As they neared it Barry experienced a sense of disappointment. It was two stories in height, and the peaked roof presented so many warped and broken shingles that it was difficult to credit it with efficiency. But the white paint was fresh, there were flowers about the low veranda across the front, and the windows, between their green blinds, were hung with clean muslin curtains. Rather a box of a house, thought Barry, and one promising few luxuries. Not that he demanded luxuries, exactly; but, until a few days since, he had looked forward to being in Dawson Hall, and this was very unlike what he had pictured Dawson to be. There was a somewhat decrepit picket fence in front, and a gate which obligingly swung inward or outward, but creaked complainingly either way. A short brick walk between narrow beds of salvia and geraniums and flaming nasturtiums led to the open doorway. It also led to a boy who sat on the edge of the low porch and, clasping a knee in a pair of very brown hands, unwinkingly observed their approach. However, when they had traversed half the walk he spoke. “Hello, Allen,” he said. “Hello,” answered Clyde; and then, as Barry dropped his suit-case and reached for his handkerchief, he added perfunctorily: “This is Mr. Locke, Mr. Jones. You fellows might as well get acquainted. Didn’t know you hung out here, though, Jones.” The boy on the porch arose and shook hands with Barry. He had hair that was neither brown nor red but some shade between, a lean, deeply tanned face, two very blue eyes, and a smile that Barry liked immensely. But the smile vanished when the youth dropped again to his seat and replied to Clyde: “That’s strange, I’ve been here some time.” “Oh,” said Clyde, in the tone of one dismissing an unimportant topic. “Well, we’d better find Mrs. Lyle, Barry.” “She’s gone to town,” said Jones. “Locke’s room is in front, on this side.” He pointed a thumb over his left shoulder. “You can’t miss it.” “I’ll go up with you,” said Clyde. “Oh, by the way, what about your trunk? Did you give your check to the man at the station?” Barry shook his head ruefully: “I didn’t think a thing about it!” “You’re a wonder!” jeered Clyde. “Guess it’s a good thing you’ve got me here to look after you, kid.” “I beg your pardon?” said Jones, somewhat surprisingly. “I was speaking to Locke,” answered Clyde, shortly. Barry saw the scowl that accompanied the words, and wondered. Jones nodded imperturbably. “My error,” he murmured. His gaze returned to the road.