“The whole thing’s a big swindle!” declared Chester Baker in disgust. “Here I’ve been watching them ever since lunch, and what has happened? Not a thing! There hasn’t even been a false step!”

He turned away from the window and punched a cushion vindictively. Phillip laughed and took his place beside him, glancing upward at the source of Chester’s discontent. In the upper end of the Yard a little army of men in brown jumpers, armed with pruning-shears attached to bamboo poles, were swarming over the elms, waging a war of extermination against the brown-tail moths whose nests dotted the tips of the topmost branches.

“I shouldn’t want to be up there,” said Phillip.

“There isn’t the least danger,” answered Chester. “They never fall. They walk around up there, seventy feet or more from the ground, and balance themselves on twigs and leaves and poke those poles around and have a perfectly elegant time. Why, they won’t even make believe to fall or lose their[316] balance or anything! Well, I’ve simply wasted two hours, that’s all.”

“It’s hard luck,” grinned Phillip.

“Oh, I suppose you don’t care,” complained Chester. “You have no art in your soul. I’m disgusted. For two hours I’ve sat here and waited patiently to see a body come hurtling downward. But nary a hurtle! Not one corpse has dropped with a dull, sickening thud upon the snow-covered ground. Not a speck of gore decorates the landscape. I shall write to the Crimson about it.

“By the way, Phil, talking of gore; there’s a peach of a show at the Bowdoin Square this week: ‘The River Pirates.’ They say it’s simply lovely. There’s one scene on the East River where a police launch chases the pirates, with a dandy fight; the launch blows up and a big ocean liner comes along just in the nick of time and rescues everybody. All right on the stage! It’s great! I’m going in Thursday evening; want to come?”

“No; I can’t, Chester.”

“Got something on for Thursday? How about Saturday? I rather like Saturday nights, anyway.”

“I can’t afford it,” answered Phillip. “Fact is, Chester, I’ve got to go awfully slow the rest of the[317] year. Things haven’t turned out very well with us at home. When father died I thought he had left plenty of money, but I’ve found out just lately that we have practically nothing. So, you see, I’m out of theatres and such things.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Phil; I know how it is to be hard up. But, look here; come along with me; I’ll treat. I’d have done it before, only I imagined you had plenty of tin. Will you?”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” Phillip answered.

“Oh, come on; don’t be so fussy! I’d let you pay if I was hard up!”

“No, Chester. I’m much obliged to you, but I’ve sworn off on theatres.”

“Oh, all right. But I wish you would. By the way, I met John North yesterday. He said you’d changed your room and wanted to know if I could tell him where you were living. But I didn’t know anything about it. He said he’d been looking all over for you.”

“Yes; I gave up those rooms I had. They were rather high, and I found I could give them up by paying a month’s rent. I’m rooming on Dewolf Street.”

“Jumping Moses! Dewolf Street! Man, that’s[318] the limit! It must be awful, isn’t it? All babies and muckers and pushcarts and things like that?”

“Well, it isn’t as nice as some places,” answered Phillip evasively, “but it will do all right. It’s good and cheap.”

Chester observed him commiseratingly for a moment. Then he asked suddenly:

“Did you bring Maid back?”

“No, I left her. She’s happier at home, I reckon.”

“Good work! Then look here, Phil; what’s the matter with coming here? I wish you would! It would only be forty dollars for the rest of the year. Would that be too much?”

“No; that’s what I pay where I am; only—if I really thought you wanted me and weren’t just taking pity on me, I’d like mighty well to come.”

“Pity be blowed! Of course I want you. I wish I’d known before that you were going to change.”

“But I haven’t any furniture,” Phillip objected. “I sold about everything.”

“You wouldn’t need anything except a bed, and you can get that cheap any old place. Will you come?”

“Yes. You’re mighty good, Chester.”

“I don’t see that,” was the answer. “Fact is, I’m[319] rather lonesome. I thought when I started out it would be nice to have a place by myself. At Exeter I had a roommate, but I didn’t like it. He always wanted to cut up when I had to grind, and always had to grind when I wanted to have fun. We were always scrapping.”

