“Maybe,” responded Clif, “he will be around when we get back, dad.” He was far more concerned with the approaching automobile ride than with meeting strangers, no matter how interesting the latter might seem to his father. Tom, tilted back in a porch chair, was somnolent, but Clif watched his father’s cigar and reflected that he had never seen one which diminished more slowly. Eventually, though, Mr. Bingham arose with a sigh and dropped the cigar over the railing. “Well, boys, let’s go,” he said. “What part of the world do you want to see to-day?” It was after four when they returned to the Inn. The elusive Mr. Cooper was not in sight, and presently Mr. Bingham said good-by and sped away, the boys waving him out of sight before turning their steps toward school. With a long sigh for the departed glories of the day, Tom thrust an inquiring finger under his belt, “That was a great feed, Clif,” he murmured. CHAPTER V TOM CONFIDES After that, while they walked up the curving drive, between rows of leafless trees, Tom was unusually silent. Nearing West Hall, Clif suggested continuing on and paying a call on Loring, but Tom shook his head. “Let’s go up to your room,” he said. Number 17 looked out on the court formed by the old building, known as Middle Hall, and the two wings, East and West, and even at midday was none too well lighted. Now, at half-past four, it was decidedly gloomy, and Clif would have turned on the light had not Tom protested. “Lights hurt a fellow’s eyes,” he said. “Besides, I like twilight, anyway.” “Sounds so,” said Clif. “You’re as cheerful as an undertaker!” Walter was still absent and the window-seat and the floor beside it were littered with Sunday newspapers. Tom swept them from the cushion and stretched himself out and Clif drew up a chair so that he might rest his feet beside Tom’s. Across the court, the wall of East Hall was in purple shadow. On the slates of the roof three pigeons walked pompously to and fro, cooing softly, while below, in the shrubbery, sparrows chirped in noisy argument. “Fathers,” observed Tom after a moment, “are a great institution, aren’t they?” “Yes, I suppose so,” answered Clif. “But how do you mean?” Tom didn’t elucidate. Instead: “Say, remember how mad you were with me the day you came?” he asked. “You were saying good-by to your father down there at the car and I was sitting on the steps. Remember? You wanted to fight.” “Why not?” inquired Clif warmly. “You sat there, grinning like a Hindoo idol, and told me to go and have a cry and I’d feel better. Of course I wanted to fight!” “Sure,” said Tom soberly. “I don’t blame you. I did act sort of rotten.” “You sure did,” agreed Clif, but without animus. “And I certainly did dislike you a lot. But, of course, you were funking a date with Alick, who was going to tell you whether you were to beat it back home or stick around awhile――”