines, horses, and other movable property as his own. Being a good whist and billiard player, and not a bad jockey, he managed in one way or another to make his young friends pay well for the honour of his acquaintance; as, indeed, why should they not, at least those of them who came to the college to form eligible connexions; for had not his remote lineal ancestor come over in the same ship with William the Conqueror? Were not all his relations about the Court, as lords and ladies in waiting, white sticks or black rods, and in the innermost of all possible circles of the great world; and was there a better coat of arms than he bore in all Burke's Peerage? Our hero had met Drysdale at a house in the country shortly before the beginning of his first term, and they had rather taken to one another. Drysdale had been amongst his first callers; and, as he came out of chapel one morning shortly after his arrival, Drysdale's scout came up to him with an invitation to breakfast. So he went to his own rooms, ordered his commons to be taken across to No. 3, and followed himself a few minutes afterwards. No one was in the rooms when he arrived, for none of the club had finished their toilettes. Morning chapel was not meant for, or cultivated by gentlemen-commoners; they paid double chapel fees, in consideration of which, probably, they were not expected to attend so often as the rest of the undergraduates; at any rate, they didn't, and no harm came to them in consequence of their absence. As Tom entered, a great splashing in an inner room stopped for a moment, and Drysdale's voice shouted out that he was in his tub, but would be with him in a minute. So Tom gave himself up to contemplation of the rooms in which his fortunate acquaintance dwelt; and very pleasant rooms they were. The large room in which the breakfast-table was laid for five, was lofty and well proportioned, and panelled with old oak, and the furniture was handsome and solid, and in keeping with the room. There were four deep windows, high up in the wall, with cushioned seats under them, two looking into the large quadrangle, and two into the inner one. Outside these windows, Drysdale had rigged up hanging gardens, which were kept full of flowers by the first nurseryman in Oxford, all the year round; so that even on this February morning, the scent of gardenia and violets pervaded the room, and strove for mastery with the smell of stale tobacco, which hung about the curtains and sofa. There was a large glass in an oak frame over the mantelpiece, which was loaded with choice pipes and cigar cases and quaint receptacles for tobacco; and by the side of the glass hung small carved oak frames, containing lists of meets of the Heyshrop, the Old Berkshire, and Drake's hounds, for the current week. There was a queer assortment of well-framed paintings and engravings on the walls; some of considerable merit, especially some watercolor and sea-pieces and engravings from Landseer's pictures, mingled with which hung Taglioni and Cerito, in short petticoats and impossible attitudes; Phosphurous winning the Derby; the Death of Grimaldi (the famous steeple-chase horse, not poor old Joe); an American Trotting Match, and Jem Belcher and Deaf Burke in attitudes of self-defense. Several tandem and riding whips, mounted in heavy silver, and a double-barrelled gun, and fishing rods, occupied one corner, and a polished copper cask, holding about five gallons of mild ale, stood in another. In short, there was plenty of everything except books--the literature of the world being represented, so far as Tom could make out in his short scrutiny, by a few well-bound but badly used volumes of the classics, with the cribs thereto appertaining, shoved away into a cupboard which stood half open, and contained besides, half-emptied decanters, and large pewters, and dog collars, and packs of cards, and all sorts of miscellaneous articles to serve as an antidote. Tom had scarcely finished his short survey when the door of the bedroom opened, and Drysdale emerged in a loose jacket lined with silk, his velvet cap on his head, and otherwise gorgeously attired. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of middle size, with dark hair, and a merry brown eye, with a twinkle in it, which spoke well for his sense of humor; otherwise, his large features were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a thoroughly well-bred gentleman. His first act, after nodding to Tom, was to seize on a pewter and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint or so of the contents, having, as he said, "'a whoreson longing for that poor creature, small beer.' We were playing Van-John in Blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled bones and mulled port. A fellow can't enjoy his breakfast after that without something to cool his coppers." Tom was as yet ignorant of what Van-John might be, so held his peace, and took a pull at the beer which the other handed to him; and then the scout entered, and received orders to bring up Jack and the breakfast, and not wait for any one. In another minute, a bouncing and scratching was heard on the stairs, and a white bulldog rushed in, a gem in his way; for his brow was broad and massive, his skin was as fine as a lady's, and his tail taper and nearly as thin as a clay pipe. His general look, and a way he had of going 'snuzzling' about the calves of strangers, were not pleasant for nervous people. Tom, however, was used to dogs, and soon became friends with him, which evidently pleased his host. And then the breakfast arrived, all smoking, and with it the two other ingenious youths, in velvet caps and far more gorgeous apparel, so far as colors went, than Drysdale. They were introduced to Tom, who thought them somewhat ordinary and rather loud young gentlemen. One of them remonstrated vigorously against the presence of that confounded dog, and so Jack was sent to lie down in a corner, and then the four fell to work upon the breakfast. It was a good lesson in gastronomy, but the results are scarcely worth repeating here. It is wonderful, though, how you feel drawn to a man who feeds you well; and, as Tom's appetite got less, his liking and respect for his host undoubtedly increased. When they had nearly finished, in walked the Honorable Piers, a tall slight man, two or three years older than the rest of them; good looking, and very well and quietly dressed, but with the drawing up of his nostril, and a drawing down of the corners of his mouth, which set Tom against him at once. The cool, supercilious half-nod, moreover, to which he treated our hero when introduced to him, was enough to spoil his digestion, and hurt his self-love a good deal more than he would have liked to own. "Here, Henry," said the Honorable Piers to the scout in attendance, seating himself, and inspecting the half-cleared dishes; "what is there for my breakfast?" Henry bustled about, and handed a dish or two. "I don't want these cold things; haven't you kept me any gudgeon?" "Why sir" said Henry, "there was only two dozen this morning, and Mr. Drysdale told me to cook them all. "To be sure I did," said Drysdale. "Just half a dozen for each of us four: they were first-rate. If you can't get here at half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, I can tell you." "Just go and get me a broil from the kitchen," said the Honorable Piers, without deigning an answer to Drysdale. "Very sorry, sir; kitchen's shut by now, sir," answered Henry. "Then go to Hinton's, and order some cutlets." "I say, Henry," shouted Drysdale to the retreating scout; "not to my tick, mind! Put them down to Mr. St. Cloud." Henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently returned to his waiting; and the Honorable Piers set to work upon his breakfast, without showing any further ill temper certainly, except by the stinging things which he threw every now and then into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in turn. Tom thought he detected signs of coming hostilities between his host and St. Cloud, for Drysdale seemed to prick up his ears and get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance in roughing him in his replies. And, indeed, he was not far wrong; the fact being, that during Drysdale's first term, the other had lived on him--drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his dog-cart, and winning his money; all which Drysdale, who was the easiest going and best tempered fellow in Oxford, had stood without turning a hair. But St. Cloud added to these little favors a half patronizing, half contemptuous manner, which he used with great success towards some of the other gentleman-commoners, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and the correct thing, but which Drysdale, who didn't care three straws about knowing St. Cloud, wasn't going to put up with. However, nothing happened but a little sparring, and the breakfast things were cleared away, and the tankards left on the table, and the company betook themselves to cigars and easy chairs. Jack came out of his corner to be gratified with some of the remnants by his fond master, and then curled himself up on the sofa along which Drysdale lounged. "What are you going to do to-day, Drysdale?" said one of the others. "I've ordered a leader to be sent on over the bridge, and mean to drive my dog-cart over, and dine at Abingdon. Won't you come?" "Who's going besides?" asked Drysdale. "Oh, only St. Cloud and Farley here. There's lots of room for a fourth." "No, thank'ee; teaming's slow work on the back seat. Besides, I've half promised to go down in the boat." "In the boat!" shouted the other. "Why, you don't mean to say you're going to take to pulling?" "Well, I don't know; I rather think I am. I'm dog-tired of driving and doing the High Street, and playing cards and billiards all day, and our boat is likely to be head of the river, I think." "By Jove! I should as soon have thought of you taking to reading, or going to University Sermon," put in St. Cloud. "And the boating-men, too," went on Farley; "did you ever see such a set, St. Cloud? with their everlasting flannels and jerseys, and hair cropped like prize-fighters?" "I'll bet a guinea there isn't one of them has more than 200L a year," put in Chanter, whose father could just write his name, and was making a colossal fortune by supplying bad iron rails to the new railway companies. "What the devil do I care," broke in Drysdale; "I know they're a deal more amusing than you fellows, who can't do anything that don't cost pounds." "Getting economical!" sneered St. Cloud. "Well, I don't see the fun of tearing one's heart out, and blistering one's hands, only to get abused by that little brute Miller the coxswain," said Farley. "Why, you won't be able to sit straight in your chair for a month," said Chanter; "and the captain will make you dine at one, and fetch you out of anybody's rooms, confound his impudence whether he knows them or not, at eleven o'clock every night." "Two cigars every day, and a pint and a half of liquid," and Farley inserted his cod fish face into the tankard; "fancy Drysdale on training allowance!" Here a newcomer entered in a bachelor's gown, who was warmly greeted by the name of Sanders by Drysdale. St. Cloud and he exchanged the coldest possible nods; and the other two, taking the office from their mentor, stared at him through their smoke, and, after a minute or two's silence, and a few rude half-whispered remarks amongst themselves, went off to play a game of pyramids till luncheon time. Saunders took a cigar which Drysdale offered, and began asking about his friends at home, and what he had been doing in the vacation. They were evidently intimate, though Tom thought that Drysdale didn't seem quite at his ease at first, which he wondered at, as Sanders took his fancy at once. However, eleven o'clock struck, and Tom had to go to lecture, where we cannot follow him just now, but must remain with Drysdale and Saunders, who chatted on very pleasantly for some twenty minutes, till a knock came at the door. It was not till the third summons that Drysdale shouted, "Come in," with a shrug of his shoulders, and an impatient kick at the sofa cushion at his feet, as though not half pleased at the approaching visit. Reader! Had you not ever a friend a few years older than yourself, whose good opinions you were anxious to keep? A fellow _teres atqua rotundus_; who could do everything better than you, from Plato and tennis down to singing a comic song and playing quoits? If you have had, wasn't he always in your rooms or company whenever anything happened to show your little weak points? Sanders, at any rate, occupied this position towards our young friend Drysdale, and the latter, much as he liked Sander's company, would have preferred it at any time than on an idle morning just at the beginning of term, when the gentlemen tradesmen, who look upon undergraduates in general, and gentlemen-commoners in particular, as their lawful prey, are in the habit of calling in flocks. The new arrival was a tall florid man, with a half servile, half impudent, manner, and a foreign accent; dressed in sumptuous costume, with a velvet-faced coat, and a gorgeous plush waist-coat. Under his arm he carried a large parcel, which he proceeded to open, and placed upon a sofa the contents, consisting of a couple of coats, and three or four waistcoats and a pair of trousers. He saluted Sanders with a most obsequious bow, looked nervously at Jack, who opened one eye from between his master's legs and growled, and then, turning to Drysdale, asked if he should have the honor of seeing him try on any of the clothes? "No; I can't be bored with trying them on now," said Drysdale; "leave them where they are." Mr. Schloss would like very much on his return to town, in a day or two, to be able to assure his principals, that Mr. Drysdale's orders had been executed to his satisfaction. He had also some very beautiful new stuffs with him, which he should like to submit to Mr. Drysdale, and without more ado began unfolding cards of the most fabulous plushes and cloths. Drysdale glanced first at the cards and then at Sanders, who sat puffing his cigar, and watching Schloss's proceedings with a look not unlike Jack's when anyone he did not approve of approached his master. "Confound your patterns, Schloss," said Drysdale; "I tell you I have more things than I want already." "The large stripe, such as these, is now very much worn in London," went on Schloss, without heeding the rebuff, and spreading his cards on the table. "D---- trousers," replied Drysdale; "you seem to think a fellow has ten pair of legs." "Monsieur is pleased to joke," smiled Schloss; "but, to be in the mode, gentlemen must have variety." "Well, I won't order any now, that's flat," said Drysdale. "Monsieur will do as he pleases; but it is impossible that he should not have some plush waists; the fabric is only just out, and is making a sensation." "Now look here, Schloss; will you go if I order a waist coat?" "Monsieur is very good; he sees how tasteful these new patterns are." "I wouldn't, be seen at a cock-fight in one of them, there're as gaudy as a salmon-fly," said Drysdale, feeling the stuff which the obsequious Schloss held out. "But it seems nice stuff, too," he went on; "I shouldn't mind having a couple of waistcoats of it of this pattern;" and he chucked across to Schloss a dark tartan waistcoat which was lying near him. "Have you got the stuff in that pattern?" "Ah! no," said Schloss, gathering up the waistcoat; "but it shall not hinder. I shall have at once a loom for Monsieur set up at once in Paris." "Set it up in Jericho if you like," said Drysdale; "and now go!" "May I ask, Mr. Schloss," broke in Sanders, "what it will cost to set up the loom?" "Ah! indeed, a trifle only; some twelve, or perhaps fourteen pounds." Sanders gave a chuckle, and puffed away at his cigar. "By Jove," shouted Drysdale, jerking himself in a sitting posture, and upsetting Jack, who went trotting about the room, and snuffing at Schloss's legs; "do you mean to say, Schloss, you were going to make me waistcoats at fourteen guineas apiece?" "Not if Monsieur disapproves. Ah! the large hound is not friendly to strangers; I will call again when Monsieur is more at leisure." And Schloss gathered up his cards and beat a hasty retreat, followed by Jack with his head on one side, and casting an enraged look at Sanders, as he slid through the door. "Well done, Jack, old boy!" said Sanders, patting him; "what a funk the fellow was in. Well, you've saved your master a pony this fine morning. Cheap dog you've got, Drysdale." "D---- the fellow," answered Drysdale, "he leaves a bad taste in one's mouth;" and he went to the table, took a pull at the tankard, and then threw himself down on the sofa again, as Jack jumped up and coiled himself round by his master's legs, keeping one half-open eye winking at him, and giving an occasional wag with the end of his taper tail. Saunders got up, and began handling the new things. First he held up a pair of bright blue trousers, with a red stripe across them, Drysdale looking on from the sofa. "I say, Drysdale, you don't mean to say you really ordered these thunder-and-lightening affairs?" "Heaven only knows," said Drysdale; "I daresay I did, I'd order a full suit cut out of my grandmother's farthingale to get that cursed Schloss out of my rooms sometimes." "You'll never be able to wear them; even in Oxford the boys would mob you. Why don't you kick him down stairs?" suggested Sanders, putting down the trousers, and turning to Drysdale. "Well, I've been very near it once or twice; but I don't know--my name's Easy--besides, I don't want to give up the beast altogether; he makes the best trousers in England." "And these waistcoats," went on Sanders; "let me see; three light silk waistcoats, peach-color, fawn-color, and lavender. Well, of course, you can only wear these at your weddings. You may be married the first time in the peach or fawn-color; and then, if you have luck, and bury your first wife soon, it will be a delicate compliment to take to No.2 in the lavender, that being half-mourning; but still, you see, we're in difficulty as to one of the three, either the peach or the fawn-color--" Here he was interrupted by another knock, and a boy entered from the fashionable tobacconist's in Oriel Lane, who had general orders to let Drysdale have his fair share of anything very special in the cigar line. He deposited a two pound box of cigars at three guineas the pound, on the table, and withdrew in silence. Then came a boot-maker with a new pair of top-boots, which Drysdale had ordered in November, and had forgotten next day. The artist, wisely considering that his young patron must have plenty of tops to last him through the hunting season (he himself having supplied three previous pairs in October), had retained the present pair for show in his window; and everyone knows that boots wear much better for being kept sometime before use. Now, however, as the hunting season was drawing to a close, and the place in the window was wanted for spring stock, he judiciously sent in the tops, merely adding half-a-sovereign or so to the price for interest on the out lay since the order. He also kindly left on the table a pair of large plated spurs to match the boots. It never rains but it pours. Sanders sat smoking his cigar in provoking silence, while knock succeeded knock and tradesman followed tradesman; each depositing some article ordered, or supposed to have been ordered, or which ought in the judgment of the depositors to have been ordered, by the luckless Drysdale: and new hats, and ties, and gloves, and pins, jostled balsam of Neroli, and registered shaving-soap, and fancy letter paper, and Eau de Cologne, on every available table. A visit from two livery-stable-keepers in succession followed, each of whom had several new leaders which they were anxious Mr. Drysdale should try as soon as possible. Drysdale growled and grunted, and wished them or Sanders at the bottom of the sea; however, he consoled himself with the thought that the worst was now passed,--there was no other possible supplier of undergraduate wants who could arrive. Not so; in another minute a gentle knock came at the door. Jack pricked up his ears and wagged his tail; Drysdale recklessly shouted, "Come in!" the door slowly opened about eighteen inches, and a shock head of hair entered the room, from which one lively little gimlet eye went glancing about into every corner. The other eye was closed, but as a perpetual wink to indicate the unsleeping wariness of the owner, or because that hero had really lost the power of using it in some of his numerous encounters with men and beasts, no one, so far as I know, has ever ascertained. "Ah! Mr. Drysdale, sir!" began the head; and then rapidly withdrew behind the door to avoid one of the spurs, which (being the missile nearest at hand) Drysdale instantly discharged at it. As the spur fell to the floor, the head reappeared in the room, and as quickly disappeared again, in deference to the other spur, the top boots, an ivory handled hair brush, and a translation of Euripides, which in turn saluted each successive appearance of said head; and the grin was broader on each reappearance. Then Drysdale, having no other article within reach which he could throw, burst into a loud fit of laughter, in which Sanders and the head heartily joined, and shouted, "Come in, Joe, you old fool! and don't stand bobbing your ugly old mug in and out there, like a jack in the box." So the head came in, and after it the body, and closed the door behind it; and a queer, cross-grained, tough-looking body it was, of about fifty years standing, or rather slouching, clothed in an old fustian coat, corduroy breeches and gaiters, and being the earthly tabernacle of Joe Muggles, the dog-fancier of St. Aldate's. "How the deuce did you get by the lodge, Joe?" inquired Drysdale. Joe, be it known, had been forbidden the college for importing a sack of rats into the inner quadrangle, upon the turf of which a match at rat-killing had come off between the terriers of two gentlemen-commoners. This little event might have passed unnoticed, but that Drysdale had bought from Joe a dozen of the slaughtered rats, and nailed them on the doors of the four college tutors, three to a door; whereupon inquiry had been made, and Joe had been outlawed. [Illustration: 0054] "Oh, please Mr. Drysdale, sir, I just watched the 'ed porter, sir, across to the buttery to get his mornin', and then I tips a wink to the under porter (pal o' mine, sir, the under porter), and makes a run of it right up." "Well, you'll be quod'ed if you're caught! Now what do you want?" "Why, you see, Mr. Drysdale, sir," said Joe, in his most insinuating tone, "my mate hev got an old dog brock, sir, from the Heythrop kennel, and Honble Wernham, sir of New Inn 'All, sir, he've jist been down our yard with a fighting chap from town, Mr. Drysdale--in the fancy, sir, he is, and hev got a matter of three dogs down a stoppin' at Milky Bill's. And he says, says he, Mr. Drysdale, as arra one of he's dogs'll draw the old un three times, while arra Oxford dog'll draw un twice, and Honble Wernham chaffs as how he'll back un for a fi' pun note;"--and Joe stopped to caress Jack, who was fawning on him as if he understood every word. "Well, Joe, what then?" said Drysdale. "So you see, Mr. Drysdale, sir," went on Joe, fondling Jack's muzzle, "my mate says, says he, 'Jack's the dog as can draw a brock,' says he, 'agin any Lonnun dog as ever was whelped; and Mr. Drysdale' says he, 'ain't the man as'd see two poor chaps bounced out of their honest name by arra town chap, and a fi' pun note's no more to he for the matter o' that, then to Honble Wernham his self,' says my mate." "So I'm to lend you Jack for a match, and stand the stakes?" "Well, Mr. Drysdale, sir, that was what my mate was a sayin'." "You're cool heads, you and your mate," said Drysdale; "here, take a drink, and get out, and I'll think about it." Drysdale was now in a defiant humor, and resolved not to let Sanders think that his presence could keep him from any act of folly to which he was inclined. Joe took his drink; and just then several men came in from lecture, and drew off Drysdale's attention from Jack, who quietly followed Joe out of the room, when that worthy disappeared. Drysdale only laughed when he found it out, and went down to the yard that afternoon to see the match between the London dog and his own pet. "How in the world are youngsters with unlimited credit, plenty of ready money, and fast tastes, to be kept from making fools and blackguards of themselves up here," thought Sanders, as he strolled back to his college. And it is a question which has exercised other heads besides his, and probably is a long way yet from being well solved. CHAPTER IV--THE ST. AMBROSE BOAT CLUB: ITS MINISTERY AND THEIR BUDGET. We left our hero, a short time back, busily engaged on his dinner commons, and resolved forthwith to make great friends with Hardy. It never occurred to him that there could be the slightest difficulty in carrying out this resolve. After such a passage as they two had had together that afternoon, he felt that the usual outworks of acquaintanceship had been cleared at a bound, and looked upon Hardy already as an old friend to whom he could talk out his mind as freely as he had been used to do to his old tutor at school, or to Arthur. Moreover, as there were already several things in his head which he was anxious to ventilate, he was all the more pleased that chance had thrown him across a man of so much older standing than himself, and one to whom he instinctively felt that he could look up. Accordingly, after grace had been said, and he saw that Hardy had not finished his dinner, but sat down again when the fellows had left the hall, he strolled out, meaning to wait for his victim outside, and seize upon him then and there; so he stopped on the steps outside the hall-door, and to pass the time, joined himself to one or two other men with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, who were also hanging about. While they were talking, Hardy came out of the hall, and Tom turned and stepped forward, meaning to speak to him. To his utter discomfiture, Hardy walked quickly away, looking straight before him, and without showing, by look or gesture, that he was conscious of our hero's existence, or had ever seen him before in his life. Tom was so taken aback that he made no effort to follow. He just glanced at his companions to see whether they had noticed the occurrence, and was glad to see that they had not (being deep in the discussion of the merits of a new hunter of Simmons's, which one of them had been riding); so he walked away by himself to consider what it could mean. But the more he puzzled about it, the less could he understand it. Surely, he thought, Hardy must have seen me; and yet, if he had, why did he not recognize me? My cap and gown can't be such a disguise as all that. And yet common decency must have led him to ask whether I was any the worse for my ducking, if he knew me. He scouted the notion, which suggested itself once or twice, that Hardy meant to cut him; and so, not being able to come to any reasonable conclusion, suddenly bethought him that he was asked to a wine-party; and putting his speculations aside for a moment, with the full intention nevertheless of clearing up the mystery as soon as possible, he betook himself to the rooms of his entertainer. They were fair-sized rooms in the second quadrangle, furnished plainly but well, so far as Tom could judge, but, as they were now laid out for the wine-party, they had lost all individual character for the time. Everyone of us, I suppose, is fond of studying the rooms, chambers, dens in short, of whatever sort they may be, of our friends and acquaintances--at least, I knew that I myself like to see what sort of a chair a man sits in, where he puts it, what books lie or stand on the shelves nearest his hand, what the objects are which he keeps most familiarly before him, in that particular nook of the earth's surface in which he is most at home, where he pulls off his coat, collar, and boots, and gets into an old easy shooting-jacket, and his broadest slippers. Fine houses and fine rooms have little attraction for most men, and those who have the finest drawing-rooms are probably the most bored by them; but the den of the man you like, or are disposed to like, has the strongest and strangest attraction for you. However, an Oxford undergraduate's room, set out for a wine-party, can tell you nothing. All the characteristics are shoved away into the background, and there is nothing to be seen but a long mahogany set out with bottles, glasses, and dessert. In the present instance the preparations for festivity were pretty much what they ought to be: good sound port and sherry, biscuits, and a plate or two of nuts and dried fruits. The host, who sat at the head of the board, was one of the main-stays of the College boat-club. He was treasurer of the club, and also a kind of a boating nurse, who looked-up and trained the young oars, and in this capacity had been in command of the freshmen's four-oar, in which Tom had been learning his rudiments. He was a heavy, burly man, naturally awkward in his movements, but gifted with a steady sort of dogged enthusiasm, and by dint of hard and constant training, had made himself into a most useful oar, fit for any place in the middle of the boat. In the two years of his residence, he had pulled down to Sandford every day except Sundays, and much farther whenever he could get anybody to accompany him. He was the most good natured man in the world, very badly dressed, very short sighted, and called everybody "old fellow." His name was simple Smith, generally known as Diogenes Smith, from an eccentric habit which he had of making an easy chair of his hip bath. Malicious acquaintance declared that when Smith first came up, and, having paid the valuation for the furniture in his rooms, came to inspect the same, the tub in question had been left by chance in the sitting-room, and that Smith, not having the faintest idea of its proper use, had by the exercise of his natural reason come to the conclusion that it could only be meant for a man to sit in, and so had kept it in his sitting-room, and had taken to it as an arm-chair. This I have reason to believe was a libel. Certain it is, however, that in his first term he was discovered sitting solemnly in the tub, by his fire-side, with his spectacles on, playing the flute--the only other recreation besides boating in which he indulged; and no amount of quizzing could get him out of the habit. When alone, or with only one or two friends in his room, he still occupied the tub; and declared that it was the most perfect of seats hitherto invented, and, above all, adapted for the recreation of a boating man, to whom cushioned seats should be an abomination. He was naturally a very hospitable man, and on this night was particularly anxious to make his rooms pleasant to all comers, as it was a sort of opening for the boating season. This wine of his was a business matter, in fact, to which Diogenes had invited officially, as treasurer of the boat-club, every man who had ever shown the least tendency to pulling,--many with whom he had scarcely a nodding acquaintance. For Miller, the coxswain, had come up at last. He had taken his B.A. degree in the Michaelmas term, and had been very near starting for a tour in the East. Upon turning the matter over in his mind, however, Miller had come to the conclusion that Palestine, and Egypt, and Greece could not run away, but that, unless he was there to keep matters going, the St. Ambrose boat would lose the best chance it was ever likely to have of getting to the head of the river. So he had patriotically resolved to reside till June, read divinity, and coach the racing crew; and had written to Diogenes to call together the whole boating interest of the College, that they might set to work at once in good earnest. Tom, and the three or four other freshmen present, were duly presented to Miller as they came in, who looked them over as the colonel of a crack regiment might look over horses at Horncastle-fair, with a single eye to their bone and muscle, and how much work might be got out of them. They then gathered towards the lower end of the long table, and surveyed the celebrities at the upper end with much respect. Miller, the coxswain, sat on the host's right hand,--a slight, resolute, fiery little man, with curly black hair. He was peculiarly qualified by nature for the task which he had set himself; and it takes no mean qualities to keep a boat's crew well together and in order. Perhaps he erred a little on the side of over-strictness and severity; and he certainly would have been more popular had his manners been a thought more courteous; but the men who rebelled most against his tyranny grumblingly confessed that he was a first-rate coxswain. A very different man was the captain of the boat, who sat opposite to Miller; altogether, a noble specimen of a very noble type of our countrymen. Tall and strong of body; courageous and even-tempered; tolerant of all men; sparing of speech, but ready in action; a thoroughly well balanced, modest, quiet Englishman; one of those who do a good stroke of the work of the country without getting much credit for it, or even becoming aware of the fact; for the last thing such men understand is how to blow their own trumpets. He was perhaps too easy for the captain of St. Ambrose boat-club; at any rate, Miller was always telling him so. But, if he was not strict enough with others, he never spared himself, and was as good as three men in the boat at a pinch. But if I venture on more introductions, my readers will get bewildered; so I must close the list, much as I should like to make them known to "fortis Gyas fortisque Cloanthus," who sat round the chiefs, laughing and consulting, and speculating on the chances of the coming races. No, stay, there is one other man they must make room for. Here he comes, rather late, in a very glossy hat, the only man in the room not in cap and gown. He walks up and takes his place by the side of the host as a matter of course; a handsome, pale man, with a dark, quick eye, conscious that he draws attention wherever he goes, and apparently of the opinion that it is right. "Who is that who has just come in in beaver?" said Tom, touching the next man to him. "Oh, don't you know? that's Blake; he's the most wonderful fellow in Oxford," answered his neighbor. "How do you mean?" said Tom. "Why, he can do everything better than almost anybody, and without any trouble at all. Miller was obliged to have him in the boat last year, though he never trained a bit. Then he's in the eleven, and is a wonderful rider, and tennis-player, and shot." "Ay, and he's so awfully clever with it all," joined in the man on the other side. "He'll be a safe first, though I don't believe he reads more than you or I. He can write songs, too, as fast as you can talk nearly, and sings them wonderfully." "Is he of our College, then?" "Yes, of course, or he couldn't have been in our boat last year." "But I don't think I ever saw him in chapel or hall" "No, I daresay not. He hardly ever goes to either, and yet he manages never to get hauled up much, no one knows how. He never gets up now till the afternoon, and sits up nearly all night playing cards with the fastest fellows, or going round singing glees at three or four in the morning." Tom sipped his port and looked with great interest at the admirable Crichton of St. Ambrose's; and, after watching him a few moments said in a low voice to his neighbor, "How wretched he looks! I never saw a sadder face." Poor Blake! one can't help calling him "poor," although he himself would have winced at it more than any name you could have called him. You might have admired, feared, or wondered at him, and he would have been pleased; the object of his life was to raise such feelings in his neighbors; but pity was the last which he would like to excite. He was indeed a wonderfully gifted fellow, full of all sorts of energy and talent, and power and tenderness; and yet, as his face told only too truly to anyone who watched him when he was exerting himself in society, one of the most wretched men in the College. He had a passion for success--for beating everybody else in whatever he took in hand, and that, too, without seeming to make any great effort himself. The doing a thing well and thoroughly gave him no satisfaction unless he could feel that he was doing it better and more easily than A, B, or C, and they felt and acknowledged this. He had had full swing of success for two years, and now the Nemesis was coming. For, although not an extravagant man, many of the pursuits in which he has eclipsed all rivals were far beyond the means of any but a rich one, and Blake was not rich. He had a fair allowance, but by the end of his first year was considerably in debt, and, at the time we are speaking of, the whole pack of Oxford tradesmen into whose books he had got (having smelt out the leaness of his expectations), were upon him, besieging him for payment. This miserable and constant annoyance was wearing his soul out. This was the reason why his oak was sported, and he was never seen till the afternoons, and turned night into day. He was too proud to come to an understanding with his persecutors, even had it been possible; and now, at his sorest need, his whole scheme of life was failing him; his love of success was turning into ashes in his mouth; he felt much more disgust than pleasure at his triumphs over other men, and yet the habit of striving for successes, notwithstanding its irksomeness, was too strong to be resisted. Poor Blake! he was living on from hand to mouth, flashing out in his old brilliancy and power, and forcing himself to take the lead in whatever company he might be; but utterly lonely and depressed when by himself--reading feverishly in secret, in a desperate effort to retrieve all by high honors and a fellowship. As Tom said to his neighbor, there was no sadder face than his to be seen in Oxford. And yet at this very wine party he was the life of everything, as he sat up there between Diogenes--whom he kept in a constant sort of mild epileptic fit, from laughter, and wine going the wrong way (for whenever Diogenes raised his glass Blake shot him with some joke)--and the Captain who watched him with the most undisguised admiration. A singular contrast, the two men! Miller, though Blake was the torment of his life, relaxed after the first quarter of all hour; and our hero, by the same time, gave himself credit for being a much greater ass than he was, for having ever thought Blake's face a sad one. When the room was quite full, and enough wine had been drunk to open the hearts of the guests, Diogenes rose on a signal from Miller, and opened the budget. The financial statement was a satisfactory one; the club was almost free of debt; and, comparing their position with that of other colleges, Diogenes advised that they might fairly burden themselves a little more, and then, if they would stand a whip of ten shillings a man, they might have a new boat, which he believed they all would agree had become necessary. Miller supported the new boat in a pungent little speech; and the Captain, when appealed to, nodded and said he thought they must have one. So the small supplies and the large addition to the club debt was voted unanimously, and the Captain, Miller, and Blake, who had many notions as to the flooring, lines, and keel of a racing boat, were appointed to order and superintend the building. Soon afterwards, coffee came in and cigars were lighted; a large section of the party went off to play pool, others to stroll about the streets, others to whist; a few, let us hope, to their own rooms to read; but these latter were a sadly small minority even in the quietest of St. Ambrose parties. Tom, who was fascinated by the heroes at the head of the table, sat steadily on, sidling up towards them as the intermediate places became vacant, and at last attained the next chair but one to the Captain, where for the time he sat in perfect bliss. Blake and Miller were telling boating stories of the Henley and Thames regattas, the latter of which had been lately started with great _eclat_; and from these great yearly events, and the deeds of prowess done thereat, the talk came gradually round to the next races. "Now, Captain," said Miller, suddenly, "have you thought yet what new men we are to try in the crew this year?" "No, 'pon my honor I haven't," said the Captain, "I'm reading, and have no time to spare. Besides, after all, there's lots of time to think about it. Here we're only half through Lent term, and the races don't begin till the end of Easter term." "It won't do," said Miller, "we must get the crew together this term." "Well, you and Smith put your heads together and manage it," said the Captain. "I will go down any day, and as often as you like, at two o'clock." "Let's see," said Miller to Smith, "how many of the old crew have we left?" "Five, counting Blake," answered Diogenes. "Counting me! well, that's cool," laughed Blake; "you old tub haunting flute-player, why am I not to be counted?" "You never will train, you see," said Diogenes. "Smith is quite right," said Miller; "there's no counting on you, Blake. Now, be a good fellow, and promise to be regular this year." "I'll promise to do my work in a race, which is more than some of your best-trained men will do," said Blake, rather piqued. "Well you know what I think on the subject," said Miller; "but who have we got for the other three places?" "There's Drysdale would do," said Diogenes; "I hear he was a capital oar at Eton; and so, though I don't know him, I managed to get him once down last term. He would do famously for No.2, or No.3 if he would pull." "Do you think he will, Blake? You know him, I suppose," said Miller. "Yes, I know him well enough," said Blake; and, shrugging his shoulders, added, "I don't think you'll get him to train much." "Well, we must try," said Miller. "Now, who else is there?" Smith went through four or five names, at each of which Miller shook his head. "Any promising freshmen?" said he at last. "None better than Brown here," said Smith. "I think he'll do well if he will only work, and stand being coached." "Have you ever pulled much?" said Miller. "No," said Tom, "never till this last month--since I've been up here." "All the better," said Miller; "now, Captain, you hear; we may probably have to go in with three new hands; they must get into your stroke this term, or we shall be nowhere." "Very well," said the Captain; "I'll give from two till five any days you like." "And now let's go and have one pool," said Blake, getting up. "Come, Captain, just one little pool after all this business." Diogenes insisted on staying to play his flute; Miller was engaged; but the Captain, with a little coaxing, was led away by Blake, and good-naturedly asked Tom to accompany them, when he saw that he was looking as if he would like it. So the three went off to the billiard-rooms; Tom in such spirits at the chance of being tried in the crew, that he hardly noticed the exceedingly bad exchange which he had involuntarily made of his new cap and gown for a third-year cap with the board broken into several pieces, and a fusty old gown which had been about college probably for ten generations. Under-graduate morality in the matter of caps and gowns seems to be founded on the celebrated maxim, "_Propriete c'est le vol_." They found the St. Ambrose pool-room full of the fast set; and Tom enjoyed his game much, though his three lives were soon disposed of. The Captain and Blake were the last lives on the board, and divided the pool at Blake's suggestion. He had scarcely nerve for playing out a single handed match with such an iron-nerved, steady piece of humanity as the Captain, though he was the more brilliant player of the two. The party then broke up, and Tom returned to his rooms; and, when he was by himself again, his thoughts recurred to Hardy. How odd, he thought, that they never mentioned him for the boat! Could he have done anything to be ashamed of? How was it that nobody seemed to know him, and he to know nobody. Most readers, I doubt not, will think our hero very green for being puzzled at so simple a matter; and, no doubt, the steps in the social scale in England are very clearly marked out, and we all come to the appreciation of the gradations sooner or later. But our hero's previous education must be taken into consideration. He had not been instructed at home to worship mere conventional distinctions of rank or wealth, and had gone to a school which was not frequented by persons of rank, and where no one knew whether a boy was heir to a principality, or would have to fight his own way in the world. So he was rather taken by surprise at what he found to be the state of things at St. Ambrose's and didn't easily realize it. CHAPTER V--HARDY, THE SERVITOR It was not long before Tom had effected his object in part. That is to say, he had caught Hardy several times in the Quadrangle coming out of Lecture Hall, or Chapel, and had fastened himself upon him; often walking with him even up to the door of his rooms. But there matters ended. Hardy was very civil and gentlemanly; he even seemed pleased with the volunteered companionship; but there was undoubtedly a coolness about him which Tom could not make out. But, as he only liked Hardy more, the more he saw of him, he very soon made up his mind to break ground himself, and to make a dash at any rate for something more than a mere speaking acquaintance. One evening he had as usual walked from Hall with Hardy up to his door. They stopped a moment talking, and then Hardy, half-opening the door, said, "Well, goodnight; perhaps we shall meet on the river to-morrow," and was going in, when Tom, looking him in the face, blurted out, "I say, Hardy, I wish you'd let me come in and sit with you a bit." "I never ask a man of our college into my rooms," answered the other, "but come in by all means if you like;" and so they entered. The room was the worst, both in situation and furniture, which Tom had yet seen. It was on the ground floor, with only one window, which looked out into a back yard, where were the offices of the college. All day, and up to nine o'clock at night, the yard and offices were filled with scouts; boys cleaning boots and knives; bed-makers emptying slops and tattling scandal; scullions peeling potatoes and listening; and the butchers' and green-grocers' men who supply the college, and loitering about to gossip and get a taste of the college ale before going about their business. The room was large, but low and close, and the floor uneven. The furniture did not add to the cheerfulness of the apartment. It consisted of one large table in the middle, covered with an old chequered table-cloth, and an Oxford table near the window, on which lay half-a-dozen books with writing materials. A couple of plain Windsor chairs occupied the two sides of the fireplace, and half-a-dozen common wooden chairs stood against the opposite wall, three on each side of a pretty-well-filled book-case; while an old rickety sofa, covered with soiled chintz, leaned against the wall which fronted the window, as if to rest its lame leg. The carpet and rug were dingy, and decidedly the worse for wear; and the college had evidently neglected to paper the room or whitewash the ceiling for several generations. On the mantle-piece reposed a few long clay pipes, and a brown earthenware receptacle for tobacco, together with a japanned tin case, shaped like a figure of eight, the use of which puzzled Tom exceedingly. One modestly framed drawing of a 10-gun brig hung above, and at the side of the fireplace a sword and belt. All this Tom had time to remark by the light of the fire, which was burning brightly, while his host produced a couple of brass candlesticks from his cupboard and lighted up, and drew the curtain before his window. Then Tom instinctively left off taking his notes, for fear of hurting the other's feelings (just as he would have gone on doing, and making remarks on everything, had the rooms been models of taste and comfort), and throwing his cap and gown on the sofa, sat down on one of the Windsor chairs. "What a jolly chair," said he; "where do you get them? I should like to buy one." "Yes, they're comfortable enough," said Hardy, "but the reason I have them is, that they're the cheapest armchair one can get. I like an arm-chair, and can't afford to have any other than these." Tom dropped the subject of the chairs at once, following his instinct again, which, sad to say, was already teaching him that poverty is a disgrace to a Briton, and that, until you know a man thoroughly, you must always seem to assume that he is the owner of unlimited ready money. Somehow or another, he began to feel embarrassed, and couldn't think of anything to say, as his host took down the pipes and tobacco from the mantle-piece, and placed them on the table. However, anything was better than silence, so he began again. "Very good-sized rooms yours seem," said he, taking up a pipe mechanically. "Big enough, for the matter of that," answered the other, "but very dark and noisy in the day-time." "So I should think," said Tom; "do you know, I'd sooner, now, have my freshman's rooms up in the garrets. I wonder you don't change." "I get these for nothing," said his host, putting his long clay to the candle, and puffing out volumes of smoke. Tom felt more and more unequal to the situation, and filled his pipe in silence. The first whiff made him cough as he wasn't used to the fragrant weed in this shape. "I'm afraid you don't smoke tobacco," said his host from behind his own cloud; "shall I go out and fetch you a cigar? I don't smoke them myself; I can't afford it." "No, thank you," said Tom blushing for shame as if he had come there only to insult his host, and wishing himself heartily out of it, "I've got my case here; and the fact is I will smoke a cigar if you'll allow me, for I'm not up to pipes yet. I wish you'd take some," he went on, emptying his cigars on to the table. "Thank'ee," replied his host, "I prefer a pipe. And now what will you have to drink? I don't keep wine but I can get a bottle of anything you like from the common room. That's one of _our_ privileges,"--he gave a grim chuckle as he emphasised the word "our". "Who on earth are _we_?" thought Tom "servitors I suppose," for he knew already that undergraduates in general could not get wine from the college cellars. "I don't care a straw about wine," said he, feeling very hot about the ears; "a glass of beer, or anything you have here--or tea." "Well, I can give you a pretty good glass of whiskey," said his host, going to the cupboard, and producing a black bottle, two tumblers of different sizes, some little wooden toddy ladles, and sugar in an old cracked glass. Tom vowed that, if there was one thing in the world he liked more than another, it was whiskey; and began measuring out the liquor carefully into his tumbler, and rolling it round between his eyes and the candle and smelling it, to show what a treat it was to him; while his host put the kettle on the fire, to ascertain that it had quit boiling, and then, as it spluttered and fizzed, filled up the two tumblers, and restored it to its place on the hob. Tom swallowed some of the mixture, which nearly made him cough again--for, though it was very good, it was also very potent. However, by an effort he managed to swallow his cough; he would about as soon have lost a little finger as let it out. Then, to his great relief, his host took the pipe from his lips, and inquired, "How do you like Oxford?" "I hardly know yet," said Tom; "the first few days I was delighted with going about and seeing the buildings, and finding out who had lived in each of the old colleges, and pottering about in the Bodleian, and fancying I should like to be a great scholar. Then I met several old school fellows going about, who are up at other colleges, and went to their rooms and talked over old times. But none of my very intimate friends are up yet, and unless you care very much about a man already, you don't seem likely to get intimate with him up here, unless he is at your own college." He paused, as if expecting an answer. "I daresay not," said Hardy, "but I never was at a public school, unluckily, and so am no judge." "Well, then, as to the college life," went on Tom, "it's all very well as far as it goes. There's plenty of liberty and good food. And the men seem nice fellows--many of them, at least, so far as I can judge. But I can't say that I like it as much as I liked our school life." "I don't understand," said Hardy. "Why not?" "Oh! I hardly know," said Tom laughing; "I don't seem as if I had anything to do here; that's one reason, I think. And then, you see, at Rugby I was rather a great man. There one had a share in the ruling of 300 boys, and a good deal of responsibility; but here one has only just to take care of oneself, and keep out of scrapes; and that's what I never could do. What do you think a fellow ought to do, now, up here?" "Oh I don't see much difficulty in that," said his host, smiling; "get up your lectures well, to begin with." "But my lectures are a farce," said Tom; "I've done all the books over and over again. They don't take me an hour a day to get up." "Well, then, set to work reading something regularly--reading for your degree, for instance." "Oh, hang it! I can't look so far forward as that; I shan't be going up for three years." "You can't begin too early. You might go and talk to your college-tutor about it." "So I did," said Tom; "at least I meant to do it. For he asked me and two other freshmen to breakfast the other morning, and I was going to open out to him; but when I got there I was quite shut up. He never looked one of us in the face, and talked in set sentences, and was cold, and formal, and condescending. The only bit of advice he gave us was to have nothing to do with boating--just the one thing which I feel a real interest in. I couldn't get out a word of what I wanted to say." "It is unlucky, certainly, that our present tutors take so little interest in anything which the men care about. But it is more from shyness than anything else, that manner which you noticed. You may be sure that he was more wretched and embarrassed than any of you." "Well, but now I should really like to know what you did yourself," said Tom; "you are the only man of much older standing than myself whom I know at all yet--I mean I don't know anybody else well enough to talk about this sort of thing to them. What did you do, now, besides learning to pull, in your first year?" "I had learnt to pull before I came up here," said Hardy. "I really hardly remember what I did besides read. You see, I came up with a definite purpose of reading. My father was very anxious that I should become a good scholar. Then my position in the college and my poverty naturally kept me out of the many things which other men do." Tom flushed again at the ugly word, but not so much as at first. Hardy couldn't mind the subject, or he would never be forcing it up at every turn, he thought. "You wouldn't think it," he began again, harping on the same string, "but I can hardly tell you how I miss the sort of responsibility I was talking to you about. I have no doubt I shall get the vacuum filled up before long, but for the life of me I can't see how yet." "You will be a very lucky fellow if you don't find it quite as much as you can do to keep yourself in order up here. It is about the toughest part of a man's life, I do believe, the time he has spent here. My university life has been so different altogether from what yours will be, that my experience isn't likely to benefit you." "I wish you would try me, though," said Tom; "you don't know what a teachable sort of a fellow I am, if any body will take me the right way. You taught me to scull, you know; or at least put me in a way to learn. But sculling, and rowing, and cricket, and all the rest of it, with such reading as I am likely to do, won't be enough. I feel sure of that already. "I don't think it will," said Hardy. "No amount of physical or mental work will fill the vacuum you were talking of just now. It is the empty house swept and garnished which the boy might have had glimpses of, but the man finds yawning within him, which must be filled somehow. It's a pretty good three years' work to learn how to keep the devils out of it, more or less; by the time you take your degree. At least I have found it so." Hardy rose and took a turn or two up and down his room. He was astonished at finding himself talking so unreservedly to one of whom he knew so little, and half-wished the words recalled. He lived much alone, and thought himself morbid and too self-conscious; why should he be filling a youngster's head with puzzles? How did he know that they were thinking of the same thing? But the spoken word cannot be recalled; it must go on its way for good or evil; and this one set the hearer staring into the ashes, and putting many things together in his head. It was some minutes before he broke silence, but at last he gathered up his thoughts, and said, "Well, I hope I sha'n't shirk when the time comes. You don't think a fellow need shut himself up, though? I'm sure I shouldn't be any the better for that." "No, I don't think you would," said Hardy. "Because, you see," Tom went on, waxing bolder and more confidential, "If I were to take to moping by myself, I shouldn't read as you or any sensible fellow would do; I know that well enough. I should just begin, sitting with my legs upon the mantel-piece, and looking into my own inside. I see you are laughing, but you know what mean, don't you now?" "Yes; staring into the vacuum you were talking of just now; it all comes back to that," said Hardy. "Well, perhaps it does," said Tom; "and I don't believe it does a fellow a bit of good to be thinking about himself and his own doings." "Only he can't help himself," said Hardy. "Let him throw himself as he will into all that is going on up here, after all he must be alone for a great part of his time--all night at any rate--and when he gets his oak sported, it's all up with him. He must be looking more or less into his own inside, as you call it." "Then I hope he won't find it as ugly a business as I do. If he does, I'm sure he can't be worse employed." "I don't know that," said Hardy; "he can't learn anything worth learning in any other way." "Oh, I like that!" said Tom; "it's worth learning how to play tennis, and how to speak the truth. You can't learn either by thinking of yourself ever so much." "You must know the truth before you can speak it," said Hardy. "So you always do in plenty of time." "How?" said Hardy. "Oh, I don't know," said Tom; "by a sort of instinct I suppose. I never in my life felt any doubt about what I _ought_ to say or do; did you?" "Well, yours is a good, comfortable, working belief at any rate," said Hardy, smiling; "and I should advise you to hold on to it as long as you can." "But you don't think I can very long, eh?" "No: but men are very different. There's no saying. If you were going to get out of the self-dissecting business altogether though, why should you have brought the subject up at all to-night? It looks awkward for you, doesn't it?" Tom began to feel rather forlorn at this suggestion, and probably betrayed it in his face, for Hardy changed the subject suddenly. "How do you get on in the boat? I saw you going down to-day, and thought the time much better." Tom felt greatly relieved, as he was beginning to find himself in rather deep water; so he rushed into boating with great zest, and the two chatted on very pleasantly on that and other matters. The college clock struck during a pause in their talk, and Tom looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock I declare," he said; "why I must have been here more than two hours. I'm afraid, now, you have been wanting to work, and I have kept you from it with my talk." "No, it's Saturday night. Besides, I don't get much society that I care about, and so I enjoy it all the more. Won't you stop and have some tea?" Tom gladly consented, and his host produced a somewhat dilapidated set of crockery, and proceeded to brew the drink least appreciated at St. Ambrose's. Tom watched him in silence, much excercised in his mind as to what manner of man he had fallen upon; very much astonished at himself for having opened out so freely, and feeling a desire to know more about Hardy, not unmixed with a sort of nervousness as to how he was to accomplish it. When Hardy sat down again and began pouring out the tea, curiosity overcame, and he opened with-- "So you read nights, after Hall? "Yes, for two or three hours; longer, when I am in a good humor." "What, all by yourself?" "Generally; but once or twice a week Grey comes in to compare notes. Do you know him?" "No, at least he hasn't called on me, I have just spoken to him." "He is a quiet fellow, and I daresay doesn't call on any man unless he knew something of him before." "Don't you?" "Never," said Hardy, shortly; and added after a short pause, "very few men would thank me if I did; most would think it impertinent, and I'm too proud to risk that." Tom was on the point of asking why; but the uncomfortable feeling which he had nearly lost came back on him. "I suppose one very soon gets tired of the wine and supper party life, though I own I find it pleasant enough now." "I have never been tired," said Hardy; "servitors are not troubled with that sort of a thing. If they were I wouldn't go unless I could return them, and that I can't afford." "There he goes again," thought Tom; "why will he be throwing that old story in my face over and over again? He can't think I care about his poverty; I won't change the subject this time, at any rate." And so he said: "You don't mean to say it makes any real difference to a man in society up here, whether he is poor or rich; I mean, of course, if he is a gentleman and a good fellow?" "Yes, it does--the very greatest possible. But don't take my word for it. Keep your eyes open and judge for yourself; I daresay I'm prejudiced on the subject." "Well, I shan't believe it if I can help it," said Tom; "you know, you said just now that you never called on any one. Perhaps you don't give men a fair chance. They might be glad to know you if you would let them, and may think it's your fault that they don't." "Very possible," said Hardy; "I tell you not to take my word for it." "It upsets all one's ideas so," went on Tom; "why Oxford ought to be the place in England where money should count for nothing. Surely, now, such a man as Jervis, our captain, has more influence than all the rich men in the college put together, and is more looked up to?" "He's one of a thousand," said Hardy; "handsome, strong, good-tempered, clever, and up to everything. Besides, he isn't a poor man; and mind, I don't say that if he were he wouldn't be where he is. I am speaking of the rule, and not of the exceptions." Here Hardy's scout came in to say that the Dean wanted to speak to him. So he put on his cap and gown, and Tom rose also. "Well, I'm sorry to turn you out," said Hardy; "and I'm afraid I've been very surly and made you very uncomfortable. You won't come back again in a hurry." "Indeed I will though, if you will let me," said Tom; "I have enjoyed my evening immensely." "Then come whenever you like," said Hardy. "But I am afraid of interfering with your reading," said Tom. "Oh, you needn't mind that, I have plenty of time on my hands; besides, one can't read all night, and from eight till ten you'll find me generally idle." "Then you'll see me often enough. But promise, now, to turn me out whenever I am in the way." "Very well," said Hardy, laughing; and so they parted for the time. Some twenty minutes afterwards Hardy returned to his room after his interview with the Dean, who merely wanted to speak to him about some matter of college business. He flung his cap and gown on the sofa, and began to walk up and down his room, at first hurriedly, but soon with his usual regular tramp. However expressive a man's face may be, and however well you may know it, it is simply nonsense to say that you can tell what he is thinking about by looking at it, as many of us are apt to boast. Still more absurd would it be to expect readers to know what Hardy is thinking about, when they have never had the advantage of seeing his face even in a photograph. Wherefore, it would seem that the author is bound on such occasions to put his readers on equal vantage ground with himself, and not only tell what a man does, but, so far as may be, what he is thinking about also. His first thought, then, was one of pleasure at having been sought by one who seemed to be just the sort of friend he would like to have. He contrasted our hero with the few men with whom he had generally lived, and for some of whom he had a high esteem--whose only idea of exercise was a two hour constitutional walk in the afternoons, and whose life was chiefly spent over books and behind sported oaks--and felt that this was more of a man after his own heart. Then came doubts whether his new friend would draw back when he had been up a little longer, and knew more of the place. At any rate he had said and done nothing to tempt him; "if he pushes the acquaintance--and I think he will--it will be because he likes me for myself. And I can do him good too, I feel sure," he went on, as he ran over rapidly his own life for the last three years. "Perhaps he won't flounder into all the sloughs which I have had to drag through; he will get too much of the healthy, active life up here for that, which I have never had; but some of them he must get into. All the companionship of boating and cricketing, and wine-parties, and supper parties, and all the reading in the world won't keep him from many a long hour of mawkishness, and discontent, and emptiness of heart; he feels that already himself. Am I sure of that, though? I may be only reading myself into him. At any rate, why should I have helped to trouble him before the time? Was that a friend's part? Well, he _must_ face it, and the sooner the better perhaps. At any rate it is done. But what a blessed thing if one can only help a youngster like this to fight his own way through the cold clammy atmosphere which is always hanging over him, ready to settle down on him--can help to keep some living faith in him, that the world, Oxford and all, isn't a respectable piece of machinery set going some centuries back! Ah! It's an awful business, that temptation to believe, or think you believe, in a dead God. It has nearly broken my back a score of times. What are all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil to this? It includes them all. Well, I believe I can help him, and, please God, I will, if he will only let me; and the very sight of him does me good; so I won't believe we went down the lasher together for nothing." And so at last Hardy finished his walk, took down a volume of Don Quixote from his shelves, and sat down for an hour's enjoyment before turning in. CHAPTER VI--HOW DRYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISHING "Drysdale, what's a servitor?" "How the deuce should I know?" This short and pithy dialogue took place in Drysdale's rooms one evening soon after the conversation recorded in the last chapter. He and Tom were sitting alone there, for a wonder, and so the latter seized the occasion to propound this question, which he had had on his mind for some time. He was scarcely satisfied with the above rejoinder, but while he was thinking how to come at the subject by another road, Drysdale opened a morocco fly-book, and poured its contents on the table, which was already covered with flies of all sorts and patterns, hanks of gut, delicate made-up casts, reels, minnows, and tackle enough to kill all the fish in the four neighboring counties. Tom began turning them over and scrutinizing the dressings of the flies. "It has been so mild, the fish must be in season don't you think? Besides, if they're not, it's a jolly drive to Fairford at any rate. You've never been behind my team Brown. You'd better come, now, to-morrow." "I can't cut my two lectures." "Bother your lectures! Put on an aeger, then." "No! that doesn't suit my book, you know." "I can't see why you should be so cursedly particular. Well, if you won't, you won't; I know that well enough. But what cast shall you fish with to-morrow?" "How many flies do you use?" "Sometimes two, sometimes three." "Two's enough, I think; all depends on the weather; but, if it's at all like today, you can't do better, I should think, than the old March brown and a palmer to begin with. Then, for change, this hare's ear, and an alder fly, perhaps; or,--let me see," and he began searching the glittering heap to select a color to go with the dull hare's ear. "Isn't it early for the alder?" said Drysdale. "Rather, perhaps; but they can't resist it." "These bang-tailed little sinners any good?" said Drysdale, throwing some cock-a-bondies across the table. "Yes; I never like to be without them, and a governor or two. Here, this is a well-tied lot," said Tom, picking out half a-dozen. "You never know when you may not kill with either of them. But I don't know the Fairford water; so my opinion isn't worth much." Tom soon returned to the old topic. "But now, Drysdale, you must know what a servitor is." "Why should I? Do you mean one of our college servitors?" "Yes?" "Oh, something in the upper-servant line. I should put him above the porter, and below the cook, and butler. He does the don's dirty work, and gets their broken victuals, and I believe he pays no college fees." Tom rather drew into himself at this insolent and offhand definition. He was astonished and hurt at the tone of his friend. However, presently, he resolved to go through with it, and began again. "But servitors are gentlemen, I suppose?" "A good deal of the cock-tail about them, I should think. But I have not the honor of any acquaintance amongst them." "At any rate, they are undergraduates, are not they?" "Yes." "And may take degrees, just like you or me?" "They may have all the degrees to themselves, for anything I care. I wish they would let one pay a servitor for passing little-go for one. It would be deuced comfortable. I wonder it don't strike the dons, now; they might get clever beggars for servitors, and farm them, and so make loads of tin." "But, Drysdale, seriously, why should you talk like that? If they can take all the degrees we can, and are, in fact, just what we are, undergraduates, I can't see why they're not as likely to be gentlemen as we. It can surely make no difference, their being poor men?" "It must make them devilish uncomfortable," said the incorrigible payer of double fees, getting up to light his cigar. "The name ought to carry respect here, at any rate. The Black Prince was an Oxford man, and he thought the noblest motto he could take was, 'Ich dien,' I serve." "If he were here now, he would change it for 'Je paye.'" "I often wish you would tell me what you really and truly think, Drysdale." "My dear fellow I am telling you what I do really think. Whatever the Black Prince might be pleased to observe if he were here, I stick to my motto. I tell you the thing to be able to do here at Oxford is--to pay." "I don't believe it." "I knew you wouldn't." "I don't believe you do either." "I do, though. But what makes you so curious about servitors?" "Why, I made friends with Hardy, one of our servitors. He is such a fine fellow!" I am sorry to relate that it cost Tom an effort to say this to Drysdale, but he despised himself that it was so. "You should have told me so, before you began to pump me," said Drysdale. "However, I partly suspected something of the sort. You've a good bit of a Quixote in you. But really, Brown," he added, seeing Tom redden and look angry, "I'm sorry if what I said pained you. I daresay this friend of yours is a gentleman, and all you say." "He is more of a gentleman by a long way than most of the--" "Gentlemen commoners, you were going to say. Don't crane at such a small fence on my account. I will put it in another way for you. He can't be a greater snob than many of them." "Well, but why do you live with them so much, then?" "Why? because they happen to do the things I like doing, and live up here as I like to live. I like hunting and driving, and drawing badgers, and playing cards, and good wine and cigars. They hunt and drive, and keep dogs and good cellars, and will play unlimited loo or Van John as long as I please." "But I know you get very sick of all that often, for I've heard you say as much half-a-dozen times in the little time I've been here." "Why, you don't want to deny me the Briton's privilege of grumbling, do you?" said Drysdale, as he flung his legs up on the sofa, crossing one over the other as he lounged on his back--his favorite attitude; "but suppose I am getting tired of it all--which I am not--what do you purpose as a substitute?" "Take to boating. I know you could be in the first boat if you liked; I heard them say so at Smith's wine the other night." "But what's to prevent my getting just as tired of that? Besides, it's such a grind. And then there's the bore of changing all one's habits." "Yes, but it's such splendid hard work," said Tom, who was bent on making a convert of his friend. "Just so; and that's just what I don't want; the 'books and work and healthful play' line don't suit my complaint. No, as my uncle says, 'a young fellow must sow his wild oats,' and Oxford seems a place especially set apart by Providence for that operation." In all the wild range of accepted British maxims there is none, take it for all in all, more thoroughly abominable than this one, as to the sowing of wild oats. Look at it on what side you will, and you can make nothing but a devil's maxim of it. What a man--be he young, old, or middle-aged--sows, _that_, and nothing else shall he reap. The one only thing to do with wild oats, is to put them carefully into the hottest part of the fire, and get them burnt to dust, every seed of them. If you sow them no matter in what ground, up they will come, with long tough roots like couch grass, and luxuriant stalks and leaves, as sure as there is a sun in heaven--a crop which it turns one's heart cold to think of. The devil, too, whose special crop they are, will see that they thrive, and you, and nobody else, will have to reap them; and no common reaping will get them out of the soil, which must be dug down deep again and again. Well for you if with all your care you can make the ground sweet again by your dying day. "Boys will be boys" is not much better, but that has a true side to it; but this encouragement to the sowing of wild oats, is simply devilish, for it means that a young man is to give way to the temptations and follow the lusts of his age. What are we to do with the wild oats of manhood and old age--with ambition, over-reaching the false weights, hardness, suspicion, avarice--if the wild oats of youth are to be sown, and not burnt? What possible distinction can be drawn between them? If we may sow the one, why not the other? But to get back to our story. Tom went away from Drysdale's rooms that night (after they had sorted all the tackle, which was to accompany the fishing expedition, to their satisfaction) in a disturbed state of mind. He was very much annoyed at Drysdale's way of talking, because he was getting to like the man. He was surprised and angry at being driven more and more to the conclusion that the worship of the golden calf was verily and indeed rampant in Oxford--side by side, no doubt, with much that was manly and noble, but tainting more or less the whole life of the place. In fact, what annoyed him most was, the consciousness that he himself was becoming an idolater. For he couldn't help admitting that he felt much more comfortable when standing in the quadrangles or strolling in the High Street with Drysdale in his velvet cap, and silk gown, and faultless get-up, than when doing the same things with Hardy in his faded old gown, shabby loose overcoat, and well-worn trousers. He wouldn't have had Hardy suspect the fact for all he was worth, and hoped to get over the feeling soon; but there it was unmistakably. He wondered whether Hardy had ever felt anything of the kind himself. Nevertheless, these thoughts did not hinder him from sleeping soundly, or from getting up an hour earlier than usual to go and see Drysdale start on his expedition. Accordingly, he was in Drysdale's rooms next morning betimes, and assisted at the early breakfast which was going on there. Blake was the only other man present. He was going with Drysdale, and entrusted Tom with a message to Miller and the Captain, that he could not pull in the boat that day, but would pay a waterman to take his place. As soon as the gate opened, the three, accompanied by the faithful Jack, and followed by Drysdale's scout, bearing overcoats, a splendid water-proof apron lined with fur, and the rods and reels, sallied out of the college, and sought the livery stables, patronized by the men of St. Ambrose's. Here they found a dog cart all ready in the yard, with a strong Roman-nosed, vicious-looking, rat-tailed horse in the shafts, called Satan by Drysdale; the leader had been sent on to the first turnpike. The things were packed, and Jack, the bull-dog, hoisted into the interior in a few minutes; Drysdale produced a long straight horn, which he called his yard of tin (probably because it was made of brass), and after refreshing himself with a blast or two, handed it over to Blake, and then mounted the dog cart, and took the reins. Blake seated himself by his side; the help who was to accompany them got up behind, and Jack looked wisely out from his inside place over the back-board. "Are we all right?" said Drysdale, catching his long tandem whip into a knowing double thong. "All right, sir," said the head ostler, touching his cap. "You'd better have come, my boy," said Drysdale to Tom, as they trotted off out of the yard; and Tom couldn't help envying them as he followed, and watched the dog cart lessening rapidly down the empty street, and heard the notes of the yard of tin, which Blake managed to make really musical, borne back on the soft western breeze. It was such a pleasant morning for fishing. However, it was too late to repent, had he wished it; and so he got back to chapel, and destroyed the whole effect of the morning service on Miller's mind, by delivering Blake's message to that choleric coxswain as soon as chapel was over. Miller vowed for the twentieth time that Blake should be turned out of the boat, and went off to the Captain's rooms to torment him, and consult what was to be done. The weather continued magnificent--a soft, dull grey March day, and a steady wind; and the thought of the lucky fishermen, and visions of creels filled with huge three-pounders, haunted Tom at lecture, and throughout the day. At two o'clock he was down at the river. The college eight was to go down for the first time in the season to the reached below Nuneham, for a good training pull, and he had notice, to his great joy, that he was to be tried in the boat. But, great, no doubt, as was the glory, the price was a heavy one. This was the first time he had been subjected to the tender mercies of Miller, the coxswain, or had pulled behind the Captain; and it did not take long to convince him that it was a very different style of thing from anything he had as yet been accustomed to in the freshman's crew. The long steady sweep of the so-called paddle tried him almost as much as the breathless strain of the spurt. Miller, too, was in one of his most relentless moods. He was angry at Blake's desertion, and seemed to think that Tom had something to do with it, though he simply delivered the message which had been entrusted to him; and so, though he distributed rebuke and objurgation to every man in the boat except the Captain, he seemed to our hero to take particular delight in working him. There he stood in the stern, the fiery little coxswain, leaning forward with a tiller-rope in each hand, and bending to every stroke, shouting his warnings, and rebukes, and monitions to Tom, till he drove him to his wits' end. By the time the boat came back to Hall's, his arms were so numb that he could hardly tell whether his oar was in or out of his hand; his legs were stiff and aching, and every muscle in his body felt as if it had been pulled out an inch or two. As he walked up to College, he felt as if his shoulders and legs had nothing to do with one another; in short, he had had a very hard day's work, and, after going fast asleep at a wine-party, and trying in vain to rouse himself by a stroll in the streets, fairly gave in about ten o'clock and went to bed without remembering to sport his oak. For some hours he slept the sleep of the dead, but at last began to be conscious of voices, and the clicking of glasses, and laughter, and scraps of songs; and after turning himself once or twice in bed, to ascertain whether he was awake or no, rubbed his eyes, sat up, and became aware that something very entertaining to the parties concerned was going on in his sitting-room. After listening for a minute, he jumped up, threw on his shooting-coat, and appeared at the door of his own sitting-room, where he paused a moment to contemplate the scene which met his astonished vision. His fire recently replenished, was burning brightly in the grate, and his candles on the table on which stood his whisky bottle, and tumblers, and hot water. On his sofa, which had been wheeled round before the fire, reclined Drysdale, on his back, in his pet attitude, one leg crossed over the other, with a paper in his hand, from which he was singing, and in the arm-chair sat Blake, while Jack was coiled on the rug, turning himself every now and then in a sort of uneasy protest against his master's untimely hilarity. At first, Tom felt inclined to be angry, but the jolly shout of laughter with which Drysdale received him, as he stepped out into the light in night-shirt, shooting-coat, and dishevelled hair, appeased him at once. "Why, Brown, you don't mean to say you have been in bed this last half-hour? We looked into the bed-room, and thought it was empty. Sit down, old fellow, and make yourself at home. Have a glass of grog; it's first-rate whisky." "Well you're a couple of cool hands, I must say," said Tom. "How did you get in?" "Through the door, like honest men," said Drysdale. "You're the only good fellow in college to-night. When we got back our fires were out, and we've been all round the college, and found all the oaks sported but yours. Never sport your oak, old boy; it's a bad habit. You don't know what time in the morning you may entertain angels unawares." "You're a rum pair of angels, anyhow," said Tom, taking his seat on the sofa. "But what o'clock is it?" "Oh, about half-past one," said Drysdale. "We've had a series of catastrophes. Never got into college till near one. I thought we should never have waked that besotted little porter. However, here we are at last, you see, all right." "So it seems," said Tom; "but how about the fishing?" "Fishing! We've never thrown a fly all day," said Drysdale. "He is so cursedly conceited about his knowledge of the country," struck in Blake. "What with that, and his awful twist, and his incurable habit of gossiping, and his blackguard dog, and his team of a devil and a young female--" "Hold your scandalous tongue," shouted Drysdale. "To hear _you_ talking of my twist, indeed; you ate four chops and a whole chicken to-day, at dinner, to your own cheek, you know." "That's quite another thing," said Blake. "I like to see a fellow an honest grubber at breakfast and dinner; but you've always got your nose in the manger. That's how we all got wrong to-day, Brown. You saw what a breakfast he ate before starting; well, nothing would satisfy him but another at Whitney. There we fell in with a bird in mahogany tops, and, as usual, Drysdale began chumming with him. He knew all about the fishing of the next three counties. I daresay he did. My private belief is, that he is one of the Hungerford town council, who let the fishing there; at any rate, he swore it was no use our going to Fairford; the only place where fish would be in season was Hungerford. Of course Drysdale swallowed it all, and nothing would serve him but that we should turn off for Hungerford at once. Now, I did go once to Hungerford races, and I ventured to suggest that we should never get near the place. Not a bit of use; he knew every foot of the country. It was then about nine; he would guarantee that we should be there by twelve, at latest." "So we should have been, but for accidents," struck in Drysdale. "Well, at any rate, what we did was to drive into Farringdon, instead of Hungerford, both horses dead done up, at twelve o'clock, after missing our way about twenty times." "Because you would put in your oar," said Drysdale. "Then grub again," went on Blake, "and an hour to bait the horses. I knew we were as likely to get to Jericho as to Hungerford. However, he would start; but, luckily, about two miles from Farringdon, old Satan bowled quietly into a bank, broke a shaft, and deposited us then and there. He wasn't such a fool as to be going to Hungerford at that time of day; the first time in his wicked old life that I ever remember seeing him do anything that pleased me." "Come, now," said Drysdale, "do you mean to say you ever sat behind a better wheeler, when he's in a decent temper?" "Can't say," said Blake; "never sat behind him in a good temper, that I can remember." "I'll trot him five miles out and home in a dog-cart, on any road out of Oxford, against any horse you can bring, for a fiver." "Done!" said Blake. "But were you upset?" said Tom. "How did you get into the bank?" "Why, you see," said Drysdale, "Jessy,--that's the little blood-mare, my leader,--is very young, and as shy and skittish as the rest of her sex. We turned a corner sharp, and came right upon a gipsy encampment. Up she went into the air in a moment, and then turned right around and came head on at the cart. I gave her the double thong across her face to send her back again, and Satan, seizing the opportunity, rushed against the bank, dragging her with him, and snapping the shaft." "And so ended our day's fishing," said Blake. "And next moment out jumps that brute Jack, and pitches into the gipsy's dog, who had come up very naturally to have a look at what was going on. Down jumps Drysdale to see that his beast gets fair play, leaving me and the help to look after the wreck, and keep his precious wheeler from kicking the cart into little pieces." "Come, now," said Drysdale, "you must own we fell on our legs after all. Hadn't we a jolly afternoon? I'm thinking of turning tramp, Brown. We spent three or four hours in that camp, and Blake got spooney on a gipsy girl, and has written I don't know how many songs on them. Didn't you hear us singing them just now?" "But how did you get the cart mended?" said Tom. "Oh, the tinker patched up the shaft for us,--a cunning old beggar, the _pere de famille_ of the encampment; up to every move on the board. He wanted to have a deal with me for Jessy. But 'pon my honor, we had a good time of it. There was the old tinker, mending the shaft, in his fur cap, with a black pipe, one inch long, sticking out of his mouth; and the old brown parchment of a mother, with her head in a red handkerchief, smoking a ditto pipe to the tinker's, who told our fortunes, and talked like a printed book. Then there was his wife, and the slip of a girl who bowled over Blake there, and half a dozen ragged brats; and a fellow on a tramp, not a gipsy--some runaway apprentice, I take it, but a jolly dog--with no luggage but an old fiddle on which he scraped away uncommonly well, and set Blake making rhymes as we sat in the tent. You never heard any of his songs. Here's one for each of us; we're going to get up the characters and sing them about the country;--now for a rehearsal; I'll be the tinker." "No, you must take the servant girl," said Blake. "Well, we'll toss up for characters when the time comes. You begin then; here's a song," and he handed one of the papers to Blake, who began singing-- "Squat on a green plot, We scorn a bench or settle, oh. Plying or trying, A spice of every trade; Razors we grind, Ring a pig, or mend a kettle, oh; Come, what d'ye lack? Speak it out, my pretty maid. "I'll set your scissors, while My granny tells you plainly! Who stole your barley meal, Your butter or your heart; Tell if your husband will Be handsome or ungainly, Ride in a coach and four, or Rough it in a cart." "Enter Silly Sally; that's I, for the present you see," said Drysdale; and he began-- "Oh, dear! what can the matter be? Dear, dear! what can the matter be? Oh, dear! what can the matter be? All in a pucker be I; I'm growing uneasy about Billy Martin, For love is a casualty desper't unsartin. Law! yonder's the gipsy as tells folk's fortin; I'm half in the mind for to try." "Then you must be the old gipsy woman, Mother Patrico; here's your part Brown." "But what's the tune?" said Tom. "Oh, you can't miss it; go ahead;" and so Tom, who was dropping into the humour of the thing, droned out from the MS. handed to him-- "Chairs to mend, Old chairs to mend, Rush bottom'd cane bottom'd, Chairs to mend. Maid, approach, If thou wouldst know What the stars May deign to show." "Now, tinker," said Drysdale, nodding at Blake, who rattled on,-- "Chance feeds us, chance leads us; Round the land in jollity; Rag-dealing, nag-stealing, Everywhere we roam; Brass mending, ass vending, Happier than the quality; Swipes soaking, pipes smoking, Ev'ry barn a home; Tink, tink, a tink a tink, Our life is full of fun, boys; Clink tink, a tink a tink, Our busy hammers ring; Clink, tink, a tink a tink, Our job will soon be done boys; Then tune we merrily The bladder and the string." DRYSDALE, as _Silly Sally_. "Oh, dear! what can the matter be? Dear, dear! what can the matter be? Oh, dear! what can the matter be? There's such a look in her eye. Oh, lawk! I declare I be all of a tremble; My mind it misgives me about Sukey Wimble, A splatter faced wench neither civil nor nimble She'll bring Billy to beggary." TOM, as _Mother Patrico_. "Show your hand; Come show your hand! Would you know What fate has planned? Heaven forefend, Ay, heav'n forefend! What may these Cross lines portend?" BLAKE, as _the Tinker_. "Owl, pheasant, all's pleasant, Nothing comes amiss to us; Hare, rabbit, snare, nab it; Cock, or hen, or kite; Tom cat, with strong fat, A dainty supper is to us; Hedge-hog and sedge-frog To stew is our delight; Bow, wow, with angry bark My lady's dog assails us; We sack him up, and clap A stopper on his din. Now pop him in the pot; His store of meat avails us; Wife cook him nice and hot, And granny tans his skin." DRYSDALE, as _Silly Sally_. "Oh, lawk! what a calamity! Oh, my! what a calamity! Oh, dear! what a calamity! Lost and forsaken be I. I'm out of my senses, and nought will content me, But pois'ning Poll Ady who helped circumvent me; Come tell me the means, for no power shall prevent me: Oh, give me revenge, or die." TOM, as _Mother Patrico_ "Pause awhile! Anon, anon! Give me time The stars to con. True love's course Shall yet run smooth; True shall prove The favor'd youth." BLAKE, as _the Tinker_. "Tink tink, a tink a tink, We'll work and then get tipsy, oh! Clink tink, on each chink, Our busy hammers ring. Tink tink, a tink a tink, How merry lives a gypsy, oh! Chanting and ranting; As happy as a king." DRYSDALE, as _Silly Sally_. "Joy! Joy! all will end happily! Joy! Joy! all will end happily! Joy! joy! all will end happily! Bill will be constant to I. Oh, thankee, good dame, here's my purse and my thimble; A fig for Poll Ady and fat Sukey Wimble; I now could jump over the steeple so nimble; With joy I be ready to cry." TOM, as _Mother Patrico_. "William shall Be rich and great; And shall prove A constant mate. Thank not me, But thank your fate, On whose high Decrees I wait." "Well, won't that do? won't it bring the house down? I'm going to send for dresses to London, and we'll start next week." "What, on the tramp, singing these songs?" "Yes; we'll begin in some out-of-the-way place till we get used to it." "And end in the lock-up, I should say," said Tom; "it'll be a good lark, though. Now, you haven't told me how you got home." "Oh, we left camp at about five--" "The tinker having extracted a sovereign from Drysdale," interrupted Blake. "What did you give to the little gypsy yourself?" retorted Drysdale; "I saw your adieus under the thorn-bush.--Well, we got on all right to old Murdock's, at Kingston Inn, by about seven, and there we had dinner; and after dinner the old boy came in. He and I are great chums, for I'm often there, and always ask him in. But that beggar Blake, who never saw him before, cut me clean out in five minutes. Fancy his swearing he is Scotch, and that an ancestor of his in the sixteenth century married a Murdock!" "Well, when you come to think what a lot of ancestors one must have had at that time, it's probably true," said Blake. "At any rate, it took," went on Drysdale. "I thought old Murdock would have wept on his neck. As it was, he scattered snuff enough to fill a pint pot over him out of his mull, and began talking Gaelic. And Blake had the cheek to jabber a lot of gibberish back to him, as if he understood every word." "Gibberish! it was the purest Gaelic," said Blake laughing. "I heard a lot of Greek words myself," said Drysdale; "but old Murdock was too pleased at hearing his own clapper going, and too full of whisky, to find him out." "Let alone that I doubt whether he remembers more than about five words of his native tongue himself," said Blake. "The old boy got so excited that he went up stairs for his plaid and dirk, and dressed himself up in them, apologising that he could not appear in the full grab of old Gaul, in honor of his new-found relative, as his daughter had cut up his old kilt for 'trews for the barnies' during his absence from home. Then they took to more toddy and singing Scotch songs, till at eleven o'clock they were standing on their chairs, right hands clasped, each with one foot on the table, glasses in the other hands, the toddy flying over the room as they swayed about roaring like maniacs, what was it?--oh, I have it: 'Wug-an-toorey all agree, Wug-an-toorey, wug-an-toorey.'" "He hasn't told you that he tried to join us, and tumbled over the back of his chair into the dirty-plate basket." "A libel! a libel!" shouted Drysdale; "the leg of my chair broke, and I stepped down gracefully and safely, and when I looked up and saw what a tottery performance it was, I concluded to give them a wide berth. It would be no joke to have old Murdock topple over on to you. I left them 'wug-an-tooreying,' and went out to look after the trap, which was ordered to be at the door at half-past ten. I found Murdock's ostler very drunk, but sober compared with that rascally help whom we had been fools enough to take with us. They had got the trap out and the horses in, but that old rascal Satan was standing so quiet that I suspected something wrong. Sure enough, when I came to look, they had him up to the cheek on one side of his mouth, and third bar on the other, his belly-band buckled across his back, and no kicking strap. The old brute was chuckling to himself what he would do with us as soon as we had started in that trim. It took half an hour getting all right, as I was the only one able to do anything." "Yes, you would have said so," said Blake, "if you had seen him trying to put Jack up behind. He made six shots with the old dog, and dropped him about on his head and the broad of his back as if he had been a bundle of ells." "The fact is, that that rascally ostler had made poor old Jack drunk too," explained Drysdale, "and he wouldn't be lifted straight. However we got off at last, and hadn't gone a mile before the help (who was maundering away some cursed sentimental ditty or other behind), lurched more heavily than usual, and pitched off into the night somewhere. Blake looked for him for half-an-hour, and couldn't find a hair." "You don't mean to say the man tumbled off and you never found him?" said Tom in horror. "Well, that's about the fact," said Drysdale; "but it isn't so bad as you think. We had no lamps, and it was an uncommon bad night for running by holloas." "But a first-rate night for running by scent," broke in Blake; "the fellow leant against me until he made his exit, and I'd have backed myself to have hit the scent again half-a-mile off if the wind had only been right." "He may have broken his neck," said Tom. "Can a fellow sing with a broken neck?" said Drysdale; "hanged if I know! But don't I tell you, we heard him maundering on somewhere or other? And when Blake shouted, he rebuked him piously out of the pitch darkness, and told him to go home and repent. I nearly dropped off the box laughing at them; and then he 'uplifted his testimony,' as he called it, against me, for driving a horse called Satan. I believe he's a ranting methodist spouter." "I tried hard to find him," said Blake; "For I should dearly have liked to kick him safely into the ditch." "At last Black Will himself couldn't have held Satan another minute. So Blake scrambled up, and away we came, and knocked into college at one for a finish: the rest you know." "Well, you've had a pretty good day of it," said Tom, who had been hugely amused; "but I should feel nervous about the help, if I were you." "Oh, he'll come to no grief, I'll be bound," said Drysdale, "but what o'clock is it?" "Three," said Blake, looking at his watch and getting up; "time to turn in." "The first time I ever heard you say that," said Drysdale. "Yes; but you forget we were up this morning before the world was aired. Good night, Brown." And off the two went, leaving Tom to sport his oak this time, and retire in wonder to bed. Drysdale was asleep, with Jack curled up on the foot of the bed, in ten minutes. Blake, by the help of wet towels and a knotted piece of whipcord round his forehead, read Pinder till the chapel bell began to ring. CHAPTER VII--AN EXPLOSION Our hero soon began to feel that he was contracting his first college friendship. The great, strong, badly-dressed, badly-appointed servitor, who seemed almost at the same time utterly reckless of, and nervously alive to, the opinion of all around him, with his bursts of womanly tenderness and Berserker rage, alternating like storms and sunshine of a July day on a high moorland, his keen sense of humor and appreciation of all the good things of life, the use and enjoyment of which he was so steadily denying himself from high principle, had from the first seized powerfully on all Tom's sympathies, and was daily gaining more hold upon him. Blessed is the man who has the gift of making friends; for it is one of God's best gifts. It involves many things, but above all, the power of going out of oneself, and seeing and appreciating whatever is noble and living in another man. But even to him who has the gift, it is often a great puzzle to find out whether a man is really a friend or not. The following is recommended as a test in the case of any man about whom you are not quite sure; especially if he should happen to have more of this world's goods, either in the shape of talents, rank or money, or what not, than you. Fancy the man stripped stark naked of every thing in the world, except an old pair of trousers and a shirt, for decency's sake, without even a name to him, and dropped down in the middle of Holborn or Piccadilly. Would you go up to him then and there, and lead him out from amongst the cabs and omnibuses, and take him to your own home and feed him and clothe him, and stand by him against all the world, to your last sovereign, and your last leg of mutton? If you wouldn't do this you have no right to call him by the sacred name of friend. If you would, the odds are that he would do the same by you, and you may count yourself a rich man. For, probably were friendship expressible by, or convertible into, current coin of the realm, one such friend would be worth to a man, at least 100,000L. How many millionaires are there in England? I can't even guess; but more by a good many, I fear, than there are men who have ten real friends. But friendship is not expressible or convertible. It is more precious than wisdom; and wisdom "cannot be gotten for gold, nor shall rubies be mentioned in comparison thereof." Not all the riches that ever came out of earth and sea are worth the assurance of one such real abiding friendship in your heart of hearts. But for the worth of a friendship commonly so called--meaning thereby a sentiment founded on the good dinners, good stories, opera stalls, and days' shooting you have gotten or hope to get out of a man, the snug things in his gift, and his powers of procuring enjoyment of one kind or another to miserable body or intellect--why, such a friendship as that is to be appraised easily enough, if you find it worth your while; but you will have to pay your pound of flesh for it one way or another--you may take your oath of that. If you follow my advice, you will take a 10L note down, and retire to your crust of bread and liberty. Tom was rapidly falling into friendship with Hardy. He was not bound hand and foot and carried away captive yet, but he was already getting deep in the toils. One evening he found himself as usual at Hardy's door about eight o'clock. The oak was open, but he got no answer when he knocked at the inner door. Nevertheless he entered, having quite got over all shyness or ceremony by this time. The room was empty, but two tumblers and the black bottle stood on the table, and the kettle was hissing away on the hob. "Ah," thought Tom, "he expects me, I see;" so he turned his back to the fire and made himself at home. A quarter of an hour passed, and still Hardy did not return. "Never knew him out so long before at this time of night," thought Tom. "Perhaps he's at some party. I hope so. It would do him a good deal of good; and I know he might go out if he liked. Next term, see if I won't make him more sociable. It's a stupid custom that freshmen don't give parties in their first term, or I'd do it at once. Why won't he be more sociable? No, after all sociable isn't the word; he's a very sociable fellow at bottom. What in the world is it that he wants?" And so Tom balanced himself on the two hind legs of one of the Windsor chairs, and betook himself to pondering what it was exactly which ought to be added to Hardy to make him an unexceptional object of hero-worship; when the man himself came suddenly into the room, slamming his oak behind him, and casting his cap and gown fiercely on to the sofa before he noticed our hero. Tom jumped up at once. "My dear fellow, what's the matter?" he said; "I'm sorry I came in; shall I go?" "No--don't go--sit down," said Hardy, abruptly; and then began to smoke fast without saying another word. Tom waited a few minutes watching for him, and then broke silence again.-- "I am sure something is the matter, Hardy; you look dreadfully put out--what is it?" "What is it?" said Hardy, bitterly; "Oh, nothing at all--nothing at all; a gentle lesson to servitors as to the duties of their position; not pleasant, perhaps, for a youngster to swallow; but I ought to be used to such things at any rate by this time. I beg your pardon for seeming put out." "Do tell me what it is," said Tom. "I'm sure I am very sorry for anything which annoys you." "I believe you are," said Hardy, looking at him, "and I'm much obliged to you for it. What do you think of that fellow Chanter's offering Smith, the junior servitor, a boy just come up, a bribe of ten pounds to prick him in at chapel when he isn't there?" "The dirty blackguard," said Tom; "by Jove he ought to be cut. He will be cut, won't he? You don't mean that he really did offer him the money?" "I do," said Hardy, "and the poor little fellow came here after hall to ask me what he should do with tears in his eyes." "Chanter ought to be horsewhipped in quad," said Tom. "I will go and call on Smith directly. What did you do?" "Why, as soon as I could master myself enough not to lay hands on him," said Hardy, "I went across to his rooms where he was entertaining a select party, and just gave him his choice between writing an abject apology then and there to my dictation, or having the whole business laid before the principal to-morrow morning. He chose the former alternative, and I made him write such a letter as I don't think he will forget in a hurry." "That's good," said Tom; "but he ought to have been horsewhipped too. It makes one's fingers itch to think of it. However, Smith's all right now." "All right!" said Hardy, bitterly. "I don't know what you call 'all right.' Probably the boy's self-respect is hurt for life. You can't salve over this sort of thing with an apology-plaster." "Well, I hope it isn't so bad as that," said Tom. "Wait till you've tried it yourself," said Hardy, "I'll tell you what it is; one or two things of this sort--and I've seen many more than that in my time--sink down into you, and leave marks like a red-hot iron." "But, Hardy, now, really, did you ever know a bribe offered before?" said Tom. Hardy thought for a moment. "No," said he, "I can't say that I have; but things as bad, or nearly as bad, often." He paused a minute, and then went on; "I tell you, if it were not for my dear old father, who would break his heart over it, I would cut the whole concern to-morrow. I've been near doing it twenty times, and enlisting in a good regiment." "Would it be any better there, though?" said Tom, gently, for he felt that he was in a gunpowder magazine. "Better! yes, it must be better," said Hardy; "at any rate the youngsters there are marchers and fighters; besides, one would be in the ranks and know one's place. Here one is by way of being a gentleman--God save the mark! A young officer, be he never such a fop or profligate, must take his turn at guard, and carry his life in his hand all over the world wherever he is sent, or he has to leave the service. Service!--yes, that's the word; that's what makes every young red-coat respectable, though he mayn't think it. He is serving his Queen, his country--the devil, too, perhaps--very likely--but still the other is some sort. He is bound to it, sworn to it, must do it; more or less. But a youngster up here, with health, strength, and heaps of money--bound to no earthly service, and choosing that of the devil and his own lusts, because some service or other he must have--I want to know where else under the sun you can see such a sight as that?" Tom mumbled something to the effect that it was by no means necessary that men at Oxford, either rich or poor, need embark in the service which had been alluded to; which remark, however, only seemed to add fuel to the fire. For Hardy now rose from his chair, and began striding up and down the room, his right arm behind his back, the hand gripping his left elbow, his left hand brought round in front close to his body, and holding the bowl of his pipe, from which he was blowing off clouds in puffs like an engine just starting with a heavy train. The attitude was one of a man painfully trying to curb himself. His eyes burnt like coals under his deep brows. The man altogether looked awful, and Tom felt particularly uncomfortable and puzzled. After a turn or two, Hardy burst out again-- "And who are they, I should like to know, these fellows who dare to offer bribes to gentlemen? How do they live? What do they do for themselves or for this University? By heaven, they are ruining themselves body and soul, and making this place, which was meant for the training of learned and brave and righteous Englishmen, a lie and a snare. And who tries to stop them? Here and there a don is doing his work like a man; the rest are either washing their hands of the business, and spending their time in looking after those who don't want looking after, and cramming those who would be better without the cramming, or else standing by, cap in hand, and shouting, 'Oh young men of large fortune and great connexions! You future dispensers of the good things of this Realm, come to our colleges and all shall be made pleasant!' and the shout is taken up by undergraduates, and tradesmen, and horse-dealers, and cricket-cads, and dog-fanciers 'Come to us, and us, and us, and we will be your toadies!' Let them; let them toady and cringe to their precious idols, till they bring this noble old place down about their ears. Down it will come, down it must come, for down it ought to come, if it can find nothing better to worship than rank, money, and intellect. But to live in the place and love it too, and to see all this going on, and groan and writhe under it, and not be able--" At this point in his speech Hardy came to the turning-point in his march at the farther end of the room, just opposite his crockery cupboard; but, instead of turning as usual, he paused, let go the hold on his left elbow, poised himself for a moment to get a purchase, and then dashed his right fist full against one of the panels. Crash went the slight deal boards, as if struck with a sledge-hammer, and crash went glass and crockery behind. Tom jumped to his feet, in doubt whether an assault on him would not follow, but the fit was over, and Hardy looked round at him with a rueful and deprecating face. For a moment Tom tried to look solemn and heroic, as befitted the occasion; but somehow, the sudden contrast flashed upon him, and sent him off, before he could think about it, into a roar of laughter, ending in a violent fit of coughing; for in his excitement he had swallowed a mouthful of smoke. Hardy, after holding out for a moment, gave in to the humour of the thing, and the appealing look passed into a smile, and the smile into a laugh, as he turned towards his damaged cupboard, and began opening it carefully in a legitimate manner. "I say, old fellow," said Tom, coming up, "I should think you must find it an expensive amusement. Do you often walk into your cupboard like that?" "You see, Brown, I am naturally a man of a very quick temper." "So it seems" said Tom; "but doesn't it hurt your knuckles? I should have something softer put up for me if I were you; your bolster, with a velvet cap on it, or a doctor of divinity's gown, now." "You be hanged," said Hardy, as he disengaged the last splinter, and gently opened the ill-used cupboard door. "Oh, thunder and turf, look here," he went on, as the state of affairs inside disclosed itself to his view; "how many times have I told that thief George never to put anything on this side of my cupboard! Two tumblers smashed to bits, and I've only four in the world. Lucky we had those two out on the table." "And here's a great piece out of the sugar-basin, you see," said Tom, holding up the broken article; "and, let me see, one cup and three saucers gone to glory." "Well, it's lucky it's no worse," said Hardy, peering over his shoulder; "I had a lot of odd saucers, and there's enough left to last my time. Never mind the smash, let's sit down again and be reasonable." Tom sat down in high good humor. He felt himself more on an equality with his host than he had done before, and even thought he might venture on a little mild expostulation or lecturing. But while he was considering how to improve the occasion Hardy began himself. "I shouldn't go so furious, Brown, if I didn't care about the place so much. I can't bear to think of it as a sort of learning machine, in which I am to grind for three years to get certain degrees which I want. No--this place, and Cambridge, and our great schools, are the heart of dear old England. Did you ever read Secretary Cook's address to the Vice-Chancellor, Doctors, &c. in 1636--more critical times, perhaps, even than ours? No? Well, listen then;" and he went to his bookcase, took down a book, and read; "'The very truth is, that all wise princes respect the welfare of their estates, and consider that schools and universities are (as in a body) the noble and vital parts, which being vigorous and sound send good blood and active spirits into the veins and arteries, which cause health and strength; or, if feeble or ill-affected, corrupt all the vital parts; whereupon grow diseases, and in the end, death itself.' A low standard up here for ten years may corrupt half the parishes in the kingdom." "That's true," said Tom, "but-" "Yes; and so one has a right to be jealous for Oxford. Every Englishman ought to be." "But I really think, Hardy, that you're unreasonable," said Tom, who had no mind to be done out of his chance of lecturing his host. "I am very quick-tempered," said Hardy, "as I told you just now." "But you're not fair on the fast set up here. They can't help being rich men, after all." "No; so one oughtn't to expect them to be going through the eyes of needles, I suppose. But do you mean to say you ever heard of a more dirty, blackguard business than this?" said Hardy; "he ought to be expelled the University." "I admit that," said Tom; "but it was only one of them, you know. I don't believe there's another man in the set who would have done it." "Well, I hope not," said Hardy; "I may be hard on them--as you say, they can't help being rich. But, now, I don't want you to think me a violent one-sided fanatic; shall I tell you some of my experiences up here--some passages from the life of a servitor?" "Do," said Tom, "I should like nothing so well." CHAPTER VIII--HARDY'S HISTORY "My father is an old commander in the Royal Navy. He was a second cousin of Nelson's Hardy, and that, believe, was what led him into the navy, for he had no interest whatever of his own. It was a visit which Nelson's Hardy, then a young lieutenant, paid to his relative, my grandfather, which decided my father, he has told me: but he always had a strong bent to the sea, though he was a boy of very studious habits. "However, those were times when brave men who knew and loved their profession couldn't be overlooked, and my dear old father fought his way up step by step--not very fast certainly, but, still fast enough to keep him in heart about his chances in life. I can show you the accounts of some of the affairs he was in, in James's History, which you see up on my shelf there, or I could tell them you myself; but I hope some day, you will know him, and then you will hear them in perfection. "My father was made commander towards the end of the war, and got a ship, which he sailed with a convoy of merchantmen from Bristol. It was the last voyage he ever made in active service; but the Admiralty was so well satisfied with his conduct in it that they kept his ship in commission two years after peace was declared. And well they might be; for in the Spanish main he fought an action which lasted, on and off, for two days, with a French sloop of war, and a privateer, which he always thought was an American, either of which ought to have been a match for him. But he had been with Vincent in the _Arrow_, and was not likely to think much of such small odds as that. At any rate he beat them off, and not a prize could either of them make out of his convoy, though I believe his ship was never fit for anything afterwards, and was broken up as soon as she was out of commission. We have got her compasses, and the old flag which flew at the peak through the whole voyage, at home now. It was my father's own flag, and his fancy to have it always flying. More than half the men were killed, or badly hit--the dear old father amongst the rest. A ball took off part of his knee cap, and he had to fight the last six hours of the action sitting in a chair on the quarter-deck; but he says it made the men fight better than when he was among them, seeing him sitting there sucking oranges. "Well, he came home with a stiff leg. The Bristol merchants gave him the freedom of the city in a gold box, and a splendidly-mounted sword with an inscription on the blade, which hangs over the mantel-piece at home. When I first left home, I asked him to give me his old service sword, which used to hang by the other, and he gave it me at once, though I was only a lad of seventeen, as he would give me his right eye, dear old father, which is the only one he has now; the other he lost from a cutlass wound in a boarding-party. There it hangs, and those are his epaulettes in the tin case. They used to lie under my pillow before I had a room of my own, and many a cowardly down-hearted fit have they helped me to pull through, Brown; and many a mean act have they helped to keep me from doing. There they are always; and the sight of them brings home the dear old man to me as nothing else does, hardly even his letters. I must be a great scoundrel to go very wrong with such a father. "Let's see--where was I? Oh, yes; I remember. Well, my father got his box and sword, and some very handsome letters from several great men. We have them all in a book at home, and I know them by heart. The ones he values most are from Collingwood, and his old captain, Vincent, and from his cousin Nelson's Hardy, who didn't come off very well himself after the war. But my poor old father never got another ship. For some time he went up every year to London, and was always, he says, very kindly received by the people in power, and often dined with one and another Lord of the Admiralty who had been an old messmate. But he was longing for employment; and it used to prey on him while he was in his prime to feel year after year slipping away and he still without a ship. But why should I abuse people, and think it hard, when he doesn't? 'You see, Jack,' he said to me the last time we spoke about it, 'after all I was a battered old hulk, lame and half blind. So was Nelson you'll say: but every man isn't a Nelson, my boy. 'And though I might think I could con or fight a ship as well as ever, I can't say other folk who didn't know me were wrong for not agreeing with me. Would you, now Jack, appoint a lame and blind man to command your ship, if you had one?' But he left off applying for work as soon as he was fifty, (I just remember the time), for he began to doubt then whether he was quite so fit to command a vessel as a younger man; and, though he had a much better chance after that of getting a ship (for William IV came to the throne, who knew all about him), he never went near the Admiralty again. 'God forbid,' he said, 'that his Majesty should take me if there's a better man to be had.' "But I have forgotten to tell you how I came into the world, and am telling you my father's story instead of my own. You seem to like hearing about it though, and you can't understand one without the other. However, when my father was made commander, he married, and bought, with his prize-money and savings, a cottage and piece of land, in a village on the south coast, where he left his wife when he went on his last voyage. They had waited some years, for neither of them had any money; but there never were two people who wanted it less, or did more good without it to all who came near them. They had a hard time of it too, for my father had to go on half-pay; and a commander's half-pay isn't much to live upon and keep a family. For they had a family; three besides me; but they are all gone. And my mother, too; she died when I was quite a boy, and left him and me alone; and since then I have never known what a woman's love is, for I have no near relations; and a man with such prospects as mine had better keep down all--however, there's no need to go into any notions; I won't wander any more if I can help it. "I know my father was very poor when my mother died, and I think (though he never told me so) that he had mortgaged our cottage, and was very near having to sell it at one time. The expenses of my mother's illness had been very heavy; I know a good deal of the best furniture was sold--all, indeed except a handsome arm chair and a little work table of my mother's. She used to sit in the chair, in her last illness, on our lawn, and watch the sunsets. And he sat by her, and watched her, and sometimes read the Bible to her; while I played about with a big black dog we had then, named Vincent, after my father's old captain; or with Burt, his old boatswain, who came with his wife to live with my father before I can recollect, and lives with us still. He did everything in the garden, and about the house; and in the house, too, when his wife was ill, for he can turn his hand to most anything, like most old salts. It was he who rigged up the mast and weather-cock on the lawn, and used to let me run up the old flag on Sundays, and on my father's wedding-day, and on the anniversary of his action, and of Vincent's action in the Arrow. "After my mother's death my father sent away all the servants, for the boatswain and his wife are more like friends. I was wrong to say that no woman has loved me since my mother's death, for I believe dear old nanny loves me as if I were her own child. My father, after this, used to sit silent for hours together, doing nothing but look over the sea, but, except for that, was not much changed. After a short time he took to teaching me to read, and from that time I never was away from him for an hour, except when I was asleep, until I went out into the world. "As I told you, my father was naturally fond of study. He had kept up the little Latin he had learnt as a boy, and had always been reading whatever he could lay his hands on; so that I couldn't have had a better tutor. They were no lessons to me, particularly the geographical ones; for there was no part of the world's sea-coast that he did not know, and could tell me what it and the people were like; and often when Burt happened to come in at such times, and heard what my father was talking about, he would give us some of his adventures and ideas of geography, which were very queer indeed. "When I was nearly ten, a new vicar came. He was about my father's age and a widower, like him; only he had no child. Like him, too, he had no private fortune, and the living is a very poor one. He soon became very intimate with us, and made my father his churchwarden; and, after being present at some of our lessons, volunteered to teach me Greek, which, he said, it was time I should begin to learn. "This was great relief to my father, who had bought a Greek grammar and dictionary, and a delectus, some time before; and I could see him often, dear old father, with his glass in his eye, puzzling away over them when I was playing, or reading Cook's Voyages, for it had grown to be the wish of his heart that I should be a scholar, and should go into orders. So he was going to teach me Greek himself, for there was no one in the parish except the Vicar who knew a word of anything but English--so that he could not have got me a tutor, and the thought of sending me to school had never crossed his mind, even if he could have afforded to do either. My father only sat by at Greek lessons, and took no part; but first he began to put in a word here and there, and then would repeat words and sentences himself, and look over my book while I construed, and very soon was just as regular a pupil of the Vicar's as I. "The Vicar was for the most part very proud of his pupils, and the kindest of masters; but every now and then he used to be hard on my father, which made me furious, though he never seemed to mind it. I used to make mistakes on purpose at those times to show that I was worse than he at any rate. But this only happened after we had had a political discussion at dinner; for we dined at three, and took to our Greek afterwards, to suit the Vicar's time, who was generally a guest. My father is a Tory, of course, as you may guess, and the Vicar was a Liberal, of a very mild sort, as I have since thought; a Whig of '88,' he used to call himself. But he was in favor of the Reform Bill, which was enough for my father, who lectured him about loyalty, and opening the flood-gates to revolution; and used to call up old Burt from the kitchen, where he was smoking his pipe, and ask him what he used to think of the Radicals on board ship; and Burt's regular reply was-- "'Skulks, yer honor, regular skulks. I wouldn't give the twist of a fiddler's elbow for all the lot of 'em as ever pretended to handle a swab, or handle a topsail.' "The Vicar always tried to argue, but, as Burt and I were the only audience, my father was always triumphant; only he took it out of us afterwards, at the Greek. Often I used to think, when they were reading history, and talking about the characters, that my father was much the more liberal of the two. "About this time he bought a small half-decked boat of ten tons, for he and Burt agreed that I ought to learn to handle a boat, although I was not to go to sea; and when they got the Vicar in the boat on the summer evenings (for he was always ready for a sail though he was a very bad sailor), I believe they used to steer as near the wind as possible, and get into short chopping seas on purpose. But I don't think he was ever frightened, though he used sometimes to be very ill. "And so I went on, learned all I could from my father, and the Vicar, and old Burt, till I was sixteen. By that time I had begun to think for myself; and I had made up my mind that it was time I should do something. No boy ever wanted to leave home less, I believe; but I saw that I must make a move if I was ever to be what my father wished me to be. So I spoke to the Vicar, and he quite agreed with me, and made inquiries amongst his acquaintance; and so, before I was seventeen, I was offered the place of under-master in a commercial school, about twenty miles from home. The Vicar brought the offer, and my father was very angry at first; but we talked him over, and so I took the situation. "And I am very glad I did, although there were many drawbacks. The salary was 35L a year, and for that I had to drill all the boys in English, and arithmetic, and Latin, and to teach the Greek grammar to the five or six who paid extra to learn it. Out of the school I had always to be with them, and was responsible for the discipline. It was weary work very often, and what seemed the worst part of it to me, at the time, was the trade spirit which leavened the whole of the establishment. The master and owner of the school, who was a keen vulgar man, but always civil enough to me, thought of nothing but what would pay. And this seemed to be what filled the school. Fathers sent their boys, because the place was so practical, and nothing was taught (except as extras) which was not to be of so-called real use to the boys in the world. We had our work quite clearly laid down for us; and it was, not to put the boys in the way of getting real knowledge or understanding, or any of the things Solomon talks about, but to put them in the way of getting on. "I spent three years at that school, and in that time I rounded myself pretty well in Latin and Greek--better, I believe, than I should have done if I had been at a first-rate school myself; and I hope I did the boys some good, and taught some of them that cunning was not the best quality to start in life with. And I was not often very unhappy, for I could always look forward to my holidays with my father. "However, I own that I never was better pleased than one Christmas when the Vicar came over to our cottage, and brought with him a letter from the Principal of St. Ambrose College, Oxford, appointing me to a servitorship. My father was even more delighted than I, and that evening produced a bottle of old rum, which was part of his ship's stock, and had gone all through his action, and been in his cellar ever since. And we three in the parlor, and old Burt and his wife in the kitchen, finished it that night; the boatswain, I must own, taking the lion's share. The Vicar took occasion, in the course of the evening, to hint that it was only poor men who took these places at the University; and that I might find some inconvenience, and suffer some annoyance, by not being exactly in the same position as other men. But my dear old father would not hear of it; I was now going to be in amongst the very pick of English gentlemen--what could it matter whether I had money or not? That was the last thing which real gentlemen thought of. Besides, why was I to be so very poor? He should be able to allow me whatever would be necessary to make me comfortable. 'But, Jack,' he said suddenly, later in the evening, 'one meets low fellows everywhere. You have met them, I know, often at the confounded school, and will meet them again. Never you be ashamed of your poverty, my boy.' I promised readily enough, for I didn't think I could be more tried in that way than I had been already. I had lived for three years amongst people whose class notoriously measured all things by a money standard; now that was all over, I thought. It's easy making promises in the dark. The Vicar, however, would not let the matter rest; so we resolved ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means, and my father engaged to lay before us an exact statement of his affairs next day. I went to the door with the Vicar, and he told me to come and see him in the morning. "I half-guessed what he wanted to see me for. He knew all my father's affairs perfectly well, and wished to prepare me for what was to come in the evening. 'Your father,' he said, 'is one of the most liberal men I ever met; he is almost the only person who gives anything to the schools and other charities in this parish, and he gives to the utmost. You would not wish him, I know, to cut off these gifts, which bring the highest reward with them, when they are made in the spirit in which he makes them. Then he is getting old, and you would never like him to deny himself the comforts (and few enough they are) which he is used to. He has nothing but his half-pay to live on; and out of that he pays 50L a year for insurance; for he has insured his life, that you may have something besides the cottage and land when he dies. I only tell you this that you may know the facts beforehand. I am sure you would never take a penny from him if you could help it. But he won't be happy unless he makes you some allowance; and he can do it without crippling himself. He has been paying off an old mortgage on his property here for many years, by installments of 40L a year, and the last was paid last Michaelmas; so that it will not inconvenience him to make you that allowance. Now, you will not be able to live properly upon that at Oxford, even as a servitor. I speak to you now, my dear Jack, as your oldest friend (except Burt), and you must allow me the privilege of an old friend. I have more than I want, and I propose to make up your allowance at Oxford to 80L a year, and upon that I think you may manage to get on. Now, it will not be quite candid, but I think, under the circumstances, we shall be justified in representing to your father that 40L a year will be ample for him to allow you. You see what I mean? "I remember almost word for word what the Vicar said; for it is not often in one's life that one meets with this sort of friend. At first I thanked him, but refused to take anything from him. I had saved enough, I said, to carry me through Oxford. But he would not be put off; and I found that his heart was as much set on making me an allowance himself as on saving my father. So I agreed to take 25L a year from him. "When we met again in the evening, to hear my father's statement, it was as good as a play to see the dear old man, with his spectacles on and his papers before him, proving in some wonderful way that he could easily allow me at least 80L or 100L a year. I believe it cost the Vicar some twinges of conscience to persuade him that all I should want would be 40L a year; and it was very hard work; but at last we succeeded, and it was so settled. During the next three weeks the preparations for my start occupied us all. The Vicar looked out all the classics, which he insisted that I should take. There they stand on that middle shelf--all well bound, you see, and many of them old college prizes. My father made an expedition to the nearest town, and came back with a large new portmanteau and hat-box; and the next day the leading tailor came over to fit me out with new clothes. In fact, if I had not resisted stoutly, I should have come to college with half the contents of the cottage, and Burt as valet; for the old boatswain was as bad as the other two. But I compromised the matter with him by accepting his pocket compass and the picture of the brig which hangs there; the two things, next to his wife, which he values, I believe, most in the world. "Well, it is now two years last October since I came to Oxford as a servitor; so you see I have pretty, nearly finished my time here. I was more than twenty then--much older as you know, than most freshmen. I daresay it was partly owing to the difference in age, and partly to the fact that I knew no one when I came up, but mostly to my own bad management and odd temper, that I did not get on better than I have done with the men here. Sometimes I think that our college is a bad specimen, for I have made several friends amongst out-college men. At any rate, the fact is, as you have no doubt found out--and I hope I haven't tried at all to conceal it--that I am out of the pale, as it were. In fact, with the exception of one of the tutors, and one man who was a freshman with me, I do not know a man in college except as a mere speaking acquaintance. "I had been rather thrown off my balance, I think, at the change in my life, for at first I made a great fool of myself. I had believed too readily what my father had said, and thought that at Oxford I should see no more of what I had been used to. Here I thought that the last thing a man would be valued by would be the length of his purse, and that no one would look down upon me because I performed some services to the college in return for my keep, instead of paying for it in money. "Yes, I made a great fool of myself, no doubt of that; and, what is worse, I broke my promise to my father--I often _was_ ashamed of my poverty, and tried at first to hide it, for somehow the spirit of the place carried me along with it. I couldn't help wishing to be thought of and treated as an equal by the men. It's a very bitter thing for a proud, shy, sensitive fellow, as I am by nature, to have to bear the sort of assumption and insolence one meets with. I furnished my rooms well, and dressed well. Ah! you stare; but this is not the furniture I started with; I sold it all when I came to my senses, and put in this tumble-down second-hand stuff, and I have worn out my fine clothes. I know I'm not well dressed now. (Tom nodded ready acquiescence to this position.) Yes, though I still wince a little now and then--a great deal oftener than I like--I don't carry any false colors. I can't quite conquer the feeling of shame (for shame it is, I am afraid), but at any rate I don't try to hide my poverty any longer, I haven't for these eighteen months. I have a grim sort of pleasure in pushing it in everybody's face. (Tom assented with a smile, remembering how excessively uncomfortable Hardy had made him by this little peculiarity the first time he was in his rooms.) The first thing which opened my eyes a little was the conduct of the tradesmen. My bills all came in within a week of the delivery of the furniture and clothes; some of them wouldn't leave the things without payment. I was very angry and vexed, not at the bills, for I had my savings, which were more than enough to pay for everything. But I knew that these same tradesmen never thought of asking for payment under a year, oftener two, from other men. Well, it was a lesson. Credit for gentlemen-commoners, ready-money dealings with servitors! I owe the Oxford tradesmen much for that lesson. If they would only treat every man who comes up as a servitor, it would save a deal of misery. "My cure was completed by much higher folk, though. I can't go through the whole treatment, but will give you a specimen or two of the doses, giving precedence (as is the way here) to those administered by the highest in rank. I got them from all sorts of people, but none did me more good than the lords' pills. Amongst other ways of getting on I took to sparring, which was then very much in vogue. I am a good hand at it, and very fond of it, so that it wasn't altogether flunkeyism, I'm glad to think. In my second term two or three fighting men came down from London, and gave a benefit at the Weirs. I was there, and set to with one of them. We were well matched, and both of us did our very best; and when we had had our turn we drew down the house, as they say. Several young tufts and others of the faster men came up to me afterwards and complimented me. They did the same by the professional, but it didn't occur to me at the time that they put us both in the same category. "I am free to own that I was really pleased two days afterwards, when a most elaborate flunkey brought a card to my door inscribed 'The Viscount Philippine, Ch. Ch., at home to-night, eight o'clock--sparring.' Luckily, I made a light dinner, and went sharp to time into Christ Church. The porter directed me to the noble Viscount's rooms; they were most splendid, certainly--first floor rooms in Peckwater. I was shown into the large room, which was magnificently furnished and lighted. A good space was cleared in the centre; there were all sorts of bottles and glasses on the sideboard. There might have been twelve or thirteen men present, almost all in tufts or gentlemen commoners' caps. One or two of our college I recognized. The fighting man was also there, stripped for sparring, which none of the rest were. It was plain that the sport had not begun; I think he was doing some trick of strength as I came in. My noble host came forward with a nod and asked me if I would take anything, and when I declined, said, 'Then will you put on the gloves?' I looked at him rather surprised, and thought it an odd way to treat the only stranger in his rooms. However, I stripped, put on the gloves, and one of the others came forward to tie them for me. While he was doing it I heard my host say to the man, 'A five-pound note, mind, if you do it within the quarter-of-an-hour.' 'Only half-minute time, then, my lord,' he answered. The man who was tying my gloves said, 'Be steady; don't give him a chance to knock you down.' It flashed across me in a moment now why I was there; but it was too late to draw back; so we stood up and began sparring. I played very steadily and light at first to see whether my suspicions were well founded, and in two minutes I was satisfied. My opponent tried every dodge to bring on a rally, and when he was foiled I could see that he was shifting his glove. I stopped and insisted that his gloves should be tied, and then we went on again. "I kept on the defensive. The man was in bad training, and luckily I had the advantage by an inch or so in length of arm. Before five minutes was over, I had caught enough of the bystander's remarks to know that my noble host had betted a pony that I should be knocked down in a quarter-of-an-hour. My one object now was to make him lose his money. My opponent did his utmost for his patron, and fairly winded himself in his efforts to get at me. He had to call time twice himself. I said not a word; my time would come I knew, if I could keep on my legs, and of this I had little fear. I held myself together, made no attack, and my length of arm gave me the advantage in every counter. It was all I could do, though, to keep clear of his rushes as the time drew on. On he came time after time, careless of guarding, and he was full as good a man as I. 'Time's up; it's past the quarter.' 'No, by Jove half a minute yet; now's your time, said my noble host to his man, who answered by a rush. I met him as before with a steady counter, but this time my blow got home under his chin, and he staggered, lost his footing, and went fairly over on his back. "Most of the bystanders seemed delighted, and some of them hurried towards me. But I tore off the gloves, flung them on the ground, and turned to my host. I could hardly speak, but I made an effort, and said quietly, 'You have brought a stranger to your rooms, and have tried to make him fight for your amusement; now I tell you it is a blackguard act of yours--an act which no gentleman would have done.' My noble host made no remark. I threw on my waist-coat, and then turned to the rest and said '_Gentlemen_ would not have stood by and seen it done.' I went up to the side-board, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and half filled a tumbler, before a word was spoken. Then one of the visitors stepped forward and said, 'Mr. Hardy, I hope you won't go, there has been a mistake; we did not know of this. I am sure many of us are very sorry for what has occurred; stay and look on, we will all of us spar.' I looked at him, and then at my host, to see whether the latter joined in the apology. Not he, he was doing the dignified sulky, and most of the rest seemed to me to be with him. 'Will any of you spar with me?' I said, tauntingly, tossing off the champagne. 'Certainly, the new speaker said directly, 'If you wish it, and are not too tired, I will spar with you myself; you will, won't you, James?' and he turned to one of the other men. If any of them had backed him by a word I should probably have stayed; several of them, I learnt afterwards, would have liked to have done so, but it was an awkward scene to interfere in. I stopped a moment and then said, with a sneer, 'You're too small, and none of the other gentlemen seem inclined to offer.' "I saw that I had hurt him, and felt pleased at the moment I had done so. I was now ready to start, and I could not think of anything more unpleasant to say at the moment; so I went up to my antagonist, who was standing with the gloves on still, not quite knowing what to be at, and held out my hand. 'I can shake hands with you at any rate,' I said; 'you only did what you were paid for in the regular way of business, and you did your best.' He looked rather sheepish, but held out his gloved hand, which I shook. 'Now, I have the honor to wish you all a very good evening;' and so I left the place and got home to my own rooms, and sat down there with several new ideas in my head. On the whole, the lesson was not a very bitter one, for I felt that I had had the best of the game. The only thing I really was sorry for was my own insolence to the man who had come forward as a peacemaker. I had remarked his face before. I don't know how it is with you, but I can never help looking at a tuft--the gold tassel draws one's eye somehow; and then it's an awful position, after all, for mere boys to be placed in. So I knew his face before that day, though I had only seen him two or three times in the street. Now it was much more clearly impressed on my mind; and I called it up and looked it over, half hoping that I should detect something to justify me to myself, but without success. However, I got the whole affair pretty well out of my head by bedtime. "While I was at breakfast the next morning, my scout came in with a face of the most ludicrous importance, and quite a deferential manner. I declare I don't think he has ever got back since that day to his original free-and-easy swagger. He laid a card on my table, paused a moment, and then said, 'His ludship is houtside watin', sir.' "I had had enough of lords' cards; and the scene of yesterday rose painfully before me as I threw the card into the fire without looking at it, and said, 'Tell him I am engaged.' "My scout, with something like a shudder at my audacity, replied, 'His ludship told me to say, sir, as his bis'ness was very particular, so hif you was engaged he would call again in 'arf an hour.' "Tell him to come in, then, if he won't take a civil hint.' I felt sure who it would be, but hardly knew whether to be pleased or annoyed, when in another minute the door opened, and in walked the peacemaker. I don't know which of us was the most embarrassed; he walked straight up to me without lifting his eyes, and held out his hand saying, 'I hope, Mr. Hardy, you will shake hands with me now.' "'Certainly, my lord,' I said, taking his hand; 'I am sorry for what I said to you yesterday, when my blood was up.' "'You said no more than we deserved,' he answered twirling his cap by the long gold tassel; 'I could not be comfortable without coming to assure you again myself, that neither I, nor, I believe, half the men in Philippine's rooms yesterday, knew anything of the bet. I really cannot tell you how annoyed I have been about it.' "I assured him that he might make himself quite easy, and then remained standing, expecting him to go, and not knowing exactly what to say further. But he begged me to go on with my breakfast, and sat down, and then asked me to give him a cup of tea, as he had not breakfasted. So in a few minutes we were sitting opposite one another over tea and bread and butter, for he didn't ask for, and I didn't offer, anything else. It was rather a trying meal, for each of us was doing all he could to make out the other. I only hope I was as pleasant as he was. After breakfast he went and I thought the acquaintance was probably at an end; he had done all that a gentleman need have done, and had well-nigh healed a raw place in my mental skin. "But I was mistaken. Without intruding himself on me, he managed somehow or another to keep on building up the acquaintance little by little. For some time I looked out very jealously for any patronizing airs, and even after I was convinced, that he had nothing of the sort in him, avoided him as much as I could, though he was the most pleasant and best-informed man I knew. However, we became intimate, and I saw a good deal of him in a quiet way, at his own rooms. I wouldn't go to his parties, and asked him not to come to me here, for my horror of being thought a tuft-hunter had become almost a disease. He was not so old as I, but he was just leaving the University, for he had come up early, and lord's sons are allowed to go out in two years;--I suppose because the authorities think they will do less harm here in two than three years; but it is sometimes hard on poor men, who have to earn their bread, to see such a privilege given to those who want it least. When he left, he made me promise to go and pay him a visit--which I did in the long vacation, at a splendid place up in the North, and enjoyed myself more than I care to own. His father, who is quite worthy of his son, and all his family, were as kind as people could be. "Well, amongst other folks I met there a young sprig of nobility who was coming up here the next term. He had been brought up abroad, and, I suppose, knew very few men of his own age in England. He was not a bad style of boy, but rather too demonstrative, and not strong-headed. He took to me wonderfully, was delighted to hear that I was up at Oxford, and talked constantly of how much we should see of one another. As it happened, I was almost the first man he met when he got off the coach at the 'Angel,' at the beginning of his first term. He almost embraced me, and nothing would serve but I must dine with him at the inn, and we spent the evening together, and parted dear friends. Two days afterwards we met in the street; he was with two other youngsters, and gave me a polished and distant bow; in another week he passed me as if we had never met. "I don't blame him, poor boy. My only wonder is, that any of them ever get through this place without being thoroughly spoilt. From Vice-Chancellor down to scout's boy, the whole of Oxford seems to be in league to turn their boys heads, even if they come up with them set on straight, which toadying servants at home take care shall never happen if they can hinder it. The only men who would do them good up here, both dons and undergraduates, keep out of their way, very naturally. Gentlemen-commoners have a little better chance, though not much, and seem to me to be worse than the tufts, and to furnish most of their toadies. "Well, you are tired of my railing? I daresay I am rabid about it all. Only it does go to my heart to think what this place might be, and what it is. I see I needn't give you any more of my experience. "You'll understand now some of the things that have puzzled you about me. Oh! I know they did; you needn't look apologetic. I don't wonder, or blame you. I am a very queer bird for the perch I have lit on; I know that as well as anybody. The only wonder is that you ever took the trouble to try to lime me. Now have another glass of toddy. Why! it is near twelve. I must have one pipe and turn in. No Aristophanes to-night." CHAPTER IX--"A BROWN BAIT." Tom's little exaltation in his own eyes consequent on the cupboard-smashing escapade of his friend was not to last long. Not a week had elapsed before he himself arrived suddenly in Hardy's room in as furious a state of mind as the other had so lately been in, allowing for the difference of the men. Hardy looked up from his books and exclaimed:-- "What's the matter? Where have you been to-night? You look fierce enough to sit for a portrait of Sanguinoso Volcanoni, the bandit." "Been!" said Tom, sitting down on the spare Windsor chair, which he usually occupied, so hard as to make it crack again; "been! I've been to a wine party at Hendon's. Do you know any of that set?" "No, except Grey, who came into residence in the same term with me; we have been reading for degree together. You must have seen him here sometimes in the evenings." "Yes, I remember; the fellow with a stiff neck, who won't look you in the face." "Ay, but he is a sterling man at the bottom, I can tell you." "Well, he wasn't there. You don't know any of the rest?" "No." "And never went to any of their parties?" "No." "You've had no loss, I can tell you," said Tom, pleased that the ground was clear for him. "I never was amongst such a set of waspish, dogmatical, over-bearing fellows in my life." "Why, what in the name of fortune have they been doing to you? How did you fall among such Philistines?" "I'm such an easy fool, you see," said Tom, "I go off directly with any fellow that asks me; fast or slow, it's all the same. I never think twice about the matter, and generally, I like all the fellows I meet, and enjoy everything. But just catch me at another of their stuck-up wines, that's all." "But you won't tell me what's the matter." "Well, I don't know why Hendon should have asked me. He can't think me a likely card for a convert, I should think. At any rate, he asked me to wine, and I went as usual. Everything was in capital style (it don't seem to be any part of their creed, mind you, to drink bad wine), and awfully gentlemanly and decorous." "Yes, that's aggravating, I admit. It would have been in better taste, of course, if they had been a little blackguard and indecorous. No doubt, too, one has a right to expect bad wine at Oxford. Well?" Hardy spoke so gravely, that Tom had to look across at him for half a minute to see whether he was in earnest. Then he went on with a grin. "There was a piano in one corner, and muslin curtains--I give you my word, muslin curtains, besides the stuff ones." "You don't say so," said Hardy; "put up, no doubt, to insult you. No wonder you looked so furious when you came in. Anything else?" "Let me see--yes--I counted three sorts of scents on the mantel-piece, besides Eau-de-Cologne. But I could have stood it well enough if it hadn't been for their talk. From one thing to another they got to cathedrals, and one of them called St. Paul's 'a disgrace to a Christian city;' I couldn't stand that, you know. I was always bred to respect St. Paul's; weren't you?" "My education in that line was neglected," said Hardy, gravely. "And so you took up the cudgels for St. Paul's?" "Yes, I plumped out that St. Paul's was the finest cathedral in England. You'd have thought I had said that lying was one of the cardinal virtues--one or two just treated me to a sort of pitying sneer, but my neighbors were down upon me with a vengeance. I stuck to my text though, and they drove me into saying I liked the Ratcliffe more than any building in Oxford; which I don't believe I do, now I come to think of it. So when they couldn't get me to budge for their talk, they took to telling me that every body that knew anything about church architecture was against me--of course meaning that I knew nothing about it--for the matter of that, I don't mean to say that I do"--Tom paused; it had suddenly occurred to him that there might be some reason in the rough handling he had got. "But what did you say to the authorities?" said Hardy, who was greatly amused. "Said I didn't care a straw for them" said Tom, "there was no right or wrong in the matter, and I had as good a right to my opinion as Pugin--or whatever his name is--and the rest." "What heresy!" said Hardy, laughing; "you caught it for that, I suppose?" "Didn't I! They made such a noise over it, that the men at the other end of the table stopped talking (they were all freshmen at our end), and when they found what was up, one of the older ones took me in hand, and I got a lecture about the middle ages, and the monks. I said I thought England was well rid of the monks; and then we got on to Protestantism, and fasting, and apostolic succession, and passive obedience, and I don't know what all! I only know I was tired enough of it before the coffee came; but I couldn't go, you know, with all of them on me at once, could I?" "Of course not; you were like the 6,000 unconquerable British infantry at Albuera. You held your position by sheer fighting, suffering fearful loss." "Well," said Tom, laughing, for he had talked himself into good humor again. "I dare say I talked a deal of nonsense; and, when I come to think it over, a good deal of what some of them said had something in it. I should like to hear it again quietly; but there were others sneering and giving themselves airs, and that puts a fellow's back up." "Yes," said Hardy, "a good many of the weakest and vainest men who come up take to this sort of thing now. They can do nothing themselves, and get a sort of platform by going in on the High Church business from which to look down on their neighbors." "That's just what I thought," said Tom, "they tried to push mother Church, mother Church, down my throat at every turn; I'm as fond of the Church as any of them, but I don't want to be jumping up on her back every minute, like a sickly chicken getting on the old hen's back to warm its feet whenever the ground is cold, and fancying himself taller than all the rest of the brood." "You were unlucky," said Hardy; "there are some very fine fellows amongst them." "Well, I haven't seen much of them," said Tom, "and I don't want to see any more, for it seems to be all Gothic mouldings and man-millinery business." "You won't think so when you've been up a little longer." said Hardy, getting up to make tea, which operation he had hardly commenced, when a knock came at the door, and in answer to Hardy's "Come in," a slight, shy man appeared, who hesitated, and seemed inclined to go when he saw that Hardy was not alone. "Oh, come in, and have a cup of tea, Grey. You know Brown, I think?" said Hardy, looking round from the fire, where he was filling his teapot, to watch Tom's reception of the new comer. Our hero took his feet down, drew himself up and made a solemn bow, which Grey returned, and then slid nervously into a chair and looked very uncomfortable. However, in another minute Hardy came to the rescue and began pouring out the tea. He was evidently tickled at the idea of confronting Tom so soon with another of his enemies. Tom saw this, and put on a cool and majestic manner in consequence, which evidently increased the discomfort of Grey's seat, and kept Hardy on the edge of an abyss of laughter. In fact, he had to ease himself by talking of indifferent matters and laughing at nothing. Tom had never seen him in this sort of humor before, and couldn't help enjoying it, though he felt that it was partly at his own expense. But when Hardy once just approached the subject of the wine party, Tom bristled up so quickly, and Grey looked so meekly wretched, though he knew nothing of what was coming, that Hardy suddenly changed the subject, and turning to Grey, said-- "What have you been doing the last fortnight? You haven't been here once. I've been obliged to get on with my Aristotle without you." "I'm very sorry indeed, but I haven't been able to come," said Grey, looking sideways at Hardy, and then at Tom, who sat regarding the wall, supremely indifferent. "Well, I've finished my Ethics," said Hardy; "can't you come in to-morrow night to talk them over? I suppose you're through them too?" "No, really," said Grey. "I haven't been able to look at them since the last time I was here." "You must take care," said Hardy. "The new examiners are all for science and history; it won't do for you to go in trusting to your scholarship." "I hope to make it up in the Easter vacation," said Grey. "You'll have enough to do then," said Hardy; "but how is it you've dropped astern so?" "Why, the fact is," said Grey, hesitatingly, "that the curate of St. Peter's has set up some night schools, and wanted some help. So I have been doing what I could to help him; and really," looking at his watch, "I must be going. I only wanted to tell you how it was I didn't come now." Hardy looked at Tom, who was rather taken aback by this announcement, and began to look less haughtily at the wall. He even condescended to take a short glance at his neighbor. "It's unlucky," said Hardy; "but do you teach every night?" "Yes," said Grey. "I used to do my science and history at night, you know; but I find that teaching takes so much out of me, that I'm only fit for bed now, when I get back. I'm so glad I've told you. I have wanted to do it for some time. And if you would let me come in for an hour, directly after hall, instead of later, I think I could still manage that." "Of course," said Hardy, "come when you like. But it's rather hard to take you away every night, so near the examinations." "It is my own wish," said Grey. "I should have been very glad if it hadn't happened just now; but as it has I must do the best I can." "Well, but I should like to help you. Can't I take a night or two off your hands?" "No!" said Tom, fired with sudden enthusiasm; "it will be as bad for you, Hardy. It can't want much scholarship to teach there. Let me go. I'll take two nights a week if you'll let me." "Oh, thank you," said Grey; "but I don't know how my friend might like it. That is--I mean," he said, getting very red, "it's very kind of you, only I'm used to it; and--and they rely on me. But I really must go--good night;" and Grey went off in confusion. As soon as the door had fairly closed, Hardy could stand it no longer, and lay back in his chair laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks. Tom, wholly unable to appreciate the joke, sat looking at him with perfect gravity. "What can there be in your look, Brown?" said Hardy, when he could speak again, "to frighten Grey so? Did you see what a fright he was in at once, at the idea of turning you into the night schools? There must be some lurking Protestantism in your face somewhere, which I hadn't detected." "I don't believe he was frightened at me a bit. He wouldn't have you either, remember," said Tom. "Well, at any rate, that doesn't look as if it were all mere Gothic-mouldings and man-millinery, does it?" said Hardy. Tom sipped his tea, and considered. "One can't help admiring him, do you know, for it," he said. "Do you think he is really thrown back, now, in his own reading by this teaching?" "I'm sure of it. He is such a quiet fellow, that nothing else is likely to draw him off reading; I can see that he doesn't get on as he used, day by day. Unless he makes it up somehow, he won't get his first." "He don't seem to like the teaching work much," said Tom. "Not at all, so far as I can see." "Then it is a very fine thing of him," said Tom. "And you retract your man-millinery dictum, so far as he is concerned?" "Yes, that I do, heartily; but not as to the set in general." "Well, they don't suit me either; but, on the whole, they are wanted--at any rate, in this college. Even the worst of them is making some sort of protest for self-denial, and against self-indulgence, which is nowhere more needed than here." "A nice sort of protest--muslin curtains, a piano, and old claret." "Oh, you've no right to count Henden among them; he has only a little hankering after mediaevalism, and thinks the whole thing gentlemanly." "I only know the whole clamjamfery of them were there, and didn't seem to protest much." "Brown, you're a bigot. I should never have thought you would have been so furious against any set of fellows, I begin to smell Arnold." "No you don't. He never spoke to me against anybody." "Hallo! It was the Rugby atmosphere, then, I suppose. But I tell you they are the only men in the college who are making that protest, whatever their motives may be." "What do you say to yourself, old fellow?" "Nonsense! I never deny myself any pleasure that I can afford, if it isn't wrong in itself, and doesn't hinder anyone else. I can tell you I am as fond of fine things and good living as you." "If a thing isn't wrong, and you can afford it, and it doesn't hurt anybody! Just so; well, then, mustn't it be right for you to have? You wouldn't have it put under your nose, I suppose, just for you to smell at, and let it alone?" "Yes, I know all that. I've been over it often enough, and there's truth in it. But, mind you, it's rather slippery ground, especially for a freshman; and there's a good deal to be said on the other side--I mean, for denying oneself just for the sake of the self denial." "Well, they don't deny themselves the pleasure of looking at a fellow as if he were a Turk, because he likes St. Paul's better than Westminster Abbey." "How that snubbing you got at the Ecclesiological wine party seems to rankle.--There now! don't bristle up like a hedgehog. I'll never mention that unfortunate wine again. I saw the eight come in to-day. You were keeping much better time, but there is a weak place or two forward." "Yes," said Tom, delighted to change the subject, "I find it awfully hard to pull up to Jervis's stroke. Do you think I shall ever get to it?" "Of course you will. Why you have only been pulling behind him a dozen times or so, and his is the most trying stroke on the river. You quicken a little on it; but I didn't mean you. Two and five are the blots in the boat." "You think so?" said Tom, much relieved. "So does Miller, I can see. It's so provoking--Drysdale is to pull two in the races next term, and Blake seven, and then Diogenes will go to five. He's obliged to pull seven now, because Blake won't come down this term; no more will Drysdale. They say there will be plenty of time after Easter." "It's a great pity," said Hardy. "Isn't it," said Tom; "and it makes Miller so savage. He walks into us all as if it were our faults. Do you think he's a good coxswain?" "First rate on most points, but rather too sharp tongued. You can't get a man's best out of him without a little praise." "Yes, that's just it, he puts one's back up," said Tom. "But the Captain is a splendid fellow, isn't he?" "Yes, but a little too easy, at least with men like Blake and Drysdale. He ought to make them train, or turn them out." "But who could he get? There's nobody else. If you would pull, now--why shouldn't you? I'm sure it would make us all right." "I don't subscribe to the club," said Hardy; "I wish I had, for I should have liked to have pulled with you, and behind Jervis this year." "Do let me tell the Captain," said Tom, "I'm sure he'd manage it somehow." "I'm afraid it's too late," said Hardy; "I cut myself off from everything of the sort two years ago, and I'm beginning to think I was a fool for my pains." Nothing more was said on the subject at the time, but Tom went away in great spirits at having drawn this confession out of Hardy--the more so, perhaps, because he flattered himself that he had something to say to the change in his friend. CHAPTER X--SUMMER TERM How many spots in life are there which will bear comparison with the beginning of our second term at the University? So far as external circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to know what a man could find to ask for at that period of his life, if a fairy godmother were to alight in his rooms and offer him the usual three wishes. The sailor who had asked for "all the grog in the world," and "all the baccy in the world," was indeed driven to "a little more baccy" as his third requisition; but, at any rate his two first requisitions were to some extent grounded on what he held to be substantial wants; he felt himself actually limited in the matters of grog and tobacco. The condition which Jack would have been in as a wisher, if he had been started on his quest with the assurance that his utmost desires in the direction of alcohol and narcotic were already provided for, and must be left out of the question, is the only one affording a pretty exact parallel to the case we are considering. In our second term we are no longer freshmen, and begin to feel ourselves at home, while both "smalls" and "greats" are sufficiently distant to be altogether ignored if we are that way inclined, or to be looked forward to with confidence that the game is in our own hands if we are reading men. Our financial position--unless we have exercised rare ingenuity in involving ourselves--is all that heart can desire; we have ample allowances paid in quarterly to the University bankers without thought or trouble of ours, and our credit is at its zenith. It is a part of our recognized duty to repay the hospitality we have received as freshmen; and all men will be sure to come to our first parties to see how we do the thing; it will be our own faults if we do not keep them in future. We have not had time to injure our characters to any material extent with the authorities of our own college, or of the University. Our spirits are never likely to be higher, or our digestions better. These and many other comforts and advantages environ the fortunate youth returning to Oxford after his first vacation; thrice fortunate, however, if, as happened in our hero's case, it is Easter term to which he is returning; for that Easter term, with the four days' vacation, and the little Trinity term at the end of it, is surely the cream of the Oxford year. Then, even in this our stern northern climate, the sun is beginning to have power, the days have lengthened out, great-coats are unnecessary at morning chapel, and the miseries of numbed hands and shivering skins no longer accompany every pull on the river and canter on Bullingdon. In Christ Church meadows and the college gardens the birds are making sweet music in the tall elms. You may almost hear the thick grass growing, and the buds on tree and shrub are changing from brown, red, or purple, to emerald green under your eyes; the glorious old city is putting on her best looks, and bursting into laughter and song. In a few weeks the races begin, and Cowley marsh will be alive with white tents and joyous cricketers. A quick ear, on the towing-path by the Gut, may feast at one time on those three sweet sounds, the thud thud of the eight-oar, the crack of the rifles at the Weirs, and the click of the bat on the Magdalen ground. And then Commemoration rises in the background, with its clouds of fair visitors, and visions of excursions to Woodstock and Nuneham in the summer days--of windows open on to the old quadrangles in the long still evenings, through which silver laughter and strains of sweet music, not made by man, steal out and puzzle the old celibate jackdaws, peering down from the battlements, with heads on one side. To crown all, long vacation, beginning with the run to Henley regatta, or up to town to see the match with Cambridge at Lord's and taste some of the sweets of the season, before starting on some pleasure tour or reading party, or dropping back into the quiet pleasures of English country life! Surely, the lot of young Englishmen who frequent our universities is cast in pleasant places. The country has a right to expect something from those for whom she finds such a life as this in the years when enjoyment is keenest. Tom was certainly alive to the advantages of the situation, and entered on his kingdom without any kind of scruple. He was very glad to find things so pleasant, and quite resolved to make the best he could of them. Then he was in a particularly good humour with himself, for in deference to the advice of Hardy, he had actually fixed on the books which he should send in for his little-go examination before going down for the Easter vacation, and had read them through at home, devoting an hour or two almost daily to this laudable occupation. So he felt himself entitled to take things easily on his return. He had brought back with him two large hampers of good sound wine, a gift from his father, who had a horror of letting his son set before his friends the fire-water which is generally sold to the undergraduate. Tom found that his father's notions of the rate of consumption prevalent in the university were wild in the extreme. "In his time," the squire said, "eleven men came to his first wine party, and he had opened nineteen bottles of port for them. He was very glad to hear that the habits of the place had changed so much for the better; and as Tom wouldn't want nearly so much wine, he should have it out of an older bin." Accordingly, the port which Tom employed the first hour after his return in stacking carefully away in his cellar, had been more than twelve years in bottle, and he thought with unmixed satisfaction of the pleasing effect it would have on Jervis and Miller, and the one or two other men who knew good wine from bad, and guided public opinion on the subject, and of the social importance which he would soon attain from the reputation of giving good wine. The idea of entertaining, of being hospitable, is a pleasant and fascinating one to most young men; but the act soon gets to be a bore to all but a few curiously constituted individuals. With these hospitality becomes first a passion and then a faith--a faith the practice of which, in the cases of some of its professors, reminds one strongly of the hints on such subjects scattered about the New Testament. Most of us feel, when our friends leave us a certain sort of satisfaction, not unlike that of paying a bill; they have been done for, and can't expect anything more for a long time. Such thoughts never occur to your really hospitable man. Long years of narrow means cannot hinder him from keeping open house for whoever wants to come to him, and setting the best of everything before all comers. He has no notion of giving you anything but the best he can command if it be only fresh porter from the nearest mews. He asks himself not, "Ought I to invite A or B? do I owe him anything?" but, "Would A or B like to come here?" Give me these men's houses for real enjoyment, though you never get anything very choice there,--(how can a man produce old wine who gives his oldest every day?)--seldom much elbow room or orderly arrangement. The high arts of gastronomy and scientific drinking so much valued in our highly civilized community, are wholly unheeded by him, are altogether above him, are cultivated in fact by quite another set who have very little of the genuine spirit of hospitality in them, from those tables, should one by chance happen upon them, one senses, certainly with a feeling of satisfaction and expansion, chiefly physical, but entirely without the expansion of heart which one gets at the scramble of the hospitable man. So that we are driven to remark, even in such everyday matters as these, but it is the invisible, the spiritual, which after all gives value and reality even to dinners; and, with Solomon, to prefer the most touching _diner Russe_, the dinner of herbs where love is, though I trust that neither we nor Solomon should object to well-dressed cutlets with our salad, if they happened to be going. Readers will scarcely need to be told that one of the first things Tom did, after depositing his luggage and unpacking his wine, was to call at Hardy's rooms, where he found his friend deep as usual in his books, the hard-worked atlases and dictionaries of all sorts taking up more space than ever. After the first hearty greeting, Tom occupied his old place with much satisfaction. "How long have you been up, old fellow?" he began; "you look quite settled." "I only went home for a week. Well, what have you been doing in the vacation?" "Oh, there was nothing much going on; so, amongst other things, I've nearly floored my little-go work." "Bravo! you'll find the comfort of it now. I hardly thought you would take to the grind so easily." "It's pleasant enough for a spurt," said Tom; "but I shall never manage a horrid perpetual grind like yours. But what in the world have you been doing to your walls?" Tom might well ask, for the corners of Hardy's room were covered with sheets of paper of different sizes, pasted against the wall in groups. In the line of sight, from about the height of four to six feet, there was scarcely an inch of the original paper visible, and round each centre group there were outlying patches and streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or away nearly to the bookcases or fireplace. "Well, don't you think it is a great improvement on the old paper?" said Hardy. "I shall be out of rooms next term, and it will be a hint to the College that the rooms want papering. You're no judge of such matters, or I should ask you whether you don't see great artistic taste in the arrangement." "Why, they're nothing but maps, and lists of names and dates," said Tom, who had got up to examine the decorations. "And what in the world are all these queer pins for?" he went on, pulling a strong pin with a large red sealing-wax head out of the map nearest to him. "Hullo! take care there, what are you about?" shouted Hardy, getting up and hastening to the corner. "Why, you irreverent beggar, those pins are the famous statesmen and warriors of Greece and Rome." "Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn't know I was in such august company;" saying which, Tom proceeded to stick the red-headed pin back in the wall. "Now, just look at that," said Hardy, taking the pin out from the place where Tom had stuck it. "Pretty doings there would be amongst them with your management. This pin is Brasidas; you've taken him away from Naupactus, where he was watching the eleven Athenian galleys anchored under the temple of Apollo, and struck him down right in the middle of the Pnyx, where he will be instantly torn in pieces by a ruthless and reckless mob. You call yourself a Tory indeed! However, 'twas always the same with you Tories; calculating, cruel, and jealous. Use your leaders up, and throw them over--that's the golden rule of aristocracies." "Hang Brasidas," said Tom, laughing; "stick him back at Naupactus again. Here, which is Cleon? The scoundrel! give me hold of him, and I'll put him in a hot berth." "That's he, with the yellow head. Let him alone, I tell you, or all will be hopeless confusion when Grey comes for his lecture. We're only in the third year of the war." "I like your chaff about Tories sacrificing their great men," said Tom, putting his hands in his pockets to avoid temptation. "How about your precious democracy, old fellow? Which is Socrates?" "Here, the dear old boy!--this pin with the great grey head, in the middle of Athens, you see. I pride myself on my Athens. Here's the Piraeus and the long walls, and the hill of Mars. Isn't it as good as a picture?" "Well, it is better than most maps, I think," said Tom; "but you're not going to slip out so easily. I want to know whether your pet democracy did or did not murder Socrates." "I'm not bound to defend democracies. But look at my pins. It may be the natural fondness of a parent, but I declare they seem to me to have a great deal of character, considering the material. You'll guess them at once, I'm sure, if you mark the color and shape of the wax. This one now, for instance, who is he?" "Alcibiades," answered Tom, doubtfully. "Alcibiades!" shouted Hardy; "you fresh from Rugby, and not know your Thucydides better than that? There's Alcibiades, that little purple-headed, foppish pin, by Socrates. This rusty-colored one is that respectable old stick-in-the-mud, Nicias." "Well, but you've made Alcibiades nearly the smallest of the whole lot," said Tom. "So he was, to my mind," said Hardy; "just the sort of insolent young ruffian whom I should have liked to buy at my price, and sell at his own. He must have been very like some of our gentlemen-commoners, with the addition of brains." "I should really think, though," said Tom, "It must be a capital plan for making you remember the history." "It is, I flatter myself. I've long had the idea, but I should never have worked it out and found the value of it but for Grey. I invented it to coach him in his history. You see we are in the Grecian corner. Over there is the Roman. You'll find Livy and Tacitus worked out there, just as Herodotus and Thucydides are here; and the pins are stuck for the Second Punic War, where we are just now. I shouldn't wonder if Grey got his first, after all, he's picking up so quick in my corners; and says he never forgets any set of events when he has picked them out with the pins." "Is he working at that school still?" asked Tom. "Yes, as hard as ever. He didn't go down for the vacation, and I really believe it was because the curate told him the school would go wrong if he went away." "It's very plucky of him, but I do think he's a great fool not to knock it off now till he has passed, don't you?" "No," said Hardy; "he is getting more good there than he can ever get in the schools, though I hope he'll do well in them too." "Well, I hope so; for he deserves it. And now, Hardy, to change the subject, I am going to give my first wine next Thursday; and here's the first card which has gone out for it. You'll promise me to come now, won't you?" "What a hurry you're in." said Hardy, taking the card which he put on his mantel-piece, after examining it. "But you'll promise to come, now?" "I'm very hard at work; I can't be sure." "You needn't stay above half an hour. I've brought back some famous wine from the governor's cellar; and I want so to get you and Jervis together. He is sure to come." "Why, that's the bell for chapel beginning already," said Hardy; "I had no notion it was so late. I must be off, to put the new servitor up to his work. Will you come in after hall?" "Yes if you will come to me next Thursday." "We'll talk about it. But mind you come to-night; for you'll find me working Grey in the Punic wars, and you'll see how the pins act. I'm very proud of my show." And so Hardy went off to chapel, and Tom to Drysdale's rooms, not at all satisfied that he had made Hardy safe. He found Drysdale lolling on his sofa, as usual, and fondling Jack. He had just arrived, and his servant and the scout were unpacking his portmanteaus. He seemed pleased to see Tom, but looked languid and used up. "Where have you been this vacation?" said Tom; "you look seedy." "You may say that," said Drysdale. "Here, Henry, get out a bottle of Schiedam. Have a taste of bitters? there's nothing like it to set one's digestion right." "No, thank'ee," said Tom, rejecting the glass which Henry proffered him; "my appetite don't want improving." "You're lucky, then," said Drysdale. "Ah, that's the right stuff! I feel better already." "But where have you been?" "Oh, in the little village. It's no use being in the country at this time of year. I just went up to Limmer's, and there I stuck, with two or three more, till to-day." "I can't stand London for more than a week," said Tom. "What did you do all the day?" "We hadn't much to say to day-light" said Drysdale. "What with theatres, and sparing-cribs and the Coal-hole and Cider-cellars, and a little play in St. James's Street now and then, one wasn't up to early rising. However, I was better than the rest, for I had generally breakfasted by two o'clock." "No wonder you look seedy. You'd much better have been in the country." "I should have been more in pocket, at any rate," said Drysdale. "By Jove, how it runs away with the ready! I'm fairly cleaned out; and if I haven't luck at Van John, I'll be hanged if I know how I'm to get through term. But, look here, here's a bundle of the newest songs--first rate, some of them." And he threw some papers across to Tom, who glanced at them without being at all edified. "You're going to pull regularly, I hope, this term, Drysdale." "Yes, I think so; it's cheap amusement, and I want a little training for a change." "That's all right." "I've brought down some dresses for our gipsy business, by the way. I didn't forget that. Is Blake back?" "I don't know," said Tom; "but we shan't have time before the races." "Well afterwards will do; though the days oughtn't to be too long. I'm all for a little darkness in masquerading." "There's five o'clock striking. Are you going to dine in hall?" "No; I shall go to the Mitre, and get a broil." "Then I'm off. Let's see,--will you come and wine with me next Thursday?" "Yes; only send us a card, 'to remind.'" "All right!" said Tom, and went off to hall, feeling dissatisfied and uncomfortable about his fast friend, for whom he had a sincere regard. After hall, Tom made a short round amongst his acquaintance, and then, giving himself up to the strongest attraction, returned to Hardy's rooms, comforting himself with the thought that it really must be an act of Christian charity to take such a terrible reader off his books for once in a way, when his conscience pricked him for intruding on Hardy during his hours of work. He found Grey there, who was getting up his Roman history, under Hardy's guidance; and the two were working the pins on the maps and lists in the Roman corner when Tom arrived. He begged them not to stop, and very soon was as much interested in what they were doing as if he also were going into the schools in May; for Hardy had a way of throwing life into what he was talking about, and, like many men with strong opinions, and passionate natures, either carried his hearers off their legs and away with him altogether, or aroused every spark of combativeness in them. The latter was the effect which his lecture on the Punic Wars had on Tom. He made several protests as Hardy went on; but Grey's anxious looks kept him from going fairly into action, till Hardy stuck the black pin, which represented Scipio, triumphantly in the middle of Carthage, and, turning round said, "And now for some tea, Grey, before you have to turn out." Tom opened fire while the tea was brewing. "You couldn't say anything bad enough about aristocracies this morning, Hardy, and now to-night you are crowing over the success of the heaviest and cruelest oligarchy that ever lived, and praising them up to the skies." "Hullo! here's a breeze!" said Hardy, smiling; "but I rejoice, O Brown, in that they thrashed the Carthaginians, and not, as you seem to think, in that they being aristocrats, thrashed the Carthaginians; for oligarchs they were not at this time." "At any rate they answer to the Spartans in the struggle, and the Carthaginians to the Athenians; and yet all your sympathies are with the Romans to-night in the Punic Wars, though they were with the Athenians before dinner." "I deny your position. The Carthaginians were nothing but a great trading aristocracy--with a glorious family or two I grant you, like that of Hannibal; but, on the whole, a dirty, bargain-driving, buy-cheap-and-sell-dear aristocracy--of whom the world was well rid. They like the Athenians indeed! Why, just look what the two people have left behind them-" "Yes," interrupted Tom; "but we only know the Carthaginians through the reports of their destroyers. Your heroes trampled them out with hoofs of iron." "Do you think the Roman hoof could have trampled out their Homer if they ever had one?" said Hardy. "The Romans conquered Greece too, remember." "But Greece was never so near beating them." "True. But I hold to my point. Carthage was the mother of all hucksters, compassing sea and land to sell her wares." "And no bad line of life for a nation. At least Englishmen ought to think so." "No they ought not; at least if _'Punica fides'_ is to be the rule of trade. Selling any amount of Brummagem wares never did nation or man much good, and never will. Eh, Grey?" Grey winced at being appealed to, but remarked that he hoped the Church would yet be able to save England from the fate of Tyre or Carthage, the great trading nations of the old world; and then, swallowing his tea, and looking as if he had been caught robbing a henroost, he made a sudden exit, and hurried away out of college to the night school. "What a pity he is so odd and shy," said Tom; "I should so like to know more of him." "It _is_ a pity. He is much better when he is alone with me. I think he has heard from some of the set that you are a furious Protestant, and sees an immense amount of stiff-neckedness in you." "But about England and Carthage," said Tom, shirking the subject of his own peculiarities; "you don't really think us like them? It gave me a turn to hear you translating '_Punica fides_' into Brummagem wares just now. "I think that successful trade is our rock ahead. The devil who holds new markets and twenty per cent profits in his gift is the devil that England has most to fear from. 'Because of unrighteous dealings, and riches gotten by deceit the kingdom is translated from one people to another,' said the wise man. Think of that opium war the other day. I don't believe we can get over many more such businesses as that. Grey falls back on the Church, you see, to save the nation; but the Church he dreams of will never do it. Is there any that can? There _must_ be surely, or we have believed a lie. But this work of making trade righteous, of Christianizing trade, looks like the very hardest the Gospel has ever had to take in hand--in England at any rate." Hardy spoke slowly and doubtfully, and paused as if asking for Tom's opinion. "I never heard it put in that way. I know very little of politics or the state of England. But come, now; the putting down the slave-trade and compensating our planters, _that_ shows that we are not sold to the trade devil yet, surely." "I don't think we are. No, thank God, there are plenty of signs that we are likely to make a good fight of it yet." They talked together for another hour, drawing their chairs round to the fire, and looking dreamingly into the embers, as is the wont of men who are throwing out suggestions, and helping one another to think, rather than arguing. At the end of that time, Tom left Hardy to his books, and went away laden with several new ideas, one of the clearest of which was that he was awfully ignorant of the contemporary history of his own country, and that it was the thing of all others which he ought to be best informed on, and thinking most about. So, being of an impetuous turn of mind, he went straight to his rooms to commence his new study, where, after diligent hunting, the only food of the kind he required which turned up was the last number of _Bell's Life_ from the pocket of his great coat. Upon this he fell to work, in default of anything better, and was soon deep in the P. R. column, which was full of interesting speculations as to the chances of Bungaree, in his forthcoming campaign against the British middleweights. By the time he had skimmed through the well-known sheets, he was satisfied that the columns of his old acquaintance were not the place, except in the police reports, where much could be learnt about the present state or future prospects of England. Then, the first evening of term being a restless place, he wandered out again, and before long landed, as his custom was, at Drysdale's door. On entering the room he found Drysdale and Blake alone together, the former looking more serious than Tom had ever seen him before. As for Blake, the restless, haggard expression sat more heavily than ever on his face, sadly marring its beauty. It was clear that they changed the subject of their talk abruptly on his entrance; so Tom looked anywhere except straight before him as he was greeting Blake. He really felt very sorry for him at the moment. However, in another five minutes, he was in fits of laughter over Blake's description of the conversation between himself and the coachman who had driven the Glo'ster day-mail by which he had come up; in which conversation, nevertheless, when Tom came to think it over, and try to repeat it afterwards, the most facetious parts seemed to be the "sez he's" and the "sez I's" with which Jehu larded his stories; so he gave up the attempt, wondering what he could have found in it to laugh at. "By the way, Blake," said Drysdale, "how about our excursion into Berkshire masquerading this term? Are you game?" "Not exactly," said Blake; "I really must make the most of such time as I have left, if I'm going into the schools this term." "If there's one thing which spoils Oxford it is those schools," said Drysdale; "they get in the way of everything. I ought to be going up for smalls myself next term, and I haven't opened a book yet, and don't mean to do so. Follow a good example, old fellow, you're cock-sure of your first, everybody knows." "I wish everybody would back his opinion, and give me a shade of odds. Why, I have scarcely thought of my history." "Why the d---l should they make such a fuss about history? One knows perfectly well that those old black-guard heathens were no better than they should be; and what good it can do to lumber one's head with who their grandmothers were, and what they ate, and when and where and why they had their stupid brains knocked out, I can't see for the life of me." "Excellently well put. Where did you pick up such sound views, Drysdale? But you're not examiner yet; and, on the whole, I must rub up my history somehow. I wish I knew how to do it." "Can't you put on a coach?" said Drysdale. "I have one on, but history is my weak point, said Blake. "I think I can help you," said Tom. "I've just been hearing a lecture in Roman history, and one that won't be so easy to forget as most;" and he went on to explain Hardy's plans, to which Blake listened eagerly. "Capital!" he said, when Tom had finished. "In whose rooms did you say they are?" "In Hardy's, and he works at them every night with Grey." "That's the queer big servitor, his particular pal," put in Drysdale; "there's no accounting for tastes." "You don't know him," retorted Tom; "and the less you say about him the better." "I know he wears highlows and short flannels, and-" "Would you mind asking Hardy to let me come to his lectures?" interrupted Blake, averting the strong language which was rising to Tom's lips. "I think they seem just the things I want. I shouldn't like to offer to pay him, unless you think-" "I'm quite sure," interrupted Tom, "that he won't take anything. I will ask him to-morrow whether he will let you come, and he is such a kind good fellow that I'm almost sure he will." "I should like to know your pal, too, Brown," said Drysdale; "you must introduce me, with Blake." "No, I'll be hanged if I do," said Tom. "Then I shall introduce myself," said Drysdale; "see if I don't sit next him, now, at your wine on Thursday." Here Drysdale's scout entered with two notes, and wished to know if Mr. Drysdale would require anything more. Nothing but hot water; he could put the kettle on, Drysdale said, and go; and while the scout was fulfilling his orders, he got up carelessly, whistling, and walking to the fire, read the notes by the light of one of the candles which were burning on the mantle-piece. Blake was watching him eagerly, and Tom saw this, and made some awkward efforts to go on talking about the advantages of Hardy's plan for learning history. But he was talking to deaf ears, and soon came to a stand still. He saw Drysdale crumple up the notes in his hand and shove them into his pocket. After standing for a few seconds in the same position, with his back to them, he turned around with a careless air, and sauntered to the table where they were sitting. "Let's see, what were we saying?" he began. "Oh, about your eccentric pal, Brown." "You've answers from both?" interrupted Blake. Drysdale nodded, and was beginning to speak again to Tom when Blake got up and said, with white lips, "I _must_ see them." "No, never mind, what does it matter?" "Matter! by heaven, I must and will see them now." Tom saw at once that he had better go, and so took up his cap, wished them good night, and went off to his own rooms. He might have been sitting there for about twenty minutes, when Drysdale entered. "I couldn't help coming over, Brown," he said, "I must talk to some one, and Blake has gone off raging. I don't know what he'll do--I never was so bothered or savage in my life." "I am very sorry," said Tom; "he looked very bad in your rooms. Can I do anything?" "No, but I must talk to some one. You know--no you don't, by the way--but, however, Blake got me out of a tremendous scrape in my first term, and there's nothing that I am not bound to do for him, and wouldn't do if I could. Yes, by George, whatever fellows say of me they shall never say I didn't stand by a man who stood by me. Well, he owes a dirty 300L. or 400L. or something of the sort--nothing worth talking of, I know--to people in Oxford, and they have been leading him a dog's life this year and more. Now, he's just going up for his degree, and two or three of these creditors--the most rascally of course--are sueing him in the Vice-Chancellor's Court, thinking now's the time to put the screw on. He will be ruined if they are not stopped somehow. Just after I saw you to-day, he came to me about it. You never saw a fellow in such a state; I could see it was tearing him to pieces, telling it to me even. However, I soon set him at ease as far as I was concerned; but, as the devil will have it, I can't lend him the money, though 60L. would get him over the examination, and then he can make terms. My guardian advanced me 200L. beyond my allowance just before Easter, and I haven't 20L. left, and the bank here has given me notice not to overdraw any more. However, I thought to settle it easy enough; so I told him to meet me at the Mitre in half an hour for dinner, and when he was gone I sat down and wrote two notes--the first to St. Cloud. That fellow was with us off and on in town, and one night he and I went partners at _roulette_, I finding ready-money for the time, gains and losses to be equally shared in the end. I left the table to go and eat some supper, and he lost 80L., and paid it out of my money. I didn't much care, and he cursed the luck and acknowledged that he owed me 40L. at the time. Well, I just reminded him of this 40L. and said I should be glad of it (I know he has plenty of money just now), but added, that it might stand if he would join me and Blake in borrowing 60L.; I was fool enough to add that Blake was in difficulties, and I was most anxious to help him. As I thought that St. Cloud would probably pay the 40L. but do no more, I wrote also to Chanter--heaven knows why, except that the beast rolls in money, and has fawned on me till I've been nearly sick this year past--and asked him to lend Blake 50L. on our joint note of hand. Poor Blake! when I told him what I had done at the Mitre, I think I might as well have stuck the carving knife into him. We had a wretched two hours; then you came in, and I got my two answers--here they are." Tom took the proffered notes, and read: "DEAR DRYSDALE,--Please explain the allusion in yours to some mysterious 40L. I remember perfectly the occurrence to which you refer in another part of your note. You were tired of sitting at the table, and went off to supper, leaving me (not by my own desire) to play for you with your money. I did so, and had abominable luck, as you will remember, for I handed you back a sadly dwindled heap on your return to the table. I hope you are in no row about that night? I shall be quite ready to give evidence of what passed if it will help you in any way. I am always yours very truly, A. ST. CLOUD "P. S. I must decline the little joint operation for Blake's benefit, which you propose." The second answer ran: "DEAR DRYSDALE,--I am sorry that I cannot accommodate Mr. Blake, as a friend of yours, but you see his acceptance is mere waste paper, and you cannot give security until you are of age, so if you were to die the money would be lost. Mr. Blake has always carried his head as high as if he had 5000l. a year to spend; perhaps now he will turn less haughty to men who could buy him up easy enough. I remain yours sincerely, JABEZ CHANTER." Tom looked up and met Drysdale's eyes, which had more of purpose in them than he had ever seen before. "Fancy poor Blake reading those two notes," he said, "and 'twas I brought them on him. However, he shall have the money somehow to-morrow, if I pawn my watch. I'll be even with those two some day." The two remained in conference for some time longer; it is hardly worth while to do more than relate the result. At three o'clock the next day, Blake, Drysdale and Tom were in the back parlor of a second-rate inn, in the Corn-market. On the table were pens and ink, some cases of Eau-de-Cologne and jewelry, and behind it a fat man of forbidding aspect who spent a day or two in each term at Oxford. He held in his thick red damp hand, ornamented as to the fore-finger with a huge ring, a piece of paper. "Then I shall draw for a hundred-and-five?" "If you do we won't sign," said Drysdale; "now, be quick, Ben" (the fat man's name was Benjamin), "you infernal shark, we've been wrangling long enough over it. Draw for 100L at three months, or we're off." "Then, Mr. Drysdale, you gents will take part in goods. I wish to do all I can for gents as comes well introduced, but money is very scarce just now." "Not a stuffed bird, bottle of Eau-de-Cologne, ring or cigar, will we have. So now, no more nonsense, put down 75L on the table." The money-lender, after another equally useless attempt to move Drysdale, who was the only one of the party who spoke, produced a roll of bills, and counted out 75L, thinking to himself that he would make this young spark sing a different tune before very long. He then filled up the piece of paper, muttering that the interest was nothing considering the risk, and he hoped they would help him to some thing better with some of their friends. Drysdale reminded him, in terms not too carefully chosen, that he was getting cent per cent. The document was signed,--Drysdale took the notes, and they went out. "Well, that's well over," said Drysdale, as they walked towards High Street. "I'm proud of my tactics, I must say; one never does so well for oneself as for anyone else. If I had been on my own hook, that fellow would have let me in for 20L worth of stuffed birds and bad jewelry. Let's see, what do you want, Blake?" "Sixty will do," said Blake. "You had better take 65L; there'll be some law costs to pay," and Drysdale handed him the notes. "Now, Brown, shall we divide the balance,--a fiver a piece?" "No, thank you," said Tom, "I don't want it; as you two are to hold me harmless, you must do what you like with the money." So Drysdale pocketed the 10L, after which they walked in silence to the gate of St. Ambrose. The most reckless youngster doesn't begin this sort of thing without reflections which are apt to keep him silent. At the gates Blake wrung both their hands. "I don't say much, but I sha'n't forget it." He got out the words with some difficulty, and went off to his rooms. CHAPTER XI--MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY Within the next week or two several important events had happened to one and another of our St. Ambrose friends. Tom had introduced Blake to Hardy, after some demur on the part of the latter. Blake was his senior by a term; might have called on him any time these three years; why should he want to make his acquaintance now? But when Tom explained to him that it would be a kind thing to let Blake come and coach up his history with him, for that unless he took a high degree in the coming examination, he would have to leave the college, and probably be ruined for life, Hardy at once consented. Tom did not venture to inquire for a day or two how the two hit it off together. When he began cautiously to approach the subject, he was glad to find that Hardy liked Blake. "He is a gentleman, and very able," he said; "it is curious to see how quickly he is overhauling Grey, and yet how Grey takes to him. He has never looked scared at him (as he still does at you, by the way) since the first night they met. Blake has the talent of setting people at their ease without saying anything. I shouldn't wonder if Grey thinks he has sound Church notions. It's a dangerous talent, and may make a man very false if he doesn't take care." Tom asked if Blake would be up in his history in time. Hardy thought he might perhaps, but he had a great lee-way to make up. If capacity for taking in cram would do it, he would be all right. He had been well crammed in his science, and had put him (Hardy) up to many dodges which might be useful in the schools, and which you couldn't get without a private tutor. Then Tom's first wine had gone off most successfully. Jervis and Miller had come early and stayed late, and said all that was handsome of the port, so that he was already a social hero with the boating set. Drysdale, of course, had been there, rattling away to everybody in his reckless fashion, and setting a good example to the two or three fast men whom Tom knew well enough to ask, and who consequently behaved pretty well, and gave themselves no airs, though as they went away together they grumbled slightly that Brown didn't give claret. The rest of the men had shaken together well, and seemed to enjoy themselves. The only drawback to Tom had been that neither Hardy nor Grey had appeared. They excused themselves afterwards on the score of reading, but Tom felt aggrieved in Hardy's case; he knew that it was only an excuse. Then the training had begun seriously, Miller had come up specially for the first fortnight, to get them well in hand, as he said. After they were once fairly started, he would have to go down till just before the races; but he thought he might rely on the Captain to keep them up to their work in the interval. So Miller, the coxswain, took to drawing the bow up to the ear at once. At the very beginning of the term, five or six weeks before the races, the St. Ambrose boat was to be seen every other day at Abingdon; and early dinners, limitation of liquids and tobacco, and abstinence from late supper parties, pastry, ice, and all manner of trash, likely in Miller's opinion to injure nerve or wind, were hanging over the crew, and already, in fact, to some extent enforced. The Captain shrugged his shoulders, submitted to it all himself and worked away with all imperturbable temper; merely hinting to Miller, in private, that he was going too fast, and that it would be impossible to keep it up. Diogenes highly approved; he would have become the willing slave of any tyranny which should insist that every adult male subject should pull twenty miles, and never imbibe more than a quart of liquid, in the twenty-four hours. Tom was inclined to like it, as it helped him to realize the proud fact that he was actually in the boat. The rest of the crew were in all stages of mutiny and were only kept from breaking out by their fondness for the Captain and the knowledge that Miller was going in a few days. As it was, Blake was the only one who openly rebelled. Once or twice he stayed away. Miller swore and grumbled, the Captain shook his head, and the crew in general rejoiced. It is to one of these occasions to which we must now turn. If the usual casual voyager of novels had been standing on Sandford lock, at about four, on the afternoon of April -th, 184-, he might have beheld the St. Ambrose eight-oar coming with a steady swing up the last reach. If such voyager were in the least conversant with the glorious mystery of rowing, he would have felt his heart warm at the magnificent sweep and life of the stroke, and would, on the whole, have been pleased with the performance of the crew generally, considered as a college crew in the early stages of training. They came "hard all" up to the pool below the lock, the coxswain standing in the stern with a tiller-rope in each hand, and then shipped oars; the lock-gates opened, and the boat entered, and in another minute or two was moored to the bank above the lock, and the crew strolled into the little inn which stands by the lock, and, after stopping in the bar to lay hands on several pewters full of porter, passed through the house into the quoit and skittle-grounds behind. These were already well filled with men of other crews, playing in groups or looking on at the players. One of these groups, as they passed, seized on the Captain, and Miller stopped with him; the rest of the St. Ambrose men, in no humor for skittles, quoits, or any relaxation except rest and grumbling, took possession of the first table and seats offered, and came to anchor. Then followed a moment of intense enjoyment, of a sort only appreciable by those who have had a twelve miles' training pull with a coxswain as sharp as a needle, and in an awful temper. "Ah," said Drysdale, taking the pewter down from his lips, with a sigh, and handing it to Tom who sat next him, "by Jove I feel better." "It's almost worth while pulling 'hard all' from Abingdon to get such a thirst," said another of the crew. "I'll tell you what, though," said Drysdale, "to-day's the last day you'll catch me in this blessed boat." Tom had just finished his draught, but did not reply; it was by no means the first time that Drysdale had announced this resolve. The rest were silent also. "It's bad enough to have to pull your heart out, without getting abused all the way into the bargain. There Miller stands in the stern--and a devilish easy thing it is to stand there and walk into us--I can see him chuckle as he comes to you and me, Brown--'Now, 2, well forward;' '3, don't jerk;' 'Now 2, throw your weight on the oar; come, now, you can get another pound on.' I hang on like grim Death,--then its 'Time, 2; now, 3-'" "Well, it's a great compliment," broke in Tom, with a laugh; "he thinks he can make something of us." "He'll make nothing of us first, I think," said Drysdale. "I've lost eight pounds in a fortnight. The Captain ought to put me in every place in the boat, in turn, to make it water-tight. I've larded the bottom boards under my seat so that not a drop of water will ever come through again." "A very good thing for you, old fellow," said Diogenes; "you look ten times better than you did at the beginning of the term." "I don't know what you call a good thing, you old fluter. I'm obliged to sit on my hip bones--I can't go to a lecture--all the tutors think I am poking fun at them, and put me on directly. I haven't been able to go to lecture these ten days." "So fond of lecture as he is, too, poor fellow," put in Tom. "But they've discommonsed me for staying away," said Drysdale; "not that I care much for that, though." "Well, Miller goes down to-morrow morning--I heard him say so," said another. "Then we'll memorialize the Captain and get out of these Abingdon pulls. Life isn't worth having at this rate." "No other boat has been below Sandford, yet." And so they sat on and plotted, and soon most of the other crews started. And then they took their turn at skittles, and almost forgot their grievances, which must be explained to those who don't know the river at Oxford. The river runs along the south of the city, getting into the university quarter after it passes under the bridge connecting Berks and Oxfordshire, over which is the road to Abingdon. Just below this bridge are the boat builders' establishments on both sides of the river, and then on the Oxfordshire side is Christchurch meadow, opposite which is moored the university barge. Here is the goal of all university races; and the racecourse stretches away down the river for a mile and a half, and a little below the starting place of the races is Iffley Lock. The next lock below Iffley is the Sandford Lock (where we left our boat's crew playing at skittles), which is about a mile and a half below Iffley. Below Sandford there is no lock till you get to Abingdon, a distance of six miles and more by the river. Now, inasmuch as the longest distance to be rowed in the races is only the upper mile and a half from Iffley to the university barge, of course all crews think themselves very hardly treated if they are taken further than to Sandford. Pulling "hard all" from Sandford to Iffley, and then again from Iffley over the regular course, ought to be enough in all conscience. So chorus the crews; and most captains and coxswains give in. But here and there some enemy of his kind--some uncomfortable, worriting, energizing mortal, like Miller--gets command of a boat, and then the unfortunate crew are dragged, bemoaning their fate, down below Sandford, where no friendly lock intervenes to break the long, steady swing of the training pull every two miles, and the result for the time is blisters and mutiny. I am bound to add that it generally tells, and that the crew which has been undergoing that _peine forte et dure_ is very apt to get the change out of it on the nights of hard races. So the St. Ambrose crew played out their skittles, and settled to appeal the Captain in a body the next day, after Miller's departure; and then being summoned to the boat, they took to the water again, and paddled steadily up home, arriving just in time for hall for those who liked to hurry. Drysdale never liked hurrying himself; besides, he could not dine in hall, as he was discommonsed for persistent absence from lecture, and neglect to go to the Dean when sent for to explain his absence. "I say, Brown, hang hall," he said to Tom, who was throwing on his things; "come and dine with me at the Mitre. I'll give you a bottle of hock; it's very good there." "Hock's about the worst thing you drink in training," said Miller. "Isn't it, Jervis?" "It's no good, certainly," said the Captain, as he put on his cap and gown; "come along, Miller." "There, you hear?" said Miller. "You can drink a glass of sound sherry, if you want wine;" and he followed the Captain. Drysdale performed a defiant pantomime after the retiring coxswain, and then easily carried his point with Tom, except as to the hock. So they walked up to the Mitre together, where Drysdale ordered dinner and a bottle of hock in the coffee-room. "Don't order hock, Drysdale; I shan't drink any." "Then I shall have it all to my own cheek. If you begin making a slave of yourself to that Miller, he'll very soon cut you down to a glass of water a day, with a pinch of rhubarb in it, and make you drink that standing on your head." "Gammon; but I don't think it's fair on the rest of the crew not to train as well as one can." "You don't suppose drinking a pint of hock to-night will make you pull any the worse this day six weeks, when the races begin, do you?" "No; but--" "Hullo! look here," said Drysdale, who was inspecting a printed bill pinned up on the wall of the coffee hall; "Wombwell's menagerie is in the town, somewhere down by Worcester. What fun! We'll go there after dinner." The food arrived with Drysdale's hock, which he seemed to enjoy all the more from the assurance which every glass gave him that he was defying the coxswain, and doing just the thing he would most dislike. So he drank away, and facetiously speculated how he could be such an idiot as to go on pulling. Every day of his life he made good resolutions in the reach above the Gut that it should be his last performance, and always broke them next day. He supposed the habit he had of breaking all good resolutions was the way to account for it. After dinner they set off to find the wild-beast show; and, as they will be at least a quarter of an hour reaching it, for the pitch is in a part of the suburbs little known to gownsmen, the opportunity may be seized of making a few remarks to the patient reader, which impatient readers are begged to skip. Our hero on his first appearance in public some years since, was without his own consent at once patted on the back by the good-natured critics, and enrolled for better or worse in the brotherhood of muscular Christians, who at that time were beginning to be recognised as an actual and lusty portion of general British life. As his biographer, I am not about to take exception to his enrolment; for, after considering the persons up and down Her Majesty's dominions to whom the new nick-name has been applied, the principles which they are supposed to hold, and the sort of lives they are supposed to lead; I cannot see where he could in these times have fallen upon a nobler brotherhood. I am speaking of course under correction, and with only a slight acquaintance with the faith of muscular Christianity, gathered almost entirely from the witty expositions and comments of persons of a somewhat dyspeptic habit, who are not amongst the faithful themselves. Indeed, I am not aware that any authorized articles of belief have been sanctioned or published by the sect, Church, or whatever they may be. Moreover, at the age at which our hero has arrived, and having regard to his character, I should say that he has in all likelihood thought very little on the subject of belief, and would scarcely be able to give any formal account of his own, beyond that contained in the Church Catechism, which I for one think may very well satisfy him for the present. Nevertheless, had he suddenly been caught at the gate of St. Ambrose's College, by one of the gentlemen who do the classifying for the British public, and accosted with, "Sir, you belong to a body whose creed it is to fear God, and walk 1000 miles in 1000 hours;" I believe he would have replied, "Do I, sir? I'm very glad to hear it. They must be a very good set of fellows. How many weeks' training, do they allow?" But in the course of my inquiries on the subject of muscular Christians, their works and ways, a fact has forced itself on my attention, which, for the sake of ingenious youth, ought not to be passed over. I find, then, that, side by side with these muscular Christians, and apparently claiming some sort of connection with them (the same concern, as the pirates of trade-marks say), have risen up another set of persons, against whom I desire to caution my readers and my hero, and to warn the latter that I do not mean on any pretense whatever to allow him to connect himself with them, however much he may be taken with their off-hand, "hail brother well-met" manner and dress, which may easily lead careless observers to take the counterfeit for the true article. I must call the persons in question "musclemen," as distinguished from muscular Christians; the only point in common between the two being, that both hold it to be a good thing to have strong and well-exercised bodies, ready to be put at the shortest notice to any work of which bodies are capable, and to do it well. Here all likeness ends; for the muscleman seems to have no belief whatever as to the purposes for which his body has been given him, except some hazy idea that it is to go up and down the world with him, belaboring men or captivating women for his benefit or pleasure, at once the servant and fomentor of those fierce and brutal passions which he seems to think it a necessity, and rather a fine thing than otherwise, to indulge and obey. Whereas, so far as I know, the least of the muscular Christians has hold of the old chivalrous and Christian belief, that a man's body is given him to be trained and brought into subjection, and then used for the protection of the weak, the advancement of all righteous causes, and the subduing of the earth which God has given to the children of men. He does not hold that mere strength or activity are in themselves worthy of any respect or worship, or that one man is a bit better than another because he can knock him down, or carry a bigger sack of potatoes than he. For mere power, whether of body or intellect, he has (I hope and believe) no reverence whatever, though, _cæteris paribus_, he would probably himself, as a matter of taste, prefer the man who can lift a hundred-weight round his head with his little finger to the man who can construct a string of perfect Sorites, or expound the doctrine of "contradictory inconceivables." The above remarks occur as our hero is marching innocently down towards his first "town and gown" row, and I should scarcely like to see him in the middle of it, without protesting that it is a mistake. I know that he, and other youngsters of his kidney, will have fits of fighting or desiring to fight with their poorer brethren, just as children have the measles. But the shorter the fit the better for the patient, for like the measles it is a great mistake, and a most unsatisfactory complaint. If they can escape it altogether so much the better. But instead of treating the fit as a disease, "musclemen" professors are wont to represent it as a state of health, and to let their disciples run about in middle age with the measles on them as strong as ever. Now although our hero had the measles on him at this particular time, and the passage of arms which I am about shortly to describe led to results of some importance in his history, and cannot therefore be passed over, yet I wish at the same time to disclaim, both in my sponsorial and individual character, all sympathy with town and gown rows, and with all other class rows and quarrels of every sort and kind, whether waged with sword, pen, tongue, fist or otherwise. Also to say that in all such rows, so far as I have seen or read, from the time when the Roman plebs marched out to Mons Sacer, down to 1848, when the English chartists met on Kennington Common, the upper classes are most to blame. It may be that they are not the aggressors on any given occasion; very possibly they may carry on the actual fighting with more fairness (though this is by no means true as a rule); nevertheless the state of feeling which makes such things possible, especially in England, where men in general are only too ready to be led and taught by their superiors in rank, may be fairly laid at their door. Ever, in the case of strikes, which just now will of course be at once thrown in my teeth, I say fearlessly, let any man take the trouble to study the question honestly, and he will come to the conviction that all combinations of the men for the purpose of influencing the labor market, whether in the much and unjustly abused Trades' Societies, or in other forms, have been defensive organizations, and that the masters might, as a body, over and over again have taken the sting out of them if they had acted fairly, as many individuals amongst them have done. Whether it may not be too late now, is a tremendous question for England, but one which time only can decide. When Drysdale and Tom at last found the caravans, it was just getting dark. Something of a crowd had collected outside, and there was some hissing as they ascended the short flight of steps which led to the platform in front of the show; but they took no notice of it, paid their money, and entered. Inside they found an exciting scene. The place was pretty well lighted, and the birds and beasts were all alive in their several dens and cages, walking up and down, and each uttering remonstrances after its own manner, the shrill notes of birds mingling with the moan of the beasts of prey and chattering of the monkeys. Feeding time had been put off till night to suit the undergraduates, and the undergraduates were proving their appreciation of the attention by playing off all manner of practical jokes on birds and beasts, their keepers, and such of the public as had been rash enough to venture in. At the farther end was the keeper, who did the showman, vainly endeavouring to go through his usual jogtrot description. His monotone was drowned every minute by the chorus of voices, each shouting out some new fact in natural history touching the biped or quadruped whom the keeper was attempting to describe. At that day a great deal of this sort of chaff was current, so that the most dunder-headed boy had plenty on the tip of his tongue. A small and indignant knot of townspeople, headed by a stout and severe middle-aged woman, with two big boys, her sons, followed the keeper, endeavouring by caustic remarks and withering glances to stop the flood of chaff, and restore the legitimate authority and the reign of keeper and natural history. At another point was a long Irishman in cap and gown, who had clearly had as much wine as he could carry, close to the bars of the panther's den, through which he was earnestly endeavouring, with the help of a crooked stick, to draw the tail of whichever of the beasts stopped for a moment in its uneasy walk. On the other side were a set of men bent on burning the wretched monkeys' fingers with the lighted ends of their cigars, in which they seemed successful enough, to judge by the angry chatterings and shriekings of their victims. The two new comers paused for a moment on the platform inside the curtain; and then Drysdale, rubbing his hands, and in high glee at the sight of so much misrule in so small a place, led the way down on to the floor deep in sawdust, exclaiming, "Well, this _is_ a lark! We're just in for all the fun of the fair." Tom followed his friend, who made straight for the show man, and planted himself at his side, just as that worthy, pointing with his pole, was proceeding-- "This is the jackal, from--" "The Caribee Hielands, of which I'm a native mysel'," shouted a gownsman. "This is the jackal, or lion's provider," began again the much enduring keeper. "Who always goes before the lion to purwide his purwisions, purwiding there's anything to purwide," put in Drysdale. "Hem--really I do think it's scandalous not to let the keeper tell about the beasteses," said the unfortunate matron, with a half turn towards the persecutors, and grasping her bag. "My dear madam," said Drysdale, in his softest voice, "I assure you he knows nothing about the beasteses. We are Doctor Buckland's favourite pupils, are also well known to the great Panjandrum, and have eaten more beasteses than the keeper has ever seen." "I don't know who you are, young man, but you don't know how to behave yourselves," rejoined the outraged female; and the keeper, giving up the jackal as a bad job, pointing with his pole, proceeded-- "The little hanimal in the upper cage is the hopossom, of North America--" "The misguided offspring of the raccoon and the gumtree," put in one of his tormentors. Here a frightful roaring and struggling at a little distance, mingled with shouts of laughter, and "Hold on, Pat!" "Go it, panther!" interrupted the lecture, and caused a rush to the other side, where the long Irishman, Donovan, by name, with one foot against the bars, was holding on to the tail of one of the panthers, which he had at length managed to catch hold of. The next moment he was flat on his back in the sawdust, and his victim was bounding wildly about the cage. The keeper hurried away to look after the outraged panther; and Drysdale, at once installing himself as showman, began at the next cage-- "This is the wild man of the woods, or whangee-tangee, the most untameable--good heavens, ma'am, take care!" and he seized hold on the unfortunate woman and pulled her away from the bars. "Oh, goodness!" she screamed, "it's got my tippet; oh, Bill, Peter, catch hold!" Bill and Peter proved unequal to the occasion, but a gownsman seized the vanishing tippet, and after a moment's struggle with the great ape, restored a meagre half to the proper owner, while Jacko sat grinning over the other half, picking it to pieces. The poor woman had now had enough of it, and she hurried off with her two boys, followed by the few townspeople who were still in the show, to lay her case directly before the mayor, as she informed the delinquents from the platform before disappearing. Her wrongs were likely to be more speedily avenged, to judge by the angry murmurs which arose outside immediately after her exit. But still the high jinks went on, Donovan leading all mischief, until the master of the menagerie appeared inside, and remonstrated with the men. "He must send for the police," he said, "if they would not leave the beasts alone. He had put off the feeding in order to suit them; would they let his keepers feed the beasts quietly?" The threat of the police was received with shouts of defiance by some of the men, though the greater part seemed of the opinion that matters were getting serious. The proposal of feeding, was however, welcomed by all and comparative quiet ensued for some ten minutes, while the baskets of joints, bread, stale fish, and potatoes were brought in, and the contents distributed to the famished occupants of the cages. In the interval of peace the showman-keeper, on a hint from his master, again began his round. But the spirit of mischief was abroad, and it only needed this to make it break out again. In another two minutes the beasts, from the lion to the smallest monkey, were struggling for their suppers, with one or more undergraduates; the elephant had torn the gown off Donovan's back, having only just missed his arm; the manager in a confusion worthy of the tower of Babel, sent off a keeper for the city police, and turned the gas out. The audience, after the first moment of surprise and indignation, groped their way towards the steps and mounted the platform, where they held a council of war. Should they stay where they were or make a sally at once, break through the crowd and get back to their colleges? It was curious to see how in that short minute individual character came out, and the coward, the cautious man, the resolute prompt Englishman, each was there, and more than one species of each. Donovan was one of the last up the steps, and as he stumbled up caught something of the question before the house. He shouted loudly at once for descending and offering battle. "But boys," he added, "first wait till I adthress the meeting," and he made for the opening in the canvas through which the outside platform was reached. Stump oratory and a free fight were just the two temptations which Donovan was wholly unable to resist; it was with a face radiant with devil-may-care delight that he burst through the opening, followed by all the rest (who felt that the matter was out of their hands, and must go its own way after the Irishman), and rolling to the front of the outside platform, rested one hand on the rail, and waved the other gracefully towards the crowd. This was the signal for a burst of defiant shouts and hissing. Donovan stood blandly waving his hand for silence. Drysdale, running his eye over the mob, turned to the rest and said, "There's nothing to stop us, not twenty grown men in the whole lot." Then one of the men lighting upon the drumsticks, which the usual man in corduroys had hidden away, began beating the big drum furiously. One of the unaccountable whims which influence crowds seized on the mob, and there was almost perfect silence. This seemed to take Donovan by surprise; the open air was having the common effect on him; he was getting unsteady on his legs, and his brains were wondering. "Now's your time, Donovan, my boy--begin." "Ah, yes, to be sure, what'll I say? let's see," said Donovan, putting his head on one side-- "Friends, Romans, countrymen," suggested some wag. "To be sure," cried Donovan; "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears." "Bravo Pat, well begun; pull their ears well when you've got 'em." "Bad luck to it! where was I? you divels--I mean ladies and gentlemen of Oxford city as I was saying, the poets--" Then the storm of shouting and hissing arose again, and Donovan, after an ineffectual attempt or two to go on, leaned forward and shook his fist generally at the mob. Luckily for him, there were no stones about; but one of the crowd, catching the first missel at hand, which happened to be a cabbage stalk, sent it with true aim at the enraged orator. He jerked his head on one side to avoid it; the motion unsteadied his cap; he threw up his hand, which, instead of catching the falling cap, as it was meant to do, sent it spinning among the crowd below. The owner, without a moment's hesitation, clapped both hands on the bar before him, and followed his property, vaulting over on the heads of those nearest the platform, amongst whom he fell, scattering them right and left. "Come on, gown, or he'll be murdered," sang out one of Donovan's friends. Tom was one of the first down the steps; they rushed to the spot in another moment, and the Irishman rose, plastered with dirt, but otherwise none the worse for his feat; his cap, covered with mud, was proudly stuck on, hind part before. He was of course thirsting for battle, but not quite so much master of his strength as usual; so his two friends, who were luckily strong and big men, seized him, one to each arm. "Come along, keep together," was the word; "there's no time to lose. Push for the corn-market." The cry of "Town! town!" now rose on all sides. The gownsmen in a compact body, with Donovan in the middle, pushed rapidly across the open space in which the caravans were set up and gained the street. Here they were comparatively safe; they were followed close, but could not be surrounded by the mob. And now again a bystander might have amused himself by noting the men's characters. Three or four pushed rapidly on, and were out of sight ahead in no time. The greater part, without showing any actual signs off fear, kept steadily on, at a good pace. Close behind these, Donovan struggled violently with his two conductors, and shouted defiance to the town; while a small and silent rear guard, amongst whom were Tom and Drysdale, walked slowly and, to all appearance, carelessly behind, within a few yards of the crowd of shouting boys who headed the advancing town. Tom himself felt his heart beating quick, and I don't think had any particular desire for the fighting to begin, with such long odds on the town side; but he was resolved to be in it as soon as any one if there was to be any. Thus they marched through one or two streets without anything more serious than an occasional stone passing their ears. Another turn would have brought them into the open parts of the town, within hearing of the colleges, when suddenly Donovan broke loose from his supporters, and rushing with a shout on the advanced guard of the town, drove them back in confusion for some yards. The only thing to do was to back him up; so the rear-guard, shouting "Gown! gown!" charged after him. The effect of the onset was like that of Blount at Flodden, when he saw Marmion's banner go down,--a wide space was cleared for a moment, the town driven back on the pavements, and up the middle of the street, and the rescued Donovan caught, set on his legs, and dragged away again some paces towards college. But the charging body was too few in number to improve the first success, or even to insure its own retreat. "Darkly closed the war around." The town lapped on them from the pavements, and poured on them down the middle of the street, before they had time to rally and stand together again. What happened to the rest--who was down, who fought, who fled,--Tom had no time to inquire; for he found himself suddenly the centre of a yelling circle of enemies. So he set his teeth and buckled to his work; and the thought of splendid single combat, and glory such as he had read of in college stories, and tradition handing him down as the hero of that great night, flashed into his head as he cast his eye round for foemen worthy of his steel. None such appeared; so, selecting the one most of his own size, he squared and advanced on him. But the challenged one declined the combat, and kept retreating; while from behind, and at the sides, one after another of the "town" rushing out dealt Tom a blow and vanished again into the crowd. For a moment or two he kept his head and temper; the assailants individually were too insignificant to put out his strength upon; but head and temper were rapidly going;--he was like a bull in the arena with the picadores sticking their little javelins in him. A smart blow on the nose, which set a myriad of stars dancing before his eyes, finished the business, and he rushed after the last assailant, dealing blows to right and left, on small and great. The mob closed in on him, still avoiding attacks in front, but on the flank and rear they hung on him and battered at him. He had to turn sharply round after every step to shake himself clear, and at each turn the press thickened, the shouts waxed louder and fiercer; he began to get unsteady; tottered, swayed, and, stumbling over a prostrate youth, at last went down full length on to the pavement, carrying a couple of his assailants with him. And now it would have fared hardly with him, and he would scarcely have reached college with sound bones,--for I am sorry to say an Oxford town mob is a cruel and brutal one, and a man who is down has no chance with it,--but that for one moment he and his prostrate foes were so jumbled together that the town could not get at him, and the next cry of "Gown! gown!" rose high above the din; the town were swept back again by the rush of a reinforcement of gownsmen, the leader of whom seized him by the shoulders and put him on his legs again; while his late antagonists crawled away to the side of the road. "Why, Brown!" said his rescuer,--Jervis, the Captain,--"this, you? Not hurt, eh?" "Not a bit," said Tom. "Good; come on, then; stick to me." In three steps they joined the rest of the gown, now numbering some twenty men. The mob was close before them, gathering for another rush. Tom felt a cruel, wild devil beginning to rise in him; he had never felt the like before. This time he longed for the next crash, which happily for him, was fated never to come off. "Your names and colleges, gentlemen," said a voice close behind them at this critical moment. The "town" set up a derisive shout, and, turning round, the gownsmen found the velvet sleeves of one of the proctors at their elbow and his satellites, vulgarly called bull-dogs, taking notes of them. They were completely caught, and so quietly gave the required information. "You will go to your colleges at once," said the proctor, "and remain within gates. You will see these gentlemen to the High-street," he added to his marshal; and then strode on after the crowd, which was vanishing down the street. The men turned and strolled towards the High-street, the marshall keeping, in a deferential but wide-awake manner, pretty close to them, but without making any show of watching them. When they reached the High-street he touched his hat and said civilly, "I hope you will go home now, gentlemen, the senior proctor is very strict." "All right, marshall; good night," said the good natured ones. "D--- his impudence," growled one or two of the rest, and the marshal bustled away after his master. The men looked at one another for a moment or two. They were of different colleges, and strangers. The High-street was quiet; so without the exchange of a word, after the manner of British youth, they broke up into twos and threes, and parted. Jervis, Tom, and Drysdale, who turned up quite undamaged, sauntered together towards St. Ambrose's. "I say, where are you going?" said Drysdale. "Not to college, I vote," said Tom. "No, there may be some more fun." "Mighty poor fun, I should say, you'll find it," said Jervis; "however, if you will stay, I suppose I must. I can't leave you two boys by yourselves." "Come along then, down here." So they turned down one of the courts leading out of the High-street, and so by back streets bore up again for the disturbed districts. "Mind and keep a sharp lookout for the proctors," said Jervis; "as much row as you please, but we mustn't be caught again." "Well, only let's keep together if we have to bolt." They promenaded in lonely dignity for some five minutes, keeping eyes and ears on full strain. "I tell you what," said Drysdale, at last, "it isn't fair, these enemies in the camp; what with the 'town' and their stones and fists, and the proctors with their 'name and college,' we've got the wrong end of the stick." "Both wrong ends, I can tell you," said Jervis. "Hello, Brown, your nose is bleeding." "Is it?" said Tom, drawing his hand across his mouth; "'twas that confounded little fellow then who ran up to my side while I was squaring at the long party. I felt a sharp crack, and the little rascal bolted into the crowd before I could turn at him." "Cut and come again," said Drysdale, laughing. "Ay, that's the regular thing in these blackguard street squabbles. Here they come then," said Jervis. "Steady, all." They turned around to face the town, which came shouting down the street behind them in pursuit of one gownsman, a little, harmless, quiet fellow, who had fallen in with them on his way back to his college from a tea with his tutor, and, like a wise man, was giving them leg-bail as hard as he could foot it. But the little man was of a courageous, though prudent soul, and turned panting and gasping on his foes the moment he found himself amongst friends again. "Now, then, stick together; don't let them get around us," said Jervis. They walked steadily down the street, which was luckily a narrow one, so that three of them could keep the whole of it, halting and showing front every few yards, when the crowd pressed too much. "Down with them! Town, town! That's two as was in the show." "Mark the velvet-capped chap. Town, town!" shouted the hinder part of the mob, but it was a rabble of boys as before, and the front rank took very good care of itself, and forbore from close quarters. The small gownsman had now got his wind again; and smarting under the ignominy of his recent flight, was always a pace or two nearer the crowd than the other three, ruffling up like a little bantam, and shouting defiance between the catchings of his breath. "You vagabonds! you cowards! Come on now I say! Gown, gown!" And at last, emboldened by the repeated halts of the mob, and thirsting for revenge, he made a dash at one of the nearest of the enemy. The suddenness of the attack took both sides by surprise, then came a rush by two or three of the town to the rescue. "No, no! stand back--one at a time," shouted the Captain, throwing himself between the combatants and the mob. "Go it, little 'un; serve him out. Keep the rest back boys; steady!" Tom and Drysdale faced towards the crowd, while a little gownsman and his antagonist--who defended himself vigorously enough now--came to close quarters, in the rear of the gown line; too close to hurt one another but what with hugging and cuffing the townsman in another half-minute was sitting quietly on the pavement with his back against the wall, his enemy squaring in front of him, and daring him to renew the combat. "Get up, you coward; get up, I say, you coward! He won't get up," said the little man, eagerly turning to the Captain. "Shall I give him a kick?" "No, let the cur alone," replied Jervis. "Now, do any more of you want to fight? Come on like men one at a time. I'll fight any man in the crowd." Whether the challenge would have been answered must rest uncertain; for now the crowd began to look back, and a cry arose, "Here they are, proctors! now they'll run." "So we must, by Jove, Brown," said the Captain. "What's your college?" to the little hero. "Pembroke." "Cut away, then; you're close at home." "Very well, if I must; good night," and away went the small man as fast as he had come; and it has never been heard that he came to further grief, or performed other feats that night. "Hang it, don't let's run," said Drysdale. "Is it the proctors?" said Tom. "I can't see them." "Mark the bloody-faced one; kick him over," sang out a voice in the crowd. "Thank'ee," said Tom, savagely. "Let's have one rush at them." "Look! there's the proctor's cap just through them; come along boys--well, stay if you like, and be rusticated, I'm off," and away went Jervis, and the next moment Tom and Drysdale followed the good example, and, as they had to run, made the best use of their legs, and in two minutes were well ahead of their pursuers. They turned a corner; "Here, Brown! alight in this public, cut in, and it's all right." Next moment they were in the dark passage of a quiet little inn, and heard with a chuckle part of the crowd scurry by the door in pursuit, while they themselves suddenly appeared in the neat little bar, to the no small astonishment of its occupants. These were a stout elderly woman in spectacles, who was stitching away at plain work in an arm-chair on one side of the fire; the foreman of one of the great boat-builders, who sat opposite her, smoking his pipe with a long glass of clear ale at his elbow; and a bright-eyed, neat handed bar maid, who was leaning against the table, and talking to the others as they entered. CHAPTER XII--THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS The old lady dropped her work, the barmaid turned round with a start and little ejaculation, and the foreman stared with all his eyes for a moment, and then, jumping up, exclaimed-- "Bless us, if it isn't Muster Drysdale and Muster Brown, of Ambrose's. Why what's the matter, sir? Muster Brown, you be all covered wi' blood, sir." "Oh dear me! poor young gentlemen!" cried the hostess;--"Here, Patty, run and tell Dick to go for the doctor, and get the best room--" "No, please don't; it's nothing at all," interrupted Tom, laughing;--"a basin of cold water and a towel, if you please, Miss Patty, and I shall be quite presentable in a minute. I'm very sorry to have frightened you all." Drysdale joined in the assurances that it was nothing but a little of his friend's "claret," which he would be all the better for losing, and watched with an envious eye the interest depicted in Patty's pretty face, as she hurried in with a basin of fresh pumped water, and held the towel. Tom bathed his face, and very soon was as respectable a member of society as usual, save for a slight swelling on one side of his nose. Drysdale meantime--seated on the table--had been explaining the circumstances to the landlady and the foreman. "And now, ma'am," said he as Tom joined them, and seated himself on a vacant chair, "I'm sure you must draw famous ale." "Indeed, sir, I think Dick--that's my ostler, sir--is as good a brewer as is in the town. We always brew at home, sir, and I hope always shall." "Quite right, ma'am, quite right," said Drysdale; "and I don't think we can do better than follow Jem here. Let us have a jug of the same ale as he is drinking. And you'll take a glass with us, Jem? or will you have spirits?" Jem was for another glass of ale, and bore witness to its being the best in Oxford, and Patty drew the ale, and supplied two more long glasses. Drysdale, with apologies, produced his cigar case; and Jem, under the influence of the ale and a first-rate Havannah (for which he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it half as much), volunteered to go and rouse the yard and conduct them safely back to college. This offer was of course, politely declined and then, Jem's hour for bed having come, he being a methodical man, as became his position, departed, and left our two young friends in sole possession of the bar. Nothing could have suited the two young gentlemen better, and they set to work to make themselves agreeable. They listened with lively interest to the landlady's statement of the difficulties of a widow woman in a house like hers, and to her praises of her factotum Dick and her niece Patty. They applauded her resolution of not bringing up her two boys in the publican line, though they could offer no very available answer her appeals for advice as to what trade they should be put to; all trades were so full, and things were not as they ought to be. The one thing, apparently, which was wanting to the happiness of Drysdale at Oxford, was the discovery of such beer as he had at last found at "The Choughs." Dick was to come up to St. Ambrose's the first thing in the morning and carry off his barrel, which would never contain in future any other liquid. At last that worthy appeared in the bar to know when he was to shut up, and was sent out by his mistress to see that the street was clear, for which service he received a shilling, though his offer of escort was declined. And so, after paying in a splendid manner for their entertainment, they found themselves in the street, and set off for college, agreeing on the way that "The Choughs" was a great find, the old lady was the best old soul in the world, and Patty the prettiest girl in Oxford. They found the streets quiet, and walking quickly along them, knocked at the college gates at half-past eleven. The stout porter received them with a long face. "Senior proctor's sent down here an hour back, gentlemen, to find whether you was in college." "You don't mean that, porter? How kind of him! What did you say?" "Said I didn't know, sir; but the marshal said, if you come in after, that you was to go to the senior proctor's at half-past nine to-morrow." "Send my compliments to the senior proctor," said Drysdale, "and say I have a very particular engagement to morrow morning, which will prevent my having the pleasure of calling on him." "Very good, sir," said the porter, giving a little dry chuckle, and tapping the keys against his leg; "only perhaps you wouldn't mind writing him a note, sir, as he is rather a particular gentleman." "Didn't he send after anyone else?" said Tom. "Yes, sir, Mr. Jervis, sir." "Well, and what about him?" "Oh, sir, Mr. Jervis! an old hand, sir. He'd been in gates long time, sir, when the marshal came." "The sly old beggar!" said Drysdale, "good night, porter; mind you send my message to the proctor. If he is set on seeing me to-morrow, you can say that he will find a broiled chicken and a hand at picquet in my rooms, if he likes to drop in to lunch." The porter looked after them for a moment, and then retired to his deep old chair in the lodge, pulled his night cap over his ears, put up his feet before the fire on a high stool, and folded his hands on his lap. "The most impidentest thing on the face of the earth is it gen'l'man-commoner in his first year," soliloquized the little man. "'Twould ha' done that one a sight of good, now, if he'd got a good hiding in the street to-night. But he's better than most on 'em, too," he went on; "uncommon free with his tongue, but just as free with his arf-sovereigns. Well, I'm not going to peach if the proctor don't send again in the morning. That sort's good for the college; makes things brisk; has his _wine_ from town, and don't keep no keys. I wonder, now, if my Peter's been out a fighting? He's pretty nigh as hard to manage, is that boy, as if he was at college hisself." And so, muttering over his domestic and professional grievances, the small janitor composed himself to a nap. I may add, parenthetically, that his hopeful Peter, a precocious youth of seventeen, scout's boy on No. 3 staircase of St. Ambrose's College, was represented in the boot cleaning and errand line by a substitute for some days; and when he returned to duty was minus a front tooth. "What fools we were not to stick to the Captain. I wonder what we shall get," said Tom, who was troubled in his mind at the proctor's message, and not gifted naturally with the recklessness and contempt of authority which in Drysdale's case approached the sublime. "Who cares? I'll be bound, now, the old fox came straight home to earth. Let's go and knock him up." Tom assented, for he was anxious to consult Jervis as to his proceedings in the morning; so they soon found themselves drumming at his oak, which was opened shortly by "the stroke" in an old boating-jacket. They followed him in. At one end of his table stood his tea-service and the remains of his commons, which the scout had not cleared away; at the other, open books, note-books, and maps showed that the Captain read, as he rowed, "hard all." "Well, are you two only just in?" "Only just, my Captain," answered Drysdale. "Have you been well thrashed, then? You don't look much damaged?" "We are innocent of fight since your sudden departure--flight, shall I call it?--my Captain." "Where have you been?" "Where! why in the paragon of all pot houses; snug little bar with red curtains; stout old benevolent female in spectacles; barmaid an houri; and for malt the most touching tap in Oxford, wasn't it, Brown?" "Yes, the beer was undeniable," said Tom. "Well, and you dawdled there till now?" said Jervis. "Even so. What with mobs that wouldn't fight fair, the captains who would run away, and the proctors marshals who would interfere, we were 'perfectly disgusted with the whole proceedings,' as the Scotchman said when he was sentenced to be hanged." "Well! Heaven, they say, protects children, sailors, and drunken men; and whatever answer to Heaven in the academical system protects freshmen," remarked Jervis. "Not us, at any rate," said Tom, "for we are to go to the proctor to-morrow morning." "What, did he catch you in your famous public?" "No; the marshal came round to the porter's lodge, asked if we were in, and left word that, if we were not, we were to go to him in the morning. The porter told us just now as we came in." "Pshaw," said the Captain, with disgust; "now you'll be gated probably, and the whole crew will be thrown out of gear. Why couldn't you have come home when I did?" "We do not propose to attend the levee of that excellent person in office to-morrow morning," said Drysdale. "He will forget all about it. Old Copas won't say a word--catch him. He gets too much out of me for that." "Well, you'll see; I'll back the proctor's memory." "But, Captain, what are you going to stand?" "Stand! nothing, unless you like a cup of cold tea. You'll get no wine or spirits here at this time of night, and the buttery is shut. Besides you've had quite as much beer as good for you at your paragon public." "Come, now, Captain, just two glasses of sherry, and I'll promise to go to bed." "Not a thimbleful." "You old tyrant!" said Drysdale, hopping off his perch on the elbow of the sofa. "Come along, Brown, let's go and draw for some supper, and a hand at Van John. There's sure to be something going up my staircase; or, at any rate, there's a cool bottle of claret in my rooms." "Stop and have a talk, Brown," said the Captain, and prevailed against Drysdale, who, after another attempt to draw Tom off, departed on his quest for drink and cards. "He'll never do for the boat, I'm afraid," said the Captain; "with his rascally late hours, and drinking and eating all sorts of trash. It's a pity, too for he's a pretty oar for his weight." "He is such uncommon good company, too," said Tom. "Yes; but I'll tell you what. He's just a leetle too good company for you and me, or any fellows who mean to take a degree. Let's see, this is only his third term? I'll give him, perhaps, two more to make the place too hot to hold him. Take my word for it, he'll never get to his little-go." "It will be a great pity, then," said Tom. "So it will. But after all, you see, what does it matter to him? He gets rusticated; takes his name off with a flourish of trumpets--what then? He falls back on 5,000L a year in land, and a good accumulation in consols, runs abroad or lives in town for a year. Takes the hounds when he comes of age, or is singled out by some discerning constituency, and sent to make laws for his country, having spent the whole of his life hitherto in breaking all the laws he ever came under. You and I, perhaps, go fooling about with him, and get rusticated. We make our friends miserable. We can't take our names off, but have to come cringing back at the end of our year, marked men. Keep our tails between our legs for the rest of the time. Lose a year at our professions, and most likely have the slip casting up against us in one way or another for the next twenty years. It's like the old story of the giant and the dwarf, or like fighting a sweep, or any other one-sided business." "But I'd sooner have to fight my own way in the world after all; wouldn't you?" said Tom. "H-m-m!" said the Captain, throwing himself back in the chair, and smiling; "can't answer off hand. I'm a third year man, and begin to see the other side rather clearer than I did when I was a freshman like you. Three years at Oxford, my boy, will teach you something of what rank and money count for, if they teach you nothing else." "Why, here's the Captain singing the same song as Hardy," thought Tom. "So you two have to go to the proctor to-morrow?" "Yes." "Shall you go? Drysdale won't." "Of course I shall. It seems to me childish not to go; as if I were back in the lower school again. To tell you the truth, the being sent for isn't pleasant; but the other I couldn't stand." "Well, I don't feel anything of that sort. But I think you're right on the whole. The chances are that he'll remember your name, and send for you again if you don't go; and then you'll be worse off." "You don't think he'll rusticate us, or anything of that sort?" said Tom, who had felt horrible twinges at the Captain's picture of the effects of rustication on ordinary mortals. "No; not unless he's in a very bad humour. I was caught three times in one night in my freshman's term, and only got an imposition." "Then I don't care," said Tom. "But it's a bore to have been caught in so seedy an affair; if it had been a real good row, one wouldn't have minded so much." "Why, what did you expect? It was neither better nor worse than the common run of such things." "Well, but three parts of the crowd were boys." "So they are always--or nine times out of ten at any rate." "But there was no real fighting; at least, I only know I got none." "There isn't any real fighting, as you call it, nine times out of ten." "What is there, then?" "Why, something of this sort. Five shopboys, or scouts' boys, full of sauciness, loitering at an out-of-the-way street corner. Enter two freshmen, full of dignity and bad wine. Explosion of inflammable material. Freshmen mobbed into High-street or Broad-street, where the tables are turned by a gathering of many more freshmen, and the mob of town boys quietly subsides, puts its hands in its pockets, and ceases to shout 'Town, town!' The triumphant freshmen march up and down for perhaps half an hour, shouting 'Gown, gown!' and looking furious, but not half sorry that the mob vanishes like mist at their approach. Then come the proctors, who hunt down, and break up the gown in some half-hour or hour. The 'town' again marches about in the ascendant, and mobs the scattered freshmen, wherever they can be caught in very small numbers." "But with all your chaff about freshmen, Captain, you were in it yourself to-night; come now." "Of course, I had to look after you two boys." "But you didn't know we were in when you came up?" "I was sure to find some of you. Besides, I'll admit one don't like to go in while there's any chance of a real row as you call it, and so gets proctorized in one's old age for one's patriotism." "Were you ever in a real row?" said Tom. "Yes, once, about a year ago. The fighting numbers were about equal, and the town all grown men, labourers and mechanics. It was desperate hard work, none of your shouting and promenading. That Hardy, one of our Bible clerks, fought like a Paladin; I know I shifted a fellow in corduroys on to him, whom I had found an uncommon tough customer, and never felt better pleased in my life than when I saw the light glance on his hobnails as he went over into the gutter two minutes afterwards. It lasted, perhaps, ten minutes, and both sides were very glad to draw off." "But, of course, you licked them?" "We said we did." "Well, I believe that a gentleman will always lick in a fair fight." "Of course you do, it's the orthodox belief." "But don't you?" "Yes; if he is as big and strong, and knows how to fight as well as the other. The odds are that he cares a little more for giving in, and that will pull him through." "That isn't saying much, though." "No, but it's quite as much as is true. I'll tell you what it is, I think just this, that we are generally better in the fighting way than shopkeepers, clerks, flunkies, and all fellows who don't work hard with their bodies all day. But the moment you come to the real hard-fisted fellow; used to nine or ten hours' work a day, he's a cruel hard customer. Take seventy or eighty of them at haphazard, the first you meet, and turn them into St. Ambrose any morning--by night I take it they would be lords of this venerable establishment if we had to fight for the possession; except, perhaps, for that Hardy--he's one of a thousand, and was born for a fighting man; perhaps he might pull us through." "Why don't you try him in the boat?" "Miller manages all that. I spoke to him about it after that row, but he said that Hardy had refused to subscribe to the club, said he couldn't afford it, or something of the sort. I don't see why that need matter, myself, but I suppose, as we have rules, we ought to stick to them." "It's a great pity though. I know Hardy well, and you can't think what a fine fellow he is." "I'm sure of that. I tried to know him, and we don't get on badly as speaking acquaintance. But he seems a queer, solitary bird." Twelve o'clock struck; so Tom wished the Captain good night and departed, meditating much on what he had heard and seen. The vision of terrible single combats, in which the descendant of a hundred earls polishes off the huge representative of the masses in the most finished style, without a scratch on his own aristocratic features, had faded from his mind. He went to bed that night, fairly sickened with his experience of a town and gown row, and with a nasty taste in his mouth. But he felt much pleased at having drawn out the Captain so completely. For "the stroke" was in general a man of marvellous few words, having many better uses than talking to put his breath to. Next morning he attended at the proctor's rooms at the appointed time, not without some feeling of shame at having to do so; which, however, wore off when he found some dozen men of other colleges waiting about on the same errand as himself. In his turn he was ushered in, and as he stood by the door, had time to look the great man over as he sat making a note of the case he had just disposed of. The inspection was reassuring. The proctor was a gentlemanly, straight-forward looking man of about thirty, not at all donnish, and his address answered to his appearance. "Mr. Brown, of St. Ambrose's, I think," he said. "Yes, sir." "I sent you to your college yesterday evening; did you go straight home?" "No, sir." "How was that, Mr. Brown?" Tom made no answer, and the proctor looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and then repeated. "How was that?" "Well, sir," said Tom, "I don't mean to say I was going straight to college, but I should have been in long before you sent, only I fell in with the mob again, and then there was a cry that you were coming. And so-" He paused. "Well," said the proctor, with a grim sort of curl about the corners of his mouth. "Why, I ran away, and turned into the first place which was open, and stopped till the streets were quiet." "A public house, I suppose." "Yes, sir; 'The Choughs.'" The proctor considered a minute, and again scrutinized Tom's look and manner, which certainly were straightforward, and without any tinge of cringing or insolence. "How long have you been up?" "This is my second term, sir." "You have never been sent to me before, I think?" "Never, sir." "Well, I can't overlook this, as you yourself confess to a direct act of disobedience. You must write me out 200 lines of Virgil. And now, Mr. Brown, let me advise you to keep out of disreputable street quarrels in future. Good morning." Tom hurried away, wondering what it would feel like to be writing out Virgil again as a punishment at his time of life, but glad above measure that the proctor had asked him no questions about his companion. The hero was of course, mightily tickled at the result, and seized the occasion to lecture Tom on his future conduct, holding himself up as a living example of the benefits which were sure to accrue to a man who never did anything he was told to do. The soundness of his reasoning, however, was somewhat shaken by the dean, who, on the same afternoon, managed to catch him in quad; and, carrying him off, discoursed with him concerning his various and systematic breaches of discipline, pointed out to him that he had already made such good use of his time that if he were to be discommonsed for three more days he would lose his term; and then took off his cross, gave him a book of Virgil to write out and gated him for a fortnight after hall. Drysdale sent out his scout to order his punishment as he might have ordered a waistcoat, presented old Copas with a half-sovereign, and then dismissed punishment and gating from his mind. He cultivated with great success the science of mental gymnastics, or throwing everything the least unpleasant off his mind at once. And no doubt it is a science worthy of all cultivation, if one desires to lead a comfortable life. It gets harder, however, as the years roll over us, to attain to any satisfactory proficiency in it; so it should be mastered as early in life as may be. The town and gown row was the talk of the college for the next week. Tom, of course, talked much about it, like his neighbors, and confided to one and another the Captain's heresies. They were all incredulous; for no one had ever heard him talk as much in a term as Tom reported him to have done on this one evening. So it was resolved that he should be taken to task on the subject on the first opportunity; and, as nobody was afraid of him, there was no difficulty in finding a man to bell the cat. Accordingly, at the next wine of the boating set, the Captain had scarcely entered when he was assailed by the host with-- "Jervis, Brown says you don't believe a gentleman can lick a cad, unless he is the biggest and strongest of the two." The Captain, who hated coming out with his beliefs, shrugged his shoulders, sipped his wine, and tried to turn the subject. But, seeing that they were all bent on drawing him out, he was not the man to run from his guns; and so he said quietly: "No more I do." Notwithstanding the reverence in which he was held, this saying could not be allowed to pass, and a dozen voices were instantly raised, and a dozen authentic stories told to confute him. He listened patiently, and then, seeing he was in for it, said: "Never mind fighting. Try something else; cricket, for instance. The players generally beat the gentlemen, don't they?" "Yes; but they are professionals." "Well, and we don't often get a university crew which can beat the watermen?" "Professionals again." "I believe the markers are the best tennis-players, ain't they?" persevered the Captain; "and I generally find keepers and huntsmen shooting and riding better than their master's, don't you?" "But that's not fair. All the cases you put are those of men who have nothing else to do, who live by the things gentlemen only take up for pleasure." "I only say that the cads, as you call them, manage, somehow or another, to do them best," said the Captain. "How about the army and navy? The officers always lead." "Well, there they're all professionals, at any rate," said the Captain. "I admit that the officers lead; but the men follow pretty close. And in a forlorn hope there are fifty men to one officer, after all." "But they must be led. The men will never go without an officer to lead." "It's the officers' business to lead, I know; and they do it. But you won't find the best judges talking as if the men wanted much leading. Read Napier: the finest story in his book is of the sergeant who gave his life for his boy officer's--your namesake, Brown--at the Coa." "Well, I never thought to hear you crying down gentlemen." "I'm not crying down gentlemen," said the Captain. "I only say that a gentleman's flesh and blood, and brains, are just the same, and no better than another man's. He has all the chances on his side in the way of training, and pretty near all the prizes; so it would be hard if he didn't do most things better than poor men. But give them the chance of training, and they will tread on his heels soon enough. That's all I say." That was all, certainly, that the Captain said, and then relapsed into his usual good-tempered monosyllabic state; from which all the eager talk of the men, who took up the cudgels naturally enough for their own class, and talked themselves before the wine broke up into a renewed consciousness of their natural superiority, failed again to rouse him. This was, in fact, the Captain's weak point, if he had one. He had strong beliefs himself; one of the strongest of which was, that nobody could be taught anything except by his own experience; so he never, or very rarely, exercised his own personal influence, but just quietly went on his own way, and let other men go theirs. Another of his beliefs was, that there was no man or thing in the world too bad to be tolerated; faithfully acting up to which belief, the Captain himself tolerated persons and things intolerable. Bearing which facts in mind, the reader will easily guess the result of the application which the crew duly made to him the day after Miller's back was turned. He simply said that the training they proposed would not be enough, and that he himself should take all who chose to go down, to Abingdon twice a week. From that time there were many defaulters; and the spirit of Diogenes groaned within him, as day after day the crew had to be filled up from the torpid or by watermen. Drysdale would ride down to Sandford, meeting the boat on its way up, and then take his place for the pull up to Oxford, while his groom rode his horse up to Folly bridge to meet him. There he would mount again and ride off to Bullingdon, or to the Isis, or Quentin, or other social meeting equally inimical to good training. Blake often absented himself three days in a week, and other men once or twice. From considering which facts, Tom came to understand the difference between his two heroes; their strong likeness in many points he had seen from the first. They were alike in truthfulness, bravery, bodily strength, and in most of their opinions. But Jervis worried himself about nothing, and let all men and things alone, in the belief that the world was not going so very wrong, or would right itself somehow without him. Hardy, on the other hand, was consuming his heart over everything that seemed to him to be going wrong in himself and round about him--in the college, in Oxford, in England, in the ends of the earth, and never letting slip a chance of trying to set right, here a thread, and there a thread. A self-questioning, much enduring man; a slayer of dragons himself, and one with whom you could not live much without getting uncomfortably aware of the dragons which you also had to slay. What wonder that, apart altogether from the difference in their social position, the one man was ever becoming more and more popular, while the other was left more and more to himself. There are few of us at Oxford, or elsewhere, who do not like to see a man living a brave and righteous life, so long as he keeps clear of us; and still fewer who _do_ like to be in constant contact with one who, not content with so living himself, is always coming across them, and laying bare to them their own faint-heartedness, and sloth, and meanness. The latter, no doubt, inspires the deeper feeling, and lays hold with a firmer grip of the men he does lay hold of, but they are few. For men can't always keep up to high pressure till they have found firm ground to build upon, altogether outside of themselves; and it is hard to be thankful and fair to those who are showing us time after time that our foothold is nothing but shifting sand. The contrast between Jervis and Hardy now began to force itself daily more and more on our hero's attention. From the night of the town and gown row, "The Choughs" became a regular haunt of the crew, who were taken there under the guidance of Tom and Drysdale the next day. Not content with calling there on his way from the boats, there was seldom an evening now that Tom did not manage to drop in and spend an hour there. When one is very much bent on doing a thing, it is generally easy enough to find very good reasons, or excuses at any rate, for it; and whenever any doubts crossed Tom's mind, he silenced them by the reflection that the time he spent at "The Choughs" would otherwise have been devoted to wine parties or billiards; and it was not difficult to persuade himself that his present occupation was the more wholesome of the two. He could not, however, feel satisfied till he had mentioned his change in life to Hardy. This he found a much more embarrassing matter than he fancied it would be. But, after one or two false starts, he managed to get out that he had found the best glass of ale in Oxford, at a quiet little public on the way to the boats, kept by the most perfect of widows, with a factotum of an ostler, who was a regular character, and that he went there most evenings for an hour or so. Wouldn't Hardy come some night? No, Hardy couldn't spare the time. Tom felt rather relieved at this answer; but, nevertheless went on to urge the excellence of the ale as a further inducement. "I don't believe it's half so good as our college beer, and I'll be bound it's half as dear again." "Only a penny a pint dearer," said Tom, "that won't ruin you,--all the crew go there." "If I were the Captain," said Hardy, "I wouldn't let you run about drinking ale at night after wine parties. Does he know about it?" "Yes, and goes there himself often on the way from the boats," said Tom. "And at night, too?" said Hardy. "No," said Tom, "but I don't go there after drinking wine; I haven't been to a wine these ten days, at least not for more than five minutes." "Well, sound ale is better than Oxford wine," said Hardy, "if you must drink something;" and so the subject dropped. And Tom went away satisfied that Hardy had not disapproved of his new habit. It certainly occurred to him that he had omitted all mention of the pretty barmaid in his enumeration of the attractions of "The Choughs," but he set down to mere accident; it was a slip which he would set right in their next talk. But that talk never came, and the subject was not again mentioned between them. In fact, to tell the truth, Tom's visits to his friend's rooms in the evenings became shorter and less frequent as "The Choughs" absorbed more and more of his time. He made excuses to himself, that Hardy must be glad of more time, and would be only bored if he kept dropping in every night, now that the examination for degree was so near; that he was sure he drove Grey away, who would be of much more use to Hardy just now. These, and many other equally plausible reasons, suggested themselves whenever his conscience smote him for his neglect, as it did not seldom. But he always managed to satisfy himself somehow, without admitting the real fact, that these visits were no longer what they had been to him; that a gulf had sprung up, and was widening day by day between him and the only friend who would have had the courage and honesty to tell him the truth about his new pursuit. Meantime Hardy was much pained at the change in his friend, which _he_ saw quickly enough, and often thought over it with a sigh as he sat at his solitary tea. He set it down to his own dullness, to the number of new friends such a sociable fellow as Tom was sure to make, and who, of course, would take up more and more of his time; and, if he felt a little jealousy every now and then, put it resolutely back, struggling to think no evil, or if there were any, to lay it on his own shoulders. Cribbage is a most virtuous and respectable game, and yet scarcely, one would think, possessing in itself sufficient attractions to keep a young gentleman in his twentieth year tied to the board, and going through the quaint calculation night after night of "fifteen two, fifteen four, two for his nob, and one for his heels." The old lady of "The Choughs" liked nothing so much as her game of cribbage in the evenings, and the board lay ready on the little table by her elbow in the cozy bar, a sure stepping-stone to her good graces. Tom somehow became an enthusiast in cribbage, and would always loiter behind his companions for his quiet game; chatting pleasantly while the old lady cut and shuffled the dirty pack, striving keenly for the nightly stake of sixpence, which he seldom failed to lose, and laughingly wrangling with her over the last points in the game which decided the transfer of the two sixpences (duly posted in the snuffer-tray beside the cribbage-board) into his waistcoat pocket or her bag, until she would take off her spectacles to wipe them, and sink back in her chair exhausted with the pleasing excitement. Such an odd taste as it seemed, too, a bystander might reasonably have thought, when he might have been employing his time so much more pleasantly in the very room. For, flitting in and out of the bar during the game, and every now and then stooping over the old lady's shoulder to examine her hand, and exchange knowing looks with her, was the lithe little figure of Miss Patty, with her oval race, and merry eyes, and bright brown hair, and jaunty little cap, with fresh blue ribbons of the shade of the St. Ambrose colors. However, there is no accounting for tastes, and it is fortunate that some like apples and some onions. It may possibly be, too, that Miss Patty did not feel herself neglected, or did not care about attention. Perhaps she may not have been altogether unconscious that every least motion and word of hers was noticed, even when the game was at its keenest. At any rate, it was clear enough that she and Tom were on the best terms, though she always took her aunt's part vehemently in any little dispute which arose, and sometimes even came to the rescue at the end, and recaptured the vanished sixpences out of the wrongful grasp which he generally laid on them the moment the old lady held out her hand and pronounced the word "game." One knows that size has little to do with strength, or one might have wondered that her little hands should have been able to open his fingers so surely one by one, though he seemed to do all he could to keep them shut. But, after all, if he really thought he had a right to the money, he had always time to put it in his pocket at once, instead of keeping his clenched hand on the table, and arguing about it till she had time to get up to the succour of her aunt. CHAPTER XIII--THE FIRST BUMP "What's the time, Smith?" "Half-past three, old fellow," answered Diogenes, looking at his watch. "I never knew a day go so slowly," said Tom; "isn't it time to go down to the boats?" "Not by two hours and more, old fellow--can't you take a book, or something to keep you quiet? You won't be fit for anything by six o'clock, if you go on worrying like this." And so Diogenes turned himself to his flute, and blew away to all appearances as composedly as if it had been the first week of term, though, if the truth must be told, it was all he could do not to get up and wander about in a feverish and distracted state, for Tom's restlessness infected him. Diogenes' whole heart was in the college boat; and so, though he had pulled dozens of races in his time, he was almost as nervous as a freshman on this the first day of the races. Tom, all unconscious of the secret discomposure of the other, threw himself into a chair and looked at him with wonder and envy. The flute went "toot, toot, toot," till he could stand it no longer. So he got up and went to the window, and, leaning out, looked up and down the street for some minutes in a purposeless sort of fashion, staring hard at everybody and everything, but unconscious all the time that he was doing so. He would not have been able in fact, to answer Diogenes a word, had not that worthy inquired of him what he had seen, when he presently drew in his head and returned to his fidgety ramblings about the room. "How hot the sun is! but there's a stiff breeze from the south-east. I hope it will go down before the evening, don't you?" "Yes, this wind will make it very rough below the Gut. Mind you feather high now at starting." "I hope to goodness I sha'n't catch a crab," said Tom. "Don't think about it, old fellow; that's your best plan." "But I can't think of anything else," said Tom. "What the deuce is the good of telling a fellow not to think about it?" Diogenes apparently had nothing particular to reply, for he put his flute to his mouth again; and at the sound of the "toot, toot" Tom caught up his gown and fled into the quadrangle. The crew had had their early dinner of steaks and chops, stale bread, and a glass and a half of old beer a piece at two o'clock, in the Captain's rooms. The current theory of training at that time was--as much meat as you could eat, the more underdone the better, and the smallest amount of drink upon which you could manage to live. Two pints in the twenty-four hours was all that most boat's crews that pretended to train at all were allowed, and for the last fortnight it had been the nominal allowance of the St. Ambrose crew. The discomfort of such a diet in the hot summer months, when you were at the same time taking regular and violent exercise, was something very serious. Outraged human nature rebelled against it; and though they did not admit it in public, there were very few men who did not rush to their water bottles for relief, more or less often, according to the development of their bumps of conscientiousness and obstinacy. To keep to the diet at all strictly involved a very respectable amount of physical endurance. Our successors have found out the unwisdom of this, as of other old superstitions; and that in order to get a man into training for a boat-race now-a-days, it is not of the first importance to keep him in a constant state of consuming thirst, and the restlessness of body and sharpness of temper which thirst generally induces. Tom appreciated the honor of being in the boat in his first year so keenly, that he had almost managed to keep to his training allowance, and consequently, now that the eventful day had arrived, was in a most uncomfortable frame of body and disagreeable frame of mind. He fled away from Diogenes' flute, but found no rest. He tried Drysdale. That hero was lying on his back on his sofa playing with Jack, and only increased Tom's thirst and soured his temper by the viciousness of his remarks on boating, and everything and person connected therewith; above all, on Miller, who had just come up, had steered them the day before, and pronounced the crew generally, and Drysdale in particular, "not half trained." Blake's oak was sported, as usual. Tom looked in at the Captain's door, but found him hard at work reading, and so carried himself off; and, after a vain hunt after others of the crew, and even trying to sit down and read, first a novel, then a play of Shakespeare, with no success whatever, wandered away out of the college, and found himself in five minutes, by a natural and irresistible attraction, on the university barge. There were half a dozen men or so reading the papers, and a group or two discussing the coming races. Amongst other things the chances of St. Ambrose's making a bump the first night were weighed. Every one joining in praising the stroke, but there were great doubts whether the crew could live up to it. Tom carried himself on to the top of the barge to get out of hearing, for listening made his heart beat and his throat drier than ever. He stood on the top and looked right away down to the Gut, the strong wind blowing his gown about. Not even a pair oar was to be seen; the great event of the evening made the river a solitude at this time of day. Only one or two skiffs were coming home, impelled by reading men, who took their constitutionals on the water, and were coming in to be in time for afternoon chapel. The fastest and best of these soon came near enough for Tom to recognize Hardy's stroke; so he left the barge and went down to meet the servitor at his landing, and accompanied him to the St. Ambrose dressing-room. "Well, how do you feel for the race to-night?" said Hardy, as he dried his neck and face, which he had been sluicing with cold water, looking as hardy and bright as a racer on Derby day. "Oh, wretched! I'm afraid I shall break down" said Tom, and pouring out some of his doubts and miseries. Hardy soon comforted him greatly; and by the time they were half across Christchurch meadow, he was quite in heart again. For he knew how well Hardy understood rowing, and what a sound judge he was; and it was therefore cheering to hear that he thought they were certainly the second best, if not the best boat on the river; and that they would be sure to make some bumps unless they had accidents. "But that's just what I fear so," said Tom. "I'm afraid I shall make some awful blunder." "Not you!" said Hardy; "only remember. Don't you fancy you can pull the boat by yourself, and go to trying to do it. There's where young oars fail. If you keep thorough good time you'll be pretty sure to be doing your share of work. Time is everything, almost." "I'll be sure to think of that," said Tom; and they entered St. Ambrose just as the chapel bell was going down; and he went to chapel and then to hall, sitting by and talking for companionship while the rest dined. And so at last the time slipped away, and the Captain and Miller mustered them at the gates and walked off to the boats. A dozen other crews were making their way in the same direction, and half the undergraduates of Oxford streamed along with them. The banks of the river were crowded; and the punts plied rapidly backwards and forwards, carrying loads of men over to the Berkshire side. The university barge, and all the other barges, were decked with flags, and the band was playing lively airs as the St. Ambrose crew reached the scene of action. No time was lost in the dressing-room, and in two minutes they were all standing in flannel trousers and silk jerseys at the landing-place. "You had better keep your jackets on," said the Captain; "we sha'n't be off yet." "There goes Brazen-nose." "They look like work, don't they?" "The black and yellow seems to slip along so fast. They're no end of good colors. I wish our new boat was black." "Hang her colors, if she's only stiff in the back, and don't dip." "Well, she didn't dip yesterday; at least, the men on the bank said so." "There go Baliol, and Oriel, and University." "By Jove, we shall be late! Where's Miller?" "In the shed, getting the boat out. Look, here's Exeter." The talk of the crew was silenced for the moment as every man looked eagerly at the Exeter boat. The Captain nodded to Jervis with a grim smile as they paddled gently by. Then the talk began again, "How do you think she goes?" "Not so badly. They're very strong in the middle of the boat." "Not a bit of it; it's all lumber." "You'll see. They're better trained than we are. They look as fine as stars." "So they ought. They've pulled seven miles to our five for the last month, I'm sure." "Then we sha'n't bump them." "Why not?" "Don't you know that the value of products consist in the quantity of labor which goes to produce them? Product pace over course from Iffley up. Labor expended, Exeter 7; St. Ambrose, 5. You see it is not in the nature of things that we should bump them--Q.E.D." "What moonshine! as if ten miles behind their stroke are worth two behind Jervis!" "My dear fellow, it isn't my moonshine; you must settle the matter with the philosophers. I only apply a universal law to a particular case." Tom, unconscious of the pearls of economic lore which were being poured out for the benefit of the crew, was watching the Exeter eight as it glided away towards the Cherwell. He thought they seemed to keep horribly good time. "Halloa, Drysdale; look, there's Jack going across in one of the punts." "Of course it is. You don't suppose he would go down to see the race." "Why won't Miller let us start? Almost all the boats are off." "There's plenty of time. We may just as well be up here as dawdling about the bank at Iffley." "We sha'n't go down till the last; Miller never lets us get out down below." "Well, come; here's the boat, at last." The new boat now emerged from its shed, guided steadily to where they were standing by Miller and the waterman. Then the coxswain got out and called for bow, who stepped forward. "Mind how you step now, there are no bottom boards, said Miller. "Shall I take my jacket?" "Yes; you had better all go down in jackets in this wind. I've sent a man down to bring them back. Now two." "Aye, aye!" said Drysdale, stepping forward. Then came Tom's turn, and soon the boat was manned. "Now," said Miller, taking his place, "are all your stretchers right?" "I should like a little more grease on my rollocks." "I'm taking some down; we'll put it on down below. Are you all right?" "Yes." "Then push her off--gently." The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts in the way, or other obstructions; and they swung steadily down past the university barge, the top of which was already covered with spectators. Every man in the boat felt as if the eyes of Europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. Small groups of gownsmen were scattered along the bank in Christchurch meadow, chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races, but, at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm enough to cross the water and go down to the starting-place. These sombre groups lighted up here and there by the dresses of a few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats. At the mouth of the Cherwell were moored two punts, in which reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, smoking; several of these were friends of Drysdale's, and hailed him as the boat passed. "What a fool I am to be here!" he grumbled, in an undertone, casting an envious glance at the punts in their comfortable berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. "I say, Brown, don't you wish we were well past this on the way up?" "Silence in the bows?" shouted Miller. "You devil, how I hate you!" growled Drysdale, half in jest and half in earnest, as they sped along under the willows. Tom got more comfortable at every stroke, and by the time they reached the Gut began to hope that he should not have a fit or lose all his strength just at the start, or cut a crab, or come to some other unutterable grief, the fear of which had been haunting him all day. "Here they are at last!--come along now--keep up with them," said Hardy to Grey, as the boat neared the Gut; and the two trotted along downwards, Hardy watching the crew and Grey watching him. "Hardy, how eager you look!" "I'd give twenty pounds to be going to pull in the race." Grey shambled on in silence by the side of his big friend, and wished he could understand what it was that moved him so. As the boat shot into the Gut from under the cover of the Oxfordshire bank, the wind caught the bows. "Feather high, now," shouted Miller; and then added in a low voice to the Captain, "It will be ticklish work, starting in this wind." "Just as bad for all the other boats," answered the Captain. "Well said, old philosopher!" said Miller. "It's a comfort to steer you; you never make a fellow nervous. I wonder if you ever felt nervous yourself, now?" "Can't say," said the Captain. "Here's our post; we may as well turn." "Easy, bow side--now two and four, pull her round--back water, seven and five!" shouted the coxswain; and the boat's head swung round, and two or three strokes took her into the bank. Jack instantly made a convulsive attempt to board, but was sternly repulsed, and tumbled backwards into the water. Hark!--the first gun. The report sent Tom's heart into his mouth again. Several of the boats pushed off at once into the stream; and the crowds of men on the bank began to be agitated, as it were, by the shadow of the coming excitement. The St. Ambrose crew fingered their oars, put a last dash of grease on their rollocks, and settled their feet against the stretchers. "Shall we push her off?" asked "bow." "No, I can give you another minute," said Miller, who was sitting, watch in hand, in the stern, "only be smart when I give the word." The Captain turned on his seat, and looked up the boat. His face was quiet, but full of confidence, which seemed to pass from him into the crew. Tom felt calmer and stronger, he met his eye. "Now mind, boys, don't quicken," he said, cheerily; "four short strokes, to get way on her, and then steady. Here, pass up the lemon." And he took a sliced lemon out of his pocket, put a small piece into his own mouth, and then handed it to Blake, who followed his example, and passed it on. Each man took a piece; and just as "bow" had secured the end, Miller called out-- "Now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily." The jackets were thrown on shore, and gathered up by the boatmen in attendance. The crew poised their oars, No. 2 pushing out her head, and the Captain doing the same for the stern. Miller took the starting-rope in his hand. "How the wind catches her stern," he said; "here, pay out the rope, one of you. No, not you--some fellow with a strong hand. Yes, you'll do," he went on, as Hardy stepped down the bank and took hold of the rope; "let me have it foot by foot as I want it. Not too quick; make the most of it--that'll do. Two and three dip your oars in to give her way." The rope paid out steadily, and the boat settled to her place. But now the wind rose again, and the stern drifted towards the bank. "You _must_ back her a bit, Miller, and keep her a little further out, or our oars on stroke side will catch the bank." "So I see; curse the wind. Back her, one stroke all. Back her, I say!" shouted Miller. It is no easy matter to get a crew to back her an inch just now, particularly as there are in her two men who have never rowed a race before, except in the torpids, and one who has never rowed a race in his life. However, back she comes; the starting-rope slackens in Miller's left hand, and the stroke, unshipping his oar, pushes the stern gently out again. There goes the second gun! one short minute more, and we are off. Short minute, indeed! you wouldn't say so if you were in the boat, with your heart in your mouth, and trembling all over like a man with the palsy. Those sixty seconds before the starting gun in your first race--why, they are a little life-time. "By Jove, we are drifting in again," said Miller, in horror. The Captain looked grim, but said nothing; it was too late now for him to be unshipping again. "Here, catch hold of the long boat-hook, and fend her off." Hardy, to whom this was addressed, seized the boat-hook, and, standing with one foot in the water, pressed the end of the boat-hook against the gunwale, at the full stretch of his arm, and so by main force, kept the stern out. There was just room for stroke oars to dip, and that was all. The starting-rope was as taut as a harp-string; will Miller's left hand hold out? [Illustration: 0170] It is an awful moment. But the coxswain, though almost dragged backwards off his seat, is equal to the occasion. He holds his watch in his right hand with the tiller rope. "Eight seconds more only. Look out for the flash. Remember, all eyes in the boat." There it comes, at last--the flash of the starting gun. Long before the sound of the report can roll up the river, the whole pent-up life and energy which has been held in leash, as it were, for the last six minutes, is let loose, and breaks away with a bound and a dash which he who has felt it will remember for his life, but the like of which, will he ever feel again? The starting-ropes drop from the coxswains' hands, the oars flash into the water, and gleam on the feather, the spray flies from them, and the boats leap forward. The crowds on the bank scatter, and rush along, each keeping as near as it may be to its own boat. Some of the men on the towing path, some on the very edge of, often in, the water--some slightly in advance, as if they could help to drag their boat forward--some behind, where they can see the pulling better--but all at full speed, in wild excitement, and shouting at the top of their voices to those on whom the honor of the college is laid. "Well pulled, all!" "Pick her up there, five!" "You're gaining, every stroke!" "Time in the bows!" "Bravo, St. Ambrose!" On they rushed by the side of the boats, jostling one another, stumbling, struggling, and panting along. For a quarter of a mile along the bank the glorious maddening hurly-burly extends, and rolls up the side of the stream. For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great fear of making a mistake to feel or hear or see. His whole soul was glued to the back of the man before him, his one thought to keep time, and get his strength into the stroke. But as the crew settled down into the well known long sweep, what we may call consciousness returned; and while every muscle in his body was straining, and his chest heaved, and his heart leapt, every nerve seemed to be gathering new life, and his senses to wake into unwonted acuteness. He caught the scent of the wild thyme in the air, and found room in his brain to wonder how it could have got there, as he had never seen the plant near the river, or smelt it before. Though his eye never wandered from the back of Diogenes, he seemed to see all things at once. The boat behind, which seemed to be gaining--it was all he could do to prevent himself from quickening on the stroke as he fancied that--the eager face of Miller, with his compressed lips, and eyes fixed so earnestly ahead that Tom could almost feel the glance passing over his right shoulder; the flying banks and the shouting crowd; see them with his bodily eyes he could not, but he knew nevertheless that Grey had been upset and nearly rolled down the bank into the water in the first hundred yards, that Jack was bounding and scrambling and barking along by the very edge of the stream; above all, he was just as well aware as if he had been looking at it, of a stalwart form in cap and gown, bounding along, brandishing the long boat-hook, and always keeping just opposite the boat; and amid all the Babel of voices, and the dash and pulse of the stroke, and the laboring of his own breathing, he heard Hardy's voice coming to him again and again, and clear as if there had been no other sound in the air, "Steady, two! steady! well pulled! steady, steady!" The voice seemed to give him strength and keep him to his work. And what work it was! he had had many a hard pull in the last six weeks, but "never aught like this." But it can't last for ever; men's muscles are not steel, or their lungs bull's hide, and hearts can't go on pumping a hundred miles an hour without bursting. The St. Ambrose's boat is well away from the boat behind, there is a great gap between the accompanying crowds; and now, as they near the Gut, she hangs for a moment or two in hand, though the roar from the bank grows louder and louder, and Tom is already aware that the St. Ambrose crowd is melting into the one ahead of them. "We must be close to Exeter!" The thought flashes into him, and it would seem into the rest of the crew at the same moment. For, all at once, the strain seems taken off their arms again; there is no more drag; she springs to the stroke as she did at the start; and Miller's face which had darkened for a few seconds, lightens up again. Miller's face and attitude are a study. Coiled up into the smallest possible space, his chin almost resting on his knees, his hands close to his sides, firmly but lightly feeling the rudder, as a good horseman handles the mouth of a free-going hunter,--if a coxswain could make a bump by his own exertions, surely he will do it. No sudden jerks of the St. Ambrose rudder will you see, watch as you will from the bank; the boat never hangs through fault of his, but easily and gracefully rounds every point. "You're gaining! you're gaining!" he now and then mutters to the Captain, who responds with a wink, keeping his breath for other matters. Isn't he grand, the Captain, as he comes forward like lightening, stroke after stroke, his back flat, his teeth set, his whole frame working from the hips with the regularity of a machine? As the space still narrows, the eyes of the fiery little coxswain flash with excitement, but he is far too good a judge to hurry the final effort before victory is safe in his grasp. The two crowds mingle now, and no mistake; and the shouts come all in a heap over the water. "Now, St. Ambrose, six strokes more." "Now, Exeter, you're gaining; pick her up." "Mind the Gut, Exeter." "Bravo, St. Ambrose." The water rushes by, still eddying from the strokes of the boat ahead. Tom fancies now that he can hear their oars, and the working of their rudder, and the voice of their coxswain. In another moment both boats are in the Gut, and a perfect storm of shouts reaches them from the crowd, as it rushes madly off to the left of the footbridge, amidst which "Oh, well steered, well steered, St. Ambrose!" is the prevailing cry. Then Miller, motionless as a statue till now, lifts his right hand and whirls the tassel round his head; "Give it her now, boys; six strokes and we are into them." Old Jervis lays down that great broad back, and lashes his oar through the water with the might of a giant, the crew caught him up in another stroke, the tight new boat answers to the spurt, and Tom feels a little shock behind him, and then a grating sound, as Miller shouts "Unship oars, bow and three," and the nose of the St. Ambrose boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter, till it touches their stroke oar. "Take care what you're coming to." It is the coxswain of the bumped boat who speaks. Tom, looking round, finds himself within a foot or two of him; and, being utterly unable to contain his joy, and unwilling to exhibit it before the eyes of a gallant rival, turns away towards the shore, and begins telegraphing to Hardy. "Now then, what are you at there in the bows? Cast her off quick. Come, look alive! Push across at once out of the way of the other boats." "I congratulate you, Jervis," says the Exeter stroke as the St. Ambrose boat shot past him. "Do it again next race and I sha'n't care." "We were within three lengths of Brazen-nose when we bumped," says the all-observant Miller in a low voice. "All right," answers the Captain; "Brazen-nose isn't so strong as usual. We sha'n't have much trouble there, but a tough job up above, I take it." "Brazen-nose was better steered than Exeter." "They muffed it in the Gut, eh?" said the Captain. "I thought so by the shouts." "Yes, we were pressing them a little down below, and their coxswain kept looking over his shoulder. He was in the Gut before he knew it, and had to pull his left hand hard or they would have fouled the Oxfordshire corner. That stopped their way, and in we went." "Bravo; and how well we started too." "Yes, thanks to that Hardy. It was touch and go though; I couldn't have held that rope two seconds more." "How did our fellows work; she dragged a good deal below the Gut." Miller looked somewhat serious, but even he cannot be finding fault just now. For the first step is gained, the first victory won; and, as Homer sometimes nods, so Miller relaxes the sternness of his rule. The crew, as soon as they have found their voices again, laugh and talk, and answer the congratulations of their friends, as the boat slips along close to the towing path on the Berks side, "easy all," almost keeping pace nevertheless with the lower boats, which are racing up under the willows on the Oxfordshire side. Jack, after one or two feints, makes a frantic bound into the water, and is hauled dripping into the boat by Drysdale, unchid by Miller, but to the intense disgust of Diogenes, whose pantaloons and principles are alike outraged by the proceeding. He--the Cato of the oar--scorns to relax the strictness of his code even after victory won. Neither word nor look does he cast to the exhulting St. Ambrosians on the bank; a twinkle in his eye and a subdued chuckle or two, alone betray that though an oarsman he is mortal. Already he revolves in his mind the project of an early walk under a few pea-coats, not being quite satisfied (conscientious old boy!) that he tried his stretcher enough in that final spurt, and thinking that there must be an extra pound of flesh on him somewhere or other which did the mischief. "I say, Brown," said Drysdale, "how do you feel?" "All right," said Tom; "I never felt jollier in my life." "By Jove, though, it was an awful grind; didn't you wish yourself well out of it below the Gut?" "No, nor you either." "Didn't I? I was awfully baked, my throat is like a limekiln yet. What did you think about?" "Well, about keeping time, I think," said Tom, "but I can't remember much." "I only kept on by thinking how I hated those devils in the Exeter boat, and how done up they must be, and hoping their No. 2 felt like having a fit." At this moment they came opposite the Cherwell. The leading boat was just passing the winning-post, off the university barge, and the band struck up the "Conquering Hero," with a crash. And while a mighty sound of shouts, murmurs, and music went up into the evening sky, Miller shook the tiller-ropes again, the Captain shouted, "Now then, pick her up," and the St. Ambrose boat shot up between the swarming banks at racing pace to her landing-place, the lion of the evening. Dear readers of the gentler sex! you, I know, will pardon the enthusiasm which stirs our pulses, now in sober middle age, as we call up again the memories of this the most exciting sport of our boyhood (for we were but boys then, after all). You will pardon, though I fear hopelessly unable to understand, the above sketch; your sons and brothers will tell you it could not have been less technical. For you, male readers, who have never handled an oar,--what shall I say to you? You at least, I hope, in some way--in other contests of one kind or another--have felt as we felt, and have striven as we strove. You _ought_ to understand and sympathize with us in all our boating memories. Oh, how fresh and sweet they are! Above all, that one of the gay little Henley town, the carriage-crowded bridge, the noble river reach, the giant poplars, which mark the critical point of the course--the roaring column of "undergrads," light blue and dark purple, Cantab and Oxonian, alike and yet how different,--hurling along together, and hiding the towing-path--the clang of Henley church-bells--the cheering, the waving of embroidered handkerchiefs, and glancing of bright eyes, the ill-concealed pride of fathers, open delight and exultation of mothers and sisters--the levee in the town-hall when the race was rowed, the great cup full of champagne (inn champagne, but we were not critical)--the chops, the steaks, the bitter beer--but we run into anti-climax--remember, we were boys then, and bear with us if you cannot sympathize. And you, old companions, [Greek text] thranitai, benchers, (of the gallant eight-oar), now seldom met, but never-forgotten, lairds, squires, soldiers, merchants, lawyers, grave J.P.'s, graver clergymen, gravest bishops (for of two bishops at least does our brotherhood boast), I turn for a moment, from my task, to reach to you the right hand of fellowship from these pages, and empty the solemn pewter--trophy of hard-won victory--to your health and happiness. Surely none the worse Christians and citizens are ye for your involuntary failing of muscularity! CHAPTER XIV--A CHANGE IN THE CREW, AND WHAT CAME OF IT It was on a Saturday that the St. Ambrose boat made the first bump, described in our last chapter. On the next Saturday, the day-week after the first success, at nine o'clock in the evening, our hero was at the door of Hardy's rooms. He just stopped for one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and entered. The little estrangement which there had been between them for some weeks, had passed away since the races had begun. Hardy had thrown himself into the spirit of them so thoroughly, that he had not only regained all his hold on Tom, but had warmed up the whole crew in his favour, and had mollified the martinet Miller himself. It was he who had managed the starting-rope in every race, and his voice from the towing path had come to be looked upon as a safe guide for clapping on or rowing steady. Even Miller, autocrat as he was, had come to listen for it, in confirmation of his own judgment, before calling on the crew for the final effort. So Tom had recovered his old footing in the servitor's rooms; and when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing of an intimate friend. Hardy's tea commons were on one end of the table as usual, and he was sitting at the other poring over a book. Tom marched straight up to him, and leant over his shoulder. "What, here you are at the perpetual grind," he said. "Come; shut up, and give me some tea; I want to talk to you." Hardy looked up with a grim smile. "Are you up to a cup of tea?" he said; "look here, I was just reminded of you fellows. Shall I construe for you?" He pointed with his finger to the open page of the book he was reading. It was the Knights of Aristophanes, and Tom, leaning over his shoulder, read,-- [Greek text] chata chathixion malachoz ina meh tribehz tehn en Salamint, &c. After meditating a moment, he burst out; "You hardhearted old ruffian! I come here for sympathy, and the first thing you do is to poke fun at me out of your wretched classics. I've a good mind to clear out and not to do my errand." "What's a man to do?" said Hardy. "I hold that it's always better to laugh at fortune. What's the use of repining? You have done famously, and second is a capital place on the river." "Second be hanged!" said Tom. "We mean to be first." "Well, I hope we may!" said Hardy. "I can tell you nobody felt it more than I--not even old Diogenes--when you didn't make your bump to-night." "Now you talk like a man, and a Saint Ambrosian," said Tom. "But what do you think? Shall we ever catch them?" and, so saying, he retired to a chair opposite the tea things. "No," said Hardy; "I don't think we ever shall. I'm very sorry to say it, but they are an uncommonly strong lot, and we have a weak place or two in our crew. I don't think we can do more than we did to-night--at least with the present crew." "But if we could get a little more strength we might?" "Yes, I think so. Jervis's stroke is worth two of theirs. A very little more powder would do it." "Then we must have a little more powder." "Ay, but how are we to get it? Who can you put in?" "You!" said Tom, sitting up. "There, now, that's just what I am come about. Drysdale is to go out. Will you pull next race? They all want you to row." "Do they?" said Hardy, quietly (but Tom could see that his eye sparkled at the notion, though he was too proud to show how much he was pleased); "then they had better come and ask me themselves." "Well, you cantankerous old party, they're coming, I can tell you!" said Tom in great delight. "The Captain just sent me to break ground, and will be here directly himself. I say now, Hardy," he went on, "don't you say no. I've set my heart upon it. I'm sure we shall bump them if you pull." "I don't know that," said Hardy, getting up, and beginning to make tea, to conceal the excitement he was in at the idea of rowing; "you see I'm not in training." "Gammon," said Tom, "you're always in training, and you know it." "Well," said Hardy, "I can't be in worse than Drysdale. He has been of no use above the Gut these last three nights." "That's just what Miller says," said Tom, "and here comes the Captain." There was a knock at the door while he spoke, and Jervis and Miller entered. Tom was in a dreadful fidget for the next twenty minutes, and may best be compared to an enthusiastic envoy negotiating a treaty, and suddenly finding his action impeded by the arrival of his principals. Miller was very civil, but not pressing; he seemed to have come more with a view of talking over the present state of things, and consulting upon them, than to enlisting a recruit. Hardy met him more than halfway, and speculated on all sorts of possible issues, without a hint of volunteering himself. But presently Jervis, who did not understand finessing, broke in, and asked Hardy, point blank, to pull in the next race; and when he pleaded want of training, overruled him at once by saying that there was no better training than sculling. So in half an hour all was settled. Hardy was to pull five in the next race, Diogenes was to take Blake's place, at No. 7, and Blake to take Drysdale's oar at No. 2. The whole crew were to go for a long training walk the next day, Sunday, in the afternoon; to go down to Abingdon on Monday, just to get into swing in their new places, and then on Tuesday to abide the fate of war. They had half an hour's pleasant talk over Hardy's tea, and then separated. "I always told you he was our man," said the Captain to Miller, as the walked together to the gates; "we want strength, and he is as strong as a horse. You must have seen him sculling yourself. There isn't his match on the river to my mind." "Yes, I think he'll do," replied Miller; "at any rate he can't be worse than Drysdale." As for Tom and Hardy, it may safely be said that no two men in Oxford went to bed in better spirits that Saturday night than they two. And now to explain how it came about that Hardy was wanted. Fortune had smiled upon the St. Ambrosians in the two races which succeeded the one in which they had bumped Exeter. They had risen two more places without any very great trouble. Of course, the constituencies on the bank magnified their powers and doings. There never was such a crew, they were quite safe to be head of the river, nothing could live against their pace. So the young oars in the boat swallowed all they heard, thought themselves the finest fellows going, took less and less pains to keep up their condition, and when they got out of earshot of Jervis and Diogenes, were ready to bet two to one that they would bump Oriel the next night, and keep easily head of the river for the rest of the races. Saturday night came, and brought with it a most useful though unpalatable lesson to the St. Ambrosians. The Oriel boat was manned chiefly by old oars, seasoned in many a race, and not liable to panic when hard pressed. They had a fair, though not a first-rate stroke, and a good coxswain; experts remarked that they were rather too heavy for their boat, and that she dipped a little when they put on anything like a severe spurt; but on the whole they were by no means the sort of crew you could just run into hand over hand. So Miller and Diogenes preached, and so the Ambrosians found out to their cost. They had the pace of the other boat, and gained as usual a boat's length before the Gut; but, first those two fatal corners were passed, and then other well-remembered spots where former bumps had been made, and still Miller made no sign; on the contrary, he looked gloomy and savage. The St. Ambrosian shouts from the shore too changed from the usual exultant peals into something like a quaver of consternation, while the air was rent with the name and laudations of "little Oriel." Long before the Cherwell Drysdale was completely baked (he had played truant the day before and dined at the Weirs, were he had imbibed much dubious hock), but he from old habit managed to keep time. Tom and the other young oars got flurried, and quickened; the boat dragged, there was no life left in her, and, though they managed just to hold their first advantage, could not put her a foot nearer the stern of the Oriel boat, which glided past the winning-post a clear boat's length ahead of her pursuer, and with a crew much less depressed. Such races must tell on strokes; and even Jervis, who had pulled magnificently