After supper many of the party went out to the long, deep veranda and watched the stars sparkling in a frosty sky and the home lights, tiny yellow pin-points, gleaming in the valley. Hal Stearns, who had observed with evident disapproval Clyde’s renewed intimacy with Barry, bore the former away to an end of the porch. Barry, feeling very peaceful and very lazy, stretched himself flat on his back, his legs over the edge of the porch floor, and gave himself up to thought. A few yards away Captain Buckley and three or four others were talking busily, and Barry’s ruminations were at first punctuated with the frequent rounds of laughter. But presently his thoughts took so interesting a turn that he was no longer conscious of neighbors. When most of a half-hour had passed he sat up abruptly and climbed to his feet. Clyde and Hal and Goof Ellingham were seated at the end of the porch, and as Barry approached he heard the conclusion of a remark of Goof’s: “And Al said he understood Rusty had been given a cut until to-morrow, the lucky beggar!” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Hal, yawning. “This isn’t so rotten, Goof!” “Clyde,” asked Barry, “may I see you a minute?” “Sure!” Clyde’s response was prompt, even cordial, but it held surprise. He joined Barry and the latter led the way across the small plateau on which the cabin was built, to a ledge that jutted out from the end of the trail. Clyde said: “We were talking about Rusty Waterman. He didn’t come along, and Al Sampson says the Major gave him a cut.” “I noticed he wasn’t with us,” replied Barry. Then: “You said a while back, Clyde, that I’d saved your life,” he said. “I say it again,” asserted Clyde. “You sure did, Barry!” “And that we were even on that score.” “One-all,” agreed Clyde. “Then,” went on the other, “I don’t owe you anything, as I see it. I mean there isn’t any reason now why I ought to let gratitude stand in the way of――of straight talk.” “Why, no,” said Clyde, in a puzzled tone. “But I don’t see what you’re getting at, youngster.” “I’ll tell you. We’ve been friends――sort of――for a good while, Clyde, and――” “‘Sort of’! Where do you get that? We’ve been mighty good friends! Of course I know that lately I haven’t――well――hang it, Barry――I’ve been rather a blighter. I’ve wanted to tell you this for a week or so, but you’ve been pretty upstage with me and I didn’t get a chance. Fact is――” Clyde paused, evidently searching for words, and Barry cut in. “That part’s all right,” he said. “I can forgive that, but that letter is different, Clyde. That――that’s――” “What letter?” “You know, I guess,” Barry answered patiently. “The letter to Coach Prince.” He dropped his voice cautiously, although the darkness held no others nearer than the porch. “I want to talk about that, Clyde, and get it off my chest. Maybe you didn’t mean――” “But――suffering cats!” interrupted Clyde. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” There was a moment’s silence. Then Barry asked: