Clif declared that the room was very jolly and that everything was perfectly corking, but secretly he was pleased that there were but two nights to spend there. Mr. Winslow, who appeared at supper time, proved to be a square-set gentleman of some fifty years, with an outward affability that didn’t survive Tom’s first night at home. The evening proved rather a dull one, and, since Clif was thoroughly tired, he suggested bed quite early. Tom seconded the motion, but his guardian expressed a desire to talk with him and Clif ascended the stairs alone. Afterward, although he tightly closed the chamber door, the voices of Mr. Winslow and Tom floated up to him for the better part of an hour, and it was evident to the listener that all was not peace and amity below stairs. Tom finally appeared, sullenly angry, bitter of speech. Clif learned that Mr. Winslow was not pleased with the reports received from Wyndham, especially those having to do with Tom’s work in his English course, and had been particularly nasty about it. “Says if I don’t do better,” growled Tom, casting a shoe noisily to the floor, “he’s going to take me out of school! All right, let him! If he does I’ll beat it away from here mighty quick. _He_ won’t see me, that’s a cinch! I’ll go right from Freeburg to New York and get into the Navy!” “The Navy won’t take you without his assent, Tom. You’re only sixteen.” “I’ll be seventeen next month, won’t I? Well, then! And whose money is it, anyhow? You’d think, the way he goes on, he was paying for my schooling and everything! I’ll bet he gets his share, the old grafter!” “Don’t call names,” said Clif quietly. “As Cocky used to tell us last fall, ‘Fight, but keep your mouth closed!’” Tom eventually calmed down and retired for the night in fair temper, but the incident didn’t increase Clif’s pleasure in the visit. Mr. Winslow retained an elderly woman of good family and former affluence, who had lost husband and affluence――with Mr. Winslow’s assistance, Tom stoutly declared――at the same time, to keep house for him. She was no addition to domestic cheerfulness, although she did make an excellent dried-apple pie, her meager conversation being confined to what Tom called “post mortems.” Recollection of the years before poverty had come to her invariably induced sniffles. Clif was rather sorry for her, but he did wish she would use a handkerchief more often!