“Y-yes,” agreed Clyde, reluctantly, “although if Pete weren’t Second-Class president I’d say he was a good deal of a bounder. Anyway, Barry, it will be a lot better if you cut out baseball. How about football? Of course you couldn’t make the First this year, but even if you didn’t, you’d make the right sort of acquaintances.” “I’m not much good, Clyde,” said Barry. “I tried last fall, but I didn’t get anywhere. I wouldn’t mind trying for hockey. And I’d like basket-ball, too. But I guess baseball’s my best bet.” “Well, anyhow, lay off it until spring,” Clyde urged. “Fall practice doesn’t amount to much. Maybe by spring you’ll be fixed so it won’t do you any harm to mix with those rough-necks. Now, about clubs. You’d better try for Attic. It isn’t exactly exclusive, but most of the right sort belong. And you like literary stuff and debating, I guess. Then there’s the Oracle. We’ll work that for you, but you won’t be elected until February.” Barry tried to look properly grateful and wondered why he didn’t feel so. There was more discussion, more planning. Goof Ellingham appeared presently, accompanied by a fellow who was introduced to Barry as Greenwalk. Followed much football talk, for Clyde, Hal, and Goof were all players. After a while Barry took his departure, followed to the door by Clyde. “Jake and Goof,” the latter confided in whispers, “are corkers. Glad you met them. Follow it up, Barry.” Barry nodded, not so much in assent as because Clyde’s earnestness demanded a reply. “Well, see you in the morning,” said Clyde, and smote the other on the shoulder with friendly approval. It was dark when Barry got outside, and once he was through the gate the darkness increased, for the village road was lighted by infrequent arc-lamps and between them stretched long pockets of gloom wherein crickets cheeped incessantly. There were lights in both the Lyle house and the Anderson house, opposite. As he drew near, the strains of a muted violin came from an upstairs window of the latter. It was a wistful little air that he heard, one that faltered and died away at a certain intricate run of tiny notes. Barry paused at the gate and smiled in sympathy as the strains began again and again faded into silence. “He’s been at it ten minutes,” said a voice from the gloom of the porch. “Persevering beggar!” Barry stared curiously as he neared the speaker. Jones was seated on something large, black, and formless that gradually resolved itself into a trunk. “What――” began Barry. “Expressman dumped it here. Said he wouldn’t carry it upstairs for fifty cents. If I’d been here I’d have shown him how mistaken he was, but it was before I got back, and Mrs. Lyle is easy. So I thought I’d better wait around and give you a hand.” “Why, thanks,” said Barry. “But do you think we can do it? It’s awfully heavy. There’s a lot of books in there.”