“I say, you fellows,” he began, plunging _in medias res_—Carroll always took the unexpected line—“why the deuce do you keep so sour on young Deering?” Chapin looked up quickly, his eyes glinting unpleasantly in the moonlight. “Hang it, Carroll!” he exclaimed, “what’s that to you? We’ve no obligation to take up with every little southern beggar that comes to school, as you seem to have.” “No, assuredly,” Carroll replied, suavely, “but it occurs to me that when a chap has behaved as uncommonly decently to us as Deering has, you might show a little—well, appreciation.” “Rot! Deering has had a swelled head ever since the night of the hazing-bee, and if Jack Stenton sticks him on the team for the Boxford game there’ll be no holding him. We will be for sending him up to Kingsbridge instanter.” “You are uttering unspeakable nonsense, my dear Arthur, and you know it. Give the lad a show; play fair. What’s the matter with you, Harry?” he added, turning to Marsh, “it is only lately that you have taken to snubbing him.” Marsh gave an uneasy laugh. “Oh, Arty and me hang together,” he said lamely. “Well, that is more than you can say for your English,” remarked Carroll, with a contemptuous smile, and turned away. Chapin followed him up, and laid an arm upon his shoulder. “Look here, Reggie,” he exclaimed, “don’t let’s bicker about this kid. I don’t like him, but what difference need that make between us? We have stuck pretty close these four years. Come on now, let’s slip down to the cave, hit the pipe, and talk things over.” “No, thank you,” replied Carroll briefly. “Come on, Reggie, do,” put in Marsh, “we’ve bagged a bottle of wine to-day, and we’ll bust it to-night in your honor.” “Thanks, no; seductive as your offering is, I rather fancy you may count me out of your little meetings in the future.” And with the words Carroll went on his way. The two boys looked after him a moment, until he entered the Old School, when Chapin exclaimed, with an oath, “Let him go, Harry; we’ll count him out all right; but we’ll get even with his cub.” Marsh murmured an assent, but hung back a little when Chapin renewed the proposal to visit the cave on the beach. “Don’t let us go to-night, Art; remember you’re in training.” “The deuce with training. What’s the use of banging your head against a football for a month if a greenhorn like that is to be shoved into the front row at the last moment. I’m going to have some fun nights, and you’ll see, I shall be as fit as a fiddle in the morning anyway.” And as he spoke, he drew Marsh’s arm within his, and together they started for the beach.