Then Fenneben was conscious of his own feet striking the slab of stone by the roadside, of a sudden shove from somebody behind him, a two-armed man it must have been, of stumbling blindly, trying to catch at the elm tree that stood there, of falling through the underbrush, headforemost, into the river, even of striking the water. As he fell, he was very faintly conscious of a sense of pity for Victor Burleigh fighting out a battle with his own honor tonight, and then he must have heard a dog's fierce yelp, and a woman's scream. Somehow, it seemed to come through distance of time, as out of past years, and not through length of space--and then of a brutal laugh and an oath with the words: “Now for Josh Wream, and--” But Fenneben's head had struck the stone ledge against which the Walnut ripples at low tide, and for a long time he knew no more. It was raining still when Victor Burleigh reached the Saxon House. At the door he met Professor Burgess, who was just leaving. Strangely enough, the memory of their first meeting at the campus gate on a September day flashed into the mind of each as they came face to face now. They never spoke to each other except when it was necessary. And yet tonight, something made them greet each other courteously. “Professor, will you be kind enough to come up to my room a few minutes?” Burleigh asked, lifting his cap to his instructor with the words. “Certainly,” Vincent Burgess said with equal grace. Bug Buler had kicked off the bed covering and lay fast asleep on his little cot with his stubby arms bare, and his little fat hands, dimpled in each knuckle, thrown wide apart. “I saw a picture like this once for the sign of the cross,” Vic said as he drew the covering over the little form. “Bug has been a cross to me sometimes, but he's oftener my salvation.” Professor Burgess wondered again, why a boy like Burleigh should have been given a voice of such rare charm. “I will not keep you long,” Vic said, turning from Bug. “I cannot play in tomorrow's game, and be a man.” Then, briefly, he explained the reason. “It is raining still. Take my umbrella,” he said at the close of his simply told story. “But tomorrow's sunshine will dry the field for the game, all right. Good night.” “Good night,” Vincent Burgess said hoarsely, and plunged into the darkness and the rain. Ten steps from the Saxon House, he came plump into Bond Saxon, who staggered a little to avoid him. “My luck on rainy nights,” Vincent thought. “The old fellow's sprees seem to run with the storms. He hasn't been 'off' for a long time.” But Bond Saxon was never more sober in his life, and he clutched the young man's arm eagerly. “Professor Burgess, won't you help me!” he cried. “What do you want to do on a night like this?” Burgess asked, remembering the vow he had been forced to make, by this same man. “Come help me save a man's life!” Bond urged.