“Hm,” said Mr. Collins. “We have reported the matter to the company and they have agreed to send up and fix that latch. As a matter of fact, I presumed that they had done so. I am very sorry, Gibson. I don’t understand, however, why the messenger should have deceived you. Some mistake, doubtless.” “He――he did it on purpose,” blurted Gibson, still too angry to be discreet. Mr. Collins looked surprised. They had reached the steps and now the Assistant Principal viewed the boy thoughtfully. “Why?” he asked. “I――I don’t know,” muttered Gibson. “It doesn’t matter, though. I――I’ll be going. Thank you, sir.” “One moment, please. You live in Greenburg?” Gibson hesitated. Then, “No, sir, I――I’m at Broadwood. I just came over to see the game.” “Really?” Mr. Collins raised his brows. “Your Broadwood team doesn’t play to-day, then?” “Yes, sir, they play Nordham.” “At home?” “Yes, sir.” “You, however, preferred to see this game, eh? I see. Now this boy who brought you up here, Gibson; what was he like?” Gibson, rather uncomfortable under the other’s sarcastic gaze, thought a moment and at last gave a very excellent description of The Duke. Mr. Collins nodded again. Then he smiled. It was a fleeting smile, but Gibson saw it. “He knew I’d get locked up in there,” he declared aggrievedly. “He closed the door after me himself!” “I find no difficulty in crediting that, Gibson,” replied Mr. Collins gravely. “I think I know the young gentleman and I’ll have something to say to him. Good-day, Gibson. I regret exceedingly that you have missed seeing so much of the game. Perhaps, however, it is not yet entirely over.” But whether it was or wasn’t Gibson had no idea of returning to the field. He remained on the steps a moment, watching Mr. Collins out of sight around the corner of the old stone building, and then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, set off with a frown down the drive. He had almost reached the entrance gate at the foot of The Prospect when he saw a boy walking rapidly toward him from the direction of the village. Gibson wasn’t at all interested in the other pedestrian and gave him no more than a thought. But when they drew abreast he glanced up casually. Recognition was mutual. “Hello, Cotton, what the dickens are you doing here?” “Hello, Gibson! What are _you_ doing here?” “Me? Just came over to see the game. Say, you aren’t at school here, are you?” Cotton nodded. “Yes, I entered this Fall. I don’t like it, though.” Gibson grinned none too kindly. “You don’t like it anywhere very long, do you? I thought someone said you were at school somewhere down South.” “I was last year. But I’d rather be up North.” “Gee, did _they_ fire you, too?” laughed Gibson. Cotton colored. “No,” he answered shortly, “I didn’t like it. So I didn’t go back.” “They didn’t like you, you mean! How you getting on here?”