throughout, was very much done at the close, and leant over his oar with a swimming in his head, and an approach to faintness, and was scarcely able to see for a minute or so. Miller's indignation knew no bounds, but he bottled it up till he had manoeuvered the crew into their dressing-room by themselves, Jervis having stopped below. Then he did not spare them. "They would kill their captain, whose little finger was worth the whole of them; they were disgracing the college; three or four of them had neither heart, head nor pluck." They all felt that this was unjust, for after all had they not brought the boat up to the second place? Poor Diogenes sat in a corner and groaned; he forgot to prefix "old fellow" to the few observations he made. Blake had great difficulty in adjusting his necktie before the glass; he merely remarked in a pause of the objurgation, "In faith, coxswain, these be very bitter words." Tom and most of the others were too much out of heart to resist; but at last Drysdale fired up-- "You've no right to be so savage that I can see," he said, suddenly stopping the low whistle in which he was indulging, as he sat on the corner of the table; "you seem to think No 2 the weakest out of several weak places in the boat." "Yes, I do," said Miller. "Then this honourable member," said Drysdale, getting off the table, "seeing that his humble efforts are unappreciated, thinks it best for the public service to place his resignation in the hands of your coxswainship." "Which my coxswainship is graciously pleased to accept," replied Miller. "Hurrah for a roomy punt and a soft cushion next racing night--it's almost worth while to have been rowing all this time, to realize the sensations I shall feel when I see you fellows passing the Cherwell on Tuesday." "_Suave est_, it's what I'm partial to, _mari mango_, in the last reach, _terra_, from the towing path, _alterius magnum spectare laborem_, to witness the tortures of you wretched beggars in the boat. I'm obliged to translate for Drysdale, who never learned Latin," said Blake, finishing his tie before the glass. There was an awkward silence. Miller was chafing inwardly and running over in his mind what was to be done; and nobody else seemed quite to know what ought to happen next, when the door opened and Jervis came in. "Congratulate me, my Captain," said Drysdale; "I'm well out of it at last." Jervis "pished and pshaw'd" a little at hearing what had happened, but his presence acted like oil on the waters. The moment the resignation was named, Tom's thoughts had turned to Hardy. Now was the time--he had such confidence in the man, that the idea of getting him in for next race entirely changed the aspect of affairs to him, and made him feel as "bumptious" again as he had done in the morning. So with this idea in his head, he hung about till the Captain had made his toilet, and joined himself to him and Miller as they walked up. "Well, what are we going to do now," said the Captain. "That's just what you have to settle," said Miller; "you have been up all the term, and know the men's pulling better than I." "I suppose we must press somebody from the torpid--let me see, there's Burton." "He rolls like a porpoise," interrupted Miller, positively; "impossible." "Stewart might do, then." "Never kept time for three strokes in his life," said Miller. "Well, there are no better men," said the Captain. "Then we may lay our account to stopping where we are, if we don't even lose a place," said Miller. "Dust unto dust, what must be, must; If you can't get crumb, you'd best eat crust." said the Captain. "It's all very well talking coolly now," said Miller, "but you'll kill yourself trying to bump, and there are three more nights." "Hardy would row if you asked him, I'm sure," said Tom. The Captain looked at Miller, who shook his head. "I don't think it," he said; "I take him to be a shy bird that won't come to everybody's whistle. We might have had him two years ago, I believe--I wish we had." "I always told you so," said Jervis; "at any rate let's try him. He can but say no, and I don't think he will for you see he has been at the starting place every night, and as keen as a freshman all the time." "I'm sure he won't," said Tom; "I know he would give anything to pull." "You had better go to his rooms and sound him," said the Captain; "Miller and I will follow in half an hour." We have already heard how Tom's mission prospered. The next day, at a few moments before two o'clock, the St. Ambrose crew, including Hardy, with Miller (who was a desperate and indefatigable pedestrian), for leader, crossed Magdalen Bridge. At five they returned to college, having done a little over fifteen miles fair heal and toe walking in the interval. The afternoon had been very hot, and Miller chuckled to the Captain, "I don't think there will be much trash left in any of them after that. That fellow Hardy is as fine as a race-horse, and, did you see, he never turned a hair all the way." The crew dispersed to their rooms, delighted with the performance now that it was over, and feeling that they were much the better for it, though they all declared it had been harder work than any race they had yet pulled. It would have done a trainer's heart good to have seen them, some twenty minutes afterwards, dropping into hall (where they were allowed to dine on Sundays on the joint), fresh from cold baths, and looking ruddy and clear, and hard enough for anything. Again on Monday, not a chance was lost. The St. Ambrose boat started soon after one o'clock for Abingdon. They swung steadily down the whole way, and back again to Sandford without a single spurt; Miller generally standing in the stern and preaching above all things steadiness and time. From Sandford up, they were accompanied by half a dozen men or so, who ran up the bank watching them. The struggle for the first place on the river was creating great excitement in the rowing world, and these were some of the most keen connoisseurs, who, having heard that St. Ambrose had changed a man, were on the look-out to satisfy themselves as to how it would work. The general opinion was veering round in favor of Oriel; changes so late in the races, at such a critical moment, were looked upon as very damaging. Foremost amongst the runners on the bank was a wiry, dark man, with a sanguine complexion, who went with a peculiar long, low stride, keeping his keen eye well on the boat. Just above Kennington Island, Jervis, noticing this particular spectator for the first time, called on the crew, and, quickening his stroke, took them up the reach at racing pace. As they lay in Iffley Lock the dark man appeared above them, and exchanged a few words and a great deal of dumb show with the Captain and Miller, and then disappeared. From Iffley up they went steadily again. On the whole Miller seemed to be in very good spirits in the dressing room; he thought the boat trimmed better, and went better than she had ever done before, and complimented Blake particularly for the ease with which he had changed sides. They all went up in high spirits, calling on their way at "The Choughs" for one glass of old ale round, which Miller was graciously pleased to allow. Tom never remembered till they were out again that Hardy had never been there before, and felt embarrassed for a moment, but it soon passed off. A moderate dinner and early to bed finished the day, and Miller was justified in his parting remark to the Captain, "Well, if we don't win, we can comfort ourselves that we hav'n't dropped a stitch this last two days, at any rate." Then the eventful day arose which Tom, and many others felt was to make or mar St. Ambrose. It was a glorious early-summer day, without a cloud, scarcely a breath of air stirring. "We shall have a fair start at any rate," was the general feeling. We have already seen what a throat-drying, nervous business, the morning of a race-day is, and must not go over the same ground more than we can help; so we will imagine the St. Ambrose boat down at the starting place, lying close to the towing path, just before the first gun. There is a much greater crowd than usual opposite the two first boats. By this time most of the other boats have found their places, for there is not much chance of anything very exciting down below; so, besides the men of Oriel and St. Ambrose (who muster to-night of all sorts, the fastest of the fast and the slowest of the slow having been by this time shamed into something like enthusiasm), many of other colleges, whose boats have no chance of bumping or being bumped, flock to the point of attraction. "Do you make out what the change is?" says a backer of Oriel to his friend in the like predicament. "Yes, they've got a No. 5, don't you see, and, by George, I don't like his looks," answered his friend; "awfully long and strong in the arm, and well ribbed up. A devilish awkward customer. I shall go and try to get a hedge." "Pooh," says the other, "did you ever know one man win a race?" "Ay, that I have," says his friend, and walks off toward the Oriel crowd to take five to four on Oriel in half-sovereigns, if he can get it. Now their dark friend of yesterday comes up at a trot, and pulls up close to the Captain, with whom he is evidently dear friends. He is worth looking at, being coxswain of the O. U. B., the best steerer, runner and swimmer in Oxford; amphibious himself and sprung from an amphibious race. His own boat is in no danger, so he has left her to take care of herself. He is on the look-out for recruits for the University crew, and no recruiting sergeant has a sharper eye for the sort of stuff he requires. "What's his name?" he says in a low tone to Jervis, giving a jerk with his head towards Hardy. "Where did you get him?" "Hardy," answers the Captain, in the same tone; "it's his first night in the boat." "I know that," replies the coxswain; "I never saw him row before yesterday. He's the fellow who sculls in that brown skiff, isn't he?" "Yes, and I think he'll do; keep your eye on him." The coxswain nods as if he were somewhat of the same mind, and examines Hardy with the eye of a connoisseur, pretty much as the judge at an agricultural show looks at the prize bull. Hardy is tightening the strop of his stretcher, and all-unconscious of the compliments which are being paid him. The great authority seems satisfied with his inspection, grins, rubs his hands, and trots off to the Oriel boat to make comparisons. Just as the first gun is heard, Grey sidles nervously to the front of the crowd as if he were doing something very audacious, and draws Hardy's attention, exchanging sympathizing nods with him, but saying nothing, for he knows not what to say, and then disappearing again in the crowd. "Hallo, Drysdale, is that you?" says Blake, as they push off from the shore. "I thought you were going to take it easy in a punt." "So I thought," says Drysdale, "but I couldn't keep away, and here I am. I shall run up; and mind, if I see you within ten feet, and cock-sure to win, I'll give a view holloa. I'll be bound you shall hear it." "May it come speedily," said Blake, and then settled himself in his seat. "Eyes in the boat--mind now, steady all, watch the stroke and don't quicken." These are Miller's last words; every faculty of himself and the crew being now devoted to getting a good start. This is no difficult matter, as the water is like glass, and the boat lies lightly on it, obeying the slightest dip of the oars of bow and two, who just feel the water twice or thrice in the last minute. Then, after a few moments of breathless hush on the bank, the last gun is fired, and they are off. The same scene of mad excitement ensues, only tenfold more intense, as almost the whole interest of the races is tonight concentrated on the two head boats and their fate. At every gate there is a jam, and the weaker vessels are shoved into the ditches, upset and left unnoticed. The most active men, including the O. U. B. coxswain, shun the gates altogether, and take the big ditches in their stride, making for the long bridges, that they may get quietly over these and be safe for the best part of the race. They know that the critical point of the struggle will be near the finish. Both boats made a beautiful start, and again as before in the first dash the St. Ambrose pace tells, and they gain their boat's length before first winds fail; then they settle down for a long steady effort. Both crews are rowing comparatively steady reserving themselves for the tug of war up above. Thus they pass the Gut, and those two treacherous corners, the scene of countless bumps, into the wider water beyond, up under the willows. Miller's face is decidedly hopeful; he shows no sign, indeed, but you can see that he is not the same man as he was at this place in the last race. He feels that to-day the boat is full of life, and that he can call on his crew with hopes of an answer. His well-trained eye also detects that, while both crews are at full stretch, his own, instead of losing, as it did on the last night, is now gaining inch by inch on Oriel. The gain is scarcely perceptible to him even; from the bank it is quite imperceptible; but there it is; he is surer and surer of it, as one after another the willows are left behind. And now comes the pinch. The Oriel captain is beginning to be conscious of the fact which has been dawning on Miller, but will not acknowledge it to himself, and as his coxswain turns the boat's head gently across the stream, and makes for the Berkshire side and the goal, now full in view, he smiles grimly as he quickens his stroke; he will shake off these light heeled gentry yet, as he did before. Miller sees the move in a moment, and signals his captain, and the next stroke St. Ambrose has quickened also; and now there is no mistake about it, St. Ambrose is creeping up slowly but surely. The boat's length lessens to forty feet, thirty feet; surely and steadily lessens. But the race is not lost yet; thirty feet is a short space enough to look at on the water, but a good bit to pick up foot by foot in the last two or three hundred yards of a desperate struggle. They are over, under the Berkshire side now and there stands up the winning-post, close ahead, all but won. The distance lessens, and lessens still, but the Oriel crew stick steadily and gallantly to their work, and will fight every inch of distance to the last. The Oriel men on the bank who are rushing along sometimes in the water, sometimes out, hoarse, furious, madly alternating between hope and despair, have no reason to be ashamed of a man in the crew. Off the mouth of the Cherwell there is still twenty feet between them. Another minute and it will be over one way or another. Every man in both crews is now doing his best, and no mistake; tell me which boat holds the most men who can do better than their best at a pinch, who will risk a broken blood-vessel, and I will tell you how it will end. "Hard pounding, gentlemen; let's see who will pound longest," the Duke is reported to have said at Waterloo, and won. "Now, Tommy, lad, 'tis thou or I," Big Ben said as he came up to the last round of his hardest fight, and won. Is there a man of that temper in either crew tonight? If so, now's his time. For both coxswains have called on their men for the last effort; Miller is whirling the tassel of his right-hand tiller rope round his head, like a wiry little lunatic; from the towing path, from Christchurch meadow, from the row of punts, from the clustered tops of the barges, comes a roar of encouragement and applause, and the band, unable to resist the impulse, breaks with a crash into the "Jolly Young Watermen," playing two bars to the second. A bump in the Gut is nothing--a few partisans on the towing-path to cheer you, already out of breath; but up here at the very finish, with all Oxford looking on, when the prize is the headship of the river--once in a generation only do men get such a chance. Who ever saw Jervis not up to his work? The St. Ambrose stroke is glorious. Tom had an atom of go still left in the very back of his head, and at this moment he heard Drysdale's view holloa above all the din; it seemed to give him a lift, and other men besides in the boat, for in another six strokes the gap is lessened and St. Ambrose has crept up to ten feet, and now to five from the stern of Oriel. Weeks afterwards Hardy confided to Tom that when he heard that view holloa he seemed to feel the muscles of his arms and legs turn into steel, and did more work in the last twenty strokes than in any other forty in the earlier part of the race. Another fifty yards and Oriel is safe, but the look on the captain's face is so ominous that their coxswain glances over his shoulder. The bow of St. Ambrose is within two feet of their rudder. It is a moment for desperate expedients. He pulls his left tiller rope suddenly, thereby carrying the stern of his own boat out of the line of the St. Ambrose, and calls on his crew once more; they respond gallantly yet, but the rudder is against them for a moment, and the boat drags. St. Ambrose overlaps. "A bump, a bump," shout the St. Ambrosians on shore. "Row on, row on," screams Miller. He has not yet felt the electric shock, and knows he will miss his bump if the young ones slacken for a moment. A young coxswain would have gone on making shots at the stern of the Oriel boat, and so have lost. A bump now and no mistake; the bow of the St. Ambrose boat jams the oar of the Oriel stroke, and the two boats pass the winning-post with the way that was on them when the bump was made. So near a shave was it. Who can describe the scene on the bank? It was a hurly-burly of delirious joy, in the midst of which took place a terrific combat between Jack and the Oriel dog--a noble black bull terrier belonging to the college in general, and no one in particular--who always attended the races and felt the misfortune keenly. Luckily they were parted without worse things happening; for though the Oriel men were savage, and not disinclined for a jostle, the milk of human kindness was too strong for the moment in their adversaries. So Jack was choked off with some trouble, and the Oriel men extricated themselves from the crowd, carrying off Crib, their dog, and looking straight before them into vacancy. "Well rowed, boys," says Jervis, turning round to his crew as they lay panting on their oars. "Well rowed; five," says Miller, who even in the hour of such a triumph is not inclined to be general in laudation. "Well rowed, five," is echoed from the bank; it is that cunning man, the recruiting-sergeant. "_Fatally_ well rowed," he adds to a comrade, with whom he gets into one of the punts to cross to Christchurch meadow; "we must have him in the University crew." "I don't think you'll get him to row, from what I hear," answers the other. "Then he must he handcuffed and carried into the boat by force," says the O. U. B. coxswain; "why is not the press-gang an institution in this university?" CHAPTER XV--A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS Certainly Drysdale's character came out well that night. He did not seem the least jealous of the success which had been achieved through his dismissal. On the contrary, there was no man in the college who showed more interest in the race, or joy at the result, then he. Perhaps the pleasure of being out of it himself may have reckoned for something with him. In any case, there he was at the door with Jack, to meet the crew as they landed after the race, with a large pewter, foaming with shandygaff, in each hand, for their recreation. Draco himself could not have forbidden them to drink at that moment; so, amidst shaking of hands and clapping on the back, the pewters travelled round from stroke to bow, and then the crew went off to their dressing-room, accompanied by Drysdale and others. "Bravo! it was the finest race that has been seen on the river this six years; everybody says so. You fellows have deserved well of your country. I've sent up to college to have supper in my room, and you must all come. Hang training! there are only two more nights, and you're safe to keep your place. What do you say Captain? eh, Miller? Now be good-natured for once." "Well, we don't get head of the river every night," said Miller. "I don't object if you'll all turn out and go to bed at eleven." "That's all right," said Drysdale; "and now let's go to the old 'Choughs' and have a glass of ale while supper is getting ready. Eh, Brown?" and he hooked his arm into Tom's and led the way into the town. "I'm so sorry you were not in it for the finish," said Tom, who was quite touched by his friend's good-humour. "Are you?" said Drysdale; "it's more than I am, then, I can tell you. If you could have seen yourself under the willows, you wouldn't have thought yourself much of an object of envy. Jack and I were quite satisfied with our share of work and glory on the bank. Weren't we, old fellow?" at which salutation Jack reared himself on his hind legs and licked his master's hand. "Well, you're a real good fellow for taking it as you do. I don't think I could have come near the river if I had been you." "I take everything as it comes," said Drysdale. "The next race is on Derby day, and I couldn't have gone if I hadn't been turned out of the boat; that's a compensation, you see. Here we are. I wonder if Miss Patty has heard of the victory?" They turned down the little passage entrance of "The Choughs" as he spoke, followed by most of the crew, and by a tail of younger St. Ambrosians, their admirers, and the bar was crowded the next moment. Patty was there, of course, and her services were in great requisition; for though each of the crew only took a small glass of the old ale, they made as much fuss about it with the pretty barmaid as if they were drinking hogsheads. In fact, it had become clearly the correct thing with the St. Ambrosians to make much of Patty; and, considering the circumstances, it was only a wonder that she was not more spoiled than seemed to be the case. Indeed, as Hardy stood up in the corner opposite to the landlady's chair, a silent onlooker at the scene, he couldn't help admitting to himself that the girl held her own well, without doing or saying anything unbecoming a modest woman. And it was a hard thing for him to be fair to her, for what he saw now in a few minutes confirmed the impression which his former visit had left on his mind--that his friend was safe in her toils; how deeply, of course he could not judge, but that there was more between them than he could approve was now clear enough to him, and he stood silent, leaning against the wall in that farthest corner, in the shadow of a projecting cupboard, much distressed in mind, and pondering over what it behove him to do under the circumstances. With the exception of a civil sentence or two to the old landlady who sat opposite him knitting, and casting rather uneasy looks from time to time towards the front of the bar, he spoke to no one. In fact, nobody came near that end of the room, and their existence seemed to have been forgotten by the rest. Tom had been a little uncomfortable for the first minute; but after seeing Hardy take his glass of ale, and then missing him, he forgot all about him, and was too busy with his own affairs to trouble himself further. He had become a sort of drawer, or barman, at "The Cloughs," and presided, under Patty, over the distribution of the ale, giving an eye to his chief to see that she was not put upon. Drysdale and Jack left after a short stay, to see that the supper was being properly prepared. Soon afterwards Patty went off out of the bar in answer to some bell which called her to another part of the house; and the St. Ambrosians voted that it was time to go off to college to supper, and cleared out into the street. Tom went out with the last batch of them, but lingered a moment in the passage outside. He knew the house and its ways well enough by this time. The next moment Patty appeared from a side door, which led to another part of the house. "So you're not going to stay and play a game with aunt," she said; "what makes you in such a hurry?" "I must go up to college; there's a supper to celebrate our getting head of the river." Patty looked down and pouted a little. Tom took her hand, and said sentimentally, "Don't be cross, now; you know that I would sooner stay here, don't you?" She tossed her head, and pulled away her hand, and then changing the subject, said, "Who's that ugly old fellow who was here again to-night?" "There was no one older than Miller, and he is rather an admirer of yours. I shall tell him you called him ugly." "Oh, I don't mean Mr. Miller; you know that well enough," she answered. "I mean him in the old rough coat, who don't talk to anyone." "Ugly old fellow, Patty? Why, you mean Hardy. He's a great friend of mine, and you must like him for my sake." "I'm sure I won't. I don't like him a bit; he looks so cross at me." "It's all your fancy. There now, good-night." "You shan't go, however, till you've given me that handkerchief. You promised it me if you got head of the river." "Oh! you little story-teller. Why, they are my college colors. I wouldn't part with them for worlds. I'll give you a lock of my hair, and the prettiest handkerchief you can find in Oxford; but not this." "But I _will_ have it and you _did_ promise me it," she said, and put up her hands suddenly, and untied the bow of Tom's neck-handkerchief. He caught her wrists in his hands, and looked down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little pique at his going, he saw other things which stirred in him strange feelings of triumph and tenderness. "Well, then you shall pay for it, anyhow," he said.--Why, need I tell what followed?--There was a little struggle; a "Go along, do, Mr. Brown;" and the next minute Tom minus his handkerchief, was hurrying after his companions; and Patty was watching him from the door, and setting her cap to rights. Then she turned and went back into the bar, and started, and turned red, as she saw Hardy there, still standing in the further corner, opposite her aunt. He finished his glass of ale as she came in, and then passed out wishing them "Good-night." "Why aunt" she said, "I thought they were all gone. Who was that sour-looking man?" "He seems a nice quiet gentleman, my dear," said the old lady, looking up. "I'm sure he's much better than those ones as make so much racket in the bar. But where have you been, Patty?" "Oh, to the commercial room, aunt. Won't you have a game at cribbage?" and Patty took up the cards and set the board out, the old lady looking at her doubtfully all the time through her spectacles. She was beginning to wish that the college gentlemen wouldn't come so much to the house, though they were very good customers. Tom, minus his handkerchief, hurried after his comrades, and caught them up before they got to college. They were all there but Hardy, whose absence vexed our hero for a moment; he had hoped that Hardy, now that he was in the boat, would have shaken off all his reserve towards the other men, and blamed him because he had not done so at once. There could be no reason for it but his own oddness he thought, for everyone was full of his praises as they strolled on talking of the race. Miller praised his style, and time, and pluck. "Didn't you feel how the boat sprung when I called on you at the Cherwell?" he said to the Captain. "Drysdale was always dead beat at the Gut, and just like a log in the boat, pretty much like some of the rest of you." "He's in such good training, too," said Diogenes; "I shall find out how he diets himself." "We've pretty well done with that, I should hope," said No. 6. "There are only two more nights, and nothing can touch us now." "Don't be too sure of that," said Miller. "Mind now, all of you, don't let us have any nonsense till the races are over and we are all safe." And so they talked on till they reached college, and then dispersed to their rooms to wash and dress and met again in Drysdale's rooms, where supper was awaiting them. Again Hardy did not appear. Drysdale sent a scout to his rooms, who brought back word that he could not find him; so Drysdale set to work to do the honors of his table and enjoyed the pleasure of tempting the crew with all sorts of forbidden hot liquors, which he and the rest of the non professionals imbibed freely. But with Miller's eye on them, and the example of Diogenes and the Captain before them, the rest of the crew exercised an abstemiousness which would have been admirable, had it not been in a great measure compulsory. It was a great success, this supper at Drysdale's, although knocked up at an hour's notice. The triumph of their boat, had, for the time, the effect of warming up and drawing out the feeling of fellowship, which is the soul of college life. Though only a few men besides the crew sat down to supper, long before it was cleared away men of every set in the college came in, in the highest spirits, and the room was crowded. For Drysdale sent round to every man in the college with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, and they flocked in and sat where they could, and men talked and laughed with neighbors, with whom, perhaps, they had never exchanged a word since the time when they were freshmen together. Of course there were speeches, cheered to the echo, and songs, of which the choruses might have been heard in the High-street. At a little before eleven, nevertheless, despite the protestations of Drysdale, and the passive resistance of several of their number, Miller carried off the crew, and many of the other guests went at the same time, leaving their host and a small circle to make a night of it. Tom went to his room in high spirits, humming the air of one of the songs he had just heard; but he had scarcely thrown his gown on a chair when a thought struck him, and he ran down stairs again and across to Hardy's rooms. Hardy was sitting with some cold tea poured out, but untasted, before him, and no books open--a very unusual thing with him at night. But Tom either did not or would not notice that there was anything unusual. He seated himself and began gossiping away as fast as he could, without looking much at the other. He began by recounting all the complimentary things which had been said by Miller and others of Hardy's pulling. Then he went on to the supper party; what a jolly evening they had had; he did not remember anything so pleasant since he had been up, and he retailed the speeches, and named the best songs. "You really ought to have been there. Why didn't you come? Drysdale sent over for you. I'm sure every one wished you had been there. Didn't you get his message?" "I didn't feel up to going," said Hardy. "There's nothing the matter, eh?" said Tom, as the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Hardy had hurt himself in the race, as he had not been regularly training. "No, nothing," answered the other. Tom tried to make play again, but soon came to an end of his talk. It was impossible to make head against that cold silence. At last he stopped, looked at Hardy for a minute, who was staring abstractedly at the sword over his mantel-piece, and then said,-- "There _is_ something the matter, though. Don't sit glowering as if you had swallowed a furze bush. Why you haven't been smoking, old boy?" he added, getting up and putting his hand on the others shoulder. "I see that's it. Here, take one of my weeds, they're mild. Miller allows two of these a day." "No, thank'ee," said Hardy, rousing himself; "Miller hasn't interfered with my smoking, and I _will_ have a pipe, for I think I want it." "Well, I don't see that it does you any good," said Tom, after watching him fill and light, and smoke for some minutes without saying a word. "Here, I've managed the one thing I had at heart. You are in the crew, and we are head of the river, and everybody is praising your rowing up to the skies, and saying that the bump was all your doing. And here I come to tell you, and not a word can I get out of you. Ain't you pleased? Do you think we shall keep our place?" He paused a moment. "Hang it all, I say," he added, losing all patience; "swear a little if you can't do anything else. Let's hear your voice; it isn't such a tender one that you need keep it all shut up." "Well," said Hardy, making a great effort; "the real fact is I _have_ something, and something very serious to say to you." "Then I'm not going to listen to it," broke in Tom; "I'm not serious, and I won't be serious, and no one shall make me serious to-night. It's no use, so don't look glum. But isn't the ale at 'The Choughs' good? and isn't it a dear little place?" "It's that place I want to talk to you about," said Hardy, turning his chair suddenly so as to front his visitor. "Now, Brown, we haven't known one another long, but I think I understand you, and I know I like you, and I hope you like me." "Well, well, well," broke in Tom, "of course I like you, old fellow, or else I shouldn't come poking after you, and wasting so much of your time, and sitting on your cursed hard chairs in the middle of the races. What has liking to do with 'The Choughs,' or 'The Choughs' with long faces? You ought to have had another glass of ale there." "I wish you had never had a glass of ale there," said Hardy, bolting out his words as if they were red hot. "Brown you have no right to go to that place." "Why?" said Tom, sitting up in his chair and beginning to be nettled. "You know why," said Hardy, looking him full in the face, and puffing out huge volumes of smoke. In spite of the bluntness of the attack, there was a yearning look which spread over the rugged brow, and shone out of the deep set eyes of the speaker, which almost conquered Tom. But first pride, and then the consciousness of what was coming next, which began to dawn on him, rose in his heart. It was all he could do to meet that look full, but he managed it, though he flushed to the roots of his hair, as he simply repeated through his set teeth, "Why?" "I say again," said Hardy, "you know why." "I see what you mean," said Tom, slowly; "as you say, we have not known one another long; long enough, though, I should have thought, for you to have been more charitable. Why am I not to go to 'The Cloughs'? Because there happens to be a pretty bar maid there? All our crew go, and twenty other men besides." "Yes; but do any of them go in the sort of way you do? Does she look at anyone of them as she does at you?" "How do I know?" "That's not fair, or true, or like you, Brown," said Hardy, getting up and beginning to walk up and down the room. "You _do_ know that that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go there. You _do_ know that she is beginning to care for you." "You seem to know a great deal about it," said Tom; "I don't believe you were ever there before two days ago." "No, I never was." "Then I think you needn't be quite so quick at finding fault. If there were anything I didn't wish you to see, do you think I should have taken you there? I tell you she is quite able to take care of herself." "So I believe," said Hardy; "if she were a mere giddy, light girl, setting her cap at every man who came in, it wouldn't matter so much--for her at any rate. She can take care of herself well enough so far as the rest are concerned, but you know it isn't so with you. You know it now, Brown; tell the truth; anyone with half an eye can see it." "You seem to have made pretty good use of your eyes in these two nights, anyhow," said Tom. "I don't mind your sneers, Brown," said Hardy as he tramped up and down with his arms locked behind him; "I have taken on myself to speak to you about this; I should be no true friend if I shirked it. I'm four years older than you, and have seen more of the world and of this place than you. You sha'n't go on with this folly, this sin, for want of warning." "So it seems," said Tom doggedly. "Now I think I've had warning enough; suppose we drop the subject." Hardy stopped his walk, and turned on Tom with a look of anger. "Not yet," he said, firmly; "you know best how and why you have done it, but you know that somehow or other you have made that girl like you." "Suppose I have, what then; whose business is that but mine and hers?" "It's the business of everyone who won't stand by and see the devil's game played under his nose if he can hinder it." "What right have you to talk about the devil's game to me?" said Tom. "I'll tell you what; if you and I are to keep friends we had better drop this subject." "If we are to keep friends we must go to the bottom of it. There are only two endings to this sort of business and you know it as well as I." "A right and wrong one, eh? and because you call me your friend you assume that my end will be the wrong one." "I do call you my friend, and I say the end must be the wrong one here. There's no right end. Think of your family. You don't mean to say--you dare not tell me, that you will marry her?" "I _dare_ not tell you!" said Tom, starting up in his turn; "I dare tell you or any man anything I please. But I won't tell you or any man anything on compulsion." "I repeat," went on Hardy, "you _dare_ not say you mean to marry her. You don't mean it--and, as you don't, to kiss her as you did to-night--" "So you were sneaking behind to watch me!" burst out Tom, chafing with rage, and glad to find any handle for a quarrel. The two men stood fronting one another, the younger writhing with the sense of shame and outraged pride, and longing for a fierce answer--a blow--anything, to give vent to the furies which were tearing him. But at the end of a few seconds the elder answered, calmly and slowly,-- "I will not take those words from any man; you had better leave my rooms." "If I do, I shall not come back till you have altered your opinions." "You need not come back till you have altered yours." The next moment Tom was in the passage; the next, striding up and down the side of the inner quadrangle in the pale moonlight. Poor fellow! it was no pleasant walking ground for him. Is it worth our while to follow him up and down in his tramp? We have most of us walked the like marches at one time or another of our lives. The memory of them is by no means one which we can dwell on with pleasure. Times they were of blinding and driving storm, and howling winds, out of which voices as of evil spirits spoke close in our ears--tauntingly, temptingly, whispering to the mischievous wild beast which lurks in the bottom of all our hearts, now, "Rouse up! art thou a man and darest not do this thing?" now, "Rise, kill and eat--it is thine, wilt thou not take it? Shall the flimsy scruples of this teacher, or the sanctified cant of that, bar thy way, and balk thee of thine own? Thou hast strength to brave them--to brave all things in earth, or heaven, or hell; put out thy strength and be a man!" Then did not the wild beast within us shake itself, and feel its power, sweeping away all the "Thou shalt not's" which the law wrote up before us in letters of fire, with the "_I will_" of hardy, godless, self-assertion? And all the while--which alone made the storm really dreadful to us--was there not the still small voice--never to be altogether silenced by the roarings of the tempest of passion, by the evil voices, by our own violent attempts to stifle it--the still small voice appealing to the man, the true man, within us, which is made in the image of God--calling on him to assert his dominion over the wild beast--to obey, and conquer, and live? Ay! and though we may have followed the other voices, have we not, while following them, confessed in our hearts, that all true strength, and nobleness, and manliness, was to be found in the other path? Do I say that most of us have had to tread this path, and fight this battle? Surely I might have said all of us; all, at least, who have passed the bright days of their boyhood. The clear and keen intellect no less than the dull and heavy; the weak, the cold, the nervous, no less than the strong and passionate of body. The arms and the field have been divers; can have been the same, I suppose, to no two men, but the battle must have been the same to all. One here and there may have had a foretaste of it as a boy; but it is the young man's battle, and not the boy's, thank God for it! That most hateful and fearful of all realities, call it by what name we will--self, the natural man, the old Adam--must have risen up before each of us in early manhood, if not sooner, challenging the true man within us to which the Spirit of God is speaking, to a struggle for life or death. Gird yourself, then, for the fight, my young brother, and take up the pledge which was made for you when you were a helpless child. This world, and all others, time and eternity, for you hang upon the issue. This enemy must be met and vanquished--not finally, for no man while on earth I suppose, can say that he is slain; but, when once known and recognized, met and vanquished he must be, by God's help in this and that encounter, before you can be truly called a man; before you can really enjoy any one even of this world's good things. This strife was no light one for our hero on the night in his life at which we have arrived. The quiet sky overhead, the quiet solemn old buildings, under the shadow of which he stood, brought him no peace. He fled from them into his own rooms; he lighted his candles and tried to read, and force the whole matter from his thoughts; but it was useless; back it came again and again. The more impatient of its presence he became, the less could he shake it off. Some decision he must make; what should it be? He could have no peace till it was taken. The veil had been drawn aside thoroughly, and once for all. Twice he was on the point of returning to Hardy's rooms to thank him, confess, and consult; but the tide rolled back again. As the truth of the warning sank deeper and deeper into him, the irritation against him who had uttered it grew also. He could not and would not be fair yet. It is no easy thing for anyone of us to put the whole burden of any folly or sin on our own backs all at once. "If he had done it in any other way," thought Tom, "I might have thanked him." Another effort to shake off the whole question. Down into the quadrangle again; lights in Drysdale's rooms. He goes up, and finds the remains of the supper, tankards full of egg-flip and cardinal, and a party playing at _vingt-un_. He drinks freely, careless of training or boat-racing, anxious only to drown thought. He sits down to play. The boisterous talk of some, the eager keen looks of others, jar on him equally. One minute he is absent, the next boisterous, then irritable, then moody. A college card-party is no place to-night for him. He loses his money, is disgusted at last, and gets to his own rooms by midnight; goes to bed feverish, dissatisfied with himself, with all the world. The inexorable question pursues him even into the strange helpless land of dreams, demanding a decision, when he has no longer power of will to choose either good or evil. But how fared it all this time with the physician? Alas! little better than with his patient. His was the deeper and more sensitive nature. Keenly conscious of his own position, he had always avoided any but the most formal intercourse with the men in his college whom he would have liked most to live with. This was the first friendship he had made amongst them, and he valued it accordingly; and now it seemed to lie at his feet in hopeless fragments, and cast down too by his own hand. Bitterly he blamed himself over and over again, as he recalled every word that had passed--not for having spoken--that he felt had been a sacred duty--but for the harshness and suddenness with which he seemed to himself to have done it. "One touch of gentleness or sympathy, and I might have won him. As it was, how could he have met me otherwise than he did--hard word for hard word, hasty answer for proud reproof? Can I go to him and recall it all? No! I can't trust myself; I shall only make matters worse. Besides, he may think that the servitor--Ah! am I there again? The old sore, self, self, self! I nurse my own pride; I value it more than my friend; and yet--no, no! I cannot go, though I think I could die for him. The sin, if sin there must be, be on my head. Would to God I could bear the sting of it! But there will be none--how can I fear? he is too true, too manly. Rough and brutal as my words have been, they have shown him the gulf. He will, he must escape it. But will he ever come back to me? I care not, so he escape." How can my poor words follow the strong loving man in the wrestlings of his spirit, till far on in the quiet night he laid the whole before the Lord and slept! Yes, my brother, even so: the old, old story; but start not at the phrase, though you may never have found its meaning--He laid the whole before the Lord in prayer, for his friend, for himself, for the whole world. And you, too, if ever you are tried as he was--as every man must be in one way or another--must learn to do the like with every burthen on your soul, if you would not have it hanging round you heavily, and ever more heavily, and dragging you down lower and lower till your dying day. CHAPTER XVI--THE STORM RAGES Hardy was early in the chapel the next morning. It was his week for pricking in. Every man who entered--from the early men who strolled in quietly while the bell was still ringing, to the hurrying, half-dressed loiterers who crushed in as the porter was closing the doors, and disturbed the congregation in the middle of the confession--gave him a turn (as the expressive phrase is), and every turn only ended in disappointment. He put by his list at last, when the doors were fairly shut, with a sigh. He had half expected to see Tom come into morning chapel with a face from which he might have gathered hope that his friend had taken the right path. But Tom did not come at all, and Hardy felt it was a bad sign. They did not meet till the evening, at the river, when the boat went down for a steady pull, and then Hardy saw at once that all was going wrong. Neither spoke to or looked at the other. Hardy expected some one to remark it, but nobody did. After the pull they walked up, and Tom as usual led the way, as if nothing had happened, into "The Choughs." Hardy paused for a moment, and then went in too, and stayed till the rest of the crew left. Tom deliberately stayed after them all. Hardy turned for a moment as he was leaving the bar, and saw him settling himself down in his chair with an air of defiance, meant evidently for him, which would have made most men angry. He was irritated for a moment, and then was filled with ruth for the poor wrong-headed youngster who was heaping up coals of fire for his own head. In his momentary anger Hardy said to himself, "Well, I have done what I can; now he must go his own way;" but such a thought was soon kicked in disgrace from his noble and well-disciplined mind. He resolved, that, let it cost what it might in the shape of loss of time and trial of temper, he would leave no stone unturned, and spare no pains, to deliver his friend of yesterday from the slough into which he was plunging. How he might best work for this end occupied his thoughts as he walked towards college. Tom sat on at "The Choughs," glorifying himself in the thought that now, at any rate, he had shown Hardy that he wasn't to be dragooned into doing or not doing anything. He had had a bad time of it all day, and his good angel had fought hard for victory; but self-will was too strong for the time. When he stayed behind the rest, it was more out of bravado than from any defined purpose of pursuing what he tried to persuade himself was an innocent flirtation. When he left the house some hours after he was deeper in the toils than ever, and dark clouds were gathering over his heart. From that time he was an altered man, and altering as rapidly for the worse in body as in mind. Hardy saw the change in both, and groaned over it in secret. Miller's quick eye detected the bodily change. After the next race he drew Tom aside, and said,-- "Why, Brown, what's the matter? What have you been about? You're breaking down. Hold on, man; there's only one more night." "Never fear," said Tom, proudly, "I shall last it out." And in the last race he did his work again, though it cost him more than all the preceding ones put together, and when he got out of the boat he could scarcely walk or see. He felt a fierce kind of joy in his own distress, and wished that there were more races to come. But Miller, as he walked up arm-in-arm with the Captain, took a different view of the subject. "Well, it's all right, you see," said the Captain; "but we're not a boat's length better than Oriel over the course after all. How was it we bumped them? If anything, they drew a-little on us to-night." "Ay, half a boat's length, I should say," answered Miller. "I'm uncommonly glad it's over; Brown is going all to pieces; he wouldn't stand another race, and we haven't a man to put in his place." "It's odd, too," said the Captain; "I put him down as a laster, and he has trained well. Perhaps he has overdone it a little. However, it don't matter now." So the races were over; and that night a great supper was held in St. Ambrose Hall, to which were bidden, and came, the crews of all the boats from Exeter upwards. The Dean, with many misgivings and cautions, had allowed the hall to be used, on pressure from Miller and Jervis. Miller was a bachelor and had taken a good degree, and Jervis bore a high character and was expected to do well in the schools. So the poor Dean gave in to them, extracting many promises in exchange for his permission, and flitted uneasily about all the evening in his cap and gown, instead of working on at his edition of the Fathers, which occupied every minute of his leisure, and was making an old man of him before his time. From eight to eleven the fine old pointed windows of St. Ambrose Hall blazed with light, and the choruses of songs, and the cheers which followed the short intervals of silence which the speeches made, rang out over the quadrangles, and made the poor Dean amble about in a state of nervous bewilderment. Inside there was hearty feasting, such as had not been seen there, for aught I know, since the day when the king came back to "enjoy his own again." The one old cup, relic of the Middle Ages, which had survived the civil wars,--St. Ambrose's had been a right loyal college, and the plate had gone without a murmur into Charles the First's war-chest,--went round and round; and rival crews pledged one another out of it, and the massive tankards of a later day, in all good faith and good fellowship. Mailed knights, grave bishops, royal persons of either sex, and "other our benefactors," looked down on the scene from their heavy gilded frames, and, let us hope, not unkindly. All passed off well and quietly; the out-college men were gone, the lights were out, and the butler had locked the hall door by a quarter past eleven, and the Dean returned in peace to his own rooms. Had Tom been told a week before that he would not have enjoyed that night, that it would not have been amongst the happiest and proudest of his life, he would have set his informer down as a madman. As it was, he never once rose to the spirit of the feast, and wished it all over a dozen times. He deserved not to enjoy it; but not so Hardy, who was nevertheless almost as much out of tune as Tom; though the University coxswain had singled him out, named him in his speech, sat by him and talked to him for a quarter of an hour, and asked him to go to the Henley and Thames regattas in the Oxford crew. The next evening, as usual, Tom found himself at "The Choughs" with half a dozen others. Patty was in the bar by herself, looking prettier than ever. One by one the rest of the men dropped off, the last saying, "Are you coming, Brown?" and being answered in the negative. He sat still, watching Patty as she flitted about, washing up the ale glasses and putting them on their shelves, and getting out her work basket; and then she came and sat down in her aunt's chair opposite him, and began stitching away demurely at an apron she was making. Then he broke silence,-- "Where's your aunt to-night, Patty?" "Oh, she has gone away for a few days, for a visit to some friends." "You and I will keep house, then, together; you shall teach me all the tricks of the trade. I shall make a famous barman, don't you think?" "You must learn to behave better, then. But I promised aunt to shut up at nine; so you must go when it strikes. Now promise me you will go." "Go at nine! what, in half an hour? The first evening I have ever had a chance of spending alone with you; do you think it likely?" and he looked into her eyes. She turned away with a slight shiver, and a deep blush. His nervous system had been so unusually excited in the last few days, that he seemed to know everything that was passing in her mind. He took her hand. "Why, Patty, you're not afraid of me, surely?" he said, gently. "No, not when you're like you are now. But you frightened me just this minute. I never saw you look so before. Has anything happened to you?" "No, nothing. Now then, we're going to have a jolly evening, and play Darby and Joan together," he said, turning away, and going to the bar window; "shall I shut up, Patty?" "No, it isn't nine yet; somebody may come in." "That's just why I mean to put the shutters up; I don't want anybody." "Yes, but I do, though. Now I declare, Mr. Brown, if you go on shutting up, I'll run into the kitchen and sit with Dick." "Why will you call me 'Mr. Brown'?" "Why, what should I call you?" "Tom, of course." "Oh, I never! one would think you was my brother," said Patty, looking up with a pretty pertness which she had a most bewitching way of putting on. Tom's rejoinder, and the little squabble which they had afterward about where her work-table should stand, and other such matters, may be passed over. At last he was brought to reason, and to anchor opposite his enchantress, the work-table between them; and he sat leaning back in his chair and watching her, as she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes. He was in no hurry to break the silence. The position was particularly fascinating to him, for he had scarcely ever yet had a good look at her before, without fear of attracting attention, or being interrupted. At last he roused himself. "Any of our men been here to-day, Patty?" he said, sitting up. "There now, I've won," she laughed; "I said to myself I wouldn't speak first, and I haven't. What a time you were. I thought you would never begin." "You're a little goose! Now I begin then; who've been here to-day?" "Of your college? let me see;" and she looked away across to the bar window, pricking her needle into the table. "There was Mr. Drysdale and some others called for a glass of ale as they passed, going out driving. Then there was Mr. Smith and them from the boats about four, and that ugly one--I can't mind his name--" "What, Hardy?" "Yes, that's it; he was here about half-past six, and--" "What, Hardy here after hall?" interrupted Tom, utterly astonished. "Yes, after your dinner up at college. He's been here two or three times lately." "The deuce he has!" "Yes, and he talks so pleasant to aunt, too. I'm sure he is a very nice gentleman, after all. He sat and talked tonight for half an hour, I should think." "What did he talk about?" said Tom, with a sneer. "Oh, he asked me whether I had a mother, and where I came from, and all about my bringing up, and made me feel quite pleasant. He is so nice and quiet and respectful, not like most of you. I'm going to like him very much, as you told me." "I don't tell you so now." "But you did say he was your great friend." "Well, he isn't that now." "What, have you quarreled?" "Yes." "Dear; dear; how odd you gentlemen are!" "Why, it isn't a very odd thing for men to quarrel, is it?" "No, not in the public room. They're always quarreling there, over their drink and the bagatelle-board; and Dick has to turn them out. But gentlemen ought to know better." "They don't, you see, Patty." "But what did you quarrel about?" "Guess." "How can I guess? What was it about?" "About you." "About me!" she said, looking up from her work in wonder. "How could you quarrel about me?" "Well, I'll tell you; he said I had no right to come here. You won't like him after that, will you Patty?" "I don't know, I'm sure," said Patty, going on with her work, and looking troubled. They sat still for some minutes. Evil thoughts crowded into Tom's head. He was in the humor for thinking evil thoughts, and, putting the worst construction on Hardy's visits, fancied he came there as his rival. He did not trust himself to speak till he had mastered his precious discovery, and put it away in the back of his heart, and weighed it down there with a good covering of hatred and revenge, to be brought out as occasion should serve. He was plunging down rapidly enough now; but he had new motives for making the most of his time, and never played his cards better or made more progress. When a man sits down to such a game, the devil will take good care he sha'n't want cunning or strength. It was ten o'clock instead of nine before he left, which he did with a feeling of triumph. Poor Patty remained behind, and shut up the bar, her heart in a flutter, and her hands shaking, while Dick was locking the front door. She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry; she felt the change which had come over him, and was half fascinated and half repelled by it. Tom walked quickly back to college, in a mood which I do not care to describe. The only one of his thoughts which my readers need be troubled with, put itself into some such words as these in his head:--"So, it's Abingdon fair next Thursday, and she has half-promised to go with me. I know I can make it certain. Who'll be going besides? Drysdale, I'll be bound. I'll go and see him." On entering college he went straight to Drysdale's rooms, and drank deeply, and played high into the short hours of the night, but found no opportunity of speaking. Deeper and deeper yet for the next few days, downwards and ever faster downwards he plunged, the light getting fainter and ever fainter above his head. Little good can come of dwelling on those days. He left off pulling, shunned his old friends, and lived with the very worst men he knew in college, who were ready enough to let him share all their brutal orgies. Drysdale, who was often present, wondered at the change, which he saw plainly enough. He was sorry for it in his way, but it was no business of his. He began to think that Brown was a good enough fellow before, but would make a devilish disagreeable one if he was going to turn fast man. At "The Choughs" all went on as if the downward path knew how to make itself smooth. Now that the races were over, and so many other attractions were going on in Oxford, very few men came in to interfere with him. He was scarcely ever away from Patty's side, in the evenings while her aunt was absent, and gained more and more power over her. He might have had some compassion, but that he was spurred on by hearing how Hardy haunted the place now, at times when he could not be there. He felt that there was an influence struggling with his in the girl's mind; he laid it to Hardy's door, and imputed it still more and more to motives as base as his own. But Abingdon fair was coming on Thursday. When he left "The Choughs" on Tuesday night, he had extracted a promise from Patty to accompany him there, and had arranged their place of meeting. All that remained to be done was to see if Drysdale was going. Somehow he felt a disinclination to go alone with Patty. Drysdale was the only man of those he was now living with to whom he felt the least attraction. In a vague way he clung to him; and though he never faced the thought of what he was about fairly, yet it passed through his mind that even in Drysdale's company he would be safer than if alone. It was all pitiless, blind, wild work, without rudder or compass; the wish that nothing very bad might come out of it all, however, came up in spite of him now and again, and he looked to Drysdale, and longed to become even as he. Drysdale was going. He was very reserved on the subject, but at last confessed that he was not going alone. Tom persisted. Drysdale was too lazy and careless to keep anything from a man who was bent on knowing it. In the end it was arranged that he should drive Tom out the next afternoon. He did so. They stopped at a small public house some two miles out of Oxford. The cart was put up, and after carefully scanning the neighborhood they walked quickly to the door of a pretty retired cottage. As they entered, Drysdale said, "By Jove, I thought I caught a glimpse of your friend Hardy at that turn." "Friend! he's no friend of mine." "But didn't you see him?" "No." They reached college again between ten and eleven, and parted, each to his own rooms. To his surprise, Tom found a candle burning on his table. Round the candle was tied a piece of string, at the end of which hung a note. Who ever had put it there had clearly been anxious that he should in no case miss it when he came in. He took it up and saw that it was in Hardy's hand. He paused, and trembled as he stood. Then with an effort he broke the seal and read:-- "I must speak once more. To-morrow it may be too late. If you go to Abingdon fair with her in the company of Drysdale and his mistress, or, I believe, in any company, you will return a scoundrel, and she--; in the name of the honor of your mother and sister, in the name of God, I warn you. May He help you through it. "JOHN HARDY." Here we will drop the curtain for the next hour. At the end of that time, Tom staggered out of his room, down the staircase, across the quadrangle, up Drysdale's staircase. He paused at the door to gather some strength, ran his hands through his hair, and arranged his coat; notwithstanding, when he entered, Drysdale started to his feet, upsetting Jack from his comfortable coil on the sofa. "Why, Brown, you're ill; have some brandy," he said, and went to his cupboard for the bottle. Tom leant his arm on the fireplace; his head on it. The other hung down by his side, and Jack licked it, and he loved the dog as he felt the caress. Then Drysdale came to his side with a glass of brandy, which he took and tossed off as though it had been water. "Thank you," he said, and as Drysdale went back with the bottle, reached a large armchair and sat down in it. "Drysdale, I sha'n't go with you to Abingdon fair to-morrow." "Hullo! what, has the lovely Patty thrown you over?" said Drysdale, turning from the cupboard, and resuming his lounge on the sofa. "No." he sank back into the chair, on the arms of which his elbows rested, and put his hands up before his face, pressing them against his burning temples. Drysdale looked at him hard, but said nothing; and there was a dead silence of a minute or so, broken only by Tom's heavy breathing, which he labored in vain to control. "No," he repeated at last, and the remaining words came out slowly as they were trying to steady themselves, "but, by God, Drysdale I _can't_ take her with you, and that--" a dead pause. "The young lady you met to-night, eh?" Tom nodded, but said nothing. "Well, old fellow," said Drysdale, "now you've made up your mind, I tell you, I'm devilish glad of it. I'm no saint, as you know, but I think it would have been a d--d shame if you had taken her with us." "Thank you," said Tom, and pressed his fingers tighter on his forehead; and he did feel thankful for the words, though coming from such a man, they went into him like coals of fire. Again there was a long pause, Tom sitting as before. Drysdale got up and strolled up and down his room, with his hands in the pockets of his silk-lined lounging coat, taking at each turn a steady look at the other. Presently he stopped, and took his cigar out of his mouth. "I say, Brown," he said, after another minute's contemplation of the figure before him, which bore such an unmistakable impress of wretchedness, that it made him quite uncomfortable, "why don't you cut that concern?" "How do you mean?" said Tom. "Why that 'Choughs' business--I'll be hanged if it won't kill you, or make a devil of you before long, if you go on with it." "It's not far from that now." "So I see--and I'll tell you what, you're not the sort of fellow to go in for this kind of thing. You'd better leave it to cold-blooded brutes, like some we know--I needn't mention names." "I'm awfully wretched, Drysdale; I've been a brute my self to you and everybody of late." "Well, I own I don't like the new side of you. Now make up your mind to cut the whole concern, old fellow," he said, coming up goodnaturedly, and putting his hand on Tom's shoulder, "it's hard to do, I dare say, but you had better make a plunge and get it over. There's wickedness enough going about without your helping to shove another one into it." Tom groaned as he listened, but he felt that the man was trying to help him in his own way, and according to his light, as Drysdale went on expounding his own curious code of morality. When it was ended, he shook Drysdale's hand, and, wishing him good night, went back to his own rooms. The first step upwards towards the light had been made,--for he felt thoroughly humbled before the man on whom he had expended in his own mind so much patronizing pity for the last half year--whom he had been fancying he was influencing for good. During the long hours of the night the scenes of the last few hours, of the last few days, came back to him and burnt into his soul. The gulf yawned before him now plain enough, open at his feet--black, ghastly. He shuddered at it, wondering if he should even yet fall in, felt wildly about for strength to stand firm, to retrace his steps; but found it not. He found not yet the strength he was in search of, but in the grey morning he wrote a short note:-- "I shall not be able to take you to Abingdon fair to-day. You will not see me perhaps for some days. I am not well. "I am very sorry. Don't think that I am changed. Don't be unhappy, or I don't know what I may do." There was no address and no signature to the note. When the gates opened he hurried out of the college and, having left it and a shilling with Dick (whom he found cleaning the yard, and much astonished at his appearance, and who promised to deliver it to Patty with his own hands before eight o'clock), he got back again to his own rooms, went to bed, worn out in mind and body, and slept till mid-day. CHAPTER XVII--NEW GROUND My readers have now been steadily at Oxford for six months without moving. Most people find such a spell of the place without a change quite as much as they care to take; perhaps too, it may do our hero good to let him alone for a little, that he may have time to look steadily into the pit which he has been so near falling down, which is still yawning awkwardly in his path; moreover, the exigencies of a story teller must lead him away from home now and then. Like the rest of us, his family must have change of air, or he has to go off to see a friend properly married, or a connexion buried; to wear white or black gloves with or for some one, carrying such sympathy as he can with him, so that he may come back from every journey, however short, with a wider horizon. Yes; to come back home after every stage of life's journeying with a wider horizon--more in sympathy with men and nature, knowing ever more of the righteous and eternal laws which govern them, and of the righteous and loving will which is above all, and around all, and beneath all--this must be the end and aim of all of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold, and spending time and labor and journey-money on that which profiteth nothing. So now I must ask my readers to forget the old buildings and quadrangles of the fairest of England's cities, the caps and the gowns, the reading and rowing for a short space, and take a flight with me to other scenes and pastures new. The nights are pleasant in May, short and pleasant for travel. We will leave the ancient city asleep, and do our flight in the night to save time. Trust yourself then to the story-teller's aerial machine. It is but a rough affair, I own, rough and humble, unfitted for high or great flights, with no gilded panels or dainty cushions, or C-springs--not that we shall care about springs, by the way, until we alight on terra firma again--still, there is much to be learned in a third-class carriage if we will only not look while in it for cushions and fine panels, and forty miles an hour traveling, and will not be shocked at our fellow passengers for being weak in their h's and smelling of fustian. Mount in it, then, you who will, after this warning; the fares are holiday fares, the tickets return tickets. Take with you nothing but the poet's luggage, "A smile for Hope, a tear for Pain, A breath to swell the voice of Prayer." and may you have a pleasant journey, for it is time that the stoker should be looking to his going gear. So now we rise slowly in the moonlight from St. Ambrose's quadrangle, and, when we are clear of the clock-tower, steer away southwards, over Oxford city and all its sleeping wisdom and folly, over street and past spire, over Christ Church and the canons' houses, and the fountain in Tom quad; over St. Aldate's and the river, along which the moonbeams lie in a pathway of twinkling silver, over the railway sheds--no, there was then no railway, but only the quiet fields and footpaths of Hincksey hamlet. Well, no matter; at any rate, the hills beyond, and Bagley Wood, were there then as now; and over hills and wood we rise, catching the purr of the night-jar, the trill of the nightingale, and the first crow of the earliest cock-pheasant, as he stretches his jewelled wings, conscious of his strength and his beauty, heedless of the fellows of St. John's, who slumber within sight of his perch, on whose hospitable board he shall one day lie, prone on his back, with fair larded breast turned upwards for the carving-knife, having crowed his last crow. He knows it not; what matters it to him? If he knew it, could a Bagley Wood cock-pheasant desire a better ending? We pass over the vale beyond; hall and hamlet, church, and meadow, and copse, folded in mist and shadow below us, each hamlet holding in its bosom the material of three volumed novels by the dozen, if we could only pull off the roofs of the houses and look steadily into the interiors; but our destination is farther yet. The faint white streak behind the distant Chilterns reminds us that we have no time for gossip by the way; May nights are short, and the sun will be up by four. No matter; our journey will now be soon over, for the broad vale is crossed, and the chalk hills and downs beyond. Larks quiver up by us, "higher, ever higher," hastening up to get a first glimpse of the coming monarch, careless of food, flooding the fresh air with song. Steadily plodding rooks labour along below us, and lively starlings rush by on the look-out for the early worm; lark and swallow, rook and starling, each on his appointed round. The sun arises, and they get them to it; he is up now, and these breezy uplands over which we hang are swimming in the light of horizontal rays, though the shadows and mists still lie on the wooded dells which slope away southwards. Here let us bring to, over the village of Englebourn, and try to get acquainted with the outside of the place before the good folk are about, and we have to go down among them and their sayings and doings. The village lies on the southern slopes of the Berkshire hills, on the opposite side to that under which our hero was born. Another soil altogether is here, we remark in the first place. This is no chalk; this high knoll which rises above--one may almost say hangs over--the village, crowned with Scotch firs, its sides tufted with gorse and heather. It is the Hawk's Lynch, the favorite resort of Englebourn folk, who come up for the view, for the air, because their fathers and mothers came up before them, because they came up themselves as children--from an instinct which moves them all in leisure hours and Sunday evenings, when the sun shines and the birds sing, whether they care for view or air or not. Something guides all their feet hitherward; the children, to play hide-and-seek and look for nests in the gorse-bushes; young men and maidens, to saunter and look and talk, as they will till the world's end--or as long, at any rate, as the Hawk's Lynch and Englebourn last--and to cut their initials, enclosed in a true lover's knot, on the short rabbit's turf; steady married couples, to plod along together consulting on hard times and growing families; even old tottering men, who love to sit at the feet of the firs, with chins leaning on their sticks, prattling of days long past, to anyone who will listen, or looking silently with dim eyes into the summer air, feeling perhaps in their spirits after a wider and more peaceful view which will soon open for them. A common knoll, open to all, up in the silent air, well away from every-day Englebourn life, with the Hampshire range and the distant Beacon Hill lying soft on the horizon, and nothing higher between you and the southern sea, what a blessing the Hawk's Lynch is to the village folk, one and all! May Heaven and a thankless soil long preserve it and them from an enclosure under the Act! There is much temptation lying about, though, for the enclosers of the world. The rough common land stretches over the whole of the knoll, and down to its base, and away along the hills behind, of which the Hawk's Lynch is an outlying spur. Rough common land, broken only by pine woods of a few acres each in extent, an occasional woodman's or squatter's cottage and little patch of attempted garden. But immediately below, and on each flank of the spur, and half-way up the slopes, come small farm enclosures, breaking here and there the belt of woodlands, which generally lies between the rough wild upland, and the cultivated country below. As you stand on the knoll you can see common land just below you at its foot narrow into a mere road, with a border of waste on each side which runs into Englebourn street. At the end of the straggling village stands the church with its square tower, a lofty grey stone building, with bits of fine decorated architecture about it, but much of churchwarden Gothic supervening. The churchyard is large, and the graves, as you can see plainly even from this distance, are all crowded on the southern side. The rector's sheep are feeding in the northern part, nearest to us, and a small gate at one corner opens into his garden. The Rectory looks large and comfortable, and its grounds well cared for and extensive, with a rookery of elms at the lawn's end. It is the chief house of the place, for there is no resident squire. The principal street contains a few shops, some dozen, perhaps, in all; and several farm houses lie a little back from it, with gardens in front, and yards and barns and orchards behind; and there are two public-houses. The other dwellings are mere cottages, and very bad ones for the most part, with floors below the level of the street. Almost every house in the village is thatched, which adds to the beauty though not to the comfort of the place. The rest of the population who do not live in the street are dotted about the neighboring lanes, chiefly towards the west, on our right as we look down from the Hawk's Lynch. On this side the country is more open, and here most of the farmers live, as we may see by the number of homesteads. And there is a small brook on that side too, which with careful damming is made to turn a mill, there where you see the clump of poplars. On our left as we look down, the country to the east of the village is thickly wooded; but we can see that there is a village green on that side, and a few scattered cottages, the farthest of which stands looking out like a little white eye, from the end of a dense copse. Beyond it there is no sign of habitation for some two miles; then you can see the tall chimneys of a great house, and a well timbered park round it. The Grange is not in Englebourn parish--happily for that parish, one is sorry to remark. It must be a very bad squire who does not do more good than harm by living in a country village. But there are very bad squires, and the owner of the Grange is one of them. He is, however, for the most part, an absentee, so that we are little concerned with him, and in fact, have only to notice this one of his bad habits, that he keeps that long belt of woodlands, which runs into Englebourn parish, and comes almost up to the village, full of hares and pheasants. He has only succeeded to the property some three or four years, and yet the head of game on the estate, and above all in the woods, has trebled or quadrupled. Pheasants by hundreds are reared under hens, from eggs bought in London, and run about the keepers' houses as tame as barn door fowls all the summer. When the first party comes down for the first _battue_ early in October, it is often as much as the beaters can do to persuade these pampered fowls that they are wild game, whose duty it is to get up and fly away, and be shot at. However, they soon learn more of the world--such of them, at least, as are not slain--and are unmistakable wild birds in a few days. Then they take to roosting farther from their old haunts, more in the outskirts of the woods, and the time comes for others besides the squire's guests to take their education in hand, and teach pheasants at least that they are no native British birds. These are a wild set, living scattered about the wild country; turf-cutters, broom-makers, squatters, with indefinite occupations, and nameless habits, a race hated of keepers and constables. These have increased and flourished of late years; and, notwithstanding the imprisonments and transportations which deprive them periodically of the most enterprising members of their community, one and all give thanks for the day when the owner of the Grange took to pheasant breeding. If the demoralization stopped with them, little harm might come of it, as they would steal fowls in the homesteads if there were no pheasants in the woods--which latter are less dangerous to get, and worth more when gotten. But, unhappily, this method of earning a livelihood has strong attractions, and is catching; and the cases of farm labourers who get into trouble about game are more frequent season by season in the neighbouring parishes, and Englebourn is no better than the rest. And the men are not likely to be much discouraged from these practices, or taught better by the fanners; for, if there is one thing more than another that drives that sturdy set of men, the Englebourn yeomen, into a frenzy, it is talk of the game in the Grange covers. Not that they dislike sport; they like it too well, and, moreover, have been used to their fair share of it. For the late squire left the game entirely in their hands. "You know best how much game your land will carry without serious damage to the crops," he used to say. "I like to show my friends a fair day's sport when they are with me, and have enough game to supply the house and make a few presents. Beyond that, it is no affair of mine. You can course whenever you like; and let me know when you want a day's shooting, and you shall have it." Under this system the yeomen became keen sportsmen; they and all their labourers took a keen interest in preserving, and the whole district would have risen on a poacher. The keeper's place became a sinecure, and the squire had as much game as he wanted without expense, and was, moreover, the most popular man in the county. Even after the new man came, and all was changed, the mere revocation of their sporting liberties, and the increase of game, unpopular as these things were, would not alone have made the farmers so bitter, and have raised that sense of outraged justice in them. But with these changes came in a custom new in the country--the custom of selling the game. At first the report was not believed; but soon it became notorious that no head of game from the Grange estates was ever given away, that not only did the tenants never get a brace of birds or a hare, or the labourers a rabbit, but not one of the gentlemen who helped to kill the game ever found any of the bag in his dog-cart after the day's shooting. Nay, so shameless had the system become, and so highly was the art of turning the game to account cultivated at the Grange, that the keepers sold powder and shot to any of the guests who had emptied their own belts or flasks at something over the market retail price. The light cart drove to the market-town twice a week in the season, loaded heavily with game, but more heavily with the hatred and scorn of the farmers; and, if deep and bitter curses could break patent axles or necks, the new squire and his game-cart would not long have vexed the countryside. As it was, not a man but his own tenants would salute him in the market-place; and these repaid themselves for the unwilling courtesy by bitter reflections on a squire who was mean enough to pay his butcher's and poulterer's bills out of their pockets. Alas that the manly instinct of sport which is so strong in all of us Englishmen--which sends Oswells single handed against the mightiest beasts that walk the earth, and takes the poor cockney journeyman out a ten miles' walk almost before daylight, on the rare summer holiday mornings, to angle with rude tackle in reservoir or canal--should be dragged through such mire as this in many an English shire in our day. If English landlords want to go on shooting game much longer, they must give up selling it. For if selling game becomes the rule, and not the exception (as it seems likely to do before long), good-bye to sport in England. Every man who loves his country more than his pleasure or his pocket--and, thank God, that includes the great majority of us yet, however much we may delight in gun and rod, let any demagogue in the land say what he pleases--will cry, "Down with it," and lend a hand to put it down for ever. But to return to our perch on the Hawk's Lynch above Englebourn village. The rector is the fourth of his race who holds the family living--a kind, easy-going, gentlemanly old man, a Doctor of Divinity, as becomes his position, though he only went into orders because there was the living ready for him. In his day he had been a good magistrate and neighbour, living with and much in the same way as the squires round about. But his contemporaries had dropped off one by one; his own health had long been failing; his wife was dead; and the young generation did not seek him. His work and the parish had no real hold on him; so he had nothing to fall back on, and had become a confirmed invalid, seldom leaving the house and garden even to go to church, and thinking more of his dinner and his health than of all other things in earth or heaven. The only child who remained at home with him was a daughter, a girl of nineteen or thereabouts, whose acquaintance we shall make presently, and who was doing all that a good heart and sound head prompted in nursing an old hypochondriac, and filling his place in the parish. But though the old man was weak and selfish, he was kind in his way, and ready to give freely or do anything that his daughter suggested for the good of his people, provided the trouble were taken off his shoulders. In the year before our tale opens, he had allowed some thirty acres of his glebe to be parcelled out in allotments amongst the poor; and his daughter spent almost what she pleased in clothing-clubs, and sick-clubs, and the school, without a word from him. Whenever he did remonstrate, she managed to get what she wanted out of the house-money, or her own allowance. We must make acquaintance with such other of the inhabitants as it concerns us to know in the course of the story; for it is broad daylight, and the villagers will be astir directly. Folk who go to bed before nine, after a hard day's work, get into the habit of turning out soon after the sun calls them. So now, descending from the Hawk's Lynch, we will alight at the east end of Englebourn, opposite the little white cottage which looks out at the end of the great wood, near the village green. Soon after five on that bright Sunday morning, Harry Winburn unbolted the door of his mother's cottage, and stepped out in his shirt-sleeves on to the little walk in front, paved with pebbles. Perhaps some of my readers will recognize the name of an old acquaintance, and wonder how he got here; so let us explain at once. Soon after our hero went to school, Harry's father had died of a fever. He had been a journeyman blacksmith, and in the receipt, consequently, of rather better wages than generally fall to the lot of the peasantry, but not enough to leave much of a margin over current expenditure. Moreover, the Winburns had always been open-handed with whatever money they had; so that all he left for his widow and child, of worldly goods, was their "few sticks" of furniture, L5 in the savings bank, and the money from his burial-club which was not more than enough to give him a creditable funeral--that object of honorable ambition to all the independent poor. He left, however, another inheritance to them, which is in price above rubies, neither shall silver be named in comparison thereof,--the inheritance of an honest name, of which his widow was proud, and which was not likely to suffer in her hands. After the funeral, she removed to Englebourn, her own native village, and kept her old father's house till his death. He was one of the woodmen to the Grange, and lived in the cottage at the corner of the wood in which his work lay. When he, too, died, hard times came on Widow Winburn. The steward allowed her to keep on the cottage. The rent was a sore burden to her, but she would sooner have starved than leave it. Parish relief was out of the question for her father's child and her husband's widow; so she turned her hand to every odd job which offered, and went to work in the fields when nothing else could be had. Whenever there was sickness in the place, she was an untiring nurse; and, at one time, for some nine months, she took the office of postman, and walked daily some nine miles through a severe winter. The fatigue and exposure had broken down her health, and made her an old woman before her time. At last, in a lucky hour, the Doctor came to hear of her praiseworthy struggles, and gave her the Rectory washing, which had made her life a comparatively easy one again. During all this time her poor neighbors had stood by her as the poor do stand by one another, helping her in numberless small ways, so that she had been able to realize the great object of her life, and keep Harry at school till he was nearly fourteen. By this time he had learned all that the village pedagogue could teach, and had in fact become an object of mingled pride and jealousy to that worthy man, who had his misgivings lest Harry's fame as a scholar should eclipse his own before many years were over. Mrs. Winburn's character was so good, that no sooner was her son ready for a place than a place was ready for him; he stepped at once into the dignity of carter's boy, and his earnings, when added to his mother's, made them comfortable enough. Of course she was wrapped up in him, and believed that there was no such boy in the parish. And indeed she was nearer the truth than most mothers, for he soon grew into a famous specimen of a countryman; tall and lithe, full of nervous strength, and not yet bowed down or stiffened by the constant toil of a labourer's daily life. In these matters, however, he had rivals in the village; but in intellectual accomplishments he was unrivalled. He was full of learning according to the village standard, could write and cipher well, was fond of reading such books as came in his way, and spoke his native English almost without an accent. He is one-and-twenty at the time when our story takes him up; a thoroughly skilled labourer, the best hedger and ditcher in the parish; and, when his blood is up, he can shear twenty sheep in a day, without razing the skin, or mow for sixteen hours at a stretch, with rests of half an hour for meals twice in the day. Harry shaded his eyes with his hand for a minute, as he stood outside the cottage drinking in the fresh, pure air, laden with the scent of the honeysuckle which he had trained over the porch, and listening to the chorus of linnets and finches from the copse at the back of the house; he then set about the household duties, which he always made it a point of honour to attend to himself on Sundays. First he unshuttered the little lattice-window of the room on the ground floor; a simple enough operation, for the shutter was a mere wooden flap, which was closed over the window at night and bolted with a wooden bolt on the outside, and thrown back against the wall in the daytime. Any one who would could have opened it at any moment of the night; but the poor sleep sound without bolts. Then he took the one old bucket of the establishment, and strode away to the well on the village green, and filled it with clear, cold water, doing the same kind office for the vessels of two or three rosy little damsels and boys, of ages varying from ten to fourteen, who were already astir, and to whom the winding-up of the parish chain and bucket would have been a work of difficulty. Returning to the cottage, he proceeded to fill his mother's kettle, sweep the hearth, strike a light, and make up the fire with a faggot from the little stack in the corner of the garden. Then he hauled the three-legged round table before the fire, and dusted it carefully over, and laid out the black Japan tea-tray with two delf cups and saucers of gorgeous pattern, and diminutive plates to match, and placed the sugar and slop basins, the big loaf and small piece of salt butter, in their accustomed places, and the little black teapot on the hob to get properly warm. There was little more to be done indoors, for the furniture was scanty enough; but everything in turn received its fair share of attention, and the little room, with its sunken tiled floor and yellow-washed walls, looked cheerful and homely. Then Harry turned his attention to the shed of his own contriving, which stood beside the faggot-stack, and from which expostulatory and plaintive grunts had been issuing ever since his first appearance at the door, telling of a faithful and useful friend who was sharp set on Sunday mornings, and desired his poor breakfast, and to be dismissed for the day to pick up the rest of his livelihood with his brethren porkers of the village on the green and in the lanes. Harry served out to the porker the poor mess which the wash of the cottage and the odds and ends of the little garden afforded; which that virtuous animal forthwith began to discuss with both fore-feet in the trough--by way, probably, of adding to the flavor--while his master scratched him gently between the ears and on the back with a short stick till the repast was concluded. Then he opened the door of the stye, and the grateful animal rushed out into the lane, and away to the green with a joyful squeal and flirt of his hind-quarters in the air; and Harry, after picking a bunch of wall-flowers, and pansies, and hyacinths, a line of which flowers skirted the narrow garden walk, and putting them in a long-necked glass which he took from the mantel-piece, proceeded to his morning ablutions, ample materials for which remained at the bottom of the family bucket, which he had put down on a little bench by the side of the porch. These finished, he retired indoors to shave and dress himself. CHAPTER XVIII--ENGLEBOURNE VILLAGE Dame Winburn was not long after her son, and they sat down together to breakfast in their best Sunday clothes--she, in a plain large white cap which covered all but a line of grey hair, a black stuff gown reaching to neck and wrists, and small silk neckkerchief put on like a shawl; a thin, almost gaunt old woman, whom the years had not used tenderly, and who showed marks of their usage--but a resolute, high-couraged soul, who had met hard times in the face, and could meet them again if need were. She spoke in broad Berkshire, and was otherwise a homely body, but self-possessed and without a shade of real vulgarity in her composition. The widow looked with some anxiety at Harry as he took his seat. Although something of a rustic dandy, of late he had not been so careful in the matter of dress as usual; but, in consequence of her reproaches, on this Sunday there was nothing to complain of. His black velveteen shooting coat, and cotton plush waistcoat, his brown corduroy knee-breeches and gaiters, sat on him well, and gave the world assurance of a well-to-do man, for few of the Englebourn labourers rose above smock-frocks and fustian trousers. He wore a blue bird's-eye handkerchief round his neck, and his shirt, though coarse in texture, was as white as the sun and the best laundress in Englebourn could manage to bleach it. There was nothing to find fault with in his dress, therefore, but still his mother did not feel quite comfortable as she took stealthy glances at him. Harry was naturally a reserved fellow, and did not make much conversation himself, and his mother felt a little embarrassed on this particular morning. It was not, therefore, until Dame Winburn had finished her first slice of bread and butter, and had sipped the greater part of her second dish of tea out of her saucer, that she broke silence. "I minded thy business last night, Harry, when I wur up at the Rectory about the washin'. It's my belief as thou'lt get t'other 'lotment next quarter-day. The Doctor spoke very kind about it, and said as how he heer'd as high a character o' thee, young as thee bist, as of are' a man in the parish, and as how he wur set on lettin' the lots to thaay as'd do best by 'em; only he said as the farmers went agin givin' more nor an acre to any man as worked for _them_; and the Doctor, you see, he don't like to go altogether agin the vestry folk." "What business is it o' theirs," said Harry, "so long as they get their own work done? There's scarce one on 'em as hasn't more land already nor he can keep as should be, and for all that they want to snap up every bit as falls vacant, so as no poor man shall get it." "'Tis mostly so with them as has," said his mother, with a half puzzled look; "Scriptur says as to them shall be given, and they shall have more abundant," Dame Winburn spoke hesitatingly, and looked doubtfully at Harry, as a person who has shot with a strange gun, and knows not what effect the bolt may have. Harry was brought up all standing by this unexpected quotation of his mother's; but, after thinking for a few moments while he cut himself a slice of bread, replied:-- "It don't say as those shall have more that can't use what they've got already. 'Tis a deal more like Naboth's vineyard for aught as I can see. But 'tis little odds to me which way it goes." "How canst talk so, Harry?" said his mother reproachfully; "thou know'st thou wast set on it last fall, like a wasp on sugar. Why scarce a day past but thou wast up to the Rectory, to see the Doctor about it; and now thou'rt like to get th'lotment thou'lt not go anyst 'un." Harry looked out at the open door, without answering. It was quite true that, in the last autumn, he had been very anxious to get as large an allotment as he could into his own hands, and that he had been for ever up towards the Rectory, but perhaps not always on the allotment business. He was naturally a self-reliant, shrewd fellow, and felt that if he could put his hand on three or four acres of land, he could soon make himself independent of the farmers. He knew that at harvest-times, and whenever there was a pinch for good labourers, they would be glad enough to have him; while at other times, with a few acres of his own, he would be his own master and could do much better for himself. So he had put his name down first on the Doctor's list, taken the largest lot he could get, and worked it so well that his crops, amongst others, had been a sort of village show last harvest-time. Many of the neighboring allotments stood out in sad contrast to those of Harry and the more energetic of the peasantry, and lay by the side of these latter only half worked and full of weeds, and the rent was never ready. It was worse than useless to let matters go on thus, and the question arose, what was to be done with the neglected lots. Harry, and all the men like him, applied at once for them; and their eagerness to get them had roused some natural jealousy amongst the farmers, who began to foresee that the new system might shortly leave them with none but the worst labourers. So the vestry had pressed on the Doctor, as Dame Winburn said, not to let any man have more than an acre, or an acre and a half; and the well-meaning, easy-going invalid old man couldn't make up his mind what to do. So here was May again, and the neglected lots were still in the nominal occupation of the idlers. The Doctor got no rent, and was annoyed at the partial failure of a scheme which he had not indeed originated, but for which he had taken much credit to himself. The negligent occupiers grumbled that they were not allowed a drawback for manure, and that no pigstyes were put up for them. "'Twas allers understood so," they maintained, "and they'd never ha' took to the lots but for that." The good men grumbled that it would be too late now for them to do more than clean the lots of weeds this year. The farmers grumbled that it was always understood that no man should have more than one lot. The poor rector had led his flock into a miry place with a vengeance. People who cannot make up their minds breed trouble in other places besides country villages. However quiet and out of the way the place may be, there is always some _quasi_ public topic, which stands, to the rural Englishman, in the place of treaty, or budget, or reform-bill. So the great allotment question, for the time, was that which exercised the minds of the inhabitants of Englebourn; and until lately no one had taken a keener interest in it than Harry Winburn. But that interest had now much abated, and so Harry looked through the cottage door, instead of answering his mother. "'Tis my belief as you med amost hev it for the axin'." Dame Winburn began again when she found that he would not re-open the subject himself. "The young missus said as much to me herself last night. Ah! to be sure, things'd go better if she had the guidin' on 'em." "I'm not going after it any more, mother. We can keep the bits o' sticks here together without it while you be alive; and if anything was to happen to you, I don't think I should stay in these parts. But it don't matter what becomes o' me; I can earn a livelihood anywhere." Dame Winburn paused a moment before answering to subdue her vexation, and then said, "How can 'ee let hankerin' arter a lass take the heart out o' thee so? Hold up thy head, and act a bit measterful. The more thow makest o' thyself, the more like thou art to win." "Did you hear aught of her last night, mother?" replied Harry, taking advantage of this ungracious opening to speak of the subject which was uppermost in his mind. "I heer'd she wur goin' on well," said his mother. "No likelihood of her comin' home?" "Not as I could make out. Why, she hevn't been gone not four months. Now, do 'ee pluck up a bit, Harry; and be more like thyself." "Why, mother, I've not missed a day's work since Christmas; so there ain't much to find fault with." "Nay, Harry, 'tisn't thy work. Thou wert always good at thy work, praise God. Thou'rt thy father's own son for that. But thou dostn't keep about like, and take thy place wi' the lave on 'em since Christmas. Thou look'st hagged at times, and folk'll see't, and talk about thee afore long." "Let 'em talk. I mind their talk no more than last year's wind," said Harry, abruptly. "But thy old mother does," she said, looking at him with eyes full of pride and love; and so Harry, who was a right good son, began to inquire what it was that was specially weighing on his mother's mind, determined to do anything in reason to re-place her on the little harmless social pinnacle from which she was wont to look down on all the other mothers and sons of the parish. He soon found out that her present grievance arose from his having neglected his place as ringer of the heavy bell in the village peal on the two preceding Sundays; and, as this post was, in some sort the corresponding one to stroke of the boat at Oxford, her anxiety was reasonable enough. So Harry promised to go to ringing in good time that morning, and then set about little odds and ends of jobs till it would be time to start. Dame Winburn went to her cooking and other household duties, which were pretty well got under when her son took his hat and started for the belfry. She stood at the door with a half-peeled potato in one hand, shading her eyes with the other, as she watched him striding along the raised footpath under the elms, when the sound of light footsteps and pleasant voices, coming up from the other direction, made her turn round and drop a curtsey as the rector's daughter and another young lady stopped at her door. "Good morning, Betty," said the former; "here's a bright Sunday morning at last, isn't it?" "'Tis indeed, miss; but where hev'ee been to?" "Oh, we've only been for a little walk before school-time. This is my cousin, Betty. She hasn't been at Englebourn since she was quite a child; so I've been taking her to the Hawk's Lynch to see our view." "And you can't think how I have enjoyed it," said her cousin; "it is so still and beautiful." "I've heer'd say as there ain't no such a place for thretty mile round," said Betty, proudly, "But do'ee come in, tho', and sit'ee down a bit," she added, bustling inside her door, and beginning to rub down a chair with her apron; "'tis a smart step for gentlefolk to walk afore church." Betty's notions of the walking powers of gentlefolk were very limited. "No, thank you, we must be getting on," said Miss Winter; "but how lovely your flowers are! Look, Mary, did you ever see such double pansies? We've nothing like them at the Rectory." "Do'ee take some," said Betty, emerging again, and beginning to pluck a handful of her finest flowers; "'tis all our Harry's doing; he's 'mazing partickler about seeds." "He seems to make everything thrive, Betty. There, that's plenty, thank you. We won't take many, for fear they should fade before church is over." "Oh, dwont'ee be afeard, there's plenty more; and you be as welcom' as the day." Betty never said a truer word; she was one of the real open-handed sort, who are found mostly amongst those who have the least to give. They or anyone else were welcome to the best she had. So the young ladies took the flowers, thanked her again, and passed on towards the Sunday-school. The rector's daughter might have been a year or so older than her companion; she looked more. Her position in the village had been one of much anxiety, and she was fast getting an old head on young shoulders. The other young lady was a slip of a girl just coming out; in fact, this was the first visit which she had ever paid out of leading strings. She had lived in a happy home, where she had always been trusted and loved, and perhaps a thought too much petted. There are some natures which attract petting; you can't help doing your best to spoil them in this way, and it is satisfactory, therefore, to know (as the fact is) that they are just the ones which cannot be so spoilt. Miss Mary was one of these. Trustful, for she had never been tricked; fearless, for she had never been cowed; pure and bright as the Englebourn brook at fifty yards from its parent spring in the chalk, for she had a pure and bright nature, and had come in contact as yet with nothing which could soil or cast a shadow. What wonder that her life gave forth light and music as it glided on, and that every one who knew her was eager to have her with them, to warm themselves in the light and rejoice in the music! Besides all her other attractions, or in consequence of them for anything I know, she was one of the merriest young women in the world, always ready to bubble over and break out into clear laughter on the slightest provocation. And provocation had not been wanting during the last two days which she had spent with her cousin. As usual she had brought sunshine with her, and the old doctor had half forgotten his numerous complaints and grievances for the time. So the cloud which generally hung over the house had been partially lifted, and Mary, knowing and suspecting nothing of the dark side of life at Englebourn Rectory, rallied her cousin on her gravity, and laughed till she cried at the queer ways and talk of the people about the place. As soon as they were out of hearing of Dame Winburn, Mary began-- "Well, Katie, I can't say that you have mended your case at all." "Surely you can't deny that there is a great deal of character in Betty's face?" said Miss Winter. "Oh, plenty of character; all your people, as soon as they begin to stiffen a little and get wrinkles, seem to be full of character, and I enjoy it much more than beauty; but we were talking about beauty, you know." "Betty's son is the handsomest young man in the parish," said Miss Winter; "and I must say I don't think you could find a better-looking one anywhere." "Then I can't have seen him." "Indeed you have; I pointed him out to you at the post office yesterday. Don't you remember? He was waiting for a letter." "Oh, yes! now I remember. Well, he was better than most. But the faces of your young people in general are not interesting--I don't mean the children, but the young men and women--and they are awkward and clownish in their manners, without the quaintness of the elder generation, who are the funniest old dears in the world." "They will all be quaint enough as they get older. You must remember the sort of life they lead. They get their notions very slowly, and they must have notions in their heads before they can show them on their faces." "Well, your Betty's son looked as if he had a notion of hanging himself yesterday." "It's no laughing matter, Mary. I hear that he is desperately in love." "Poor fellow! that makes a difference, of course. I hope he won't carry out his notion. Who is it, do you know? Do tell me all about it." "Our gardener's daughter, I believe. Of course, I never meddle with these matters; but one can't help hearing the servant's gossip. I think it likely to be true, for he was about our premises at all sorts of times until lately, and I never see him now that she is away." "Is she pretty?" said Mary, who was getting interested. "Yes, she is our belle. In fact, they are the two beauties of the parish." "Fancy that cross-grained old Simon having a pretty daughter. Oh, Katie, look here! who is this figure of fun?" The figure of fun was a middle-aged man of small stature, and very bandy-legged, dressed in a blue coat and brass buttons, and carrying a great bass-viol bigger than himself, in a rough baize cover. He came out of a footpath into the road just before them, and, on seeing them, touched his hat to Miss Winter, and then fidgeted along with his load, and jerked his head in a deprecatory manner away from them as he walked on, with the sort of look and action which a favorite terrier uses when his master holds out a lighted cigar to his nose. He was the village tailor and constable, also the principal performer in the church-music which obtained in Englebourn. In the latter capacity he had of late come into collision with Miss Winter. For this was another of the questions which divided the parish--The great church music question. From time immemorial, at least ever since the gallery at the west end had been built, the village psalmody had been in the hands of the occupiers of that Protestant structure. In the middle of the front row sat the musicians, three in number, who played respectively a bass-viol, a fiddle, and a clarionet. On one side of them were two or three young women, who sang treble--shrill, ear-piercing treble--with a strong nasal Berkshire drawl in it. On the other side of the musicians sat the blacksmith, the wheelwright, and other tradesmen of the place. Tradesmen means in that part of the country what we mean by artisan, and these were naturally allied with the laborers, and consorted with them. So far as church-going was concerned, they formed a sort of independent opposition, sitting in the gallery, instead of in the nave, where the farmers and the two or three principal shopkeepers--the great landed and commercial interests--regularly sat and slept, and where the two publicans occupied pews, but seldom made even the pretence of worshipping. The rest of the gallery was filled by the able-bodied male peasantry. The old worn-out men generally sat below in the free seats; the women also, and some few boys. But the hearts of these latter were in the gallery--a seat on the back benches of which was a sign that they had indued the _toga virilis_, and were thenceforth free from maternal and pastoral tutelage in the matter of church-going. The gallery thus constituted had gradually usurped the psalmody as their particular and special portion of the service; they left the clerk and the school children, aided by such of the aristocracy below as cared to join, to do the responses; but, when singing time came, they reigned supreme. The slate on which the Psalms were announced was hung out from before the centre of the gallery, and the clerk, leaving his place under the reading-desk, marched up there to give them out. He took this method of preserving his constitutional connection with the singing, knowing that otherwise he could not have maintained the rightful position of his office in this matter. So matters had stood until shortly before the time of our story. The present curate, however, backed by Miss Winter, had tried a reform. He was a quiet man, with a wife and several children, and small means. He had served in the diocese ever since he had been ordained, in a hum-drum sort of way, going where he was sent for, and performing his routine duties reasonably well, but without showing any great aptitude for his work. He had little interest, and had almost given up expecting promotion, which he certainly had done nothing particular to merit. But there was one point on which he was always ready to go out of his way, and take a little trouble. He was a good musician, and had formed choirs at all his former curacies. Soon after his arrival, therefore, he, in concert with Miss Winter, had begun to train the children in church-music. A small organ, which had stood in a passage in the Rectory for many years, had been repaired, and appeared first at the schoolroom, and at length under the gallery of the church; and it was announced one week to the party in possession, that, on the next Sunday, the constituted authorities would take the church-music into their own hands. Then arose a strife, the end of which had nearly been to send the gallery off, in a body, headed by the offended bass-viol, to the small red-brick little Bethel at the other end of the village. Fortunately the curate had too much good sense to drive matters to extremities, and so alienate the parish constable, and a large part of his flock, though he had not tact or energy enough to bring them round to his own views. So a compromise was come to; and the curate's choir were allowed to chant the Psalms and Canticles, which had always been read before, while the gallery remained triumphant masters of the regular Psalms. My readers will now understand why Miss Winter's salutation to the musical constable was not so cordial as it was to the other villagers whom they had come across previously. Indeed, Miss Winter, though she acknowledged the constable's salutation, did not seem inclined to encourage him to accompany them, and talk his mind out, although he was going the same way with them; and, instead of drawing him out, as was her wont in such cases, went on talking herself to her cousin. The little man walked out in the road, evidently in trouble of mind. He did not like to drop behind or go ahead without some further remark from Miss Winter, and yet could not screw up his courage to the point of opening the conversation himself. So he ambled on alongside the footpath on which they were walking, showing his discomfort by a twist of his neck every few seconds, and perpetual shiftings of his bass-viol, and hunching up of one shoulder. The conversation of the young ladies under these circumstances was of course forced; and Miss Mary, though infinitely delighted at the meeting, soon began to pity their involuntary companion. She was full of the sensitive instinct which the best sort of women have to such a marvellous extent, and which tells them at once and infallibly if any one in their company has even a creased rose-leaf next their moral skin. Before they had walked a hundred yards she was interceding for the rebellious constable. "Katie," she said softly in French, "do speak to him. The poor man is frightfully uncomfortable." "It serves him right," answered Miss Winter in the same language; "you don't know how impertinent he was the other day to Mr. Walker. And he won't give way on the least point, and leads the rest of the old singers, and makes them as stubborn as himself." "But look how he is winking and jerking his head at you. You really mustn't be so cruel to him, Katie. I shall have to begin talking to him if you don't." Thus urged, Miss Winter opened the conversation by asking after his wife, and when she had ascertained "that his missus wur pretty middlin," made some other commonplace remark, and relapsed into silence. By the help of Mary, however, a sort of disjointed dialogue was kept up till they came to the gate which led up to the school, into which the children were trooping by twos and threes. Here the ladies turned in, and were going up the walk towards the school door, when the constable summoned up courage to speak on the matter which was troubling him, and, resting the bass-viol carefully on his right foot, calling out after them, "Oh, please marm! Miss Winter!" "Well," she said quietly, turning round, "what do you wish to say?" "Why, please mann, I hopes as you don't think I be any ways unked 'bout this here quire singin', as they calls it--I'm sartin you knows as there ain't amost nothing I wouldn't do to please ee." "Well, you know how to do it very easily," she said when he paused. "I don't ask you even to give up your music and try to work with us, though I think you might have done that. I only ask you to use some psalms and tunes which are fit to be used in a church." "To be sure us ool. 'Taint we as wants no new-fangled tunes; them as we sings be aal owld ones as ha' been used in our church ever since I can mind. But you only choose thaay as you likes out o' the book? and we be ready to kep to thaay." "I think Mr. Walker made a selection for you some weeks ago," said Miss Winter; "did he not?" "'Ees, but 'tis narra mossel o' use for we to try his 'goriums and sich like. I hopes you wun't be offended wi' me, miss, for I be telling nought but truth." He spoke louder as they got nearer to the school door, and, as they were opening it, shouted his last shot after them, "'Tis na good to try thaay tunes o' his'n, miss. When us praises God, us likes to praise un joyful." "There, you hear that, Mary," said Miss Winter. "You'll soon begin to see why I look grave. There never was such a hard parish to manage. Nobody will do what they ought. I never can get them to do anything. Perhaps we may manage to teach the children better, that's my only comfort." "But, Katie dear, what _do_ the poor things sing? Psalms, I hope." "Oh yes, but they choose all the odd ones on purpose, I believe. Which class will you take?" And so the young ladies settled to their teaching, and the children in her class all fell in love with Mary before church-time. The bass-viol proceeded to the church and did the usual rehearsals, and gossiped with the sexton, to whom he confided the fact that the young missus was "terrible vexed." The bells soon began to ring, and Widow Winburn's heart was glad as she listened to the full peal, and thought to herself that it was her Harry who was making so much noise in the world, and speaking to all the neighborhood. Then the peal ceased as church-time drew near, and the single bell began, and the congregation came flocking in from all sides. The farmers, letting their wives and children enter, gathered round the church porch and compared notes in a ponderous manner on crops and markets. The labourers collected near the door by which the gallery was reached. All the men of the parish seemed to like standing about before church, until they had seen the clergyman safely inside. He came up with the school children and the young ladies, and in due course the bell stopped and the service began. There was a very good congregation still at Englebourn; the adult generation had been bred up in times when every decent person in the parish went to church, and the custom was still strong, notwithstanding the rector's bad example. He scarcely ever came to church himself in the mornings, though his wheelchair might be seen going up and down on the gravel before his house or on the lawn on warm days, and this was one of his daughter's greatest troubles. The little choir of children sang admirably, led by the schoolmistress, and Miss Winter and the curate exchanged approving glances. They performed the liveliest chant in their collection, that the opposition might have no cause to complain of their want of joyfulness. And in turn Miss Winter was in hopes that, out of deference to her, the usual rule of selection in the gallery might have been modified. It was with no small annoyance, therefore, that, after the Litany was over, and the tuning finished, she heard the clerk give out that they would praise God by singing part of the ninety-first Psalm. Mary, who was on the tiptoe of expectation as to what was coming, saw the curate give a slight shrug with his shoulders and lift of his eyebrows as he left the reading-desk, and in another minute it became a painful effort for her to keep from laughing as she slyly watched her cousin's face; while the gallery sang with vigour worthy of any cause or occasion-- "On the old lion He shall go, The adder fell and long; On the young lion tread also, With dragons stout and strong." The trebles took up the last line, and repeated-- "With dragons stout and strong;" and then the whole strength of the gallery chorused again-- "With _dra-gons_ stout and strong;" and the bass-viol seemed to her to prolong the notes and to gloat over them as he droned them out, looking triumphantly at the distant curate. Mary was thankful to kneel down to compose her face. The first trial was the severe one, and she got through the second psalm much better; and by the time Mr. Walker had plunged fairly into his sermon she was a model of propriety and sedateness again. But it was to be a Sunday of adventures. The sermon had scarcely begun when there was a stir down by the door at the west end, and people began to look round and whisper. Presently a man came softly up and said something to the clerk; the clerk jumped up and whispered to the curate, who paused for a moment with a puzzled look, and, instead of finishing his sentence, said in a loud voice, "Farmer Groves' house is on fire!" The curate probably anticipated the effect of his words; in a minute he was the only person left in the church except the clerk and one or two very infirm old folk. He shut up and pocketed his sermon, and followed his flock. It proved luckily to be only Farmer Groves' chimney and not his house which was on fire. The farmhouse was only two fields from the village, and the congregation rushed across there, Harry Winburn and two or three of the most active young men and boys leading. As they entered the yard, the flames were rushing out of the chimney, and any moment the thatch might take fire. Here was the real danger. A ladder had just been raised against the chimney, and, while a frightened farm-girl and a carter-boy held it at the bottom, a man was going up it carrying a bucket of water. It shook with his weight, and the top was slipping gradually along the face of the chimney, and in another moment would rest against nothing. Harry and his companions saw the danger at a glance, and shouted to the man to stand still till they could get to the ladder. They rushed towards him with the rush which men can only make under strong excitement. The foremost of them caught a spoke with one hand, but before he could steady it, the top slipped clear of the chimney, and, ladder, man, and bucket came heavily to the ground. Then came a scene of bewildering confusion, as women and children trooped into the yard--"Who was it?" "Was he dead?" "The fire was catching the thatch." "The stables were on fire." "Who did it?"--all sorts of cries and all sorts of acts except the right ones. Fortunately two or three of the men, with heads on their shoulders, soon organized a line for handling buckets; the flue was stopped below, and Harry Winburn standing nearly at the top of the ladder, which was now safely planted, was deluging the thatch round the chimney from the buckets handed up to him. In a few minutes he was able to pour water down the chimney itself, and soon afterwards the whole affair was at an end. The farmer's dinner was spoilt, but otherwise no damage had been done, except to the clothes of the foremost men; and the only accident was that first fall from the ladder. The man had been carried out of the yard while the fire was still burning; so that it was hardly known who it was. Now, in answer to their inquiries, it proved to be old Simon, the rector's gardener and head man, who had seen the fire, and sent the news to the church, while he himself went to the spot, with such result as we have seen. The surgeon had not yet seen him. Some declared he was dead; others, that he was sitting up at home, and quite well. Little by little the crowd dispersed to Sunday's dinners; when they met again before the afternoon's service, it was ascertained that Simon was certainly not dead, but all else was still nothing more than rumor. Public opinion was much divided, some holding that it would go hard with a man of his age and heft; but the common belief seemed to be that he was of that sort "as'd take a deal o' killin'," and that he would be none the worse for such a fall as that. The two young ladies had been much shocked at the accident, and had accompanied the hurdle on which old Simon was carried to his cottage door; after afternoon service they went round by the cottage to inquire. The two girls knocked at the door, which was opened by his wife, who dropped a curtsey and smoothed down her Sunday apron when she found who were her visitors. She seemed at first a little unwilling to let them in; but Miss Winter pressed so kindly to see her husband, and Mary made such sympathizing eyes at her, that the old woman gave in, and conducted them through the front room into that beyond, where the patient lay. "I hope as you'll excuse it, miss, for I knows the place do smell terrible bad of baccer; only my old man he said as how-" "Oh, never mind, we don't care at all about the smell. Poor Simon! I'm sure if it does him any good, or soothes the pain, I shall be glad to buy him some tobacco myself." The old man was lying on the bed, with his coat and boots off, and a worsted nightcap of his wife's knitting pulled on to his head. She had tried hard to get him to go to bed at once, and take some physic, and his present costume and position was the compromise. His back was turned to them as they entered, and he was evidently in pain, for he drew his breath heavily and with difficulty, and gave a sort of groan at every respiration. He did not seem to notice their entrance; so his wife touched him on the shoulder, and said, "Simon, here's the young ladies come to see how you be." Simon turned himself round, and winced and groaned as he pulled off his nightcap in token of respect. "We didn't like to go home without coming to see how you were, Simon. Has the doctor been?" "Oh, yes, thank'ee, miss. He've a been and feel'd un all over, and listened at the chest on un," said his wife. "And what did he say?" "He zem'd to zay as there wur no bwones bruk--ugh, ugh," put in Simon, who spoke his native tongue with a buzz, imported from farther west, "but a couldn't zay wether or no there warn't som infarnal injury-" "Etarnal, Simon, etarnal!" interrupted his wife; "how canst use such words afore the young ladies?" "I tell'ee wife, as 'twur infarnal--ugh, ugh," retorted the gardener. "Internal injury?" suggested Miss Winter. "I'm very sorry to hear it." "Zummut inside o' me like, as wur got out o' place," explained Simon; "and I thenks a must be near about the mark, for I feels mortal bad here when I tries to move;" and he put his hand on his side. "Hows'm'ever, as there's no bwones bruk, I hopes to be about to-morrow mornin', please the Lord--ugh, ugh." "You mustn't think of it, Simon," said Miss Winter. "You must be quite quiet for a week, at least, till you get rid of this pain." "So I tells un, Miss Winter," put in the wife. "You hear what the young missus says, Simon?" "And wut's to happen to Tiny?" said the contumacious Simon, scornfully. "Her'll cast her calf, and me not by. Her's calving maybe this minut. Tiny's time were up, miss, two days back, and her's never no gurt while arter her time." "She will do very well, I dare say," said Miss Winter, "One of the men can look after her." The notion of anyone else attending Tiny in her interesting situation seemed to excite Simon beyond bearing, for he raised himself on one elbow, and was about to make a demonstration with his other hand, when the pain seized him again, and he sank back groaning. "There, you see, Simon, you can't move without pain. You must be quiet till you have seen the doctor again." "There's the red spider out along the south wall--ugh, ugh," persisted Simon, without seeming to hear her; "and your new g'raniums a'most covered wi' blight. I wur a tacklin' one of 'em just afore you cum in." Following the direction indicated by his nod, the girls became aware of a plant by his bedside, which he had been fumigating, for his pipe was leaning against the flower-pot in which it stood. "He wouldn't lie still nohow, miss," explained his wife, "till I went and fetched un in a pipe and one o' thaay plants from the greenhouse." "It was very thoughtful of you, Simon," said Miss Winter; "you know how much I prize these new plants; but we will manage them; and you mustn't think of these things now. You have had a wonderful escape to-day for a man of your age. I hope we shall find that there is nothing much the matter with you after a few days, but you might have been killed you know. You ought to be very thankful to God that you were not killed in that fall." "So I be, miss, werry thankful to un--ugh, ugh;--and if it please the Lord to spare my life till to-morrow mornin',--ugh, ugh,--we'll smoke them cussed insects." This last retort of the incorrigible Simon on her cousin's attempt, as the rector's daughter, to improve the occasion, was too much for Miss Mary, and she slipped out of the room, lest she should bring disgrace on herself by an explosion of laughter. She was joined by her cousin in another minute, and the two walked together toward the Rectory. "I hope you were not faint, dear, with that close room, smelling of smoke?" "Oh, dear, no; to tell you the truth, I was only afraid of laughing at your quaint old patient. What a rugged old dear he is. I hope he isn't much hurt." "I hope not, indeed; for he is the most honest, faithful old servant in the world, but so obstinate. He never will go to church on Sunday mornings; and, when I speak to him about it, he says papa doesn't go, which is very wrong and impertinent of him." CHAPTER XIX--A PROMISE OF FAIRER WEATHER All dwellers in and about London are, alas! too well acquainted with the never-to-be-enough-hated change which we have to undergo once, at least, in every spring. As each succeeding winter wears away, the same thing happens to us. For some time we do not trust the fair lengthening days, and cannot believe that the dirty pair of sparrows who live opposite our window are really making love and going to build, notwithstanding all their twittering. But morning after morning rises fresh and gentle; there is no longer any vice in the air; we drop our over-coats; we rejoice in the green shoots which the privet hedge is making in the square garden, and hail the returning tender-pointed leaves of the plane-trees as friends; we go out of our way to walk through Covent Garden Market to see the ever-brightening show of flowers from the happy country. This state of things goes on sometimes for a few days only, sometimes for weeks, till we make sure that we are safe for this spring at any rate. Don't we wish we may get it! Sooner or later, but sure--sure as Christmas bills or the income-tax, or anything, if there be anything, surer than these--comes the morning when we are suddenly conscious as soon as we rise that there is something the matter. We do not feel comfortable in our clothes; nothing tastes quite as it should at breakfast; though the day looks bright enough, there is a fierce dusty taste about it as we look out through windows, which no instinct now prompts us to throw open, as it has done every day for the last month. But it is only when we open our doors and issue into the street, that the hateful reality comes right home to us. All moisture, and softness, and pleasantness has gone clean out of the air since last night; we seem to inhale yards of horse hair instead of satin; our skins dry up; our eyes, and hair, and whiskers, and clothes are soon filled with loathsome dust, and our nostrils with the reek of the great city. We glance at the weather-cock on the nearest steeple, and see that it points N.E. And so long as the change lasts, we carry about with us a feeling of anger and impatience, as though we personally were being ill-treated. We could have borne with it well enough in November; it would have been natural, and all in the days work in March; but now, when Rotten Row is beginning to be crowded, when long lines of pleasure vans are leaving town on Monday mornings for Hampton Court or the poor remains of dear Epping Forest, when the exhibitions are open, or about to open, when the religious public is up, or on its way up, for May meetings, when the Thames is already sending up faint warnings of what we may expect as soon as his dirty old life's blood shall have been thoroughly warmed up, and the "Ship", and "Trafalgar", and the "Star and Garter" are in full swing at the antagonistic poles of the cockney system, we do feel that this blight which has come over us and everything is an insult, and that while it lasts, as there is nobody who can be made particularly responsible for it, we are justified in going about in general disgust, and ready to quarrel with anybody we may meet on the smallest pretext. This sort of east-windy state is perhaps the best physical analogy for that mental one in which our hero now found himself. The real crises was over; he had managed to pass through the eye of the storm, and drift for the present at least into the skirts of it, where he lay rolling under bare poles, comparatively safe, but without any power as yet to get the ship well in hand, and make her obey her helm. The storm might break over him again at any minute, and would find him almost as helpless as ever. For he could not follow Drysdale's advice at once, and break off his visits to "The Choughs" altogether. He went back again after a day or two, but only for short visits; he never stayed behind now after the other men left the bar, and avoided interviews with Patty alone as diligently as he had sought them before. She was puzzled at his change of manner, and not being able to account for it, was piqued, and ready to revenge herself, and pay him out in the hundred little ways which the least practiced of her sex know how to employ for the discipline of any of the inferior or trousered half of the creation. If she had been really in love with him, it would have been a different matter; but she was not. In the last six weeks she had certainly often had visions of the pleasures of being a lady and keeping servants, and riding in a carriage like the squires' and rectors' wives and daughters about her home. She had a liking, even a sentiment for him, which might very well have grown into something dangerous before long; but as yet it was not more than skin deep. Of late, indeed, she had been much more frightened than attracted by the conduct of her admirer, and really felt it a relief, notwithstanding her pique, when he retired into the elder brother sort of state. But she would have been more than woman if she had not resented the change; and so very soon the pangs of jealousy were added to his other troubles. Other men were beginning to frequent "The Choughs" regularly. Drysdale, besides dividing with Tom the prestige of being an original discoverer, was by far the largest customer. St. Cloud came, and brought Chanter with him, to whom Patty was actually civil, not because she liked him at all, but because she saw that it made Tom furious. Though he could not fix on any one man in particular, he felt that mankind in general were gaining on him. In his better moments, indeed, he often wished that she would take the matter into her own hands and throw him over for good and all; but keep away from the place altogether he could not, and often when he fancied himself on the point of doing it, a pretty toss of her head, or a kind look of her eyes would scatter all his good resolutions to the four winds. And so the days dragged on, and he dragged on through them; hot fits of conceit alternating in him with cold fits of despondency and mawkishness and discontent with everything and everybody, which were all the more intolerable from their entire strangeness. Instead of seeing the bright side of all things, he seemed to be looking at creation through yellow spectacles, and saw faults and blemishes in all his acquaintance, which had been till now invisible. But the more he was inclined to depreciate all other men, the more he felt there was one to whom he had been grossly unjust. And, as he recalled all that had passed, he began to do justice to the man who had not flinched from warning him and braving him, who he felt had been watching over him, and trying to guide him straight, when he had lost all power or will to keep straight himself. From this time the dread increased on him lest any of the other men should find out his quarrel with Hardy. Their utter ignorance of it encouraged him in the hope that it might all pass off like a bad dream. While it remained a matter between them alone, he felt that all might come straight, though he could not think how. He began to loiter by the entrance of the passage which led to Hardy's rooms; sometimes he would find something to say to his scout or bed-maker which took him into the back outside Hardy's window, glancing at it sideways as he stood giving his orders. There it was, wide open, generally--he hardly knew whether he hoped to catch a glimpse of the owner, but he did hope that Hardy might hear his voice. He watched him in chapel and hall furtively, but constantly, and was always fancying what he was doing and thinking about. Was it as painful an effort to Hardy, he wondered, as to him to go on speaking, as if nothing had happened, when they met at the boats, as they did now again almost daily (for Diogenes was bent on training some of the torpids for next year), and yet never to look one another in the face; to live together as usual during part of every day, and yet to feel all the time that a great wall had risen between them, more hopelessly dividing them for the time than thousands of miles of ocean or continent? Amongst other distractions which Tom tried at this crisis of his life, was reading. For three or four days running, he really worked hard--very hard, if we were to reckon by the number of hours he spent in his own rooms over his books with his oak sported--hard, even though we should only reckon by results. For, though scarcely an hour passed that he was not balancing on the hind legs of his chair with a vacant look in his eyes, and thinking of anything but Greek roots or Latin constructions, yet on the whole he managed to get through a good deal, and one evening, for the first time since his quarrel with Hardy, felt a sensation of real comfort--it hardly amounted to pleasure--as he closed his Sophocles some hour or so after hall, having just finished the last of the Greek plays which he meant to take in for his first examination. He leaned back in his chair and sat for a few minutes, letting his thoughts follow their own bent. They soon took to going wrong, and he jumped up in fear lest he should be drifting back into the black stormy sea, in the trough of which he had been laboring so lately, and which he felt he was by no means clear of yet. At first he caught up his cap and gown as though he were going out. There was a wine party at one of his acquaintance's rooms; or he could go and smoke a cigar in the pool room, or at any one of a dozen other places. On second thoughts, however, he threw his academicals back on to the sofa and went to his book-case. The reading had paid so well that evening that he resolved to go on with it. He had no particular object in selecting one book more than another, and so took down carelessly the first that came to hand. It happened to be a volume of Plato, and opened of its own accord at the "Apology." He glanced at a few lines. What a flood of memories they called up! This was almost the last book he had read at school; and teacher, and friends, and lofty oak-shelved library stood out before him at once. Then the blunders that he himself and others had made rushed through his mind, and he almost burst into a laugh as he wheeled his chair round to the window, and began reading where he had opened, encouraging every thought of the old times when he first read that marvellous defense, and throwing himself back into them with all his might. And still, as he read, forgotten words of wise comment, and strange thoughts of wonder and longing, came back to him. The great truth which he had been led to the brink of in those early days rose in all its awe and all its attractiveness before him. He leaned back in his chair, and gave himself up to his thought; and how strangely that thought bore on the struggle which had been raging in him of late; how an answer seemed to be trembling to come out of it to all the cries, now defiant, now plaintive, which had gone up out of his heart in this time of trouble! For his thought was of that spirit, distinct from himself, and yet communing with his inmost soul, always dwelling in him, knowing him better than he knew himself, never misleading him, always leading him to light and truth, of which the old philosopher spoke. "The old heathen, Socrates, did actually believe that--there can be no question about it;" he thought, "Has not the testimony of the best men through these two thousand years borne witness that he was right--that he did not believe a lie? That was what we were told. Surely I don't mistake! Were we not told, too, or did I dream it, that what was true for him was true for every man--for me? That there is a spirit dwelling in me, striving with me, ready to lead me into all truth if I will submit to his guidance?" "Ay! submit, submit, there's the rub! Give yourself up to his guidance! Throw up the reins, and say you've made a mess of it. Well, why not? Haven't I made a mess of it? Am I fit to hold the reins?" "Not I"--he got up and began walking about his rooms--"I give it up." "Give it up!" he went on presently; "yes, but to whom? Not to the daemon spirit, whatever it was, who took up abode in the old Athenian--at least, so he said, and so I believe. No, no! Two thousand years and all that they have seen have not passed over the world to leave us just where he was left. We want no daemons or spirits. And yet the old heathen was guided right, and what can a man want more? and who ever wanted guidance more than I now--here--in this room--at this minute? I give up the reins; who will take them?" And so there came on him one of those seasons when a man's thoughts cannot be followed in words. A sense of awe came on him, and over him, and wrapped him round; awe at a presence of which he was becoming suddenly conscious, into which he seemed to have wandered, and yet which he felt must have been there around him, in his own heart and soul, though he knew it not. There was hope and longing in his heart, mingling with the fear of that presence, but withal the old reckless and daring feeling which he knew so well, still bubbling up untamed, untamable it seemed to him. The room stifled him now; so he threw on his cap and gown, and hurried down into the quadrangle. It was very quiet; probably there was not a dozen men in college. He walked across to the low, dark entrance of the passage which led to Hardy's rooms, and there paused. Was he there by chance, or was he guided there? Yes, this was the right way for him, he had no doubt now as to that; down the dark passage and into the room he knew so well--and what then? He took a short turn or two before the entrance. How could he be sure that Hardy was alone? And, if not, to go in would be worse than useless. If he were alone, what should he say? After all, _must_ he go in there? was there no way but that? The college clock struck a quarter to seven. It was his usual time for "The Choughs;" the house would be quiet now; was there not one looking out for him there who would be grieved if he did not come? After all, might not that be his way, for this night at least? He might bring pleasure to one human being by going there at once. That he knew; what else could he be sure of? At this moment he heard Hardy's door open and a voice saying "Good-night," and the next Grey came out of the passage, and was passing close to him. "Join yourself to him." The impulse came so strongly into Tom's mind this time, that it was like a voice speaking him. He yielded to it, and, stepping to Grey's side, wished him good-evening. The other returned his salute in his shy way, and was hurrying on, but Tom kept by him. "Have you been reading with Hardy?" "Yes." "How is he? I have not seen anything of him for some time." "Oh, very well, I think," said Grey, glancing sideways at his questioner, and adding, after a moment, "I have wondered rather not to see you there of late." "Are you going to your school?" said Tom, breaking away from the subject. "Yes, and I am rather late; I must make haste on; good night." "Will you let me go with you to-night? It would be a real kindness. Indeed," he added, as he saw how embarrassing his proposal was to Grey, "I will do whatever you tell me--you don't know how grateful I should be to you. Do let me go--just for to-night. Try me once." Grey hesitated, turned his head sharply once or twice as they walked on together, and then said with something like a sigh-- "I don't know, I'm sure. Did you ever teach in a night school?" "No, but I have taught in the Sunday-school at home sometimes. Indeed, I will do whatever you tell me." "Oh! but this is not at all like a Sunday-school. They are a very rough, wild lot." "The rougher the better," said Tom; "I shall know how to manage them then." "But you must not really be rough with them." "No, I won't; I didn't mean that," said Tom, hastily, for he saw his mistake at once. "I shall take it as a great favor, if you will let me go with you to-night. You won't repent it, I'm sure." Grey did not seem at all sure of this, but saw no means of getting rid of his companion, and so they walked on together and turned down a long, narrow court in the lowest part of the town. At the doors of the houses laboring men, mostly Irish, lounged or stood about, smoking and talking to one another, or to the women who leant out of the windows, or passed to and fro on their various errands of business or pleasure. A group of half-grown lads were playing at pitch-farthing at the farther end, and all over the court were scattered children of all ages, ragged and noisy little creatures most of them, on whom paternal and maternal admonitions and cuffs were constantly being expended, and to all appearances in vain. At the sight of Grey a shout arose amongst the smaller boys, of "Here's the teacher!" and they crowded around him and Tom as they went up the court. Several of the men gave him a half-surly half-respectful nod, as he passed along, wishing them good evening. The rest merely stared at him and his companion. They stopped at a door which Grey opened, and led the way into the passage of an old tumble-down cottage, on the ground floor of which were two low rooms which served for the school-rooms. A hard-featured, middle-aged woman, who kept the house, was waiting, and said to Grey, "Mr. Jones told me to say, sir, he would not be here to night, as he has got a bad fever case--so you was to take only the lower classes, sir, he said; and the policeman would be near to keep out the big boys if you wanted him. Shall I go and tell him to step round, sir?" Grey looked embarrassed for a moment, and then said, "No, never mind; you can go;" and then turning to Tom, added, "Jones is the curate; he won't be here to-night; and some of the bigger boys are very noisy and troublesome, and only come to make a noise. However, if they come we must do our best." Meantime, the crowd of small ragged urchins had filled the room, and were swarming on to the benches and squabbling for the copy-books which were laid out on the thin desks. Grey set to work to get them into order, and soon the smallest were draughted off into the inner room with slates and spelling-books, and the bigger ones, some dozen in number, settled to their writing. Tom seconded him so readily, and seemed so much at home, that Grey felt quite relieved. "You seem to get on capitally," he said; "I will go into the inner room to the little ones, and you stay and take these. There are the class-books when they have done their copies," and so went off into the inner room and closed the door. Tom set himself to work with a will, and as he bent over one after another of the pupils, and guided the small grubby hands which clutched the inky pens with cramped fingers, and went spluttering and blotching along the lines of the copy-books, felt the yellow scales dropping from his eyes, and more warmth coming back into his heart than he had known there for many a day. All went on well inside, notwithstanding a few small out-breaks between the scholars, but every now and then mud was thrown against the window, and noises outside and in the passages threatened some interruption. At last, when the writing was finished, the copy-books cleared away, and the class-books distributed, the door opened, and two or three big boys of fifteen or sixteen lounged in, with their hands in their pockets and their caps on. There was an insolent look about them which set Tom's back up at once; however, he kept his temper, made them take their caps off, and, as they said they wanted to read with the rest, let them take their places on the benches. But now came the tug of war. He could not keep his eyes on the whole lot at once, and, no sooner did he fix his attention on the stammering reader for the time being and try to help him, than anarchy broke out all round him. Small stones and shot were thrown about, and cries arose from the smaller fry, "Please, sir, he's been and poured some ink down my back," "He's stole my book, sir," "He's gone and stuck a pin in my leg." The evil-doers were so cunning that it was impossible to catch them; but as he was hastily turning in his own mind what to do, a cry arose, and one of the benches went suddenly over backwards on to the floor, carrying with it its whole freight of boys, except two of the bigger ones, who were the evident authors of the mishap. Tom sprang at the one nearest him, seized him by the collar, hauled him into the passage, and sent him out of the street-door with a sound kick; and then rushing back, caught hold of the second, who went down on his back and clung round Tom's legs, shouting for help to his remaining companions, and struggling and swearing. It was all the work of a moment, and now the door opened, and Grey appeared from the inner room. Tom left off hauling his prize towards the passage, and felt and looked very foolish. "This fellow, and another whom I have turned out, upset that form with all the little boys on it," he said, apologetically. "It's a lie, t'wasn't me," roared the captive, to whom Tom administered a sound box on the ear, while the small boys, rubbing different parts of their bodies, chorused, "'twas him, teacher, 'twas him," and heaped further charges of pinching, pin-sticking, and other atrocities on him. Grey astonished Tom by his firmness. "Don't strike him again," he said. "Now, go out at once, or I will send for your father." The fellow got up, and, after standing a moment and considering his chance of successful resistance to physical force in the person of Tom, and moral in that of Grey, slunk out. "You must go, too, Murphy," went on Grey to another of the intruders. "Oh, your honor let me bide. I'll be as quiet as a mouse," pleaded the Irish boy; and Tom would have given in, but Grey was unyielding. "You were turned out last week, and Mr. Jones said you were not to come back for a fortnight." "Well, good night to your honor," said Murphy, and took himself off. "The rest may stop," said Grey. "You had better take the inner room now; I will stay here." "I'm very sorry," said Tom. "You couldn't help it; no one can manage those two. Murphy is quite different, but I should have spoiled him if I had let him stay now." The remaining half hour passed off quietly. Tom retired into the inner room, and took up Grey's lesson, which he had been reading to the boys from a large Bible with pictures. Out of consideration for their natural and acquired restlessness, the little fellows, who were all between eight and eleven years old, were only kept sitting at their pothooks and spelling for the first half hour or so, and then were allowed to crowd round the teacher, who read and talked to them, and showed them the pictures. Tom found the Bible open at the story of the prodigal son, and read it out to them as they clustered round his knees. Some of the outside ones fidgeted about a little, but those close round him listened with ears, and eyes, and bated breath; and two little blue-eyed boys, without shoes--their ragged clothes concealed by long pinafores which their widowed mother had put on clean to send them to school--leaned against him and looked up in his face, and his heart warmed to the touch and the look. "Please, teacher, read it again," they said when he finished; so he read it again and sighed when Grey came in and lighted a candle (for the room was getting dark) and said it was time for prayers. A few collects, and the Lord's Prayer, in which all the young voices joined, drowning for a minute the noises from the court outside, finished the evening's schooling. The children trooped out, and Grey went to speak to the woman who kept the house. Tom, left to himself, felt strangely happy, and, for something to do, took the snuffers and commenced a crusade against a large family of bugs, who, taking advantage of the quiet, came cruising out of a crack in the otherwise neatly papered wall. Some dozen had fallen on his spear when Grey reappeared, and was much horrified at the sight. He called the woman and told her to have the hole carefully fumigated and mended. "I thought we had killed them all long ago," he said; "but the place is tumbling down." "It looks well enough," said Tom. "Yes, we have it kept as tidy as possible. It ought to be at least a little better than what the children see at home." And so they left the school and court and walked up to college. "Where are you going?" Tom said, as they entered the gate. "To Hardy's rooms; will you come?" "No, not to-night," said Tom; "I know that you want to be reading; I should only interrupt." "Well, good night, then," said Grey, and went on, leaving Tom standing in the porch. On the way up from the school he had almost made up his mind to go to Hardy's rooms that night. He longed and yet feared to do so; and, on the whole, was not sorry for an excuse. Their first meeting must be alone, and it would be a very embarrassing one, for him at any rate. Grey, he hoped, would tell Hardy of his visit to the school, and that would show that he was coming round, and make the meeting easier. His talk with Grey, too, had removed one great cause of uneasiness from his mind. It was now quite clear that he had no suspicion of the quarrel, and, if Hardy had not told him, no one else could know of it. Altogether, he strolled into the quadrangle a happier and sounder man than he had been since his first visit to "The Choughs", and looked up and answered with his old look and voice when he heard his name called from one of the first-floor windows. The hailer was Drysdale, who was leaning out in lounging coat and velvet cap, and enjoying a cigar as usual, in the midst of the flowers of his hanging garden. "You've heard the good news, I suppose?" "No, what do you mean?" "Why, Blake has got the Latin verse." "Hurrah! I'm so glad." "Come up and have a weed." Tom ran up the staircase and into Drysdale's rooms, and was leaning out of the window at his side in another minute. "What does he get by it?" he said, "do you know?" "No; some books bound in Russia, I dare say, with the Oxford arms, and 'Dominus illuminatio mea,' on the back." "No money?" "Not much--perhaps a ten'ner," answered Drysdale, "but no end of [Greek text] kudoz, I suppose." "It makes it look well for his first, don't you think? But I wish he had got some money for it. I often feel very uncomfortable about that bill, don't you?" "Not I, what's the good? It's nothing when you are used to it. Besides, it don't fall due for another six weeks." "But if Blake can't meet it then?" said Tom. "Well, it will be vacation, and I'll trouble greasy Benjamin to catch me then." "But you don't mean to say you won't pay it?" said Tom in horror. "Pay it! You may trust Benjamin for that. He'll pull round his little usuries somehow." "Only we have promised to pay on a certain day, you know." "Oh, of course, that's the form. That only means that he can't pinch us sooner." "I do hope, though, Drysdale, that it will be paid on the day," said Tom, who could not quite swallow the notion of forfeiting his word, even though it were only a promise to pay to a scoundrel. "All right. You've nothing to do with it, remember. He won't bother you. Besides, you can plead infancy, if the worst comes to the worst. There's such a queer old bird gone to your friend Hardy's rooms." The mention of Hardy broke the disagreeable train of thought into which Tom was falling, and he listened eagerly as Drysdale went on. "It was about half an hour ago. I was looking out here, and saw an old fellow come hobbling into quad on two sticks, in a shady blue uniform coat and white trousers. The kind of old boy you read about in books, you know. Commodore Trunnion, or Uncle Toby, or one of that sort. Well, I watched him backing and filling about the quad, and trying one staircase and another; but there was nobody about. So down I trotted and went up to him for fun, and to see what he was after. It was as good as a play, if you could have seen it. I was ass enough to take off my cap and make a low bow as I came up to him, and he pulled off his uniform cap in return, and we stood there bowing to one another. He was a thorough old gentleman, and I felt rather foolish for fear that he should see that I expected a lark when I came out. But I don't think he had an idea of it, and only set my capping him down to the wonderful good manners of the college. So we got quite thick, and I piloted him across to Hardy's staircase in the back quad. I wanted him to come up and quench, but he declined, with many apologies. I'm sure he is a character." "He must be Hardy's father," said Tom. "I shouldn't wonder. But is his father in the navy?" "He is a retired captain." "Then no doubt you're right. What shall we do? Have a hand at picquet. Some men will be here directly. Only for love." Tom declined the proffered game, and went off soon after to his own rooms, a happier man than he had been since his first night at "The Choughs." CHAPTER XX--THE RECONCILIATION Tom rose in the morning with a presentiment that all would be over now before long, and to make his presentiment come true, resolved, before night, to go himself to Hardy and give in. All he reserved to himself was the liberty to do it in the manner which would be least painful to himself. He was greatly annoyed, therefore, when Hardy did not appear at morning chapel; for he had fixed on the leaving chapel as the least unpleasant time in which to begin his confession, and was going to catch Hardy then, and follow him to his rooms. All the morning, too, in answer to his inquiries by his scout Wiggins, Hardy's scout replied that his master was out, or busy. He did not come to the boats, he did not appear in hall; so that, after hall, when Tom went back to his own rooms, as he did at once, instead of sauntering out of college, or going to a wine party, he was quite out of heart at his bad luck, and began to be afraid that he would have to sleep on his unhealed wound another night. He sat down in an arm-chair, and fell to musing, and thought how wonderfully his life had been changed in these few short weeks. He could hardly get back across the gulf which separated him from the self who had come back into those rooms after Easter, full of anticipations of the pleasures and delights of the coming summer term and vacation. To his own surprise he didn't seem much to regret the loss of his _chateaux en Espange_, and felt a sort of grim satisfaction in their utter overthrow. While occupied with these thoughts, he heard talking on his stairs, accompanied by a strange lumbering tread. These came nearer; and at last stopped just outside his door, which opened in another moment, and Wiggins announced-- "Capting Hardy, sir." Tom jumped to his legs, and felt himself colour painfully. "Here, Wiggins," said he, "wheel round that arm-chair for Captain Hardy. I am so very glad to see you, sir," and he hastened round himself to meet the old gentleman, holding out his hand, which the visitor took very cordially, as soon as he had passed his heavy stick to his left hand, and balanced himself safely upon it. "Thank you, sir; thank you," said the old man after a few moments' pause, "I find your companion ladders rather steep;" and then he sat down with some difficulty. Tom took the Captain's stick and undress cap, and put them reverentially on his sideboard; and then, to get rid of some little nervousness which he couldn't help feeling, bustled to his cupboard, and helped Wiggins to place glasses and biscuits on the table. "Now, sir, what will you take? I have port, sherry and whisky here, and can get you anything else. Wiggins, run to Hinton's and get some dessert." "No dessert, thank you, for me," said the Captain; "I'll take a cup of coffee, or a glass of grog, or anything you have ready. Don't open wine for me, pray, sir." "Oh, it is all the better for being opened," said Tom, working away at a bottle of sherry with his corkscrew, "and Wiggins, get some coffee and anchovy toast in a quarter of an hour; and just put out some tumblers and toddy ladles, and bring up boiling water with the coffee." While making his hospitable preparations, Tom managed to get many side glances at the old man, who sat looking steadily and abstractly before him into the fireplace, and was much struck and touched by the picture. The sailor wore a well-preserved old undress uniform coat and waistcoat, and white drill trousers; he was a man of middle height, but gaunt and massive, and Tom recognized the framework of the long arms and grand shoulders and chest which he had so often admired in the son. His right leg was quite stiff from an old wound on the knee cap; the left eye was sightless, and the scar of a cutlass travelled down the drooping lid and on to the weather-beaten cheek below. His head was high and broad, his hair and whiskers silver white, while the shaggy eyebrows were scarcely grizzled. His face was deeply lined, and the long, clean-cut lower jaw, and drawn look about the mouth, gave a grim expression to the face at the first glance, which wore off as you looked, leaving, however, on most men who thought about it, the impression which fastened on our hero, "An awkward man to have met at the head of boarders towards the end of the great war." In a minute or two, Tom, having completed his duties, faced the old sailor, much reassured by his covert inspection; and, pouring himself out a glass of sherry, pushed the decanter across, and drank to his guest. "Your health, sir," he said, "and thank you very much for coming up to see me." "Thank _you_, sir," said the Captain, rousing himself and filling, "I drink to you, sir. The fact is, I took a great liberty in coming up to your rooms in this off-hand way, without calling or sending up, but you'll excuse it in an old sailor." Here the Captain took to his glass, and seemed a little embarrassed. Tom felt embarrassed also, feeling that something was coming, and could only think of asking how the Captain liked the sherry. The Captain liked the sherry very much. Then, suddenly clearing his throat, he went on. "I felt, sir, that you would excuse me, for I have a favor to ask of you." He paused again, while Tom muttered something about "great pleasure," and then went on. "You know my son, Mr. Brown?" "Yes, sir; he has been my best friend up here; I owe more to him than to any man in Oxford." The Captain's eye gleamed with pleasure as he replied, "Jack is a noble fellow, Mr. Brown, though I say it who am his father. I've often promised myself a cruise to Oxford since he has been here. I came here at last yesterday, and have been having a long yarn with him. I found there was something on his mind. He can't keep anything from his old father; and so I drew out of him that he loves you as David loved Jonathan. He made my old eye very dim while he was talking of you, Mr. Brown. And then I found that you two are not as you used to be. Some coldness sprung up between you; but what about I couldn't get at. Young men are often hasty--I know I was, forty years ago--Jack says he has been hasty with you. Now, that boy is all I have in the world, Mr. Brown. I know my boy's friend will like to send an old man home with a light heart. So I made up my mind to come over to you and ask you to make it up with Jack. I gave him the slip after dinner and here I am." "Oh, sir, did he really ask you to come to me?" "No, sir," said the Captain, "he did not--I am sorry for it--I think Jack must be in the wrong, for he said he had been too hasty, and yet he wouldn't ask me to come to you and make it up. But he is young, sir; young and proud. He said he couldn't move in it, his mind was made up; he was wretched enough over it, but the move must come from you. And so that's the favor I have to ask, that you will make it up with Jack. It isn't often a young man can do such a favor to an old one--to an old father with one son. You'll not feel the worse for having done it, if it's ever so hard to do, when you come to be my age." And the old man looked wistfully across the table, the muscles about his mouth quivering as he ended. Tom sprang from his chair, and grasped the old sailor's hand, as he felt the load pass out of his heart. "Favour, sir!" he said, "I have been a mad fool enough already in this business--I should have been a double-dyed scoundrel, like enough, by this time but for your son, and I've quarrelled with him for stopping me at the pit's mouth. Favor! If God will, I'll prove somehow where the favor lies, and what I owe to him; and to you, sir, for coming to me tonight. Stop here two minutes, sir, and I'll run down and bring him over." Tom tore away to Hardy's door and knocked. There was no pausing in the passage now. "Come in." He opened the door but did not enter, and for a moment or two could not speak. The rush of associations which the sight of the well-known old rickety furniture, and the figure which was seated, book in hand, with its back to the door and its feet against one side of the mantel-piece, called up, choked him. "_May_ I come in?" he said at last. He saw the figure give a start, and the book trembled a little, but then came the answer, slow but firm-- "I have not changed my opinion." "No; dear old boy, but I have," and Tom rushed across to his friend, dearer than ever to him now, and threw his arm round his neck; and, if the un-English truth must out had three parts of a mind to kiss the rough face which was now working with strong emotion. "Thank God!" said Hardy, as he grasped the hand which hung over his shoulder. "And now come over to my room; your father is there waiting for us." "What, the dear old governor? That's what he has been after, is it? I couldn't think where he could have 'hove to,' as he would say." Hardy put on his cap, and the two hurried back to Tom's rooms, the lightest hearts in the University of Oxford. CHAPTER XXI--CAPTAIN HARDY ENTERTAINED BY ST. AMBROSE. There are moments in the life of the most self-contained and sober of us all, when we fairly bubble over, like a full bottle of champagne with the cork out; and this was one of them for our hero who however, be it remarked, was neither self-contained nor sober by nature. When they got back to his rooms, he really hardly knew what to do to give vent to his lightness of heart; and Hardy, though self-contained and sober enough in general, was on this occasion almost as bad as his friend. They rattled on, talked out the thing which came uppermost, whatever the subject might chance to be; but whether grave or gay, it always ended after a minute or two in jokes not always good, and chaff, and laughter. The poor captain was a little puzzled at first, and made one or two endeavours to turn the talk into improving channels. But very soon he saw that Jack was thoroughly happy, and that was always enough for him. So he listened to one and the other, joining cheerily in the laugh whenever he could; and when he couldn't catch the joke, looking like a benevolent old lion, and making as much belief that he had understood it all as the simplicity and truthfulness of his character would allow. The spirits of the two friends seemed inexhaustible. They lasted out the bottle of sherry which Tom had uncorked, and the remains of a bottle of his famous port. He had tried hard to be allowed to open a fresh bottle, but the Captain had made such a point of his not doing so, that he had given in for hospitality's sake. They lasted out the coffee and anchovy toast; after which the Captain made a little effort at moving, which was supplicatingly stopped by Tom. "Oh, pray don't go, Captain Hardy. I haven't been so happy for months. Besides, I must brew you a glass of grog. I pride myself on my brew. Your son there will tell you that I am a dead hand at it. Here, Wiggins, a lemon!" shouted Tom. "Well, for once in a way, I suppose, eh, Jack?" said the Captain, looking at his son. "Oh yes, father. You mayn't know it, Brown, but, if there is one thing harder to do than another, it is to get an old sailor like my father to take a glass of grog at night." The Captain laughed a little laugh, and shook his thick stick at his son, who went on. "And as for asking him to take a pipe with it--" "Dear me," said Tom, "I quite forgot. I really beg your pardon, Captain Hardy; and he put down the lemon he was squeezing, and produced a box of cigars. "It's all Jack's nonsense, sir," said the Captain, holding out his hand, nevertheless, for the box. "Now, father, don't be absurd," interrupted Hardy, snatching the box away from him. "You might as well give him a glass of absinthe. He is church-warden at home and can't smoke anything but a long clay." "I'm very sorry I haven't one here, but I can send out in a minute." And Tom was making for the door to shout for Wiggins. "No, don't call. I'll fetch some from my rooms." When Hardy left the room, Tom squeezed away at his lemon, and was preparing himself for a speech to Captain Hardy full of confession and gratitude. But the Captain was before him, and led the conversation into a most unexpected channel. "I suppose, now, Mr. Brown," he began, "you don't find any difficulty in construing your Thucydides?" "Indeed, I do, sir," said Tom, laughing. "I find him a very tough old customer, except in the simplest narrative." "For my part," said the Captain, "I can't get on at all, I find, without a translation. But you see, sir, I had none of the advantages which you young men have up here. In fact, Mr. Brown, I didn't begin Greek till Jack was nearly ten years old." The Captain in his secret heart was prouder of his partial victory over the Greek tongue in his old age, than of his undisputed triumphs over the French in his youth, and was not averse to talking of it. "I wonder that you ever began it at all, sir," said Tom. "You wouldn't wonder if you knew how an uneducated man like me feels, when he comes to a place like Oxford." "Uneducated, sir!" said Tom. "Why your education has been worth twice as much, I'm sure, as any we get here." "No, sir; we never learnt anything in the navy when I was a youngster, except a little rule-of-thumb mathematics. One picked up a sort of smattering of a language or two knocking about the world, but no grammatical knowledge, nothing scientific. If a boy doesn't get a method, he is beating to windward in a crank craft all his life. He hasn't got any regular place to stow away what he gets into his brains, and so it lies tumbling about in the hold, and he loses it, or it gets damaged and is never ready for use. You see what I mean, Mr. Brown?" "Yes, sir. But I'm afraid we don't all of us get much method up here. Do you really enjoy reading Thucydides now, Captain Hardy?" "Indeed I do, sir, very much," said the captain. "There's a great deal in his history to interest an old sailor, you know. I dare say, now, that I enjoy those parts about the sea-fights more than you do." The Captain looked at Tom as if he had made an audacious remark. "I am sure you do, sir," said Tom, smiling. "Because you see, Mr. Brown," said the Captain, "when one has been in that sort of thing oneself, one likes to read how people in other times managed, and to think what one would have done in their place. I don't believe that the Greeks just at that time were very resolute fighters, though. Nelson or Collingwood would have finished that war in a year or two." "Not with triremes, do you think, sir?" said Tom. [Illustration: 0251] "Yes, sir, with any vessels which were to be had," said the Captain. "But you are right about triremes. It has always been a great puzzle to me how those triremes could have been worked. How do you understand the three banks of oars, Mr. Brown?" "Well, sir, I suppose they must have been one above the other somehow." "But the upper bank must have had oars twenty feet long, and more, in that case," said the Captain. "You must allow for leverage, you see." "Of course, sir. When one comes to think of it, it isn't easy to see how they were manned and worked," said Tom. "Now my notion about triremes--" began the Captain, holding the head of his stick with both hands, and looking across at Tom. "Why, father!" cried Hardy, returning at the moment with the pipes, and catching the Captain's last word, "on one of your hobby horses already! You're not safe!