They tried to give the appearance of persons hurrying to the station to catch a train, but, since Tom was hatless and frequently applied a handkerchief to his flushed face, the imitation was far from perfect. When their course took them from the main thoroughfare Clif cast a look behind and announced that the pursuit had ceased, and they slowed to a walk, Tom puffing considerably. The station was in sight, a short two blocks distant, and as there was plenty of time they proceeded slowly, striving to regain composure before facing the eyes of their fellows. “Say,” asked Clif while Tom paused to examine his countenance in a window, “what the dickens did you do that for, anyway?” “It was a patriotic duty,” replied Tom. “Didn’t you hear the nasty cracks that goof was making? Besides, I’ve always hated those idiotic caps that stick on the back of your head like a plaster!” “Well, if you’re going to light into every fellow who criticizes our team,” Clif grumbled, “you’ll have to travel alone. Gosh, you might have started a regular riot!” “Well, I didn’t. And anyway that hunk of cheese will keep his thoughts to himself for awhile, I guess.” On the train Tom sought a water cooler and performed first aid to his face. But he did not, of course, escape observation, and, while he was reticent and Clif vague, Jack, not having been bound to secrecy, gladly entertained an enthralled audience with a dramatic and highly colored narrative. Regret at having missed the event was loudly expressed on all sides. Pat Tyson, of the first team, was plunged into a dejection that lasted all the way home. Admiring friends clustered about Tom and gloated over the evidence displayed by his battered face, and a few were inclined to be rather peevish because he had not tipped them off to the fracas beforehand. It was generally conceded that it would be an excellent plan for him to remain out of sight of Mr. Connover, who, if a coach, was also a faculty member, and so Tom settled himself as far as possible from that gentleman, with his back turned, and played it safe. Yet luck was against him, for when the hour’s journey was almost over Steve arose and strolled to the water cooler at the rear of the car. There, having appeased his thirst and exchanged a few words with Al Greene, across the aisle, his glance wandered to Tom. Tom was gazing absorbedly from the window, and continued to so gaze until, thinking that the coach had returned to his seat, he glanced about to make certain. Whereupon Mr. Connover spoke solicitously. “What’s the matter with your face, Kemble?” he asked. Tom feigned surprise and passed an inquiring hand over it. “Must be dirt, sir.” “It doesn’t look like dirt.” Mr. Connover shook his head slowly. “Rather looks as if you’d had some sort of an accident.” Clif, at Tom’s side, gazed steadily at the brass knob on the car door. “Oh!” said Tom, enlightenment in his voice. “That, you mean? Yes, sir, I――I did have an accident, sort of.”