“By the simple process of putting a couple of twos together. For a fortnight I’ve seen it coming. You’ve been traveling fast and Allen’s been standing still. The whole school knows that Major Loring’s training you for the big event. Allen having the strangle-hold on you that he has, I knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d begin to use it. I’ve been looking for your tongue to protrude for several days. A while ago I saw you coming out of Dawson looking like a pinch-hitter who has just struck out. Then you tell me that owing to the failure of the Canadian wheat crop or something, you’ve decided to quit playing. I may have a slanting forehead and a weak chin, Barry, but somewhere a faint spark of intelligence still glows.” “Well――well, will you come with me to see the Major?” Peaches reflected. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he assented, “I’ll do that much for you. You shall have my moral support in your hour of tribulation. Shall we go now? I think we’ll find him in. This is the hour of the day he sharpens his knives and heats his jolly vat of oil for the entertainment of innocent youths desiring to resign from the football team.” “I thought maybe I’d see him this evening,” said Barry, a trifle faintly. “Never put off until evening what you can do in the afternoon,” replied Peaches. “That has been my guiding rule through life and to its strict observance I attribute much of my success.” He arose with what seemed to his companion indecent eagerness. “Take one last look at the dear, familiar scene, Barry, and let us be gone. ‘And so, whate’er befalls me, I go where duty calls me! Farewell, farewe-e-e――’” Peaches’ vocalization ended abruptly as he dodged the waste-basket. CHAPTER XV CLYDE LOSES HIS TEMPER To Barry’s palpable disappointment, the Major was at home. He occupied two rooms in Mr. Banks’s residence, directly across the road from the school grounds, and Mrs. Banks, who answered the bell, smilingly admitted the two boys and indicated the door on the left. Barry’s knock was timorously soft, yet the ogre heard it, and called, “Come in!” with a heartiness that brought to the mind of one of the visitors a vision of boiling oil. Major Loring had the front room and the one behind it, the latter displaying through a broad arch a Spartan simplicity. In it there were a cot bed covered with brown army blankets, a chiffonier, a wash-stand, two chairs, and a trunk. But the front room was almost luxurious, with a big couch and several deep leather-covered chairs, a round mahogany table littered with books and papers and magazines and smoking articles, some bookcases across one wall, and a cheerful rug of golden-brown hues. Although the afternoon was far from cold, some hickory chunks burned in the fireplace, and it was from an arm-chair in front of the hearth that the host arose, book in one hand and pipe in the other, to welcome the callers.