--I can't leave you for two minutes. Here's a long pipe for you. How in the world did he get on triremes?" "I hardly know," said Tom; "but I want to hear what Captain Hardy thinks about them. You were saying, sir, that the upper oars must have been twenty feet long at least." "My notion is--" said the Captain, taking the pipe and tobacco-pouch from his son's hand. "Stop one moment," said Hardy; "I found Blake at my rooms, and asked him to come over here. You don't object?" "Object, my dear fellow! I'm much obliged to you. Now, Hardy, would you like to have anyone else? I can send in a minute." "No one, thank you." "You won't stand on ceremony now, will you, with me?" said Tom. "You see I haven't." "And you never will again?" "No, never. Now, father, you can heave ahead about those oars." The Captain went on charging his pipe, and proceeded: "You see, Mr. Brown, they must have been at least twenty feet long, because, if you allow the lowest bank of oars to have been three feet above the water-line, which even Jack thinks they must have been--" "Certainly. That height at least to do any good," said Hardy. "Not that I think Jack's opinion worth much on the point," went on his father. "It's very ungrateful of you, then, to say so, father," said Hardy, "after all the time I've wasted trying to make it all clear to you." "I don't say that Jack's is not a good opinion on most things, Mr. Brown," said the Captain; "but he is all at sea about triremes. He believes that the men of the uppermost bank rowed somehow like lightermen on the Thames, walking up and down." "I object to your statement of my faith, father," said Hardy. "Now you know, Jack, you have said so, often." "I have said they must have stood up to row, and so--" "You would have had awful confusion, Jack. You must have order between decks when you're going into action. Besides, the rowers had cushions." "That old heresy of yours again." "Well, but Jack, they _had_ cushions. Didn't the rowers who were marched across the Isthmus to man the ships which were to surprise the Piraeus, carry their oars, thongs and cushions?" "If they did, your conclusion doesn't follow, father, that they sat on them to row." "You hear, Mr. Brown," said the Captain; "he admits my point about the cushions." "Oh, father, I hope you used to fight the French more fairly," said Hardy. "But didn't he? Didn't Jack admit my point?" "Implicitly, sir, I think," said Tom, catching Hardy's eye, which was dancing with fun. "Of course he did. You hear that, Jack. Now my notion about triremes--" A knock at the door interrupted the Captain again, and Blake came in and was introduced. "Mr. Blake is almost our best scholar, father; you should appeal to him about the cushions." "I am very proud to make your acquaintance, sir," said the Captain; "I have heard my son speak of you often." "We were talking about triremes," said Tom; "Captain Hardy thinks the oars must have been twenty feet long." "Not easy to come forward well with that sort of oar," said Blake; "they must have pulled a slow stroke." "Our torpid would have bumped the best of them," said Hardy. "I don't think they could have made more than six knots," said the Captain; "but yet they used to sink one another, and a light boat going only six knots couldn't break another in two amid-ships. It's a puzzling subject, Mr. Blake." "It is, sir," said Mr. Blake; "if we only had some of their fo'castle songs we should know more about it. I'm afraid they had no Dibdin." "I wish you would turn one of my father's favorite songs into anapaests for him," said Hardy. "What are they?" said Blake. "'Tom Bowling,' or 'The wind that blows, and the ship that goes, and the lass that loves a sailor.'" "By the way, why shouldn't we have a song?" said Tom. "What do you say, Captain Hardy?" The Captain winced a little as he saw his chance of expounding his notion as to triremes slipping away, but answered: "By all means, sir; Jack must sing for me though. Did you ever hear him sing 'Tom Bowling!'" "No, never, sir. Why, Hardy, you never told me you could sing." "You never asked me," said Hardy, laughing; "but if I sing for my father, he must spin us a yarn." "Oh yes; will you, sir!" "I'll do my best, Mr. Brown; but I don't know that you'll care to listen to my old yarns. Jack thinks everybody must like them as well as he, who used to hear them when he was a child." "Thank you, sir; that's famous. Now Hardy, strike up." "After you. You must set the example in your own rooms." So Tom sang his song. And the noise brought Drysdale and another man up, who were loitering in quad on the lookout for something to do. Drysdale and the Captain recognised one another, and were friends at once. And then Hardy sang "Tom Bowling," in a style which astonished the rest not a little, and as usual nearly made his father cry; and Blake sang, and Drysdale and the other man. And then the Captain was called on for his yarn; and, the general voice being for "something that had happened to him," "the strangest thing that had ever happened to him at sea," the old gentleman laid down his pipe and sat up in his chair with his hands on his stick and began. THE CAPTAIN'S STORY It will be forty years ago next month since the ship I was then in came home from the West Indies station, and was paid off. I had nowhere in particular to go just then, and so was very glad to get a letter, the morning after I went ashore at Portsmouth, asking me to go down to Plymouth for a week or so. It came from an old sailor, a friend of my family, who had been Commodore of the fleet. He lived at Plymouth; he was a thorough old sailor--what you young men would call "an old salt"--and couldn't live out of sight of the blue sea and the shipping. It is a disease that a good many of us take who have spent our best years on the sea. I have it myself--a sort of feeling that we want to be under another kind of Providence, when we look out and see a hill on this side and a hill on that. It's wonderful to see the trees come out and the corn grow, but then it doesn't come so home to an old sailor. I know that we're all just as much under the Lord's hand on shore as at sea; but you can't read in a book you haven't been used to, and they that go down to the sea in ships, they see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep. It isn't their fault if they don't see his wonders on the land so easily as other people. But, for all that, there's no man enjoys a cruise in the country more than a sailor. It's forty years ago since I started for Plymouth, but I haven't forgotten the road a bit or how beautiful it was; all through the New Forest, and over Salisbury Plain, and then by the mail to Exeter, and through Devonshire. It took me three days to get to Plymouth, for we didn't get about so quick in those days. The Commodore was very kind to me when I got there, and I went about with him to the ships in the bay, and through the dock-yard, and picked up a good deal that was of use to me afterwards. I was a lieutenant in those days, and had seen a good deal of service, and I found the old Commodore had a great nephew whom he had adopted, and had set his whole heart upon. He was an old bachelor himself, but the boy had come to live with him, and was to go to sea; so he wanted to put him under some one who would give an eye to him for the first year or two. He was a light slip of a boy then, fourteen years old, with deep set blue eyes and long eyelashes, and cheeks like a girl's, but brave as a lion and as merry as a lark. The old gentleman was very pleased to see that we took to one another. We used to bathe and boat together; and he was never tired of hearing my stories about the great admirals, and the fleet, and the stations I had been on. Well, it was agreed that I should apply for a ship again directly, and go up to London with a letter to the Admiralty from the Commodore, to help things on. After a month or two I was appointed to a brig, lying at Spithead; and so I wrote off to the Commodore and he got his boy a midshipman's berth on board, and brought him to Portsmouth himself a day or two before we sailed for the Mediterranean. The old gentleman came on board to see the boy's hammock slung, and went below into the cockpit to make sure that all was right. He only left us by the pilot boat when we were well out in the Channel. He was very low at parting with his boy, but bore up as well as he could; and we promised to write to him from Gibraltar, and as often afterwards as we had a chance. I was soon as proud and fond of little Tom Holdsworth as if he had been my own younger brother; and, for that matter, so were all the crew, from our captain to the cook's boy. He was such a gallant youngster, and yet so gentle. In one cutting-out business we had, he climbed over the boatswain's shoulder, and was almost first on deck; how he came out of it without a scratch I can't think to this day. But he hadn't a bit of bluster in him, and was as kind as a woman to anyone who was wounded or down with sickness. After we had been out about a year we were sent to cruise off Malta, on the look-out for the French fleet. It was a long business, and the post wasn't so good then as it is now. We were sometimes for months without getting a letter, and knew nothing of what was happening at home, or anywhere else. We had a sick time too on board, and at last he got a fever. He bore up against it like a man, and wouldn't knock off duty for a long time. He was midshipman of my watch; so I used to make him turn in early, and tried to ease things to him as much as I could; but he didn't pick up, and I began to get very anxious about him. I talked to the doctor, and turned matters over in my own mind, and at last I came to think he wouldn't get any better unless he could sleep out of the cockpit. So one night, the 20th of October it was--I remember it well enough, better than I remember any day since; it was a dirty night, blowing half a gale of wind from the southward, and we were under close-reefed top-sails--I had the first watch, and at nine o'clock I sent him down to my cabin to sleep there, where he would be fresher and quieter, and I was to turn into his hammock when my watch was over. I was on deck three hours or so after he went down, and the weather got dirtier and dirtier, and the scud drove by, and the wind sang and hummed through the rigging--it made me melancholy to listen to it. I could think of nothing but the youngster down below, and what I should say to his poor old uncle if anything happened. Well, soon after midnight I went down and turned into his hammock. I didn't go to sleep at once, for I remember very well listening to the creaking of the ship's timbers as she rose to the swell, and watching the lamp, which was slung from the ceiling, and gave light enough to make out the other hammocks swinging slowly altogether. At last, however, I dropped off, and I reckon I must have been asleep about an hour, when I woke with a start. For the first moment I didn't see anything but the swinging hammocks and the lamp; but then suddenly I became aware that some one was standing by my hammock, and I saw the figure as plainly as I see any one of you now, for the foot of the hammock was close to the lamp, and the light struck full across on the head and shoulders, which was all that I could see of him. There he was, the old Commodore; his grizzled hair coming out from under a red woolen nightcap, and his shoulders wrapped in an old thread-bare blue dressing-gown which I had often seen him in. His face looked pale and drawn, and there was a wistful disappointed look about the eyes. I was so taken aback I could not speak, but lay watching him. He looked full at my face once or twice, but didn't seem to recognise me; and, just as I was getting back my tongue and going to speak, he said slowly: "Where's Tom? this is his hammock. I can't see Tom;" and then he looked vaguely about and passed away somehow, but how, I couldn't see. In a moment or two I jumped out and hurried to my cabin, but young Holdsworth was fast asleep. I sat down, and wrote down just what I had seen, making a note of the exact time, twenty minutes to two. I didn't turn in again, but sat watching the youngster. When he woke I asked him if he had heard anything of his great uncle by the last mail. Yes, he had heard; the old gentleman was rather feeble, but nothing particular the matter. I kept my own counsel and never told a soul in the ship; and, when the mail came to hand a few days afterwards with a letter from the Commodore to his nephew, dated late in September, saying that he was well, I thought the figure by my hammock must have been all my own fancy. However, by the next mail came the news of the old Commodore's death. It had been a very sudden break up, his executor said. He had left all his property, which was not much, to his great nephew, who was to get leave to come home as soon as he could. The first time we touched at Malta, Tom Holdsworth left us and went home. We followed about two years afterwards, and the first thing I did after landing was to find out the Commodore's executor. He was a quiet, dry little Plymouth lawyer, and very civilly answered all my questions about the last days of my old friend. At last I asked him to tell me as near as he could the time of his death; and he put on his spectacles, and got his diary, and turned over the leaves. I was quite nervous till he looked up and said,--"Twenty-five minutes to two, sir, A.M., on the morning of October 21st; or it might be a few minutes later." "How do you mean, sir?" I asked. "Well," he said, "it is an odd story. The doctor was sitting with me, watching the old man, and, as I tell you, at twenty-five minutes to two, he got up and said it was all over. We stood together, talking in whispers for, it might be, four or five minutes, when the body seemed to move. He was an odd old man, you know, the Commodore, and we never could get him properly to bed, but he lay in his red nightcap and old dressing-gown, with a blanket over him. It was not a pleasant sight, I can tell you, sir. I don't think one of you gentlemen, who are bred to face all manner of dangers, would have liked it. As I was saying, the body first moved, and then sat up, propping itself behind with its hands. The eyes were wide open, and he looked at us for a moment, and said slowly, 'I've been to the Mediterranean, but I didn't see Tom.' Then the body sank back again, and this time the old Commodore was really dead. But it was not a pleasant thing to happen to one, sir. I do not remember anything like it in my forty years' practice." CHAPTER XXII--DEPARTURES EXPECTED AND UNEXPECTED There was a silence of a few seconds after the Captain had finished his story, all the men sitting with eyes fixed on him, and not a little surprised at the results of their call. Drysdale was the first to break the silence, which he did with a "By George!" and a long respiration; but, as he did not seem prepared with any further remark, Tom took up the running. "What a strange story," he said; "and that really happened to you, Captain Hardy?" "To me sir, in the Mediterranean, more than forty years ago." "The strangest thing about it is that the old Commodore should have managed to get all the way to the ship, and then not have known where his nephew was," said Blake. "He only knew his nephew's berth, you see, sir," said the Captain. "But he might have beat about through the ship till he had found him." "You must remember that he was at his last breath, sir," said the Captain; "you can't expect a man to have his head clear at such a moment." "Not a man, perhaps; but I should a ghost," said Blake. "Time was everything to him," went on the Captain, without regarding the interruption, "space nothing. But the strangest part of it is that _I_ should have seen the figure at all. It's true I had been thinking of the old uncle, because of the boy's illness; but I can't suppose he was thinking of me, and, as I say, he never recognized me. I have taken a great deal of interest in such matters since that time, but I have never met with just such a case as this." "No, that is the puzzle. One can fancy his appearing to his nephew well enough," said Tom. "We can't account for these things, or for a good many other things which ought to be quite as startling, only we see them every day. But now I think it is time for us to be going, eh Jack?" and the Captain and his son rose to go. Tom saw that it would be no kindness to them to try to prolong the sitting, and so he got up too, to accompany them to the gates. This broke up the party. Before going, Drysdale, after whispering to Tom, went up to Captain Hardy, and said,-- "I want to ask you to do me a favour, sir. Will you and your son breakfast with me to-morrow?" "We shall be very happy, sir," said the Captain. "I think, father, you had better breakfast with me, quietly. We are much obliged to Mr. Drysdale, but I can't give up a whole morning. Besides, I have several things to talk to you about." "Nonsense, Jack," blurted out the old sailor, "leave your books alone for one morning. I'm come up here to enjoy myself, and see your friends." Hardy gave a slight shrug of his shoulder at the word friends, and Drysdale, who saw it, looked a little confused. He had never asked Hardy to his rooms before. The Captain saw that something was the matter, and hastened in his own way to make all smooth again. "Never mind Jack, sir," he said, "he shall come. It's a great treat to me to be with young men, especially when they are friends of my boy." "I hope you'll come as a personal favor to me," said Drysdale, turning to Hardy. "Brown, you'll bring him, won't you?" "Oh yes, I'm sure he'll come," said Tom. "That's all right. Good night, then;" and Drysdale went off. Hardy and Tom accompanied the Captain to the gate. During his passage across the two quadrangles, the old gentleman was full of the praises of the men and of protestations as to the improvement in social manners and customs since his day, when there could have been no such meeting, he declared, without blackguardism and drunkenness, at least among young officers; but then they had less to think of than Oxford men, no proper education. And so the Captain was evidently traveling back into the great trireme question when they reached the gate. As they could go no farther with him, however, he had to carry away his solution of the three-banks-of-oars difficulty in his own bosom to the "Mitre". "Don't let us go in," said Tom, as the gate closed on the Captain, and they turned back into the quadrangle, "let us take a turn or two;" so they walked up and down the inner quad in the starlight. Just at first they were a good deal embarrassed and confused; but before long, though not without putting considerable force on himself, Tom got back into something like his old familiar way of unbosoming himself to his re-found friend, and Hardy showed more than his old anxiety to meet him half-way. His ready and undisguised sympathy soon dispersed the remaining clouds which were still hanging between them; and Tom found it almost a pleasure, instead of a dreary task, as he had anticipated, to make a full confession, and state the case clearly and strongly against himself to one who claimed neither by word nor look the least superiority over him, and never seemed to remember that he himself had been ill-treated in the matter. "He had such a chance of lecturing me, and didn't do it," thought Tom afterwards, when he was considering why he felt so very grateful to Hardy. "It was so cunning of him, too. If he had begun lecturing, I should have begun to defend myself, and never have felt half such a scamp as I did when I was telling it all out to him in my own way." The result of Hardy's management was that Tom made a clean breast of it, telling everything down to his night at the ragged school; and what an effect his chance-opening of the "Apology" had had on him. Here for the first time Hardy came in with his usual dry, keen voice. "You needn't have gone so far back as Plato for that lesson." "I don't understand," said Tom. "Well, there's something about an indwelling spirit which guideth every man, in St. Paul, isn't there?" "Yes, a great deal," Tom answered, after a pause; "but it isn't the same thing." "Why not the same thing?" "Oh, surely you must feel it. It would be almost blasphemy in us to talk as St. Paul talked. It is much easier to face the notion, or the fact, of a daemon or spirit such as Socrates felt to be in him, than to face what St. Paul seems to be meaning." "Yes, much easier. The only question is whether we will be heathens or not." "How do you mean?" said Tom. "Why, a spirit was speaking to Socrates, and guiding him. He obeyed the guidance, but knew not whence it came. A spirit is striving with us too, and trying to guide us--we feel that just as much as he did. Do we know what spirit it is? whence it comes? Will we obey it? If we can't name it--know no more of it then he knew about his daemon, of course, we are in no better position than he--in fact, heathens." Tom made no answer, and after a slight turn or two more, Hardy said, "Let us go in;" and they went to his rooms. When the candles were lighted, Tom saw the array of books on the table, several of them open, and remembered how near the examinations were. "I see you want to work," he said. "Well, good-night. I know how fellows like you hate being thanked--there, you needn't wince; I'm not going to try it on. The best way to thank you, I know, is to go straight for the future. I'll do that, please God, this time at any rate. Now what ought I to do, Hardy?" "Well, it's very hard to say. I've thought about it a great deal this last few days--since I felt you coming round--but I can't make up my mind. How do you feel yourself? What's your own instinct about it?" "Of course, I must break it all off at once, completely," said Tom, mournfully, and half hoping that Hardy might not agree with him. "Of course," answered Hardy, "but how?" "In the way that will pain her least. I would sooner lose my hand or bite my tongue off than that she should feel lowered, or lose any self-respect, you know," said Tom, looking helplessly at his friend. "Yes, that's all right--you must take all you can on your own shoulders. It must leave a sting though for both of you, manage how you will." "But I can't bear to let her think I don't care for her--I needn't do that--I can't do that." "I don't know what to advise. However, I believe I was wrong in thinking she cared for you so much. She will be hurt, of course--she can't help being hurt--but it won't be so bad as I used to think." Tom made no answer; in spite of all his good resolutions, he was a little piqued at this last speech. Hardy went on presently. "I wish she were well out of Oxford. It's a bad town for a girl to be living in, especially as a barmaid in a place which we haunt. I don't know that she will take much harm now; but it's a very trying thing for a girl of that sort to be thrown every day amongst a dozen young men above her in rank, and not one in ten of whom has any manliness about him." "How do you mean--no manliness?" "I mean that a girl in her position isn't safe with us. If we had any manliness in us she would be--" "You can't expect all men to be blocks of ice, or milksops," said Tom, who was getting nettled. "Don't think that I meant you," said Hardy; "indeed I didn't. But surely, think a moment; is it a proof of manliness that the pure and weak should fear you and shrink from you? Which is the true--aye, and the brave--man, he who trembles before a woman or he before whom a woman trembles?" "Neither," said Tom; "but I see what you mean, and when you put it that way it's clear enough." "But you're wrong in saying 'neither' if you do see what I mean." Tom was silent. "Can there be any true manliness without purity?" went on Hardy. Tom drew a deep breath but said nothing. "And where then can you point to a place where there is so little manliness as here? It makes my blood boil to see what one must see every day. There are a set of men up here, and have been ever since I can remember the place, not one of whom can look at a modest woman without making her shudder." "There must always be some blackguards," said Tom. "Yes; but unluckily the blackguards set the fashion, and give the tone to public opinion. I'm sure both of us have seen enough to know perfectly well that up here, amongst us undergraduates, men who are deliberately and avowedly profligates, are rather admired and courted,--are said to know the world, and all that,--while a man who tries to lead a pure life, and makes no secret of it, is openly sneered at by them, looked down on more or less by the great mass of men, and, to use the word you used just now, thought a milksop by almost all." "I don't think it so bad as that," said Tom. "There are many men who would respect him, though they might not be able to follow him." "Of course, I never meant that there are not many such, but they don't set the fashion. I am sure I'm right. Let us try it by the best test. Haven't you and I in our secret hearts this cursed feeling, that the sort of man we are talking about is a milksop?" After a moment's thought, Tom answered, "I am afraid I have, but I really am thoroughly ashamed of it now, Hardy. But you haven't it. If you had it you could never have spoken to me as you have." "I beg your pardon. No man is more open than I to the bad influences of any place he lives in. God knows I am even as other men, and worse; for I have been taught ever since I could speak, that the crown of all real manliness, of all Christian manliness, is purity." Neither of the two spoke for some minutes. Then Hardy looked at his watch-- "Past eleven," he said; "I must do some work. Well, Brown, this will be a day to be remembered in my calendar." Tom wrung his hand, but did not venture to reply. As he got to the door, however, he turned back, and said,-- "Do you think I ought to write to her?" "Well, you can try. You'll find it a bitter business, I fear." "I'll try then. Good night." Tom went to his own rooms, and set to work to write his letter; and certainly found it as difficult and unpleasant a task as he had ever set himself to work upon. Half a dozen times he tore up sheet after sheet of his attempts; and got up and walked about, and plunged and kicked mentally against the collar and traces in which he had harnessed himself by his friend's help,--trying to convince himself that Hardy was a Puritan, who had lived quite differently from other men, and knew nothing of what a man ought to do in a case like this. That after all very little harm had been done! The world would never go on at all if people were to be so scrupulous! Probably, not another man in the college, except Grey, perhaps, would think anything of what he had done!--Done! why, what had he done? He couldn't be taking it more seriously if he had ruined her! At this point he managed to bring himself up sharp again more than once. "No thanks to _me_ at any rate, that she isn't ruined. Had I any pity, any scruples? My God, what a mean, selfish rascal I have been!" and then he sat down again, and wrote, and scratched out what he had written, till the other fit came on, and something of the same process had to be gone through again. We must all recognize the process, and remember many occasions on which we have had to put bridle and bit on, and ride ourselves as if we had been horses or mules without understanding; and what a trying business it was--as bad as getting a young colt past a gipsy encampment in a narrow lane. At last, after many trials, Tom got himself well in hand, and produced something which seemed to satisfy him; for, after reading it three or four times, he put it in a cover with a small case, which he produced from his desk, sealed it, directed it, and then went to bed. Next morning, after chapel, he joined Hardy, and walked to his rooms with him, and after a few words on indifferent matters, said-- "Well, I wrote my letter last night." "Did you satisfy yourself?" "Yes, I think so. I don't know, though, on second thoughts; it was very tough work." "I was afraid you would find it so." "But wouldn't you like to see it?" "No thank you. I suppose my father will be here directly." "But I wish you would read it through," said Tom, producing a copy. "Well, if you wish it, I suppose I must; but I don't see how I can do any good." Hardy took the letter, and sat down, and Tom drew a chair close to him, and watched his face while he read:-- "It is best for us both that I should not see you any more, at least at present. I feel that I have done you a great wrong. I dare not say much to you, for fear of making that wrong greater. I cannot, I need not tell you how I despise myself now--how I long to make you any amends in my power. If ever I can be of any service to you, I do hope that nothing which has passed will hinder you from applying to me. You will not believe how it pains me to write this; how should you? I don't deserve that you should believe anything I say. I must seem heartless to you; I have been, I am heartless. I hardly know what I am writing. I shall long all my life to hear good news of you. I don't ask you to pardon me, but if you can prevail on yourself not to send back the enclosed, and will keep it as a small remembrance of one who is deeply sorry for the wrong he has done you, but who cannot and will not say he is sorry he ever met you, you will be adding another to the many kindnesses which I have to thank you for, and which I shall never forget." Hardy read it over several times, as Tom watched impatiently, unable to make out anything from his face. "What do you think? You don't think there's anything wrong in it, I hope?" "No, indeed, my dear fellow. I really think it does you credit. I don't know what else you could have said very well, only--" "Only what?" "Couldn't you have made it a little shorter?" "No, I couldn't; but you don't mean that. What did you mean by that 'only'?" "Why, I don't think this letter will end the business; at least, I'm afraid not." "But what more could I have said?" "Nothing _more_, certainly; but couldn't you have keep a little quieter--it's difficult to get the right word--a little cooler, perhaps. Couldn't you have made the part about not seeing her again a little more decided?" "But you said I needn't pretend I didn't care for her." "Did I?" "Yes. Besides, it would have been a lie." "I don't want you to tell a lie, certainly. But how about this 'small remembrance' that you speak of? What's that?" "Oh, nothing; only a little locket I bought for her." "With some of your hair in it?" "Well of course. Come now, there's no harm in that." "No; no harm. Do you think she will wear it?" "How can I tell?" "It may make her think it isn't all at an end, I'm afraid. If she always wears your hair--" "By Jove, you're too bad, Hardy. I wish you had had to write it yourself. It's all very easy to pull my letter to pieces, I dare say, but--" "I didn't want to read it, remember." "No more you did. I forgot. But I wish you would just write down now what you would have said." "Yes, I think I see myself at it. By the way, of course you have sent your letter?" "Yes, I sent it off before chapel." "I thought so. In that case I don't think we need trouble ourselves further with the form of the document." "Oh, that's only shirking. How do you know I may not want it for the next occasion?" "No, no! Don't let us begin laughing about it. A man never ought to have to write such letters twice in his life. If he has, why, he may get a good enough precedent for the second out of the 'Complete Letter Writer'. "So you won't correct my copy?" "No, not I." At this point in their dialogue, Captain Hardy appeared on the scene, and the party went off to Drysdale's to breakfast. Captain Hardy's visit to St. Ambrose was a great success. He stayed some four or five days, and saw everything that was to be seen, and enjoyed it all in a sort of reverent way which was almost comic. Tom devoted himself to the work of cicerone, and did his best to do the work thoroughly. Oxford was a sort of Utopia to the Captain, who was resolutely bent on seeing nothing but beauty and learning and wisdom within the precincts of the University. On one or two occasions his faith was tried sorely by the sight of young gentlemen gracefully apparelled, dawdling along two together in low easy pony carriages, or lying on their backs in punts for hours, smoking, with not even a _Bell's Life_ by them to pass the time. Dawdling and doing nothing were the objects of his special abhorrence; but, with this trifling exception, the Captain continued steadily to behold towers and quadrangles, and chapels, and the inhabitants of the colleges, through rose-coloured spectacles. His respect for a "regular education" and for the seat of learning at which it was dispensed was so strong, that he invested not only the tutors, doctors and proctors (of whom he saw little except at a distance), but even the most empty-headed undergraduate whose acquaintance he made, with a sort of fancy halo of scientific knowledge, and often talked to those youths in a way which was curiously bewildering and embarrassing to them. Drysdale was particularly hit by it. He had humour and honesty enough himself to appreciate the Captain, but it was a constant puzzle to him to know what to make of it all. "He's a regular old brick, is the Captain," he said to Tom, on the last evening of the old gentleman's visit, "but by Jove, I can't help thinking he must be poking fun at us half his time. It is rather too rich to hear him talking on as if we were all as fond of Greek as he seems to be, and as if no man ever got drunk up here." "I declare I think he believes it," said Tom. "You see we're all careful enough before him." "That son of his, too, must be a good fellow. Don't you see he can never have peached? His father was telling me last night what a comfort it was to him to see that Jack's poverty had been no drawback to him. He had always told him it would be so amongst English gentlemen, and now he found him living quietly and independently, and yet on equal terms, and friends, with men far above him in rank and fortune 'like you, sir,' the old boy said. By Jove, Brown, I felt devilish foolish. I believe I blushed, and it isn't often I indulge in that sort of luxury. If I weren't ashamed of doing it now, I should try to make friends with Hardy. But I don't know how to face him, and I doubt whether he wouldn't think me too much of a rip to be intimate with." Tom, at his own special request, attended the Captain's departure, and took his seat opposite to him and his son at the back of the Southampton coach, to accompany him a few miles out of Oxford. For the first mile the Captain was full of the pleasures of his visit, and of invitations to Tom to come and see them in the vacation. If he did not mind homely quarters, he would find a hearty welcome, and there was no finer bathing or boating place on the coast. If he liked to bring his gun, there were plenty of rock-pigeons and sea-otters in the caves at the Point. Tom protested with the greatest sincerity that there was nothing he should enjoy so much. Then the young men got down to walk up Bagley Hill, and when they mounted again, found the Captain with a large leather case in his hand, out of which he took two five-pound notes, and began pressing them on his son, while Tom tried to look as if he did not know what was going on. For some time Hardy steadily refused, and the contention became animated, and it was useless to pretend any longer not to hear. "Why, Jack, you're not too proud, I hope, to take a present from you own father," the Captain said at last. "But, my dear father, I don't want the money. You make me a very good allowance already." "Now, Jack, just listen to me and be reasonable. You know a great many of your friends have been very hospitable to me; I could not return their hospitality myself, but I wish you to do so for me." "Well, father, I can do that without this money." "Now, Jack," said the Captain, pushing forward the notes again, "I insist on your taking them. You will pain me very much if you don't take them." So the son took the notes at last, looking as most men of his age would if they had just lost them, while the father's face was radiant as he replaced his pocket book in the breast pocket inside his coat. His eye caught Tom's in the midst of the operation, and the latter could not help looking a little confused, as if he had been unintentionally obtruding on their privacy. But the Captain at once laid his hand on his knee and said,-- "A young fellow is never the worse for having a ten-pound note to veer and haul on, eh, Mr. Brown?" "No, indeed, sir. A great deal better I think," said Tom, and was quite comfortable again. The Captain had no new coat that summer, but he always looked like a gentleman. Soon the coach stopped to take up a parcel at a crossroad, and the young men got down. They stood watching it until it disappeared round a corner of the road, and then turned back towards Oxford, and struck into Bagley Wood, Hardy listening with evident pleasure to his friend's enthusiastic praise of his father. But he was not in a talking humour, and they were soon walking along together in silence. This was the first time they had been alone together since the morning after their reconciliation; so presently Tom seized the occasion to recur to the subject which was uppermost in his thoughts. "She has never answered my letter," he began abruptly. "I am very glad of it," said Hardy. "But why?" "Because you know, you want it all broken off completely." "Yes, but still she might have just acknowledged it. You don't know how hard it is for me to keep away from the place." "My dear fellow, I know it must be hard work, but you are doing the right thing." "Yes, I hope so," said Tom, with a sigh. "I haven't been within a hundred yards of 'The Choughs' this five days. The old lady must think it so odd." Hardy made no reply. What could he say but that no doubt she did? "Would you mind doing me a great favor?" said Tom, after a minute. "Anything I can do.--What is it?" "Why, just to step round on our way back,--I will stay as far off as you like,--and see how things are going on;--how she is." "Very well. Don't you like this view of Oxford? I always think it is the best of them all." "No. You don't see anything of half the colleges," said Tom, who was very loath to leave the other subject for the picturesque. "But you get all the spires and towers so well, and the river in the foreground. Look at that shadow of a cloud skimming over Christchurch Meadow. It's a splendid old place after all." "It may be from a distance, to an outsider," said Tom; "but I don't know--it's an awfully chilly, deadening kind of place to live in. There's something in the life of the place that sits on me like a weight, and makes me feel dreary." "How long have you felt that? You're coming out in a new line." "I wish I were. I want a new line. I don't care a straw for cricket; I hardly like pulling; and as for those wine parties day after day, and suppers night after night, they turn me sick to think of." "You have the remedy in your own hands, at any rate," said Hardy, smiling. "How do you mean?" "Why, you needn't go to them." "Oh, one can't help going to them. What else is there to do!" Tom waited for an answer, but his companion only nodded to show that he was listening, as he strolled on down the path, looking at the view. "I can say what I feel to you, Hardy. I always have been able, and it's such a comfort to me now. It was you who put these sort of thoughts into my head, too, so you ought to sympathize with me." "I do, my dear fellow. But you'll be all right again in a few days." "Don't you believe it. It isn't only what you seem to think, Hardy. You don't know me so well as I do you, after all. No, I'm not just love-sick, and hipped because I can't go and see her. That has something to do with it, I dare say, but it's the sort of shut-up selfish life we lead here that I can't stand. A man isn't meant to live only with fellows like himself, with good allowances paid quarterly, and no care but how to amuse themselves. One is old enough for something better than that, I'm sure." "No doubt," said Hardy with provoking taciturnity. "And the moment one tries to break through it, one only gets into trouble." "Yes, there's a good deal of danger of that, certainly," said Hardy. "Don't you often long to be in contact with some of the realities of life, with men and women who haven't their bread and butter already cut for them? How can a place be a university where no one can come up who hasn't two hundred a year or so to live on?" "You ought to have been at Oxford four hundred years ago, when there were more thousands here than we have hundreds." "I don't see that. It must have been ten times as bad then." "Not at all. But it must have been a very different state of things from ours; they must have been almost all poor scholars, who worked for their living, or lived on next to nothing." "How do you really suppose they lived, though?" "Oh, I don't know. But how should you like it now, if we had fifty poor scholars at St. Ambrose, besides us servitors--say ten tailors, ten shoemakers, and so on, who came up from love of learning, and attended all the lectures with us, and worked for the present undergraduates while they were hunting, and cricketing, and boating?" "Well, I think it would be a very good thing--at any rate, we should save in tailors' bills." "Even if we didn't get our coats so well built," said Hardy, laughing. "Well, Brown, you have a most catholic taste, and 'a capacity for talking in new truths', all the elements of a good Radical in you." "I tell you, I hate Radicals," said Tom indignantly. "Well, here we are in the town. I'll go round by 'The Choughs' and catch you up before you get to High Street." Tom, left, to himself, walked slowly on for a little way, and then quickly back again in an impatient, restless manner, and was within a few yards of the corner where they had parted, when Hardy appeared again. He saw at a glance that something had happened. "What is it--she is not ill?" he said quickly. "No; quite well, her aunt says." "You didn't see her then?" "No. The fact is she has gone home." CHAPTER XXIII--THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE On the afternoon of a splendid day in the early part of June, some four or five days after the Sunday on which the morning service at Englebourn was interrupted by the fire at Farmer Groves', David Johnson, tailor and constable of the parish, was sitting at his work in a small erection, half shed, half summer-house, which leaned against the back of his cottage. Not that David had not a regular workshop, with a window looking into the village street, and a regular counter close under it, on which passersby might see him stitching, and from which he could gossip with them easily, as was his wont. But although the constable kept the king's peace and made garments of all kinds for his livelihood--from the curate's frock down to the ploughboy's fustians--he was addicted for his pleasure and solace to the keeping of bees. The constable's bees inhabited a row of hives in the narrow strip of garden which ran away at the back of the cottage. This strip of garden was bordered along the whole of one side by the rector's premises. Now honest David loved gossip well, and considered it a part of his duty as constable to be well up in all events and rumours which happened or arose within his liberties. But he loved his bees better than gossip, and, as he was now in hourly expectation that they would be swarming, was working, as has been said, in his summer-house, that he might be at hand at the critical moment. The rough table on which he was seated commanded a view of the hives; his big scissors and some shreds of velveteen lay near him on the table, also the street-door key and an old shovel, of which the uses will appear presently. On his knees lay the black velveteen coat, the Sunday garment of Harry Winburn, to which he was fitting new sleeves. In his exertions at the top of the chimney in putting out the fire, Harry had grievously damaged the garment in question. The farmer had presented him with five shillings on the occasion, which sum was quite inadequate to the purchase of a new coat, and Harry, being too proud to call the farmer's attention to the special damage which he had suffered in his service, had contented himself with bringing his old coat to be new sleeved. Harry was a favorite with the constable on account of his intelligence and independence, and because of his relations with the farmers of Englebourn on the allotment question. Although by his office the representative of law and order in the parish, David was a man of the people, and sympathized with the peasantry more than with the farmers. He had passed some years of his apprenticeship at Reading, where he had picked up notions on political and social questions much ahead of the Englebourn worthies. When he returned to his native village, being a wise man, he had kept his new lights in the background, and consequently had succeeded in the object of his ambition, and had been appointed constable. His reason for seeking the post was a desire to prove that the old joke as to the manliness of tailors had no application to his case, and this he had established to the satisfaction of all the neighborhood by the resolute manner in which, whenever called on, he performed his duties. And, now that his character was made and his position secure, he was not so careful of betraying his leanings, and had lost some custom amongst the farmers in consequence of them. The job on which he was employed naturally turned his thoughts to Harry. He stitched away, now weighing in his mind whether he should not go himself to Farmer Groves, and represent to him that he ought to give Harry a new coat; now rejoicing over the fact that the rector had decided to let Harry have another acre of the allotment land, now speculating on the attachment of his favorite to the gardener's daughter, and whether he could do any thing to forward his suit. In the pursuit of which thoughts he had forgotten all about his bees, when suddenly a great humming arose, followed by a rush through the air like the passing of an express train, which recalled him to himself. He jumped from the table, casting aside the coat, and seizing the key and shovel, hurried out into the garden, beating the two together with all his might. The process in question, known in country phrase as "tanging", is founded upon the belief that the bees will not settle unless under the influence of this peculiar music; and the constable, holding faithfully to the popular belief, rushed down his garden, "tanging" as though his life depended upon it, in the hopes that the soothing sound would induce the swarm to settle at once on his own apple trees. Is "tanging" a superstition or not? People learned in bees ought to know, but I never happened to meet one who had settled the question. It is curious how such beliefs or superstitions fix themselves in the popular mind of a countryside, and are held by wise and simple alike. David the constable was a most sensible and open-minded man of his time and class, but Kemble or Akerman, or other learned Anglo-Saxon scholars would have vainly explained to him that "tang", is but the old word for "to hold", and that the object of "tanging" is, not to lure the bees with sweet music of key and shovel, but to give notice to the neighbours that they have swarmed, and that the owner of the maternal hive means to hold on to his right to the emigrants. David would have listened to the lecture with pity, and have retained unshaken belief in his music. In the present case, however, the tanging was of little avail, for the swarm, after wheeling once or twice in the air, disappeared from the eyes of the constable over the rector's wall. He went on "tanging" violently for a minute or two, and then paused to consider what was to be done. Should he get over the wall into the rector's garden at once, or should he go round and ask leave to carry his search into the parsonage grounds? As a man and bee-fancier he was on the point of following straight at once, over wall and fence; but the constable was also strong within him. He was not on the best of terms with old Simon, the rector's gardener, and his late opposition to Miss Winter in the matter of the singing also came into his mind. So he resolved that the parish constable would lose caste by disregarding his neighbour's boundaries, and was considering what to do next, when he heard a footstep and short cough on the other side of the wall which he recognized. "Be you there, Maester Simon?" he called out. Where upon the walker on the other side pulled up, and after a second appeal answered shortly-- "E'es." "Hev'ee seed ought o' my bees? Thaay've a bin' and riz, and gone off somweres athert the wall." "E'es, I seen 'em." "Wer' be 'em then?" "Aal-amang wi' ourn in the limes." "Aal-amang wi'yourn," exclaimed the constable. "Drattle 'em. Thaay be more trouble than they be wuth." "I knowd as thaay wur yourn zoon as ever I sot eyes on 'em," old Simon went on. "How did'ee know 'em then?" asked the constable. "'Cause thine be aal zettin' crass-legged," said Simon, with a chuckle. "Thee medst cum and pick 'em all out if thee'st a mind to 't." Simon was mollified by his own joke, and broke into a short, dry cachinnation, half laugh, half cough; while the constable, who was pleased and astonished to find his neighbour in such a good humour, hastened to get an empty hive and a pair of hedger's gloves--fortified with which he left his cottage and made the best of his way up street towards the Rectory gate, hard by which stood Simon's cottage. The old gardener was of an impatient nature, and the effect of the joke had almost time to evaporate, and Simon was fast relapsing into his usual state of mind towards his neighbour before the latter made his appearance. "Wher' hast been so long?" he exclaimed, when the constable joined him. "I seed the young missus and t'other young lady a standin' talkin' afore the door," said David; "so I stopped back, so as not to dlsturve 'em." "Be 'em gone in? Who was 'em talkin' to?" "To thy missus, and thy daarter too, I b'lieve 'twas. Thaay be both at whoam, bean't 'em?" "Like enough. But what was 'em zayin'?" "I couldn't heer nothin' partic'lar, but I judged as 'twas summat about Sunday and the fire." "'Tis na use for thaay to go on fillin' our place wi' bottles. I dwon't mean to take no mwore doctor's stuff." Simon, it may be said, by the way, had obstinately refused to take any medicine since his fall, and had maintained a constant war on the subject, both with his own women and Miss Winter, whom he had impressed more than ever with a belief in his wrongheadedness. "Ah! and how be'ee, tho', Maester Simon?" said David, "I didn't mind to ax afore'. You dwon't feel no wus for your fall, I hopes?" "I feels a bit stiffish like, and as if summat wur cuttin' m' at times, when I lifts up my arms." "'Tis a mercy 'tis no wus," said David; "we bean't so young nor lissom as we was; Maester Simon." To which remark Simon replied by a grunt. He disliked allusions to his age--a rare dislike amongst his class in that part of the country. Most of the people are fond of making themselves out older than they are, and love to dwell on their experiences, and believe, as firmly as the rest of us, that everything has altered for the worse in the parish and district since their youth. But Simon, though short of words and temper, and an uncomfortable acquaintance in consequence, was inclined to be helpful enough in other ways. The constable, with his assistance, had very soon hived his swarm of cross-legged bees. Then the constable insisted on Simon's coming with him and taking a glass of ale, which, after a little coquetting, Simon consented to do. So, after carrying his re-capture safely home, and erecting the hive on a three-legged stand of his own workmanship, he hastened to rejoin Simon, and the two soon found themselves in the bar of the "Red Lion." The constable wished to make the most of this opportunity, and so began at once to pump Simon as to his intentions with regard to his daughter. But Simon was not easy to lead in anyway whatever, and seemed in a more than usually no-business-of-yours line about his daughter. Whether he had anyone in his eye for her or not, David could not make out; but one thing he did make out, and it grieved him much. Old Simon was in a touchy and unfriendly state of mind against Harry, who, he said, was falling into bad ways, and beginning to think much too much of his self. Why was he to be wanting more allotment ground than anyone else? Simon had himself given Harry some advice on the point, but not to much purpose, it would seem, as he summed up his notions on the subject by the remark that, "'Twas waste of soap to lather an ass." The constable now and then made a stand for his young friend, but very judiciously; and, after feeling his way for some time, he came to the conclusion--as, indeed, the truth was--that Simon was jealous of Harry's talent for growing flowers, and had been driven into his present frame of mind at hearing Miss Winter and her cousin talking about the flowers, at Dame Winburn's under his very nose for the last four or five days. They had spoken thus to interest the old man, meaning to praise Harry to him. The fact was, that the old gardener was one of those men who never can stand hearing other people praised, and think that all such praise must be meant in depreciation of themselves. When they had finished their ale, the afternoon was getting on, and the constable rose to go back to his work; while old Simon declared his intention of going down to the hay-field, to see how the mowing was getting on. He was sure that the hay would never be made properly, now that he couldn't be about as much as usual. In another hour the coat was finished, and the constable being uneasy in his mind, resolved to carry the garment home himself at once, and to have a talk with Dame Winburn. So he wrapped the coat in a handkerchief, put it under his arm, and set off down the village. He found the dame busy with her washing; and after depositing his parcel, sat down on the settle to have a talk with her. They soon got on the subject which was always uppermost in her mind, her son's prospects, and she poured out to the constable her troubles. First there was this sweet-hearting after old Simon's daughter,--not that Dame Winburn was going to say anything against her, though she might have her thoughts as well as other folk, and for her part she liked to see girls that were fit for something besides dressing themselves up like their betters,--but what worried her was to see how Harry took it to heart. He wasn't like himself, and she couldn't see how it was all to end. It made him fractious, too, and he was getting into trouble about his work. He had left his regular place, and was gone mowing with a gang, most of them men out of the parish that she knew nothing about, and likely not to be the best of company. And it was all very well in harvest time, when they could go and earn good wages at mowing and reaping any where about, and no man could earn better than her Harry, but when it came to winter again she didn't see but what he might find the want of a regular place, and then the farmers mightn't take him on; and his own land, that he had got, and seemed to think so much of, mightn't turn out all he thought it would. And so in fact the old lady was troubled in her mind, and only made the constable more uneasy. He had a vague sort of impression that he was in some way answerable for Harry, who was a good deal with him, and was fond of coming about his place. And although his cottage happened to be next to old Simon's, which might account for the fact to some extent, yet the constable was conscious of having talked to his young friend on many matters in a way which might have unsettled him, and encouraged his natural tendency to stand up for his own rights and independence, and he knew well enough that this temper was not the one which was likely to keep a labouring man out of trouble in the parish. He did not allow his own misgivings, however, to add to the widow's troubles, but, on the contrary, cheered her by praising up Harry as much as even she could desire, and prophesying that all would come right, and that those that lived would see her son as respected as any man in the parish; he shouldn't be surprised, indeed, if he were church-warden before he died. And then, astonished at his own boldness, and feeling that he was not capable of any higher flight of imagination, the constable rose to take his leave. He asked where Harry was working, and, finding that he was at mowing in the Danes' Close, set off to look after him. The kind-hearted constable could not shake off the feeling that something was going to happen to Harry which would get him into trouble, and he wanted to assure himself that as yet nothing had gone wrong. Whenever one has this sort of vague feeling about a friend, there is a natural and irresistible impulse to go and look after him, and to be with him. The Danes' Close was a part of the glebe, a large field of some ten acres or so in extent, close to the village. Two footpaths ran across it, so that it was almost common property, and the village children considered it as much their playground as the green itself. They trampled the grass a good deal more than seemed endurable in the eyes of Simon, who managed the rector's farming operations as well as the garden; but the children had their own way, notwithstanding the threats he sometimes launched at them. Miss Winter would have sooner lost all the hay than have narrowed their amusements. It was the most difficult piece of mowing in the parish, in consequence of the tramplings and of the large crops it bore. The Danes, or some other unknown persons, had made the land fat, perhaps with their carcasses, and the benefit had lasted to the time of our story. At any rate, the field bore splendid crops, and the mowers always got an extra shilling an acre for cutting it, by Miss Winter's special order, which was paid by Simon in the most ungracious manner, and with many grumblings that it was enough to ruin all the mowers in the countryside. As the constable got over the stile into the hay-field, a great part of his misgivings passed out of his head. He was a simple kindly man, whose heart lay open to all influences of scene and weather, and the Danes' Close, full of life and joy and merry sounds, as seen under the slanting rays of the evening sun, was just the place to rub all the wrinkles out of him. The constable, however, is not singular in this matter. What man amongst us all, if he will think the matter over calmly and fairly, can honestly say that there is any one spot on the earth's surface in which he has enjoyed so much real, wholesome, happy life as in a hay field? He may have won renown on horseback or on foot at the sports and pastimes in which Englishmen glory; he may have shaken off all rivals, time after time, across the vales of Aylesbury, or of Berks, or any other of our famous hunting counties; he may have stalked the oldest and shyest buck in Scotch forests, and killed the biggest salmon of the year in the Tweed, and the trout in the Thames; he may have made topping averages in first-rate matches of cricket; or have made long and perilous marches, dear to memory, over boggy moor, or mountain, or glacier; he may have successfully attended many breakfast-parties, within drive of Mayfair, on velvet lawns, surrounded by all the fairyland of pomp, and beauty, and luxury, which London can pour out; he may have shone at private theatricals and at-homes; his voice may have sounded over hushed audiences at St. Stephen's, or in the law courts; or he may have had good times in any other scenes of pleasure or triumph open to Englishmen; but I much doubt whether, on putting his recollections fairly and quietly together, he would not say at last that the fresh mown hay field is the place where he has spent the most hours which he would like to live over again, the fewest which he would wish to forget. As children, we stumble about the new-mown hay, revelling in the many colors of the prostrate grass and wild flowers, and in the power of tumbling where we please without hurting ourselves; as small boys, we pelt one another and the village schoolgirls and our nursemaids and young lady cousins with the hay, till, hot and weary, we retire to tea or syllabub beneath the shade of some great oak or elm, standing up like a monarch out of the fair pasture; or, following the mowers, we rush with eagerness on the treasures disclosed by the scythe-stroke,--the nest of the unhappy late laying titlark, or careless field-mouse; as big boys, we toil ambitiously with the spare forks and rakes, or climb into the wagons and receive with open arms the delicious load as it is pitched up from below, and rises higher and higher as we pass along the long lines of haycocks; a year or two later we are strolling there with our first sweethearts, our souls and tongues, loaded with sweet thoughts and soft speeches; we take a turn with the scythe as the bronzed mowers lie in the shade for their short rest, and willingly pay our footing for the feat. Again, we come back with book in pocket, and our own children tumbling about as we did before them; now romping with them, and smothering them with the sweet-smelling load--now musing and reading and dozing away the delicious summer evenings. And so shall we not come back to the end, enjoying as grandfathers the lovemaking and the rompings of younger generations yet? Were any of us ever really disappointed or melancholy in a hay-field? Did we ever lie fairly back on a haycock and look up into the blue sky and listen to the merry sounds, the whetting of scythes and the laughing prattle of women and children, and think evil thoughts of the world and of or our brethren? Not we! Or if we have so done, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves, and deserve never to be out of town again during hay-harvest. There is something in the sights and sounds of a hay-field which seems to touch the same chord in one as Lowell's lines in the "Lay of Sir Launfal," which end-- "For a cap and bells our lives we pay; We wear out our lives with toiling and tasking; It is only Heaven that is given away; It is only God may be had for the asking. There is no price set on the lavish summer, And June may be had by the poorest comer." But the philosophy of the hay-field remains to be written. Let us hope that whoever takes the subject in hand will not dissipate all its sweetness in the process of the inquiry wherein the charm lies. The constable had not the slightest notion of speculating on his own sensations, but was very glad, nevertheless, to find his spirits rising as he stepped into the Danes' Close. All the hay was down, except a small piece in the further corner, which the mowers were upon. There were groups of children in many parts of the field, and women to look after them, mostly sitting on the fresh swarth, working and gossiping, while the little ones played about. He had not gone twenty yards before he was stopped by the violent crying of a child; and turning toward the voice, he saw a little girl of six or seven, who had strayed from her mother, scrambling out of the ditch, and wringing her hands in an agony of pain and terror. The poor little thing had fallen into a bed of nettles, and was very much frightened, and not a little hurt. The constable caught her up in his arms, soothing her as well as he could, and hurrying along till he found some dock-leaves, sat down with her on his knee, and rubbed her hands with the leaves, repeating the old saw-- "Our nettle, In dock; Dock shall ha' A new smock; Nettle shan't Ha' narrun'." What with the rubbing, and the constable's kind manner, and listening to the doggerel rhyme, and feeling that nettle would get her deserts, the little thing soon ceased crying. But several groups had been drawn towards the place, and amongst the rest came Miss Winter and her cousin, who had been within hearing of the disaster. The constable began to feel very nervous and uncomfortable, when he looked up from his charitable occupation, and suddenly found the rector's daughter close to him. But his nervousness was uncalled for. The sight of what he was about, and of the tender way in which he was handling the child, drove all remembrance of his heresies and contumaciousness in the matter of psalmody out of her head. She greeted him with frankness and cordiality, and presently--when he had given up his charge to the mother, who was inclined at first to be hard with the poor little sobbing truant--came up, and said she wished to speak a few words to him. David was highly delighted at Miss Winter's manner; but he walked along at her side not quite comfortable in his mind, for fear lest she should start the old subject of dispute, and then his duty as a public man would have to be done at all risk of offending her. He was much comforted when she began by asking him whether he had seen much of Widow Winburn's son lately. David admitted that he generally saw him every day. Did he know that he had left his place, and had quarrelled with Mr. Tester? Yes, David knew that Harry had had words with Farmer Tester; but Farmer Tester was a sort that was very hard not to have words with. "Still, it is very bad, you know, for so young a man to be quarrelling with the farmers," said Miss Winter. "'Twas the varmer as quarreled wi' he, you see, miss," David answered, "which makes all the odds. He cum to Harry all in a fluster, and said as how he must drow up the land as he'd a'got, or he's place--one or t'other on 'em. And so you see, Miss, as Harry wur kind o' druv to it. 'Twarn't likely as he wur to drow up the land now as he were just reppin' the benefit ov it, and all for Varmer Tester's place, wich be no sich gurt things, miss, arter all." "Very likely not; but I fear it may hinder his getting employment. The other farmers will not take him on now if they can help it." "No; thaay falls out wi' one another bad enough, and calls all manner o' names. But thaay can't abide a poor man to speak his mind, nor take his own part, not one on 'em," said David, looking at Miss Winter, as if doubtful how she might take his strictures; but she went on without any show of dissent,-- "I shall try to get him work for my father, but I am sorry to find that Simon does not seem to like the idea of taking him on. It is not easy always to make out Simon's meaning. When I spoke to him, he said something about a bleating sheep losing a bite; but I should think this young man is not much of a talker in general?"--she paused. "That's true, miss," said David, energetically; "there ain't a quieter spoken or steadier man at his work in the parish." "I'm very glad to hear you say so," said Miss Winter, "and I hope we may soon do something for him. But what I want you to do just now is to speak a word to him about the company he seems to be getting into." The constable looked somewhat aghast at this speech of Miss Winter's, but did not answer, not knowing to what she was alluding. She saw that he did not understand, and went on-- "He is mowing to-day with a gang from the heath and the next parish; I am sure they are very bad men for him to be with. I was so vexed when I found Simon had given them the job; but he said they would get it all down in a day, and be done with it, and that was all he cared for." "And 'tis a fine day's work, miss, for five men," said David, looking over the field; "and 'tis good work too, you mind the swarth else," and he picked up a handful of the fallen grass to show her how near the ground it was cut. "Oh, yes, I have no doubt they are very good mowers, but they are not good men, I'm sure. There, do you see now who it is that is bringing them beer? I hope you will see Widow Winburn's son, and speak to him, and try to keep him out of bad company. We should be all so sorry if he were to get into trouble." David promised to do his best, and Miss Winter wished him good evening, and rejoined her cousin. "Well, Katie, will he do your behest?" "Yes, indeed; and I think he is the best person to do it. Widow Winburn thinks her son minds him more than any one." "Do you know, I don't think it will ever go right. I'm sure she doesn't care the least for him." "Oh, you have only just seen her once for two or three minutes." "And then that wretched old Simon is so perverse about it," said the cousin. "You will never manage him." "He is very provoking, certainly; but I get my own way generally, in spite of him. And it is such a perfect plan, isn't it!" "Oh, charming! if you can only bring it about." "Now we must be really going home; papa will be getting restless." So the young ladies left the hay-field deep in castle-building for Harry Winburn and the gardener's daughter, Miss Winter being no more able to resist a tale of true love than her cousin, or the rest of her sex. They would have been more or less than woman if they had not taken an interest in so absorbing a passion as poor Harry's. By the time they reached the Rectory gate they had installed him in the gardener's cottage with his bride and mother (for there would be plenty of room for the widow, and it would be so convenient to have the laundry close at hand) and had pensioned old Simon, and sent him and his old wife to wrangle away the rest of their time in the widow's cottage. Castle-building is a delightful and harmless exercise. Meantime David the constable had gone towards the mowers, who were taking a short rest before finishing off the last half-acre which remained standing. The person whose appearance had so horrified Miss Winter was drawing beer for them from a small barrel. This was an elderly raw-boned woman with a skin burnt as brown as that of any of the mowers. She wore a man's hat and spencer and had a strong harsh voice, and altogether was not a prepossessing person. She went by the name of Daddy Cowell in the parish, and had been for years a proscribed person. She lived up on the heath, often worked in the fields, took in lodgers, and smoked a short clay pipe. These eccentricities, when added to her half-male clothing, were quite enough to account for the sort of outlawry in which she lived. Miss Winter, and other good people of Englebourn, believed her capable of any crime, and the children were taught to stop talking and playing, and run away when she came near them; but the constable, who had had one or two search-warrants to execute in her house, and had otherwise had frequent occasions of getting acquainted with her in the course of his duties, had by no means so evil an opinion of her. He had never seen much harm in her, he had often been heard to say, and she never made pretence to much good. Nevertheless, David was by no means pleased to see her acting as purveyor to the gang which Harry had joined. He knew how such contact would damage him in the eyes of all the parochial respectabilities, and was anxious to do his best to get him clear of it. With these views he went up to the men, who were resting under a large elm tree, and complimented them on their day's work. They were themselves well satisfied with it, and with one another. When men have had sixteen hours or so hard mowing in company, and none of them can say that the others have not done their fair share, they are apt to respect one another more at the end of it. It was Harry's first day with this gang, who were famous for going about the neighbourhood, and doing great feats in hay and wheat harvest. They were satisfied with him and he with them, none the less so probably in his present frame of mind, because they also were loose on the world, servants of no regular master. It was a bad time to make his approaches, the constable saw; so, after sitting by Harry until the gang rose to finish off their work in the cool of the evening, and asking him to come round by his cottage on his way home, which Harry promised to do, he walked back to the village. CHAPTER XXIV--THE SCHOOLS. There is no more characteristic spot in Oxford than the quadrangle of the schools. Doubtless in the times when the University held and exercised the privileges of infang-thief and outfang-thief, and other such old-world rights, there must have been a place somewhere within the liberties devoted to examinations even more exciting than the great-go. But since _alma mater_ has ceased to take cognizance of "treasons, insurrections, felonies, and mayhem," it is here, in that fateful and inexorable quadrangle, and the buildings which surround it, that she exercises her most potent spells over the spirits of her children. I suppose that a man being tried for his life must be more uncomfortable than an undergraduate being examined for his degree, and that to be hung--perhaps even to be pilloried--must be worse than to be plucked. But after all, the feeling in both cases must be essentially the same, only more intense in the former; and an institution which can examine a man (_in literis humanitoribus_, in humanities, so called) once a year for two or three days at a time, has nothing to complain of, though it has no longer the power of hanging him at once out of hand. The schools' quadrangle is for the most part a lonely place. Men pass through the melancholy iron-gates by which that quadrangle is entered on three sides--from Broad street, from the Ratcliff, and from New College-Lane--when necessity leads them that way, with alert step and silently. No nursemaids or children play about it. Nobody lives in it. Only when the examinations are going on you may see a few hooded figures who walk as though conscious of the powers of academic life and death which they wield, and a good deal of shuddering undergraduate life flitting about the place--luckless youths, in white ties and bands, who are undergoing the _peine forte et dure_ with different degrees of composure; and their friends who are there to look after them. You may go in and watch the torture yourself if you are so minded, for the _viva voce_ schools are open to the public. But one such experiment will be enough for you, unless you are very hard-hearted. The sight of the long table, behind which sit Minos, Rhadamanthus & Co., full-robed, stern of face, soft of speech, seizing their victim in turn, now letting him run a little way as a cat does a mouse, then drawing him back, with claw of wily question, probing him on this side and that, turning him inside out,--the row of victims opposite, pale or flushed, of anxious or careless mien, according to temperament, but one and all on the rack as they bend over the allotted paper, or read from the well-thumbed book--the scarcely-less-to-be-pitied row behind of future victims, "sitting for the schools" as it is called, ruthlessly brought hither by statutes, to watch the sufferings they must hereafter undergo--should fill the friend of suffering humanity with thoughts too deep for tears. Through the long day till four o'clock, or later, the torture lasts. Then the last victim is dismissed; the men who are "sitting for the schools" fly all ways to their colleges, silently, in search of relief to their over-wrought feelings--probably also of beer, the undergraduate's universal specific. The beadles close those ruthless doors for a mysterious half-hour on the examiners. Outside in the quadrangle collect by twos and threes the friends of the victims, waiting for the reopening of the door, and the distribution of the "testamurs." The testamurs, lady readers will be pleased to understand, are certificates under the hands of the examiners that your sons, brothers, husbands, perhaps, have successfully undergone the torture. But, if husbands, oh, go not yourselves, and send not your sons to wait for the testamur of the head of your house; for Oxford has seldom seen a sight over which she would more willingly draw the veil, with averted face, than that of the youth rushing wildly, dissolved in tears from the schools' quadrangle, and shouting, "Mamma! papa's plucked! papa's plucked!" The examination is nearly over which is to decide the academical fate of some of our characters; the paper-work of the candidates for honors has been going on for the last week. Every morning our three St. Ambrose acquaintances have mustered with the rest for the anxious day's work, after such breakfasts as they have been able to eat under the circumstances. They take their work in very different ways. Grey rushes nervously back to his rooms whenever he is out of the schools for ten minutes, to look up dates and dodges. He worries himself sadly over every blunder which he discovers himself to have made, and sits up nearly all night cramming, always hoping for a better to-morrow. Blake keeps up his affected carelessness to the last, quizzing the examiners, laughing over the shots he has been making in the last paper. His shots, it must be said, turn out well for the most part; in the taste paper particularly, as they compare notes, he seems to have almost struck the bull's-eye in his answers to one or two questions which Hardy and Grey have passed over altogether. When he is wide of the mark, he passes it off with some jesting remark; "that a fool can ask in five minutes more questions than a wise man can answer in a week," or wish "that the examiners would play fair, and change sides of the table for an hour with the candidates for a finish." But he, too, though he does it on the sly, is cramming with his coach at every available spare moment. Hardy had finished his reading a full thirty-six hours before the first day of paper-work, and had braced himself for the actual struggle by two good nights' rest and a long day on the river with Tom. He had worked hard from the first, and so had really mastered his books. And now, feeling that he had fairly and honestly done his best, and that if he fails it will be either from bad luck or natural incapacity, and not from his own fault, he manages to keep a cooler head than any of his companions in trouble. The week's paper-work passed off uneventfully; then comes the _viva voce_ work for the candidates for honors. They go in, in alphabetical order, four a day, for one more day's work, the hardest of all, and then there is nothing more to do but wait patiently for the class list. On these days there is a good attendance in the enclosed space to which the public are admitted. The front seats are often occupied by the private tutors of the candidates, who are there, like Newmarket trainers, to see the performance of their stables, marking how each colt bears pressing, and comports himself when the pinch comes. They watch the examiners, too, carefully to see what line they take, whether science or history, or scholarship is likely to tell most, that they may handle the rest of their starts accordingly. Behind them, for the most part on the hindermost benches of the flight of raised steps, anxious younger brothers and friends sit, for a few minutes at a time, flitting in and out in much unrest, and making the objects of their solicitude more nervous than ever by their sympathy. It is now the afternoon of the second day of the _viva voce_ examinations in honors. Blake is one of the men in. His tutor, Hardy, Grey, Tom, and other St. Ambrose men, have all been in the schools more or less during his examination, and now Hardy and Tom are waiting outside the doors for the issuing of the testamurs. The group is small enough. It is so much of course that a class-man should get his testamur that there is no excitement about it; generally the man himself stops to receive it. The only anxious faces in the group are Tom's and Hardy's. They have not exchanged a word for the last few minutes in their short walk before the door. Now the examiners come out and walk away towards their colleges, and the next minute the door again opens and the clerk of the schools appears with a slip of paper in his hand. "Now you'll see if I am not right," said Hardy, as they gathered to the door with the rest. "I tell you there isn't the least chance for him." [Illustration: 0318] The clerk read out the names inscribed on the testamurs which he held, and handed them to the owners. "Haven't you one for Mr. Blake of St. Ambrose?" said Tom desperately as the clerk was closing the door. "No, sir; none but those I have just given out," answered the clerk, shaking his head. The door closed, and they turned away in silence for the first minute. "I told you how it would be," said Hardy, as they passed out of the south gate into the Ratcliff Quadrangle. "But he seemed to be doing so well when I was in." "You were not there at the time. I thought at first they would have sent him out of the schools at once." "In his divinity, wasn't it?" "Yes; he was asked to repeat one of the Articles, and didn't know three words of it. From that moment I saw it was all over. The examiner and he both lost their tempers, and it went from bad to worse, till the examiner remarked that he could have answered one of the questions he was asking when he was ten years old, and Blake replied, so could he. They gave him a paper in divinity afterwards, but you could see there was no chance for him." "Poor fellow! what will he do, do you think? How will he take it?" "I can' tell. But I'm afraid it will be a very serious matter for him. He was the ablest man in our year too. What a pity." They got into St. Ambrose just as the bell for afternoon chapel was going down, and went in. Blake was there, and one look showed him what had happened. In fact he had expected nothing else all day since his breakdown in the Articles. Tom couldn't help watching him during chapel; and afterwards, on that evening, acknowledged to a friend that whatever else you might think of Blake, there was no doubt about his gameness. After chapel he loitered outside the door in the quadrangle, talking just as usual, and before hall he loitered on the steps in well-feigned carelessness. Everybody else was thinking of his breakdown; some with real sorrow and sympathy; others as of any other nine days' wonder--pretty much as if the favourite for the Derby had broken down; others with ill-concealed triumph, for Blake had many enemies amongst the men. He himself was conscious enough of what they were thinking, but maintained his easy, gay manner through it all, though the effort it cost him was tremendous. The only allusion he made to what had happened which Tom heard was when he asked him to wine. "Are you engaged to-night, Brown?" he said. Tom answered in the negative. "Come to me, then" he went on. "You won't get another chance in St. Ambrose. I have a few bottles of old wine left; we may as well floor them; they won't bear moving to a hall with their master." And then he turned to some other men and asked them, everyone in fact who he came across, especially the dominant fast set with whom he had chiefly lived. These young gentlemen (of whom we had a glimpse at the outset, but whose company we have carefully avoided ever since, seeing that their sayings and doings were of a kind of which the less said the better) had been steadily going on in their way, getting more and more idle, reckless and insolent. Their doings had been already so scandalous on several occasions as to call for solemn meetings of the college authorities; but, no vigorous measures having followed, such deliberations had only made matters worse, and given the men a notion that they could do what they pleased with impunity. This night the climax had come; it was as though the flood of misrule had at last broken banks and overflowed the whole college. For two hours the wine party in Blake's large ground-floor rooms was kept up with a wild, reckless mirth, in keeping with the host's temper. Blake was on his mettle. He had asked every man with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, as if he wished to face out his disaster at once to the whole world. Many of the men came feeling uncomfortable, and would sooner have stayed away and treated the pluck as real misfortune. But after all Blake was the best judge of how he liked to be treated, and, if he had a fancy for giving a great wine on the occasion, the civilest thing to do was to go to it. And so they went, and wondered as much as he could desire at the brilliant coolness of their host, speculating and doubting nevertheless in their own secret hearts whether it wasn't acting after all. Acting it was, no doubt, and not worth the doing; no acting is. But one must make allowances. No two men take a thing just alike, and very few can sit down quietly when they have lost a fall in life's wrestle, and say: "Well, here I am, beaten no doubt this time. But my own fault, too. Now, take a good look at me, my good friends, as I know you all want to do, and say your say out, for I mean getting up again directly and having another turn at it." Blake drank freely himself, and urged his guests to drink, which was a superfluous courtesy for the most part. Many of the men left his room considerably excited. They had dispersed for an hour or so to billiards, or a stroll in the town, and at ten o'clock reassembled at supper parties, of which there were several in college this evening, especially a monster one at Chanter's rooms--a "champagne supper," as he had carefully and ostentatiously announced on the cards of invitation. This flaunting the champagne in their faces had been resented by Drysdale and others, who drank his champagne in tumblers, and then abused it and clamored for beer in the middle of the supper. Chanter, whose prodigality in some ways was only exceeded by his general meanness, had lost his temper at this demand, and insisted that, if they wanted beer, they might send for it themselves, for he wouldn't pay for it. This protest was treated with uproarious contempt, and gallons of ale soon made their appearance in college jugs and tankards. The tables were cleared, and songs (most of them of more than doubtful character), cigars, and all sorts of compounded drinks, from claret cup to egg flip, succeeded. The company, recruited constantly as men came into the college, was getting more and more excited every minute. The scouts cleared away and carried off the relics of the supper, and then left; still the revel went on, till, by midnight, the men were ripe for any mischief or folly which those among them who retained any brains at all could suggest. The signal for breaking up was given by the host's falling from his seat. Some of the men rose with a shout to put him to bed, which they accomplished with difficulty, after dropping him several times, and left him to snore off the effects of his debauch with one of his boots on. Others took to doing what mischief occurred to them in his rooms. One man mounted on a chair with a cigar in his mouth which had gone out, was employed in pouring the contents of a champagne bottle with unsteady hand into the clock on the mantel-piece. Chanter was a particular man in this sort of furniture, and his clock was rather a specialty. It was a large bronze figure of Atlas, supporting the globe in the shape of a time-piece. Unluckily, the maker, not anticipating the sort of test to which his work would be subjected, had ingeniously left the hole for winding up in the top of the clock, so that unusual facilities existed for drowning the world-carrier, and he was already almost at his last tick. One or two men were morally aiding and abetting, and physically supporting the experimenter on clocks, who found it difficult to stand to his work by himself. Another knot of young gentlemen stuck to the tables, and so continued to shout out scraps of song, sometimes standing on their chairs, and sometimes tumbling off them. Another set were employed on the amiable work of pouring beer and sugar into three new pairs of polished leather dress boots, with colored tops to them, which they discovered in the dressing-room. Certainly, as they remarked, Chanter could have no possible use for so many dress boots at once, and it was a pity the beer should be wasted; but on the whole, perhaps, the materials were never meant for combination, and had better have been kept apart. Others had gone away to break into the kitchen, headed by one who had just come into college and vowed he would have some supper; and others, to screw up an unpopular tutor, or to break into the rooms of some inoffensive freshman. The remainder mustered on the grass in the quadrangle, and began playing leap-frog and larking one another. Amongst these last was our hero, who had been at Blake's wine and one of the quieter supper parties; and, though not so far gone as most of his companions, was by no means in a state in which he would have cared to meet the Dean. He lent his hearty aid accordingly to swell the noise and tumult, which was becoming something out of the way even for St. Ambrose's. As the leap-frog was flagging, Drysdale suddenly appeared carrying some silver plates which were used on solemn occasions in the common room, and allowed to be issued on special application for gentlemen-commoners' parties. A rush was made towards him. "Halloa, here's Drysdale with lots of swag," shouted one. "What are you going to do with it?" cried another. Drysdale paused a moment with the peculiarly sapient look of a tipsy man who has suddenly lost the thread of his ideas, and then suddenly broke out with-- "Hang it! I forgot. But let's play at quoits with them." The proposal was received with applause, and the game began, but Drysdale soon left it. He had evidently some notion in his head which would not suffer him to turn to anything else till he had carried it out. He went off accordingly to Chanter's rooms, while the quoits went on in the front quadrangle. About this time, however, the Dean and bursar, and the tutors who lived in college, began to be conscious that something unusual was going on. They were quite used to distant choruses, and great noises in the men's rooms, and to a fair amount of shouting and skylarking in the quadrangle, and were long-suffering men, not given to interfering, but there must be an end to all endurance, and the state of things which had arrived could no longer be met by a turn in bed and a growl at the uproars and follies of undergraduates. Presently some of the rioters on the grass caught sight of a figure gliding along the side quadrangle towards the Dean's staircase. A shout arose that the enemy was up, but little heed was paid to it by the greater number. Then another figure passed from the Dean's staircase to the porter's lodge. Those of the men who had any sense left saw that it was time to quit, and, after warning the rest, went off towards their rooms. Tom, on his way to his staircase, caught sight of a figure seated in a remote corner of the inner quadrangle, and made for it, impelled by natural curiosity. He found Drysdale seated on the ground with several silver tankards by his side, employed to the best of his powers in digging a hole with one of the college carving-knives. "Halloa, Drysdale! what are you up to?" he shouted, laying his hand on his shoulder. "Providing for posterity," replied Drysdale, gravely, without looking up. "What the deuce do you mean? Don't be such an ass. The Dean will be out in a minute. Get up and come along." "I tell you, old fellow," said Drysdale, somewhat inarticulately, and driving his knife into the ground again, "the dons are going to spout the college plate. So I am burying these articles for poshterity--" "Hang posterity," said Tom; "come along directly, or you'll be caught and rusticated." "Go to bed, Brown--you're drunk, Brown," replied Drysdale, continuing his work, and striking the carving-knife into the ground so close to his own thigh that it made Tom shudder. "Here they are then," he cried the next moment, seizing Drysdale by the arm, as a rush of men came through the passage into the quadrangle, shouting and tumbling along, and making in small groups for the different stair-cases. The Dean and two of the tutors followed, and the porter bearing a lantern. There was no time to be lost; so Tom, after one more struggle to pull Drysdale up and hurry him off, gave it up, and leaving him to his fate, ran across to his own staircase. For the next half-hour the Dean and his party patrolled the college, and succeeded at the last in restoring order, though not without some undignified and disagreeable passages. The lights on the staircases, which generally burnt all night, were of course put out as they approached. On the first staircase which they stormed, the porter's lantern was knocked out of his hand by an unseen adversary, and the light put out on the bottom stairs. On the first landing the bursar trod on a small terrier belonging to a fast freshman, and the dog naturally thereupon bit the bursar's leg; while his master and other _enfants perdus_, taking advantage of the diversion, rushed down the dark stairs, past the party of order, and into the quadrangle, where they scattered amidst a shout of laughter. While the porter was gone for a light, the Dean and his party rashly ventured on a second ascent. Here an unexpected catastrophy awaited them. On the top landing lived one of the steadiest men in college, whose door had been tried shortly before. He had been roused out of his first sleep, and, vowing vengeance on the next comers, stood behind his oak, holding his brown George, or huge earthenware receptacle, half full of dirty water, in which his bed-maker had been washing up his tea-things. Hearing stealthy steps and whisperings on the stairs below, he suddenly threw open his oak, discharging the whole contents of his brown George on the approaching authorities, with a shout of, "Take that for your skulking." The exasperated Dean and tutors rushing on, seized their astonished and innocent assailant, and after receiving explanations, and the offer of clean towels, hurried off again after the real enemy. And now the porter appeared again with a light, and, continuing their rounds, they apprehended and disarmed Drysdale, collected the college plate, marked down others of the rioters, visited Chanter's rooms, held a parley with the one of their number who was screwed up in his rooms, and discovered that the bars had been wrenched out of the kitchen window. After which they retired to sleep on their indignation, and quiet settled down again on the ancient and venerable college. The next morning at chapel many of the revellers met; in fact, there was a fuller attendance than usual, for every one felt that something serious must be impending. After such a night the dons must make a stand, or give up altogether. The most reckless only of the fast set were absent. St. Cloud was there, dressed even more precisely than usual, and looking as if he were in the habit of going to bed at ten, and had never heard of milk punch. Tom turned out not much the worse himself, but in his heart feeling not a little ashamed of the whole business; of the party, the men, but, above all, of himself. He thrust the shame back, however, as well as he could, and put a cool face on it. Probably most of the men were in much the same state of mind. Even in St. Ambrose's, reckless and vicious as the college had become, by far the greater part of the undergraduates would gladly have seen a change in the direction of order and decency, and were sick of the wretched license of doing right in their own eyes and wrong in every other person's. As the men trooped out of chapel, they formed in corners of the quadrangle, except the reading set, who went off quietly to their rooms. There was a pause of a minute or two. Neither principal, dean, tutor, nor fellow followed as on ordinary occasions. "They're hatching something in the outer chapel," said one. "It'll be a coarse time for Chanter, I take it," said another. "Was your name sent to the buttery for his supper?" "No, I took d-d good care of that," said St. Cloud, who was addressed. "Drysdale was caught, wasn't he?" "So I hear, and nearly frightened the Dean and the porter out of their wits by staggering after them with a carving-knife." "He'll be sacked, of course." "Much he'll care for that." "Here they come, then; by Jove, how black they look!" The authorities now came out of the antechapel door, and walked slowly across towards the Principal's house in a body. At this moment, as ill-luck would have it, Jack trotted into the front quadrangle, dragging after him the light steel chain, with which he was usually fastened up in Drysdale's scout's room at night. He came innocently towards one and another of the groups, and retired from each much astonished at the low growl with which his acquaintance was repudiated on all sides. "Porter, whose dog is that?" said the Dean catching sight of him. "Mr. Drysdale's dog, sir, I think, sir," answered the porter. "Probably the animal who bit me last night," said the bursar. His knowledge of dogs was small; if Jack had fastened on him, he would probably have been in bed from the effects. "Turn the dog out of college," said the Dean. "Please, sir he's a very savage dog, sir," said the porter, whose respect for Jack was unbounded. "Turn him out immediately," replied the Dean. The wretched porter, arming himself with a broom, approached Jack, and after some coaxing, managed to catch hold of the end of his chain, and began to lead him towards the gates, carefully holding out the broom towards Jack's nose with his other hand to protect himself. Jack at first hauled away at his chain, and then began circling round the porter at the full extent of it, evidently meditating an attack. Notwithstanding the seriousness of the situation, the ludicrous alarm of the porter set the men laughing. "Come along, or Jack will be pinning the wretched Copas," said Jervis; and he and Tom stepped up to the terrified little man, and, releasing him, led Jack, who knew them both well, out of college. "Were you at that supper party?" said Jervis, as they deposited Jack with an ostler, who was lounging outside the gates, to be taken to Drysdale's stables. "No," said Tom. "I'm glad to hear it; there will be a pretty clean sweep after last night's doings." "But I was in the quadrangle when they came out." "Not caught, eh?" said Jervis. "No, luckily, I got to my own rooms at once." "Were any of the crew caught?" "Not that I know of." "Well, we shall hear enough of it before lecture time." Jervis was right. There was a meeting in the common room directly after breakfast. Drysdale, anticipating his fate, took his name off before they sent for him. Chanter and three or four others were rusticated for a year, and Blake was ordered to go down at once. He was a scholar, and what was to be done in his case would be settled at the meeting at the end of the term. For twenty-four hours it was supposed that St. Cloud had escaped altogether; but at the end of that time he was summoned before a meeting in the common room. The tutor whose door had been so effectually screwed up that he had been obliged to get out of his window by a ladder to attend morning chapel, proved wholly unable to appreciate the joke, and set himself to work to discover the perpetrators of it. The door was fastened with long gimlets, which had been screwed firmly in, and when driven well home, their heads knocked off. The tutor collected the shafts of the gimlets from the carpenter, who came to effect an entry for him; and, after careful examination discovered the trade mark, So, putting them into his pocket, he walked off into the town, and soon came back with the information he required, which resulted in the rustication of St. Cloud, an event which was borne by the college with the greatest equanimity. Shortly afterwards, Tom attended in the schools' quadrangle again, to be present at the posting of the class list. This time there were plenty of anxious faces; the quadrangle was full of them. He felt almost as nervous himself as if he were waiting for the third gun. He thrust himself forward, and was amongst the first who caught sight of the document. One look was enough for him, and the next moment he was off at full speed for St. Ambrose, and, rushing headlong into Hardy's rooms, seized him by the hand and shook it vehemently. "It's all right, old fellow," he cried, as soon as he could catch his breath; "it's all right. Four firsts; you're one of them; well done!" "And Grey, where's he; is he all right?" "Bless me, I forgot to look," said Tom; "I only read the firsts, and then came off as hard as I could." "Then he is not a first." "No; I'm sure of that." "I must go and see him; he deserved it far more than I." "No, by Jove, old boy," said Tom, seizing him again by the hand, "that he didn't; nor any man that ever went into the schools." "Thank you, Brown," said Hardy, returning his warm grip. "You do one good. Now to see poor Grey, and to write to my dear old father before hall. Fancy him opening the letter at breakfast the day after to-morrow! I hope it won't hurt him." "Never, fear. I don't believe in people dying of joy, and anything short of sudden death he won't mind at the price." Hardy hurried off, and Tom went to his own rooms, and smoked a cigar to allay his excitement, and thought about his friend, and all they had felt together, and laughed and mourned over in the short months of their friendship. A pleasant, dreamy half-hour he spent thus, till the hall bell roused him, and he made his toilette and went to his dinner. It was with very mixed feelings that Hardy walked by the servitors' table and took his seat with the bachelors, an equal at last amongst equals. No man who is worth his salt can leave a place where he has gone through hard and searching discipline, and been tried in the very depths of his heart, without regret, however much he may have winced under the discipline. It is no light thing to fold up and lay by forever a portion of one's life even when it can be laid by with honor and in thankfulness. But it was with no mixed feelings, but with a sense of entire triumph and joy, that Tom watched his friend taking his new place, and the dons, one after another, coming up and congratulating him, and treating him as the man who had done honor to them and his college. CHAPTER XXV--COMMEMORATION The end of the academic year was now at hand, and Oxford was beginning to put on her gayest clothing. The college gardeners were in a state of unusual activity, and the lawns and flower-beds which form such exquisite settings to many of the venerable grey, gabled buildings, were as neat and as bright as hands could make them. Cooks, butlers and their assistants were bestirring themselves in kitchen and buttery, under the direction of bursars jealous of the fame of their houses, in the preparation of the abundant and solid fare with which Oxford is wont to entertain all comers. Everything the best of its kind, no stint but no nonsense, seems to be the wise rule which the University hands down and lives up to in these matters. However we may differ as to her degeneracy in other departments, all who have ever visited her will admit that in this of hospitality she is still a great national teacher, acknowledging and preaching by example the fact, that eating and drinking are important parts of man's life, which are to be allowed their due prominence, and not thrust into a corner, but are to be done soberly and thankfully, in the sight of God and man. The coaches were bringing in heavy loads of visitors; carriages of all kinds were coming in from the neighbouring counties; and lodgings in the High-street were going up to fabulous prices. In one of these High-street lodgings, on the evening of the Saturday before Commemoration, Miss Winter and her cousin are sitting. They have been in Oxford during the greater part of the day, having posted up from Englebourn; but they have only just come in, for the younger lady is still in her bonnet, and Miss Winter's lies on the table. The windows are wide open, and Miss Winter is sitting at one of them; while her cousin is busied in examining the furniture and decorations of their temporary home, now commenting upon these, now pouring out praises of Oxford. "Isn't it too charming? I never dreamt that any town could be so beautiful. Don't you feel wild about it, Katie?" "It is the queen of towns, dear. But I know it well, you see, so that I can't be quite so enthusiastic as you." "Oh, those dear gardens! what was the name of those ones with the targets up, where they were shooting? Don't you remember?" "New College Gardens, on the old city wall, you mean?" "No, no. They were nice and sentimental. I should like to go and sit and read poetry there. But I mean the big ones, the gorgeous, princely ones, with wicked old Bishop Laud's gallery looking into them." "Oh! St. John's, of course." "Yes, St. John's. Why do you hate Laud so, Katie?" "I don't hate him, dear. He was a Berkshire man, you know. But I think he did a great deal of harm to the Church." "How did you think my new silk looked in the garden? How lucky I brought it, wasn't it? I shouldn't have liked to have been in nothing but muslin. They don't suit here; you want something richer amongst the old buildings, and on the beautiful velvety turf of the gardens. How do you think I looked?" "You looked like a queen, dear; or a lady-in-waiting, at least." "Yes, a lady-in-waiting on Henrietta Maria. Didn't you hear one of the gentlemen say that she was lodged in St. John's when Charles marched to relieve Gloucester? Ah! Can't you fancy her sweeping about the gardens, with her ladies following her, and Bishop Laud walking just a little behind her, and talking in a low voice about--let me see--something very important?" "Oh, Mary, where has your history gone? He was Archbishop, and was safely locked up in the Tower." "Well, perhaps he was; then he couldn't be with her, of course. How stupid of you to remember, Katie. Why can't you make up your mind to enjoy yourself when you come out for a holiday?" "I shouldn't enjoy myself any the more for forgetting dates," said Katie, laughing. "Oh, you would though; only try. But let me see, it can't be Laud. Then it shall be that cruel drinking old man, with the wooden leg made of gold, who was governor of Oxford when the king was away. He must be hobbling along after the queen in a buff coat and breastplate, holding his hat with a long drooping white feather in his hand. "But you wouldn't like it at all, Mary; it would be too serious for you. The poor queen would be too anxious for gossip, and you ladies-in-waiting would be obliged to walk after her without saying a word." "Yes, that would be stupid. But then she would have to go away with the old governor to write dispatches; and some of the young officers with long hair and beautiful lace sleeves, and large boots, whom the king had left behind, wounded, might come and walk perhaps, or sit in the sun in the quiet gardens." Mary looked over her shoulder with the merriest twinkle in her eye, to see how her steady cousin would take this last picture. "The college authorities would never allow that," she said quietly, still looking out the window; "if you wanted beaus, you must have had them in black gowns." "They would have been jealous of the soldiers, you think? Well, I don't mind; the black gowns are very pleasant, only a little stiff. But how do you think my bonnet looked. "Charmingly, but when are you going to have done looking in the glass? You don't care for the buildings, I believe, a bit. Come and look at St. Mary's; there is such a lovely light on the steeple!" "I'll come directly, but I must get these flowers right. I'm sure there are too many in this trimming." Mary was trying her new bonnet on over and over again before the mantel-glass, and pulling out and changing the places of the blush-rose buds with which it was trimmed. Just then a noise of wheels, accompanied by a merry tune on a cornopean, came in from the street. "What's that, Katie?" she cried, stopping her work for a moment. "A coach coming up from Magdalen Bridge. I think it is a cricketing party coming home." "Oh, let me see," and she tripped across to the window, bonnet in hand, and stood beside her cousin. And, then, sure enough, a coach covered with cricketers returning from a match drove past the window. The young ladies looked out at first with great curiosity; but, suddenly finding themselves the mark for a whole coach load of male eyes, shrank back a little before the cricketers had passed on towards the "Mitre." As the coach passed out of sight, Mary gave a pretty toss of her head, and said-- "Well, they don't want for assurance, at any rate. I think they needn't have stared so." "It was our fault," said Katie; "we shouldn't have been at the window. Besides, you know you are to be a lady-in-waiting on Henrietta Maria up here, and of course you must get used to being stared at." "Oh yes, but that was to be by young gentlemen wounded in the wars, in lace ruffles, as one sees them in pictures. That's a very different thing from young gentlemen in flannel trousers and straw hats, driving up the High street on coaches. I declare one of them had the impudence to bow as if he knew you." "So he does. That was my cousin." "Your cousin! Ah, I remember. Then he must be my cousin, too." "No, not at all. He is no relation of yours." "Well I sha'n't break my heart. But is he a good partner?" "I should say, yes. But I hardly know. We used to be a great deal together as children, but papa has been such an invalid lately." "Ah, I wonder how uncle is getting on at the Vice-Chancellor's. Look, it is past eight by St. Mary's. When were we to go?" "We were asked for nine." "Then we must go and dress. Will it be very slow and stiff, Katie? I wish we were going to something not quite so grand." "You'll find it very pleasant, I dare say." "There won't be any dancing, though, I know, will there?" "No; I should think certainly not." "Dear me! I hope there will be some young men there--I shall be so shy, I know, if there are nothing but wise people. How do you talk to a Regius Professor, Katie? It must be awful." "He will probably be at least as uncomfortable as you, dear," said Miss Winter, laughing, and rising from the window; "let us go and dress." "Shall I wear my best gown?--What shall I put in my hair?" At this moment the door opened, and the maid-servant introduced Mr. Brown. It was the St. Ambrose drag which had passed along shortly before, bearing the eleven home from a triumphant match. As they came over Magdalen Bridge, Drysdale, who had returned to Oxford as a private gentleman after his late catastrophe, which he had managed to keep a secret from his guardian, and was occupying his usual place on the box, called out-- "Now, boys, keep your eyes open, there must be plenty of lionesses about;" and thus warned, the whole load, including the cornopean player, were on the look-out for lady visitors, profanely called lionesses, all the way up the street. They had been gratified by the sight of several walking in the High Street or looking out of the windows, before they caught sight of Miss Winter and her cousin. The appearance of these young ladies created a sensation. "I say, look! up there in that first floor." "By George, they're something like." "The sitter for choice." "No, no, the standing-up one; she looks so saucy." "Hello, Brown, do you know them?" "One of them is my cousin," said Tom, who had just been guilty of the salutation which, as we saw, excited the indignation of the younger lady. "What luck!--You'll ask me to meet them--when shall it be? To-morrow at breakfast, I vote." "I say, you'll introduce me before the ball on Monday? promise now," said another. "I don't know that I shall see anything of them," said Tom; "I shall just leave a pasteboard, but I'm not in the humour to be dancing about lionizing." A storm of indignation arose at this speech; the notion that any of the fraternity who had any hold on lionesses, particularly if they were pretty, should not use it to the utmost for the benefit of the rest, and the glory and honor of the college, was revolting to the undergraduate mind. So the whole body escorted Tom to the door of the lodgings, impressing upon him the necessity of engaging both his lionesses for every hour of every day in St. Ambrose's, and left him not till they had heard him ask for the young ladies, and seen him fairly on his way upstairs. They need not have taken so much trouble, for in his secret soul he was no little pleased at the appearance of creditable ladies, more or less belonging to him, and would have found his way to see them quickly and surely enough without any urging. Moreover, he had been really fond of his cousin, years before, when they had been boy and girl together. So they greeted one another very cordially, and looked one another over as they shook hands, to see what changes time had made. He makes his changes rapidly enough at that age, and mostly for the better, as the two cousins thought. It was nearly three years since they had met, and then he was a fifth-form boy and she a girl in the school-room. They were both conscious of a strange pleasure in meeting again, mixed with a feeling of shyness and wonder whether they should be able to step back into their old relations. Mary looked on demurely, really watching them, but ostensibly engaged on the rosebud trimming. Presently Miss Winter turned to her and said, "I don't think you two ever met before; I must introduce you, I suppose;--my cousin Tom, my cousin Mary." "Then we must be cousins, too," said Tom, holding out his hand. "No, Katie says not," she answered. "I don't mean to believe her, then," said Tom; "but what are you going to do now, to-night? Why didn't you write and tell me you were coming?" "We have been so shut up lately, owing to papa's bad health, that I really had almost forgotten that you were at Oxford." "By the bye," said Tom, "where is uncle?" "Oh, he is dining at the Vice-Chancellor's, who is an old college friend of his. We have only been up here three or four hours, and it has done him so much good. I am so glad we spirited him up to coming." "You haven't made any engagements yet, I hope?" "Indeed we have; I can't tell how many. We came in time for luncheon in Balliol. Mary and I made it our dinner, and we have been seeing sights ever since, and have been asked to go to I don't know how many luncheons and breakfasts." "What, with a lot of dons, I suppose?" said Tom, spitefully; "you won't enjoy Oxford, then; they'll bore you to death." "There now, Katie; that is just what I was afraid of," joined in Mary; "you remember we didn't hear a word about balls all the afternoon." "You haven't got your tickets for the balls, then?" said Tom, brightening up. "No, how shall we get them?" "Oh, I can manage that, I've no doubt." "Stop; how are we to go? Papa will never take us." "You needn't think about that; anybody will chaperone you. Nobody cares about that sort of thing at Commemoration." "Indeed I think you had better wait till I have talked to papa." "Then all the tickets will be gone," said Tom. "You must go. Why shouldn't I chaperone you? I know several men whose sisters are going with them." "No, that will scarcely do, I'm afraid. But really, Mary, we must go and dress." "Where are you going, then?" said Tom. "To an evening party at the Vice-Chancellor's; we are asked for nine o'clock, and the half hour has struck." "Hang the dons; how unlucky that I didn't know before! Have you any flowers, by the way?" "Not one." "Then I will try to get you some by the time you are ready. May I?" "Oh yes, pray, do," said Mary. "That's capital, Katie, isn't it? Now I shall have some thing to put in my hair; I couldn't think what I was to wear." Tom took a look at the hair in question, and then left them and hastened out to scour the town for flowers, as if his life depended on success. In the morning he would probably have resented as insulting, or laughed at as wildly improbable, the suggestion that he would be so employed before night. A double chair was drawn up opposite the door when he came back, and the ladies were coming down into the sitting-room. "Oh look, Katie! What lovely flowers! How very kind of you." Tom surrendered as much of his burden as that young lady's little round white hands could clasp, to her, and deposited the rest on the table. "Now, Katie, which shall I wear--this beautiful white rose all by itself, or a wreath of these pansies? Here, I have a wire; I can make them up in a minute." She turned to the glass, and held the rich cream-white rose against her hair, and then turning on Tom, added, "What do you think?" "I thought fern would suit your hair better than anything else," said Tom; "and so I got these leaves," and he picked out two slender fern-leaves. "How very kind of you! Let me see, how do you mean? Ah! I see; it will be charming;" and so saying, she held the leaves one in each hand to the sides of her head, and then floated about the room for needle and thread, and with a few nimble stitches fastened together the simple green crown, which her cousin put on for her, making the points meet above her forehead. Mary was wild with delight at the effect, and full of thanks to Tom as he helped them hastily to tie up bouquets, and then, amidst much laughing, they squeezed into the wheel chair together (as the fashions of that day allowed two young ladies to do), and went off to their party, leaving a last injuction on him to go up and put the rest of the flowers in water, and to call directly after breakfast the next day. He obeyed his orders, and pensively arranged the rest of the flowers in the china ornaments on the mantle-piece, and in a soup plate which he got and placed in the middle of the table, and then spent some minutes examining a pair of gloves and other small articles of women's gear which lay scattered about the room. The gloves particularly attracted him, and he flattened them out and laid them on his own large brown hand, and smiled at the contrast, and took further unjustifiable liberties with them; after which he returned to college and endured much banter as to the time his call had lasted, and promised to engage his cousins as he called them, to grace some festivities in St. Ambrose's at their first spare moment. The next day, being Show Sunday, was spent by the young ladies in a ferment of spiritual and other dissipation. They attended morning service at eight at the cathedral; breakfasted at a Merton fellow's, from whence they adjourned to University sermon. Here Mary, after two or three utterly ineffectual attempts to understand what the preacher was meaning, soon relapsed into an examination of the bonnets present, and the doctors and proctors on the floor, and the undergraduates in the gallery. On the whole, she was, perhaps, better employed than her cousin, who knew enough of religious party strife to follow the preacher, and was made very uncomfortable by his discourse, which consisted of an attack upon the recent publications of the most eminent and best men in the University. Poor Miss Winter came away with a vague impression of the wickedness of all persons who dare to travel out of beaten tracks, and that the most unsafe state of mind in the world is that which inquires and aspires, and cannot be satisfied with the regulation draught of spiritual doctors in high places. Being naturally of a reverent turn of mind, she tried to think that the discourse had done her good. At the same time she was somewhat troubled by the thought that somehow the best men in all times of which she had read seemed to her to be just those whom the preacher was in fact denouncing, although in words he had praised them as the great lights of the Church. The words which she had heard in one of the lessons kept running in her head, "Truly ye bear witness that ye do allow the deeds of your fathers, for they indeed killed them, but ye build their sepulchres." But she had little leisure to think on the subject, and, as her father praised the sermon as a noble protest against the fearful tendencies of the day to Popery and Pantheism, smothered the questionings of her own heart as well as she could, and went off to luncheon in a common room; after which her father retired to their lodgings, and she and her cousin were escorted to afternoon service at Magdalen, in achieving which last feat they had to encounter a crush only to be equaled by that at the pit entrance to the opera on a Jenny Lind night. But what will not a delicately nurtured British lady go through when her mind is bent either on pleasure or duty? Poor Tom's feelings throughout the day may be more easily conceived than described. He had called according to order, and waited at their lodgings after breakfast. Of course they did not arrive. He had caught a distant glimpse of them in St. Mary's, but had not been able to approach. He had called again in the afternoon unsuccessfully, so far as seeing them was concerned; but he had found his uncle at home, lying upon the sofa. At first he was much dismayed by this rencontre, but, recovering his presence mind, he proceeded, I regret to say, to take the length of the old gentleman's foot, by entering into a minute and sympathizing in quiry into the state of his health. Tom had no faith whatever in his uncle's ill-health, and believed--as many persons of robust constitution are too apt to do when brought face to face with nervous patients--that he might shake off the whole of his maladies at any time by a resolute effort, so that his sympathy was all a sham, though, perhaps, one may pardon it, considering the end in view, which was that of persuading the old gentleman to entrust the young ladies to his nephew's care for that evening in the Long Walk; and generally to look upon his nephew, Thomas Brown, as his natural prop and supporter in the University, whose one object in life just now would be to take trouble off his hands, and who was of that rare and precocious steadiness of character that he might be as safely trusted as a Spanish duenna. To a very considerable extent the victim fell into the toils. He had many old friends at the colleges, and was very fond of good dinners, and long sittings afterwards. This very evening he was going to dine at St. John's, and had been much troubled at the idea of having to leave the unrivalled old port of that learned house to escort his daughter and niece to the Long Walk. Still he was too easy and good-natured not to wish that they might get there, and did not like the notion of their going with perfect strangers. Here was a compromise. His nephew was young, but still he was a near relation, and in fact it gave the poor old man a plausible excuse for not exerting himself as he felt he ought to do, which was all he ever required for shifting his responsibilities and duties upon other shoulders. So Tom waited quietly till the young ladies came home, which they did just before hall-time. Mr. Winter was getting impatient. As soon as they arrived he started for St. John's, after advising them to remain at home for the evening, as they looked quite tired and knocked up; but if they resolved to go to the Long Walk, his nephew would escort them. "How can Uncle Robert say we look so tired?" said Mary, consulting the glass on the subject; "I feel quite fresh. Of course, Katie, you mean to go to the Long Walk?" "I hope you will go," said Tom; "I think you owe me some amends. I came here according to order this morning, and you were not in, and I have been trying to catch you ever since." "We couldn't help it," said Miss Winter; "indeed we have not had a minute to ourselves all day. I was very sorry to think that we should have brought you here for nothing this morning." "But about the Long Walk, Katie?" "Well, don't you think we have done enough for to-day? I should like to have tea and sit quietly at home, as papa suggested." "Do you feel very tired, dear?" said Mary, seating herself by her cousin on the sofa, and taking her hand. "No, dear, I only want a little quiet and a cup of tea." "Then let us stay here quietly till it is time to start. When ought we to get to the Long Walk?" "About half-past seven," said Tom; "you shouldn't be much later than that." "There you see, Katie, we shall have two hours' perfect rest. You shall lie upon the sofa, and I will read to you, and then we shall go on all fresh again." Miss Winter smiled and said, "Very well." She saw that her cousin was bent on going, and she could deny her nothing. "May I send you in anything from college?" said Tom; "you ought to have something more than tea, I'm sure." "Oh no, thank you. We dined in the middle of the day." "Then I may call you about seven o'clock," said Tom, who had come unwillingly to the conclusion that he had better leave them for the present. "Yes, and mind you come in good time; we mean to see the whole sight, remember. We are country cousins." "You must let me call you cousin then, just for the look of the thing." "Certainly, just for the look of the thing, we will be cousins till further notice." "Well, you and Tom seem to get on together, Mary," said Miss Winter, as they heard the front door close. "I'm learning a lesson from you, though I doubt whether I shall ever be able to put it in practice. What a blessing it must be not to be shy!" "Are you shy, then?" said Mary, looking at her cousin with a playful loving smile. "Yes, dreadfully. It is positive pain to me to walk into a room where there are people I do not know." "But I feel that too. I'm sure, now, you were much less embarrassed than I last night at the Vice Chancellor's. I quite envied you, you seemed so much at your ease." "Did I? I would have given anything to be back here quietly. But it is not the same thing with you. You have no real shyness, or you would never have got on so fast with my cousin." "Oh! I don't feel at all shy with him," said Mary, laughing. "How lucky it is that he found us out so soon. I like him so much. There is a sort of way about him, as if he couldn't help himself. I am sure one could turn him round one's finger. Don't you think so?" "I'm not so sure of that. But he always was soft-hearted, poor boy. But he isn't a boy any longer. You must take care, Mary. Shall we ring for tea?" CHAPTER XXVI--THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS "Do well unto thyself and men will speak good of thee," is a maxim as old as King David's time, and just as true now as it was then. Hardy had found it so since the publication of the class list. Within a few days of that event it was known that his was a very good first. His college tutor had made his own inquiries, and repeated on several occasions in a confidential way the statement that, "with the exception of a want of polish in his Latin and Greek verses, which we seldom get except in the most finished public school men--Etonians in particular--there has been no better examination in the schools for several years." The worthy tutor went on to take glory to the college, and in a lower degree to himself. He called attention, in more than one common room, to the fact that Hardy had never had any private tuition, but had attained his intellectual development solely in the _curriculum_ provided by St. Ambrose's College for the training of the youth entrusted to her. "He himself, indeed," he would add, "had always taken much interest in Hardy, and had, perhaps, done more for him than would be possible in every case, but only with direct reference to, and in supplement of the college course." The Principal had taken marked and somewhat pompous notice of him, and had graciously intimated his wish, or, perhaps I should say, his will (for he would have been much astonished to be told that a wish of his could count for less than a royal mandate to any man who had been one of his servitors) that Hardy should stand for a fellowship, which had lately fallen vacant. A few weeks before, this excessive affability and condescension of the great man would have wounded Hardy; but, somehow, the sudden rush of sunshine and prosperity, though it had not thrown him off his balance, or changed his estimate of men and things had pulled a sort of comfortable sheath over his sensitiveness, and gave him a second skin, as it were, from which the Principal's shafts bounded off innocuous, instead of piercing and rankling. At first, the idea of standing for a fellowship at St Ambrose's was not pleasant to him. He felt inclined to open up entirely new ground for himself, and stand at some other college, where he had neither acquaintance nor association. But on second thoughts, he resolved to stick to his old college, moved thereto partly by the lamentations of Tom when he heard of his friends meditated emigration but chiefly by the unwillingness to quit a hard post for an easier one, which besets natures like his to their own discomfort, but, may one hope, to the single benefit of the world at large. Such men may see clearly enough all the advantages of a move of this kind--may quite appreciate the ease which it would bring them--may be impatient with themselves for not making it at once, but when it comes to the actual leaving the old post, even though it may be a march out with all the honours of war, drums beating and colors flying, as it would have been in Hardy's case, somehow or another, nine times out of ten, they throw up the chance at the last moment, if not earlier; pick up their old arms--growling perhaps at the price they are paying to keep their own self-respect--and shoulder back into the press to face their old work, muttering, "We are asses; we don't know what's good for us; but we must see this job through somehow, come what may." So Hardy stayed on at St. Ambrose, waiting for the fellowship examination, and certainly, I am free to confess, not a little enjoying the change in his position and affairs. He had given up his low dark back rooms to the new servitor, his successor, to whom he had presented all the rickety furniture, except his two Windsor chairs and Oxford reading-table. The intrinsic value of the gift was not great, certainly, but was of importance to the poor raw boy who was taking his place; and it was made with the delicacy of one who knew the situation. Hardy's good offices did not stop here. Having tried the bed himself for upwards of three long years, he knew all the hard places, and was resolved while he stayed up that they should never chafe another occupant as they had him. So he set himself to provide stuffing, and took the lad about with him, and cast a skirt of his newly-acquired mantle of respectability over him, and put him in the way of making himself as comfortable as circumstances would allow, never disguising from him all the while that the bed was not to be a bed of roses. In which pursuit, though not yet a fellow, perhaps he was qualifying himself better for a fellowship than he could have done by any amount of cramming for polish in his versification. Not that the electors of St. Ambrose would be likely to hear of or appreciate this kind of training. Polished versification would no doubt have told more in that quarter. But we who are behind the scenes may disagree with them, and hold that he who is thus acting out and learning to understand the meaning of the word "fellowship," is the man for our votes. So Hardy had left his rooms and gone out of college into lodgings near at hand. The sword, epaulettes, and picture of his father's old ship--his tutelary divinities, as Tom called them--occupied their accustomed places in his new rooms, except that there was a looking-glass over the mantel-piece here, by the side of which the sword hung--instead of in the centre, as it had done while he had no such luxury. His Windsor chairs occupied each side of the pleasant window of his sitting-room, and already the taste for luxuries of which he had so often accused himself to Tom began to peep out in the shape of one or two fine engravings. Altogether fortune was smiling on Hardy, and he was making the most of her, like a wise man, having brought her round by proving that he could get on without her, and was not going out of the way to gain her smiles. Several men came at once, even before he had taken his B. A. degree, to read with him, and others applied to know whether he would take a reading party in the long vacation. In short, all things went well with Hardy, and the Oxford world recognized the fact, and tradesmen and college servants became obsequious, and began to bow before him, and recognize him as one of their lords and masters. It was to Hardy's lodgings that Tom repaired straight-way, when he left his cousin by blood, and cousin by courtesy, at the end of the last chapter. For, running over in his mind all his acquaintance, he at once fixed upon Hardy as the man to accompany him in escorting the ladies to the Long Walk. Besides being his own most intimate friend, Hardy was the man whom he would prefer to all others to introduce to ladies now. "A month ago it might have been different," Tom thought; "he was such an old guy in his dress. But he has smartened up, and wears as good a coat as I do, and looks well enough for anybody, though he never will be much of a dresser. Then he will be in a bachelor's gown too, which will look respectable." "Here you are; that's all right; I'm so glad you're in," he said as he entered the room. "Now I want you to come to the Long Walk with me to-night." "Very well--will you call for me?" "Yes, and mind you come in your best get-up, old fellow; we shall have two of the prettiest girls who are up, with us." "You won't want me then; they will have plenty of escort." "Not a bit of it. They are deserted by their natural guardian, my old uncle, who has gone out to dinner. Oh, it's all right; they are my cousins, more like sisters, and my uncle knows we are going. In fact it was he who settled that I should take them." "Yes, but you see I don't know them." "That doesn't matter, I can't take them both myself--I must have somebody with me, and I'm so glad to get the chance of introducing you to some of my people. You'll know them all, I hope, before long." "Of course I should like it very much, if you are sure it's all right." Tom was perfectly sure as usual, and so the matter was arranged. Hardy was very much pleased and gratified at this proof of his friend's confidence; and I am not going to say that he did not shave again, and pay most unwonted attention to his toilet before the hour fixed for Tom's return. The fame of Brown's lionesses had spread through St. Ambrose's already, and Hardy had heard of them as well as other men. There was something so unusual to him in being selected on such an occasion, when the smartest men in the college were wishing and plotting for that which came to him unasked, that he may be pardoned for feeling something a little like vanity, while he adjusted the coat which Tom had recently thought of with such complacency, and looked in the glass to see that his gown hung gracefully. The effect on the whole was so good, that Tom was above measure astonished when he came back, and could not help indulging in some gentle chaff as they walked towards the High-street arm in arm. The young ladies were quite rested, and sitting dressed and ready for their walk, when Tom and Hardy were announced, and entered the room. Miss Winter rose up, surprised and a little embarrassed at the introduction of a total stranger in her father's absence. But she put a good face on the matter, as became a well-bred young woman, though she secretly resolved to lecture Tom in private, as he introduced "My great friend, Mr. Hardy, of our college. My cousins." Mary dropped a pretty little demure courtesy, lifting her eyes for one moment for a glance at Tom which said as plain as look could speak, "Well, I must say you are making the most of your new-found relationship." He was a little put out for a moment, but then recovered himself, and said apologetically, "Mr. Hardy is a bachelor, Kate--I mean a Bachelor of Arts, and he knows all the people by sight up here. We couldn't have gone to the Walk without some one to show us the lions." "Indeed, I'm afraid you give me too much credit," said Hardy. "I know most of our dons by sight, certainly, but scarcely any of the visitors." The awkwardness of Tom's attempted explanation set everything wrong again. Then came one of those awkward pauses which will occur so very provokingly at the most inopportune times. Miss Winter was seized with one of the uncontrollable fits of shyness, her bondage to which she had so lately been grieving over to Mary; and in self-defence, and without meaning in the least to do so, drew himself up, and looked as proud as you please. Hardy, whose sensitiveness was almost as keen as a woman's, felt in a moment the awkwardness of the situation, and became as shy as Miss Winter herself. If the floor would have suddenly opened, and let him through into the dark shop, he would have been thankful; but, as it would not, there he stood, meditating a sudden retreat from the room and a tremendous onslaught on Tom, as soon as he could catch him alone, for getting him into such a scrape. Tom was provoked with them all for not at once feeling at ease with one another, and stood twirling his cap by the tassel, and looking fiercely at it, resolved not to break the silence. He had been at all the trouble of bringing about this charming situation, and now nobody seemed to like it, or to know what to say or do. They ought to get themselves out of it as they could, for anything he cared; he was not going to bother himself any more. Mary looked in the glass, to see that her bonnet was quite right, and then from one to another of her companions, in a little wonder at their unaccountable behavior, and a little pique that two young men should be standing there like unpleasant images, and not availing themselves of the privilege of trying, at least, to make themselves agreeable to her. Luckily, however, for the party, the humorous side of the tableau struck her with great force, so that when Tom lifted his misanthropic eyes for a moment, and caught hers, they were so full of fun that he had nothing to do but to allow herself, not without a struggle, to break first into a smile and then into a laugh. This brought all eyes to bear on him, and the ice, being once broken, dissolved as quickly as it had gathered. "I really can't see what there is to laugh at, Tom," said Miss Winter, smiling herself, nevertheless, and blushing a little, as she worked or pretended to work at buttoning one of her gloves. "Can't you, Kate? Well, then, isn't it very ridiculous, and enough to make one laugh, that we four should be standing here in a sort of Quaker's meeting, when we ought to be half-way to the Long Walk by this time?" "Oh do let us start," said Mary; "I know we shall be missing all the best of the sight. "Come along, then," said Tom, leading the way down stairs, and Hardy and the ladies followed, and they descended into the High Street, walking all abreast, the two ladies together, with a gentleman on either flank. This formation answered well enough on High Street, the broad pavement of that celebrated thoroughfare being favourable to an advance in line. But when they had wheeled into Oriel Lane the narrow pavement at once threw the line into confusion, and after one or two fruitless attempts to take up the dressing, they settled down into the more natural formation of close column of couples, the leading couple consisting of Mary and Tom, and the remaining couple of Miss Winter and Hardy. It was a lovely midsummer evening, and Oxford was looking her best under the genial cloudless sky, so that, what with the usual congratulations on the weather, and explanatory remarks on the buildings as they passed along, Hardy managed to keep up a conversation with his companion without much difficulty. Miss Winter was pleased with his quiet, deferential manner, and soon lost her feeling of shyness; and, before Hardy had come to the end of such remarks as it occurred to him to make, she was taking her fair share in the talk. In describing their day's doings she spoke with enthusiasm of the beauty of Magdalen Chapel, and betrayed a little knowledge of traceries and mouldings, which gave an opening to her companion to travel out of the weather and the names of colleges. Church architecture was just one of the subjects which was sure at that time to take more or less hold on every man at Oxford whose mind was open to the influences of the place. Hardy had read the usual text-books, and kept his eyes open as he walked about the town and neighborhood. To Miss Winter he seemed so learned on the subject, that she began to doubt his tendencies, and was glad to be reassured by some remarks which fell from him as to the University sermon which she had heard. She was glad to find that her cousin's most