Twenty minutes later Barry left Dawson Hall and made his way thoughtfully toward the gate. The quiet usually following a midday Sunday dinner lay heavily over the campus. In the two dormitories many windows were open wide to the sun-warmed breeze, and in most of them youths lolled indolently. A voice now and then and the subdued _tumpity-tump_ of a banjo alone broke the stillness, until, having almost reached the gate, Barry heard tones of shrill protest, a laugh, and the sound of scuffling in the fallen leaves. A few steps farther along the curving drive he came within view of three boys. Two he recognized; the third was a stranger. Rusty Waterman, Zo Fessenden’s violin in one hand, was trying to possess himself of the bow. Zo, the case hanging open from one hand and the bow in the other, was tugging back from Rusty’s grip. The third boy stood by, laughing. “No, please, Waterman!” Zo was pleading. “I don’t like to have folks use it! You might break it!” “Come on, come on!” said Rusty, impatiently. “Here, hold the fiddle, Jack, till I get the rest of it. He thinks I can’t play!” Rusty held out the violin. His back to Barry, he had not noticed the latter’s approach. Barry stepped in front of “Jack” and took the violin. “I’ll look after this,” he said. Rusty wheeled, dropping his grasp of Zo’s arm. “Oh!” he said, rather blankly. Then: “It’s Mister Buttinski again, eh?” he added truculently. “What do _you_ want?” “Not a thing,” answered Barry. He stepped around Rusty and gave the violin to Zo. “Better put it away,” he advised. The youth called Jack had edged aside and with an absolutely neutral expression was watching developments. Zo smiled gratefully and returned bow and instrument to their places, snapping the case shut while Rusty still stared peevishly. “Let’s go,” said Barry. Rusty found his voice again. “Say, you think you can get away with anything, Locke, don’t you?” he sneered. “Let me tell you something. If it wasn’t Sunday I’d teach you good manners, you fresh dumb-bell!” “Too bad it’s Sunday, then,” replied Barry, politely. “It ought to be interesting to see you trying to teach manners, Waterman. To any one,” he added. “Is that so? All right, Locke, you’ll be first.” Rusty laughed hoarsely at what he evidently considered a clever ripost and by a glance invited his companion to share his amusement. Jack, however, ventured no more than the faintest of smiles. Rusty’s own grin vanished and a very ugly scowl took its place. “I’ll settle with you yet, Locke,” he growled. “I haven’t forgotten, and I’m not going to. You’ll get yours, I promise you!” Barry made no reply and he and Zo went through the gate and turned toward home. “How did he get your violin?” asked Barry. “He asked me to let him see it, and when I opened the case he took it out. I asked him not to. Then he wanted the bow. He said he wanted to play a jig. I was afraid he might break it, and wouldn’t give it to him.” “Does he bother you often, Zo?”