“Weren’t you a bit sore because Kit didn’t go out of his way to be decent?” “Why, yes—naturally; I suppose I was.” “Well, listen to words of wisdom—it is all nonsense, blooming idiotic nonsense. You quarreled about Finch. He’s gone. What’s become of that little shaver, by the way?” “Finch—oh, he is well now, I reckon; they have taken him away—to the mountains or some place. He is ever so much better in every way than before he was ill—it seemed to need that tremendous break and sickness to get him straight. I have an idea that the Doctor,—good old chap, the Head!—will keep him on here another year, and then put him to work, without trying for college.” “You carried the guardian angelship business through, didn’t you? did it from the bottom up—as I hoped you would.” “Oh, I tried.... By Jove, Reg,” Tony exclaimed, looking at his watch, “it’s nearly six; we’ll have to wander if we want to get back in time for supper. You are staying over, of course, for the game and dance to-morrow?” “Of course.” That evening as the Sixth were singing on the steps of the Old School, which was their custom on warm spring nights, Carroll drew Kit Wilson out of the crowd and walked him off under the shadows of the trees. “Look here, Wilson,” he said, “I’m butting into something that isn’t in the least my affair, but I want to know why on earth you and Tony Deering don’t drop your differences and be friends?” Kit swung himself loose from Reggie’s friendly encircling arm. “Ask Deering,” he said laconically. “I have asked Deering, and so far as he knows there is no reason under heaven why you shouldn’t be as thick as you ever were. The original cause of your misunderstanding has long since passed away. Deering is simply holding off because you are. He doesn’t know how you will take it if he makes advances.” Still Kit kept silence. “Come on, Wilson, don’t take it like that. I haven’t any axe to grind; as a matter of fact in school days, Deering’s intimacy with you meant that I see a lot less of him, and I can tell you I didn’t relish that. You like Tony, don’t you, really?” “Like him!” cried Kit. “Doesn’t everybody like him—even the odious Gumshoe? Like him! Why, Carroll, I like him better than any fellow I ever knew.” “Well, my dear child—what then hinders you?” “Does Tony care a hang about me?—has he ever minded our not being friends?” asked Kit huskily. “Has he minded? why, of course, he has minded.” “Well, I never supposed he did; hasn’t he had Jimmie and you and Bill Morris and a dozen others? Why, honest, Reggie, even the Gumshoe just eats out of his hand. It’s marvelous—don’t understand it—or I guess I _do_ understand it. You can’t _help_ it, can you?”