intimate friend was not likely to lead him into the errors of Tractarianism. Meantime the leading couple were getting on satisfactorily in their own way. "Isn't it good of Uncle Robert? He says that he shall feel quite comfortable as long as you and Katie are with me. In fact, I feel quite responsible already, like an old dragon in a story-book watching a treasure." "Yes, but what does Katie say to being made a treasure of? She has to think a good deal for herself; and I am afraid you are not quite certain of being our sole knight and guardian because Uncle Robert wants to get rid of us. Poor old uncle!" "But you wouldn't object, then?" "Oh, dear, no--at least, not unless you take to looking as cross as you did just now in our lodgings. Of course, I'm all for dragons who are mad about dancing, and never think of leaving a ball-room till the band packs up and the old man shuffles in to put out the lights." "Then I shall be a model dragon," said Tom. Twenty-four hours earlier he had declared that nothing should induce him to go to the balls; but his views on the subject had been greatly modified, and he had been worrying all his acquaintance, not unsuccessfully, for the necessary tickets, ever since his talk with his cousins on the preceding evening. The scene became more and more gay and lively as they passed out of Christchurch towards the Long Walk. The town turned out to take its share in the show; and citizens of all ranks, the poorer ones accompanied by children of all ages, trooped along cheek by jowl with members of the University, of all degrees, and their visitors, somewhat indeed to the disgust of certain of these latter, many of whom declared that the whole thing was spoilt by the miscellaneousness of the crowd, and that "those sort of people" ought not to be allowed to come to the Long Walk on Show Sunday. However, "those sort of people" abounded nevertheless, and seemed to enjoy very much, in sober fashion, the solemn march up and down beneath the grand avenue of elms in the midst of their betters. The University was there in strength, from the Vice-Chancellor downwards. Somehow or another, though it might seem an unreasonable thing at first sight for grave and reverend persons to do, yet most of the gravest of them found some reason for taking a turn in the Long Walk. As for the undergraduates, they turned out almost to a man, and none of them more certainly than the young gentlemen, elaborately dressed, who had sneered at the whole ceremony as snobbish an hour or two before. As for our hero, he sailed into the meadows thoroughly satisfied for the moment with himself and his convoy. He had every reason to be so, for though there were many gayer and more fashionably dressed ladies present than his cousin, and cousin by courtesy, there were none there whose faces, figures and dresses carried more unmistakably the marks of that thorough quiet high breeding, that refinement which is no mere surface polish, and that fearless unconsciousness which looks out from pure hearts, which are still, thank God, to be found in so many homes of the English gentry. The Long Walk was filling rapidly, and at every half-dozen paces Tom was greeted by some of his friends or acquaintance, and exchanged a word or two with them. But he allowed them one after another to pass by without effecting any introduction. "You seem to have a great many acquaintances," said his companion, upon whom none of these salutations were lost. "Yes, of course; one gets to know a great many men up here." "It must be very pleasant. But does it not interfere a great deal with your reading?" "No; because one meets them at lectures, and in hall and chapel. Besides," he added in a sudden fit of honesty, "it is my first year. One doesn't read much in one's first year. It is a much harder thing than people think to take to reading, except just before an examination." "But your great friend who is walking with Katie--what did you say his name is?" "Hardy." "Well, he is a great scholar, didn't you say?" "Yes, he has just taken a first class. He is the best man of his year." "How proud you must be of him! I suppose, now, he is a great reader?" "Yes, he is great at everything. He is nearly the best oar in our boat. By the way, you will come to the procession of boats to-morrow night? We are the head boat on the river." "Oh, I hope so. Is it a pretty sight? Let us ask Katie about it." "It is the finest sight in the world," said Tom, who had never seen it; "twenty-four eight oars with their flags flying, and all the crews in uniform. You see the barges over there, moored along the side of the river? You will sit on one of them as we pass." "Yes, I think I do," said Mary, looking across the meadow in the direction in which he pointed; "you mean those great gilded things. But I don't see the river." "Shall we walk round there. It won't take up ten minutes." "But we must not leave the Walk and all the people. It is so amusing here." "Then you will wear our colors at the procession to-morrow?" "Yes, if Katie doesn't mind. At least if they are pretty. What are your colors?" "Blue and white. I will get you some ribbons to-morrow morning." "Very well, and I will make them up into rosettes." "Why, do you know them?" asked Tom, as she bowed to two gentlemen in masters' caps and gowns, whom they met in the crowd. "Yes; at least we met them last night." "But do you know who they are?" "Oh, yes; they were introduced to us, and I talked a great deal to them. And Katie scolded me for it when we got home. No; I won't say scolded me, but looked very grave over it." "They are two of the leaders of the Tractarians." "Yes. That was the fun of it. Katie was so pleased and interested with them at first; much more than I was. But when she found out who they were, she fairly ran away, and I stayed and talked on. I don't think they said anything very dangerous. Perhaps one of them wrote No. 90. Do you know?" "I dare say. But I don't know much about it. However, they must have a bad time of it, I should think, up here with the old dons." "But don't you think one likes people who are persecuted? I declare I would listen to them for an hour, though I didn't understand a word, just to show them that I wasn't afraid of them, and sympathized with them. How can people be so ill-natured? I'm sure they only write what they believe and think will do good." "That's just what most of us feel," said Tom; "we hate to see them put down because they don't agree with the swells up here. You'll see how they will be cheered in the Theatre." "Then they are not unpopular and persecuted after all?" "Oh yes, by the dons. And that's why we all like them. From fellow-feeling you see, because the dons bully them and us equally." "But I thought they were dons too?" "Well, so they are, but not regular dons, you know, like the proctors, and deans, and that sort." His companion did not understand this delicate distinction, but was too much interested in watching the crowd to inquire further. Presently they met two of the heads of houses walking with several strangers. Everyone was noticing them when they passed, and of course Tom was questioned as to who they were. Not being prepared with an answer, he appealed to Hardy, who was just behind them talking to Miss Winter. They were some of the celebrities on whom honorary degrees were to be conferred, Hardy said; a famous American author, a foreign ambassador, a well-known Indian soldier, and others. Then came some more M.A.'s, one of whom this time bowed to Miss Winter. "Who was that, Katie?" "One of the gentlemen we met last night. I did not catch his name, but he was very agreeable." "Oh, I remember. You were talking to him for a long time after you ran away from me. I was very curious to know what you were saying, you seemed so interested." "Well, you seem to have made the most of your time last night," said Tom; "I should have thought, Katie, you would hardly have approved of him either." "But who is he?" "Why, the most dangerous man in Oxford. What do they call him--a Germanizer and a rationalist, isn't it, Hardy?" "Yes, I believe so," said Hardy. "Oh, think of that! There, Katie; you had much better have stayed by me after all. A Germanizer, didn't you say? What a hard word. It must be much worse than Tractarian, isn't it, now?" "Mary dear, pray take care; everybody will hear you," said Miss Winter. "I wish I thought that everybody would listen to me," replied Miss Mary. "But I really will be quiet, Katie, only I must know which is the worst, my Tractarians or your Germanizer?" "Oh, the Germanizer, of course," said Tom. "But why?" said Hardy, who could do no less than break a lance for his companion. Moreover, he happened to have strong convictions on these subjects. "Why? Because one knows the worst of where the Tractarians are going. They may go to Rome and there's an end of it. But the Germanizers are going into the abysses, or no one knows where." "There, Katie, you hear, I hope," interrupted Miss Mary, coming to her companion's rescue before Hardy could bring his artillery to bear, "but what a terrible place Oxford must be. I declare it seems quite full of people whom it is unsafe to talk with." "I wish it were, if they were all like Miss Winter's friend," said Hardy. And then the crowd thickened and they dropped behind again. Tom was getting to think more of his companion and less of himself every minute, when he was suddenly confronted in the walk by Benjamin, the Jew money-lender, smoking a cigar, and dressed in a gaudy figured satin waistcoat and waterfall of the same material, and resplendent with jewelry. He had business to attend to in Oxford at this time of the year. Nothing escaped the eyes of Tom's companion. "Who was that?" she said; "what a dreadful-looking man! Surely he bowed as if he knew you?" "I dare say. He is impudent enough for anything," said Tom. "But who is he?" "Oh, a rascally fellow who sells bad cigars and worse wine." Tom's equanimity was much shaken by the apparition of the Jew. The remembrance of the bill scene at the Public house in the Corn-market, and the unsatisfactory prospect in that matter, with Blake plucked and Drysdale no longer a member of the University, and utterly careless as to his liabilities, came across him, and made him silent and absent. He answered at hazard to his companion's remarks for the next minute or two, until after some particularly inappropriate reply, she turned her head and looked at him for a moment with steady wide open eyes, which brought him to himself, or rather drove him into himself, in no time. "I really beg your pardon," he said; "I was very rude, I fear. It is so strange to me to be walking here with ladies. What were you saying?" "Nothing of any consequence--I really forget. But it is a very strange thing for you to walk with ladies here?" "Strange! I should think it was! I have never seen a lady that I knew up here, till you came." "Indeed! but there must be plenty of ladies living in Oxford?" "I don't believe there are. At least, we never see them," "Then you ought to be on your best behavior when we do come. I shall expect you now to listen to everything I say, and to answer my silliest questions." "Oh, you ought not to be so hard on us." "You mean that you find it hard to answer silly questions? How wise you must all grow, living up here together!" "Perhaps. But the wisdom doesn't come down to the first-year men; and so--" "Well, why do you stop?" "Because I was going to say something you might not like." "Then I insist on hearing it. Now, I shall not let you off. You were saying that wisdom does not come so low as first-year men; and so--what?" "And so--and so, they are not wise." "Yes, of course; but that was not what you were going to say; and so--" "And so they are generally agreeable, for wise people are always dull; and so--ladies ought to avoid the dons." "And not avoid first-year men?" "Exactly so." "Because they are foolish, and therefore fit company for ladies. Now, really--" "No, no; because they are foolish, and, therefore, they ought to be made wise; and ladies are wiser than dons." "And therefore, duller, for all wise people, you said, were dull." "Not all wise people; only people who are wise by cramming,--as dons; but ladies are wise by inspiration." "And first-year men, are they foolish by inspiration and agreeable by cramming, or agreeable by inspiration and foolish by cramming?" "They are agreeable by inspiration in the society of ladies." "Then they can never be agreeable, for you say they never see ladies." "Not with the bodily eye, but with the eye of fancy." "Then their agreeableness must be all fancy." "But it is better to be agreeable in fancy than dull in reality." "That depends upon whose fancy it is. To be agreeable in your own fancy is compatible with being dull in reality as--" "How you play with words! I see you won't leave me a shred either of fancy or agreeableness to stand on." "Then I shall do you good service. I shall destroy your illusions; you cannot stand on illusions." "But remember what my illusions were--fancy and agreeableness." "But your agreeableness stood on fancy, and your fancy on nothing. You had better settle down at once on the solid basis of dullness like the dons." "Then I am to found myself on fact, and try to be dull? What a conclusion! But perhaps dullness is no more a fact than fancy; what is dullness?" "Oh, I do not undertake to define; you are the best judge." "How severe you are! Now, see how generous I am. Dullness in society is the absence of ladies." "Alas, poor Oxford! Who is that in the velvet sleeves? Why do you touch your cap?" "That is the Proctor. He is our Cerberus; he has to keep all undergraduates in good order." "What a task! He ought to have three heads." "He has only one head, but it is a very long one. And he has a tail like any Basha, composed of pro-proctors, marshals and bull-dogs, and I don't know what all. But to go back to what we were saying--" "No, don't let us go back. I'm tired of it; besides you were just beginning about dullness. How can you expect me to listen now?" "Oh, but do listen, just for two minutes. Will you be serious? I do want to know what you really think when you hear the case." "Well, I will try--for two minutes, mind." Upon gaining which permission, Tom went off into an interesting discourse on the unnaturalness of men's lives at Oxford, which it is by no means necessary to inflict on our readers. As he was waxing eloquent and sentimental, he chanced to look from his companion's face for a moment in search of a simile, when his eyes alighted on that virtuous member of society, Dick, the factotum of "The Choughs," who was taking his turn in the Long Walk with his betters. Dick's face was twisted into an uncomfortable grin; his eyes were fixed on Tom and his companion; and he made a sort of half motion towards touching his hat, but couldn't quite carry it through, and so passed by. "Ah! ain't he a going of it again," he muttered to himself; "jest like 'em all." Tom didn't hear the words, but the look had been quite enough for him, and he broke off short in his speech, and turned his head away, and, after two or three flounderings which Mary seemed not to notice, stopped short, and let Miss Winter and Hardy join them. "It's getting dark," he said, as they came up; "the Walk is thinning; ought we not to be going? Remember, I am in charge." "Yes, I think it is time." At this moment the great Christchurch bell--Tom by name--began to toll. "Surely that can't be Tom?" Miss Winter said, who had heard the one hundred and one strokes on former occasions. "Indeed it is, though." "But how very light it is." "It is almost the longest day in the year, and there hasn't been a cloud all day." They started to walk home all together, and Tom gradually recovered himself, but left the labouring oar to Hardy, who did his work very well, and persuaded the ladies to go on and see the Ratcliffe by moonlight--the only time to see it, as he said, because of the shadows--and just to look in at the old quadrangle of St. Ambrose. It was almost ten o'clock when they stopped at the lodgings in High-street. While they were waiting for the door to be opened, Hardy said-- "I really must apologize, Miss Winter, to you, for my intrusion to-night. I hope your father will allow me to call on him." "Oh yes! pray do; he will be so glad to see any friend of my cousin's." "And if I can be of any use to him; or to you, or your sister--" "My sister! Oh, you mean Mary? She is not my sister." "I beg your pardon. But I hope you will let me know if there is anything I can do for you." "Indeed we will. Now, Mary, papa will be worrying about us." And so the young ladies said their adieus and disappeared. "Surely you told me they were sisters," said Hardy, as the two walked away towards college. "No, did I? I don't remember." "But they are your cousins?" "Yes, at least Katie is. Don't you like her?" "Of course, one can't help liking her. But she says you have not met for two years or more." "No more we have." "Then I suppose you have seen more of her companion lately?" "Well, if you must know, I never saw her before yesterday." "You don't mean to say that you took me in there tonight when you had never seen one of the young ladies before, and the other not for two years! Well, upon my word, Brown--" "Now don't blow me up, old fellow, to-night--please don't. There, I give in. Don't hit a fellow when he's down. I'm so low." Tom spoke in such a depreciating tone that Hardy's wrath passed away. "Why, what's the matter?" he said. "You seemed to be full of talk. I was envying your fluency I know, often." "Talk! yes so I was. But didn't you see Dick in the Walk? You have never heard anything more?" "No! but no news is good news." "Heigho! I'm awfully down. I want to talk to you. Let me come up." "Come along then." And so they disappeared into Hardy's lodgings. The two young ladies, meanwhile, soothed old Mr. Winter, who had eaten and drank more than was good for him, and was naturally put out thereby. They soon managed to persuade him to retire, and then followed themselves--first to Mary's room, where that young lady burst out at once, "What a charming place it is! Oh! didn't you enjoy your evening, Katie!" "Yes, but I felt a little awkward without a chaperone. You seemed to get on very well with my cousin. You scarcely spoke to us in the Long Walk till just before we came away. What were you talking about?" Mary burst into a gay laugh. "All sorts of nonsense," she said. "I don't think I ever talked so much nonsense in my life. I hope he isn't shocked. I don't think he is. But I said anything that came into my head. I couldn't help it. You don't think it wrong?" "Wrong, dear? No, I'm sure you could say nothing wrong." "I'm not so sure of that. But, Katie dear, I know there is something on his mind." "Why do you think so?" "Oh, because he stopped short twice, and became quite absent, and seemed not to hear anything I said." "How odd! I never knew him do so. Did you see any reason for it?" "No; unless it was two men we passed in the crowd. One was a vulgar-looking wretch, who was smoking--a fat black thing, with such a thick nose, covered with jewelry--" "Not his nose, dear?" "No, but his dress; and the other was a homely, dried-up little man, like one of your Englebourn troubles. I'm sure there is some mystery about them, and I shall find it out. But how did you like his friend, Katie?" "Very much, indeed. I was rather uncomfortable at walking so long with a stranger. But he was very pleasant, and is so fond of Tom. I am sure he is a very good friend for him." "He looks a good man; but how ugly!" "Do you think so? We shall have a hard day to-morrow. Good night, dear." "Good night, Katie. But I don't feel a bit sleepy." And so the cousins kissed one another, and Miss Winter went to her own room. CHAPTER XXVII--LECTURING A LIONESS The evening of Show Sunday may serve as a fair sample of what this eventful Commemoration was to our hero. The constant intercourse with ladies--with such ladies as Miss Winter and Mary--young, good-looking, well spoken, and creditable in all ways, was very delightful, and the more fascinating, from the sudden change which their presence wrought in the ordinary mode of life of the place. They would have been charming in any room, but were quite irrepressible in his den, which no female presence, except that of his blowsy old bed-maker, had lightened since he had been in possession. All the associations of the freshman's room were raised at once. When he came in at night now, he could look sentimentally at his arm chair (christened "The Captain," after Captain Hardy), on which Katie had sat to make breakfast; or at the brass peg on the door, on which Mary had hung her bonnet and shawl, after displacing his gown. His very teacups and saucers, which were already a miscellaneous set of several different patterns, had made a move almost into his affections; at least the two--one brown, one blue--which the young ladies had used. A human interest belonged to them now, and they were no longer mere crockery. He had thought of buying two very pretty china ones, the most expensive he could find in Oxford, and getting them to use these for the first time, but rejected the idea. The fine new ones, he felt, would never be the same to him. They had come in and used his own rubbish; that was the great charm. If he had been going to give _them_ cups, no material would have been beautiful enough; but for his own use after them, the commoner the better. The material was nothing, the association everything. It is marvellous the amount of healthy sentiment of which a naturally soft-hearted undergraduate is capable by the end of the summer term. But sentiment is not all one-sided. The delights which spring from sudden intimacy with the fairest and best part of the creation, are as far above those of the ordinary, unmitigated undergraduate life, as the British citizen of 1860 is above the rudimentary personage in prehistoric times from whom he has been gradually improved up to his present state of enlightenment and perfection. But each state has also its own troubles as well as its pleasures; and, though the former are a price which no decent fellow would boggle at for a moment, it is useless to pretend that paying them is pleasant. Now, at Commemoration, as elsewhere, where men do congregate, if your lady-visitors are not pretty or agreeable enough to make your friends and acquaintances eager to know them, and to cater for their enjoyment, and try in all ways to win their favor and cut you out, you have the satisfaction at any rate of keeping them to yourself, though you lose the pleasures which arise from being sought after, and made much of for their sakes, and feeling raised above the ruck of your neighbors. On the other hand, if they are all like this, you might as well try to keep the sunshine and air to yourself. Universal human nature rises up against you; and besides, they will not stand it themselves. And, indeed, why should they? Women, to be very attractive to all sorts of different people, must have great readiness of sympathy. Many have it naturally, and many work hard in acquiring a good imitation of it. In the first case it is against the nature of such persons to be monopolized for more than a very short time; in the second, all their trouble would be thrown away if they allowed themselves to be monopolized. Once in their lives, indeed, they will be, and ought to be, and that monopoly lasts, or should last, forever; but instead of destroying in them that which was their great charm, it only deepens and widens it, and the sympathy which was before fitful, and, perhaps, wayward, flows on in a calm and healthy stream, blessing and cheering all who come within reach of its exhilarating and life-giving waters. But man of all ages is a selfish animal, and unreasonable in his selfishness. It takes every one of us in turn many a shrewd fall in our wrestlings with the world, to convince us that we are not to have everything our own way. We are conscious in our inmost souls that man is the rightful lord of creation; and, starting from this eternal principle, and ignoring, each man-child of us in turn, the qualifying truth that it is to man in general, including women, and not to Thomas Brown in particular, that the earth has been given, we set about asserting our kingships each in his own way, and proclaiming ourselves kings from our little ant-hills of thrones. And then come the strugglings and the down-fallings, and some of us learn our lesson, and some learn it not. But what lesson? That we have been dreaming in the golden hours when the vision of a kingdom rose before us? That there is in short no kingdom at all, or that, if there be, we are no heirs of it? No--I take it that, while we make nothing better than that out of our lesson, we shall have to go on spelling at it and stumbling over it, through all the days of our life, till we make our last stumble, and take our final header out of this riddle of a world, which we once dreamed we were to rule over, exclaiming "vanitas vanitatum" to the end. But man's spirit will never be satisfied without a kingdom, and was never intended to be satisfied so; and One wiser than Solomon tells us day by day that our kingdom is about us here, and that we may rise up and pass in when we will at the shining gates which He holds open, for that it is His, and we are joint heirs of it with Him. On the whole, however, making allowances for all drawbacks, those Commemoration days were the pleasantest days Tom had ever known at Oxford. He was with his uncle and cousins early and late, devising all sorts of pleasant entertainments and excursions for them, introducing all the pleasantest men of his acquaintance and taxing the resources of the college, which at such times were available for undergraduates as well as their betters, to minister to their comfort and enjoyment. And he was well repaid. There was something perfectly new to the ladies, and very piquaut in the life and habits of the place. They found it very diverting to be receiving in Tom's rooms, presiding over his breakfasts and luncheons, altering the position of his furniture, and making the place look as pretty as circumstances would allow. Then there was pleasant occupation for every spare hour, and the fetes and amusements were all unlike everything but themselves. Of course the ladies at once became enthusiastic St. Ambrosians, and managed in spite of all distractions to find time for making up rosettes and bows of blue and white, in which to appear at the procession of the boats, which was the great event of the Monday. Fortunately Mr. Winter had been a good oar in his day, and had pulled in one of the first four-oars in which the University races had commenced some thirty-five years before; and Tom, who had set his mind on managing his uncle, worked him up almost into enthusiasm and forgetfulness of his maladies, so that he raised no objection to a five o'clock dinner, and an adjournment to the river almost immediately afterwards. Jervis, who was all-powerful on the river, at Tom's instigation got an arm-chair for him in the best part of the University barge, while the ladies, after walking along the bank with Tom and others of the crew, and being instructed in the colors of the different boats, and the meaning of the ceremony, took their places in the front row on the top of the barge, beneath the awning and the flags, and looked down with hundreds of other fair strangers on the scene, which certainly merited all that Tom had said of it on faith. The barges above and below the University barge, which occupied the post of honor, were also covered with ladies, and Christchurch Meadow swarmed with gay dresses and caps and gowns. On the opposite side the bank was lined with a crowd in holiday clothes, and the punts plied across without intermission loaded with people, till the groups stretched away down the towing path in an almost continuous line to the starting place. Then one after another of the racing-boats, all painted and polished up for the occasion, with the college flags drooping at their sterns, put out and passed down to their stations, and the bands played, and the sun shone his best. And then, after a short pause of expectation, the distant bank became all alive, and the groups all turned one way, and came up the towing path again, and the foremost boat with the blue and white flag shot through the Gut and came up the reach, followed by another, and another, and another, till they were tired of counting, and the leading boat was already close to them before the last had come within sight. And the bands played up all together, and the crowd on both sides cheered as the St. Ambrose boat spurted from the Cherwell, and took the place of honor at the winning-post, opposite the University barge, and close under where they were sitting. "Oh, look, Katie dear; here they are. There's Tom, and Mr. Hardy, and Mr. Jervis;" and Mary waved her handkerchief and clapped her hands, and was in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, in which her cousin was no whit behind her. The gallant crew of St. Ambrose were by no means unconscious of, and fully appreciated, the compliment. Then the boats passed up one by one; and, as each came opposite to the St. Ambrose boat, the crews tossed their oars and cheered, and the St. Ambrose crew tossed their oars and cheered in return; and the whole ceremony went off in triumph, notwithstanding the casualty which occurred to one of the torpids. The torpids, being filled with the refuse of the rowing men--generally awkward or very young oarsmen--find some difficulty in the act of tossing--no safe operation for an unsteady crew. Accordingly, the torpid in question, having sustained her crew gallantly till the saluting point, and allowed them to get their oars fairly into the air, proceeded gravely to turn over on her side, and shoot them out into the stream. A thrill ran along the top of the barges, and a little scream or two might have been heard even through the notes of "Annie Laurie", which were filling the air at the moment; but the band played on, and the crew swam ashore, and two of the punt-men laid hold of the boat and collected the oars, and nobody seemed to think anything of it. Katie drew a long breath. "Are they all out, dear?" she said; "can you see? I can only count eight." "Oh, I was too frightened to look. Let me see; yes, there are nine; there's one by himself, the little man pulling the weeds off his trousers." And so they regained their equanimity, and soon after left the barge, and were escorted to the hall of St. Ambrose by the crew, who gave an entertainment there to celebrate the occasion, which Mr. Winter was induced to attend and pleased to approve, and which lasted till it was time to dress for the ball, for which a proper chaperone had been providentially found. And so they passed the days and nights of Commemoration. But is not within the scope of this work to chronicle all their doings--how, notwithstanding balls at night, they were up to chapel in the morning, and attended flower-shows at Worcester and musical promenades in New College, and managed to get down the river for a picnic at Nuneham, besides seeing everything that was worth seeing in all the colleges. How it was done, no man can tell; but done it was, and they seemed only the better for it all. They were waiting at the gates of the Theatre amongst the first, tickets in hand, and witnessed the whole scene, wondering no little at the strange mixture of solemnity and license, the rush and crowding of the undergraduates into their gallery, and their free and easy way of taking the whole proceedings under their patronage, watching every movement in the amphitheatre and on the floor, and shouting approval and disapproval of the heads of their republic of learning, or of the most illustrious visitors, or cheering with equal vigor, the ladies, Her Majesty's ministers, or the prize poems. It is a strange scene certainly, and has probably puzzled many persons besides young ladies. One can well fancy the astonishment of the learned foreigner, for instance, when he sees the head of the University, which he has reverenced at a distance from his youth up, rise in his robes in solemn convocation to exercise one of the highest of University functions, and hears his sonorous Latin periods interrupted by "three cheers for the ladies in pink bonnets!" or, when some man is introduced for an honorary degree, whose name may be known throughout the civilized world, and the Vice-Chancellor, turning to his compeers, inquires, "Placetne vobis, domini doctores? placetne vobis, magistri?" and he hears the voice of doctors and masters drowned in contradictory shouts from the young _demus_ in the gallery, "Who is he?" "Non placet!" "_Placet_!" "Why does he carry an umbrella?" It is thoroughly English, and that is just all that need, or indeed can, be said for it all; but not one in a hundred of us would alter it if we could, beyond suppressing some of the personalities, which of late years have gone somewhat too far. After the Theatre there was sumptuous lunch in All Souls', and then a fete in St. John's Gardens. Now, at the aforesaid luncheon, Tom's feelings had been severely tried; in fact, the little troubles, which, as has been before hinted, are incident to persons, especially young men in his fortunate predicament, had here come to a head. He was separated from his cousin a little way. Being a guest, and not an important one in the eyes of the All Souls' fellows, he had to find his level, which was very much below that allotted to his uncle and cousins. In short, he felt that they were taking him about, instead of he them--which change of position was in itself trying; and Mary's conduct fanned his slumbering discontent into a flame. There she was, sitting between a fellow of All Souls', who was a collector of pictures and an authority in fine art matters, and the Indian officer who had been so recently promoted to the degree of D.C.L. in the Theatre. There she sat, so absorbed in their conversation that she did not even hear a remark which he was pleased to address to her. Whereupon he began to brood on his wrongs, and to take umbrage at the catholicity of her enjoyment and enthusiasm. So long as he had been the medium through which she was brought in contact with others, he had been well enough content that they should amuse and interest her; but it was a very different thing now. So he watched her jealously, and raked up former conversations, and came to the conclusion that it was his duty to remonstrate with her. He had remarked, too, that she never could talk with him now without breaking away after a short time into badinage. Her badinage certainly was very charming and pleasant, and kept him on the stretch; but why should she not let him be serious and sentimental when he pleased? She did not break out in this manner with other people. So he really felt it to be his duty to speak to her on the subject--not in the least for his own sake, but for hers. Accordingly, when the party broke up, and they started for the fete at St. John's, he resolved to carry out his intentions. At first he could not get an opportunity while they were walking about on the beautiful lawn of the great garden, seeing and being seen, and listening to music, and looking at choice flowers. But soon a chance offered. She stayed behind the rest without noticing it, to examine some specially beautiful plant, and he was by her side in a moment, and proposed to show her the smaller garden, which lies beyond, to which she innocently consented; and they were soon out of the crowd, and in comparative solitude. She remarked that he was somewhat silent and grave, but thought nothing of it, and chatted on as usual, remarking upon the pleasant company she had been in at luncheon. This opened the way for Tom's lecture. "How easily you seem to get interested with new people!" he began. "Do I?" she said. "Well, don't you think it very natural?" "Wouldn't it be a blessing if people would always say just what they think and mean, though?" "Yes, and a great many do," she replied, looking at him in some wonder, and not quite pleased with the turn things were taking. "Any ladies, do you think? You know we haven't many opportunities of observing." "Yes, I think quite as many ladies as men. More, indeed, as far as my small experience goes." "You really maintain deliberately that you have met people--men and women--who can talk to you or anyone else for a quarter of an hour quite honestly, and say nothing at all which they don't mean--nothing for the sake of flattery, or effect, for instance?" "Oh dear me, yes, often." "Who, for example?" "Our cousin Katie. Why are you so suspicious and misanthropical? There is your friend Mr. Hardy again; what do you say to him?" "Well, I think you may have hit on an exception. But I maintain the rule." "You look as if I ought to object. But I sha'n't. It is no business of mine if you choose to believe any such disagreeable thing about your fellow-creatures." "I don't believe anything worse about them than I do about myself. I know that I can't do it." "Well, I am very sorry for you." "But I don't think I am any worse than my neighbours." "I don't suppose you do. Who are your neighbors?" "Shall I include you in the number?" "Oh, by all means, if you like." "But I may not mean that you are like the rest. The man who fell among thieves, you know, had one good neighbor." "Now, Cousin Tom," she said, looking up with sparkling eyes, "I can't return the compliment. You meant to make me feel that I _was_ like the rest--at least like what you say they are. You know you did. And now you are just turning round, and trying to slip out of it by saying what you don't mean." "Well, Cousin Mary, perhaps I was. At any rate I was a great fool for my pains. I might have known by this time that you would catch me out fast enough." "Perhaps you might. I didn't challenge you to set up your Palace of Truth. But, if we are to live in it, you are not to say all the disagreeable things and hear none of them." "I hope not, if they must be disagreeable. But why should they be? I can't see why you and I, for instance, should not say exactly what we are thinking to one another without being disagreeable." "Well, I don't think you made a happy beginning just now." "But I am sure we should all like one another the better for speaking the truth." "Yes; but I don't admit that I haven't been speaking the truth." "You won't understand me. Have I said that you don't speak the truth?" "Yes, you said just now that I don't say what I think and mean. Well, perhaps you didn't exactly say that, but that is what you meant:" "You are very angry, Cousin Mary. Let us wait till--" "No, no. It was you who began, and I will not let you off now." "Very well, then. I did mean something of the sort. It is better to tell you than to keep it to myself." "Yes; and now tell me your reasons," said Mary, looking down and biting her lip. Tom was ready to bite his tongue off, but there was nothing now but to go through with it. "You make everybody that comes near you think that you are deeply interested in them and their doings. Poor Grey believes that you are as mad as he is about rituals and rubrics. And the boating men declare that you would sooner see a race than go to the best ball in the world. And you listened to the Dean's stale old stories about his schools, and went into raptures in the Bodleian about pictures and art with that follow of All Souls'. Even our old butler and the cook--" Here Mary, despite her vexation, after a severe struggle to control it, burst into a laugh, which made Tom pause. "Now you can't say that I am not really fond of jellies," she said. "And you can't say that I have said anything so very disagreeable." "Oh, but you have, though." "At any rate I have made you laugh." "But you didn't mean to do it. Now, go on." "I have nothing more to say. You see my meaning, or you never will." "If you have nothing more to say, you should not have said so much," said Mary. "You wouldn't have me rude to all the people I meet, and I can't help it if the cook thinks I am a glutton." "But you could help letting Grey think that you should like to go and see his night schools." "But I should like to see them of all things." "And I suppose you would like to go through the manuscripts in the Bodleian with the Dean. I heard you talking to him as if it was the dearest wish of your heart, and making a half engagement to go with him this afternoon, when, you know that you are tired to death of him, and so full of other engagements that you don't know where to turn." Mary began to bite her lips again. She felt half inclined to cry, and half inclined to get up and box his ears. However she did neither, but looked up after a moment or two and said-- "Well, have you any more unkind words to say?" "Unkind, Mary?" "Yes, they _are_ unkind. How can I enjoy anything now when I shall know you are watching me, and thinking all sorts of harm of everything I say and do? However, it doesn't much matter, for we go to-morrow morning." "But you will give me credit at least for meaning you well." "I think you are very jealous and suspicious." "You don't know how you pain me when you say that." "But I must say what I think." Mary set her little mouth, and looked down, and began tapping her boot with her parasol. There was an awkward silence while Tom considered within himself whether she was not right, and whether, after all, his own jealousy had not been the cause of the lecture he had been delivering, much more than any unselfish wish for Mary's improvement. "It is your turn now," he said presently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and looking hard at the gravel. "I may have been foolishly jealous, and I thank you for telling me so. But you can tell me a great deal more if you will, quite as good for me to hear." "No, I have nothing to say. I daresay you are open and true, and have nothing to hide or disguise, not even about either of the men we met in the Long Walk on Sunday." He winced at this random shaft as if he had been stung, and she saw that it had gone home, and repented the next moment. The silence became more and more embarrassing. By good luck, however, their party suddenly appeared strolling towards them from the large garden. "Here are Uncle Robert and Katie, and all of them. Let us join them." She rose up, and he with her, and as they walked towards the rest, he said quickly in a low voice, "Will you forgive me if I have pained you? I was very selfish, and I am sorry." "Oh yes, we were both very foolish, but we won't do it again." "Here you are at last. We have been looking for you everywhere," said Miss Winter, as they came up. "I'm sure I don't know how we missed you. We came straight from the music tent to this seat, and have not moved. We knew you must come by sooner or later." "But it is quite out of the way. It is quite by chance that we came round here." "Isn't Uncle Robert tired, Katie?" said Tom; "he doesn't look well this afternoon." Katie instantly turned to her father, and Mr. Winter declared himself to be much fatigued. So they wished their hospitable entertainers good-bye, and Tom hurried off and got a wheel chair for his uncle, and walked by his side to their lodgings. The young ladies walked near the chair also, accompanied by one or two of their acquaintances; in fact they could not move without an escort. But Tom never once turned his head for a glance at what was going on, and talked steadily on to his uncle, that he might not catch a stray word of what the rest were saying. Despite of all this self-denial, however, he was quite aware somehow when he made his bow at the door that Mary had been very silent all the way home. Mr. Winter retired to his room to lie down, and his daughter and niece remained in the sitting-room. Mary sat down and untied her bonnet, but did not burst into her usual flood of comments on the events of the day. Miss Winter looked at her and said-- "You look tired, dear, and over-excited." "Oh yes, so I am. I've had such a quarrel with Tom." "A quarrel--you're not serious?" "Indeed I am, though. I quite hated him for five minutes at least." "But what did he do?" "Why, he taunted me with being too civil to everybody, and it made me so angry. He said I pretended to take an interest in ever so many things, just to please people, when I didn't really care about them. And it isn't true, now, Katie, is it?" "No, dear. He never could have said that. You must have misunderstood him." "There, I knew you would say so. And if it were true, I'm sure it isn't wrong. When people talk to you, it 's so easy to seem pleased and interested in what they are saying; and then they like you, and it is so pleasant to be liked. Now, Katie, do you ever snap people's noses off, or tell them you think them very foolish, and that you don't care, and that what they are saying is all of no consequence?" "I, dear? I couldn't do it to save my life." "Oh, I was sure you couldn't. And he may say what he will, but I am quite sure he would not have been pleased if we had not made ourselves pleasant to his friends." "That's quite true. He has told me himself half a dozen times how delighted he was to see you so popular." "And you too, Katie?" "Oh yes. He was very well pleased with me. But it is you who have turned all the heads in the college, Mary. You are Queen of St. Ambrose beyond a doubt just now." "No, no, Katie; not more than you at any rate." "I say yes, yes, Mary. You will always be ten times as popular as I; some people have the gift of it; I wish I had. But why do you look so grave again?" "Why, Katie, don't you see you are just saying over again, only in a different way, what your provoking cousin--I shall call him Mr. Brown, I think, in future--was telling me for my good in St. John's gardens. You saw how long we were away from you; well, he was lecturing me all the time, only think; and now you are going to tell it me all over again. But go on, dear; I sha'n't mind anything from you." She put her arm round her cousin's waist, and looked up playfully into her face. Miss Winter saw at once that no great harm, perhaps some good, had been done in the passage of arms between her relatives. "You made it all up," she said, smiling, "before we found you." "Only just, though. He begged my pardon just at last, almost in a whisper, when you were quite close to us." "And you granted it?" "Yes, of course; but I don't know that I shall not recall it." "I was sure you would be falling out before long, you got on so fast. But he isn't quite so easy to turn round your finger as you thought, Mary." "Oh, I don't know that," said Mary, laughing; "you saw how humble he looked at last, and what good order he was in." "Well, dear, it's time to think whether we shall go out again." "Let me see; there's the last ball. What do you say?" "Why, I'm afraid poor papa is too tired to take us, and I don't know with whom we could go. We ought to begin packing, too I think." "Very well. Let us have tea quietly at home." "I will write a note to Tom to tell him. He has done his best for us, poor fellow, and we ought to consider him a little." "Oh yes, and ask him and his friend Mr. Hardy to tea, as it is the last night." "If you wish it, I shall be very glad; they will amuse papa." "Certainly, and then he will see that I bear him no malice. And now I will go and just do my hair." "Very well; and we will pack after they leave. How strange home will seem after all this gayety." "Yes, we seem to have been here a month." "I do hope we shall find all quiet at Englebourn. I am always afraid of some trouble there." CHAPTER XXVIII--THE END OF THE FRESHMAN'S YEAR On the morning after Commemoration, Oxford was in a bustle of departure. The play had been played, the long vacation had begun, and visitors and members seemed equally anxious to be off. At the gates of the colleges, groups of men in travelling-dresses waited for the coaches, omnibuses, dog-carts and all manner of vehicles, which were to carry them to the Great Western railway station at Steventon, or elsewhere, to all points of the compass. Porters passed in and out with portmanteaus, gun-cases, and baggage of all kinds, which they piled outside the gates, or carried off to "The Mitre" or "The Angel," under the vigorous and not too courteous orders of the owners. College servants flitted round the groups to take instructions, and, it so might be, to extract the balances of extortionate bills out of their departing masters. Dog-fanciers were there also, holding terriers; and scouts from the cricketing grounds, with bats and pads under their arms; and hostlers, and men from the boats, all on the same errand of getting the last shilling out of their patrons--a fawning, obsequious crowd for the most part, with here and there a sturdy Briton who felt that he was only there for his due. Through such a group, at the gate of St. Ambrose, Tom and Hardy passed soon after breakfast time, in cap and gown, which costume excited no small astonishment. "Hullo, Brown, old fellow! ain't you off this morning?" "No, I shall be up for a day or two yet." "Wish you joy. I wouldn't be staying up over to-day for something." "But you'll be at Henley to-morrow?" said Diogenes, confidently, who stood at the gate in boating coat and flannels, a big stick and knapsack, waiting for a companion, with whom he was going to walk to Henley. "And at Lord's on Friday," said another. "It will be a famous match. Come and dine somewhere afterwards, and go to the Haymarket with us." "You know the Leander are to be at Henley," put in Diogenes; "and Cambridge is very strong. There will be a splendid race for the cup, but Jervis thinks we are all right." "Bother your eternal races! Haven't we had enough of them already?" said the Londoner. "You had much better come up to the little village at once, Brown, and stay there while the coin lasts." "If I get away at all, it will be to Henley," said Tom. "Of course, I knew that," said Diogenes, triumphantly, "our boat ought to be on for the ladies' plate. If only Jervis were not in the University crew! I thought you were to pull at Henley, Hardy?" "I was asked to pull, but I couldn't manage the time with the schools coming on, and when the examinations were over it was too late. The crew were picked and half trained, and none of them have broken down." "What! Every one of them stood putting through the sieve? They must be a rare crew, then," said another. "You're right," said Diogenes. "Oh, here you are at last," he added, as another man in flannels and knapsack came out of college. "Well, good-bye all, and a pleasant vacation; we must be off, if we are to be in time to see our crew pull over the course to-night;" and the two marched off towards Magdalen Bridge. "By Jove!" remarked a fast youth, in most elaborate toilette, looking after them, "fancy two fellows grinding off to Henley, five miles an hour, in this sun, when they might drop up to the metropolis by train in half the time? Isn't it marvellous?" "I should like to be going with them," said Tom. "Well, there's no accounting for tastes. Here's our coach." "Good-bye, then;" and Tom shook hands, and, leaving the coach to get packed with portmanteaus, terriers, and undergraduates, he and Hardy walked off towards the High-street. "So you're not going to-day?" Hardy said. "No; two or three of my old schoolfellows are coming up to stand for scholarships, and I must be here to receive them. But it's very unlucky; I should have liked so to have been at Henley." "Look, their carriage is already at the door," said Hardy, pointing up High-street, into which they now turned. There were a dozen postchaises and carriages loading in front of different houses in the street, and amongst them Mr. Winter's old-fashioned travelling barouche. "So it is," said Tom; "that's some of uncle's fidgetiness; but he will be sure to dawdle at the last. Come along in." "Don't you think I had better stay downstairs? It may seem intrusive." "No, come along. Why, they asked you to come and see the last of them last night, didn't they?" Hardy did not require any further urging to induce him to follow his inclination; so the two went up together. The breakfast things were still on the table, at which sat Miss Winter, in her bonnet, employed in examining the bill, with the assistance of Mary, who leant over her shoulder. She looked up as they entered. "Oh! I'm so glad you are come. Poor Katie is so bothered, and I can't help her. Do look at the bill; is it all right?" "Shall I, Katie?" "Yes, please do. I don't see anything to object to, except, perhaps, the things I have marked. Do you think we ought to be charged half a crown a day for the kitchen fire?" "Fire in June! and you have never dined at home once?" "No, but we have had tea several times." "It is a regular swindle," said Tom, taking the bill and glancing at it. "Here, Hardy, come and help me cut down this precious total." They sat down to the bill, the ladies willingly giving place. Mary tripped off to the glass to tie her bonnet. "Now that is all right!" she said merrily; "why can't one go on without bills or horrid money?" "Ah! why can't one?" said Tom, "that would suit most of our complaints. But where's uncle; has he seen the bill?" "No; Papa is in his room; he must not be worried, or the journey will be too much for him." Here the ladies'-maid arrived, with a message that her father wished to see Miss Winter. "Leave your money, Katie," said her cousin, "this is gentlemen's business, and Tom and Mr. Hardy will settle it all for us, I am sure." Tom professed his entire willingness to accept the charge, delighted at finding himself reinstated in his office of protector at Mary's suggestion. Had the landlord been one or his own tradesmen, or the bill his own bill, he might not have been so well pleased, but, as neither of these was the case, and he had Hardy to back him, he went into the matter with much vigor and discretion, and had the landlord up, made the proper deductions, and got the bill settled and receipted in a few minutes. Then he and Hardy addressed themselves to getting the carriage comfortably packed, and vied with one another in settling and stowing away in the most convenient places, the many little odds and ends which naturally accompany young ladies and invalids on their travels; in the course of which employment he managed to snatch a few words here and there with Mary and satisfied himself that she bore him no ill-will for the events of the previous day. At last all was ready for the start, and Tom reported the fact in the sitting-room. "Then I will go and fetch papa," said Miss Winter. Tom's eyes met Mary's at the moment. He gave a slight shrug with his shoulders, and said, as the door closed after his cousin, "Really I have no patience with Uncle Robert, he leaves poor Katie to do everything." "Yes; and how beautifully she does it all, without a word or, I believe, a thought of complaint! I could never be so patient." "I think it is a pity. If Uncle Robert were obliged to exert himself, it would be much better for him. Katie is only spoiling him and wearing herself out." "Yes, it is very easy for you and me to think and say so. But he is her father, and then he is really an invalid. So she goes on devoting herself to him more and more, and feels she can never do too much for him." "But if she believed it would be better for him to exert himself? I'm sure it is the truth. Couldn't you try to persuade her?" "No, indeed; it would only worry her, and be so cruel. But then I am not used to give advice," she added, after a moment's pause, looking demurely at her gloves; "It might do good, perhaps, now, if you were to speak to her." "You think me so well qualified, I suppose, after the specimen you had yesterday? Thank you; I have had enough of lecturing for the present." "I am very much obliged to you, really, for what you said to me," said Mary, still looking at her gloves. The subject was a very distasteful one to Tom. He looked at her for a moment to see whether she was laughing at him, and then broke it off abruptly-- "I hope you have enjoyed your visit?" "Oh yes, so very much. I shall think of it all the summer." "Where shall you be all the summer?" asked Tom. "Not so very far from you. Papa has taken a house only eight miles from Englebourn, and Katie says you live within a day's drive of them." "And shall you be there all the vacation?" "Yes; and we hope to get Katie over often. Could not you come and meet her? it would be so pleasant." "But do you think I might? I don't know your father or mother." "Oh, yes; papa and mamma are very kind, and will ask anybody I like. Besides, you are a cousin, you know." "Only up at Oxford, I am afraid." "Well now, you will see. We are going to have a great archery party next month, and you shall have an invitation." "Will you write it for me yourself?" "Very likely; but why?" "Don't you think I shall value a note in your hand more than--" "Nonsense; now, remember your lecture. Oh here are Uncle Robert and Katie." Mr. Winter was very gracious, and thanked Tom for all his attentions. He had been very pleased, he said, to make his nephew's acquaintance again so pleasantly, and hoped he would come and pass a day or two at Englebourn in the vacation. In his sad state of health he could not do much to entertain a young man, but he could procure him some good fishing and shooting in the neighborhood. Tom assured his uncle that nothing would please him so much as a visit to Englebourn. Perhaps the remembrance of the distance between that parish and the place where Mary was to spend the summer may have added a little to his enthusiasm. "I should have liked also to have thanked your friend for his hospitality," Mr. Winter went on. "I understood my daughter to say he was here." "Yes, he was here just now," said Tom; "he must be below, I think." "What, that good Mr. Hardy?" said Mary, who was looking out of the window; "there he is in the street. He has just helped Hopkins into the rumble, and handed her things to her just as if she were a duchess. She has been so cross all the morning, and now she looks quite gracious." "Then I think, papa, we had better start." "Let me give you an arm down stairs, uncle," said Tom; and so he helped his uncle down to the carriage, the two young ladies following behind, and the landlord standing with obsequious bows at his shop door, and looking as if he had never made an overcharge in his life. While Mr. Winter was making his acknowledgments to Hardy, and being helped by him into the most comfortable seat in the carriage, Tom was making tender adieus to the two young ladies behind, and even succeeded in keeping a rose-bud which Mary was carrying, when they took their seats. She parted from it half-laughingly, and the post-boy cracked his whip and the barouche went lumbering along High-street. Hardy and Tom watched it until it turned down St. Aldate's towards Folly Bridge, the latter waving his hand as it disappeared, and then they turned and strolled slowly away side by side in silence. The sight of all the other departures increased the uncomfortable, unsatisfied feeling which that of his own relatives had already produced in Tom's mind. "Well, it isn't lively stopping up here when everybody is going, is it? What is one to do?" "Oughtn't you to be looking after your friends who are coming up to try for the scholarships?" "No, they won't be up till afternoon, by coach." "Shall we go down to the river, then?" "No, it would be miserable. Hullo, look here, what's up?" The cause of Tom's astonishment was the appearance of the usual procession of university beadles carrying silver-headed maces, and escorting the Vice-Chancellor towards St. Mary's. "Why, the bells are going for service; there must be a university sermon. Is it a saint's day?" "Where's the congregation to come from? Why, half Oxford is off by this time, and those that are left won't want to be hearing sermons." "Well, I don't know. A good many seem to be going. I wonder who is to preach?" "I vote we go. It will help to pass the time." Hardy agreed, and they followed the procession and went up into the gallery of St. Mary's. There was a very fair congregation in the body of the church, and the staffs of the colleges had not yet broken up, and even in the gallery the undergraduates mustered in some force. The restless feeling which had brought our hero there seemed to have had a like effect on most of the men who were for one reason or another unable to start on that day. Tom looked steadily into his cap during the bidding prayer, and sat down composedly afterwards, expecting not to be much interested or benefitted, but comforted with the assurance that at any rate it would be almost luncheon time before he would be again thrown on his own resources. But he was mistaken in his expectations, and before the preacher had been speaking for three minutes, was all attention. The sermon was upon the freedom of the Gospel, the power by which it bursts all bonds and lets the oppressed go free. Its burthen was, "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." The preacher dwelt on many sides of these words; the freedom of nations, of societies, of universities, of the conscience of each individual man, were each glanced at in turn; and then, reminding his hearers of the end of the academical year, he went on-- "We have heard it said in the troubles and toils and temptations of the world,* 'Oh that I could begin life over again! oh that I could fall asleep, and wake up twelve, six, three mouths hence, and find my difficulties solved!' That which we may vainly wish elsewhere, by a happy Providence is furnished to us by the natural divisions of meeting and parting in this place. To everyone of us, old and young, the long vacation on which we are now entering gives us a breathing space, and time to break the bonds which place and circumstance have woven round us during the year that is past. From all our petty cares, and confusions, and intrigues; from the dust and clatter of this huge machinery amidst which we labor and toil; from whatever cynical contempt of what is generous and devout; from whatever fanciful disregard of what is just and wise; from whatever gall of bitterness is secreted in our best motives; from whatever bonds of unequal dealings in which we may have entangled ourselves or others, we are now for a time set free. We stand on the edge of a river which shall for a time at least sweep them away--that ancient river, the Kishon, the river of fresh thoughts, and fresh scenes, and fresh feelings, and fresh hopes--one surely amongst the blessed means whereby God's free and loving grace works out our deliverance, our redemption from evil, and renews the strength of each succeeding year, so that we may 'mount up again as eagles, may run and not be weary, may walk and not faint.'" "And if, turning to the younger part of my hearers, I may still more directly apply this general lesson to them. Is there no one who, in some shape or other, does not feel the bondage of which I have been speaking? He has something on his conscience; he has something on his mind; extravagance, sin, debt, falsehood. Every morning in the first few minutes after waking, it is the first thought that occurs to him. He drives it away in the day; he drives it off by recklessness, which only binds it more and more closely round him. Is there any one who has ever felt, who is at this moment feeling this grievous burden. What is the deliverance? How shall he set himself free? In what special way does the redemption of Christ, the free grace of God, present itself to him? There is at least one way clear and simple. He knows it better than anyone can tell him. It is those same words which I used with another purpose. 'The truth shall make him free.' It is to tell the truth to his friend, to his parent, to any one, whosoever it be, from whom he is concealing that which he ought to make known. One word of open, frank disclosure--one resolution to act sincerely and honestly by himself and others, one ray of truth let into that dark corner will indeed set the whole man free." "_Liberavi animam meam_. 'I have delivered my soul.' What a faithful expression is this of the relief, the deliverance effected by one strong effort of will in one moment of time. 'I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father I have sinned against Heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. So we heard the prodigal's confession this morning. So may the thought well spring up in the minds of any who in the course of this last year have wandered into sin, have found themselves beset with evil habits of wicked idleness, of wretched self-indulgence. Now that you are indeed in the literal sense of the word about to rise and go to your father, now that you will be able to shake off the bondage of bad companionship, now that the whole length of this long absence will roll between you and the past, take a long breath; break off the yoke of your sin, of your fault, of your wrong doing, of your folly, of your perverseness, of your pride, of your vanity, of your weakness; break it off by truth; break it off by one stout effort, in one steadfast prayer; break it off by innocent and free enjoyment; break it off by honest work. Put your 'hand to the nail and your right hand to the workman's hammer;' strike through the enemy which has ensnared you, pierce and strike him through and through. However powerful he seems, at your feet he will bow, he will fall, he will lie down; at your feet he will bow and fall, and where he bows, there will he rise up no more. So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord; but let them that love Thee be as the sun when he goeth forth in his might.'" * This quotation is from the sermon preached by Dr. Stanley before the University, on Act Sunday, 1859 (published by J. H. Parker, of Oxford). I hope the distinguished professor whose words they are will pardon the liberty I have taken in quoting them. No words of my own could have given so vividly what I wanted to say. The two friends separated themselves from the crowd in the porch and walked away, side by side, towards their college. "Well, that wasn't a bad move of ours. It is worth something to hear a man preach that sort of doctrine," said Hardy. "How does he get to know it all?" said Tom, meditatively. "All what? I don't see your puzzle." "Why, all sorts of things that are in a fellow's mind--what he thinks about the first thing in the morning, for instance." "Pretty much like the rest of us, I take it; by looking at home. You don't suppose university preachers are unlike you and me." "Well, I don't know. Now do you think he ever had anything on his mind that was always coming up and plaguing him, and which he never told to anybody?" "Yes, I should think so; most of us must have had." "Have you?" "Ay, often and often." "And you think his remedy the right one?" "The only one. Make a clean breast of it and the sting is gone. There's a great deal to be done afterwards, of course; but there can be no question about step No. 1." "Did you ever owe a hundred pounds that you couldn't pay?" said Tom, with a sudden effort; and his secret had hardly passed his lips before he felt a relief which surprised himself. "My dear fellow," said Hardy, stopping in the street "you don't mean to say you are speaking of yourself?" "I do, though," said Tom, "and it has been on my mind ever since Easter term, and has spoilt my temper and everything--that and something else that you know of. You must have seen me getting more and more ill-tempered, I'm sure; and I have thought of it the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night; and tried to drive the thought away just as he said one did in his sermon. By Jove, I thought he knew all about it, for he looked right at me, just when he came to that place." "But, Brown, how do you mean you owe a hundred pounds? You haven't read much certainly; but you haven't hunted, or gambled, or tailored much, or gone into any other extravagant folly. You must be dreaming." "Am I though? Come up to my rooms and I'll tell you all about it; I feel better already now I've let it out. I'll send over for your commons, and we'll have some lunch." Hardy followed his friend in much trouble of mind, considering in himself whether with the remainder of his savings he could not make up the sum which Tom had named. Fortunately for both of them a short calculation showed him that he could not, and he gave up the idea of delivering his friend in this summary manner with a sigh. He remained closeted with Tom for an hour, and then came out, looking serious still, but not uncomfortable, and went down to the river. He sculled down to Sandford, bathed in the lasher, and returned in time for chapel. He stayed outside afterwards, and Tom came up to him and seized his arm. "I've done it, old fellow," he said; "look here;" and produced a letter. Hardy glanced at the direction, and saw that it was to his father. "Come along and post it," said Tom, "and then I shall feel all right." They walked off quickly to the post-office and dropped the letter into the box. "There," he said, as it disappeared, "_liberavi animam meam_. I owe the preacher a good turn for that; I've a good mind to write and thank him. Fancy the poor old governor's face to-morrow at breakfast!" "Well, you seem to take it easy enough now," said Hardy. "I can't help it. I tell you I haven't felt so jolly this two months. What a fool I was not to have done it before. After all now I come to think of it, I can pay it myself, at least as soon as I am of age, for I know I've some money--a legacy or something--coming to me then. But that isn't what I care about now." "I'm very glad, though, that you have the money of your own." "Yes, but the having told it is all the comfort. Come along, and let's see whether these boys are come. The old Pig ought to be in by this time, and I want them to dine in hall. It's only ten months since I came up on it to matriculate, and it seems twenty years. But I'm going to be a boy again for to-night; you'll see if I'm not." CHAPTER XXIX--THE LONG VACATION LETTER-BAG. "June 24, 184-. "My Dear Tom,--Your letter came to hand this morning, and it has, of course, given your mother and me much pain. It is not the money that we care about, but that our son should have deliberately undertaken, or pretended to undertake, what he must have known at the time he could not perform himself. "I have written to my bankers to pay 100L. at once to your account at the Oxford Bank. I have also requested my solicitor to go over to Oxford, and he will probably call on you the day after you receive this. You say that this person who holds your note of hand is now in Oxford. You will see him in the presence of my solicitor, to whom you will hand the note when you have recovered it. I shall consider afterwards what further steps will have to be taken in the matter. "You will not be of age for a year. It will be time enough then to determine whether you will repay the balance of this money out of the legacy to which you will be entitled under your grandfather's will. In the meantime, I shall deduct at the rate of 50L. a year from your allowance and I shall hold your bond in honor to reduce your expenditure by this amount. You are no longer a boy, and one of the first duties which a man owes to his friends and to society is to live within his income. "I make this advance to you on two conditions. First, that you will never again put your hand to a note or bill in a transaction of this kind. If you have money, lend it or spend it. You may lend or spend foolishly, but that is not the point here; at any rate you are dealing with what is your own. But in transactions of this kind you are dealing with what is not your own. A gentleman should shrink from the possibility of having to come on others, even on his own father, for the fulfillment of his obligations, as he would from a lie. I would sooner see a son of mine in his grave than crawling on through life a slave to wants and habits which he must gratify at other people's expense. "My second condition is, that you put an end to your acquaintance with these two gentlemen who have led you into this scrape, and have divided the proceeds of your joint note between them. They are both your seniors in standing, you say, and they appear to be familiar with this plan of raising money at the expense of other people. The plain English word for such doings is, swindling. What pains me most is, that you have become intimate with young men of this kind. I am not sure that it will not be my duty to lay the whole matter before the authorities of the college. You do not mention their names, and I respect the feeling which has led you not to mention them. I shall know them quite soon enough through my solicitor, who will forward me a copy of the note of hand and signatures in due course. "Your letter makes general allusion to other matters; and I gather from it that you are dissatisfied with the manner in which you have spent your first year at Oxford. I do not ask for specific confessions, which you seem inclined to offer me; in fact, I would sooner not have them, unless there is any other matter in which you want assistance or advice from me. I know from experience that Oxford is a place full of temptation of all kinds, offered to young men at the most critical time of their lives. Knowing this, I have deliberately accepted the responsibility of sending you there, and I do not repent it. I am glad that you are dissatisfied with your first year. If you had not been I should have felt much more anxious about your second. Let bygones be bygones between you and me. You know where to go for strength, and to make confessions which no human ear should hear, for no human judgment can weigh the cause. The secret places of a man's heart are for himself and God. Your mother sends her love. "I am, ever your affectionate father,--JOHN BROWN." June 26th, 184-. "MY DEAR BOY,--I am not sorry that you have taken my last letter as you have done. It is quite right to be sensitive on these points, and it will have done you no harm to have fancied for forty-eight hours that you had in my judgment lost caste as a gentleman. But now I am very glad to be able to ease your mind on this point. You have done a very foolish thing; but it is only the habit, and the getting others to bind themselves, and not the doing it oneself for others, which is disgraceful. You are going to pay honourably for your folly, and will owe me neither thanks nor money in the transaction. I have chosen my own terms for repayment, which you have accepted, and so the financial question is disposed of. "I have considered what you say as to your companions--friends I will not call them--and will promise you not to take any further steps, or to mention the subject to anyone. But I must insist on my second condition, that you avoid all further intimacy with them. I do not mean that you are to cut them, or do anything that will attract attention. But, no more intimacy. "And now, my dear boy, as to the rest of your letter. Mine must indeed have failed to express my meaning. God forbid that there should not be the most perfect confidence between us. There is nothing which I desire or value more. I only question whether special confessions will conduce to it. My experience is against them. I almost doubt whether they can be perfectly honest between man and man; and, taking into account the difference of our ages, it seems to be much more likely that we should misunderstand one another. But having said this, I leave it to you to follow your own conscience in the matter. If there is any burthen which I can help you to bear, it will be my greatest pleasure, as it is my duty, to do it. So now, say what you please, or say no more. If you speak, it will be to one who has felt and remembers a young man's trials. "We hope you will be able to come home to-morrow, or the next day, at latest. Your mother is longing to see you, and I should be glad to have you here a day or two before the assizes, which are held next week. I should rather like you to accompany me to them, as it will give me the opportunity of introducing you to my brother magistrates from other parts of the county, whom you are not likely to meet elsewhere, and it is a good thing for a young man to know his own county well. "The cricket club is very flourishing, you will be glad to hear, and they have put off their best matches till your return; so you are in great request, you see. I am told that the fishing is very good this year, and am promised several days for you in the club water. "September is a long way off, but there is nothing like being before hand; I have put your name down for a license; and it is time you should have a good gun of your own; so I have ordered one for you from a man who has lately settled in the county. He was Purdy's foreman, with whom I used to build, and, I can see, understands his business thoroughly. His locks are as good as any I have ever seen. I have told him to make the stock rather longer, and not quite so straight as that of my old double with which you shot last year. I think I remember you criticized my weapon on these points; but there will be time for you to alter the details after you get home, if you disapprove of my orders. It will be more satisfactory if it is built under your own eye. "If you continue in the mind for a month's reading with your friend Mr. Hardy, we will arrange it towards the end of the vacation; but would he not come here? From what you say we should very much like to know him. Pray ask him from me whether he will pass the last month of the vacation here, reading with you. I should like you to be his first regular pupil. Of course this will be my affair. And now, God bless you, and come home as soon as you can. Your mother sends her best love. "Ever your most affectionate, "JOHN BROWN." "ENGLEBOURN RECTORY, "June 28th, 184-' "DEAREST MARY;--How good of you to write to me so soon! Your letter has come like a gleam of sunshine. I am in the midst of worries already. Indeed, as you know, I could never quite throw off the fear of what might be happening here, while we were enjoying ourselves at Oxford, and it has all turned out even worse than I expected. I shall never be able to go away again in comfort, I think. And yet, if I had been here, I don't know that I could have done any good. It is so very sad that poor papa is unable to attend to his magistrate's business, and he has been worse than usual, quite laid up in fact, since our return. There is no other magistrate--not even a gentleman in the place, as you know, except the curate; and they will not listen to him, even if he would interfere in their quarrels. But he says he will not meddle with secular matters; and, poor man, I cannot blame him, for it is very easy and sad and wearing to be mixed up in it all. "But now I must tell you all my troubles. You remember the men whom we saw mowing together just before we went to Oxford. Betty Winburn's son was one of them, and I am afraid the rest are not at all good company for him. When they had finished papa's hay, they went to mow for Farmer Tester. You must remember him, dear, I am sure; the tall, gaunt man, with heavy, thick lips and a broken nose, and the top of his head quite flat, as if it had been cut off a little above his eyebrows. He is a very miserly man, and a hard master; at least all the poor people tell me so, and he looks cruel. I have always been afraid of him, and disliked him, for I remember as a child hearing papa complain how troublesome he was in the vestry; and except old Simon, who, I believe, only does it from perverseness, I have never heard anybody speak well of him. "The first day that the men went to mow for Farmer Tester, he gave them sour beer to drink. You see, dear, they bargained to mow for so much money and their beer. They were very discontented at this, and they lost a good deal of time going to complain to him about it, and they had high words with him. "The men said the beer wasn't fit for pigs, and the farmer said it was quite good enough 'for such as they,' and if they didn't like his beer they might buy their own. In the evening, too, he came down and complained that the mowing was bad, and then there were more high words, for the men are very jealous about their work. However they went to work as usual the next morning, and all might have gone off quietly, but in the day Farmer Tester found two pigs in his turnip field which adjoins the common, and had them put in the pound. One of these pigs belonged to Betty Winburn's son, and the other to one of the men who was mowing with him; so, when they came home at night, they found what had happened. "The constable is our pound-keeper, the little man who amused you so much; he plays the bass-viol in church. When he puts any beasts into the pound he cuts a stick in two, and gives one piece to the person who brings the beasts, and keeps the other himself, and the owner of the beasts has to bring the other end of the stick to him before he can let them out. Therefore, the owner, you see, must go to the person who has pounded his beasts, and make a bargain with him for payment of the damage which has been done, and so get back the other end of the stick, which they call the 'tally,' to produce to the pound-keeper. "Well, the men went off to the constable's when they heard their pigs were pounded, to find who had the 'tally,' and, when they found it was Farmer Tester, they went in a body to his house to remonstrate with him, and learn what he set the damages at. The farmer used dreadful language to them, I hear, and said they weren't fit to have pigs, and must pay half a crown for each pig, before they could have the 'tally;' and the men irritated him by telling him that his fences were a shame to the parish, because he was too stingy to have them mended, and that the pigs couldn't have found half a crown's worth of turnips in the whole field, for he never put any manure on it except what he could get off the road, which ought to belong to the poor. At last the farmer drove them away saying he should stop the money out of the price he was to pay for their mowing. "Then there was very near being a riot in the parish; for some of the men are very reckless people, and they went in the evening and blew horns and beat kettles before his house, till the constable, who has behaved very well, persuaded them to go away. "In the morning one of the pigs had been taken out of the pound; not Betty's son's, I am glad to say--for no doubt it was very wrong of the men to take it out. The farmer was furious, and went with the constable in the morning to find the pig, but they could hear nothing of it anywhere. James Pope, the man to whom it belonged, only laughed at them, and said he never could keep his pig in himself, because it was grandson to one of the acting pigs that went about to the fairs, and all the pigs of that family took to climbing naturally; so his pig must have climbed out of the pound. This of course was all a story; the men had lifted the pig out of the pound, and then killed it, so that the farmer might not find it, and sold the meat cheap all over the parish. Betty went to the farmer that morning and paid the half crown, and got her son's pig out before he came home; but Farmer Tester stopped the other half crown out of the men's wages, which made matters worse then ever. "The day that we were in the Theatre at Oxford, Farmer Tester was away at one of the markets. He turns his big cattle out to graze on the common, which the poor people say he has no right to do, and in the afternoon a pony of his got into the allotments, and Betty's son caught it, and took it to the constable, and had it put in the pound. The constable tried to persuade him not to do it, but it was of no use; and so, when Farmer Tester came home, he found that his turn had come. I am afraid that he was not sober, for I hear that he behaved dreadfully both to the constable and to Betty's son, and, when he found that he could not frighten them, he declared he would have the law of them if it cost him twenty pounds. So in the morning he went to fetch his lawyer, and when we got home you can fancy what a scene it was. "You remember how poorly papa was when you left us at Lambourn. By the time we got home he was quite knocked up, and so nervous that he was fit for nothing except to have a quiet cup of tea in his own room. I was sure as we drove up the street, there was something the matter. The ostler was watching outside the Red Lion, and ran in as soon as we came in sight; and, as we passed the door, out came Farmer Tester, looking very flushed in the face, and carrying his great iron-handled whip, and a person with him, who I found was his lawyer, and they marched after the carriage. Then the constable was standing at his door too, and he came after us, and there was a group of men outside the rectory gate. We had not been in the house five minutes before a servant came in to say that Farmer Tester and a gentlemen wanted to see papa on particular business. Papa sent out word that he was very unwell, and that it was not the proper time to come on business; he would see them the next day at twelve o'clock. But they would not go away, and then papa asked me to go out and see them. You can fancy how disagreeable it was; and I was so angry with them for coming, when they knew how nervous papa is after a journey, that I could not have patience to persuade them to leave; and so at last they made poor papa see them after all. "He was lying on a sofa, and quite unfit to cope with a hard bad man like Farmer Tester, and a fluent plausible lawyer. They told their story all their own way, and the farmer declared that the man had tempted the pony into the allotment with corn. And the lawyer said that the constable had no right to keep the pony in the pound, that he was liable to all sorts of punishments. They wanted papa to make an order at once for the pound to be opened, and I think he would have done so, but I asked him in a whisper to send for the constable, and hear what he had to say. The constable was waiting in the kitchen, so he came in in a minute. You can't think how well he behaved; I have quite forgiven him all his obstinacy about the singing. He told the whole story about the pigs, and how Farmer Tester had stopped money out of the men's wages. And when the lawyer tried to frighten him, he answered him quite boldly, that he mightn't know so much about the law, but he knew what was always the custom long before his time at Englebourn about the pound, and if Farmer Tester wanted his beast out, he must bring the 'tally' like another man. Then the lawyer appealed to papa about the law, and said how absurd it was, and that if such a custom were to be upheld, the man who had the 'tally' might charge 100L. for the damage. And poor papa looked through his law books, and could find nothing about it at all; and while he was doing it Farmer Tester began to abuse the constable, and said he sided with all the good-for-nothing fellows in the parish, and that bad blood would come of it. But the constable quite fired up at that, and told him that it was such as he who made bad blood in the parish, and that poor folks had their rights as well as their betters, and should have them as long as he was constable. If he got papa's order to open the pound, he supposed he must do it, and 'twas not for him to say what was law, but Henry Winburn had had to get the 'tally' for his pig from Farmer Tester, and what was fair for one was fair for all. "I was afraid papa would have made the order, but the lawyer said something at last which made him take the other side. So he settled that the farmer should pay five shillings for the 'tally,' which was what he had taken from Betty, and had stopped out of the wages, and that was the only order he would make, and the lawyer might do what he pleased about it. The constable seemed satisfied with this, and undertook to take the money down to Harry Winburn, for Farmer Tester declared he would sooner let the pony starve than go himself. And so papa got rid of them after an hour and more of this talk. The lawyer and Farmer Tester went away grumbling and very angry to the Red Lion. I was very anxious to hear how the matter ended; so I went after the constable to ask him to come back and see me when he had settled it all, and about nine o'clock he came. He had had a very hard job to get Harry Winburn to take the money, and give up the 'tally.' The men said that, if Farmer Tester could make them pay half-a-crown for a pig in his turnips, which were no bigger than radishes, he ought to pay ten shillings at least for his pony trampling down their corn, which was half grown, and I couldn't help thinking this seemed very reasonable. In the end, however, the constable had persuaded them to take the money, and so the pony was let out. "I told him how pleased I was at the way he had behaved, but the little man didn't seem quite satisfied himself. He should have liked to have given the lawyer a piece of his mind, he said, only he was no scholar, 'but I've a got all the feelin's of a man, miss, though I medn't have the ways o' bringin' on 'em out.' You see I'm quite coming round to your opinion about him. But when I said that I hoped all the trouble was over, he shook his head, and he seems to think that the men will not forget it, and that some of the wild ones will be trying to pay Farmer Tester out in the winter nights, and I could see he was very anxious about Harry Winburn; so I promised him to go and see Betty. "I went down to her cottage yesterday, and found her very low, poor old soul, about her son. She has had a bad attack again, and I am afraid her heart is not right. She will not live long if she has much to make her anxious, and how is that to be avoided? For her son's courting is all going wrong, she can see, though he will not tell her anything about it; but he gets more moody and restless, she says, and don't take a pride in anything, not even in his flowers or his allotment; and he takes to going about, more and more every day, with these men, who will be sure to lead him into trouble. "After I left her, I walked up to the Hawk's Lynch, to see whether the view and the air would not do me good. And it did do me a great deal of good, dear, and I thought of you, and when I should see your bright face and hear your happy laugh again. The village looked so pretty and peaceful. I could hardly believe, while I was up there, that there were all these miserable quarrels and heartburnings going on in it. I suppose they go on everywhere, but one can't help feeling as if there was something specially hard in those which come under one's own eyes, and touch one's self. And then they are so frivolous, and everything might go on so comfortably if people would only be reasonable. I ought to have been a man, I am sure, and then I might, perhaps, be able to do more, and should have more influence. If poor papa were only well and strong! "But, dear, I shall tire you with all these long histories and complainings. I have run on till I have no room left for anything else; but you can't think what a comfort it is to me to write it all to you, for I have no one to tell it to. I feel so much better, and more cheerful, since I sat down to write this. You must give my dear love to uncle and aunt, and let me hear from you again whenever you have time. If you could come over again and stay for a few days, it would be very kind; but I must not press it, as there is nothing to attract you here, only we might talk over all that we did and saw at Oxford.--Ever, dearest Mary, your affectionate cousin, "Katie" "P. S.--I should like to have the pattern of the jacket you wore the last day at Oxford. Could you cut it out in thin paper and send it in your next?" "July-,184-. "MY DEAR BROWN,--I was very glad to see your hand, and to hear such flourishing accounts of your vacation doings. You won't get any like announcement of me, for cricket has not yet come so far west as this, at least not to settle. We have a few pioneers and squatters in the villages; but, I am sorry to say, nothing yet like matches between the elevens of districts. Neighbors we have none, except the rector; so I have plenty of spare time, some of which I feel greatly disposed to devote to you; and I hope you won't find me too tedious to read. "It is very kind of your father to wish that you should be my first pupil, and to propose that I should spend the last month of this vacation with you in Berkshire. But I do not like to give up a whole month. My father is getting old and infirm, and I can see that it would be a great trial to him, although he urges it, and is always telling me not to let him keep me at home. What do you say to meeting me half way? I mean, that you should come here for half of the time, and then that I should return with you for the last fortnight of the vacation. This I could manage perfectly. "But you cannot in any case be my first pupil; for not to mention that I have been, as you know, teaching for some years, I have a pupil here, at this minute. You are not likely to guess who it is, though you know him well enough--perhaps I should say too well--so, in a word, it is Blake. I had not been at home three days before I got a letter from him, asking me to take him, and putting it in such a way that I couldn't refuse. I would sooner not have had him, as I had already got out of taking a reading party with some trouble, and felt inclined to enjoy myself here in dignified idleness till next term. But what can you do when a man puts it to you as a great personal favor, &c. &c.? So I wrote to accept. You may imagine my disgust a day or two afterwards, at getting a letter from an uncle of his, some official person in London apparently, treating the whole matter in a _business_ point of view, and me as if I were a training groom. He is good enough to suggest a stimulant to me in the shape of extra pay and his future patronage in the event of his nephew's taking a first in Michaelmas term. If I had received this letter before, I think it would have turned the scale, and I should have refused. But the thing was done, and Blake isn't fairly responsible for his relative's views. "So here he has been for a fortnight. He took a lodging in the village at first; but of course my dear old father's ideas of hospitality were shocked at this, and here he is, our inmate. "He reads fiercely by fits and starts. A feeling of personal hatred against the examiners seems to urge him on more than any other motive; but this will not be strong enough to keep him to regular work, and without regular work he won't do, notwithstanding all his cleverness, and he is a marvellously clever fellow. So the first thing I have to do is to get him steadily to the collar, and how to do it is a pretty particular puzzle. For he hasn't a grain of enthusiasm in his composition, nor any power, as far as I can see, of throwing himself into the times and scenes of which he is reading. The philosophy of Greece and the history of Rome are matters of perfect indifference to him--to be got up by catch-words and dates for examination and nothing more. I don't think he would care a straw if Socrates had never lived, or Hannibal had destroyed Rome. The greatest names and deeds of the old world are just so many dead counters to him--the Jewish just as much as the rest. I tried him with the story of the attempt of Antiochus Epiphanes to conquer the Jews, and the glorious rising of all that was living in the Holy Land under the Maccabees. Not it bit of it; I couldn't get a spark out of him. He wouldn't even read the story because it is in the Apocrypha, and so, as he said, the d----d examiners couldn't ask him anything about it in the schools. "Then his sense of duty is quiet undeveloped. He has no notion of going on doing anything disagreeable because he ought. So here I am at fault again. Ambition he has in abundance; in fact so strongly, that very likely it may in the end pull him through, and make him work hard enough for his Oxford purposes at any rate. But it wants repressing rather than encouragement, and I certainly shan't appeal to it. "You will begin to think I dislike him and want to get rid of him, but it isn't the case. You know what a good temper he has, and how remarkably well he talks; so he makes himself very pleasant, and my father evidently enjoys his company; and then to be in constant intercourse with a subtle intellect like his, is pleasantly exciting, and keeps one alive and at high pressure, though one can't help always wishing that it had a little heat in it. You would be immensely amused if you could drop in on us. "I think I have told you or you must have seen it for yourself, that my father's principles are true blue, as becomes a sailor of the time of the great war, while his instincts and practice are liberal in the extreme. Our rector, on the contrary, is liberal in principles, but an aristocrat of the aristocrats in instinct and practice. They are always ready enough therefore to do battle, and Blake delights in the war, and fans it and takes part in it as a sort of free lance, laying little logical pitfalls for the combatants alternately, with that deferential manner of his. He gets some sort of intellectual pleasure, I suppose, out of seeing where they ought to tumble in; for tumble in they don't, but clear his pit-falls in their stride--at least my father does--quite innocent of having neglected to distribute his middle term; and the rector, if he has some inkling of these traps, brushes them aside, and disdains to spend powder on anyone but his old adversary and friend. I employ myself in trying to come down ruthlessly on Blake himself; and so we spend our evenings after dinner, which comes off at the primitive hour of five. We used to dine at three, but my father has comformed now to college hours. If the rector does not come, instead of argumentative talk, we get stories out of my father. In the morning we bathe, and boat, and read. So, you see, he and I have plenty of one another's company; and it is certainly odd that we get on so well with so very few points of sympathy. But, luckily, besides his good temper and cleverness, he has plenty of humor. On the whole, I think we shall rub through the two months which he is to spend here without getting to hate one another, though there is little chance of our becoming friends. Besides putting some history and science into him (scholarship he does not need), I shall be satisfied if I can make him give up his use of the pronoun 'you' before he goes. In talking of the corn laws, or foreign policy, or India, or any other political subject, however interesting, he never will identify himself as an Englishman; and 'you do this,' or 'you expect that' is for ever in his mouth, speaking of his own countrymen. I believe if the French were to land to-morrow on Portland, he would comment on our attempts to dislodge them as if he had no concern with the business except as a looker-on. "You will think all this rather a slow return for your jolly gossiping letter, full of cricket, archery, fishing, and I know not what pleasant goings-on. But what is one to do? one can only write about what is one's subject of interest for the time being, and Blake stands in that relation to me just now. I should prefer it otherwise, but _si on n'a pas ce qu'on aime il faut aimer ce qu'on a_. I have no incident to relate; these parts get on without incidents somehow, and without society. I wish there were some, particularly ladies' society. I break the tenth commandment constantly, thinking of Commemoration, and that you are within a ride of Miss Winter and her cousin. When you see them next, pray present my respectful compliments. It is a sort of consolation to think that one may cross their fancy for a moment and be remembered as part of a picture which gives them pleasure. With such piece of sentiment I may as well shut up. Don't you forget my message now, and-- "Believe me, ever yours most truly, "JOHN HARDY. "P.S.--I mean to speak to Blake, when I get a chance, of that wretched debt which you have paid, unless you object. I should think better of him if he seemed more uncomfortable about his affairs. After all he may be more so than I think, for he is very reserved on such subjects." "ENGLEBOURN RECTORY, "July, 184-' "DEAREST MARY.--I send the coachman with this note in order that you may not be anxious about me. I have just returned from poor Betty Winburn's cottage to write it. She is very very ill, and I do not think can last out more than a day or two; and she seems to cling to me so that I cannot have the heart to leave her. Indeed, if I could make up my mind to do it, I should never get her poor white eager face out of my head all day, so that I should be very bad company, and quite out of place at your party, making everybody melancholy and uncomfortable who came near me. So, dear, I am not coming. Of course it is a great disappointment. I had set my heart on being with you, and enjoying it all thoroughly; and even at breakfast this morning knew of nothing to hinder me. My dress is actually lying on the bed at this minute, and it looks very pretty, especially the jacket like yours, which I and Hopkins have managed to make up from the pattern you sent, though you forgot the sleeves, which made it rather hard to do. Ah, well; it is no use to think of how pleasant things would have been which one cannot have. You must write me an account of how it all went off, dear; or perhaps you can manage to get over here before long to tell me. "I must now go back to poor Betty. She is such a faithful, patient old thing, and has been such a good woman all her life that there is nothing painful in being by her now, and one feels sure that it will be much happier and better for her to be at rest. If she could only feel comfortable about her son, I am sure she would think so herself. Oh, I forgot to say that her attack was brought on by the shock of hearing that he had been summoned for an assault. Farmer Tester's son, a young man about his own age, has, it seems, been of late waylaying Simon's daughter and making love to her. It is so very hard to make out the truth in matters of this kind. Hopkins says she is a dressed-up little minx who runs after all the young men in the parish; but really, from what I see and hear from other persons, I think she is a good girl enough. Even Betty, who looks on her as the cause of most of her own trouble, has never said a word to make me think that she is at all a light person, or more fond of admiration than any other good-looking girl in the parish. "But those Testers are a very wicked set. You cannot think what a misfortune it is in a place like this to have these rich families with estates of their own, in which the young men begin to think themselves above the common farmers. They ape the gentlemen, and give themselves great airs, but of course no gentleman will associate with them, as they are quite uneducated; and the consequence is that they live a great deal at home, and give themselves up to all kinds of wickedness. This young Tester is one of these. His father is a very bad old man, and does a great deal of harm here; and the son is following in his steps, and is quite as bad, or worse. So you see that I shall not easily believe that Harry Winburn has been much in the wrong. However, all I know of it at present is that young Tester was beaten by Harry yesterday evening in the village street, and that they came to papa at once for a summons. "Oh, here is the coachman ready to start; so I must conclude, dear, and go back to my patient. I shall often think of you during the day. I am sure you will have a charming party. With best love to all, believe me, ever dearest, "Your most affectionate, "KATIE. "P. S.--I am very glad that uncle and aunt take to Tom, and that he is staying with you for some days. You will find him very useful in making the party go off well, I am sure." CHAPTER XXX--AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR "A letter, Miss, from Englebourn," said a footman, coming up to Mary with the note given at the end of the last chapter, on a waiter. She took it and tore it open; and while she is reading it, the reader may be introduced to the place and company in which we find her. The scene is a large old-fashioned square brick house, backed by fine trees, in the tops of which the rooks live, and the jackdaws and starlings in the many holes which time has worn in the old trunks; but they are all away on this fine summer morning, seeking their meal and enjoying themselves in the neighbouring fields. In the front of the house is a pretty flower garden, separated by a haw-haw from a large pasture, sloping southwards gently down to a stream, which glides along through water-cress and willow beds to join the Kennet. The beasts have all been driven off, and on the upper part of the field, nearest the house, two men are fixing up a third pair of targets on the rich short grass. A large tent is pitched near the archery ground, to hold quivers and bow-cases, and luncheon, and to shelter lookers-on from the mid-day sun. Beyond the brook, a pleasant, well-timbered, country lies, with high chalk-downs for an horizon, ending in Marlborough hill, faint and blue in the west. This is the place which Mary's father has taken for the summer and autumn, and where she is fast becoming the pet of the neighborhood. It will not perhaps surprise our readers to find that our hero has managed to find his way to Barton Manor in the second week of the vacation, and having made the most of his opportunities, is acknowledged as a cousin by Mr. and Mrs. Porter. Their boys are at home for the holidays, and Mr. Porter's great wish is that they should get used to the country in their summer holidays. And as they have spent most of their childhood and boyhood in London, to which he has been tied pretty closely hitherto, this is a great opportunity. The boys only wanted a preceptor, and Tom presented himself at the right moment, and soon became the hero of Charley and Neddy Porter. He taught them to throw flies and bait crawfish nets, to bat-fowl, and ferret for rabbits, and to saddle and ride their ponies, besides getting up games of cricket in the spare evenings, which kept him away from Mr. Porter's dinner-table. This last piece of self-denial, as he considered it, quite won over that gentleman, who agreed with his wife that Tom was just the sort of companion they would like for the boys, and so the house was thrown open to him. The boys were always clamouring for him when he was away, and making their mother write off to press him to come again; which he, being a very good-natured young man, and particularly fond of boys, was ready enough to do. So this was the third visit he had paid in a month. Mr. and Mrs. Brown wondered a little that he should be so very fond of the young Porters, who were good boys enough, but very much like other boys of thirteen and fifteen, of whom there were several in the neighborhood. He had indeed just mentioned an elder sister, but so casually that their attention had not been drawn to the fact, which had almost slipped out of their memories. On the other hand, Tom seemed so completely to identify himself with the boys and their pursuits, that it never occurred to their father and mother, who were doatingly fond of them, that, after all, they might not be the only attraction. Mary seemed to take very little notice of him, and went on with her own pursuits much as usual. It was true that she liked keeping the score at cricket, and coming to look at them fishing or rabbiting in her walks; but all that was very natural. It is a curious and merciful dispensation of Providence that most fathers and mothers seem never to be capable of remembering their own experience, and will probably go on till the end of time thinking of their sons of twenty and daughters of sixteen or seventeen as mere children who may be allowed to run about together as much as they please. And, where it is otherwise, the results are not very different, for there are certain mysterious ways of holding intercourse implanted in the youth of both sexes, against which no vigilance can prevail. So on this, her great fete day, Tom had been helping Mary all the morning in dressing the rooms with flowers and arranging all the details--where people were to sit at cold dinner; how to find the proper number of seats; how the dining-room was to be cleared in time for dancing when the dew began to fall. In all which matters there were many obvious occasions for those little attentions which are much valued by persons in like situations; and Tom was not sorry that the boys had voted the whole preparations a bore, and had gone off to the brook to 'gropple' in the bank for crayfish till the shooting began. The arrival of the note had been the first _contre-temps_ of the morning, and they were now expecting guests to arrive every minute. "What is the matter? No bad news I hope," he said, seeing her vexed expression. "Why, Katie can't come. I declare I could sit down and cry. I sha'n't enjoy the party a bit now, and I wish it were all over." "I am sure Katie would be very unhappy if she thought you were going to spoil your day's pleasure on her account." "Yes, I know she would. But it is so provoking when I had looked forward so to having her." "You have never told me why she cannot come. She was quite full of it all a few days since." "Oh, there is a poor old woman in the village dying, who is a great friend of Katie's. Here is her letter; let me see," she said, glancing over it to see that there is nothing in it that she did not wish him to read, "you may read it if you like." Tom began reading. "Betty Winburn," he said, when he came to the name, "what, poor dear old Betty? why I've known her ever since I was born. She used to live in our parish, and I haven't seen her this eight years nearly. And her boy Harry, I wonder what has become of him?" "You will see if you read on," said Mary; and so he read to the end, and then folded it up and returned it. "So poor old Betty is dying. Well she was always a good soul, and very kind to me when I was a boy. I should like to see her once again, and perhaps I might be able to do something for her son." "Why should we not ride over to Englebourn to-morrow? They will be glad to get us out of the way while the house is being straightened." "I should like it of all things, if it can be managed." "Oh, I will manage it somehow, for I must go and see that dear Katie. I do feel so ashamed of myself when I think of all the good she is doing, and I do nothing but put flowers about, and play the piano. Isn't she an angel, now?" "Of course she is." "Yes, but I won't have that sort of matter-of-course acquiescence. Now--do you really mean that Katie is as good as an angel?" "As seriously as if I saw the wings growing out of her shoulders, and dew drops hanging on them." "You deserve to have some thing not at all like wings growing out of your head. How is it that you never see when I don't want you to talk your nonsense?" "How am I to talk sense about angels? I don't know anything about them." "You know what I mean perfectly. I say that dear Katie is an angel, and I mean that I don't know anything in her--no not one single thing--which I should like to have changed. If the angels are all as good as she"-- "_If_! why I shall begin to doubt your orthodoxy." "You don't know what I was going to say." "It doesn't matter what you were going to say. You couldn't have brought that sentence into an orthodox conclusion. Oh, please don't look so angry, now. Yes, I quite see what you mean. You can think of Katie just as she is now in heaven without being shocked." Mary paused for a moment before she answered, as if taken by surprise at this way of putting her meaning, and then said seriously-- "Indeed, I can. I think we should all be perfectly happy if we were all as good as she is." "But she is not very happy herself, I am afraid." "Of course not. How can she be, when all the people about her are so troublesome and selfish?" "I can't fancy an angel the least bit like Uncle Robert, can you?" "I won't talk about angels any more. You have made me feel quite as if I had been saying something wicked." "Now really it is too hard that you should lay all the blame on me, when you began the subject yourself. You ought at least to let me say what I have to say about angels." "Why, you said you knew nothing about them half a minute ago." "But I may have my notions, like other people. You have your notions. Katie is your angel." "Well, then, what are your notions?" "Katie is rather too dark for my idea of an angel. I can't fancy a dark angel." "Why, how can you call Katie dark!" "I only say she is too dark for my idea of an angel." "Well, go on." "Then, she is rather too grave!" "Too grave for an angel!" "For my idea of an angel,--one doesn't want one's angel to be like oneself, and I am so grave, you know." "Yes, very. Then your angel is to be a laughing angel. A laughing angel, and yet very sensible; never talking nonsense?" "Oh, I didn't say that." "But you said he wasn't to be like you." "_He_! who in the world do you mean by _he_?" "Why, your angel, of course." "My angel! You don't really suppose that my angel is to be a man." "I have no time to think about it. Look, they are putting those targets quite crooked. You are responsible for the targets; we must go and get them straight." They walked across the ground towards the targets, and Tom settled them according to his notions of opposites. "After all, archery is slow work," he said, when the targets were settled satisfactorily. "I don't believe anybody really enjoys it." "Now that is because you men haven't it all to yourselves. You are jealous of any sort of game in which we can join. I believe you are afraid of being beaten by us." "On the contrary, that is its only recommendation, that you can join in it." "Well, I think that ought to be recommendation enough. But I believe it is much harder than most of your games. You can't shoot half so well as you can play cricket, can you?" "No, because I never practice. It isn't exciting to be walking up and down between two targets, and doing the same thing over and over again. Why, you don't find it so yourself. You hardly ever shoot." "Indeed, I do though, constantly." "Why, I have scarcely ever seen you shooting." "That is because you are away with the boys all day." "Oh, I am never too far to know what is going on. I'm sure you have never practised for more than a quarter of an hour any day I have been here." "Well, perhaps I may not have. But I tell you I am very fond of it." Here the two boys came up from the brook, Neddy with his Scotch cap full of crayfish. "Why, you wretched boys, where have you been? You are not fit to be seen," said Mary, shaking the arrows at them which she was carrying in her hand. "Go and dress directly, or you will be late. I think I heard a carriage driving up just now." "Oh, there's plenty of time. Look what whackers, Cousin Tom," said Charley, holding out one of his prizes by its back towards Tom, while the indignant crayfish flapped its tail and worked around with its claws, in hopes of getting hold of something to pinch. "I don't believe those boys have been dry for two hours together in daylight since you first came here," said Mary, to Tom. "Well, and they're all the better for it, I'm sure," said Tom. "Yes, that we are," said Charley. "I say Charley," said Tom, "your sister says she is very fond of shooting." "Ay, and so she is. And isn't she a good shot too? I believe she would beat you at fifty yards." "There now, you see, you need not have been so unbelieving," said Mary. "Will you give her a shot at your new hat, Cousin Tom?" said Neddy. "Yes, Neddy, that I will;" and he added to Mary, "I will bet you a pair of gloves that you don't hit it in three shots." "Very well," said Mary; "at thirty yards." "No, no! fifty yards was the named distance." "No, fifty yards is too far. Why, you hat is not much bigger than the gold." "Well, I don't mind splitting the difference; we will say forty." "Very well--three shots at forty yards." "Yes; here, Charley, run and hang my hat on that target." The boys rushed off with the hat--a new white one--and hung it with a bit of string over the center of one of the targets, and then, stepping a little aside, stood, clapping their hands, shouting to Mary to take good aim. "You must string my bow," she said, handing it to him as she buckled on her guard. "Now, do you repent? I am going to do my best, mind, if I do shoot." "I scorn repentance; do your worst," said Tom, stringing the bow and handing it back to her. "And now I will hold your arrows; here is the forty yards." Mary came to the place which he had stepped, her eyes full of fun and mischief; and he saw at once that she knew what she was about, as she took her position and drew the first arrow. It missed the hat by some three inches only; and the boys clapped and shouted. "Too near to be pleasant," said Tom, handing the second arrow. "I see you can shoot." "Well, I will let you off still." "Gloves and all?" "No, of course you must pay the gloves." "Shoot away, then. Ah, that will do," he cried, as the second arrow struck considerably above the hat, "I shall get my gloves yet," and he handed the third arrow. They were too intent on the business in hand to observe that Mr. and Mrs. Porter and several guests were already on the hand-bridge which crossed the haw-haw. Mary drew her third arrow, paused a moment, loosed it, and this time with fatal aim. The boys rushed to the target, towards which Mary and Tom also hurried, Mr. and Mrs. Porter and the new comers following more quietly. "Oh, look here--what fun," said Charley, as Tom came up, holding up the hat, spiked on the arrow, which he had drawn out of the target. "What a wicked shot," he said, taking the hat and turning to Mary. "Look here, you have actually gone through three places--through crown, and side, and brim." Mary began to feel quite sorry at her own success, and looked at the wounded hat sorrowfully. "Hullo, look here--here's papa and mamma and some people, and we ain't dressed. Come along, Neddy," and the boys made off towards the back premises, while Mary and Tom, turning round, found themselves in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Brown, and two or three other guests. CHAPTER XXXI--BEHIND THE SCENES Mr. and Mrs. Brown had a long way to drive home that evening, including some eight miles of very indifferent chalky road over the downs, which separate the Vale of Kennet from the Vale of White Horse. Mr. Brown was an early man, and careful of his horses, who responded to his care by being always well up to much more work than they were ever put to. The drive to Barton Manor and back in a day was a rare event in their lives. Their master, taking this fact into consideration, was bent on giving them plenty of time for the return journey, and had ordered his groom to be ready to start by eight o'clock. But, that they might not disturb the rest, by their early departure, he had sent the carriage to the village inn, instead of to the Porter's stables. At the appointed time, therefore, and when the evening's amusements were just beginning at the manor house, Mr. Brown sought out his wife; and, after a few words of leave-taking to their host and hostess, the two slipped quietly away; and walked down the village. The carriage was standing before the inn all ready for them, with the hostler and Mr. Brown's groom at the horses' heads. The carriage was a high phaeton having a roomy front seat with a hood to it, specially devised by Mr. Brown with a view to his wife's comfort, and that he might with a good conscience enjoy at the same time the pleasures of her society and of driving his own horses. When once in her place, Mrs. Brown was as comfortable as she would have been in the most luxurious barouche with C springs, but the ascent was certainly rather a drawback. The pleasure of sitting by her husband and of receiving his assiduous help in the preliminary climb, however, more than compensated to Mrs. Brown for this little inconvenience. Mr. Brown helped her up as usual, and arranged a plaid carefully over her knees, the weather being too hot for the apron. He then proceeded to walk round the horses, patting them, examining the bits, and making inquiries as to how they had fed. Having satisfied himself on these points, and fee'd the hostler, he took the reins, seated himself by his wife, and started at a steady pace towards the hills at the back of Barton village. For a minute or two neither of them spoke, Mr. Brown being engrossed with his horses and she with her thoughts. Presently, however, he turned to her, and, having ascertained that she was quite comfortable, went on-- "Well, my dear, what do you think of them?" "Oh, I think they are agreeable people," answered Mrs. Brown; "but one can scarcely judge from seeing them to-day. It is too far for a drive; we shall not be home till midnight." "But I am very glad we came. After all, they are connexions through poor Robert, and he seems anxious that they should start well in the county. Why, he has actually written twice, you know, about our coming up to-day. We must try to show them some civility." "It is impossible to come so far often," Mrs. Brown persisted. "It is too far for ordinary visiting. What do you say to asking them to come and spend a day or two with us?" "Certainly, my dear, if you wish it," answered Mrs. Brown, but without much cordiality in her voice. "Yes, I should like it; and it will please Robert so much. We might have him and Katie over to meet them, don't you think?" "Let me see," said Mrs. Brown, with much more alacrity, "Mr. and Mrs. Porter will have the best bed-room and dressing-room; Robert must have the south room, and Katie the chintz. Yes, that will do; I can manage it very well." "And their daughter; you have forgotten her." "Well, you see, dear, there is no more room." "Why; there is the dressing-room, next to the south room, with a bed in it. I'm sure nobody can want a better room." "You know, John, that Robert cannot sleep if there is the least noise. I could never put any-one into his dressing-room; there is only a single door between the rooms, and even if they made no noise, the fancy that some one was sleeping there would keep him awake all night." "Plague take his fancies! Robert has given way to them till he is fit for nothing. But you can put him in the chintz room, and give the two girls the south bed room and dressing-room." "What, put Robert in a room which looks north? My dear John; what can you be thinking about?" Mr. Brown uttered an impatient grunt, and, as a vent to his feelings more decorous on the whole than abusing his brother-in-law, drew his whip more smartly than usual across the backs of his horses. The exertion of muscle necessary to reduce those astonished animals to their accustomed steady trot restored his temper, and he returned to the charge-- "I suppose we must manage it on the second floor, then, unless you could get a bed run up in the school-room." "No, dear; I really should not like to do that--it would be so very inconvenient. We are always wanting the room for workwomen or servants; besides, I keep my account books and other things there." "Then I'm afraid it must be on the second floor. Some of the children must be moved. The girl seems a nice girl with no nonsense about her, and won't mind sleeping up there. Or, why not put Katie upstairs?" "Indeed, I should not think of it. Katie is a dear good girl, and I will not put anyone over her head." "Nor I, dear. On the contrary, I was asking you to put her over another person's head," said Mr. Brown, laughing at his own joke, This unusual reluctance on the part of his wife to assist in carrying out any hospitable plans of his began to strike him; so, not being an adept at concealing his thoughts, or gaining his point by any attack except a direct one, after driving on for a minute in silence, he turned suddenly on his wife, and said,-- "Why, Lizzie, you seem not to want to ask the girl?" "Well, John, I do not see the need of it at all." "No, and you don't want to ask her?" "If you must know, then, I do not." "Don't you like her?" "I do not know her well enough either to like or dislike." "Then, why not ask her, and see what she is like? But the truth is, Lizzie, you have taken a prejudice against her?" "Well, John, I think she is a thoughtless girl, and extravagant; not the sort of girl, in fact, that I should wish to be much with us." "Thoughtless and extravagant!" said Mr. Brown, looking grave; "how you women can be so sharp on one another! Her dress seemed to me simple and pretty, and her manners very lady-like and pleasing." "You seem to have quite forgotten about Tom's hat," said Mrs. Brown. "Tom's white hat--so I had," said Mr. Brown, and he relapsed into a low laugh at the remembrance of the scene. "I call that _his_ extravagance, and not hers." "It was a new hat, and a very expensive one, which he had bought for the vacation, and it is quite spoilt." "Well, my dear; really, if Tom will let girls shoot at his hats, he must take the consequences. He must wear it with the holes, or buy another." "How can he afford another, John? you know how poor he is." Mr. Brown drove on now for several minutes without speaking. He knew perfectly well what his wife was coming to now, and, after weighing in his mind the alternatives of accepting battle or making sail and changing the subject altogether, said,-- "You know, my dear, he has brought it on himself. A headlong, generous sort of youngster, like Tom, must be taught early that he can't have his cake and eat his cake. If he likes to lend his money, he must find out that he hasn't it to spend." "Yes, dear, I quite agree with you. But 50L a year is a great deal to make him pay." "Not a bit too much, Lizzie. His allowance is quite enough without it to keep him like a gentleman. Besides, after all, he gets it in meal or in malt; I have just paid 25L for his gun." "I know how kind and liberal you are to him; only I am so afraid of his getting into debt." "I wonder what men would do, if they hadn't some soft-hearted woman always ready to take their parts and pull them out of scrapes," said Mr. Brown. "Well, dear, how much do you want to give the boy!" "Twenty-five pounds, just for this year. But out of my own allowance, John." "Nonsense!" replied Mr. Brown; "you want your allowance for yourself and the children." "Indeed, dear John, I would sooner not do it at all, then, if I may not do it out of my own money." "Well, have it your own way. I believe you would always look well-dressed, if you never bought another gown. Then, to go back to what we were talking about just now--you will find a room for the girl somehow?" "Yes, dear, certainly, as I see you are bent on it." "I think it would be scarcely civil not to ask her, especially if Katie comes. And I own I think her very pretty, and have taken a great fancy to her." "Isn't it odd that Tom should never have said anything about her to us? He has talked of all the rest till I knew them quite well before I went there." "No; it seems to me the most natural thing in the world." "Yes, dear, very natural. But I can't help wishing he had talked about her more; I should think it less dangerous." "Oh, you think Master Tom is in love with her, eh?" said Mr. Brown, laughing. "More unlikely things have happened. You take it very easily, John." "Well, we have all been boys and girls, Lizzie. The world hasn't altered much, I suppose, since I used to get up at five on winter mornings, to ride some twenty miles to cover, on the chance of meeting a young lady on a grey pony. I remember how my poor dear old father used to wonder at it, when our hounds met close by in a better country. I'm afraid I forgot to tell him what a pretty creature 'Gipsy' was, and how well she was ridden." "But Tom is only twenty, and he must go into a profession." "Yes, yes; much to young, I know--too young for anything serious. We had better see them together and then if there is anything in it, we can keep them apart. There cannot be much the matter yet." "Well, dear, if you are satisfied, I am sure I am." And so the conversation turned on other subjects, and Mr. and Mrs. Brown enjoyed their moonlight drive home through the delicious summer night, and were quite sorry when the groom got down from the hind-seat to open their own gates, at half-past twelve. About the same time the festivities at Barton Manor were coming to a close. There had been cold dinner in the tent at six, after the great match of the day; and, after dinner, the announcement of the scores, and the distribution of prizes to the winners. A certain amount of toasts and speechifying followed, which the ladies sat through with the most exemplary appearance of being amused. When their healths had been proposed and acknowledged they retired, and were soon followed by the younger portion of the male sex; and, while the J. P.'s and clergymen sat quietly at their wine, which Mr. Porter took care should be remarkably good, and their wives went to look over the house and have tea, their sons and daughters split up into groups, and some shot handicaps, and some walked about and flirted, and some played at bowls and lawn billiards. And soon the band appeared again from the servants' hall, mightily refreshed; and dancing began on the grass, and in due time was transferred to the tent, when the grass got damp with the night dew; and then to the hall of the house, when the lighting of the tent began to fail. And then there came a supper, extemporized out of the remains of the dinner; after which, papas and mammas began to look at their watches, and remonstrate with daughters, coming up with sparkling eyes and hair a little shaken out of place, and pleading for "just one more dance." "You have been going on ever since one o'clock," remonstrate the parents; "And are ready to go on till one to-morrow," replied the children. By degrees, however, the frequent sound of wheels was heard, and the dancers got thinner and thinner, till, for the last half hour, some half-dozen couples of young people danced at interminable reel, while Mr. and Mrs. Porter, and a few of the most good-natured matrons of the neighborhood looked on. Soon after midnight the band struck; no amount of negus could get anything more out of them but "God save the Queen," which they accordingly played and departed; and then came the final cloaking and driving off of the last guests. Tom and Mary saw the last of them into their carriage at the hall-door, and lingered a moment in the porch. "What a lovely night!" said Mary. "How I hate going to bed!" "It is a dreadful bore," answered Tom; "but here is the butler waiting to shut up; we must go in." "I wonder where papa and mama are." "Oh, they are only seeing things put a little to rights. Let us sit here till they come; they must pass by to get to their rooms." So the two sat down on some hall chairs. "Oh dear! I wish it were all coming over again to-morrow," said Tom, leaning back, and looking up at the ceiling. "By the way, remember I owe you a pair of gloves; what color shall they be?" "Any color you like. I can't bear to think of it. I felt so dreadfully ashamed when they all came up, and your mother looked so grave; I am sure she was very angry." "Poor mother! she was thinking of my hat with three arrow-holes in it." "Well, I am very sorry, because I wanted them to like me." "And so they will; I should like to know who can help it." "Now, I won't have any of your nonsensical compliments. Do you think they enjoyed the day?" "Yes, I am sure they did. My father said he had never liked an archery meeting so much." "But they went away so early." "They had a very long drive, you know. Let me see," he said, feeling in his breast-pocket, "mother left me a note, and I have never looked at it till now." He took a slip of paper out and read it, and his face fell. "What is it?" said Mary leaning forward. "Oh, nothing; only I must go to-morrow morning." "There, I was sure she was angry." "No, no; it was written this morning before she came here. I can tell by the paper." "But she will not let you stay here a day, you see." "I have been here a good deal, considering all things. I should like never to go away." "Perhaps papa might find a place for you, if you asked him. Which should you like,--to be tutor to the boys or gamekeeper?" "On the whole, I should prefer the tutorship at present; you take so much interest in the boys." "Yes, because they have no one to look after them now in the holidays. But, when you come as tutor, I shall wash my hands of them." "Then I shall decline the situation." "How are you going home to-morrow?" "I shall ride round by Englebourn. They wish me to go round and see Katie and Uncle Robert. You talked about riding over there yourself this morning." "I should like it so much. But how can we manage it? I can't ride back again by myself." "Couldn't you stay and sleep there?" "I will ask mamma. No, I'm afraid it can hardly be managed;" and so saying, Mary leant back in her chair and began to pull to pieces some flowers she held in her hand. "Don't pull them to pieces; give them to me," said Tom. "I have kept the rosebud you gave me at Oxford folded up in"-- "Which you took, you mean to say. No, I won't give you any of them--or, let me see--yes, here is a sprig of lavender; you may have that." "Thank you. But, why lavender?" "Lavender stands for sincerity. It will remind you of the lecture you gave me." "I wish you would forget that. But you know what flowers mean, then? Do give me a lecture; you owe me one. What do those flowers mean which you will not give me,--the piece of heather for instance?" "Heather signifies constancy." "And the carnations?" "Jealousy." "And the heliotrope?" "Oh, never mind the heliotrope." "But it is such a favorite of mine. Do tell me what it means?" "_Je vous aime_," said Mary with a laugh, and a slight blush; "it is all nonsense. Oh, here's mamma at last," and she jumped up and went to meet her mother, who came out of the drawing-room, candle in hand. "My dear Mary, I thought you were gone to bed," said Mrs. Porter, looking from one to the other seriously. "Oh, I'm not the least tired, and I couldn't go without wishing you and papa good night, and thanking you for all the trouble you have taken." "Indeed we ought all to thank you," said Tom; "everybody said it was the pleasantest party they had ever been at." "I am very glad it went off so well," said Mrs. Porter, gravely; "and now, Mary, you must go to bed." "I am afraid I must leave you to-morrow morning," said Tom. "Yes; Mrs. Brown said they expect you at home tomorrow." "I am to ride round by Uncle Robert's; would you like one of the boys to go with me?" "Oh, dear mamma, could not Charley and I ride over to Englebourn? I do so long to see Katie." "No, dear; it is much too far for you. We will drive over in a few days' time." And so saying, Mrs. Porter wished Tom good night, and led off her daughter. Tom went slowly up stairs to his room, and, after packing his portmanteau for the carrier to take in the morning, threw up his window and leant out into the night, and watched the light clouds swimming over the moon, and the silver mist folding the water-meadows and willows in its soft cool mantle. His thoughts were such as will occur to any reader who has passed the witching age of twenty; and the scent of the heliotrope-bed in the flower-garden below, seemed to rise very strongly on the night air. CHAPTER XXXII--A CRISIS In the forenoon of the following day, Tom rode slowly along the street of Englebourn towards the Rectory gate. He had left Barton soon after breakfast, without having been able to exchange a word with Mary except in the presence of her mother, and yet he had felt more anxious than ever before at least to say good bye to her without witnesses. With this view he had been up early, and had whistled a tune in the hall, and held a loud conversation with the boys, who appeared half dressed in the gallery above, while he brushed the dilapidated white hat to let all whom it might concern know that he was on the move. Then he had walked up and down the garden in full view of the windows till the bell rang for prayers. He was in the breakfast room before the bell had done ringing, and Mrs. Porter, followed by her daughter, entered at the same moment. He could not help fancying that the conversation at breakfast was a little constrained, and particularly remarked that nothing was said by the heads of the family when the boys vociferously bewailed his approaching departure, and tried to get him to name some day for his return before their holidays ended. Instead of encouraging the idea, Mrs. Porter reminded Neddy and Charley that they had only ten days more, and had not yet looked at the work they had to do for their tutor in the holidays. Immediately after breakfast Mrs. Porter had wished him good bye herself very kindly, but (he could not help thinking), without that air of near relationship which he had flattered himself was well established between himself and all the members of the Porter family; and then she had added, "Now Mary, you must say good bye; I want you to come and help me this morning." He had scarcely looked at her all morning, and now one shake of the hand and she was spirited away in a moment, and he was left standing, dissatisfied and uncomfortable, with a sense of incompleteness in his mind, and as if he had had a thread in his life suddenly broken off, which he could not tell how to get joined again. However, there was nothing for it but to get off. He had no excuse for delay, and had a long ride before him; so he and the boys went round to the stable. On their passage through the garden, the idea of picking a nosegay and sending it to her by one of the boys came into his head. He gathered the flowers, but then thought better of it and threw them away. What right, after all, had he to be sending flowers to her--above all, flowers to which they had attached a meaning, jokingly it was true; but still a meaning? No, he had no right to do it; it would not be fair to her, or her father or mother, after the kind way in which they had all received him. So he threw away the flowers, and mounted and rode off, watched by the boys, who waved their straw hats as he looked back just before coming to a turn in the road which would take him out of sight of the Manor House. He rode along at a foot's pace for some time, thinking over the events of the past week; and then, beginning to feel purposeless, and somewhat melancholy, urged his horse into a smart trot along the waste land which skirted the road. But, go what pace he would, it mattered not; he could not leave his thoughts behind; so he pulled up again after a mile or so, slackened his reins, and, leaving his horse to pick his own way along the road, betook himself to the serious consideration of his position. The more he thought of it, the more discontented he became, and the day clouded over as if to suit his temper. He felt as if within the last twenty-four hours he had been somehow unwarrantably interfered with. His mother and Mrs. Porter had both been planning something about him, he felt sure. If they had anything to say, why couldn't they say it out to him? But what could there be to say? Couldn't he and Mary be trusted together without making fools of themselves? He did not stop to analyze his feelings towards her, or to consider whether it was very prudent or desirable for her that they should be thrown so constantly and unreservedly together. He was too much taken up with what he chose to consider his own wrongs for any such consideration.--"Why can't they let me alone?" was the question which he asked himself perpetually, and it seemed to him the most reasonable one in the world, and that no satisfactory answer was possible to it, except that he ought to be, and should be let alone. And so at last he rode along Englebourn street, convinced that what he had to do before all other things just now was to assert himself properly, and show everyone, even his own mother, that he was no longer a boy to be managed according to anyone's fancies except his own. He rode straight to the stables and loosed the girths of his horse, and gave particular directions about grooming and feeding him, and stayed in the stall for a few minutes rubbing his ears and fondling him. The antagonism which possessed him for the moment against mankind perhaps made him appreciate the value of his relations with a well-trained beast. He had not been in Englebourn for some years, and the servant did not know him, and answered that Mr. Winter was not out of his room and never saw strangers till the afternoon. Where was Miss Winter, then? She was down the village at Widow Winburn's, and he couldn't tell when she would be back, the man said. The contents of Katie's note of the day before had gone out of his head, but the mention of Betty's name recalled them, and with them something of the kindly feeling which had stirred within him on hearing of her illness. So, saying he would call later to see his uncle, he started again to find the widow's cottage, and his cousin. The servant had directed him to the last house in the village, but, when he got outside of the gate, there were houses in two directions. He looked about for some one and from whom to inquire further, and his eye fell upon our old acquaintance, the constable, coming out of his door with a parcel under his arm. The little man was in a brown study, and did not notice Tom's first address. He was in fact anxiously thinking over his old friend's illness and her son's trouble; and was on his way to Farmer Grove's, (having luckily the excuse of taking a coat to be tried on) in the hopes of getting him to interfere and patch up the quarrel between young Tester and Harry. Tom's first salute had been friendly enough; no one knew better how to speak to the poor, amongst whom he had lived all his life, than he. But, not getting any answer, and being in a touchy state of mind, he was put out, and shouted-- "Hello, my man, can't you hear me?" "Ees, I beant dunch," replied the constable, turning and looking at his questioner. "I thought you were, for I spoke loud enough before. Which is Mrs. Winburn's cottage?" "The furdest house down ther," he said, pointing, "'tis in my way if you've a mind to come." Tom accepted the offer and walked along by the constable. "Mrs. Winburn is ill, isn't she," he asked, after looking his guide over. "Ees, her be--terrible bad," said the constable. "What is the matter with her, do you know?" "Zummat o' fits, I hears. Her've had 'em this six year, on and off." "I suppose it's dangerous. I mean she isn't likely to get well?" "'Tis in the Lord's hands," replied the constable, "but her's that bad wi' pain, at times, 'twould be a mussy if 'twould plaase He to tak' her out on't." "Perhaps she mightn't think so," said Tom, superciliously; he was not in the mind to agree with anyone. The constable looked at him solemnly for a moment, and then said-- "Her's been a God-fearin' woman from her youth up, and her's had a deal o' trouble. Thaay as the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and 'tisn't such as thaay as is afeared to go afore Him." "Well, I never found that having troubles made people a bit more anxious to get 'out on't,' as you call it," said Tom. "It don't seem to me as you can 'a had much o' trouble to judge by," said the constable, who was beginning to be nettled by Tom's manner. "How can you tell that?" "Leastways 'twould be whoam-made, then," persisted the constable; "and ther's a sight o' odds atween whoam made troubles and thaay as the Lord sends." "So there may; but I may have seen both sorts for anything you can tell." "Nay, nay; the Lord's troubles leaves His marks." "And you don't see any of _them_ in my face, eh?" The constable jerked his head after his own peculiar fashion, but declined to reply directly to this interrogatory. He parried it by one of his own. "In the doctorin' line, make so bould?" "No," said Tom. "You don't seem to have such very good eyes, after all." "Oh, I seed you wasn't old enough to be doin' for yourself, like; but I thought you med ha' been a 'sistant, or summat." "Well, then, you're just mistaken," said Tom, considerably disgusted at being taken for a country doctor's assistant. "I ax your pill-don," said the constable. "But if you beant in the doctorin' line, what be gwine to Widow Winburn's for, make so bould?" "That's my look out, I suppose," said Tom, almost angrily. "That's the house, isn't it?" and he pointed to the cottage already described, at the corner of Englebourn Copse. "Ees." "Good day, then." "Good day," muttered the constable, not at all satisfied with this abrupt close of the conversation, but too unready to prolong it. He went on his own way slowly, looking back often, till he saw the door open, after which he seemed better satisfied, and ambled out of sight. "The old snuffler!" thought Tom, as be strode up to the cottage door,--"a ranter, I'll be bound, with his Lord's troubles,' and 'Lord's hands,' and 'Lord's marks.' I hope Uncle Robert hasn't many such in the parish." He knocked at the cottage door, and in a few seconds it opened gently, and Katie slipped out with her finger on her lips. She made a slight gesture of surprise at seeing him, and held out her hand. "Hush!" she said, "she is asleep. You are not in a hurry?" "No, not particularly," he answered, abruptly; for there was something in her voice and manner which jarred with his humor. "Hush!" she said again, "you must not speak so loud. We can sit down here, and talk quietly. I shall hear if she moves." So he sat down opposite to her in the little porch of the cottage. She left the door ajar, so that she might catch the least movement of her patient, and then turned to him with a bright smile, and said,-- "Well, I am so glad to see you! What good wind blows you here?" "No particularly good wind, that I know of. Mary showed me your letter yesterday, and mother wished me to come round here on my way home; and so here I am." "And how did the party go off? I long to hear about it." "Very well; half the county were there, and it was all very well done." "And how did dear Mary look?" "Oh, just as usual. But now, Katie, why didn't you come? Mary and all of us were so disappointed." "I thought you read my letter?" "Yes, so I did." "Then you know the reason." "I don't call it a reason. Really, you have no right to shut yourself up from everything. You will be getting moped to death." "But do I look moped?" she said; and he looked at her, and couldn't help admitting to himself, reluctantly, that she did not. So he re-opened fire from another point. "You will wear yourself out, nursing every old woman in the parish." "But I don't nurse every old woman." "Why, there is no one here but you to-day, now," he said, with a motion of his head towards the cottage. "No, because I have let the regular nurse go home for a few hours. Besides, this is a special case. You don't know what a dear old soul Betty is." "Yes, I do; I remember her ever since I was a child." "Ah, I forgot; I have often heard her talk of you. Then you ought not to be surprised at anything I may do for her." "She is a good, kind old woman, I know. But still I must say, Katie, you ought to think of your friends and relations a little, and what you owe to society." "Indeed, I do think of my friends and relations very much, and I should have liked, of all things, to have been with you yesterday. You ought to be pitying me, instead of scolding me." "My dear Katie, you know I didn't mean to scold you; and nobody admires the way you give yourself up to visiting, and all that sort of thing, more than I; only you ought to have a little pleasure sometimes. People have a right to think of themselves and their own happiness a little." "Perhaps I don't find visiting and all that sort of thing so very miserable. But now, Tom, you saw in my letter that poor Betty's son has got into trouble?" "Yes; and that is what brought on her attack, you said." "I believe so. She was in a sad state about him all yesterday,--so painfully eager and anxious. She is better today, but still I think it would do her good if you would see her, and say you will be a friend to her son. Would you mind?" "It was just what I wished to do yesterday. I will do all I can for him, I'm sure. I always liked him as a boy; you can tell her that. But I don't feel, somehow--today, at least--as if I could do any good by seeing her." "Oh, why not?" "I don't think I'm in the right humor. Is she very ill?" "Yes, very ill indeed; I don't think she can recover." "Well, you see, Katie, I'm not used to death-beds. I shouldn't say the right sort of thing." "How do you mean--the right sort of thing?" "Oh, you know. I couldn't talk to her about her soul. I'm not fit for it, and it isn't my place." "No, indeed, it isn't. But you can remind her of old times and say a kind word about her son." "Very well, if you don't think I shall do any harm." "I'm sure it will comfort her. And now tell me about yesterday." They sat talking for some time in the same low tone, and Tom began to forget his causes of quarrel with the world, and gave an account of the archery party from his own point of view. Katie saw, with a woman's quickness, that he avoided mentioning Mary, and smiled to herself and drew her own conclusions. At last, there was a slight movement in the cottage, and laying her hand on his arm, she got up quickly, and went in. In a few minutes she came to the door again. "How is she?" asked Tom. "Oh, much the same; but she has waked without pain, which is a great blessing. Now, are you ready?" "Yes; you must go with me." "Come in, then." She turned, and he followed into the cottage. Betty's bed had been moved into the kitchen, for the sake of light and air. He glanced at the corner where it stood with almost a feeling of awe, as he followed his cousin on tip-toe. It was all he could do to recognize the pale, drawn face which lay on the coarse pillow. The rush of old memories which the sight called up, and the thought of the suffering of his poor old friend touched him deeply. Katie went to the bed-side, and, stooping down, smoothed the pillow, and placed her hand for a moment on the forehead of her patient. Then she looked up, and beckoned to him, and said, in her low, clear voice,-- "Betty, here is an old friend come to see you; my cousin, Squire Brown's son. You remember him quite a little boy?" The old woman moved her head towards the voice, and smiled, but gave no further sign of recognition. Tom stole across the floor, and sat down by the bed-side. "Oh, yes, Betty," he said, leaning towards her and speaking softly, "you must remember me. Master Tom who used to come to your cottage on baking days for hot bread, you know." "To be sure I minds un, bless his little heart," said the old woman faintly. "Hev he come to see poor Betty? Do'ee let un com', and lift un up so as I med see un. My sight be getting dim-like." "Here he is, Betty," said Tom, taking her hand--a hardworking hand, lying there with the skin all puckered from long and daily acquaintance with the washing-tub--"I'm Master Tom." "Ah, dearee me," she said slowly, looking at him with lustreless eyes. "Well, you be growed into a fine young gentleman, surely. And how's the Squire and Madam Brown, and all the fam'ly?" "Oh, very well, Betty,--they will be so sorry to hear of your illness." "But there ain't no hot bread for un. 'Tis ill to bake wi' no fuz bushes, and the bakers' stuff is poor for hungry folk." "I'm within three months as old as your Harry, you know," said Tom, trying to lead her back to the object of his visit. "Harry," she repeated, and then collecting herself went on, "our Harry; where is he? They haven't sent un to prison, and his mother a dyin'?" "Oh, no, Betty; he will be here directly. I came to ask whether there is anything I can do for you." "You'll stand by un, poor buoy--our Harry, as you used to play wi' when you was little--'twas they as aggravated un so he couldn't abear it, afore ever he'd a struck a fly." "Yes, Betty; I will see that he has fair play. Don't trouble about that, it will be all right. You must be quite quiet, and not trouble yourself about anything, that you may get well and about again." "Nay, nay, Master Tom. I be gwine whoam; ees, I be gwine whoam to my maester, Harry's father--I knows I be--and you'll stand by un when I be gone; and Squire Brown 'll say a good word for un to the justices?" "Yes, Betty, that he will. But you must cheer up, and you'll get better yet; don't be afraid." "I beant afeard, Master Tom; no, bless you, I beant afeard but what the Lord'll be mussiful to a poor lone woman like me, as has had a sore time of it since my measter died wi' a hungry boy like our Harry to kep, back and belly; and the rheumatics terrible bad all winter time." "I'm sure, Betty, you have done your duty by him, and everyone else." "Dwontee speak o' doin's, Master Tom. 'Tis no doin's o' ourn as'll make any odds where I be gwine." Tom did not know what to answer; so he pressed her hand and said,-- "Well, Betty, I am very glad I have seen you once more; I sha'n't forget it. Harry sha'n't want a friend while I live." "The Lord bless you, Master Tom, for that word," said the dying woman, returning the pressure, as her eyes filled with tears. Katie, who had been watching her carefully from the other side of the bed, made him a sign to go. "Good-bye, Betty" he said; "I won't forget, you may be sure; God bless you;" and then, disengaging his hand gently, went out again into the porch, where he sat down to wait for his cousin. In a few minutes the nurse returned, and Katie came out of the cottage soon afterwards. "Now I will walk up home with you," she said. "You must come in and see papa. Well, I'm sure you must be glad you went in. Was not I right?" "Yes, indeed; I wish I could have said something more to comfort her." "You couldn't have said more. It was just what she wanted." "But where is her son? I ought to see him before I go." "He has gone to the doctor's for some medicine. He will be back soon." "Well, I must see him; and I should like to do something for him at once. I'm not very flush of money, but I must give you something for him. You'll take it; I shouldn't like to offer it to him." "I hardly think he wants money; they are well off now. He earns good wages, and Betty has done her washing up to this week." "Yes, but he will be fined, I suppose, for this assault; and then, if she should die, there will be the funeral expenses." "Very well; as you please," she said; and Tom proceeded to hand over to her all his ready money, except a shilling or two. After satisfying his mind thus, he looked at her, and said-- "Do you know, Katie, I don't think I ever saw you so happy and in such spirits?" "There now! And yet you began talking to me as if I were looking sad enough to turn all the beer in the parish sour." "Well, so you ought to be, according to Cocker, spending all your time in sick rooms." "According to who?" "According to Cocker." "Who is Cocker?" "Oh, I don't know; some old fellow who wrote the rules of arithmetic, I believe; it's only a bit of slang. But, I repeat, you have a right to be sad, and it's taking an unfair advantage of your relations to look as pleasant as you do." Katie laughed. "You ought not to say so, at any rate," she said, "for you look all the pleasanter for your visit to a sick room." "Did I look very unpleasant before?" "Well, I don't think you were in a very good humor." "No, I was in a very bad humor, and talking to you and poor old Betty has set me right, I think. But you said hers was a special case. It must be very sad work in general." "Only when one sees people in great pain, or when they are wicked, and quarreling, or complaining about nothing; then I do get very low sometimes. But even then it is much better than keeping to one's self. Anything is better than thinking of one's self, and one's own troubles." "I dare say you are right," said Tom, recalling his morning's meditations, "especially when one's troubles are homemade. Look, here's an old fellow who gave me a lecture on that subject before I saw you this morning, and took me for the apothecary's boy." They were almost opposite David's door, at which he stood with a piece of work in his hand. He had seen Miss Winter from his look-out window, and had descended from his board in hopes of hearing news. Katie returned his respectful and anxious salute, and said, "She is no worse, David. We left her quite out of pain and very quiet." "Ah, 'tis to be hoped as she'll hev a peaceful time on't now, poor soul," said David; "I've a been to Farmer Groves', and I hope as he'll do summat about Harry." "I'm glad to hear it," said Miss Winter, "and my cousin here, who knew Harry very well when they were little boys together, has promised to help him. This is Harry's best friend," she said to Tom, "who has done more than anyone to keep him right." David seemed a little embarrassed, and began jerking his head about when his acquaintance of the morning, whom he had scarcely noticed before, was introduced by Miss Winter as "my cousin." "I wish to do all I can for him," said Tom, "and I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance. You must let me know whenever I can help;" and he took out a card and handed it to David, who looked at it, and then said,-- "And I be to write to you, sir, then, if Harry gets into trouble?" "Yes; but we must keep him out of trouble, even home-made ones, which don't leave good marks, you know," said Tom. "And thaay be nine out o' ten o' aal as comes to a man, sir" said David "as I've a told Harry scores o' times." "That seems to be your text, David," said Tom, laughing. "Ah, and 'tis a good un too, sir. Ax Miss Winter else. 