“I’ll move in on Monday if that’s all right for you.”

“Monday be hanged! What’s the matter with to-day? We can find a bed in ten minutes and get them to send it right over.”

But Phillip held out for Monday. “It will be mighty handy for my meals,” he said. “I have to walk a pretty good way as it is now.”

“Where are you eating? North said you’d left your table at The Inn.”

“Yes, I had to. I’m eating at Randall.”

Chester whistled. “Well, you are going the whole hog, aren’t you? Do you like it?”

“Yes; it’s just what I want. I can pay as little or as much as I wish to.”

Chester grinned. “I never tried Randall,” he said. “I’ll go to dinner with you some time. Well, come on and let’s go down to Holmes Field and watch the hockey. Your friend Kingsford’s playing coverpoint[320] on the freshman team and just tearing holes in the ice. It’s beautiful to see him. I think he’s smashed everything except his left leg so far. How are you coming with your exams?”

The winter term was two weeks old and the mid-years were upon them in full force. Life was very serious, and the popular subjects of conversation were seminars and flunks. Phillip was passing through the ordeal very well, while Chester, although he spoke vaguely on every possible occasion of having “a fighting chance” and of “never saying die,” was forced to acknowledge to himself that the probabilities were strongly in favour of his passing with disgustingly commonplace success.

Kingsford was not among the freshman players that afternoon—Chester said he supposed he had finally killed himself—and after standing about in the snow for nearly an hour watching the ’varsity practice, the two walked back to the union and had five o’clock tea. Phillip found a letter for him in the rack and with a frown recognized John’s writing. He slipped it into his pocket and did not open it until he was in his room.

The most optimistic person could have found but one meritorious feature about that room; it was[321] cheap. The house was an ugly, yellow, box-like erection, which contained a never-failing odour of boiled cabbage and onions. Phillip’s room was on the third floor, under the eaves, and was just large enough to accommodate the slim iron bedstead and three other articles of furniture. His trunk stood under the narrow dormer window and was spread with a saddle blanket, making, so he assured himself, an excellent imitation of a window-seat. He had kept three of his pictures, and these, with numerous photographs and his collection of whips and spurs and bits, ornamented the sloping walls. This evening as he climbed the dark stairway, entered the room and lighted the gas, it looked meaner and more squalid than ever, and the prospect of leaving it pleased him greatly. It was very cold up there, since a somewhat mythical furnace never sent its heat higher than the first floor. He lighted the little gas radiator beside the washstand and pulled up the chair until the crackling contrivance of stovepipe was between his knees. Then he drew forth John’s letter and opened it.

“Dear Phil” (he read)—“Where under the sun have you disappeared to? We looked for you on Sunday evening, but you didn’t show up, and so I[322] went around to your house. There the buxom landlady professed complete ignorance of your whereabouts. You had gone; she knew nothing else, and didn’t seem to care. At the post-office they coldly refused to divulge your present address; I think they mistook me for a bill collector. Your friend Baker could give me no assistance, and so I am sending this to the union as a last desperate resort. If you ever receive it, come around to the room. If you don’t appear before Saturday I shall place the affair in the hands of the police.

“Yours, John.”

Phillip sat for a moment in thought after finishing the note. Then he placed it back in the envelope and gravely and deliberately tore it across and across. For want of a waste-basket he dropped the pieces back of the washstand. Unlocking the trunk, he selected a quarter from a small horde and went to dinner.

John confidently expected Phillip at his rooms the following Sunday evening, and when ten o’clock came without him his perplexity became uneasiness.

“Maybe the boy’s sick, Davy,” he suggested.

David woke up from his doze and blinked.

“Sick? Phil?” he asked. “Oh, I don’t believe so. He’s probably tired of us middle-aged codgers[323] and has found more congenial places to spend his Sunday evenings. Maybe he’s in love. I thought I............