Barry spent the next half-hour arranging his desk and examining his new books, stiff-backed and pleasantly odorous of printer’s ink. Finally, consulting his schedule of recitations, he selected one of the volumes and seated himself in his one easy-chair, by the side window. But he didn’t get much studying done just then, for the window afforded a view of the slowly curving road and a corner of the tree-shaded campus, and of Brazer’s farm with its sentinel elms casting long shadows about the simple, comfortable buildings. He could see the river, too, here and there, a sunlit blue ribbon skirting the farmer’s meadow-land, twisting about the foot of Crow Hill and at last disappearing under the stone bridge. All this held more attraction than the book. Occasionally voices from the gridiron reached him, and once, beyond the tree-tops, a football floated for a moment against the sky. Every one, he reflected with a sigh, seemed to be having a pretty good time――every one save John Barry Locke. It was close to six when his gaze fell on two figures just turning from the school gate. One was Crawford Jones. They were talking earnestly, companionably, and Barry sighed again. Just short of the Lyle lot the two parted, the stranger crossing toward the opposite house. Barry hoped that Jones would accept the invitation of the half-opened door and look in. But Jones went past without pausing. Barry closed his book and prepared for supper. When he went downstairs, a smallish man was reading a paper, at one end of the porch. He lowered his head and peered at Barry over the tops of his glasses. Then he said, “Hm!” rather nervously and added, “Good evening.” He seemed friendly and in his present desire for companionship Barry welcomed the opportunity for speech. He returned the greeting and walked along the porch. “I suppose you’re Mr. Lyle, sir,” he continued, smiling and holding out his hand. “Yes, yes,” was the almost eager response. “Very glad to know you, my boy! Hm! Delighted to――er――welcome you to our humble abode. Won’t you sit down?” He was standing, his paper clutched in one hand, his eyes peering near-sightedly through his glasses, and, having returned Barry’s clasp, he continued to smile. Just why he should have awakened Barry’s sympathy the latter couldn’t have told, but he did. Perhaps it was because, in spite of his attempt to appear at ease, to attain the dignity of the host, he seemed to offer the constant apology of the man who realizes his inconsequence. He looked to be about forty-two or forty-three years of age, was short of stature, thin, and perceptibly stoop-shouldered, although in moments of brief assurance he straightened himself to military erectness. Barry understood why he was known as Mr. Benjy. The name suited him perfectly. “Thanks,” Barry answered, “but I’m on my way to supper. I just wanted to get acquainted, sir.” He smiled winningly and Mr. Benjy looked touchingly gratified. “My name is Barry Locke, sir.”