'Tis a sight better to hev the Lord's troubles while you be about it, for thaay as hasn't makes wus for themselves out o' nothin'. Dwon't 'em, Miss?" "Yes; you know that I agree with you, David." "Good-bye, then," said Tom, holding out his hand, "and mind you let me hear from you." "What a queer old bird, with his whole wisdom of man packed up small for ready use, like a quack doctor," he said, as soon as they were out of hearing. "Indeed, he isn't the least like a quack doctor. I don't know a better man in the parish, though he is rather obstinate, like all the rest of them." "I didn't mean to say anything against him, I assure you," said Tom; "on the contrary, I think him a fine old fellow. But I didn't think so this morning, when he showed me the way to Betty's cottage." The fact was that Tom saw all things and persons with quite a different pair of eyes from those which he had been provided with when he arrived in Englebourn that morning. He even made allowances for old Mr. Winter, who was in his usual querulous state at luncheon, though perhaps it would have been difficult in the whole neighborhood to find a more pertinent comment on, and illustration of, the constable's text than the poor old man furnished, with his complaints about his own health, and all he had to do and think of, for everybody about him. It did strike Tom, however, as very wonderful how such a character as Katie's could have grown up under the shade of, and in constant contact with, such a one as her father's. He wished his uncle good-bye soon after luncheon, and he and Katie started again down the village--she to return to her nursing and he on his way home. He led his horse by the bridle and walked by her side down the street. She pointed to the Hawk's Lynch as they walked along, and said, "You should ride up there; it is scarcely out of your way. Mary and I used to walk there every day when she was here, and she was so fond of it." At the cottage they found Harry Winburn. He came out, and the two young men shook hands, and looked one another over, and exchanged a few shy sentences. Tom managed with difficulty to say the little he had to say, but tried to make up for it by a hearty manner. It was not the time or place for any unnecessary talk; so in a few minutes he was mounted and riding up the slope towards the heath. "I should say he must be half a stone lighter than I," he thought, "and not quite so tall; but he looks as hard as iron, and tough as whipcord. What a No. 7 he'd make in a heavy crew! Poor fellow, he seems dreadfully cut up. I hope I shall be able to be of use to him. Now for this place which Katie showed me from the village street." He pressed his horse up the steep side of the Hawk's Lynch. The exhilaration of the scramble, and the sense of power, and of some slight risk, which he felt as he helped on the gallant beast with hand and knee and heel, while the loose turf and stones flew from his hoofs and rolled down the hill behind them, made Tom's eyes kindle and his pulse beat quicker as he reached the top and pulled up under the Scotch firs. "This was her favorite walk, then. No wonder. What an air, and what a view!" He jumped off his horse, slipped the bridle over his arm, and let him pick away at the short grass and tufts of heath, as he himself first stood, and then sat, and looked out over the scene which she had so often looked over. She might have sat on the very spot he was sitting on; she must have taken in the same expanse of wood and meadow, village and park, and dreamy, distant hill. Her presence seemed to fill the air round him. A rush of new thoughts and feelings swam through his brain and carried him, a willing piece of drift man, along with them. He gave himself up to the stream and revelled in them. His eye traced back the road along which he had ridden in the morning, and rested on the Barton woods, just visible in the distance, on this side of the point where all outline except that of the horizon began to be lost. The flickering July air seemed to beat in a pulse of purple glory over the spot. The soft wind which blew straight from Barton seemed laden with her name, and whispered it in the firs, over his head. Every nerve in his body was bounding with new life, and he could sit still no longer. He rose, sprang on his horse, and, with a shout of joy, turned from the vale and rushed away on to the heath, northwards towards his home behind the chalk hills. He had ridden into Englebourn in the morning an almost unconscious dabbler by the margin of the great stream; he rode from the Hawk's Lynch in the afternoon over head and ears and twenty, a hundred, ay, unnumbered fathoms below that, deep; consciously, and triumphantly in love. But at what a pace, and in what a form! Love, at least in his first access, must be as blind a horseman as he is an archer. The heath was rough with peat-cutting and turf-cutting and many a deep-rutted farm road, and tufts of heather and furze. Over them and through them went horse and man--horse rising seven and man twenty off, a well-matched pair in age for a wild ride--headlong towards the north, till a blind rut somewhat deeper than usual put an end to their career, and sent the good horse staggering forward some thirty feet on to his nose and knees, and Tom over his shoulder, on to his back in the heather. "Well, it's lucky it's no worse," thought our hero, as he picked himself up and anxiously examined the horse, who stood trembling and looking wildly puzzled at the whole proceeding; "I hope he hasn't overreached. What will the governor say? His knees are all right. Poor old boy!" he said, patting him; "no wonder you look astonished. You're not in love. Come along; we won't make fools of ourselves any more. What is it?-- 'A true love forsaken a new love may get, But a neck that's once broken can never be set.' What stuff! one may get a neck set for anything I know; but a new love--blasphemy!" The rest of the ride passed off soberly enough, except in Tom's brain, wherein were built up in gorgeous succession castles such as we have all built, I suppose, before now. And with the castles were built up side by side good honest resolves to be worthy of her, and win her and worship her with body, and mind, and soul. And, as a first installment, away to the winds went all the selfish morning thoughts; and he rode down the northern slope of the chalk hills a dutiful and affectionate son, at peace with Mrs. Porter, honoring her for her care of the treasure which he was seeking, and in good time for dinner. "Well, dear," said Mrs. Brown to her husband when they were alone that night, "did you ever see Tom in such spirits, and so gentle and affectionate? Dear boy; there can be nothing the matter." "Didn't I tell you so," replied Mr. Brown; "you women have always got some nonsense in your heads as soon as your boys have a hair on their chin or your girls begin to put up their back hair." "Well, John, say what you will, I'm sure Mary Porter is a very sweet, taking girl, and--" "I am quite of the same opinion," said Mr. Brown, "and am very glad you have written to ask them here." And so the worthy couple went happily to bed. CHAPTER XXXIII--BROWN PATRONUS On a Saturday afternoon in August, a few weeks after the eventful ride, Tom returned to the Englebourn Rectory to stay over Sunday, and attend Betty Winburn's funeral. He was strangely attracted to Harry by the remembrance of their old boyish rivalry; by the story which he had heard from his cousin, of the unwavering perseverance with which the young peasant clung to and pursued his suit for Simon's daughter; but, more than all, by the feeling of gratitude with which he remembered the effect his visit to Betty's sick room had had on him, on the day of his ride from Barton Manor. On that day he knew that he had ridden into Englebourn in a miserable mental fog, and had ridden out of it in sunshine, which had lasted through the intervening weeks. Somehow or another he had been set straight then and there, turned into the right road and out of the wrong one, at what he very naturally believed to be the most critical moment of his life. Without stopping to weigh accurately the respective merits of the several persons whom he came in contact with that day, he credited them all with a large amount of gratitude and good-will, and Harry with his mother's share as well as his own. So he had been longing to _do_ something for him ever since. The more he rejoiced in, and gave himself up to his own new sensations, the more did his gratitude become as it were a burden to him; and yet no opportunity offered of letting off some of it in action. The magistrates, taking into consideration the dangerous state of his mother, had let Harry off with a reprimand for his assault; so there was nothing to be done there. He wrote to Katie offering more money for the Winburns; but she declined--adding, however, to her note, by way of postscript, that he might give it to her clothing club or coal club. Then came the news of Betty's death, and an intimation from Katie that she thought Harry would be much gratified if he would attend the funeral. He jumped at the suggestion. All Englebourn, from the Hawk's Lynch to the Rectory, was hallowed ground to him. The idea of getting back there, so much nearer to Barton Manor, filled him with joy, which he tried in vain to repress when he thought of the main object of his visit on the present occasion. He arrived in time to go and shake hands with Harry before dinner; and, though scarcely a word passed between them, he saw with delight that he had evidently given pleasure to the mourner. Then he had a charming long evening with Katie, walking in the garden with her between dinner and tea, and after tea discoursing in low tones over her work-table, while Mr. Winter benevolently slept in his arm-chair. Their discourse branched into many paths, but managed always somehow to end in the sayings, beliefs, and perfections of the young lady of Barton Manor. Tom wondered how it had happened so when he got to his own room, as he fancied he had not betrayed himself in the least. He had determined to keep resolutely on his guard, and to make a confident of no living soul till he was twenty-one, and, though sorely tempted to break his resolution in favor of Katie, had restrained himself. He might have spared himself all the trouble; but this he did not know, being unversed in the ways of women, and all unaware of the subtlety and quickness of their intuitions in all matters connected with the heart. Poor, dear, stolid, dim-sighted mankind, how they do see through us and walk round us! The funeral on the Sunday afternoon between churches had touched him much, being the first he had ever attended. He walked next behind the chief mourner--the few friends, amongst whom David was conspicuous, yielding place to him. He stood beside Harry in church, and at the open grave, and made the responses as firmly as he could, and pressed his shoulder against his, when he felt the strong frame of the son trembling with the weight and burden of his resolutely suppressed agony. When they parted at the cottage door, to which Tom accompanied the mourner and his old and tried friend David, though nothing but a look and a grasp of the hand passed between them, he felt that they were bound by a new and invisible bond; and, as he walked back up the village and passed the churchyard, where the children were playing about on the graves, stopping every now and then to watch the sexton as he stamped down and filled in the mould on the last made one beside which he himself stood as a mourner--and heard the bells beginning to chime for the afternoon service, he resolved within himself that he would be a true and helpful friend to the widow's son. On this subject he could talk freely to Katie; and he did so that evening, expounding how much one in his position could do for a young laboring man if he was really bent on it, and building up grand castles for Harry, the foundations of which rested on his own determination to benefit and patronize him. Katie listened half doubtingly at first, but was soon led away by his confidence, and poured out the tea in the full belief that with Tom's powerful aid all would go well. After which they took to reading the "Christian Year" together, and branched into discussions on profane poetry, which Katie considered scarcely proper for the evening, but which, nevertheless, being of such rare occurrence with her, she had not the heart to stop. The next morning Tom was to return home. After breakfast he began the subject of his future plans for Harry again, when Katie produced a small paper packet which she handed to him, saying-- "Here is your money again." "What money?" "The money you left with me for Harry Winburn. I thought at the time that most probably he would not take it." "But are you sure he doesn't want it? Did you try hard to get him to take it?" said Tom, holding out his hand reluctantly for the money. "Not myself. I couldn't offer him money myself, of course; but I sent it by David, and begged him to do all he could to persuade him to take it." "Well, and why wouldn't he?" "Oh, he said the club-money which was coming in was more than enough to pay for the funeral and for himself he didn't want it." "How provoking! I wonder if old David really did his best to get him to take it." "Yes, I am sure he did. But you ought to be very glad to find some independence in a poor man." "Bother his independence! I don't like to feel that it costs me nothing but talk--I want to pay." "Ah, Tom, if you knew the poor as well as I do, you wouldn't say so. I am afraid there are not two other men in the parish who would have refused your money. The fear of undermining their independence takes away all my pleasure in giving." "Undermining! Why, Katie, I am sure I have heard you mourn over their stubbornness and unreasonableness." "Oh, yes; they are often provokingly stubborn and unreasonable, and yet not independent about money, or anything they can get out of you. Besides, I acknowledge that I have become wiser of late; I used to like to see them dependent and cringing to me, but now I dread it." "But you would like David to give in about the singing, wouldn't you?" "Yes, if he would give in I should be very proud. I have learnt a great deal from him; I used positively to dislike him; but, now that I know him, I think him the best man in the parish. If he ever does give in--and I think he will--it will be worth anything, just because he is so independent." "That's all very well; but what am I to do to show Harry Winburn that I mean to be his friend, if he won't take money from me?" "You have come over to his mother's funeral--he will think more of that than of all the money you could give him; and you can show sympathy for him in a great many ways." "Well, I must try. By the way, about his love affair; is the young lady at home? I have never seen her, you know." "No she is away with an aunt, looking out for a place. I have persuaded her to get one, and leave home again for the present. Her father is quite well now, and she is not wanted." "Well, it seems I can't do any good with her, then; but could I not go and talk to her father about Harry? I might help him in that way." "You must be very careful; Simon is such an odd-tempered old man." "Oh, I'm not afraid; he and I are great chums; and a little soft soap will go a long way with him. Fancy, if I could get him this very morning to 'sanction Harry's suit,' as the phrase is, what should you think of me?" "I should think very highly of your powers of persuasion." Not the least daunted by his cousin's misgivings, Tom started in quest of Simon, and found him at work in front of the greenhouse, surrounded by many small pots and heaps of finely sifted mould, and absorbed in his occupation. Simon was a rough, stolid Berkshire rustic, somewhat of a tyrant in the bosom of his family, an unmanageable servant, a cross-grained acquaintance; as a citizen, stiff-necked, and a grumbler, who thought that nothing ever went right in the parish; but, withal, a thoroughly honest worker; and, when allowed to go his own way--and no other way would he go, as his mistress had long since discovered--there was no man who earned his daily bread more honestly. He took a pride in his work, and the Rectory garden was always trim and well kept, and the beds bright with flowers from early spring till late autumn. He was absorbed in what he was about, and Tom came up close to him without attracting the least sign of recognition; so he stopped, and opened the conversation. "Good day, Simon; it's a pleasure to see a garden looking so gay as yours." Simon looked up from his work, and, when he saw who it was, touched his battered old hat, and answered,-- "Mornin' sir! Ees, you finds me allus in blume" "Indeed I do, Simon; but how do you manage it? I should like to tell my father's gardener." "'Tis no use to tell un if a haven't found out for hisself. 'Tis nothing but lookin' a bit forrard and farm-yard stuff as does it." "Well, there's plenty of farm-yard stuff at home, and yet, somehow, we never look half so bright as you do." "May be as your gardener just takes and hits it auver the top o' the ground, and lets it lie. That's no kind o' good, that beant--'tis the roots as wants the stuff; and you med jist as well take and put a round o' beef agin my back bwone as hit the stuff auver the ground, and never see as it gets to the roots o' the plants." "No, I don't think it can be that," said Tom laughing; "our gardener seems always to be digging his manure in, but somehow he can't make it come out in flowers as you do." "Ther' be mwore waays o' killin' a cat besides choking on un wi' crame," said Simon, chuckling in his turn. "That's true Simon," said Tom; "the fact is, a gardener must know his business as well as you to be always in bloom, eh?" "That's about it, sir," said Simon, on whom the flattery was beginning to tell. Tom saw this, and thought he might now feel his way a little further with the old man. "I'm over on a sad errand," he said; "I've been to poor Widow Winburn's funeral--she was an old friend of yours, I think?" "Ees; I minds her long afore she wur married," said Simon, turning to his pots again. "She wasn't an old woman, after all," said Tom. "Sixty-two year old cum Michaelmas," said Simon. "Well, she ought to have been a strong woman for another ten years at least; why, you must be older than she by some years, Simon, and you can do a good day's work yet with any man." Simon went on with his potting without replying except by a carefully measured grunt, sufficient to show that he had heard the remark, and was not much impressed by it. Tom saw that he must change his attack; so, after watching Simon for a minute, he began again. "I wonder why it is that the men of your time of life are so much stronger than the young ones in constitution. Now, I don't believe there are three young men in Englebourn who would have got over that fall you had at Farmer Groves' so quick as you have; most young men would have been crippled for life by it." "Zo 'em would, the young wosbirds. I dwont make no account on 'em," said Simon. "And you don't feel any the worse for it, Simon?" "Narra mossel," replied Simon; but presently he seemed to recollect something, and added, "I wun't saay but what I feels it at times when I've got to stoop about much." "Ah, I'm sorry to hear that, Simon. Then you oughtn't to have so much stooping to do; potting, and that sort of thing, is the work for you, I should think, and just giving an eye to everything about the place. Anybody could do the digging and setting out cabbages, and your time is only wasted at it."--Tom had now found the old man's weak point. "Ees, sir, and so I tells miss," he said, "but wi' nothin' but a bit o' glass no bigger'n a cowcumber frame, 'tis all as a man can do to keep a few plants alive droo' the winter." "Of course," said Tom, looking round at the very respectable greenhouse which Simon had contemptuously likened to a cucumber-frame, "you ought to have at least another house as big as this for forcing." "Master ain't pleased, he ain't," said Simon, "if he dwon't get his things, his spring wegetables, and his strawberries, as early as though we'd a got forcin' pits and glass like other folk. 'Tis a year and mwore since he promised as I sh'd hev glass along that ther' wall, but 'tis no nigher comin' as I can see. I be to spake to miss about it now, and, when I spakes to her, 'tis, 'oh, Simon, we must wait till the 'spensary's 'stablished,' or 'oh, Simon, last winter wur a werry tryin wun, and the sick club's terrible bad off for funds,'--and so we gwoes on, and med gwo on for aught as I can see, so long as there's a body sick or bad off in all the parish. And that'll be all us. For, what wi' wisitin' on 'em, and sendin' on 'em dinners, and a'al the doctor's stuff as is served out o' the 'spensary--wy, 'tis enough to keep 'em bad a'al ther' lives. Ther ain't no credit in gettin' well. Ther' wur no sich a caddle about sick folk when I wur a bwoy." Simon had never been known to make such a long speech before, and Tom argued well for his negotiation. "Well, Simon," he said, "I've been talking to my cousin, and I think she will do what you want now. The dispensary is set up, and the people are very healthy. How much glass should you want, now, along that wall?" "A matter o' twenty fit or so," said Simon. "I think that can be managed," said Tom; "I'll speak to my cousin about it; and then you would have plenty to do in the houses, and you'd want a regular man under you." "Ees; 'twould take two on us reg'lar to kep things as they should be." "And you ought to have somebody who knows what he is about. Can you think of anyone who would do, Simon?" "Ther's a young chap as works for Squire Wurley. I've heard as he wants to better hisself." "But he isn't an Englebourn man. Isn't there anyone in the parish?" "Ne'er a one as I knows on." "What do you think of Harry Winburn--he seems a good hand with flowers?" The words had scarcely passed his lips when Tom saw that he had made a mistake. Old Simon retired into himself at once, and a cunning, distrustful look came over his face. There was no doing anything with him. Even the new forcing house had lost its attractions for him, and Tom, after some further ineffectual attempts to bring him round, returned to the house somewhat crestfallen. "Well, how have you succeeded?" said Katie, looking up from her work, as he came in and sat down near her table. Tom shook his head. "I'm afraid I've made a regular hash of it," he said. "I thought at first I had quite come round the old savage by praising the garden, and promising that you would let him have a new house." "You don't mean to say you did that?" said Katie, stopping her work. "Indeed, but I did, though. I was drawn on, you know. I saw it was the right card to play; so I couldn't help it." "Oh, Tom! how could you do so? We don't want another house the least in the world; it is only Simon's vanity. He wants to beat the gardener at the grange at the flower shows. Every penny will have to come out of what papa allows me for the parish." "Don't be afraid, Katie; you won't have to spend a penny. Of course I reserved a condition. The new house was to be put up if he would take Harry as an under-gardener. "What did he say to that?" "Well, he said nothing. I never came across such an old Turk. How you have spoiled him! If he isn't pleased, he won't take the trouble to answer you a word. I was very near telling him a piece of my mind. But he _looked_ all the more. I believe he would poison Harry if he came here. What can have made him hate him so?" "He is jealous of him. Mary and I were so foolish as to praise poor Betty's flowers before Simon, and he has never forgiven it. I think, too, that he suspects, somehow, that we talked about getting Harry here. I ought to have told you, but I quite forgot it." "Well, it can't be helped. I don't think I can do any good in that quarter; so now I shall be off to the Grange to see what I can do there." "How do you mean?" "Why, Harry is afraid of being turned out of his cottage. I saw how it worried him, thinking about it; so I shall go to the Grange, and say a good word for him. Wurley can't refuse if I offer to pay the rent myself--it's only six pounds a year. Of course, I sha'n't tell Harry; and he will pay it all the same; but it may make all the difference with Wurley, who is a regular screw." "Do you know Mr. Wurley?" "Yes, just to speak to. He knows all about me, and he will be very glad to be civil." "No doubt he will; but I don't like your going to his house. You don't know what a bad man he is. Nobody but men on the turf, and that sort of people, go there now; and I believe he thinks of nothing but gambling and game-preserving." "Oh, yes; I know all about him. The county people are beginning to look shy at him; so he'll be all the more likely to do what I ask him." "But you won't get intimate with him?" "You needn't be afraid of that." "It is a sad house to go to--I hope it won't do you any harm." "Ah, Katie!" said Tom, with a smile not altogether cheerful, "I don't think you need be anxious about that. When one has been a year at Oxford, there isn't much snow left to soil; so now I am off. I must give myself plenty of time to cook Wurley." "Well, I suppose I must not hinder you," said Katie. "I do hope you will succeed in some of your kind plans for Harry." "I shall do my best; and it is a great thing to have somebody besides oneself to think about and try to help--some poor person--don't you think so, even for a man?" "Of course I do. I am sure you can't be happy without it, any more than I. We shouldn't be our mother's children if we could be." "Well, good-bye, dear; you can't think how I enjoy these glimpses of you and your work. You must give my love to Uncle Robert." And so they bade each other adieu, lovingly, after the manner of cousins, and Tom rode away with a very soft place in his heart for his cousin Katie. It was not the least the same sort of passionate feeling of worship with which he regarded Mary. The two feelings could lie side by side in his heart with plenty of room to spare. In fact, his heart had been getting so big in the last few weeks that it seemed capable of taking in the whole of mankind, not to mention woman, till, on the whole, it may be safely asserted that, had matters been at all in a more forward state, and could she have seen exactly what was passing in his mind, Mary would probably have objected to the kind of affection which he felt for his cousin at this particular time. The joke about cousinly love is probably as old, and certainly as true, as Solomon's proverbs. However, as matters stood, it could be no concern of Mary's what his feelings were towards Katie, or any other person. Tom rode in at the lodge gate of the Grange soon after eleven o'clock, and walked his horse slowly through the park, admiring the splendid timber, and thinking how he should break his request to the owner of the place. But his thoughts were interrupted by the proceedings of the rabbits, which were out by hundreds all along the sides of the plantations, and round the great trees. A few of the nearest just deigned to notice him by scampering to their holes under the roots of the antlered oaks, into which some of them popped with a disdainful kick of their hind legs, while others turned round, sat up, and looked at him. As he neared the house he passed a keeper's cottage, and was saluted by the barking of dogs from the neighboring kennel; and the young pheasants ran about round some twenty hen-coops, which were arranged along opposite the door where the keeper's children were playing. The pleasure of watching the beasts and birds kept him from arranging his thoughts, and he reached the hall door without having formed the plan of his campaign. A footman answered the bell, who doubted whether his master was down, but thought he would see the gentleman if he would send in his name. Whereupon Tom handed in his card, and, in a few minutes a rakish-looking stable boy came round after his horse, and the butler appeared with his master's compliments, and a request that he would step into the breakfast-room. Tom followed this portly personage through the large handsome hall, on the walls of which hung a buff-coat or two and some old-fashioned arms, and large paintings of dead game and fruit--through a drawing room, the furniture of which was all covered up in melancholy cases--into the breakfast parlor, where the owner of the mansion was seated at table in a lounging jacket. He was a man of forty or thereabouts, who would have been handsome, but for the animal look about his face. His cheeks were beginning to fall into chaps, his full lips had a liquorish look about them, and bags were beginning to form under his light blue eyes. His hands were very white and delicate, and shook a little as he poured out his tea; and he was full and stout in body, with small shoulders, and thin arms and legs; in short, the last man whom Tom would have chosen as bow in a pair oar. The only part of him which showed strength were his dark whiskers, which were abundant, and elaborately oiled and curled. The room was light and pleasant, with two windows looking over the park, and furnished luxuriously, in the most modern style, with all manner of easy chairs and sofas. A glazed case or two of well bound books, showed that some former owner had cared for such things; but the doors had, probably, never been opened in the present reign. The master and his usual visitors found sufficient food for the mind in the _Racing Calendar_, "Boxiana," "The Adventures of Corinthian Tom," and _Bell's Life_, which lay on a side table; or in the pictures and prints of racers, opera dancers, and steeple-chases, which hung in profusion on the walls. The breakfast table was beautifully appointed in the matter of china and plate; and delicate little rolls, neat pats of butter in ice, two silver hot dishes containing curry and broiled salmon, and a plate of fruit, piled in tempting profusion, appealed, apparently in vain, to the appetite of the lord of the feast. "Mr. Brown, sir," said the butler, ushering in our hero to his master's presence. "Ah, Brown, I'm very glad to see you here," said Mr. Wurley, standing up and holding out his hand. "Have any breakfast?" "Thank you, no, I have breakfasted," said Tom, somewhat astonished at the intimacy of the greeting; but it was his cue to do the friendly thing,--so he took the proffered hand, which felt very limp, and sat down by the table, looking pleasant. "Ridden from home this morning?" said Wurley, picking over daintily some of the curry to which he had helped himself. "No, I was at my uncle's, at Englebourn, last night. It is very little out of the way; so I thought I would just call on my road home." "Quite right. I'm very glad you came without ceremony. People about here are so d-d full of ceremony. It don't suit me, all that humbug. But I wish you'd just pick a bit." "Thank you. Then I will eat some fruit," said Tom, helping himself to some of the freshly picked grapes; "how very fine these are!" "Yes, I'm open to back my houses against the field for twenty miles round. This curry isn't fit for a pig--Take it out, and tell the cook so." The butler solemnly obeyed, while his master went on with one of the frequent oaths with which he garnished his conversation. "You're right, they can't spoil the fruit. They're a set of skulking devils, are servants. They think of nothing but stuffing themselves, and how they can cheat you most, and do the least work." Saying which, he helped himself to some fruit; and the two ate their grapes for a short time in silence. But even fruit seemed to pall quickly on him, and he pushed away his plate. The butler came back with a silver tray, with soda water, and a small decanter of brandy, and long glasses on it. "Won't you have something after your ride?" said the host to Tom; "some soda water with a dash of bingo clears one's head in the morning." "No, thank you," said Tom, smiling, "it's bad for training." "Ah, you Oxford men are all for training," said his host, drinking greedily of the foaming mixture which the butler handed to him. "A glass of bitter ale is what you take, eh? I know. Get some ale for Mr. Brown." Tom felt that it would be uncivil to refuse this orthodox offer, and took his beer accordingly, after which his host produced a box of Hudson's regalias, and proposed to look at the stables. So they lighted their cigars, and went out. Mr. Wurley had taken of late to the turf, and they inspected several young horses which were entered for country stakes. Tom thought them weedy-looking animals, but patiently listened to their praises and pedigrees, upon which his host was eloquent enough; and, rubbing up his latest readings in _Bell's Life_, and the racing talk which he had been in the habit of hearing in Drysdale's rooms, managed to hold his own, and asked, with a grave face, about the price of the Coronation colt for the next Derby, and whether Scott's lot was not the right thing to stand on for the St. Leger, thereby raising himself considerably in his host's eyes. There were no hunters in the stable, at which Tom expressed his surprise. In reply, Mr. Wurley abused the country, and declared that it was not worth riding across, the fact being that he had lost his nerve, and that the reception which he was beginning to meet with in the field, if he came out by chance, was of the coldest. From the stables they strolled to the keeper's cottage, where Mr. Wurley called for some buckwheat and Indian corn, and began feeding the young pheasants, which were running about, almost like barn-door fowls, close to them. "We've had a good season for the young birds," he said; "my fellow knows that part of his business, d--n him, and don't lose many. You had better bring your gun over in October; we shall have a week in the covers early in the month." "Thank you, I shall be very glad," said Tom; "but you don't shoot these birds?" "Shoot 'em! what the devil should I do with 'em?" "Why, they're so tame I thought you just kept them about the house for breeding. I don't care so much for pheasant shooting; I like a good walk after a snipe, or creeping along to get a wild duck much better. There's some sport in it, or even in partridge shooting with a couple of good dogs, now--" "You're quite wrong. There's nothing like a good dry ride in a cover with lots of game, and a fellow behind to load for you." "Well, I must say, I prefer the open." "You've no covers over your way, have you?" "Not many." "I thought so. You wait till you've had a good day in my covers, and you won't care for quartering all day over wet turnips. Besides, this sort of thing pays. They talk about pheasants costing a guinea a head on one's table. It's all stuff; at any rate, mine don't cost _me_ much. In fact, I say it pays, and I can prove it." "But you feed your pheasants?" "Yes, just round the house for a few weeks, and I sow a little buckwheat in the covers. But they have to keep themselves pretty much, I can tell you." "Don't the farmers object?" "Yes, d-n them; they're never satisfied. But they don't grumble to me; they know better. There are a dozen fellows ready to take any farm that's given up, and they know it. Just get a beggar to put a hundred or two into the ground, and he won't quit hold in a hurry. Will you play a game at billiards?" The turn which their conversation had taken hitherto had offered no opening to Tom for introducing the object of his visit, and he felt less and less inclined to come to the point. He looked his host over and over again, and the more he looked the less he fancied asking anything like a favor of him. However, as it had to be done, he thought he couldn't do better than fall into his ways for a few hours, and watch for a chance. The man seemed good natured in his way; and all his belongings--the fine park and house, and gardens and stables--were not without their effect on his young guest. It is not given to many men of twice his age to separate a man from his possessions, and look at him apart from them. So he yielded easily enough, and they went to billiards in a fine room opening out of the hall; and Tom, who was very fond of the game, soon forgot everything in the pleasure of playing on such a table. It was not a bad match. Mr. Wurley understood the game far better than his guest, and could give him advice as to what side to put on and how to play for cannons. This he did in a patronizing way, but his hand was unsteady and his nerve bad. Tom's good eye and steady hand, and the practice he had had at the St. Ambrose pool-table, gave him considerable advantage in the hazards. And so they played on, Mr. Wurley condescending to bet only half-a-crown a game, at first giving ten points, and then five, at which latter odds Tom managed to be two games ahead when the butler announced lunch, at two o'clock. "I think I must order my horse," said Tom, putting on his coat. "No, curse it, you must give me my revenge. I'm always five points better after lunch, and after dinner I could give you fifteen points. Why shouldn't you stop and dine and sleep? I expect some men to dinner." "Thank you, I must get home to-day." "I should like you to taste my mutton; I never kill it five years old. You don't get that every day." Tom, however, was proof against the mutton; but consented to stay till towards the hour when the other guests were expected, finding that his host had a decided objection to be left alone. So after lunch, at which Mr. Wurley drank the better part of a bottle of old sherry to steady his nerves, they returned again to billiards and Hudson's regalias. They played on for another hour; and, though Mr. Wurley's hand was certainly steadier, the luck remained with Tom. He was now getting rather tired of playing, and wanted to be leaving, and he began to remember the object of his visit again. But Mr. Wurley was nettled at being beaten by a boy, as he counted his opponent, and wouldn't hear of leaving off. So Tom played on carelessly game after game, and was soon again only two games ahead. Mr. Wurley's temper was recovering, and Tom protested that he must go. Just one game more, his host urged, and Tom consented. Wouldn't he play for a sovereign? No. So they played double or quits; and after a sharp struggle Mr. Wurley won the game, at which he was highly elated, and talked again grandly of the odds he could give after dinner. Tom felt that it was now or never, and so, as he put on his coat, he said,-- "Well, I'm much obliged to you for a very pleasant day, Mr. Wurley." "I hope you'll come over again, and stay and sleep. I shall always be glad to see you. It is so cursed hard to keep somebody always going in the country." "Thank you; I should like to come again. But now I want to ask a favor of you before I go." "Eh, well, what is it?" said Mr. Wurley, whose face and manner became suddenly anything but encouraging. "There's that cottage of yours, the one at the corner of Englebourn copse, next the village." "The woodman's house, I know," said Mr. Wurley. "The tenant is dead, and I want you to let it to a friend of mine; I'll take care the rent is paid." Mr. Wurley pricked up his ears at this announcement. He gave a sharp look at Tom; and then bent over the table, made a stroke, and said, "Ah, I heard the old woman was dead. Who's your friend, then?" "Well, I mean her son," said Tom, somewhat embarrassed; "he's an active young fellow, and will make a good tenant; I'm sure." "I daresay," said Mr. Wurley, with a leer; "and I suppose there's a sister to keep house for him, eh?" "No, but he wants to get married." "Wants to get married, eh?" said Mr. Wurley, with another leer and oath. "You're right; that's a deal safer kind of thing for you." "Yes," said Tom, resolutely disregarding the insinuation, which he could not help feeling was intended; "it will keep him steady, and if he can get the cottage it might make all the difference. There wouldn't be much trouble about the marriage then, I dare say." "You'll find it a devilish long way. You're quite right, mind you, not to get them settled close at home; but Englebourn is too far, I should say." "What does it matter to me?" "Oh, you're tired of her! I see. Perhaps it won't be too far, then." "Tired of her! who do you mean?" "Ha, ha!" said Mr. Wurley, looking up from the table over which he was leaning, for he went on knocking the balls about; "devilish well acted! But you needn't try to come the old soldier over me. I'm not quite such a fool as that." "I don't know what you mean by coming the old soldier. I only asked you to let the cottage, and I will be responsible for the rent. I'll pay in advance if you like." "Yes, you want me to let the cottage for you to put in this girl?" "I beg your pardon," said Tom, interrupting him, and scarcely able to keep his temper; "I told you it was for this young Winburn." "Of course you told me so. Ha, ha!" "And you don't believe me." "Come, now, all's fair in love and war. But, I tell you, you needn't be mealy-mouthed with me. You don't mind his living there; he's away at work all day, eh? and his wife stays at home." "Mr. Wurley, I give you my honor I never saw the girl in my life that I know of, and I don't know that she will marry him." "What did you talk about your friend for, then?" said Mr. Wurley, stopping and staring at Tom, curiosity beginning to mingle with his look of cunning unbelief. "Because I meant just what I said." "And the friend, then?" "I have told you several times that this young Winburn is the man." "What, _your friend_?" "Yes, my friend," said; Tom; and he felt himself getting red at having to call Harry his friend in such company. Mr. Wurley looked at him for a few moments, and then took his leg off the billiard table, and came round to Tom with the sort of patronizing air with which he had lectured him on billiards. "I say, Brown, I'll give you a piece of advice," he said. "You're a young fellow, and haven't seen anything of the world. Oxford's all very well, but it isn't the world. Now I tell you, a young fellow can't do himself greater harm than getting into low company and talking as you have been talking. It might ruin you in the county. That sort of radical stuff won't do, you know, calling a farm laborer your friend." Tom chafed at this advice from a man who, he well knew, was notoriously in the habit of entertaining at his house, and living familiarly with, betting men and trainers, and all the riff-raff of the turf. But he restrained himself by a considerable effort, and, instead of retorting, as he felt inclined to do, said, with an attempt to laugh it off, "Thank you, I don't think there's much fear of me turning radical. But will you let me the cottage?" "My agent manages all that. We talked about pulling it down. The cottage is in my preserves, and I don't mean to have some poaching fellow there to be sneaking out at night after my pheasants." "But his grandfather and great-grandfather lived there." "I dare say, but it's my cottage." "But surely that gives him a claim to it." "D-n it! it's my cottage. You're not going to tell me I mayn't do what I like with it, I suppose." "I only said that his family having lived there so long gives him a claim." "A claim to what? These are some more of your cursed radical notions. I think they might teach you something better at Oxford." Tom was now perfectly cool, but withal in such a tremendous fury of excitement that he forgot the interests of his client altogether. "I came here, sir," he said, very quietly and slowly, "not to request your advice on my own account, or your opinion on the studies of Oxford, valuable as no doubt they are; I came to ask you to let this cottage to me, and I wish to have your answer." "I'll be d-d if I do; there's my answer." "Very well," said Tom; "then I have only to wish you good morning. I am sorry to have wasted a day in the company of a man who sets up for a country gentleman with the tongue of a Thames bargee and the heart of a Jew pawn-broker." Mr. Wurley rushed to the bell and rang it furiously. "By --!" he almost screamed, shaking his fist at Tom, "I'll have you horse-whipped out of my house;" and then poured forth a flood of uncomplimentary slang, ending in another pull at the bell, and "By --! I'll have you horse-whipped out of my house." "You had better try it on--you and your flunkeys together," said Tom, taking a cigar case out of his pocket and lighting up, the most defiant and exasperating action he could think of on the spur of the moment. "Here's one of them; so I'll leave you to give him his orders, and wait five minutes in the hall, where there's more room." And so, leaving the footman gaping at his lord, he turned on his heel, with the air of Bernardo del Carpio after he had bearded King Alphonso, and walked into the hall. He heard men running to and fro, and doors banging, as he stood there looking at the old buff-coats, and rather thirsting for a fight. Presently a door opened, and the portly butler shuffled in, looking considerably embarrassed, and said,-- "Please, sir, to go out quiet, else he'll be having one of his fits." "Your master, you mean." "Yes, sir," said the butler, nodding, "D. T., sir. After one of his rages the black dog comes, and it's hawful work, so I hope you'll go, sir." "Very well, of course I'll go. I don't want to give him fit." Saying which, Tom walked out of the hall-door, and leisurely round to the stables, where he found already signs of commotion. Without regarding them, he got his horse saddled and bridled, and, after looking him over carefully, and patting him, and feeling his girths in the yard, in the presence of a cluster of retainers of one sort or another, who were gathered from the house and offices, and looking sorely puzzled whether to commence hostilities or not, mounted and walked quietly out. After his anger had been a little cooled by the fresh air of the wild country at the back of Hawk's Lynch, which he struck into on his way home soon after leaving the park, it suddenly occurred to him that, however satisfactory to himself the results of his encounter with this unjust landlord might seem, they would probably prove anything but agreeable to the would-be tenant, Harry Winburn. In fact, as he meditated on the matter, it became clear to him that in the course of one morning he had probably exasperated old Simon against his aspirant son-in-law, and put a serious spoke in Harry's love-wheel, on the one hand, while on the other, he had ensured his speedy expulsion from his cottage, if not the demolition of that building. Whereupon he became somewhat low under the conviction that his friendship, which was to work such wonders for the said Harry, and deliver him out of all his troubles, had as yet only made his whole look-out in the world very much darker and more dusty. In short, as yet he had managed to do considerably less than nothing for his friend, and he felt very small before he got home that evening. He was far, however, from being prepared for the serious way in which his father looked upon his day's proceedings. Mr. Brown was sitting by himself after dinner when his son turned up, and had to drink several extra glasses of port to keep himself decently composed, while Tom narrated the events of the day in the intervals of his attacks on the dinner, which was brought back for him. When the servant had cleared away, Mr. Brown proceeded to comment on the history in a most decided manner. Tom was wrong to go to the Grange in the first instance; and this part of the homily was amplified by a discourse on the corruption of the turf in general, and the special curse of small country races in particular, which such men as Wurley supported, and which, but for them, would cease. Racing, which used to be the pastime of great people, who could well afford to spend a few thousands a year on their pleasure, had now mostly fallen into the hands of the very worst and lowest men of all classes, most of whom would not scruple--as Mr. Brown strongly put it--to steal a copper out of a blind beggar's hat. If he must go, at any rate he might have done his errand and come away, instead of staying there all day accepting the man's hospitality. Mr. Brown himself really should be much embarrassed to know what to do if the man should happen to attend the next sessions or assizes. But, above all, having accepted his hospitality, to turn round at the end and insult the man in his own house? This seemed to Brown, J. P., a monstrous and astounding performance. This new way of putting matters took Tom entirely by surprise. He attempted a defense, but in vain. His father admitted that it would be a hard case if Harry were turned out of his cottage, but wholly refused to listen to Tom's endeavors to prove that a tenant in such a case had any claim or right as against his landlord. A weekly tenant was a weekly tenant, and no succession of weeks' holding could make him anything more. Tom found himself rushing into a line of argument which astonished himself and sounded wild, but in which he felt sure there was some truth, and which, therefore, he would not abandon, though his father was evidently annoyed, and called it mere mischievous sentiment. Each was more moved than he would have liked to own; each in his own heart felt aggrieved and blamed the other for not understanding him. But, though obstinate on the general question, upon the point of his leaving the Grange, Tom was fairly brought to shame, and gave in at last, and expressed his sorrow, though he could not help maintaining that, if his father could have heard what took place and seen the man's manner, he would scarcely blame him for what he had said and done. Having owned himself in the wrong, however, there was nothing for it but to write an apology, the composition of which was as disagreeable a task as had ever fallen to his lot. CHAPTER XXXIV--[Greek text] MEHDEN AGAN Has any person of any nation or language, found out and given to the world any occupation, work, diversion, or pursuit, more subtlely dangerous to the susceptible youth of both sexes than that of nutting in pairs. If so, who, where, what? A few years later in life perhaps district visiting, and attending schools together, may in certain instances be more fatal; but, in the first bright days of youth, a day's nutting against the world! A day in autumn, warm enough to make sitting in the sheltered nooks in the woods, where ever the sunshine lies, very pleasant, and yet not too warm to make exercise uncomfortable--two young people who have been thrown much together, one of whom is conscious of the state of his feelings towards the other, and is, moreover, aware that his hours are numbered, and that in a few days at furthest they will be separated for many months, that persons in authority on both sides are beginning to suspect something (as is apparent from the difficulty they have had in getting away together at all on this same afternoon) here is a conjunction of persons and circumstances, if ever there was one in the world, which is surely likely to end in a catastrophe. Indeed, so obvious to the meanest capacity is the danger of the situation, that, as Tom had, in his own mind, staked his character for resolution with his private self on the keeping of his secret till after he was of age, it is hard to conceive how he can have been foolish enough to get himself into a hazel copse alone with Miss Mary on the earliest day he could manage it after the arrival of the Porters, on their visit to Mr. and Mrs. Brown. That is to say, it would be hard to conceive, if it didn't just happen to be the most natural thing in the world. For the first twenty-four hours after their meeting in the home of his fathers, the two young people, and Tom in particular, felt very uncomfortable. Mary, being a young lady of very high spirits, and, as our readers may probably have discovered, much given to that kind of conversation which borders as nearly upon what men commonly call chaff as a well-bred girl can venture on, was annoyed to find herself quite at fault in all her attempts to get her old antagonist of Commemoration to show fight. She felt in a moment how changed his manner was, and thought it by no means changed for the better. As for Tom, he felt foolish and shy at first, to an extent which drove him half wild; his words stuck in his throat, and he took to blushing again like a boy of fourteen. In fact, he got so angry with himself that he rather avoided her actual presence, though she was scarcely a moment out of his sight. Mr. Brown made the best of his son's retreat, devoted himself most gallantly to Mary, and was completely captivated by her before bedtime on the first night of their visit. He triumphed over his wife when they were alone, and laughed at the groundlessness of her suspicions. But she was by no means so satisfied on the subject as her husband. In a day or two, however, Tom began to take heart of grace, and to find himself oftener at Mary's side, with something to say, and more to look. But now she, in her turn, began to be embarrassed; for all attempts to re-establish their old footing failed, and the difficulty of finding a satisfactory new one remained to be solved. So for the present, though neither of them found it quite satisfactory, they took refuge in the presence of a third party, and attached themselves to Katie, talking at one another through her. Nothing could exceed Katie's judiciousness as a medium of communication; and through her a better understanding began to establish itself, and the visit which both of them had been looking forward to so eagerly seemed likely, after all, to be as pleasant in fact as it had been in anticipation. As they became more at ease, the vigilance of Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Porter seemed likely to revive. But in a country house there must be plenty of chances for young folks who mean it, to be together; and so they found and made use of their opportunities, giving at the same time as little cause to their natural guardians as possible for any serious interference. The families got on, on the whole, so well together, that the visit was prolonged from the original four or five days to a fortnight; and this time of grace was drawing to a close when the event happened which made the visit memorable to our hero. On the morning in question, Mr. Brown arranged at breakfast that he and his wife should drive Mr. and Mrs. Porter to make calls on several of the neighbors. Tom declared his intention of taking a long day after the partridges, and the young ladies were to go and make a sketch of the house from a point which Katie had chosen. Accordingly, directly after luncheon, the carriage came round, and the elders departed; and the young ladies started together, carrying their sketching apparatus with them. It was probably a bad day for scent; for they had not been gone a quarter of an hour when Tom came home, deposited his gun, and followed on their steps. He found them sitting under the lee of a high bank, sufficiently intent on their drawings, but neither surprised nor sorry to find that he had altered his mind, and come back to interrupt them. So he lay down near them, and talked of Oxford and Englebourn, and so from one thing to another, till he got upon the subject of nutting, and the sylvan beauties of a neighbouring wood. Mary was getting on badly with her drawing, and jumped at the idea of a ramble in the wood; but Katie was obdurate, and resisted all their solicitations to move. She suggested, however, that they might go; and, as Tom declared that they should not be out of call, and would be back in half an hour at furthest, Mary consented; and they left the sketcher and strolled together out of the fields, and into the road, and so through a gate into the wood. It was a pleasant oak wood. The wild flowers were over, but the great masses of ferns, four or five feet high, made a grand carpet round the stems of the forest monarchs, and a fitting couch for here and there one of them which had been lately felled, and lay in fallen majesty, with bare shrouded trunk awaiting the sawyers. Further on, the hazel underwood stood thickly on each side of the green rides, down which they sauntered side by side. Tom talked of the beauty of the wood in spring-time, and the glorious succession of colouring--pale yellow, and deep blue and white, and purple--which the primroses, and hyacinths and starwort, and foxgloves gave, each in their turn, in the early year, and mourned over their absence. But Mary preferred Autumn, and would not agree with him. She was enthusiastic for ferns and heather. He gathered some sprigs of the latter for her, from a little sandy patch which they passed, and some more for his own button-hole, and then they engaged in the absorbing pursuit of nutting, and the talk almost ceased. He caught the higher branches, and bent them down to her, and watched her as she gathered them, and wondered at the ease and grace of all her movements, and the unconscious beauty of her attitudes. Soon she became more enterprising herself, and made little excursions into the copse, surmounting briers, and passing through tangled places like a Naiad, before he could be there to help her. And so they went on, along the rides and through the copse, forgetting Katie and time, till they were brought up by the fence on the further side of the wood. The ditch was on the outside, and on the inside a bank with a hedge on the top, full of tempting hazel-bushes. She clapped her hands at the sight, and, declining his help, stepped lightly up the bank and began gathering. He turned away for a moment, jumped up the bank himself, and followed her example. He was standing up in the hedge, and reaching after a tempting cluster of nuts, when he heard a short sharp cry of pain behind him, which made him spring backwards, and nearly miss his footing as he came to the ground. Recovering himself, and turning round, he saw Mary lying at the foot of the bank, writhing in pain. He was at her side in a minute and dreadfully alarmed. "Good heavens! what has happened?" he said. "My ankle!" she cried; and the effort of speaking brought the sudden flush of pain to her brow. "Oh! what can I do?" "The boot! the boot!" she said, leaning forward to unlace it, and then sinking back against the bank. "It is so painful. I hope I sha'n't faint!" Poor Tom could only clasp his hands as he knelt by her, and repeat, "Oh, what can I do--what can I do?" His utter bewilderment presently aroused Mary, and her natural high courage was beginning to master the pain. "Have you a knife?" "Yes here," he said, pulling one out of his pocket, and opening it; "here it is." "Please cut the lace." Tom, with beating heart and trembling hand, cut the lace and then looked up at her. "Oh, be quick--cut it again! Don't be afraid." He cut it again; and, without taking hold of the foot, gently pulled out the ends of the lace. She again leaned forward, and tried to take off the boot; but the pain was too great, and she sank back, and put her hand up to her flushed face. "May I try?--perhaps I could do it." "Yes, pray do. Oh, I can't bear the pain!" she added, next moment; and Tom felt ready to hang himself for having been the cause of it. "You must cut the boot off, please." "But perhaps I may cut you. Do you really mean it?" "Yes, really. There, take care. How your hand shakes. You will never do for a doctor." His hand did shake, certainly. He had cut a little hole the stocking; but, under the circumstances, we need not wonder--the situation was new and trying. Urged on by her, he cut and cut away, and, at last, off came the boot, and her beautiful little foot lay on the green turf. She was much relieved at once, but still in great pain; and now he began to recover his head. "The ankle should be bound up; may I try?" "Oh, yes; but what with?" Tom dived into his shooting-coat pocket, and produced one of the large, many-colored neck-wrappers which were fashionable at Oxford in those days. "How lucky!" he said, as he tore it into strips. "I think this will do. Now, you'll stop me, won't you, if I hurt you, or don't do it right?" "Don't be afraid, I'm much better. Bind it tight, tighter than that." He wound the strips as tenderly as he could round her foot and ankle, with hands all alive with nerves, and wondering more and more at her courage as she kept urging him to draw the bandage tighter yet. Then, still under her direction, he fastened and pinned down the ends; and as he was rather neat with his fingers, from the practice of tying flies and splicing rods and bats, produced, on the whole, a creditable sort of bandage. Then he looked up at her, the perspiration standing on his forehead, as if he had been pulling a race, and said, "Will that do? I'm afraid it's very awkward." "Oh, no; thank you so much! But I'm so sorry you have torn your handkerchief." Tom made no answer to this remark, except by a look. What could he say, but that he would gladly have torn his skin off for the same purpose, if it would have been of any use. But this speech did not seem quite the thing for the moment. "But how do you feel? Is it very painful?" he asked. "Rather. But don't look so anxious. Indeed, it is very bearable. But what are we to do now?" He thought for a moment, and said, with something like a sigh-- "Shall I run home, and bring the servants and a sofa, or something to carry you on?" "No, I shouldn't like to be left here alone." His face brightened again. "How near is the nearest cottage?" she asked. "There's none nearer than the one which we passed on the road--on the other side of the wood, you know." "Then I must try to get there. You must help me up." He sprang to his feet and stooped over her, doubting how to begin helping her. He had never felt so shy in his life. He held out his hands. "I think you must put your arm round me," she said, after looking at him for a moment. He lifted her on to her feet. "Now let me lean on your arm. There, I dare say I shall manage to hobble along well enough;" and she made a brave attempt to walk. But the moment the injured foot touched the ground, she stopped with a catch at her breath, and a shiver, which went through Tom like a knife; and the flush came back into her face, and she would have fallen had he not again put his arm round her waist, and held her up. "I am better again now," she said, after a second or two. "But Mary, dear Mary, don't try to walk again. For my sake. I can't bear it." "But what am I to do?" she said. "I must get back somehow." "Will you let me carry you?" She looked in his face again, and then dropped her eyes, and hesitated. "I wouldn't offer, dear, if there were any other way. But you mustn't walk. Indeed, you must not; you may lame yourself for life." He spoke very quietly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, though his heart was beating so that he feared she would hear it. "Very well," she said; "but I'm very heavy." So he lifted her gently, and stepped off down the ride, carrying his whole world in his arms, in an indescribable flutter of joy, and triumph, and fear. He had gone some forty yards or so, when he staggered, and stopped for a moment. "Oh, pray put me down--pray do! You'll hurt yourself. I'm too heavy." For the credit of muscular Christianity, one must say that it was not her weight, but the tumult in his own inner man, which made her bearer totter. Nevertheless, if one is wholly unused to the exercise, the carrying of a healthy young English girl weighing a good eight stone, is as much as most men can conveniently manage. "I'll just put you down for a moment," he said. "Now, take care of the foot;" and he stooped and placed her tenderly against one of the oaks which bordered the ride, standing by her side without looking at her. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then he asked, still looking away down the ride, "How is the foot?" "Oh, pretty well," she answered, cheerfully. "Now, leave me here, and go for help. It is absurd of me to mind being left, and you mustn't carry me any more." He turned, and their eyes met for a moment, but that was enough. "Are you ready?" he said. "Yes, but take care. Don't go far. Stop directly you feel tired." Then he lifted her again, and this time carried her without faltering, till they came to a hillock covered with soft grass. Here they rested again, and so by easy stages he carried her through the wood, and out into the road, to the nearest cottage, neither of them speaking. An old woman came to the door in answer to his kick, and went off into ejaculations of pity and wonder in the broadest Berkshire, at seeing Master Tom and his burthen. But he pushed into the house and cut her short with-- "Now, Mrs. Pike, don't talk, that's a dear good woman, but bustle about, and bring that arm-chair here, and the other low one, with a pillow on it, for the young lady's foot to rest on." The old woman obeyed his injunctions, except as to talking; and, while she placed the chairs and shook up the pillow, descanted on the sovereign virtues of some green oil and opodeldoc, which was as good as a charm for sprains and bruises. Mary gave him one grateful look as he lowered her tenderly and reluctantly into the chair, and then spoke cheerfully to Mrs. Pike, who was foraging in a cupboard, to find if there was any of her famous specific in the bottom of the bottle. As he stood up, and thought what to do next, he heard the sound of distant wheels, and looking through the window saw the carriage coming homewards. It was a sorrowful sight to him. "Now, Mrs. Pike," he said, "never mind the oil. Here's the carriage coming; just step out and stop it." The old dame scuttled out into the road. The carriage was within one hundred yards. He leant over the rough arm-chair in which Mary was leaning back, looked once more into her eyes; and then, stooping forwards, kissed her lips, and the next moment was by the side of Mrs. Pike, signalling the coachman to stop. In the bustle which followed he stood aside, and watched Mary with his heart in his mouth. She never looked at him, but there was no anger, but only a dreamy look in her sweet face, which seemed to him a thousand times more beautiful than ever before. Then, to avoid inquiries, and to realize all that had passed in the last wonderful three hours, he slipped away while they were getting her into the carriage, and wandered back into the wood, pausing at each of their halting places. At last he reached the scene of the accident, and here his cup of happiness was likely to brim over, for he found the mangled little boot and the cut lace, and securing the precious prize, hurried back home, to be in time for dinner. Mary did not come down; but Katie, the only person of whom he dared to inquire, assured him that she was doing famously. The dinner was very embarrassing, and he had the greatest difficulty in answering the searching inquiries of his mother and Mrs. Porter, as to how, when, where, and in whose presence the accident had happened. As soon as the ladies rose, he left his father and Mr. Porter over their old port and politics, and went out in the twilight into the garden, burthened with the weight of sweet thought. He felt that he had something to do--to set himself quite right with Mary; he must speak somehow, that night, if possible, or he should not be comfortable or at peace with his conscience. There were lights in her room. He guessed by the shadows that she was lying on a couch by the open window, round which the other ladies were flitting. Presently lights appeared in the drawing-room; and, as the shutters were being closed, he saw his mother and Mrs. Porter come in, and sit down near the fire. Listening intently, he heard Katie talking in a low voice in the room above, and saw her head against the light as she sat down close to the window, probably at the head of the couch where Mary was lying. Should he call to her? If he did, how could he say what he wanted to say through her? A happy thought struck him. He turned to the flowerbeds, hunted about, and gathered a bunch of heliotrope, hurried up to his room, took the sprig of heather out of his shooting coat, tied them together, caught up a reel and line from his table, and went into the room over Mary's. He threw the window open, and, leaning out, said gently, "Katie." No answer. He repeated the name louder. No answer still, and, leaning out yet further, he saw that the window had been shut. He lowered the bunch of flowers, and, swinging it backwards and forward, made it strike the window below--once, twice; at the third stroke he heard the window open. "Katie," he whispered again, "is that you?" "Yes, where are you? What is this?" "For her," he said, in the same whisper. Katie untied the flowers, and he waited a few moments, and then again called her name, and she answered. "Has she the flowers?" he asked. "Yes, and she sends you her love, and says you are to go down to the drawing-room;" and with that the window closed, and he went down with a lightened conscience into the drawing-room, and, after joining in the talk by the fire for a few minutes, took a book, and sat down at the further side of the table. Whether he ever knew what the book was may be fairly questioned, but to all appearances he was deep in the perusal of it till the tea and Katie arrived, and the gentlemen from the dining-room. Then he tried to join in the conversation again; but, on the whole, life was a burthen to him that night, till he could get fairly away to his own room, and commune with himself, gazing at the yellow harvest moon, with his elbows on the window sill. The ankle got well very quickly, and Mary was soon going about with a gold-headed stick which had belonged to Mr. Brown's father, and a limp which Tom thought the most beautiful movement he had ever seen. But, though she was about again, by no amount of patient vigilance could he now get the chance of speaking to her alone. But he consoled himself with the thought that she must understand him; if he had spoken he couldn't have made himself clearer. And now the Porters' visit was all but over, and Katie and her father left for Englebourn. The Porters were to follow the next day, and promised to drive round and stop at the Rectory for lunch. Tom petitioned for a seat in their carriage to Englebourn. He had been devoting himself to Mrs. Porter ever since the accident, and had told her a good deal about his own early life. His account of his early friendship for Betty and her son, and the renewal of it on the day he left Barton Manor, had interested her, and she was moreover not insensible to his assiduous and respectful attentions to herself, which had of late been quite marked; she was touched, too, at his anxiety to hear all about her boys, and how they were getting on at school. So on the whole Tom was in high favour with her, and she most graciously assented to his occupying the fourth seat in their barouche. She was not without her suspicions of the real state of the case with him; but his behavior had been so discreet that she had no immediate fears; and, after all, if anything should come of it some years hence, her daughter might do worse. In the meantime she would see plenty of society in London; where Mr. Porter's vocations kept him during the greater part of the year. They reached Englebourn after a pleasant long morning's drive; and Tom stole a glance at Mary and felt that she understood him, as he pointed out the Hawk's Lynch and the clump of scotch firs to her mother; and told how you might see Barton from the top of it, and how he loved the place, and the old trees, and the view. Katie was at the door ready to receive them, and carried off Mary and Mrs. Porter to her own room. Tom walked round the garden with Mr. Porter, and then sat in the drawing-room, and felt melancholy. He roused himself, however, when the ladies came down and luncheon was announced. Mary was full of her reminiscences of the Englebourn people, and especially of poor Mrs. Winburn and her son, in whom she had begun to take a deep interest, perhaps from overhearing some of Tom's talk to her mother. So Harry's story was canvassed again, and Katie told them how he had been turned out of his cottage, and how anxious she was as to what would come of it. "And is he going to marry your gardener's daughter after all?" asked Mrs. Porter. "I am afraid there is not much chance of it," said Katie; "I cannot make Martha out." "Is she at home, Katie?" asked Mary; "I should like to see her again. I took a great fancy to her when I was here." "Yes, she is at the lodge. We will walk there after luncheon." So it was settled that the carriage should pick them up at the lodge; and soon after luncheon, while the horses were being put to, the whole party started for the lodge, after saying good-bye to Mr. Winter, who retired to his room much fatigued by his unwonted hospitality. Old Simon's wife answered their knock at the lodge door, and they all entered, and Mrs. Porter paid her compliments on the cleanliness of the room. Then Mary said, "Is your daughter at home, Mrs. Gibbons?" "Ees, miss, someweres handy," replied Mrs. Gibbons; "her hav'n't been gone out, not dree minnit." "I should like so much to say good-bye to her," said Mary. "We shall be leaving Barton soon, and I shall not see her again till next summer." "Lor bless'ee, miss, 'tis werry good ov'ee," said the old dame, very proud; "do'ee set down then while I gees her a call." And with that she hurried out of the door which led through the back kitchen into the little yard behind the lodge, and the next moment they heard her calling out-- "Patty, Patty, wher bist got to? Come in and see the gentlefolk." The name which the old woman was calling out made Tom start. "I thought you said her name was Martha," said Mrs. Porter. "Patty is short for Martha in Berkshire," said Katie, laughing. "And Patty is such a pretty name. I wonder you don't call her Patty," said Mary. "We had a housemaid of the same name a year or two ago, and it made such a confusion--and when one once gets used to a name it is so hard to change--so she has always been called Martha." "Well, I'm all for Patty; don't you think so?" said Mary, turning to Tom. The sudden introduction of a name which he had such reasons for remembering, the memories and fears which it called up--above all, the bewilderment which he felt at hearing it tossed about and canvassed by Mary in his presence, as if there were nothing more in it than in any other name--confused him so that he floundered and blundered in his attempt to answer, and at last gave it up altogether. She was surprised, and looked at him inquiringly. His eyes fell before hers, and he turned away to the window, and looked at the carriage, which had just drawn up at the lodge door. He had scarcely time to think how foolish he was to be so moved, when he heard the back-kitchen door open again, and the old woman and her daughter come in. He turned round sharply, and there on the floor of the room, courtseying to the ladies, stood the ex-barmaid of the "Choughs". His first impulse was to hurry away--she was looking down, and he might not be recognized; his next, to stand his ground, and take whatever might come. Mary went up to her and took her hand, saying that she could not go away without coming to see her. Patty looked up to answer, and, glancing round the room, caught sight of him. He stepped forward, and then stopped and tried to speak, but no words would come. Patty looked at him, dropped Mary's hand, blushed up to the roots of her hair as she looked timidly round at the wondering spectators, and, putting her hands to her face, ran out of the back door again. "Lawk a massy! what ever can ha' cum to our Patty?" said Mrs. Gibbons, following her out. "I think we had better go," said Mr. Porter, giving his arm to his daughter, and leading her to the door, "Goodbye, Katie; shall we see you again at Barton?" "I don't know, uncle," Katie answered, following with Mrs. Porter, in a state of sad bewilderment. Tom, with his brain swimming, got out a few stammering farewell words, which Mr. and Mrs. Porter received with marked coldness, as they stepped into their carriage. Mary's face was flushed and uneasy; but at her he scarcely dared to steal a look, and to her was quite unable to speak a word. Then the carriage drove off, and he turned, and found Katie standing at his side, her eyes full of serious wonder. His fell before them. "My dear Tom," she said, "what is all this? I thought you had never seen Martha?" "So I thought--I don't know--I can't talk now--I'll explain all to you--don't think very badly of me, Katie--God bless you!" with which words he strode away, while she looked after him with increasing wonder, and then turned and went into the lodge. He hastened away from the Rectory and down the village street, taking the road home mechanically, but otherwise wholly unconscious of roads and men. David, who was very anxious to speak to him about Harry, stood at his door making signs to him to stop, in vain; and then gave chase, calling out after him, till he saw that all attempts to attract his notice were useless, and so ambled back to his shop-board much troubled in mind. The first object which recalled Tom at all to himself was the little white cottage looking out of Englebourn copse towards the village, in which he had sat by poor Betty's death-bed. The garden was already getting wild and tangled, and the house seemed uninhabited. He stopped for a moment and looked at it with bitter searchings of heart. Here was the place where he had taken such a good turn, as he had fondly hoped--in connection with the then inmates of which he had made the strongest good resolutions he had ever made in his life perhaps. What was the good of his trying to befriend anybody? His friendship turned to a blight; whatever he had as yet tried to do for Harry had only injured him, and now how did they stand? Could they ever be friends again after that day's discovery? To do him justice, the probable ruin of all his own prospects, the sudden coldness of Mr. and Mrs. Porter's looks, and Mary's averted face, were not the things he thought of first, and did not trouble him most. He thought of Harry, and shuddered at the wrong he had done him as he looked at his deserted home. The door opened and a figure appeared. It was Mr. Wurley's agent, the lawyer who had been employed by Farmer Tester in his contest with Harry and his mates about the pound. The man of law saluted him with a smirk of scarcely concealed triumph, and then turned into the house again and shut the door, as if he did not consider further communication necessary or safe. Tom turned with a muttered imprecation on him and his master, and hurried away along the lane which led to the heath. The Hawk's Lynch lay above him, and he climbed the side mechanically and sat himself again on the old spot. He sat for some time looking over the landscape, graven on his mind as it was by his former visit, and bitterly, oh, how bitterly! did the remembrance of that visit, and of the exultation and triumph which then filled him, and carried him away over the heath with a shout towards his home, come back on him. He could look out from his watchtower no longer, and lay down with his face between his hands on the turf, and groaned as he lay. But his good angel seemed to haunt the place, and soon the cold fit began to pass away, and better and more hopeful thoughts to return. After all what had he done since his last visit to that place to be ashamed of? Nothing. His attempts to do Harry service, unlucky as they had proved, had been honest. Had he become less worthy of the love which had first consciously mastered him there some four weeks ago? No; he felt on the contrary, that it had already raised him, and purified him, and made a man of him. But this last discovery, how could he ever get over that? Well, after all, the facts were just the same as before; only now they had come out. It was right that they should have come out; better for him and for everyone that they should be known and faced. He was ready to face them, to abide any consequences that they might now bring in their train. His heart was right towards Mary, towards Patty, towards Harry--that he felt sure of. And, if so, why should he despair of either his love or his friendship coming to a good end? And so he sat up again, and looked out bravely towards Barton, and began to consider what was to be done. His eye rested on the Rectory. That was the first place to begin with. He must set himself right with Katie--let her know the whole story. Through her he could reach all the rest, and do whatever must be done to clear the ground and start fresh again. At first he thought of returning to her at once, and rose to go down to Englebourn. But anything like retracing his steps was utterly distasteful to him just then. Before him he saw light, dim enough as yet, but still a dawning; towards that he would press, leaving everything behind him to take care of itself. So he turned northwards, and struck across the heath at his best pace. The violent exercise almost finished his cure, and his thoughts became clearer and more hopeful as he neared home. He arrived there as the household was going to bed, and found a letter waiting for him. It was from Hardy, saying that Blake had left him, and he was now thinking of returning to Oxford, and would come for his long talked of visit to Berkshire, if Tom was still at home, and in the mind to receive him. Never was a letter more opportune. Here was the tried friend on whom he could rely for help and advice and sympathy--who knew all the facts too from beginning to end! His father and mother were delighted to hear that they should now see the friend of whom he had spoken so much. So he went up stairs and wrote an answer, which set Hardy to work packing his portmanteau in the far west, and brought him speedily to the side of his friend under the lee of the Berkshire hills. CHAPTER XXXV--SECOND YEAR For some days after his return home--in fact, until his friend's arrival, Tom was thoroughly beaten down and wretched, notwithstanding his efforts to look hopefully forward, and keep up his spirits. His usual occupations were utterly distasteful to him; and, instead of occupying himself, he sat brooding over his late misfortune, and hopelessly puzzling his head as to what he could do to set matters right. The conviction in which he always landed was that there was nothing to be done, and that he was a desolate and blighted being, deserted of gods and men. Hardy's presence and company soon shook him out of this maudlin nightmare state, and he began to recover as soon as he had his old sheet-anchor friend to hold on to and consult with. Their consultations were held chiefly in the intervals of woodcraft, in which they spent most of their hours between breakfast and dinner. Hardy did not take out a certificate and wouldn't shoot without one; so, as the best autumn exercise, they selected a tough old pollard elm, infinitely ugly, with knotted and twisted roots, curiously difficult to get at and cut through, which had been long marked as a blot by Mr. Brown, and condemned to be felled as soon as there was nothing more pressing for his men to do. But there was always something of more importance; so that the cross-grained old tree might have remained until this day, had not Hardy and Tom pitched on him as a foeman worthy of their axes. They shoveled, and picked, and hewed away with great energy. The woodman who visited them occasionally, and who, on examining their first efforts, had remarked that the severed roots looked a little "as tho' the dogs had been a gnawin' at 'em," began to hold them in respect, and to tender his advice with some deference. By the time the tree was felled and shrouded, Tom was in a convalescent state. Their occupation had naturally led to discussions on the advantages of emigration, the delights of clearing one's own estate, building one's own house, and getting away from conventional life with a few tried friends. Of course the pictures which were painted included foregrounds with beautiful children playing about the clearing, and graceful women, wives of the happy squatters, flitting in and out of log houses and sheds, clothed and occupied after the manner of our ideal grandmothers; with the health and strength of Amazons, the refinement of high-bred ladies, and wondrous skill in all domestic works, confections, and contrivances. The log-houses would also contain fascinating select libraries, continually reinforced from home, sufficient to keep all the dwellers in the happy clearing in communion with all the highest minds of their own and former generations. Wonderous games in the neighbouring forest, dear old home customs established and taking root in the wilderness, with ultimate dainty flower gardens, conservatories, and pianofortes--a millennium on a small scale, with universal education, competence, prosperity, and equal rights! Such castle-building, as an accompaniment to the hard exercise of woodcraft, worked wonders for Tom in the next week, and may be safely recommended to parties in like evil case with him. But more practical discussions were not neglected, and it was agreed that they should make a day at Englebourn together before their return to Oxford, Hardy undertaking to invade the Rectory with the view of re-establishing his friend's character there. Tom wrote a letter to Katie to prepare her for a visit. The day after the ancient elm was fairly disposed of, they started early for Englebourn, and separated at the entrance to the village--Hardy proceeding to the Rectory to fulfill his mission, which he felt to be rather an embarrassing one, and Tom to look after the constable, or whoever else could give him information about Harry. He arrived at the "Red Lion," their appointed trysting place, before Hardy, and spent a restless half-hour in the porch and bar waiting for his return. At last Hardy came, and Tom hurried him into the inn's best room, where bread and cheese and ale awaited them; and, as soon as the hostess could be got out of the room, began impatiently-- "Well you have seen her?" "Yes, I have come straight here from the Rectory." "And is it all right, eh? Has she got my letter?" "Yes, she had had your letter." "And you think she is satisfied?" "Satisfied? No, you can't expect her to be satisfied." "I mean, is she satisfied that it isn't so bad after all as it looked the other day? What does Katie think of me?" "I think she is still very fond of you, but that she has been puzzled and outraged by this discovery, and cannot get over it all at once." "Why didn't you tell her the whole story from beginning to end?" "I tried to do so as well as I could." "Oh, but I can see you haven't done it. She doesn't really understand how it is." "Perhaps not; but you must remember it is an awkward subject to be talking about to a young woman. I would sooner stand another fellowship examination than go through it again." "Thank you, old fellow," said Tom, laying his hand on Hardy's shoulder; "I feel that I'm unreasonable and impatient; but you can excuse it; you know that I don't mean it." "Don't say another word; I only wish I could have done more for you." "But what do you suppose Katie thinks of me?" "Why, you see, it sums itself up in this; she sees that you have been making serious love to Patty, and have turned the poor girl's head, more or less, and that now you are in love with somebody else. Why, put it how we will, we can't get out of that. There are the facts, pure and simple, and she wouldn't be half a woman if she didn't resent it." "But it's hard lines, too, isn't it, old fellow? No, I won't say that? I deserve it all, and much worse. But you think I may come round all right?" "Yes, all in good time. I hope there's no danger in any other quarter?" "Goodness knows. There's the rub, you see. She will go back to town disgusted with me. I sha'n't see her again, and she won't hear of me for I don't know how long; and she will be meeting heaps of men. Has Katie been over to Barton?" "Yes; she was there last week, just before they left." "Well, what happened?" "She wouldn't say much; but I gathered that they are very well." "Oh yes, bother it. Of course they are very well. But didn't she talk to Katie about what happened last week?" "Of couse they did! What else should they talk about?" "But you don't know what they said?" "No. But you may depend on it that Miss Winter will be your friend. My dear fellow, there is nothing for it but time." "Well, I suppose not," said Tom, with a groan. "Do you think I should call and see Katie?" "No; I think better not." "Well, then, we may as well get back," said Tom, who was not sorry for his friend's decision. So they paid their bill and started for home, taking the Hawk's Lynch on the way, that Hardy might see the view. "And what did you find out about young Winburn?" he said as they passed down the street. "Oh, no good," said Tom; "he was turned out, as I thought, and has gone to live with an old woman on the heath here, who is no better than she should be; and none of the farmers will employ him. "You didn't see him, I suppose?" "No, he is away with some of the heath people, hawking besoms and chairs about the country. They make them when there is no harvest work, and loaf about in Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, and other counties, selling them." "No good will come of that sort of life, I'm afraid." "No, but what is he to do?" "I called at the lodge as I came away, and saw Patty and her mother. It's all right in that quarter. The old woman doesn't seem to think anything of it, and Patty is a good girl, and will make Harry Winburn, or anybody else, a capital wife. Here are your letters." "And the locket?" "I quite forgot it. Why didn't you remind me of it? You talked of nothing but the letters this morning." "I'm glad of it. It can do no harm now, and as it is worth something, I should have been ashamed to take it back. I hope she'll put Harry's hair in it soon. Did she seem to mind giving up the letters?" "Not very much. No, you are lucky there. She will get over it." "But you told her that I am her friend for life, and that she is to let me know if I can ever do anything for her?" "Yes. And now I hope this is the last job of the kind I shall ever have to do for you." "But what bad luck it has been? If I had only seen her before, or known who she was, nothing of all this would have happened." To this Hardy made no reply; and the subject was not alluded to again in their walk home. A day or two afterwards they returned to Oxford, Hardy to begin his work as fellow and assistant-tutor of the College, and Tom to see whether he could not make a better hand of his second year than he had of his first. He began with a much better chance of doing so, for he was thoroughly humbled. The discovery that he was not altogether such a hero as he had fancied himself, had dawned upon him very distinctly by the end of his first year; and the events of the long vacation had confirmed the impression, and pretty well taken all the conceit out of him for the time. The impotency of his own will, even when he was bent on doing the right thing, his want of insight and foresight in whatever matter he took in hand, the unruliness of his temper and passions just at the moments when it behooved him to have them most thoroughly in hand and under control, were a set of disagreeable facts which had been driven well home to him. The results, being even such as we have seen, he did not much repine at, for he felt he had deserved them; and there was a sort of grim satisfaction, dreary as the prospect was, in facing them, and taking his punishment like a man. This was what he had felt at the first blush on the Hawk's Lynch; and, as he thought over matters again by his fire, with his oak sported, on the first evening of term, he was still in the same mind. This was clearly what he had to do now. How to do it, was the only question. At first he was inclined to try to set himself right with the Porters and the Englebourn circle, by writing further explanations and confessions to Katie. But, on trying his hand at a letter, he found that he could not trust himself. The temptation of putting everything in the best point of view for himself was too great; so he gave up the attempt, and merely wrote a few lines to David, to remind him that he was always ready and anxious to do all he could for his friend, Harry Winburn, and to beg that he might have news of anything which happened to him, and how he was getting on. He did not allude to what had lately happened, for he did not know whether the facts had become known, and was in no hurry to open the subject himself. Having finished his letter, he turned again to his meditations over the fire, and, considering that he had some little right to reward resolution, took off the safety valve, and allowed the thoughts to bubble up freely which were always underlying all others that passed through his brain, and making constant low, delicious, but just now somewhat melancholy music, in his head and heart. He gave himself up to thinking of Mary, and their walk in the wood, and the sprained ankle, and all the sayings and doings of that eventful autumn day. And then he opened his desk, and examined certain treasures therein concealed, including a withered rose-bud, a sprig of heather, a cut boot-lace, and a scrap or two of writing. Having gone through some extravagant forms of worship, not necessary to be specified, he put them away. Would it ever all come right? He made his solitary tea, and sat down again to consider the point. But the point would not be considered alone. He began to feel more strongly what he had had several hints of already, that there was a curiously close connexion between his own love story and that of Harry Winburn and Patty--that he couldn't separate them, even in his thoughts. Old Simon's tumble, which had recalled his daughter from Oxford at so critical a moment for him; Mary's visit to Englebourn at this very time; the curious yet natural series of little accidents which had kept him in ignorance of Patty's identity until the final catastrophe--then, again, the way in which Harry Winburn and his mother had come across him on the very day of his leaving Barton; the fellowship of a common mourning which had seemed to bind them together so closely; and this last discovery, which he could not help fearing must turn Harry into a bitter enemy, when he heard the truth, as he must, sooner or later--as all these things passed before him, he gave in to a sort of superstitious feeling that his own fate hung, in some way or another, upon that of Harry Winburn. If he helped on his suit, he was helping on his own; but whether he helped on his own or not, was, after all, not that which was uppermost in his thoughts, He was much changed in this respect since he last sat in those rooms, just after his first days with her. Since then an angel had met him, and had touched the cord of self, which, trembling, was passing "in music out of sight." The thought of Harry and his trials enabled him to indulge in some good honest indignation, for which there was no room in his own case. That the prospects in life of such a man should be in the power, to a great extent, of such people as Squire Wurley and Farmer Tester; that, because he happened to be poor, he should be turned out of the cottage where his family had lived for a hundred years, at a week's notice, through the caprice of a drunken gambler; that because he had stood up for his rights, and had thereby offended the worst farmer in the parish, he should be a marked man, and unable to get work--these things appeared so monstrous to Tom, and made him so angry, that he was obliged to get up and stamp about the room. And from the particular case he very soon got to generalizations. Questions which had before now puzzled him gained a new significance every minute, and became real to him. Why a few men should be rich, and all the rest poor; above all, why he should be one of the few? Why the mere possession of property should give a man power over all his neighbors? Why poor men who were ready and willing to work should only be allowed to work as a sort of favor, and should after all get the merest tithe of what their labor produced, and be tossed aside as soon as their work was done, or no longer required? These, and other such problems, rose up before him, crude and sharp, asking to be solved. Feeling himself quite unable to give any but one answer to them--viz. that he was getting out of his depth, and that the whole business was in a muddle--he had recourse to his old method when in difficulties, and putting on his cap, started off to Hardy's rooms to talk the matter over, and see whether he could not get some light on it from that quarter. He returned in an hour or so, somewhat less troubled in his mind inasmuch as he had found his friend in pretty much the same state of mind on such topics as himself. But one step he had gained. Under his arm he carried certain books from Hardy's scanty library, the perusal of which he hoped, at least, might enable him sooner or later to feel that he had got on to some sort of firm ground, At any rate, Hardy had advised him to read them; so, without more ado, he drew his chair to the table and began to look into them. This glimpse of the manner in which Tom spent the first evening of his second year at Oxford, will enable intelligent readers to understand why, though he took to reading far more kindly and honestly than he had ever done before, he made no great advance in the proper studies of the place. Not that he wholly neglected these, for Hardy kept him pretty well up to the collar, and he passed his little go creditably, and was fairly placed at the college examinations. In some of the books which he had to get up for lectures he was genuinely interested. The politics of Athens, the struggle between the Roman plebs and patricians, Mons Sacer and the Agrarian laws--these began to have a new meaning to him, but chiefly because they bore more or less on the great Harry Winburn problem; which problem, indeed, for him had now fairly swelled into the condition-of-England problem, and was becoming every day more and more urgent and importunate, shaking many old beliefs, and leading him whither he knew not. This very matter of leading was a sore trial to him. The further he got on his new road, the more he felt the want of guidance--the guidance of some man; for that of books he soon found to be bewildering. His college tutor, whom he consulted, only deprecated the waste of tune; but on finding it impossible to dissuade him, at last recommended the economic works of that day as the proper well springs of truth on such matters. To them Tom accordingly went, and read with the docility and faith of youth, bent on learning and feeling itself in the presence of men who had, or assumed, the right of speaking with authority. And they spoke to him with authority, and he read on, believing much and hoping more; but somehow they did not really satisfy him, though they silenced him for the time. It was not the fault of the books, most of which laid down clearly enough, that what they professed to teach was the science of man's material interests, and the laws of the making and employment of capital. But this escaped him in his eagerness, and he wandered up and down their pages in search of quite another science, and of laws with which they did not meddle. Nevertheless, here and there they seemed to touch upon what he was in search of. He was much fascinated, for instance, by the doctrine of "the greatest happiness of the greatest number," and for its sake swallowed for a time, though not without wry faces, the dogmas, that self-interest is the true pivot of all social action, that population has a perpetual tendency to outstrip the means of living, and that to establish a preventive check on population is the duty of all good citizens. And so he lived on for some time in a dreary uncomfortable state, fearing for the future of his country, and with little hope about his own. But, when he came to take stock of his newly acquired knowledge, to weigh it and measure it, and found it to consist of a sort of hazy conviction that society would be all right and ready for the millennium, when every man could do what he liked, and nobody could interfere with him, and there should be a law against marriage, the result was more than he could stand. He roused himself and shook himself, and began to think, "Well, these my present teachers are very clever men, and well-meaning men, too. I see all that; but, if their teaching is only to land me here, why it was scarcely worth while going through so much to get so little." Casting about still for guidance, Grey occurred to him. Grey was in residence as a bachelor, attending divinity lectures, and preparing for ordination. He was still working hard at the night-school, and Tom had been there once or twice to help him when the curate was away. In short he was in very good books with Grey, who had got the better of his shyness with him. He saw that Tom was changed and sobered, and in his heart hoped some day to wean him from the pursuits of the body, to which he was still fearfully addicted, and to bring him into the fold. This hope was not altogether unfounded; for, notwithstanding the strong bias against them which Tom had brought with him from school, he was now at times much attracted by many of the High Church doctrines, and the men who professed them. Such men as Grey, he saw, did really believe something, and were in earnest about carrying their beliefs into action. The party might and did comprise many others of the weakest sort, who believed and were in earnest about nothing, but who liked to be peculiar. Nevertheless, while he saw it laying hold of many of the best men of his time, it is not to be wondered at that he was drawn towards it. Some help might lie in these men if he could only get at it! So he propounded his doubts and studies, and their results to Grey. But it was a failure. Grey felt no difficulty or very little, in the whole matter; but Tom found that it was because he believed the world to belong to the devil. "_Laissez faire_," "buying cheap and selling dear," Grey held might be good enough for laws for the world--very probably were. The laws of the Church were "self-sacrifice," and "bearing one another's burdens" her children should come out from the regions where the world's laws were acknowledged. Tom listened, was dazzled at first, and thought he was getting on the right track. But very soon he found that Grey's specific was not of the least use to him. It was no good to tell him of the rules of a society to which he felt that he neither belonged, nor wished to belong, for clearly it could not be the Church of England. He was an outsider! Grey would probably admit it to be so, if he asked him! He had no longing to be anything else, _if_ the Church meant an exclusive body, which took no care of any but its own people, and had nothing to say to the great world in which he and most people had to live, and buying and selling, and hiring and working, had to go on. The close corporation might have very good laws, but they were nothing to him. What he wanted to know about was the law which this great world--the devil's world, as Grey called it--was ruled by, or rather ought to be ruled by. Perhaps, after all, Bentham and the others, whose books he had been reading, might be right! At any rate, it was clear that they had had in their thoughts the same world that he had--the world which included himself and Harry Winburn, and all labourers and squires, and farmers. So he turned to them again, not hopefully, but more inclined to listen to them than he had been before he had spoken to Grey. Hardy was so fully occupied with college lectures and private pupils, that Tom had scruples about taking up much of his spare time in the evenings. Nevertheless, as Grey had broken down, and there was nobody else on whose judgment he could rely who would listen to him, whenever he had a chance he would propound some of his puzzles to his old friend. In some respects he got little help, for Hardy was almost as much at sea as he himself on such subjects as "value," and "wages," and the "laws of supply and demand." But there was an indomitable belief in him that all men's intercourse with one another, and not merely that of Churchmen, must be founded on the principal of "doing as they would be done by," and not on "buying cheap and selling dear," and that these never would or could be reconciled with one another, or mean the same thing, twist them how you would. This faith of his friend's comforted Tom greatly, and he was never tired of bringing it out; but at times he had his doubts whether Grey might not be right--whether, after all, that and the like maxims and principles were meant to be the laws of the kingdoms of this world. He wanted some corroborative evidence on the subject from an impartial and competent witness, and at last hit upon what he wanted. For, one evening, on entering Hardy's rooms, he found him on the last pages of a book, which he shut up with an air of triumph on recognizing his visitor. Taking it up, he thrust it into Tom's hands, and slapping him on the shoulder, said, "There, my boy, that's what we want, or pretty near it at any rate. Now, don't say a word, but go back to your rooms, and swallow it whole and digest it, and then come back and tell me what you think of it." "But I want to talk to you." "I can't talk. I have spent the better part of two days over that book, and have no end of papers to look over. There; get back to your rooms, and do what I tell you, or sit down here and hold your tongue." So Tom sat down and held his tongue, and was soon deep in Carlyle's "Past and Present." How he did revel in it--in the humor, the power, the pathos, but, above all, in the root and branch denunciations of many of the doctrines in which he had been so lately voluntarily and wearily chaining himself! The chains went snapping off one after another, and, in his exultation, he kept spouting out passage after passage in a song of triumph, "Enlightened egoism never so luminous is not the rule by which man's life can be led--_laissez-faire_, supply and demand, cash payment for the sole nexus, and so forth, were not, are not, and never will be, a practical law of union for a society of men," &c., &c., until Hardy fairly got up and turned him out, and he retired with his new-found treasure to his own rooms. He had scarcely ever in his life been so moved by a book before. He laughed over it, and cried over it, and began half a dozen letters to the author to thank him, which he fortunately tore up. He almost forgot Mary for several hours during his first enthusiasm. He had no notion how he had been mastered and oppressed before. He felt as the crew of a small fishing-smack, who are being towed away by an enemy's cruiser, might feel on seeing a frigate with the Union Jack flying, bearing down and opening fire on their captor; or as a small boy at school, who is being fagged against rules by the right of the strongest, feels when he sees his big brother coming around the corner. The help which he had found was just what he wanted. There was no narrowing of the ground here--no appeal to men as members of any exclusive body whatever to separate themselves and come out of the devil's world; but to men as men, to every man as a man--to the weakest and meanest, as well as to the strongest and most noble--telling them that the world is God's world, that everyone of them has a work in it, and bidding them find their work and set about it. The strong tinge of sadness which ran through the whole book, and its unsparing denunciations of the established order of things, suited his own unsettled and restless frame of mind. So he gave himself up to his new bondage, and rejoiced in it, as though he had found at last what he was seeking for; and, by the time that long vacation came round again, to which we are compelled to hurry him, he was filled full of a set of contradictory notions and beliefs, which were destined to astonish and perplex the mind of that worthy J. P. for the county of Berks, Brown the elder, whatever other effect they might have on society at large. Readers must not suppose, however, that our hero had given up his old pursuits; on the contrary, he continued to boat, and cricket, and spar, with as much vigor as ever. His perplexities only made him a little more silent at his pastimes than he used to be. But, as we have already seen him thus employed, and know the ways of the animal in such matters, it is needless to repeat. What we want to do is to follow him into new fields of thought and action, and mark, if it may be, how he develops, and gets himself educated in one way and another; and this plunge into the great sea of social, political, and economical questions is the noticeable fact (so far as any is noticeable) of his second year's residence. During the year he had only very meagre accounts of matters at Englebourn. Katie, indeed, had come round sufficiently to write to him; but she scarcely alluded to her cousin. He only knew that Mary had come out in London, and was much admired; and that the Porters had not taken Barton again, but were going abroad for the autumn and winter. The accounts of Harry were bad; he was still living at Daddy Collins's, nobody knew how, and working gang-work occasionally with the outlaws of the heath. The only fact of importance in the neighborhood had been the death of Squire Wurley, which happened suddenly in the spring. A distant cousin had succeeded him, a young man of Tom's own age. He was also in residence at Oxford, and Tom knew him. They were not very congenial; so he was much astonished when young Wurley, on his return to College, after his relative's funeral, rather sought him out, and seemed to wish to know more of him. The end of it was an invitation to Tom to come to the Grange, and spend a week or so at the beginning of the long vacation. There was to be a party of Oxford men there, and nobody else; and they meant to enjoy themselves thoroughly, Wurley said. Tom felt much embarrassed how to act, and, after some hesitation, told his inviter of his last visit to the mansion in question, thinking that a knowledge of the circumstances might change his mind. But he found that young Wurley knew the facts already; and, in fact, he couldn't help suspecting that his quarrel with the late owner had something to say to his present invitation. However, it did not lie in his mouth to be curious on the subject; and so he accepted the invitation gladly, much delighted at the notion of beginning his vacation so near Englebourn, and having the run of the Grange fishing, which was justly celebrated. CHAPTER XXXVI--THE RIVER SIDE So, from Henley, Tom went home just to see his father and mother and pick up his fishing-gear, and then started for the Grange. On his road thither, he more than once almost made up his mind to go round by Englebourn, get his first interview with Katie over, and find out how the world was really going with Harry and his sweetheart, of whom he had such meagre intelligence of late. But, for some reason or another, when it came to taking the turn to Englebourn, he passed it by, and, contenting himself for the time with a distant view of the village and the Hawk's Lynch, drove straight to the Grange. He had not expected to feel very comfortable at first in the house which he had left the previous autumn in so strange a manner, and he was not disappointed. The rooms reminded him unpleasantly of his passage of arms with the late master, and the grave and portly butler was somewhat embarrassed in his reception of him; while the footman, who carried off his portmanteau, did it with a grin which put him out. The set of men whom he found there were not of his sort. They were young Londoners, and he a thorough countryman. But the sight of the stream by which he took a hearty stroll before dinner made up for everything, and filled him with pleasurable anticipations. He thought he had never seen a sweeter bit of water. The dinner to which the party of young gentlemen sat down was most undeniable. The host talked a little too much, perhaps; under all the circumstances, of _my_ wine, _my_ plate, _my_ mutton, &c., provoking the thought of how long they had been his. But he was bent on hospitality after his fashion, and his guests were not disposed to criticize much. The old butler did not condescend to wait, but brought in a magnum of claret after dinner, carefully nursing it as if it were a baby, and placing it patronizingly before his young master. Before they adjourned to the billiard-room they had disposed of several of the same; but the followers were brought in by a footman, the butler being employed in discussing a bottle of an older vintage with the steward in the still-room. Then came pool, pool, pool, soda-water and brandy, and cigars, into the short hours; but Tom stole away early, having an eye to his morning's fishing, and not feeling much at home with his companions. He was out soon after sunrise the next morning. He never wanted to be called when there was a trout-stream within reach; and his fishing instinct told him that, in these sultry dog-days, there would be little chance of sport when the sun was well up. So he let himself gently out of the hall door--paused a moment on the steps to fill his chest with the fresh morning air, as he glanced at the weathercock over the stables--and then set to work to put his tackle together on the lawn, humming a tune to himself as he selected an insinuating red hackle and alder fly from his well-worn book, and tied them on to his cast. Then he slung his creel over his shoulder, picked up his rod, and started for the water. As he passed the gates of the stable-yard, the keeper came out--a sturdy bullet-headed fellow, in a velveteen coat, and cord breeches and gaiters--and touched his hat. Tom returned the salute, and wished him good morning. "Mornin', sir; you be about early." "Yes; I reckon it's the best time for sport at the end of June." "'Tis so, Sir. Shall I fetch a net, and come along!" "No, thank you, I'll manage the ladle myself. But which do you call the best water?" "They be both middling good. They ain't much odds atwixt 'em. But I see most fish movin' o' mornin's in the deep water down below." "I don't know; the night was too hot," said Tom, who had examined the water the day before, and made up his mind where he was going. "I'm for deep water on cold days; I shall begin with the stickles up above. There's a good head of water on, I suppose?" "Plenty down this last week, sir." "Come along, then; we'll walk together, if you're going that way." So Tom stepped off, brushing through the steaming long grass, gemmed with wild flowers, followed by the keeper; and, as the grasshoppers bounded chirruping out of his way, and the insect life hummed and murmured, and the lark rose and sang above his head, he felt happier than he had done for many a long month. So his heart opened towards his companion, who kept a little behind him. "What size do you take 'em out, keeper?" "Anything over nine inches, sir. But there's a smartish few fish of three pounds, for them as can catch 'em." "Well, that's good; but they ain't easy caught, eh?" "I don't rightly know, sir; but there's gents comes as stands close by the water, and flogs down stream with the sun in their backs, and uses all manner o' vlies, wi' long names; and then they gwoes away, and says, 'tain't no use flying here, 'cas there's so much cadis bait and that like." "Ah, very likely," said Tom, with a chuckle. "The chaps as catches the big fishes, sir," went on the keeper, getting confidential, "is thay cussed night-line poachers. There's one o' thay as has come here this last spring-tide--the artfullest chap as ever I come across, and down to every move on the board. He don't use no shove-nets, nor such-like tackle; not he; I s'pose he don't call that sport. Besides, I got master to stake the whole water, and set old knives and razors about in the holes, but that don't answer; and this joker all'us goes alone--which, in course, he couldn't do with nets. Now, I knows within five or six yards where that chap sets his lines, and I finds 'em, now and again, set the artfullest you ever see. But 'twould take a man's life to look arter him, and I knows he gets, maybe, a dozen big fish a week, do all as I knows." "How is it you can't catch him, keeper?" said Tom, much amused. "Why you see sir, he don't come at any hours. Drat un!" said the keeper, getting hot; "blessed if I don't think he sometimes comes down among the haymakers and folk at noon, and up lines and off, while they chaps does nothing but snigger at un--all I knows is, as I've watched till midnight, and then on again at dawn for'n, and no good come on it but once." "How was that?" "Well, one mornin', sir, about last Lady-day, I comes quite quiet up stream about dawn. When I get's to Farmer Giles's piece (that little rough bit, sir, as you sees t'other side the stream, two fields from our outside bounds), I sees un a stooping down and hauling in's line. 'Now's your time, Billy,' says I, and up the hedge I cuts, hotfoot, to get betwixt he and our bounds. Wether he seen me or not, I can't mind; leastways, when I up's head t'other side the hedge, vorights where I seen him last, there was he a-trotting up stream quite cool, a-pocketing a two-pounder. Then he sees me and away we goes side by side for the bounds--he this side the hedge and I t'other; he takin' the fences like our old greyhound-bitch, Clara. We takes the last fence on to that fuzzy field as you sees there, Sir (parson's glebe and out of our liberty), neck and neck, and I turns short to the left, 'cos there warn't no fence now betwixt he and I. Well, I thought he'd a dodged on about the fuz. Not he; he slouches his hat over's eyes, and stands quite cool by fust fuz bush--I minded then as we was out o' our beat. Hows'ever my blood was up; so I at's him then and there, no words lost, and fetches a crack at's head wi my stick.' He fends wi' his'n; and then, as I rushes in to collar'n, dash'd if 'e didn't meet I full, and catch I by the thigh and collar, and send I slap over's head into a fuz bush. "Then he chuckles fit to bust hisself, and cuts his stick, while I creeps out full o' prickles, and wi' my breeches torn shameful. Dang un!" cried the keeper, while Tom roared, "he's a lissum wosbird, that I 'ool say, but I'll be up sides wi' he next time I sees un. Whorson fool as I was, not to stop and look at 'n and speak to un! Then I should ha' know'd 'n again; and now he med be our parish clerk for all as I know." "And you've never met him since?" "Never sot eye on un, sir, arly or late--wishes I had." "Well, keeper, here's a half crown to go towards mending the hole in your breeches, and better luck at the return match. I shall begin fishing here." "Thank'ee, sir. You keep your cast pretty nigh that there off bank, and you med have a rare good un ther'. I seen a fish suck there just now as warn't spawned this year, nor last nether." And away went the communicative keeper. "Stanch fellow, the keeper," said Tom to himself, as he reeled out yard after yard of his tapered line, and with a gentle sweep dropped his collar of flies lightly on the water, each cast covering another five feet of the dimpling surface. "Good fellow, the keeper--don't mind telling a story against himself--can stand being laughed at--more than master can. Ah, there's the fish he saw sucking, I'll be bound. Now, you beauties, over his nose, and fall light, don't disgrace your bringing up!" and away went the flies quivering through the air and lighting close to the opposite bank, under a bunch of rushes. A slight round eddy flowed below the rushes as the cast came gently back across the current. "Ah, you see them, do you, old boy?" thought Tom. "Say your prayers, then, and get shrived!" and away went the flies again, this time a little below. No movement. The third throw, a great lunge and splash, and the next moment the lithe rod bent double, and the gut collar spun along, cutting through the water like mad. Up goes the great fish twice into the air, Tom giving him the point; then up stream again, Tom giving him the butt, and beginning to reel up gently. Down goes the great fish into the swaying weeds, working with his tail like a twelve-horse screw. "If I can only get my nose to ground," thinks he. So thinks Tom, and trusts to his tackle, keeping a steady strain on trouty, and creeping gently down stream. "No go," says the fish as he feels his nose steadily hauled round, and turns a swirl downstream. Away goes Tom, reeling in, and away goes the fish in hopes of a slack--away, for twenty or thirty yards--the fish coming to the top lazily, and again, and holding on to get his second wind. Now a cart track crosses the stream, no weeds, and shallow water at the side. "Here we must have it out," thinks Tom, and turns fish's nose up stream again. The big fish gets sulky, twice drifts towards the shallow, and twice plunges away at the sight of his enemy into the deep water. The third time he comes swaying in, his yellow side gleaming and his mouth open; and, the next moment Tom scoops him out onto the grass, with a "whoop" that might have been heard at the house. "Two pounder, if he's an ounce," says Tom, as he gives him the _coup de grace_, and lays him out lovingly on the fresh green sward. Who amongst you, dear readers, can appreciate the intense delight of grassing your first big fish after a nine month's fast? All first sensations have their special pleasure; but none can be named, in a small way, to beat this of the first fish of the season. The first clean leg-hit for four in your first match at Lord's--the grating of the bows of your racing boat against the stern of the boat ahead in your first race--the first half-mile of a burst from the cover side in November, when the hounds in the field ahead may be covered with a table-cloth, and no one but the huntsman and a top sawyer or two lies between you and them--the first brief after your call to the bar, if it comes within the year--the sensations produced by these are the same in kind; but cricket, boating, getting briefs, even hunting lose their edge as time goes on. As to lady readers, it is impossible, probably, to give them an idea of the sensation in question. Perhaps some may have experienced something of the kind at their first balls, when they heard whispers and saw all eyes turning their way, and knew that their dresses and gloves fitted perfectly. But this joy can be felt but once in a life, and the first fish comes back as fresh as ever, or ought to come, if all men had their rights, once in a season. So, good luck to the gentle craft, and its professors, may the Fates send us much into their company! The trout fisher, like the landscape painter, haunts the loveliest places of the earth, and haunts them alone. Solitude and his own thoughts--he must be on the best terms with all of these; and he who can take kindly the largest allowance of these is likely to be the kindliest and truest with his fellow men. Tom had splendid sport that summer morning. As the great sun rose higher, the light morning breeze, which had curled the water, died away; the light mist drew up into light cloud, and the light cloud vanished, into cloudland, for anything I know; and still the fish rose, strange to say, though Tom felt it was an affair of minutes, and acted accordingly. At eight o'clock he was about a quarter of a mile from the house, at a point in the stream of rare charms both for the angler and the lover of gentle river beauty. The main stream was crossed by a lock, formed of a solid brick bridge with no parapets, under which the water rushed through four small arches, each of which could be closed in an instant by letting down a heavy wooden lock gate, fitted in grooves on the upper side of the bridge. Such locks are frequent in the west-country streams--even at long distances from mills and millers, for whose behoof they were made in old days, that the supply of water to the mill might be easily regulated. All pious anglers should bless the memories of the old builders of them, for they are the very paradises of the great trout, who frequent the old brickwork and timber foundations. The water in its rush through the arches, had of course worked for itself a deep hole, and then, some twenty yards below, spread itself out in wanton joyous ripples and eddies over a broad surface some fifty yards across, and dashed away towards a little island some two hundred yards below, or rolled itself slowly back towards the bridge again, up the backwater by the side of the bank, as if longing for another merry rush through one of those narrow arches. The island below was crowned with splendid alders, willows forty feet high, which wept into the water, and two or three poplars; a rich mile of water meadow, with an occasional willow or alder, lay gleaming beyond; and the view was bounded by a glorious wood, which crowned the gentle slope, at the foot of which the river ran. Another considerable body of water, which had been carried off above from the main stream to flush the water meadows, joined its parent at this point; it came slowly down a broad artificial ditch running parallel with the main stream; and the narrow strip of land which divided the two streams ended abruptly just below the lock, forming a splendid point for bather or angler. Tom had fixed on this pool as his _bonne bouche_, as a child keeps its plums till the last, and stole over the bridge, stooping low to gain the point indicated. Having gained it, he glanced round to be aware of the dwarf ash-trees and willows which were scattered along the strip, and might catch heedless collars and spoil sport, when, lying lazily almost on the surface where the backwater met the stream from the meadows, he beheld the great grandfather of all trout, a fellow two feet long and a foot in girth at the shoulders, just moving fin enough to keep him from turning over on to his back. He threw himself flat on the ground and crept away to the other side of the strip; the king fish had not seen him; and the next moment Tom saw him suck in a bee, laden with his morning's load of honey, who touched the water unwarily close to his nose. With trembling hand, Tom took off his tail fly, and, on his knee, substituted a governor; then shortening his line, after wetting his mimic bee in the pool behind him, tossed it gently into the monster's very jaws. For a moment the fish seemed scared, but the next, conscious in his strength, lifted his nose slowly to the surface and sucked in the bait. Tom struck gently, and then sprang to his feet. But the Heavens had other work for the king fish, who dived swiftly under the bank; a slight jar followed, and Tom's rod was straight over his head, the line and scarcely a yard of his trusty gut collar dangling about his face. He seized this remnant with horror and unsatisfied longing, and examined it with care. Could he have overlooked any fraying which the gut might have got in the morning's work? No; he had gone over every inch of it not five minutes before, as he neared the pool. Besides it was cut clean through, not a trace of bruise or fray about it. How could it have happened? He went to the spot and looked into the water; it was slightly discolored and he could not see the bottom. He threw his fishing coat off, rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and, lying on his side, felt about the bank and tried to reach the bottom but couldn't. So, hearing the half-hour bell ring, he deferred further inquiry, and stripped in silent disgust for a plunge in the pool. Three times he hurled himself into the delicious rush of the cold chalk stream, with that utter abandon in which man, whose bones are brittle, can only indulge when there are six or seven feet of water between him and mother earth; and, letting the stream bear him away at its own sweet will to the shallows below, struck up again through the rush and the roar to his plunging place. Then, slowly and luxuriously dressing, he lit his short pipe--companion of meditation--and began to ruminate on the escape of the king fish. What could have cut his collar? The more he thought, the less he could make it out. When suddenly he was aware of the keeper on his way back to the house for orders and breakfast. "What sport, sir?" "Pretty fair," said Tom, carelessly, lugging five plump speckled fellows, weighing some seven and a half pounds, out of his creel, and laying them out for the keeper's inspection. "Well, they be in prime order, sir, surely," says the keeper, handling them; "they allus gets mortal thick across the shoulders while the May-fly be on. Loose any sir?" "I put in some little ones up above, and lost one screamer just up the black ditch there. He must have been a four-pounder, and went off, and be hanged to him, with two yards of my collar and a couple of first-rate flies. How on earth he got off I can't tell!" and he went on to unfold the particulars of the short struggle. The keeper could hardly keep down a grin. "Ah, sir," said he, "I thinks I knows what spwiled your sport. You owes it all to that chap as I was a telling you of, or my name's not Willum Goddard;" and then, fishing the lockpole with a hook at the end of it out of the rushes, he began groping under the bank, and presently hauled up a sort of infernal machine, consisting of a heavy lump of wood, a yard or so long, in which were carefully inserted the blades of four or five old knives and razors, while a crop of rusty jagged nails filled up the spare space. Tom looked at it in wonder. "What devil's work have you got hold of there?" he said at last. "Bless you, sir," said the keeper, "'tis only our shove net traps as I was a telling you of. I keeps hard upon a dozen on 'em and shifts 'em about in the likeliest holes; and I takes care to let the men as is about the water meadows see me a-sharpening on 'em up a bit wi' a file, now and again. And since master gev me orders to put 'em in, I don't think they tries that game on not once a month." "Well but where do you and your master expect to go to if you set such things as those about?" said Tom, looking serious. "Why, you'll be cutting some fellow's hand or foot half off one of these days. Suppose I'd waded up the bank to see what had become of my cast?" "Lor', sir, I never thought o' that," said the keeper, looking sheepish and lifting the back of his short hat off his head to make room for a scratch; "but," added he turning the subject, "if you wants to keep they artful wosbirds off the water, you must frighten 'em wi' summat out o' the way. Drattle 'em, I knows they puts me to my wit's end; but you'd never 'a had five such fish as them afore breakfast, sir, if we didn't stake the waters." "Well, and I don't want 'em if I can't get 'em without. I'll tell you what it is, keeper, this razor business is going a bit too far; men ain't to be maimed for liking a bit of sport. You set spring-guns in the woods, and you know what that came to. Why don't you, or one of your watchers, stop out here at night, and catch the fellows, like men? "Why, you see, sir, master don't allow me but one watcher and he's mortal feared o' the water, he be, specially o' nights. He'd sooner by half stop up in the woods. Daddy Collins (that's an old woman as lives on the heath, sir, and a bad sort she be, too) well, she told him once, when he wouldn't gee her some baccy as he'd got, and she'd a mind to, as he'd fall twice into the water for once as he'd get out; and th' poor chap ever since can't think but what he'll be drownded. And there's queer sights and sounds by the river o' nights, too, I 'ool say, sir, let alone the white mist, as makes everything look unket, and gives a chap the rheumatics." "Well, but _you_ ain't afraid of ghosts and rheumatism?" "No, I don't know as I be, sir. But then there's the pheasants a-breedin', and there's four brood of flappers in the withey bed, and a sight of young hares in the spinneys. I be hard put to to mind it all." "I daresay you are," said Tom, putting on his coat and shouldering his rod; "I've a good mind to take a turn at it myself, to help you, if you'll only drop those razors." "I wishes you would, sir," said the keeper, from behind; "if genl'men'd sometimes take a watch at nights, they'd find out as keepers hadn't all fair weather work, I'll warrant, if they're to keep a good head o' game about a place. 