Kendall awoke the next morning possessed by a pleasant feeling of well-being for which he could not, during the first few moments, account. Then recollection of the events of the preceding night came and he smiled broadly and mentally patted himself on the back. He jumped out of bed and dressed himself briskly, thinking that the world was a very good place to be in. Harold, who was usually out of sorts in the early morning, was visibly annoyed at Kendall’s high spirits. “Cut out that whistling, will you?” he begged between yawns. “You give me a headache, you do; always whistling; making a noise――” The words died away in a growl as he patted the cold sponge gingerly over his face. Kendall laughed. “I guess you don’t like music,” he said. “Music!” exclaimed the other with awful irony. “Yes, that’s what the little birdies do in the morning, whistle. I’m playing I’m a little birdie.” “You’re playing the silly fool,” growled Harold. “Whistling isn’t music. Besides, there isn’t any tune to what you whistle!” “I was――what do you call it?――improvising,” replied Kendall. “All great musicians do it.” “Well, do it outdoors then. I want peace in my own room.” “All right,” agreed Kendall good-naturedly. “I’m off. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for chapel.” “Don’t care if I am,” answered Harold defiantly. But he dropped the towel and made a rush for his clothes as Kendall closed the door behind him. When Kendall reached the front of Whitson he observed a little group of fellows at the flagpole. He hurried across to it. On the grass, overturned, lay the paint can, with two brushes, sticky with green paint, balanced on top. The brushes had been found on the grass nearby. A glance at the pole told Kendall that he had not entirely saved it from the enemy after all, for on the farther side two big streaks of bright green marred the whiteness. The group was speculating excitedly. Kendall listened: “Must have been done early last night. The paint’s almost dry.” “Some Third Class gang, of course. Green’s their color.” “They ought to get their heads bumped together,” said an older boy. “Faculty’ll have something to say when they see it.” There was an uneasy silence at that, and one or two of the smaller boys edged away. But others joined the group and the theories kept coming: “Wonder why they didn’t finish it. Must have been scared away, what?” “Of course! Look at the paint pot. And Decker found one brush ten feet away. They probably heard something and ran.” The speaker lowered his voice. “Know anything about it?” Then the chapel bell stopped ringing and the fellows made a rush for the entrance.