"I observe you are nervous," the assistant professor said. "Get a little rest this afternoon." He shook his head slowly. "It is very unfortunate," he added, "that the president is away; however, I am confident we shall have the case cleared up before his return. You, of course, Mr. Catherwood, have no reason not to assist us in every way possible?" "None at all." The young man leaned back and closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. "However, I must say, you have not seemed to me as interested as----" Catherwood sat upright. "I'm half sick," he cried, "half sick. It's so strange. I know no one who would have a reason for hazing me; I can't understand it; it's like a bad dream." He rose and paced back and forth the length of the room. "Ah, yes, to be sure," the assistant professor murmured, consolingly. "Now, I shall go. You will hear from me later--perhaps very soon." Catherwood stood motionless in the middle of the floor until he heard the outer door close, then he descended the stairs slowly, and encountering Mrs. Turner in the kitchen begged the privilege of taking dinner at her table. "This face," he explained. "I can't go to 'Pret's' with this face." And she, gentle motherly soul, bade him be seated, and fed him well, and consoled him; while Willie, fascinated by the streaked and horrid face of the self-bidden guest, allowed his rice-pudding to grow cold while he gazed at him. III Little Green, the pink-cheeked reporter of the _'Varsity News_, was not that at all, and on this occasion he gave his name the lie direct. Little Green possessed a nasal organ keenly atuned to news. As he hastened back down town after his summary dismissal from Catherwood's room, he calculated accurately the latent story value in the assistant professor's indefinite account of his pupil's case. He glanced at his watch, snapped the case, thrust it back into his pocket--and ran. He estimated the time with reference to the publication hour of the Detroit afternoon papers. He saw before him, as plainly as he saw the snow banks, one hour and thirty minutes. The period was material, tangible. Little Green, as he turned into Main Street and sped on toward Huron Street, not only saw it, but felt it; almost _tasted_ it. "Here, you!" he cried, bursting in upon the indolent operator in the little, box-like telegraph office. He seized a block of blue-white paper that lay on the counter. "What's up?" asked the operator dreamily. By way of answer little Green thrust a sheet of the blue-white paper at him. "Get that on the wire--hurry--it's a scoop." The operator smiled sadly and checked off the words. He glanced up at the clock--regulated electrically from the observatory--and scribbled the "filing time" at the bottom of the sheet. Little Green fidgeted. "Say, cancha hurry?" he asked anxiously. "Plenty time," replied the operator calmly; and so there was, but little Green was enveloped in a haze of zeal that set perspectives all awry.