'Taint all popping off guns, and lunching under hayricks, I can tell 'em--no, nor half on it." "Where do you think, now, this fellow we are talking of sells his fish?" said Tom, after a minute's thought. "Mostly at Reading Market, I hears tell, sir. There's the guard of the mail, as goes by the cross-roads three days a week, he wur a rare poaching chap hisself down in the west afore he got his place along of his bugle-playing. They do say as he's open to any game, he is, from a buck to a snipe, and drives a trade all down the road with the country chaps. "What day is Reading Market?" "Tuesdays and Saturdays, sir." "And what time does the mail go by?" "Six o'clock in the morning, sir, at the cross-roads." "And they're three miles off, across the fields?" "Thereabouts, sir. I reckons it about a forty minutes' stretch, and no time lost." "There'll be no more big fish caught on the fly to-day," said Tom, after a minute's silence, as they neared the house. The wind had fallen dead, and not a spot of cloud in the sky. "Not afore nightfall, I think, sir;" and the keeper disappeared towards the offices. CHAPTER XXXVII--THE NIGHT WATCH "You may do as you please, but I'm going to see it out." "No, but I say do come along; that's a good, fellow." "Not I; why, we've only just come out. Didn't you hear? Wurley dared me to do a night's watching, and I said I meant to do it." "Yes; so did I. But we can change our minds. What's the good of having a mind if you can't change it! [Greek text] ai denterai poz phrontidez sophoterai--isn't that good Greek and good sense?" "I don't see it. They'll only laugh and sneer if we go back now." "They'll laugh at us twice as much if we don't. Fancy they're just beginning pool now, on that stunning table. Come along, Brown; don't miss your chance. We shall be sure to divide the pools, as we've missed the claret. Cool hands and cool heads, you know. Green on brown, pink your player in hand! That's a good deal pleasanter than squatting here all night on the damp grass." "Very likely." "But you won't? Now, do be reasonable. Will you come if I stop with you another half-hour?" "No." "An hour then? Say till ten o'clock?" "If I went at all I would go at once." "Then you won't come?" "No." "I'll bet you a sovereign you never see a poacher, and then how sad you will be in the morning! It will be much worse coming in to breakfast with empty hands and a cold in the head, than going in now. They will chaff then, I grant you." "Well, then, they may chaff and be hanged, for I shan't go in now." Tom's interlocutor put his hands in the pockets of his heather mixture shooting coat, and took a turn or two of some dozen yards, backwards and forwards above the place where our hero was sitting. He didn't like going in and facing the pool players by himself; so he stopped once more and reopened the conversation. "What do you want to do by watching all night, Brown?" "To show the keeper and those fellows indoors that I mean what I say. I said I'd do it, and I will." "You don't want to catch a poacher, then?" "I don't much care; I'll catch one if he comes in my way--or try it on, at any rate." "I say, Brown, I like that; as if you don't poach yourself. Why, I remember when the Whiteham keeper spent the best part of a week outside the college gates, on the lookout for you and Drysdale and some other fellows." "What has that to do with it?" "Why, you ought to have more fellow-feeling. I suppose you go on the principle of set a thief to catch a thief?" Tom made no answer, and his companion went on. "Come along, now, like a good fellow. If you'll come in now, we can come out again all fresh, when the rest go to bed." "Not we. I sha'n't go in. But you can come out again if you like; you'll find me hereabouts." The man in the heather mixture had now shot his last bolt, and took himself off to the house, leaving Tom by the riverside. How they got there may be told in a few words. After his morning's fishing, and conversation with the keeper, he had gone in full of his subject and propounded it at the breakfast table. His strictures on the knife and razor business produced a rather warm discussion, which merged in the question whether a keeper's life was a hard one, till something was said implying that Wurley's men were overworked. The master took this in high dudgeon, and words ran high. In the discussion, Tom remarked (apropos of night-work) that he would never ask another man to do what he would not do himself; which sentiment was endorsed by, amongst others, the man in the heather mixture. The host had retorted, that they had better in that case try it themselves; which remark had the effect of making Tom resolve to cut short his visit, and in the meantime had brought him and his ally to the river side on the night in question. The first hour, as we have seen, had been enough for the ally; and so Tom was left in company with a plaid, a stick, and a pipe, to spend the night by himself. It was by no means the first night he had spent in the open air, and promised to be a pleasant one for camping out. It was almost the longest day in the year, and the weather was magnificent. There was yet an hour of daylight, and the place he had chosen was just the right one for enjoying the evening. He was sitting under one of a clump of huge old alders, growing on the thin strip of land already noticed, which divided the main stream from the deep artificial ditch which fed the water-meadows. On his left the emerald-green meadows stretched away till they met the inclosed corn-land. On his right ran the main stream, some fifty feet in breadth at this point; on the opposite side of which was a rough piece of ground, half withey-bed, half copse, with a rank growth of rushes at the water's edge. These were the chosen haunts of the moor-hen and water-rat, whose tracks could be seen by dozens, like small open doorways, looking out on to the river, through which ran a number of mysterious little paths into the rush-wilderness beyond. The sun was now going down behind the copse, through which his beams came aslant, chequered and mellow. The stream ran dimpling by him, sleepily swaying the masses of weed, under the surface and on the surface; and the trout rose under the banks, as some moth or gnat or gleaming beetle fell into the stream; here and there one more frolicsome than his brethren would throw himself joyously into the air. The swifts rushed close by him, in companies of five or six, and wheeled, and screamed, and dashed away again, skimming along the water, baffling his eye as he tried to follow their flight. Two kingfishers shot suddenly up on to their supper station, on a stunted willow stump, some twenty yards below him, and sat there in the glory of their blue backs and cloudy red waistcoats, watching with long sagacious beaks pointed to the water beneath, and every now and then dropping like flashes of light into the stream, and rising again, with what seemed one motion, to their perches. A heron or two were fishing about the meadows; and he watched them stalking about in their sober quaker coats, or rising on slow heavy wing, and lumbering away home with a weird cry. He heard the strong pinions of the wood pigeon in the air, and then from the trees above his head came the soft call, "Take-two-cow-Taffy, take-two-cow-Taffy," with which that fair and false bird is said to have beguilled the hapless Welchman to the gallows. Presently, as he lay motionless, the timid and graceful little water-hens peered out from their doors in the rushes opposite, and, seeing no cause for fear, stepped daintily into the water, and were suddenly surrounded by little bundles of black soft down, which went paddling about in and out of the weeds, encouraged by the occasional sharp, clear, parental "keck-keck," and merry little dabchicks popped up in mid-stream, and looked round, and nodded at him, pert and voiceless, and dived again; even old cunning water-rats sat up on the bank with round black noses and gleaming eyes, or took solemn swims out, and turned up their tails and disappeared for his amusement. A comfortable low came at intervals from the cattle, revelling in the abundant herbage. All living things seemed to be disporting themselves, and enjoying, after their kind, the last gleams of the sunset, which were making the whole vault of heaven glow and shimmer; and, as he watched them, Tom blessed his stars as he contrasted the river-side with the glare of lamps and the click of balls in the noisy pool room. Before it got dark he bethought him of making sure of his position once more; matters might have changed since he chose it before dinner. With all that he could extract from the keeper, and his own experience in such matters, it had taken him several hours' hunting up and down the river that afternoon before he had hit on a night-line. But he had persevered, knowing that this was the only safe evidence to start from, and at last had found several, so cunningly set that it was clear that it was a first-rate artist in the poaching line against whom he had pitted himself. These lines must have been laid almost under his nose on that very day, as the freshness of the baits proved. The one which he had selected to watch by was under the bank, within a few yards of the clump of alders where he was now sitting. There was no satisfactory cover near the others; so he had chosen this one, where he would be perfectly concealed behind the nearest trunk from any person who might come in due time to take up the line. With this view, then, he got up, and, stepping carefully on the thickest grass where his foot would leave no mark, went to the bank, and felt with the hook of his stick after the line. It was all right, and he returned to his old seat. And then the summer twilight came on, and the birds disappeared, and the hush of night settled down on river, and copse, and meadow--cool and gentle summer twilight after the hot bright day. He welcomed it too, as it folded up the landscape, and the trees lost their outline, and settled into soft black masses rising here and there out of the white mist, which seemed to have crept up to within a few yards all round him unawares. There was no sound now but the gentle murmur of the water and an occasional rustle of reeds, or of the leaves over his head, as a stray wandering puff of air passed through them on its way home to bed. Nothing to listen to and nothing to look at; for the moon had not risen, and the light mist hid everything except a star or two right up above him. So, the outside world having left him for the present, he was turned inwards on himself. This was all very well at first; and he wrapped the plaid round his shoulders and leant against his tree, and indulged in a little self-gratulation. There was something of strangeness and adventure in his solitary night-watch, which had its charm for a youngster of twenty-one; and the consciousness of not running from his word, of doing what he had said he would do, while others shirked and broke down, was decidedly pleasant. But this satisfaction did not last very long, and the night began to get a little wearisome, and too cool to be quite comfortable. By degrees, doubts as to the wisdom of his self-imposed task crept into his head. He dismissed them for a time by turning his thoughts to other matters. The neighbourhood of Englebourn, some two miles up above him, reminded him of the previous summer; and he wondered how he should get on with his cousin when they met. He should probably see her the next day, for he would lose no time in calling. Would she receive him well? Would she have much to tell him about Mary? He had been more hopeful on this subject of late, but the loneliness, the utter solitude and silence of his position as he sat there in the misty night, away from all human habitations, was not favorable somehow to hopefulness. He found himself getting dreary and sombre in heart--more and more so as the minutes rolled on, and the silence and loneliness pressed on him more and more heavily. He was surprised at his own down-heartedness, and tried to remember how he had spent former nights so pleasantly out of doors. Ah, he had always had a companion within call, and something to do--cray fishing, bat fowling, or something of the kind! Sitting there doing nothing, he fancied, must make it so heavy to-night. By a strong effort of will he shook off the oppression. He moved, and hummed a tune to break the silence; he got up and walked up and down, lest it should again master him. If wind, storm, pouring rain, anything to make sound or movement, would but come! But neither of them came, and there was little help in sound or movement made by himself. Besides it occurred to him that much walking up and down might defeat the object of his watch. No one would come near while he was on the move; and he was probably making marks already which might catch the eye of the setter of the nightlines at some distance, if that cunning party waited for the morning light, and might keep him away from the place altogether. So he sat down again on his old seat, and leant hard against the alder trunk, as though to steady himself, and keep all troublesome thoughts well in front of him. In this attitude of defense he reasoned with himself on the absurdity of allowing himself to be depressed by the mere accidents of place, and darkness, and silence; but all the reasoning at his command didn't alter the fact. He felt the enemy advancing again, and, casting, about for help, fell back on the thought that he was going through a task, holding to his word, doing what he had said he would do; and this brought him some relief for the moment, He fixed his mind steadily on this task of his; but alas, here again in his very last stronghold, the enemy began to turn his flank, and the position every minute became more and more untenable. He had of late fallen into a pestilent habit of cross-questioning himself on anything which he was about--setting up himself like a cock at Shrovetide, and pelting himself with inexorable "whys?" and "wherefores?" A pestilent habit truly he had found it, and one which left a man no peace of his life--a relentless, sleepless habit, always ready to take advantage of him, but never so viciously alert, that he remembered, as on this night. And so this questioning self, which would never be denied for long, began to examine him, as to his proposed night's work. This precious task, which he was so proud of going through with, on the score of which he had been in his heart crowing over others, because they had not taken it on them, or had let it drop, what then was the meaning of it? "What was he out there for? What had he come out to do?" They were awkward questions. He tried several answers and was driven from one to another till he was bound to admit that he was out there that night partly out of pique, and partly out of pride; and that his object (next to earning the pleasure of thinking himself a better man than his neighbours) was, if so be, to catch a poacher. "To catch a poacher? What business had he to be catching poachers? If all poachers were to be caught, he would have to be caught himself." He had just had an unpleasant reminder of this fact from him of the heather mixture--a Parthian remark which he had thrown over his shoulder as he went off, and which had stuck. "But then," Tom argued, "it was a very different thing, his poaching--going out for a day's lark after game, which he didn't care a straw for, but only for the sport--and that of men making a trade of it, like the man the keeper spoke of." "Why? How different? If there were any difference, was it one in his favour?" Avoiding this suggestion, he took up new ground, "Poachers were always the greatest blackguards in their neighbourhoods, pests of society, and ought to be put down." "Possibly--at any rate he had been one of the fraternity in his time, and was scarcely the man to be casting stones at them." "But his poaching had always been done thoughtlessly. How did he know that others had worse motives?" And so he went on, tossing the matter backwards and forwards in his mind, and getting more and more uncomfortable, and unable to answer to his own satisfaction the simple question, "What right have you to be out here on this errand?" He got up a second time and walked up and down, but with no better success than before. The change of position, and exercise, did not help him out of his difficulties. And now he got a step further. If he had no right to be there, hadn't he better go up to the house and say so, and go to bed like the rest? No, his pride couldn't stand that. But if he couldn't go in, he might turn in to a barn or outhouse, nobody would be any the wiser then, and after all he was not pledged to stop on one spot all night? It was a tempting suggestion, and he was very near yielding to it at once. While he wavered, a new set of thoughts came up to back it. How, if he stayed there, and a gang of night-poachers came? He knew that many of them were desperate men. He had no arms; what could he do against them? Nothing; but he might be maimed for life in a night row which he had no business to be in--murdered, perhaps. He stood still and listened long and painfully. Every moment, as he listened, the silence mastered him more and more, and his reason became more and more powerless. It was such a silence--a great illimitable, vague silence? The silence of a deserted house where he could at least have felt that he was bounded somewhere, by wall, and floor, and roof--where men must have lived and worked once, though they might be there no longer--would have been nothing; but this silence of the huge, wide out-of-doors world, where there was nothing but air and space around and above him, and the ground beneath, it was getting irksome, intolerable, awful! The great silence seemed to be saying to him, "You are alone, alone, alone!" and he had never known before what horror lurked in that thought. Every moment that he stood still the spell grew stronger on him, and yet he dared not move; and a strange, wild feeling of fear--unmistakable physical fear, which made his heart beat and his limbs tremble--seized on him. He was ready to cry out, to fall down, to run, and yet there he stood listening, still and motionless. The critical moment in all panics must come at last. A wild and grewsome hissing and snoring, which seemed to come from the air just over his head, made him start and spring forward, and gave him the use of his limbs again at any rate, though they would not have been worth much to him had the ghost or hobgoblin appeared whom he half expected to see the next moment. Then came a screech, which seemed to flit along the rough meadow opposite, and come towards him. He drew a long breath, for he knew that sound well enough; it was nothing after all but the owls. The mere realized consciousness of the presence of some living creatures, were they only owls, brought him to his senses. And now the moon was well up, and the wayward mist had cleared away, and he could catch glimpses of the solemn birds every now and then, beating over the rough meadow backwards and forwards, and over the shallow water as regularly as trained pointers. He threw himself down again under his tree, and now bethought himself of his pipe. Here was a companion which, wonderful to say, he had not thought of before since the night set in. He pulled it out, but paused before lighting. Nothing was so likely to betray his whereabouts as tobacco. True, but anything was better than such another fright as he had had, "so here goes," he thought, "if I keep off all the poachers in Berkshire;" and he accordingly lighted up, and, with the help of his pipe, once more debated with himself the question of beating a retreat. After a sharp inward struggle, he concluded to stay and see it out. He should despise himself, more than he cared to face, if he gave in now. If he left that spot before morning, the motive would be sheer cowardice. There might be fifty other good reasons for going; but, if he went, _his_ reason would be fear and nothing else. It might have been wrong and foolish to come out; it must be to go in now. "Fear never made a man do a right action," he summed up to himself; "so here I stop, come what may of it. I think I've seen the worst of it now. I was in a real blue funk, and no mistake. Let's see, wasn't I laughing this morning at the watcher who didn't like passing a night by the river? Well, he has got the laugh on me now, if he only knew it. I've learnt one lesson to-night at any rate; I don't think I shall ever be very hard on cowards again." By the time he had finished his pipe, he was a man again, and, moreover, notwithstanding the damp, began to feel sleepy, now that his mind was thoroughly made up, and his nerves were quiet. So he made the best of his plaid, and picked a softish place, and went off into a sort of dog-sleep, which lasted at intervals through the short summer night. A poor thin sort of sleep it was, in which he never altogether lost his consciousness, and broken by short intervals of actual wakefulness, but a blessed release from the self-questionings and panics of the early night. He woke at last with a shiver. It was colder than he had yet felt it, and it seemed lighter. He stretched his half-torpid limbs, and sat up. Yes, it was certainly getting light, for he could just make out the figures on the face of his watch which he pulled out. The dawn was almost upon him, and his night watch was over. Nothing had come of it as yet, except his fright, at which he could now laugh comfortably enough; probably nothing more might come of it after all, but he had done the task he had set himself without flinching, and that was a satisfaction. He wound up his watch, which he had forgotten to do the night before, and then stood up, and threw his damp plaid aside, and swung his arm across his chest to restore circulation. The crescent moon was high up in the sky, faint and white, and he could scarcely now make out the stars which were fading out as the glow in the north-east got stronger and broader. Forgetting for a moment the purpose of his vigil, he was thinking of a long morning's fishing, and had turned to pick up his plaid and go off to the house for his fishing-rod, when he thought he heard the sound of dry wood snapping. He listened intently; and the next moment it came again, some way off, but plainly to be heard in the intense stillness of the morning. Some living thing was moving down the stream. Another moment's listening and he was convinced that the sound came from a hedge some hundred yards below. He had noticed the hedge before; the keeper had stopped up a gap in it the day before, at the place where it came down to the water, with some old hurdles and dry thorns. He drew himself up behind his alder, looking out from behind it cautiously towards the point from which the sound came. He could just make out the hedge through the mist, but saw nothing. But now the crackling began again, and he was sure that a man was forcing his way over the keeper's barricade. A moment afterwards he saw a figure drop from the hedge into the slip in which he stood. He drew back his head hastily, and his heart beat like a hammer as he waited the approach of the stranger. In a few seconds the suspense was too much for him, for again there was perfect silence. He peered out a second time cautiously round the tree, and now he could make out the figure of a man stopping by the water-side just above the hedge, and drawing in a line. This was enough, and he drew back again, and made himself small behind the tree; now he was sure that the keeper's enemy, the man he had come out to take, was here! His next halt would be at the line which was set within a few yards of the place where he stood. So the struggle which he had courted was come! All his doubts of the night wrestled in his mind for a minute; but forcing them down, he strung himself up for the encounter, his whole frame trembling with excitement, and his blood tingling through his veins as though it would burst them. The next minute was as severe a trial of nerve as he had ever been put to, and the sound of a stealthy tread on the grass just below came to him as a relief. It stopped, and he heard the man stoop, then came a stir in the water, and the flapping as of a fish being landed. Now was his time! He sprang from behind the tree, and, the next moment, was over the stooping figure of the poacher. Before he could seize him the man sprung up, and grappled with him. They had come to a tight lock at once, for the poacher had risen so close under him that he could not catch his collar and hold him off. Too close to strike, it was a desperate trial of strength and bottom. Tom knew in a moment that he had his work cut out for him. He felt the nervous power of the frame he had got hold of as he drove his chin into the poacher's shoulder, and arched his back, and strained every muscle in his body to force him backwards, but in vain. It was all he could do to hold his own; but he felt that he might hold it yet, as they staggered on the brink of the back ditch, stamping the grass and marsh marigolds into the ground, and drawing deep breath through their set teeth. A slip, a false foot-hold, a failing muscle, and it would be over; down they must go-who would be uppermost? The poacher had trod on a soft place and Tom felt it, and, throwing himself forward, was reckoning on victory, but reckoning without his host. For, recovering himself with a twist of the body which brought them still closer together, the poacher locked his leg behind Tom's in a crook which brought the wrestlings of his boyhood into his head with a flash, as they tottered for another moment, and then losing balance, went headlong over with a heavy plunge and splash into the deep back ditch, locked in each other's arms. The cold water closed over them, and for a moment Tom held as tight as ever. Under or above the surface it was all the same, he couldn't give in first. But a gulp of water, and the singing in his ears, and a feeling of choking, brought him to his senses, helped too, by the thought of his mother and Mary, and love of the pleasant world up above. The folly and uselessness of being drowned in a ditch on a point of honor stood out before him as clearly as if he had been thinking of nothing else all his life; and he let go his hold--much relieved to find that his companion of the bath seemed equally willing to be quit of him--and struggled to the surface, and seized the bank, gasping and exhausted. His first thought was to turn round and look for his adversary. The poacher was by the bank too, a few feet from him. His cap had fallen off in the struggle, and, all chance of concealment being over, he too had turned to face the matter out, and their eyes met. "Good God! Harry! is it you?" Harry Winburn answered nothing; and the two dragged their feet out of the muddy bottom, and scrambled on to the bank, and then with a sort of common instinct sat down, dripping and foolish, each on the place he had reached, and looked at one another. Probably two more thoroughly bewildered lieges of her Majesty were not at that moment facing one another in any corner of the United Kingdom. CHAPTER XXXVIII--MARY IN MAYFAIR On the night which our hero spent by the side of the river, with the results detailed in the last chapter, there was a great ball in Brook-street, Mayfair. It was the height of the season, and of course, balls, concerts, and parties of all kinds were going on in all parts of the Great Babylon, but the entertainment in question was _the_ event of that evening. Persons behind the scenes would have told you at once, had you happened to meet them, and enquire on the subject during the previous ten days, that Brook-street was the place in which everybody who went anywhere ought to spend some hours between eleven and three on this particular evening. If you did not happen to be going there, you had better stay quietly at your club, or your home, and not speak of your engagements for that night. A great awning had sprung up in the course of the day over the pavement in front of the door, and as the evening closed in, tired lawyers and merchants, on their return from the City, and the riders and drivers on their way home from the park, might have seen Holland's men laying red drugget over the pavement, and Gunter's carts coming and going, and the police "moving on" the street boys and servant maids, and other curious members of the masses, who paused to stare at the preparations. Then came the lighting up of the rooms, and the blaze of pure white light from the uncurtained ballroom windows spread into the street, and the musicians passed in with their instruments. Then, after a short pause, the carriages of a few intimate friends, who came early at the hostess's express desire, began to drive up, and the Hansom cabs of the contemporaries of the eldest son, from which issued guardsmen and Foreign-office men, and other dancing-youth of the most approved description. Then the crowd collected again round the door--a sadder crowd now to the eye of anyone who has time to look at it; with sallow, haggard looking men here and there on the skirts of it, and tawdry women joking and pushing to the front, through the powdered footmen, and linkmen in red waistcoats, already clamorous and redolent of gin and beer, and scarcely kept back by the half-dozen constables of the A division, told off for the special duty of attending and keeping order on so important an occasion. Then comes a rush of carriages, and by eleven o'clock the line stretches away half round Grosvenor Square, and moves at a foot's-pace towards the lights, and the music, and the shouting street. In the middle of the line is the comfortable chariot of our friend Mr. Porter--the corners occupied by himself and his wife, while Miss Mary sits well forward between them, her white muslin dress looped up with sprigs of heather spread delicately on either side over their knees, and herself in a pleasant tremor of impatience and excitement. "How very slow Robert is to-day, mamma! We shall never get to the house." "He can not get on faster, my dear. The carriage in front of us must set down you know." "But I wish they would be quicker. I wonder whether we shall know many people? Do you think I shall get partners?" Not waiting for her mother's reply, she went on to name some of her acquaintance who she knew would be there, and bewailing the hard fate which was keeping her out of the first dances. Mary's excitement and impatience were natural enough. The ball was not like most balls. It was a great battle in the midst of the skirmishes of the season, and she felt the greatness of the occasion. Mr. and Mrs. Porter had for years past dropped into a quiet sort of dinner-giving life, in which they saw few but their own friends and contemporaries. They generally left London before the season was at its height, and had altogether fallen out of the ball-giving and party going world. Mary's coming out had changed their way of life. For her sake they had spent the winter at Rome, and, now that they were at home again, they were picking up the threads of old acquaintance, and encountering the disagreeables of a return into habits long disused and almost forgotten. The giver of the ball was a stirring man in political life, rich, clever, well-connected, and much sought after. He was an old school-fellow of Mr. Porter's, and their intimacy had never been wholly laid aside, notwithstanding the severance of their paths in life. Now that Mary must be taken out, the Brook-street house was one of the first to which the Porters turned, and the invitation to this ball was one of the first consequences. If the truth must be told, neither her father nor mother were in sympathy with Mary as they gradually neared the place of setting down, and would far rather have been going to a much less imposing place, where they could have driven up at once to the door, and would not have been made uncomfortable by the shoutings of their names from servant to servant. However, after the first plunge, when they had made their bows to their kind and smiling hostess, and had passed on into the already well filled rooms, their shyness began to wear off, and they could in some sort enjoy the beauty of the sight from a quiet corner. They were not long troubled with Miss Mary. She had not been in the ball-room two minutes before the eldest son of the house had found her out and engaged her for the next waltz. They had met several times already, and were on the best terms; and the freshness and brightness of her look and manner, and the evident enjoyment of her partner, as they laughed and talked together in the intervals of the dance, soon attracted the attention of the young men, who began to ask one another, "Who is Norman dancing with?" and to ejaculate with various strength, according to their several temperaments, as to her face, and figure, and dress. As they were returning towards Mrs. Porter, Norman was pulled by the sleeve more than once, and begged to be allowed to introduce first one and then another of his friends. Mary gave herself up to the fascination of the scene. She had never been in rooms so perfectly lighted, with such a floor, such exquisite music, and so many pretty and well-bred looking people, and she gave herself up to enjoy it with all her heart and soul, and danced and laughed and talked herself into the good graces of partner after partner, till she began to attract the notice of some of the ill-natured people who are to be found in every room, and who cannot pardon the pure, and buoyant, and unsuspecting mirth which carries away all but themselves in its bright stream. So Mary passed on from one partner to another, with whom we have no concern, until at last a young lieutenant in the guards who had just finished his second dance with her, led up a friend whom he begged to introduce. "Miss Porter--Mr. St. Cloud;" and then after the usual preliminaries, Mary left her mother's side again and stood up by the side of her new partner. "It is your first season I believe, Miss Porter?" "Yes, my first in London." "I thought so; and you have only just come to town?" "We came back from Rome six weeks ago, and have been in town ever since." "But I am sure I have not seen you anywhere this season until to-night. You have not been out much yet?" "Yes, indeed. Papa and mamma are very good-natured, and go whenever we are asked to a ball, as I am fond of dancing." "How very odd! and yet I am quite sure I should have remembered it if we had met before in town this year." "Is it so very odd?" asked Mary, laughing; "London is a very large place; it seems very natural that two people should be able to live in it for a long time without meeting." "Indeed, you are quite mistaken. You will find out very soon how small London is--at least how small society is, and you will get to know every face quite well--I mean the face of everyone in society." "You must have a wonderful memory!" "Yes, I have a good memory for faces, and, by the way, I am sure I have seen you before; but not in town, and I cannot remember where. But it is not at all necessary to have a memory to know everybody in society by sight; you meet every night almost; and altogether there are only two or three hundred faces to remember. And then there is something in the look of people, and the way they come into a room or stand about, which tells you at once whether they are amongst those whom you need trouble yourself about." "Well, I cannot understand it. I seem to be in a whirl of faces, and can hardly ever remember any of them." "You will soon get used to it. By the end of the season you will see that I am right. And you ought to make a study of it, or you will never feel at home in London." "I must make good use of my time then. I suppose I ought to know everybody here, for instance?" "Almost everybody." "And I really do not know the names of a dozen people." "Will you let me give you a lesson?" "Oh, yes; I shall be much obliged." "Then let us stand here, and we will take them as they pass to the supper-room." So they stood near the door-way of the ball-room, and he ran on, exchanging constant nods and remarks with the passers by, as the stream flowed to and from the ices and cup, and then rattling on to his partner with the names and short sketches of the characters and peculiarities of his large acquaintance. Mary was very much amused, and had no time to notice the ill-nature of most of his remarks, and he had the wit to keep within what he considered the most innocent bounds. "There, you know him of course," he said, as an elderly, soldier-like looking man with a star passed them. "Yes; at least, I mean I know him by sight. I saw him at the Commemoration at Oxford last year. They gave him an honorary degree on his return from India." "At Oxford! Were you present at the Grand Commemoration, then?" "Yes. The Commemoration Ball was the first public ball I was ever at." "Ah! that explains it all. I must have seen you there. I told you we had met before. I was perfectly sure of it." "What! were you there, then?" "Yes. I had the honor of being present at your first ball, you see." "But how curious that you should remember me!" "Do you really think so? Surely there are some faces which, once seen, one can never forget." "I am so glad that you know dear Oxford." "I know it too well, perhaps, to share your enthusiasm." "How do you mean?" "I spent nearly three years there." "What, were you at Oxford last year?" "Yes. I left before Commemoration; but I went up for the gaieties, and I am glad of it, as I shall have one pleasant memory of the place now." "Oh, I wonder you don't love it! But what college were you of?" "Why, you talk like a graduate. I was of St. Ambrose." "St. Ambrose! That is my college!" "Indeed! I wish we had been in residence at the same time." "I mean that we almost lived there at the Commemoration." "Have you any relation there, then?" "No, not a relation, only a distant connexion." "May I ask his name?" "Brown. Did you know him?" "Yes. We were not in the same set. He was a boating man, I think?" She felt that he was watching her narrowly now, and had great difficulty in keeping herself reasonably composed. As it was she could not help showing a little that she felt embarrassed, and looked down; and changed colour slightly, busying herself with her bouquet. She longed to continue the conversation, but somehow the manner of her partner kept her from doing so. She resolved to recur to the subject carelessly, if they met again, when she knew him better. The fact of his having been at St. Ambrose made her wish to know him better, and gave him a good start in her favor. But for the moment she felt that she must change the subject; so, looking up, she fixed on the first people who happened to be passing, and asked who they were. "Oh, nobody, constituents probably, or something of that sort." "I don't understand." "Why, you see, we are in a political house to-night. So you may set down the people whom nobody knows, as troublesome ten-pounders, or that kind of thing, who would he disagreeable at the next election, if they were not asked." "Then you do not include them in society?" "By no manner of means." "And I need not take the trouble to remember their faces?" "Of course not. There is a sediment of rubbish at almost every house. At the parties here it is political rubbish. To-morrow night, at Lady Aubrey's--you will be there, I hope?" "No, we do not know her." "I am sorry for that. Well, there we shall have the scientific rubbish; and at other houses you see queer artists, and writing people. In fact, it is the rarest thing in the world to get a party where there is nothing of the kind, and, after all, it is rather amusing to watch the habits of the different species." "Well, to me the rubbish, as you call it, seems much like the rest. I am sure these people were ladies and gentlemen." "Very likely," he said, lifting his eyebrows; "but you may see at a glance that they have not the air of society. Here again, look yourself. You can see that these are constituents." To the horror of St. Cloud, the advancing constituents made straight for his partner. "Mary, my dear!" exclaimed the lady, "where have you been? We have lost you ever since the last dance." "I have been standing here, mamma," she said; and then, slipping from her late partner's arm, she made a demure little bow, and passed into the ball-room with her father and mother. St. Cloud bit his lip, and swore at himself under his breath as he looked after them. "What an infernal idiot I must have been not to know that her people would be sure to turn out something of that sort!" thought he. "By Jove, I'll go after them, and set myself right before the little minx has time to think it over!" He took a step or two towards the ball-room, but then thought better of it, or his courage failed him. At any rate, he turned round again, and sought the refreshment-room, where he joined a knot of young gentlemen indulging in delicate little raised pies and salads, and liberal potations at iced claret or champagne cup. Amongst them was the guardsman who had introduced him to Mary, and who received him, as he came up, with-- "Well, St. Cloud, I hope you are alive to your obligations to me." "For shunting your late partner on to me? Yes, quite." "You be hanged!" replied the guardsman; "you may pretend what you please now, but you wouldn't let me alone till I had introduced you." "Are you talking about the girl in white muslin with fern leaves in her hair?" asked another. "Yes what do you think of her?" "Devilish taking, I think. I say, can't you introduce me? They say she has tin." "I can't say I think much of her looks," said St. Cloud, acting up to his principle of telling a lie sooner than let his real thoughts be seen. "Don't you?" said the guardsman. "Well, I like her form better than anything out this year. Such a clean stepper! You should just dance with her." And so they went on criticizing Mary and others of their partners, exactly as they would have talked of a stud of racers, till they found themselves sufficiently refreshed to encounter new labors, and broke up returning in twos and threes towards the ball-room. St. Cloud attached himself to the guardsman, and returned to the charge. "You seem hit by that girl," he began; "have you known her long?" "About a week--I met her once before to-night." "Do you know her people? Who is her father?" "A plain-headed old party--you wouldn't think it to look at her--but I hear he is very solvent." "Any sons?" "Don't know. I like your talking of my being hit, St. Cloud. There she is; I shall go and try for another waltz." The guardsman was successful, and carried off Mary from her father and mother, who were standing together watching the dancing. St. Cloud, after looking them well over, sought out the hostess, and begged to be introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Porter, gleaning, at the same time, some particulars of who they were. The introduction was effected in a minute, the lady of the house being glad to get anyone to talk to the Porters, who were almost strangers amongst her other guests. She managed, before leaving them, to whisper to Mrs. Porter that he was a young man of excellent connexions. St. Cloud made the most of his time. He exerted himself to the utmost to please, and, being fluent of speech and thoroughly satisfied with himself, had no shyness or awkwardness to get over, and jumped at once into the good graces of Mary's parents. When she returned after the waltz, she found him, to her no small astonishment, deep in conversation with her mother, who was listening with a pleased expression to his small talk. He pretended not to see her at first, and then begged Mrs. Porter to introduce him formally to her daughter, though he had already had the honour of dancing with her. Mary put on her shortest and coldest manner, and thought she had never heard of such impertinence. That he should be there talking so familiarly to her mother after the slip he had made to her was almost too much even for her temper. But she went off for another dance, and again returned and found him still there; this time entertaining Mr. Porter with political gossip. The unfavourable impression began to wear off, and she soon resolved not to make up her mind about him without some further knowledge. In due course he asked her to dance again, and they stood in a quadrille. She stood by him looking straight before her, and perfectly silent, wondering how he would open the conversation. He did not leave her long in suspense. "What charming people your father and mother are, Miss Porter!" he said; "I am so glad to have been introduced to them." "Indeed! You are very kind. We ought to be flattered by your study of us, and I am sure I hope you will find it amusing." St. Cloud was a little embarrassed by the rejoinder, and was not sorry at the moment to find himself called upon to perform the second figure. By the time he was at her side again he had recovered himself. "You can't understand what a pleasure it is to meet some one with a little freshness"--he paused to think how he should end his sentence. "Who has not the air of society," she suggested. "Yes, I quite understand." "Indeed you quite mistake me. Surely you have not taken seriously the nonsense I was talking just now?" "I am a constituent, you know--I don't understand how to take the talk of society." "Oh, I see, then, that you are angry at my joke, and will not believe that I knew your father perfectly by sight. You really cannot seriously fancy that I was alluding to anyone connected with you;" and then he proceeded to retail the particulars he had picked up from the lady of the house, as if they had been familiar to him for years, and to launch out again into praises of her father and mother. Mary looked straight up in his face, and, though he did not meet her eye, his manner was so composed, that she began to doubt her own senses, and then he suddenly changed the subject to Oxford and the commemoration, and by the end of the set could flatter himself that he had quite dispelled the cloud which had looked so threatening. Mary had a great success that evening. She took part in every dance, and might have had two or three partners at once, if they would have been of any use to her. When, at last, Mr. Porter insisted that he would keep his horses no longer, St. Cloud and the guardsman accompanied her to the door, and were assiduous in the cloak room. Young men are pretty much like a drove of sheep; anyone who takes a decided line in certain matters, is sure to lead all the rest. The guardsman left the ball in the firm belief, as he himself expressed it, that Mary "had done his business for life;" and, being quite above concealment, persisted in singing her praises over his cigar at the club, to which many of the dancers adjourned; and from that night she became the fashion with the set in which St. Cloud lived. The more enterprising of them, he amongst the foremost, were soon intimate in Mr. Porter's house, and spoke well of his dinners. Mr. Porter changed his hour of riding in the park at their suggestion, and now he and his daughter were always sure of companions. Invitations multiplied, for Mary's success was so decided, that she floated her astonished parents into a whirl of balls and breakfasts. Mr. Porter and his wife were flattered themselves, and pleased to see their daughter admired and enjoying herself; and in the next six weeks Mary had the opportunity of getting all the good and the bad which a girl of eighteen can extract from a London season. The test was a severe one. Two months of constant excitement, of pleasure-seeking pure and simple, will not leave people just as they found them; and Mary's habits, and thoughts, and ways of looking at and judging of people and things, were much changed by the time that the gay world melted away from Mayfair and Belgravia, and it was time for all respectable people to pull down the blinds and shut the shutters of their town houses. CHAPTER XXXIX--WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT WATCH The last knot of the dancers came out of the club, and were strolling up St. James's Street, and stopping to chaff the itinerant coffee vendor, who was preparing his stand at the corner of Piccadilly for his early customers, just about the time that Tom was beginning to rouse himself under the alder-tree, and stretch his stiffened limbs, and sniff the morning air. By the time the guardsman had let himself into his lodgings in Mount Street, our hero had undergone his unlooked for bath, and was sitting in a state of utter bewilderment as to what was next to be said or done, dripping and disconcerted, opposite to the equally dripping and, to all appearance, equally disconcerted, poacher. At first he did not look higher than his antagonist's boots and gaiters, and spent a few seconds by the way in considering whether the arrangement of nails on the bottom of Harry's boots was better than his own. He settled that it must be better for wading on slippery stones, and that he would adopt it, and then passed on to wonder whether Harry's boots were as full of water as his own, and whether corduroys, wet through, must not be very uncomfortable so early in the morning, and congratulated himself on being in flannels. And so he hung back for second after second, playing with an absurd little thought that would come into his head and give him ever so brief a respite from the effort of facing the situation, and hoping that Harry might do or say something to open the ball. This did not happen. He felt that the longer he waited the harder it would be. He must begin himself. So he raised his head gently, and took a sidelong look at Harry's face, to see whether he could not get some hint for starting, from it. But scarcely had he brought his eyes to bear, when they met Harry's, peering dolefully up from under his eyebrows, on which the water was standing unwiped, while a piece of green weed, which he did not seem to have presence of mind enough to remove, trailed over his dripping locks. There was something in the sight which tickled Tom's sense of humor. He had been prepared for sullen black looks and fierce words, instead of which he was irresistibly reminded of schoolboys caught by their master using a crib, or in other like flagrant delict. Harry lowered his eyes at once, but lifted them the next moment with a look of surprise, as he heard Tom burst into a hearty fit of laughter. After a short struggle to keep serious, he joined in it himself. "By Jove, though, Harry, it's no laughing matter," Tom said at last, getting on to his legs, and giving himself a shake. Harry only replied by looking most doleful again, and picking the weed out of his hair, as he too got up. "What in the world's to be done?" "I'm sure I don't know, Master Tom." "I'm very much surprised to find you at this work, Harry." "I'm sure, so be I, to find you, Master Tom." Tom was not prepared for this line of rejoinder. It seemed to be made with perfect innocence, and yet it put him in a corner at once. He did not care to inquire into the reason of Harry's surprise, or to what work he alluded; so he went off on another tack. "Let us walk up and down a bit to dry ourselves. Now, Harry, you'll speak to me openly, man to man, as an old friend should--won't you?" "Ay, Master Tom, and glad to do it." "How long have you taken to poaching?" "Since last Michaelmas, when they turned me out o' our cottage, and tuk away my bit o' land, and did all as they could to break me down." "Who do you mean?" "Why, Squire Wurley as was then--not this one, but the last--and his lawyer, and Farmer Tester." "Then it was through spite to them that you took to it?" "Nay, 'twarn't altogether spite, tho' I won't say but what I might ha' thought o' bein' upsides wi them." "What was it then besides spite?" "Want o' work. I havn't had no more'n a matter o' six weeks' reg'lar work ever since last fall." "How's that? Have you tried for it?" "Well, Master Tom, I won't tell a lie about it. I don't see as I wur bound to go round wi my cap in my hand a beggin' for a day's work to the likes o' them. They knowed well enough as I wur there, ready and willing to work, and they knowed as I wur able to do as good a day's work as e'er man in the parish; and ther's been plenty o' work goin'. But they thought as I should starve, and have to come and beg for't from one or to'ther on 'em. They would ha' liked to ha' seen me clean broke down, that's wut they would, and in the house," and he paused as if his thoughts were getting a little unmanageable. "But you might have gone to look for work elsewhere." "I can't see as I had any call to leave the place where I wur bred up, Master Tom. That wur just wut they wanted. Why should I let 'em drive m'out?" "Well, Harry, I'm not going to blame you. I only want to know more about what has been happening to you, that I may be able to advise and help you. Did you ever try for work, or go and tell your story, at the Rectory?" "Try for work there! No, I never went arter work there." Tom went on without noticing the change in Harry's tone and manner-- "Then I think you ought to have gone. I know my cousin, Miss Winter, is so anxious to help any man out of work, and particularly you; for--" The whole story of Patty flashed into his mind, and made him stop short and stammer, and look anywhere except at Harry. How he could have forgotten it for a moment in that company was a wonder. All his questioning and patronizing powers went out of him and he felt that their positions were changed, and that he was the culprit. It was clear that Harry knew nothing yet of his own relations with Patty. Did he even suspect them? It must all come out now at any rate, for both their sakes, however it might end. So he turned again, and met Harry's eye, which was now cold and keen, and suspicious. "You knows all about it, then?" "Yes; I know that you have been attached to Simon's daughter for a long time, and that he is against it; I wish I could help you, with all my heart. In fact, I did feel my way towards speaking to him about it last year, when I was in hopes of getting you the gardener's place. But I could see that I should do no good." "I've heard say as you was acquainted with her, when she was away?" "Yes, I was, when she was with her aunt in Oxford. What then?" "'Twas there as she larnt her bad ways." "Bad ways! What do you mean?" "I means as she larnt to dress fine, and to gee herself airs to them as she'd known from a child, and as'd ha' gone through fire to please her." "I never saw anything of the kind in her. She was a pleasant, lively girl, and dressed neatly, but never above her station. And I'm sure she has too good a heart to hurt an old friend." "Wut made her keep shut up in the house when she cum back? ah, for days and weeks;--and arter that, wut made her so flighty and fickle? carryin' herself as proud as a lady a mincin' and a trapesin' along, wi' all the young farmer's a follerin' her, like a fine gentleman's miss." "Come, Harry, I won't listen to that. You don't believe what you're saying, you know her better." "You knows her well enough by all seeming." "I know her too well to believe any harm of her." "What call have you and the likes o' you wi' her? 'Tis no good comes o' such company keepin'." "I tell you again, no harm has come of it to her." "Whose hair does she carry about then in that gold thing as she hangs around her neck?" Tom blushed scarlet, and lowered his eyes without answering. "Dost know? 'Tis thine, by--." The words came hissing out between his set teeth. Tom put his hands behind him, expecting to be struck as he lifted his eyes, and said,-- "Yes, it is mine; and, I tell you again, no harm has come of it." "'Tis a lie. I knowed how 'twas, and 'tis thou hast done it." [Illustration: 0463] "Tom's blood tingled in his veins, and wild words rushed to his tongue, as he stood opposite the man who had just given him the lie, and who waited his reply with clinched hands, and laboring breast, and fierce eye. But the discipline of the last year stood him in good stead. He stood for a moment or two, crushing his hands together behind his back, drew a long breath, and answered,-- "Will you believe my oath, then? I stood by your side at your mother's grave. A man who did that won't lie to you, Harry. I swear to you there's no wrong between me and her. There never was fault on her side. I sought her. She never cared for me, she doesn't care for me. As for that locket, I forced it on her. I own I have wronged her, and wronged you. I have repented it bitterly. I ask your forgiveness, Harry; for the sake of old times, for the sake of your mother!" He spoke from the heart, and saw that his words went home. "Come, Harry" he went on, "you won t turn from an old playfellow, who owns the wrong he has done, and will do all he can to make up for it. You'll shake hands, and say you forgive me." Tom paused, and held out his hand. The poacher's face worked violently for a moment or two, and he seemed to struggle once or twice to get his hand out in vain. At last he struck it suddenly into Tom's, turning his head away at the same time. "'Tis what mother would ha' done," he said, "thou cassn't say more. There tis then, though I never thought to do't." This curious and unexpected explanation, brought thus to a happy issue, put Tom into high spirits, and at once roused the castle-building power within him, which was always ready enough to wake up. His first care was to persuade Harry that he had better give up poaching, and in this he had much less difficulty than he expected. Harry owned himself sick of the life he was leading already. He admitted that some of the men with whom he had been associating more or less for the last year were the greatest blackguards in the neighborhood. He asked nothing better than to get out of it. But how? This was all Tom wanted. He would see to that; nothing could be easier. "I shall go with you back to Englebourn this morning. I'll just leave a note for Wurley to say that I'll be back some time in the day to explain matters to him, and then we will be off at once. We shall be at the rectory by breakfast time. Ah, I forgot;--well, you can stop at David's while I go and speak to my uncle and to Miss Winter." Harry didn't seem to see what would be the good of this; and David, he said, was not so friendly to him as he had been. "Then you must wait at the Red Lion. Don't see the good of it! Why, of course, the good of it is that you must be set right with the Englebourn people--that's the first thing to do. I shall explain how the case stands to my uncle, and I know that I can get him to let you have your land again if you stay in the parish, even if he can't give you work himself. But what he must do is, to take you up, to show people that he is your friend, Harry. Well then, if you can get good work--mind it must be real, good, regular work--at Farmer Grove's, or one of the best farmers, stop here by all means, and I will myself take the first cottage which falls vacant and let you have it, and meantime you must lodge with old David. Oh, I'll go and talk him round, never fear. But if you can't get regular work here, why you go off with flying colors; no sneaking off under a cloud and leaving no address. You'll go off with me, as my servant, if you like. But just as you please about that. At any rate, you'll go with me, and I'll take care that it shall be known that I consider you as an old friend. My father has always got plenty of work and will take you on. And then, Harry, after a bit you may be sure all will go right, and I shall be your best man, and dance at your wedding before a year's out." There is something in this kind of thing which is contagious and irresistible. Tom thoroughly believed all that he was saying; and faith, even of such a poor kind as believing in one's own castles, has its reward. Common sense in vain suggested to Harry that all the clouds which had been gathering round him for a year were not likely to melt away in a morning. Prudence suggested that the sooner he got away the better; which suggestion, indeed, he handed on for what it was worth. But Tom treated prudence with sublime contempt. They would go together, he said, as soon as any one was up at the house, just to let him in to change his things and write a note. Harry needn't fear any unpleasant consequences. Wurley wasn't an ill-natured fellow at bottom, and wouldn't mind a few fish. Talking of fish, where was the one he heard kicking just now as Harry hauled in the line. They went to the place, and, looking in the long grass, soon found the dead trout, still on the night-line, of which the other end remained in the water. Tom seized hold of it, and pulling it carefully in, landed landed another fine trout, while Harry stood by, looking rather sheepish. Tom inspected the method of the lines, which was simple but awfully destructive. The line was long enough to reach across the stream. At one end was a heavy stone, at the other a short stake cut sharp, and driven into the bank well under the water. At intervals of four feet along the line short pieces of fine gimp were fastened, ending in hooks baited alternately with lob-worms and gudgeon. Tom complimented his companion on the killing nature of his cross-line. "Where are your other lines, Harry?" he asked; "we may as well go and take them up." "A bit higher up stream, Master Tom;" and so they walked up stream and took up the other lines. "They'll have the finest dish of fish they've seen this long time at the house to-day," said Tom, as each line came out with two or three fine thick-shouldered fish on it. "I'll you what, Harry, they're deuced well set, these lines of yours, and do you credit. They do; I'm not complimenting you." "I should rather like to be off, Master Tom, if you don't object. The mornin's gettin' on, and the men will be about. 'Twould be unked for I to be caught." "Well, Harry, if you are so set on it off with you, but"-- "'Tis too late now; here's keeper." Tom turned sharp round, and, sure enough, there was the keeper coming down the bank towards them, and not a couple of hundred yards off. "So it is," said Tom; "well, only hold your tongue, and do just what I tell you." The keeper came up quickly, and touching his hat to Tom, looked inquiringly at him, and then at Harry. Tom nodded to him, as if everything were just as it should be. He was taking a two-pound fish off the last line; having finished which feat he threw it on the ground by the rest. "There keeper," he said, "there's a fine dish of fish. Now, pick 'em up and come along." Never was keeper more puzzled. He looked from one to the other, lifting the little short hat from the back of his head, and scratching that somewhat thick skull of his, as his habit was when engaged in what he called thinking, conscious that somebody ought to be tackled, and that he, the keeper, was being mystified, but quite at sea as to how he was to set himself straight. "Wet, bain't 'ee, sir?" he said at last, nodding at Tom's clothes. "Dampish, keeper," answered Tom; "I may as well go and change, the servants will be up at the house by this time. Pick up the fish and come along. You do up the lines, Harry." The keeper and Harry performed their tasks, looking at one another out of the corners of their eyes like the terriers of rival butchers when the carts happen to stop suddenly in the street close to one another. Tom watched them, mischievously delighted with the fun, and then led the way up to the house. When they came to the stable-yard he turned to Harry, and said, "Stop here, I shan't be ten minutes;" adding, in an undertone, "Hold your tongue now;" he then vanished through the dark door, and, hurrying up to his room, changed as quickly as he could. He was within the ten minutes, but, as he descended the back stairs in his dry things, became aware that his stay had been too long. Noise and laughter came up from the stable-yard, and shouts of, "Go it keeper," "Keeper's down," "No he bain't," greeted his astonished ears. He sprang down the last steps and rushed into the stable-yard, where he found Harry at his second wrestling match for the day, while two or three stablemen, and a footman, and the gardener, looked on and cheered the combatants with the remarks he had heard on his way down. Tom made straight to them, and tapping Harry on the shoulder, said-- "Now then, come along, I'm ready." Whereupon the keeper and Harry disengaged, and the latter picked up his cap. "You bain't goin', sir!" said the keeper. "Yes, keeper." "Not along wi' he?" "Yes, keeper." "What, bain't I to take un?" "Take him! No, what for?" "For night poachin', look at all them fish," said the keeper indignantly, pointing to the shining heap. "No, no, keeper, you've nothing to do with it. You may give him the lines though, Harry. I've left a note for your master on my dressing table," Tom said, turning to the footman, "let him have it at breakfast. I'm responsible for him," nodding at Harry, "I shall be back in a few hours, and now come along." And, to the keeper's astonishment, Tom left the stable-yard, accompanied by Harry. They were scarcely out of hearing before the stable-yard broke out into uproarious laughter at the keeper's expense and much rude banter was inflicted on him for letting the poacher go. But the keeper's mind for the moment was full of other things. Disregarding their remarks he went on scratching his head, and burst out at last with-- "Dang un! I knows I should ha' drowed un." "Drow your grandmother," politely remarked one of the stablemen, an acquaintance of Harry Winburn, who knew his repute as a wrestler. "I should, I tell 'ee," said the keeper as he stooped to gather up the fish, "and to think as he should ha' gone off. Master 'll be like any wild beast when he hears on't. How s'mever, 'tis Mr. Brown's doin's. 'Tis a queer start for a gen'l'man like he to be goin' off wi' a poacher chap and callin' of un Harry. 'Tis past me altogether. But I s'pose he bain't right in's 'ead;" and, so soliloquizing, he carried off the fish to the kitchen. Meantime, on their walk to Englebourn, Harry, in answer to Tom's inquiries, explained that in his absence the stable-man, his acquaintance, had come up and begun to talk. The keeper had joined in and accused him point-blank of being the man who had thrown him into the furze bush. The story of the keeper's discomfiture on that occasion being well known, a laugh had been raised in which Harry had joined. This brought on a challenge to try a fall then and there, which Harry had accepted, notwithstanding his long morning's work and the ducking he had had. They laughed over the story, though Harry could not help expressing his fears as to how it might all end. They reached Englebourn in time for breakfast. Tom appeared at the rectory, and soon he and Katie were on their old terms. She was delighted to find that he had had an explanation with Harry Winburn; and that there was some chance of bringing that sturdy offender once more back into decent ways;--more delighted perhaps to hear the way in which he spoke of Patty, to whom after breakfast she paid a visit, and returned in due time with the unfortunate locket. Tom felt as if another coil of the chain he had tied about himself had fallen off. He went out into the village, consulted again with Harry, and returned again to the rectory, to consider what steps were to be taken to get him work. Katie entered into the matter heartily, though forseeing the difficulties in the case. At luncheon the rector was to be sounded on the subject of the allotments. But in the middle of their plans, they were startled by the news that a magistrate's warrant had arrived in the village for the arrest of Harry as a night poacher. Tom returned to the Grange furious, and before night had had a worse quarrel with young Wurley than with his uncle before him. Had duelling been in fashion still in England, they would probably have fought in a quiet corner of the park before night. As it was they only said bitter things, and parted, agreeing not to know one another in the future. Three days afterwards, at petty sessions, where Tom brought upon himself the severe censure of the bench for his conduct on the trial, Harry Winburn was committed to Reading gaol for three months. Readers who will take the trouble to remember the picture of our hero's mental growth during the past year, attempted to be given in a late chapter, and the state of restless dissatisfaction into which his experiences and thoughts and readings had thrown him by the time long vacation had come around again, will perhaps be prepared for the catastrophe which ensued on the conviction and sentence of Harry Winburn at petty sessions. Hitherto, notwithstanding the strength of the new and revolutionary forces which were mustering round it, there had always been a citadel holding out in his mind, garrisoned by all that was best in the Toryism in which he had been brought up--by loyalty, reverence for established order and established institutions; by family traditions, and the pride of an inherited good name. But now the walls of that citadel went down with a crash, the garrison being put to the sword, or making away, to hide in an out of the way corner, and wait for a reaction. It was much easier for a youngster, whose attention was once turned to such subjects as had been occupying Tom, to get hold of wild and violent beliefs and notions in those days than now. The state of Europe generally was far more dead and hopeless. There were no wars, certainly, and no expectations of wars. But there was a dull, beaten-down, pent-up feeling abroad, as if the lid were screwed down on the nations, and the thing which had been, however cruel and heavy and mean, was that which was to remain to the end. England was better off than her neighbours, but yet in bad case. In the south and west particularly, several causes had combined, to spread a very bitter feeling abroad amongst the agricultural poor. First among these stood the new poor law, the provisions of which were vigorously carried out in most districts. The poor had as yet felt the harshness only of the new system. Then the land was in many places in the hands of men on their last legs, the old sporting farmers, who had begun business as young men while the great war was going on, had made their money hand over hand for a few years out of the war prices, and had tried to go on living with greyhounds and yeomanry uniforms--"horse to ride and weapon to wear"--through the hard years which had followed. These were bad masters every way, unthrifty, profligate, needy, and narrow-minded. The younger men who were supplanting them were introducing machinery, threshing machines and winnowing machines, to take the little bread which a poor man was still able to earn out of the mouths of his wife and children--so at least the poor thought and muttered to one another; and the mutterings broke out every now and then in the long nights of the winter months in blazing ricks and broken machines. Game preserving was on the increase. Australia and America had not yet become familiar words in every English village, and the labour market was everywhere overstocked; and, last but not least, the corn laws were still in force, and the bitter and exasperating strife in which they went out was at its height. And while Swing and his myrmidons were abroad in the counties, and could scarcely be kept down by yeomanry and poor law guardians, the great towns were in almost worse case. Here too emigration had not set in to thin the labour market; wages were falling, and prices rising; the corn law struggle was better understood and far keener than in the country; and Chartism was gaining force every day, and rising into a huge threatening giant, waiting to put forth his strength, and eager for the occasion which seemed at hand. You generation of young Englishmen, who were too young then to be troubled with such matters, and have grown into manhood since, you little know--may you never know!--what it is to be living the citizens of a divided and distracted nation. For the time that danger is past. In a happy home and so far as man can judge, in time, and only just in time, came the repeal of the corn laws, and the great cause of strife and the sense of injustice passed away out of men's minds. The nation was roused by the Irish famine, and the fearful distress in other parts of the country, to begin looking steadily and seriously at some of the sores which were festering in its body, and undermining health and life. And so the tide had turned, and England had already passed the critical point; when 1848 came upon Christendom, and the whole of Europe leapt up into a wild blaze of revolution. Is anyone still inclined to make light of the danger that threatened England in that year, to sneer at the 10th of April, and the monster petition, and the monster meetings on Kennington and other commons? Well, if there be such persons among my readers, I can only say that they can have known nothing of what was going on around them and below them, at that time, and I earnestly hope that their vision has become clearer since then, and that they are not looking with the same eyes that see nothing, at the signs of today. For that there are questions still to be solved by us in England, in this current half-century, quite as likely to tear the nation to pieces as the corn laws, no man with half an eye in his head can doubt. They may seem little clouds like a man's hand on the horizon just now, but they will darken the whole heaven before long, unless we can find wisdom enough amongst us to take the little clouds in hand in time, and make them descend in soft rain. But such matters need not be spoken of here. All I want to do is to put my young readers in a position to understand how it was that our hero fell away into beliefs and notions, at which Mrs. Grundy and all decent people could only lift up eyes and hands in pious and respectable horror, and became, soon after the incarceration of his friend for night poaching, little better than a physical force Chartist at the age of twenty-one. CHAPTER XL HUE AND CRY At the end of a gusty wild October afternoon, a man, leading two horses, was marching up and down the little plot of short turf at the top of the Hawk's Lynch. Every now and then he would stop on the brow of the hill to look over the village, and seemed to be waiting for somebody from that quarter. After being well blown, he would turn to his promenade again, or go in under the clump of firs, through which the rising south-west wind, rushing up from the vale below, was beginning to make a moan; and, hitching the horses to some stump or bush, and patting and coaxing them to induce them, if so might be, to stand quiet for a while, would try to settle himself to leeward of one of the larger trees. But the fates were against all attempts at repose. He had scarcely time to produce a cheroot from his case and light it under many difficulties, when the horses would begin fidgeting, and pulling at their bridles, and shifting round to get their tails to the wind. They clearly did not understand the necessity of the position, and were inclined to be moving stable-wards. So he had to get up again, sling the bridles over his arm, and take to his march up and down the plot of turf; now stopping for a moment or two to try to get his cheroot to burn straight, and pishing and pshawing over its perverseness; now going again and again to the brow, and looking along the road which led to the village, holding his hat on tight with one hand,--for by this time it was blowing half a gale of wind. Though it was not yet quite the hour for his setting, the sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of wicked slate-coloured cloud, which looked as though it were rising straight up into the western heavens, while the wind whirled along and twisted into quaint shapes a ragged rift of white vapor, which went hurrying by, almost touching the tops of the moaning firs,--altogether an uncanny evening to be keeping tryst at the top of a wild knoll; and so thought our friend with the horses, and showed it, too, clearly enough, had anyone been there to put a construction on his impatient movements. There was no one nearer than the village, of which the nearest house was half a mile and more away; so, by way of passing the time, we must exercise our privilege of putting into words what he is half thinking, half muttering to himself:-- "A pleasant night I call this, to be out on a wild goose chase. If ever I saw a screaming storm brewing, there it comes. I'll be hanged if I stop up here to be caught in it for all the crack-brained friends I ever had in the world; and I seem to have a faculty for picking up none but crack-brained ones. I wonder what the plague can keep him so long; he must have been gone an hour. There, steady, steady, old horse. Confound this weed! What rascals these tobacconists are! You never can get a cheroot now worth smoking. Every one of them goes sputtering up the side, or charring up the middle, and tasting like tow soaked in saltpetre and tobacco juice. Well, I suppose I shall get the real thing in India." "India! In a month from to-day we shall be off. To hear our senior major talk, one might as well be going to the bottomless pit at once. Well, he'll sell out--that's a comfort. Gives us a step, and gets rid of an old ruffian. I don't seem to care much what the place is like if we only get some work; and there will be some work there before long, by all accounts. No more garrison-town life, at any rate. And if I have any luck--a man may get a chance there." "What the deuce can he be about? This all comes of sentiment, now. Why couldn't I go quietly off to India without bothering up to Oxford to see him? Not but what it's a pleasant place enough. I've enjoyed my three days there uncommonly. Food and drink all that can be wished, and plenty of good fellows and fun. The look of the place, too, makes one feel respectable. But, by George, if their divinity is at all like their politics, they must turn out a queer set of parsons--at least if Brown picked up his precious notions at Oxford. He always was a headstrong beggar. What was it he was holding forth about last night? Let's see. 'The sacred right of insurrection.' Yes, that was it, and he talked as if he believed it all too; and if there should be a row, which don't seem unlikely, by Jove, I think he'd act on it, in the sort of temper he's in. How about the sacred right of getting hung or transported? I shouldn't wonder to hear of that some day. Gad! suppose he should be in for an installment of his sacred right to-night. He's capable of it, and of lugging me in with him. What did he say we were come here for? To get some fellow out of a scrape, he said--some sort of poaching radical foster-brother of his, who had been in gaol, and deserved it too, I'll be bound. And he couldn't go down quietly into the village and put up at the public, where I might have set in the tap, and not run the chance of having my skin blown over my ears, and my teeth down my throat, on this cursed look-out place, because he's _too well known_ there. What does that mean? Upon my soul, it looks bad. They may be lynching a J. P. down there, or making a spread eagle of the parish constable at this minute, for anything I know, and as sure as fate, if they are, I shall get my foot in it." "It will read sweetly in the naval and military intelligence--'A court-martial was held this day at Chatham, president, Colonel Smith, of Her Majesty's 101st Regiment, to try Henry East, a lieutenant in the same distinguished corps, who has been under arrest since the 10th ult., for aiding and abetting the escape of a convict, and taking part in a riot in the village of Englebourn, in the county of Berks. The defense of the accused was that he had a sentimental friendship for a certain Thomas Brown, an undergraduate of St. Ambrose College, Oxford, &c. &c.; and the sentence of the Court--' "Hang it! It's no laughing matter. Many a fellow has been broken for not making half such a fool of himself as I have done, coming out here on this errand. I'll tell T. B. a bit of my mind as sure as-- "Hullo! didn't I hear a shout? Only the wind, I believe. How it does blow! One of these firs will be down, I expect, just now. The storm will burst in a quarter of an hour. Here goes! I shall ride down into the village, let what will come of it. Steady now--steady. Stand still you old fool; can't you?" "There, now I'm all right. Solomon said something about a beggar on horseback. Was is Solomon, though? Never mind. He couldn't ride. Never had a horse till he was grown up. But he said some uncommon wise things about having to do with such friends as T. B. So, Harry East, if you please, no more tomfoolery after to-day. You've got a whole skin, and a lieutenant's commission to make your way in the world with, and are troubled with no particular crotchets yourself that need ever get you into trouble. So just you keep clear of other people's. And if your friends must be mending the world, and poor men's plastering, and running their heads against stone walls, why, just you let go of their coat tails." So muttering and meditating, Harry East paused a moment after mounting, to turn up the collar of the rough shooting-coat which he was wearing, and button it up to the chin, before riding down the hill, when, in the hurly-burly of the wind, a shout came spinning past his ears, plain enough this time; he heard the gate at the end of Englebourn lane down below him shut with a clang, and saw two men running at full speed towards him, straight up the hill. "Oh! here you are at last," he said, as he watched them. "Well, you don't lose your time now. Somebody must be after them. What's he shouting and waving his hand for? Oh, I'm to bring the cavalry supports down the slope, I suppose. Well, here goes; he has brought off his pal the convict I see-- Says he, you've 'scaped from transportation All upon the briny main; So never give way to no temptation, And don't get drunk nor prig again! There goes the gate again. By Jove, what's that? Dragoons, as I'm a sinner! There's going to be the d-----st bear-fight." Saying which, Harry East dug his heels into his horse's sides, holding him up sharply with the curb at the same time, and in another moment, was at the bottom of the solitary mound on which he had been perched for the last hour, and on the brow of the line of hill out of which it rose so abruptly, just at the point for which the two runners were making. He had only time to glance at the pursuers, and saw that one or two rode straight on the track of the fugitives, while the rest skirted away along a parish road which led up the hill side by an easier ascent, when Tom and his companion were by his side. Tom seized the bridle of the led horse, and was in the saddle with one spring. "Jump up behind," he shouted; "now, then, come along." "Who are they?" roared East,--in that wind nothing but a shout could be heard,--pointing over his shoulder with his thumb as they turned to the heath. "Yeomanry." "After you?" Tom nodded, as they broke into a gallop, making straight across the heath towards the Oxford road. They were some quarter of a mile in advance before any of their pursuers showed over the brow of the hill behind them. It was already getting dusk, and the great bank of cloud was by this time all but upon them, making the atmosphere denser and darker every second. Then, first one of the men appeared who had ridden straight up the hill under the Hawk's Lynch, and, pulling up for a moment, caught sight of them and gave chase. Half a minute later, and several of those who had kept to the road were also in sight, some distance away on the left, but still near enough to be unpleasant; and they too after a moment's pause, were in full pursuit. At first the fugitives held their own, and the distance between them and their pursuers was not lessened; but it was clear that this could not last. Anything that horse-flesh is capable of, a real good Oxford hack, such as they rode, will do; but to carry two full-grown men at the end of a pretty long day, away from fresh horses and moderate weights, is too much to expect even of Oxford horse-flesh; and the gallant beast which Tom rode was beginning to show signs of distress when they struck into the road. There was a slight dip in the ground a this place, and a little further on the heath rose suddenly again, and the road ran between high banks for a short distance. As they reached this point they disappeared for the moment from the yeomanry, and the force of the wind was broken by the banks, so that they could breathe more easily, and hear one another's voices. Tom looked anxiously round at the lieutenant, who shrugged his shoulders in answer to the look, as he bent forward to ease his own horse, and said-- "Can't last another mile." "What's to be done?" East again shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. "I know, Master Tom," said Harry Winburn. "What?" "Pull up a bit, sir." Tom pulled up, and his horse fell into a walk willingly enough, while East passed on a few strides ahead. Harry Winburn sprang off. "You ride on now, Master Tom," he said, "I knows the heath well; you let me bide." "No, no, Harry, not I. I won't leave you now, so let them come, and be hanged." East had pulled up, and listened to their talk. "Look here, now," he said to Harry; "put your arm over the hind part of his saddle, and run by the side; you'll find you can go as fast as the horse. Now, you two push on, and strike across the heath. I'll keep the road, and take off this joker behind, who is the only dangerous customer." "That's like you, old boy," said Tom, "then we'll meet at the first public beyond the heath." They passed ahead in their turn, and turned on to the heath, Harry running by the side, as the lieutenant had advised. East looked after them, and then put his horse into a steady trot, muttering, "Like me! yes, devilish like me; I know that well enough. Didn't I always play cat's-paw to his monkey at school? But that convict don't seem such a bad lot after all." Meantime, Tom and Harry struck away over the heath, as the darkness closed in, and the storm drove down. They stumbled on over the charred furze roots, and splashed through the sloppy peat cuttings, casting anxious, hasty looks over their shoulders as they fled, straining every nerve to get on, and longing for night and the storm. "Hark! wasn't that a pistol-shot?" said Tom, as they floundered on. The sound came from the road they had left. "Look, here's some on 'em, then," said Harry; and Tom was aware of two horsemen coming over the brow of the hill on their left, some three hundred yards to the rear. At the same instant his horse stumbled, and came down on his nose and knees. Tom went off over his shoulder, tumbling against Harry, and sending him headlong to the ground, but keeping hold of the bridle. They were up again in a moment. "Are you hurt?" "No." "Come along, then," and Tom was in the saddle again, when the pursuers raised a shout. They had caught sight of them now, and spurred down the slope towards them. Tom was turning his horse's head straight away, but Harry shouted,-- "Keep to the left, Master Tom,--to the left, right on." It seemed like running into the lion's jaws, but he yielded, and they pushed on down the slope on which they were. Another shout of triumph rose on the howling wind; Tom's heart sank within him. The enemy was closing on them at every stride; another hundred yards, and they must meet at the bottom of the slope. What could Harry be dreaming of? The thought had scarcely time to cross his brain, when down went the two yeomen, horse and man, floundering in a bog above their horses' girths. At the same moment the storm burst on them, the driving mist and pelting rain. The chase was over. They could not have seen a regiment of men at fifty yards' distance. "You let me lead the horse, Master Tom," shouted Harry Winburn; "I knowed where they was going; 'twill take they the best part o' the night to get out o' that, I knows." "All right, let's get back to the road, then, as soon as we can," said Tom, surrendering his horse's head to Harry, and turning up his collar, to meet the pitiless deluge which was driving on their flanks. They were drenched to the skin in two minutes; Tom jumped off, and plodded along on the opposite side of his horse to Harry. They did not speak; there was very little to be said under the circumstances, and a great deal to be thought about. Harry Winburn probably knew the heath as well as any man living, but even he had much difficulty in finding his way back to the road through that storm. However, after some half-hour, spent in beating about, they reached it, and turned their faces northwards towards Oxford. By this time night had come on; but the fury of the storm had passed over them, and the moon began to show every now and then through the driving clouds. At last Tom roused himself out of the brown study in which he had been hitherto plodding along, and turned down his coat collar, and shook himself, and looked up at the sky, and across at his companion, who was still leading the horse along mechanically. It was too dark to see his face, but his walk and general look were listless and dogged; at last Tom broke silence. "You promised not to do anything, after you came out, without speaking to me." Harry made no reply; so presently he went on:-- "I didn't think you'd have gone in for such a business as that to-night. I shouldn't have minded so much if it had only been machine-breaking; but robbing the cellar and staving in the ale casks and maiming cattle--" "I'd no hand in that," interrupted Harry. "I'm glad to hear it. You were certainly leaning against the gate when I came up, and taking no part in it; but you were one of the leaders of the riot." "He brought it on hisself," said Harry, doggedly. "Tester is a bad man, I know that; and the people have much to complain of: but nothing can justify what was done to-night." Harry made no answer. "You're known, and they'll be after you the first thing in the morning. I don't know what's to be done." "'Tis very little odds what happens to me." "You've no right to say that, Harry. Your friends--" "I ain't got no friends." "Well, Harry, I don't think you ought to say that after what has happened to-night. I don't mean to say that my friendship has done you much good yet; but I've done what I could, and--" "So you hev', Master Tom, so you hev'." "And I'll stick by you through thick and thin, Harry. But you must take heart and stick by yourself, or we shall never pull you through." Harry groaned, and then, turning at once to what was always uppermost in his mind, said,-- "'Tis no good, now I've been in gaol. Her father wur allus agin me. And now, how be I ever to hold up my head at whoam? I seen her once arter I came out." "Well, and what happened?" said Tom, after waiting a moment or two. "She just turned red and pale, and was all flustered like, and made as though she'd have held out her hand; and then tuk and hurried off like a frightened hare, as though she heerd somebody comin'. Ah! 'tis no good! 'tis no good!" "I don't see anything very hopeless in that," said Tom. "I've knowed her since she wur that high," went on Harry, holding out his hand about as high as the bottom of his waistcoat, without noticing the interruption, "when her and I went gleanin' together. 'Tis what I've thought on, and lived for. 'Tis four year and better since she and I broke a sixpence auver't. And at times it sim'd as tho' 'twould all cum right, when my poor mother wur livin', tho' her never tuk to it kindly, mother didn't. But 'tis all gone now! and I be that mad wi' myself, and mammered, and down, I be ready to hang myself, Master Tom; and if they just teks and transports me--" "Oh, nonsense, Harry! You must keep out of that. We shall think of some way to get you out of that before morning. And you must get clear away, and go to work on the railways or somewhere. There's nothing to be downhearted about as far as Patty is concerned." "Ah! 'tis they as wears it as knows where the shoe pinches. You'd say different if 'twas you, Master Tom." "Should I?" said Tom; and, after pausing a moment or two, he went on. "What I'm going to say is in confidence. I've never told it to any man yet, and only one has found it out. Now, Harry, I'm much worse off than you are at this minute. Don't I know where the shoe pinches! Why I haven't seen--I've scarcely heard of--of--well, of my sweetheart--there, you'll understand that--for this year and more. I don't know when I may see her again. I don't know that she hasn't clean forgotten me. I don't know that she ever cared a straw for me. Now you know quite well that you are better off than that." "I bean't so sure o' that, Master Tom. But I be terrible vexed to hear about you." "Never mind about me. You say you're not sure, Harry. Come, now, you said, not two minutes ago, that you two had broken a sixpence over it. What does that mean, now?" "Ah! but 'tis four years gone. Her's been a leadin' o' me up and down, and a dancin' o' me round and round purty nigh ever since, let alone the time as she wur at Oxford, when--" "Well, we won't talk of that, Harry. Come, will yesterday do for you? If you thought she was all right yesterday, would that satisfy you?" "Ees; and summat to spare." "You don't believe it, I see. Well, why do you think I came after you to-night? How did I know what was going on?" "That's just what I've been a-axin' o' myself as we cum along." "Well, then, I'll tell you. I came because I got a note from her yesterday at Oxford." Tom paused, for he heard a muttered growl from the other side of the horse's head, and could see, even in the fitful moonlight, the angry toss of the head with which his news was received, "I didn't expect this, Harry," he went on presently, "after what I told you just now about myself, it was a hard matter to tell it at all; but, after telling you, I didn't think you'd suspect me any more. However, perhaps I've deserved it. So, to go on with what I was saying, two years ago, when I came to my senses about her, and before I cared for anyone else, I told her to write if ever I could do her a service. Anything that a man could do for his sister I was bound to do for her, and I told her so. She never answered till yesterday, when I got this note," and he dived into the inner breast pocket of his shooting. coat. "If it isn't soaked to pulp, it's in my pocket now. Yes, here it is," and he produced a dirty piece of paper, and handed it across to his companion. "When there's light enough to read it, you'll see plain enough what she means, though your name is not mentioned." Having finished his statement, Tom retired into himself, and walked along watching the hurrying clouds. After they had gone some hundred yards, Harry cleared his throat once or twice, and at last broke out,-- "Master Tom." "Well." "You bean't offended wi' me, sir, I hopes?" "No, why should I be offended?" "'Cause I knows I be so all-fired jealous, I can't a'bear to hear o' her talkin', let alone writin' to--" "Out with it. To me, you were going to say." "Nay, 'tis mwore nor that." "All right, Harry, if you only lump me with the rest of mankind, I don't care. But you needn't be jealous of me, and you mustn't be jealous of me, or I sha'n't be able to help you as I want to do. I'll give you my hand and word on it as man to man, there's no thought in my heart towards her that you mightn't see this minute. Do you believe me?" "Ees; and you'll forgive--" "There's nothing to forgive, Harry. But now you'll allow your case isn't such a bad one. She must keep a good lookout after you to know what you were likely to be about to-day. And if she didn't care for you, she wouldn't have written to me. That's good sense, I think." Harry assented, and then Tom went into a consideration of what was to be done, and, as usual, fair castles began to rise in the air. Harry was to start down the line at once, and take work on the railway. In a few weeks he would be captain of a gang, and then what was to hinder his becoming a contractor, and making his fortune, and buying a farm of his own at Englebourn? To all which Harry listened with open ears till they got off the heath, and came upon a small hamlet of some half-dozen cottages scattered along the road. "There's a public here, I suppose," said Tom, returning to the damp realities of life. Harry indicated the humble place of entertainment for man and horse. "That's all right. I hope we shall find my friend here;" and they went towards the light which was shining temptingly through the latticed window of the road-side inn. CHAPTER XLI--THE LIEUTENANT'S SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS "Stop! It looks so bright that there must be something going on. Surely the yeomanry can never have come on here already?" Tom laid his hand on the bridle, and they halted on the road opposite the public-house, which lay a little back, with an open space of ground before it. The sign-post, and a long water-trough for the horses of guests to drink at, were pushed forward to the side of road to intimate the whereabouts of the house, and the hack which Harry led was already drinking eagerly. "Stay here for a minute, and I'll go to the window, and see what's up inside. It's very unlucky, but it will never do for us to go in if there are any people there." Tom stole softly up to the window out of which the light came. A little scrap of a curtain was drawn across a portion of it, but he could see easily into the room on either side of the curtain. The first glance comforted him, for he saw at once that there was only one person in the kitchen; but who and what he might be was a puzzle. The only thing which was clear at a first glance was, that he was making himself at home. The room was a moderate-sized kitchen, with a sanded floor, and a large fire-place; a high wooden screen, with a narrow seat in front of it, ran along the side on which the door from the entrance-passage opened. In the middle there was a long rough walnut table, on which stood a large loaf, some cold bacon and cheese, and a yellow jug; a few heavy rush-bottomed chairs and a settle composed the rest of the furniture. On the wall were a few samplers, a warming pan, and shelves with some common delf plates, and cups and saucers. But though the furniture was meagre enough, the kitchen had a look of wondrous comfort for a drenched mortal outside. Tom felt this keenly, and, after a glance round, fixed his attention on the happy occupant, with the view of ascertaining whether he would be a safe person to intrude on under the circumstances. He was seated on a low, three-cornered oak seat, with his back to the window, steadying a furze fagot on the fire with the poker. The fagot blazed and crackled, and roared up the chimney, sending out the bright flickering light which had attracted them, and forming a glorious top to the glowing clear fire of wood embers beneath, into which was inserted a long, funnel-shaped tin, out of which the figure helped himself to some warm compound, when he had settled the fagot to his satisfaction. He was enveloped as to his shoulders in a heavy, dirty-white coat, with huge cape and high collar, which hid the back of his head, such as was then in use by country carriers; but the garment was much too short for him, and his bare arms came out a foot beyond the end of the sleeves. The rest of his costume was even more eccentric, being nothing more or less than a coarse flannel petticoat, and his bare feet rested on the mat in front of the fire. Tom felt a sudden doubt as to his sanity, which doubt was apparently shared by the widow woman, who kept the house, and her maid-of-all-work, one or other of whom might be seen constantly keeping an eye on their guest from behind the end of the wooden screen. However, it was no time to be over particular; they must rest before going further, and, after all, it was only one man. So Tom thought, and was just on the point of calling Harry to come on, when the figure turned round towards the window, and the face of the lieutenant disclosed itself between the high-peaked gills of the carrier's coat. Tom burst out into a loud laugh, and called out,-- "It's all right, come along." "I'll just look to the hosses, Master Tom." "Very well, and then come into the kitchen;" saying which, he hurried into the house, and after tumbling against the maid-of-all-work in the passage, emerged from behind the screen. "Well, here we are at last, old fellow," he said, slapping East on the shoulder. "Oh, it's you, is it? I thought you were in the lock-up by this time." East's costume, as he sat looking up, with a hand on each knee, was even more ridiculous on a close inspection, and Tom roared with laughter again. "I don't see the joke," said East without moving a muscle. "You would, though, if you could see yourself. You wonderful old Guy, where did you pick up that toggery?" "The late lamented husband of the widow Higgs, our landlady, was the owner of the coat. He also bequeathed to her several pairs of breeches, which I have vainly endeavored to get into. The late lamented Higgs was an abominably small man. He must have been very much her worse half. So, in default of other clothing, the widow has kindly obliged me by the loan of one of her own garments." "Where are your own clothes?" "There," said East, pointing to a clothes' horse, which Tom had not hitherto remarked, which stood well into the chimney corner; "and they are dry, too," he went on, feeling them; "at least the flannel shirt and trousers are, so I'll get into them again." "I say, ma'am," he called out, addressing the screen, "I'm going to change my things. So you had better not look in just now. In fact, we can call now, if we want anything." At this strong hint the widow Higgs was heard bustling away behind the screen, and after her departure East got into some of his own clothes again, offering the cast-off garments of the Higgs family to Tom, who, however, declined, contenting himself with taking off his coat and waistcoat, and hanging them upon the horse. He had been blown comparatively dry in the last half-hour of his walk. While East was making his toilet, Tom turned to the table, and made an assault on the bread and bacon, and then poured himself out a glass of beer and began to drink it, but was pulled up half way, and put it down with a face all drawn up into puckers by its sharpness. "I thought you wouldn't appreciate the widow's tap," said East, watching him with a grin. "Regular whistle-belly vengeance, and no mistake! Here, I don't mind giving you some of my compound, though you don't deserve it." So Tom drew his chair to the fire, and smacked his lips over the long-necked glass, which East handed to him. "Ah! that's not bad tipple after such a ducking as we've had. Dog's-nose, isn't it?" East nodded. "Well, old fellow, I will say you are the best hand I know at making the most of your opportunities. I don't know of anyone else who could have made such a good brew out of that stuff and a drop of gin." East was not to be mollified by any such compliment. "Have you got many more such jobs as to-day's on hand? I should think they must interfere with reading." "No. But I call to-day's a real good job." "Do you? I don't agree. Of course it's a matter of taste. I have the honor of holding Her Majesty's commission; so I may be prejudiced, perhaps." "What difference does it make whose commission you hold? You wouldn't hold any commission, I know, which would bind you to be a tyrant and oppress the weak and the poor." "Humbug about your oppressing! Who is the tyrant, I should like to know, the farmer, or the mob that destroys his property? I don't call Swing's mob the weak and the poor." "That's all very well; but I should like to know how you'd feel if you had no work and a starving family. You don't know what people have to suffer. The only wonder is that all the country isn't in a blaze; and it will be if things last as they are much longer. It must be a bad time which makes such men as Harry Winburn into rioters." "I don't know anything about Harry Winburn. But I know there's a good deal to be said on the yeomanry side of the question." "Well, now, East, just consider this-" "No, I'm not in the humour for considering. I don't want to argue with you." "Yes, that's always the way. You won't hear what a fellow's got to say, and then set him down for a mischievous fool, because he won't give up beliefs founded on the evidence of his own eyes, and ears, and reason." "I don't quarrel with any of your beliefs. You've got 'em--I haven't--that's just the difference between us. You've got some sort of faith to fall back upon, in equality, and brotherhood, and a lot of cursed nonsense of that kind. So, I daresay, you could drop down into a navigator, or a shoeblack, or something in that way, to-morrow, and think it pleasant. You might rather enjoy a trip across the water at the expense of your country, like your friend the convict here." "Don't talk such rot, man. In the first place, he isn't a convict; you know that well enough." "He is just out of prison, at any rate. However, this sort of thing isn't my line of country at all. So the next time you want to do a bit of gaol delivery on your own hook, don't ask me to help you." "Well, if I had known all that was going to happen, I wouldn't have asked you to come, old fellow. Come, give us another glass of your dog's-nose, and no more of your sermon, which isn't edifying." The lieutenant filled the long-necked glass which Tom held out, with the creaming mixture, which he was nursing in the funnel-shaped tin. But he was not prepared to waive his right to lecture, and so continued, while Tom sipped his liquor with much relish, and looked comically across at his old schoolfellow. "Some fellows have a call to set the world right--I haven't. My gracious sovereign pays me seven and sixpence a day; for which sum I undertake to be shot at on certain occasions and by proper persons, and I hope when the time comes I shall take it as well as another. But that doesn't include turning out to be potted at like a woodcock on your confounded Berkshire wilds by a turnip-headed yeoman. It isn't to be done at the figure." "What in the world do you mean?" "I mean just what I say." "That one of those unspeakable yeomanry has been shooting at you?" "Just so." "No, you don't really mean it? Wh-e-e-w! Then that shot we heard was fired at you. 'Pon my honor, I'm very sorry." "Much good your sorrow would have done me if your precious countryman had held straight." "Well, what can I say more, East? If there's anything I can do to show you that I really am very sorry and ashamed at having brought you into such a scrape, only tell me what it is." "I don't suppose your word would go for much at the Horse Guards, or I'd ask you to give me a character for coolness under fire." "Come, I see you're joking now, old fellow. Do tell us how it happened." "Well, when you turned off across the common, I pulled up for half a minute, and then held on at a steady slow trot. If I had pushed on ahead, my friend behind would have been just as likely to turn after you as after me. Presently I heard Number One coming tearing along behind; and as soon as he got from between the banks, he saw me and came straight after me down the road. You were well away to the left, so now I just clapped on a bit, to lead him further away from the right scent, and on he came, whooping and hallooing to me to pull up. I didn't see why I hadn't just as good a right to ride along the road at my own pace as he; so the more he shouted, the more I didn't stop. But the beggar had the legs of me. He was mounted on something deuced like a thoroughbred, and gained on me hand over hand. At last when I judged he must be about twenty yards behind, I thought I might as well have a look at him, so I just turned for a moment, when, by Jove, there was my lord, lugging a pistol out of his right holster. He shouted again to me to stop. I turned, ducked my head, and the next moment he pulled trigger, and missed me." "And what happened then," said Tom, eagerly drawing a long breath. "Why, I flatter myself I showed considerable generalship. If I had given him time to get at his other pistol, or his toasting fork, it was all up. I dived into my pocket, where by good luck there was some loose powder, and copper caps, and a snuff-box; upset the snuff, grabbed a handful of the mixture, and pulled hard at my horse. Next moment he was by my side, lifting his pistol to knock me over. So I gave him the mixture right in the face, and let him go by. Up went both his hands, and away went he and his horse, somewhere over the common out of sight. I just turned round, and walked quietly back. I didn't see the fun of accepting any more attacks in the rear. Then up rides Number Two, a broad-faced young farmer on a big gray horse, blowing like a grampus. He pulled up short when we met, and stared, and I walked past him. You never saw a fellow look more puzzled. I had regularly stale-mated him. However, he took heart, and shouted, 'had I met the Captain?' I said, 'A gentleman had ridden by on a bright bay.' 'That was he; which way had he gone?' So I pointed generally over the common, and Number Two departed; and then down came the storm, and I turned again, and came on here." "The Captain! It must have been Wurley, then, who fired at you." "I don't know who it was. I only hope he won't be blinded." "It's a strange business altogether," said Tom, looking into the fire; "I scarcely know what to think of it. We should never have pulled through but for you, that's certain." "I know what to think of it well enough," said East. "But now let's hear what happened to you. They didn't catch you, of course?" "No, but it was touch and go. I thought it was all up at one time, for Harry would turn right across their line. But he knew what he was about; there was a bog between us, and they came on right into it, and we left them floundering." "The convict seems to have his head about him, then. Where is he, by the way? I'm curious to have a look at him." "Looking after the horses. I'll call him in. He ought have something to drink." Tom went to the door and called Harry, who came out from the rough shed which served as a stable, in his shirt, with a wisp of hay in his hand. He had stripped off coat, and waistcoat, and braces, and had been warming himself by giving the horses a good dressing. "Why, Harry, you haven't had anything," said Tom; "come across and have a glass of something hot." Harry followed into the kitchen, and stood by the end of the screen, looking rather uncomfortable, while Tom poured him out a glass of the hot mixture, and the lieutenant looked him over with keen eyes. "There, take that off. How are the horses?" "Pretty fresh, Master Tom; but they'd be the better of a bran mash, or somethin' cumfable. I've spoke to the missus about it, and 'tis ready to put on the fire." "That's right then. Let them have it as quick as you can." "Then I med fetch it and warm it up here, sir?" said Harry. "To be sure; the sooner the better." Harry took off his glass, making a shy sort of duck with his head, accompanied by "your health, sir," to each of his entertainers, and then disappeared into the back kitchen, returned with the mash, which he put on the fire, and went off to the stable again. "What do you think of him?" said Tom. "I like to see a fellow let his braces down when he goes to work," said East. "It's not every fellow who would be strapping away at those horses, instead of making himself at home in the back kitchen." "No, it isn't," said East. "Don't you like his looks now?" "He's not a bad sort, your convict." "I say, I wish you wouldn't call him names." "Very good; your unfortunate friend, then. What are you going to do with him?" "That's just what I've been puzzling about all the way here. What do you think?" And then they drew to the fire again, and began to talk over Harry's prospects. In some ten minutes he returned to the kitchen for the mash, and this time drew a complimentary remark from the lieutenant. Harry was passionately fond of animals, and especially of horses, and they found it out quickly enough as they always do. The two hacks were by this time almost fresh again, with dry coats, and feet well washed and cleansed; and while working at them, Harry had been thinking over all he had heard that evening, and what with the work and what with his thoughts, found himself getting more hopeful every minute. No one who had seen his face an hour before on the heath would have believed it was the same man who was now patting and fondling the two hacks as they disposed of the mash he had prepared for them. He leant back against the manger, rubbing the ears of Tom's hack--the one which had carried double so well in their first flight--gently with his two hands, while the delighted beast bent down its head, and pressed it against him, and stretched its neck, expressing in all manner of silent ways its equine astonishment and satisfaction. By the light of the single dip, Harry's face grew shorter and shorter, until at last, a quiet humorous look began to creep back into it. As we have already taken the liberty of putting the thoughts of his betters into words, we must now do so for him; and, if he had expressed his thoughts in his own vernacular as he rubbed the hack's ears in the stable, his speech would have been much as follows:-- "How cums it as I be all changed like, as tho' sum un had tuk and rubbed all the downheartedness out o' me? Here I be, two days out o' gaol, wi' nothin' in the world but the things I stands in,--for in course I med just give up the bits o' things as is left at Daddy Collins's--and they all draggled wi' the wet--and I med be tuk in the mornin' and sent across the water; and yet I feels sum how as peert as a yukkel. So fur as I can see, 'tis jest nothin' but talkin' wi' our Master Tom. What a fine thing 'tis to be a schollard. And yet seemin'ly 'tis nothin' but talk arter all's said and done. But 'tis allus the same; whenever I gets talkin' wi' he, it all cums out as smooth as crame. Fust time as ever I seen him since we wur bwys he talked just as a do now; and then my poor mother died. Then he come in arter the funeral, and talked me up agen, till I thought as I wur to hev our cottage and all the land as I could do good by. But our cottage wur tuk away, and my 'lotment besides. Then cum last summer, and 'twur just the same agen arter his talk, but I got dree months auver that job. And now 'ere I be wi un agen, a-runnin' from the constable; and like to be tuk up and transpworted, and 'tis just the same; and I s'pose 'twill be just the same if ever I gets back, and sees un, and talks wi' un, if I be gwine to be hung. 'Tis a wunnerful thing to be a schollard, to be able to make things look all straight when they be ever so akkerd and unked." And then Harry left off rubbing the horse's ears; and, pulling the damp piece of paper, which Tom had given him, out of his breeches' pocket, proceeded to flatten it out tenderly on the palm of his hand, and read it by the light of the dip, when the landlady came to inform him that the gentlefolk wanted him in the kitchen. So he folded his treasure up again, and went off to the kitchen. He found Tom standing with his back to the fire, while the lieutenant was sitting at the table, writing on a scrap of paper, which the landlady had produced after much hunting over of drawers. Tom began, with some little hesitation:-- "Oh, Harry, I've been talking matters over with my friend here, and I've changed my mind. It won't do after all for you to stay about at railway work, or anything of that sort. You see you wouldn't be safe. They'd be sure to trace you, and you'd get into trouble about this day's work. And then, after all, it's a very poor opening for a young fellow like you. Now, why shouldn't you enlist into Mr. East's regiment? You'll be in his company, and it's a splendid profession. What do you say now?" East looked up at poor Harry, who was quite taken aback at this change in his prospects, and could only mutter, that he had never turned his mind to "sodgerin." "It's just the thing for you," Tom went on. "You can write and keep accounts, and you'll get on famously. Ask Mr. East if you won't. And don't you fear about matters at home. You'll see that'll all come right. I'll pledge you my word it will, and I'll take care that you shall hear everything that goes on there; and, depend upon it, it's your best chance. You'll be back at Englebourn as a sergeant in no time, and be able to snap your fingers at them all. You'll come with us to Steventon station, and take the night train to London, and then in the morning go to Whitehall, and find Mr. East's sergeant. He'll give you a note to him, and they'll send you on to Chatham, where the regiment is. You think it's the best thing for him, don't you?" said Tom, turning to East. "Yes; I think you'll do very well if you only keep steady. Here's a note to the sergeant, and I shall be back at Chatham in a day or two myself." Harry took the note mechanically; he was quite unable yet to make any resistance. "And now get something to eat as quick as you can, for we ought to be off. The horses are all right, I suppose?" "Yes, Master Tom," said Harry, with an appealing look. "Where are your coat and waistcoat, Harry?" "They be in the stable, sir." "In the stable! Why, they're all wet, then, still?" "Oh, 'tis no odds about that, Master Tom." "No odds! Get them in directly, and put them to dry here." So Harry Winburn went off to the stable to fetch his clothes. "He's a fine fellow," said East, getting up and coming to the fire; "I've taken quite a fancy to him, but he doesn't fancy enlisting." "Poor fellow! he has to leave his sweetheart. It's a sad business, but it's the best thing for him, and you'll see he'll go." Tom was right. Poor Harry came in and dried his clothes, and got his supper; and while he was eating it, and all along the road afterwards, till they reached the station at about eleven o'clock, pleaded in his plain way with Tom against leaving his own country side. And East listened silently, and liked him better and better. Tom argued with him gently, and turned the matter round on all sides, putting the most hopeful face upon it; and, in the end, talked first himself and then Harry into the belief that it was the best thing that could have happened to him, and more likely than any other course of action to bring everything right between him and all the folk at Englebourn. So they got into the train at Steventon in pretty good heart, with his fare paid, and half-a-sovereign in his pocket, more and more impressed in his mind with what a wonderful thing it was to be "a schollard." The two friends rode back to Oxford at a good pace. They had both of them quite enough to think about, and were not in the humour for talk, had place and time served, so that scarce a word passed between them till they had left their horses at the livery stables, and were walking through the silent streets, a few minutes before midnight. Then East broke silence. "I can't make out how you do it. I'd give half-a-year's pay to get the way of it." "The way of what? What an you talking about?" "Why, your way of shutting your eyes, and going in blind." "Well, that's a queer wish for a fighting man," said Tom, laughing. "We always thought a rusher no good at school, and that the thing to learn was, to go in with your own eyes open, and shut up other people's." "Ah but we hadn't cut our eye-teeth then. I look at these things from a professional point of view. My business is to get fellows to shut their eyes tight, and I begin to think you can't do it as it should be done, without shutting your own first." "I don't take." "Why, look at the way you talked your convict--I beg your pardon--your unfortunate friend--into enlisting tonight. You talked as if you believed every word you were saying to him." "So I did." "Well, I should like to have you for a recruiting sergeant, if you could only drop that radical bosh. If I had had to do it, instead of enlisting, he would have gone straight off and hung himself in the stable." "I'm glad you didn't try your hand at it then." "Look again at me. Do you think anyone but such a--well I don't want to say anything uncivil--a headlong dog like you could have got me into such a business as to-day's? Now I want to be able to get other fellows to make just such fools of themselves as I've made of myself to-day. How do you do it?" "I don't know, unless it is that I can't help always looking at the best side of things myself, and so--" "Most things haven't got a best side." "Well, at the pretty good side, then." "Nor a pretty good one." "If they haven't got a pretty good one, it don't matter how you look at them, I should think." "No, I don't believe it does--much. Still, I should like to be able to make a fool of myself, too, when I want, with the view of getting others to do ditto, of course." "I wish I could help you, old fellow; but I don't see my way to it." "I shall talk to our regimental doctor about it, and get put through a course of fool's-diet before we start for India." "Flap-doodle, they call it, what fools are fed on. But it's odd that you should have broken out in this place, when all the way home I've been doing nothing but envying you your special talent." "What's that?" "Just the opposite one--the art of falling on your feet. I should like to exchange with you." "You'd make a precious bad bargain of it, then." "There's twelve striking. I must knock in. Good night. You'll be round to breakfast at nine." "All right. I believe in your breakfasts, rather," said East, as they shook hands at the gate of St. Ambrose, into which Tom disappeared, while the lieutenant strolled back to the "Mitre." CHAPTER XLII--THIRD YEAR East returned to his regiment in a few days, and at the end of the month the gallant 101st embarked for India. Tom wrote several letters to the lieutenant, inclosing notes to Harry, with gleanings of news from Englebourn, where his escape on the night of the riot had been a nine-days' wonder; and, now that he was fairly "'listed," and out of the way, public opinion was beginning to turn in his favor. In due course a letter arrived from the lieutenant, dated Cape Town, giving a prosperous account of the voyage so far. East did not say much about "your convict," as he still insisted on calling Harry; but the little he did say was very satisfactory, and Tom sent off this part of the letter to Katie, to whom he had confided the whole story, entreating her to make the best use of it in the interest of the young soldier. And, after this out-of-the-way beginning, he settled down into the usual routine of his Oxford life. This change in his opinions and objects of interest brought him now into more intimate relations with a set of whom he had, as yet, seen little. For want of a better name, we may call them "the party of progress." At their parties, instead of practical jokes, and boisterous mirth, and talk of boats, and bats, and guns, and horses, the highest and deepest questions of morals, and politics, and metaphysics, were discussed, and discussed with a. freshness and enthusiasm which is apt to wear off when doing has to take the place of talking, but has a strange charm of its own while it lasts, and is looked back to with loving regret by those for whom it is no longer a possibility. With this set Tom soon fraternized, and drank in many new ideas, and took to himself also many new crotchets besides those with which he was already weighted. Almost all his new acquaintances were Liberal in politics, but a few only were ready to go all lengths with him. They were all Union men, and Tom, of course, followed the fashion, and soon propounded theories in that institution which gained him the name of Chartist Brown. There was a strong mixture of self-conceit in it all. He had a kind of idea that he had discovered something which it was creditable to have discovered, and that it was a very fine thing to have all these feelings for, and sympathies with, "the masses", and to believe in democracy, and "glorious humanity," and "a good time coming," and I know not what other big matters. And, although it startled and pained him at first to hear himself called ugly names, which he had hated and despised from his youth up, and to know that many of his old acquaintances looked upon him, not simply as a madman, but as a madman with snobbish proclivities; yet, when the first plunge was over, there was a good deal on the other hand which tickled his vanity, and was far from being unpleasant. To do him justice, however, the disagreeables were such that, had there not been some genuine belief at the bottom, he would certainly have been headed back very speedily into the fold of political and social orthodoxy. As it was, amidst the cloud of sophisms, and platitudes, and big, one-sided ideas half-mastered, which filled his thoughts and overflowed in his talk, there was growing in him, and taking firmer hold on him daily, a true and broad sympathy for men as men, and especially for poor men as poor men, and a righteous and burning hatred against all laws, customs, or notions, which, according to his light, either were or seemed to be setting aside, or putting anything else in the place of, or above, the man. It was with him the natural outgrowth of the child's and boy's training (though his father would have been much astonished to be told so), and the instincts of those early days were now getting rapidly set into habits and faiths, and becoming a part of himself. In this stage of his life, as in so many former ones, Tom got great help from his intercourse with Hardy, now the rising tutor of the college. Hardy was travelling much the same road himself as our hero, but was somewhat further on, and had come into it from a different country, and though quite other obstacles. Their early lives had been very different; and, both by nature and from long and severe self-restraint and discipline, Hardy was much the less impetuous and demonstrative of the two. He did not rush out, therefore (as Tom was too much inclined to do), the moment he had seized hold of the end of a new idea which he felt to be good for _him_ and what _he_ wanted, and brandish it in the face of all comers, and think himself a traitor to the truth if he wasn't trying to make everybody he met with eat it. Hardy, on the contrary, would test his new idea, and turn it over, and prove it as far as he could, and try to get hold of the whole of it, and ruthlessly strip off any tinsel or rose-pink sentiment with which it might happen to be mixed up. Often and often did Tom suffer under this severe method, and rebel against it, and accuse his friend, both to his face and in his own secret thoughts, of coldness, and want of faith, and all manner of other sins of omission and commission. In the end, however, he generally came round, with more or less of rebellion, according to the severity of the treatment, and acknowledge that, when Hardy brought him down from riding the high horse, it was not without good reason, and that the dust in which he was rolled was always most wholesome dust. For instance, there was no phrase more frequently in the mouths of the party of progress than "the good cause." It was a fine big-sounding phrase, which could be used with great effect in perorations of speeches at the Union, and was sufficiently indefinite to be easily defended from ordinary attacks, while it saved him who used it the trouble of ascertaining accurately for himself, or settling for his hearers, what it really did mean. But, however satisfactory it might be before promiscuous audiences, and so long as vehement assertion or declaration was all that was required to uphold it, this same "good cause" was liable to come to much grief when it had to get itself defined. Hardy was particularly given to persecution on this subject, when he could get Tom, and, perhaps, one or two others, in a quiet room by themselves. While professing the utmost sympathy for "the good cause," and a hope as strong as theirs that all its enemies might find themselves suspended to lamp-posts as soon as possible, he would pursue it into corners from which escape was most difficult, asking it and its supporters what it exactly was, and driving them from one cloud-land to another, and from "the good cause" to the "people's cause," the "cause of labor," and other like troublesome definitions, until the great idea seemed to have no shape or existence any longer even in their own brains. But Hardy's persecution, provoking as it was for the time, never went to the undermining of any real conviction in the minds of his juniors, or the shaking of anything which did not need shaking, but only helped them to clear their ideas and brains as to what they were talking and thinking about, and gave them glimpses--soon clouded over again, but most useful, nevertheless--of the truth; that there were a good many knotty questions to be solved before a man could be quite sure that he had found out the way to set the world thoroughly to rights, and heal all the ills that flesh is heir to. Hardy treated another of his friend's most favorite notions even with less respect than this one of "the good cause." Democracy, that "universal democracy," which their favourite author had recently declared to be "an inevitable fact of the days in which we live", was, perhaps, on the whole, the pet idea of the small section of liberal young Oxford, with whom Tom was now hand and glove. They lost no opportunity of worshipping it, and doing battle for it; and, indeed, most of them did very truly believe that that state of the world which this universal democracy was to bring about, and which was coming no man could say how soon, was to be in fact that age of peace and good-will which men had dreamt of in all times, when the lion should lie down with the kid, and nation should not vex nation any more. After hearing something to this effect from Tom on several occasions, Hardy cunningly lured him to his rooms on the pretence of talking over the prospects of the boat club, and then, having seated him by the fire, which he himself proceeded to assault gently with the poker, propounded suddenly to him the question, "Brown, I should like to know what you mean by 'democracy'?" Tom at once saw the trap into which he had fallen, and made several efforts to break away, but unsuccessfully; and, being seated to a cup of tea, and allowed to smoke, was then and there grievously oppressed, and mangled, and sat upon, by his oldest and best friend. He took his ground carefully, and propounded only what he felt sure that Hardy himself would at once accept--what no man of any worth could possibly take exception to. "He meant much more," he said, "than this; but for the present purpose it would be enough for him to say that, whatever else it might mean, democracy in his mouth always meant that every man should have a share in the government of his country." Hardy, seeming to acquiesce, and making a sudden change in the subject of their talk, decoyed his innocent guest away from the thought of democracy for a few minutes, by holding up to him the flag of hero-worship, in which worship Tom was, of course, a sedulous believer. Then, having involved him in most difficult country, his persecutor opened fire upon him from masked batteries of the most deadly kind, the guns being all from the armory of his own prophets. "You long for the rule of the ablest man, everywhere, at all times? To find your ablest man, and then give him power, and obey him--that you hold to be about the highest act of wisdom which a nation can be capable of?" "Yes; and you know you believe that to, Hardy, just as firmly as I do." "I hope so. But then, how about our universal democracy, and every man having a share in the government of his country?" Tom felt that his flank was turned; in fact, the contrast of his two beliefs had never struck him vividly before, and he was consequently much confused. But Hardy went on tapping a big coal gently with the poker, and gave him time to recover himself and collect his thoughts. "I don't mean, of course, that every man is to have an actual share in the government," he said at last. "But every man is somehow to have a share; and, if not an actual one, I can't see what the proposition comes to." "I call it having a share in the government when a man has share in saying who shall govern him." "Well, you'll own that's a very different thing. But let's see; will that find our wisest governor for us--letting all the most foolish men in the nation have a say as to who he is to be?" "Come now, Hardy, I've heard you say that you are for manhood suffrage." "That's another question; you let in another idea there. At present we are considering whether the _vox populi_ is the best test for finding your best man. I'm afraid all history is against you." "That's a good joke. Now, there I defy you, Hardy." "Begin at the beginning, then, and let us see." "I suppose you'll say, then, that the Egyptian and Babylonian empires were better than the little Jewish republic." "Republic! well, let that pass. But I never heard that the Jews elected Moses, or any of the judges." "Well, never mind the Jews; they're an exceptional case; you can't argue from them." "I don't admit that. I believe just the contrary. But go on." "Well, then, what do you say to the glorious Greek republics, with Athens at the head of them?" "I say that no nation ever treated their best men so badly. I see I must put on a lecture in Aristophanes for your special benefit. Vain, irritable, shallow, suspicious old Demus, with his two oboli in his cheek, and doubting only between Cleon and the sausage-seller, which he shall choose for his wisest man--not to govern, but to serve his whims and caprices. You must call another witness, I think." "But that's a caricature." "Take the picture, then, out of Thucydides, Plato, Xenophon, how you will--you won't mend the matter much. You shouldn't go so fast, Brown; you won't mind my saying so, I know. You don't get clear in your own mind before you pitch into everyone who comes across you, and so do your own side (which I admit is mostly the right one) more harm than good." Tom couldn't stand being put down so summarily, and fought over the ground from one country to another, from Rome to the United States, with all the arguments he could muster, but with little success. That unfortunate first admission of his, he felt it throughout, like a millstone round his neck, and could not help admitting to himself, when he left, that there was a good deal in Hardy's concluding remark,--"You'll find it rather a tough business to get your 'universal democracy' and 'government by the wisest' to pull together in one coach." Notwithstanding all such occasional reverses and cold baths, however, Tom went on strengthening himself in his new opinions, and maintaining them with all the zeal of a convert. The shelves of his bookcase, and the walls of his room, soon began to show signs of the change which was taking place in his ways of looking at men and things. Hitherto a framed engraving of George III had hung over his mantle-piece; but early in this, his third year, the frame had disappeared for a few days, and when it reappeared, the solemn face of John Milton looked out from it, while the honest monarch had retired into a portfolio. A facsimile of Magna Charta soon displaced a large colored print of "A Day With the Pycheley", and soon afterwards the death warrant of Charles I. with its grim and resolute rows of signatures and seals, appeared on the wall in a place of honour, in the neighbourhood of Milton. Squire Brown was passing through Oxford, and paid his son a visit soon after this last arrangement had been completed. He dined in hall, at the high table, being still a member of the college, and afterwards came with Hardy to Tom's rooms to have a quiet glass of wine, and spend the evening with his son and a few of his friends, who had been asked to meet "the governor." Tom had a struggle with himself whether he should not remove the death-warrant into his bedroom for the evening, and had actually taken if down with this view; but in the end he could not stomach such a backsliding, and so restored it to its place. "I have never concealed my opinions from my father," he thought, "though I don't think he quite knows what they are. But if he doesn't, he ought, and the sooner the better. I should be a sneak to try to hide them. I know he won't like it, but he is always just and fair, and will make allowances. At any rate, up it goes again." And so he re-hung the death-warrant, but with the devout secret hope that his father might not see it. The wine-party went off admirably. The men were nice, gentlemanly, intelligent fellows; and the Squire, who had been carefully planted by Tom with his back to the death-warrant, enjoyed himself very much. At last they all went, except Hardy; and now the nervous time approached. For a short time longer the three sat at the wine-table while the squire enlarged upon the great improvement in young men, and the habits of the University, especially in the matter of drinking. Tom had only opened three bottles of port. In his time the men would have drunk certainly not less than a bottle a man; and other like remarks he made, as he sipped his coffee, and then, pushing back his chair, said, "Well, Tom, hadn't your servant better clear away, and then we can draw round the fire, and have a talk." "Wouldn't you like to take a turn while he is clearing? There's the Martyr's Memorial you haven't seen." "No, thank you. I know the place well enough. I don't come to walk about in the dark. We sha'n't be in your man's way." And so Tom's scout came in to clear away, took out the extra leaves of the table, put on the cloth, and laid tea. During these operations Mr. Brown was standing with his back to the fire, looking about him as he talked. When there was more space to move in, he began to walk up and down, and very soon took to remarking the furniture and arrangements of the room. One after the other the pictures came under his notice. Most of them escaped without comment, the Squire simply pausing a moment, and then taking up his walk again. Magna Charta drew forth his hearty approval. It was a capital notion to hang such things on his walls, instead of bad prints of steeple-chases, or trash of that sort. "Ah, here's something else of the same kind. Why, Tom, what's this?" said the squire, as he paused before the death-warrant. There was a moment or two of dead silence, while the Squire's eyes ran down the names, from Jo. Bradshaw to Miles Corbet; and then he turned, and came and sat down opposite to his son. Tom expected his father to be vexed, but was not the least prepared for the tone of pain, and sorrow, and anger, in which he first inquired, and then remonstrated. For some time past the Squire and his son had not felt so comfortable together as of old. Mr. Brown had been annoyed by much that Tom had done in the case of Harry Winburn, though he did not know all. There had sprung up a barrier somehow or other between them, neither of them knew how. They had often felt embarrassed at being left alone together during the past year, and found that there were certain topics which they could not talk upon, which they avoided by mutual consent. Every now and then the constraint and embarrassment fell off for a short time, for at bottom they loved and appreciated one another heartily; but the divergences in their thoughts and habits had become very serious, and seemed likely to increase rather than not. They felt keenly the chasm between the two generations. As they looked at one another from opposite banks, each in his secret heart blamed the other in great measure for that which was the fault of neither. Mixed with the longings which each felt for a better understanding was enough of reserve and indignation to prevent them from coming to it. The discovery of their differences was too recent, and they were too much alike in character and temper, for either to make large enough allowance for, or to be really tolerant of, the other. This was the first occasion on which they had come to outspoken and serious difference; and though the collision had been exceedingly painful to both, yet when they parted for the night, it was with a feeling of relief that the ice had been thoroughly broken. Before his father left the room, Tom had torn the facsimile of the death-warrant out of its frame, and put it in the fire, protesting, however, at the same time, that, though "he did thist out of deference to his father, and was deeply grieved at having given him pain, he could not and would not give up his convictions, or pretend that they were changed, or even shaken." The Squire walked back to his hotel deeply moved. Who can wonder? He was a man full of living and vehement convictions. One of his early recollections had been the arrival in England of the news of the beheading of Louis XVI, and the doings of the Reign of Terror. He had been bred in the times when it was held impossible for a gentleman or a Christian to hold such views as his son had been maintaining, and, like many of the noblest Englishmen of his time, had gone with and accepted the creed of the day. Tom remained behind, dejected and melancholy; now accusing his father of injustice and bigotry, now longing to go after him, and give up everything. What were all his opinions and convictions compared with his father's confidence and love? At breakfast the next morning, however, after each of them had had time for thinking over what had passed, they met with a cordiality which was as pleasant to each as it was unlooked for; and from this visit of his father to him at Oxford, Tom dated a new and more satisfactory epoch in their intercourse. The fact had begun to dawn on the Squire that the world had changed a good deal since his time. He saw that young men were much improved in some ways, and acknowledged the fact heartily; on the other hand, they had taken up with a lot of new notions which he could not understand, and thought mischievous and bad. Perhaps Tom might get over them as he got to be older and wiser, and in the meantime he must take the evil with the good. At any rate he was too fair a man to try to dragoon his son out of anything which he really believed. Tom on his part gratefully accepted the change in his father's manner, and took all means of showing his gratitude by consulting and talking freely to him on such subjects as they could agree upon, which were numerous, keeping in the back-ground the questions which had provoked painful discussions between them. By degrees these even could be tenderly approached; and, now that they were approached in a different spirit, the honest beliefs of the father and son no longer looked so monstrous to one another, the hard and sharp outlines began to wear off, and the views of each of them to be modified. Thus, bit by bit, by a slow but sure process, a better understanding than ever was re-established between them. This beginning of a better state of things in his relations with his father consoled Tom for many other matters that seemed to go wrong with him, and was a constant bit of bright sky to turn to when the rest of his horizon looked dark and dreary, as it did often enough. For it proved a very trying year to him, this his third and last year at the University; a year full of large dreams and small performances, of unfulfilled hopes and struggles to set himself right, ending ever more surely in failure and disappointment. The common pursuits of the place had lost their freshness, and with it much of their charm. He was beginning to feel himself in a cage, and to beat against the bars of it. Often, in spite of all his natural hopefulness, his heart seemed to sicken and turn cold, without any apparent reason; his old pursuits palled on him, and he scarcely cared to turn to new ones. What was it that made life so blank to him at these times? How was it that he could not keep the spirit within him alive and warm? It was easier to ask such questions than to get an answer. Was it not this place he was living in and the ways of it? No, for the place and its ways were the same as ever, and his own way of life in it better than ever before. Was it the want of sight or tidings of Mary? Sometimes he thought so, and then cast the thought away as treason. His love for her was ever sinking deeper into him, and raising and purifying him. Light and strength and life came from that source; craven weariness and coldness of heart, come from whence they might, were not from that quarter. But precious as his love was to him, and deeply as it affected his whole life, he felt that there must be something beyond it--that its full satisfaction would not be enough for him. The bed was too narrow for a man to stretch himself on. What he was in search of must underlie and embrace his human love, and support it. Beyond and above all private and personal desires and hopes and longings, he was conscious of a restless craving and feeling about after something, which he could not grasp, and yet which was not avoiding him, which seemed to be mysteriously laying hold of him and surrounding him. The routine of chapels, and lectures, and reading for degree, boating, cricketing, Union-debating,--all well enough in their way--left this vacuum unfilled. There was a great outer visible world, the problems and puzzles of which were rising before him and haunting him more and more; and a great inner and invisible world opening round him in awful depth. He seemed to be standing on the brink of each--now shivering and helpless, feeling like an atom about to be whirled into the great flood and carried he knew not where--now ready to plunge in and take his part, full of hope and belief that he was meant to buffet in the strength of a man with the seen and the unseen, and to be subdued by neither. In such a year as this, a bit of steady, bright blue sky was a boon beyond all price, and so he felt it to be. And it was not only with his father that Tom regained lost ground in this year. He was in a state of mind in which he could not bear to neglect or lose any particle of human sympathy, and so he turned to old friendships, and revived the correspondence with several of his old school-fellows, and particularly with Arthur, to the great delight of the latter, who had mourned bitterly over the few half-yearly lines, all he had got from Tom of late, in answer to his own letters, which had themselves, under the weight of neglect, gradually dwindled down to mere formal matters. A specimen of the later correspondence may fitly close the chapter:-- ST. AMBROSE "Dear Geordie--I can hardly pardon you for having gone to Cambridge, though you have got a Trinity scholarship--which I suppose is, on the whole, quite as good a thing as anything of the sort you could have got up here. I had so looked forward to having you here though, and now I feel that we shall probably scarcely ever meet. You will go your way and I mine; and one alters so quickly, and gets into such strange new grooves, that unless one sees a man about once a week at least, you may be just like strangers when you are thrown together again. If you had come up here it would have been all right, and we should have gone all through life as we were when I left school, and as I know we should be again in no time if you had come here. But now, who can tell? "What makes me think so much of this is a visit of a few days that East paid me just before his regiment went to India. I feel that if he hadn't done it, and we had not met till he came back--years hence perhaps--we should never have been to one another what we shall be now. The break would have been too great. Now it's all right. You would have liked to see the old fellow grown into a man, but not a bit altered--just the quiet, old way, pooh-poohing you, and pretending to care for nothing, but ready to cut the nose off his face, or go through fire and water for you at a pinch, if you'll only let him go his own way about it, and have his grumble, and say that he does it all from the worst possible motives. "But we must try not to lose hold of one another, Geordie. It would be a bitter day to me if I thought anything of the kind could ever happen again. We must write more to one another. I've been awfully lazy, I know, about it for this last year and more; but then I always thought you would be coming up here, and so that it didn't matter much. But now I will turn over a new leaf, and write to you about my secret thoughts, my works and ways; and you must do it too. If we can only tide over the next year or two we shall get into plain sailing, and I suppose it will all right then. At least, I can't believe that one is likely to have many such up-and-down years in one's life as the last two. If one is, goodness knows where I shall end. You know the outline of what has happened to me from my letters, and the talks we have had in my flying visits to the old school, but you haven't a notion of the troubles of mind I've been in, and the changes I've gone through. I can hardly believe it myself when I look back. However I'm quite sure I have _got on_; that's my great comfort. It is a strange blind sort of world, that's a fact, with lots of blind alleys, down which you go blundering in the fog after some seedy gaslight, which you take for the sun till you run against the wall at the end, and find out that the light is a gaslight, and that there's no thoroughfare. But for all that one does get on. You get to know the sun's light better and better, and to keep out of the blind alleys; and I am surer and surer every day, that there's always sunlight enough for every honest fellow--though I didn't think so a few months back--and a good sound road under his feet, if he will only step out on it. "Talking of blind alleys puts me in mind of your last. Aren't you going down a blind alley, or something worse? There's no wall to bring you up, that I can see down the turn you've taken; and then, what's the practical use of it all? What good would you do to yourself, or anyone else, if you could get to the end of it? I can't for the life of me fancy, I confess, what you think will come of speculating about necessity and free will. I only know that I can hold out my hand before me, and can move it to the right or left, despite of all the powers in heaven or earth. As I sit here writing to you, I can let into my heart, and give the reins to, all sorts of devil's passions, or to the Spirit of God. Well, that's enough for me. I _know_ it of myself, and I believe you know it of yourself, and everybody knows it of themselves or himself; and why you can't be satisfied with that, passes my comprehension. As if one hasn't got puzzles enough, and bothers enough, under one's nose, without going a-field after a lot of metaphysical quibbles. No, I'm wrong,--not going a-field,--anything one has to go a-field for is all right. What a fellow meets outside himself he isn't responsible for, and must do the best he can with. But to go on for ever looking inside of one's self, and groping about amongst one's own sensations, and ideas, and whimsies of one kind and another, I can't conceive a poorer line of business than that. Don't you get into it now, that's a dear boy. "Very likely you'll tell me you can't help it; that every one has his own difficulties, and must fight them out, and that mine are one sort, and yours another. Well, perhaps you may be right. I hope I'm getting to know that my plummet isn't to measure all the world. But it does seem a pity that men shouldn't be thinking about how to cure some of the wrongs which poor dear old England is pretty near dying of, instead of taking the edge off their brains, and spending all their steam in speculating about all kinds of things, which wouldn't make any poor man in the world--or rich one either, for that matter--a bit better off, if they were all found out, and settled to-morrow. But here I am at the end of my paper. Don't be angry at my jobation; but write me a long answer of your own free will, and believe me ever affectionately yours, "T. B." CHAPTER XLIII--AFTERNOON VISITORS Miss Mary Porter was sitting alone in the front drawing-room of her father's house, in Belgravia, on the afternoon of a summer's day in this same year. Two years and more have passed over her head since we first met her, and she may be a thought more sedate and better dressed, but there is no other change to be noticed in her. The room was for the most part much like other rooms in that quarter of the world. There were few luxuries in the way of furniture which fallen man can desire which were not to be found there, but over and above this, there was an elegance in the arrangement of all the nick-nacks and ornaments, and an appropriateness and good taste in the placing of every piece of furniture and vase of flowers, which showed that a higher order of mind than the upholsterer's or housemaid's was constantly overlooking and working there. Everything seemed to be in its exact place, in the best place which could have been thought of for it, and to be the best thing which could have been thought of for the place. And yet this perfection did not strike you particularly at first, or surprise you in any way, but sank into you gradually, so that, until you forced yourself to consider the matter, you could not in the least say why the room had such a very pleasant effect on you. The young lady to whom this charm was chiefly owing was sitting by a buhl work-table, on which lay her embroidery and a book. She was reading a letter, which seemed deeply to interest her; for she did not hear the voice of the butler, who had just opened the door and disturbed her solitude, until he had repeated for the second time, "Mr. Smith." Then Mary jumped up, and, hastily folding her letter, put it into her pocket. She was rather provoked at having allowed herself to be caught there alone by afternoon visitors, and with the servants for having let anyone in; nevertheless, she welcomed Mr. Smith with a cordiality of manner which perhaps rather more than represented her real feelings, and, with a "let mamma know," to the butler, set to work to entertain her visitor. She would have had no difficulty in doing this under ordinary circumstances, as all that Mr. Smith wanted was a good listener. He was a somewhat heavy and garrulous old gentleman, with many imaginary, and a few real troubles, the constant contemplation of which served to occupy the whole of his own time, and as much of his friends' as he could get them to give him. But scarcely had he settled himself comfortably in an easy chair opposite to his victim, when the butler entered again, and announced, "Mr. St. Cloud." Mary was now no longer at her ease. Her manner of receiving her new visitor was constrained; and yet it was clear that he was on easy terms in the house. She asked the butler where his mistress was, and heard with vexation that she had gone out, but was expected home almost immediately. Charging him to let her mother know the moment she returned, Mary turned to her unwelcome task, and sat herself down again with such resignation as she was capable of at the moment. The conduct of her visitors was by no means calculated to restore her composure, or make her comfortable between them. She was sure that they knew one another; but neither of then would speak to the other. There the two sat on, each resolutely bent on tiring the other out; the elder crooning on to her in an undertone, and ignoring the younger, who in his turn put on an air of serene unconsciousness of the presence of his senior, and gazed about the room, and watched Mary, making occasional remarks to her as if no one else were present. On and on they sat, her only comfort being the hope that neither of them would have the conscience to stay on after the departure of the other. Between them Mary was driven to her wits' end, and looked for her mother or for some new visitor to come to her help, as Wellington looked for the Prussians on the afternoon of June 18th. At length youth and insolence prevailed, and Mr. Smith rose to go. Mary got up too, and after his departure remained standing, in hopes that her other visitor would take the hint and follow the good example. But St. Cloud had not the least intention of moving. "Really, your good-nature is quite astonishing, Miss Porter," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and following the pattern of one of the flowers on the carpet with his cane, which gave him the opportunity of showing his delicately gloved hand to advantage. "Indeed, why do you think so?" she asked, taking up her embroidery and pretending to begin working. "Have I not good reason, after sitting this half-hour and seeing you enduring old Smith--the greatest bore in London? I don't believe there are three houses where the servants dare let him in. It would be as much as their places are worth. No porter could hope for a character who let him in twice in the season." "Poor Mr. Smith," said Mary, smiling. "But you know we have no porter, and," she suddenly checked herself, and added gravely, "he is an old friend, and papa and mamma like him." "But the wearisomeness of his grievances! Those three sons in the Plungers, and their eternal scrapes! How you could manage to keep a civil face! It was a masterpiece of polite patience." "Indeed, I am very sorry for his troubles. I wonder where mamma can be? We are going to drive. Shall you be in the Park? I think it must be time for me to dress." "I hope not. It is so seldom that I see you except in crowded rooms. Can you wonder that I should value such a chance as this?" "Were you at the new opera last night?" asked Mary, carefully avoiding his eye, and sticking to her work, but scarcely able to conceal her nervousness and discomfort. "Yes, I was there; but--" "Oh, do tell me about it, then; I hear it was a great success." "Another time. We can talk of the opera anywhere. Let me speak now of something else. You must have seen, Miss Porter,--" "How can you think I will talk of anything till you have told me about the opera?" interrupted Mary rapidly and nervously. "Was Grisi very fine? The chief part was composed for her, was it not? and dear old Lablache--" "I will tell you all about it presently, if you will let me, in five minutes' time--I only ask for five minutes--" "Five minutes! Oh, no, not five seconds. I must hear about the new opera before I will listen to a word of anything else." "Indeed, Miss Porter, you must pardon me for disobeying. But I may not have such a chance as this again for months." With which prelude he drew his chair towards hers and Mary was just trying to make up her mind to jump up and run right out of the room, when the door opened, and the butler walked in with a card on a waiter. Mary had never felt so relieved in her life, and could have hugged the solemn old domestic when he said, presenting the card to her, "The gentleman asked if Mrs. or you were in, Miss, and told me to bring it up, and find whether you would see him on particular business. He's waiting in the hall." "Oh, yes, I know. Of course. Yes, say I will see him directly. I mean, ask him to come up now." "Shall I show him into the library, Miss?" "No, no; in here; do you understand?" "Yes, Miss," replied the butter, with a deprecatory look at St. Cloud, as much as to say, "You see, I can't help it," in answer to his impatient telegraphic signals. St. Cloud had been very liberal to the Porters' servants. Mary's confidence had all come back. Relief was at hand. She could trust herself to hold St. Cloud at bay now, as it could not be for more than a few minutes. When she turned to him the nervousness had quite gone out of her manner, and she spoke in her old tone again, as she laid her embroidery aside. "How lucky that you should be here! Look; I think you must be acquainted," she said, holding out the card which the butler had given her to St. Cloud. He took it mechanically, and looked at it, and then crushed it in his hand, and was going to speak. She prevented him. "I was right, I'm sure. You do know him?" "I didn't see the name," he said almost fiercely. "The name on the card which I gave you just now?--Mr. Grey. He is curate in one of the poor Westminster districts. You must remember him, for he was of your college. He was at Oxford with you. I made his acquaintance at the Commemoration. He will be so glad to meet an old friend." St. Cloud was too much provoked to answer; and the next moment the door opened, and the butler announced Mr. Grey. Grey came into the room timidly, carrying his head a little down as usual, and glancing uncomfortably about in a manner which used to make Drysdale say that he always looked as though he had just been robbing a hen-roost. Mary went forward to meet him, holding out her hand cordially. "I am so glad to see you," she said. "How kind of you to call when you are so busy! Mamma will be here directly. I think you must remember Mr. St. Cloud--Mr. Grey." St. Cloud's patience was now quite gone. He drew himself up, making the slightest possible inclination towards Grey, and then, without taking any further notice of him, turned to Mary with a look which he meant to be full of pitying admiration for her, and contempt of her visitor; but, as she would not look at him, it was thrown away. So he made his bow and stalked out of the room, angrily debating with himself, as he went down the stairs, whether she could have understood him. He was so fully convinced of the sacrifice which a man in his position was making in paying serious attention to a girl with little fortune and no connexion, that he soon consoled himself in the belief that her embarrassment only arose from shyness, and that the moment he could explain himself she would be his obedient and grateful servant. Meantime Mary sat down opposite to the curate, and listened to him as he unfolded his errand awkwardly enough. An execution was threatened in the house of a poor struggling widow, whom Mrs. Porter had employed to do needlework occasionally, and who was behind with her rent through sickness. He was afraid that her things would be taken and sold in the morning, unless she could borrow two sovereigns. He had so many claims on him, that he could not lend her the money himself, and so had come out to see what he could do amongst those who knew her. By the time Grey had arrived at the end of his story, Mary had made up her mind--not without a little struggle--to sacrifice the greater part of what was left of her quarter's allowance. After all, it would only be wearing cleaned gloves instead of new ones, and giving up her new riding-hat till next quarter. So she jumped up, and said gaily, "Is that all, Mr. Grey? I have the money, and I will lend it her with pleasure. I will fetch it directly." She tripped off to her room, and soon came back with the money; and just then the butler came in with tea, and Mary asked Mr. Grey to take some. He looked tired, she said, and if he would wait a little time, he would see her mother, who would be sure to do something more for the poor woman. Grey had risen to leave, and was standing, hat in hand, ready to go. He was in the habit of reckoning with himself strictly for every minute of his day, and was never quite satisfied with himself unless he was doing the most disagreeable thing which circumstances for the time being allowed him to do. But greater and stronger men than Grey, from Adam downwards, have yielded to the temptation before which he now succumbed. He looked out of the corners of his eyes; and there was something so fresh and bright in the picture of the dainty little tea-service and the young lady behind it, the tea which she was beginning to pour out smelt so refreshing, and her hand and figure looked so pretty in the operation, that, with a sigh of departing resolution, he gave in, put his hat on the floor, and sat down opposite to the tempter. Grey took a cup of tea, and then another. He thought he had never tasted anything so good. The delicious rich cream, and the tempting plate of bread and butter were too much for him. He fairly gave way, and resigned himself to physical enjoyment, and sipped his tea, and looked over his cup at Mary, sitting there bright and kind and ready to go on pouring out for him to any extent. It seemed to him as if an atmosphere of light and joy surrounded her, within the circle of which he was sitting and absorbing. Tea was the only stimulant that Grey ever took, and he had more need of it than usual, for he had given away the chop, which was his ordinary dinner, to a starving woman. He was faint with fasting and the bad air of the hovels in which he had been spending his morning. The elegance of the room, the smell of the flowers, the charm of companionship with a young woman of his own rank, and the contrast of the whole to his common way of life, carried him away, and hopes and thoughts began to creep into his head to which he had long been a stranger. Mary did her very best to make his visit pleasant to him. She had a great respect for the self-denying life which she knew he was leading; and the nervousness and shyness of his manners were of a kind, which, instead of infecting her, gave her confidence, and made her feel quite at her ease with him. She was so grateful to him for having delivered her out of her recent embarrassment, that she was more than usually kind in her manner. She saw how he was enjoying himself; and thought what good it must do him to forget his usual occupations for a short time. So she talked positive gossip to him, risked his opinion on riding habits, and very soon was telling him the plot of a new novel which she had just been reading, with an animation and playfulness which would have warmed the heart of an anchorite. For a short quarter of an hour Grey resigned himself; but at the end of that time he became suddenly and painfully conscious of what he was doing, and stopped himself short in the middle of an altogether worldly compliment, which he detected himself in the act of paying to his too fascinating young hostess. He felt that retreat was his only chance, and so grasped his hat again, and rose with a deep sigh, and a sudden change of manner which alarmed Mary. "I hope you are not ill, Mr. Grey?" she said, anxiously. "No, not the least, thank you. But--but--in short, I must go to my work. I ought to apologize, indeed, for having stayed so long." "Oh, you have not been here more than twenty minutes. Pray stay, and see mamma; she must be in directly." "Thank you; you are very kind. I should like it very much, but indeed I cannot." Mary felt that it would be no kindness to press it further, and so rose herself, and held out her hand. Grey took it, and it is not quite certain to this day whether he did not press it in that farewell shake more than was absolutely necessary. If he did, we may be quite sure that he administered exemplary punishment to himself afterwards for so doing. He would gladly have left now, but his over-sensitive conscience forbade it. He had forgotten his office, he thought, hitherto, but there was time yet not to be altogether false to it. So he looked grave and shy again, and said, "You will not be offended with me, Miss Porter, if I speak to you as a clergyman?" Mary was a little disconcerted, but answered almost immediately,-- "Oh, no. Pray say anything which you think you ought to say." "I am afraid there must be a great temptation in living always in beautiful rooms like this, with no one but prosperous people. Do you not think so?" "But one cannot help it. Surely, Mr. Grey, you do not think it can be wrong?" "No, not wrong. But it must be very trying. It must be very necessary to do something to lessen the temptation of such a life." "I do not understand you. What could one do?" "Might you not take up some work which would not be pleasant, such as visiting the poor?" "I should be very glad; but we do not know any poor people in London." "There are very miserable districts near here." "Yes, and papa and mamma are very kind, I know, in helping whenever they can hear of a proper case. But it is so different from the country. There it is so easy and pleasant to go into the cottages where everyone knows you, and most of the people work for papa, and one is sure of being welcomed, and that nobody will be rude. But here I should be afraid. It would seem so impertinent to go to people's houses of whom one knows nothing. I should never know what to say." "It is not easy or pleasant duty which is the best for us. Great cities could never be evangelized, Miss Porter, if all ladies thought as you do." "I think, Mr. Grey," said Mary, rather nettled, "that everyone has not the gift of lecturing the poor, and setting them right; and, if they have not, they had better not try to do it. And as for the rest, there is plenty of the same kind of work to be done, I believe, amongst the people of one's own class." "You are joking, Miss Porter." "No, I am not joking at all. I believe that rich people are quite as unhappy as poor. Their troubles are not the same, of course, and are generally of their own making. But troubles of the mind are worse, surely, than troubles of the body?" "Certainly; and it is the highest work of the ministry to deal with spiritual trials. But you will pardon me for saying that I cannot think this is the proper work for--for--" "For me, you would say. We must be speaking of quite different things, I am sure. I only mean that I can listen to the troubles and grievances of anyone who likes to talk of them to me, and try to comfort them a little, and to make things look brighter, and to keep cheerful. It is not easy always even to do this." "It is not, indeed. But would it not be easier if you could do as I suggest? Going out of one's own class, and trying to care for and help the poor, braces the mind more than anything else." "You ought to know my cousin Katie," said Mary, glad to make a diversion; "that is just what she would say. Indeed, I think you must have seen her at Oxford; did you not?" "I believe I had the honor of meeting her at the rooms of a friend. I think he said she was also a cousin of his." "Mr. Brown, you mean? Yes; did you know him?" "Oh, yes. You will think it strange, as we are so very unlike; but I knew him better than I knew almost any one." "Poor Katie is very anxious about him. I hope you thought well of him. You do not think he is likely to go very wrong?" "No, indeed. I could wish he were sounder on Church questions, but that may come. Do you know that he is in London?" "I had heard so." "He has been several times to my schools. He used to help me at Oxford, and has a capital way with the boys." At this moment the clock on the mantel-piece struck a quarter. The sound touched some chord in Grey which made him grasp his hat again, and prepare for another attempt to get away. "I hope you will pardon--" He pulled himself up short, in the fear lest he were going again to be false (as he deemed it) to his calling, and stood the picture of nervous discomfort. Mary came to his relief. "I am sorry you must go, Mr. Grey," she said; "I should have so liked to have talked to you more about Oxford. You will call again soon, I hope?" At which last speech Grey, casting an imploring glance at her, muttered something which she could not catch, and fled from the room. Mary stood looking dreamily out of the window for a few minutes, till the entrance of her mother roused her, and she turned to pour out a cup of tea for her. "It is cold, mamma dear; do let me make some fresh." "No, thank you, dear; this will do very well," said Mrs. Porter; and she took off her bonnet and sipped the cold tea. Mary watched her silently for a minute, and then, taking the letter she had been reading out of her pocket, said, "I have a letter from Katie, mamma." Mrs. Porter took the letter and read it; and, as Mary still watched, she saw a puzzled look coming over her mother's face. Mrs. Porter finished the letter, and then looked stealthily at Mary, who on her side was now busily engaged in putting up the tea-things. "It is very embarrassing," said Mrs. Porter. "What, mamma?" "Oh, of course, my dear, I mean Katie's telling us of her cousin's being in London, and sending us his address--" and then she paused. "Why, mamma?" "Your papa will have to make up his mind whether he will ask him to the house. Katie would surely never have told him that she has written." "Mr. and Mrs. Brown were so very kind. It would seem so strange, so ungrateful, not to ask him." "I am afraid he is not the sort of young man--in short, I must speak to your papa." Mrs. Porter looked hard at her daughter, who was still busied with the tea-things. She had risen, bonnet in hand, to leave the room; but now changed her mind, and, crossing to her daughter, put her arm round her neck. Mary looked up steadily into her eyes, then blushed slightly, and said quietly, "No, mamma; indeed, it is not as you think." Her mother stooped and kissed her, and left the room, telling her to get dressed, as the carriage would be round in a few minutes. Her trials for the day were not over. She could see by their manner at dinner that her father and mother had been talking about her. Her father took her to a ball in the evening, where they met St. Cloud, who fastened himself to them. She was dancing a quadrille, and her father stood near her, talking confidentially to St. Cloud. In the intervals of the dance, scraps of their conversation reached her. "You knew him, then, at Oxford?" "Yes, very slightly." "I should like to ask you now, as a friend--" Here Mary's partner reminded her that she ought to be dancing. When she had returned to her place again she heard-- "You think, then, that it was a bad business?" "It was notorious in the college. We never had any doubt on the subject." "My niece has told Mrs. Porter that there really was nothing wrong in it." "Indeed? I am happy to hear it." "I should like to think well of him, as he is a connexion of my wife. In other respects now--" Here again she was carried away by the dance. When she returned, she caught the end of a sentence of St. Cloud's, "You will consider what I have said in confidence?" "Certainly," answered Mr. Porter; "and I am exceedingly obliged to you." And then the dance was over, and Mary returned to her father's side. She had never enjoyed a ball less than this, and persuaded her father to leave early, which he was delighted to do. When she reached her own room, Mary took off her wreath and ornaments, and then sat down and fell into a brown study, which lasted for some time. At last she roused herself with a sigh, and thought she had never had so tiring a day, though she could hardly tell why, and felt half inclined to have a good cry, if she could only have made up her mind what about. However, being a sensible young woman, she resisted the temptation, and hardly taking the trouble to roll up her hair, went to bed and slept soundly. Mr. Porter found his wife sitting up for him; they were evidently both full of the same subject. "Well, dear?" she said, as he entered the room. Mr. Porter put down his candle, and shook his head. "You don't think Katie can be right then? She must have capital opportunities of judging, you know, dear." "But she is no judge. What can a girl like Katie know about such things?" "Well, dear, do you know I really cannot think there was anything very wrong, though I did think so at first, I own." "But I find that his character was bad--decidedly bad--always. Young St. Cloud didn't like to say much to me, which was natural, of course. Young men never like to betray one another; but I could see what he thought. He is a right-minded young man and very agreeable." "I do not take to him very much." "His connexions and prospects, too, are capital. I sometimes think he has a fancy for Mary. Haven't you remarked it?" "Yes, dear. But as to the other matter? Shall you ask him here?" "Well, dear, I do not think there is any need. He is only in town, I suppose, for a short time, and it is not at all likely that we should know where he is, you see." "But if he should call?" "Of course then we must be civil. We can consider then what is to be done." CHAPTER XLIV--THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAG "Dear Katie;--At home, you see, without having answered your last kind letter of counsel and sympathy. But I couldn't write in town, I was in such a queer state all the time. I enjoyed nothing, not even the match at Lord's, or the race; only walking at night in the square, and watching her window, and seeing her at a distance in Rotten Row." "I followed your advice at last, though it went against the grain uncommonly. It did seem so unlike what I had a right to expect from them--after all the kindness my father and mother had shown them when they came into our neighborhood, and after I had been so intimate there, running in and out just like a son of their own--that they shouldn't take the slightest notice of me all the time I was in London. I shouldn't have wondered if you hadn't explained; but after that, and after you had told them my direction, and when they knew that I was within five minutes' walk of their house constantly (for they knew all about Grey's schools, and that I was there three or four times a week), I do think it was too bad. However, as I was going to tell you, I went at last, for I couldn't leave town without trying to see her; and I believe I have finished it all off. I don't know. I'm very low about it, at any rate, and want to tell you all that passed, and to hear what you think. I have no one to consult but you, Katie. What should I do without you? But you were born to help and comfort all the world. I shan't rest till I know what you think about this last crisis in my history." "I put off going till my last day in town, and then called twice. The first time, 'not at home.' But I was determined now to see somebody and make out something; so I left my card, and a message that, as I was leaving town next day, I would call again. When I called again at 6 o'clock, I was shown into the library, and presently your uncle came in. I felt very uncomfortable, and I think he did too; but he shook hands cordially enough, asked why I had not called before, and said he was sorry to hear I was going out of town so soon. Do you believe he meant it? I didn't. But it put me out, because it made it look as if it had been my fault that I hadn't been there before. I said I didn't know that he would have liked me to call, but I felt that he had got the best of the start." "Then he asked after all at home, and talked of his boys, and how they were getting on at school. By this time I had got my head again; so I went back to my calling, and said that I had felt that I could never come to their house as a common acquaintance, and, as I did not know whether they would ever let me come in any other capacity, I had kept away till now." "Your uncle didn't like it, I know; for he got up and walked about, and then said he didn't understand me. Well, I was quite reckless by this time. It was my last chance, I felt; so I looked hard into my hat, and said that I had been over head and ears in love with Mary for two years. Of course there was no getting out of the business after that. I kept on staring into my hat; so I don't know how he took it; but the first thing he said was that he had had some suspicions of this, and now my confession gave him a right to ask me several questions. In the first place, had I ever spoken to her? No; never directly. What did I mean by directly? I meant that I had never either spoken or written to her on the subject--in fact, I hadn't seen her except at a distance for the last two years--but I could not say that she might not have found it out from my manner. Had I ever told anyone else? No. And this was quite true, Katie, for both you and Hardy found it out." "He took a good many turns before speaking again. Then he said I had acted as a gentleman hitherto and he should be very plain with me. Of course I must see that, looking at my prospects and his daughter's, it could not be an engagement which he could look on with much favor from a worldly point of view. Nevertheless, he had the highest respect and regard for my family, so that, if in some years' time I was in a position to marry, he should not object on this score; but there were other matters which were in his eyes of more importance. He had heard (who could have told him?) that I had taken up very violent opinions--opinions which, to say nothing more of them, would very much damage my prospects of success in life; and that I was in the habit of associating with the advocates of such opinions--persons who, he must say, were not fit companions for a gentleman--and of writing violent articles in low revolutionary newspapers, such as the _Wessex Freeman_. Yes, I confessed I had written. Would I give up these things? I had a great mind to say flat, no, and I believe I ought to have; but as his tone was kind, I couldn't help trying to meet him. So I said I would give up writing or speaking publicly about such matters, but I couldn't pretend not to believe what I did believe. Perhaps, as my opinions had altered so much already, very likely they might again." "He seemed to be rather amused at that, and said he sincerely hoped they might. But now came the most serious point; he had heard very bad stories of me at Oxford, but he would not press me with them. There were too few young men whose lives would bear looking into for him to insist much on such matters, and he was ready to let bygones be bygones. But I must remember that he had himself seen me in one very awkward position. I broke in, and said I had hoped that had been explained to him. I could not defend my Oxford life; or could not defend myself as to this particular case at one time; but there had been nothing in it that I was ashamed of since before the time I knew his daughter." "On my honour, had I absolutely and entirely broken off all relations with her? He had been told that I still kept up a correspondence with her." "Yes, I still wrote to her, and saw her occasionally; but it was only to give her news of a young man from her village, who was now serving in India. He had no other way of communicating with her." "It was a most curious arrangement; did I mean that this young man was going to be married to her?" "I hoped so." "Why should he not write to her at once, if they were engaged to be married?" "They were not exactly engaged; it was rather hard to explain. Here your uncle seemed to lose patience, for he interrupted me and said, 'Really, it must be clear to me, as a reasonable man, that, if this connexion were not absolutely broken off, there must be an end of everything, so far as his daughter was concerned. Would I give my word of honor to break it off at once, and completely?' I tried to explain again; but he would have nothing but 'yes' or 'no.' Dear Katie, what could I do? I have written to Patty that, till I die, she may always reckon on me as on a brother; and I promised Harry never to lose sight of her, and to let her know everything that happens to him. Your uncle would not hear me; so I said, "No." And he said, 'Then our interview had better end,' and rang the bell. Somebody, I'm sure, has been slandering me to him; who can it be?" "I didn't say another word, or offer to shake hands, but got up and walked out of the room, as it was no good waiting for the servant to come. When I got into the hall the front door was open, and I heard her voice. I stopped dead short. She was saying something to some people who had been out riding with her. The next moment the door shut, and she tripped in in her riding-habit, and grey gloves, and hat, with the dearest little grey plume in it. She went humming along, and up six or eight steps, without seeing me. Then I moved a step, and she stopped and looked and gave a start. I don't know whether my face was awfully miserable, but, when our eyes met, her's seemed to fill with pity and uneasiness, and inquiry, and the bright look to melt away altogether; and then she blushed and ran down stairs again, and held out her hand, saying, 'I am so glad to see you, after all this long time.' I pressed it, but I don't think I said anything. I forget; the butler came into the hall, and stood by the door. She paused another moment, looked confused, and then, as the library door opened, went away up stairs, with a kind 'good-bye.' She dropped a little bunch of violets, which she had worn in the breast of her habit, as she went away. I went and picked them up, although your uncle had now come out of the library, and then made the best of my way into the street." "There, Katie, I have told you everything, exactly as it happened. Do write to me, dear, and tell me, now, what you think. Is it all over? What can I do? Can you do anything for me? I feel it is better in one respect. Her father can never say now that I didn't tell him all about it. But what is to happen? I am so restless. I can settle to nothing, and do nothing, but fish. I moon away all my time by the water-side, dreaming. But I don't mean to let it beat me much longer. Here's the fourth day since I saw her. I came away the next morning. I shall give myself a week; and, dear, do write me a long letter at once, and interpret it all to me. A woman knows so wonderfully what things mean. But don't make it out better than you really think. Nobody can stop my going on loving her, that's a comfort; and while I can do that, and don't know she loves anybody else, I ought to be happier than any other man in the world. Yes, I ought to be, but I ain't. I will be, though; see if I won't. Heigho! Do write directly, my dear counsellor, to your affectionate cousin. T.B. "P. S.--I had almost forgotten my usual budget. I enclose my last from India. You will see by it that Harry is getting on famously. I am more glad than I can tell you that my friend East has taken him as his servant. He couldn't be under a better master. Poor Harry! I sometimes think his case is more hopeless than my own. How is it to come right? or mine?" ENGLEBOURN "DEAR COUSIN,--You will believe how I devoured your letter; though, when I had read the first few lines and saw what was coming, it made me stop and tremble. At first I could have cried over it for vexation; but, now I have thought about it a little, I really do not see any reason to be discouraged. At any rate, Uncle Robert now knows all about it, and will get used to the idea, and Mary seems to have received you just as you ought to have wished that she should. I am thankful that you have left off pressing me to write to her about you, for I am sure that would not be honorable; and, to reward you, I enclose a letter of hers, which came yesterday. You will see that she speaks with such pleasure of having just caught a glimpse of you that you need not regret the shortness of the interview. You could not expect her to say more, because, after all, she can only guess; and I cannot do more than answer as if I were quite innocent too. I am sure you will be very thankful to me some day for not having been your mouthpiece, as I was so very near being. You need not return the letter. I suppose I am getting more hopeful as I grow older--indeed, I am sure I am; for three or four years ago I should have been in despair about you, and now I am nearly sure that all will come right." "But, indeed, cousin Tom, you cannot, or ought not to wonder at Uncle Robert's objecting to your opinions. And then I am so surprised to find you saying that you think you may very likely change them. Because, if that is the case, it would be so much better if you would not write and talk about them. Unless you are quite convinced of such things as you write in that dreadful paper, you really ought not to go on writing them so very much as if you believed them." "And now I am speaking to you about this, which I have often had on my mind to speak to you about, I must ask you not to send me that _Wessex Freeman_ any more. I am always delighted to hear what you think; and there is a great deal in the articles you mark for me which seems very fine; and I dare say you quite believe it all when you write it. Only I am afraid lest papa or anyone of the servants should open the papers, or get hold of them after I have opened them; for I am sure there are a great many wicked things in the other parts of the paper. So, please do not send it to me, but write and tell me yourself anything that you wish me to know of what you are thinking about and doing. As I did not like to burn the papers, and was afraid to keep them here, I have generally sent them on to your friend Mr. Hardy. He does not know who sends them; and now you might send them yourself straight to him, as I do not know his address in the country. As you are going up again to keep a term, I wish you would talk them over with him, and see what he thinks about them. You will think this very odd of me, but you know you have always said how much you rely on his judgment, and that you have learnt so much from him. So I am sure you would wish to consult him; and, if he thinks that you ought to go on writing, it will be a great help to you to know it." "I am so very glad to be able to tell you how well Martha is getting on. I have always read to her the extracts from the letters from India which you have sent me, and she is very much obliged to you for sending them. I think there is no doubt that she is, and always has been, attached to poor widow Winburn's son, and, now that he is behaving so well, I can see that it gives her great pleasure to hear about him. Only, I hope he will be able to come back before very long, because she is very much admired, and is likely to have so many chances of settling in life, that it is a great chance whether attachment to him will be strong enough to keep her single if he should be absent for many years." "Do you know I have a sort of superstition, that your fate hangs upon theirs in some curious manner--the two stories have been so interwoven--and that they will both be settled happily much sooner than we dare to hope even just now." "Don't think, my dear cousin, that this letter is cold, or that I do not take the very deepest interest in all that concerns you. You and Mary are always in my thoughts, and there is nothing in the world I would not do for you both which I thought would help you. I am sure it would do you harm if I were only a go-between. Papa is much as usual. He gets out a good deal in his chair in the sun this fine weather. He desires me to say how glad he should be if you will come over soon and pay us a visit. I hope you will come very soon." "Ever believe me, dear Tom, "Your affectionate cousin, "KATIE." "November. "DEAR TOM,--I hear that what you in England call a mail is to leave camp this evening; so, that you may have no excuse for not writing to me constantly, I am sitting down to spin you such a yarn as I can under the disadvantages circumstances in which this will leave me. "This time last year, or somewhere thereabouts, I was enjoying academic life with you at Oxford; and now here I am, encamped at some unpronounceable place beyond Umbala. You won't be much the wiser for that. What do you know about Umbala? I didn't myself know that there was such a place till a month ago, when we were ordered to march up here. But one lives and learns. Marching over India has its disagreeables, of which dysentery and dust are about the worst. A lot of our fellows are down with the former; amongst others my captain; so I am in command of the company. If it were not for the glorious privilege of grumbling, I think that we should all own that we liked the life. Moving about, though one does get frozen and broiled regularly once in twenty-four hours, suits me; besides, they talk of matters coming to a crisis, and no end of fighting to be done directly. You'll know more about what's going on from the papers than we do, but here they say the ball may begin any day; so we are making forced marches to be up in time. I wonder how I shall like it. Perhaps, in my next, I may tell you how a bullet sounds when it comes at you. If there is any fighting, I expect our regiment will make their mark. We are in tip-top order; the colonel is a grand fellow, and the regiment feels his hand down to the youngest drummer boy. What a deal of good I will do when I'm a colonel! "I duly delivered the enclosure in your last to your convict, who is rapidly ascending the ladder of promotion. I am disgusted at this myself, for I have had to give him up, and there never was such a jewel of a servant; but, of course, it's a great thing for him. He is covering sergeant of my company, and the smartest coverer we have, too. I have got a regular broth of a boy, an Irishman, in his place, who leads me a dog of a life. I took him chiefly because he very nearly beat me in a foot-race. Our senior major is a Pat himself, and, it seems, knew something of Larry's powers. So, one day at mess, he offered to back him against anyone in the regiment for 200 yards. My captain took him up and named me, and the race came off next day; and a precious narrow thing it was, but I managed to win by a neck for the honor of the old school. He is a lazy scatter-brained creature, utterly indifferent to fact, and I am obliged to keep the brandy flask under lock and key; but the humour and absolute good-temper of the animal impose upon me, and I really think he is attached to me. So I keep him on, grumbling horribly at the change from that orderly, punctual, clean, accurate convict. Depend upon it, that fellow will do. He makes his way everywhere, with officers and men. He is a gentleman at heart, and, by the way, you would be surprised at the improvement in his manners and speech. There is hardly a taste of Berkshire left in his _deealect_. He has read all the books I could lend him or borrow for him and is fast picking up Hindustanee. So you see, after all, I am come round to your opinion that we did a good afternoon's work on that precious stormy common when we carried off the convict from the authorities of his native land, and was first under fire. As you are a performer in that line, couldn't you carry off his sweetheart and send her out here? After the sea voyage there isn't much above 1,000 miles to come by dauk; and tell her, with my compliments, he is well worth coming twice the distance for. Poor fellow! It is a bad lookout for him, I'm afraid, as he may not get home this ten years; and, though he isn't a kind to be easily lolled, there are serious odds against him, even if he keeps all right. I almost wish you had never told me his story. "We are going into cantonments as soon as this expedition is over, in a splendid pig district, and I look forward to some real sport. All the men who have had any tell me it beats the best fox hunt all to fits for excitement. I have got my eye on a famous native horse, who is to be had cheap. The brute is in the habit of kneeling on his masters, and tearing them with his teeth when he gets them off, but nothing can touch him while you keep on his back. 'Howsumdever,' as your countrymen say, I shall have a shy at him, if I can get him at my price. "I've nothing more to say. There's nobody you knew here, except the convict sergeant, and it is awfully hard to fill a letter home unless you have somebody to talk about. Yes, by the way, there is one little fellow, an ensign, just joined, who says he remembers us at school. He can't be more than eighteen or nineteen, and was an urchin in the lower school, I suppose, when we were leaving. I don't remember his face, but it's a very good one, and he is a bright gentlemanly youngster as you would wish to see. His name is Jones. Do you remember him? He will be a godsend to me. I have him to chum with me on this march. "Keep up your letters as you love me. You at home little know what it is to enjoy a letter. Never mind what you put in it; anything will do from home, and I've nobody much else to write to me. "There goes the 'assembly.' Why, I can't think, seeing that we have done our day's march. However, I must turn out and see what's up." * * * * * * * * * * "December. "I have just fallen on this letter, which I had quite forgotten, or, rather, had fancied I had sent off to you three weeks and more ago. My baggage has just come to hand, and the scrawl turned up in my paper cases. Well, I have plenty to tell you now, at any rate, if I have time to tell it. That 'assembly' which stopped me short sounded in consequence of the arrival of one of the commander-in-chief's aides in our camp with the news that the enemy was over the Sutlej. We were to march at once, with two six-pounders and a squadron of cavalry, on a fort occupied by an outlying lot of them which commanded a ford, and was to be taken and destroyed, and the rascals who held it dispersed; after which we were to join the main army. Our colonel had the command, so we were on the route within an hour, leaving a company and the baggage to follow as it could; and from that time to this, forced marching and hard fighting have been the order of the day. "We drew first blood next morning. The enemy were in some force outside the fort, and showed fight in very rough ground covered with bushes, out of which we had to drive them, which we did after a sharp struggle, and the main body drew off altogether. Then the fort had to be taken. Our two guns worked away at it till dark. In the night two of the gunners, who volunteered for the service, crept close up to the place, and reported that there was nothing to hinder our running right into it. Accordingly the colonel resolved to rush it at daybreak, and my company was told off to lead. The captain being absent, I had to command. I was with the dear old chief the last thing at night, getting his instructions; ten minutes with him before going into action would make a hare fight. "There was cover to within one hundred and fifty yards of the place; and there I, and poor little Jones; and the men, spent the night in a dry ditch. An hour before daybreak we were on the alert, and served out rations, and then they began playing tricks on one another as if we were out for a junketing. I sat with my watch in my hand, feeling queer, and wondering whether I was a greater coward than the rest. Then came a streak of light. I put up my watch, formed the men; up went a rocket, my signal, and out into the open we went at the double. We hadn't got over a third of the ground when bang went the fort guns, and the grape-shot were whistling about our ears; so I shouted 'Forward!' and away we went as hard as we could go. I was obliged to go ahead, you see, because every man of them knew I had beaten Larry, their best runner, when he had no gun to carry; but I didn't half like it, and should have blessed any hole or bramble which would have sent me over and given them time to catch me. But the ground was provokingly level; and so I was at the first mound and over it several lengths in front of the men, and among a lot of black fellows serving the guns. They came at me like wild cats, and how I got off is a mystery. I parried a cut from one fellow, and dodged a second; a third rushed at my left side. I just caught the flash of his tulwar, and thought it was all up, when he jumped into the air, shot through the heart by Sergeant Winburn; and the next moment Master Larry rushed by me and plunged his bayonet into my friend in front. It turned me as sick as a dog. I can't fancy anything more disagreeable than seeing the operation for the first time, except being struck oneself. The supporting companies were in in another minute, with the dear old chief himself, who came up and shook hands with me, and said I had done credit to the regiment. Then I began to look about, and missed poor little Jones. We found him about twenty yards from the place with two grape-shot through him, stone dead, and smiling like a child asleep. We buried him in the fort. I cut off some of his hair, and sent it home to his mother. Her last letter was in his breast pocket, and a lock of bright brown hair of some one's. I sent them back, too, and his sword. "Since then we have been with the army, and had three or four general actions; about which I can tell you nothing, except that we have lost about the third of the regiment, and have always been told we have won. Steps go fast enough; my captain died of wounds and dysentery a week ago; so I have the company in earnest. How long I shall hold it, is another question; for, though there's a slack, we haven't done with sharp work yet, I can see. "How often we've talked, years ago, of what it must feel like going into battle! Well, the chief thing I felt when the grape came down pretty thick for the first time, as we were advancing, was a sort of gripes in the stomach which made me want to go forward stooping. But I didn't give in to it; the chief was riding close behind us, joking the youngsters who were ducking their heads, and so cheery and cool, that he made old soldiers of us at once. What with smoke, and dust, and excitement, you know scarcely anything of what is going on. The finest sight I have seen is the artillery going into action. Nothing stops those fellows. Places you would crane at out hunting they go right over, guns, carriages, men, and all, leaving any cavalry we've got out here well behind. Do you know what a nullah is? Well, it's a great gap, like a huge dry canal, fifteen or twenty feet deep. We were halted behind one in the last great fight, awaiting the order to advance, when a battery came up at full gallop. We all made sure they must be pulled up the nullah. They never pulled bridle. 'Leading gun, right turn!' sang out the subaltern; and down they went sideways into the nullah. Then, 'Left turn;' up the other bank, one gun after another, the horses scrambling like cats up and down places that my men had to use their hands to scramble up, and away on the other side to within 200 yards of the enemy; and then, round like lightning, and look out in front. "Altogether, it's sickening work, though there's a grand sort of feeling of carrying your life in your hand. They say the Sepoy regiments have behaved shamefully. There is no sign of anything like funk among our fellows that I have seen. Sergeant Winburn has distinguished himself everywhere. He is like my shadow, and I can see he tries to watch over my precious carcase, and get between me and danger. He would be a deal more missed in the world than I. Except you, old friend, I don't know who would care much if I were knocked over to-morrow. Aunts and cousins are my nearest relations. You know I never was a snuffler; but this sort of life makes one serious, if one has any reverence at all in one. You'll be glad to have this line, if you don't hear from me again. I've often thought in the last month that we shall never see one another again in this world. But, whether in this world or any other, you know I am and always shall be, "Your affectionate friend, "H. EAST." CAMP OF THE SUTLEJ, January. "DEAR MASTER TOM;--The captain's last words was, if anything happened I was to be sure to write and tell you. And so I take up my pen, though you will know as I am not used to writing, to tell you the misfortune as has happened to our regiment. Because, if you was to ask any man in our regiment, let it be who it would, he would say as the captain was the best officer as ever led men. Not but what there's a many of them as will go to the front as brave as lions, and don't value shot no more than if it was rotten apples; and men as is men will go after such. But 'tis the captain's manners and ways, with a kind word for any poor fellow as is hurt, or sick and tired, and making no account of hisself, and, as you may say, no bounce with him; that's what makes the difference. "As it might be last Saturday, we came upon the enemy where he was posted very strong, with guns all along his front, and served till we got right up to them, the runners being cut down and bayoneted when we got right up amongst them, and no quarter given; and there was great banks of earth, too, to clamber over, and more guns behind; so, with the marching up in front and losing so many officers and men, our regiment was that wild when we got amongst them, that 'twas awful to see, and, if there was any prisoners taken, it was more by mistake than not. "Me and three or four more settled, when the word came to prepare for action, to keep with the captain, because 'twas known to everyone as no odds would stop him, and he would never mind hisself. The dust and smoke and noise was that thick you couldn't see nor hear anything after our regiment was in action; but, so far as I seen, when we was wheeled into line and got the word to advance, there was as it might be as far as from our old cottage to the Hawk's Lynch to go over before we got to the guns which was playing into us all the way. Our line went up very steady, only where men was knocked down; and, when we came to within a matter of sixty yards, the officers jumped out and waved their swords, for 'twas no use to give words, and the ranks was broken by reason of the running up to take the guns from the enemy. Me and the rest went after the captain; but he, being so light of foot, was first by maybe ten yards or so, at the mound, and so up before we was by him. But, though they was all round him like bees when we got to him, 'twas not then as he was hit. There was more guns further on, and we and they drove on all together; and, though they was beaten, being fine tall men and desperate, there was many of them fighting hard, and, as you might say, a man scarcely knowed how he got hit. I kept to the captain as close as ever I could, but there was times when I had to mind myself. Just as we came to the last gun's, Larry, that's the captain's servant, was trying by hisself to turn one of them round, so as to fire on the enemy as they took the river to the back of their lines all in a huddle. So I turned to lend him a hand; and, when I looked round next moment, there was the captain a-staggering like a drunken man, and he so strong and lissom up to then, and never had a scratch since the war begun, and this the last minute of it pretty nigh, for the enemy was all cut to pieces and drowned that day. I got to him before he fell, and we laid him down gently, and did the best we could for him. But he was bleeding dreadful with a great gash in his side, and his arm broke, and two gunshot wounds. Our surgeon was killed, and 'twas hours before his wounds was dressed, and 'twill be God's mercy if ever he gets round; though they do say if the fever and dysentery keeps off, and he can get out of this country and home, there's no knowing but that he may get the better of it all, but not to serve with the regiment again for years to come. "I hope, Master Tom, as I've told you all the captain would like as you should know; only, being not much used to writing, I hope you will excuse mistakes. And, if so be that it won't be too much troubling of you, and the captain should go home, and you could write to say as things was going on at home as before, which the captain always gave to me to read when the mail come in, it would be a great help towards keeping up a good heart and in a foreign land, which is hard at times to do. There is some things which I make bold to send by a comrade going home sick. I don't know as they will seem much, but I hope as you will accept of the sword, which belonged to one of her officers, and the rest to her. Also, on account of what was in the last piece as you forwarded, I send a letter to go along with the things, if Miss Winter, who have been so kind, or you would deliver the same. To whom I make bold to send my respects as well as to yourself, and hoping this will find you well and all friends. "From your respectful, "HENRY WINBURN, "Colour-sergeant. 101st Regiment." "March. "My DEAR TOM;--I begin to think I may see you again yet, but it has been a near shave. I hope Sergeant Winburn's letter, and the returns, in which I see I was put down "dangerously wounded," will not have frightened you very much. The war is over; and, if I live to get down to Calcutta you will see me in the summer, please God. The end was like the beginning--going right up to the guns. Our regiment is frightfully cut up; there are only 300 men left under arms--the rest dead or in hospital. I am sick at heart at it, and weak in body, and can only write a few lines at a time, but will get on with this as I can, in time for next mail. * * * * * "Since beginning this letter I have had another relapse. So, in case I should never finish it, I will say at once what I most want to say. Winburn has saved my life more than once, and is besides one of the noblest and bravest fellows in the world; so I mean to provide for him in case anything should happen to me. I have made a will, and appointed you my executor, and left him a legacy. You must buy his discharge, and get him home and married to the Englebourn beauty as soon as possible. But what I want you to understand is, that if the legacy isn't enough to do this, and make all straight with her old curmudgeon of a father, it is my first wish that whatever will do it should be made up to him. He has been in hospital with a bad flesh wound, and has let out to me the whole of his story, of which you had only given me the heads. If that young women does not wait for him, and book him, I shall give up all faith in petticoats. Now that's done I feel more at ease. "Let me see. I haven't written for six weeks and more, just before our last great fight. You'll know all about it from the papers long before you get this--a bloody business; I am loath to think of it. I was knocked over in the last of their entrenchments, and should then and there have bled to death had it not been for Winburn. He never left me, though the killing, and plundering, and roystering afterwards was going on all around, and strong temptation to a fellow when his blood is up, and he sees his comrades at it, after such work as we have had. What's more he caught my Irish fellow and made him stay by me too, and between them they managed to prop me up and stop the bleeding, though it was touch and go. I never thought they would manage it. You can't think what a curious feeling it is, the life going out of you. I was perfectly conscious, and knew all they were doing and saying, and thought quite clearly, though in a sort of dreamy way, about you, and a whole jumble of people and things at home. It was the most curious painless mixture of dream and life, getting more dreamy every minute. I don't suppose I could have opened my eyes or spoken; at any rate I had no wish to do so, and didn't try. Several times the thought of death came close to me; and, whether it was the odd state I was in, or what else I don't know, but the only feeling I had, was one of intense curiosity. I should think I must have lain there, with Winburn supporting my head, and moistening my lips with rum-and-water, for four or five hours, before a doctor could be got. He had managed to drive Larry about till he had found, or borrowed, or stolen the drink, and then kept him making short cruises in search of help in the shape of hospital-staff, ambulances, or doctors, from which Master Larry always came back without the slightest success. My belief is, he employed those precious minutes, when he was from under his sergeant's eye, in looting. At last, Winburn got impatient, and I heard him telling Larry what he was to do while he was gone himself to find a doctor; and then I was moved as gently as if I had been a sick girl. I heard him go off with a limp, but did not know till long after of his wound. "Larry had made such a wailing and to-do when they first found me, that a natural reaction now set in, and he began gently and tenderly to run over in his mind what could be made out of 'the captin,' and what would become of his things. I found out this, partly through his habit of talking to himself, and partly from the precaution which he took of ascertaining where my watch and purse were, and what else I had upon me. It tickled me immensely to hear him. Presently I found he was examining my boots, which he pronounced 'iligant entirely,' and wondered whether he could get them on. The 'serjint' would never want them. And he then proceeded to assert, while _he_ actually began unlacing them, that the 'captin' would never have '_bet him_' but for the boots which 'was worth ten feet in a furlong to any man.' 'Shure, 'tis too late now; but wouldn't I like to run him agin with bare feet?' I couldn't stand that, and just opened my eyes a little, and moved my hand, and said, 'Done.' I wanted to add, 'you rascal,' but that was too much for me. Larry's face of horror, which I just caught through my half-opened eyes, would have made me roar, if I had had strength for it. I believe the resolution I made that he should never go about in my boots helped to pull me through; but, as soon as Winburn came back with the doctor, Master Larry departed, and I much doubt whether I shall ever set eyes on him again in the flesh. Not if he can help it, certainly. The regiment, what's left of it, is away in the Punjaub, and he with it. Winburn, as I told you, is hard hit, but no danger. I have great hopes that he will be invalided. You may depend upon it he will escort me home, if any interest of mine can manage it; and the dear old chief is so kind to me that I think he will arrange it somehow. "I must be wonderfully better to have spun such a yarn. Writing those first ten lines nearly finished me, a week ago, and now I am scarcely tired after all this scrawl. If that rascal, Larry, escapes hanging another year, and comes back home, I will run him _yet_, and thrash his head off. "There is something marvelously life-giving in the idea of sailing for old England again; and I mean to make a strong fight for seeing you again, old boy. God bless you. Write again for the chance, directing to my agents at Calcutta as before. "Ever your half-alive, but whole-hearted and affectionate friend, "H. EAST" CHAPTER XLV--MASTER'S TERM One more look into the old college where we have spent so much time already, not, I hope, altogether unpleasantly. Our hero is up in the summer term, keeping his three weeks' residence, the necessary preliminary to an M. A. degree. We find him sitting in Hardy's rooms; tea is over, scouts out of college, candles lighted, and silence reigning, except when distant sounds of mirth come from some undergraduates' rooms on the opposite side of quad, through the open windows. Hardy is deep in the budget of Indian letters, some of which we have read in the last chapter; and Tom reads them over again as his friend finishes them, and then carefully folds them up and puts them back in their places in a large pocket-case. Except for an occasional explanatory remark, or exclamation of interest, no word passes until Hardy finishes the last letter. Then he breaks out into praises of the two Harrys, which gladdens Tom's heart as he fastens the case, and puts it back in his pocket, saying, "Yes, you won't find two finer fellows in a long summer's day; no, nor in twenty." "And you expect them home, then, in a week or two?" "Yes, I think so. Just about the time I shall be going down." "Don't talk about going down. You haven't been here a week." "Just a week. One out of three. Three weeks wasted in keeping one's Master's term! Why can't you give a fellow his degree quietly, without making him come and kick his heels here for three weeks?" "You ungrateful dog! Do you mean to say you haven't enjoyed coming back, and sitting in dignity in the bachelors' seats in chapel, and at the bachelors' table in hall, and thinking how much wiser you are than the undergraduates? Besides, your old friends want to see you, and you ought to want to see them." "Well, I am very glad to see something of you again, old fellow. I don't find that a year's absence has made any change in you. But who else is there that I care to see? My old friends are gone, and the year has made a great gap between me and the youngsters. They look on me as a sort of don." "Of course they do. Why, you are a sort of don. You will be an M. A. in a fortnight, and a member of Convocation." "Very likely; but I don't appreciate the dignity. I can tell you being up here now is anything but enjoyable. You have never broken with the place. And then, you always did your duty, and have done the college credit. You can't enter into the feelings of a fellow whose connexion with Oxford has been quite broken off, and who wasted three parts of his time here, when he comes back to keep his Master's." "Come, come, Tom. You might have read more certainly, with benefit to yourself and college, and taken a higher degree. But, after all, didn't the place do you a great deal of good? and you didn't do it much harm. I don't like to see you in this sort of gloomy state; it isn't natural to you." "It is becoming natural. You haven't seen much of me during the last year, or you would have remarked it. And then, as I tell you, Oxford, when one has nothing to do in it but to moon about, thinking over one's past follies and sins, isn't cheerful. It never was a very cheerful place to me at the best of times." "Not even at pulling times?" "Well, the river is the part I like best to think of. But even the river makes me rather melancholy now. One feels one has done with it." "Why, Tom, I believe your melancholy comes from their not having asked you to pull in the boat." "Perhaps it does. Don't you call it degrading to be pulling in the torpid in one's old age?" "Mortified vanity, man! They have a capital boat. I wonder how we should have liked to have been turned out for some bachelor just because he had pulled a good oar in his day?" "Not at all. I don't blame the young ones, and I hope to do my duty in the torpid. By the way, they are an uncommonly nice set of youngsters. Much better behaved in every way than we were, unless it is that they put on their best manners before me." "No, I don't think they do. The fact is they are really fine young fellows." "So I think. And I'll tell you what, Jack; since we are sitting and talking our minds to one another at last, like old times, somebody has made the most wonderful change in this college. I rather think it is seeing what St. Ambrose's is now, and thinking what it was in my time, and what an uncommon member of society I should have turned out if I had had the luck to have been here now instead of then, that makes me down in the mouth--more even than having to pull in the torpid instead of the racing boat." "You do think it is improved, then?" "Think! Why it is a different place altogether; and, as you are the only new tutor, it must have been your doing. Now I want to know your secret." "I've no secret, except taking a real interest in all that the men do, and living with them as much as I can. You may fancy it isn't much of a trial to me to steer the boat down or run on the bank and coach the crew." "Ah! I remember you were beginning that before I left, in your first year. I knew that would answer." "Yes. The fact is, I find that just what I like best is the very best thing for the men. With very few exceptions they are all glad to be stirred up, and meet me nearly halfway in reading, and three-quarters in everything else. I believe they would make me captain to-morrow." "And why don't you let them?" "No; there's a time for everything. I go in in the scratch fours for the pewters, and--more by token--my crew won them two years running. Look at my trophies," and he pointed to two pewter pots, engraved with the college arms, which stood on his side-board. "Well, I dare say you're right. But what does the president say?" "Oh, he is a convert. Didn't you see him on the bank when you torpids made your bump the other night?" "No, you don't mean it? Well, do you know, a sort of vision of black tights, and a broad-brimmed hat, crossed me, but I never gave it a second thought. And so the president comes out to see the St. Ambrose boat row?" "Seldom misses two nights running." "Then, 'carry me out, and bury me decently'. Have you seen old Tom walking around Peckwater lately on his clapper, smoking a cigar with the Dean of Christ Church? Don't be afraid. I am ready for anything you like to tell me. Draw any amount you like on my faith; I shall honor the draft after that." "The president isn't a bad judge of an oar, when he sets his mind to it." "Isn't he? But, I say, Jack--no sell--how in the world did it happen?" "I believe it happened chiefly through his talks with me. When I was first made tutor he sent for me and told me he had heard I encouraged the young men in boating, and he must positively forbid it. I didn't care much about staying up; so I was pretty plain with him, and said, 'if I was not allowed to take the line I thought best in such matters, I must resign at the end of the term.' He assented, but afterwards thought better of it, and sent for me again, and we had several encounters. I took my ground very civilly but firmly, and he had to give up one objection after another. I think the turning point was when he quoted St. Paul on me, and said I was teaching boys to worship physical strength, instead of teaching them to keep under their bodies and bring them into subjection. Of course I countered him there with tremendous effect. The old boy took it very well, only saying he feared it was no use to argue further--in this matter of boat-racing he had come to a conclusion, not without serious thought, many years before. However, he came round quietly. And so he has on other points. In fact, he is a wonderfully open-minded man for his age, if you only put things to him the right way." "Has he come round about gentlemen-commoners? I see you have only two or three up." "Yes. We haven't given up taking them altogether. I hope that may come soon. But I and another tutor took to plucking them ruthlessly at matriculation, unless they were quite up to the commoner standard. The consequence was, a row in common room. We stood out, and won. Luckily, as you know, it has always been given out here that all under-graduates, gentlemen-commoners and commoners, have to pass the same college examinations, and to attend the same course of lectures. You know also what a mere sham and pretence the rule had become. Well, we simply made a reality of it, and in answer to all objectors said, 'Is it our rule or not? If it is, we are bound to act on it. If you want to alter it, there are the regular ways of doing so.' After a little grumbling they let us have our way, and the consequence is, that velvet is getting scarce at St. Ambrose." "What a blessing! What other miracles have you been performing?" "The best reform we have carried is throwing the kitchen and cellar open to the undergraduates." "W-h-e-w! That's just the sort of reform we should have appreciated. Fancy Drysdale's lot with the key of the college cellars, at about ten o'clock on a shiny night." "You don't quite understand the reform. You remember, when you were an undergraduate you couldn't give a dinner in college, and you had to buy your wine anywhere?" "Yes. And awful firewater we used to get. The governor supplied me, like a wise man." "Well, we have placed the college in the relation of benevolent father. Every undergraduate now can give two dinners a term in his own rooms, from the kitchen; or more, if he comes and asks, and has any reason to give. We take care that they have a good dinner at a reasonable rate, and the men are delighted with the arrangement. I don't believe there are three men in the college now who have hotel bills. And we let them have all their wine out of the college cellars." "That's what I call good common sense. Of course it must answer in every way. And you find they all come to you?" "Almost all. They can't get anything like the wine we give them at the price, and they know it." "Do you make them pay ready money?" "The dinners and wine are charged in their battel bills; so they have to pay once a term, just as they do for their orders at commons." "It must swell their battel bills awfully." "Yes, but battel bills always come in at the beginning of term when they are flush of money. Besides, they all know that battel bills must be paid. In a small way it is the best thing that ever was done for St. Ambrose's. You see it cuts so many ways. Keeps men in the college, knocks off the most objectionable bills at inns and pastry-cooks', keeps them from being poisoned, makes them pay their bills regularly, shows them that we like them to be able to live like gentlemen--" "And lets you dons know what they are all about, and how much they spend in the way of entertaining." "Yes; and a very good thing for them too. They know that we shall not interfere while they behave like gentlemen." "Oh, I'm not objecting. And was this your doing, too?" "No, a joint business. We hatched it in the common room, and then the bursar spoke to the president, who was furious, and said we were giving the sanction of the college to disgraceful luxury and extravagance. Luckily he had not the power of stopping us, and now is convinced." "The goddess of common sense seems to have alighted again in the quad of St. Ambrose. You'll never leave the place, Jack, now you're beginning to get everything your own way." "On the contrary, I don't mean to stop up more than another year at the outside. I have been tutor nearly three years now; that's about long enough." "Do you think you're right? You seem to have hit on your line in life wonderfully. You like the work and the work likes you. You are doing a heap of good up here. You'll be president in a year or two, depend on it. I should say you had better stick to Oxford." "No. I should be of no use in a year or two. We want a constant current of fresh blood here." "In a general way. But you don't get a man every day who can throw himself into the men's pursuits, and can get hold of them in the right way. And then, after all, when a fellow has got such work cut out for him as you have, Oxford must be an uncommonly pleasant place to live in." "Pleasant enough in many ways. But you seem to have forgotten how you used to rail against it." "Yes. Because I never hit off the right ways of the place. But if I had taken a first and got a fellowship, I should like it well enough I dare say." "Being a fellow, on the contrary, makes it worse. While one was an undergraduate, one could feel virtuous and indignant at the vices of Oxford, at least at those which one did not indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and money-worship which are our most prevalent and disgraceful sins. But when one is a fellow it is quite another affair. They become a sore burthen then, enough to break one's heart." "Why, Jack, we're changing characters to-night. Fancy your coming out in the abusive line! Why I never said harder things of Alma Mater myself. However, there's plenty of flunkeyism and money-worship everywhere else." "Yes, but it is not so heart-breaking in other places. When one thinks what a great centre of learning and faith Oxford ought to be like--that its highest educational work should just be the deliverance of us all from flunkeyism and money-worship--and then looks at matters here without rose-colored spectacles, it gives one sometimes a sort of chilly leaden despondency, which is very hard to struggle against." "I am sorry to hear you talk like that, Jack, for one can't help loving the place after all." "So I do, God knows. If I didn't I shouldn't care for its shortcomings." "Well, the flunkeyism and money-worship were bad enough, but I don't think they were the worst things--at least not in my day. Our neglects were almost worse than our worships." "You mean the want of all reverence for parents? Well, perhaps that lies at the root of the false worships. They spring up on the vacant soil." "And the want of reverence for women, Jack. The worst of all, to my mind!" "Perhaps you are right. But we are not at the bottom yet." "How do you mean?" "I mean that we must worship God before we can reverence parents or women, or root out flunkeyism and money-worship." "Yes. But, after all, can we fairly lay that sin on Oxford? Surely, whatever may be growing up side by side with it, there's more Christianity here than almost anywhere else." "Plenty of common-room Christianity--belief in a dead God. There, I have never said it to anyone but you, but that is the slough we have to get out of. Don't think that I despair for us. We shall do it yet; but it will be sore work, stripping off the comfortable wine-party religion in which we are wrapped up--work for our strongest and our wisest." "And yet you think of leaving?" "There are other reasons. I will tell you some day. But now, to turn to other matters, how have you been getting on this last year? You write so seldom that I am all behind-hand." "Oh, much the same as usual." "Then you are still like one of those who went out to David?" "No, I'm not in debt." "But discontented?" "Pretty much like you there, Jack. However, content is no virtue, that I can see, while there's anything to mend. Who is going to be contented with game-preserving, and corn-laws, and grinding the faces of the poor? David's camp was a better place than Saul's, any day." Hardy got up, opened a drawer, and took out a bundle of papers, which Tom recognized as the _Wessex Freeman_. He felt rather uncomfortable, as his friend seated himself again, and began looking them over. "You see what I have here," he said. Tom nodded. "Well, there are some of the articles I should like to ask you about, if you don't object." "No; go on." "Here is one, then, to begin with. I won't read it all. Let me see; here is what I was looking for," and he began reading; "One would think, to hear these landlords, our rulers, talk, that the glorious green fields, the deep woods the everlasting hills, and the rivers that run among them, were made for the sole purpose of ministering to their greedy lusts and mean ambitions; that they may roll out amongst unrealities their pitiful mock lives, from their silk and lace cradles to their spangled coffins, studded with silver knobs, and lying coats of arms, reaping where they have not sown, and gathering where they have not strewed, making the omer small and the ephah great, that they may sell the refuse of the wheat--" "That'll do, Jack; but what's the date of that paper?" "July last. Is it yours, then?" "Yes. And I allow it's too strong and one-sided. I have given up writing altogether; will that satisfy you? I don't see my own way clear enough yet. But, for all that, I'm not ashamed of what I wrote in that paper." "I have nothing more to say after that, except that I'm heartily glad you have given up writing for the present." "But I say, old fellow, how did you get these papers, and know about my articles?" "They were sent me. Shall I burn them now or would you like to have them? We needn't say anything more about them." "Burn them by all means. I suppose a friend sent them to you?" "I suppose so." Hardy went on burning the papers in silence; and as Tom watched him, a sudden light seemed to break upon him. "I say, Jack," he said presently, "a little bird has been whispering something to me about that friend." Hardy winched a little, and redoubled his diligence in burning the papers. Tom looked on smiling, and thinking how to go on, now that he had so unexpectedly turned the tables on his monitor, when the clock struck twelve. "Hullo!" he said, getting up; "time for me to knock out, or old Copas will be in bed. To go back to where we started from to-night--as soon as East and Harry Winburn get back we shall have some jolly doings at Englebourn. There'll be a wedding, I hope, and you'll come over and do parson for us, won't you?" "You mean for Patty? Of course I will." "The little bird whispered to me that you wouldn't dislike visiting that part of the old county. Good night, Jack. I wish you success, old fellow, with all my heart, and I hope after all that you may leave St. Ambrose's within the year." CHAPTER XLVI--FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN If a knowledge of contemporary history must be reckoned as an important element in the civilization of any people, then I am afraid that the good folk of Englebourn must have been content, in the days of our story, with a very low place on the ladder. How, indeed, was knowledge to percolate, so as to reach down to the foundations of Englebournian society--the stratum on which all others rest--the common agricultural labourer, producer of corn and other grain, the careful and stolid nurse and guardian of youthful oxen, sheep and pigs, many of them far better fed and housed than his own children? All-penetrating as she is, one cannot help wondering that she did not give up Englebourn altogether as a hopeless job. So far as written periodical instruction is concerned (with the exception of the _Quarterly_, which Dr. Winter had taken in from its commencement, but rarely opened), the supply was limited to at most half a dozen weekly papers. A London journal, sound in Church and State principles, most respectable but not otherwise than heavy, came every Saturday to the rectory. The Conservative county paper was taken in at the Red Lion; and David the constable, and the blacksmith, clubbed together to purchase the Liberal paper, by help of which they managed to wage unequal war with the knot of village quidnuncs, who assembled almost nightly at the bar of the Tory beast above referred to--that king of beasts, red indeed in colour but of the truest blue in political principle. Besides these, perhaps three or four more papers were taken by the farmers. But, scanty as the food was, it was quite enough for the mouths; indeed, when the papers once passed out of the parlours, they had for the most part performed their mission. Few of the farm-servants, male or female, had curiosity or scholarship enough to spell through the dreary columns. And oral teaching was not much more plentiful, as how was it likely to be? Englebourn was situated on no trunk road, and the amount of intercourse between it and the rest of the world was of the most limited kind. The rector never left home; the curate at rare intervals. Most of the farmers went to market once a week and dined at their ordinary, discussing county politics according to their manner, but bringing home little, except as much food and drink as they could cleverly carry. The carrier went to and from Newbury once a week; but he was a silent man, chiefly bent on collecting and selling butter. The postman, who was deaf, only went as far as the next village. The waggoners drove their masters' produce to market from time to time, and boozed away an hour or two in the kitchen, or tap, or skittle-alley, of some small public-house in the nearest town, while their horses rested. With the above exceptions, probably not one of the villagers strayed ten miles from home, from year's end to year's end. As to visitors, an occasional peddler or small commercial traveller turned up about once a quarter. A few boys and girls, more enterprising than their fellows, went out altogether into the world, of their own accord, in the course of the year; and an occasional burly ploughboy, or carter's boy, was entrapped into taking the Queen's shilling by some subtle recruiting sergeant. But few of these were seen again, except at long intervals. The yearly village feasts, harvest homes, or a meet of the hounds on Englebourn Common, were the most exciting events which in an ordinary way stirred the surface of Englebourn life; only faintest and most distant murmurs of the din and strife of the great outer world, of wars, and rumors of wars, the fall of governments, and the throes of nations, reached that primitive, out-of-the-way little village. A change was already showing itself since Miss Winter had been old enough to look after the schools. The waters were beginning to stir; and by this time, no doubt, the parish boasts a regular book-hawker and reading-room; but at that day Englebourn was like one of those small ponds you may find in some nook of a hill-side, the banks grown over with underwood, to which neither man nor beast, scarcely the winds of heaven, have any access. When you have found such a pond, you may create a great excitement amongst the easy-going newts and frogs who inhabit it, by throwing in a pebble. The splash in itself is a small splash enough, and the waves which circle away from it are very tiny waves, but they move over the whole face of the pond, and are of more interest to the frogs than a nor'-wester in the Atlantic. So the approaching return of Harry Winburn, and the story of his doings at the wars, and of the wonderful things he had sent home, stirred Englebourn to its depth. In that small corner of the earth, the sergeant was of far more importance than governor-general and commander-in-chief. In fact, it was probably the common belief that he was somehow the head of the whole business; and India, the war, and all that hung thereon, were looked at and cared for only as they had served to bring him out. So careless were the good folk about everything in the matter except their own hero, and so wonderful were the romances which soon got abroad about him, that Miss Winter, tired of explaining again and again to the old women without the slightest effect on the parochial faith, bethought her of having a lecture on the subject of India and the war in the parish schoolroom. Full of this idea, she wrote off to Tom, who was the medium of communication on Indian matters, and propounded it to him. The difficulty was, that Mr. Walker, the curate, the only person competent to give it, was going away directly for a three weeks' holiday, having arranged with two neighbouring curates to take his Sunday duty for him. What was to be done? Harry might be back any day, it seemed; so there was no time to be lost. Could Tom come himself, and help her? Tom could not, but he wrote back to say that his friend Hardy was just getting away from Oxford for the long vacation, and would gladly take Mr. Walker's duty for the three weeks, if Dr. Winter approved, on his way home; by which Englebourn would not be without an efficient parson on week-days, and she would have the man of all others to help her in utilizing the sergeant's history for the instruction of the bucolic mind. The arrangement, moreover, would be particularly happy, because Hardy had already promised to perform the marriage ceremony, which Tom and she had settled would take place at the earliest possible moment after the return of the Indian heroes. Dr. Winter was very glad to accept the offer; and so, when they parted at Oxford, Hardy went to Englebourn, where we must leave him for the present. Tom went home--whence, in a few days, he had to hurry down to Southampton to meet the two Harrys. He was much shocked at first to see the state of his old school-fellow. East looked haggard and pale in the face, notwithstanding the sea voyage. His clothes hung on him as if they had been made for a man of twice his size, and he walked with difficulty by the help of a large stick. But he had lost none of his indomitableness, laughed at Tom's long face, and declared that he felt himself getting better and stronger every day. "If you had only seen me at Calcutta," he said, "you would sing a different song. Eh, Winburn?" Harry Winburn was much changed, and had acquired all the composed and self-reliant look which is so remarkable in a good non-commissioned officer. Readiness to obey and command was stamped on every line of his face; but it required all his powers of self-restraint to keep within bounds his delight at getting home again. His wound was quite healed, and his health re-established by the voyage; and, when Tom saw how wonderfully his manners and carriage were improved, and how easily his uniform sat on him, he felt quite sure that all would soon be right at Englebourn, and that Katie and he would be justified in their prophecies and preparations. The invalids had to report themselves in London, and thither the three proceeded together. When this was done, Harry Winburn was sent off at once. He resisted at first, and begged to be allowed to stay with his captain until the captain could go to Berkshire himself. But he was by this time too much accustomed to discipline not to obey a positive order, and was comforted by Tom's assurance that he would not leave East, and would do everything for him which the sergeant had been accustomed to do. Three days later, as East and Tom were sitting at breakfast, a short note came from Miss Winter, telling of Harry's arrival--how the bells were set ringing to welcome him; how Mr. Hardy had preached the most wonderful sermon on his story the next day; above all, how Patty had surrendered at discretion, and the banns had been called for the first time. So the sooner they would come down the better--as it was very important that no time should be lost, lest some of the old jealousies and quarrels should break out again. Upon reading and considering which letter, East resolved to start for Englebourn at once, and Tom to accompany him. There was one person to whom Harry's return and approaching wedding was a subject of unmixed joy and triumph, and that was David the constable. He had always been a sincere friend to Harry, and had stood up for him when all the parish respectabilities had turned against him, and had prophesied that he would live to be a credit to the place. So now David felt himself an inch higher as he saw Harry walking about in his uniform with his sweetheart, the admiration of all Englebourn. But, besides all the unselfish pleasure which David enjoyed on his young friend's account, a little piece of private and personal gratification came to him on his own. Ever since Harry's courtship had begun, David had felt himself in a false position towards, and had suffered under, old Simon, the rector's gardener. The necessity for keeping the old man in good humor for Harry's sake had always been present to the constable's mind; and for the privilege of putting in a good word for his favorite now and then, he had allowed old Simon to assume an air of superiority over him, and to trample upon him and dogmatize to him, even in the matters of flowers and bees. This had been the more galling to David on account of old Simon's intolerant Toryism, which the constable's soul rebelled against, except in the matter of Church music. On this point they agreed, but even here Simon managed to be unpleasant. He would lay the whole blame of the changes which had been effected upon David, accusing him of having given in where there was no need. As there was nothing but a wall between the Rectory garden and David's little strip of ground, in which he spent all his leisure time until the shades of evening summoned him to the bar of the Red Lion for his daily pint and pipe, the two were constantly within hearing of one another, and Simon, in times past, had seldom neglected an opportunity of making himself disagreeable to his long-suffering neighbour. But now David was a free man again; and he took the earliest occasion of making the change in his manner apparent to Simon, and of getting, as he called it, "upsides" with him. One would have thought, to look at him, that the old gardener was as pachydermatous as a rhinoceros; but somehow he seemed to feel that things had changed between them, and did not appreciate an interview with David now nearly so much as of old. So he found very little to do in that part of the garden which abutted on the constable's premises. When he could not help working there, he chose the times at which David was most likely to be engaged, or even took the trouble to ascertain that he was not at home. Early on Midsummer day, old Simon reared his ladder against the boundary wall, with a view of "doctorin'" some of the fruit trees, relying on a parish meeting, at which the constable's presence was required. But he had not more than half finished his operations before David had returned from vestry, and, catching sight of the top of the ladder and Simon's head above the wall, laid aside all other business, and descended into the garden. Simon kept on at his work, only replying by a jerk of the head and one of his grunts to his neighbour's salutation. David took his coat off, and his pruning knife out, and, establishing himself within easy shot of his old oppressor, opened fire at once-- "Thou'st gi'en thy consent, then?" "'Tis no odds, consent or none--her's old enough to hev her own waay." "But thou'st gi'en thy consent?" "Ees, then, if thou wilt hev't," said Simon, somewhat surlily; "wut then?" "So I heerd," said David, indulging in an audible chuckle. "What bist a laughin' at?" "I be laughin' to think how folks changes. Do'st mind the hard things as thou hast judged and said o' Harry? Not as ever I known thy judgment to be o' much account, 'cept about roots. But thou saidst, times and times, as a would come to the gallows." "So a med yet--so a med yet," answered Simon. "Not but wut I wishes well to un, and bears no grudges; but others as hev got the law ov un medn't." "'Tis he as hev got grudges to bear. He don't need none o' thy forgiveness." "Pr'aps a medn't. But hev 'em got the law ov un, or hevn't em?" "Wut do'st mean--got the law ov un?" "Thaay warrants as wur out agen un, along wi' the rest as was transpworted auver Farmer Tester's job." "Oh, he've got no call to be afeard o' thaay now. Thou know'st I hears how 'tis laid down in Sessions and 'Sizes, wher' I've a been this twenty year." "Like enuff. Only, wut's to hinder thaay tryin' ov un, if thaay be a minded to 't? That's what I wants to know." "'Tis wut the counsellors calls the Statut o' Lamentations," said the constable, proudly. "Wutever's Lamentations got to do wi't?" "A gurt deal, I tell 'ee. What do'st thou know o' Lamentations?" "Lamentations cums afore Ezekiel in the Bible." "That ain't no kin to the Statut o' Lamentations. But ther's summut like to't in the Bible," said the constable, stopping his work to consider a moment. "Do'st mind the year when the land wur all to be guv back to thaay as owned it fust, and debts wur to be wiped out?" "Ees, I minds summut o' that." "Well, this here statut says, if so be as a man hev bin to the wars, and sarved his country like; as nothin' shan't be reckoned agen he, let alone murder. Nothin' can't do away wi' murder." "No, nor oughtn't. Hows'mdever, you seems clear about the law on't. There's Miss a callin'." And old Simon's head disappeared as he descended the ladder to answer the summons of his young mistress, not displeased at having his fears as to the safety of his future son-in-law set at rest by so eminent a legal authority as the constable. Fortunately for Harry, the constable's law was not destined to be tried. Young Wurley was away in London. Old Tester was bedridden with an accumulation of diseases brought on by his bad life. His illness made him more violent and tyrannical than ever; but he could do little harm out of his own room, for no one ever went to see him, and the wretched farm-servant who attended him was much too frightened to tell him anything of what was going on in the parish. There was no one else to revive proceedings against Harry. David pottered on at his bees and his flowers till old Simon returned, and ascended his ladder again. "You be ther' still, be 'ee?" he said, as soon as he saw David. "Ees. Any news?" "Ah, news enuff. He as wur Harry's captain and young Mr. Brown be comin' down to-morrow, and hev tuk all the Red Lion to theirselves. And thaay beant content to wait for banns--not thaay--and so ther's to be a license got for Saturday. 'Taint scarce decent, that 'taint." "'Tis best to get drough wi't," said the constable. "Then nothin'll sarve 'em but the church must be hung wi' flowers, and wher' be thaay to cum from without strippin' and starvin' ov my beds? 'Tis shameful to see how folks acts wi' flowers now-a-days, a cuttin' on 'em and puttin' on 'em about, as prodigal at though thaay growed o' theirselves." "So 'tis shameful," said David, whose sympathies for flowers were all with Simon. "I heers tell as young Squire Wurley hevs 'em on table at dinner-time instead o' the wittels." "Do'ee though! I calls it reg'lar Papistry, and so I tells Miss; but her only laughs." The constable shook his head solemnly as he replied "Her've been led away wi' such doin's ever sence Mr. Walker cum, and took to organ-playin' and chantin'." "And he ain't no such gurt things in the pulpit, neether, ain't Mr. Walker," chimed in Simon, (the two had not been so in harmony for years). "I reckon as he ain't nothin' to speak ov alongside o' this here new un as hev tuk his place. He've a got a good deal o' move in un' he hev." "Ah, so a hev. A wunnerful sight o' things a telled us t'other night, about the Indians and the wars." "Ah! talking cums as nat'ral to he as buttermilk to a litterin' sow." "Thou should'st a heerd un, though, about the battles. I can't mind the neames on 'em--let me see--" "I dwun't valley the neames," interrupted Simon. "Thaay makes a deal o' fuss auvert 'taal, but I dwun't tek no account on't. Tain't like the owld wars and fightin' o' the French, this here fightin' wi' blackamoors, let 'em talk as thaay wool." "No more 'tain't. But 'twur a 'mazin' fine talk as he gi'n us. Hev 'ee seed ought 'twixt he and young missus?" "Nothin' out o' th' common. I got plenty to do without lookin' arter the women, and 'tain't no bisness o' mine, nor o' thine neether." David was preparing a stout rejoinder to this rebuke of the old retainer of the Winter family on his curiosity, but was summoned by his wife to the house to attend a customer; and by the time he could get out again, Simon had disappeared. The next day East and Tom arrived, and took possession of the Red Lion; and Englebourn was soon in a ferment of preparation for the wedding. East was not the man to do things by halves; and, seconded as he was by Miss Winter, and Hardy, and Tom, had soon made arrangements for all sorts of merrymaking. The school-children were to have a whole holiday, and, after scattering flowers at church and marching in the bridal procession, were to be entertained in a tent pitched in the home paddock of the Rectory, and to have an afternoon of games and prizes, and cake and tea. The bell-ringers, Harry's old comrades, were to have five shillings apiece, and a cricket match, and a dinner afterwards at the second public house, to which any other of his old friends whom Harry chose to ask, were to be also invited. The old men and women were to be fed in the village school-room; and East and Tom were to entertain a select party of the farmers and tradesmen, at the Red Lion; the tap of which hostelry was to be thrown open to all comers at the Captain's expense. It was not without considerable demur on the part of Miss Winter, that some of these indiscriminate festivities were allowed to pass. But after consulting with Hardy, she relented, on condition that the issue of beer at the two public-houses should be put under the control of David, the constable, who, on his part, promised that law and order should be well represented and maintained on the occasion. "Arter all, Miss, you sees, 'tis only for once in a waay," he said; "and 'twill make 'em remember aal as hev bin said to 'em about the Indians, and the rest on't." So the Captain and his abettors, having gained the constable as an ally, prevailed; and Englebourn, much wondering at itself, made ready for a general holiday. CHAPTER XLVII--THE WEDDING-DAY One-more-poor-man-un-done One-more-poor-man-un-done The belfry tower rocked and reeled, as that peal rang out, now merry, now scornful, now plaintive, from whose narrow belfry windows, into the bosom of the soft south-west wind, which was playing round the old grey tower of Englebourn church. And the wind caught the peal and played with it, and bore it away over Rectory and village street, and many a homestead, and gently waving field of ripening corn, and rich pasture and water-meadow, and tall whispering woods of the Grange, and rolled it against the hill-side, and up the slope past the clump of firs on the Hawk's Lynch, till it died away on the wild stretches of common beyond. The ringers bent lustily to their work. There had been no such ringing in Englebourn since the end of the great war. Not content with the usual peal out of church, they came back again and again in the afternoon, full of the good cheer which had been provided for them; and again and again the wedding peal rang out from the belfry in honour of their old comrade-- One-more-poor-man-un-done One-more-poor-man-un-done Such was the ungallant speech which for many generations had been attributed to the Englebourn wedding-bells; when you had once caught the words--as you would be sure to do from some wide-mouthed grinning boy, lounging over the churchyard rails to see the wedding pass--it would be impossible to persuade yourself that they did, in fact, say anything else. Somehow, Harry Winburn bore his undoing in the most heroic manner, and did his duty throughout the trying day as a non-commissioned groom should. The only part of the performance arranged by his captain which he fairly resisted, was the proposed departure of himself and Patty to the solitary post-chaise of Englebourn--a real old yellow--with a pair of horses. East, after hearing the sergeant's pleading on the subject of vehicles, at last allowed them to drive off in a tax-cart, taking a small boy with them behind, to bring it back. As for the festivities, they went off without hitch, as such affairs will, where the leaders of the revels have their hearts in them. The children had all played, and romped, and eaten and drunk themselves into a state of torpor by an early hour of the evening. The farmers' dinner was a decided success. East proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom, and was followed by Farmer Grove and the constable. David turned out in a new blue swallow-tailed coat, with metal buttons, of his own fabulous cut, in honor of the occasion. He and the farmer spoke like the leader of the Government and the Opposition in the House of Commons on an address to the Crown. There was not a pin to choose between their speeches, and a stranger hearing them would naturally have concluded that Harry had never been anything but the model boy and young man of the parish. Fortunately, the oratorical powers of Englebourn ended here; and East, and the majority of his guests, adjourned to the green, where the cricket was in progress. Each game lasted a very short time only, as the youth of Englebourn were not experts in the noble science, and lost their wickets one after another so fast, that Tom and Hardy had time to play out two matches with them, and then to retire on their laurels, while the afternoon was yet young. The old folks in the village school-room enjoyed their beef and pudding, under the special superintendence of Miss Winter, and then toddled to their homes, and sat about in the warmest nooks they could find, mumbling of old times, and the doings at Dr. Winter's wedding. David devoted himself to superintending the issue of beer, swelling with importance, but so full of the milk of human kindness from the great event of the day, that nobody minded his little airs. He did his duty so satisfactorily that, with the exception of one or two regular confirmed soakers, who stuck steadily to the tap of the Red Lion, and there managed successfully to fuddle themselves, there was nothing like drunkenness. In short, it was one of those rare days when everything goes right, and everybody seems to be inclined to give and take, and to make allowances for their neighbours. By degrees the cricket flagged, and most of the men went off to sit over their pipes, and finish the evening in their own way. The boys and girls took to playing at "kissing in the ring;" and the children who had not already gone home sat in groups watching them. Miss Winter had already disappeared, and Tom, Hardy and the Captain began to feel that they might consider their part finished. They strolled together off the green towards Hardy's lodgings, the "Red Lion" being still in possession of East's guests. "Well, how do you think it all went off?" asked he. "Nothing could have been better," said Hardy; "and they all seem so inclined to be reasonable that I don't think we shall even have a roaring song along the street to-night when the "Red Lion" shuts up." "And you are satisfied, Tom?" "I should think so. I have been hoping for this day any time this four years, and now it has come, and gone off well, too, thanks to you, Harry." "Thanks to me? Very good; I am open to any amount of gratitude." "I think you have every reason to be satisfied with your second day's work at Englebourn, at any rate." "So I am. I only hope it may turn out as well as the first." "Oh, there's no doubt about that." "I don't know. I rather believe in the rule of contraries." "How do you mean?" "Why, when you inveigled me over from Oxford, and we carried off the sergeant from the authorities, and defeated the yeomanry in that tremendous thunder-storm, I thought we were a couple of idiots, and deserved a week each in the lockup for our pains. That business turned out well. This time we have started with flying colours and bells ringing, and so--" "This business will turn out better. Why not?" "Then let us manage a third day's work in these parts as soon as possible. I should like to get to the third degree of comparison, and perhaps the superlative will turn up trumps for me somehow. Are there many more young women in the place as pretty as Mrs. Winburn? This marrying complaint is very catching, I find." "There's my cousin Katie," said Tom, looking stealthily at Hardy; "I won't allow that there's any face in the country-side to match hers. What do you say, Jack?" Hardy was confused by this sudden appeal. "I haven't been long enough here to judge," he said. "I have always considered Miss Winter very beautiful. I see it is nearly seven o'clock, and I have a call or two to make in the village. I should think you ought to get some rest after this tiring day, Captain East?" "What are you going to do, Tom?" "Well, I was thinking of just throwing a fly over the mill tail. There's such a fine head of water on." "Isn't it too bright?" "Well, perhaps it is a little; marrying weather and fishing weather don't agree. Only what else is there to do? But if you are tired," he added, looking at East, "I don't care a straw about it. I shall stay with you." "Not a bit of it. I shall hobble down with you, and lie on the bank and smoke a cheroot." "No, you shan't walk, at any rate. I can borrow the constable's pony, old Nibble, the quietest beast in the world. He'll stand for a week if we like, while I fish and you lie and look on. I'll be off and bring him around in two minutes." "Then we shall meet for a clumsy tea at nine at my lodgings," said Hardy, as he went off to his pastoral duties. Tom and East, in due time, found themselves by the side of the stream. There was only a small piece of fishable water in Englebourn. The fine stream, which, a mile or so below, in the Grange grounds, might be called a river, came into respectable existence only about two hundred yards above Englebourn Mill. Here two little chalk brooks met, and former millers had judiciously deepened the channel, and dammed the united waters back so as to get a respectable reservoir. Above the junction the little weedy, bright, creeping brooks afforded good sport for small truants groppling about with their hands, or bobbing with lob worms under the hollow banks, but were not available for the scientific angler. The parish ended at the fence next below the mill garden, on the other side of which the land was part of the Grange estate. So there was just the piece of still water above the mill, and the one field below it, over which Tom had leave. On ordinary occasions this would have been enough, with careful fishing, to last him till dark; but his nerves were probably somewhat excited by the events of the day, and East sat near and kept talking; so he got over his water faster than usual. At any rate, he had arrived for the second time at the envious fence before the sun was down. The fish were wondrous wary in the miller's bit of water--as might be expected, for they led a dog of a life there, between the miller and his men and their nets, and baits of all kinds always set. So Tom thought himself lucky to get a couple of decent fish, the only ones that were moving within his liberty; but he could not help looking with covetous eyes on the fine stretch of water below, all dimpling with rises. "Why don't you get over and fish below?" said East, from his seat on the bank; "don't mind me. I can watch you; besides, lying on the turf on such an evening is luxury enough by itself." "I can't go. Both sides below belong to that fellow Wurley." "The sergeant's amiable landlord and prosecutor?" "Yes; and the yeoman with whom you exchanged shots on the common." "Hang it, Tom, just jump over and catch a brace of his trout. Look how they are rising." "No, I don't know. I never was very particular about poaching, but somehow I shouldn't like to do it on his land. I don't like him well enough." "You're right, I believe. But just look there. There's a whopper rising not more than ten yards below the rail. You might reach him, I think, without trespassing, from where you stand." "Shall I have a shy at him?" "Yes; it can't be poaching if you don't go on his grounds." Tom could not resist the temptation, and threw over the rails, which crossed the stream from hedge to hedge to mark the boundaries of the parish, until he got well over the place where the fish was rising. "There, that was at your fly," said East, hobbling up in great excitement. "All right, I shall have him directly. There he is. Hullo! Harry, I say! Splash with your stick. Drive the brute back. Bad luck to him. Look at that!" The fish, when hooked, had come straight up stream towards his captor, and notwithstanding East's attempts to frighten him back, he rushed in under the before-mentioned walls, which were adorned with jagged nails, to make crossing on them unpleasant for the Englebourn boys. Against one of these Tom's line severed, and the waters closed over two beauteous flies, and some six feet of lovely taper gut. East laughed loud and merrily; and Tom, crestfallen as he was, was delighted to hear the old ring coming back into his friend's voice. "Harry, old fellow, you're picking up already in this glorious air." "Of course I am. Two or three more weddings and fishings will set me up altogether. How could you be so green as to throw over those rails? It's a proper lesson to you, Tom, for poaching." "Well, that's cool. Didn't I throw down stream to please you?" "You ought to have resisted temptation. But, I say, what are you at?" "Putting on another cast, of course." "Why, you're not going on to Wurley's land?" "No; I suppose not. I must try the mill tail again." "It's no good. You've tried it over twice, and I'm getting bored." "Well, what shall we do then?" "I've a mind to get up to the hill there to see the sun set--what's its name?--where I waited with the cavalry that night, you know." "Oh! the Hawk's Lynch. Come along, then; I'm your man." So Tom put up his rod, and caught the old pony, and the two friends were soon on their way towards the common, through lanes at the back of the village. The wind had sunk to sleep as the shadows lengthened. There was no sound abroad except that of Nibble's hoofs on the turf,--not even the hum of insects; for the few persevering gnats, who were still dancing about in the slanting glints of sunshine that struck here and there across the lanes, had left off humming. Nothing living met them except an occasional stag-beetle, steering clumsily down the lane, and seeming like a heavy coaster, to have as much to do as he could fairly manage in keeping clear of them. They walked on in silence for some time, which was broken at last by East. "I haven't had time to tell you about my future prospects." "How do you mean? Has anything happened?" "Yes. I got a letter two days ago from New Zealand, where I find I am a considerable landowner. A cousin of mine has died out there and has left me his property." "W ell, you're not going to leave England, surely?" "Yes, I am. The doctors say the voyage will do me good, and the climate is just the one to suit me. What's the good of my staying here? I shan't be fit for service again for years. I shall go on half-pay, and become an enterprising agriculturist at the Antipodes. I have spoken to the sergeant, and arranged that he and his wife shall go with me; so, as soon as I can get his discharge, and he has done honeymooning, we shall start. I wish you would come with us." Tom could scarcely believe his ears; but soon found that East was in earnest, and had an answer to all his remonstrances. Indeed, he had very little to say against the plan, for it jumped with his own humour; and he could not help admitting that, under the circumstances, it was a wise one, and that, with Harry Winburn for his head man, East couldn't do better than carry it out. "I knew you would soon come around to it," said the Captain; "what could I do dawdling about at home, with just enough money to keep me and get me into mischief? There I shall have a position and an object; and one may be of some use, and make one's mark in a new country. And we'll get a snug berth ready for you by the time you're starved out of the old country. England isn't the place for poor men with any go in them." "I believe you're right, Harry," said Tom, mournfully. "I know I am. And in a few years, when we've made our fortunes, we'll come back and have a look at the old country, and perhaps buy up half Englebourn and lay our bones in the old church yard." "And if we don't make our fortunes?" "Then we'll stay out there." "Well, if I were my own master I think I should make one with you. But I could never leave my father and mother, or--or--" "Oh, I understand. Of course, if matters go all right in that quarter, I have nothing more to say. But, from what you have told me, I thought you might be glad of a regular break in your life, a new start in a new world." "Very likely I may. I should have said so myself this morning. But somehow I feel to-night more hopeful than I have for years." "Those wedding chimes are running in your head." "Yes; and they have lifted a load off my heart too. Four years ago I was very near doing the greatest wrong a man can do to that girl who was married to-day, and to that fine fellow her husband, who was the first friend I ever had. Ever since then I have been doing my best to set matters straight, and have often made them crookeder. But to-day they are all straight, thank God, and I feel as if a chain were broken from off my neck. All has come right for them, and perhaps my own time will come before long." "To be sure it will. I must be introduced to a certain young lady before we start. I shall tell her that I don't mean to give up hopes of seeing her on the other side of the world." "Well, here we are on the common. What a glorious sunset! Come, stir up, Nibble. We shall be on the Lynch just in time to see him dip if we push on." Nibble, the ancient pony, finding that there was no help for it, scrambled up the greater part of the ascent successfully. But his wheezings and roarings during the operation excited East's pity; so he dismounted when they came to the foot of the Hawk's Lynch, and, tying Nibble's bridle to a furze-bush--a most unnecessary precaution--set to work to scale the last and deepest bit of the ascent with the help of his stick--and Tom's strong-arm. They paused every ten paces or so to rest and look at the sunset. The broad vale below lay in purple shadow; the soft flocks of little clouds high up over their heads, and stretching away to the eastern horizon, floated in a sea of rosy light; and the stems of the Scotch firs stood out like columns of ruddy flame. "Why, this beats India," said East, putting up his hand to shade his eyes, which were fairly dazzled by the blaze. "What a contrast to the last time I was up here! Do you remember that awful black-blue sky?" "Don't I? Like a night-mare. Hullo! who's here?" "Why, if it isn't the parson and Miss Winter," said East, smiling. True enough, there they were, standing together on the very verge of the mound, beyond the firs, some ten yards in front of the last comers, looking out into the sunset. "I say, Tom, another good omen," whispered East; "hadn't we better beat a retreat?" Before Tom could answer, or make up his mind what to do, Hardy turned his head and caught sight of them, and then Katie turned too, blushing like the little clouds overhead. It was an embarrassing moment. Tom stammered out that they had come up quite by chance, and then set to work, well seconded by East, to look desperately unconscious, and to expatiate on the beauties of the view. The light began to fade, and the little clouds to change again from soft pink to grey, and the evening star shone out clear as they turned to descend the hill, when the Englebourn clock chimed nine. Katie attached herself to Tom, while Hardy helped the Captain down the steep pitch, and on to the back of Nibble. They went a little ahead. Tom was longing to speak to his cousin, but could not tell how to begin. At last Katie broke the silence; "I am so vexed that this should have happened!" "Are you, dear? So am not I," he said, pressing her arm to his side. "But I mean, it seems so forward--as if I had met Mr. Hardy here on purpose. What will your friend think of me?" "He will think no evil." "But indeed, Tom, do tell him, pray. It was quite an accident. You know how I and Mary used to go up the Hawk's Lynch whenever we could, on fine evenings." "Yes, dear, I know it well." "And I thought of you both so much to-day, that I couldn't help coming up here." "And you found Hardy? I don't wonder. I should come up to see the sun set every night, if I lived at Englebourn." "No. He came up sometime after me. Straight up the hill. I did not see him till he was quite close. I could not run away then. Indeed, it was not five minutes before you came." "Five minutes are as good as a year sometimes." "And you will tell your friend, Tom, how it happened?" "Indeed I will, Katie. May I not tell him something more?" He looked round for an answer, and there was just light enough to read it in her eye. "My debt is deepening to the Hawk's Lynch," he said, as they walked on through the twilight. "Blessed five minutes! Whatever else they may take with them, they will carry my thanks for ever. Look how clear and steady the light of that star is, just over the church tower. I wonder whether Mary is at a great hot dinner. Shall you write to her soon?" "Oh, yes. To-night." "You may tell her that there is no better Englishman walking the earth than my friend, John Hardy. Here we are at his lodgings. East and I are going to tea with him. Wish them good night, and I will see you home." CHAPTER XLVIII--THE BEGINNING OF THE END From the Englebourn festivities, Tom and East returned to London. The Captain was bent on starting for his possessions in the South Pacific; and, as he regained strength, energized over all his preparations, and went about in cabs purchasing agricultural implements, sometimes by the light of nature, and sometimes under the guidance of Harry Winburn. He invested also in something of a library, and in large quantities of saddlery. In short, packages of all kinds began to increase and multiply upon him. Then there was the selecting of a vessel, and all the negotiations with the ship's captain as to terms, and the business of getting introduced to, and conferring with, people from the colony, or who were supposed to know something about it. Altogether, East had plenty of work on his hands; and the more he had to do, the better and more cheery he became. Tom, on the contrary, was rather lower than usual. His half-formed hopes that some good luck was going to happen to him after Patty's marriage, were beginning to grow faint, and the contrast of his friend's definite present purpose in life, with his own uncertainty, made him more or less melancholy in spite of all his efforts. His father had offered him a tour abroad, now that he had finished with Oxford, urging that he seemed to want a change to freshen him up before buckling to a profession, and that he would never, in all likelihood, have such another chance. But he could not make up his mind to accept the offer. The attraction to London was too strong for him; and, though he saw little hope of anything happening to improve his prospects, he could not keep away from it. He spent most of his time, when not with East, in haunting the neighborhood of Mr. Porter's house in Belgravia, and the places where he was likely to catch distant glimpses of Mary, avoiding all chance of actual meeting or recognition, from which he shrank in his present frame of mind. The nearest approach to the flame which he allowed himself was a renewal of his old friendship with Grey, who was still working on in his Westminister rookery. He had become a great favorite with Mrs. Porter, who was always trying to get him to her house to feed him properly, and was much astonished, and sometimes almost provoked, at the small success of her hospitable endeavors. Grey was so taken up with his own pursuits that it did not occur to him to be surprised that he never met Tom at the house of his relations. He was innocent of all knowledge or suspicion of the real state of things, so that Tom could talk to him with perfect freedom about his uncle's household, picking up all such scraps of information as Grey possessed without compromising himself or feeling shy. Thus the two old schoolfellows lived on together after their return from Englebourn, in a set of chambers in the Temple, which one of Tom's college friends (who had been beguiled from the perusal of Stephen's Commentaries and aspirations after the woolsack, by the offer of a place on board a yacht and a cruise to Norway) had fortunately lent him. We join company with our hero again on a fine July morning. Readers will begin to think that, at any rate, he is always blessed with fine weather, whatever troubles he may have to endure; but, if we are not to have fine weather in novels, when and where are we to have it? It was a fine July morning, then, and the streets were already beginning to feel sultry as he worked his way westward. Grey, who had never given up hopes of bringing Tom round to his own views, had not neglected the opportunities which this residence in town offered, and had enlisted Tom's services on more than one occasion. He had found him specially useful in instructing the big boys, whom he was trying to bring together and civilize in a "Young Men's Club," in the rudiments of cricket on Saturday evenings. But on the morning in question, an altogether different work was on hand. A lady living some eight or nine miles to the north-west of London, who took great interest in Grey's doings, had asked him to bring the children of his night-school down to spend a day in her grounds, and this was the happy occasion. It was before the days of cheap excursions by rail, so that vans had to be found for the party; and Grey had discovered a benevolent remover of furniture in Paddington, who was ready to take them at a reasonable figure. The two vans, with awnings and curtains in the height of fashion, and horses with tasselled ear-caps, and everything handsome about them, were already drawn up in the midst of a group of excited children, and scarcely less excited mothers, when Tom arrived. Grey was arranging his forces, and labouring to reduce the Irish children, who formed almost half his ragged little flock, into something like order, before starting. By degrees this was managed, and Tom was placed in command of the rear van, while Grey reserved the leading one to himself. The children were divided and warned not to lean over the sides and fall out--a somewhat superfluous caution--as most of them, though unused to riding in any legitimate manner, were pretty well used to balancing themselves behind any vehicle which offered as much as a spike to sit on, out of sight of the driver. Then came the rush into the vans. Grey and Tom took up their places next the doors as conductors, and the procession lumbered off with great success, and much shouting from treble voices. Tom soon found that he had plenty of work on his hands to keep the peace among his flock. The Irish element was in a state of wild effervescence, and he had to draft them down to his own end, leaving the foremost cart of the van to the soberer English children. He was much struck by the contrast of the whole set to the Englebourn school children, whom he had lately seen under somewhat similar circumstances. The difficulty with them had been to draw them out, and put anything like life into them; here, all he had to do was to suppress the superabundant life. However, the vans held on their way, and got safely into the suburbs, and so at last to an occasional hedge, and a suspicion of trees, and green fields beyond. It became more and more difficult now to keep the boys in; and when they came to a hill, where the horses had to walk, he yielded to their entreaties, and, opening the door, let them out, insisting only that the girls should remain seated. They scattered over the sides of the roads, and up the banks; now chasing pigs and fowls up to the very doors of their owners; now gathering the commonest roadside weeds, and running up to show them to him, and ask their names, as if they were rare treasures. The ignorance of most of the children as to the commonest country matters astonished him. One small boy particularly came back time after time to ask him, with solemn face "Please, sir, is this the country?" and when at last he allowed that it was, rejoined, "Then, please, where are the nuts?" The clothing of most of the Irish boys began to tumble to pieces in an alarming manner. Grey had insisted on their being made tidy for the occasion, but the tidiness was of a superficial kind. The hasty stitching soon began to give way, and they were rushing about with wild locks; the strips of what once might have been nether garments hanging about their legs; their feet and heads bare, the shoes which their mothers had borrowed for the state occasion having been deposited under the seat of the van. So, when the procession arrived at the trim lodge-gates of their hostess, and his charge descended and fell in on the beautifully clipped turf at the side of the drive, Tom felt some of the sensations of Falstaff when he had to lead his ragged regiment through Coventry streets. He was soon at his ease again, and enjoyed the day thoroughly, and the drive home; but, as they drew near town again, a sense of discomfort and shyness came over him, and he wished the journey to Westminster well over, and hoped that the carman would have the sense to go through the quiet parts of the town. He was much disconcerted consequently, when the vans came to a sudden stop opposite one of the Park entrances, in the Bayswater Road. "What in the world is Grey about?" he thought, as he saw him get out, and all the children after him. So he got out himself, and went forward to get an explanation. "Oh I have told the man that he need not drive us round to Westminster. He is close at home here, and his horses have had a hard day; so we can just get out and walk home." "What, across the Park?" asked Tom. "Yes, it will amuse the children, you know." "But they're tired," persisted Tom; "come now, it's all nonsense letting the fellow off; he's bound to take us back." "I'm afraid I have promised him," said Grey; "besides, the children all think it a treat. Don't you all want to walk across the Park?" he went on turning to them, and a general affirmative chorus was the answer. So Tom had nothing for it but to shrug his shoulders, empty his own van, and follow into the Park with his convoy, not in the best humor with Grey for having arranged this ending to their excursion. They might have got over a third of the distance between the Bayswater Road and the Serpentine, when he was aware of a small, thin voice addressing him. "Oh, please won't you carry me a bit? I'm so tired," said the voice. He turned in some trepidation to look for the speaker, and found her to be a sickly, undergrown little girl of ten or thereabouts, with large, pleading, grey eyes, very shabbily dressed, and a little lame. He had remarked her several times in the course of the day, not for any beauty or grace about her, for the poor child had none, but for her transparent confidence and trustfulness. After dinner, as they had been all sitting on the grass under the shade of a great elm to hear Grey read a story, and Tom had been sitting a little apart from the rest with his back against the trunk, she had come up and sat quietly down by him, leaning on his knee. Then he had seen her go up and take the hand of the lady who had entertained them, and walk along by her, talking without the least shyness. Soon afterwards she had squeezed into the swing by the side of the beautifully-dressed little daughter of the same lady, who, after looking for a minute at her shabby little sister with large round eyes, had jumped out and run off to her mother, evidently in a state of childish bewilderment as to whether it was not wicked for a child to wear such dirty old clothes. Tom had chuckled to himself as he saw Cinderella settling herself comfortably in the swing in the place of the ousted princess, and had taken a fancy to the child, speculating to himself as to how she could have been brought up, to be so utterly unconscious of differences of rank and dress. "She seems really to treat her fellow-creatures as if she had been studying the _Sartor Resartus_," he thought. "She was cut down through all clothes-philosophy without knowing it. I wonder, if she had a chance, whether she would go and sit down in the Queen's lap?" He did not at the time anticipate that she would put his own clothes-philosophy to so severe a test before the day was over. The child had been as merry and active as any of the rest during the earlier part of the day; but now, as he looked down in answer to her reiterated plea, "Won't you carry me a bit? I'm so tired!", he saw that she could scarcely drag one foot after another. What was to be done? He was already keenly alive to the discomfort of walking across Hyde Park in a procession of ragged children, with such a figure of fun as Grey at their head, looking, in his long, rusty, straight-cut black coat, as if he had come fresh out of Noah's ark. He didn't care about it so much while they were on the turf in the out-of-the-way parts, and would meet nobody but guards, and nurse-maids, and trades-people, and mechanics out for an evening's stroll. But the Drive and Rotten Row lay before them, and must be crossed. It was just the most crowded time of the day. He had almost made up his mind once or twice to stop Grey and the procession, and propose to sit down for half-an-hour or so and let the children play, by which time the world would be going home to dinner. But there was no play left in the children; and he had resisted the temptation, meaning, when they came to the most crowded part, to look unconscious, as if it were by chance that he had got into such company, and had in fact nothing to do with them. But now, if he listened to the child's plea, and carried her, all hope of concealment was over. If he did not, he felt that there would be no greater flunkey in the Park that evening than Thomas Brown, the enlightened radical and philosopher, amongst the young gentlemen riders in Rotten Row, or the powdered footmen lounging behind the great blaring carriages in the Drive. So he looked down at the child once or twice in a state of puzzle. A third time she looked up with her great eyes, and said, "Oh, please carry me a bit!" and her piteous, tired face turned the scale. "If she were Lady Mary or Lady Blanche," thought he, "I should pick her up at once, and be proud of the burden. Here goes!" And he took her up in his arms, and walked on, desperate and reckless. Notwithstanding all his philosophy, he felt his ears tingling and his face getting red, as they approached the drive. It was crowded. They were kept standing a minute or two at the crossing. He made a desperate effort to abstract himself wholly from the visible world, and retire in a state of serene contemplation. But it would not do; and he was painfully conscious of the stare of lack-lustre eyes of well dressed men leaning over the rails, and the amused look of delicate ladies, lounging in open carriages, and surveying him and Grey and their ragged rout through glasses. At last they scrambled across, and he breathed freely for a minute, as they struggled along the comparatively quiet path leading to Albert Gate, and stopped to drink at the fountain. Then came Rotten Row, and another pause amongst the loungers, and a plunge into the Ride, where he was nearly run down by two men whom he had known at Oxford. They shouted to him to get out of the way; and he felt the hot defiant blood rushing through his veins, as he strode across without heeding. They passed on, one of them having to pull his horse out of his stride to avoid him. Did they recognize him? He felt a strange mixture of utter indifference, and longing to strangle them. The worst was now over; besides, he was getting used to the situation, and his good sense was beginning to rally. So he marched through Albert Gate, carrying his ragged little charge, who prattled away to him without a pause, and surrounded by the rest of the children, scarcely caring who might see him. They won safely through the omnibuses and carriages on the Kensington Road, and so into Belgravia. At last he was quite at his ease again, and began listening to what the child was saying to him, and was strolling carelessly along, when once more at one of the crossings, he was startled by a shout from some riders. There was straw laid down in the street, so that he had not heard them as they cantered round the corner, hurrying home to dress for dinner; and they were all but upon him, and had to rein up their horses sharply. The party consisted of a lady and two gentlemen, one old, the other young--the latter dressed in the height of fashion, and with the supercilious air which Tom hated from his soul. The shout came from the young man, and drew Tom's attention to him first. All the devil rushed up as he recognized St. Cloud. The lady's horse swerved against his, and began to rear. He put his hand on its bridle, as if he had a right to protect her. Another glance told Tom that the lady was Mary, and the old gentleman, fussing up on his stout cob on the other side of her, Mr. Porter. They all knew him in another moment. He stared from one to the other, was conscious that she turned her horse's head sharply, so as to disengage the bridle from St. Cloud's hand, and of his insolent stare, and of the embarrassment of Mr. Porter, and then, setting his face straight before him, he passed on in a bewildered dream, never looking back till they were out of sight. The dream gave way to bitter and wild thoughts, upon which it will do none of us any good to dwell. He put down the little girl outside the schools, turning abruptly from the mother, a poor widow in scant, well-preserved black clothes who was waiting for the child, and began thanking him for his care of her; refused Grey's pressing invitation to tea, and set his face eastward. Bitterer and more wild and more scornful grew his thoughts as he strode along past the Abbey, and up Whitehall, and away down the Strand, holding on over the crossings without paying the slightest heed to vehicle, or horse, or man. Incensed coachmen had to pull up with a jerk to avoid running over him, and more than one sturdy walker turned round in indignation at a collision which they felt had been intended, or at least which there had been no effort to avoid. As he passed under the window of the Banqueting Hall, and by the place in Charing Cross where the pillory used to stand, he growled to himself what a pity it was that the times for cutting off heads and cropping ears had gone by. The whole of the dense population from either side of the Strand seemed to have crowded out into that thoroughfare to impede his march and aggravate him. The further eastward he got, the thicker got the crowd, and the vans, the omnibuses, the cabs, seemed to multiply and get noisier. Not an altogether pleasant sight to a man in the most Christian frame of mind is the crowd that a fine summer evening fetches out into the roaring Strand, as the sun fetches out flies on the window of a village grocery. To him just then it was at once depressing and provoking, and he went shouldering his way towards Temple Bar as thoroughly out of tune as he had been for many a long day. As he passed from the narrowest part of the Strand into the space round St. Clement Danes' church, he was startled, in a momentary lull of the uproar, by the sound of chiming bells. He slackened his pace to listen; but a huge van lumbered by, shaking the houses on both sides, and drowning all sounds but its own rattle; and then he found himself suddenly immersed in a crowd, vociferating and gesticulating round a policeman, who was conveying a woman towards the station-house. He shouldered through it--another lull came, and with it the same slow, gentle, calm cadence of chiming bells. Again and again he caught it as he passed on to Temple Bar; whenever the roar subsided, the notes of the old hymn tune came dropping down on him like balm from the air. If the ancient benefactor who caused the bells of St. Clement Danes' Church to be arranged to play that chime so many times a day is allowed to hover round the steeple at such times, to watch the effect of his benefaction on posterity, he must have been well satisfied on that evening. Tom passed under the Bar, and turned into the Temple another man, softened again, and in his right mind. "There's always a voice saying the right thing to you somewhere, if you'll only listen for it," he thought. He took a few turns in the court to clear his head, and then found Harry East reclining on a sofa, in full view of the gardens and river, solacing himself with his accustomed cheroot. "Oh, here you are," he said, making room on the sofa; "how did it go off?" "Well enough. Where have you been?" "In the City and at the Docks. I've been all over our vessel. She's a real clipper." "When do you sail?" "Not quite certain. I should say in a fortnight, though." East puffed away for a minute, and then, as Tom said nothing, went on. "I'm not so sweet on it as the time draws near. There are more of my chums turning up every day from India at the Rag. And this is uncommonly pleasant, too, living with you here in the chambers. You may probably think it odd, but I don't half like getting rid of you." "Thanks; but I don't think you will get rid of me." "How do you mean?" "I mean that I shall go with you, if my people will let me, and you will take me." "W-h-e-w! Anything happened?" "Yes." "You've seen her?" "Yes." "Well, go on. Don't keep a fellow in suspense. I shall be introduced, and eat one of the old boy's good dinners, after all, before I sail." Tom looked out of window, and found some difficulty in getting out the words, "No, it's all up." "You don't mean it?" said East, coming to a sitting position by Tom's side. "But how do you know? Are you sure? What did she say?" "Nothing. I haven't spoken to her; but it's all up. She was riding with her father and the fellow to whom she's engaged. I have heard it a dozen times, but never would believe it." "But, is that all? Riding with her father and another man! Why, there's nothing in that." "Yes, but there is though. You should have seen his look. And they all knew me well enough, but not one of them nodded even." "Well, there's not much in that after all. It may have been chance, or you may have fancied it." "No, one isn't quite such a fool. However, I have no right to complain, and I won't. I could bear it all well enough if he were not such a cold-hearted blackguard." "What, this fellow she was riding with?" "Yes. He hasn't a heart the size of a pin's head. He'll break hers. He's a mean brute, too. She can't know him, though he has been after her this year and more. They must have forced her into it. Ah! it's a bitter business," and he put his head between his hands, and East heard the deep catches of his laboring breath, as he sat by him, feeling deeply for him, but puzzled what to say. "She can't be worth so much after all, Tom," he said at last, "if she would have such a fellow as that. Depend upon it, she's not what you thought her." Tom made no answer; so the captain went on presently, thinking he had hit the right note. "Cheer up, old boy. There's as good fish in the sea yet as ever came out of it. Don't you remember the song--whose is it? Lovelace's:-- "'If she be not fair for me, What care I for whom she be?'" Tom started up almost fiercely, but recovered himself in a moment, and then leant his head down again. "Don't talk about her, Harry; you don't know her," he said. "And don't want to know her, Tom, if she is going to throw you over. Well, I shall leave you for an hour or so. Come up to me presently at the Rag, when you feel better." East started for his club, debating within himself what he could do for his friend--whether calling out the party mightn't do good. Tom, left to himself, broke down at first sadly; but, as the evening wore on he began to rally, and sat down and wrote a long letter to his father, making a clean breast, and asking his permission to go with East. CHAPTER XLIX--THE END My Dear Katie;--I know you will be very much pained when you read this letter. You two have been my only confidantes, and you have always kept me up, and encouraged me to hope that all would come right. And after all that happened last week, Patty's marriage, and your engagement,--the two things upon earth, with one exception, that I most wished for,--I quite felt that my own turn was coming. I can't tell why I had such a strong feeling about it, but somehow all the most important changes in my life for the last four years have been so interwoven with Patty and Harry Winburn's history, that, now they were married, I was sure something would happen to me as soon as I came to London. And I was not wrong. Dear Katie, I can hardly bring myself to write it. It is all over. I met her in the street to-day; she was riding with her father and the man I told you about. They had to pull up not to ride over me; so I had a good look at her, and there can be no mistake about it. I have often tried to reason myself into the belief that the evil day must come sooner or later, and to prepare myself for it; but I might have spared myself, for it could not have been worse than it is if I had never anticipated it. My future is all a blank now. I can't stay in England; so I have written home to ask them to let me go to New Zealand with East, and I am sure they will consent, when they know all. "I shall wait in town till I get the answer. Perhaps I may be able to get off with East in a few weeks. The sooner the better; but, of course, I shall not go without seeing you and dear old Jack. You mustn't mind me calling him Jack. The only thing that it gives me any pleasure to think about is your engagement. It is so right; and one wants to see something going right, some one getting their due, to keep alive one's belief in justice being done somehow or another in the world. And I do see it, and acknowledge it, when I think over his history and mine since we first met. We have both got our due; and you have got yours, Katie, for you have got the best fellow in England. "Ah! if I only could think that she has got hers! If I could only believe that the man she has chosen is worthy of her! I will try hard to think better of him. There must be more good in him that I have ever seen, or she would never have engaged herself to him. But I can't bear to stop here, and see it all going on. The sooner I am out of England the better. I send you a parcel with this; it contains her notes, and some old flowers and other matters which I haven't the heart to burn. You will be the best judge what should be done with them. If you see your way to managing it, I should like her to know that I had sent them all to you, and that, whatever may happen to me hereafter, my love for her has been the mainstay and the guiding-star of my life ever since that happy time when you all came to stay with us in my first long vacation. It found me eaten up with selfishness and conceit, the puppet of my own lusts and vanities, and has left me--well never mind what it has left me. At any rate, if I have not gone from worse to worse, it is all owing to her; and she ought to know it. It cannot be wrong to let her know what good she has scattered unknowingly about her path. May God bless and reward her for it, and you, too, dear cousin, for all your long love and kindness to one who is very unworthy of, but very thankful for them. "Ever yours, affectionately, "T. B." The above letter, and that to his father, asking for leave to emigrate, having been written and sent off, Tom was left, on the afternoon of the day following his upset, making manful, if not very successful, efforts to shake off the load of depression which weighed on him, and to turn his thoughts resolutely forward to a new life in a new country. East was away at the Docks. There was no one moving in the Temple. The men who had business were all at Westminster, or out of sight and hearing in the recesses of their chambers. Those who had none were for the most part away enjoying themselves, in one way or another amongst the mighty whirl of the mighty human sea of London. There was nothing left for him to do; he had written the only two letters he had to write, and had only to sit still and wait for the answers, killing the meantime as well as he could. Reading came hard to him, but it was the best thing to do, perhaps; at any rate he was trying it on, though his studies were constantly interrupted by long fits of absence of mind, during which, though his body remained in the temple, he was again in the well-kept garden of Barton, or in the hazel wood under the lee of the Berkshire hills. He was roused out of one of these reveries, and brought back to external life and Fig-tree Court, by a single knock at the outer door, and a shout of the newsman's boy for the paper. So he got up, found the paper, which he had forgotten to read, and, as he went to the door, cast his eye on it, and saw that a great match was going on at Lord's. This gave a new turn to his thoughts. He stood looking down stairs after the boy, considering whether he should not start at once for the match. He would be sure to see a lot of acquaintances there at any rate. But the idea of seeing and having to talk to mere acquaintances was more distasteful than his present solitude. He was turning to bury himself again in his hole, when he saw a white dog walk quietly up seven or eight stairs at the bottom of the flight, and then turn round, and look for some one to follow. "How odd!" thought Tom, as he watched him; "as like as two peas. It can't be. No. Why, yes it is." And then he whistled, and called "Jack," and the dog looked up, and wagged his tail, as much as to say, "All right, I'm coming directly; but I must wait for my master." The next moment Drysdale appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and looking up, said-- "Oh! that's you, is it? I'm all right then. So you knew the old dog?" "I should rather think so," said Tom. "I hope I never forget a dog or horse I have once known." In the short minute which Drysdale and Jack took to arrive at his landing, Tom had time for a rush of old college memories, in which the grave and gay, pleasant and bitter, were strangely mingled. The light when he had been first brought to his senses about Patty came up very vividly before him, and the commemoration days, when he had last seen Drysdale. "How strange!" he thought, "is my old life coming back again just now? Here, on the very day after it is all over, comes back the man with whom I was so intimate up to the day it began, and have never seen since. What does it mean?" There was a little touch of embarrassment in the manner of both of them as they shook hands at the top of the stairs, and turned into the chambers. Tom motioned to Jack to take his old place at one end of the sofa, and began caressing him there, the dog showing unmistakably, by gesture and whine, that delight at renewing an old friendship for which his race are so nobly distinguished. Drysdale threw himself down in an arm-chair and watched them. "So you knew the old dog, Brown?" he repeated. "Knew him?--of course I did. Dear old Jack! How well he wears; he is scarcely altered at all." "Very little; only steadier. More than I can say for his master. I'm very glad you knew Jack." "Come, Drysdale; take the other end of the sofa or it won't look like old times. There, now I can fancy myself back at St. Ambrose's." "By Jove, Brown, you're a real good fellow; I always said so, even after that last letter. You pitched it rather strong in that though. I was very near coming back from Norway to quarrel with you." "Well, I was very angry at being left in the lurch by you and Blake." "You got the coin all right, I suppose? You never acknowledged it." "Didn't I? Then I ought to have. Yes, I got it all right about six months afterwards. I ought to have acknowledged it, and I thought I had. I'm sorry I didn't. Now we're all quits, and won't talk any more about that rascally bill." "I suppose I may light up," said Drysdale, dropping into his old lounging attitude on the sofa, and pulling out his cigar-case. "Yes, of course. Will you have anything?" "A cool drink wouldn't be amiss." "They make a nice tankard with cider and a lump of ice at the 'Rainbow'. What do you say to that?" "It sounds touching," said Drysdale. So Tom posted off to Fleet Street to order the liquor, and came back followed by a waiter with the tankard. Drysdale took a long pull and smacked his lips. "That's a wrinkle," he said, handing the tankard to Tom. "I suppose the lawyers teach all the publicans about here a trick or two. Why, one can fancy one's self back in the old quad, looking out on this court. If it weren't such an outlandish out-of-the-way place, I think I should take some chambers here myself. How did you get here?" "Oh, they belong to a friend of mine who is away. But how did _you_ get here?" "Why, along the Strand, in a Hansom." "I mean, how did you know I was here?" "Grey told me." "What! Grey, who was at St. Ambrose's with us?" "Yes. You look puzzled." "I didn't think you knew Grey." "No more I do. But a stout old party I met last night--your godfather, I should think he is--told me where he was, and said I should get your address from him. So I looked him up this morning, in that dog-hole in Westminster where he lives. He didn't know Jack from Adam." "But what in the world do you mean by my godfather?" "I had better tell my story from the beginning, I see. Last night I did what I don't often do, went out to a great drum. There was an awful crush, of course, and you may guess what the heat was in these dog-days, with gas-lights and wax-lights going, and a jam of people in every corner. I was fool enough to get into the rooms, so that my retreat was cut off; and I had to work right through, and got at last into a back room, which was not so full. The window was in a recess, and there was a balcony outside, looking over a little bit of garden. I got into the balcony, talking with a girl who was sensible enough to like the cool. Presently I heard a voice I thought I knew inside. Then I heard St. Ambrose, and then your name. Of course I listened; I couldn't help myself. They were just inside the window, in the recess, not five feet from us; so I heard pretty nearly ever word. Give us the tankard; I'm as dry as an ash-heap with talking." Tom, scarcely able to control his impatience, handed the tankard. "But who was it?--you haven't told me," he said, as Drysdale put it down at last empty. "Why, that d--d St. Cloud. He was giving you a nice character, in a sort of sneaking deprecatory way, as if he was sorry for it. Amongst other little tales, he said you used to borrow money from Jews--he knew it for a certainty because he had been asked himself to join you and another man--meaning me, of course--in such a transaction. You remember how he wouldn't acknowledge the money I lent him at play, and the note he wrote me which upset Blake so. I had never forgotten it. I knew I should get my chance some day, and here it was. I don't know what the girl thought of me, or how she got out of the balcony, but I stepped into the recess just as he had finished his precious story, and landed between him and a comfortable old boy, who was looking shocked. He _must_ be your godfather, or something of the kind. I'll bet you a pony you are down for something handsome in his will." "What was his name? Did you find out?" "Yes; Potter, or Porter, or something like it. I've got his card somewhere. I just stared St. Cloud in the face, and you may depend upon it he winched. Then I told the old boy that I had heard their talk, and, as I was at St. Ambrose with you, I should like to have five minutes with him when St. Cloud had done. He seemed rather in a corner between us. However, I kept in sight till St. Cloud was obliged to draw off; and, to cut my story short, as the tankard is empty, I think I put you pretty straight there. You said we were quits just now; after last night, perhaps we are, for I told him the truth of the Benjamin story, and I think he is squared. He seems a good sort of old boy. He's a relation of yours, eh?" "Only a distant connexion. Did anything more happen?" "Yes; I saw that he was flurried and didn't know quite what to think; so I asked him to let me call, and I would bring him some one else to speak to your character. He gave me his card, and I'm going to take Blake there today. Then I asked him where you were, and he didn't know, but said he thought Grey could tell me." "It is very kind of you, Drysdale to take so much trouble." "Trouble! I'd go from here to Jericho to be even with our fine friend. I never forget a bad turn. I met him afterwards in the cloak-room, and went out of the door close after him, to give him a chance if he wants to say anything. I only wish he would. But why do you suppose he is lying about you?" "I can't tell. I've never spoken to him since he left Oxford. Never saw him till yesterday, riding with Mr. Porter. I suppose that reminded them of me." "Well, St. Cloud is bent on getting round him for some reason or another, you may take your oath of that. Now my time's up; I shall go and pick up Blake. I should think I had better not take Jack to call in Eaton Square, though he'd give you a good character if he could speak; wouldn't you Jack?" Jack wagged his tail, and descended from the sofa. "Does Blake live up here? What is he doing?" "Burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle, as usual. Yes, he's living near his club. He writes political articles, devilish well I hear, too, and is reading for the bar; beside which he is getting into society, and going out whenever he can, and fretting his soul out that he isn't prime minister, or something of the kind. He won't last long at the pace he's going." "I'm very sorry to hear it. But you'll come here again, Drysdale; or let me come and see you? I shall be very anxious to hear what has happened." "Here's my pasteboard; I shall be in town for another fortnight. Drop in when you like." And so Drysdale and Jack went off, leaving Tom in a chaotic state of mind. All his old hopes were roused again as he thought over Drysdale's narrative. He could no longer sit still; so he rushed out, and walked up and down the river-side walk, in the Temple gardens, where a fine breeze blowing, at a pace which astonished the gate-keepers and the nursery-maids and children, who were taking the air in that favorite spot. Once or twice he returned to chambers, and at last found East reposing after his excursion to the Docks. East's quick eye saw at once that something had happened; and he had very soon heard the whole story; upon which he deliberated for some minutes, and rejoiced Tom's heart by saying: "Ah! all up with New Zealand, I see. I shall be introduced after all before we start. Come along; I must stand you a dinner on the strength of the good news, and we'll drink her health." Tom called twice that evening at Drysdale's lodgings, but he was out. The next morning he called again. Drysdale had gone to Hampton Court races, and had left no message. He left a note for him, but got no answer. It was trying work. Another day passed without any word from Drysdale, who seemed never to be at home; and no answer to either of his letters. On the third morning he heard from his father. It was just the answer which he had expected--as kind a letter as could be written. Mr. Brown had suspected how matters stood at one time, but had given up the idea in consequence of Tom's silence; which he regretted, as possibly things might have happened otherwise, had he known the state of the case. It was too late now, however; and the less said the better about what might have been. As to New Zealand, he should not oppose Tom's going, if, after some time, he continued in his present mind. It was very natural for him just now to wish to go. They would talk it over as soon as Tom came home, which Mr. Brown begged him to do at once, or, at any rate, as soon as he had seen his friend off. Home was the best place for him. Tom sighed as he folded it up; the hopes of the last three days seemed to be fading away again. He spent another restless day; and by night had persuaded himself that Drysdale's mission had been a complete failure, and that he did not write and kept out of the way out of kindness for him. "Why, Tom, old fellow, you look as down in the mouth as ever to-night," East said, when Tom opened the door for him about midnight, on his return from his club; "cheer up; you may depend it's all to go right." "But I haven't seen Drysdale again, and he hasn't written to me." "There's nothing in that. He was glad enough to do you a good turn, I dare say, when it came in his way, but that sort of fellow never can keep anything up. He has been too much used to having his own way, and following his own fancies. Don't you lose heart because he won't put himself out for you." "Well, Harry, you are the best fellow, in the world. You would put a backbone into anyone." "Now, we'll just have a quiet cheroot, and then turn in; and see if you don't have good news to-morrow. How hot it is! The Strand to-night is as hot as the Punjaub, and the reek of it--phah! my throat is full of it still." East took off his coat, and was just throwing it on a chair, when he stopped, and, feeling in his pocket, said-- "Let's see, here's a note for you. The porter gave it to me as I knocked in." Tom took it carelessly, but the next moment was tearing it open with trembling fingers. "From my cousin," he said. East watched him read, and saw the blood rush to his face, and the light come into his eyes. "Good news, Tom, I see. Bravo, old boy. You've had a long fight for it, and deserve to win." Tom got up, tossed the note across the table, and began walking up and down the room; his heart was too full for speech. "May I read?" said East, looking up. Tom nodded, and he read-- "DEAR TOM,--I am coming to town to spend a week with them in Eaton Square. Call on me to-morrow at twelve, or, if you are engaged then, between three and five. I have no time to add more now, but long to see you. Your loving cousin, KATIE "P.S.--I will give you your parcel back to-morrow, and then you can _burn_ the contents yourself, or do what you like with them. Uncle bids me say he shall be glad if you will come and dine to-morrow, and any other day you can spare while I am here." When he had read the note, East got up and shook hands heartily with Tom, and then sat down again quietly to finish his cheroot, watching with a humorous look his friend's march. "And you think it is really all right now?" Tom asked, in one form or another, after every few turns; and East replied in various forms of chaffing assurance that there could not be much further question on the point. At last, when he had finished his cheroot, he got up, and, taking his candle, said, "Good night, Tom; when that revolution comes, which you're always predicting, remember, if you're not shot or hung, you'll always find a roost for you and your wife in New Zealand." "I don't feel so sure about the revolution now, Harry." "Of course you don't. Mind, I bargain for the dinner in Eaton Square. I always told you I should dine there before I started." The next day Tom found that he was not engaged at twelve o'clock, and was able to appear in Eaton Square. He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found Katie alone there. The quiet and coolness of the darkened room was most grateful to him after the glare of the streets, as he sat down by her side. "But Katie," he said, as soon as the first salutations and congratulations had passed, "how did it all happen? I can't believe my senses yet. I am afraid I may wake up any minute." "Well, it was chiefly owing to two lucky coincidences; though no doubt it would have all come right in time without them." "Our meeting the other day in the street, I suppose, was one of them?" "Yes. Coming across you so suddenly, carrying the little girl, reminded Mary of the day when she sprained her ankle, and you carried her through Hazel Copse. Ah, you never told me _all_ of that adventure, either of you." "All that was necessary, Katie." "Oh! I have pardoned you. Uncle saw then that she was very much moved at something, and guessed well enough what it was. He is so very kind, and so fond of Mary, he would do anything in the world that she wished. She was quite unwell that evening; so he and aunt had to go out alone; and they met Mr. St. Cloud at a party, who was said to be engaged to her." "It wasn't true, then?" "No, never. He is a very designing man, though I believe he was really in love with poor Mary. At any rate he has persecuted her for more than a year. And, it is very wicked, but I am afraid he spread all those reports himself." "Of their engagement? Just like him!" "Uncle is so good-natured, you know; and he took advantage of it, and was always coming here, and riding with them. And he made Uncle believe dreadful stories about you, which made him seem so unkind. He was quite afraid to have you at the house." "Yes, I saw that last year; and the second coincidence?" "It happened that very night. Poor uncle was very much troubled what to do; so, when he met Mr. St. Cloud, as I told you, he took him aside to ask him again about you. Somehow, a gentleman who was a friend of yours at Oxford overheard what was said, and came forward and explained everything." "Yes, he came and told me." "Then you know more than I about it." "And you think Mr. Porter is convinced that I am not quite such a scamp after all?" "Yes, indeed; and the boys are so delighted that they will see you again. They are at home for the holidays, and so grown." "And Mary?" "She is very well. You will see her before long, I dare say." "Is she at home?" "She is out riding with uncle. Now I will go up and get your parcel, which I had opened at home before I got aunt's note asking me here. No wonder we could never find her boot." Katie disappeared and at the same time Tom thought he heard the sound of horses' feet. Yes, and they had stopped, too. It must be Mary and her father. He could not see because of the blinds and other devices for keeping the room cool. But the next moment there were voices in the hall below, and then a light step on the carpeted stair, which no ear but his could have heard. His heart beat with heavy painful pulsations, and his head swam as the door opened, and Mary in her riding-habit stood in the room. CHAPTER L THE POSTSCRIPT Our curtain must rise once again, and it shall be on a familiar spot. Once more we must place ourselves on the Hawk's Lynch, and look out over the well-known view, and the happy autumn fields, ripe with the golden harvest. Two people are approaching on horseback from the Barton side, who have been made one since we left them at the fall of the curtain in the last chapter. They ride lovingly together, close to one another, and forgetful of the whole world, as they should do, for they have scarcely come to the end of their honeymoon. They are in country costume--she in a light habit, but well cut, and sitting on her as well as she sits on her dainty grey; he in shooting-coat and wide-awake, with his fishing basket slung over his shoulder. They come steadily up the hillside, rousing a yellow-hammer here and there from the furze-bushes, and only draw bit when they have reached the very top of the knoll. Then they dismount, and Tom produces two halters from his fishing basket, and taking off the bridles, fastens the horses up in the shade of the fir-trees, and loosens their girths, while Mary, after searching in the basket, pulls out a bag, and pours out a prodigal feed of corn before each of them, on the short grass. "What are you doing, you wasteful little woman? You should have put the bag underneath. They won't be able to pick up half the corn." "Never mind, dear; then the birds will get it." "And you have given them enough for three feeds." "Why did you put so much in the bag? Besides you know it is the last feed I shall give her. Poor dear little Gypsy," she added, patting the neck of her dapple grey; "you have found a kind mistress for her, dear, haven't you?" "Yes; I know she will be lightly worked and well cared for," he said shortly, turning away, and busying himself with the basket again. "But no one will ever love you, Gipsy, like your old mistress. Now give me a kiss, and you shall have your treat," and she pulled a piece of sugar out of the pocket of her riding habit; at the sight of which the grey held out her beautiful nose to be fondled, and then lapped up the sugar with eager lips from Mary's hand, and turned to her corn. The young wife tripped across, and sat down near her husband, who was laying out their luncheon on the turf. "It was very kind of you think of coming here for our last ride," she said. "I remember how charmed I was with the place the first Sunday I ever spent at Englebourn, when Katie brought me up here directly after breakfast, before we went to the school. Such a time ago it seems--before I ever saw you. And I have never been here since. But I love it most for your sake, dear. Now, tell me again all the times you have been here." Tom proceeded to recount some of his visits to the Hawk's Lynch, in which we have accompanied him. Then they talked on about Katie, and East, and the Englebourn people, past and present, old Betty, and Harry and his wife in New Zealand, and David patching coats and tending bees, and executing the Queen's justice to the best of his ability in the village at their feet. "Poor David, I must get over somehow to see him before we leave home. He feels your uncle's death, and the other changes in the parish, more than anyone." "I am so sorry the living was sold," said Mary; "Katie and her husband would have made Englebourn into a little paradise." "It could not be helped, dear. I can't say I'm sorry. There would not have been work enough for him. He is better where he is, in a great town-parish." "But Katie did love the place so, and was so used to it; she had become quite a little queen there before her marriage. See what we women have to give up for you," she said, playfully, turning to him. But a shadow passed over his face, and he looked away without answering. "What makes you so sorrowful, dear? What are you thinking of?" "Oh, nothing." "That isn't true. Now, tell me what it is. You have no right, you know, to keep anything from me." "I can't bear to think that you have had to sell Gipsy. You have never been without a riding horse till now. You will miss your riding dreadfully, I am sure, dear." "I shall do very well without riding. I am so proud of learning my lesson from you. You will see what a poor man's wife I shall make. I have been getting mamma to let me do the house-keeping, and know how a joint should look, and all sorts of useful things. And I have made my own house-linen. I shall soon get to hate all luxuries as much as you do." "Now, Mary, you mustn't run into extremes. I never said you ought to hate all luxuries, but that almost everybody one knows is a slave to them." "Well, and I hate anything that wants to make a slave of me." "You are a dear little free woman. But now we are on this subject again, Mary, I really want to speak to you about keeping a lady's maid. We can quite afford it, and you ought to have one." "I shall do nothing of the sort." "Not to oblige me, Mary?" "No, not even to oblige you. There is something to be said for dear Gypsy. But, take a maid again! to do nothing but torment me, and pretend to take care of my clothes, and my hair! I never knew what freedom was till I got rid of poor, foolish, grumbling Higgins." "But you may get a nice girl who will be a comfort to you." "No, I never will have a woman again to do nothing but look after me. It isn't fair to them. Besides, dear, you can't say that I don't look better since I have done my own hair. Did you ever see it look brighter than it does now?" "Never; and now here is luncheon all ready." So they sat down on the verge of the slope, and ate their cold chicken and tongue, with the relish imparted by youth, a long ride, and the bracing air. Mary was merrier and brighter than ever, but it was an effort with him to respond; and soon she began to notice this, and then there was a pause, which she broke at last with something of an effort. "There is that look again. What makes you look so serious, now? I must know." "Was I looking serious? I beg your pardon, dearest; and I won't do so again any more;" and he smiled as he answered, but the smile faded away before her steady, loving gaze, and he turned slightly from her, and looked out over the vale below. She watched him for a short time in silence, her own fair young face changing like a summer sea as the light clouds pass over it. Presently she seemed to have come to some decision; for, taking off her riding hat, she threw it, and her whip and gauntlets, on the turf beside her, and drawing nearer to his side, laid her hand on his. He looked at her fondly, and, stroking her hair, said-- "Take care of your complexion, Mary." "Oh, it will take care of itself in this air, dear. Besides, you are between me and the sun; and now you _must_ tell me why you look so serious. It is not the first time I have noticed that look. I am your wife, you know, and I have a right to know your thoughts, and share all your joy, and all your sorrow. I do not mean to give up any of my rights which I got by marrying you." "Your rights, dearest! your poor little rights, which you have gained by changing name, and plighting troth. It is thinking of that--thinking of what you have bought, and the Price you have paid for it, which makes me sad at times, even when you are sitting by me, and laying your hand on my hand, and the sweet burden of your pure life and being on my soiled and baffled manhood." "But it was my own bargain, you know, dear, and I am satisfied with my purchase. I paid the price with my eyes open." "Ah, if I only could feel that!" "But you know that it is true." "No, dearest, that is the pinch. I do not know that it is true. I often feel that it is just a bit not true. It was a one-sided bargain, in which one of the parties had eyes open and got all the advantage; and that party was I." "I will not have you so conceited," she said, patting his hand once or twice, and looking more bravely than ever up into his eyes. "Why should you think you were so much the cleverer of the two as to get all the good out of our bargain? I am not going to allow that you were so much the more quick-witted and clear-sighted. Women are said to be as quick-witted as men. Perhaps it is not I who have been outwitted after all." "Look at the cost, Mary. Think of what you will have to give up. You cannot reckon it up yet." "What! are you going back to the riding-horses and lady's maid again? I thought I had convinced you on those points." "They are only a very small part of the price. You have left a home where everybody loved you. You knew it; you were sure of it. You had felt their love ever since you could remember anything." "Yes, dear, and I feel it still. They will be all just as fond of me at home, though I am your wife." "At home! It is no longer your home." "No, I have a home of my own now. A new home, with new love there to live on; and an old home, with the old love to think of." "A new home instead of an old one, a poor home instead of a rich one--a home where the cry of the sorrow and suffering of the world will reach you, for one in which you had--" "In which I had not you, dear. There now, that was my purchase. I set my mind on having you--buying you, as that is your word. I have paid my price, and got my bargain, and--you know, I was always an oddity, and rather willful, am content with it." "Yes, Mary, you have bought me, and you little know, dearest, what you have bought. I can scarcely bear my own selfishness at times when I think of what your life might have been had I left you alone, and what it must be with me." "And what might it have been, dear?" "Why, you might have married some man with plenty of money, who could have given you everything to which you have been used." "I shall begin to think that you believe in luxuries, after all, if you go on making so much of them. You must not go on preaching one thing and practicing another. I am a convert to your preaching, and believe in the misery of multiplying artificial wants. Your wife must have none." "Yes, but wealth and position are not to be despised. I feel that, now that it is all done past recall, and I have to think of you. But the loss of them is a mere nothing to what you will have to go through." "What do you mean dear? Of course we must expect some troubles, like other people." "Why, I mean, Mary that you might, at least, have married a contented man, some one who found the world a very good world, and was satisfied with things as they are, and had light enough to steer himself by; and not a fellow like me, full of all manner of doubts and perplexities, who sees little but wrong in the world about him, and more in himself." "You think I should have been more comfortable?" "Yes, more comfortable and happier. What right had I to bring my worries on you? For I know you can't live with me, dearest, and not be bothered and annoyed when I am anxious and dissatisfied." "But what if I did not marry you to be comfortable?" "My darling, you never thought about it, and I was too selfish to think for you." "There now, you see, it's just as I said." "How do you mean?" "I mean that you are quite wrong in thinking that I have been deceived. I did not marry you, dear, to be comfortable, and I did think it all over; ay, over and over again. So you are not to run away with the belief that you have taken me in." "I shall be glad enough to give it up, dearest, if you can convince me." "Then you will listen while I explain?" "Yes, with all my ears and all my heart." "You remember the year we met, when we danced and went nutting together, a thoughtless boy and girl--" "Remember it! Have I ever--" "You are not to interrupt. Of course you remember it all, and are ready to tell me that you loved me the first moment that you saw me at the window in High street. Well, perhaps I shall not object to being told it at a proper time, but now I am making my confessions. I liked you then, because you were Katie's cousin, and almost my first partner, and were never tired of dancing, and were generally merry and pleasant, though you sometimes took to lecturing, even in those days." "But, Mary--" "You are to be silent now and listen. I liked you then. But you are not to look conceited and flatter yourself. It was only a girl's fancy. I couldn't have married you then--given myself up to you. No, I don't think I could, even on the night when fished for me out of the window with the heather and heliotrope, though I kept them and have them still. And then came that scene down below, at old Simon's cottage, and I thought I should never wish to see you again. And then I came out in London, and went abroad. I scarcely heard of you again for a year, for Katie hardly ever mentioned you in her letters, and though I sometimes wished that she would, and thought I should just like to know what you were doing, I was too proud to ask. Meantime I went out and enjoyed myself, and had a great many pretty things said to me--much prettier things than you ever said--and made the acquaintance of pleasant young men, friends of papa and mamma; many of them with good establishments, too. But I shall not tell you anything more about them, or you will be going off about the luxuries I have been used to. Then I began to hear of you again. Katie came to stay with us, and I met some of your Oxford friends. Poor dear Katie! She was full of you and your wild sayings and doings, half-frightened and half-pleased, but all the time the best and truest friend you ever had. Some of the rest were not friends at all; and I have heard many a sneer and unkind word, and stories of your monstrous speeches and habits. Some said you were mad; others that you liked to be eccentric; that you couldn't bear to live with your equals; that you sought the society of your inferiors to be flattered. I listened, and thought it all over, and, being willful and eccentric myself, you know, liked more and more to hear about you, and hoped I should see you again some day. I was curious to judge for myself whether you were much changed for the better or the worse. "And at last came the day when I saw you again, carrying the poor lame child; and, after that, you know what happened. So here we are, dear, and you are my husband. And you will please never to look serious again, from any foolish thought that I have been taken in; that I did not know what I was about when I took you, 'for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part.' Now, what have you to say for yourself?" "Nothing, but a great deal for you. I see more and more, my darling, what a brave, generous, pitying angel I have tied to myself. But seeing that makes me despise myself more." "What! you are going to dare to disobey me already?" "I can't help it dearest. All you say shows me more and more that you have made all the sacrifice, and I am to get all the benefit. A man like me has no right to bring such a woman as you under his burden." "But you couldn't help yourself. It was because you were out of sorts with the world, smarting with the wrongs you saw on every side, struggling after something better and higher, and siding and sympathizing with the poor and weak, that I loved you. We should never have been here, dear, if you had been a young gentleman satisfied with himself and the world, and likely to get on well in society." "Ah, Mary, it is all very well for a man. It is a man's business. But why is a woman's life to be made wretched? Why should you be dragged into all my perplexities, and doubts, and dreams, and struggles?" "And why should I not?" "Life should be all bright and beautiful to a woman. It is every man's duty to shield her from all that can vex, or pain, or soil." "But have women different souls from men?" "God forbid!" "Then are we not fit to share your highest hopes?" "To share our highest hopes! Yes, when we have any. But the mire and clay where one sticks fast over and over again, with no high hopes or high anything else in sight--a man must be a selfish brute to bring any one he pretends to love into all that." "Now, Tom," she said almost solemnly, "you are not true to yourself. Would you part with your own deepest convictions? Would you, if you could, go back to the time when you cared for and thought about none of these things?" He thought a minute, and then, pressing her hand, said-- "No, dearest, I would not. The consciousness of the darkness in one and around one brings the longing for light. And then the light dawns, through mist and fog, perhaps, but enough to pick ones way by." He stopped a moment, and then added, "and shines ever brighter unto the perfect day. Yes, I begin to know it." "Then, why not put me on your own level? Why not let me pick my way by your side? Cannot a woman feel the wrongs that are going on in the world? Cannot she long to see them set right, and pray that they may be set right? We are not meant to sit in fine silks and look pretty, and spend money, any more than you are meant to make it, and cry peace where there is no peace. If a woman cannot do much herself, she can honor and love a man who can." He turned to her, and bent over her, and kissed her forehead, and kissed her lips. She looked up with sparkling eyes and said-- "Am I not right, dear?" "Yes, you are right, and I have been false to my creed. You have taken a load off my heart, dearest. Henceforth there shall be but one mind and one soul between us. You have made me feel what it is that a man wants, what is the help that is mete for him." He looked into her eyes and kissed her again; and then rose up, for there was something within him like a moving of new life, which lifted him, and set him on his feet. And he stood with kindling brow, gazing into the autumn air, as his heart went sorrowing, but hopefully "sorrowing, back through all the faultful past." And she sat on at first, and watched his face, and neither spoke nor moved for some minutes. Then she rose, too, and stood by his side:-- And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And so across the hills they went, In that new world which is the old. Yes, that new world, through the golden gates of which they had passed together, which is the old, old world, after all, and nothing else. The same old and new world it was to our fathers and mothers as it is to us, and shall be to our children--a world clear and bright, and ever becoming clearer and brighter to the humble, and true, and pure of heart--to every man and woman who will live in it as the children of the Maker and Lord of it, their Father. To them, and to them alone, is that world, old and new, given, and all that is in it, fully and freely to enjoy. All others but these are occupying where they have no title, "they are sowing much, but bringing in little; they eat, but have not enough; they drink, but are not filled with drink; they clothe themselves, but there is none warm; and he of them who earneth wages, earneth wages to put them into a bag with holes." But these have the world and all things for a rightful and rich inheritance; for they hold them as dear children of Him in whose hand it and they are lying, and no power in earth or hell shall pluck them out of their Father's hand. FINIS