As though realizing that, with the end of the hockey schedule, his services were no longer needed, King Frost retired three days after the Wolcott game. Wyndham awoke to find a warm sun in full command and the earth exceedingly moist and squishy. Little rills flowed along the edges of the paths, water dripped from the roofs, and from all sides, if one listened, came the chuckling murmur of awakening spring. That evening, after supper, the Triumvirate assembled in a first floor room of East Hall. There was nothing unusual in this, however, since the Triumvirate did the same thing almost every evening. There was a full attendance, not a member being absent. Had the secretary――supposing there was one――called the roll it would have gone like this: “Clifton Cobb Bingham.” “Here!” “Loring Deane.” “Here!” “Thomas Ackerman Kemble.” “Uh-huh!” But there wasn’t any secretary. Nor any other officers. Nor, for that matter, any organization. One evening shortly after the holidays, Tom, commenting on the unfailing regularity with which he and Clif adjourned from Dining Hall to Loring’s room, added: “Anybody would think this was a sewing circle or a club or something.” “Let’s have it a club,” suggested Clif. “The East Hall Literary and Recreation Club.” “I’d like to know what’s literary about it,” Tom objected. “I am. You and Loring play chess and I read his books. Well, if you don’t like that, how about making it a secret organization? Call it the D. K. B.” “What’s that stand for?” asked Tom suspiciously. “Don’t Kome Back or――” “Those are our initials, dumb-bell.” “Oh! Well, that sounds all right, but――” “We might call it the Club of Three,” offered Loring. “Or――wait a minute! What’s the word for three? Trio? No, tri――triumvirate! The Triumvirate! What’s wrong with that?” “Great! It sounds important,” said Tom. “Only, before I accept membership I want to ask one simple question. Are there any dues?” “No dues, no initiation fee! A strictly fraternal, non-partisan, offensive and defensive alliance! ‘One for all and all for one!’” “That’s in _The Three Muskeneers_,” said Tom. “The Three――_what_?” asked Clif. Tom repeated the information. “You know, the story about the three guys――only there were four of ’em――who――” “_The Three Guardsmen_,” interrupted Loring gravely. “Well, I’ve always heard it called _The Three Muskeneers_. A fellow named Dumas wrote it. That the same one?” “Quite,” said Loring, and Clif said: “I like your title better, though, Tom.” “What’s the matter with it? If you’re so smart I can show you the book in the library. I’ve got it at home, too. I guess I know!” “Sure it isn’t ‘_Musketeers_’ instead of ‘_Muskeneers_’?” “Huh? Is it? Heck, I always did wonder what a muskeneer was! Well――” Tom leaned back, grinning――“I never was much on literature! If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Wyatt!”