There was no study hour these evenings, and the conclave in Loring’s room continued almost to bedtime, and as often as the talk wandered away from the final game with Wolcott just so often it switched back again before many minutes. That game was the principal subject of debate that evening all through the school, and even the enthralling occupation of packing up for departure Thursday morning was everywhere interrupted while the question of whether Steve would pitch Ogden or Frost or whether Cobham would be back of the plate was thrashed out. While Wattles was massaging Loring that night the latter emerged from a period of silent abstraction to say: “Wattles, you said once you were pretty sure you had seen Mr. Cooper before. Remember?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, did you ever happen to remember about it?” “Yes, sir.” “You did! Well, why the dickens didn’t you tell me?” “Possibly the opportunity didn’t occur, Mr. Loring.” “Opportunity my eye! You’ve had heaps of opportunities. I say, don’t bear down so plaguy hard! Where was it you saw him, Wattles, and how’d you happen to remember?” “It came to me one evening, sir, when I was cleaning some of your cravats. Mr. Cooper said he wasn’t an American, if you’ll remember, but an Englishman.” “Sure, I remember that, and how surprised I was.” “Yes, sir, so was I, for if I may say so the gentleman wouldn’t strike one as a Britisher, doubtless owning to his having been away from England so much, sir. It was when he said that that I remembered the occasion of our former――that is to say, the occasion when I had seen him before.” “Really?” asked Loring interestedly. “Go on, Wattles. Shoot the works.” “I beg pardon, sir?” said Wattles startledly. “Meaning tell the whole story,” laughed Loring. “Very good, sir, though there’s not much to tell. I may not have mentioned it to you before, Mr. Loring, but the reason I came to this country was the War.” “The War! No, you never told me that, Wattles.”