They didn’t appear, any of them, to be very desperate characters, Barry reflected. On the contrary, they struck him as a particularly nice-looking lot. He wondered if Clyde and Hal hadn’t been unnecessarily pessimistic regarding the “baseball bunch.” Certainly they were getting a lot more fun out of practice than the football candidates were. There was a deal of talk and laughter, and much good-natured ragging. Barry found himself wishing he had not virtually promised Clyde to keep out of the game until spring. He would have liked nothing better than to be down there throwing the ball around and swinging at the lanky youth’s offerings. He was not alone in the stand, for a score or so of other idlers sat about in groups of two or three, hugged their knees, and uttered derisive applause, caustic criticism, and absurd advice to their friends on the field. Barry felt rather lonesome, and it occurred to him that despite Clyde’s good intentions he wasn’t making friends very fast. Save for Clyde himself and Hal and Jones and that funny Toby Nott, he didn’t know a soul. Near the tennis-courts, an hour before, he had spoken to a fellow to whom Clyde had introduced him earlier in the day and had received in response only a surprised and chilly glance followed by a grudging nod. He had determined not to try that again. He wasn’t used to being snubbed, and he didn’t like it a bit. About half-past four he went back to the campus, got the pile of books he had left in Clyde’s room, and returned to Mrs. Lyle’s, unwillingly acknowledging to himself that it wouldn’t take a whole lot to make him homesick! The house looked pleasant enough in the afternoon sunlight, but it seemed very silent and empty as he made his way upstairs. Even Toby Nott evidently was out. The sight of the walnut desk, which had arrived in his absence, cheered Barry up, however. It looked even better here than it had in the store, although it was undeniably a shabby old relic at best. He tugged and pushed it across to a position midway between the side window and the single electric light and got his hands gray with dust in the operation. It had not, it seemed, occurred to the dealer to clean it. Barry pulled out the four drawers on one side and opened the cubbyhole on the other. From the stains and discolorations he judged that the old desk had seen much service. From the amount of fine gray dust he also judged that it had lain idle for some time. He looked about for something to dust it with, but saw nothing more appropriate than the three towels hanging by the wash-stand, and so went into the hall and leaned over the stair railing. It was, he thought, fortunate that he remembered the maid’s name. “Betty!” he called. “Oh, Betty!” After a moment there were faint sounds below, toward the back of the house, that resolved themselves into light footsteps approaching the dining-room door. Then a pleasant voice answered: “Yes, Mr. Locke?”