It was a beautiful afternoon in October. Lectures were over and a throng of students had strolled over the campus and down to the banks of Sunny River. The stream flowed lazily along toward Lake Tonoka, winding in and out, as though it had all the time it desired in which to make the journey, and meant to take the full allowance. There was nothing rapid or fussy about Sunny River. It was not one of those hurrying, bubbling, frothy streams that make a great ado about going somewhere, and never arrive. There was something soothing in walking along the banks that bracing, fall day. There was just enough snap in the air to prevent one from feeling enervated, yet there was hardly a hint of winter. "Doesn't it make you feel as if you could stretch out on your back and look up into the sky?" asked Phil of Tom as the three chums walked along. Tom and the quarter-back had been to football practice, and still had their togs on. "Now hold on!" exclaimed Sid, before Tom could answer. "Is this going to lead anywhere?" "What do you mean?" asked Phil. "I mean that poetical start on a talk-fest. Are you going to ring in beautiful scenery, calm, peaceful atmosphere, a sense of loneliness, and then switch off on to girls? Is that what you're driving at? Because if it is I want to know, and I'm going back and read some psychology." "You're up the wrong tree," declared Tom. "I don't know what Phil means, but my answer to his question would be that to stretch out on the ground for any length of time at this season would mean stiff muscles, not to mention rheumatism." "You fellows have no poetry in your nature," complained Phil. "Just look there, where the river curves, how the trees lean over to be kissed by the limpid water. Can't you fancy some one floating, floating down it in a boat, with heart attuned----" "It's too late for boating!" exclaimed a voice behind the trio. "My uncle says----" Phil turned quickly and tried to grab Ford Fenton. The youth with the uncle jumped back. "Why--what--what's the matter?" stammered Fenton. "Matter!" cried Phil. "Why, you little shrimp, I've a good notion to chuck you into the river!" "Yes, the river--the beautiful, meandering, poetical river," added Tom. "Quit it, Phil; you're getting on my nerves. I'm glad Fenton interrupted you with a recollection of his uncle. What were you going to say about your respected relative?" he asked. But Fenton was going to take no chances with Phil, and, turning about, he retraced his steps. "What were you saying, Phil?" inquired Sid politely, if sarcastically. "None of your business," replied the quarter-back a little stiffly. "I'm going to write a poem about it," he added more genially. "And send it to some girl, I suppose," went on Sid. "Oh, you make me sick!" What further ramification the conversation might have taken is problematical, but it was interrupted just then by the arrival of Ed Kerr, who seemed in much of a hurry.