“No, you can’t; but note this;—the more Tony cares for, the more it seems he can. And I tell you what, Kit, with Tony or with anyone else, the loss of one friend can never be made up by gaining others. If you and Tony don’t make up, you will never forgive yourselves later. As it is, you have lost nearly a year of school life.” “I know, I know,” said Kit miserably. “Well, lose no more!” As they drew back again within the range of the singing, the Sixth were giving in fine form—“There’s a wind that blows o’er the sea-girt isle,” a song that Reggie had always particularly liked. He stepped forward a bit to encore them. But Doc. Thorn, the leader of the singing, catching sight of him, cried to the fellows on the steps, “Let’s have ‘Old Boys’ now, in honor of Reggie Carter Westover Carroll.” And they rang it out with a hearty good will, with long, lingering, caressing notes to the last lines, notes that thrilled every Old Boy’s heart as he heard the well-loved song. “... and the heart is glad For all the friendliness of vanish’d years.” The tears were in Reggie’s eyes. He was glad it was dark, and that he could let them gather there without fear of it being noticed. And just then Mr. Morris stepped somewhere from out of the gloom and slipped his arm around Reggie’s shoulders. The singing was over then; the fellows were beginning to separate for the evening and were calling to each other as they started away from the steps. Carroll pushed Wilson forward. “Now’s your chance,” he whispered. “Don’t you be a fool and don’t let Tony be a fool!” Poor Kit’s heart was in his mouth; it seemed to him to be thumping like a sledge-hammer. He had a momentary wild hope that he would not be able to find Tony. But yes,—there he was, just taking leave of Ned Clavering and starting across the campus alone. Kit hurried after him, feeling as though his legs would scarcely carry him another inch. “I say—Tony!” he called at last, his voice husky and strange. Deering stopped, turned, but did not recognize him. “What is it? Who’s calling?” “It’s me—Kit. Wait a second, will you?” Tony’s heart was beating wildly too, for he divined what was coming; by the time Kit reached him his hand was out. “What’s your hurry?” cried Kit, grabbing the extended hand and wringing it. “I’m not in a hurry. Are you?” “No, not a bit.” Then awkwardly, “Well, what are you going to do?” “Not a thing—loaf—come and do it with me.” “I’m your man. Where shall we go?” “Good, old boy. To the beach then.” They turned about, and arms went about each other’s waist and neck. They swung off across the fragrant fields, soft with the new mown grass, to the beach. For a while they were silent. “I have been a stubborn fool,” said Kit at last. “Not a bit of it; I’ve been a hot-headed one,” protested Tony. “Well, I guess we’ve both been both,” said Kit lucidly. “Any way, thank God it’s over.” “Amen,” said Tony.