To make the “twin” thing still more of a joke, they didn’t look much more alike than Little Lord Fauntleroy and Huck Finn. About the only feature they had in common was a rich stain of brown sunburn, acquired in a summer of railroad building in the Timanyoni Mountains of western Colorado. Dick Maxwell, son of the general manager of the Nevada Short Line, was possibly twenty pounds the lighter of the two, and he had the fine-lined face and easy manner of a fellow who has never had to think of how his clothes fitted, or what to do with his hands; while Larry Donovan――but Larry deserves a paragraph to himself. He had the window seat in the Pullman section, and was staring out at the rather monotonous Middle-Western farmstead landscape hurtling past with that sort of half-shy look in his good, wide-set eyes which is the first symptom of homesickness. The big-framed, curly-headed fellow, who had been Dick’s partner on the summer job, was the son of an ex-locomotive engineer on the Short Line, and he owed his college chance partly to the good work he had done on the railroad-building job, and partly to the generosity of Dick’s father. In a grim, workmanlike way, he was determined to make the utmost of the chance; but that fact didn’t say anything whatever to the other fact that this was his first long-distance jump from the home circle. “Why the wan look to starboard, Larry?” Dick asked with the grin which, on his face, was never more than a good-natured, quizzical smile. “Thinking about the little old home shack back in Brewster, and how far away it has gone?” Larry turned slow eyes upon his companion. “Don’t see how you can take it so easy,” he grumbled back; and then, after a moment’s thought: “Maybe I can, too. You’re used to being away from home and mixing and mingling with people. I’m not.” Dick smiled again. “Not getting scared out already, are you?” “No; it isn’t scare; it’s――well, I don’t know just what you’d call it. But I’d give a lot if we were settled down, and I knew what to-morrow’s job was going to be, and was boning for it out of a book.” Dick turned short upon the wisher. “See here, Larry,” he said; “don’t you go starting in at Old Sheddon on the wrong slant. You did it in Brewster High――you know you did; never came out to class doings, or anything. I remember you told me once that the fellows and girls didn’t need a ‘greasy mechanic’ to fill out the list. Dad says there’s a lot more to college than just sticking your nose in a book, and I believe it. You’re going to miss it by a long mile if you do the turtle-in-a-shell act.” What Larry Donovan might have replied to this little lecture on turtles and their habits was forestalled by a panorama of suburban homes flitting past the car windows, a grinding of the brakes, the rumbling of the train across a bridge, and the long jump was fully taken.